#structure of distribution transformer

[fairyminnie444]

Why Does Physical Change Literally Happen?

{+1 explanation for the logical part of the brain}

“Will I just be pretending to myself?” “What is the logic in changing my current unwanted body for what I want to be and how others see me and this change?”

Some questions that go through our heads when we talk about manifesting the desired appearance, and this is normal. Let's demystify this and be absolutely sure to manifest more easily and quickly.

First no, you are not “faking it to yourself.” What you are doing is a process of mental self-reprogramming that uses the power of the mind to create a new internal reality, which will inevitably be reflected on the outside.

1. The Mind Doesn’t Distinguish Between Reality and Imagination

When you intensely imagine your desired body, your brain acts as if it were already true. It begins sending signals to your body to align your physiology with this new vision. This isn’t “faking it,” it’s literally reprogramming your system.

2. How Does Physical Change Literally Happen?

Your body is run by your brain. Everything it does—from regenerating cells to changing its structure—responds to instructions that you, consciously or not, send it. When you see yourself as the version of yourself you want to be, you are literally reprogramming your brain to create that physical change.

Examples in Science and Biology:

• Epigenetics: Your thoughts influence which genes are “turned on” or “turned off.” If you internally assume the identity of a person with the desired body, your body begins to align with that identity.

• Neuroplasticity: The brain reorganizes itself based on the beliefs you hold. It can change hormonal patterns, metabolic patterns, and even cellular regeneration to adapt to what you believe to be true.

3. Why Does Physical-Touchable Reality Change?

• Assumed Identity: When you believe that you already have the desired appearance, the body begins to respond with real physiological changes. For example, a mental model of “I am thin” can change hunger patterns and metabolism, while “I am young” can stimulate collagen production.

• Instructions to the Subconscious: The subconscious controls automatic functions of the body, such as cell regeneration and fat distribution. It accepts everything you imagine with emotion as absolute truth.

4. How Others See You

People see you through the energy and confidence you exude. If you are aligned with the feeling that you are already who you want to be, others will automatically begin to treat and see you that way.

• They may not know “how” or “when” you changed, but they will notice that something is different. This is because your self-confidence and inner congruence have a direct impact on social interactions.

5. You’re Not Pretending, You’re Choosing

When you decide that you are already the desired version of yourself, you’re not pretending, you’re taking on a new identity. This is a conscious exercise in creating the reality you want, and 3D has no choice but to reflect that decision.

6. Real-World Example to Make It More Concrete

1. People who underwent hypnosis believing they had real burns on their skin developed physical blisters—because their bodies responded to their minds.

2. Patients in placebo studies who “believed” they were taking a rejuvenation drug experienced real physical changes, such as improved skin and organs.

These are extreme examples, but they show that the mind instructs the physical body, and the body obeys. It’s not symbolic or “just in the imagination”—it’s a transformation that manifests itself in the tangible.

7. How to Make This Transformation Solid and Firm

To truly believe that your physical transformation is happening:

• Decide and Feel: “I already have this.” See your body as what you want, not what you “think it is.”

• Visualize Clearly: Imagine what it would be like to touch, see, and live with this body. Not just mentally, but as if it were already a reality.

• Believe in Inner Logic: Whatever your mind accepts as truth, your body will do. If you have assumed this new identity, your body has no choice but to follow.

It’s not pretending, nor is it wishful thinking. It’s using the power of your mind to literally transform your body into something physical and real.

[tetrachromate]

jon snow in the books is a great character bc he's notionally set up as a Hero of Legend and Prophecy but the minute he gets any institutional power hes like 'right. time to invest in root vegetables and structurally transformative agricultural infrastucture'. doesn't really give a shit about The Prince That Was Promised. the westerosi Numbers Fuckstein albeit also a therian. Just wants to mess with tax quotas and free folk resettlement distributions

[neptuneiris]

Cruel Summer (01/10)

Sunset's Bay

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader

summary: There are two sides to the city of Sunset's Bay, the rich who live in 'Crown's' and the poor who live in 'Black Waves'. What happens when a rich guy and a poor girl meet and inevitably fall in love? In the city where they live and with their status, that can't be possible.

words: 5.8k

series masterlist • next part

I wasn't sure about posting this but if you like the story I will continue with it, it all depends on how you receive it😬

in case you like it, I want to advance that the story will be a kind of forbidden love by the fact of rich and poor hehe and I have a lot prepared, basically everything is already written, I just need to structure it in a better way

this has only been an introduction to the world of Sunset's Bay, so I hope you enjoy it and the warnings will be added as I post the chapters if you like it🤗

so enjoy!

Sunset's Bay.

The hidden but mostly inhabited beach on the California Coast, with golden and white sands that slide into crystal clear waters of such a deep blue that it seems infinite.

According to Google, it is one of the most beautiful beaches in Northern California and where teenagers living in surrounding cities yearn to come every time a new summer begins.

Sunset and sunrise on these waters are beautiful, as they transform the horizon into a palette of vibrant colors, from warm shades of gold and pink to soft purple and the deep blue of night.

Every summer, the beach comes alive with exciting surfing tournaments, as well as Sunset's Pier, the midpoint of the beach where everyone mingles, transforms into charity events with live music, fireworks and lamp shows that illuminate the night with a mesmerizing light show.

Boat and yacht rides add a touch of sophistication to the coastal scene. This allows tourists to explore the waters beyond the beach, visit small islands up close and enjoy the serenity of the open sea.

But on top of all that, everything is meticulously maintained, most of it, like the clean, spacious beaches, adorned by palm trees swaying gently in the sea breeze.

And your favorite section, the volcanic stone cliffs that are distributed in specific locations on the beach, offering rocky walls as you sit on the seashore behind you and all around, emerging as natural guardians of the beach.

And from their heights, you can take in panoramic views of all the beauty of the landscape, encompassing the vast endless ocean and coastline to the endless horizon.

You always looked forward to coming here as a child when a new term at school ended and your mother was always willing to come and spend the vacations with your relatives, the Blackwoods.

They always welcomed you and your mother and together with your cousin Alysanne, you had an amazing summer.

Ever since you were little, you have always been tattooed with the memory of the sand on your feet, the salt air in your nostrils, the water enveloping you completely and the sun in full sunset caressing your whole face as you watched it on the horizon starting to descend on the shore of the beach with the cliffs behind you.

And now, that's all you know, a life in Sunset's and your frequent days at the beach.

Living with your aunt and uncle and Alysanne in a house big enough to also make room for you on the beach shore, this has been your home for exactly a year now.

And now summer has begun.

"Sam has sent a message."

You raise your gaze to Alysanne as you finish cleaning one of the tables.

"He says to meet him at the beach with the others in the evening. Do you want to go?"

You place a small smile on your lips.

"Sure."

"Table nine!"

You both turn your heads toward your boss, who looks at both of you as if he wants to kill you at any moment, and you quickly rush to serve the food, briefly wiping the sweat from your brow to keep working.

"Hurry up, Blackwood," Mr. Frey tells you reluctantly as you begin to pick up the orders on the tray.

You let out a long breath and glance at the clock briefly before going to serve, realizing that you will have to put up with this for four more hours and for the rest of the summer as well.

Unfortunately you and Alysanne have to work, as it has been for some months now at a seafood restaurant where the 'rich' people from this side of the city come to enjoy the delicious food.

And because of the summer, the work has increased. But that doesn't stop them both from having fun now that summer has begun.

So as soon as you and Alysanne finish your shift, you head home as soon as possible and start getting ready to meet your friends at the beach.

Previously going out and having fun was a problem for Alysanne's parents, your aunt and uncle were not the liberal type, but as soon as you both started working and helping them with the household expenses with what you could, they started to be more permissive and understanding.

And this is your home, the less ostentatious side of the city, but still genuine.

Once you join Sam and all the boys on the beach, you head for the small boat floating near the shore.

It is not a luxurious boat, much less can it be compared to a boat or yacht of the latest model, but it is a modest boat that has seen many summer seasons.

And it has taken them all to many spots on the beach and you have shared many anecdotes on it.

And as the boat glides through the calm waters, you and Alysanne enjoy the laughter and stories shared by the boys from the neighborhood, Sam, Daniel and Chase.

The three of them have been childhood friends of Alysanne's and when you came to live with her officially, she introduced you to them and now you all have formed a group of friends where you enjoy afternoons like these with Sam's boat and where you also go swimming and surfing all together.

The sea breeze caresses your faces and the sun slowly begins to descend as it paints the sky in warm golden tones, until the afternoon turns into night.

And on the beach, with a campfire in the center, the starry sky above and all together in a circle, you start burning marshmallows and drinking beer.

"And tell us..." speaks Daniel, watching you both curiously, "How about the slave life for the rich people?"

You and your cousin let out a small laugh.

"Slaves?" you repeat amused.

"Well yeah, come on, you said your boss... what's his name? Grey? Payne?"

"Frey," Alysanne corrects him.

"Yeah, that," he points to her, "He's a jerk or not?"

"And no concept of patience and prudence," you add.

"I imagine the ones who eat there are worse, no?" asks Chase.

Daniel snaps his fingers at him.

"Lannister?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. Jason Lannister has that vibe."

"I put him in the top one of the most hated, along with the Baratheons. And I have a feeling the Arryns do too, I don't know why," Daniel again looks at you both, "Right?"

"You work for them," Alysanne tells him amused, "Don't you know that?"

"Well, it's not like they can tell me much for cleaning their boats and yachts but... no–they're extremely nice, though..." he holds up his finger with a thoughtful expression, "Though I think there must be something wrong with them."

Alysanne lets out a snort.

"They're rich and live at Crown's, practically owning all the establishments on the beach just like the Lannisters, Baratheons, Tyrells and others leaving nothing for us, the poor ones, because they despise us," she says with an ironic but true tone "Of course there must be something wrong with them."

"One time one of them didn't leave me a tip," you say, remembering, "The Tyrell's."

Sam looks at you amused.

"Tips are not obligatory."

"Oh come on," you retort, with a touch of irony, "They're rich, they can have yachts and mansions, but can't they at least give me a five percent tip?"

"Yet it's not obligatory."

Everyone lets out a laugh.

"Yeah, it's not the nicest place to work and the customers aren't necessarily nice but the pay is good, after all," Alysanne says as she shrugs.

And that's true.

Even though it's not a good work environment, the necessity is what makes you not quit and endure as much as you can. Even though your aunt and uncle are taking care of you and taking responsibility for you, you know you can't continue that way forever.

You want to be independent, pay for your own things, especially you want to pay for college, but to do that, you have to work and now this is the job.

Besides it's useless to find work elsewhere when the owners are still the same; rich and arrogant. And you can't find work on your side of the city because the pay won't be much or maybe they won't even hire because they can't afford it.

But right now, being here enjoying the summer with your friends and your cousin, you allow yourself not to think about it and just continue to criticize the rich people.

And after many cans of beer, Chase picks up his guitar and you all together start singing in the most off-key and horrible way possible, laughing amongst everyone with the jokes filling the air, just like the heat of the flames and the aroma of roasting marshmallows.

"You had a party and didn't invite me!?"

Almost everyone together turns their heads unexpectedly toward the approaching outside voice laden with amusement and mild reproach.

And then they all see Cregan Stark with a huge grin and a bottle of beer in hand.

The guys soon start showing off at the mere sight of him, making jokes and greeting him with great enthusiasm, as Cregan greets them.

And you just watch Alysanne with a sly smile, amused by Cregan's sudden appearance, but of course, she quickly hides all traces of whatever her reaction is to seeing him, adjusting her expression to one of neutrality as she tries to appear disinterested.

But you know.

And you're amused at how she acts as if you don't know her.

Cregan Stark is the spoiled son of one of the wealthiest families in Sunset's, living in one of the most exclusive areas on the Crown's side.

His appearance reflects his status; brand name clothes, really expensive accessories, late model car and an attitude that denotes familiarity with luxury. However, despite his wealth, Cregan has proven to be different from other boys in his social environment.

Although he has access to all the luxuries, he does not carry with him the air of superiority and arrogance that many would expect from someone like him and that those of his class usually display.

In fact, Cregan became friends with Chase, who works for his family in the ports.

And it was Chase who introduced him to the group and although at first no one felt confident with him, Cregan instead of imposing his status, imposed a genuine and friendly demeanor that won the friendship of everyone in the circle.

Later everyone understood that he doesn't really enjoy being with people from the same environment as himself. The wealthy teenagers he usually hung out with, for the most part, were overly judgmental and arrogant.

So thanks to Chase, he found company with all of you, the guys from across the city who don't have a mansion and all the money in the world, but who are genuine and free of pretense.

Despite the looks people give Cregan for not understanding his choice of company, he deliberately ignores them. His parents don't say anything to him either, although he says they clearly prefer that he stop interact with you.

"I am deeply, intensely and extremely offended," he says expressing mock indignation, holding a hand to his chest, watching you incredulously but amused.

"Come on, man, don't get dramatic," Chase tells him giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Yeah, we're just getting warmed up," Sam encourages him.

"Besides..." says Daniel, in an exaggerated tone, "We can't send messages across the beach, us poor people have to use carrier pigeons like the olden days to get anything to you, but guess what... we're so poor we can't even afford pigeons."

Everyone lets out a laugh, enjoying Daniel's humor in implying the differences between the poor and the rich on the beach.

"Stop, seriously, why didn't you guys tell me you were doing this?" Cregan asks, taking a seat on the logs.

"I heard there's a party on your side of the beach and I figured you'd be heading over there," Chase tells him, "Which you did, didn't you?" he points to the beer in his hand.

He lets out a long breath.

"Yeah but it was pretty fucking boring."

"Boring?" you repeat incredulously, "A party with a DJ, champagne and yachts I highly doubt is boring."

"Well, not that it wasn't fun," he says looking around and observing everyone, "But I wanted this, to be with you guys, the atmosphere."

"And how did you know we were here?" asks Alysanne curious.

"I didn't exactly know," he smiles at her, "So I just decided to come and try my luck."

"Oh man, stop it or you'll make me cry," Daniel jokes, holding a hand to his heart.

"He loves us, doesn't he?" asks Sam, with a smirk.

"Yeah, he definitely loves us."

Everyone laughs and you watch discreetly as he and Alysanne start throwing their little looks at each other.

"Party with DJ and yachts? Man, if I were you, I'd be enjoying that," Sam confesses, shaking his head in a gesture of incomprehension.

"It's not big deal and people are hateful, believe me."

No one argues with him about that but you too sometimes wish you could have fun like that, have the experience of going to a beach party like the rich kids in the movies, just once.

But the time will come, someday, there are still many summers left to enjoy.

The conversation flows as the boys settle around the campfire, the warmth of the fire contrasting with the cool night breeze blowing in from the sea.

The atmosphere is filled with laughter and banter, and the relaxed beach setting becomes the perfect backdrop for a night of genuine camaraderie.

Cregan, with his carefree and genuine attitude, seems to fit right in with all fo you and that he values sincere company over superficial luxury.

And you don't know exactly how much more time passes or how many beers that Daniel brings back the theme of the rich party on the other side of the beach.

"Hey, Cregan," he says, leaning forward with a mischievous expression, "Since you're here, why don't you take us to that party? I'm sure it's not as bad as you say."

Cregan raises an eyebrow, amused but surprised.

"What?"

