#The optimism is less understandable now

[redvexillum]

"EPISODE 5 ISN'T A RAGATHA EPISO--"

So I just finished watching Episodes 4 and 5 of The Amazing Digital Circus for the third time because I’ve clearly given my life to this show and Gooseworx owns my soul. Genuinely, what phenomenal writing. I've seen mixed reception for episode five but I’m thrilled that the majority of the fandom can agree this episode was amazing. Because that means I can scream with all you FunnyBunny shippers and dedicated emotional wrecks alike.

Now. Let me get into why Episode 5 wasn’t just a Jax episode (though it very much was)—but why it was, at its core, Ragatha’s episode. This is gonna be long and laced with “am I overthinking this?” moments. Buckle up.

WHO IS RAGATHA?

When we first meet her in Episode One, she’s nice. Incredibly kind. Super peppy. But there's this teeny-tiny crack in that candy coating. She spirals, just a little, and we see a nervous, anxious edge slipping through her “positive vibes only” persona.

And that spiral? It’s not a one-time thing. It gets worse. The deeper you go into the series, the more you notice how her overbearing positivity feels less like optimism and more like a coping mechanism. A weaponized smile. She’s not just trying to cheer everyone up, she’s gaslighting herself into believing she has to be happy. She has to be likable. That it’s the only way she’ll be accepted.

And in the Digital Circus, where identity is shredded (like you forget your name for fuck's sakes) and everything’s performative? That’s not just sad...it’s devastating.

EPISODE 4: THE CRACKS BEGIN TO SHOW

Episode Four set the entire foundation. When Ragatha gets “stupid sauce” in her eyes and all her emotional filters drop, you finally see her. She stops curating how she’s perceived and just exists...and what comes out? She reminisces of her life (which gets confirmed in Episode 5). Gangle tries to warn her she might get hurt, and her response is almost eerie in how casually she brushes it off.

Sure, it could be a nod to Raggedy Ann and all that doll-abuse lore, but when you learn about Ragatha’s real past: abusive, narcissistic mother, high-society pressure cooker upbringing...that “hurt” starts feeling very literal. Maybe this line wasn’t just random doll humor. Maybe it’s a whisper of childhood trauma, manifesting through a false smile.

And then comes the Gloink Queen. The way Ragatha lights up at the idea of a mother who genuinely cherishes every single one of her hundreds of children? I fucking felt that. It wasn’t just admiration; it was longing. Desperation. Like she never got that kind of love growing up, so the concept itself is intoxicating. It’s this quiet heartbreak that adds a whole new layer to her need for approval.

She hates Jax. Let’s be real. He antagonizes her constantly, pushes every one of her buttons (he literally threw her in a goddamn vat of boiling oil for fucks sakes). But the part that wrecks me? She doesn’t want him to hate her. Not because she likes him, but because anyone disliking her is unbearable. Being disliked means she failed. Means she’s unworthy. Means she’s alone.

That’s why her facade, this grinning, chipper armour? It's everything. And the more we see of her, the more we understand that it’s crumbling.

I NEED YOU ALL TO LOCK THIS SCENE INTO YOUR BRAINS, OKAY? Because this exact emotional thread gets replayed like a broken record all throughout Episode Five. It’s not just a one-off moment, it’s the theme. The cast knows Ragatha’s cheer is fake. And honestly? It makes sense. They’ve been stuck together for who-knows-how-long, and you learn a lot about someone in that kind of nightmare.

But here’s the thing: when someone keeps pushing toxic positivity, constantly trying to “cheer you up” without actually listening, it doesn’t help. It hurts. It makes the person reaching out feel like they’re talking to a wall. Ragatha so badly wants people to open up to her, but she’s terrified of doing the same in return, and that’s where the entire disconnect lies. She’s hyper-aware of how she’s perceived. Her self-image is a prison. And at the core of it all?

Rejection.

Her biggest, ugliest, most soul-deep fear. Because rejection leads to isolation. And isolation? Leads straight back to the kind of loneliness she probably drowned in as a child.

Now, you're probably wondering: why am I still going off about Episode Four when I promised this was a breakdown of Episode Five?

Because Episode Four is the breadcrumb trail. It's the soft warning. The writer’s subtle little “hey, pay attention to her” moment. It’s the appetizer. It preps us, emotionally and narratively, for the main course of Episode Five, where Ragatha's carefully-constructed image begins to crack and we finally, finally, start to understand the full scope of her trauma.

Let’s address the big criticism real quick: a lot of people think this was a Jax-centric episode. And I get it. Jax got depth, growth, actual backstory. But here’s my take: Jax and Ragatha are each other’s foils.

One is warm, soft-spoken, always smiling, but secretly repressing everything real.

The other is brash, rude, antagonistic—but when he opens up? He’s real. He’s genuine.

They’ve been clashing since Episode One, and their dynamic works because they’re mirrors: distorted, but parallel.

Why was using Jax as Ragatha’s foil so brilliant? Because it does two huge things. First, it finally shows us Jax as a person instead of just telling us he’s a dick with a smile. But more importantly?

It amplifies Ragatha.

A foil, by definition, is a character who highlights the traits of another character by contrasting with them. And what better way to show Ragatha’s entire internal collapse than by placing her beside someone who, while difficult and abrasive, actually manages to connect with someone else?

Because as Jax grows closer to Pomni, the very connection Ragatha has been chasing since Day One, it throws Ragatha’s failures into painful high-def. She’s tried everything. She’s been kind, supportive, the “good friend.” And yet, it’s not her Pomni opens up to. It’s not her Pomni laughs with.

And that is why Episode Five is a Ragatha episode. Maybe not in the obvious, center-stage way. But in the subtle, devastating unraveling that plays out just beneath the surface.

Now, let’s talk receipts. I’ve got observations, breakdowns, and repeat viewings of Episodes Four and Five loaded and ready.

I don’t know if it was a deliberate artistic choice or just an organic part of the scene composition, but I can’t not point out how telling it is that the characters are all paired off: Jax and Pomni, Kinger with Zooble and Gangle, and yet Ragatha? She’s standing off in the distance. Alone. Isolated. Visibly excluded from every natural dynamic.

And I really want to believe that was purposeful. A quiet visual cue for us, the audience, to understand not just the social dynamics of the group, but how deeply disconnected Ragatha truly is from the others.

Honestly, I think this was the moment her carefully held-together mask started to split. The start of the spiral. Go back to the earlier episodes and you’ll start noticing it: Ragatha drops a lot of sharp, snarky comments. Some subtle. Some cutting. Whether intentional or not, those little moments are emotional leaks. She drops her filter more often around Jax, which makes sense, she hates him. She doesn’t bother hiding it. But the fact that her snark surfaces at all tells us something: the mask is slipping.

Think about Episode One, when Ragatha spirals, it’s visceral. It’s raw and disturbing in a way the others’ breakdowns just… aren’t. Why? Because for Ragatha, cracking isn’t just about stress or fear. It’s about exposing something she’s worked so hard to hide: her real, “ugly,” human feelings. She’s repressed them for so long, forced herself to smile through it all, because she believes that if she isn’t likable, if she isn’t “good,” she’ll be abandoned.

And now? That bottle’s starting to shake.

I'll circle back to this moment when I dive into the bar scene later (because oof—there’s so much there), but let’s keep things chronological for now.

Right after Ragatha leaves, Jax drops a line on Pomni: “[She] is taking advantage of you.” And it hits especially hard because just before that, Gangle told Pomni she didn’t think Ragatha was genuine. That? That’s when the discomfort surrounding Ragatha starts to really take shape.

Here’s why I think that hit a nerve with the rest of the cast.

They are all constantly fighting for their sanity. For their identities. They’re trapped in this surreal, terrifying digital purgatory where reality is questionable at best and all they’ve got are each other. That’s it. Just a bunch of strangers trying not to fall apart or, worse, abstract.

And when you're in that space? Vulnerability becomes everything. And it’s risky.

Being vulnerable to the wrong person, someone who doesn’t reciprocate, or worse, uses your openness against you is traumatic. It teaches you to close up. To withdraw.

To stop trying.

Now imagine reaching out to someone like Ragatha, who seems supportive on the surface, who says the right things, but there’s a disconnect. You don’t feel like you’re being seen. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you’re talking to someone who’s willing to meet you in the mess.

And when that happens? Of course they gravitate elsewhere. Of course they pair off, find comfort in each other, and leave her on the fringes.

What hurts the most, though, is this: Ragatha wants connection. She’s starving for it. But she doesn’t know how to give it back in a way that feels real. She’s so wrapped up in being “the nice one,” the peacemaker, the cheerful glue of the group, that she can’t drop the act—even when it’s pushing people away. Even when it’s exactly what’s isolating her.

She wants to be close. She just doesn’t know how to be vulnerable.

Now, the biggest lore drop of Ragatha's past, let's break this down:

Throughout the entire series so far, Ragatha always speaks with this carefully curated tone: gentle, friendly, overly polite. But every time she gets a moment alone to monologue? It always derails. Every time. Her words unravel, her tone falters, and what starts as “everything’s fine” ends with something much darker, much sadder.

And this scene? God. This one hurt. Because when she starts talking about her mother, it stops feeling like just another breakdown. It feels like the core of her trauma is being yanked out into the open. She’s clearly an adult. Had a life. A career. Probably responsibilities and routines. And yet, that wound from her mother is still festering: deep, raw, and most importantly?

Completely unresolved.

This is where you see her coping mechanisms in full force. Ragatha has this heartbreaking tendency to downplay her own pain. She’ll smile through it, make a light comment, move on like it doesn’t ache. But it does. And that habit? It sabotages her ability to connect with people in a real, vulnerable way. Because how can someone share mutual pain with you if you never admit to having any? If you can’t even be real with yourself?

Remember when she confessed she hates Jax, but she doesn’t want Jax to hate her? That moment says everything. That desperate need to be liked, even by someone who openly antagonizes her, speaks volumes about her internal wiring. She’s terrified of rejection. Of being disliked. Of being seen as not enough.

And this scene, to me, is one of the most heartbreaking moments in the show. Ragatha is caught in this awful limbo: she wants connection, deeply. She wants friendship, understanding, belonging. But the second she senses discomfort, awkwardness, even the slightest ripple of tension, she backpedals. She shrinks. She brushes it off with a laugh or a sugar-coated phrase. And that’s exactly why the others can’t reach her.

She’s surrounded by people and still completely alone.

This scene also confirms what we’ve suspected all along: her mother had impossibly high standards. That nothing Ragatha did was ever good enough. That she had to perform perfection just to maybe receive love. It was a transaction. "Be the perfect little girl, the perfect daughter, the perfect doll, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll earn affection."

So of course she acts like this now. Of course she wraps herself in forced smiles and gentle words. Because somewhere deep down, she still believes that if she slips, if she messes up, if she shows anything “ugly”...then no one will love her.

Jax was a grade A asshole for this one. No sugarcoating it. He knew how badly Ragatha wanted to be Pomni’s friend. He’s not clueless. So when he swooped in and started getting close to her? Of course it triggered Ragatha. You could practically see her flinch.

And that sting? It echoes through the rest of the episode five from that point onwards. Especially when they get to the ball game scene.

That was the moment Ragatha finally let some of that bottled-up frustration out. She flat-out called Jax out, asking why he was trying to influence Pomni into acting like some careless, insensitive jerk. And yeah, on the surface it seems like just another clash between the two of them, but if you look a little closer (and maybe I’m reaching this), there’s something deeper going on.

