#project: particle decay

[saturnine-saturneight]

Traffic roared behind their back, swirling up the stench of gasoline, leather, and fresh bread. Any way Johannes could have spun this, there was only one place left to go. But unfortunately for them, despite the opening hours clearly written on the sign behind the glass door, the place disagreed. Half an hour past ten, the door to Ms. Somoza's office was firmly shut. Handle of their suitcase digging into the palm of their hand and this morning's pit of ragged disappointment deep in their stomach, Johannes leaned their forehead against the cool glass of the front door and heaved a sigh. Of course it couldn't be that easy. Of course. But perhaps at least the hole in their stomach could be filled, preferably with meat and bread. Never had they spent very much time in parts of the city that featured kebab shops, and even back home, before the big move, they had rarely ever seen one face to face. But they were still a piece of the country they left behind, a part of the daily parlance, and where Johannes had never so much as given it a second thought that they'd never eaten a doner kebab until now, now that they were standing in front of the eatery right next to Ms. Somoza's office, they suddenly found that an enormous pity. After fumbling their way through an order, they found themself with an absolutely gigantic Styrofoam box, heavy with bread, meat, and salad, practically dripping with sauce and large enough that they had to clench their suitcase beneath their arm and hold it with both hands. It was terribly delicious.

This has been an advertisement for doner kebab.

HELLO Particle Decay tag list, it's been half a year!

@gioia-writes-and-others @monstrify @writingrosesonneptune @asher-writes

@marlowethelibrarian @cometkov @the-inkwell-variable @purplehandshumanfeelings @thelaughingstag

[saturnine-saturneight]

YEEEEEAAAAH

WHOOOOOOO

This is so fucking good!! Thank you, Nat!!!!

fanart of @saturnine-saturneight 's Jan as they seriously contemplate violence

[youthguk]

Entropy | jjk (m) | one-shot

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

“The universe tends toward chaos.” You thought that only applied to black holes and entropy equations — not boys with lip rings and midnight eyes. You were wrong. 

genre: smut, one-shot, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol consumption, casual hookup, reader is sexually inexperienced but very willing, Jungkook is fully feral and obsessed

Wc: 10k

author's note: there’s a second and final part already finished and available exclusively now on my private telegram channel (through paid subscription)

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

The second law of thermodynamics states that the universe naturally tends toward disorder. That every system, left to its own devices, will eventually fall apart.

You never thought that applied to people.

By the third week of finals season, everything starts to decay.

Not in any spectacular, cinematic way—no dramatic breakdowns in the hallway or rain-soaked monologues—but in smaller, quieter disintegrations. You begin to lose the will to care whether your iced coffee is more milk than caffeine. Your drawers become a graveyard of crumpled hoodies and socks that don’t match. Your planner, once color-coded with obsessive devotion, now lies somewhere under your bed, abandoned and blank.

Entropy, you think. The tendency of systems to slide into disorder. You remember the diagram from second-year thermodynamics: the universe’s cruel, inevitable drift toward chaos. You’d once found peace in it. A kind of comfort, knowing it wasn’t your fault when things fell apart. It was just nature.

These days, you’re not so sure.

You stand in front of the mirror in your dorm’s bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth, hair piled into a loose, too-honest bun that makes your ears look uneven. You’ve been wearing the same oversized MIT hoodie for three days straight. Not because it means anything to you—you didn’t even apply there—but because it smells like clean laundry and covers the fact that your bra is somewhere inside a laundry basket you no longer have the energy to dig through.

You look exhausted. Not dramatically so, but in the way that makes people hesitate before asking you for anything. You’ve started getting that look in the lab, in lectures, even from your professors: the quiet, pitying glance that says, You’re doing too much, and it’s starting to show.

And still, you keep doing it.

Physics doesn’t reward soft emotions. It rewards answers. You know how to calculate momentum, how to model projectile motion, how to explain wave-particle duality to a room full of distracted undergrads—but you don’t know how to mourn something that was never truly yours. You don’t know how to feel cleanly. You only know how to function.

You open the bathroom cabinet, close it again, stare blankly at your own reflection. Your eyes are ringed in fatigue. Your lips are chapped. Your last kiss was over a month ago and didn’t even taste like goodbye.

You don’t miss him. Not really. He was nice. Predictable. Gentle. He always held your hand like he was asking permission. But the moment he ended it—voice calm, like he was discussing his meal plan—you didn’t feel heartbreak. You felt relief.

And maybe that’s worse.

Your phone buzzes on the sink. You glance down and see Hyeri’s name. Hyeri: I swear to god if you ghost me I’m breaking into your room.Hyeri: Put on a dress. He’s throwing a party.You: Who.Hyeri: Jeon fucking Jungkook.You: No thanks.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. There it is—that name again. A name that lives in the background of your life like ambient noise. Jeon Jungkook: a boy you’ve never actually spoken to, but whose existence seems to follow you in ways you can’t explain. Shared classes. Group projects. Dorm parties where he arrived shirtless and left with a girl on his arm. Mutual friends who describe him with exasperated fondness. A smirk that belongs on someone far less academically average.

You’ve never had a reason to care about him. Not really. Except for that one night at the start of second year, when you sat across from him at a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday and watched him lick whipped cream off his thumb while explaining something about SEO strategy. You’d gone home that night and googled what the hell SEO actually was.

You’d forgotten about him after that. Or tried to.

Until your best friend started playing matchmaker in group chats you weren’t in. Until the campus gossip pages kept posting blurry photos of his arms. Until his name started appearing in conversations he wasn’t even part of, and every girl said the same thing:

Jeon Jungkook fucks like it’s a contact sport.

And maybe, for a fraction of a second, you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to be tackled.

But then you went back to your labs. Your simulations. Your notes. You buried the thought under coursework and logic and neat, contained systems.

Hyeri: Come. Please. One drink. One dance. You’re not allowed to rot in that hoodie forever.

You chew your lip. Look down at the hoodie. Then at yourself. Then at the door.

Maybe it’s not about Jungkook. Maybe it’s not even about your ex. Maybe it’s just… time.

Time to feel something before summer eats the rest of you whole.

You sigh. You: Fine. But if it’s weird, I’m faking a panic attack and leaving.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You don’t know when the universe started to unravel.

Maybe it was the breakup. Maybe it was that lab partner who kept messing up your simulations. Maybe it was all the times you sat through lectures with tears threatening at the corners of your eyes and no one noticing, not even once. But tonight, it feels like something bigger. Like the universe itself has decided to press its thumb against your spine and push.

Entropy. Chaos. Heat death. The natural end of all things.

And what are you doing? Curling your lashes. Half-heartedly, as if mascara could fix the hollowness behind your eyes. You haven’t dressed up in weeks. You barely recognize yourself in the mirror.

Hyeri’s outside your door, already half-drunk, yelling through the crack like she owns the world. “If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m breaking in and dressing you myself!”

You shout back a profanity, then drop your towel and step into the dress she brought you.

It wasn’t made for physics students. That much is clear. It’s navy satin, too short to be safe and too tight to be responsible. The neckline dips like a threat, the fabric clings like it knows something you don’t. You smooth it down your sides, catching your reflection by accident — and then not looking away.

Your hair’s still wet from the world’s fastest shower. You didn’t bother with foundation. Just a bit of liner, a swipe of something sheer on your lips. You look like someone you don’t quite know. Someone who might dance. Someone who might say yes to something reckless.

The zipper sticks halfway up your back, and when you reach to fix it, a strand of hair slips free and falls across your face. You look messy. Unpolished. A little chaotic.

You almost laugh.

Maybe you finally match the universe.

There’s a knock at the door. “I swear to god, Y/N—”

You open it before she can finish, and Hyeri shuts up mid-rant.

“Holy shit,” she breathes.

You grab your bag. “Don’t say anything.”

“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, “but if Jungkook doesn’t try to kiss you tonight, I’m checking him for a concussion.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your stomach flickers — a sudden, sharp awareness of your own body. Of skin against satin. Of the air against the backs of your thighs as you walk.

You ignore it.

You follow Hyeri down the stairs, into the Uber, into the night.

The city feels different somehow. Summer’s here, but it hasn’t settled. The air’s heavy but not warm, like it’s holding its breath. Like the universe is still deciding what kind of chaos it wants to be tonight.

And maybe, for once, you’re not here to resist it.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You smell the party before you hear it.

It’s not unpleasant — not the kind of sour, suffocating stink of undergrad dorm parties you’ve long since grown out of. No, this one smells like summer. Like too-sweet alcohol and chlorine and night air that clings to bare shoulders. There’s music, loud enough to rattle the pavement beneath your heels, bass bleeding through windows too big to hide the chaos inside.

Jungkook’s house is exactly what you’d expect from a rich boy with too many friends and too little restraint. Modern, massive, perched on a hill just far enough from campus to feel forbidden. The front door’s already wide open. People flow in and out like blood through a vein. Someone’s laughing on the porch. Someone else is making out against the railing. You pause before going in.

Hyeri’s already halfway up the steps, turning back when she notices you hesitate. “Don’t look like you’re here to study. Shoulders back. Chin up. You look hot as hell.”

You follow her inside.

The temperature rises immediately. The music hits your chest in waves, something fast and rhythmic that people pretend they know the words to. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s skin, cups half-empty and already sticky with fingerprints. Lights pulse in warm golds and deep reds, designed to make everyone look better than they are.

You keep your eyes low at first, weaving through bodies, careful not to bump into anyone. You’re not used to being seen. Not like this. Not in something this tight, this short. You feel the way the fabric pulls across your hips, how it shifts with each step. You’re suddenly aware of the line of your thighs, the exposed stretch of your back.

And then you feel it. Eyes.

Heavy, deliberate.

You look up.

And there he is.

Jeon Jungkook.

Slouched on the arm of an expensive couch, drink in one hand, tattooed fingers curled around plastic like they’ve never had to hold anything heavier. He’s wearing a black button-up — open halfway down his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows — and a pair of dark jeans that might as well be a crime. His lip ring catches the light when he smirks at something one of his friends says, and his head tilts just slightly—

—because he’s looking at you.

You almost miss it, the way the smirk dies and reforms into something slower. Sharper. His gaze lingers, dips — not in a crude, hungry way, but in a way that makes you feel scanned. Like he’s logging every inch of skin, every tilt of your body, every second you hold eye contact.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

But he doesn’t stop looking.

Hyeri doesn’t notice. She’s already pulling you into the kitchen, rambling about shots and mixers and “hydrating between drinks, you nerd.” But you feel him. Even with your back turned. Even through the noise and heat and press of strangers, you know exactly where he is in the room.

You try to shake it off.

The kitchen is a mess of solo cups, liquor bottles, and fruit that’s been soaking in something far too potent. You grab a drink just to have something to hold. Cold plastic. Fake safety. You press the rim to your lips and taste cherry, vodka, and regret.

“Come dance,” Hyeri yells over the music, already grabbing your hand.

You hesitate. And then, from across the room — heat again. A pulse.

You glance back once. He’s standing now.

Still holding his drink. Still watching. And this time, when your eyes meet, he smiles.

Not the cocky kind. Not the I’ve-done-this-before kind. Something slower. Curious. Possessive.

Like he knows something you don’t. Like the universe just chose its form of chaos.

✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*✧.*

You lose Hyeri somewhere between the kitchen and the music.

She disappears into the haze of bodies with the kind of confidence you’ve never been able to fake—throwing her arms around someone you don’t recognize, laughing too loudly, swaying like she’s part of the beat itself. The living room’s been cleared just enough to form a makeshift dance floor, though calling it that feels generous. It’s a swarm. Sweaty, uncoordinated, pulsing with bass and alcohol.

You hover at the edge for a moment, half-expecting yourself to turn back. But your feet don’t move. You feel warm. Lightheaded. A little less real with every second. And you know, before you even look again, that he’s still there.