Something about Daniel's words clicks in everyone's head, even yours, so you quickly exchange glances with Alysanne. And Cregan notices how everyone starts to truly consider it.

"Do you guys really want to go to that party?"

"And why not?" asks Alysanne, with an grin, "I'm sure we can have fun, even if we're not part of the rich circle."

"Yeah, and besides..." adds Sam, with a persuasive tone, "It would be interesting to see what the other side of the city is like from the inside. We've never been to a party like this."

Cregan seems to think about it for a moment, looking at the boys with a mixture of doubt and amusement.

"Seriously you guys are telling me this? The rich haters?"

You shrug.

"The rich hate us too."

"And that's precisely why we want to go," Sam says, gesturing animatedly, "We want to try something different. And who knows, maybe we'll give you a good reason to have a little more fun at that party. Right, Chase?"

Everyone looks at Chase, who shrugs.

"I guess that wouldn't be bad."

"But you haven't thought this through," Cregan insists, "As soon as they see you all, they'll know you're not like them."

Everyone looks at themselves and well... he's right.

The rich, especially those who are the same age as you, have a radar to recognize someone who is just like them... or not.

But you don't blame them, since you have them too, the difference is that you don't make disgusted faces or criticize in whispers as soon as you notice.

You notice your two-piece bikini top is wrinkled and is clearly second hand, besides your worn-out sandals. Alysanne is also in the same condition as you and the boys... well, they're worse.

Sam's shirt is torn, Chase's is torn, and the clothes are visibly secondhand.

"We have better clothes at home," you tell Alysanne and she nods.

"And we take our shirts off and stay in shorts," Daniel says, in solution, "Are we at the beach or not?"

"And if something goes wrong, we can always run out and come back here," Alysanne suggests.

Everyone nods and basically watches Cregan with puppy dog eyes, hopeful that he will take you to his kind of people.

"What do you think, Cregan?"

Cregan is silent for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over the group around him, analyzing and thinking about all the things that could go wrong. And he doesn't pass up the abandoned cat look that Daniel and Sam throw at him.

And finally, he lets out a laugh and a resigned sigh.

"All right, all right. I'll take you. But if we have a bad time, don't say I didn't warn you."

"That's what I like to hear!" exclaims Sam, raising his arms in victory.

"We won't regret it."

"We may not but the rich will."

"Thanks, Cregan," says Alysanne, patting him on the back.

You frown as you watch her gesture and also notice Cregan's confused look for a moment, but go back to watching the boys.

"Well, then let's go before I change my mind."

You put out the campfire, pick up the trash and with laughter they all very animatedly walk away from your spot on the beach, heading first towards the trash cans and then towards Cregan's car.

"You do know Cregan likes you, don't you?" you say to Alysanne, walking a little further away from the guys.

She gives you an incredulous look.

"What?"

"Oh come on and you like him too, don't deny it."

"Of course I don't."

"Of course you do."

"You're crazy."

"And you won't stand a chance if you keep treating him like just a dude."

"Oh yeah, yeah, whatever you say."

You let out a laugh, understanding that it will be difficult for her to accept and share it with you, so you give her time. The guys behind you laugh too, with the echo fading into the salty air, leaving the sea breeze and the sound of the waves behind.

The difference in locations is completely noticeable.

You leave behind the small wooden houses, the unkempt streets, the establishments where you and your friends can shop, the bicycles and old cars, to move to large neighborhoods with green grass, trees and bushes on every corner with huge luxurious houses, almost mansions with modern cars and expensive decorations.

The guys are excited and so are you, as you have never explored these sections of the beach before, which are completely exclusive and with access for the rich people.

Obviously there are entrances with booths and security guards, so Cregan's appearance alone proves he's a Stark and he's allowed in without objection.

And soon enough, you arrive at the party.

"Oh my goodness, look at this," exclaims Alysanne, wide-eyed as she takes in the scene.

"That's a Prestige F4?" asks Sam in surprise, eyeing the luxurious yacht in the distance.

"Seriously, how much money do these people have?" mutters Daniel, in shock.

"More than you'll ever have," Alysanne tells him with a smirk as you all walk onto the beach illuminated by the party lights.

"You don't know that," Chase replies to her, pretending to be offended, "Maybe someday I'll get rich and buy one of those," he points to the yachts.

"I'm very offended that you didn't invite us to your parties sooner," Daniel says to Cregan, putting a hand to his chest as if he were badly wounded, "How could you hide all this from us?"

"Don't draw too much attention to yourselves, guys," Cregan asks with a mixture of concern and amusement in his voice.

"We won't," says Sam, "We'll just enjoy ourselves apart from the others but inside, you get it?"

The music starts to get louder and soon enough, we are inside the party.

Blue and purple neon lights illuminate the white sand, creating a dazzling contrast against the night sky. Waves break gently on the shore, almost muted by the music vibrating through the air.

There is indeed a DJ from a raised platform and most of the people here dance in the center to the music, some with cocktails in hand, bottles of champagne or recording the moment on their phones.

Near the dock, several luxurious yachts are docked, all decorated with lights flashing to the rhythm of the music. There are people inside them, enjoying the party from right there.

Some people get off the yachts to join the party on the beach, while others stay on board, enjoying the view and the exclusivity it offers.

If not beer, there is a bar offering a variety of exotic drinks and gourmet appetizers, such as sushi, caviar and canapés.

And throughout the party, groups of people are spread out, chatting animatedly, laughing, toasting and dancing. There are also party games, such as beer pong and spin the bottle.

While others gather around improvised campfires farther away near the sea, where the atmosphere is more relaxed, watching the spectacle around them.

The air is permeated with the smell of sea salt mixed with expensive perfumes and the sound of laughter and music all along the beach.

It is a party that clearly reflects the wealth and status of their hosts, as well as the people present; pure spoiled kids with rich parents.

"Are we going to have fun or what!?" exclaims Sam excitedly, fully entering the party and everyone follows.

Chase convinces Cregan to be worrying since most of the people here are in their own world and he doubts drunkenly checking to see if they have the latest model Iphone or what.

And honestly you relax too as everyone here is having fun and you along with Alysanne look more presentable in nice bikinis.

They are second hand still but they are more cared for than the others you have.

Sam quickly orders drinks, surprised and excited to have gotten a bottle of champagne, then Cregan and the others take him and you and Alysanne to a more secluded spot.

You make a space for yourselves on the sand, a bit secluded from everyone, having the view of the huge luxurious houses, the cliffs in the distance and also the illuminated yachts on the dock behind you.

Pretty soon you have your beer and start enjoying yourselves just like everyone else, not worrying too much and just pretending you are one of them all.

Mingling with the rich at Sunset's pier is one thing, since the pier is the center of the entire beach and there are no prejudices there, but now pretending to be one is completely different.

You find yourself watching everyone around you when Alysanne nudges you slightly and points her gaze to a specific spot.

"Look at that."

You follow her gaze and see a group of girls.

"That bracelet is from Pandora, I saw it on Instagram."

From here you can see how their gold and silver necklaces and bracelets sparkle. Also the bikinis they have on are beautiful, certainly brand name. There is also a girl with a Guess bag and they all have the latest Iphone model in their hand.

And you turn to Alysanne with a shrug.

"Why are we judging when it should be the other way around?"

"We're not judging, we're just noticing the differences between girls like them and girls like us."

You both let out a laugh.

"You definitely want that Pandora bracelet, don't you?" you look at her amused.

"And you don't?"

The two of you continue to observe or rather admire all those rich girls who have fancy accessories when suddenly you hear a specific boast behind you.

You turn your head and see the dock, noticing how some impeccably dressed people are boarding one of the larger yachts docked near the shore.

And there they are.

You think as you make out those distinctive black, red and silver hair.

Of course they couldn't miss a party like this, the sons of the most influential families in the city, the Lannister's, Baratheon's and Targaryen's, practically the elite of Sunset's.

You've seen Cerelle, Tyshara and Loreon Lannister before on the Sunset's Pier, their red hair gives away who they are instantly. They always brag about their luxurious yachts, cars, jewelry stores and everything else they own.

Their father, Jason Lannister, has built an empire based on shipbuilding and port development.

From what you understand, his company designs and manufactures some of the most advanced and exclusive ships for the world's elite.

In addition to this, Lannister also owns a network of ports and shipyards on several coasts, allowing him to maintain a steady flow of wealth through port fees and contracts with global corporations.

This influence has given him a prominent place among the city's powerful and his family has inherited not only his fortune, but also his imposing and domineering character.

So it is no surprise that the Lannister's are typical spoiled children with clearly very wealthy parents, as are the others, especially the Baratheon's, Cassandra, Maris and Floris.

Known as much for their tanned skin and peculiar dark hair as for their arrogant attitude, they always seek to be the center of attention at any such social event.

Cassandra, the eldest, has a dominant bearing and never misses an opportunity to show off her status. She is also the best known of the daughters to go out every now and then with a boy from an important family either from the city or abroad.

Next, there is Maris, the quietest of the three and the most reserved, but still, as you have heard, just as spoiled and boastful as her older sister.

And finally, Floris, Cerelle's best friend and supposedly the most arrogant, capricious, shallow and boastful of the three.

She is the one who seems the sweetest at first glance, but her spoiled nature soon becomes evident when something doesn't go her way.

You also know that there are two other children, a daughter and a son, Ellyn and Royce, but apparently Ellyn prefers to stay at home and Royce does not live here.

Her father, Borros Baratheon, is a most important and influential shipping magnate and merchant in the region, known for his connections with outside businessmen.

He owns one of the largest commercial fleets operating along the entire Pacific coast. You don't know exactly what it's about but the guys have talked about how his company specializes in logistics and shipping goods across the ocean or something like that.

And finally, the sons of the most powerful family in the entire city and the entire country, the Targaryen's.

Viserys Targaryen is known as the most powerful man in the entire country and by extension his entire family as well. He owns one of the largest and most influential corporations in the region.

Your uncle Ben always had a kind of admiration for him, though your aunt always expressed her dislike of him, as well as the other families, for simply being other greedy money-rotters who drive up the costs of the city for all that they invest to elevate their status and leave you poor people increasingly difficult to make a living.

You honestly couldn't agree with her more, but the Targaryen's have been forging their main empire here in Sunset's for a very long time now and there is nothing that can really be done about it.

The Targaryen business empire focuses on multiple sectors, but they are best known for owning a very prestigious bank, where they serve wealthy elites and large corporations, as well as financing large scale projects, such as real estate developments, technology or even public infrastructure.

You understand that he has built and manages shopping malls, corporate skyscrapers and exclusive developments in major cities across the country, as well as high profile tourist destinations like Sunset's.

So basically all of them and him especially have total control over the financial resources of the region, as well as infrastructure and development in the most luxurious sectors.

Although Viserys and his wife Alicent are no longer seen as much at events this side of Crown's and on the pier, their influence still shapes everything that happens here.

"Hey."

Sam snaps you out of your thoughts when you feel him tap you on the shoulder and you turn your head towards him, confused and attentive.

"Hm?"

"What are you looking at?" he asks you amused, sitting down next to you and offering you a new bottle of beer.

"Oh, no, nothing, just..." you shake your head, taking the beer and not paying attention to the son's and daughter's of rich parents.

But Sam had followed your gaze before.

"I know, they're beautiful, aren't they?"

You immediately watch him intently.

"Who?"

"The yachts," he tells you as if it's obvious, "Imagine spending a whole weekend on one, just doing this..." he points to the beer and all the partying, "In the middle of the ocean."

You let out a small laugh.

"That's your biggest dream, isn't it?"

"And for the yacht to be mine, obviously," he says excitedly, turning his gaze back to the dock where they all are, "If I used to see them from afar and feel envious, now it's torture to have them so close."

You look to where he sees and he has a very good point. They could live perfectly well on one of those yachts and there would be no problem, which is also one of your dreams.

"Oh, come on Sam," you give him a friendly smack, looking at him again and you notice the gleam of longing in his eyes, "Surely your charm can make a girl from Crown's fall in love with you and let you enjoy the amazing yachts."

He looks at you incredulously.

"A Crown's girl with someone like me? Are you kidding?"

"It's not impossible," you shrug.

"Oh yeah, here at Sunset's everything is impossible if you don't live on this side of town."

And that's another good point and very true.

Daniel joins you and Sam's little group and you stop paying attention the moment you turn your gaze back towards the yachts and them specifically.

This time you focus on the Targaryen's, Helaena, Aegon and Aemond.

Surprisingly, despite being in the top tier of the wealthiest and most powerful family in the entire city and country, compared to the Lannister's, Baratheon's, Tyrell's, Arryn's, Stark's and Greyjoy's, they are not so smug, superficial and arrogant.

Although, come to think of it, the only exception is Aegon.

The eldest of the brothers, he is characteristic of his carefree and arrogant attitude. His life is summed up in parties, girls and excesses. Everyone knows him, he is the soul of the party and drives all the girls crazy.

For him, life is a game where he always wins. Sometimes he seems like the typical privileged son who has never had to strive for anything, but his power lies precisely in that.

Then there is Helaena, the only sister among the Targaryens who has a pleasant and gentle presence.

Although she is rich, the richest of them all and extremely beautiful, she doesn't abuse it, she doesn't show it off, she's not shallow or arrogant, besides she's always looking out for her siblings.

She is the kind of person who doesn't need to shout to be noticed and with just a quiet smile, she earns the respect and admiration of those around her.

You know a little about her as Chase has a little now not so secret crush on her and honestly you don't blame him, she is absolutely beautiful and even kind, which is rare due to her provenance.

And finally there's Aemond, who of all them, he's always been... different.

Where Aegon is shameless and carefree, Aemond is calculating and serious. Always impeccably dressed, with an expression that doesn't say much and keeps him at a safe distance from most.

From what you've heard, he's extremely intelligent, he's also reserved and quiet, the complete opposite of Aegon.

There is also a rumor about him about his left eye, something about an accident as a child and where he apparently wears a prosthetic.

You don't really know much about it or him but he's always been intriguing and mysterious, in a way.

You focus on him specifically, watching him from a distance, curious, as he takes a seat on the deck with an expression you can't read as it doesn't tell you much.

You watch as his short silver hair moves slightly in the wind and breeze, as well as he watches everything around him intently, to again focus on his siblings and Floris.

Floris is his girlfriend, apparently they have been dating for a few months now and have given a lot to talk about since no one expected Aemond to even date anyone.

But there they are.

You watch as Floris approaches him and takes a seat on his lap, looking radiant in a tight dress and a huge smile on her face, but he, on the other hand, remains expressionless.

Floris murmurs something in his ear, to which he responds with a slight smile, but averts his gaze to the horizon. However, she gently takes him by the jaw and leaves a soft kiss on his lips.

They begin to kiss and you look away, trying to refocus on the party and enjoying yourself here with your friends.

However, being here with all these wealthy people, especially the Targaryen's, you can't help but feel that divide about the rich and the poor at Sunset's.

You feel like you live in two different worlds, where they, the rich, live a life completely oblivious to the concerns of the people on the other side of town, in Crown's.

While you and the others work in the restaurants, clean their yachts, boats, houses and make sure their lives are comfortable.

They float above it all, the Targaryen's, Lannister's, Stark's, Baratheon's and so on, attending parties and making decisions that only benefit their own.

