#I am really just looking for a discussion

[inflammatoryengineering]

Your being short with me is perfectly understandable. I'm going to reply with my actual blog instead of being an anonymous tagger because I really do want to have a conversation about this. Please know going into this that I'm not some rando chucklefuck with unsubstantiated opinions. I work in nuclear. I am intimately familiar with the hazards and harms of radiation, as well as the ways to mitigate them. Neither am I bought by the industry, because I'm a lowly undergrad working at a research reactor. I am intimately familiar with the horrors of cancer, and have lost three family members to it, and one of those was probably a consequence of that family member working at a naval weapons station. I know that I could stand to be more aware of the pressing issues for indigenous people, which is why I'm want to talk to you about it. I did in fact read the sources. I even read some of the sources cited by your sources. I just didn't feel like typing out paragraphs in the tags because, like you, I was tired and wanted to go to bed. And obviously the anon ask is wrong, nukes are scary and should be treated as such. I'm not supporting them.

I harbor no delusions that any industry can be completely clean. All industry requires industrial scale mining, which is one of the most environmentally destructive things humans have ever invented. However, there are no forms of power generation that I know of that are without some form of mining.

The sources you listed suggest a number of remedies, including compensating indigenous people for the harms previously done to them, and giving complete agency over any future development on their land. People who work at uranium mines need to be much better protected and much better compensated, and there needs to be much more work done to prevent spills, dust contamination, and runoff from destroying communities around these mines.

A side note about the spent fuel waste: the US government is kind of braindead about this because they're not doing spent fuel reprocessing. That would reduce waste by about 80%, because "spent" fuel still has most of its fissile material, it's just contaminated with fission byproducts ("neutron poisons") that stop it from being useful until we take them out. Other countries do this, and it's how France with their majority nuclear power achieves spent fuel waste of only 1 marble per capita per year. We are fools to not be reprocessing spent fuel, and I am really sorry that Native Americans have paid the price for our foolishness.

About the comparison to coal:

I will grant you it is theoretically cleaner than coal for the environment if we're assuming a perfect world where no major nuclear disaster happens again. Do we live in that perfect world? And how many smaller disastrous cruelties against people and land are you willing to exploit and extract--because, again, it is fundamentally based on a system that requires systematic extraction and exploitation even in the best case scenario.

We certainly don't live in a perfect world, but coal plants actually release more radiation than nuclear plants. It's not just in theory, nuclear plants actually are safer than coal plants. Granted, as far as I know nobody has fully quantified either the coal or uranium supply chain in terms of deaths per unit energy, which is pretty frustrating because that's the part we're trying to talk about here. I did look. Here's an analysis of risks to workers, and here's a Science History Institute article linked in one of your sources that discusses the doubling of cancer rates on Navajo land, but none of the analyses I could find give good numbers for the entire supply chain.

Anyway. My overarching point is that from what I know, it seems possible for the nuclear industry to make amends and eventually proceed in a non-exploitative way, if:

Indigenous people are given full control over whether nuclear projects (including mining) happen on their land

There are far more extensive legal frameworks for protection and compensation in cases of mining accidents or just full on mining industry fucking people over on purpose

There are more extensive protections for radiation workers (this is already happening, and I am grateful to those who gave their lives so that I can have actual protections as a radiation worker)

There are more extensive protections for communities (especially Native communities) that are harmed by the industry (this is currently not happening. I know we have environmental laws and I know about at least some of the Legal Jurisdiction Bullshit that allows people to circumvent a bunch of environmental laws on Indigenous land.)

If all of those things happened, would it not be possible for a non-exploitative nuclear industry to exist? If those wouldn't be enough, I'd genuinely love to hear why, because clearly existing research and education doesn't cover it enough, and clearly I don't know enough.

(Additional footnote: I'm reserving my discussion of military nuclear tech for later because this post is already super long. The navy is allowed to self-regulate when it comes to their nuclear stuff, meaning they don't play by the civilian rules, which is worthy of its own entire essay or three.)

OOOOOOOOOOO scawy nuclear bombs in waiting...

mfers when a native tells them their nuclear power isnt cleaner than coal when it's killing us and youre all just as fine with indigenous genocide as you were 400 years ago: wow flagellant youre so unintelligent and uninformed and you probably support iranian genocide also

get cancer and kill yourself, you won't have loved ones to leave behind

[chrisfawns]

same damn time · matt sturniolo and colby brock

. . .fuckin' two bad bitches at the same damn time

warnings: smut, threesome, double penetration, oral (m receiving), coaching, dom!colby, switch/cuck!matt, sub!reader, bondage, hints of dubcon, masturbation (m), open relationship between matt and reader, few uses of Y/N, literally just pure filth with a silly ending ୨ৎ THIS IS ENTIRELY FAKE AND FOR FUN→i am in no way shipping colby and matt. all parties should always consent when threesomes are being had. don't like it? don't read it<3

wc: 1.6k

"so you mean to tell me you've actually never had a threesome?" colby asked, kicking his feet onto the couch's ottoman. "no offense, but you're kind of a whore." he laughed.

"shut up!" you squealed, throwing a pillow at him. "you're one to talk."

you knew the teasing wasn't malicious, and to be honest, you kind of enjoyed it. that was always the relationship you had had with your friends, but especially colby. you two had started hooking up a few months after you'd moved to LA, opting to stay friends with benefits, rather than exclusive.

"i mean. . .it's not like he's lying." matt added with a smirk, rubbing your knee.

most "boyfriends" would've lost their shit over the comments being made, but matt was so easygoing, that he joined in on the fun. not being one to care about labels, he'd simply agreed when you'd shyly brought up an open relationship to him. besides, there was something just so hot about a woman confident in her sexuality.

"who here thinks y/n should have a threesome. . .or moresome?" colby asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

both boys raised their hands, despite the fact that it was quite literally only the three of you. you'd been sharing drinks and laughs while talking about the possibility between a collab of their youtube channels and somehow, the conversation had turned to sex. you'd been in the kink scene for a while, and the idea of having a hookup with more than one person excited you.

"says who? you?" you asked in reference to the earlier question.

"and me." matt added.

"you guys are the worst." you groaned, but nevertheless you found yourself clenching your thighs at the thought of matt watching you fuck and get fucked by someone else. usually, he was your dominant, but the idea of him submitting was a very pretty image.

"i'm stating a fact," colby said simply, taking a shot of tito's. "you can't call yourself a kinkster without a threesome."

"fine," you said, cutting right to the chase, almost like a challenge. "i'll do it, but you guys have to help."

"you're serious?" matt asked, big blue eyes looking up at you with awe. you knew he had a submissive side; that much was obvious by the growing bulge in his pants. "that's so fuckin' hot."

somehow, you found yourself on the floor while colby moved forward on the couch, undoing his belt and shimmying his black jeans down so they pooled around his ankles. "suck." he demanded, making it clear you didn't really get a choice.

you nodded eagerly, taking his growing cock into your mouth. you'd discussed boundaries with him before, and the idea of being told what to do made your pussy throb. out of the corner of your eye, you could see matt biting his lip, trying not to whimper as his dick ached at the scene before. you were always so confident during sex.

colby's hands found your hair as matt's hands found his dick. the way colby was face fucking you was turning all three of you on. you gagged as he hit the back of your throat, trying to maintain the sucking rhythm you had started while your cunt simultaneously throbbed at hearing matt's pretty little whimpers as he fisted himself, turned on by the sight before him.

"too big," you whined up at colby, pulling off his dick for a moment to give him doe eyes. "can't take it." you mumbled, resisting the urge to touch yourself.

"you can and you will," he stated simply. "matt's waiting for you to finish, baby."

you had to admit this was what you had wanted. seeing matt's submissive, cuck side come out was something you'd had on your bucket list, and right now was the perfect opportunity. you kitten-licked the dom's tip, your arousal making you bob your head faster as colby wrapped a tattooed hand around your throat.

"shit, y/n. feels so fuckin' good." colby grunted, thrusting further towards your face.

matt's heavy breathing and pants filled the room. he'd never thought he'd see his girlfriend getting her mouth stuffed with cock by one of his closest friends, and yet, he couldn't say he was mad about it. in fact, his lower stomach was already throbbing with the need to cum as he stroked his dick, watching you get dommed like that.

"we're gonna make you cum so goddamn hard later you'll forget your own fuckin' name." colby grunted, thrusting into your mouth one last time before thick, hot ropes of cum shot down your throat.

you pulled off just in time to see matt finally hit his own orgasm, coating his hand in the white substance. "this isn't fair," you pouted. "why do the two of you get to cum and i don't?"

were you being a brat? yes. were you hoping that matt and colby would live up to the promises of having your world rocked by a threesome? also yes.

"oh poor baby," matt mocked you as he went to the kitchen to clean up, his legs shaking. "we're not done with you yet, sweetheart."

now that it was clear both boys were insistent on dominating you, most likely at the same time, you knew you were in for a world of trouble. nevertheless, that only made the wetness in your panties grow. the two men who knew how to hit just about every spot to make you cum were about to tag team you. just the idea made your pussy clench.

matt and colby shared a look between themselves, and in one swift motion, your boyfriend threw you over his shoulder and began to carry you to the master bedroom, colby following close behind. it was when you saw colby go to his dresser that you knew the fun truly was just beginning.

he had gone viral years ago for a clip asking about the handcuffs in his bedroom. 'i've used them for. . .sexual fun' was his nonchalant response. sure enough, colby pulled a pair of handcuffs from the bottom of sock drawer, complete was fuzzy pink cuffs.

"you wanna cum?" he asked, dangling the cuffs in your face as matt laid you back against the pillows. "fine."

"you gonna be a good girl?" matt asked you, smirking as you arched up into his hand while he undressed you. "gonna show colby how long you can last while being edged and not being able to do anything about it?"

you nodded eagerly. by this point, you were completely naked, both men staring down at you as colby put the metal on you, turning the lock. you were desperate to be filled with cock at this point; you didn't care how slutty it sounded. watching as matt stripped, you were pulled onto him, grinding your pussy against his bulge as you struggled to get traction without the use of hands.

so caught up in matt, you hardly noticed colby's bare skin caressing your back until you felt his full, hard length press against you. only then did you realize what was about to happen. your heart raced with excitement. you had never been double-penetrated before, but it turned you on to an almost obsessive degree.

"i know you can do it," colby whispered huskily in your ear. "i want you to show me how good of a girl you are for us."

you nodded, eager to please. "gonna take you so deep." you moaned.

somehow, maybe it was how similar the three of you were, you fell into a silent agreement that matt would go first, and then colby would take you from behind. both boys slid on condoms, and it wasn't long into you felt matt push into your tight cunt, wincing at how good you felt.

"god, you're so fuckin' wet." he grunted, slowly bucking his hips up into you so as not to overwhelm you.

colby held your hips, guiding you into a rhythm as you bounced on matt's cock. "ready?" he asked, tip aligned with your pretty, pink hole.

you nodded, swallowing a rush of adrenaline. colby pushed into you and you whimpered at the stretch and strange, new feeling of both of your holes being stuffed. all of you were extremely experienced with sex, so it wasn't long until you found yourselves working well together. you rode matt, chasing your building orgasm as colby pounded into you from behind.

you knew the overstimulation was stronger than you were. as much as matt edged you, this was different from anything you'd experienced before. you were practically helpless as matt and colby fucked into you. your hands were in the pink cuffs, and you were so full of dick that your legs and tummy were twitching with what was probably the strongest orgasm you'd ever had.

"shit!" you cursed, but it fell out more as a moan. "oh god--mmm, fuck."

"so fuckin' tight around my cock." colby breathed huskily in your ear, fucking your ass from behind.

"look at you," matt cooed, coaching you through this absolutely mind-biggling experience. "doin' so well takin' dick, baby. just like that."

this was it. both of you holes were so stimulated that you knew you wouldn't last any longer. "need...need to cum!" you yelped.

"go on," colby murmured.

"show us that two is always better than one." matt told you.

you didn't need to be told twice. you barely had time to think before the orgasm rocked through you, making your legs shake and your cunt clench so hard you saw stars. just the sight of it was enough to make both matt and colby reach their highs soon after you, until the trio was left in a sweaty, exhausted heap on the bed.