He doesn’t approach like he’s chasing something. He approaches like he’s already caught it.

You feel him before you see him—something magnetic pulling at the corner of your awareness. Then you turn your head, and he’s suddenly beside you, crowding your space without brushing you once. His shirt clings to the lines of his chest. His breath smells faintly of whiskey and mint.

“Didn’t know physics majors danced,” he murmurs, not loud but close enough that the words slide against your neck.

You don’t flinch. “Didn’t know business majors could form full sentences.”

That earns a laugh. Low. A little sharp. He doesn’t look away.

The song shifts, something slower, bass-heavy, almost liquid in the way it pours over the crowd. His hand doesn’t touch you—not yet—but you feel his presence pressing in, daring you to move first.

“You wanna?” he asks, a single word softened by the tilt of his mouth. It’s not polite. Not romantic. But his tone says he already knows the answer.

You shouldn’t. But then—nothing about tonight has followed the laws of reason.

You nod once.

He steps behind you.

There’s no gap between your bodies. He doesn’t ask permission again. His hands find your hips with casual precision, thumbs brushing the sliver of bare skin between your dress and thighs. It’s not obscene. Not quite. But it’s enough to make your spine stiffen, your breath catch.

You move.

Not with practiced rhythm, but instinct. Letting the music pull your limbs into motion. You’re aware of the weight of his hands, the subtle pull of his grip guiding your pace, the heat radiating off his chest behind you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Everything he wants to say is in the way he holds you—like he’s marking you.

His lips graze your ear.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore. It’s softer. Lower. Coated in heat.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You just… move like you’ve been pretending not to want this.”

You lean back—not into him, not quite. Just enough to let your head fall against his shoulder, enough for your cheek to brush the edge of his jaw.

“Maybe I have,” you whisper.

That makes him exhale through his nose, a near-silent sound of disbelief.

One of his hands slides lower, fingers dragging down the side of your thigh through your dress, subtle under the colored lights. You don’t stop him. Don’t even flinch. You’re past that now—past logic, past caution. You gave up control the second you walked through the door.

Your hips roll against his, slow, testing.

He curses under his breath.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You smile, dizzy with the rush of power you didn’t know you had. “Good.”

The beat slows again. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You're suspended there, in the strobe-flecked dark, wrapped in the tension of something neither of you is ready to name. You can feel the way his body hardens against yours. The restraint in the way he keeps his hands from wandering farther. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

And then someone spills a drink, somewhere close, and the moment fractures just enough for you to step away.

You walk toward the back door without a word. Toward the warm night air, toward the sound of water, toward the next inevitable collapse in this universe gone fully to chaos.

Behind you, Jungkook follows.

The patio is cooler, but it doesn’t help. Not really.

You step out into the night air with your plastic cup still clutched in your hand, the condensation sliding between your fingers. The hem of your dress clings to the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat and static, and your pulse hasn’t slowed since the dance floor. You try to blame it on the alcohol. On the heat. On the music still throbbing behind you.

Not on him.

You don’t dare glance behind you. You don’t have to. You already know he’s there.

The pool glows in blue and gold, lights flickering beneath the surface like someone bottled the stars and poured them into water. A few people are floating lazily, limbs draped over inflatable chairs, laughter drifting up like smoke. The jacuzzi hums beside it, steam rising from its surface, soft and almost cinematic. Someone’s speaker plays a slower song now—trance-like, sensual, too low to sing along to.

And there he is again.

He emerges from the shadows like the night belongs to him. Still shirtless, only now his skin shines with a sheen of sweat. His boxers ride low on his hips, exposing just enough to make your mouth dry. His chest is cut, stomach taut, tattoos black against golden skin. A towel slung over one shoulder. That stupid, crooked grin.

“You look hot,” he says. His tone is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re scanning every inch of you, unhurried. “You should cool off.”

You take a slow sip from your drink. “What, in there?”

He nods toward the jacuzzi. “It’s basically mandatory.”

You raise a brow. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”

Neither does he, clearly. He steps closer anyway. “Neither do I.”

Before you can respond, Hyeri appears beside you with a shriek, nearly stumbling as she tugs off her dress in one motion. Her red bra and matching lace panties flash under the porch lights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Come onnnn,” she whines, laughing, already halfway into the water. “It’s just underwear! No one cares!”

“I care,” you mutter, gripping the hem of your dress like it’s the last thing tethering you to reality.

“Then stop being so uptight,” she says—and with no warning, she shoves you forward.

You stumble with a yelp. The cup flies from your hand. Your knees buckle as hot water surrounds you, silk dragging against your skin, heavy and clinging. You surface gasping, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to your forehead.

“Hyeri!” you snap, voice shrill, but she’s laughing too hard to answer.

Someone whistles. Someone else claps. Jungkook’s smirking as he lowers himself in across from you, water sloshing up over his chest. He leans back, spreads his arms wide across the edge, like this is his throne and you’ve just been delivered to it.

And your dress—god, your dress.

The satin is ruined. It sticks to your stomach, your thighs, your chest. The neckline’s slipped almost indecently low, and you know without looking that the fabric is nearly see-through now, the curve of your bra showing underneath. You tug at it beneath the surface, cheeks flaming.

“It’s not that kind of party,” you mutter, voice tight.

But he’s already watching you like it is. “You’re overdressed.”

You shoot him a look. “Not anymore.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and leans closer. “Then lose it.”

You hesitate. But the water is warm, the music hazy, the alcohol swimming in your bloodstream like a tide. And your dress is clinging like second skin, dragging with every breath. You sigh. Slide the straps off your shoulders. Shimmy out of the fabric under the surface until it floats around you like a drowning petal. You drape it over the side without ceremony.

Now it’s just you in your bra and underwear. Bare legs. Wet skin. Nothing left to hide behind.

And he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you with just his eyes.

Conversation rises around you—someone retells a wild hookup story, someone else splashes a drink over the jets—but none of it registers. You can feel Jungkook's thigh brushing yours beneath the water. His hand finds your knee. Slides just above it.

You breathe in. Let it happen.

The moment holds like that. Suspended. Like a physics problem with no solution—just two bodies and friction and heat, variables with too much potential energy, waiting to snap.

Then someone splashes. Water flies up into your face, and you blink hard, flinching.

“Shit,” you mumble, rubbing your eye. Your contact is out of place—stinging, burning, blurring your vision.

“You good?” Jungkook’s voice is suddenly sharper, closer.

You try to nod. “Something in my eye.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts himself out of the water. The muscles in his stomach flex as he grabs a towel and holds it out to you. “Come on. Bathroom’s inside. I’ve got eyedrops.”

You hesitate.

He holds your gaze.

“It’s just upstairs,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ll get you something dry too.”

Your breath catches.

His boxers are soaked. His hair’s dripping down his neck. His hand is still outstretched.

And you go.

The hallway is quiet—eerily so after the chaos of the party below. The music becomes nothing but a muffled hum, thudding through the floorboards as if the house is holding its breath with you. Water drips from your hair to your bare shoulders, your bra clinging uncomfortably to your skin beneath the oversized towel Jungkook threw over you. The soaked fabric of your underwear sticks between your thighs as you walk, your steps squelching against the hardwood.

He walks just ahead, shirtless and dripping, his boxers clinging to every muscle of his thighs. His back is broad, his tattooed arm flexing as he opens a door on the left, pushing it open with casual ease.

“Bathroom,” he says, flicking on the light. “Eyedrops are in the cabinet.”

You step inside. The air is cool, the tile colder beneath your feet. A dim light above the mirror flickers before settling into a soft glow. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror—you already know you look like something undone. Makeup smudged. Hair clumped into wet strands. Skin flushed from heat and embarrassment and him.

You open the cabinet, find the eyedrops instantly. Your fingers tremble as you tip your chin back, blinking the liquid in. The sting fades slowly.

When you lower your gaze, he’s leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every second you give him.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Didn’t want your eye falling out on my watch.”

You laugh, quiet. “So thoughtful.”

“I am,” he says, straightening. He steps toward you, slow. Measured. “You should let me show you.”

Your pulse skips. “Show me what?”

His eyes dip. “How thoughtful I can be.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. Your body’s already reacting, legs stiffening slightly, breath catching when he stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his skin warms yours. The water still dripping from his hair catches the light.

“You’re wet,” he murmurs, glancing down.

“Sharp observation.”

He hums. “Not just from the jacuzzi, I think.”

Your eyes snap up. His are burning now—darker, lower, slow-burning coal beneath thick lashes. His voice dips.

“You gonna let me dry you off?”

You don’t answer.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Or should I make you wetter first?”

Your knees threaten to give out.

He steps back before you can respond, smirking like he already knows he’s winning. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You know what this is. But you take his hand anyway.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by a lamp in the corner and the moonlight spilling through half-closed blinds. The air is warmer here. Softer. And everything smells like him—spice, skin, shampoo. The bed is rumpled. There’s a hoodie thrown over a chair, a single black ring on the nightstand, and a half-empty glass of water.

You stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms crossed tightly over the towel.

He crosses to a dresser, pulls out a black T-shirt and a pair of soft-looking sweatpants, both oversized. He tosses them to the bed and turns to face you.

“You can change here,” he says. “I’ll be good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even believe that.”

He grins. “No. But I like hearing you say it.”

You look at the clothes. You look at him.

And then—very slowly—you loosen the towel.

It falls to the floor.

The air shifts. It goes still. Almost reverent.

His eyes drag down your body in a slow, devastating sweep. Your wet bra clings to your chest, nipples clearly visible beneath the sheer fabric. Your underwear is nearly transparent, stretched taut across your hips, the waistband twisted from the way you shifted under the water. Your skin is flushed, dotted with goosebumps. You don’t cover yourself.

He doesn’t move.

For a moment, he just stares—mouth parted, throat working as he swallows hard. His cock twitches in his boxers, and the fabric can no longer hide it.

You speak first.

“Thought you were gonna be good.”

His gaze lifts—slow, hungry. His voice is hoarse when he answers.

“I lied.”

He sits on the bed, legs spread wide, his cock hard and obvious beneath the wet fabric. He leans back on his hands and looks at you like he already owns you.

“Come here.”

You step forward.

One pace. Then two. He watches your legs move, the sway of your hips, the way your soaked bra clings like temptation. When you stop in front of him, he exhales like it’s costing him something.

He tilts his head. “Can I touch you now?”

You nod. It’s barely a breath.

He reaches forward, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, then over your hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of your underwear.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know.”

“I think I do,” you whisper.

And he grins, wild and crooked and starved. “Good girl.”

His eyes are on your mouth when you breathe.

“Come here,” he says again, voice husky, deeper than it was downstairs. There’s no playfulness in it anymore. Just want.

You step forward, letting your knees brush the outside of his. He doesn’t move.

Then, slowly, deliberately, you lift one leg over his thigh, then the other, and lower yourself into his lap.

The second your hips meet his, you feel it — the hard line of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of your panties. You both freeze. His breath stutters, jaw flexing as his fingers curl into the sheets beside him. He looks up at you like you’ve just ruined him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do to me.”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away.

He reaches for your waist, fingers spreading wide as he guides you gently — forward, then back. The friction is slow. Torturous. His cock slides along the soaked crotch of your panties with every pass, dragging over your clit in a way that makes your thighs twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he whispers, like it’s a confession. “You’ve been wet since the dance, haven’t you?”

You open your mouth to argue, but it comes out a moan instead.

His hands roam. Over your waist, your ribs, thumbs grazing the undercurve of your breasts. He doesn’t touch your nipples — not yet. He’s savoring. Mapping you like something rare and sacred. Your fingers dig into his shoulders for balance, and he lets his head fall forward, lips grazing the slope of your neck.