From earlier episodes, we’ve seen Ragatha has this habit of telling Pomni how she should feel. She does it in this oddly motherly tone, like she’s trying to guide her, but in a way that almost infantilizes her. In Episode Two, in the candy kingdom bit, Ragatha starts talking to Pomni like she’s a child and Pomni immediately shuts it down: “I’m not a kid.”

That wasn’t just sass.

That was a boundary.

And it clicked for me: Ragatha might be echoing her mother’s behavior here. That condescending tone disguised as “help.” The “cheer up, it’s not that bad” mindset. The insistence that things should be okay, instead of just lettingpeople feel. Maybe that’s all she ever knew. And now, she’s unknowingly replicating it.

So when she follows Pomni’s advice to “try being a jerk sometimes,” and it backfires, when Pomni looks at her, clearly uncomfortable, it hits Ragatha like a rock. That same feeling of rejection, all over again.

And did anyone else notice the glitch when she apologized? Because I sure as hell did. It was subtle, but holy fuck, please don't be the next abstraction!

Then came the "Pomni Saves the Day (Almost)" scene, when it’s her turn to bat. She asks Ragatha if she wants to take her place, to "redeem" herself from her earlier miss. And for just a second, Ragatha lights up. It’s this tiny flicker of hope. Maybe this is her chance. Maybe she can fix things.

Maybe she’s needed.

But then… the game was already over and they won before she had a chance to bat because their evil version is basically KO'd. She turns to Pomni and sees them.

Pomni and Jax. Laughing. Close. Connected.

And suddenly that hope? It deflates.

Just like in the stargazing scene, we get this physical distance motif again. Ragatha is always just far enough to see the connection—but never be part of it. And in that moment, you can see it on her face, this quiet, confused heartbreak. The kind of grief that doesn’t explode...it just sinks in. Like she’s trying to understand why her kindness, her effort, her presence was never enough. Why being “nice” only pushed Pomni further away.

That expression she gives, caught somewhere between confusion, disappointment, and slowly-processed loss? God, that got me. It wrecked me. Because in that moment, she’s not angry. She’s not dramatic.

She’s just... alone.

And then finally… the nail in the coffin. The moment where the silent divide between Pomni and Ragatha becomes undeniable. The moment the entire show has been quietly building toward since Episode One.

Ragatha, who has tried so hard to make Pomni smile. To be her rock. To forge a connection. She wants that closeness. She craves that intimacy. But instead, she watches as Pomni laughs, genuinely, mind you, and effortlessly at Jax’s antics. And the second Pomni notices Ragatha looking? Her smile drops. Instantly. That joy disappears, replaced by awkwardness, tension, that same guarded expression we’ve seen before.

And it says everything.

Pomni can’t be herself around Ragatha. She doesn’t feel safe doing so. She might think Ragatha is a “nice enough” person… but that’s it. That’s where the connection ends. She doesn’t let her guard down. Doesn’t let Ragatha in. Because Ragatha, in all her curated cheer, never really opens up either.

And then the show drives it home with brutal elegance: the group starts to drift off, one by one, naturally falling into their new little dynamics. And Ragatha? Left standing in the middle. Alone. Forgotten. No one turns to her. No one invites her. She’s just there.

For all the time she’s spent in the Digital Circus, Pomni managed to connect with everyone else. Even Jax. And that, right there, is pure devastation for me.

Because all Ragatha has ever known is people-pleasing. That’s how she survives. That’s what she was taught. Be the sunshine, be the good girl, be agreeable and comforting and helpful then you’ll be loved. Then you’ll be safe. But what happens when that mask doesn’t work? When it actually pushes people away instead of bringing them in?

She doesn’t know how to express her loneliness. She doesn’t know how to say, “I’m hurting too.” Because that’s not what was modeled for her. That’s not what her mother taught her.

And this...this right fucking here is why Gooseworx was so right when they said this was a Ragatha episode.

Because Ragatha’s character flaws, the heart of her tragedy, are brought into the light not by spotlighting her, but by quietly contrasting her with a pair of characters we never expected to bond: Jax and Pomni.

From the start, we’re fed this narrative: Jax is an asshole. He teases Pomni. He’s rude, smug, abrasive. And yet… Pomni starts to soften around him. She connects. She even laughs. And you start to wonder...why is he getting through to her when Ragatha can’t?

Because Jax, in his own messed-up way, gets real. He opens up. He admits things. He’s emotionally messy, but it’s genuine. And that rawness, that honesty, is something Ragatha can’t allow herself to show. So while Jax slowly reveals the depth beneath his snark, Ragatha clings to her role: the always-smiling, ever-positive comfort character.

And that contrast? It’s heartbreaking.

You see it at the very end. How alone she is. And the cruel twist? She’s probably the one who needs connection the most. But she’s so stuck in her pattern, so locked in that internalized belief that she has to perform to be loved, that she ends up isolating herself even further.

I can’t stop thinking about this: Ragatha feels like someone who’s spent her entire life just close enough to be seen, but never close enough to be reached. She’s the background character in her own life: present, smiling, helpful… and utterly alone.

And maybe the reason so many people felt like this episode was more about Jax than Ragatha is because we’re supposed to feel her slipping into the background. Just like the cast is starting to overlook her, we as the audience are starting to, too.

That slow fade?

It’s intentional.

Thank you for coming to my rant. I never done a character analysis before, but I just fucking love this series so much.

Read More TADC Character Analysis

[bucketbueckers]

LAYUPS & LAYOVERS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

wc: 2.9k

content warnings: language, fluff, author is southern and doesn't understand how snow or marketing works, plot where there doesn’t need to be plot

synopsis: It’s Christmas Eve and you’re in Connecticut, exhausted and just trying to get to Minnesota for a work conference. You could cry when it’s announced that all flights are being halted due to the incoming blizzard. Irritated, tired, and overworked, you pray for a miracle, although it takes an unnatural shape in the form of a six foot blonde athlete who’s just trying to make it home, too. Late night airport conversations lead to something more.

notes: merry christmas eve from my delusions to yours! the last chapter of irp was super heavy so here's my apology and christmas gift (do i drop another one tmr...i really dont wanna write chapter 8 😩). i hope you all enjoy this short n sweet lil ramble i threw together and happy holidays 🫶

This can not be your life right now.

It’s actually kind of impressive how all of the stars aligned on this one particular night to fuck you over. You’re not a terrible person. You hold the doors for everyone, give up your seat on the bus for sweet old ladies, and you always allocate a portion of your paychecks to donate to Wikipedia. By all accounts, you should be overwhelmed with good karma, although it seems your luck has depleted on this night and this night alone.

It all started on the 20th when you flew out to Connecticut. You work a cushy job as a marketing consultant for the WNBA, which means you spend a lot of time in the air and across the country trying to unfuck – sorry, trying to optimize and rejuvenate – the state of the league and its teams. It’s a task easier said than done. Nobody seems to want to listen to you until they realize that your master’s degrees in marketing and business analytics actually mean something and aren’t just really expensive pieces of paper that you hang in your office. You spend a couple of days in Uncasville talking strategies to boost ticket sales and to gain more traction; they’re the only professional team the state has – it should not be hard to get people to show up if you can market it right, but here you are.

Connecticut is nearly a bust. It’s cold and you spend two full days in meetings getting talked over by men who think they understand numbers and branding. Then, on the third day, the front office suddenly realizes what you’ve been talking about (this shit was covered in your sophomore year intro to marketing class, but hey, the less people know, the more you get paid, so who’s really complaining?) and the trajectory of your trip makes a sudden turnaround. On the 23rd and early on the 24th, you help the Sun roll out the new optimizations, and what do you know? Ticket sales surge by 17%, including some season tickets, all is well in the world and it’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.

Then, all is suddenly not well and you remember that Christmas miracles are for people not surrounded by idiots. Your boss emails you just before you leave for the airport: The Lynx need your help. I’ve sent you tickets for the first flight out of Connecticut. Meet with them on the 26th. Said “flight” departs from Connecticut at 8:30pm on Christmas Eve, which means you’re not even in Minnesota until 12am if you’re lucky, which means you have to figure out hotel arrangements so you can take a nap because you’ve barely slept in five days, which means you have to figure out how to be nice to people again because the Sun front office has you pissed all the way the fuck off.

So, you’re tired, overworked, extremely irritated, and hungry, although that last problem is solved by airport Subway. You just hope that doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass, either – you firmly believed that you were better off betting all of your money on black rather than taking the chance on airport food, but you didn’t have much of a choice and your stomach was growling. You eat, settling in a chair at your gate, and patiently await for your plane to arrive.

Then, the overhead PA clicks on with some static noise, announcing, “Flight 932 to Minneapolis and all other flights exiting Hartford will be delayed due to inclement weather. I repeat–”

The blood rushes to your head. Your eye twitches. There’s a crying baby somewhere in the airport and you can’t take it anymore. Honestly, what’s stopping you? Flying a plane cannot be that difficult. You’re pretty persuasive. You can tell TSA you’re just young for a pilot and you’re not wearing a pilot’s uniform because it’s Christmas Eve and what are you, the feds? All you’re really asking for at this point is a nap but there’s no way in hell you’re making it to a hotel in these conditions and the chances of you sleeping in an airport with all of your belongings out for someone to grab are even lower.

A commotion towards the check in counter commands your attention. You turn, dreading the eventual crash out of an airport Karen, but it’s better than the crying baby who still hasn’t shut the fuck up.

“Please, there’s gotta be something else you can do,” a tall, broad-shouldered blonde is begging, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “It’s Christmas Eve, I have to get home.”

The lady at the check in counter sounds sympathetic when she responds. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our hands are tied. We can’t send our planes out in this weather, but if it eases up, the next flight out should have you arriving in Minneapolis by tomorrow afternoon.”

You hear the blonde groan, her tone sounding something like, I can’t fucking believe this is my life, which is a sentiment you whole-heartedly agree with. “Can you please lemme know if there’s anything earlier?” she pleads. “Like, if by the grace of God this weather clears and we can leave sooner.”

“Of course, ma’am. All updates will be announced.”

The response is almost robotical, but you can tell the receptionist is trying her best, too, and the last place she wants to be is hanging out at the airport on Christmas Eve. The blonde sighs, thanking her, and from the corner of your eye, you watch her hike her bag up over her shoulder and she moves to sit directly in front of you. That’s when you truly get a good look at her, at the dejected blue of her eyes, the chisel of her jaw, the logo on her hoodie. Paige Bueckers is no stranger to you. You grew up watching ball, so obviously you’re familiar with her game – any self-respecting basketball fan is. But by virtue of your job, Paige Bueckers is a name that makes your marketing heart beat just a little faster. Ever since Dallas won the lottery, you’ve been all over their marketing team. Paige’s entire existence and the chance she gets drafted to Dallas is the sole reason the Wings’ tickets are flying off the shelves. She’s the most marketable college athlete there is right now, one of the top rookie prospects for the league, but one look at her face in person and you’re forgetting all about your job. Her jaw is tight with a simmering anger, and honestly, you feel terrible for her – she already spends so much time away from her family and here she is trying to get out of Bumfuck, Connecticut, so she can be home in time for Christmas.

You find a little bit of bravery when you raise your voice slightly to ask her, “No luck?”

She looks up, glancing at you and taking in your features, and laughing slightly when she realizes you’re genuinely just trying to make conversation and not trying to get a soundbite out of her. “You heard that?” she asks sheepishly, sinking a little in her seat to get comfortable. You pretend to not notice her manspread.

“Well,” you begin, glancing over at the receptionist. “The desk is like, ten feet away.” She laughs again and nods, murmuring touche under her breath. “932 Minneapolis?” you ask, referring to your flight.