But you, the poor, the ones who live in Black Waters have nothing, you don't have the money, the influence or the power. Even the name of your side of town is a mockery to them, the rich, in despising even more the poor who don't have what they have.

But that's the life in Sunset's Bay.

[chocodile]

Amaranthine Magic System PART I: Remedial Magic For Beginners

This is Part III of a three-part worldbuilding set.

Part I (you are here) - Part II - Part III

Okay so… weird starting point, but do you remember these jerks from middle school math class? Function graphs! (I hated these things so much) The simplest possible function is a basic straight line, but by modifying the function, the graphed line can distort and take on all sorts of new shapes.

Magic is a lot like that.

The best way to describe spellcasting would be “filtering waves of energy”. Imagine a sine wave, oscillating up and down in a simple, predictable pattern. That is magical energy in its default state. It exists as background radiation throughout the whole world and permeates all living things… though some things conduct magic better or worse than others. (Magic has a lot in common with the electromagnetic spectrum in the real world)

What wizards do when they cast magic is that they amplify and tweak this ambient background energy in just the right way to contort it into a new form (lightning, a shockwave, fire, etc). The core nature of the energy doesn’t really change, but by exaggerating, filtering, and suppressing that oscillating wave in just the right amounts, in just the right places, in just the right order, it can be transformed into something very different than its base form. You could also think of it a bit like a musician playing a wind instrument, modulating the tone by covering and uncovering holes, or a puppetmaster pulling strings of a marionette—you need to deeply understand the physics at play and give each string just the right amount of slack and pull to make it do what you want.

The most common type of magical energy is magic in a neutral, passive state, just sort of existing passively as background radiation. Like the electromagnetic spectrum and gravity, it is deeply intertwined with how life evolved in this world, but also is so innate as to be largely unnoticeable. It is energy without a physical form. However, it can be harnessed and stored, given the right conduit. Under these circumstances it behaves similar to electricity.

Certain types of physical material are better at holding and manipulating magic than others. Substances that hold or amplify magic work because something about their physical molecular structure bends and filters the magic “waves” in a way that “traps” that energy inside of them, or amplifies the frequency of the waves. Nearly all crystalline structures and precious gems have some sort of magic-amplifying capability, with the best ones being highly prized and fetching crazy prices for large, pure specimens. Skilled Old Kingdom wizards could engineer such gemstones into Catalyst Stones, a special type of battery/amplifier that wizards could use to cast spells beyond their normal limits. Gemstones and crystals have been traditionally associated with wizards for this reason. However, they are far from the only material with a magical affinity—just one of the most easily recognizable.

…Additionally, other materials might have the opposite effect. Iron is well-known for its wizard-subduing properties. Simply being in a room with a large piece of iron makes a wizard feel ill and weakens their powers. Iron manacles and chains are commonly used to imprison criminal wizards. Not only do they aggressively drain magic from the air, matter, and flesh around them, they prevent the hand gestures that might allow a weakened mage to do any magical manipulation at all.

Magical energy is distributed throughout the world unevenly. Occasionally, the concentration of magic in an area is so high that the environment itself becomes effectively enchanted. A certain range of mountains might be rich in magical ores that have a subtle effect on how water in the region behaves, causing strangely shaped caves and ridges to form in the region. A woodland might be home to a large number of mushrooms that have adapted to make use of magic as a defense mechanism, causing the glen to disorient travelers who walk through it. Magic is infamous for distorting compass readings, too, forcing travelers to carry protective charms to keep their tools usable.

There are all sorts of weird subtle little things like that that can be caused by high concentrations of magic, and magically concentrated areas often have very unique biodiversity that evolved to make use of that specific environment. Discovering, exploring, studying, and documenting these regions is of great interest to many magical scholars (as well as the state interests sometimes backing them, of course).

Magic can do a lot of weird stuff in Amaranthine, but it isn’t as open-ended as most other types of fantasy magic. Things like turning oneself into a dragon are no more possible than they are in real life (unfortunately for some who may wish otherwise). You can get pretty creative with it, and there are surely techniques yet undiscovered that even Hyden doesn’t know about, but no matter how fancy your spellcasting gets, it’ll always just be “manipulating waves of energy”.

[tigressaofkanjis]

My biggest pet peeve in Transformers media and fanfiction sometimes is that Transformers aren't treated as aliens. They are referred to as aliens, they obviously are aliens, but they never feel like they are aliens because they are always written or seen as having all human mannerisms or features usually. Human posture, human noses, human mannerisms, humanoids...

What about TFA's cat noses or TFP's helm noses? One of the reasons I think those two shows have peak designs is because they have this lack of uncanniness to humans design wise. I'm not looking at a human being as a robot, I'm looking at an alien robot, ones that have claws, ones that have different body types that blend with their vehicle modes, ones with horrific mutilations and designs impossible by human standards. I love seeing that type of stuff in Transformers because to me, it makes them feel alien without completely changing the premises of similarities to where we can't compare their culture or likeness to humans. The films (mostly 1 and 2) showed off this as well.

Another thing I really would like to see in Transformers media is non-human interactive qualities. What do I mean by that? One thing I've noticed is aside from techno-organic species, regular Cybertronians do have a few qualities found in animals. Engine humming I believe was once used as a form of purring in the films and in some of the cartoons. Humans can't purr; cats can, and that small detail is always interesting to come across because it's like "wow, they have this feature that shows off a trait found in Cybertronians. That is so cool." You have them with multiple voice boxes for mechanical, natural, and human-like tones which is also an animal trait. Bumblebee is self-explanatory in most universes being able to still make sounds yet not talk. They have sensors across their body that don't act like the basic human receptors. Most animals can do more than just feel through certain points of their bodies. They can taste, smell, or even hear a hundred times better than a human being throughout various body parts, and Transformers have been hinted to have this ability too, especially through their servos. It's stuff like this that expands upon their existence as aliens.

They have extreme durability, their body morphs to extremes and can also double as a moving weapon (most obvious of course), some of them can make ungodly roars and creature-like noises to warn or show their threatening demeanor (Megatron's dinosaur-like growling), some can have two rows of teeth (a flat base in front and fangs hidden behind), and some of them have mimicking animal-like features (Starscream's bird-shaped feet with visible expansion the same as organic foot padding with similar distributive weight physics in a few universes) despite having no beast mode. There's probably more I can't think of on the top of my head in canon, but all those things are not heavily used as they should be to make them feel alien. They can still hold some relation to the humans they interact with, but I think a lot of Transformers are more than just metal "humans", you know?

Depending on the universe in fanfiction and who you encounter who writes it or not, you have several things that are always cool to see. They have to sparkbond (merging of hearts) above everything else to create a sparkling's life force with interface as just the extra for physical coding features. I've seen people use the non-canon heat cycles which are, of course, our fandom way of making a type of breeding euphemism akin to an animal's cycle. You have the common phrasing of nuzzling, heightened senses, armor and certain parts of the helm acting like fur or ears where it raises and flattens per their mood, and some Transformers have limb dissonance where if necessary, they can convert between bipedal and quadrupedal stances (best example is Bulkhead and Lugnut from TFA who have long arms but short legs and they have the bulky structure where they could possibly run like an animal briefly and the physics of it would work).

So, you have all these different things a common Cybertron most likely would be able to do or have but a human couldn't, and it's never utilized to their full potential. I would like to see people address the nature of Cybertronians as alien and not be afraid to make them alien. I think that's the biggest flaw in our franchise is that everyone is scared of making the Transformers not the humanoid "norm" and getting ridiculed for it. Like, they're aliens, you can make them act however animal-like or completely batshit insane as you want them. You can give them powers, animal-based senses, and behaviors hidden among a human thought process. And technically, you wouldn't be wrong to what they could be as a living creature in the universe by doing so. They aren't humans; they look humanoid, but they aren't us. Why should they have to be in every regard?

Thank you for reading my TED Talk.

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Layover In Cincinnati | Chapter Seven

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 14.9k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, intimate moments, jet lag kisses, borrowed clothes, and that bittersweet ache when saying "see you later" feels harder than you expected

A Few Quick Notes:

📝 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

🔔 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 💌

Requests: Open

Author's Note:

There's something transformative about seeing someone in their natural habitat. This chapter explores what happens when Riley steps into Joe's carefully ordered world—when vintage vinyl meets meal prep containers, when wet footprints disrupt pristine hardwood, when birthday cake appears in a minimalist kitchen.

For Joe, it's about creating space—both literally and figuratively—for something he never knew he needed. A turntable that doesn't match his decor becomes the perfect metaphor for Riley's presence in his life: unexpected, slightly out of place, yet somehow completing the picture. The house that always felt like a showroom begins to feel like a home when her coffee mugs are left without coasters and her laughter fills the high ceilings.

For Riley, it's witnessing the depth beneath Joe's composed exterior. It's discovering the thoughtfulness behind his gestures—a teal SpongeBob cake, a rare Howlin' Wolf pressing, a Bengals hoodie waiting after a transatlantic flight. It's realizing that his minimalism isn't coldness; it's simply a different language of care.

I wanted to capture that delicate dance of navigation when two people with fundamentally different rhythms try to harmonize. The contrast between Joe's structured existence and Riley's creative chaos isn't just a source of tension—it's the spark that makes them work. She teaches him to feel music rather than analyze it; he shows her the comfort in certain kinds of steadiness.

As they explore Cincinnati together, the seeds of future tension begin to take root. In the Range Rover with tinted windows, in Joe's careful statement about keeping things private "at least for now," we see Riley's quiet discomfort. She understands privacy—but there's a fine line between protection and hiding, one that triggers whispers of doubt. Though unspoken in the moment, her distinction between privacy and secrecy hints at challenges they'll need to navigate when their bubble eventually bursts.

Their honest conversation in Kentucky reveals their different perspectives while reinforcing their commitment to try. It's not perfect resolution, but rather the beginning of an ongoing negotiation. As they say goodbye at the airfield, the promise "This isn't it for us" feels both genuine and weighty with the unresolved questions that linger beneath the surface.

Thank you all for your incredible comments on the last chapter! Each one fills my creative well in ways you can't imagine. Your insights and reactions keep me going through every writing session.

I can't wait to hear what you think of this one! 🎵🏈🎧🌃

Asks are open, let's talk about this one.

Put on Massive Attack’s Mezzanine while you read. Let it fill the quiet spaces between the dialogue. Let it linger in the background like the feeling of someone’s hands on your hips, waiting for the next song to begin.

Happy reading!

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123

Riley gazed out the window as the private jet began its descent toward Cincinnati. The city sprawled beneath them, sunlight glinting off the river, sprawling neighborhoods framed by trees just starting to show signs of spring. She rarely opted for private flights despite having access to them—usually saving them for impossible tour schedules or desperate situations. But Joe had insisted, not as a display of wealth but because he'd genuinely wanted to make her journey easier after the long haul from Italy.

"You'll be exhausted enough without dealing with connections and crowds," he'd said when she'd protested. The thoughtfulness behind the gesture touched her more than the luxury itself.

She’d been awake for nearly twenty-four hours straight—from the final night in Italy to the early morning drive to Rome, followed by the eight-hour flight to JFK. Her body clock was completely scrambled, her mind foggy with travel exhaustion. But beneath the fatigue was a nervous energy that buzzed through her veins. In less than fifteen minutes, she’d be seeing Joe again.

The decision to come straight to Cincinnati instead of going home to LA had just made sense, even if it felt a little impulsive. Her friends had backed her up without hesitation.

“I’ll still make it to LA for the studio session on Thursday,” Riley had assured Laura as they hugged goodbye.

“I know you will,” Laura had replied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Just be present in it, Ri. You deserve this.”

Now, as the pilot announced their final approach, Riley glanced down at her wrinkled outfit with a grimace. Between the Italian laundry schedule and the last-minute flight change, she was arriving in Cincinnati wearing yesterday's clothes and carrying a suitcase full of items that desperately needed washing. Not exactly the impression she'd hoped to make, but her options had been limited."

"She'd texted Joe about this predicament from JFK.

Riley: Just a heads up - arriving with exclusively laundry-deprived clothing. Expect me looking significantly less put-together than you. Also haven't slept in 24 hours so I may be slightly delirious. Still want me to come?

His response had been immediate.

Joe: Yes. And handled. Just get here.

The plane touched down smoothly on what appeared to be a private airstrip adjacent to the main airport. As they taxied to a stop, Riley peered through the window and saw a sleek silver Porsche waiting on the tarmac. And leaning against it, arms crossed casually over his chest, was Joe.

For a moment, Riley just watched him through the window, heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Then the pilot opened the door, and the crisp March air rushed in, making her pull her inadequate jacket tighter around herself."

The flight attendant handed Riley her carry-on with a smile. “Enjoy your stay in Cincinnati, Ms. Carter.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, ducking her head as she made her way down the steps.

Joe looked up as she descended, pushing off the Porsche to stand straight. He wore jeans and a simple gray henley, looking far more put-together than anyone had a right to after what she assumed had been a full day of training.

His face transformed with a smile that hit Riley like a punch to the chest—unexpected and so damn genuine it made the exhaustion slip away.

As she reached him, Joe didn’t lunge or make some big, sweeping gesture. Instead, he stepped forward with that steady, confident ease he always had, and cupped her face with one hand, brushing his thumb along her cheek. He leaned down and kissed her, soft but sure, lingering just enough to make her stomach flip.

When he pulled back, his smile softened, eyes scanning her face like he was still processing that she was actually here.

“Hi,” Riley managed, suddenly breathless.

“Hi,” Joe replied, his thumb brushing her cheek once more before he let his hand drop. “You made it.”

“I did,” Riley confirmed, huffing out a laugh. “Though I may actually be a zombie at this point. Not entirely sure.”

Joe smiled, taking her carry-on. “You’ll survive. Let’s get your bag and get you home.”

“Even with Italy’s chill, I forgot how cold Ohio can be,” Riley said, pulling her light jacket tighter as they walked toward the car. The Tuscan countryside had been brisk in the mornings, but Cincinnati’s damp cold had its own biting quality.

“Different kind of cold here,” Joe agreed, opening the passenger door of the Porsche. On the seat was a neatly arranged shopping bag.

Riley glanced at it, curiosity piqued. “What’s this?” she asked, picking it up as she slid into the butter-soft leather seat.

“For you,” Joe said as he settled into the driver’s side. “Thought you might want something more comfortable than whatever you’ve been recycling for the past week.”

Riley reached into the bag, pulling out a Cincinnati Bengals hoodie and a pair of chestnut Uggs in her exact size. The hoodie was plush and oversized, the kind you wanted to live in. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it.

“How did you know my shoe size?” she asked, already picturing herself burrowing into the warm hoodie and feeling a little more human again.

“Sarah reached out to Scout,” Joe explained, referring to their assistants. “Hope that’s okay.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture hit Riley with unexpected force. After days of wearing the same few outfits, she was beyond ready for something fresh, even if it was just a hoodie and a pair of boots. More than that, it was the effort Joe had put into making her feel comfortable. It wasn’t flashy or over the top—just practical and thoughtful, exactly what she needed.

“Thank you,” she said softly, pulling the hoodie over her travel-worn top and letting out a contented sigh as the soft fabric hugged her skin. “You have no idea how good this feels.”

Joe gave her a quick glance, a satisfied hint of a smile on his lips. “Figured you might appreciate it.”

