#Brass Turned Components

[vebrass-blog]

#Brass inserts #brass fittings #Brass turned components

[seookengineers]

BRASS PRECISION TURNED COMPONENTS

Brass Precision Turned Components: Crafting excellence with meticulous precision, our range of Brass Turned Components offers unparalleled quality and reliability. From intricate designs to standardized parts, our expertise ensures superior performance in every brass turned component.

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[brasspartsmanufacturer]

Precision Brass Parts Manufacturer in Jamnagar India

GK Metals is a leading brass parts manufacturer in Jamnagar, Gujarat, India. With years of experience in the industry, we specialize in producing a wide range of high-quality brass components like brass fittings, brass tubes, brass fasteners and brass valves for various industrial applications.

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[surajbrassindustries]

Factors to Consider When Selecting High-Quality Brass-Turned Parts

To ensure you choose brass-turned parts that meet your specific requirements, there are several factors to consider. Here are some tips to help you choose better brass-turned parts.

Material Quality: Ensure that the brass has excellent machinability, corrosion resistance, and mechanical properties by examining its material quality first. For optimal performance, choose parts made from brass alloys such as C36000 (free-cutting brass) and C46400 (naval brass).

Dimensional Accuracy: Ensure the manufacturer has the capability of maintaining tight tolerances and consistently producing parts that meet your specifications. Precision and dimensional accuracy are crucial for brass-turned parts. In particular, this is important when parts need to fit or interact with other components.

Surface Finish: The surface finish of brass-turned parts can have a significant impact on their appearance, performance, and functionality. Determine the required surface finish based on your application. A smooth finish may be necessary for parts that need tight seals or low friction, while a textured finish may be appropriate for aesthetic reasons.

Manufacturing Expertise Identify a manufacturer who specializes in precision turning and has a track record of producing high-quality brass parts. Assess their manufacturing expertise and experience. Reputable manufacturers will have advanced equipment, skilled technicians, and an extensive quality control system.

Customization Options: In some cases, you may need customized brass-turned parts based on your needs. Consider manufacturers who offer design and engineering support, allowing you to collaborate on optimizing the design and functionality of the parts. In this way, you can be sure that the parts will meet your needs.

Quality Assurance: Ensure that the manufacturer has a quality assurance process in place. To ensure the parts meet industry standards and specifications, they should have a quality management system in place to monitor and control the manufacturing process, conduct inspections, and conduct tests.

Cost and Lead Time: Quality is important, but the cost and lead time of brass-turned parts are also important to consider. Get quotes from several manufacturers to compare prices, but ensure the parts are of high quality. Moreover, you should consider whether the manufacturer can deliver the parts within your deadline.

Feedback and References: You can get insights into a manufacturer's reputation, customer service, and the quality of their brass-turned parts by seeking feedback and references from other customers.

By considering these factors, you can make an informed decision when choosing brass-turned parts that will meet your quality expectations and suit your specific application.

Also Read More On:- Details About Brass-Turned Components Manufacturers

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[idealmachinedcomponents]

Aluminum is an ideal choice for many complex aluminum turned parts that meet the right tolerance and hold detailed design; we need at Ideal Machined Component. Aluminum is an excellent choice when corrosion resistant is requirement. Brass is highly cost effective choice for brass turned components that does not require high degree strength. The metal is good enough to handle corrosion and wear.

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[brasscncturnedparts]

Brass CNC Turned Parts and Components Manufacturer in India

GK Metals is Jamnagar, India based manufacturer, supplier and exporter of high-quality customized brass CNC turned parts, brass CNC turned components and brass CNC machining parts with great precision & accuracy. Our CNC turned parts are made from brass, copper, bronze and stainless steel materials.

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[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

#jonathan crane #the scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #the scarecrow x reader #fanfic #my writing

[danwhobrowses]

So a thing happened on Critical Role this week (campaign 3 ep 91), we're gonna talk about it - a long talk - so if you haven't been caught up and don't wanna be spoiled don't keep reading okay?

One of the disadvantages of being in a different time zone is that after fretting all morning, going to work, thinking 'it's 7am maybe it's done now' I had to sit in my office for a stressful final half hour murmuring don't do this don't fucking do this don't you dare fucking do this!

I already was worried for everyone given the cliffhanger last episode, and the 5 hour length made me further worried as players kept being knocked down by Otohan Thull - already frightening in base form but now with an even higher AC and empowered. Then Sam Riegel had to do what he does best, a devastating sacrifice where FCG blows himself up to take down Otohan - Ludinus' No. 2, harrowed for being proficient in slaughter, defeated by no assassin or warrior but a cleric saving their friends. We've been well past 'get off the moon' hours with this one, but now there is an impact on every one of the Hells to think about, which is what this will be about.