"i feel like future now." you stated once you had regained your breath.

"what the fuck are you talking about?" matt snorted, rolling over to prop up on his elbow and face you while colby carded his fingers through your hair.

"y'know. . .fuckin' two bad bitches at the same damn time?"

© chrisfawns

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡: hey so where are my matt and colby girls and what did u think of this 🤭 interactions are appreciated but not expected!!

tags ⋆. 𐙚 ̊: @mattslilies @backwardshatnick @bernardsbendystraws @h3arts4nat @mattyblover07 @mattsstarlet @mattsprettygirly @maliaforstvrns @boiwhatdahelly @sweetheartsturn @mattspillowprincess @chrispleasure @mattsgirlxoxo @everythingaboutbags @victorriaaaaa

if you'd like to be added to my taglist, inbox me/dm me/comment!!

[liahaslosthermind]

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞! [PT 2]

Summary: The Inner Circle is still oblivious to Azriel and his mate’s bond. Will the couple’s agreement to forgo secrecy open their eyes? Or will they just remain obtuse? Read Part 1! Work Count: 4.5k+  Warnings: Very suggestive, Timeline? What timeline?, Inner Circle are idiots, Historiography, I put too much detail into things that probably didn’t need it but oh well. A/N: I’ll be honest, writing this took so much out of me that I kind of hate it. Now the reader’s job has more to do with the plot, though it really was me just getting a little too into the historical study of a fictitious fantasy world. HISTORIOGRAPHY ROCKS. (If anyone finds the 30 Rock reference in here I’ll kiss you with tongue)

Her head pounded as she stared at the documents. After years immersed in the historical field- starting with historical study, then historiography- her work had become too… stagnant for her. She loved what she did, of course, but her job had become less about discovering great historical finds and more like gathering fractured accounts. 

She was happy, she truly was, but being with Azriel these past few months made her greedy. She wanted more. Maybe it was the Spymaster rubbing off on her, but she was itching for something big, something that would shake her field. 

The library had quieted around her. Hours ago it had buzzed with soft voices and rustling of robes. Now, it was still and deathly quiet, with the priestesses away at evening service. The hours had slipped away unnoticed. 

She sighed as she closed the 3 books scattered in front of her. She’d sworn to Azriel that she would leave before the priestesses even left for last service. Though the shadows circling her seemed content to let her stay, she knew better than to test her mate’s patience. 

Just as she began to rise, she heard the familiar rhythm of Azriel’s footsteps.

“Yes, I know Az,” she called before even looking back at him. “Don’t worry, I am pissed at myself too. Didn’t even get to the work I had wanted done today,” she groaned as he entered the reading nook she had settled herself into early that morning. 

He laughed quietly as he brought his hands to cradle her face, brushing his thumbs along her cheekbones as he kissed her forehead. He laughed a little harder when she whined before finally kissing her on the lips. 

Footsteps echoed nearby. She pulled back quickly, but Azriel only grinned before tugging her back in. His arms locked around her waist as he kissed her, reminding his mate of their agreement: no more hiding. 

As the sounds of the priestesses’ footsteps disappeared, along with a few shocked gasps and giggles, the two of them broke apart. She looked at him in confusion. 

“We made a deal, did we not?” He asked.

“Yes, but that was only in front of your family-”

“And what do you think will happen when a few priestesses stumble upon us like this? While their gossiping is mostly harmless, it is rampant. I’d kind of like to see how quickly it makes it to Nesta, and whether or not she tries to say anything.” Azriel reasoned. 

She narrowed her eyes at her mate but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. The library might be sacred, but it was also a pressure cooker of whispered scandal. One that no one escaped unscathed. 

As the two walked back out of the library, Clotho beckoned the two to her desk. 

At least have the decency to pretend you are trying to hide any dalliances in the library. Her pen scribbled. 

Azriel’s face lit up in amusement, while his mate’s was cast in embarrassment. As the latter began to apologize profusely, Clotho waved her hand in dismissal before her pen began to write again. 

The priestesses needed something new to discuss, many find comfort in silly gossip. By dinner they will be making lists of baby names. 

The couple blushed a deep crimson at that. Azriel inclined his head in a silent goodbye, taking his mate’s hand and squeezing it tightly before the two walked back to the House of Wind proper. 

The sitting room in the House of Wind was light and buzzing, alive with laughter and heated by the well fed hearth. 

Like the rest of the room’s occupants, the Night Court’s historiographer and her Spymaster mate were drunk. 

Neither were big drinkers typically. Azriel claimed growing up alongside Rhysand and Cassian had meant he had consumed more alcohol before the age of 200 than most fae did in a lifetime. These days, he preferred to keep his wits about him more often than the rest of his family. His mate shared similar sentiments, only getting drunk for special occasions. 

But tonight had in fact been a special occasion. 

Mor had returned from a month-long stint in Hewn City. While Rhysand typically never encouraged her to stay more than a few days at a time, the two had recently launched quite the campaign to uproot the rot embedded in the Court of Nightmares, a feat that warranted longer and longer visits each time. When she’d come home that very afternoon, the exhaustion and haunted look etched into her face had worried her family. 

What had begun as “just a nightcap” had quickly spiraled into a full-blown celebration. 

After several bottles of expensive wine and a few decanters of something suspiciously strong and equally as vile tasting, the entire Inner Circle was comfortably drunk. 

Azriel’s mate had curled into the corner of one of the plush couches with a wine glass in hand, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, the room spinning at borderline nauseating speeds. Next to her, Azriel slouched lower than anyone had ever seen him, his normally rigid frame nonexistent as he melted into the cushions. He was dressed in loose linen pants and a button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, an elegant but far more relaxed departure from his usual Illyrian leathers. Even his shadows seemed drowsy, coiling like cats around his ankles

“She then told him to fuck off,” Cassian howled, halfway through a story that had been going on for far too long, “after he complimented her speech!”  

Azriel’s mate snorted into her drink, too inebriated to be embarrassed, “He sounded surprised that a speech on the importance of historiographical methodology could be interesting,” she protested. “It was rude of him to think otherwise!”

Azriel’s low laugh warmed her insides, “Always the peacekeeper,” he murmured, teasing. 

“Oh please, you know you love it,” she shot back, nudging his shoulder with her own. 

Mor raised an eyebrow at the interaction. “Az, is that a blush on your face?” 

“How drunk are you, Azriel?” Feyre added, her tone steeped in amusement. 

Azriel swirled the amber liquid in his glass as he drawled, “Somewhere between a lot and very.”

Everyone chuckled, but their eyes soon zeroed in on the look he gave the female tucked against his side. The way their hands brushed one another, the way Azriel leaned in every time she laughed, closing his eyes as if to savor the sound, even the way his shadows curled protectively around them both.

Cassian rolled his eyes dramatically at the pair, “Mother above, the tension between you two makes me sexually frustrated.” He groaned

Azriel didn’t flinch. Based on the absolute torture he’d endured every night in his bedroom in the House of Wind, unable to sleep because of the noises Cassian and Nesta had been making, he knew that to be a lie, so the Shadowsinger didn’t dignify his brother’s words with a response. 

“Not everyone has to be as vocal about their feelings as you are, Cassian. Don’t force Azriel to be what he is not.” Nesta said coolly. 

Azriel gave her a look of mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m very vocal about my feelings. It’s not my fault you’re all too dense to notice.”

His mate dissolved into a fit of giggles she tried to hide with her wine glass, only to end up amplifying the noise with the action. “Oh yes Azriel,” she gasped, “you are so vocal about your feelings, especially last night: ‘Oh Gods, fuck, your mouth feels so good on my-” 

A scarred hand clamped over her mouth with lighting speed. 

Azriel looked mortified- for all of two seconds- before both of them collapsed into wheezing giggles on the couch. 

Soon the laughs were the only sound that could be heard in the room as the rest of the Inner Circle fell into shocked silence. 

Mor blinked, “Did she just-”

“Oh she definitely just-” Feyre whispered. 

“Are you two…” Rhysand began, also unable to finish his sentence. 

“Inside joke.” Azriel said halfheartedly. The pair agreed they wouldn’t outright say anything, nor outright deny their relationship, but they hadn’t actually been asked a question.

His mate nodded, face beet red but grinning wickedly, “Very inside.”

The two descended into wheezing laughter once more, the rest of the room soon joining in, albeit confused. 

Amren was the only one who didn’t laugh, watching the pair carefully over the rim of her glass.

While the conversation attempted to pick back up, nothing stuck. The rest of the Inner Circle watched the secretly mated pair, hovering around the edges of realization, circling it like buzzards but never quite landing on the truth.

Through it all, Azriel’s shadows curled protectively around him and his mate as their bond remained hidden in plain sight.

The next morning Cassian groaned as he unceremoniously dropped into the chair across from Rhysand in the High Lord’s home office, rubbing his temples and whining with the drama of a dying male. 

“Whatever was in those decanters tasted like regret and death,” Cassian muttered. 

Rhysand, who looked only marginally more functional, snorted without lifting his gaze from the reports in front of him. “And yet you drank 5 whole glasses.” he replied dryly. 

“I was recouperating from a day of torture,” Cassian justified, “Nyx has been weaponizing flowers, spreading their poisen throughout my own home. I am not safe anywhere thanks to that child.” 

Footsteps sounded down the hall, halting the two’s conversation. Azriel had traded in his relaxed attire from the night before for his usual leathers. While his High Lord and general looked like they felt everybit of the alcohol they consumed last night, Azriel remained composed and unbothered, every inch the formidable Spymaster. 

“Its not fair he gets to look like that.” Cassian groaned. 

Azriel raided an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Good morning to you as well, Cas.”

Rhysand finally glanced up, a curious expression on his face. “You’re up early. I didn’t think I’d see you till tonight when I found these reports on my desk. I figured you’d be occupied nursing a hangover.” 

“I had things to take care of.” Azriel responded. 

Both Cassian and Rhysand perked up.

“Like what?” Cassian asked with the subtlety of a battering ram. 

“Moving out.” Azriel glanced between them, trying to read their expressions. When the two didn’t say anything, Azriel gave in, “I bought a house.”

Rhysand dropped the reports he had been shuffling in his hands. “You… what?”

Azriel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “It's on the outskirts of Velaris… quiet, private, beautiful views.”

Cassian sat up straighter. “Wait- you bought a house? You don’t even like decorating your own room.”

Azriel gave him a look. “I like silence, and hate paper-thin walls.”

“This is slander,” Cassian said turning to Rhys in defense, “Nesta and I have been extremely respectful-”

“You cracked the plaster above my bed.”

Rhysand snorted.

Cassian gaped. “So you dropped a fortune to move out just because of us?”

“I also value my own space, and privacy.” Azriel’s tone was mild, but firm. He was starting to get irritated at the endless questions. 

“You are barely home as it is,” Rhys said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s the point of buying an entire house, unless…” he trailed off, eyes sharpening. A beat passed, then another. Rhysand’s eyes flicked towards Azriel’s face. He tried to read his Spymaster’s microexpressions as he had done for centuries.  

“You’re not living alone,” he finished. Not a question.

So Azriel didn’t answer. 

Cassian and Rhysand looked at each other, then back at Azriel. Cassian’s face lit up when he realized exactly who his brother’s new “roommate” was. 

“So that's where all the ‘inside jokes’ came from, why you two were so comfortable last night.” The general reasoned. Azriel had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. They were so close and yet so far. 

The High Lord’s face became ashen as he looked at his brother, as if realizing all too late that something had shifted beneath his feet without him even noticing. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” He asked, not hiding the hurt from his tone. 

Azriel didn’t miss a beat, “You don’t listen.”

This time, the silence was deafening. 

As the tension became a bit too unbearable, Azriel coolly shrugged his shoulders, “You may all come by in about two months. Give us time to finish some things.” 

“Are you hosting a housewarming party, Azriel?” Rhysand asked incredulously, choosing to push the lingering sting of Azriel’s silence down. 

“Something like that.” Az responded. 

She had been working all night on her research paper. Originally, it had been pretty straightforward as far as these things went, that was until she stumbled upon two drastically different accounts of the same battle documented by two soldiers on the same side, not far from the other on the front lines. 