He pulled the car smoothly away from the airstrip, the engine purring as they merged onto the main road. Riley leaned back against the seat, already feeling a little more settled, a little more herself.

“We’ll be at my place in about twenty minutes,” Joe said, his voice relaxed, like he was already falling back into his usual routine.

Joe glanced at her, already knowing the answer. “Jet lag hitting you yet?”

“Definitely hitting,” Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. “Feels like my body’s still somewhere over the Atlantic.”

"Somewhere between time zones," Riley admitted, leaning her head back against the seat. "I think my body thinks it's still somewhere over the Atlantic."

"You can crash when we get to the house," Joe offered. "No rush to do anything today."

"I appreciate that," she said, fighting another yawn. "Though I'm determined to at least stay conscious for a few hours. It'd be a shame to waste our first actual day together in weeks."

"So," she added, perking herself up, "I'm excited to see your space. Been curious about it since New Orleans."

Joe glanced at her briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It's nothing special."

"I doubt that," Riley replied, studying his profile as he drove. "Everything about you is deliberate. I'm betting your place is the same way."

Joe's hands shifted slightly on the steering wheel. "May not be what you're used to," he admitted. "Not like your place in New Orleans."

There was something almost vulnerable in his tone—a hint that he'd been thinking about the contrast between their homes, about what Riley might think of his space.

They fell into easy conversation as Joe navigated through Cincinnati, Riley taking in the increasingly upscale neighborhoods as they left the city proper. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto a private drive lined with mature trees, ending at a contemporary house set well back from the road. The architecture was striking but not ostentatious—clean lines, large windows, natural materials blending with the wooded surroundings.

"Wow," Riley said, genuinely impressed. "This is..."

"Home," Joe said simply, pulling the Porsche into a three-car garage.

They entered through a mudroom that led into a large open-concept kitchen and living area. The space was modern and minimalist, with that distinct “recently purchased furniture all at once” look. The kitchen featured high-end appliances, most of which looked barely used except for the protein shake blender on the counter. A massive TV dominated one wall of the living room, flanked by an impressive sound system.

There was little that felt lived-in about the space—no clutter, no accumulated decorations or mementos, just a few framed photos (mostly football-related) and what looked like a decorator’s idea of what should be in a successful young athlete’s home. A large sectional faced the TV, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a backyard that someone else clearly maintained.

Riley took it all in, raising an eyebrow. “This is… very bachelor pad.”

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Haven’t really had time to do much with it. Season, then rehab, then…”

“No, it’s nice,” Riley assured him. “Just very… clean.”

“There’s more downstairs,” Joe added. “Basement and gym. I can show you later.”

As she ventured further into the space, her gaze caught on something completely incongruous with the rest of the decor—a high-end turntable set up in the corner of the living room, surrounded by a carefully arranged stack of vinyl records. Unlike everything else, which looked like it had been there since move-in day, this setup was clearly brand new, the console still smelling faintly of wood varnish.

“You got yourself a record player?” Riley asked, moving toward it with interest. “Since New Orleans, I mean.”

"Yeah," Joe said, his tone deliberately casual even as his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Got it yesterday."

Riley ran her fingers over the selection of records beside it, her breath catching slightly as she recognized title after title—an eclectic mix of vintage jazz, indie folk, classic rock, and even some obscure blues artists she'd mentioned loving during their conversations. She pulled out a Howlin' Wolf album identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him at that little record store in New Orleans.

"Did you..." she began, looking between Joe and the collection.

"Sarah knows a guy at a record store," Joe explained, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Told him to put together something you might like."

The gesture hit Riley with unexpected force—not just the expense, which was considerable, but the thought behind it. Joe hadn't merely bought her a gift; he'd carved out a physical space for her in his meticulously ordered world. A space that hadn't existed before she'd entered his life.

"You didn't even own a turntable before New Orleans," she said softly, the realization making something warm bloom in her chest.

Joe met her eyes with that direct gaze that never wavered. "No. I didn't."

Riley set the record down carefully, momentarily speechless. The contrast between his impersonal living space and this deliberate addition—this one corner that screamed of effort and intention—made it more meaningful than any grand gesture could have been.

"Thought you might like it," he said simply.

"I do," she said softly, something shifting between them as the weight of the gesture settled. "I really do."

Riley stood there for a moment, her fingers still resting on the album cover, suddenly aware of the weight behind this gesture. Joe had created this space—this piece of her world—within his carefully controlled environment. For someone as deliberate as Joe, this wasn’t just a purchase—it was a statement.

Rather than overthinking it or turning it into something awkwardly serious, Riley just followed her instinct. She crossed the distance between them in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes to pull him into a kiss that said everything her travel-addled brain couldn’t quite articulate.

When they broke apart, she kept her arms looped around his neck, her smile soft and genuine. “You keep surprising me,” she said, her voice light but threaded with something deeper.

Joe's hands settled naturally at her waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of her shirt. There was that quiet confidence in his eyes, but something else too—a hint of vulnerability that he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"After we decided you were coming," he said, voice low and matter-of-fact, "I kept thinking about your place in New Orleans. All those records. How alive it felt." He glanced toward the turntable, then back to her. "Thought you might want to come back if there was music here."

It wasn't poetic, wasn't wrapped in flowery words, but it was honest in a way that was quintessentially Joe—direct and unvarnished. He was telling her, in his own way, that he'd been thinking about how to keep her in his life.

Riley's expression softened as she took in the meaning behind his straightforward admission. She didn't make a big deal of it, knowing that would only make him retreat.

"It's working," she said simply, holding his gaze. "Already mentally planning my next visit."

She glanced back at the turntable, her fingers trailing over the edge of the console. "We're gonna break this in later—I'll pick out something that suits the mood..."

Joe watched as her eyelids grew heavier, the way her shoulders softened with each passing moment. Despite her obvious effort to stay present with him, travel exhaustion was finally catching up to her.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle. "You're exhausted," he said softly, not a question or judgment, just a simple observation. "Let me show you upstairs."

"I wanted to stay up," Riley admitted, leaning slightly into his touch. "First night here and all."

"We have time," Joe said, his voice low and reassuring. He took her hand, intertwining their fingers. "Come on."

Riley nodded, finding herself oddly comforted by his steadiness. As they moved through the house, she let her fingers trail along the walls, taking in details she'd explore more fully tomorrow when her mind wasn't clouded with jetlag.

He led her to a large primary bedroom with a wall of windows overlooking the backyard. The space was simple but intentional—a massive bed with gray bedding, nightstands with books that looked actually read, and a sitting area that caught the natural light.

"Bathroom's through there if you want to shower," Joe said, setting her suitcase on a bench at the foot of the bed. "I'll get you some water."

Riley watched him leave, taking in the fact that he'd brought her straight to his bedroom without hesitation or discussion. The assumption that they'd share a bed should have felt presumptuous, but instead just felt right. Natural, after New Orleans.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. The mattress was ridiculously comfortable, the sheets obscenely soft. She ran her hand over the duvet, wondering absently if this was what thread counts were actually about.

Joe returned with a glass of water and some Advil. "Thought you might need this too," he said, setting them on the nightstand. "Jet lag."

"You're amazing," Riley said, already kicking off the Uggs and crawling fully onto the bed. "I'm sorry I'm so useless right now."

"You've been awake for a day," Joe pointed out reasonably. "Sleep. We've got all weekend."

As Riley slid under the covers, too tired to even consider unpacking or showering, Joe leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm glad you're here," he said quietly.

"Me too," Riley murmured, her eyes already closing.

As she drifted toward sleep, she was vaguely aware of Joe moving around the room, drawing blinds, adjusting the temperature. Her eyes fluttered open one last time to see him standing by the window, silhouetted against the fading light, the strong lines of his profile etched against the glass. That was the last image she saw - Joe in his element, solid and certain, watching over her as she slept in his bed.

---

Riley woke slowly, cocooned in warmth, her senses adjusting to the unfamiliar stillness. The room was dim, bathed in the soft gray light of early morning. Outside the windows, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn barely breaking through. She blinked sleepily, taking in her surroundings—a room too neat and orderly to be hers, too spacious and modern to belong to anyone she knew back home.

Then it clicked—Joe’s house. Cincinnati. She’d made it.

She shifted under the thick duvet, the sheets cool on her bare shoulders. The room itself felt both intentional and effortless—crisp lines and neutral tones, with a sense of balance between minimalism and comfort. A pair of sneakers were kicked off near the door, one overturned on its side. A dark gray hoodie hung over the arm of a low, modern chair near the window. An abandoned hat sat on the dresser, slightly crumpled at the bill. On the floor beside the bed, a pair of socks were left carelessly tangled.

On the nightstand, a piece of paper caught her eye, folded neatly with her name scrawled across the front in Joe’s familiar handwriting. She reached for it, fingers brushing the corner as she picked it up, her pulse quickening just a little. Unfolding the note, she leaned back against the pillows, a small, sleepy smile forming before she even read the words.

Went for a workout. Help yourself to anything. Chef prepped meals in fridge. Back soon. - J

Stretching in the Bengals hoodie Joe had given her when she arrived—the one she'd fallen asleep in—Riley padded barefoot through the unfamiliar hallway, taking in the details she'd been too exhausted to notice the night before. The house was beautiful—modern, expensive, tastefully designed—but also strangely impersonal, like a high-end model home waiting for someone to actually live in it.

Except for one corner. The turntable.

Riley made her way directly to it, running her fingers over the sleek equipment, remembering how touched she'd been last night when she'd noticed the records. The Howlin' Wolf album—identical to the rare pressing she'd shown him in that tiny New Orleans record store—caught her eye again. She carefully slid it from its sleeve, placing it on the turntable.

The raw, gravelly voice filled the silent house moments later, the blues echoing off the high ceilings, transforming the sterile space.

She headed for the kitchen, humming along, her socked feet sliding on the hardwood floors. The open-concept kitchen gleamed with high-end appliances that looked barely touched, except for a protein shake blender that stood at the ready on the counter, clearly Joe's most-used kitchen tool.

Riley opened and closed cabinets at random, investigating. Unlike her jam-packed New Orleans kitchen cupboards stuffed with mismatched mugs and inherited dishes, Joe's contained neat rows of matching glasses and plates, many still looking fresh from the store. The minimalism wasn't meticulous organization so much as the result of someone who simply didn't accumulate things.

After some searching, she found coffee and wrestled briefly with his elaborate espresso machine. The kitchen was the domain of someone who didn't really cook—clean, precise, and equipped with everything necessary, but lacking the lived-in feeling of a space where meals were regularly prepared with love.

She opened the refrigerator, curious about these "chef prepped meals" Joe had mentioned. Inside were stacked containers—not obsessively labeled but clearly professional, sectioned with proteins, vegetables, and carbs. Athlete fuel. She grabbed what looked like breakfast, ignoring the neat stack order completely.

As she searched for cream for her coffee, Riley opened what appeared to be a second, smaller refrigerator tucked into the corner. Instead of finding more meal prep containers or sports drinks, she discovered a cake.

Not just any cake—a bright teal-frosted creation decorated with colorful flower shapes in red, purple, orange, and blue. The text across the top made her heart skip: "26 years later..."

Riley stared, coffee forgotten in her hand. The SpongeBob reference couldn't have been clearer—they'd quoted it to each other that first night in New York when he'd cooked for her in his apartment, both of them laughing until they couldn't breathe when they realized they shared the same ridiculous sense of humor. He'd remembered not just her birthday, but a moment that had first connected them.

She set down her mug and carefully lifted the cake for a closer look, fighting a sudden, unexpected tightness in her throat. This wasn't some extravagant, showy gesture meant for Instagram or public consumption. It wasn't Ethan's elaborate surprise party with photographers. It was small, private, and exactly right.

Riley set the cake back carefully and pulled out her phone, taking a quick picture before returning to her coffee. She cranked the music a little louder, smiling to herself as she leaned against the counter, letting Howlin' Wolf's voice wash over her.

She didn’t know how much time she had before Joe got back—could be minutes, could be hours. Either way, she figured she’d make herself at home, take a shower, maybe explore a little. She left her coffee mug on the counter without a coaster, a small rebellion against the perfect order of his space. A part of her wondered if he’d notice, but another part knew he’d probably just smile and shake his head. She was bringing chaos to his world, and somehow, she knew he'd welcome it.

With Howlin' Wolf still playing downstairs, Riley carried her coffee upstairs and wandered into Joe's bathroom. Like everything else in his house, it was pristine and minimal—glass shower, matching towels, expensive products neatly arranged. She turned the water on as hot as it would go, letting steam fill the space.

Shedding the Bengals hoodie and what remained of yesterday's travel clothes, she stepped into the scalding shower and let the water wash away the last traces of jet lag, singing loudly over the sound of the spray, her voice echoing off the tiled walls.

For once, she wasn’t rushing—no band waiting, no session to get to. Just the quiet luxury of time and space and hot water. Even after the week in Italy, something about being here felt different. She used Joe’s shampoo, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent that clung to him, then wrapped herself in one of the oversized towels hanging on the rack.

Back in the bedroom, she contemplated her suitcase, still unpacked from the night before. The thought of putting on any of her wrinkled, worn, Italy-recycled clothes was distinctly unappealing. Instead, she headed straight for Joe's closet.

It was almost exactly what she’d expected—but with more flair. Everything was organized, yeah, but not obsessively. A row of hoodies and jackets ran from deep neutrals to loud, cocky prints—leopard, camo, something that looked like velvet. Button-downs in unexpected shades—burnt orange, lavender, emerald—hung beside LSU gear and a few Bengals warm-ups. On the floor, sneakers lined up in pristine order: high-tops in every color imaginable, a couple rare pairs she was pretty sure sold out in five minutes online.

She skimmed a hand along a shelf of neatly folded tees and grabbed a soft gray one, worn thin and printed with a faded vintage logo. It hung like a dress on her, mid-thigh and a little stretched at the collar. Perfect.

She slipped it on, added a pair of her own underwear, and headed back downstairs, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. Her hair dripped down her back as she made her way to the turntable to flip the record. The house was starting to feel different already—less like a showroom and more like a place where someone actually lived.

She was in the middle of rummaging through his kitchen again, hunting for breakfast and singing along with the music, when she heard the front door open. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was barely 10:30 AM—Joe was back far earlier than she'd expected.

She turned, coffee mug in hand, to find him standing in the doorway to the kitchen, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was still damp from a shower, his expression a mixture of amusement and something softer as he took in the sight of her in his t-shirt, music playing, coffee mug balanced precariously on the edge of the counter, signs of her already scattered throughout his carefully ordered space.

“You’re back already?” she asked, a smile spreading across her face.

Joe's eyes moved deliberately over her—bare legs, wet hair, his shirt—before returning to her face. "Didn't want to waste the day," he said simply.

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary, the meaning behind his words hanging in the air between them. He'd cut his workout short. Joe Burrow, notorious for his rigid routines, had changed his schedule.

"I found the cake," Riley said, setting down her mug and moving toward him.

Joe's expression shifted slightly, a hint of self-consciousness crossing his features. "I know a bakery," he said, downplaying it in his typical fashion. "Thought you might like it."

Riley stepped closer, until she was directly in front of him. "Twenty-six years later," she quoted softly, watching his face.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in that half-smile she'd come to cherish. "Seemed fitting."

She reached up, hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him down to her level. "Thank you," she murmured, just before her lips met his.