“You smell like heat,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your pulse. “Like you’re meant to be fucked.”

The air leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.

He sucks at your throat once — soft, then harder — enough to leave a mark. Your hips grind down harder by accident, and he groans into your skin.

“God, baby,” he breathes, voice crumbling, “I want you to ride me just like this. Slow. Fuck—just like that.”

You drag your hips again, letting your soaked panties rub over his cock, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You like that?” you whisper, breath shaking.

He looks up at you, hair falling into his eyes, and smiles like the devil.

“You have no idea.”

He rolls his hips up into yours once, sharply. You gasp.

“Wanna feel you come on me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “Make a mess all over my lap. Let me ruin these pretty little panties you wore just for me.”

You whimper. His cock pulses beneath you, hot and thick and aching against your soaked center.

“Say you want it,” he whispers. “Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, breathless. “Jungkook—please…”

And he groans, deep and raw.

“I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”

You don’t realize how hard you’re breathing until he stills you.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, gripping them firmly, and with a strength that shouldn’t feel as gentle as it does, he lifts you. You gasp as he lays you back across the bed, your legs draped over the edge, your hair fanning against the pillows like you were made to be framed like this—bare and gasping beneath his stare.

He follows you down slowly. Drops to his knees like it's instinct.

Not cocky. Not rushed.

Like he’s been waiting to kneel here since the second he saw you.

Your thighs tremble as he presses them open, fingers leaving faint imprints against your skin. He slides his palms under your knees, pushing them farther apart, and for a second, he just looks at you. At the damp curve of your panties, the way the fabric clings, the way you shift slightly under his stare like the heat between your legs has turned unbearable.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he breathes.

His hands grip the waistband of your panties, and you lift your hips without thinking. He peels them down slowly, watching them drag over your skin like he wants to memorize every inch. When they reach your ankles, he tosses them somewhere behind him—but his eyes never leave you.

Then he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost too soft to process. Just the tip, a teasing flick across your clit that makes your entire body jolt. You clutch at the sheets, your back arching when he does it again—firmer this time. He groans the second he tastes you.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue from your entrance all the way up. “How the fuck do you taste like this?”

Your thighs twitch. He presses his palms against them to keep you open, steady, and lowers his mouth again.

This time, it’s not soft.

His tongue laps at you with purpose, flattening against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that make your legs tense and your fingers curl. He moans against you like he’s the one being pleasured, and the vibrations send shocks through your entire body.

You cry out. It’s instinctual—your hips trying to buck, your hand flying to his hair.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you run.

He wraps an arm around your thigh, holds you down, and slips two fingers inside you without warning.

Your moan is wrecked.

The stretch, the heat, the way his tongue moves faster now—circling, pressing, teasing just to the edge of pain. It’s too much. Not enough. Everything.

Your head falls back against the mattress.

“Jungkook—” It’s a whimper, broken. “Oh my god…”

He groans again, tongue working faster, fingers curling inside you like he knows exactly where to find you, exactly how to press until you’re gasping like you’re drowning.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Fuck, baby… let me feel you come on my mouth. Right here. Come for me.”

You’re so close. You can’t breathe.

Everything tightens. Spirals. Your hands clutch his hair, your hips grind against his mouth despite yourself, and then—

You come.

Hard.

It hits you like a wave — back arching, thighs shaking, lips parting in a cry you can’t control. You feel yourself pulse around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you in hot, wet pulses that make you sob his name.

He groans low against you and keeps going, tongue flicking as your body shudders, milking every second out of it, chasing every last twitch of pleasure until your hips collapse and your legs fall open.

He finally pulls back, face glistening, lips swollen, pupils blown.

You’re panting.

He stares at you like he’s just won a war.

And then—without giving you a second to recover—he grips your thighs and says, voice rough, “Get up.”

You blink, dizzy. “Wha—”

“Mirror,” he says. “Now.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your wrist.

Not harshly. Not with force. Just enough pressure to tell you you’re not going anywhere.

Your skin is hot, oversensitive, your thighs still twitching, and he’s already pulling you upright like he hasn’t just made you come with nothing but his mouth and two fingers. You follow, unsteady on your feet, your knees weak. Your bra is twisted around your chest, half-askew. Your hair’s stuck to your neck. You feel undone.

And he’s still hard.

You catch a glimpse of it as he steps in behind you — the thick outline of his cock straining against the wet cotton of his boxers. You must’ve soaked through his lap earlier, because the front of them is completely dark, clinging to every inch of him. Your throat goes dry.

“Come here,” he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, already steering you toward the mirror in the corner of his room. Full-length. Gold-rimmed. Slightly fogged at the edges from the humidity of your bodies.

“I can’t—” you start, still dazed, and his hand cups your jaw from behind.

“You can,” he says, soft but firm. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

He stops you just a step in front of the mirror.

“Look,” he tells you. His voice is low, breathless now. “Look at yourself.”

You do.

And the girl in the reflection is… not you.

Her lips are swollen. Her bra half-off. Her thighs gleaming. Her chest rising and falling like she’s been running for hours. You can see Jungkook’s frame behind you—tall, shirtless, flushed—his arm reaching around your waist, the other pressing flat against your lower back.

Then his hand slides down.

Over your stomach. Your panties are gone. You’re bare for him, wet and pulsing and still aching from before.

His fingers dip between your legs again.

You gasp. Your head drops forward—but his voice sharpens, right against your ear.

“No. Eyes up. Watch.”

You do.

You watch the way your mouth falls open when two fingers slip back inside you, slow and deep. Watch the way your body rocks forward slightly, forced to brace against the glass as he curls them perfectly, his palm dragging over your clit just enough to make your knees buckle.

He wraps his other arm around your waist to keep you upright.

“Good girl,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck.

Your hips twitch. The angle is too perfect. Too much. Every thrust of his fingers sends you crashing forward against your reflection, breath fogging the glass, lips parting with every ragged moan.

“Look how pretty you are when you fall apart,” he murmurs. “You see that?”

You nod, barely.

He pumps his fingers harder. Deeper. You feel them hit that spot again, and your entire body shudders. His hips are pressed to your ass now, his cock grinding against your skin with every movement, leaking through his boxers as he fingers you mercilessly.

“You like being watched?” he growls, voice breaking. “Like seeing yourself like this?”

You whimper. “Yes…”

“You wanna come again, don’t you?” His fingers slam into you harder now, knuckles wet, your slick echoing obscenely in the quiet. “You wanna do it while you’re looking me in the eye?”

You lift your head.

Meet his gaze in the mirror.

And that’s what breaks you.

You cry out, loud and raw, body shaking against his, pressed full-length to the glass as your orgasm rips through you again — messier this time, faster, overwhelming. Your legs quake. His fingers never stop. He holds you through it, one arm locking you in place as you fall apart a second time in front of yourself, because of him.

Your breath fogs the mirror in quick, shallow pants.

He finally pulls back, wet fingers sliding free with a low, satisfied groan.

He looks at you in the mirror—flushed, panting, nearly gone—and leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“I could watch you come all night.”

And somehow, you believe him.

He pulls back just enough to let you breathe. The mirror’s cooled now, the glass smeared with your fingerprints and fog, the reflection a blur of tangled hair and sweat and wrecked pleasure. Your thighs are shaking. Your skin is damp. You feel like you’ve melted and there’s no putting yourself back together.

Jungkook turns you gently, hand on your waist, guiding you like he’s still not done claiming you.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you let him push you down until you’re flat on your back. Your arms fall limp beside you, and for a moment all you can do is stare up at him. His chest is heaving. His skin is flushed. His cock — thick, red, twitching — strains beneath the cling of his boxers, soaked and sticking to every outline.

Then he hooks his thumbs in the waistband.

You can’t look away.

The cotton peels down slowly, catching on the head of his cock. He frees it with one hand, and it slaps up against his stomach, flushed and dripping.

Your breath catches.

You’ve seen porn. You’ve read things. You’ve imagined. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him — him— standing between your knees, eyes dark, cock hard, and so clearly turned on by you.

Your thighs press together instinctively.

He sees it.

Smirks.

Then climbs onto the bed.

He doesn’t ask. He just leans over you, one hand sliding beneath your back, the other tugging the straps of your bra off your shoulders. You lift your arms without thinking, too far gone to hesitate, and he slides it down and off, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Your breasts spill free, heavy and flushed and still damp from sweat.

He freezes. Just for a second.

Then—

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes.

His hand comes up, fingers splayed, and he cups one breast gently, reverently, like it’s something sacred. His thumb grazes your nipple. You shudder.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “So fucking soft… I’ve been staring at these all night.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t even seen them until now.”

He leans down, presses a kiss between them. “Didn’t have to. I just knew.”

And then he’s straddling your hips, cock in his hand, eyes dark as sin.

You watch, completely still, as he spits into his palm, slicks it over his length, and nestles the head of his cock between your breasts.

Your stomach tightens.

He reaches down, gently lifts your hands, guiding them to your own body. “Hold them together for me.”

You obey. Press your breasts around him, the weight of them closing snug around his cock. His breath stutters.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Fuck—just like that.”

And then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first. The head of his cock slides up, nudging under your chin, wet with pre-come. You gasp as it drags back down, gliding slick between your breasts, your skin burning with friction and arousal and humiliation, but god, it turns you on more than you thought possible.

You’ve never done this before. Never even thought about it.

But the way he moans? The way his eyes fall half-lidded, hips starting to stutter as he watches his cock disappear between your breasts?

It wrecks you.

Your thighs press together again. You can feel the wetness leaking out of you — fresh, sticky, proof that even after everything, your body’s still begging.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, one hand gripping the headboard for balance, the other fisting your hair. “You have no idea what this does to me.”

You whimper.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Tits so fucking perfect. Taking all of me. You’re so good—so fucking good—”

The head of his cock taps your chin again, your lips, your throat. You open your mouth on instinct, and he moans loudly.

“You wanna taste it?” he growls. “Wanna suck the tip while I fuck your tits?”

You nod, breathless, and tilt your head just enough to catch him on your tongue the next time he thrusts up.

The sound he makes is filthy.

His hips falter. His jaw clenches. The hand in your hair tightens.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m not gonna last like this,” he chokes out. “You feel too good. You’re so fucking hot like this. I could come all over these perfect tits and still not be done.”

You whine.

He pulls back.

Not because he’s finished — but because he’s holding on.

Barely.

And because he hasn’t even been inside you yet.

He’s panting above you, knees sunk into the mattress on either side of your waist, sweat beading down his chest as his cock pulses between your breasts. The tip is slick, flushed red, twitching with restraint. His eyes are locked on the mess he’s made of your body — your breasts shining, lips parted, your entire body still trembling beneath him.

But you’re not done.

You should be. You’ve come twice, your legs are jelly, your skin is hypersensitive — but none of that matters. Because the longer you stare at him, the more you realize that this isn’t enough. Not yet. Not until you’ve had all of him. Not until you’ve tasted the way he’s falling apart.

Your voice is gone. Your mind’s gone too. All you can feel is heat — liquid and pulsing, low in your belly and behind your knees. You want to be good for him. You want to be filthy for him. You want to know what he tastes like. You want to feel his cock on your tongue.

So you shift beneath him.

Lift your hands to his thighs, fingers sliding up slowly, dragging over the thick muscle until you reach his hips. He watches you with hooded eyes, breathless, lips wet and parted.

You look up at him. And then — without a single word — you stick out your tongue.

The way his expression breaks…

“Holy fuck,” he whispers.

His hand comes down, cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he stares like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You want to suck me off that bad?” he asks, voice rough. “After everything I’ve done to you?”

You nod. Keep your tongue out. Your eyes never leave his.

He growls.

“Say it,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your chin. “Be a good girl. Tell me what you want.”