FCG Though he is dead there is still stuff to talk about with FCG's death. A common debate right now is the potential of the Reincarnate spell; while the wording of the death implies that FCG's current body is irreparable there is a chance that a 5th Level Druid Spell can fashion him a new body, one of flesh, bone and tongue. The body itself needs to be dead for less than 10 days so there is wiggle room to gain the necessary components too if the top brass of Exandria turn it into a fetch quest. There is argument on both sides though; if FCG comes back does it undermine his sacrifice? Perhaps, but there's no incentive for the Hells to not try. Reincarnation hasn't quite happened in Critical Role yet - Since Molly/Lucien/Kingsley was kinda different, he kinda had the opposite, different mind same body - so it'd be a refreshing new option and also a way to redesign FCG without having to create a whole new cleric (because they definitely need a cleric) with a whole new skillset that the Hells will need to warm towards before the final battle. But at the same time, the soul has to be willing. FCG was content with his sacrifice, and in the arms of the Changebringer would he go back? I'd like to hope so if it's an option, it'd also entertain a whole new character arc for him as a 'real boy' - plus Matt and Sam don't have to fully abide to the D100 rule of what race he turns into. Of course, I like this angle more than needing a new character, because I like happy endings and it makes narrative sense that the Hells would claw and bite to pull him from that sweet goodnight. It would also validate a reason for the Hells to align with the gods, because if divine favour comes into play and the Gods decide against helping Bell's Hells' greatest advocate for saving them then they are foolishly and callously forsaking key players to their survival, FCG reincarnating with the help of the Gods would play a big part in the Hells standing with them rather than losing faith in them, and even with friction between the Titans & Temults and the Gods from the past they would have a common enemy. Still living or dying can have varying effects on the other characters.

Ashton From the moment Ashton met FCG they wanted to make sure this little bot would be okay, that they'd learn to value their life and be able to thrive. While part of that did happen, Ashton is likely going to feel like nothing's changed since Bassuras; knocked out by Otohan and when awakened a friend is dead, another person they couldn't protect.

Before the shard, I think Ashton would very easily fly off the handle, in their anger they'd blame everything including themselves and maybe even consider leaving themselves, it probably have made them more self-destructive too. Now though I'm not so sure, nobody would hold it against them to waver a little on their promise to take care of themselves in a burst of grief, this was after all their best friend someone they looked after like a little brother, and while I can see Ashton quietly and angrily grieving I can also see Ashton double down on trying to keep their promise, making sure that FCG didn't go out like a martyr and that it won't be in vain. FCG reincarnating would assist in Ashton's character drive too, since I feel like they would detest any replacement cleric because it's not FCG, they may also be less abrasive towards the gods if they came through for them and proved that they care - at least to the Changebringer, think they'd still throw copper at the Dawnfather given the whole Angel incident.

Imogen As the nominated leader of Bell's Hells, many will probably look to Imogen Temult for action, the problem is she has her own mother issues to deal with too - and I'm not entirely sold that Liliana has fully made a turn just yet, only that she won't hand over the Hells to Ludinus. FCG's death is gonna produce a lot of guilt from Imogen though, she was detesting the fact that she had to play dead at 1HP while Otohan cut down her friends again, she will likely blame her inaction which in turn may push her to be more aggressive in combat.

At the same time, I can see her being one of the more gung ho characters to push towards the Reincarnate option, perhaps even going as far as to accost or lambast anyone regardless of alliances or rank who she feels isn't as committed. Imogen has been in the position of loss before, and knowing that FCG had a connection with FRIDA she would likely compel herself to fix it rather than have to deliver the bad news. Regardless of whether he reincarnates though I feel like Imogen may look towards some more defensive spells, and maybe through Liliana try to tap into the powers of an Exalted to try and match the power she saw from Otohan, a risky endeavour for sure but FCG took an even greater risk for them.

Orym Orym is probably the toughest of the Hells to read when it comes to FCG's death. There will of course be a deep sadness at the loss of a friend, but I would also sense a...not bitterness but discontent that this is how it went down. Otohan killed his family, he kept fighting her until he could no longer stand because that's what they would've done, and now she's dead but it doesn't make it better, he wasn't the one to do it, he didn't even see it, and the one who did is gone with her. When Bor'dor was killed, Orym coldly reminded himself that 'we're at war', but I don't think he can justify that way with FCG, the loss was greater than the catharsis.

The death also has to turn attention to his deal with Nanna Mori. Many have pointed out that there is a lot of technicalities that may prolong, void or complete the deal; it was never specified how many times the Hells could return from the moon to continue the deal, but at the same time they did technically return from the moon to Exandria safe and sound via the Secret Backdoor. Still, Mori is his best friend's grandmother, there could be leeway on that matter too and even if he does have to commit to the deal (which I call 'Fatekeeper Orym') it's never been explicitly said that Orym needs to constantly attend to Mori in the Feywild, only that he has to be her caretaker and answer her beck and call. However, FCG's death will likely provide a sobering thought that his deal with Mori was perhaps voided, unless there is one more thread he can have her pull. When it comes to seeking options to bring a friend back, I would keep a close eye on Orym - it's not the first time Liam's resolved himself to be damned before.