And yet every modern interpretation she could find blindly aligned with one or the other. No one questioned the contradiction. Not historians, not theorists, nor any other scholars who had lended their two cents. 

Sighing, she realized she wasn’t going to finish the project anytime soon, though she had to admit the thrill of such a discovery had brought enough motivation to continue working until dawn. Azriel, her mate of many months now, was away on a mission and wasn’t due back until dinner the next day anyway. 

I should probably ask Rhysand about this, she thought. But it was late and while he most likely would have been up at this time a year ago, Nyx had ruled the High Lord and Lady’s schedules, constantly requiring all their attention just to make sure he hadn’t shifted into the form of a beast or rearranged Velaris’ stars… again. Though they loved their prince, the Dreamers of the Night Court hadn’t appreciated the impromptu redecorating of their beloved skies. 

She also simply didn’t want to see Rhysand, still bitter about how he treated Azriel at family dinner those few months before when the Shadowsinger had tried to tell his family about his mating bond. 

So instead, the Night Court’s beloved historiographer called someone else. 

While late night calls weren’t usually welcomed from the ancient fae female, nor were any calls at any time of day for that matter, Amren was rather thankful for the chance to leave the River House. Ever since Nyx had crowned his Aunt Amren as his favorite person ever, she had been borderline imprisoned at Rhysand and Feyre’s home just so they could get a few hours of work done, or (and this was far more vital for the sake of their court) shower. 

Still, in typical Amren fashion, she couldn’t let her gratitude be known. 

“You called me away from a glass of very old and very, very expensive wine while I watched the latest episode of The Toddler Tyrant.” Amren teased. 

“Nyx sprouted daisies again?”

“Out of Cassian’s ears this time,” Amren answered, breezing past her into the study. Cassian’s suffering at the hands of a toddler had been entertaining at first, but after a while his torment went from hilarious to pathetic. 

The historiographer gestured to the scrolls spread across her desk, “These are accounts of the same battle, the same side, same front, yet completely different outcomes. And yet every major historical interpretation aligns with one or the other, like no one bothered to question the discrepancies.”

Though she displayed disinterest, Amren slinked closer to the papers. “That’s war, girl. No one remembers it the same way. Memory makes fools of us all.” 

“Except these accounts were written during the war. Not years later. They were created mere hours after the battle in question. The first account claimed the general abandoned his troops, choosing to flee like a coward. The second swore he died protecting them. Both can’t be true.”

“Both could certainly be true, or rather, true to the writers. Maybe what one saw as a cowardly flee from the battle, the other saw end in a valiant death. Personal bias that led both to arriving at their own differing yet truthful conclusions.” 

The more she thought about it, the more Amren’s words rang true. While this was a huge oversight in the historical field, it did lend itself to the widespread pattern of historical memory corrupted by the silent biases of the narratives they choose to listen to. “Everyone’s so caught up in what they want to see, they can’t recognize truth, even when it’s parading around in plain sight.”

Amren smirked, “History repeats itself.” Before she stalked off. 

As she watched Amren leave, her words echoed in her head.

History repeats itself.

She thought of the different accounts of the battle again: two soldiers, one truth fractured into two. Everyone so caught up in their own perspective they were blind to what was marching right in front of them.

Just like them. Just like her and Azriel.

She looked down at the scattered scrolls on her desk and saw something else for the first time. Not confusion. Not contradictions. Just… love, interpreted differently by each witness. 

She thought of the soldiers. One grieving, one bitter, both clinging to their own truths. Both were so sure they knew what happened. 

Just like Cassian, swearing she and Azriel were dancing around their feelings. 

Just like Nesta, insisting Azriel wasn’t the type to share what he felt.

Just like Rhysand, who couldn’t see beyond the brother he used to know. 

She sat back down and wrote one sentence, one that would jump start her greatest project yet. 

“We mustn’t only question the historical accounts we see, but our reasons for believing them.” 

She dipped her quill in ink, turned to a fresh new page and wrote her new working title. 

The Battle for Truth: Perception, Memory, and What We Choose to See

Azriel had been nonchalant about it. 

When he and his mate arrived at dinner, he oh-so-casually mentioned the two were hosting a party at their home. A housewarming party, as his family had assumed it was, and a party to celebrate the historiographer’s finished project, one she hadn’t even let Azriel know the details of. 

Not one of them had suspected a mating ceremony at the center of it.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the Sidra as the Inner Circle arrived at the couple’s home. 

The house was nothing like they had expected. Elegant, but also warm in a way only a home that was truly lived in, truly cared for, could be. The group stopped their various conversations as they tried to take in every detail they could. 

The first sign something was… different came when they made their way to the garden. Dozens of candles flickered to life, illuminating the stone walkway. Golden lanterns swayed gently in the trees. A long table stretched beneath the stars, draped in silver and blue linens and set with the finest of dishes. At the end of the garden stood an archway, draped in silk, glowing with candlelight, and unmistakably ceremonial. 

"Are we… early?" Feyre asked, glancing around in search of the hosts. 

Before anyone could answer, the sound of footsteps came from behind them. As they turned, the Inner Circle was met with a surprising sight. 

Azriel caught their attention first, dressed in an elegant navy suit softened by silver detailing. No armour, nor shadows to be seen, just… Azriel. 

But it was the female next to him that stole their breath. 

She stood beside him in a gown of lighter blue, embroidered with constellations that seemed to shift when she moved. Her eyes scanned the space, looking at the faces of her family, and for a moment, her nerves were evident. 

It was only then, when the two walked to the center of the garden and faced their friends, not hiding the ribbon that laced their hands together, deliberate and unmistakable, that realization struck.

“Oh-” Mor breathed.

“-my gods,” Cassian finished, slack-jawed.

Feyre blinked rapidly. “Wait. This is—?”

“You two are—?” Rhysand’s voice cracked mid-sentence.

“Mated,” Azriel confirmed, his voice clear and calm, his hand wrapped tightly around hers. “The priestess left just before you all arrived.”

There was a long pause, almost comically long, but long enough for the couple to start to sweat as they awaited further reactions.

Then Mor let out a loud, disbelieving sound and clutched her chest as if she had been physically wounded. “You traitors! You beautiful, deceiving traitors! How long have you both been…” she trailed off before finding her words, “When did the bond snap?”

The two turned to each other, smiling, before replying in unison, “A while ago.”

“Around half a year.” Azriel added.

Cassian’s head slowly turned from Azriel to his mate and back again. “Are you kidding me?” he said, scandalized. “How come none of us knew? How come I didn’t know? What kind of brother am I?”

“A dramatic one,” Amren deadpanned. “And apparently, an oblivious one.”

Feyre looked between them, mouth parted in shock. Then a slow, radiant smile bloomed on her face. “You’re mated,” she whispered to herself, trying to register the words. “You’re both actually mated.”

At that, Feyre launched herself at the couple, hugging Azriel’s mate first, then Azriel, her eyes glinting with tears. “I’m so happy for you,” she said, breathless. “You both look… I don’t know… lighter, happier.”

Nesta crossed her arms and raised a brow. “Well,” she said coolly, “that explains why the priestesses keep asking me questions about you two and giggling when I looked at them like they were crazy. They asked if you were pregnant last week. I thought they had been hexed.” Though her tone was cool and indifferent, her eyes betrayed her affection.

That earned laughter from the rest as the couple looked at each other with deep blushes on their faces. 

It was only Rhysand had remained quiet, far too quiet, his violet eyes fixed on the two of them. And then, without a word, he walked forward.

Azriel’s body went rigid, ever so slightly. But his mate didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

Rhysand stopped just short of them, looking between the pair.

“I missed it,” he said finally, voice low. “I pride myself on seeing everything, knowing everything, but I completely missed this.”

There was no accusation in his words, but something raw in his tone. No anger, nor judgment. Just the sad realization he hadn’t known his brother as much as he thought. 

He looked at Azriel’s mate then, and whatever tension had been between them for the past few months softened. “I’m sorry,” Rhysand said. “To both of you. I was too busy thinking I knew everything that I missed what was right in front of me.”

Azriel’s mate gave him a gentle nod, filled with forgiveness and understanding. 

There was a moment of anxious silence, till Amren smirked behind her wine glass and muttered, “Finally.”

The tension shattered. 

Laughter rippled across the garden, followed by a chorus of overlapping questions, but Azriel only looked at his mate.

They had decided to do the ceremony part alone, just the two of them, a priestess, and Clotho acting as witness, under the promise she was allowed to give any and all details to the other priestesses to gossip over. 

But the celebration was for their family who had, however obliviously, been with them for their entire relationship.

That night, the Inner Circle celebrated under lantern light. The house echoed with laughter, shadows trailing around the garden and dancing to the music.

When the guests had finally gone, after having to be forcibly kicked out, Azriel and his mate sat on the floor in their study.

She sat nervously next to her mate, looking down at their hands still bound together with ribbon. She had promised they would get to that part of the night after she showed him one last thing.

She turned to the coffee table and picked up a leather-bound book. The cover was a dark blue and as she turned to the first page, Azriel recognized her handwriting. She handed the book to her mate who took it in his free hand. 

The page was opened to the dedication, written in her neat script, reading:

To the ones who taught me that truth is rarely singular, that memory can be messy, and love, like the historical work I dedicate my life to, can often be found hidden in plain sight. 

To Azriel, who saw the truest version of me and waited until I was ready to see her too. 

Azriel stared down at the page, tears lining his eyes. His shadows brushed the edges of the paper, like they too were reading it. 

“It’s not about us,” she quickly murmured, “not technically. It’s about conflicting battle accounts, probably less exciting but-”

She tried to swallow down her nerves, looking to their joined hands for strength. 

“But it’s always been about us, in a way. About how people miss things that are right in front of them, because they’re too busy holding onto the story they think they already know. That’s what those accounts taught me. Two people, on the same side, in the same moment, seeing two completely different truths. They can both be wrong and right. Just like some others we know.” She teased.

Azriel leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You’re brilliant,” he whispered against her skin. “And I love you.”

“I know,” she whispered back, angling her head till her lips were just a breath away from his, “but you should say it again.”

“I love you.” He answered before kissing her deeply. 

While the bond between them hummed, everything around them grew silent and still, like the shadows and stars themselves had stopped to listen.

Taglist: @happyxdayxbitch, @kksbookstuff, @firefly-forest-blog, @marigold-morelli, @yourenothingbutnottome, @triangleshapewinner, @honk4emoboyz, @i-am-infinite, @dreaming-softly-in-the-night, @fuckingsimp4azriel,

[creatingblackcharacters]

This is maybe not the right place for this, but here goes anyway.

I run a small roleplay community for ocs! It's really great, and for the most part, members tend towards being pretty inclusive and thoughtful. We've had a couple incidents resulting in bans, but ultimately things are usually ok.

...usually.

The thing is, in an online community, there's no way to tell someone's race unless they've stated it. We have a few members who have mentioned at some point or another that they're Black, but far, far more who are ambiguous via anonymity! (i said small. its a couple hundred, but most are inactive)

So: a few times I've run into the issue where someone's Black character or character design COULD have some stereotypical or negative implications regarding their race..... OR this could be a Black person innocently creating a character that happens to have some traits that, while technically fitting a stereotype, are also just traits they like to see in their characters!

So I guess what I'm looking for is advice on it how to handle this like, delicately - it feels inappropriate to just ask 'are you Black' in response to someone describing a character who could be an Angry Black Woman or could be a Black woman who is angry (as a light example), especially as I myself am white! While I feel it'd be totally ok for me to call out other white folks, I'd feel REAL bad if I tried to say something about racism and then get told that the person I'm talking to is, well, Black.

No worries if this isn't the place for it, but I'm ready to listen if it is!

Sorry for the wait; I wanted to ask my partner in crime his opinion, but he's been bedridden for a few days. He is alive now, so I'll hand it to him:

☕Hot Chocolate: Hello! So first and foremost I think you're doing great with handling issues as they arrive. As you stated, it's very difficult to monitor and catch race baiters online because they never have to reveal themselves. The best you can do is ask them privately, and if something comes up later, you did your due diligence, ban them. In my experience (which is mostly outside of fandom spaces) when you ask a Black person if they're Black, they usually just say yeah? It's those who get overly offended that are the questionable ones, imo.