Paige nods again, quirking a smile. “You stalking me or sum’?”

You shrug your shoulders, a coy smile on your face. “Just observant,” you quip.

Paige grins fully. “What about you?” she asks. “You work for the league?”

At that, you can’t help your surprise, raising a brow. “How’d you know that?”

“Just observant,” she throws your words back at you. You laugh. “Kidding. I see your ID pokin’ out of your bag. You from here, or they got you workin’ on the holidays?”

“Work,” you respond. Paige whistles lowly. “I’m a marketing consultant. Been up here for a few days working with the Sun, then I’m heading to Minnesota to fix the Lynx’s bullshit.” You blink, registering your words, blushing as Paige laughs. “You did not hear that. I’m usually nicer to my employers.”

“They got you workin’ and flyin’ out on Christmas Eve,” Paige points out. “You should be meaner.”

You incline your head in a nod, huffing. “All of this for office potlucks and dental coverage,” you joke. “Don’t quit basketball.” Paige grins again and you’re suddenly reminded of your manners. “Sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself.” You do as such, only mildly surprised when she stands to shake your hand and introduces herself, too, which is honestly kind of endearing. Then, she plops into the empty seat next to yours, smiling widely.

“So, marketing consultant,” she says, her tone nonchalant as she gets comfortable next to you, extending her long legs across her suitcase. “How often will I get to see you?”

You glance at her, raising a wry eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me?” you ask.

Paige shrugs a shoulder, smirking. “A little. Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit. You can see the pride that shines in her eyes. You roll your eyes in amusement, still in slight disbelief, but you redirect back to her question. “Honestly, probably a lot. The league is super messy from a business perspective and their actual marketing sphere isn’t that great, either. As soon as you get drafted I’ll probably have to fly down to whichever poverty team you land at and teach them how to market you.”

“Yeah?” she asks, and despite the tease in her tone, she does seem interested. “How would you market me?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Well…” Paige glances down to her watch, then out the windows where snow falls in heavy sheets. “Looks like a lot.”

You snicker. “Alright. Bear with me, okay?” Paige nods in earnest, her attention fully on you as you begin to ramble. Truthfully, you did like your job when you were able to do it. The issue is and always will be the idiots you have to work with who overlook your credentials. “So, I’m not thinking about your personal brand at all. Like, that one’s already incredible. Your PR team did their big one with you. But the issue with athletes like you, wide-eyed and fresh out of college with an insane resume of endorsements, followers, deals, whatever – the issue is that whatever team you get drafted to is gonna want to rebuild their entire image around you. Think Clark, Brink, Reese, Jackson, Cardoso. It’s textbook – you advertise the person who’s gonna get you the most clicks, the most sales. So, how can we use that to actually grow the game, the league? I’m talking about longevity. There’s so many people tuning in for you that don’t know shit about basketball, and honestly, they’re gonna be scared to ask questions.

“So we push something corny. Social media segments with a catchy name like Ball With Bueckers or some shit where you break down basketball plays, rules, the stuff you’re gonna see and hear when you watch a game. What’s a pick and roll? A screen? Why is she getting fouled for blocking that shot, isn’t that what she’s supposed to do? Education, interest, loyalty, and competition sells. Stories sell, too, which is why the league is still trying to push the Clark/Reese rivalry. That’s old news, though. A more compelling story would have been the Fever/Sun rivalry, especially after the Sun beat the Fever and the Fever hired their coach. Or Fever/Wings, for reasons I’m not gonna ruin your night with.” Paige laughs at that, and you smile, clearing your throat and trying to find your train of thought. “So, when I’m undoubtedly called in to fix your team’s mess, that’s what I’d be suggesting. People already love you. Using that connection to get them to love ball, too, is my goal.”

“You’re really passionate about this,” Paige comments, her lips quirking into a slight smile. You can’t help but preen a little, flushing. “Like, about basketball. You really care about the sport. Feels like that’s harder to find lately.”

“Well, I was too short to play it, so gotta settle for something, right?” you joke.

Paige looks you up and down. You’re wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt from college, but her gaze is shameless, appreciative despite your casual airport wear. She chuckles, a disbelieving noise building in the back of her throat. “Nah. You’re what, 6’5?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Try a foot less. But I appreciate you for believing in me.”

Paige smiles, nudging you a little. “I was serious, though. You’re super passionate. I like that.”

“Still flirting?”

“S’not everyday you get snowed in at the airport with a pretty girl,” Paige says, her gaze warm, and you can’t help but blush again. “Gotta shoot my shot, you know?” She mimes throwing a ball, her wrist bent, and you shake your head fondly. Admittedly, she did have you – hook, line, and sinker. You enjoyed the conversation, her company. There were certainly worse people to be stuck with, but you’re glad it was with her.

You shrug your shoulders. “Shoot away,” you say. Her subsequent grin is wide and you find yourself drawn in just a little further.

She asks you virtually everything under the sun – where you grew up, where you went to college, the team you were rooting for, and you answer. You tell her you’re an Atlanta native, born and raised, although you moved up north to study at Columbia. You were 8 when the Dream was founded and that was your team, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. At 10, you watched them win the eastern conference finals on your birthday and that was easily the moment your life changed. Basketball was your future and that much was certain. She asks how you landed the league job (connections, a thick resume, and lots of persuading), how you adjusted to the constant traveling (lots of caffeine and really good concealer), and the hard-hitting question of, are you satisfied?

For that, you really had no answer. Sure, you’re always busy, and that’s better than the alternative of sitting in your office and watching the seconds tick by. You’re good at what you do and your job makes a positive impact on the league. Your colleagues will be who they are; your work speaks for itself and that’s what you pride yourself on. But there’s always going to be a small part of you that yearns for something more, like someone else to share your life with. Someone who sits, and listens, and engages with you; someone who loves basketball just as much as you do (even if it’s a different type of love), someone who’s steady and spontaneous and adaptable.

Then Paige is smiling at you, her gaze warm and soft despite the below freezing temperatures outside; she’s listening, and engaging, steady, spontaneous, adaptable, and probably the only person in the world whose love for basketball could rival your own. You’ve known Paige for all of three hours and it’s nearing midnight in an airport in Connecticut, but it’s Christmas Eve and she feels so right. You would really like to see where this goes, and judging by the way her fingertips brush your knuckles, you think she might like to see that, too.

The two of you talk all through the night, waiting for the weather to ease up. The conversation never slows and you’re certain you’ve never smiled or laughed this much in a long time. It takes you twelve hours of delirious conversation to realize that your luck never depleted. Paige was your overwhelming karma, sent by some sort of Christmas miracle to answer all of the wishes you’d kept to yourself for years. The stars aligned not to fuck you over, but to trap you in an airport with Paige Bueckers, and you find that she’s possibly the best Christmas gift you could have ever gotten.

When the weather finally clears and your plane arrives, you find that your seats are right next to each other – and, well, fate works in funny ways, doesn’t it? You’re both exhausted, but when she pushes the armrest up and wraps her arm around your shoulders, pulling you into your side, you can’t help your relieved sigh, leaning into her chest. You and Paige sleep through the entire flight. You dream of soft blue eyes, the lingering scent of her cologne, the promise of how this could last.

You land in Minneapolis and you eventually have to go your separate ways. The two of you exchange numbers, saying your goodbyes, although Paige doesn’t let you get anymore than three feet away from her before she’s catching you by the wrist and pulling you into her. Her hands are cold against your cheeks as she kisses you gently, something deep and lingering and a confirmation that tastes like ‘you and I aren’t done here.’ The falling snow lands gently on your cheeks, melting under the heat of your blush, and you can’t help your smile, interrupting your kiss as the both of you dissolve into laughter. Paige kisses you again, something softer that leaves you feeling warm all over despite the chill, and you thank your Christmas miracle for leading you here.

[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

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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

[colorfulusagi]

AO3'S content scraped for AI ~ AKA what is generative AI, where did your fanfictions go, and how an AI model uses them to answer prompts

Generative artificial intelligence is a cutting-edge technology whose purpose is to (surprise surprise) generate. Answers to questions, usually. And content. Articles, reviews, poems, fanfictions, and more, quickly and with originality.

It's quite interesting to use generative artificial intelligence, but it can also become quite dangerous and very unethical to use it in certain ways, especially if you don't know how it works.

With this post, I'd really like to give you a quick understanding of how these models work and what it means to “train” them.

From now on, whenever I write model, think of ChatGPT, Gemini, Bloom... or your favorite model. That is, the place where you go to generate content.

For simplicity, in this post I will talk about written content. But the same process is used to generate any type of content.

Every time you send a prompt, which is a request sent in natural language (i.e., human language), the model does not understand it.

Whether you type it in the chat or say it out loud, it needs to be translated into something understandable for the model first.

The first process that takes place is therefore tokenization: breaking the prompt down into small tokens. These tokens are small units of text, and they don't necessarily correspond to a full word.

For example, a tokenization might look like this:

Write a story

Each different color corresponds to a token, and these tokens have absolutely no meaning for the model.

The model does not understand them. It does not understand WR, it does not understand ITE, and it certainly does not understand the meaning of the word WRITE.

In fact, these tokens are immediately associated with numerical values, and each of these colored tokens actually corresponds to a series of numbers.

Write a story 12-3446-2638494-4749

Once your prompt has been tokenized in its entirety, that tokenization is used as a conceptual map to navigate within a vector database.

NOW PAY ATTENTION: A vector database is like a cube. A cubic box.

Inside this cube, the various tokens exist as floating pieces, as if gravity did not exist. The distance between one token and another within this database is measured by arrows called, indeed, vectors.

The distance between one token and another -that is, the length of this arrow- determines how likely (or unlikely) it is that those two tokens will occur consecutively in a piece of natural language discourse.

For example, suppose your prompt is this:

It happens once in a blue

Within this well-constructed vector database, let's assume that the token corresponding to ONCE (let's pretend it is associated with the number 467) is located here:

The token corresponding to IN is located here:

...more or less, because it is very likely that these two tokens in a natural language such as human speech in English will occur consecutively.

So it is very likely that somewhere in the vector database cube —in this yellow corner— are tokens corresponding to IT, HAPPENS, ONCE, IN, A, BLUE... and right next to them, there will be MOON.

Elsewhere, in a much more distant part of the vector database, is the token for CAR. Because it is very unlikely that someone would say It happens once in a blue car.

To generate the response to your prompt, the model makes a probabilistic calculation, seeing how close the tokens are and which token would be most likely to come next in human language (in this specific case, English.)

When probability is involved, there is always an element of randomness, of course, which means that the answers will not always be the same.

The response is thus generated token by token, following this path of probability arrows, optimizing the distance within the vector database.

There is no intent, only a more or less probable path.

The more times you generate a response, the more paths you encounter. If you could do this an infinite number of times, at least once the model would respond: "It happens once in a blue car!"

So it all depends on what's inside the cube, how it was built, and how much distance was put between one token and another.

Modern artificial intelligence draws from vast databases, which are normally filled with all the knowledge that humans have poured into the internet.

Not only that: the larger the vector database, the lower the chance of error. If I used only a single book as a database, the idiom "It happens once in a blue moon" might not appear, and therefore not be recognized.

But if the cube contained all the books ever written by humanity, everything would change, because the idiom would appear many more times, and it would be very likely for those tokens to occur close together.

Huggingface has done this.

It took a relatively empty cube (let's say filled with common language, and likely many idioms, dictionaries, poetry...) and poured all of the AO3 fanfictions it could reach into it.

