#Fractional C Level

[krohnmarketing]

How Hubspot Consulting Can Help in The Growth of Your Business?

HubSpot was present everywhere and made inbound marketing software reasonably priced and usable. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise even for the smallest of companies.

Many customers were not able to make out of this software due to the absence of knowledge and funds. HubSpot Consultant can prove to be of great help in the whole process and growth of your business.

Read the article to know more about it.

Building out inbound advertising basis: A meticulous service marketing strategy has a major role to play in a thriving business development program. Only a well-qualified and experienced HubSpot consultant will help you in translating the strategy and its proper execution.

Let's take a quick look at a well-planned inbound marketing basis.

A plan based which is based on content clusters

It is the work of a good HubSpot consultant to build the content clusters that are based on your business as well as the services or products that you sell. This needs to be focus of the inbound marketing efforts.

Strategy for content creation

HubSpot Consulting focuses on the identification of the topics will be covered in the content marketing. Also, it proves to be of great help in creating links between the content that you create and "pillar" pages.

Keyword plan

Your keyword plan needs to be a thorough follow-on to the content clusters. Hubspot Consulting Phoenix Az will assist you in choosing those specific keywords that will maintain your SEO plan and also help you in tracking them in the Keywords module.

Make workflows for sustaining sales process

Lead qualification as well as prioritization has an integral role to play in the growth of professional services firms and making the most of the return on limited sales resources.

Proper HubSpot training: The HubSpot trainers have complete knowledge of the software and inbound marketing. But they might not be well aware of the business model. This is where the HubSpot Consultants can play an integral as they are specialists. The competition in the field of inbound marketing arena is growing by leaps and bounds. The right kind of HubSpot Consulting will help in adding value. The consultants can train you as well as your team to in using HubSpot in the right manner for supporting the business development function.

Incorporate technology elements into a flawless whole: Many specialized services businesses require Salesforce. They opt for video marketing software, webinar software, and other technologies as these will work best when combined with the core marketing software. It is the work of the HubSpot consultant to put together all the components of technology that they will help in supporting your company's development process.

Optimization Audit: There is no denying the fact that HubSpot is a feature packed tool that is constantly being updated. Business managers don't have adequate resources or time become a HubSpot expert. In this case HubSpot optimization audit is the perfect solution as it reasonably priced way.

[sttoru]

‘no matter how much time the king of curses spends with you, he doesn’t think he will ever understand you or your affectionate behaviour towards him.’

☀︎｜tags. true form sukuna x female reader. heian era sukuna. fluff. bits of mentions of blood & murder. big size difference. cold-big-monster-having-a-small-soft-spot-for-a-single-human trope. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’. not proof read! let me know if you like my characterisation or not; it’s my first sukuna fic.

a kiss on the cheek is one of the most innocent - yet apparently also the most difficult - things to do. it’s a small form of intimacy; not that hard to do. it’s really as simple as planting your lips on your beloved’s cheek. then all you do is retreat — maybe get a kiss on the cheek back from him. or on the lips.

“get moving. i’m not waiting all day for you.” sukuna grumbles. you had suddenly stopped in your tracks and the king of curses was confused as to what the reason might have been. the two of you had been walking through the courtyard for a few minutes now — well, you basically had to drag him out to take a little stroll together.

and now the same you was quiet. it bothered sukuna; you were always so chatty around him when it was just the two of you. he might have called you an ‘annoying brat’ for it, but he secretly enjoyed your company and voice.

“c-coming.” you reply in a quiet mumble, eyes glancing over at the monstrous frame that stood a few steps away. his dull yet sharp gaze was focused on you — like he was sizing you up. or rather: trying to figure out what’s wrong with the change in behaviour you showed.

sukuna watches you as you hurry over to his side again. he resumes walking, hands folded over each other under the material of his kimono.

though, he couldn’t yet let go of the fact that you were acting different around him. the king of curses’ suspicion only grew once he noticed how your fingers fiddled with your obi. you were anxious about something.

sukuna shakes his head slightly. some humans sure are difficult to understand, he thinks to himself. your happy yet reserved personality when you usually interacted with him had disappeared and made place for a nervous wreck. trying to figure out why made sukuna’s head hurt.

were you finally scared of him? like all other humans and curses were?

he doesn’t know why, but it felt like he would hate for such thing to happen. sukuna usually wouldn’t care if someone resents, fears or somehow even admires him. only you could make him think and care about such difficult and maybe even trivial things.

“uhm,” you break off his train of thoughts and his eyes are instantly on yours again, “may i do something really quickly?”

sukuna’s face doesn’t show any change in expression, but a small nod tells you everything you need to know. you clear your throat, “can you please lower your head towards me?”

lowering his head? oh, you got some guts. if anyone else had said that to him, sukuna would have obliterated them; there wouldn’t have been anything but red bloody dust left of their body.

but then again: it’s you. all exceptions the king of curses makes are for you.

sukuna slightly lowers his head to your level so you could do whatever you needed to. he’d be lying if he said that his curiosity wasn’t piqued. it always was when he was around you.

you gulp. it was time to do what you’ve longed to do ever since the beginning of your stroll: give the ryomen sukuna a kiss on the cheek. you don’t think he’d be mad—at least he never seriously gets mad at you. only to get a reaction out of you since your responses are always ‘intensely amusing’—as he says.

“go on.” sukuna’s breath hits your cheeks. he was so close—too close that it made you even more nervous in a way. as if you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet.

you swallow your fears and just go for it. your lips attach to his cheek in the fraction of a second—the speed of light—before they leave. it was right under his right set of eyes.

you take a step back and clear your throat. you try to escape the embarrassment of sukuna’s possible reaction by continuing your stroll, though were stopped by a strong hand firmly grabbing your forearm.

“where’d you think you’re going?”

sukuna’s deep voice echoes through your ears. you were surprised to hear the tone of it; almost soft. a tone sukuna uses on rare occasions: in your presence.

you turn your head around and smile sheepishly at the king of curses before you. he doesn’t return the same (not that you expected him to), however he does unexpectedly ruffle your hair for a split second. or at least he attempts to.

his large and warm palm lands on top of your head and he gives it a little and subtle shake. sukuna had seen you do a similar action to someone else before, thus he concluded that he could do it to you. maybe as a form of endearment or. . whatever you used it as.

he did find the way you tried to scurry away after giving him a kiss very adorable. even if he wouldn’t say so out loud.