Ice: I will add this in addition; if you plan on approaching someone about racism you DAMN sure better know what you're talking about. Be sure that this thing you're discussing is potentially an issue. Tbh, you can solve that problem by getting a Black mod. Having leadership that is aware of something that you might not be would make those conversations smoother to have. You'd just need to make sure you're protecting that Mod from the inevitable disrespect they will receive from participants who think they don't have to respect the Black mod or treat their word as equivalent.

[dontrecogniserecogniseme]

I manifested my dream life after 1+ year of nonstop trying

First of all, i would like to give some background information. I've been in the subliminal community since 2017-2018, i was LITERALLY in primary school 😭

Manifestation is not a new concept to me, i tried the law of assumption in 2021 but didn't get my desire so i gave up. in december 2024 i got back into it and decided for myself what i wanted my dream life to be.

Here's everything i manifested:

desired face

desired body

desired family

desired grades + having skipped a year

seeing my long distance boyfriend in august

and many MANY other things i can't think of rn LOL

HERE'S WHAT CLICKED

I used to think that i was doing everything right, i persisted, i affirmed, i lived in the end and i NEVER wavered, or so i thought. I thought wavering was strictly contradicting your desires for example "i don't have _", i thought it was anything that implied that you don't have it.

However my version of wavering is what i would refer to as "creating a Plan B" which this post made me realise i was doing. I constantly discussed what i would do IF i didn't get it. For example: let's say i want to manifest a class being cancelled, i would decide the class is cancelled and maybe affirm a little but then i would suddenly proceed to take my notes for the class 'just in case it didn't get cancelled'. I didn't think it was wavering because i was talking hypothetically but that ALSO contradicts the mindset of me having it all.

Eventually i also came across this subliminal. I HIGHLY recommend you look at the benefits, you don't even have to listen. The subliminal talks about the law of obsession and honestly i could try as hard as i can to explain it but i recommend you just look at the document because it's perfectly worded and i would NOT do it justice i fear.

HOW DID I PROCEED ?

With this newfound clarity i decided to continue my journey differently. I would never EVER contradict my desires. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever EVER !!!!

Now this is the part where this post saved my ass. I know for a FACT that if ur reading this ur wondering "well how the hell am i supposed to just stop my negative thoughts overnight" and let me tell you something, you don't. STOP TRYING TO PUSH UR NEGATIVE THOUGHTS AWAY !! IT ONLY MAKES IT WORSE !! And now ur DEFINITELY wondering "well wtf do i do then ??" and this is where i tell you to Just. Let. Them. Pass.

Do not entertain negative thoughts. Don't agree with them and don't disagree with them, they're quite literally ragebaiters 🥀

Ragebait is made for interaction, otherwise it serves no purpose. You should only observe those thoughts and move on, instantly distract yourself.

HOWEVER let's say you absolutely CANNOT get rid of those thoughts then i firmly recommend this post to help you deal with them so you can move on. SUMMARY

NEVER contradict ur desires, do not even dare to think about "well what if i don't get it ??" and stop trying to play it safe.

Don't try to fight wavering or negative thoughts just ignore them and move on, if you really can't check out the post i linked.

In fortnite terms 🔥

I thought I was manifesting like a pro, but turns out I was still playing scared — making backup plans like setting a reboot van just in case. That’s wavering. Real manifesting is committing like you already won the match — no Plan B, just full send.

Negative thoughts? Don’t fight them. That’s like building against a bot for no reason. Just let them glide by — they’re ragebait trying to get a reaction. Observe, ignore, move on. If they keep spamming, check out the post/subliminal mentioned — it’s like grabbing a mythic to help reset your mindset.

A BIG THANK YOU TO THESE PEOPLE !!!

@salemlunaa

@justmanifestit

@manifestingitgurlll

@itsrlymine

@ang3lrem

@urprettyangel888

[santae-salt]

Hey, this is former artist (and briefly art director) Keshi. My anxiety over how I had to leave has prevented me from speaking up about anything, and has even prevented me from publicly interacting in Sancord or anyone affiliated with Santae (I really do miss a whole bunch of you though). With the current events, and the many times the teased breeding mechanic has been brought up, I’d like to finally break my silence, and share my experience.

First off, the situation CJ has put Ember in is horrifying, I do not wish to take attention away from this appalling selfish act with my post. I cannot fathom what would bring a person to do this to someone they call their friend. CJ should truly be ashamed of himself, this is going way too far. I never really got the chance to interact with Ember, but I am so sorry you are going through this and I hope things work out for you soon.

A little background on me, I have worked for Subeta and MisticPets in the past, and done commission work for various petsites and games. This experience is spread over the last 18 years, so I’ve seen my fair share of drama on these sites. I’ve never witnessed this level though.

I was willing to (and did) put a lot of time and heart into the egg and hatchling art. I was aware of the amount I’d need to draw, and was ready to commit to what I thought was a desired fun feature with really cute art. I had no idea that this mechanic was not wanted, that it had been stated it would never be a feature on this site. And while I know it wasn’t my decision to make this happen, I am so sorry that money was spent on me creating those images. I am saddened that the feedback on this feature wasn’t respected and listened to. At one point, the AI art incident was brought up during a discussion with CJ, and that the NPCs were being revamped. I am strongly against AI art, and I offered to help fast track the revamps by working on some myself. This was turned down, and I was only to focus on the breeding images.

When it was made aware that Whixy was to sadly step down, I was surprised to be offered the position to take over. I probably triple checked that there definitely wasn’t another artist who had been there longer, who wanted to role, and was reassured no one was interested. I accepted the role, and was excited to be closer to the team and feel I was actively contributing more to current events and features. With access to the calendar and full trello, I could see how many events were planned, the artwork we needed, and that we were, in my eyes, quite behind schedule. I want to preface that this was in no part, Whixy or the previous and current artists fault. They are all amazing, and were doing the best with what they could. I expressed my concerns on how much we needed in a short time. I had offered that I could help get us ahead by working on some items, but I was reassured that we were doing fine and once again the breeding artwork was to be my focus. (Despite this claim, CJ then proceeded to assign/reassign tasks last minute to various artists, and I was informed after the decision was made. So I can only imagine what staff members like Ember, Whixy and Ermineleader would have been through during their time, so much respect from me there)

After realising how much CJ continued to mismanage the site and staff, and witnessing his public conduct in front of users on the discord server and beyond (just in the 2 months I was there), I knew I couldn’t align myself with him. I finally looked into this blog and read the staff letter+ the statement on toyhouse, and my heart was heavy. This, along with many long days/late nights dedicated to drawing for the site, and working on my new art director roles, my body and mind kind of gave up. I won’t go into detail, but it was a sign I had to leave. I know I chose to work as much as I did, but I’m a chronic people pleaser/overachiever (and I also needed the extra income).

The art team was not informed that I had left, and it took almost a week before I had the strength to come back and let them know. I still feel some guilt, like I let everyone down during an already rocky time. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help more.

I have my fears in talking openly about this, but I’d love to lift this weight off my shoulder and finally move on. I know my experience is a small fraction compared to what others have endured, but thanks for allowing me the space to share it. An emotional breakdown over a virtual petsite was not on my 2025 bingo card. I hope everyone left on staff, and those negatively affected by the site both past and current are doing okay.

💜 Keshi

☁️

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH | 02

"valis core"

"The blade finds his throat before he finds your weakness. His fingers find one of your triplet markers before you can process the threat. And somewhere along the city walk, you confirm all Consortium pricks are, indeed, pricks."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5.5k

content: immediate violence as foreplay, combat assessment that becomes something else, forced proximity in public spaces, linguistic warfare via altsprek, namjoon's pov is cold calculation with cracks showing, biological profiling discussions, & the specific humiliation of being systematically excluded from your own mission briefing

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

— author's note

SOOOOO welcome to my alien world monster, or as I like to call it: Code : Epitaph. Chapter 2, by the way. In case you didn’t notice. In case you stumbled in here by accident. In case you somehow read Chapter 1 and thought, “oh wow I bet this gets less intense now” — no it does not. It gets worse. I am so sorry. I’m also lying. I’m not sorry at all ( ◡‿◡✿ )

First of all—the POV shift. Did you catch that? We start in Namjoon's head. Cold. Clinical. Calculating escape routes and threat assessments like he's running some kind of biological Excel spreadsheet. I wanted you to feel what it's like inside the mind of someone who has systematically murdered their own emotional responses in favor of "optimization." The way he catalogs Y/N's every micro-movement, the way he processes her defiance as a puzzle to solve rather than a person to understand. It's chilling, right? It should be. Because here's the thing about Namjoon—he's not evil in the traditional sense. He's something worse. He's someone who has convinced himself that viewing people as data points is actually the moral high ground.

Now. This chapter… okay the first scene, sue me, it’s hot. I’m allowed one little war-crime-y sexual tension beatdown per chapter. It’s called balance. I really wanted to lean into actual antagonism and not that watered down “oh no we’re enemies but he’s soooo handsome” trope. No. These two look at each other and it’s like: ‘the moment I see an opening I will slit your fucking throat and smile doing it’ energy. And yes, it’s giving. I love writing fights where the tension is physical and psychological and primal and terrifyingly competent. Sue me (again).

And the fact that he wins? That he pins her against the wall with her own knife? That's not about his superiority—it's about the system that created him. He's been trained since childhood to be a weapon. She's had to teach herself in the margins, in the spaces between survival and rebellion. The power imbalance isn't just physical; it's institutional. It's generational trauma made manifest in the way he can so easily turn her own weapon against her.

Then we get the Boulevard scene, and this is where I'm really proud of the world-building weaving through character development. Y/N experiencing Valis Core's casual wealth for the first time, but through the lens of being stared at, being othered. And Namjoon just... not getting it. Not understanding why she's bothered by curiosity that he classifies as biological interest. The man really stood there and explained her own genetic heritage to her like he's giving a TED talk, completely missing the violent dehumanization inherent in that level of cataloging.

Which brings me to the offspring conversation. *nervous laughter* Yeah. I went there. Because here's what's so deeply fucked about Namjoon's worldview—he can discuss their hypothetical children with the same detached interest as analyzing crop yields, while she's standing there having a visceral trauma response to the idea of forced reproduction. The fact that he's genuinely confused by her reaction? That he has to clarify that the Consortium doesn't practice forced breeding? It tells you everything about how different their worlds are. He lives in a place where bodily autonomy is assumed (for certain things). She lives in a reality where every system is designed to use her body against her will.

This section was crucial because I needed them to finally… you know… talk. Actual talking. Not knife-to-the-throat foreplay, but proper verbal sparring. And since both Namjoon and the reader are from this world, I didn’t want to do the “hello and welcome to my alien TED talk on how Authority Levels work!!” info-dump garbage. Ew. No. We’re grown. We’re nuanced. We build the world through perspective and action, not exposition. So yes, there’s worldbuilding here — but you earn it through dialogue, through friction, through character perception. This is how we do it in this house.

Also. I’d like to formally say: Namjoon being Authority Level 7 is absolutely intentional. I’m so bored of main characters being max-level ultra-bosses with unlimited power and godlike status. That’s not compelling. That’s not tense. That’s a power fantasy. My stories are psychological realism in a bottle of sci-fi, and that means no leader-of-the-mafia/king-of-the-world/god-of-sex as the male lead. Jungkook in Kkangpae isn’t the boss, and here, Namjoon is not top of the food chain either. He has absolute control over Epitaph, yes — but not over everything. And I wanted to show how that creates interesting tension. Especially when someone mocks him for not being higher and he’s like “I am not bothered 😐” when clearly? Clearly he is. We love a composed man with ego microfractures. Yessss sir. Suffer sexily for us.

Also. His threatening non-threats?? Am I okay?? Why is it so hot when he says things like “perhaps you require further conditioning” without blinking?? WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT. Anyway. I’m opening my legs respectfully (metaphorically). Let’s move on.