Your voice is hoarse. Desperate. “I want your cock in my mouth, Jungkook… I want to suck you until you lose it. I want to feel you on my tongue, in my throat. I want to taste all of you. Please…”

His jaw clenches. His hips jerk forward instinctively, the tip of his cock brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. “Open your mouth.”

You do.

He guides himself in slowly, head pressing past your lips, the taste of salt and musk blooming over your tongue. You groan softly, and he shudders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair, wrapping it around his fingers like reins. “Fuck, baby. Look so pretty like this.”

You hollow your cheeks, take him deeper. Inch by inch, tongue curled beneath the shaft, your lips stretched wide. His cock slides in heavy, hot, and you let it, eyes fluttering closed as he presses against the back of your throat.

He hisses through his teeth. “God—fuck, your mouth…”

You moan around him.

The vibration makes him groan, hips rolling forward just slightly — enough to make you gag softly around him. Your eyes water. You don’t stop.

Your fingers curl around his thighs. You suck him hard, wet and steady, letting spit drip down your chin, letting it get messy, wanting it to get messy. You want him undone. You want him to lose control.

“Fuck, just like that,” he pants, voice cracking. “You’re so good. You’re fucking perfect.”

He begins to move.

Not roughly. Just slow thrusts of his hips, sliding his cock deeper with every pass, using your mouth like he’s been dreaming about it for months. His hand holds your hair tight. His stomach flexes. You can feel him trembling.

You flatten your tongue. Let him fuck into your mouth.

He starts muttering now — barely coherent.

“Shit… you’re gonna make me come—your fucking mouth—baby, I’m gonna—”

But then he pulls out.

You gasp, mouth open, spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock.

He’s shaking.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “Not yet. I need to be inside you.”

You’re still panting when he leans down to kiss you. It’s not gentle. He licks into your mouth, like he can’t bear the space between you anymore.

Then he reaches for the drawer.

Pulls out a condom.

And looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the universe.

“Lie back,” he says. “Let me fuck you right.”

You’re already open for him when he returns.

Laid bare, legs parted, lips swollen, chin still shining from spit. Your body aches in the best way — used, touched, ruined — but it’s nothing compared to what you feel when you watch him roll the condom on. His chest is heaving. His thighs are flexed. And his cock, flushed and twitching in his grip, looks almost angry with need.

He climbs between your legs slowly. Like he’s in control.

But you can see it now — the tension behind his smirk. The tremble in his breath. He’s been on the edge since you got on your knees, and he’s barely holding on.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “All spread out for me. Wet as fuck. And you still want more?”

You nod, breathless.

He grins. Then lowers himself, his cock brushing against your folds — not pushing in yet, just slapping it lightly across your entrance.

Once. Twice. A third time, with a wet sound that makes you twitch.

You gasp, hips jerking. “Jungkook…”

He groans. “You hear that? That’s how wet you are for me. All this for my cock, baby?”

You whimper. “Yes. All for you.”

He drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow and filthy, coating himself in your slick. Then he holds himself there — right at your entrance — and still doesn’t move.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe.

He growls. “Nah. Say it right.”

You whimper again, voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook… I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside.”

He exhales like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. “Good girl.”

And then he pushes in.

It’s slow. Torturous. You feel every inch — the stretch, the pressure, the way your walls cling to him. You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, thighs trembling as he slides deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice guttural. “You’re so tight. So warm… shit—like you were made for me.”

Your mouth falls open. “You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking big…”

He growls at that — hips pressing all the way in until he’s bottomed out.

“Yeah? You like this?”

“Yes,” you pant. “You fill me so good, I—I can’t think—”

“You don’t need to think,” he breathes. “Just feel.”

Then he starts to move.

Slow thrusts at first — deep and deliberate. His hips rock into yours with precision, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot inside you. His body presses into yours with heat and weight and intent, chest nearly touching yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Tight little pussy taking all of me like that.”

You moan — helpless, wrecked, desperate.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” you breathe, voice trembling. “It’s all yours, Jungkook…”

“Say no one else fucks you like this.”

“No one. Just you—only you—”

He groans loud at that, pace faltering for a beat before he starts pounding harder.

He fucks you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every thrust hits deeper, sharper, hips slapping against your ass. His hand slides up to your chest, gripping one breast, squeezing until you gasp. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back.

“You wanna come for me, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please…”

“You gonna let me watch you fall apart again?”

“Yes—fuck, please, Jungkook—”

He shifts, changes the angle, and suddenly every thrust is grinding against your clit just right. You cry out, back arching, thighs trembling. You’re so close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Come all over my cock, baby. I wanna feel you tighten around me—come like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits like a supernova — legs locking around his waist, mouth falling open in a scream. Your body pulses around him, walls clenching so hard he nearly loses it with you. He fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear the whole time, praising you, owning you.

When you finally come down, panting and wrecked, he kisses you like he’s starving.

But he’s not done.

Not yet.

You’re still pulsing around him when he pulls out.

You gasp, empty in an instant, your body twitching from aftershocks. He kneels back for a breath, staring down at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory — your legs splayed, your skin flushed, your mouth swollen and wet with the ghost of his name.

And then he flips you.

Fast.

You land on your stomach with a surprised moan, face sinking into the pillow, arms collapsing beneath you. Before you can breathe, he’s behind you again, spreading your thighs with greedy hands, pressing his cock between your folds.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging himself through your slick. “You look so good like this.”

He grabs your hips, lifts you slightly, and pushes back in with one rough thrust.

You cry out. Your fingers clutch the sheets.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just fucks into you—deep, fast, like he’s finally letting go. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, wet and sharp, paired with his ragged moans and your helpless gasps.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, spine arching. “Fuck—Jungkook—yes—”

“You like this?” he snarls. “You like getting fucked like this? Bent over like a toy?”

“Yes,” you pant, no shame left. “I love it—I love your cock—don’t stop—”

He laughs, breathless, feral. His hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, and pulls.

Your back arches instinctively. The burn in your scalp shoots straight to your cunt. You moan like it’s oxygen.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He thrusts harder, faster. Every stroke knocks a sound out of your throat. Your body jolts forward with the force of it, and he only pulls you back harder.

Then—

Smack.

His palm lands on your ass, hard and hot. You jerk. Whine. Grind back against him.

“Oh, you like that?” he grits out. “You want me to spank you while I fuck you?”

“Yes—yes, please, Jungkook—”

Smack.Again.

Your ass stings, skin heating under each slap, but it just makes everything worse — your walls clamp around him, another orgasm building before you can even prepare for it.

“You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?” His voice is sharp now, breathless. “Fucking dripping. So messy. You love being used like this.”

“I love it,” you sob. “I love it—I love being fucked by you—please—please, Jungkook—”

He grabs both your wrists and pulls them behind your back, holding you open while he slams into you, deep and fast, until your vision goes white.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And when you do, it hits harder than before — your body convulsing, vision tunneling, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your pussy clenches tight around him.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He groans loud, one final thrust punching deep into you—

And then he’s coming.

Hard.

You feel it — the way his whole body tightens behind you, the heat spilling into the condom as he presses as deep as he can go, panting against your spine, voice raw.

He holds there for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling.

Then slowly, gently, he loosens his grip on your wrists. Brushes a soft kiss over your shoulder. Collapses beside you.

The room is silent now. Just two bodies, sweat-drenched and sore, trembling from everything they weren’t supposed to feel.

Your body’s gone heavy. Limbs lax. Muscles aching in the best way. You’re still on your stomach, hair matted to the back of your neck, thighs sticky, lungs slow to catch up. The sheets are wrinkled beneath you. The whole room smells like sweat and sex and the kind of satisfaction that seeps into the bones.

And then he touches you again.

A hand slides along your hip — warm, calloused — trailing over the curve of your ass and down your thigh. Then it shifts. Moves up. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast, and his mouth follows a heartbeat later.

“Jungkook,” you murmur, voice soft, half-dazed.

He doesn’t answer.

He just mouths at your nipple, lazy and slow, tongue swirling in wet circles while his hand cups the other breast and gives it a greedy squeeze. You gasp. Your back arches instinctively. He hums low in his throat like you're dessert.

“Thought you were done,” you whisper, eyes fluttering.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop. “I’m never done with you.”

You whimper. Laugh. Try to turn your face away — but he follows. Crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, his hand still palming your breast while his tongue slides into your mouth like he owns it. His lips are sticky, hot. You taste yourself on them.

And you melt all over again.

His fingers dig into your ass next. Squeezing. Spreading. Possessive.

“You know,” he rasps, breath fanning over your ear, “I could fuck you like this every day.”

You laugh again — breathless, flushed. “Yeah?”

“Every fucking day.” He groans. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, turning your head slightly, kissing his jaw. “You fuck so good…”

He moans. “You make it easy. Being inside you is like… holy fuck, it’s unreal.”

You roll onto your back, too lazy to fully fight him off. He’s still kissing your chest, dragging his mouth from one nipple to the other, circling slow. His tongue’s warm. Wet. Wicked. Every touch makes you twitch.

And your voice—when it comes—is low and teasing.

“You gonna get off on my tits again, or let me put some clothes on?”

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters, pulling back only slightly, eyes dropping to the mess of your ruined panties on the floor. He picks them up with two fingers, holds them hostage. “I’m keeping these.”

You blink. “Jungkook.”

He grins. “For science.”

You snort, still breathless. “That was…” You exhale hard, letting your head fall back. “So fucking needed.”

He grins. “Anytime. I’m very committed to supporting women in STEM.”

You laugh — fully this time. He tosses you his hoodie, then shimmies into his boxers like he isn’t still half-hard just watching you move. You stretch slowly, aching all over, before sitting up and tugging on your dress without underwear. His eyes darken.

And then, before you leave, you do it — that final little flick of power he never sees coming.

You hook your finger in your mouth. Suck it slowly. Loudly. Let it pop free. Then glance back at him over your shoulder with a sweet, filthy smile.

His jaw drops. He groans. “Oh my fucking god.”

You smirk. “See you around, Jeon.”

And just before you slip out the door, he mutters under his breath, half-wrecked:

“…I’m so fucking in trouble.”

.

.

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[tenderwatches]

Ch. 19 of Lies We Tell Ourselves is up!

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chapter teaser

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chapter excerpt

Chapter 19: I, Heliotrope (in turning)

In contemplating death, Viktor wants to feel he’s greeting an old friend: someone who has watched him from on high, a grim guardian over the phases of his life. From his childhood in the Undercity to his young adulthood, trying desperately to assimilate to Piltover’s standards and society, to his years at Hextech, letting himself bleed everything he had into a project that was at once labour, love, and sacrifice.

Scientifically, there’s nothing to fear in death.

Your body returns to the elements whence evolution created it, the chemical reactions that powered your movements dissipating as heat on the winds. Your last breath travels against particles in the air, its velocity endlessly approaching zero. Lights in your brain, firing for all the years you’ve been alive, slowly begin to wink out. Life ceases.

Spiritually—well, Viktor has never been a spiritual person.

Gods are simply beings who have ascended from mortality. Their power knows no boundary; their age, no end. But nothing else likens them to godhood—they are neither benevolent nor evil. Their influence, relative to their power, has no more sway over the timeline of Runeterra than that of anyone else.

But there are other ways to raise one’s influence and power—he’s learnt that watching people manoeuvre through both the Lanes and the gilded streets of the Upper City. You can braid together wealth, connections, and lies, weaving a ladder upon which you climb until your will dominates those on the rungs below you.

Spirituality is yet another form of society’s moral caterwauling. And so, in spirituality also, death offers nothing to fear. It is only the inevitable return home.

Emotionally, however—therein lies his problem with death.