“now, come along. we don’t have all day.” sukuna nonchalantly mutters after retracting his hand. it left as fast as it came, though you were still stunned at the slight show of affection the king of curses returned.

you instantly catch up to sukuna again—walking next to him as fast as your legs could take you. you were a bit more at ease after you got a positive reaction to your little kiss. it was a pity that he didn’t smirk or laugh at you—maybe mocked you like he usually would. but that head pat made up for it.

even if it did leave your hair a little disheveled.

you couldn’t properly see sukuna’s face, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips was undeniably there. even if it was for just a split second.

“how very interesting.” sukuna mutters under his breath so you wouldn’t catch on. he sighs and shakes his head, unable to keep out that memory of you looking so cute—standing on the tip of your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek with your comically small hand on his jaw line. he doesn’t know why he found that to be so thrilling.

you flutter your eyelashes. you were curious about what he might have commented on, “may i ask what you had just said? i didn’t quite hear it.”

a short second of silence hangs before sukuna tilts his head to the right to look down at you again; his face expressionless, but still having a hint of a grin on his lips.

“i said you better hurry before i gobble you up right this instant.” he replies, (playfully) intimidating you with his sharp red eyes that glinted with a form of danger.

you shiver (though knew the threat was an empty one) and instantly pick up your pace. you even get ahead of him, walking as fast as your legs could. you answer with a curt ‘my apologies’ and walk like you actually have somewhere to be.

sukuna’s grin only grows as he sees you get ahead of him. if you had turned around, maybe you could have caught onto that light flicker of affection in his expression.

“i’m coming for you, little one.” sukuna adds just to ignite some more fear into you and you react as expected, “you’re not escaping me today.”

it was a funny sight; your reactions always make him enjoy his time with you even more than he already (secretly) was.

the way his body reacts in mysterious ways when you’re around, is still very much an unsolved riddle to the king of curses. and the reasons as to why you aren’t scared of him and can easily give him all your ‘love’ are also still yet to be discovered.

until then, sukuna will continue to enjoy teasing you.

[nasa]

A Tour of Cosmic Temperatures

We often think of space as “cold,” but its temperature can vary enormously depending on where you visit. If the difference between summer and winter on Earth feels extreme, imagine the range of temperatures between the coldest and hottest places in the universe — it’s trillions of degrees! So let’s take a tour of cosmic temperatures … from the coldest spots to the hottest temperatures yet achieved.

First, a little vocabulary: Astronomers use the Kelvin temperature scale, which is represented by the symbol K. Going up by 1 K is the same as going up 1°C, but the scale begins at 0 K, or -273°C, which is also called absolute zero. This is the temperature where the atoms in stuff stop moving. We’ll measure our temperatures in this tour in kelvins, but also convert them to make them more familiar!

We’ll start on the chilly end of the scale with our CAL (Cold Atom Lab) on the International Space Station, which can chill atoms to within one ten billionth of a degree above 0 K, just a fraction above absolute zero.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Just slightly warmer is the Resolve sensor inside XRISM, pronounced “crism,” short for the X-ray Imaging and Spectroscopy Mission. This is an international collaboration led by JAXA (Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency) with NASA and ESA (European Space Agency). Resolve operates at one twentieth of a degree above 0 K. Why? To measure the heat from individual X-rays striking its 36 pixels!

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Resolve and CAL are both colder than the Boomerang Nebula, the coldest known region in the cosmos at just 1 K! This cloud of dust and gas left over from a Sun-like star is about 5,000 light-years from Earth. Scientists are studying why it’s colder than the natural background temperature of deep space.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Let’s talk about some temperatures closer to home. Icy gas giant Neptune is the coldest major planet. It has an average temperature of 72 K at the height in its atmosphere where the pressure is equivalent to sea level on Earth. Explore how that compares to other objects in our solar system!

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

How about Earth? According to NOAA, Death Valley set the world’s surface air temperature record on July 10, 1913. This record of 330 K has yet to be broken — but recent heat waves have come close. (If you’re curious about the coldest temperature measured on Earth, that’d be 183.95 K (-128.6°F or -89.2°C) at Vostok Station, Antarctica, on July 21, 1983.)

We monitor Earth's global average temperature to understand how our planet is changing due to human activities. Last year, 2023, was the warmest year on our record, which stretches back to 1880.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

The inside of our planet is even hotter. Earth’s inner core is a solid sphere made of iron and nickel that’s about 759 miles (1,221 kilometers) in radius. It reaches temperatures up to 5,600 K.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

We might assume stars would be much hotter than our planet, but the surface of Rigel is only about twice the temperature of Earth’s core at 11,000 K. Rigel is a young, blue star in the constellation Orion, and one of the brightest stars in our night sky.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger 

We study temperatures on large and small scales. The electrons in hydrogen, the most abundant element in the universe, can be stripped away from their atoms in a process called ionization at a temperature around 158,000 K. When these electrons join back up with ionized atoms, light is produced. Ionization is what makes some clouds of gas and dust, like the Orion Nebula, glow.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

We already talked about the temperature on a star’s surface, but the material surrounding a star gets much, much hotter! Our Sun’s surface is about 5,800 K (10,000°F or 5,500°C), but the outermost layer of the solar atmosphere, called the corona, can reach millions of kelvins.

Our Parker Solar Probe became the first spacecraft to fly through the corona in 2021, helping us answer questions like why it is so much hotter than the Sun's surface. This is one of the mysteries of the Sun that solar scientists have been trying to figure out for years.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Looking for a hotter spot? Located about 240 million light-years away, the Perseus galaxy cluster contains thousands of galaxies. It’s surrounded by a vast cloud of gas heated up to tens of millions of kelvins that glows in X-ray light. Our telescopes found a giant wave rolling through this cluster’s hot gas, likely due to a smaller cluster grazing it billions of years ago.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Now things are really starting to heat up! When massive stars — ones with eight times the mass of our Sun or more — run out of fuel, they put on a show. On their way to becoming black holes or neutron stars, these stars will shed their outer layers in a supernova explosion. These layers can reach temperatures of 300 million K!

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Jeremy Schnittman

We couldn’t explore cosmic temperatures without talking about black holes. When stuff gets too close to a black hole, it can become part of a hot, orbiting debris disk with a conical corona swirling above it. As the material churns, it heats up and emits light, making it glow. This hot environment, which can reach temperatures of a billion kelvins, helps us find and study black holes even though they don’t emit light themselves.