The consent/rut cycle convo was something I’ve been meaning to include for a while—I actually got an ask weeks ago about how consent works during heats/ruts in this world, and I took it to heart. ABO tropes often lean into “no rational thought, must fuck,” but personally that never sat right with me. So I made my own rules. In Veyrah, enhanced biological states amplify want, they don’t invent it. Which means consent gets tricky—not impossible, not erased—just more complicated. You still have agency. You still have to choose. And I like that nuance. I like the tension of “I hate you, but right now I want you, and I hate that I want you.” Because I’m a hate-fucking apologist. Sorry not sorry.

But the masterstroke—if I can call my own writing that without sounding like a complete asshole—is the Altsprek scene. I’ve been WAITING to drop this linguistic little freak of nature into the story. Is it German? Kind of. Is it not? Absolutely. I don’t speak fluent German so I just butchered structure and phonetics until it sounded cool and scary and mildly fascist and now we have a made-up language that exists for science, for precision, and for exclusion (so if grammar is not consistent... well, suck it up; I'm a writer, not a linguist.) That’s the point. It’s the language of the Consortium. It’s how power speaks. And I loved showing how it’s used deliberately to shut the reader out. The way the higher-ups deliberately switch to a language she can't understand, discussing her like she's not even there. It's such a perfect microcosm of systemic oppression. They need her knowledge, her skills, her regional expertise—but they won't give her the dignity of understanding what she's being asked to do. She's simultaneously essential and expendable, necessary and excluded.

And Namjoon. My problematic son. He KNOWS what they're doing. He sees her frustration, understands the power play happening, and does... the bare minimum. Advocates for "basic operational parameters" like he's doing her a favor. Because in his world, that IS generous. He cannot conceive of a reality where she should have full access to information about a mission that could kill her. The paternalism is so deeply embedded in his worldview that he probably thinks he's being kind.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk about my own character choices. I'm very normal about this story. Clearly. (NOT).

— read on

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

Namjoon arrives at Sub-Level Seven at 0800 hours, punctual as he ever is.

You're awake. Standing. Waiting.

He catalogs this.

Most subjects require forty-eight hours minimum to adapt to containment rhythms.

Proximity sensors logged seven hours of movement—pacing patterns, tactical assessment sweeps, stress sequences.

But you're not cowering. Not pleading. Not broken.

You're measuring kill zones.

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Beneficial genetic trait from Hollow Crest heritage."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

goal: 225 notes

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— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap  @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear 

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[unlikeable-female-character]

Old Man Logan x Nurse!Reader - the fight

to be honest, the nurse! part of nurse!reader has somewhat fallen by the wayside, but I am still having a lot of fun writing these two. Again, I appreciate that Logan is probably acting hugely out of character but I hope that there is enough of him in there for people to recognise.

No smut in this one, but they do have a bit of a falling out.

other warnings: mentions of pregnancy, implied suicide attempts, implied unprotected sex, Logan getting slapped, implied alcoholism, angst

****

‘Do you think you might be?’ You were in your bathroom, sitting on the toilet with your feet up on the seat, your knees hugged tightly to your chest. Logan was perched on the side of the bath, both of you staring at the unopened pregnancy test sitting on the vanity like it was an unexploded bomb. It might as well be. You shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always been pretty regular and we’ve been careful….’ You stopped and looked at Logan. He had the decency to look sheepish. ‘Yeah well maybe not so careful…’ you muttered. Logan put his head in his hands ‘And it’s not like your birthday was the only time lately either,’ he said.

You couldn’t explain it. Yes you had been careless when you fucked after your birthday meal but that had been a spur of the moment thing. Aside from the first time you slept together, which had been nearly two years ago, Logan had always come well prepared with condoms. After your birthday however, you’d both become a little more relaxed, reckless even. Maybe this was something you both wanted, without ever really discussing it. Or maybe you just really liked how it felt when Logan came inside you.

‘No,’ you said shaking your head, ‘work is stressful right now. We’re understaffed and management is being a pain in my ass. That’s probably why I’m late’ Logan nodded, eye flicking to the test ‘You’re not convinced?’ ‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, sweetheart,’ he said You shrugged again and let out a weak laugh. ‘Maybe I am.’ Logan reached out and picked up the box. ‘There’s only one way to really know,’ he said. You sighed. Of course there was. You took the test from him and opened the box. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ ‘Do you want to watch me peeing?’ You asked quirking a brow at him. Logan smiled a little. ‘Baby, you barged in on me when I was taking a shit the other day so you could show me something online. I’m pretty sure we’re way past being embarrassed about this stuff’ He watched as you went red remembering the incident. He put his hand on your cheek and you leaned into it. ‘I’ll wait in the bedroom,’ he said kissing you on the forehead.

Logan was lying back on your bed when you finally entered the room. He sat up when he saw you and patted the bed next to him. ‘Well?’ You didn’t say anything, just handed him the test. Not Pregnant. Clear as day. By some miracle all that unprotected sex had not produced a little Logan. It felt like hours, days, empires fell before either of you spoke. ‘How do you feel?’ Logan asked , reaching out and taking your hand. You rested your head on his shoulder. ‘Relieved,’ you replied, ‘dumb for being so reckless. I’m going to the store and buying the biggest pack condoms I can find’ Logan chuckled and slipped his hand into yours. ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

Your period started the afternoon of the next day.

So Logan was confused when he walked into your kitchen a few days after that to find you sitting at the table, sobbing your heart out. ‘Hey..hey darlin’ what’s wrong?’ Logan crouched beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to his chest. ‘I don’t know..’ you sobbed, ‘I was just sat here thinking about the other day and I just couldn’t stop myself.’ You looked up at Logan, your eyes red, tears still steaming down your cheeks. ‘I think I’m disappointed’ Logan sat back on his heels and let out a small huff of breath ‘Disappointed? That you weren’t pregnant?’ You nodded. ‘I thought I was okay with it, more than okay. Like it wasn’t something I wanted but….’ You looked at him, ‘but maybe with you it is.’ You sniffed back more tears and went to stand but Logan stopped you ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that. That if I was going to have a baby with anyone, the thought of having one with you just feels…right,’ you immediately noticed the fear on his face, ‘that doesn’t mean I’m going to trap you I just wanted you to understand that you are it for me Logan. You’re the one and….’ ‘Sweetheart, I’m the last person on the planet you should be thinking about having a kid with,’ he said quietly. You hit him on the shoulder. ‘You keep saying things like that and they are not true!’ Logan stood. ‘Oh it’s true. More than true. I mean…it’s a miracle we’ve gotten this far without something fucking it up.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that. I’m not good for anyone and I don’t know why the hell you think I am. And I really don’t understand why you think having a kid with me would be a good idea’ You stared at him. ‘Because I love you, you idiot.’ Logan ran a hand down his face ‘Well you shouldn’t.’

Confused you stood up and walked over to him. Logan wouldn’t look you in the eyes and you had to grab his face to make him. ‘Why are you being like this? I’m sorry for saying what I did, if it upset you…’ You felt Logan’s hands on your shoulders ‘It fucking terrified me! Everything about this terrifies me.’ You stared at him. ‘It’s bad enough the thought of losing you but a kid…my kid…to lose both of you…to…I can’t…’ He choked on his words and let go of you, practically running from your apartment. You stood in the middle of your kitchen and heard the main door downstairs slam. You sat back down at the table and stared at the door. What the hell.

***

The formidable team of Charles and Caliban normally managed to wear Logan down to the point where he realised what an ass he was being but this time they didn’t seem to be able to get through to him at all. You’d not seen Logan for over a week but Caliban had been texting you regular updates -

‘came home from work and punched out a window because they gave him decaf at Starbucks by accident. Not effective coping strategy tbh’

‘Told me to go fuck myself with a rusty pipe because I asked him if he would take the dirty sheets off his bed so I could wash them. Bit of an overreaction’

‘After drinking what I can only assume to be several gallons of whisky is currently passed out on the kitchen floor. He’s in the recovery position. I know he can’t technically die but never going to pass up a chance to practise your excellent first aid training :)' and included a picture of Logan in said recovery position. You knew Caliban just wanted some recognition that he’d got it right but the sight of Logan sprawled on the floor like that just made your heart break even more than it already was.

With each text you simply grew more and more concerned. Every call to Logan went straight to voice mail and every text remained unread. With every day you didn’t see Logan you missed him more and more while simultaneously wanting to smack him. You needed to speak to him and it was clear he was not going to make the first move.

***

Logan was limping out of Charles’ tank one morning when he spotted a car hurtling down the road towards the compound. He stood and watched it, finally recognising it as yours. ‘Fuck..’ he muttered. Part of him wanted to run inside and lock the door (you had a key, such an act was useless) and a bigger, aching part of him just wanted to see you. He stood and watched as you finally reached him and stopped your car.

Logan shambled over and opened the door for you. He was taken aback by how fast you could move and how hard you slapped him, rocking him back on his heels. He was genuinely impressed but thought that telling you this might not go down too well. ‘Pleased to see you too, sweetheart,’ he drawled instead, rubbing his cheek. You reared back to give him another but he grabbed your wrist. ‘Come inside’ Reluctantly you dropped your arm and followed him in.

Caliban was in the kitchen, ironing, when you came in. You gave him a big hug as he stepped out from behind the ironing board. ‘Oh I’ve missed you,’ you said. Caliban hugged you back and glanced over at Logan. He was greeted with a murderous stare. ‘While I’d love to stay and chat, I think your boyfriend might decapitate me.’ He squeezed you one more time and swiftly made his exit.

‘He gets a hug and I get slapped?’ You turned to him. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t try testing out that healing factor of yours a bit more,’ you fumed. ‘I thought nurses were meant to do no harm?’ ‘That’s doctors.’ Logan raised his hands in defeat and sat down at the table. You sat opposite. ‘You reek,’ you said ‘Thanks.’ ‘You can just drink the whisky, Logan, you don’t have to bathe in it.’ Logan crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, refusing to meet your eye. You glared at him. ‘You know the last thing I ever thought you would be was a coward, Logan,’ you spat You were taken back by the force of your anger. Not seeing or communicating with him for so long had only fuelled your ire and seeing him now did nothing to dampen it. ‘I’m not…’ ‘You are!’ You interrupted, ‘you’re a coward!’ Logan looked at you ‘Can I finish, Princess? I was going to say I’m not proud of myself and how I acted.’ ‘Oh…’ Logan stood and paced the floor. ‘You’re right. I am a coward. I have lived for so long, darling’. Too long. I have lost so many people, so many that I loved and so many people have taken so much from me. There is only so much loss that a person can take especially when you know there is no fucking end to it and you just have to keep on going and keep on losing year after year after year. When I can’t die but every single person around me does…’ You stared at him. ‘What are you saying? That you want to die?’ Logan was silent for a long time then said ‘No. But yeah, I did. I wanted to die every single day for years, decades, and even though I knew it was pointless I tried. A lot. And in so many ways.’ He stopped pacing and looked at you, ‘then I met you….for the first time in longer than I can remember I wanted to live. And that scared me more than anything else I’ve ever gone through.’ He knelt down beside you. ‘When you said that I was the one you would want a kid with…,’ he gripped your hand and you could see the tears glistening in his eyes. His fingers brushed the bangle he’d given you, ‘that Shakespeare guy knew a thing or two and those words…I mean every single one of them. But I don’t know how to stop being afraid of losing you.’ You didn’t know what to say. You knew Logan had lived a long life and you knew he had lost many. How did you reassure someone who’s known nothing but the fragility and finality of life?

You slid off your chair and knelt in front of him. You held onto his hand, and you both sat there in silence for a long time. ‘I don’t know what to say, Logan. I don’t know how to help you feel less afraid about losing me because one day you will lose me. And any kid we had. I will die and I can’t do anything about that.’ He looked up at you and you placed your hand on the cheek you’d slapped earlier. ‘You can’t keep running away from this. Because there is nowhere for you to run. You can’t outrun something that is inevitable. All I can do is reassure you that while I live - however long that is - I will love you. More fiercely than I ever thought and that scares me. And don’t think I haven’t thought about running. Every thing you’ve told me about your life, your past, should make me want to be a thousand miles away from you. But i don’t. I want to be here. In this…’ you looked around, ‘this temple to tetanus,’ Logan let out a small laugh. ‘I want you and every single second of your fucked up past Logan. Because that’s made you who you are. This man,’ you poked him in the chest, ‘and I want every second of our fucked up future as well.’