Fearne Fearne will likely be a linchpin if the Hells seek out Reincarnate. The spell is exclusive to Druids and if Keyleth isn't on hand to do it the task and pressure will fall to her. It'll be interesting how she reacts, I don't wanna say she'll be the most positive of it because she'll certainly be upset, but I can see her being optimistic even if it's to also convince herself, the one who is most encouraging to find a way. As a shipper I of course want her to be the one who comforts and gets through to Ashton while they grieve but if she also is key to his reincarnation that also adds to their slow-burn. Outside of that, FCG's death may also lead into learning about Mori's deal with Orym, which will probably anger her that Orym kept it from her, there is also the fact that having FCG's life in her hands may bring back bad memories of Bassuras and Whitestone. One must also especially worry about her Asmodeus calling card, the Prince of Lies does nothing for free and I still feel like Klask was planted in her path by Asmodeus' (and maybe even Athion's) titan-seeking design.

If FCG does reincarnate though, I could see her friendship with FCG being even greater than it was, since they'll both feel a greater zeal for life - it may also make her feel further distant from her Evil vision, since she will have saved half her friends rather than risked killing them. If not though, Fearne may have to play mediator for the new cleric and may also be pushed towards freeing up more slots for healing to provide more support for the Hells in future battles.

Chetney It's gonna be an interesting one for Chetney too, from one perspective you could see him thinking that FCG traded their life for his; he died, he made peace with that, but then the one who revived him died. Chetney's more personal mindset has often been cloaked in secrecy, perhaps as one of the least open of the Hells despite many claiming him as the Heart of the group, so I wonder if Chetney may harbour some Survivor's Guilt for what happened.

I can see Chetney being the one to keep his emotions close to his chest, even if FCG were to reincarnate he would perhaps try to shrug off that he always knew it'd happen anyway. That being said someone who remains stoic and unwavering may prove a positive or a negative to the group, depending on the person or their interpretation of it. If a new cleric comes along though I could see him being additionally protective of them, having been the new guy before.

Laudna We should all be worried for Laudna right now. The recent 4SD already revealed that Laudna's 'close to the brink' and I'm pretty sure this is the brink. The aftermath of the Otohan fight will likely push each of the Hells to get stronger, since had they hit harder or been able to take stronger blows it wouldn't have come to this, but that will mean bad things when it comes to Laudna, as she may seek to gain power the only way she thinks she can - through Delilah. After all her last two levels went to Sorcery and did little in the fight, whereas her Warlock class Eldritch Blasts hurt Otohan fairly decently, such a thing can linger in the mind for Delilah to manipulate.

It'll be telling if they do try to Reincarnate him whether the damage will have been done already to Laudna, and that the joy of bringing him back turns to tragedy of Laudna losing herself further, as it often does it will fall to how she leans on Imogen, and how open about it she'll be to her. If FCG is lost however, we may have to keep a very close eye on Laudna being next.

Bell's Hells As I mentioned with Laudna, FCG's death will have made something apparent and clear; despite everything Bell's Hells need to get stronger. Even at Lv13, even with Exalted powers, Fey bargains and Titan shards they still just barely escaped a TPK, and granted they were weakened and worn out but no fight is guaranteed to ever be fought at 100%. Otohan may've been the toughest General of the Vanguard but the other Generals - the Weavemind, Zathuda and the Dominon of Cruft Commander - are still not ones to take lightly, Ludinus is still not one to take lightly, and if Liliana is going to be used by him to become a vessel for Predathos, that cannot be taken lightly. Bell's Hells may need to look towards enhancing their stats as well as their equipment, the harness is still a factor too which can boost them all with enough enchanted items at their disposal. An interesting one would be if Otohan's backpack ends up in one of the Hells' hands; many beforehand have talked about Orym being an Echo Knight but I would personally like to see Ashton take it, since it is powered by the Potion of Possibility like their own Dunamancy powers, it's possible (eheh) that they may align in some manner and could you imagine Ashton + 3 Echoes all raging to get All 4 Dunamancies? Otohan's swords may also provide unique properties for Chetney and/or Orym to use. Reincarnation or not I feel like that may be the Hells' next plan once it's discussed whether to attempt Reincarnation and they're off of Ruidus, gathering allies will likely also be something to prepare for for the final battle given how Otohan stated that they have 'enough Ruidusborns' for their plan. As a group it is difficult to tell if this will strengthen or weaken them, it could strengthen them in a 'never again' way like the Nein, but they were also very enthusiastic about bringing Molly back - it drove them through several arcs - FCG however often was the Hells' beacon of hope and the self-imposed attempted therapist, without that the Hells will either have to put it upon themselves to go the extra lengths or they'll close further in on themselves. If FCG does reincarnate I feel like it would definitely strengthen them mentally but if not I am not so sure.

It shouldn't come to a surprise that I will hold onto the Reincarnate potential so that the Hells can get back their friend, but rest assured I'm worried for all of them right now, there are crossroads ahead.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #cr3 spoilers #cr3 #cr3e91 #cr spoilers #bells hells #bell's hells #ashton greymoore #fearne calloway #orym of the air ashari #chetney pock o'pea #imogen temult #laudna #fresh cut grass #fcg #sam riegel #matt mercer #taliesin jaffe #ashley johnson #laura bailey #liam o'brien #marisha ray #travis willingham #needed to get it out of my head so you get two posts! #we all had a cry now Matt can we have a little reprieve where we're not losing our minds over the safety and relationships of the group? #we're not meant to stress this many years off our lives we already work too many years for low pay #Matt you can't let him die believing Exandria was flat c'mon!