JAXA’s XRISM telescope, which we mentioned at the start of our tour, uses its supercool Resolve detector to explore the scorching conditions around these intriguing, extreme objects.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/CI Lab

Our universe’s origins are even hotter. Just one second after the big bang, our tiny, baby universe consisted of an extremely hot — around 10 billion K — “soup” of light and particles. It had to cool for a few minutes before the first elements could form. The oldest light we can see, the cosmic microwave background, is from about 380,000 years after the big bang, and shows us the heat left over from these earlier moments.

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

We’ve ventured far in distance and time … but the final spot on our temperature adventure is back on Earth! Scientists use the Large Hadron Collider at CERN to smash teensy particles together at superspeeds to simulate the conditions of the early universe. In 2012, they generated a plasma that was over 5 trillion K, setting a world record for the highest human-made temperature.

Want this tour as a poster? You can download it here in a vertical or horizontal version!

Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center/Scott Wiessinger

Explore the wonderful and weird cosmos with NASA Universe on X, Facebook, and Instagram. And make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[vyzz-undercover]

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

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

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

———————————————————————————————————

im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

[milky-fixx]

scaramouche + “drenched” 

for @scaranya​. thanks for the request!

tw/cw: 18+, cunnilingus, scaramouche is kind of a mean dom, but not as mean as he usually is

The slick sound of slurping between your thighs, paired with the exquisite feel of his lips suckling your clit sets your nerves afire. You plant your hands on either side of you, attempting to raise your hips--to get away from him? to push yourself closer to his mouth? You’re not sure yourself. But your efforts prove futile. His grip is iron, his lithe frame betraying the sheer strength in his hands as they pin you down to the bed.

“This...” You swallow hard, your toes curling into the sheets, as you grind into his mouth hopelessly. With a shaky moan, you feel yourself come undone beneath him, bit by bit. “This isn’t exactly what I meant by--c-cooling down, you know..!”

There’s a challenge in his violet gaze. A sharp pinch to your inner thigh has you jolting, but then he kisses your clit soothingly. His mouth releases you with a pop before he licks his lips clean of your juices. His tone is level, conversational even. 

“I said we would test it, right? Your theory that I ran cooler than you. Heh... seems like it’s a moot point now though.” He eyes your glistening, drooling slit with barely-concealed arrogance. “You’re burning up down here. You’re practically soaked.”

You squirm under his scrutiny. The way he looks at you, as if you’re a fledgling creation of his. “You’re such a jerk,” you mutter, curling your leg back, aiming to kick his shoulder. But he blocks it easily, the fingers of one hand curling around your ankles as he yanks. You yelp as the movement smacks his nose right up against your clit. He takes advantage of your surprise to spread your legs even wider. 

“Relax,” he says, glancing up at you through his lashes. The way it makes him look even more beautiful than before is downright criminal. You throw a few choice words at him, his gaze narrows dangerously. His grip tightens a fraction. 

“I said relax.” Reluctantly, you do so, and he hums his approval. “Good girl. Isn’t this better than your incessant complaints about the weather?”

You purse your lips. “Incessant--”

He rolls his eyes at your indignation. You’ll forgive him for his comments, and even if you don’t, it’s of no consequence to him. You won’t even remember what you’re up in arms about when he’s done with you. His long fingers reach out, stroking a stripe down your clit, watching with half-lidded eyes as your folds part for him. Your hips jerk upwards, a soft mewl escaping your lips. So obedient. So receptive to his touch. 

And all his. A sight only for him. 

Gaze trained on your heaving chest, he brings his fingers to his lips, tongue darting out to taste you once more. 

His eyes flutter shut, a soft exhale leaving his lips. 

“…Good. You taste really good.” 

[hellsite-proteins]

Article Review

Okay, I know this isn't what I usually do on here, but I found this amazing article that fits with the theme of this blog so well, and I just had to share and talk about it! it's free to read here:

if you don't want to read the whole thing, i did my best to summarize it here. if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and i'll fix them!

researchers created random protein sequences to study. these were 100 residues long (or 109 with the inclusion of an N-terminal Met and a C-terminal 6His tag) and were made by either sampling different fragments of natural proteins from databases or by combining letters at random. this is not the same as using words, since in this study each letter was chosen independently, and the likelihood of choosing a letter matched the amino acid's relative frequency, but its still a neat comparison to this blog. they elaborate on this more in the methods section for anyone interested!

proteins in their generated library were analyzed using various algorithms to predict the occurrence of alpha helices and beta sheets. they were then sorted by relative disorder and secondary structure content. interestingly, the amount of secondary structure formation was not much lower for random proteins compared to those taken from pieces of databases. the three groups going forward were ordered, disordered, and a random sample.

next, they recombinantly expressed the selected proteins in E. coli and purified them for further analysis. I won't get into the specific assays, but overall they found that the more ordered proteins were more prone to aggregation and oligomerization, while the disordered protein were more likely to be expressed and soluble! following sequence analysis, they also determined that the disordered proteins did tend to deviate from the expected amino acid frequencies, which likely explains their increased level of disorder. because of all this, the less ordered random proteins are likely better suited for future evolution towards some function.

tldr: random proteins can form secondary structures and be expressed in vivo. interestingly, while the more structured newly created proteins were shown to clump together (which is Not Good!) in cells, disordered proteins did not and were actually well tolerated.

given all of that, i think i may have been a bit harsh towards some of the uglier looking structures on here. apparently, we can either have things that look like proteins but cause problems, or we can have ugly messes that are pretty chill for the most part. it still feels incredibly unintuitive to have more trust in the low confidence unstructured sequences, but this new information is still good and interesting to have!

[icebear4president]

It’s twisted and so, so sick, but c!Dream being the only one who will never leave c!Tommy behind is nothing but the truth. Tommy could drop everything and run back to him, and Dream would welcome him with open arms.

And Tommy knows this.

Everyone Tommy loves leaves in the end, no matter what the circumstances. After they’re done using him, they throw him to the wolves. Or if he ends up ‘betraying’ them they don’t stop and listen to his side of the story. He has to earn their love, and even then it’s only a fraction of what he deserves.

Dream’s ‘love’ doesn’t have to be earned, Dream cares about Tommy no matter what. The man who hurts you, taunts you, and manipulates you, is also the man who comforts you, holds you, and sticks by your side (even though you don’t want him to). The man who drags you down until you’re gasping for breath, but also pulls you up into his arms breathing life back into you.