Logan leant forward and bumped his forehead against yours. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve been a fucking asshole.’ ‘Yes,’ you said, ‘you most definitely have’ ‘Can you forgive me?’ ‘I will…but not yet.’ Logan sat back and looked at you. ‘I guess I deserved that.’ You nodded ‘Oh yeah you deserve that,’ you said, squeezing his hand, ‘there was a better way for you to handle this.’ ‘I know.’ Logan looked down at where you held his hand. ‘Can I kiss you?’ ‘Do you have whisky breath?’ Logan pulled a face and stood up, pulling you up with him. ‘If I brush my teeth can I kiss you?’ ‘I’ll think about it.’ Logan smiled and nodded, heading off to the bathroom. ‘Hey,’ you called after him ‘Yeah?’ You stood by the kitchen table, fingers picking at some dried food on the surface. ‘If…you know..you wanted to try like AA or something…I could come with you,’ you looked at him. He was staring at his feet. ‘I know you were trying. And I’m so proud of you for that. But you don’t have to do it alone.’ Logan’s eyes flicked up to yours. ‘I’m here,’ you said, ‘I’ll always be here.’ Logan nodded and continued to the bathroom.

You still needed to talk. You still felt that dull emptiness from when the test came back negative. As you sat at the table and looked around, you wondered if you’d truly lost your mind, thinking about bringing a child into Logan’s world. The past weeks had shown you a side to Logan that alarmed you. Acting like this when it was just the two of you was one thing but what if he did the same if you had a child. You were still mulling these thoughts over when he emerged from the bathroom. You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around him. ‘Don’t take this as you being forgiven because you aren’t. I just wanted a hug and I don’t know where Caliban went,’ you said, your voice muffled by Logan’s shirt. Logan smiled into your hair ‘Whatever you say, sweetheart.’

[mythals-whore]

Ship Sleep Dynamics

thanks for the tag @basedonconjecture I feel like it's been a sec since I yapped about them. I will be passing the tag along to @gingervitus @sugar-peanut-cat @jouskaroo @pinayelf & @cute-ellyna if you would like (:

How often do they sleep together?

In the beginning? Almost never. But post-game they basically never spend a night apart. Taking "Wherever you are, there I am" very literal I'm afraid. Assan is also included in their sleep arrangements until he gets so big that he breaks the bed frame and from then on sleeps right next to the bed.

Where do they sleep?

At the Lighthouse they definitely sleep in the Guesthouse (duh) After, they get a Minrathous equivalent of a one-bedroom apartment where occasionally Cyri falls asleep on the sofa before being air-lifted to bed.

How do they prepare to sleep?

 I think I'm legally required to include the drinking of whiskey into their bedtime ritual. I do think that at some point they trade this practice for like a chamomile or peppermint tea instead. When they really get into a routine, it includes making tea and then sitting in bed together while Davrin works on his monster manual and Cyri reads (sometimes she proofreads for him, most times she reads Tevinter serials, and when something especially ridiculous happens she'll gasp aloud and then immediately relay it to Davrin which results in a discussion about just how ridiculous it is). And when they've finished tea and are properly tired they have what I in my real life call "worm hours" which is, of course, where you are allowed to ask questions like "would you love still love me if I was a worm" but I think with Cyri it's "but if I had an endurance potion and flaming swords, don't you think that would be enough for me to defeat a hydra by myself?" and Davrin always sighs heavily and is like "I really wish you wouldn't." These discussions always conclude with ridiculous stakes that allow Cyri to take on whatever monster it is on her own but a promise that she'd never try it without him.

What do they wear to sleep?

Cyri is a "strip to my smallclothes and fall into bed" type girl. Davrin is basically the same. However, I think post canon Cyri gets ridiculously frilly silk nightgowns that she wears to bed (and rarely to sleep).

Do they cuddle?

I know in my heart that Davrin is a cuddler. For Cyri I think it depends how tired she is. If she's really tired, she can fall asleep in any position. But on a regular basis I think she's a cuddle before we sleep and then kick you to your side. Because Davrin is such a cuddler I think there are occasional middle-of-the-night snuggles but also in my heart I think Davrin runs very warm so Cyri is always kicking/elbowing him away.

How easy do they fall asleep?

In general, both fall asleep pretty easy. As much as I think they're both hyper-vigilant from being on their own, they've also both been part of a larger force (Wardens and Legion specifically) and are used to taking sleep when they need it. (As much as Cyri chooses not to sleep during the events og Veilguard, it's not because she can't, it's more because she doesn't want to/there are other things she feels she needs to do before she can)

Do they toss and turn a lot?

No, but Davrin's warden nightmares can sometimes cause him to move a lot in his sleep. But they sort of establish a rule of, if his tossing and turning wakes Cyri, she'll gently wake him so they fall back asleep together. Cyri only tosses and turns when she can't sleep, which usually means something is bothering her and she won't actually be able to sleep until she takes care of it.

Do they snore?

I have to be honest, Davrin looks like he snores. Not super loud or obnoxious but I think he's a soft rumbly snorer. And I really believe that. He knows it's true but if Cyri complains about it he claims to not know what she's talking about.

Who hogs the blanket?

Davrin. Because he'll try to cuddle Cyri and then wind up either stealing blankets or cuddling with Assan instead.

What do they dream about?

Davrin mostly has the standard Grey Warden dreams which range from 'vaguely unsettling' to 'cosmically horrifying'. On the occasion he has a nice dream, I think he dreams about being in Arlathan with Assan most of the time. Sometimes he has dreams about herding halla or about his mom singing to him. :')

Post-canon, I think Cyri has lots of unsettling regret-prison dreams. they're less nightmares that have her startling awake and more those kind of weird dreams that have her waking feeling like she hasn't slept. I think Cyri's dreams are the kind of dreams where she wakes up like "I dreamt that I was following a talking cat around docktown and he made me catch fish and then fry it for him even though I told him I could just take him to Hal's instead." They're odd but always charming.

How easily do they wake up?

I don't think Davrin is a particularly deep sleeper, which comes from all that time on his own + Warden nightmares. He can go back to sleep pretty easily.

Cyri was very similar to the above pre-Davrin, but is so much more of a deep sleeper now that she wakes for almost nothing except a particularly bad nightmare (from either of them)

How awake they are afterwards?

Davrin is a routine guy + he's the one who wakes to feed Assan. So he wakes at basically the same time every day, and when he opens his eyes he's awake-awake.

If Cyri is woken in emergency-mode, the adrenaline obviously curbs the sleepiness pretty quick. But on a regular basis, she's awake but moving slow until she's had (half of) a coffee. She rarely finishes a cup of coffee, but claims to really love it.

[sweet7simple]

Are the Saja Boys one entity or telepathically linked? (Kpop Demon Hunters spoilers below)

I leaped out of the shower to write out this post because of a sudden realization I had:

What is the general consensus on whether or not the Saja Boys were telepathically linked? Because I am mentally reviewing the entire movie and I can only think of one scene where the boys actually talk to each other - and, even then, it's more them talking out loud so that the girls can hear them. I am thinking specifically of that scene where Abby is saying, "That one is always staring at me," or something like that. He's talking to the boys, but he wants the girls to hear him.

In the beginning when Jinu is pitching his boy band plan at Gwi Ma, the boys don't talk to each other. When they're doing their slow motion walk past the girls when Rumi is getting medicine, it *looks* like they were in the middle of talking to each other, but were they? Jinu was behind them and obviously not talking. During the first song, I don't recall anything. During the gameshow, they share a lot of the same facial expressions, but don't really talk to each other. It goes on and on - I have no memory of the Saja Boys actually talking to the other Saja Boys.

Hence, I am coming to the conclusion that they are either telepathically linked or just extensions of Jinu.

Further proof is during the final battle when none of the boys so much as scratch the girls despite outnumbering them and having possibly centuries of experience over them as well. As a matter of fact, there's that scene where Mira and Zoey actually pause in the middle of battle to watch as the lesser demons are sucked back into Gwi Ma and not a single one of the Saja Boys pressed their advantage.

Either telepathically linked and therefore coming to the group decision to not kill the hunters, or extensions of Jinu and Jinu had already decided to sacrifice himself for Rumi, so why not the rest of the boy band too?

Just food for thought. I was going to go feral if I had to keep it to myself. Please discuss.

[slashes-slut]

I have a requesssst:

Can you please write an imagine where reader has her friend Slash over at home and she tells him all about her next date with her boyfriend and how the two want to take things to the next level. Then Slash mischievously suggests that he can "prepare" her, cause he has a lot of sex experience and says he wants to show her how to give head properly and how to fuck properly.

During the session she completely forgets about her boyfriend because slash is such a good sex god🤤🦭🦭

Pretty please make this real smutty and dirty🤤🥹

I really enjoyed writing this one although it did take me a while lol

Tw: Smut, cheating, blowjobs, fingering, p in v sex

Divider by @kiyaedits

I Can Help

"He said he wants to... Well you know on our next date and like I want to but, I don't know anything about it. What if I fuck up?" You were currently discussing your boy troubles with Slash, he'd come over to show you a horror movie that he thought was up your alley. However you were too preoccupied with the thought of your next date with the guys you'd been seeing for a month now, he'd noticed and now you were spilling everything to him.

"like, I've never gone any further than a make-out sesh. I don't know how to do anything more and I don't want him to like I don't know, think I'm not good?", you were really just overthinking everything.

"it's not that deep, it's hard to be bad at sex", He was trying to be reassuring, not wanting you to be so freaked out about it.

After some more back and forth of you stressing out and Slash trying to either reassure you or ignore in favour of the movie he decides to give you a solution.

"let me teach you then if you're so worried", you couldn't tell if he was being serious, he looked serious but that would be wrong right?

"Slash that's cheating though."

"Only if he finds out and hey I'm not going to force you to but it might make you less worried."

"Yeah there ya go pretty girl, down on your knees", Slash gently put his hand on your shoulder to guide you down, he didn't want to overwhelm you. He was supposed to be teaching you after all. You were still unsure about this whole thing but as long as your boyfriend didn't find out it was okay right?

Once you were on your knees in between his legs you looked up at him almost innocently, this was your first time in this position and you were waiting for him to guide you further, the weight of his hand on your shoulder was reassuring as he used his other hand to undo his jeans. He pushes his jeans down just enough for his cock to be freed. As usual he's not wearing underwear

His cock was an average size 5-6 inches you guessed but it was thick and had a very prominent vein running down the side. Your mouth was practically watering at the thought of it down your throat and you only felt a little guilty. He held the base of it. "Come on pretty girl, it's simple. Just put it in your mouth, watch your teeth."

"m'kay", you leaned forward enough to take the tip in your mouth, wanting to go slow. It was odd at first the feeling of it, the taste was interesting but not entirely bad. You dipped your head down further, moving your tongue around and looking up at him. He was looking down at you with grin, one hand on your shoulder and the other on the side of your face.

"There you go, you're getting it". He pushed your hair back a bit, "a little further c'mon", because of your inexperience you couldn't quite take him all the way but you did your best to make up for it by speeding up on what you could take, it was messy, spit was everywhere but that only made it hotter. You pulled back to pay some attention to the head of his cock, running your tongue over the slit, earning a groan from the man above.

You pulled off completely, using your hand to stroke him slowly. "Am I doing good?" You ask, your voice a little rough but wanting validation.

"so good, you're a natural baby", He used his thumb to stroke your cheek, smiling down at you. "Keep going."

You take him back into your mouth, bobbing your head eagerly, you were enjoying this more than you thought you would. Spit is dripping from the corners of your mouth making everything that much dirtier.

He grabs your hair and pulls you off of him, not roughly but it wasn't exactly gentle. "As much as I'd like to cum done your throat I think I better show you how a real man should fuck you", He pulls your hair for just a second as if he was going to pull you up but decided against it, instead letting go and grabbing your arm.

Once you're standing he takes a second to admire you, your lips all red and wet from being wrapped around his cock, your hair a bit of a mess from his pulling. "You're gorgeous, lay down on the edge of the bed."