Joe's gym bag hit the floor with a thud, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. There was hunger in his kiss, in the way his fingers tightened against her hips, hunger that matched the growing sense of urgency in her own body.

Joe's gym bag hit the floor with a thud, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. There was hunger in his kiss, in the way his fingers tightened against her hips, hunger that matched the growing sense of urgency in her own body.

He tasted like mint and smelled like his shampoo—the same one she'd just used. His hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth. 

Joe's hands slid lower, finding the bare skin of her thighs beneath his shirt, and Riley gasped against his mouth. The hunger between them had been building since New Orleans, intensified by distance and anticipation. Now, with nothing standing between them, that hunger consumed them both.

In one fluid motion, Joe lifted her, hands gripping the backs of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her wet hair fell forward, creating a curtain around their faces as he carried her backward until she felt the cool surface of the kitchen counter against her skin.

Joe broke the kiss, his breathing ragged as he looked at her—really looked at her—hair wild from the shower, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, perched on his kitchen counter. His eyes took in the scene around them—the music filling his usually quiet house, her coffee mug on the counter, evidence of her presence transforming his space.

"I like seeing you here," he said, something warm and open in his expression that she rarely got to see.

Riley smiled, reaching to touch his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe confirmed, his voice low and certain.

He leaned in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear that he'd discovered in New Orleans. His hands slipped under the t-shirt, tracing up her sides with deliberate slowness that made her shiver. The gentleness of his touch contrasted with the intensity in his eyes when he pulled back to look at her again.

"I missed you," he admitted, the words simple but weighted with meaning.

Instead of matching his seriousness, Riley lightened the moment with a smile. "Enough to skip part of your sacred workout routine?"

Joe's lips quirked in that half-smile she found so endearing. "Sacrifices had to be made."

Riley leaned forward to kiss him again, deepening it immediately as her hands found the hem of his workout shirt, tugging it upward. Joe helped her, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion and tossing it aside without a second thought.

As Riley ran her hands over his chest, Joe moved closer, fitting himself between her legs. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the t-shirt higher with each movement. She raised her arms, allowing him to pull it off completely, leaving her in nothing but her underwear.

"I've been thinking about this since New Orleans," Joe said, voice rough with desire as his eyes moved over her.

Riley smiled up at him, deliberately provocative as she tugged at the waistband of his athletic shorts. "Show me."

The last thread of Joe's restraint snapped. He captured her mouth in a kiss that was all heat and urgency, all the distance and waiting of the past weeks pouring into a single moment of connection.

His hands were everywhere—her hair, her neck, her breasts—touching her like he couldn't get enough, like he'd been starving for her. Riley matched his intensity, her fingers slipping beneath his shorts, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist to pull him closer.

With quick, efficient movements, Joe helped her push his shorts and compression shorts down just enough, and then there was nothing between them but the electricity of anticipation. Riley's underwear was the last barrier, which Joe removed with a swift, practiced motion, dropping it carelessly to the floor beside them.

When Joe finally pushed into her, they both gasped at the sensation. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against hers, breathing her in. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that had Riley clutching at his back, her nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.

The pristine kitchen filled with the sounds of their breathing, of skin against skin, of whispered encouragements and half-formed pleas. Riley lost herself in the feel of him—the strength of his body moving against hers, the precision of his movements, the way he watched her face for every reaction.

As the tension built within her, Joe's movements grew more urgent, his breathing more ragged. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes locked on her face with that intense focus that was uniquely his.

"Fucking come," he breathed, his voice strained with his own approaching release.

"I am," Riley gasped, her body tightening around him as the wave crashed over her.

Joe followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in her neck, a deep groan escaping him as he held her tightly against him.

For several long moments, they just held each other, breathing hard, neither wanting to break the connection. Riley's hands smoothed over his back, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles, the racing of his heart against her chest.

Finally, Joe lifted his head, his expression softer than she'd ever seen it. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness.

"Officially welcome to Cincinnati," he said, a rare, full smile lighting his features.

Riley laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Hell of a welcome committee."

Joe's eyes crinkled with amusement. "Wait till you see the rest of the tour."

"Is it as hands-on as this part?" Riley asked, deliberately provocative.

"If you want it to be," Joe replied, his expression serious despite the lightness of their banter.

Riley studied his face, recognizing something deeper beneath the surface. This wasn't just about physical attraction—there was an understanding forming between them, a bridge being built between their different worlds.

"I think I'd like that," she said softly.

"Want to break out that cake now?" he asked against her lips.

Riley's eyes lit up. "You're actually suggesting cake before noon? Who are you and what have you done with Joe Burrow?"

Joe shrugged, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Maybe he's evolving."

He moved to the small refrigerator, retrieving the teal-frosted cake she'd discovered earlier. To her surprise, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a single candle, placing it carefully in the center of the cake.

"You got a candle too?" Riley asked, something catching in her throat at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"Can't have a birthday cake without a candle," Joe replied simply, lighting it with a match from the same drawer.

The simple act was so deliberate and sweet that Riley felt momentarily speechless. Joe set the cake on the counter between them, the candlelight illuminating his features.

"Make a wish," he said quietly.

Riley looked at him across the flickering light—at his expression, unusually soft and open—and knew exactly what she wanted. She closed her eyes briefly before blowing out the flame.

"What'd you wish for?" Joe asked, cutting them each a slice.

"Not telling," Riley replied with a smile, taking the plate he offered.

Joe watched her take the first bite, satisfaction evident in his eyes as he picked up his own fork.

Together, they leaned against the counter, eating birthday cake while Howlin' Wolf continued playing in the living room. Outside, Cincinnati waited to be explored, but for now, this quiet moment of connection—of worlds colliding and finding unexpected harmony—was all that mattered.

"So," Riley said, setting down her fork, "how about that house tour you promised me?"

Joe's eyes darkened slightly as he remembered his earlier words. "The hands-on tour?"

"That's the one," Riley confirmed, a smile playing at her lips.

Joe nodded, his gaze never leaving her face, that focused intensity making her feel like the only person in his universe. "Whatever you want."

---

Joe led Riley through his house, their fingers intertwined as they moved from room to room. The tour started casual enough—Joe pointing out the living room features she hadn't noticed the night before, explaining how he'd chosen the place, describing the backyard that swept down to the small lake visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Downstairs, the media room felt darker, cozier—oversized recliners lined up like thrones in front of a massive screen. Joe was mid-sentence, explaining how the surround sound worked, when Riley tugged him down into one of the seats, pulling him close with a mischievous grin. She climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling him as his hands slipped beneath her shirt. They lost themselves in each other there, slow and unhurried, the dim light and heavy silence cocooning them. When it was over, they stayed tangled together for a while, catching their breath, before eventually finishing the rest of the tour—hands still linked, smiles softer, something new settling quietly between them.

The basement gym—Joe's sanctuary—became the setting for a different kind of intimacy. Riley wandered among the equipment, trailing her fingers over the weights, examining the detailed workout plans pinned to a corkboard.

"So this is where the magic happens," she teased, but her voice held genuine interest as she studied the space where Joe spent so many hours.

"Just work," Joe replied, leaning against the doorframe, watching her explore his domain.

Riley caught something in his tone—not defensiveness, but a quiet pride. This space, more than any other in the house, reflected the discipline that defined him. The careful organization of weights, the clean lines of expensive equipment, the posted schedules and progression charts—all of it spoke to the methodical approach he took to his career.

She turned to face him, seeing him differently in this context. "You really love it, don't you? Not just the game—this part. The work."

Joe considered her question with that characteristic thoughtfulness. "It's the only way I know how to do it," he said finally. "Be prepared for everything. Control what I can control."

Riley nodded, understanding something fundamental about him in that moment. Where she thrived in creative chaos, found inspiration in the unexpected, Joe built his success on structure and preparation. Different approaches, both valid.

As they made their way back upstairs, the tour continuing, the contrast between their worlds became not an obstacle but a fascinating exploration—each room revealing more about Joe, each touch between them deepening their connection, each moment together bridging the space between order and chaos.

By the time they circled back to the main floor, Riley's energy was noticeably waning. The adrenaline that had carried her through their enthusiastic reunion was giving way to the reality of her transcontinental journey. Joe noticed immediately—the slight slowing of her movements, the way her sentences trailed off, the brief moments where her eyes would unfocus.

"You need to rest," he said, not a question but an observation, his hand finding the small of her back as they entered the kitchen.

Riley gave him a small, grateful smile. "Maybe. But I don't want to waste our time sleeping."

Joe opened the refrigerator, retrieving two bottles of water. "You crossing multiple time zones to be here isn't wasting time," he pointed out, handing her one. "It's just part of it."

She accepted the water, their fingers brushing. "Listen to you being all reasonable."

“One of us has to be,” he replied, that half-smile making her heart skip.

Riley took a long drink, then set the bottle on the counter. “Maybe a movie? Something we can watch together that doesn’t require me to be fully functional?”

Joe nodded, leading her to the living room where the massive TV dominated one wall. “I can work with that.”

The simple domesticity of the moment struck Riley as she curled into the corner of his oversized sectional, legs tucked beneath her, still wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of leggings she'd finally unpacked from her suitcase. Joe moved around the space with practiced efficiency, dimming lights, adjusting the sound system, finding the remote.

He settled beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him but not crowding her space. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Something I don't have to think about," Riley admitted. "I can't promise I'll stay awake for anything with an actual plot."

Joe scrolled through the options, finally settling on an action movie they’d both seen before—something familiar that didn’t demand full attention. As the opening credits began, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side with her head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around her automatically, like it was second nature—like they’d been sitting like this for years instead of just a handful of days.

The steady rhythm of Joe's breathing and the familiar dialogue of the movie created a cocoon of comfort. Riley found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, catching fragments of the plot between moments of sleep. Each time she startled awake, Joe's hand would stroke her arm gently, anchoring her.

“Sorry,” she murmured after the third time, blinking sleepily up at him. “I’m terrible company right now.”

Joe pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “You’re exactly where you should be,” he replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble that she felt more than heard.

Something about those words settled deep inside her, giving her permission to just exist—no pressure, no expectation. Relaxing fully against him, she let her eyes close, trusting him to hold her there as sleep finally pulled her under.

The next time she opened her eyes, the movie was over, the screen displaying menu options, and Joe was looking down at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher—tender but intense, like he was committing something to memory. His fingers traced slow, absent circles on her shoulder, and she could feel his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.

“What?” she asked, her voice scratchy with sleep.

Joe hesitated, his mouth curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “Everything. Just… this.”

Riley understood. This quiet moment, unremarkable by any external measure, felt significant in ways neither of them could articulate. Joe Burrow, a man whose life was measured in achievements and statistics, was finding value in stillness. Riley Carter, who thrived on movement and expression, was learning the beauty of pause.

"Hungry?" Joe asked, breaking the spell of the moment.

Riley smiled, her hand resting lightly on his chest. “Yeah. But not enough to move.”

"Good thing a chef stocks my fridge," Joe replied, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her arm. "Pick your protein and we'll go from there."

"Hmm," Riley murmured, eyes still half-closed. "What are my options?"

"Chicken, salmon, steak," Joe listed off. "All prepped, portioned, and ready to heat. I can throw something together."

Riley tilted her head up to look at him. "Meal prep, huh? That's very... quarterback of you."

"Efficient," Joe corrected with a slight smile. "I save my cooking experiments for special occasions."

"Like pasta in New York," Riley remembered.

"Exactly. But right now, we've got professional-grade fuel waiting to be heated."

"In that case," Riley said, finally sitting up, "I'll take the salmon. And I promise to be impressed by your microwave skills."

Joe stood, offering his hand to pull her up. "You laugh, but there's an art to properly reheating chef-prepared meals."

"Is there now?" Riley took his hand, allowing him to lift her to her feet, her body gravitating naturally toward his.

"Timing. Temperature. Presentation," Joe said with mock seriousness as they headed toward the kitchen. "It's basically cooking."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Burrow," Riley teased, bumping her shoulder against his arm.

They ate at the kitchen island, perched on the sleek barstools that Riley had noticed earlier. Despite Joe's claims about "the art of reheating," he'd simply transferred the chef-prepared meals to actual plates, though he did add a sprig of fresh herbs from a small container in the refrigerator.

"Very impressive plating," Riley teased, cutting into the perfectly cooked salmon. "The garnish really elevates it."

Joe shrugged, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Presentation matters."

The food was surprisingly good—simple but well-prepared, the kind of clean, nutrient-dense meal that fueled a professional athlete without sacrificing flavor. Riley found herself hungrier than she'd expected, the combination of jet lag and their earlier activities having depleted her energy reserves.

"So," Joe said after they'd eaten in comfortable silence for a few minutes, "how weird is it being here? Scale of one to ten."

Riley considered this, twirling her fork between her fingers. "In your house specifically, or Cincinnati generally?"

"Both. Either."

"Your house... maybe a six?" she decided. "It's definitely not what I'm used to. Everything is so..."

"Clean?" Joe supplied.

"I was going to say empty," Riley corrected. "Like you moved in but never quite finished unpacking."

The simple honesty of his response caught Riley off guard. Joe wasn't prone to flowery declarations or exaggerated compliments. When he said something, he meant it exactly as stated. The implication that she had affected his perspective on his carefully constructed world carried weight.

"I'm honored that my chaos has been granted entry," she said, deflecting slightly to ease the sudden intensity.

Joe accepted the shift in tone. "Your chaos is welcome anytime."

Riley smiled, pushing her empty plate away. "Careful what you wish for, Burrow."

Joe stood, collecting their plates and carrying them to the sink. Riley watched him rinse them methodically before placing them in the dishwasher at precise angles. Even in this mundane task, his movements were deliberate, economical.

“You really move like someone who’s always thinking two steps ahead,” she said, almost to herself.

Joe glanced over his shoulder. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not bad,” Riley said. “Just… different. It’s like everything you do has a reason. Nothing wasted.”

Joe turned to face her, leaning against the counter. “I guess I’ve always been like that. Especially once football got serious.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “It’s fascinating. Like watching someone exist in real time, but on purpose.”

Joe gave a quiet laugh at that, something soft settling in his expression. “You make it sound poetic.”

“You kind of are,” Riley said, her tone warm. “Just… in a really quiet, deliberate way. Like you don’t waste energy on things that don’t matter.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking away like he was thinking. “I think for a long time, I’ve just done what works. Kept things simple. Structured. Predictable.”

A pause passed between them. Riley didn’t push—just waited.Joe looked back at her. “Safe, I guess. That’s what it’s been. And then you show up, and none of it feels… safe anymore. But it feels real.”

Riley slid off the barstool, moving toward him. “Real’s better than safe.”

Riley stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body but not touching. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Yeah," Joe said, his voice dropping lower. "It's good. Different, but good."

"Different can be good," Riley agreed, finally reaching out to place her hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm.

Joe's hands found her waist, his thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of her borrowed shirt. "I like seeing you in my clothes," he said, his voice lower. "Makes me feel possessive in a way I've never felt before. It's... new."

Riley smiled, sliding her hands up to his shoulders. "Just the clothes? Because I was planning on making myself at home in every room of this house."

Joe's grip tightened marginally on her waist. "That can be arranged."

The tension between them shifted, the easy conversation giving way to something more electric. Riley was acutely aware of every point of contact between them, of the steady rhythm of Joe's breathing, of how his eyes never left hers.