[flowersandbigteeth]

Meeting your monster husband

General Plot: This is kind of the prequel...sort of...head cannon backstory of the other Chase one shots. Chase meets you at your workplace and falls in love.

Tentacle monster (Chase) x Bimbo female reader

Word Count: 1.5K

Masterpost

W: drugging, kidnapping, yandere behavior, mostly sfw brief mention of cum

Chase watched you sleeping, remembering the woman you were before he took you. 

You’d been an award winning researcher at a biomedical lab developing performance enhancing compounds for the military. 

You’d been smart and confident, breezing around the building with that short hair that didn’t suit you but was easy to care for and those schlubby loose clothes. The way you dressed didn’t slow you down. You were the brightest researcher the company had and you knew it. You led every meeting and guided the strategy for their latest products. He’d watched you struggle and argue with brass over the efficacy of your experiments, but you held you head high through it all.

No matter how bright you showed you were, they were demanding, wanting everything tomorrow and at double the strength. He’d watched you run yourself ragged trying to please them that useless husband of yours watching from home, proud of the misery he let you go through.

While you slaved away at work, he stayed on the couch playing Fortnite and screaming at twelve year olds online. He liked showing off his brilliant wife despite how the circles under your eyes darkened and you hunched from peering at your laptop. 

When you met Chase had been hired by his boss to infiltrate the lab and steal your research, the drug you’d developed was a potential component in his successful rebirth. 

“You have to do it like this, silly,” you’d giggled at him as he fiddled with the coffee maker in the break room the first time he laid eyes on you. 

You’d leaned over him, surrounding him in your sweet scent, and pulled out the coffee pod, turning it around before reinserting it the correct way. Your fingers had brushed his, sending a spark shooting up his arm. 

“Never used a coffee maker before?” you’d teased as you pulled your own mug out of the cabinet. 

“Not one like this,” he’d replied, staring at your face and marveling at how remarkably cute you were despite your terrible haircut. 

You’d winked and his heart had skipped a beat. 

“Don’t feel bad, you have to have two phds to operate everything in this building.” 

He’d chuckled at your lame joke and smiled at you while you waited for the coffee to brew. You had two phds and everyone knew it. You were the brilliant mind behind the company's progress. The youngest in your field. Everyone in biomedical science had heard about you.

“First day?” you’d asked, sticking out your hand, “I’m Dr. Lorelei Driver but you can call me Lori, everybody else does, except my husband...He calls me Lorelei, but I hate it. Who names their kid Lorelei and what upstanding husband agrees with his in-laws about it? He gets away with it because he’s cute…but you don’t have to call me doctor or anything, that’s just weird. We’re all equals here…I mean, how stupid of me…you probably have your phd, too if you are working here! Sorry…I’m rambling…I do that…You’ll get used to it…um…oh! Welcome to the team! If you need anything just ask me.” 

You’d blushed and he’d fallen head over heels for you. Those big doe eyes held an innocence you weren’t allowed to reveal to your colleagues and he wanted it. He’d shaken your hand and you noticed he’d held it just a little too long, but chased the thought away.

You were never any good at social interactions, always awkward and talking too much. Who were you to say when a handshake went on too long? For all you knew you’d been giving short, rude handshakes your whole life.  

From that moment forward Chase had started plotting. He wanted to give you the life you were missing…a happy life where you didn’t have to stay up long hours working. A life where your face would be soft with smiles and he could dress you up the way you ought to be dressed, pretty and delicate.  He could give you a life with no worries, no thoughts, just happiness. The life you deserved. 

He’d done everything in his power to get closer to you. It coincided with his mission so it was easy. He became fascinated with your work, hanging around you like your biggest fan, pushing anyone else who was near you out of the way.

One by one your assistants got burned out by the long hours or sick and quit until only he was left at your side. Of course, you had no idea of the amount of poison he'd used to carve his path through your employees.

He had to admit you were truly brilliant, what you’d come up with was exactly what his boss needed. He almost thought it was a pity you would have to leave that all behind. Almost. 

His wife wouldn’t need to wrack her brain over the world’s problems late into the night. His wife wouldn’t need to think at all. He would craft the perfect world for you where he could protect you and cherish you and keep you safe, even from your own ambition. 

He could see clearly that your own thoughts were destroying you and all these people around you were just enabling you. They didn't care about you, really. They wanted what you could create for them and would watch you drive yourself into an early grave for their own profit. Only he really cared about you.

“Here, darling,” Chase had said the night he’d taken you and your research, handing you a cup of coffee.

You’d been working late, trying to sort out a problem you were having with the flavor of the medication and he’d stayed with you like he usually did. You’d gotten much closer, professionally. He was sharp as a whip and understood your work completely, even offering helpful suggestions and had quickly made himself an integral part of the team. 

Occasionally, you would notice a touch that lasted too long or that he was standing far too close, but you’d brushed it off that he was a touchy person.

There was no harm in that. Some people’s perception of personal space was just different than your own. He wasn’t unattractive and he smelled nice. If you weren’t married, you’d even be flustered by his occasional lingering touches. 