You lay down and he grabs your thighs pulling you down further so he can stand at the end of the bed but still be between your thighs, it's this moment that makes you happy your bed is up so high.

He runs his finger up your covered cunt, he could feel how wet you were, a small wet spot forming on your panties. "So wet for me already? You're really enjoying this", He pulled your panties to the side and used his other hand to run his fingers through the wetness.

You whine at the foreign feeling of someone else's hands on you in that way. It felt so different from how you touched yourself but it was so good despite him hardly doing anything.

"Gotta make sure you can take me pretty girl", He grins as he sinks his middle finger into your cunt all the way, it wasn't much but the slide of his finger and the rougher texture was enough to make you gasp. It wasn't long till he added a second finger, using the thumb of his other hand to rub circles on your clit. "That feel good?"

"Mhm, so good" The combination of his fingers going in and out of your wet cunt along with rubbing your clit was making your leg twitch. You were making a low whining sound, you hadn't expected this little stimulation to feel so good. "Didn't know it'd feel like this."

"oh yeah? Good", He was pleased that you were enjoying this so much, he loved that he was the first person to make you feel like this. He was however impatient so he didn't finger you for long. Only a few moments later he was pulling his fingers out eliciting a whine from you and wiping his hand the blanket

"Hey!", Did he seriously just do that

"it's fine we'll wash it", He dismissed your concern knowing it wasn't that big of a deal. Slash pull your panties fully off now and stepped forward to be between your legs once again. His cock was still hard pre-cum dripping from the tip, he grabbed your right hip with one hand and his cock with the other. "You're sure you want this?"

"oh, please Slash" You say, your voice needy while looking up at him with half lidded eyes. Your hands play with sheets beside you just to do something. You move your hips against him, feeling your arousal smear across his tip, desperate to feel anything.

"So impatient, I'm trying to teach you how to take a dick like a good slut, I'm going to go at my own pace" His voice is almost degrading but still holds that fondness that's ever present when he talks to you. Despite his words however he's just as eager for this as you are, he slaps the head of cock against your clit a few times, just to hear you whine.

"Are you ready pretty girl?"

"yes, fuck yes" It felt like he had been teasing you for so long, your cunt dripping, begging to be filled. He slowly starts to push in, wanting you to feel him fully. The feeling of it made you gasp and let out a sound close to a whimper. He started off slowly so he didn't overwhelm you but the feeling of your tight wet pussy wrapped around his cock just felt so good, it didn't take long for his thrusts to speed up. Both of his hands were on your hips holding you still for him.

Your moans and whines echoed throughout the room like the most lewd song. It felt like his cock was made for you, it felt so good. "Oh fuck, please, please don't stop" you begged and whined, losing yourself in the pleasure, at this point it was less about learning and more about the pleasure. All thoughts of your boyfriend had gone from your mind, only able to think of Slash.

"Fuck you feel so good" His head was thrown back in pleasure, his breathing deep as he let out an occasional groan. "God you feel so fucking good wrapped around me sweetheart"

"Slash- oh fuck- m'gonna cum" After all the teasing to your virgin body it was no surprise you weren't going to last long, hearing this Slash sped up his thrusts determined to make you feel good.

You whined loudly as you came, eyes screwing shut as your legs shook from the intensity. Slash continued to fuck you through it, rutting into your dripping pussy, "fuck no more, no more" you whispered, overstimulated.

"fuck-" He quickly pulled out and jerked himself off, his cum spurting out onto your stomach in short bursts. He fell onto the bed beside you, brushing some hair off your forehead, "did so good for me" He said quietly, his voice filled with affection. He sat up and tucked himself back into his pants. He then grabbed your discarded shirt and pants, using your shirt to wipe off your stomach and helping you into your pants.

"Do you need some water?"

You just nodded a bit worn out, still trying to catch your breath. A minute later you gladly took the water from Slash and drank it down greedily. The pair of you sat up together and rewinded the movie to watch it properly this time, although wrapped up in an embrace.

Needless to say you did not go on that date with your now ex-boyfriend.

[gabyiisart]

Deltarune; SOUL promise Theory

To start, we need to assume that, obviously, Dess IS the Knight. We see that the speech bubble of whoever is speaking on the phone is blatantly different. At the end of chapter 4 (weird route) someone talks to Kris on the phone, the way it expresses itself is clearly Carol, in a manner that's very different from what is spoken previously in the other dialogues on the phone in the normal route. The way the black bubble individual is more direct and fragmented; in my view, someone who was missing and without social interactions (Or corrupted) would have it, I am saying that the person speaking on the phone is Dess/Knight.

There's many theories to explain Dess's disappearance, that claim Kris is part of this, even being guilty. In chapter 3 we may have a clue to add even more to this statement. If this is true, then Kris definitely feels guilty about it. Debating this is not the point of this theory in question, just keep in mind that Kris is part of her disappearance yet they WANT to somehow help Dess.

At some point in the story, Kris could have found a way to connect with Dess. And I believe that the PHONE could be their main source of communication. In that regard, Kris KNOWS the knight IS Dess, and is actively working with her since then. We know that Kris has been behaving in specific ways since Chapter 1, as if they were following a plan, a linear path to something. As if they were being ordered to do so. However, I mean the line would work like this: Dess's disappearance > Kris and family falling apart + what was once is no more > Feelings of guilt > Dess/knight starts communicating via phone > Kris promises they'll help her > The promise of the soul.

We don't know exactly Dess' motivations, what she's doing, why she's doing what she does... God, we don't even know if she's ALIVE there. I at least imagine her being corrupted, and most likely dead inside. If she knows something about the prophecy and wants to go through with it, I speculate that she wanted a vessel to become the role of CAGE in the prophecy. Or she's just really upset about being alone in the dark for so long, and Kris promised her they would help... SOME of these options here.

This promise consists of Kris possessing the human soul, to follow the prophecy. Am I implying that Kris knows the prophecy? Maybe, but just maybe they just chose to accept it without knowing the means? Or perhaps, Dess just needed them to possess the human soul for some other reason greater than the prophecy itself.

Throughout chapter 4 we see that Kris is clearly able to survive without the soul in their body, taking it out a few times n' managing to go for long periods without it. Isn't Kris who seals the fountains, it is US, the soul. They DON'T need us to survive, but they NEED us to seal fountains: for the PROMISE. For Dess.

This explains to me why Kris keeps the soul in their body, even knowing that it make bad choices for them. Even knowing the choices it made for Noelle in the weird route, even knowing THE CONSEQUENCES that this brings to their life. They take the soul away for while and put it back as a relief, but want to keep it throughout the day for the PROMISE.

Okay!! So thats the first time I work on a theory like this, I kept looking for evidences and arguments, speculations to explain it- ... My posts are 90% focused on art only, but I also want to give space to theories and cool things I think.

Since it is my first one, it probably has holes and things you might not interpret the same way I do, and that's okay! I feel like I mostly forgot to fit Carol in here, but that's for the main point of the theory, which is to explain the "promise" and the soul and how they might be related.

Anyway, I really appreciate you reading this far, feel free to ask questions, discuss, debate... that's it <3

[frodosrings]

Ghosts in the Halls

randomly got inspired to write a quick farawyn fic? NOT beta read sorry not really

Words: 1.6k

Rating: G

Warnings: slight angst i guess? hurt/comfort mainly

Summary: Éowyn sees a perished face she cannot run far enough away from, and Faramir sees a perished face he cannot get close enough to.

aka; Faramir and Éowyn discuss the ghosts that haunt them.

Read Below or on Ao3 :)

They had come to Minas Tirith from Emyn Arnen for a cordial visit with Aragorn. Éowyn knew Faramir and Aragorn had to talk somewhat of business, but it was out of her worry since her husband didn’t seem concerned about whatever it was.

With Arwen away from the citadel for the morning and her husband in a council meeting with Aragorn, Éowyn decided to roam the halls. She smiled to herself when she passed the room she snuck to with Faramir on a visit years ago when they couldn’t contain their urges, and she stared with great appreciation at the doors of the chambers she knew once belonged to Boromir.

As she made her way down the hall to go outdoors for some spring air, she saw something move in her peripheral vision. It looked dark and tall, and with the proper turn of her head she saw a man cloaked in black with pearl-white hands protruding from his sleeves and dark scraggly locks peaking out from under his hood. It caused her heart to stutter and then almost stop completely. It was all too familiar; it was a figure so carved into the deepest parts of her brain that she saw it with nearly every blink. Grima.

When the cloaked figure removed their hood, she saw what looked to be a normal man she had never seen before, but when he noticed her staring and gave a polite, albeit awkward, smile, all she could do was turn away and hurry off without a word. Palpitations made it difficult for her to focus, she hardly knew where she was going as her vision was locked on the floor. She ignored the curious and concerned looks she knew were being tossed her way by guards and other staff and continued her mission to a destination she did not yet know.

It looked just like him. I haven’t seen him in so, so long. It was like he was truly there, festering.

Eventually, she reached the guest chambers that were given to her and Faramir upon their arrival. There was no time for her to process how her feet brought her here when her mind was unaware, but she was thankful. Her tears began the moment the grand doors shut. Her skin crawled with the memory of his eyes, his hands, his voice. He was suddenly everywhere. Every shadow of the room, every crevice between furniture, every inch of space she could not see. She sat on the floor by the foot of the bed and placed a hand on her heart as if a simple touch could steady the pounding beats.

Word must have spread about her sudden outburst of tearful, quick wandering, because within minutes the doors to the guest chambers opened and closed heavily. Her wide eyes looked up, expecting the shadowy figure of a man she knew was perished, but instead, it was the familiar face of her husband. He looked as if he had been told that the world was ending; his eyes were almost wider than Éowyn’s own.

“My love, what has happened?” Faramir breathlessly spoke when he saw Éowyn’s form sat on the floor. He knelt in front of her and laced their hands together. The sweat of her palms and the shakiness of her fingers did not go unnoticed by him.

“It is all fine, I was only startled— I am just allowing my heart to beat away its misjudgment.” She responded, swallowing a small lump between her words.

Faramir just nodded and gently held her jaw in his rough hands. The pads of his thumbs caressed away the droplets which fell from her eyes. Her hands held his wrists.

“I did not mean to frighten you; I must have looked a mess to any watching eyes.” She smiled half wearily.

Faramir huffed softly with a smile. “Beregond did seem quite taken aback.”

Their words were gentle whispers and they remained sat on the ground facing one another. Faramir still held worry in his heart. He knew his wife, he knew that running from danger was not exactly a quality she held, so he couldn’t imagine what may have began such an episode of terror. He almost never saw her like this; a broken mirror being held together by nothing but unsteady hands. Faramir knew that she would eventually let him in on what occurred, but he had no desire to rush her words. For now, he matched her smiles and wiped her skin when another tear slipped.

“May we sit somewhere more pleasant?” She whispered after her heartbeat returned to a rhythm she no longer felt in her fingertips.

“Of course, my love.” Faramir answered. He got up off his knees and gave Éowyn his hands. With a gentle pull to her feet, the pair sat on the edge of the bed.

Éowyn laid back, her hands resting on her stomach as her sight turned towards the ceiling above. Faramir moved beside her, resting on his elbow while his free hand began to caress her cheek and neck. There was never a moment he looked at her and didn’t have his mind completely full of praise for her beauty.

“There was a cloaked man in the halls. His face was covered and his hands were so pale— he was so awfully familiar, even in the way he stood. I couldn’t help but imagine Grima standing before me, satisfied that he had made it back from wherever he had gone. I think about it so often but— seeing that man there, seeing something so tangible, it was as if he was truly there.” Éowyn began to whisper slowly. She had teared up slightly once more, and her hand went to hold the fingers of her husband which were caressing her face. Their hands moved down to rest just above Éowyn’s heart. When she turned her gaze to Faramir, she picked up on the nearly unnoticeable darkening of his eyes and frown upon his lips.

“I am sorry you had even so much as a memory of that snake. He cannot harm you again. Though if, by some means unexplained by even elven magic, he walked the ground alive again and made his way to you, he would be slain by my hand without so much as a second thought. Not a freckle upon your beautiful completion will ever be looked at by his wretched eyes again.”

“I thought often of slaying him myself.”