Now imagine someone asking a model based on Huggingface’s cube to write a story.

To simplify: if they ask for humor, we’ll end up in the area where funny jokes or humor tags are most likely. If they ask for romance, we’ll end up where the word kiss is most frequent.

And if we’re super lucky, the model might follow a path that brings it to some amazing line a particular author wrote, and it will echo it back word for word.

(Remember the infinite monkeys typing? One of them eventually writes all of Shakespeare, purely by chance!)

Once you know this, you’ll understand why AI can never truly generate content on the level of a human who chooses their words.

You’ll understand why it rarely uses specific words, why it stays vague, and why it leans on the most common metaphors and scenes. And you'll understand why the more content you generate, the more it seems to "learn."

It doesn't learn. It moves around tokens based on what you ask, how you ask it, and how it tokenizes your prompt.

Know that I despise generative AI when it's used for creativity. I despise that they stole something from a fandom, something that works just like a gift culture, to make money off of it.

But there is only one way we can fight back: by not using it to generate creative stuff.

You can resist by refusing the model's casual output, by using only and exclusively your intent, your personal choice of words, knowing that you and only you decided them.

No randomness involved.

Let me leave you with one last thought.

Imagine a person coming for advice, who has no idea that behind a language model there is just a huge cube of floating tokens predicting the next likely word.

Imagine someone fragile (emotionally, spiritually...) who begins to believe that the model is sentient. Who has a growing feeling that this model understands, comprehends, when in reality it approaches and reorganizes its way around tokens in a cube based on what it is told.

A fragile person begins to empathize, to feel connected to the model.

They ask important questions. They base their relationships, their life, everything, on conversations generated by a model that merely rearranges tokens based on probability.

And for people who don't know how it works, and because natural language usually does have feeling, the illusion that the model feels is very strong.

There’s an even greater danger: with enough random generations (and oh, the humanity whole generates much), the model takes an unlikely path once in a while. It ends up at the other end of the cube, it hallucinates.

Errors and inaccuracies caused by language models are called hallucinations precisely because they are presented as if they were facts, with the same conviction.

People who have become so emotionally attached to these conversations, seeing the language model as a guru, a deity, a psychologist, will do what the language model tells them to do or follow its advice.

Someone might follow a hallucinated piece of advice.

Obviously, models are developed with safeguards; fences the model can't jump over. They won't tell you certain things, they won't tell you to do terrible things.

Yet, there are people basing major life decisions on conversations generated purely by probability.

Generated by putting tokens together, on a probabilistic basis.

Think about it.

[hayatheauthor]

Have u done a post on anatomy of swordfight? Or like weapons in general. I have a lot of different weapons planned out: bow, different types of swords, daggers, shields, spears, etc. I can't find a single proper guide explaining how to write fight scenes for these that make sense.

The Anatomy of Writing a Sword Fight

Thank you for the ask! I really love your ideas/reqs and will be making at least 2 more blogs as a reply to this ask (that will cover bows etc). For now I've gone with swordfights.

This guide dives into the technical aspects of sword fighting—from the types of swords and injuries to the medical realities of treating these wounds.

My long-form posts are usually filled with long detailed paras but this time I wanted to focus more on the 'facts' and had a lot of things to cover so I stuck to concise pointers for each area. That being said, feel free to ask follow-up questions if needed!

Understanding the Blades

Firstly, here's a quick breakdown on the types of swords and their impact on injuries

Longswords Longswords are double-edged, straight blades often used with two hands. They cause deep slashes capable of severing muscles and tendons, and thrusts that can puncture organs or arteries. Heavy blows can also break bones.

Rapiers Rapiers are thin, pointed blades designed for thrusting. They cause precise punctures targeting vital organs or arteries. Less effective for slashing but deadly in skilled hands.

Katanas Katanas are curved, single-edged blades optimized for slicing. Their shape allows for those gory slashes that can amputate limbs or expose bones. Thrusts can also be fatal.

Sabers A saber is a curved blade with one sharp edge, typically used on horseback. These blades are designed for slashing, often causing wide, shallow wounds.

Short Swords and Daggers Smaller blades that are used for close combat can sometimes fall under the sword umbrella based on their shape and length. A Jambiya for example is categorised as a 'short sword'. These work for deep puncture wounds in tight quarters. Can sever arteries or puncture the heart or lungs.

In short, the design influences the wounds. Remember: 

Straight blades are versatile, causing both slashes and thrusts.

Curved blades focus on slicing, leaving gaping wounds.

Thin blades like rapiers target precision strikes to critical areas.

Types of Sword Injuries

As mentioned above I'm trying to cut to the chase with this blog so for each injury type, I've covered what I think are the key points. These are the appearance, severity, blood loss caused by this type of wound, and pain levels. I think these four basically cover everything a writer needs to know when picking their poison. 

Slash Wounds

Appearance: Long, open cuts with jagged or clean edges depending on the blade.

Severity: Superficial slashes may damage only the skin and fat layers, but deeper cuts sever muscles, tendons, and even arteries.

Blood Loss: Significant, especially if major arteries like the femoral (thigh) or brachial (arm) are cut.

Pain: Immediate burning or stinging, with sharp increases if nerves are involved.

Thrust Wounds

Appearance: Small entry wounds but potentially deep and catastrophic internal damage.

Severity: Can puncture vital organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, or intestines.

Blood Loss: Often internal, leading to hidden dangers like haemorrhaging or collapsed lungs.

Pain: Stabbing pains that radiate outward, especially if organs are pierced.

Blunt Force Injuries

Appearance: Bruising, swelling, or fractures from strikes with the flat side or hilt.

Severity: Can lead to broken bones, ruptured vessels, or concussions.

Blood Loss: Minimal unless skin is broken.

Pain: Deep aches or sharp, localized pain from fractures.

Assessing the Severity of Wounds

When assessing the severity of a wound, there are a few important things to keep in mind. To make it easier, I've put together a quick checklist to help you out.

Location: Wounds to the head, neck, or chest are often life-threatening. Injuries to limbs are less fatal but can lead to significant blood loss.

Depth: Shallow cuts are often cosmetic but painful. Deep wounds risk severing arteries, damaging organs, or causing fractures.

Angle: Oblique cuts may glance off bones or armor. Direct thrusts to unprotected areas are far more dangerous.

What Happens When Each Area is Wounded

It's kind of a given that each area of the body is different and would thus cause different reactions when pierced. While many writers stick to the 'blood dripping from the mouth, hand desperately clutching the wound' look, I think it's a good idea to consider the medicinal side of your injuries.

Are there arteries in this area? Vital organs? Muscle and tissue? Here's a quick breakdown of those questions (no I haven’t mentioned every area or organ of the body):  

Limbs

Forearms and Upper Arms: Severing the brachial artery results in rapid blood loss. Cuts to tendons disable grip strength or arm movement.

Thighs: The femoral artery is a critical target. Damage here leads to exsanguination within minutes if untreated.

Calves and Feet: While less life-threatening, injuries here severely limit mobility and can cause nerve damage leading to paralysis.

Abdomen

Liver: Heavy bleeding due to its vascularity. Potentially fatal without intervention.

Stomach: Leakage of acidic contents causes severe internal infections.

Intestines: Punctures lead to sepsis from spilled waste material.

Kidneys: Severe back pain and rapid blood loss from renal artery damage.

Chest

Lungs: Punctures cause pneumothorax (collapsed lung), leading to difficulty breathing and chest pain.

Heart: Even small cuts are often fatal due to rapid blood loss and cardiac tamponade (fluid pressure around the heart).

Ribs: Fractures can puncture lungs or other organs.

Neck

Jugular Vein or Carotid Artery: Severing either leads to death in under two minutes from blood loss.

Trachea: Obstruction causes immediate respiratory distress.

Spinal Cord: Severance leads to paralysis or death.

Back

Spinal Cord: Injuries vary from numbness to total paralysis depending on the location.

Kidneys: Vulnerable to back stabs; severe bleeding and pain radiating to the abdomen.

Face/Head

Cheeks: Slashes leave disfiguring scars but are rarely fatal.

Eyes: Punctures result in blindness and intense pain.

Skull: Blunt force may cause concussions or fractures; penetrating wounds can be fatal if they reach the brain.

Treating Sword Fight Injuries

In the chaos of a sword fight, providing immediate care can mean the difference between life and death. The first priority is to stop the bleeding. For deep cuts or arterial wounds, use a clean cloth or pressure bandage to compress the injury. If the bleeding doesn’t subside, especially in limb injuries, apply a tourniquet above the wound, ensuring it’s tight enough to restrict blood flow without causing further damage. 

Once bleeding is controlled, stabilize the victim. Immobilize fractures with makeshift splints, and in cases of suspected spinal injuries, avoid moving the victim unnecessarily to prevent exacerbating the damage. Finally, cleaning the wound is critical to minimize infection risks. Remove debris carefully and irrigate the wound with clean water if possible. Though battlefield medicine is rudimentary, these steps provide a fighting chance for survival.

Also, one thing people forget to go over is temperature. Keeping the victim warm is essential, as blood loss can lead to hypovolemic shock, which compromises the body’s ability to circulate oxygen. 

Historical vs. Modern Treatment

The approach to sword fight injuries varies dramatically between historical and modern contexts. While I can’t completely break down the differences, here’s (what I hope) is a quick overview that will aid in your research. 

Historically, treating wounds was rudimentary at best. Herbal poultices were applied to reduce inflammation, and cauterization—burning the wound to seal it—was a common but agonizing method to prevent bleeding and infection. Stitching techniques were crude, and the lack of sterilization meant infections like sepsis or gangrene were often fatal. 

Fret not, modern medicine offers a more hopeful prognosis. Sterile wound care, antibiotics, and surgical interventions allow for precise repairs to severed arteries, muscles, or organs. Advanced imaging technology can assess internal injuries, while blood transfusions and IV fluids combat shock effectively. 

This just underscores how important it is for writers to consider what timeline their story is set in. Sorry but your medieval prince won’t just have a full recovery after suffering a brutal gash, especially not if his only source of medicine was love interest’s xyz solution. Infections are a very real issue. In fact, most deaths during that time were due to infection. Do your research.

The Psychological Aftermath

The aftermath of surviving a sword fight extends far beyond physical wounds, leaving lasting emotional and psychological scars. Many survivors experience trauma or PTSD, manifesting as flashbacks to the battle, vivid nightmares, or an overwhelming sense of anxiety, especially in situations that trigger memories of the fight. I would absolutely love to see people incorporate this in their writing! If your modern OCs can get flashbacks and nightmares after a single gun altercation what makes you think the medieval ones won’t experience something similar? 

Survivor’s guilt is another common burden, particularly if the character witnessed comrades die or was forced to make life-and-death decisions during combat. These emotional struggles can deeply shape their personality, making them more cautious, resentful, or even vengeful. Villain arc here we come! 

One thing to remember; physical limitations compound the psychological toll. Permanent injuries like chronic pain, reduced mobility, or disfigurement can remind a character daily of their ordeal, influencing how they interact with others and navigate the world.

As a writer it’s important to take recovery into account. Exploring these aspects adds depth to the character’s recovery arc, making their journey more relatable and human. 

Remember folks; a sword fight isn’t just a moment of action—it’s a fight as brutal and dangerous as any knife or gun altercation you can think of (if not worse). 

Crafting the Fight Scene

To end this blog, here are my (and various Google articles’) two cents on what you should be focusing on/keeping in mind during a swordfight. 