"What do you normally do after dinner?" she asked, her voice softer now. "In your very structured life?"

"Film study," Joe replied honestly. "Or reading. Sometimes both."

"Exciting," Riley teased gently.

"Functional," Joe corrected, but there was no defensiveness in his tone. "But tonight... I was thinking you could walk me through that record player Sarah bought. Give me an education on the vinyl collection."

Riley's face brightened. "Now you're speaking my language, Burrow."

Joe led her to the living room, their fingers intertwined. The stack of records waited beside the new turntable, still pristine in its setup. Riley approached it with reverence, running her fingers over the carefully curated collection.

"So, where do we start?" Joe asked, watching her assess the options.

Riley pulled out an album—vintage soul that she'd mentioned loving during one of their late-night calls. "Basic music appreciation 101," she said, carefully removing the vinyl from its sleeve. "First, we establish your baseline knowledge."

Joe settled on the couch, content to watch as Riley placed the record on the turntable with practiced ease. As the opening notes filled the room, Riley moved to join him, curling against his side in what was already becoming their natural position.

"What am I listening for?" Joe asked, his arm wrapping around her shoulders.

"Not for," Riley corrected. "With. Just... feel it first. Analysis comes later."

Joe nodded, his body gradually relaxing as the music continued. They sat in comfortable silence through the first track, Riley occasionally glancing up to gauge his reaction, Joe listening with the same focused intensity he applied to everything.

As the second song began, Riley shifted to look at him properly. "Verdict?"

"It's good," Joe said simply. "Warmer than digital. More... present."

Riley smiled, pleased with his assessment. "Exactly. There's a depth you don't get from streaming. A texture."

"Is this what drew you to vinyl?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "The sound quality?"

Riley considered this, her fingers absently tracing patterns on his chest. "Partly. But it's also the ritual of it. The intentionality. Having to choose an album and commit to it. Having to flip it over halfway through. It forces you to be present with the music."

"Intentionality," Joe repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. "There's something to that."

"What?"

"Being deliberate about what matters," Joe explained. "I do it with training and game prep. You do it with music."

"I guess we're both intense about our passions," Riley agreed, surprised by the parallel. "Never thought of it like that before."

"We're not so different after all," Joe said softly, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair.

"Just different areas of focus," Riley murmured, settling back against him as the music swelled.

They stayed like that through the remainder of the side, conversation flowing easily between tracks. Riley sharing stories about the first time she'd heard certain songs, Joe asking questions that revealed his genuine interest not just in the music but in what it meant to her.

When the record ended, Riley made no move to get up and flip it. The silence felt comfortable, weighted with a growing understanding between them.

"Thank you," Joe said suddenly.

Riley tilted her head to look at him. "For what?"

"For coming here," he said. "For bringing... this into my house."

The simplicity of his gratitude touched something deep in Riley. Joe wasn't talking about the physical presence of the records or even her companionship. He was acknowledging how she'd shifted something fundamental in his space, in his carefully constructed world.

"Thank you for making space for it," she replied, reaching up to touch his face, her thumb brushing along his jaw.

Joe turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm. The gesture was tender, unhurried—different from their earlier urgency. His eyes held hers, asking a question without words.

Riley answered by leaning up to press her lips to his, a kiss that started gentle but deepened as Joe's hand came up to cradle the back of her neck. There was no rush to it, no desperate need to make up for lost time. Just a slow, deliberate exploration, as if they were memorizing each other.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, breathing synchronized. Outside, the last remnants of daylight had faded, the room now illuminated only by the soft lamps Joe had turned on earlier.

"We should put on another record," she said, her voice a little husky.

Joe watched as she stood and padded barefoot across the room to the turntable, admiring how completely at home she looked in his space, wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

She bent over the record collection, fingers trailing over album spines with familiar ease. She paused at one, pulling it out with a small sound of satisfaction. The lamplight caught the edge of the vinyl as she placed it on the turntable, dropping the needle with the care of someone who'd performed this ritual thousands of times before.

The room filled with sound—low, throbbing, sensual. A steady pulse threaded through velvet layers of bass and synth, slow and deliberate, like the music was breathing. It wrapped around them like smoke, thick with tension and intimacy, every note dragging just enough to make the air feel heavier. It didn’t ask for attention—it seduced it.

Riley turned to face him, her expression transformed. There was something hypnotic in the way she began to move, her body swaying with subtle confidence to the rhythm. She made her way back to him, each step deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.

"Next part of your music education," she said, standing between his knees, "is learning all the other ways you can feel the music."

Joe reached for her, but she caught his hands, placing them at his sides with a shake of her head. "Not yet. Just watch."

His eyes darkened as she moved to the beat, her body telling a story with each shift and sway. It was nothing like her stage performances—this was private, unfiltered, meant only for him. The t-shirt she wore rose and fell with her movements, revealing glimpses of skin that made his breath catch.

“Music isn’t just sound,” she said, her voice low, syncopated to the rhythm pulsing through the room. “It’s a physical thing. It moves through you.”

Joe watched, transfixed, as she demonstrated exactly what she meant. Her hips swayed in perfect synchronicity with the bass line, her shoulders rolling with each smoky guitar riff. He'd seen athletes with perfect body control before, had that kind of precision himself on the field, but this was different—this was someone becoming the music itself.

The singer hit a low, raw note that vibrated through the room. Riley moved forward and straddled him in one fluid motion, settling on his lap with her thighs bracketing his.

She took his hands in hers, placed them on her hips where the t-shirt had ridden up. His fingers found warm skin.

"Here," she said simply, guiding his hands.

Joe's breath caught as she rolled her hips against him, the movement perfectly synchronized with the bass line pulsing through the room. The friction between them sent heat spreading through his body.

His hands tightened on her hips, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin as she moved. He'd always approached things with precision, analysis – football, training, even sex. But this was different. Immersive.

"Stop thinking," Riley murmured, noticing the familiar focus in his eyes. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Just feel."

So he did. He let go. Let her lead. He surrendered, letting the rhythm take over. His hands moved up her sides, dragging the t-shirt higher. The music flowed through them, connecting them in a way he couldn't have articulated.

When they kissed, it wasn't calculated or measured like so many things in his life. It was instinct, raw and unfiltered. He felt her smile against his mouth.

"More," was all he said when they broke apart.

Riley's response was to reach down and pull his shirt off, tossing it aside. Her palms spread flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat picking up tempo to match the drums.

"Close your eyes," she said, and he did – relinquishing control in a way that would have been unthinkable weeks ago.

He did—relinquishing control in a way that would have felt unthinkable only weeks ago.

With his eyes closed, everything intensified. The bass vibrated through the couch into his bones. The guitar seemed to curl around them both.

Riley's mouth found the sensitive spot below his ear, her breath warm against his skin. She moved with the drum pattern, hips rolling in a perfect rhythm against his. His hands instinctively tightened on her waist.

She reached between them, unbuttoning his jeans with deft fingers.

"Lift up," she instructed, and he raised his hips to help her slide his jeans and boxers down just enough.

Her body was warm against his, skin against skin as she pulled the t-shirt over her head. Though his eyes remained closed, his hands mapped her – the curve of her waist, the smoothness of her back, the places where her breathing changed when he touched her.

The song shifted into a bridge, tempo changing. Riley moved with it, lifting slightly before sinking down onto him in one fluid motion that pulled gasps from them both. The sensation was overwhelming – her heat around him, the vibration of the bass through the floor, the guitar notes seeming to dance across his skin.

He felt rather than heard her inhale sharply, felt the slight tremor in her thighs against his.

"Feel that?" Her voice was barely audible over the music, but he felt the words against his throat.

"Yes," he answered, the word more breath than sound.

The music flowed through them both, dictating the pace, connecting them in ways he'd never experienced before. This wasn’t just sex—it was communion. Wordless conversation. He followed her, then guided her, their movements finding a shared language beyond anything he’d known.

As the song climbed toward its peak, so did they. Joe opened his eyes—needed to see her. And there she was: flushed, golden in the lamplight, moving with a sensual grace that felt elemental.

Her eyes locked onto his as the final swell of the song crested. The moment shattered through them both.

The track faded into silence as Riley collapsed against him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath hot against his skin. They stayed like that, connected, as the needle found the brief silence between songs. Their heartbeats gradually slowed to match the new, gentler rhythm that began to fill the room.

After a moment, Riley lifted her head. The look in her eyes was equal parts satisfaction and something deeper, something that felt dangerous and necessary all at once.

Joe traced a hand down her spine, something reverent in the gesture. “I get it now,” he said softly.

A smile tugged at her mouth. "You sure? This album has like eight more tracks."

He answered by pulling her closer as the next song began.

By the time the album reached its final track, they had explored each other thoroughly on the couch, finding new rhythms with each song, discovering how different melodies called for different touches, different tempos. The record played its final notes before the gentle hiss of the needle in the empty grooves filled the room.

They lay tangled together on the couch, Riley draped across Joe's chest, a throw blanket haphazardly pulled over them. Joe's fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine as their breathing synchronized.

As the needle lifted and returned to its cradle, a comfortable silence settled over them. Joe reached behind the couch, his movement careful to avoid disturbing Riley, and pulled a soft throw blanket from where it had been draped over the back. With deliberate gentleness, he spread it over them both, coccooning Riley against his chest.

"Should we head upstairs?" he murmured against her hair, his voice low and rough with approaching sleep.

Riley nestled closer, her body heavy and relaxed against his. "Too comfortable to move," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. Her fingers traced absent patterns across his chest, slowing as exhaustion from travel and their activities finally caught up with her.

Joe tightened his arms around her, one hand continuing its gentle path along her spine. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept anywhere but his bed—deliberate choices, structured routines—but somehow the thought of disturbing this moment felt wrong.

The city lights cast soft shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting Riley's skin in a gentle glow. Joe watched as her breathing deepened, felt the exact moment when sleep claimed her. Her weight against him was substantial and real—evidence that she wasn't just a figment of his imagination, a fantasy constructed from late-night calls and memories of New Orleans.

As his own eyes grew heavy, Joe found himself cataloging small details—the light floral scent of her hair, the way her leg intertwined with his, how perfectly she fit in the space against his chest. His precisely ordered world had been upended in the span of a few weeks, yet never had chaos felt so right.

The disciplined part of him—the quarterback who tracked every statistical variation, who studied film until his eyes burned—understood that this wasn't logical. They barely knew each other. Their lives existed on separate trajectories. But as sleep began to claim him, that voice grew distant, drowned out by the steady rhythm of Riley's heartbeat against his own.

Just before consciousness slipped away, Joe pressed a kiss to the top of Riley's head and surrendered to sleep, his carefully constructed world giving way to something messier, warmer, and infinitely more real.

---

Riley woke to the gentle sensation of fingers brushing hair from her face. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the living room in a warm glow. For a moment, she lay still, orienting herself—the firm chest beneath her cheek, the steady heartbeat against her ear, the throw blanket tangled around their legs.

She tilted her head to find Joe already awake, his eyes meeting hers with a softness that made her breath catch.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.

"Morning," Joe replied, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern along her shoulder.

Riley shifted against him, stretching slightly. "You could've woken me up. We didn't have to sleep out here."

"I didn't mind," Joe said simply, his gaze steady on her face. Something in his expression made her pause—a quiet intensity she was beginning to recognize as Joe working through his thoughts.

They lay in comfortable silence for a moment, neither making any move to disturb their position. Outside, birds called to each other, and somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower hummed.

“Last night…” Joe began, then paused. His eyes found hers again, steady and intent. “That was different for me. In a way I don’t really have words for.”

Riley waited, giving him space to continue. Joe wasn't someone who spoke without purpose.

"I've always approached everything from here," he tapped his temple lightly. "Even when it's not about football. Analyzing. Planning. Staying a step ahead." His voice remained steady, though something flickered in his eyes. "Last night was different. It wasn't about thinking at all."

"It felt right," Riley said softly.

"Yeah," Joe agreed, his hand finding hers, fingers intertwining. "That's what surprised me. How easy it was to just... be there. With you."

Riley squeezed his hand gently. "You've never felt that way before?"

"Not like that," Joe said. "Not where everything else just... disappeared."

There was no embarrassment in his admission, just honesty—the same straightforward approach he brought to everything. It was one of the things she'd come to appreciate most about him.

"It sounds silly when I say it out loud," he continued, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Guy discovers how to live in the moment. Breaking news."

Riley smiled back, but her eyes remained serious. "It's not silly. It's real."

Joe's thumb traced circles on her palm, his gaze shifting to the windows, to the morning light filtering through. "When I found out you were going to Italy, I kept checking my calendar. Trying to figure out when I'd see you again."

"I noticed," Riley said, remembering the texts he'd sent while she was away.

"It bothered me more than it should have," Joe admitted. "The thought of waiting a month. Didn't make sense why it hit me that way."

Riley understood. She'd felt the same way in Italy, checking her phone more than she cared to admit, feeling his absence acutely despite the short time they'd known each other.

"Since New Orleans," Joe continued, "everything's felt... I don't know. More alive, somehow." He looked back at her, his eyes direct. "Like I've been going through the motions without realizing it."

Riley felt something in her chest tighten at the raw honesty in his voice. This was Joe Burrow—measured, deliberate, controlled—telling her she'd woken something in him.

"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I'm always myself with everyone. It's not like I put on an act. But after Ethan..." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I started being more careful about who I let get close. Still Riley on the outside, but keeping the important parts protected."

Joe nodded, understanding without her having to explain further. "Different approaches, same result."

"And now?" Riley asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

Joe's expression softened. "Now I want to try something new." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. "With you."

There was nothing dramatic in the way he said it—no grand declaration or flowery words. Just that steady certainty that was uniquely Joe. Yet something about the simple honesty of it made her heart race more than any elaborate speech could have.

"I'd like that," Riley said, her voice quiet but sure.

Joe pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that felt different from any they'd shared before—unhurried and gentle, yet somehow more meaningful than all that had come before.

When they finally broke apart, Riley rested her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet morning air.

"So," she said after a moment, a smile playing at her lips, "what does the Joe Burrow schedule look like today?"

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. "Wide open," he said, his arms tightening around her. "For you."

The implications of those words settled between them—not just about today, but about what might come next. Neither pushed nor retreated from the moment. Instead, they lay together in the growing light, two people from different worlds finding unexpected common ground.

They lingered on the couch until the growl of Riley's stomach made them both laugh. Joe finally disentangled himself, pressing a kiss to her forehead before standing.

"Breakfast," he declared, extending a hand to help her up. "Then I want to show you something."

They moved through the morning with easy domesticity—Riley borrowing Joe's clothes again, Joe making them protein-rich smoothies and avocado toast. They ate at the kitchen island, their conversation drifting between trivial topics and deeper ones, the comfort between them growing with each passing hour.

After breakfast, Joe led Riley to the garage, where his collection of vehicles waited. She followed him past the sleek Porsche they'd driven yesterday, raising an eyebrow when he stopped instead beside a more understated black Range Rover with tinted windows.

"We're taking this one?" she asked, running her fingers along the glossy exterior.

Joe nodded, unlocking it with a click of his key fob. "Lower profile," he explained, opening the passenger door for her. "I was thinking we could explore a bit without the whole city knowing about it."