“So easily could you have destroyed him if you chose to. He is more than lucky I never saw him alive, and that you were more empathetic than he deserved.”

“Yes, you would have been much more horrible to him than I was.” Éowyn smiled. She continued to fiddle with Faramir’s hand atop her chest.

“I am sorry his memory haunts you.” Faramir answered, followed by the placement of a gentle kiss upon Éowyn’s forehead.

“A day will come when the memory fades. Today was merely a reminder that said day is still far from me.”

“But said day will still arrive. Do not lose hope; you have me if the vision of him returns. My beautiful wife; I could look down upon you for all eternity, have I said so enough today?”

Éowyn smiled up at him once more and tucked a few strands of his hair behind his ear. “I shall never tire of hearing it, but I am no fool either dearest; I know it is not only my mind which has been haunted by a ghost. You have hidden your smile from each hallway and each dinner and each servant; why?”

“Ever the perceptive, my love,” Faramir whispered with a smile. He gave his wife another kiss, this time to her lips, before he spoke again. “Yes, my ghosts have been troubling me this visit. Aragorn has kept Boromir’s chambers perfectly in tact. It is like he still rests here. I cannot walk by where he used to lay without my heart sinking to a depth I cannot touch. Every Gondorian soldier is him; hidden beneath every helmet is my brother until the armour is stripped and a true identity is revealed.”

“It must be unbearable to be surrounded by him, yet be unable to reach out and touch.”

“Yes, horrible. I see him as a child stomping his feet in large puddles when I look upon the courtyard; I see him as a teenager wielding his first sword when I pass the armoury, I see him as a man when I look to the throne and wish he could have sat upon it just once. My darling, how he would have loved you.” Faramir whispered quietly, his cheeks now the ones being cleared of tears by his lovers thumbs.

“I feel lucky even to know of his memory. I know how much he loved you by the way his ghost brings you to tears.”

“I love you. I love you. My most precious thing. Your words heal as much as your heart.”

“I love you. I fear we are both haunted this day, by ones we cherish and ones we wish to forget.”

Two small smiles broke across soft lips. Faramir ran his fingers through Éowyn’s golden locks and laid down beside her, pulling her in. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered once more. “If you see the dark shadow of Wormtongue again, let me guide you back to the sun. I will always find it for you.”

“I shall, my love. And if Boromir’s bright rays shine too brightly and block your path, allow me to shade your eyes so you may see the way ahead.”

[rinsfandomfixations]

WELL THAT WAS AN ENDING...

I have mulled, and will mull some more... but the more I sit with it and my thoughts, and seeing how others are also feeling similarly, the more I'm like what the HECK was that (esp the last 2-3 episodes in particular)??? I'm crashing out like Inho, cause the more I think about it the more disappointed I am (and SAD)?

I've already ranted to some friends (both who have watched and who just support my hyperfixations LOL) - the one's who watched were all like "WTF WAS THAT" before I even even messaged them ( ´ д ` ). Many online have already touched on my own frustrations and issues about the season at this point, but...

My main points of my ????? were: [WARNING: Spoilers Below]

Junho not utilized at all? - Hwang brothers didn't even have a proper confrontation and conversation... like what was the point of him going to find his brother, he kinda did nothing these past 2 seasons, when he was SO important for season 1 - I feel bad for Wi-hajoon, man.

457 meeting/confrontation felt like 2 minutes of nothing... Look, while I love 457, I never asked for canon 457 or even much from them, cause I knew it was not going to happen. Look, I grew up at the peak of queerbaiting promotion, and knew there wasn't going to be ANYTHING coupley or too crazy in the show, but for the amount of promotion the official Squid Game/Netflix accounts were posting for their final showdown and how the two characters are so important to this season - THEY BARELY INTERACTED AND THERE WAS NO "SHOWDOWN" - the weight of their confrontation felt flat (NOT BECAUSE OF THE ACTORS BTW) - it was the narrative/script. - Look, I've read better 457 confrontations in fanfics than what we were given, and I was just really hoping for a further discussion on their perspectives and points, esp. after the build up in season 2, which we sadly didn't get

On that note, Gihun died without even knowing Inho's real name AND he is Junho's brother - just missed opportunity after missed opportunity. For how much we learned about In-ho in season 2, we really didn't get much from/development in his character this season sadly.

Gihun's sacrifice - I 98.5% expected Gihun to make a huge sacrifice, most-likely with his life coming into this last season. I think it wouldn't be as ??? or frustrating if the circumstance of the sacrifice was different, especially because that ending could have definitely been avoided! Whether it was Gihun blowing up the island, sacrificing himself so a group of others could escape, or sacrificing himself so the baby could leave with Junhee (or Hyunju/Geumja), so the 2 could make it out - not just for the baby to be left alone for them to do who knows what with the child. Maybe Gihun trusted Inho enough to take care of the child, but that trust def wasn't earned from the TWO MINUTE conversation. It just did not leave me right. While I was of course rooting for Gihun to survive, I knew he would most-likely die, so it's not about that, it's just how it happened was disappointing - that whole final game was disappointing

The message in its current kairo - While people may say the ending is "realistic," in this time period and all the crap happening in the world with oligarchs and "the people" fighting against big money, I don't think this ending was the right for the time. Like I get not everything gets a happy ending, but I don't think it's the message for this time. They literally killed off the character that represented the hope and empathy of humans and people in the show - and that's it, he dies and the rich people win with absolutely no repercussions.

If you read this far, sorry for the long rambly rant. LOL Maybe I'll write something more coherent or reflective on these feelings... maybe in the next few days after I settled on feelings, or NOT LOL (it is very early in the morning after the binge 😪 - YET I CAN'T SLEEP AFTER THAT). I'm just a bit baffled and empty from that ending.

I don't think this will take away my fixation of the fandom and 457, but I probably will pretend the last few episodes or the season did not exist LOL. I believe in this fandom to write the best fix-it possible. But I do just want to draw Gihun now... also Lee Jung Jae in his sleeveless mesh top (have ya'll seen that video? Baby girl diva shit). I'm watching interviews to cope with w/e I'm feeling rn.

But Gihun, my sweet baby 😞 - you continue to be my fave of the show, and damn I just want to give him a big hug 😭 While I was ready to let him go, and expected some sort of sacrifice, it def was not with this sort of ending... Welp, thanks for reading all this if you did LOL

I would be interested to hear if others felt the same, or how they felt about the ending too. It's like super early in the morning, so I should go to bed, but i'll prob read fanfics to continue to cope. (´ー` )

[a-jagged-nightmare]

Hey so I'm actually the person who requested this (in dms, why it's not shown here). I'm the one who gave a definition, the label sanctuary only gave a flag and name. But this is my words for my experience because I wanted a name, and thought others might appreciate having a name too. I have SzPD.

Let's break this down.

So myself, and my system, have been working on the special person lists for a while now. All terms were either made by people looking to explain experiences they felt with their personality disorder, or *requested* by someone who was trying to do just that. All the flags and definitions as they are worded on that blog have been with input of people who have those personality disorders, and most of which who experience those types of connections. I have the links to each of the coinings, or some of their oldest uses (or the only reference we could find for it because it turns out! not everyone gets all of these so their use is sparse a lot of times. That doesn't make it less needed tho) if memory serves, many of which were created just by discussions between folks over time. So your point about them being contrived isn't really the point you think it is.

First off, my contact people aren't fucking fictional. Just because you can't imagine an experience because you haven't had it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. People do experience shit differently. I am not casting inaccurate stereotypes for defining an *outlier* in my experience. That's what special person terms are. Outliers. Things that don't normally happen. I am expressing my personal experiences. For someone who claims to value minority experiences you are sure as hell quick to come at anyone who dares experience their personality disorder in any way that's not by the book.

Alongside that, while I will admit that "aces can still have sex" is often used as a reason they're still "normal" or "valid", it in itself is not a harmful acknowledgement. There tend to be two very strong opinions about aces. That they are innocent little beans, or that they can still have sex so they're "normal". Talking about the fact that both of those exist, and neither is more valid, does not minimize anything. What you're describing is akin to telling someone who's bisexual that just because they've only dated one gender is minimizing the attraction to 2+ genders that defines bisexuality (*definition may slightly vary person to person, this is just the simplest and more general one and why I chose it).

Not every single post needs to talk about every single experiences. People are allowed to talk about one single aspect of their experiences. That is not harmful. To say otherwise is actually. It means that people can't just focus on something that's important to them, but have to placate every single person and every single experience lest they be a horrible person for having a certain experience they want to talk about.

This post exists because I, someone with SzPD, wanted a word to talk about one of my experiences. I should not have to put a disclaimer on a term, that *by definition* is an atypical experience for me, that it is in fact not my standard. I should be allowed to talk about my experiences when I either don't entirely hate social interactions or the rare cases *desire* them [See: Interest Person] without having to worry about folks like you telling me I am being harmful for quite literally existing.

Try considering the fact different people have different experiences, before getting all up in arms about something not being by the book.

・₊✧𝘈 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺｡｡｡ -`♡´-

♡CONTACT PERSON♡

✧A Contact Person (CNP) is a Special Person attachment experienced by those with Schizoid Personality Disorder (SZPD). A CNP is someone the person with SZPD (pwSZPD) does not particularly mind speaking to, despite not necessarily desiring interaction with them, and may even enjoy time spent with them.✧

✧An example of this attachment could be the type of connection one forms with an aquaintance or "work friend". Little to no thoughts about them outside of work, but an enjoyment of their presence when they are there.✧

Tagging: @kpopwerewolf @the-iris-network-mogai @radiomogai

! If you would like to be tagged in my posts feel free to ask !

For a full list of Special Person terms, I made this doc for a comprehensible list. If you'd like to use my PD flags as emojis, I made this discord server with them as heart emojis! (Originally made to react to my SPs messages)

DISCLAIMER: All of these terms already have existed in the community before I posted them. If you have genuine questions or concerns, feel free to reach out and I will try to work with you! These terms are meant to be inclusive of ALL experiences I have heard of or experienced myself, so I have no issue adding things if necessary. These posts are meant to be short and sweet descriptions, not full deep delves on what each means! Feel free to make your own deep dives posts about your own experiences with these and @ me, I’ll definitely repost as long as they’re done in a respect

[gravegrime]

A question to the storytellers out there!

What do you think is the most fundementally important part of any story? The writing, style, or theme/message?

I'm going to give my answer below the cut but please let me know what you think and why as well. Lets have a discussion about this!

For myself I believe the most important aspect of any story is it's writing. A story necessarily has to be a series of events that happen sequentially so you inherently need to know what those events are.

If you would allow me to analogize for a moment: I like to think about stories like a house. The stories various components roughly mapping onto different parts of its construction. Writing serves as the foundations and frame of the home. What events happen and how they happen serve to hold up all the other aspects of your story. A strong foundation will give you a sturdy base to build off of as currently you have just the shell of a home. The where, what, and how exist here but nothing else.

Your thematic elements make up the why. To continue the analogy you could think of them as utilities and functions within the home. The meaning you put into the various "rooms" make them more than just rooms. They become kitchens, bathrooms, and bedrooms. Places to live but still barren.

Who this home was built buy shines through in style. The colour of paint and decor within the empty rooms. Little personal touches to make the place feel like somewhere you've lived and finally transform the house into a home!

I understand that was all a bit flowery and I did induldge a bit, as it my right, but I think it's the best way to illustrate my feelings on the matter. I do think that all aspects of storytelling are important but I also don't think they're all created equal. I think above all else the most important thing to get right with your story is the writting. Everything necessarily flows from it and if you have a rotten foundation the whole project is going to fall flat!

Themes are great but if there's nothing to support them, or even worse you contradict them in your writing, they're sort of worthless. There isn't much to gain from advice given without reason!

Style can be wonderful to look at or consume in some way but eye candy is just eye candy if there's nothing more fundemental underpinning it. If you want candy that's fine, but you can't really call it a well balanced meal if that's the case.

This does kind of lead down the rabbit hole of what is and isn't good writing if it's so important to your story but that is something that will have to wait till another time. I am going to give my perspective on stuff like that for sure, but I feel it's probably better done piece meal in different conversations.

Thanks for reading, and I hope to have some interesting discussions lads!