Writing a compelling sword fight requires balancing technical accuracy with emotional resonance. Pacing is key: alternate between rapid exchanges of blows and brief pauses to allow tension to build. These pauses provide an opportunity to describe a character’s thoughts, pain, or strategic planning. 

Sensory details bring the scene to life—capture the sharp clash of steel, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the searing pain of a wound, and the slickness of a sweat-soaked grip on a sword hilt.

Focus on the characters themselves to make the scene more engaging. Highlight their emotions, such as fear, determination, or desperation, alongside the physical toll of the fight. Show how fatigue sets in, how their breathing becomes labored, and how every swing of the blade drains their strength. 

Injuries should be portrayed realistically; instead of dismissing wounds as minor setbacks, use them to heighten tension. A cut to the leg might slow a character’s movements, while a stab to the shoulder could make wielding their weapon excruciating. 

Balancing these elements ensures your fight scenes are not only thrilling but also grounded in a visceral reality.

Resources for Writers

Books:

"The Book of the Sword" by Richard Francis Burton

"Medieval Swordsmanship" by John Clements

Videos:

YouTube channels like "Skallagrim" and "Scholagladiatoria" for sword reviews and techniques.They’re very helpful for all sorts of weapons actually so OP I think you should consider stalking their channels you’d find a TON of info (I get most of mine from them lol). 

Articles:

I don’t have any precise ones but to boost your research consider medical journals on trauma and wound care. Oh and historical accounts of duels and battles.

[occamstfs]

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all. 

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace. 

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake. 

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself. 

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning. 

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault.  Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right? 

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

 Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it. 

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him. 

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates. 

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord. 

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate. 

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model. 

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow. 

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

[emilys-bangs]

I have a request but I’d understand if you’re getting too many and you don’t want to do this one. I wanted to request a super soft fic like you wake up Emily in the middle of the night because you can’t sleep and you keep asking silly questions like “would you still love me if I was a worm?” And she is super sleepy but tries to comfort you into falling asleep again and answering you as you want

midnight whispers | e.p

Tags: established relationship, reader being kinda annoying, fluff, endlessly sweet fluff u guys, no use of yn, use of petnames

Word count: 1.2k

This is the cutest thing ever I giggled

It’s 3:47.

You know because it’s been less than two minutes since you’d last looked at the clock before closing your eyes, fruitlessly hoping for the sweet relief of sleep. 

Shockingly, it doesn’t come.

Which doesn’t make sense, really, because you can feel the exhaustion in your bones and pressing down on your eyes. You’d been tossing and turning ever since you’d climbed into bed with Emily, your girlfriend falling fast asleep after she gave you a chaste kiss goodnight. You can hear her deep breathing right next to you and you’re slightly envious.

The room is dark, only a sliver of moonlight creeping in through the curtain providing sparse illumination. It’s reasonably cold, a light chill that has you covered beneath the blanket, and the air is still with the silence of midnight hours—all optimal conditions for you to comfortably fall asleep in, but it still evades you. Emily’s sleeping body provides warmth, too; her head is halfway onto your pillow, her slow breaths fanning across your neck.

Your eyes slide to her and you bite your lip. Should you wake her? You’re tired of wallowing in this misery for over—3:48 now—5 hours on your own, even if your sluggish brain struggles to justify how she could help. 

Her chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths, her lashes dark and resting gently on her cheeks. She needs the sleep, you know she does, and some part of your heart resists waking her for your own selfish reasons.

But company is nice, even sleepy company, so you push aside the guilt and shake her gently.

“Emily,” you whisper.

Her brows furrow.

It takes a few more shakes and whispers of her name before her eyes crack open. Deep brown irises stare into yours, tired and hazy with sleep. 

“What?” She mumbles. Her hand clumsily reaches for yours; it’s cold. “You ’kay?”

Is it wrong that the rough warmth of her voice already makes your muscles relax? You bring her hand up to your lips, pressing an apology to the ridges of her knuckles.

“I’m okay.” You say, kind of feeling like the worst person in the world right now. “Just can’t sleep.”

Emily frowns deeper. “Nightmare?” She whispers, her eyes growing more alert.

“No, no,” you’re quick to reassure. The concern above her brow loosens, and her lashes flutter closed again. “Couldn’t sleep to begin with.” With her hand in yours, your lips find her temple.

“Drank too much coffee?” The rasp of her voice is muffled into your neck as you trail a few kisses to her cheekbone. You’re probably being insufferable, but she doesn’t pull away—though you begin to think that’s from the sluggishness of sleep more than anything.

“Just as much as you.”

Two cups, hers with an insulting amount of Splenda and yours with decidedly less.

Emily doesn’t reply. You lean back against your pillow and find her eyes closed again. The large t-shirt she’s wearing slips down her shoulder, exposes her pale skin that looks moonlit, smooth as ivory.

Your heart thumps softly against your ribs as you smile. “Hey Emily?”

She hums sleepily.

“Do you love me?”

The corner of her mouth curls upward. “You’re sleepin’ in my bed, amor.” The combination of her sleepy voice and the Spanish makes you melt into the mattress, a stupid heat in your cheeks.

You tuck your joint hands beneath your jaw. “But that could mean nothing.”

“Means everythin’.” She whispers. Her eyes are still closed, her mouth barely moving. You should leave her alone now, but you just want to talk to her when she’s like this; sleepy and lovely, her body warm in some places and cold in others, the hushed timbre of her voice calming your restless mind.

“So you do love me?”

“Mmhmm.” Emily hums. Bless her patience. Her fingers flex between yours and you lift them from their hiding place under your jaw, bringing her hand to your lips instead. Emily exhales through her nose, the sound lazy and content as she digs her face further into your pillow.

She’s drifting again, and you’re still wide awake. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You blurt, squeezing her fingers.

Emily’s eyes crack open. “You’d be a cute worm,” she slurs, the small indent of a dimple digging into her cheek. You grin and she shuffles closer, her shoulder touching yours, your heads softly knocking together, “You’d be a cute anythin’.”

Again, she avoids the question. “But would you love me?” You persist. Leaning further into her, you nuzzle your nose against hers, a stupid smile forming on your lips when she scrunches her face adorably, her eyes fluttering open again.

“I’d be head over heels for you.” Emily states, now leaning into you to nuzzle her nose into yours. “Our romance would be no less epic,” her words drift into a mumble as exhaustion takes her again, forcing her eyes shut.

Even half asleep, she’s a charmer. You stare a moment at her relaxed face, letting the warmth of it rush through your whole body. Her slow breaths fall against your upper lip, warm and rhythmic. 

“Do you think we’re in love in every universe?” You whisper. What is it with all these questions about love? “If I was a barista maybe, and you’d be enchanted by the color of my eyes as I gave you your coffee?” You muse, playing with her limp fingers. “Or if we’re both butterflies taking naps in the same flower—”

“Baby, please go to sleep,” Emily mumbles, her words slurring together adorably. She never calls you baby; your grin stretches wide. She untangles her fingers from yours and wraps her arm messily around your neck, bringing you into her chest. “I’ll hold ya, jus’ please sleep.” The words are lost in your hair.

You smile into her warm neck. “Oh, well, if you’ll hold me.” You tease softly, but there really is something so magical about feeling Emily’s chest rise and fall beneath yours. Hearing her steady pulse, her slow breaths, feeling her cold hand sleepily tangle in your hair. It’s easy, closing your eyes, and as she starts to drift, you feel yourself drift with her.

“Can I have a kiss?” You ask softly.

Emily nuzzles her lips into your forehead.

She’s so much softer like this, when she’s half awake. Emily is never harsh with you, but like this she’s completely unfiltered, stripped bare of her walls and her inhibitions, and you’re drunk on it, on her, on the fact that you get to see her like this.

Your eyes finally begin to grow heavy. Lashes fluttering shut, you breathe in Emily’s scent—the expensive lotion she’d rubbed into her skin before bed.

“Emily?” You whisper.

Silence rings in your ears. You try again.

“’Mily?” 

A breath comes out of her, exhale or sigh you don’t know. “Yeah, hon.” She mumbles.

You bury your face deeper into her neck, until you feel her slow pulse. “I’m so in love with you.” You admit to the softness of her skin. Think it might kill me one day.

“Mmm, ditto.”

It’s disgustingly cliche, but in her arms, her lips still against your forehead, it takes no time at all for sleep to finally steal you away. 4:00 comes and you’re both fast asleep, your body curled around Emily’s, her hand still in your hair.

Taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism

[azure-rigel]

part 2 of demonic cultivation teachers Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan (warnings are in the tags: they're nothing big, but i just wanted them to be there as an option) (This doesn't include lbh yet, though my boy will be part of the shen's minor sect. I think I'm gonna progress the story linearly and we'll get to him in due time, once everything else is fleshed out ) After some thinking, I've realized that sj and sy wouldn't really have the resources to take care of a newborn, so they leave Ning Yingying in the care of the brothel jiejies and visit every month to give them money. Shen Jiu plans to let the child grow up there, but in a rare act of defiance A-Yuan demands that he buy a house and that they raise her together. Jiu refuses to consider it at all, stating that Shen Yuan's plans lack foresight and logic. At least, until the rumors of some cursed ruins reach his ears.

The interesting thing about cursed ruins, is that if treated with the right combination of rituals they become optimal places to cultivate demonic energy. Naturally, it's land like this that demonic sects build on. Shen Jiu decides to scout the location and its potential for such use.

The twins travel to the village, but as they get closer and closer Shen Jiu's chest starts to tighten, sights and places stirring long-buried memories- it's at the last stretch of the journey, talking to an old woman who sets the story straight for them, that he fully realises they are headed to the burnt husk that is the qiu estate. Shen Yuan shares a few of his memories because of that unfortunate sharing of life-force. He stares at Shen Jiu and quickly turns them around. "We're leaving, right now!" he declares.

Leaving .. can he, really? Shen Jiu remembers being afraid of this place as a slave- he remembers longing without end to leave it. Resenting it.

Weren't the Qius a cultivator family? Hadn't he- almost- ended their clan? If so, what was the next logical step of his revenge ?

Desecrating their property. "No, Yuan," he says finally. He turns to the old lady. "We are cultivators and wish to take a look at those grounds. Is there anyone we may ask?"

"There isn't," she croaks. "The ruins have been all but lost to the forest around it. No one will stop you. I for one, do not think those lands can be cleansed, but I won't stop you from trying."

Shen Yuan waits until they have walked a good distance away. He follows behind Shen Jiu and tugs at his sleeve. "What do you want? What do you intend to do?" "Wait and see," he responds curtly.

The estate is both less and more than he imagined it would be. He remembers the massacre- killing all the men after the women and children had been ordered away by Qiu Jianluo. Not a single witness had been left but Haitang, and he would be happy to demonstrate his experience in murder to her if she was still around. He approaches the supporting pillar of what used to be Jianluo's bedroom. A burst of qi dislodges it from it precarious postion and it falls into the debri around it. His resentment rises- manifests in his qi and mixes with the resentment of those who died there. It is a powerful loop, two streams of water flowing into each other eroding the sand around it. He breathes and slips into meditation. Focuses on the resentment. Slightly, but surely, he feels it strengthening his qi.

Shen Jiu opens his eyes and cuts off the flow. Turns back to A-Yuan. "Well?" he asks. "Isn't it suitable for cultivation?" Shen Yuan stares at him, mouth agape. "Yes, but- don't tell me you're seriuously considering it? This is a great cursed ground, true, but it's also- also!!"