However, you would have been disgusted and chased him away had you had any idea of how much of his cum you’d swallowed in the cups of coffee he was giving you or how he prowled outside of your window at night jealously working himself into a fury as you and your husband made love. 

You’d been distracted and barely considered the odd use of the pet name when you thanked him for the cup, immediately taking a big sip of it. 

“Have some more, you look tired,” he said, when you went to put it down. Without thinking you’d followed his directions, taking another big swallow. 

“If you drink the whole thing, I’ll make you another cup,” he promised, so you eagerly gulped down the rest, passing it back. You needed as much caffeine as you could get. You were so close to finishing this project and your bosses were breathing down your neck to get it to market on time. With just a little more work it would be perfect. 

He disappeared, coming back a few minutes later with another cup of coffee, milky with the creme he knew you liked. You blinked your eyes, rubbing them. They suddenly felt dry and heavy. 

“Need another cup?” he asked, smiling at you with his big, white teeth. 

“Yeah, youuuuuu’re aaaayye liyyyyfesaouhh,” you slurred, reaching your hand out for the mug he was offering, but your fingers never made it to the porcelain as your world went dark. Chase gathered your limp body up in his arms, amused that for someone so smart, you were really quite stupid.

When you woke up you didn’t know who or where you were. 

“(Y/N)?” a handsome man asked, looking down at you. 

You’d glanced around and found yourself in a nice master bedroom on a comfortable bed. 

“Who…who is (Y/N)?” you’d asked. 

The handsome man had cradled your head in his hands and smiled at you. 

“That’s your name,” he explained, “you had a bit of a fall and hit your head. Do you remember anything? Who you are? Where you are? Who I am?” 

You shook your head, rubbing your skull. You didn’t feel a bump anywhere but there was a slight ache in your brain. He looked at you sympathetically. 

“I’m your husband, (Y/N). Chase,” he said. 

You looked down at your left hand and sure enough there was a pretty diamond ring on your finger. Nausea overwhelmed you as you tried to recall anything about your life. 

“I can’t remember anything,” you murmured, starting to panic. 

“Shh, shh,” he cooed, brushing his hands over your hair. They were large and his touch was comforting. 

“Don’t try to think,” he said, “you’ll hurt yourself. You don’t have to remember anything right now. Just let me take care of you.” 

“Do I need to go to the hospital?” you asked nervously. 

“No!” he snapped sharply and you jumped. 

He smiled down at you, pulling you closer. 

“You already went to the hospital, you just don’t remember,” he clucked, “the doctor said this might happen and that you just needed to stop trying to think.” 

“Oh,” you said, muddling through your thoughts. 

Something sounded wrong about what he was saying, but you couldn’t figure out what. 

“You’re doing it again,” he said, his voice dropping a bit lower and more growly. 

You looked up at him. 

“Doing what?” you asked. 

“Thinking,” he grumbled, “my wife doesn’t need to think.” 

“B-but…who am I?” you mumbled, “I don’t even know who I am…”

He pulled your cheeks into his palms and searched your eyes. 

“You are my sweet little wife, (Y/N),” he assured you, “that’s all you need to be concerned with. We are happy together and we love each other. There’s nothing more to know. Just let me take care of everything.” 

You were going to push for more, but he kissed you. His lips were soft and confident, moving over yours as he pressed your head into his hand. Melting into his mouth, you lost track of what you were worried about. A hot tongue brushed your lips and you granted him entry, wanting more of what he had to give you. He must have been your husband. This kiss felt…right.

You relaxed into his arms, sure you were where you were supposed to be. Thoughts could come later. 

Chase felt the moment when you gave into him, your body softening in his arms and your lips surrendering to his. He stifled a smile at his victory.

This had actually been easier than he'd thought it would be. He'd worried you would put up more of a fight, question him more, but the way you melted into him only reinforced his belief that you were meant for one another.

The spell he’d used to erase your memories had worked.

Chased brushed your hair off of your forehead as you slept. It had grown out to a flattering length around your cheeks and he smiled at how perfect he'd made you. You were his, safe in his nest and your ex husbands bones were scraped of flesh in his back yard. No one was coming to look for you and he would never, ever let you go.

#yandere fluff #male yandere #yandere male #yandere headcanons #monster x girl #monster oc #monster romance #yandere romance #monster x human #monster x you #bimboification

[bellygunnr]

Broken Out of Time

A commission piece for @bloodgulchblog -- a Pilot/Chief fluff piece. This was really fun to write.

----

"Joy."

John sinks down into a crouch, hunkering further down behind the worn boulders they'd been using for cover. The elements of his HUD jitter as Joyeuse shifts attention, which he also feels in the connection between his NI and armor, which some part of him translates into fingers trying to tickle his neck. It's uncomfortable.

"Joyeuse," he says, firm. "Where'd Esparza go?"

She makes a humming sound. John takes stock of their surroundings while she plays nice with components of his armor, cycling through the various scanning functions to locate their wayward civilian.

"I thought you were watching him," she replies-- with enough grace to sound slightly abashed and guilty.

He grunts and detaches his pistol from the magclamps on his thigh.