Tommy knows that Dream is just manipulating these feelings that he has, he’s not stupid and he knows he can never trust that man. But on the other hand, didn’t Dream save him from his loneliness on some level?

“We’ll be immortals together” is nothing but the truth. People leave, and Tommy will be alone again. Except now he has Dream, and it’ll only be them, always and forever.

Together with his friend, his enemy, his abuser, his savior.

[lexosaurus]

I worked as a substitute teacher for a few years and one day I helped sub in an 8th grade science class. They were doing math like speed=distance/time. But they had a...really odd method for it. That I commented on because I'd never heard of it before.

And the teacher was straight up like "Oh yeah, this makes it really easy for them to do it for the tests. But its going to really fuck them up next year when they are in high school because they won't understand how to reverse the division. But that's not my problem."

And that comment has lived in my head so much. Like, she just did NOT care that the method was bad in the long run. She just needed them to pass the state test that year.

Also, it's literally a very basic formula, what do you MEAN?

Ohhhhh yeah. That's not exactly the issue in my district, as funding for us isn't directly tied to our state exam scores (thank god). Mine is dealing with both grade inflation and no grades below high school. So kids don't want to learn things if they're not graded on the material. Which is fair, honestly, as I also would not have wanted to learn things I didn't like if I wasn't given a grade or any consequences for not knowing it either. Mine's also dealing with a lot of the "memorization bad" thing that's going around, hence why the kids are entering high school not knowing any of their times tables. They just used a calculator their entire lives. They have NO concept of what numbers mean.

Like, at the start of the year, I asked one of my classes what 2 + 0 was and I got about thirty seconds of 15 kids shouting every number except 2. Which was sort of wild to witness.

At the start of the year, we did a week of review and then we had all the freshmen take a quiz of 7th and 8th grade level easy math problems as a sort of wake up call for them. No quiz corrections either, which they've never not been allowed to retake a test before...

The class average was a C-. Unsurprisingly.

Content Teacher warned me right before she posted the grades, and I spent a LOT of time that afternoon talking the kids down from a metaphorical ledge.

Lots of angry parent phone calls, too, but the math department held firm. The students HAVE to know how to solve this stuff. They NEED to know their basic times tables, they NEED to know how basic fractions work, they NEED to know how to rearrange one-step equations.

After that, we had our Very Frank Class Discussion about how they felt about their education. They felt very frustrated and unprepared, which we validated as we're also frustrated that they're so unprepared. But we were honest about other things. We told them that they couldn't get by just sitting there on their phone and copying the answers off the key anymore. We aren't going to reward an A for minimal effort. Yes, you have to take notes, and yes, you have to follow along with classroom example of problems or you won't pass the class. The students are responsible for their education, we all offer extra help, all our emails are open, all they need to do is ask and we'll never turn them away. But they do need to start taking advantage of all the learning opportunities/supports they have now.

Honestly, I'm so glad we had that convo with them. Felt like they got to vent a lot of their frustrations, and they realized that we were here to push them, but we're NOT their enemy. All our students have a study hall block, and if they come to one of our rooms for even 10 minutes out of the entire hour, we will help them however they need.

A lot of my Freshmen have been really really good about coming for extra help, or emailing and asking if they can stop by for a few minutes to do a few homework problems 1-1 with me.

(And yes, for those worried, while we didn't let them retake that first quiz, two weeks later we did give them another assessment after on the same material, but with slightly harder problems and worth more points. Class average was a B!)

I tried to keep this short, but I guess I had a lot to say aksjnfksjdnkajn

[eisforeidolon]

Like 90% of the show revolved around Sam/Dean or from their POV. 10% were B-C plots for Cass, Crowley, whoever, so J2 could get time off. But just because 10% of the show had focus on other characters, doesn’t mean it was an ensemble. And not to mention the whole “found family” thing, like if Sam and Dean referred to someone as “family”, it was 9x out of 10 a death sentence. It was like another version of “sleep w/ Sam and die”. Family don’t end in blood, but it ends bloody when you’re in it w/ the Winchesters.

If you watch and pay attention to the entire show as a whole, yes, it's painfully obvious.

The problem is, as is so often the case? Certain fans only pay attention to what they personally are invested in. Sure, in this particular case, that's just (their imaginative personal reinterpretations of) a fraction of the show? With a show spanning 15 years, though, even a fraction is a lot of content. Easily enough that someone who wants to deceive themselves they're properly remembering 'the whole show' can.

So it doesn't matter that Misha was in a fraction of the airtime of a fraction of the episodes compared to J2. They only cared about the episodes he was in or they could pretend were about him, so he was a lead equal to J2! It doesn't matter that the Wayward herd and Eileen were in even fewer episodes and played only minor roles (if any) in the major arcs. They wanted them to be very very important, and the characters talked about family being more than blood a couple times across the whole span of the show, so found family was the major theme! It definitely doesn't matter Sam & Dean talked about their relationship as something special above and beyond just family more times than that, because they were tuning out/actively wanted to forget those scenes. And so on.

With a source material as extensive as the show Supernatural, there's always some extent to which fans' biases are going to distort their memory of the canon. But certain people really do take it to the next level. Which doesn't even account for the ones who know they're full of shit but believe they can change (at least the perception of) reality through never-ending spam campaigns.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Seeking

Author's note: More of Draco in Husbandry.

Summary: Draco seeks some more answers.

Warning: Let me know if I need to add anything.

Past =-= Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Draco had been forced to retreat from the battle of the mixed group of supposed loyalists and chaos scum traitors. It had been quite annoying to deal with all of them, especially since more than one of them was a Psyker, no where near his power level.

But with the way the Warp was being non-responsive, it had given them enough of an edge that he'd needed to have a strategic retreat, he will need to find a different way to snag those two damned Primaris Psykers.

They need training proper training at that. He could tell from the way that the two Primaris Marines moved and acted, they both were gifted with a version of Seer-sight of the future.

Which could be extremely tactically useful, if their sight is honed, they are properly taught and report their visions to their superiors promptly

He knows that one Ancient Librarian of the Ultramarines who has managed to successfully guide his chapter for many years from what would have been ruinous defeat, to success and victory.

If either of those boys had even the fraction of that skill or power, it could be important for the good of the Imperium to have them Properly trained.

Still, he needs to know more about this planet that he's landed on. Also, how in the name of the God Emperor that he got here. After all, the last he remembers is being on his ship flying through the Warp.