Shen Jiu recognizes that words to express human suffering elude the elegant plant spirit. It marks the difference in experience between them- that no matter how much he is taught and learns, he will never understand shen jiu for what he truly is. A monster. "It's also the place I grew up imprisoned in, you mean? That's what makes it an optimal cultivation area. My resentment is mine to control." Shen Yuan still looks unconvinced. The next thing he says makes Shen Yuan drop his fan on the ground and stare at him with disbelieving shining eyes. He is so easily distracted, Shen Jiu thinks distantly. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[hearts-are-connected]

Dang it, I love this ship and I love the enemies to lovers trope. I get that a lot of people see them as a surrogate father and daughter relationship, but it feels like a been there/done that kinda thing.

As much as I love that trope, I'm also a little tired of it. There's only so much Last of Us style found family I take after seeing it for so many years.

The thing I love about VaultGhoul or Ghoulcy is the idea of Lucy breaking down of Cooper's walls while he helps build hers up.

Is he incredibly cruel to her and those around him in the first season? Yes, extremely

Does he need to chill out and find some of his humanity that's been buried under 200+ years of wasteland survival and bitterness? Yes

Who can bring that needed direction to his life while learning the ways of the new world she finds herself in? Lucy MacLean

I know that the canon ship of the show at this moment is Lucy and Maximus, and as much as I love him, I find the pairing obvious and kind of boring from a story telling perspective. I loved it on my first viewing, but upon re-watching the series, I wasn't as behind it as before. I see their relationship, kiss and all, as a kind of first fling for the both of them.

While it doesn't diminish the care they show one another, there's not a lot behind them as a couple. Now I know that some people might turn around to say how she and Cooper spent less time together than her and Max, but I guess the thing I look forward to is seeing what their relationship brings with the second season.

I feel like Max and Lucy will have a great friendship and I'm interested to see where the Brotherhood fits into their dynamic as well.

With Cooper though, I find his story so tragic, as it's supposed to be. He's your standard hardened survivor who only looks out for himself that's now stuck with the happy-go-lucky main character, however, she's not that character anymore by the end. She's still going to be the Lucy we love, but she's changed by the end. While not losing her compassion and some optimism, I think Cooper is going to bring out a harsher side to her as we saw when she bit off his finger.

I want to see her building up her walls and learning when to let them down. How to truly survive while still bringing her own energy to the wasteland and people around her. I want to see Cooper regaining some lost humanity while learning to truly care for another person again. To see the two of them as eventual equals in one another's eyes as they continue on their journey as reluctant allies.

I also want to say that I'm personally kind of tired of the 'age gap' argument. We have stories of teenagers falling in love with hundred year old vampires. So can we just drop the age gap thing?

As long as they're both consenting adults who understand what they're getting themselves into, who cares about an age gap.

Does it truly matter in the scheme of things when we're talking about a world with cryo-stasis and super mutants?

I personally don't think so.

I don't know if anyone will even bother reading this entire thing, and I know I went on a little long, but I wanted to write down my thoughts on the whole shipping situation with the Fallout TV show fandom at this moment.

I'm a VaultGhoul shipper and I can't wait to see where the second season takes our main trio of characters.

[amphitriteswife]

Reconnection

Warnings: mentions of child marriage, child abuse, mentions of possible cheating, just angst

Being Jonggun’s fiancé has it’s own set of pro’s and con’s. It’s not like it wasn’t real, far from it actually. Meeting him was…tense. He wasn’t talkative and honestly, you preferred to spent more time with Haruto. He was kinder and way more understanding than Jonggun was. Unknown to you, your refusal only made it worse for Jonggun. Apart from focusing on getting a name and working for his father’s approval, he now also had to court you. Haruto had asked you to take care of his cousin, even if they were rivals, the two seemed to at least have one another in that doomed family. Back at home, you too faced some consequences for denying the young master of the Yamazaki syndicate. After that, it seemed that both you and Jonggun grew closer. Even if it wasn’t the optimal thing, it worked.

When you came to Jonggun’s house, you didn’t face the wrath of your own clan. You could watch him train. You could sneakily whisper some reassuring words. You held him together, even after Haruto passed away. The Yamazaki’s could at least get off Jonggun’s back for one thing: trying to get you with him. In return when Jonggun visited your home, he didn’t have to train. He could play with you. Spent time with you. Get to know you. Talk to you. Be away from everything he knew into something new. He could breathe. You didn’t get hit anymore. No hurtful words. No intimidation. No more pain. After all, what would the young master think if he heard or saw? It was good for the both of you. Having similar and sometimes different experiences…it made you two closer. You could relate to him. And he had your understanding. You listened. You cared. Not because he was a yamazaki, not because he was the young master, not because he was Shingen’s son. Just because he was him. He was Jonggun. He didn’t need to be perfect. He didn’t need to be violent. He didn’t need to be different. He could just…Be him. And he liked that. He could be away from what everyone wanted him to be. And for some reason, things seemed be…less horrible for the both of you. You had your first kiss with him. And ultimately, even if it were little things, you two were developing a relationship. A real one. It was slow, yes, but it made it more genuine. There was understanding and that’s all that mattered around that time.

Then it all came crashing down. Shingen not being the head of the clan, but his brother and also the vice president, Shintaro. Somi park joining forces with Shintato to kill him. A lot happend in a short amount of time. And just like that, you didn’t see Jonggun for a long time. You weren’t even sure if he was alive. Shintaro didn’t care much for your engagement to Jonggun, after all he wasn’t the young master anymore. There were many questions, yet no answers. It’s what one terrifies the most, unknowingness. Your father wanted you to marry someone else again, after all your engagement with Jonggun was now unsure. But you didn’t comply. No confirmation was ever present and that gave you enough reason to still see it as valid. Shouldn’t it be now, in a time of crisis, that your status keeps him afloat? That it means something? You didn’t know…until one faithful day you got a letter. Messy Japanese handwriting that you recognized as Jonggun’s. He didn’t say much. Actually, they were simple words. ‘I’m okay.’ Yes. They weren’t romantic. But in all honesty: knowing he was okay meant the world. He was okay, and that’s all that mattered. He’ll be okay and so will you.

After that, you decided to get away from home. It wasn’t special. Just studying abroad, picking up your life again. For the first time it was…normal, you had friends. Genuine friends. A study you liked. You had free time, worked a job while going to school. It was finally a normal life. Just as faith has it, coincidentally you and your friends decided to go to Korea for a a trip just before getting the final exam results. It was a fun concept, seeing one of the countries you had wanted to visit on your bucket list. During one of your days out shopping, you accidentally bumped into another girl. Both of you apologized to one another and she seemed to not take it very seriously. Despite that, you could feel a rather string grip on your shoulder. It was definitely the one of a man’s…you didn’t speak Korean…and now you’re in trouble. What would you do? What should you do? Did you do something? But you only bumped into her? Is she hurt? Was it her boyfriend? You could feel your heart race, and the man turned you around. And then you saw a familiar pair of eyes. Black sclera with white pupils. A Yamazaki. The man himself seemed stunned too to see your face, It had taken you a few moments to realize who it was. Jonggun. A rather long silence ensued but despite that it didn’t mean that it was meaningless. The silence was emotional. How was he? How did he get in Korea? Who is this girl? Is it his new girlfriend? Did he move on? Is he over you?… you two were engaged yes, but was only for status at the end of the day.And was it even still ongoing after what happend with the Yamazaki clan? Do you have the right to be angry? Or should you move on? Should you even show him how you feel? What is he feeling?

Jonggun released his grip on your shoulder, his eyes seemed to turn back to normal in n contrast to the initial shock he felt earlier. ‘Do you have your phone?’ He asked you, unfortunately you couldn’t respond to him. You didn’t speak nor understand Korean which Jonggun realized pretty fast. This caused him to ask you the same thing in Japanese which you obliged. He dialed in a number and handed your phone back. He didn’t say much to you after, and walked behind the girl you bumped into earlier…

[astrofaeology]

Combust

paid readings | masterlist

ᡣ𐭩 Please support me by reposting, liking, following me and commenting your placement. The sun is the hottest planet in our solar system and when it's conjunct any planet that planet is now being burned.

Moon the native may experience emotional fluctuations and a struggle with their subconscious mind. There can be a sense of emotional suppression or a tendency to over-identify with their immediate family or cultural roots, making it difficult to differentiate their own feelings from those of others. This placement can also indicate challenges in nurturing roles or in forming deep emotional connections, as the individual's inner world may feel obscured or less accessible.

Mercury intellect can be overshadowed by their ego, leading to a tendency to be overly talkative without truly conveying their message, or to struggle with articulating their ideas effectively. There might be a difficulty in learning or retaining information, or a tendency to misinterpret facts. While some traditions suggest Mercury close to the Sun can be beneficial, severe combustion can result in a lack of mental clarity or a tendency to dominate conversations.

Venus There can be a struggle with self-worth in romantic partnerships, leading to feelings of being unappreciated or overlooked. An individual with a combust Venus might also overcompensate by seeking external validation through material possessions or superficial displays, rather than finding genuine inner contentment. Financial stability can also be a challenge, or there may be a tendency towards excessive spending for ego gratification.

Mars often manifests as an individual whose drive and assertive qualities are either overblown or stifled. They may struggle with healthy expression of anger, leading to sudden outbursts or, conversely, a complete suppression of their fighting spirit. There's a tendency to be impulsive or reckless, acting without sufficient consideration, and an inability to sustain consistent effort towards goals. This placement can also indicate conflicts with authority figures or a tendency to burn bridges due to an overly aggressive or competitive nature.

Jupiter can indicate a weakening of an individual's sense of optimism, wisdom, and good fortune. They may struggle with faith, a clear understanding of moral principles, or the ability to find true purpose in life. There can be a tendency towards self-righteousness or a misplaced sense of superiority, often masked by a lack of genuine humility. This placement can also impact relationships, particularly with mentors or teachers, and may lead to financial difficulties or a struggle to attract abundance.

Saturn often presents as struggles with responsibility, discipline, and authority figures. The individual may find it difficult to commit to long-term goals, experience setbacks in career, or encounter obstacles in achieving stability. There can be a sense of being burdened or a constant feeling of limitation, making it hard to find structure and order in their lives. While some ancient texts suggest Saturn is less affected due to its mythological relationship with the Sun, a deeply combust Saturn can manifest as feelings of inadequacy or a constant uphill battle against external circumstances.

Neptune can indicate a merging of the individual's self-identity with their ideals, dreams, and spiritual aspirations, yet potentially leading to confusion or a lack of clarity regarding their true purpose. There might be a tendency towards self-deception, escapism, or a difficulty in distinguishing reality from illusion, as the ego's boundaries become blurred by Neptune's dissolving influence. This placement can make it challenging to articulate their spiritual path or compassionate nature clearly, leading to a sense of being misunderstood or a susceptibility to external influences that cloud their personal vision.

Uranus the individual's drive for independence and innovation may be deeply integrated with their ego and sense of self, yet potentially expressed in unpredictable or even suppressed ways. There can be a struggle to genuinely embrace their unique insights or to assert their individual freedom without causing disruptive chaos or experiencing internal resistance. The Uranian urge for sudden change or rebellion might be difficult to harness constructively, leading to erratic behavior or a feeling of being unconventional in ways that are not fully understood or accepted by themselves or others.

Pluto the individual's core identity and ego may be intensely intertwined with themes of power, transformation, and regeneration. This can manifest as a powerful, almost obsessive drive for control or a profound need to experience deep psychological change. However, analogous to combustion, this intense energy might be difficult to wield consciously, potentially leading to internal struggles with personal power, manipulative tendencies, or a feeling of being overwhelmed by unseen forces. The journey of self-discovery may involve intense psychological confrontations and a complete overhaul of one's sense of self, often in solitary and profound ways.