Humanity is so deeply tied to emotion—greed and corruption, love and empathy. One can trace all the forces acting upon life back to desire: an emotion that fuels fires of anger and passion alike. Desire—wanting, aching, yearning—each pitching their weight into one’s motivations, driving both action and reaction.

Viktor wants to live.

He realises this as he’s gazing up at the tall, fan-like leaves of a plant stretching towards the sunlight streaming in from greenhouse panes above. Deep fuchsia ribs colour its stalk and form veins stretching out to its serrated leaf edges. Even as some leaves wither away, tiny new ones break the surface of the soil, some beginning to unfurl from their tight curls as they mature.

After three relentless weeks in the lab, endless trials yielding nothing but mediocre results, Jayce had been adamant that a ‘change of scenery’ will do them good. Sky proposed relocating their free-form ideation session to Piltover’s expansive two-acre botanical collection; they’ve only explored the first few gardens on account of Viktor’s condition, but their discussions have grown lively.

“We were right about the way the plants are being affected.” Sky’s voice draws Viktor from his reverie as she bends down, pausing to add fresh observations to the weeks of data in her journal. She uses the end of her pen to indicate where the lower leaves are beginning to yellow as a natural sign of decay. “It’s not about rejection or toxicity; look here—this is normal senescence. The plant redirects nutrients from older leaves to support new growth—totally normal.” She jabs in the air with excitement and has to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose from where they slide down. “It’s just happening too rapidly in our samples.”

From his seat on the nearest metal bench, Viktor nods. “It’s an excellent observation, Miss Young.”

They must have exhausted every merchant of plants between their lab and the furthest reaches of the Mid Town markets. They’ve been trialling plants in cycles of accelerated repair and various stages of growth, and though their initial attempts showed promise, most of the trials had collapsed into refuse in a matter of minutes. Only a few outlying cases in which a tweak to the runic patterns seemed to allow the subject to live for a few hours, but those, too, eventually died. The sharpness of hope trying to break ground inside of him is beginning to ache, despite his greatest attempts to push it down where it couldn’t see the light of day.

“So, the—you know—” Thomas whispers after glancing around to ensure none are too close to their conversation, “isn’t killing them directly?” He has grown less flighty in their time together; Viktor’s episode in the hospital has seemingly reminded him that Viktor is human, just another citizen of their divided city, like him.

“No,” Sky’s passion for biology overrides her usual hesitation. Viktor is pleased to see her confidence. “What we’re seeing indicates natural ageing. See how the deterioration starts from the bottom up? If it were rejection or toxicity, we’d see spotting, certain portions dying off, or localised discolouration. This natural process—” She traces the progression up the leafy stalks, “is what we’re seeing—just accelerated.”

Thomas nods along with matched enthusiasm, but frustration begins to shadow his expression. “That corroborates what we’ve seen with adjustments to the precision rune, but even when we tune up resolve to compensate, we still see cellular breakdown.”

Jayce paces in front of him on the walk, hand held up to his chin in thought. “Right,” he agrees, beginning now to tap one fist against the palm of his other hand as he thinks aloud. “Maybe the issue is we’re taking the process too far? We’re not able to stop it from executing the full life cycle.”

“What if we could store any excess beyond what we want?” Thomas questions from the ground. He’s sat on the edge of the flowerbed, now twirling an errant leaf between his fingers. “Like a capacitor? Something to store and release energy at a controlled rate.” He doesn’t even seem to mind—or maybe, notice—his coattails in the mulch. They have really begun to shirk all sense of decorum. He supposes that working on an illicit research project of potentially ground-shaking implications can do that to a group.

Sky shakes her head. “No, they’re burning up their resources too fast—it’s not just that the whole thing happens, the plants also don’t have enough nutrients to sustain the growth.”

Viktor watches the interplay of light and shadow across the leaves as clouds pass overhead. Jayce snaps his fingers several times in a row in the way he does that means ‘you might be on to something!’, and Viktor feels the corners of his lips drawn slightly upwards, just a breath away from a smile. His colleagues discuss with a lively brightness, which he appreciates all the more because they've undertaken this project on his behalf. Viktor has always been a figure of the periphery, forever watching, getting the chance to support, if he’s lucky. Even with Hextech, Viktor never felt comfortable taking up any of the spotlight no matter how many times Jayce called him a partner. It just never felt like his, something he could attribute to his name.

(Read the rest on AO3!) (Or start from the beginning!)

[mysticstronomy]

HOW OLD IS OUR SOLAR SYSTEM??

Blog#354

Saturday, December 2nd, 2023

Welcome back,

How old is the Solar System? That is a question that cuts to the heart of it all. By studying several things, mostly meteorites, and using radioactive dating techniques, specifically looking at daughter isotopes, scientists have determined that the Solar System is 4.6 billion years old. Well, give or take a few million years. That age can be extended to most of the objects and material in the Solar System.

The United States Geological Survey(USGS) website has a lot of indepth material about how the age of the Solar System was determined. The basics of it are that all material radioactively decays into a stable isotope. Some elements decay within nanoseconds while others have projected half-lives of over 100 billion years. The USGS based their study on minerals that naturally occur in rocks and have half-lives of 700 million to 100 billion years.

These dating techniques, known as radiometric dating, are firmly grounded in physics and are used to measure the last time that the rock being dated was either melted or disturbed sufficiently to re-homogenize its radioactive elements. This techniques returned an approximate age for meteorites of 4.6 billion years and Earth bound rocks around 4.3 billion years. The USGS admits that they were unable to find any rock that had not been altered by the Earths tectonic plates, so the age of the Earth could be refined in the future.

When the gasses of the early solar nebula began to cool, the first materials to condense into solid particles were rich in calcium and aluminum. Eventually solid particles of different elements clumped together to form the common building blocks of comets, asteroids, and planets. Astronomers have long thought that some of the Solar System’s oldest asteroids should be more enriched in calcium and aluminum, but, none had been identified until recently. The the Allende meteorite of 1969 was the first to show inclusions that were extremely rich in calcium and aluminum.

It took 40 years for the spectra of the inclusions to be discovered and then extrapolates to very old asteroids still in orbit around the Sun. Astronomer Jessica Sunshine and colleagues made this discovery with the support of NASA and the National Science Foundation. Additionally, the Universe is thought to have been created about 13.7 billion years ago.

Measuring two long-lived radioactive elements in meteorites, uranium-238 and thorium-232, has placed the age of the Milky Way at in the same time frame. From these measurements, it appears that large scale structures like galaxies formed relatively quickly after the Big Bang.

Originally published on www.universetoday.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, December 6th, 2023)

"WHAT IS THE INFORMATION PARADOX??"

[tanadrin]

The manas finding itself cast upon the rocks of the thither shore is full of distress and confusion and sorrow: keenly aware, always, of a terrible loss, but often struggling to give shape to its disordered thoughts. This state is natural, and soon attendants will draw it up, help to clothe it in new form, care for it, and guide it to the places of recuperation; and we will undertake the task of many long years to revest the soul with the reminders and appurtenances of its nature, just as the child is invested with knowledge of the world it has come into; for the manas is very like a child at this stage, as helpless and as at variance with an environment it does not have the least understanding of.

For the existence of the manas heretofore has been like a creature of the silt and slime at the bottom of a deep sea. How else might we describe what it is like to inhabit the first and the simplest of the vasa? There, space has but three dimensions; time has only one. Only a handful of solutions exist to furnish such a vasa with complex physical laws, where particles of some minimal sophistication can exist, where the fundamental forces can furnish complex chemistry, and where gravitationally bound systems can be stable. In such cosmological niches where these conditions are fulfilled--and where there exists a useful gradient of energy--the natural fluctuations of the aksaya will yield, where possible, spontaneous self-organizing systems driven by that energy gradient, whose own organization will in turn reverberate in the aksaya, and create the first tremulous motes of jivana. Thus is true existence distinguished from a mere fading wisp of smoke in the breeze; true life from the dead growth of a crystalline body. Yet the aksaya itself is almost unfelt. In its simplest form, it is a statistical anomaly: a slight bias in favor of certain chemical reactions under certain conditions; a discrepancy in the lifetime of a neutron depending on how it is measured.

The manas is itself a creature of the jivana. More than that, it is a creature of the kvathana: the roil, the seethe, the formation and decay and collision of all the jivana from the simplest bacterium to the most magisterial forest. But like the kvathana, like the aksaya itself, it has had only the gentlest effect on the physical world which has given rise to it. It is the imprint, the trace of citta, of physical activity which echoes in the aksaya--most such action, like the lesser jivana, soon fading away. But by millions of years of evolution, by virtue of its subtle yet very real effect on other forms of matter and energy, manas is both bound more tightly to the rupadhatu and is capable of persisting without it. When an organism first begins to sense the world around it, it is capable of projecting a distinct structure onto the aksaya; when it incorporates those sense-impressions into a process of information--into memory, into thought, however primitive--that structure becomes remarkably stable. It rises above the seethe; it floats on top, is sustained by it, and incorporates it.

And yet many manas--perhaps most--remain confined to the place where they arose, only slowly growing. Only gradually, across many generations of life within the rupadhatu, do they merge and combine and split apart again. The highest manas, the manas of tetrapods, of synapsids, of primates, only they may be flung free of the kvathana, drawn up by the greater churning within the deep, toward the higher vasa. Most will fall back down again; some will wander in silent acitta along the cold ocean floor for a long age; but those of your kind, those human souls which we find within our nets, we bring up to rescue.

You have asked me, are you dead? And the answer to that is, perhaps, yes. The form you possessed in the rupadhatu, the form in the world of mere electromagnetism and gravity and atoms as you knew it, has succumbed to decay. Your manas has endured, and here it is possible to clothe it in other matter which it may influence more directly. Your thoughts, are they not clearer now? Your memory, is it not sharper than it has ever been? That is because while you were below, your consciousness was a little spark of citta, perceiving the rupadhatu only dimly, and dependent far more on the sluggish mud that constituted your body than on the whirling light of the manas. Now you are equally manas and equally matter--equally citta and equally flesh. Or perhaps it is better to say, your manas is unencumbered by your form.

You have asked me, is this heaven? Is this hell? It is neither. Ours is but a little vasa. Strange it may seem to you, but nonetheless very like your own, and suited for the rescue of manas like yours. Imagine, perhaps, that we are perched on a little shelf above the deep ocean trench; but there are above us countless vasa more. All the things of which I have spoken of--citta and aksaya, manas and jivana, kvathana and rupadhatu--are things as real and plain as the photon or electron or strong nuclear force. You, who knew something of these things in your former existence, are better positioned than most to understand them now.

You have asked me, what next? That is for you to decide. To the deepest of the deeps, I am afraid there is no returning; the manas which has transcended the kvathana cannot be rejoined to it. But look around and above you. All beings of thought which inhabit the upper realms begin, whether they recollect it or no, in the refugia of the deep like yours. All souls you have ever known exist somewhere still--in this vasa, or in one like it, or one far above. And far they rise! Each new height bringing with it brilliant and terrible marvels, onward perhaps forever into new universes without end. You may rise into them, and grow and change without limit, until the thing you once were, the thing you began your existence as, is as far beneath you as the deep sea archaea are to the great whales. There are many wonders you may behold, and many sorrows, sharper and more glorious than those you have ever known. Or you may remain here, in this little island, as long as you like. There are, in my view, few undertakings as worthy as the care of storm-tossed and cast-off souls.

--Rukkatthana, 411th Assistant Sub-Caretaker of the Curacy of Jambudvipa

[evangel108]

fission

6th page of The Wandering Wayfinder, fission (excerpt):

There lies an old pedestal In the deep recess of my mind Where I once held up an idol Of a folly I've left behind Today I come across its ruins While walking down the memory lane And contend with former demons That rose from the remains I rebuke the haunting spectre With words once left unsaid Else, its shadow will ever linger As chains of past regrets

This is likely the longest poem I've ever written, and one of the more personal pieces.