Riley slid into the seat, watching as Joe circled to the driver's side. The interior was immaculate—black leather, minimal personal touches, everything in its place. So very Joe. But his words lingered in her mind. Lower profile. As if the Porsche would draw too much attention. As if they needed to avoid being seen.

Joe settled into the driver's seat, starting the engine with a quiet purr. "I thought I'd show you some of my favorite spots in the city."

"Sounds perfect," Riley said, but her eyes caught the way his gaze checked the mirrors, the careful way he looked around before backing out of the garage.

They drove out of his neighborhood, the massive houses set back from the street behind manicured lawns and security gates. Joe seemed focused on the road ahead, following the main routes toward downtown Cincinnati.

"Here," Joe said, handing her his phone after unlocking it. "You pick the music."

Riley took his phone, quickly scrolled through his library, and selected something upbeat for their drive. She set the phone in the console between them, letting the music fill the comfortable silence.

As they entered the city proper, Joe's demeanor shifted subtly. His eyes checked the mirrors more frequently, his awareness of their surroundings more pronounced.

"I'd like to still keep this—us—private. At least for now," he said suddenly, his voice casual but deliberate as they stopped at a red light.

There it was. The knot in Riley's stomach tightened slightly. She understood privacy—lived with the same invasive public attention he did. But something in his tone, in the careful way he'd chosen the Range Rover with its dark windows, triggered a deeper uncertainty.

She let the silence stretch between them, processing her reaction. It wasn't that she wanted to be photographed or generate headlines. Fame had taught her the value of guarding certain parts of her life. But there was a difference between privacy and secrecy, between discretion and hiding.

Riley glanced down at herself—the borrowed clothes, her tousled hair, the chipped nail polish on fingers that bore tattoos and calluses from guitar strings. Then she thought of the women Joe had been linked to in the past. Polished sorority girls. Sleek influencers with perfect blowouts and designer wardrobes. Women who looked like they belonged in his carefully ordered world.

She was nothing like them. Her entire existence was a chaotic counterpoint to the disciplined structure of Joe's life. A part of her wondered if that was exactly why they needed to stay "private"—because she didn't fit the image everyone expected from Joe Burrow.

"I know some places we can go where we won't be bothered," Joe said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice was casual, matter-of-fact, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for him, it was.

Riley nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. She was overreacting, wasn't she? They'd known each other for what—a month? Of course he'd want some privacy while they figured things out. It wasn't about her specifically; it was about protecting something new and fragile from external pressure.

“There’s a spot just outside town I want to take you,” Joe said, glancing over at her. “Kind of a hole-in-the-wall, but they make the best burger I’ve ever had.”

Riley raised an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching. “That so?”

“You’ll see,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s nothing fancy. Just real good. Quiet.”

As they drove, Riley's mind kept circling back to the contradiction of their situation. Last night had felt so open, so real—Joe letting his guard down in a way that seemed rare for him. The turntable he'd bought specifically for her. The way he'd cut his workout short yesterday just to spend more time with her. Those weren't the actions of someone ashamed or uncertain.

Yet here they were, in a vehicle chosen for its anonymity, headed to places selected for their seclusion. Private, not secret—that's what she needed to remember. There was a difference.

Wasn't there?

Joe's hand found hers across the console, his fingers intertwining with hers in a gesture that felt both intimate and grounding. "You okay?" he asked, glancing at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. "You got quiet."

Joe smiled, that genuine expression that transformed his entire face. “You’ll like it. It’s a different kind of quiet.”

---

The Range Rover smoothly navigated the Cincinnati streets, Joe at the wheel with the easy confidence of someone who knew every turn by heart. Instead of heading toward downtown, he took them across the Taylor-Southgate Bridge into Kentucky.

"I thought we were seeing Cincinnati," Riley teased, watching the Ohio River pass beneath them.

Joe's mouth quirked into that half-smile she was growing to love. "Sometimes the best view of Cincinnati is from somewhere else."

As they crossed into Kentucky, the urban landscape gave way to less developed areas. Joe seemed to relax more with each mile they put between themselves and downtown, his shoulders loosening, his grip on the steering wheel becoming less precise.

"I come this way sometimes when I need to clear my head," he explained, taking an exit that led away from the main highway onto quieter roads. "Just drive with no particular destination."

Riley watched the scenery shift around them – small towns, patches of forest still bare from winter, occasional farmland coming to life with early spring. The music played softly between them, a playlist she'd selected from his phone that somehow managed to bridge their musical tastes.

"I love this," she said, rolling down her window slightly to let the fresh air in. "Reminds me of the backroads around my grandfather's fishing camp in Louisiana. I go there whenever I need to disconnect."

Joe glanced at her with interest. "You get out to the countryside a lot?"

"Whenever I can," Riley admitted. "In New Orleans, I know all the back routes. Even in LA, I've found some incredible drives up in the canyons where you can escape the chaos. Something about being on the road, windows down... it's freedom."

Joe nodded, understanding in his eyes. "That's exactly it."

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, Riley content to watch the passing landscape, to observe Joe in his element – focused but relaxed, navigating without needing GPS, making occasional turns that seemed intuitive rather than planned.

Eventually, they pulled into a small riverside town, the main street lined with brick buildings that spoke of the area's history. Joe parked in front of a small restaurant with a weathered wooden sign and windows that looked out onto the water.

He killed the engine. “You’re gonna like it. I promise.”

Inside, the restaurant was warm and inviting – worn wooden floors, mismatched tables and chairs, local artwork hanging on exposed brick walls. A few patrons sat eating late lunches, none giving Joe and Riley more than a passing glance as they found a table by the window.

They ordered burgers and local beer, their conversation flowing easily between childhood memories, music discoveries, and ridiculous tour stories Riley shared that had Joe laughing more freely than she'd seen before. Here, away from the pressures of their public personas, they were just two people getting to know each other, finding unexpected connections in their different worlds.

As their plates were cleared away, Riley found herself staring out at the river, suddenly aware of how little time they had left together. She was leaving tomorrow, back to LA for studio sessions, back to her world while Joe remained in his.

"What are you thinking about?" Joe asked, noticing her distant gaze.

Riley turned back to him, debating whether to voice what had been circling in her mind. "Tomorrow," she admitted finally. "Leaving."

Joe reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. "Let's not think about that right now."

Riley smiled, but the shadow lingered. "Hard not to."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their impending separation settling between them. Riley took a deep breath, deciding to broach the subject that had been simmering since their earlier conversation in the car.

"About what you said before, about keeping us private..."

Joe tensed slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Riley had come to recognize the subtle shifts in his posture. "What about it?"

"I understand it," she said carefully. "I do. After Ethan... well, having everything so public added pressure we didn't need." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But my career is different from yours. It's built on people feeling like they know me, like there's an authenticity to who I am and what I share."

Joe's expression remained open, listening, though she noticed a slight tightening around his eyes.

"I'm not saying we need to do some big announcement or anything," Riley continued. "I don't want what happened with Ethan and me, where our relationship became this public spectacle. But eventually, I'd like there to be a middle ground."

"What does middle ground look like to you?" Joe asked, his tone careful, measured.

Riley shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the importance of the conversation. "Not hiding if we're seen together. Not structuring our entire relationship around avoiding public attention. Just... living our lives, acknowledging what we are to each other when it naturally comes up."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his eyes dropping to their joined hands. When he looked up, she could see he was choosing his words deliberately.

"I hear you," he said finally. "But I'm not there yet, Riley. My privacy isn't just a preference—it's how I've survived in this league, how I've kept parts of myself separate from the quarterback everyone thinks they know."

Riley nodded, feeling a twinge of disappointment but appreciating his honesty.

"I'm not saying never," Joe added, seeing her expression. "Just... not now. Not when we're still figuring out what this is. Can you be okay with that for now?"

There was a vulnerability in the question that caught Riley off guard. Joe Burrow, always so certain, was asking rather than telling.

"I can," she said softly. "I'm not rushing anything. I just wanted you to know where I stand."

Relief flickered across Joe's features. "Thank you. For being direct about it."

"Well, you're rubbing off on me," Riley teased, lightening the moment. "All this straightforward communication."

Joe's smile returned, though not quite reaching his eyes. "For what it's worth, it matters to me—that you understand. That you're willing to give this time."

They lingered over dessert, neither wanting to rush back to Cincinnati, both acutely aware of the limited hours they had left together. When they finally left the restaurant, the day was waning, the light turning golden as they walked back to the Range Rover.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Riley said as Joe opened her door. "For sharing your escape route."

Joe paused, his hand still on the door. "I've never brought anyone else here," he admitted quietly.

The significance of that statement settled between them – not just words, but another piece of evidence that whatever was growing between them mattered to him, enough to share parts of himself he usually kept separate and private.

The drive back to Cincinnati was peaceful, both of them content to let the music fill the comfortable silence between them. As they crossed back into Ohio, Joe took an unexpected turn off the main highway.

"Where are we going?" Riley asked, glancing over at him.

"Thought we could stop at this nature preserve before heading back," Joe replied. "There's a short trail with a decent view. Unless you're too tired?"

Riley smiled, touched by his reluctance to end their day together. "A hike sounds perfect."

The preserve was quiet at this hour, most visitors already gone for the day. They followed a winding path through the trees, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they walked side by side. The trail wasn't challenging—just enough elevation to feel like they'd earned the view when they reached the clearing at the top.

Cincinnati sprawled before them, the late afternoon sun gilding the buildings and the river beyond. They stood for a while, taking in the vista, neither feeling the need to fill the silence with words.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Riley said finally, leaning slightly against Joe's solid frame.

Joe's arm came around her shoulders, drawing her closer. "Wanted to show you a different side of the city."

They lingered until the sun began its final descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. As they made their way back down the trail, Riley found herself mentally cataloging these moments��storing them away like photographs to revisit when they were apart again.

"You want to head home?" Joe asked as they reached his Range Rover. "Open a bottle of wine, just hang out?"

The casual suggestion carried weight in its simplicity—no elaborate plans, just the two of them enjoying each other's company in the hours they had left.

"Sounds perfect," Riley agreed.

---

Back at Joe’s house, Riley headed straight for the record collection while Joe opened a bottle of wine. She selected something different from last night—not the dark, hypnotic pulse they’d melted into, but something warmer. Softer. Music that invited closeness without urgency.

When Joe walked back in with two glasses, he paused, leaning against the doorway to watch her. Riley caught his eye and gave him a playful smile. “You just gonna stand there and watch?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t usually dance,” he admitted, but his tone wasn’t resistant—more like he was giving her fair warning.

“Good thing I do,” Riley shot back, holding out her hand to him. “C’mon.”

Joe set the glasses down on the coffee table, hesitating for just a second before stepping forward. As soon as he took her hand, Riley pulled him in, guiding his hands to her waist. At first, he just followed her lead—letting her sway against him—but it didn’t take long for his natural athleticism to kick in.

Once he felt the rhythm, he started to move on instinct, taking control of their pace. His hands stayed steady on her waist, guiding her effortlessly as he adjusted to the beat. It was almost unfair how easily he picked it up—like his body just knew how to respond. He spun her unexpectedly, pulling her back to his chest in one smooth motion, and she couldn’t help but laugh, caught off guard by how effortlessly he took over.

“What was that?” she teased, turning to look up at him.

Joe’s lips curved into a half-smile, his hands still anchored on her waist. “It’s not that different from footwork drills. Just gotta feel it out,” he said, but there was a hint of pride in his tone, like he knew exactly how good he was at it.

Riley shook her head, letting herself lean into him as he moved with more confidence now, guiding her in a slow, effortless rhythm. “You’re a natural,” she said, half impressed, half charmed.

Joe just shrugged.

She smiled, rolling her eyes, but didn’t bother trying to take the lead back—mostly because he was doing a damn good job of it. He kept her close, guiding her through a lazy turn before pulling her back against him, and she couldn’t help but lean into the steadiness of his frame, enjoying the way he seemed so completely in control.

By the time the song ended, they were both a little breathless—more from being close than from the dancing itself. Joe grabbed the glasses from the table and handed her one, their fingers brushing.

“Not bad for a guy who ‘doesn’t usually dance,’” Riley said, taking a sip.

Joe just smirked. “Guess I needed the right partner.”

They settled on his couch, Riley curled against his side, contentment settling over them like a warm blanket. The conversation flowed easily between them, jumping from topic to topic without effort—stories from Riley's tours, Joe's college days, childhood memories, future dreams.

As night deepened around the house, they eventually made their way upstairs, their touches becoming more purposeful, their kisses more lingering. There was a sweet urgency to their connection this time—awareness of tomorrow's separation lending weight to each moment together.

Later, as they lay entwined in his sheets, the house quiet around them, Riley traced idle patterns on Joe's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

"Your flight's at eight, right?" Joe asked, his voice rumbling under her cheek.

"Yeah," Riley murmured, her arms tightening around him involuntarily.

Joe's hand stilled on her back, then resumed its gentle path along her spine. "We're going to figure this out, Riley," he said, certainty in his voice. "The distance, the schedules, all of it."

Riley lifted her head to look at him, finding his eyes steady on hers in the dim light of his bedroom. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Joe replied without hesitation. "This matters. We'll make it work."

In the simple conviction of his words, Riley found the reassurance she needed. Joe Burrow didn't make promises lightly. When he said they'd figure it out, it wasn't empty comfort—it was a commitment.

She settled back against his chest, a small smile playing on her lips. Tomorrow would come with its inevitable goodbye, but it wasn't an ending. Just a pause in something that was only beginning to take shape between them—something worth the effort, worth navigating the complications of their different worlds.

---

Morning came too quickly, the early sun filtering through the blinds of Joe's bedroom. They moved through a routine that felt both new and strangely established—shower, coffee, last-minute packing of Riley's scattered belongings. The conversation stayed light, deliberately skimming the surface to avoid the reality of her imminent departure. Neither of them wanted to touch the weight pressing down on the morning.

Joe loaded Riley's suitcase into the Range Rover while she took one last look around his house, already missing the space that had briefly become a part of her world. Her fingers trailed over the turntable he'd bought for her, a tangible symbol of the unexpected connection they'd built in such a short time. She traced the edge of the vinyl that still sat on the player, the album from last night—a reminder of how they'd felt the music together, like they were tuned to the same frequency.

The drive to the private airfield was quiet, Riley's hand resting on Joe's thigh, his thumb occasionally brushing over her knuckles at stoplights. Cincinnati was still waking up around them, the early morning streets largely empty, giving them one last pocket of privacy before reality stepped in.

When they reached the airfield, Joe drove directly onto the tarmac, where the sleek private jet was already prepped for departure. He parked near the stairs and cut the engine, and for a moment, they just sat there—neither one making a move to break the fragile silence.

"So," Riley said finally, forcing a smile. "This is where I say something profound and memorable, right? Should I quote Shakespeare or go with a Taylor Swift lyric?"

Joe gave her that half-smile that always made her heart skip. “Or you could just say you’ll call me later,” he said, voice quiet. His hand tightened slightly on hers, like he wasn’t quite ready for her to get out of the car yet.

She took a breath, her voice dropping the humor. "I'm really bad at goodbyes."

Joe turned toward her, his gaze steady and direct. "It's not a goodbye," he said, with the same quiet certainty he used when calling a play. "Just a see you later."