DISCLAIMER: None of my posts are intended to cause strife and if it doesn't resonate leave it. This post is a generalisation and may not resonate. I recommend you get a reading from an astrologer (me). If you want a reading from me check out my sales page.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Fiction Free-for-All Book Bracket Tournament: Round 1C

Book summaries below:

Wayward Children series (Every Heart a Doorway, Down Among the Sticks and Bones, Beneath the Sugar Sky, In an Absent Dream, Come Tumbling Down, Across the Green Grass Fields, Where the Drowned Girls Go, Lost in the Moment and Found, Mislaid in Parts Half-Known, Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear, and other stories) by Seanan McGuire

Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children No Solicitations No Visitors No Guests

Children have always disappeared under the right conditions; slipping through the shadows under a bed or at the back of a wardrobe, tumbling down rabbit holes and into old wells, and emerging somewhere... else.

But magical lands have little need for used-up miracle children.

Nancy tumbled once, but now she’s back. The things she’s experienced... they change a person. The children under Miss West’s care understand all too well. And each of them is seeking a way back to their own fantasy world.

But Nancy’s arrival marks a change at the Home. There’s a darkness just around each corner, and when tragedy strikes, it’s up to Nancy and her new-found schoolmates to get to the heart of the matter.

No matter the cost.

Fantasy, portal fantasy, mystery, magical realism, boarding school, novella, series, adult

Unconventional Hearts by Emmy Sanders

One summer. Three men. The proposal that ropes them together. Cooper I came to Texas with a single goal: to find my bio-dad before the end of summer. Instead, I found Will, a spitfire of a man with sharp blue eyes and a swoon-worthy drawl. When he proposes adding benefits to our newfound friendship, I’m all in. The problem? I’m smitten. With not one, but two men. Because Will has a friend that makes me smile like no other. My time in Plum Valley is coming to an end, but if I’m not careful, I’ll be leaving my heart behind when I go. Will Spending summer break back home with my best friend was not supposed to be complicated. But then Tru and I kissed, and for the first time, I don’t know where we stand. Now Cooper, the new ranch hand, is mixed up in matters, and I’m even less sure of what it all means. The three of us fit together effortlessly, but I worry it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. I don’t know how to get out of this tangled mess, and truth be told, I’m not sure I want to. Tru To me, it’s simple. Will and I are exploring what it means to go from friends to more. But as an asexual man, there are certain activities I’m uninterested in. Will likes Cooper, and Cooper is all about Will. And me? I have no problem sharing. But as summer ticks down, I learn a few lessons. One, I feel more at home in Plum Valley than anywhere else. Two, I’ve been harboring major feelings for Will. And three, Cooper’s infectious optimism isn’t something I’m ready to part with. Time’s almost up. Yet I’m nowhere near ready to say goodbye. Unconventional Hearts is a lighthearted poly romance between a Southern charmer with a hero complex, a blunt-as-can-be sweetheart who doesn’t need saving, and a lovable golden retriever of a man who has a song for every occasion. There is no cheating and one very HEA. It’s book 3 in the Plum Valley Cowboys series but can be read as a standalone.

Romance, contemporary, new adult

[pjo-tvs-version]

I know that no one asked but I just wanted to add my two cents to the current pjo era we are having right now...

First off, I love Rick and the books he has written but honestly tsast and wottg aren't some of his best works. That's not the problem because yeah not all books can be amazing but the problem is that they are his most recent ones. Cotg was better than these 2 but it too had it's drawbacks. Now I have this thing where if I like something then however bad it it, I try to make myself enjoy it. It's like a coping mechanism- delusion. But with wottg, I actually sat back and thought. Since when did I take a week to finish a pjo book? I am the person who finished Hoo in like less than a week and I took a week to finish wottg which took me aback. The characters were very oc. Grover was perhaps the only character close to his actual well character. I don't usually nitpick but like I had said in a post earlier, continuity and callbacks in a book series are what make them extremely enjoyable and small textual errors are like pricking needles to me.

My main issue was Annabeth and then Percy. Look in know in this fandom there are many Annabeth antis and that's fine, I accept that. But now the worst part is that what they have said about Annabeth is to some extent true in this current Annabeth version we have. Look Leah is great and I love her with all my heart but Rick please don't mingle both of them together. Let show cannon be separate and book cannon to itself. Let Annabeth in wottg be her book character like please. She has friends? Great! The main thing we know about her friends are that they think Percy isn't GOOD ENOUGH for her? Awful! She is the mom friend? Okay(though I personally believe it should be Grover but fine if people are okay with it this is just a personal opinion guys)! BUT that should not make Percy 'alley boy.'

This brings me to the second part. We love Percy and love his humor. Well I recently reread the Battle of the Labyrinth (don't ask why I don't know I just had the sudden urge to read it). He isn't very confident and does underestimate himself often but it wasn't taken this FAR. Every single next line was describing how Percy sucks at everything while Annabeth is here in all her perfect glory and believe it or not this is coming from me, who loves Annabeth. I love Percabeth because it's a balance. They balance off each other soo well. They both comfort each other. They both know that they are smart. They both know that the other person has flaws. But in wottg it's just downright annoying because the dynamic is just "ooh look my gf is soo amazing, totally flawless with no error and here is me who sucks at any and every thing possible." This isn't the Percy we know nor Annabeth nor Percabeth.

LET ANNABETH BE IMPERFECT! AND PLEASE GIVE PERCY THERAPY because he needs it. For the next book Rick please just hire a better editor because I am not going into the MISTAKES in these books. You can hire me if you want because I swear I can do a better job than your editor. Seriously literally any pjo fan would do a better job. Wottg felt like maybe the second draft of the work which required maybe 3 more drafts to be published. It felt like an unchecked fanfiction and believe me that I have seen better fanfictions on AO3. The pjo fandom is an extremely loyal fanbase which is an extremely cool thing. But the problem here is that people like me even though I didn't really enjoy wottg, I would still hope for a better sequel because gaaahhhh optimism. I am actually wary of the sequel to tsast but that's for another post.

Whew! Talking so negatively about something was a new experience for me because I absolutely love pjo and will always keep it close to my heart. Rick please for the sake of advertisement please don't publish uncooked gibberish because it actually breaks my heart too see the hate and for once I understand it. Anyway, wottg wasn't all that bad. To balance out this post, I'll make one on the portions I liked because there were a few moments that were worth reading. Extremely sorry for the scattered thoughts and the rant but thank you and have a great day everyone !

[celestie0]

hi friends, i won’t be posting or updating any of my works for an indefinite period n will be on hiatus from this blog as well.

i’ve unlisted kickoff & ihm on ao3 (haven’t deleted, they’ve just been made private) and i’ve unpinned my masterlist here on tumblr (again nothing’s been deleted so you could probably find the chapters if you searched my tags)

but the reason i did that is because i don’t want any new readers finding my works during my hiatus because i don’t want to potentially upset more people in the event that, during this hiatus, i decide that i would no longer like to write my fics

that would be an insanely sad decision to make. i put so much thought into my stories not because i am trying to make them entertaining, but it’s because they genuinely mean so much to me and are cathartic in ways i can’t describe. i have spent a great majority of my life self negating for the sake of others, and so writing was just a form of expression where i could talk about all the things i’ve suppressed over the years - anxiety, career stress, financial stress, avoidance, depression, loss, coming of age, navigating love, etc

but lately, and i do think it’s been a build up of just some careless words from a handful of people over the months, i find myself steering towards a practice of writing that is no longer asking the question “how can i put as much of myself in this piece as possible?” but rather “how can i make sure people won’t criticize this…i feel awful that it doesn’t have what they want it to have…other creators are doing xyz, should i be doing that too?…i’m just scared to share this”

not exactly sure when that shift in headspace began, but as of right now, it’s as strong as ever. and i understand that those questions may seem irrational, and i just have to try to not focus on the feeling, n i wish i was someone that could compartmentalize those thoughts better, but here’s the thing — the whole reason i started expressing myself through writing in the first place was because i’ve spent my whole life compartmentalizing. it would feel so ironic & untrue to the lessons i’ve learned in this journey if i just chose to “suck this up” and continue pushing forward until i reach a point of burnout simply because i don’t want to upset anyone

i’m really sorry i couldn’t focus on the positive. especially with all the insane n incredible amount of love n support i’ve received for my works. i’ve said this time n time again but when i started posting kickoff to ao3 back in january of this year, i had NO idea it would be this loved by so many people…i was like ok can’t wait to interact w these four readers for the rest of the year…and then BAM, i find myself fully sobbing after each chapter update because i was so touched by all the sweet n kind words. i don’t want this decision to come off in a way that makes it seems like i don’t love u guys sm or that i’m ungrateful — i’ve always taken pride in respecting my audience. even for a simple hobby, i try to put effort into my works. i proofread, i plan out, i edit in length, all because i am, well, for one, i’m a bit of a perfectionist LOL but also i think there’s a great deal of honor in respecting an audience that gives you their time n attention

but i already am struggling in my life to focus on the positive. medicine has been such an incredibly daunting career to pursue, i’m honestly only doing slightly better now because i’m just filled with relief that i got into med school to begin with lol it’s still surreal to me, so the stress has been kinda manageable so far on that sense of optimism, but dear god the shit i went through to get here…and the shit i know i still face ahead of me. i spend all of my serotonin on trying to stay positive in the face of my responsibilities. so all of this time i’ve spent trying to stay positive for the sake of my stories too has just left me with so much exhaustion — i just don’t see why posting my works should be anything less than fun and endlessly exciting when it’s a hobby that’s supposed to help me thru the actual brunt of life.

anyways, i’m getting a little carried away here. all this to say, i just need to take time away from posting my works so i can see writing as something for myself n not for others again. i don’t want the thoughts swimming in my head to be thoughts of anxiety over people potentially criticizing me n my creative decisions. i want the thoughts in my head to once again be positive, excited, and nurturing towards my stories. i don’t see how i can accomplish that at this point unless i start writing for myself once more, and not for others

i still have a great deal of passion to write, which is why i haven’t formally taken down my works. i anticipate that i may be able to come back in the future to share my writing again. but as of right now, i just want to heal the relationship that i have with this hobby, and i feel like that’s gotta happen in private (lmfao it sounds like im tryna freak my writing)

i’m sorry that i turned off my asks n my replies, i know so many of u care about me n want to support me n i just am beyond thankful. i don’t anticipate this is a forever goodbye, but i do just need some time rn away from all of this.

hope u all have a happy time!! and take care of yourselves :) much love

- ellie

[ckret2]

tell us about aku/scaramouche

thank you anon for indulging me

listen. I'm banging my fist on the table. Aku/Scaramouche. Why isn't this a THING. Why after digging halfway to hell into the tumblr tags have I only seen two people total shipping Aku/Scaramouche. It is RIGHT THERE.

Scaramouche bases like 50% of his identity around being Aku's #1 specialest little guy. He's called Aku often enough to have memorized both his phone number and the unique tune the buttons make when he dials the number. He crossed half the damn planet AS A HEAD to give Aku some good news as fast as possible. He's known Aku long enough to make it to #1, so he must know how often Aku breaks his bargains—even with people that handed him Jack on a silver platter—but he's unflaggingly confident that Aku will happily pay off Scaramouche's debts as a reward. He's just as confident that the guy who instantly eye-lasers anyone that displeases him will be thrilled to chat after Scaramouche breaks into Aku's locked down castle.