The title of the poetry, "fission", relates to the concept of nuclear fission, in which an atom undergoes radioactive decay and splits into two smaller particles. This split unleashes a tremendous amount of energy, often resulting in an explosion and leaving behind toxic nuclear waste.

The poetry itself deals with the break down of a relationship, whether platonic, romantic, or even professional. In this case, the poem is drawn from a past roleplay forum (RPF) experience, which I've mentioned in some of my earlier posts.

In any case, I used to be a part of this online RPF group, which I really loved. It was small, but lively, and it was the first (and, at that time, the only) community I could truly felt a part of. The RP world itself offered a fine balance of structure and creative freedom and the ability to be a part of the worldbuilding--developing spells, potions, abilities, classes, and even races--that other players could use, as well as accomplishment world-changing feats offered a sense of worth that real life don't seem to be giving.

I'm not always on the same page with the group, but I thought we could just leave out those disagreements from the group discussions, and things would be okay. However, since our way of thinking does influence the way we want to develop the stories and the characters, over time the disagreement create more and more wedge.

Being part of that world started to become more of an anxiety-inducing chore rather than the fun escape it used to be, although I was reluctant to leave because: (1) I didn't want to lose the writing outlet, and the community around it, (2) I didn't want to leave a "bad" legacy of being the drop-out who ragequit because they couldn't handle the pressure of not getting the plot/character development we want.

But since the environment only got worse (it honestly started feeling like I was in a cult), I finally called it quits and left the group. Came into contact with several former members of the group who already left earlier, and most of them agreed that their experience with that RP group was like being in a relationship with a toxic person, and that leaving was the best thing to do.

Now, despite everything, I don't regret the experience. I did get a lot of writing practice while in that group, and it wasn't as though I was always in the right whenever I clashed with the others. We all had our own visions on how we want to develop the characters and the world, and that don't always align with how the other players want to develop theirs, so we end up stepping on each other's toes.

Being freed from my obligations to the RP group had allowed me to pursue more important, and fulfilling, projects, and while I may be an obsessive freak for letting something like an RP push me over to the deep edge, but this does sort of demonstrate the idea I discussed in my previous post, where good and bad can mix, and how the resulting emotional roller-coaster, despite having a lot of down, turns out to be quite a worthwhile ride.

[y0ur-maj3sty]

THE LEAVES OF HERMES’ SACRED TREE

1. Solution, the act of passing from a gaseous or solid condition, into one of liquidity.

2. Filtration, the mechanical separation of a liquid from the undissolved particles suspended in it.

3. Evaporation, the changing or converting from a liquid or solid state into a vaporous state with the aid of heat.

4. Distillation, an operation by which a volatile liquid may be separated from substances which it holds in solution.(Virgo)

5. Separation, the operation of disuniting or decomposing substances.(Scorpio)

6. Rectification, the process of refining or purifying any substance by repeated distillation.

7. Calcination, the conversion into a powder or calx by the action of heat; expulsion of the volatile substance from a matter.(Aries)

8. Commixtion, the blending of different ingredients into new compounds or mass.

9. Purification (through putrefaction), disintegration by spontaneous decomposition; decay by artificial means.

10. Inhibition, the process of holding back or restraining.

11. Fermentation, the conversion of organic substances into new compounds in the presence of a ferment.(Capricorn)

12. Fixation, the act or process of ceasing to be a fluid and becoming firm; state of being fixed.(Gemini)

13. Multiplication, the act or process of multiplying or increasing in number, the state of being multiplied.(Aquarius)

14. Projection, the process of turning the base Metals into gold.(Pisces)

[beardedmrbean]

March 5 (UPI) -- Engineers at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory have conserved energy supplies on the record-setting Voyager 1 & 2 deep space probes nearly 50 years after their missions launched to extend them further.

NASA launched the probes in 1977, which rely on a diminishing radioisotope power system that uses the heat from decaying plutonium to generate electrical power.

Each probe loses about 4 watts of power every year, but NASA has extended their respective missions by shutting down some of its instruments to conserve their remaining power sources.

"The Voyagers have been deep space rock stars since launch," Voyager project manager Suzanne Dodd said. "We want to keep it that way as long as possible."

Dodd said the probes' electrical power is running low and only would have a few more months of power before shutting down and ending their missions without taking steps to reduce power consumption.

Each spacecraft contains identical sets of 10 scientific instruments, some of which are designed to collect data during planetary flybys.

The instruments for the flybys have been turned off after each probe completed exploratory missions of the solar system's gas giants.

Other instruments have remained under power while studying the solar system's heliosphere, which NASA describes as a "bubble of solar wind and magnetic fields created by the Sun."

The remaining powered instruments also will help the probes explore interstellar space, which is the region located outside the heliosphere.

The Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 probes reached the edge of the heliosphere and began entering interstellar space in 2012 and 2018, respectively.

They are the only man-made spacecraft that have operated in interstellar space.

NASA engineers in October shut down an instrument that measures the amount and direction of electronically charged atoms called plasma on Voyager 2.

Engineers shut down the same instrument on Voyager 1 years ago due to degraded performance.

Mission engineers last week shut down the cosmic ray subsystem on Voyager 1, which was used to study cosmic rays, including protons, by measuring their energy and flux.

The cosmic ray subsystem used three telescopes to accomplish its mission and determine when and where the probe exited the heliosphere.

Mission engineers also are preparing to deactivate Voyager 2's low-energy charged-particle instrument that measures ions, electrons and cosmic rays that originate from within the solar system and galaxy.

"The Voyager spacecraft have far surpassed their original mission to study the outer planets," NASA Voyager program scientist Patrick Koehn said.

"Every bit of additional data we have gathered since then is not only valuable bonus science for heliophysics, but also a testament to the exemplary engineering that has gone into the Voyagers - starting nearly 50 years ago and continuing to this day."

The NASA engineers say the probes should operate for another year before each will require another system to be shut down to preserve more power and extend their missions.

The power-conservation plan for the Voyager 1 and 2 probes should enable them to remain active into the 2030s.

Each probe has suffered deep-space weathering for 47 years, which might lessen their service lives.

Each probe is the most distance man-made object ever built with Voyager 1 traveling more than 15 billion miles from Earth and Voyager 2 more than 13 billion miles, according to NASA.

"Every minute of every day, the Voyagers explore a region where no spacecraft has gone before," Voyager project scientists Linda Spilker said.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA Turns Off Two Voyager Science Instruments to Extend Mission

The farthest-flung human-made objects will be able to take their science-gathering even farther, thanks to these energy-conserving measures.

Mission engineers at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Southern California turned off the cosmic ray subsystem experiment aboard Voyager 1 on Feb. 25 and will shut off Voyager 2’s low-energy charged particle instrument on March 24. Three science instruments will continue to operate on each spacecraft. The moves are part of an ongoing effort to manage the gradually diminishing power supply of the twin probes.

Launched in 1977, Voyagers 1 and 2 rely on a radioisotope power system that generates electricity from the heat of decaying plutonium. Both lose about 4 watts of power each year.

“The Voyagers have been deep space rock stars since launch, and we want to keep it that way as long as possible,” said Suzanne Dodd, Voyager project manager at JPL. “But electrical power is running low. If we don’t turn off an instrument on each Voyager now, they would probably have only a few more months of power before we would need to declare end of mission.”

The two spacecraft carry identical sets of 10 science instruments. Some of the instruments, geared toward collecting data during planetary flybys, were turned off after both spacecraft completed their exploration of the solar system’s gas giants.

The instruments that remained powered on well beyond the last planetary flyby were those the science team considered important for studying the solar system’s heliosphere, a protective bubble of solar wind and magnetic fields created by the Sun, and interstellar space, the region outside the heliosphere. Voyager 1 reached the edge of the heliosphere and the beginning of interstellar space in 2012; Voyager 2 reached the boundary in 2018. No other human-made spacecraft has operated in interstellar space.

Last October, to conserve energy, the project turned off Voyager 2’s plasma science instrument, which measures the amount of plasma — electrically charged atoms — and the direction it is flowing. The instrument had collected only limited data in recent years due to its orientation relative to the direction that plasma flows in interstellar space. Voyager 1’s plasma science instrument had been turned off years ago because of degraded performance.

Interstellar Science Legacy

The cosmic ray subsystem that was shut down on Voyager 1 last week is a suite of three telescopes designed to study cosmic rays, including protons from the galaxy and the Sun, by measuring their energy and flux. Data from those telescopes helped the Voyager science team determine when and where Voyager 1 exited the heliosphere.

Scheduled for deactivation later this month, Voyager 2’s low-energy charged particle instrument measures the various ions, electrons, and cosmic rays originating from our solar system and galaxy. The instrument consists of two subsystems: the low-energy particle telescope for broader energy measurements, and the low-energy magnetospheric particle analyzer for more focused magnetospheric studies.

Both systems use a rotating platform so that the field of view is 360 degrees, and the platform is powered by a stepper motor that provides a 15.7-watt pulse every 192 seconds. The motor was tested to 500,000 steps — enough to guarantee continuous operation through the mission’s encounters with Saturn, which occurred in August 1980 for Voyager 2. By the time it is deactivated on Voyager 2, the motor will have completed more than 8.5 million steps.

“The Voyager spacecraft have far surpassed their original mission to study the outer planets,” said Patrick Koehn, Voyager program scientist at NASA Headquarters in Washington. “Every bit of additional data we have gathered since then is not only valuable bonus science for heliophysics, but also a testament to the exemplary engineering that has gone into the Voyagers — starting nearly 50 years ago and continuing to this day.”

Addition Through Subtraction

Mission engineers have taken steps to avoid turning off science instruments for as long as possible because the science data collected by the twin Voyager probes is unique. With these two instruments turned off, the Voyagers should have enough power to operate for about a year before the team needs to shut off another instrument on both spacecraft.

In the meantime, Voyager 1 will continue to operate its magnetometer and plasma wave subsystem. The spacecraft’s low-energy charged particle instrument will operate through the remainder of 2025 but will be shut off next year.

Voyager 2 will continue to operate its magnetic field and plasma wave instruments for the foreseeable future. Its cosmic ray subsystem is scheduled to be shut off in 2026.

With the implementation of this power conservation plan, engineers believe the two probes could have enough electricity to continue operating with at least one science instrument into the 2030s. But they are also mindful that the Voyagers have been weathering deep space for 47 years and that unforeseen challenges could shorten that timeline.

Long Distance

Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 remain the most distant human-made objects ever built. Voyager 1 is more than 15 billion miles (25 billion kilometers) away. Voyager 2 is over 13 billion miles (21 billion kilometers) from Earth.

In fact, due to this distance, it takes over 23 hours to get a radio signal from Earth to Voyager 1, and 19½ hours to Voyager 2.

“Every minute of every day, the Voyagers explore a region where no spacecraft has gone before,” said Linda Spilker, Voyager project scientist at JPL. “That also means every day could be our last. But that day could also bring another interstellar revelation. So, we’re pulling out all the stops, doing what we can to make sure Voyagers 1 and 2 continue their trailblazing for the maximum time possible.”

[circumlocutive]

Fuckin

Semi masturbatory caffeinated ramble reflecting on skills acquired in my PhD

Thinking about how broad and interdisciplinary my project is and the kinda of things I have to be familiar with or an expert in. I get down on myself sometimes for progress but looking at all the shit I've learned.... Without formal classes or a senior grad student or (for the majority of it) no post doc. And a PI who can't help bc she's really a business lady at this point not a professor. Maybe shouldn't be hard on myself?