After healing up he manages to hunt down an Alpha legionary- a younger one, who he'd learned his name was Keed and used persuasion to get the younger space marine to tell him what he knew was going on.

Learning that he was on Ancient Terra- and about the alliance between the various factions of Astartes, as well as the other things that are going on.

It's terribly fascinating, and the other space marine genuinely believes this information to be true. He pulls out of the other space marine's mind after ensuring that Keed won't remember their conversation.

Draco will need to go to one of the Loyalist Bases- but not the one that the Salamander Captain Ash'val was based at. Salamanders have a well-earned reputation, among mortals and Astartes alike, and he doesn't want the Dragon to try and breath fire at him.

Ash'val would lose that fight of course, but it would be a terribly messy battle- and would only make trying to retrieve Jophiel and Claude that much more difficult.

Ugh. He might have to fake apologizing for what he had done due to a lack of information. Which might be accepted, might not be accepted by the fellow First Born Space Marines.

The Primaris Marines know better than to try and deny him, a Gray Knight what he wants. Or at least they should, Jophiel had been trained by him, for a short while, at least.

That one knows the weight of his displeasure and how that is not a good thing. So, for him to not be obedient means that he's learning bad habits on Ancient Terra.

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, that can happen to impressionable youngsters, but he will remind Jophiel of how he should behave.

His little Raven friend will help keep Jophiel obedient, and he can use the mutated Blood Angel against the little Raven as well. While two on one might be a bit of a challenge, it's not for him. He's a gray knight, has the gene-seed of the god emperor, rare is an individual able to overpower him.

[mooestriovermind]

ok so hypothetical scenario. Using roguelike games to fractionate someone. Do you? a. have them go deeper everytime they die / the run ends b. have them go deeper everytime they progress to the next level but wake up when the run ends c. idk insert option C here

This is an exceptional idea. Would you like to try it? Or anyone, for that matter?

[humunanunga]

Paraphrasing myself from a youtube comment on an analysis of Signalis:

if Lilith was erased from records and public memory, that would definitely contribute to why her relation to Anja and the twins is unclear. Anja could've been her sister or cousin, but when I tried to prove/disprove whether it was possible that the Itou twins weren't too old to be Lilith's own children, part of the challenge is translating the calendar format to Vinetan days and years.

If I did it right, I was able to calculate that a "cycle" is ~22.61 hours (the fraction I got was 240000/10613), and a 365-day year contains ~8766 hours, which would round up to 388 cycles… however, regarding how long it's been since Lilith's dispatch when Ariane was a radio officer, a span estimated at ten years was extrapolated from Ariane Yeong and Rebecca Liang's medical files, which actually just state how far apart they are in age relative to the Rotfront calendar. In the Rotfront calendar system, S doesn't seem to align with its local solar rotation. Maintaining the assumption that Rotfront is Europa, a Jovian year is 4,333 Earth days, or almost 12 years. If S were a Jovian year, Ariane would be 47 years older than the Itou twins, so that can't be it.

In the patient records, dates range as follows: S = -6 to 18, P= 6 to 76 and a-d. Notably, Roswita Fong*, the one with the same brow marks seen on KLBR units, was born a negative number, which may suggest she was born 6S before the installation of the Rotfront calendar. (This would support the assumption that S is counting from the founding of the Nation.)

Now, if S is the year, that makes Ariane older than Nikolai Nguyen by 3S and younger than Rebecca Liang by 10S. But as for those last letters in Rotfront dates, a-d may correspond with quartering Rotfront's orbit around Jupiter (~84 hours) into four 21-hour spans. The only catch is, while the patient files only list a-d, ADLR-S2301 dates his journal entries as days 6-9 preceding A-C, until finally dating all entries 84-21-D. This may or may not set the events on Sierpinski when Ariane would be 66S, but if a cycle is estimated to be 22 hours and 36-37 minutes, that's pretty close to 21 hours. (It is also possible that a cycle is 21 hours.) Those entries were written leading up to and during the distortion, so Adler may have been getting mixed up between Leng's and Rotfront's dating formats at that point.

So back to Ariane. If she and the twins were close enough in age at 4S apart to have been schoolmates, S still has a chance of being a conversion of a Vinetan (Earth) year from 365 days to 388 cycles. Anja Itou said to look at the last six digits on her daughters' PKZ and recall their homeworld (Vineta) when mentioning that the passcode to the library was their birthday.

If Isa and Erika were born May 24, '56, and that date = 14S 52P c, -6S 20P a = Feb. 2, '35 and 8S 12P b = Jan. 6, '50. And if -6S = year '35 and and 8S = year '50, then 15 Vinetan years = 14S. That may disprove S = 388 cycles, but cross-examining that with Rotfront = Europa is probably the key to finishing the translation of a Rotfront calendar. This is as far as I could get by myself (ft. wolframalpha).

*Regarding the theory that Roswita was a neural donor: it all depends on the extent of that level being a recreation of the past built from Ariane's memories and whether the Kolibri line was already in production. That medical record may have been destroyed by 84-21 (Leng calendar? Rotfront calendar?), but with her being a "retired" Replika technician, that snapshot of Rotfront may have been based on the timeframe between Roswita's "neural archival" and the manufacturing of KLBR, such as if her candidacy were under final assessment at the time.

The red starbursts (tattoos?) are probably how the Eusan Nation marks known bioresonants. They're featured on the cover of Bioresonance Technology and its Limitations, and Falke has them too. The shape and placement are almost identical, just slightly elongated and partially covered by her hair. Kolibris' hairstyle may leave their starbursts so exposed as a reminder not to underestimate them just because they're short, but Falke already has halos and kotinos, and she towers over everyone. She's already decked out in reminders for everyone to know their place around her.

[oliviax727]

Physics Friday #3: No Seriously, why is 1+1 = 2? (and what a real number really is)

Refer to this link if you're confused as to what this is all about.

If you were wondering where my part 2 to the Dark Energy vs. Dark Matter post is, it'll come next week. I just wanted to divert for a bit and stick my head into mathematics. I generally won't do two parts back to back.

Preamble

Education Level: Middle School (Y6 - 8)

Topic: Logic and Construction (Mathematics)

Introduction: 1 + 1 = 2 because I said so

What is 1+1?

Why does it equal 2?

How can we say such a simple thing without falling into the depths of chaotic mathematical thinking?