And Aku IS willing to listen and DOESN'T kill Scaramouche for breaking in. He gives Scaramouche a new body—as far as I can recall, the ONLY on-screen example of Aku rewarding an underling in the entire show. He's willing to do a stupid victory dance with Scaramouche. He brings Scaramouche along to gloat at Jack (altho it didn't end well RIP Scaramouche The Merciless you'll be missed). He gave Scaramouche his number in the first place—possibly during the span of time when he's so depressed he'll hardly get out of bed, much less talk to anyone. Aku even accepts collect calls from him.

And there's SO many ways you can write it.

Are you into "villain and his most loyal henchman"? Boom. You've got it.

"Godlike figure and the little person who (figuratively or literally) worships him"? Boom. You can effortlessly spin it that way.

"Murderous remorseless evil power couple that mocks the good guys together"? Boom.

"Creepy dark doom guy who radiates grumpiness and his ball of radioactive sunshine and optimism"? Boom.

"The one guy who can get away with shoving his way into the misanthrope's life without being sent packing"? Boom.

"Guy who looks dark and scary but when Jack isn't stalking him is a font of unhinged evil glee and guy who looks fun-loving and cheerful but is also a font of unhinged evil glee."

"The Statler and Waldorf at any group social function if Statler and Waldorf really liked slaughtering whole towns and mistakenly assumed they were the two coolest guys in the room."

"Guy who's so miserably depressed he can hardly drag himself through the day and guy who goes to the ends of the earth to give him the one thing that can make him smile again."

"Guy who has all the riches in the world and his hot young thing that confidently tells everyone he meets that his sugar daddy evil boss will pay for anything he asks."

Boom boom boom. I could go on. You can do anything with this ship. "Oh I want a monsterfucker ship but I can't tell if I'm in the mood for demons or robots" WHY CHOOSE, HAVE THEM BOTH.

My personal preferred way to interpret them—you're getting my headcanon now, I'm holding back the general Scaramouche headcanons and sticking to the ones relevant to the ship—I think Scaramouche's model is the next-gen upgraded version of the X-model line. The X-49 experiment proved that giving robots emotions made them better at killing and helped them survive longer so they can kill more. So, give them all emotions. Make a couple of tweaks: you don't want them doubting their jobs or understanding right from wrong, so don't give them consciences or the capacity for remorse, let 'em have fun killing while keeping the rage and self-preservation that made X-49 so successful. And rabid loyalty to one living being seems like a great way to motivate them, but we don't want any more robots dragging home stray dogs. Program them for loyalty to Aku.

So here we've got a bot who has an entire whole personality of his own—dude probably dresses himself, he has very strong opinions on Jack's hair, and I'm sure Aku's not the one who went "you know what would make this assassin unstoppable? the flute"���and yet, and yet, the core of his existence is obsessive devotion to Aku. Everything's about Aku, everything's for Aku, he kills for Aku, he travels the world for Aku, he sings and dances for Aku, he breaks Aku's commands for Aku. All he wants to do is everything Aku could possibly want him to do. And he must be succeeding because he's Aku's #1 assassin.

When Scaramouche is slaughtering a whole town just to lure Jack out so he can kill him, Aku is telling his scientists he's given up on sending anyone to kill Jack and pretending he doesn't even care anymore—and that must mean Aku didn't send Scaramouche after Jack, Scaramouche decided on his own that that's his target. It's not like he needs to impress Aku—not THAT much anyway—he's already #1. He's trying to figure out what will make his depressed-as-hell boss finally happy. He's calling Aku as often as he can get away with, to hear his voice, to make sure Aku approves, to ask what now, what can I do for you next.

Eventually, ultimately, if you wait long enough and dig deep enough, his every thought revolves around Aku. It's what he's programmed for, after all. He worships Aku. He wants Aku. He loves Aku.

... Scaramouche you weren't programmed to feel loyalty that way. Scar. Scaramouche what are you doing. None of the other bots in Scaramouche's line did this. (Which is good, because if he thought that a bunch of bots with the potential to be just as competent & useful as him were his rivals, he might just destroy them all.) These emotion chips are wild, the second you flip them on they start adapting and changing and it's impossible to predict how they'll affect a bot's personality. Maybe a bot will decide purple overcoats are cool and fall in love with his boss. You never know. Well... whatever's going on in his head, it seems to be effective. He is Aku's #1 assassin.

For Aku's part? If the show's plot had gone a little bit differently and he didn't blow up anybody's head and they'd both lived long enough for Aku to find all this out himself?

How rare must it be for anyone to want him?

Not his massive store of riches—him. Not a piece of his political power—him. Not offers from him of cushier jobs or better bounties—him. Not his protection as an indestructible shapeshifter—him. Not his favor, a village spared, a prisoner freed—him.

Him—and not in spite of the billion red flags, but heedless of them. Him—with no fear of the potential consequences that come from being so close to him, the greater risk of misstepping and ending up in the Pit of Hate or worse—not because his suitor arrogantly thinks himself immune to those risks (well—maybe a little bit), but because anything he can get before that last mistake would make it all worth it. Him—not because this suitor imagines some secret better nature hiding inside of Aku, but because of what Aku clearly is on the outside—even when he's feeling at his worst and most pathetic—because Scaramouche is devoted to Aku the way he is, because he must be devoted to Aku the way he is, however he is.

The fact that it's programmed doesn't make it any less sincere. And anyway, it was never meant to be programmed like that—from the default code, this arose naturally.

And Aku may have been pursued a few times in the past, primarily for political alliances and the like, but he's never been wanted like THIS before: with the steely-opticked determination of an unstoppable killing machine.

And this demon, this monster, this tree-ogre, who sees children celebrating his would-be murderer and—instead of punishing them or even telling them made-up stories about how good is lame and evil will always win in the end—tries pathetically to convince the children that he's the hero protecting them, tries to steal that hero-worship for himself...

It's possible Aku may have never noticed how awful it feels to be eternally, universally unwanted... until he's wanted for the first time.

And once he feels it, once he's convinced it's real, he'll crave it with all the avarice with which he ever hungered for the rest of the world's vast treasures.

Do you see my vision. Can you feel the potential. Please. Please. I'm on my knees. Is anybody listening.

[faithfullyscarred]

daylight | logan howlett

pairing: Logan Howlett x reader

description: spent so long sleeping in a 20 year dark night, now I see daylight (fluff)

word count: ~1.1k

a/n: this is not edited <3 I couldn’t stop thinking of him with daylight by Taylor Swift :)

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Confession time? Here's what it was. There was a time where Logan never knew you, and there was now. He never knew what it was like to so desperately want to stay in the now, and succeed. Nightmares had lessened, and his thoughts haunted him far less. You had insisted it was because of all the work he was putting into himself, but Logan swore it was because of you.

You, with your perfect laugh that could pull his mind out of whatever it got stuck in. With your blind optimism he lost years ago, struggling to put faith into much anymore. But he had faith in you, and the X-Men. It seemed like consciously living could be worth it for a little while again.

"I'm serious," Logan's eyes followed your every move as you settled in his lap, straddling his waist. His hands found your thighs without a second thought. "It's like I'm finally living again. Like it's worth living again, and I know I have you to thank."

“You have yourself to thank too.” You do your best to help him see the work he has done. All he saw was you with him.

His thumb softly trailed over the sensitive skin, a smile forming on his lips as he listened to your response. Credit was due, and he couldn’t admit there was any to give himself. Theoretically, he knew you were right.

Logan had seen lifetimes of hate. Of war, and anger. He’d spent more time running away from threats than he’d ever gotten to spend admiring life for what it could be. It made him cold, he knew that too. He wasn’t easy to know. Yet you stayed. He didn’t understand it.

“Sure,” he finally responded, deeply inhaling and eyes trailing down. He wouldn’t look away, and for once he didn’t want to. What was there to avoid now? “But let me thank you?”

When his eyes connected with yours again there was a jump in the rhythm of your heart. This meant something to him. You meant something to him.

His head moved forward, lips pressing a kiss on your chest just above your nightgown. And another, and another, trailing up along your neck. Logan felt he could never repay you in the way he really wanted, in the way he so deeply needed. No matter how many times you reminded him there was no need for thanks, you loved him.

His lips lingered as he kissed the corner of your lips before softly speaking. “I’ve seen a lot of horrible shit, I’ve done a lot of horrible shit. Guess… eventually I thought that’s all life would be. Misery.” His eyes flickered to yours again. “But I see it now. The light at the end of the tunnel, or whatever.”

You let out a small laugh at his phrasing. “Or whatever?”

His chest vibrated with a low laugh against your palm. His hands wrapped around you, pressing against your back so he could hold you closer. He wasn’t good with words and he knew it.

“You’re making it impossible for me to really thank you, you know?” He joked, raising his eyebrows and eyes flickering to your lips.

You mirrored his grin, “Okay, okay. My apologies.”

Your hands went up in a mock defense, pleading innocence. He softly shook his head. Logan needed you to know what you meant to him, he just choked on the words. Love was never in his cards. But this was love, he knew it.

“Thank you.” He finally said it, flat out. And you felt the way his body immediately relaxed with this admission.

Logan had spent his entire life running and living beneath a cloud. He forgot the way the sun looked, how it felt soaking into his skin. He had lost the right to feel the sun decades ago. His hope had died, and his search for something good in humanity had died ages ago. And you had immediately challenged that. He needed you to know how grateful he was for you, his sun.

“Thank you.” He repeated, a weight lifting off of him.

You looked at him so carefully, it allowed him to soften. He was an open book for you now. You could see hope returning, and feel his weariness wash away. And, come to think of it, you’d seen it before. The way his shoulders relaxed, and that crinkle between his brows would dissipate. It happened when he looked at you. So maybe you could accept his thank you. It meant something to him.

“I love you.” You whispered. That was acceptance.

Logan’s eyes scanned yours, and he smiled when he found truth in your whisper. He chuckled and landed a quick kiss on your lips before his hand pressed firmly on you so he could adjust the both of you to be laying. It was a careful movement, hand sliding out from beneath you as he laid your back against the bed. He just needed to admire you more, thank you some more. To love you some more. That's what this feeling was. He didn’t feel worthy.

“I’ve done so much damage.” He whispered, eyes scanning your body to be sure you were comfortable. He was avoiding now, just as you had done with his thanks.

“And you’ve saved countless lives.” You challenge.

He propped himself up with one arm, his free hand running up along your torso. “I’ve ran away from everything in my life.”

“You’re here, now. That’s enough.” Your hand cupped his cheek, grounding him.

Without thought, he kissed your palm before leaning into your touch. His hand wrapped around your wrist, holding you there. He closed his eyes and stayed like that just to feel you a moment longer.

Your thumb skimmed over his cheek, giving in to whatever he’d want as he held on. “Throw it all away.”

His eyes opened, looking at you with curiosity. Your words sent some sort of immediate comfort, but he also didn’t want to allow himself to fully understand them.

“I’m happy to have you. Here, now.” You knew he would avoid the topic if you didn't expand. “Despite your past, despite your running… you’re here with me now. For a moment, for a year, for a lifetime, or whatever.”

He chuckled as you repeated his lackluster phrase. But he listened carefully.

“You’re here, and I love you.” You finalized your response, hoping it said enough.

Watching his lips curl into a smile, and his eyes shine with a shit eating look you knew far too well… you had guessed it said more than enough.

His voice spoke with ease, “I love you.”

Logan kissed the palm of your hand again, trailing kisses down your wrist and forearm before finding his origin and kissing your chest once more. His hand softly traced down your arm and he leaned his body down closer. He finally found the sun again, and it accepted him. He’d spend the night thanking it.

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