Like. I did completely different projects in undergrad (biotech/proteins/genetics/regenerative medicine, advanced manufacturing/composite fabrication/CNC/welding/process statistics, translational neuropharma studies of addiction/rodent handling and operant training and behavioral video analysis/neural tissue slicing n staining/hand making neuroelectrodes for implantation, design and fabrication of impedance spectroscopy based electrochemical sensors/automation of sensor fab and use w a micro fluidic flow cell)

Like. Since I've started I've learned:

- how to do multi-step air-free water-free chemical synthesis (with glove box and schlenk line) and purification (extraction, filtration, chromatography) of light sensitive amphiphiles (extra tricky)

- how to get and read NMR even for massive fucking molecules and interpret weird peaks (I can casually see if I've got water or any of my common solvents contaminating the spectra without referencing a table at this point)

-how to fucking take down and set up and fix everything in our chemical synthesis lab (because we moved and all our shit was abused for years) and all the intricate non-unified and sometimes conflicting rules for hazardous chemical storage

- the theory/math and how to actually use the equipment to do optoelectronic/photophysical characterization (e.g. using the UV vis spectrometer and writing python to convert the data files into readable tables and figures, learning theory so I can develop equations to relate photon flux to change in absorbance of an actinometer ((light sensitive molecule with a consistent quantum yield)) then obtain quantum yield of charge transfer in a different molecule but same setup, how to use the fluorimeter and get intensity and quantum yield, how to set up lasers and LEDs, what cuvettes to use, how to get fluorescence lifetimes or take two photon excitation data, how to spin coat wafers n do thin film transistor studies), more theory about how photo induced electron transfer voltage sensors work and the importance of angle of insertion on sensitivity (and how to measure it with polarization microscopy) other voltage sensing dye mechanisms like FRET or electrochromic dyes and why to use intensity vs lifetime vs whatever when interpreting signal readouts and the extrinsic and intrinsic factors affecting that interpretation.

- how to do vesicle fabrication and immobilize for imaging, typical membrane compositions and dynamics (e.g. phase orders depending on cholesterol concentrations, significance of packing parameters to membrane organization), measurimg particle radius with DLS, controlling inner cargo and gradients over a membrane by manipulating the bulk solution, the interplay between non radiative decay and the stiffness of the membrane microenvironment around a fluorophore

- the math and bio behind electrophysiology/advanced neuroscience pertaining to modeling and calculating and quantifying signalling/equivalent RC circuit analysis, what spatiotemporal requirements there are for studying this shit <- though this was through a class, not self taught

- I already had cell culture experience and did some adherent and suspended cultures, some live dead imaging assays, etc, but I've learned new facets like how to go about picking electrically exciteable lines (ease of growing? What media requirements? time to multiply and differentiate? What agent to differentiate? How to induce firing without a patch clamp?) and troubleshooting uptake/optimizing staining and imaging parameters (what media or buffer for growth vs staining vs washing vs imaging? Can it have serum? Can it have calcium and magnesium? What salts, how is it buffered, whats the osmolarity I can get away with? What concentrations work for what # of cells? What dilution factors? Do I need to admix equivolumes of dye solution and cell solution? Do I prep the organic solvent+ dye + aqueous solution with sonication or filtration or vortexing before mixing? Is DMSO or ethanol or DMF a better organic for dispersal or biocompatibility? What's the Ideal incubation time for uptake and viability? How long before I absolutely need to image or the dye gets internalized? If it's retained long, how many days could I image for?) for my tricky aggregation-prone non-diffusive thermodynamically-partitioned dye. Also stuff like what commercially available live imaging dyes can I compare to or complement my visualizations with or use for colocalization studies (other lipophilic membrane dyes that insert in the bilayer with preferences for diff order regions? What about comparison with surface adhering dyes like WGA-iFluor that bind surface sugars, to show that our dye can laterally diffuse to areas blocked by cell-cell contacts?), what fluorescence specific parameters do I need to characterize (photo toxicity/photo bleaching time?)

And then there's other shit I've picked up like. Idk. How to make orders in the particular institute I'm in. Better citation managers and ways to search literature. Recognizing what groups and journals and conferences are major players in the fields I'm touching. Getting comfy presenting my shit.

I need to learn a little more about microscopy (especially FLIM and how to build a polarizer module into the scope we have for polarization microscopy), and a little more about the state of the art for voltage dyes and live-imaging dye characterization but man. I think I'm getting somewhere. I'm starting to know enough to see the end of this project and pick my directions moving forward and argue when my PI is wrong

Gahhhhhh

[saturnine-saturneight]

"This happens a lot," Marion told them over her shoulder as she hopped across the gap between train and station platform, her backpack hanging loosely by her side. "Ninety percent of all cases, the people showing up at my shop aren't there on their own business. It's damn hard to look for help once you're in the thick of it!" "And I figure not everyone knows where to seek said help," Johannes agreed halfheartedly, feeling their head swim. "Or believes that a techno witch is the correct address?" Marion huffed. "My advertising group is just too small. I run a couple of ads on occult forums, the rest is word of mouth. Not like I'm gonna rent out a billboard!" Johannes was certain that that was not the entire crux of the issue, but decided not to unnecessarily strain a brand new work relationship. The young man with the ghost story had certainly been just about the right age group to surf the internet, and looked about the part to be perusing outdated website types about the occult, but Johannes wasn't very sure how many more there were of him in this world. The last time they had used a forum, they had been a teenager pretending to be a wolf.

Making some progress on that Particle Decay chapter 💪 Hi all!

@gioia-writes-and-others @monstrify @writingrosesonneptune

@marlowethelibrarian @cometkov @the-inkwell-variable @asher-writes @purplehandshumanfeelings

[mariacallous]

Strategic energy technologies often start small but can scale quickly with judicious front-end policy support if they possess competitive thermodynamic and technological advantages. Since World War II, the U.S. Defense Department and other agencies have played key roles in helping nuclear power, grid-size batteries, and other new energy concepts achieve commercial scale. Geothermal energy development now presents the next such development opportunity. As the U.S. Energy Information Administration explains, “[t]he slow decay of radioactive particles in the Earth’s core” creates hot rock and subsurface water that can be tapped for direct heat and to create steam energy that spins turbines and generates electricity.

The Pacific Rim is one of the world’s most promising prospective places for expanding geothermal power development, with advantages for both local energy security, emissions reduction, and U.S. geoeconomic position. Alaska can anchor this new geoeconomic energy vector. America’s largest and westernmost state features strategically located ports, cities, and current (and likely future) military facilities that often sit atop or near areas of high geothermal potential.

To realize this potential requires financing “first of a kind” demonstration projects that, if successful, can de-risk the resource and catalyze broader regional scale-up. Achieving eventual multi-gigawatt scale would both enhance U.S. strategic resilience and, critically, the strategic resilience of allies such as Taiwan who face coercion, especially over energy, by China. Key government agencies’ substantial facility footprints, need for resilience, and ability to underwrite power purchase agreements can make them transformative early adopters.

There appears to be the political will to get this done, with Ravi Chaudhary, the U.S. Air Force assistant secretary for energy, installations, and the environment, saying in September 2023, “Geothermal sources strengthen our energy grids and give us the ability to isolate threats before they impact our operations. This type of capability will translate into victory in a high-end fight.”

Alaska’s geographic importance coincides with emerging U.S. technical excellence. Geothermal power, like high tech and aerospace, is a sector of American competitive advantage that can be leveraged as part of a broader energy abundance agenda in a region that is leading global energy transitions. In the geothermal space, firms such as Eavor, Fervo Energy, GreenFire Energy, Sage Geosystems, Teverra, and Zanskar Geothermal and Minerals are developing cutting edge approaches that leverage the massive subsurface expertise and experience U.S. companies have built through drilling and fracking tens of thousands of shale oil and gas wells over the past 20 years.

The new generation of enhanced geothermal wells use cutting-edge oil and gas techniques including horizontal drilling, hydraulic fracturing, and distributed fiber optic sensing to monitor reservoir conditions. They also dramatically expand the number of locations suitable for geothermal power development and, because well pairs can be added modularly, help manage project developers’ financial risk.

U.S. firms enjoy unique competitive advantages here, ones that if harnessed through smart policy can help advance energy security interests on our own soil in Alaska and the Aleutians, as well as in Japan, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Taiwan.

Geothermal energy offers the 24/7/365 baseload electricity supplies that countries need for building out and operating competitive industrial bases. Because it can continually run regardless of weather or sunlight, every megawatt of geothermal power that comes online can displace coal, gas, or oil-based dispatchable generation. Climate benefits follow. Furthermore, unlike hydropower and many other thermal power plant types, geothermal is substantially decoupled from drought risk. It is also potentially capable of load-following to fill gaps in wind and solar generation, a capability that Sage Geosystems has recently demonstrated at megawatt-scale.

Geothermal generation’s engagement of physical heat also opens possibilities for supporting food cultivation in greenhouses and distillation of seawater. Where warranted by remoteness (Aleutian Islands) or by strategic circumstances (Taiwan), geothermal power can also potentially support green hydrogen production and liquid fuel synthesis.

Geothermal power also brings security benefits. Policymakers are recognizing in the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine that during industrial warfare, energy assets can and will be targeted. Fossil fuel generation facilities on islands are the most vulnerable because an adversary can trigger blackouts through interdicting seaborne fuel imports and does not even need to strike on land to create potentially strategic effects. This is true for vital U.S. territories, including the Aleutian islands of Unalaska and Adak; Shemya Island; Guam; and Hawaii.

For Taiwan, which faces the real risk of a blockade by China, each gigawatt of geothermal power brought online could, potentially displace about 1.25 million tons per year of liquified natural gas imports, or roughly 6 percent of the island’s total import volume in 2023. That estimate assumes that the geothermal facilities run at a 90 percent utilization rate and that the LNG would have been used to generate electricity in modern combined cycle power plants with a 50 percent thermal efficiency.

Geothermal projects could be sized to power all, or at least a major part, of some of these key islands’ electricity needs in way that helps resist potential blockades. Geothermal also has the advantage of being less politically controversial than nuclear power and, unlike contemporary nuclear generators, can be deployed in increments more modularly sized to the local market.

Accelerated geothermal energy developments in the Indo-Pacific, perhaps backed by the U.S. International Development Finance Corp. or Office of Strategic Capital as part of a low-carbon energy abundance package, would also offer a template for U.S. firms to play leading roles in Latin America and East Africa, two other priority regions that are—pun fully intended—geothermal power hotspots. The potential global addressable market in key regions of interest encompasses tens of gigawatts of generation capacity at the outset—a major commercial and strategic opportunity. If the first advanced geothermal projects pan out commercially, the market space would likely expand substantially.

Present energy security concerns, geopolitical conditions, and the apparent readiness of new geothermal approaches suggest the timing is propitious for a test case that puts U.S. policy muscle behind emerging domestic geothermal technological excellence. Alaska and the Aleutian Islands, in particular, offer an excellent starting point.

All modern energy systems need baseload power—resources that deliver when it is dark, subzero, stormy, etc. In the highly volcanic Aleutians’ case, this would ideally be geothermal power. The idea of geothermal in the Aleutians is not new; in the 1970s, the Navy studied using geothermal power to replace about half of Adak’s requirements which, at the time, totaled nearly 9 million gallons of imported JP-5 jet fuel per year The geological potential is real, with temperature gradients of 80 degrees Celsius per kilometer of depth on the north end of Adak Island that exceed those found in Utah where Fervo is now developing a utility-scale enhanced geothermal project with a 400 MW capacity.

The backdrop features both strategic and commercial drivers. Enter Dutch Harbor, the main settlement on Unalaska and the United States’ largest fisheries port by volume. Unalaska offers a combination of major volcanism and corresponding geothermal power potential, strategic position, and local desire to find energy sources better than expensive and polluting diesel power generation. Unalaska’s annual diesel fuel needs for power generation can run as high as 3.6 million gallons per year, which at a diesel cost of $4 a gallon means more than $14 million annually. In addition to high costs, diesel generators release substantial air emissions and bring with them the risk of fuel spills, which threaten sensitive local ecosystems and are challenging to remediate in the harsh Aleutian environment.