What is a number?

What does it mean to be real?

Many people are asking this ...

Well, really to answer those questions directly. Mathematics, unlike a lot of other subjects, is founded on the principles of hard logic. Definitions and statements that derive new definitions and statements. Truth follows from more truth.

But in order to have true statements, some of those statements must given i.e. we just have to assume or declare they're correct. Otherwise we wouldn't have true statements to begin with!

Consider the logical statement "The sun is a star".

In order to prove that this statement is true, we need to:

Define the existence of an object called "the sun"

Define what a "star" is

Define what it means for an object to be "is" another object

We could then come up with these statements:

The sun exists

A star is a bright burning ball of gas

An object is something else when that object has the traits of that something else

But then we are faced with a problem: how do we know that the sun exists? Well, we can see it of course!

But this doesn't apply to maths - after all, can you see the number 1? Like, can you see the concept of the number 1?

The answer is that we have to just accept some statements as simply true, no questions asked. These statements are called axioms.

In any mathematical system, we have a set of rules, or axioms, that dictate how our system works.

In most cases, we say that 1 + 1 = 2 by definition. That the number 2 is purely defined by 1 + 1. Any properties it has, like 2 representing an amount of objects (cardinality), or 2 coming after 1 (ordinality) is merely coincidental, an aspect of the system itself, or entirely irrelevant.

Real Numbers

Let's start off with how we can play with these numbers, using the Reals and an example.

A real number is real simple. Here's some examples:

2

16

2/3

-8

-9091/2311

0.0404583439484328423490 ....

Pi

It's basically any number that you've dealt with before: decimals, fractions, integers, and the like.

But how did we get to this stage? Like how can we define the real numbers to mean a specific thing?

It's important to have such rigorous definitions in mathematics, because without them, we won't be able to generate new theorems about how our world works.

The real numbers are known as a complete ordered field. What that means is it has three properties:

A field describes a particular set of numbers with some simple arithmetic laws attached to them

A ordered set is one which as a notion of order

A complete field has no gaps

The Field axioms are as follows. A field is a set of numbers that/where:

Contains two non-equal numbers, 0 and 1

Has a definition for the + and × operators

For any number a:

- a + 0 = 0

- a × 1 = 1

- There exists a number (-a) such that: a + (-a) = 0

- There exists a number 1/a such that: a × 1/a = 1, unless a = 0

For any numbers a, b, and c:

- a + b = b + a

- a × b = b × a

- (a + b) + c = a + (b + c)

- (a × b) × c = a × (b × c)

- a × (b + c) = (a × b) + (a × c)

(Note: I dunno how to format bullet lists properly pls help)

Pretty simple eh? Well there are actually quite a lot of things that are fields. For example the set of all rational numbers (fractions) are a field.

There's also the order axioms. An ordered set is a set of numbers that/where:

Has a definition of something being less than another or a < b

For any numbers a, b, and c:

- If a < b then a + c < b + c

- If a < b and b < c then a < c

- Either a = b or a < b or b < a exclusively

An example of one of these ordered sets is the integers!

Lastly we have the completeness theorem. The completeness theorem is a bit more complicated, and it might be worthwhile to spend a whole topic on it:

Say I were to define a new operation within this set. For example f(x) = a + b + x

A complete set, no matter the definition of the operator, would always evaluate to a number that remained within the set as long as no rules of the set were broken.

i.e. x can be any number, and f(x) can be any operation involving x. But if x and f(x) can be defined entirely by what we had originally, then f(x) will always equal a valid number given that we don't divide by zero.

The rational numbers, for example, is not complete. Here's a small proof:

Define the operator a^2 := a × a

Define the operator sqrt(a) as being sqrt(a)^2 = a

There does not exist a rational number that equals sqrt(2)

Therefore the rationals are not complete

It turns out that the real numbers is the only complete ordered field in existence. That by setting just these axioms, we can have a unique set of numbers.

So how does 1 + 1 come into this? Well, 2 is defined as being 1 + 1. And 1 + 2 = 3, and 1 + 3 = 4 ...

Here's an example proof for 2 + 2 = 4, the bane of all who know about Gregory Orsen's 1894:

2 + 2 = (1 + 1) + (1 + 1) = (1 + 1 + (1 + 1)) = 1 + 1 + 2 = 1 + 3 = 4

Note that these axioms leave out some rather important identities, like:

Any number times 0 is 0

0 = -0

0 < 1

-1 < 0

a < b implies 1/a > 1/b

But the whole point is that we don't need these statements to be axioms! We can prove these from the ones we already have alone!

Set Theory, Peano, & Recursive Addition

There are, of course, other ways to construct mathematical frameworks.

The real number axioms are an example of constructing a system by having a set of rules and then proving afterward that these rules produce a unique set of numbers.

But what if we wanted to go more general, and have numbers not defined by axioms, but have the axioms describe more general maths.

Well, there are several ways in which we can do this:

Set Theory Construction

Lambda Calculus Construction

Surreal Numbers

I'll mention only set theory. A set is something I've used before. What a set essentially is, is just a collection of things.

We can use sets to define numbers, for example:

0 := { } (i.e. the set containing nothing) 1 := { 0 } (i.e. the set containing, the set containing nothing) 2 := { 0, 1 } (i.e. the set containing, the set containing nothing, and the set containing the set containing nothing)

With this, we have numbers! It also comes with the added benefit of:

"The number of elements in a set corresponds with what each number means linguistically in terms of amount".

But what does this even do? Like what about addition?

Well, we can use what's known as a recursive definition to help us figure out what addition is. But first we need the notion of a successor.

Peano arithmetic, that is, arithmetic with integers, can be constructed from set theory by defining the immediate successor of a number:

S(n) = { n itself and every internal object within n }

We could then use this to redefine our numbers as:

0 := { } 1 := S(0) 2 := S(1)

This is very similar to our 1 + n example back in the real numbers.

From this, we can define what addition is using our recursive action:

For any numbers a and c a + S(c) := if c ≠ 0 then S(a) + c otherwise S(a)

This definition is recursive, as it contains itself. But in order to stop us from going infinitely into the negatives, we must stop the process when c reaches zero.

Here's two examples of our definition

1 + 1 = 1 + S(0) = S(1) = 2

2 + 2 = 2 + S(1) = S(2) + S(0) = 3 + S(0) = S(3) = 4

And thus we have that 1 + 1 = 2!