"And I thought we were watching the birds," he returns evenly.

They were watching the birds, to be fair. Zeta Halo differed from his previous experiences on Forerunner structures in that it had a functioning… ecosystem… of sorts. With the remaining UNSC forces securing a tight foothold, he'd felt he could start relaxing his stranglehold on procedure and start-- something. Appreciating things. As it turns out, false suns feel just as warm as real ones.

"It's a little disconcerting to see birds use brass shells for mating displays," Joyeuse says. "Fernando doesn't have any proper IFF markers. I don't know…"

And he'd-- what? Relaxed enough to let a civilian sneak off into unknown territory and get himself lost? He twists around, staring intensely at his surroundings, waiting for details to seep out of the long grass and compacted dirt, like remnants of Esparza would suddenly make themselves known.

And they did-- eventually. Boot prints. Impressions of knees in the dirt. Headed further away. John carefully follows the tracks and picks his way down the rocks, closer to the thin bubbling creek that coalesces into a river in the distance. Joyeuse casts out another round of scans.

Ah.

John forgoes scaling the remainder of the terrain in favor of dropping down right behind his charge. Or, he would have, if Joyeuse didn't throw out the mental equivalent of an arm across his chest.

He freezes in place. Esparza lays prone in the grass. She highlights a handful of silhouettes. Ah.

Esparza must have snuck off to obtain a closer look at a different set of wildlife. Zeta Halo also possessed a number of rodent-like creatures (that the marines and personnel made quick work of eating). He sees them now, dipping their naked heads into the water for a drink.

Briefly, he wonders if the rings are capable of seasons. Then he shunts that thought aside and hunkers down beside Esparza.

"Hello," John intones.

Esparza jumps in his skin and bites his tongue on a yell. John stifles a surge of mixed emotions -- guilt and pride, mostly, with a tinge of amusement.

"Wear a bell," Esparza says, shaking his head.

"You snuck off first."

He blinks at John, expression scrunching up, radiating surprise.

"Guess I did."

John shifts his position in tiny increments. He doesn't want to disturb Esparza, nor does he want to disturb the animals they're watching. But this particular area has even fewer sightlines than the outcropping and it's-- rankling him, might be the word. Yeah, the sergeant uses that word a lot. Now it's in his vocabulary.

Joyeuse's good humor at the phenomena is a burst of sunlight down his spine.

"My house was on a prairie," Esparza says suddenly. "Country home. You know. So we got a lot of critters like that in the evening."

One of the rodents stands upright.

John casts back for a memory, maybe something to relate to Esparza (as he can learn to converse, Cortana would be--), and makes a listening grunt.

"My kid learned pretty quick about the circle of life though," he finishes. "Or…"

He trails off, stymied by the ground shaking seconds before the vibrations sink into the Mjolnir. Two of the rodents bolt off into the grass. The third lunges into the water and paddles determinedly to the other bank. This puts it within throwing distance of them for all of a second before it vanishes into the ground.

Joyeuse had been correct about the burrows, then.

Esparza opens his mouth and snaps it shut as the air around them rapidly shifts. A crimson Banshee roars overhead, followed by an UNSC aircraft.

"Let's move," John says.

He instinctively reaches over to Esparza, but his charge is already on his feet and retreating. More guilt and pride assaults him but he stuffs it down in favor of hurrying back to the Warthog on which they came. Joyeuse automatically switches over to friendly radio chatter and yeah-- that's contact.

Banished making a move on the local FOB.

"Can never catch a break, can we, big guy?" Esparza laughs.

John waits excruciating seconds for Esparza to buckle in before flooring it.

No, they can't. But the lulls are nice while they last. He thinks Esparza understands when their hands overlap on the shifter.

#halo #master chief #fernando esparza #echo 216 #halo the weapon

[existencebringsonlypain]

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there existed a factory. This factory was like any other factory you might encounter, with long, drab corridors and rows upon rows of machines. But it was not the factory itself that captured the imagination; it was the intricate world of gears that hummed within. Gears, those circular mechanical wonders, were the unsung heroes of this factory. They were everywhere, hidden within the machines, working tirelessly to ensure that everything ran smoothly. These gears came in all shapes and sizes, from the tiniest little pinions to the massive, gnashing teeth of the industrial giants. The workers of the factory rarely paid the gears any mind. To them, gears were nothing more than mundane components, forgotten in the whirlwind of their daily tasks. But if you were to slow down time and take a closer look, you would see that each gear had its own story to tell. Take, for example, a small brass gear nestled deep within a clock. This gear, not much larger than a coin, had been turning steadily for decades, measuring time in meticulous precision. It had witnessed countless moments, from the mundane ticking of hours to the celebration of joyous occasions. It was a silent witness to the passage of time itself. Then there was the steel gear in an old steam engine. Its heavy teeth meshed with other gears, transferring power from the boiler to the wheels. With each rotation, it propelled locomotives across vast landscapes, chugging along to the rhythm of progress. It had seen the world from the tracks, rolling through towns and cities, bearing witness to the changing face of industry. In a corner of the factory, a gear made of bronze tirelessly stirred a massive vat of molten chocolate. Day in and day out, it swirled the sweet concoction, ensuring that it remained smooth and delectable. Generations of children had savored the fruits of its labor, blissfully unaware of the gear's integral role in their favorite treat. As you wandered deeper into the factory, you'd find gears of all kinds engaged in intricate dances of motion. Some gears rotated in harmony, like a well-practiced ballet, while others clanked and shifted with a purpose that defied explanation. Each gear had its place, its function, and its role in the grand symphony of machinery. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about gears was their ability to endure. They were built to last, constructed with precision and care. They weathered the test of time, never complaining, never asking for recognition. They simply performed their duties, day in and day out, in the unending cycle of mechanical life. And so, the factory continued to churn, and the gears continued to turn, hidden away from the world's gaze. To the casual observer, it was a dull place, a world of monotony and repetition. But to those who paused to listen, to those who dared to appreciate the beauty of mechanical simplicity, it was a mesmerizing realm of gears