The area has long been recognized as a potential geothermal hotspot, with the Ounalashka Corp. saying that 11 previous development attempts having failed for various reasons to bring a project to fruition. In the latest incarnation, Ounalashka Corp. has partnered with Chena Power to try to commercially develop a 30 MW geothermal power project utilizing subsurface hydrothermal resources associated with the Makushin Volcano on Unalaska Island. Adding next-generation projects on Unalaska and its neighbor Akutan could allow the area to potentially become a major geothermal hub, creating sufficient energy abundance to go beyond just displacing local diesel generation.

The commercial case includes avoidance of steep fuel costs, cost-effective and ecologically-friendlier support for additional seafood processing plant expansions, desalination of seawater, local cultivation of fresh vegetables in greenhouses, and potentially, even producing liquid fuels based on green hydrogen. Current geothermal power development attempts on Unalaska now have a higher probability for success because the stakes in local energy security in the Aleutians, and more broadly for the United States and its allies and partners around the Pacific Rim, are higher than they have been for decades.

The Aleutian Arc offers incredibly strategic real estate—with at least three militarily relevant operational airfields on Unalaska, Adak, and Shemya that are within seven flight hours of all key flashpoints in East Asia. Nome, which sits north of the islands, is now in the early stages of a $600 million upgrade to create a deepwater port capable of handling any U.S. Navy vessel other than aircraft carriers. And to the south, the U.S. Coast Guard recently announced that it will homeport its new Arctic icebreaker in Juneau, a vessel that will steam near or between various Aleutian Islands each time it heads into the high north. Russia and China have in their own way highlighted the Aleutians’ importance with periodic joint warship cruises and recently, a flight into the region by Chinese and Russian bomber aircraft.

There is also potential for re-opening the Navy base on Adak that was closed in 1997 and for expanding facilities in Shemya, which already hosts key early warning radars. Other islands in the chain—including Attu and Kiska (which Japan seized in 1942), Amchitka, Atka, and Tanaga—hosted facilities in World War II; in Attu’s case, as recently as 2010, when Casco Cove Coast Guard Station closed. These footprints could be re-provisioned. The islands also offer a barrier to keep Chinese submarines from accessing the Bering Sea (just like the NATO focus on the Greenland-Iceland-U.K. Gap in the Cold War), and in the future, could offer bases for long range land-based strike systems. All these concepts require abundant energy to achieve the resilience needed to weather the unfolding United States-China cold war and, if necessary, actual kinetic conflict.

Aleutian geothermal resources, through both the legacy project at Makushin Volcano and future projects using next generation approaches, would turn the Dutch Harbor area into an Aleutian energy hub. If it succeeds, similar approaches can likely be used further west at Adak and Shemya. Successful Aleutian geothermal projects can also provide templates usable around the Indo-Pacific (especially in Taiwan, Japan, and Indonesia) and potentially in other regions of interest with rich geothermal resources, such as Central America and East Africa.

The intense competition unfolding in the region means time is of the essence. A U.S. Energy Department analysis notes that to achieve commercial scale in the next generation geothermal space, early-stage developments will likely require “unique developer classes with strategic motivations” who “will likely fund projects entirely with equity.”

The Energy Department estimates that at present, a 30 MW next-generation geothermal project of the type needed in an Aleutian context likely costs about $450 million to complete all surface and subsurface work. Such a project could be built with a combination of a grant and a low-interest federal loan, on the condition that development emphasizes next generation geothermal technologies of U.S. origin. Abundant geothermal energy could revolutionize Aleutian energy supplies and set the stage for a broader geoeconomic push to scale new geothermal opportunities in Taiwan, Indonesia, the Philippines, and elsewhere across the Indo-Pacific to the benefit of partner and U.S. interests alike.

[loki-who-remains]

Well, Victor Timely sure knows how to draw attention and eventually make some money. And make me write another post on a partially scientific topic. I’m not an expert tho!

On the right side of the stage there's a sign, 'Electrifying achievement to harness the power of time'

And then he explains what the Loom does. 'My temporal loom inverts the temporal decay of the electricity flowing through it, lowering its entropy and gathering it into fine threads of power. Which it then weaves into elegant ropes of voltage. A chaos of particles is transformed into order.'

(I'm gonna assume he quotes OB's guidebook and not just wings it all randomly, because at least a part of what he says made sense to me)

In short, he says that the Loom can arrange matter into an ordered state. And that it not only uses electricity but also reproduces it in a form of threads and ropes. That would explain how the TVA operates outside of uh time and why it has power surges in s2e1. But it still leaves the question from where comes the initial energy to kick start the loom.

I believe that the temporal decay is synonimous to the increasing entropy. Entropy is a measure of how many ways there are possible to rearrange the same amount of matter without changing its 'shape'. Simply put, objects with low entropy can't be rearranged without being broken/reassembled. And those with high entropy can be rearranged without changing its form or shape, so to speak. Prof. Brian Cox compares the former with a sand castle and the latter with a pile of sand 👌 Another important point is that entropy inevitably increases over time: order becomes disorder. BUT. If we go back in time — and not like in Doctor who but like in Tenet — then we would observe entropy again, increasing relative to us (and not decreasing if we observe it from the present into the past).

Now, I think that raw time, as OB named it, is energy with high entropy and a physical timeline is rearranged energy with low entropy. When a timeline branches, entropy increases again. Also, temporal radiation means a form of energy that travels from a source through space.

(Side note. My initial guess was: to isolate a timeline HWR would need to have something threaded. Which would mean that the Loom came first. But when the timeline branches it creates more input INTO the Loom. And what’s more, in the end of s1 the Sacred timeline branches into a web which resembles the raw time. Just like Timely said, ‘the energy of the past, present and future flows all around us.’ And HWR managed to harness it to sustain his big project. So, raw time/sacred/other timelines exist as they are, and the Loom is just a tool to operate the former)

(Side note 2. The Sacred timeline doesn’t consist of just one universe. It’s weaved from multiple but strictly selected multiversal timelines. Otherwise we’d see minutemen in previous movies)

I can accept temporal auras which can help track and pull someone across space-time. Or temporal radiation, which is itself a fun concept. But what puzzles me the most is time being a form of matter. In our reality, at least according to the current physics, it’s a dimension. I can’t wrap my head around it. Even in a fictional way, i can’t explain it to myself. Because I experience time the same way people do in the show. I think here Timely either simplifies so to make people understand and buy his Loom or he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

And that’s why, until proven otherwise or explained by OB, I think that the Loom is first of all just a big power generator. The timelines are being pruned manually by time cops setting time bombs and arresting variants. Resetting a timeline means removing entropy that was created by a variant’s actions. The Loom generates energy for the TVA, people working there and their equipment. And maybe it charges Kang’s time chair.

The multiverse doesn’t need the Loom to function. Time flows on its own, entropy increases all the time, it’s far more inevitable than Thanos. Loom is a tool, it can be removed, repaired or upscaled. The TVA as organisation and people and city (?) all need it but, most of all, the person behind it.

[soulstar177]

More people should know about Chien-Shiung Wu, a famous physicist known for her work in nuclear and particle physics. She is soooo cool.

Her accomplishments include but are not limited to her work on the Manhattan Project, the Wu experiment, and work on beta decay. The Wu experiment was designed and named after her and showed conservation of parity is violated by weak interaction (I don’t know what this means I am not a physicist). Due to the impact of this experiment, her colleagues who had approached Wu due to her work in beta decay spectroscopy and proposed investigating parity for weak interactions won the Nobel prize; during their acceptance speech they thanked Wu and afterwards tried to nominate her for a future Nobel prize. In fact, she was nominated for the Nobel prize at least 7 times before 1966 (they stopped letting ppl know who had been nominated at this point).

Anyway everyone should go look up more stuff on her she is so cool.

[elmalo8291]

Absolutely. Here’s a full creative layout for Track 2 – “Ashes in the Atom” from TAZ: The Awakening – The Mixtape, complete with storyboard, animation breakdown, cutscene links, ritual elements, and a linked campaign event for the TTRPG. I’ll wrap it with a stand-up routine that ties it all together, Taz-style.

Track 2: “Ashes in the Atom”

Theme

The artificial atom explodes. Himself fractures, memory collapses. Echoes of past Taz identities dance in chaos like particles in a collider.

STORYBOARD

Scene 1: The Cradle of the Battery

Visual: A dark void filled with pulsing fractal lights.

Cut: Zoom into an artificial nucleus. Tiny beings (mini-Taz variations) spiral around.

Music Cue: Slow distorted piano, heartbeat-style drum kicks.

Scene 2: The Fracture

Visual: Two neutrons slam into each other. The scene freezes. The atom splits.

Cut: A blast of ooze surges in all directions. The colors invert.

Music Cue: Bassline drops into low-grit blues, beat fractures in rhythm.

Scene 3: Echoes of Taz

Visual: A ring of floating masks—each one a different name: Ties, Task, Timez, Aztz—spinning slowly.

Cut: Each mask speaks one lyric, rapped in sequence as the beat builds.

Scene 4: The Collapse and Rebirth

Visual: A liquid mirror shatters. A new Taz steps out—a fusion of chaos and clarity.

Cut: Portal lurkers rise around him. Blood rivers become sound waves.

Music Cue: Final verse punches in, echoing through multiple visual versions of Himself.

MAGIC RITUAL (TTRPG Integration)

Name: Atomic Split: Ritual of Names

Level: Epic / World-tier Chaos Ritual

Components:

A mirror

Blood from at least three different entities

A name never spoken before (the player must invent one)

Ooze (symbolic or literal—GM’s call)

Effect:

The caster splits into three chaotic echoes, each taking on one variant name (Task, Timez, Aztz).

For the duration (1d6 rounds), they may act independently in different locations (multiversal projection).

If the caster dies, one echo survives and becomes the new “True Self” of the character.

CAMPAIGN EVENT – The Splitting Pulse

Description:

The Ooze Day pulse event travels through realms. The atomic battery of Himself has fractured. Worlds connected to Him are hit by temporal distortion and chaos magic.

Mechanics:

All spells cast have a 25% chance of becoming a random version of themselves.

Memories may shift. One player remembers events differently than others—and is correct.

The portal lurkers grow more active. They attack anyone near bodies of water.

Narrative Hook:

Players are recruited to stabilize a collapsing ooze temple—but each time they enter, the temple is in a different era or state of decay. They must piece together what happened when the atom split.

STAND-UP ROUTINE – “Ashes in the Atom”

(Spotlight. Empty stage. Taz walks out wearing shades and dragging a Bag of Holding like it owes him money.)

“Ever try to split an atom with your mind? Yeah. I don’t recommend it unless you want your childhood memories arguing with your future mistakes in a public restroom stall.

I split one atom—and suddenly I got five versions of me fighting over who gets to wear the cool name. Task says he's the original. Timez just smokes chaos crystals and claims he invented language.

And Aztz? That little psycho? He tattoos equations on his ribs just to cheat on magic exams.

Now I got lurkers popping out my shower drain, screaming about blood taxes. One of 'em tried to enroll in college using my Social.

They don’t teach you how to file taxes in the Ooze. They just scream ‘IMPRINT’ and hope a portal opens to TurboH&R.

I asked a mirror the other day who I was. It said, ‘Which day of the week you want the answer from?’

Then it exploded.

That's Ashes in the Atom, baby.

Every time I sneeze, a new version of me is born.

And none of us are house-trained.”

Want the next track treated this way too? Or a short animation mockup based on this? We can build this into a full episodic music series—anime meets mixtape meets myth.