Conclusion

At last, we have reached the end. Congratulations, if you read this all the way through, you have read an entire tumblr post (and a long one that is) on why we can say that 1 + 1 = 2. This is a very broad topic that I have barely scraped the surface on. Here's some other interesting related subjects:

David Hilbert's formulation of mathematics

Peano Arithmetic

Lambda Calculus

Fields, Ordered Sets, and Completeness

Real Analysis

Zermelo-Frankel Set Theory

As always, feedback is very appreciated! I'm an astronomer, not a mathematician. A lot of this stuff I was taught in my first year of university. And I hope you enjoyed reading this. Feel free to follow if you like seeing stuff in the realm of physics, astronomy, mathematics, and computer science.

[timptoe]

And I Know It

For @bigplaceexchange this year, I got to write for the lovely Viggorrah on Ao3 about Ashley and Kaidan and how much I love their friendship. This fic is based on a tumblr post I saw once and stupidly didn't save that's stuck with me; ping me if you know the one I'm talking about.

Because sometimes, the way forward is a silly t-shirt, a good friend, and a little bit of Latin.

----

We headed to the bar, baby Don’t be nervous No shoes, no shirt And I still get service Watch

 - LMFAO, “Sexy and I Know It”

——

“What.”

“Hm?”

Kaidan pops his head up out of his reverie, turning to look at whatever it is that’s pissing Ashley off in this particular moment. 

“What. Is. That.”

Her flat growl immediately puts him on high alert. He scans for threats in a quick, sharp glance around the area. The salarian working that kiosk? Looks harmless. The batarians reading at that tea shop? Maybe, but they seem pretty engaged in their books. That guy crossing the promenade with the mustache? Tacky, but non-threatening.

He furrows his brow. Nothing in particular stands out to him amongst the crowds and bric-a-brac of Zakera Ward. 

Focus, Alenko. Put Eletania out of your mind. You’re an officer, never off duty. Try again.

He sweeps their surroundings again in an instant, coming up empty. But the look on Ashley’s frozen, gobsmacked face is unmistakable. What is he missing?

“Williams, what’s—“

She pushes past him, rushing toward the kiosk, and for a fraction of a second, he preps for combat. He squares his shoulders, plants his feet, feels the hair on the back of neck stand up as he begins reaching for the biotic energy inside him. Whatever that salarian’s up to, he’s got Ashley’s back.

And then she turns around, and he sees the unrestrained glee on her face.

“LT, look! Look at this!”

She waves him over. The blue aura around his fingertips fades as he walks forward, utterly confused. The kiosk itself isn't particularly remarkable, reminding him of those kitschy, ticky-tacky souvenir stands in every mall in Vancouver. Apparently some things are universal. Mugs with asari quotes he guesses are famous, keychains with turian names that must be common, hats of various sizes to fit the heads of various species all gathered together in a garish display of consumerism and unnecessary excess.

But Ashley is focused on a single shirt.

She holds it up proudly, looking at it in wonder. “What is this?” she squeaks. Actually squeaks. He hasn’t known her that long, but he would’ve bet the Normandy itself that Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams was incapable of squeaking in something like pure delight. She turns it around, holding it up to her torso to show it off. Dark blue background, bright gold letters. At first he thinks it’s a misprint. “SEC-C?” he says cautiously, brow furrowing.

All at once, the pun hits him like a geth stalker falling from the ceiling.

“SEC-C!” Ashley shouts with laughter.

Kaidan groans.

“Oh, c’mon LT,” she says, impish mischief all over her face. “Get your head outta whatever funk it’s been since we left the planet of the apes and bask in the glorious mess of this shirt with me.”

He rolls his eyes, not at all in the mood for this. “‘Mess’ is the right word.”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

“And surely that pun doesn’t translate, I mean do turians even have—“

“That one’s been pretty popular with our human patrons, sir,” pipes up the annoyingly helpful salarian. “Shall I ring it up for you?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Ashley says enthusiastically, pushing between them and eagerly proffering her omnitool. 

In moments, the transaction completed, the pair are standing in the center of the promenade, alternately admiring and abhorring the piece of fabric in Ashley’s hands.

“Is this not the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?” Ashley says, voice full of awe.

Kaidan levels a look at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s incredible,” she murmurs, taking in every inch of her prize.

“Please tell me you’re not going to wear it.”

Without a word, she strips off her regulation uniform tunic, throwing it over Kaidan’s shoulder. He barely has time to blush, avert his eyes, decide if he even should avert his eyes, before she dons the new shirt. She pulls at it, testing the fit, the feel, the way it drapes over her lithe, solid shoulders.

“Something’s not quite right.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, idly folding her uniform tunic and tucking it under one arm.

She ignores him, looking down at the shirt with a critical, almost tactical eye. Suddenly, she snaps her fingers, nodding once.

And without a word, she reaches up and tears off both sleeves.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Kaidan says.

Ashley strikes a pose, bare arms flexing with her balled-up fists on her hips. “What do you think?”

He won’t deny that she looks good. Really good. Well, he won’t deny it to himself, but out loud? Absolutely. “You look ridiculous.”

She grins, dangerous sparkle in her eye. “C’mon. Don’t you think I look—“

“Please don’t say—“

“SEC-C?”

The sound of his deep sigh is thoroughly drowned out by her joyous, I-am-too-pleased-with-myself cackle.

He sits down on a nearby bench, watching his fellow soldier delight in accosting random passers-by with manic enthusiasm. His exasperation is mostly feigned, if he’s honest with himself. It’s good to see Ashley happy, unburdened, for even just a moment on this tour. So much of what they’ve seen, the evil they’re up against, is hard to process. Might as well enjoy the little spaces of joy they can find.

He watches in horror as Shepard, wide eyes unseeing, crumples to the ground.

Kaidan takes a deep breath, willing the panic tightening his chest to ease. Shepard’s fine, he’s up in the Council chambers. Stop it.

“C’mon. Your turn.”

He snaps his head up, Ashley’s outstretched hand dominating his field of vision. “Huh?”

She pauses for a second, and when he doesn’t take her hand fast enough, she reaches down, grabs his arm, and roughly hauls him to his feet. “Your turn,” she repeats.

“For what?”

“This was for me,” she says, gesturing to the ridiculous shirt. “Now we do something for you.”

He shakes his head. “No, we don’t—“

“That wasn’t a suggestion, LT.” Her grip on his arm tightens. 