this was not what I wanted when I asked for anon asks

#long post #asks #existenceunrelateds

[vebrass-blog]

#Brass turned components #Brass turned components manufacturers #Brass turned components manufacturers in India

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24HighSchoolStudents #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental education #environmental justice #environmental protection #environmental health #high school students #high school #youth #youth of america #school

[saltwukong]

Regarding Ironwood the Fascist,

I am abundantly sure this point has already been made in the past three years and I already know full well this is not going to sway anyone who had the combo of unparalleled brass balls and complete media illiteracy to label James Ironwood a fascist to begin with. This is mostly here so other people have something to link instead of having to make the exhaustive arguments themselves.

Read this paragraph:

Fascism (/ˈfæʃɪzəm/ FASH-iz-əm) is a far-right, authoritarian, ultranationalist political ideology and movement,[1][2][3] characterized by a dictatorial leader, centralized autocracy, militarism, forcible suppression of opposition, belief in a natural social hierarchy, subordination of individual interests for the perceived good of the nation or race, and strong regimentation of society and the economy.[2][3]

And see how many bullets Ironwood checks off.

Authoritarian and dictatorial leadership: established in Volume 8 as Ironwood eliminates what appears to be the only rule of law aside from himself and no ruling bodies are left to oppose him. This also covers forcible suppression of opposition.

Militarism: established via Ironwood's position as leader of the Atlesian military.

Political ideology or movement? No. This one can't be true if Miles' and Kerry's insistence as to the fallen hero angle is taken as true. According to them, Ironwood fell from grace due to a spiral of fear and paranoia--Ironwood has no long-term political goals as of Volume 8. In fact, his turn as a villain comes with direct abandonment of the only thing he wanted that could have been called a long-term political goal, which was the uniting of the kingdoms against Salem.

Far Right? No. The left/right dichotomy was cleanly established in Volume 7, and Ironwood stood firmly opposed to right-wing Jacques Schnee and eventually allied with left-wing Robyn Hill.

Belief in a natural social heirarchy? No. Again, despite the presence of consistent virtue-signaling and buzzword usage on the part of RWBY standom, Ironwood does not at any point demonstrate his belief in such a heirarchy. If Mantle were the city-state floating in the air where all his military power were concentrated, it would be the focus of his 'go into orbit' plan. Not once, even in Volume 8 where he is at his worst, does he express even the remotest interest in the people of Atlas' social standing. He does not care about their money or class.

Subordination of individual interests for perceived good of the nation? No. A lot of people would argue that 'we have to let Mantle die for the good of Atlas' would qualify, but they'd be wrong because Mantle is not an individual. There is no evidence that individual interests have ever been sacrificed at Ironwood's instruction. Team FNKI are comprised abundantly of people who, in a true fascist dictatorship, would be immediately labeled disturbers of the peace, yet they're permitted to wear what they like and do their jobs how they see fit.

Strong regimentation of society and the economy? Also no. Ironwood's diversion of funds to support the Amity project was a matter of global security and there's no evidence that peacetime economy or the larger economy as a whole was something he had any hand in at all. Regimentation of society doesn't factor in either, again because Ironwood expresses no interest in individuals either way.

Most importantly, of course, since it's one of the core components of fascism, is ultranationalism. This one falls flat immediately. "Abandon Mantle and save Atlas" doesn't qualify for ultranationalism because Mantle is part of the nation Ironwood is in charge of. If Ironwood were ultranationalist, he would be promoting the superiority of Atlas-Mantle against that of the other kingdoms (Vale, Mistral, Vacuo). Ironwood's plan to run away to space while leaving half his civilian populace behind doesn't make him ultranationalist, just a huge idiot.

Like I said, I'm already aware that once a fan of RWBY is braindead enough to let "fascist" slip out of their mouths to begin with, there's no hope left. A lot of these people, Troche included, already know Ironwood isn't fascist--they know the difference between fascist government and what RWBY showed them. They just don't care. They worship the show and will follow its every pointed narrative no matter how ill-constructed or poorly motivated.

With this knowledge in mind though, I do feel clear to call them titanic shitheads for it.

#rwde #james ironwood

[honourablejester]

Homebrew Magic Items: The Viscous Rings

Three Viscous Rings for the Oozing Kings …

Viscous, NOT vicious, although the wearer may vary. Heh. So. I love oozes? And I wanted some vaguely ooze-themed magic items. And as I was thinking about it, it evolved from a single item that likely did far too much, to a set of three linked magic items on a theme of slimy things.

RING OF GREASE

Wonderous Item, Uncommon, requires attunement

This broad, flat brass ring has a thin line of a shiny black material running around the centre of the outer circumference of the band. Although it looks like enamel or perhaps a dark stone of some kind, this band is actually an imperturbable line of magical black grease. While the wearer is attuned to the ring, they gain a +2 bonus to skill checks involving the use of thieves tools or tinkers tools, as the ring gently loosens stiff components and eases the control of moving parts. In addition, the ring has 3 charges, and regains all spent charges daily at midnight. As an action, the wearer can expend a charge to cast the grease spell from the ring, without any verbal or material components.

(Note: I was browsing tools to see what ones would reasonably be affected by a ring of WD40, going broadly with thieves and tinkers, musing about jewellers, before my sister pipes up ‘what about bard’s tools’, and it takes me a minute to get innuendo most of the time, so it took me a second to throw a dirty look her way. So, you know. Make what allowances you will).

RING OF SLIME

Wonderous Item, Rare, requires attunement

This strange ring is made from an unknown greenish metal stained deeply with a darker green verdigris, and appears to have been less cast or carved and more simply cooled straight from a molten state into a strange, drippy circle. When worn, it gradually stains the finger of the wearer a permanent green around the band. This stain can only be removed by application of a lesser restoration spell or other similar magic. The ring has 4 charges, and regains 1d4 charges daily at midnight. Once attuned to the ring of slime, the wearer can use a bonus action to expend a charge and coat themselves and their equipment in a thin, greenish sheen of slime, extending from the ring. This slime lasts for 10 minutes, and grants the following benefits:

All checks made to grapple or restrain the wearer have disadvantage, and the wearer has advantage on all checks or saves made to avoid or escape grapples or restraints.

The wearer gains a +2 bonus to AC, as attacks slide off the coating of slime.

RING OF OOZE

Wonderous Item, Rare, requires attunement

This oddly beautiful ring appears to be carved whole from a piece of slick, clear, polished crystal or glass, but in truth is carved from a piece of petrified ooze. The ring has 6 charges, and regains 1d6 spent charges every day at midnight. While attuned to the ring, the wearer can use an action to spend a number of charges to summon one of the following ooze: gelatinous cube (2 charges) or black pudding (3 charges). The summoned ooze manifests in an unoccupied space that you can see within 60ft, and disappears at the end of 1 hour, or when it drops to 0 hit points. The ooze is an ally to the wearer and their companions. In combat, the ooze shares the wearer’s initiative count, but it takes its turn immediately after theirs. It obeys the wearer’s verbal commands (no action required). If the wearer doesn't issue any, it will move towards and attack the closest non-allied creature it can sense.

THE VISCOUS RINGS

If a single wearer becomes attuned to all three of the Viscous Rings simultaneously, they gain the following additional benefit:

As an action, the wearer of the three Viscous Rings can cause themselves and all their equipment to enter an amorphous state. While in this state, the wearer gains blindsight to a range of 30ft, and can squeeze through a space as narrow as 1 inch wide, carrying all of their equipment with them. This state lasts for 1 minute, unless the wearer uses a bonus action to remain in the amorphous state. Once the wearer has existed in this amorphous state for 10 minutes, either continuously or in separate 1 minute increments, they cannot enter this state again until they finish a long rest.

#d&d #d&d 5e #homebrew #magic items #oozes #i just really love them #don't ask #have some slimy rings instead

[gemsona-advice]

Hey just outa curiosity, i have two gem ocs that have fused but i cant think of a good fusion weapon because their main weapons are either

A litteral chainsaw + brass knuckles

Or

A GOD DAMN GUN + a baseball bat

If you can help it would be appreciated

Yeah no problem!! The first thing I'd mention is that some fusion gems don't actually fight with fused weapons, they just use their components' weapons- often dual wielding or favouring one over the other. If none of these suggestions really strike your fancy, mayhaps a fused weapon just wasn't meant to be ??

But with that outta the way, here's the fun bit:

Brass knuckles + chainsaw = chakram (this is a throwing weapon when -at least traditionally- neither of the component weapons are meant to be thrown, but visually I think it fits), spiked brass knuckles?

The GODDAMN GUN + baseball bat = bazooka.

(Ok ok one last thing. A lot of the ppl who worked on Steven Universe took some inspo from Homestuck, some even working on the comic itself- I'm kind of imagining what if those brass knuckles turn into a chainsaw, like how Kanaya's 'makeupkind' weapon works? It's not really how SU-style fusion weapons work, but... it would be such a funny reference cjJHDSJK)

#su #steven universe #gemsona help #gemsona advice #gem weapon help

[idealmachinedcomponents]

#precision-cnc-turning #precision-turned-parts #brass-precision-turned-components #custom-precision-machining #precision-turned-components-manufacturers

[ecoamerica]

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