He purses his lips, bemused. “You know I outrank you, right,” he says flatly.

She shrugs. “Fuck that. We’re off duty.”

“Ashley—“

“You need a drink. More than one.” She tugs his arm, not letting go, but with little enough force that he could easily stand his ground if he wanted to. My choice, he realizes, genuinely touched by the veiled tenderness of the gesture.

So he allows her to move him. A little. A grin lights up her face, infectious in a different way from the one at the kiosk.

He can’t help but grin back.

Read the rest on Ao3.

[valiantarcher]

Fortnight of Books: 2023

Day 2:

Most surprising (in a good way) book of this year? Dare by Tricia Mingerink. I went into it with very low expectations, but within a few pages, she had me hooked.

Most disappointing book/Book you wish you enjoyed more than you did? I had a lot of these, but I've restrained myself to just a few here. The List of Unspeakable Fears by J. Kasper Kramer was well-written and I understand why isfjmel-phleg loved it, but I regretted reading it on several levels. I wish that The Fiddler's Gun/Fin's Revolution by A. S. Peterson was better and deserved even a fraction of the love and praise it has received. It had been over a decade since my last read of The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis and I knew it was at the bottom of my list of the series, but I did half-think going in that my tastes had changed and it would be an easier read than I remembered. It was not - it was even worse and I did not enjoy it at all.

[rockybloo]

There's a twisted level of fun in writing a character that isn't out right disrespectful. Of course, what Freebird says and does to Sweetheart is definitely disrespectful but it's always a case of "it could be worse" which is why, in canon at least, it goes on for so long because he isn't crossing any lines.

At least not yet.

There's a tightrope walk in making sure Freebird is just the right level of toxic without crossing entirely into that antagonistic territory. It's really the desperation for Sweetheart that helps.

Freebird is meant to written like a main character who doesn't know yet that he really isn't the main of the story he is currently in. It's why he isn't stationed in Decking City so there's that constant "This dude has no idea wtf is really going on here" thing.

Because he is meant to be a protagonist, he never straight up calls or refers to Sweetheart as a "bitch" or anything out of her name. He'd never consider it because he has morals.

However, he makes it well known how he wishes she's get rid of some of her body hair because "Imagine how much prettier you'd look!" and pokes fun at her over professional attitude around him with "You really gotta relax some. It's holding back your cute potential!"

Things that obviously suggest Freebird desires Sweetheart change things about herself to fit his tastes.

There is also very obvious over familiarity going on here where Freebird treats her like they've been pals for years while everything Sweetheart knows about him, she's learned against her will. They only met when she was in her soloing years after the Beloveds all broke up, which is a mere fraction of the time she's known Bitterbat. Freebird goes as far as to have a nickname for her that makes her bite her tongue so she doesn't strangle him on the spot whenever she hears him call her "Sweets".

He has dropped a "Sweetie Pie" and that was the closest Sweetheart got to dropping him. She held back though and ditched her whole professional act with him as she replied with a sharp "Do not ever refer to me by that name again". A statement that easily sounds like she hates being called that nickname in general, which was the point. In reality, that was Bitterbat's first nickname for her and remains his favorite to use. And having her least favorite person say it makes her feel sick to her stomach because of the history he is unknowingly stepping on.

Freebird made sure never to make that mistake again.

I personally think the most disrespectful thing Freebird does (not that all his other actions aren't disrespectful) is how he talks about Sweetheart to other people. Because he's a big American hero. Everyone knows about him and whatever he says makes big waves. He is super influential and popular. So when he talks about Sweetheart, referring to her as pretty and cute and constantly drops statements that make it obvious he views her romantically, many are going to view her as Freebird's love interest. And that pushes the idea that they are going to end up being together.

An idea Freebird does jack shit to reject because that's what he wants. And even though Sweetheart constantly rejects any romantic questions about him, dispelling any rumors and gossip, the ship continues to thrive.

Sweetheart has tried to talk to Freebird about talking sense into everyone but he always does a half attempt. The most he does is state Sweetheart isn't into him, yet always follows it up in depth with how much he admires her. He thinks they are meant to be together because they both are great heroes in their own right. He's the #1 hero of America and Sweetheart is #1 in Decking City. She obviously knows what she's doing and does it well and that's something Freebird can respect and admires.

It's needless to say that Freebird has been around a fair share of ladies. He's basically a celebrity so he has a list. And Sweetheart is the one at the top that he is hoping to be his end game.

Bittersweet is the top Sweetheart ship in Decking City and progressively the rest of the world. But before Bitterbat returned, during the years Sweetheart was working solo, Freeheart was at the top due to how many people shipped them.

And he hopes that Sweetheart will see how many people want them to date so she'll realize how well they'd go together. Sadly, a lot of these shippers wind up sharing the same views about Sweetheart that Freebird does where they also wish she'd shave and act cuter.

Of course, not everyone views the ship with rose tinted glasses. There are plenty of people that disagree with it, stating how uncomfortable Sweetheart looks when she's in public with Freebird or has to talk about him during interviews. There's whole compilations focusing on how much she doesn't like Freebird. But they get drowned out by the masses that think the two look adorable as a couple.

And it's not a matter of Sweetheart not making it obvious she isn't into Freebird.

She constantly states she doesn't see him romantically. She wouldn't even go as far as to call him a friend. He's an acquaintance of sorts that does great hero work. And she strongly desires that said great hero stops trying to get in her pants while simultaneously trying to slip a ring on her finger.

But damn near every girl he interacts with is into him. So it's hard for him to comprehend that there's even one that doesn't find him somewhat attractive save for the girls that are only into girls. Freebird is, sadly, an ally. He ain't an amazing one but he is one.

He's constantly trying to win Sweetheart over, including sending her gifts and messages through her Hero PO box that the Decking Defense Squad gives all their heroes so they can interact with fans safely.

Sweetheart never keeps any of the gifts. She gives them to someone else, typically people she know like Freebird.

Freebird is a part of my storyverse equivalent of the Avengers/Justice League with his own elite team of heroes. And it's very hard to get in. But Freebird doesn't hesitate to offer Sweetheart a spot right next to him on the roster. Something she constantly rejects, never caring for the elitism of the hero world.

Sweetheart cares about keeping civilians safe. Something Freebird also cares about. He just also cares about his status as a hero and all the perks that come with it. He figures if he's risking his life every day, he might as well live it to the fullest with all the perks that come with being one of the biggest heroes in the world.