The words should have made it easier, but they didn't. Riley nodded, but to her embarrassment, her throat tightened and her eyes grew wet. She glanced away, wiping quickly at her cheeks. "God, ignore me. I cry at literally everything. Commercials, cute dogs, when I'm hungry. It's annoying."

Joe didn't laugh or brush it off. Instead, he just leaned over and brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching a stray tear before it could fall. "Hey," he said softly. "You don't have to pretend it doesn't suck."

Riley managed a wobbly smile. "I just hate leaving like this. We just figured out how to be in the same place without driving each other crazy, and now I have to go."

Joe was quiet for a second, like he was weighing his words carefully. Then he just looked her right in the eyes, his tone steady. "I've never done this before," he admitted. "Not like this. I keep things separate. Football, personal life, all of it. But with you..." He paused, choosing his words with precision. "It doesn't matter how complicated it is. We'll figure it out."

Riley swallowed hard, her chest tightening. "You sure? I'm bringing chaos to your very structured world, Burrow."

Joe gave her that look—the one that was so direct it almost made her nervous. "Good," he said simply. "I want that."

She exhaled slowly, the honesty in his eyes hitting her harder than any flowery declaration. Riley leaned in, her hand slipping to the back of his neck as she kissed him—a kiss that held everything she couldn't quite say. When they pulled back, her forehead rested against his for a moment.

Finally, Riley forced herself to pull away, the reality of the waiting jet breaking the moment. "Get used to the crying, by the way," she said, attempting to lighten the mood. "It comes standard with the package."

"I like the package," Joe replied, his voice low and certain.

Joe got out and retrieved her suitcase from the back, then walked with her to the foot of the stairs. The cool morning air whipped around them, but Joe seemed unbothered, standing tall and steady as always.

She turned back to him, hesitating on the first step. “I don’t want this to be one of those things that fades out when we go back to real life.”

Joe’s eyes softened. “It won’t be,” he promised, no unnecessary words, just certainty. “This isn’t it for us.”

One last kiss, brief but carrying a promise of more, and then Riley forced herself to move up the steps, pausing at the top to look back. Joe was still there, hands in his pockets, that steady, unmovable presence that had become so familiar. He didn't wave or make some grand gesture—that wasn't Joe—but he didn't move either, just stood there, grounded and waiting until the very last moment.

Once inside, Riley sank into the plush leather seat, glancing back out the window to see him still rooted in place, watching the plane prepare for takeoff. As the engines rumbled to life and the jet taxied toward the runway, she couldn't help but feel like she was leaving a piece of herself behind with him.

Closing her eyes, Riley leaned back and let herself feel the ache of missing him already. But beneath it was something else—something that felt less like loss and more like potential. She didn't know how, but she knew they'd find their way through this. Whatever had sparked between them wasn't something that could be easily extinguished.

Different worlds, maybe. But somehow, in ways that defied logic, they'd found a way to orbit each other. And if there was one thing she knew about Joe Burrow, it was that once he set his mind on something, he didn't quit.

She just had to trust that this—whatever it was becoming—was one of those things.

[bestanimal]

Round 2.5 - Cnidaria - Scyphozoa

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Scyphozoa is a marine class of cnidarians commonly referred to as “true jellyfish”, “jellyfish”, or simply “jellies”. They are composed of three living orders: Coronatae (“Crown Jellies”), Rhizostomeae (“Root-mouth Jellies”), Semaeostomeae (“Flag-mouth Jellies”).

Scyphozoans usually display a four-part symmetry and have an internal gelatinous material called mesoglea, consisting of as much as 98% water. A ring of muscle fibres within the mesoglea surrounds the rim of the dome, and the jellyfish swims by alternately contracting and relaxing these muscles. As medusae, they eat a variety of crustaceans and fish, which they capture using stinging cells called nematocysts. The nematocysts are located throughout the tentacles that radiate downward from the edge of the umbrella dome, and also cover the four or eight oral arms that hang down from the central mouth. Some species, however, are instead filter feeders, using their tentacles to strain plankton from the water. The mouth opens into a central stomach, from which four interconnected diverticula radiate outwards. Some genera also have smaller mouths in the oral arms. The lining of the digestive system includes further stinging nematocysts, along with cells that secrete digestive enzymes. The nervous system usually consists of a distributed net of cells, although some species possess more organised nerve rings. Some species also have pigment-cup ocelli, though they are not as advanced as Cubozoan eyes. Coronataens (ex: image 2) are characterized by a deep groove running around the umbrella, giving them the crown shape which gives them their name. Rhizostomeans (ex: image 1 and 3) do not have tentacles nor other structures branching off from the edges of the bell. Instead, they have eight highly branched oral arms which fuse together as they approach the central mouth of the jellyfish. Semaeostomeaens (ex: image 4 and gif below) have four long, frilly oral arms flanking their quadrate mouths, as well as tentacles.

Most species of Scyphozoa have two life-history phases, including the planktonic medusa or polyp form, and the inconspicuous, but longer-lived, bottom-dwelling polyp, which seasonally gives rise to new medusae. Most species appear to be gonochorists, with separate male and female individuals. The gonads are located in the stomach lining, and the mature gametes are expelled through the mouth. After fertilization, some species brood their young in pouches on the oral arms, but they are more commonly planktonic. The fertilized egg produces a planular larva which, in most species, quickly attaches itself to the sea bottom. The larva develops into the hydroid stage of the lifecycle, a tiny sessile polyp called a scyphistoma. The scyphistoma reproduces asexually, producing similar polyps by budding, and then either transforming into a medusa, or budding several medusae off from its upper surface via a process called strobilation. The medusae are initially microscopic and may take years to reach sexual maturity.

Scyphozoans have existed since the Early Cambrian.

Propaganda under the cut:

The Lion’s Mane Jelly (Cyanea capillata) is one of the largest jellyfish, with the largest recorded specimen having a bell width of 210 cm (7 ft) and tentacles around 36.6 m (120 ft) long.

Jellyfish of the order Rhizostomeae are considered edible, both as a delicacy and for use in traditional medicine, and are eaten mainly in Asia, typically dried and/or salted.

The giant Nomura's Jellyfish (Nemopilema nomurai) can reach similar sizes to the Lion’s Mane Jellyfish, and their large size and quantity often negatively affects fisheries in East Asia. Aside from humans, their only predators are swordfish, tuna, sunfish, and leatherback sea turtles. A decrease in predators and an increase in favorable conditions and warming seas have caused an explosion in population, displaying that an increase in animal populations is not always a good sign! Scientists are studying their venom for use in medical applications, such as for treating joint disease and in cancer research. The Japanese company Tango Jersey Dairy also produces a vanilla and jellyfish ice cream using Nomura's Jellyfish.

While most jellies are exclusively marine, the Bay Nettle (Chrysaora chesapeakei) ventures into the Chesapeake Bay’s brackish water all the way up into the freshwater of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

The Giant Phantom Jelly (Stygiomedusa gigantea) is a deep sea jellyfish that is rarely seen, with only around 110 sightings in 110 years. It thought to be one of the largest invertebrate predators of the ocean's midnight zone and twilight zone, with an umbrella-shaped bell that can grow up to 1 m (3.3 ft) in diameter and paddle-like arms that can grow up to 10 m (33 ft) in length. The bell's pliant tissue allows for the jellyfish to stretch 4 to 5 times its size, presumably to engulf their prey. They do not have any stinging tentacles and instead use their arms to trap and engulf their prey which consists of plankton and small fish. The Giant Phantom Jelly has a symbiotic relationship with the Pelagic Brotula (Thalassobathia pelagica), for which it provides food and shelter beneath its massive billowing bell, while the fish aids the jelly by removing parasites.

The Mauve Stinger (Pelagia noctiluca) is a fairly small purple jellyfish that is able to glow in the dark (bioluminesce). Light is emitted in the form of flashes when the medusa is stimulated by turbulence created by waves or by a ship's motion. Unusually among cnidarians, Mauve Stingers are able to consume phytoplankton, alongside copepods and other usual planktonic fare.

The Moon Jelly (Aurelia aurita) (see gif above) is gaining popularity in aquarium touchtanks as they lack long tentacles and their sting has little to no affect on humans. They are also one of the longer-lived jellyfish, living up to two years in their medusa form, and are easy to rear and feed, making them a good candidate for giving humans an up-close learning experience with jellies.

Fun fact: my dad let me watch The Sphere (1998) when I was 7 and it gave me Scyphophobia, a fear of jellyfish, that lasted for several years. I knew the behavior of the jellyfish as depicted in the movie wasn’t real, but I still wouldn’t enter the ocean for the next 5 years, and when I did start entering the ocean again every time I saw a jellyfish I would get out and not go back in again for another full year. It took a touch tank and several positive experiences with some moon jellies to get over my fear, and now I would say I’m fully recovered!

[nostalgebraist]

information flow in transformers

In machine learning, the transformer architecture is a very commonly used type of neural network model. Many of the well-known neural nets introduced in the last few years use this architecture, including GPT-2, GPT-3, and GPT-4.

This post is about the way that computation is structured inside of a transformer.

Internally, these models pass information around in a constrained way that feels strange and limited at first glance.

Specifically, inside the "program" implemented by a transformer, each segment of "code" can only access a subset of the program's "state." If the program computes a value, and writes it into the state, that doesn't make value available to any block of code that might run after the write; instead, only some operations can access the value, while others are prohibited from seeing it.

This sounds vaguely like the kind of constraint that human programmers often put on themselves: "separation of concerns," "no global variables," "your function should only take the inputs it needs," that sort of thing.

However, the apparent analogy is misleading. The transformer constraints don't look much like anything that a human programmer would write, at least under normal circumstances. And the rationale behind them is very different from "modularity" or "separation of concerns."

(Domain experts know all about this already -- this is a pedagogical post for everyone else.)

1. setting the stage

For concreteness, let's think about a transformer that is a causal language model.

So, something like GPT-3, or the model that wrote text for @nostalgebraist-autoresponder.

Roughly speaking, this model's input is a sequence of words, like ["Fido", "is", "a", "dog"].

Since the model needs to know the order the words come in, we'll include an integer offset alongside each word, specifying the position of this element in the sequence. So, in full, our example input is

[ ("Fido", 0), ("is", 1), ("a", 2), ("dog", 3), ]

The model itself -- the neural network -- can be viewed as a single long function, which operates on a single element of the sequence. Its task is to output the next element.

Let's call the function f. If f does its job perfectly, then when applied to our example sequence, we will have

f("Fido", 0) = "is" f("is", 1) = "a" f("a", 2) = "dog"

(Note: I've omitted the index from the output type, since it's always obvious what the next index is. Also, in reality the output type is a probability distribution over words, not just a word; the goal is to put high probability on the next word. I'm ignoring this to simplify exposition.)

You may have noticed something: as written, this seems impossible!

Like, how is the function supposed to know that after ("a", 2), the next word is "dog"!? The word "a" could be followed by all sorts of things.

What makes "dog" likely, in this case, is the fact that we're talking about someone named "Fido."

That information isn't contained in ("a", 2). To do the right thing here, you need info from the whole sequence thus far -- from "Fido is a", as opposed to just "a".

How can f get this information, if its input is just a single word and an index?

This is possible because f isn't a pure function. The program has an internal state, which f can access and modify.

But f doesn't just have arbitrary read/write access to the state. Its access is constrained, in a very specific sort of way.

2. transformer-style programming

Let's get more specific about the program state.

The state consists of a series of distinct "memory regions" or "blocks," which have an order assigned to them.

Let's use the notation memory_i for these. The first block is memory_0, the second is memory_1, and so on.

In practice, a small transformer might have around 10 of these blocks, while a very large one might have 100 or more.

Each block contains a separate data-storage "cell" for each offset in the sequence.

For example, memory_0 contains a cell for position 0 ("Fido" in our example text), and a cell for position 1 ("is"), and so on. Meanwhile, memory_1 contains its own, distinct cells for each of these positions. And so does memory_2, etc.

So the overall layout looks like:

memory_0: [cell 0, cell 1, ...] memory_1: [cell 0, cell 1, ...] [...]

Our function f can interact with this program state. But it must do so in a way that conforms to a set of rules.

Here are the rules:

The function can only interact with the blocks by using a specific instruction.

This instruction is an "atomic write+read". It writes data to a block, then reads data from that block for f to use.

When the instruction writes data, it goes in the cell specified in the function offset argument. That is, the "i" in f(..., i).

When the instruction reads data, the data comes from all cells up to and including the offset argument.

The function must call the instruction exactly once for each block.

These calls must happen in order. For example, you can't do the call for memory_1 until you've done the one for memory_0.

Here's some pseudo-code, showing a generic computation of this kind:

f(x, i) { calculate some things using x and i; // next 2 lines are a single instruction write to memory_0 at position i; z0 = read from memory_0 at positions 0...i; calculate some things using x, i, and z0; // next 2 lines are a single instruction write to memory_1 at position i; z1 = read from memory_1 at positions 0...i; calculate some things using x, i, z0, and z1; [etc.] }

The rules impose a tradeoff between the amount of processing required to produce a value, and how early the value can be accessed within the function body.

Consider the moment when data is written to memory_0. This happens before anything is read (even from memory_0 itself).

So the data in memory_0 has been computed only on the basis of individual inputs like ("a," 2). It can't leverage any information about multiple words and how they relate to one another.

But just after the write to memory_0, there's a read from memory_0. This read pulls in data computed by f when it ran on all the earlier words in the sequence.

If we're processing ("a", 2) in our example, then this is the point where our code is first able to access facts like "the word 'Fido' appeared earlier in the text."

However, we still know less than we might prefer.

Recall that memory_0 gets written before anything gets read. The data living there only reflects what f knows before it can see all the other words, while it still only has access to the one word that appeared in its input.

The data we've just read does not contain a holistic, "fully processed" representation of the whole sequence so far ("Fido is a"). Instead, it contains:

a representation of ("Fido", 0) alone, computed in ignorance of the rest of the text

a representation of ("is", 1) alone, computed in ignorance of the rest of the text

a representation of ("a", 2) alone, computed in ignorance of the rest of the text

Now, once we get to memory_1, we will no longer face this problem. Stuff in memory_1 gets computed with the benefit of whatever was in memory_0. The step that computes it can "see all the words at once."

Nonetheless, the whole function is affected by a generalized version of the same quirk.

All else being equal, data stored in later blocks ought to be more useful. Suppose for instance that

memory_4 gets read/written 20% of the way through the function body, and

memory_16 gets read/written 80% of the way through the function body

Here, strictly more computation can be leveraged to produce the data in memory_16. Calculations which are simple enough to fit in the program, but too complex to fit in just 20% of the program, can be stored in memory_16 but not in memory_4.

All else being equal, then, we'd prefer to read from memory_16 rather than memory_4 if possible.

But in fact, we can only read from memory_16 once -- at a point 80% of the way through the code, when the read/write happens for that block.

The general picture looks like:

The early parts of the function can see and leverage what got computed earlier in the sequence -- by the same early parts of the function. This data is relatively "weak," since not much computation went into it. But, by the same token, we have plenty of time to further process it.

The late parts of the function can see and leverage what got computed earlier in the sequence -- by the same late parts of the function. This data is relatively "strong," since lots of computation went into it. But, by the same token, we don't have much time left to further process it.

3. why?

There are multiple ways you can "run" the program specified by f.

Here's one way, which is used when generating text, and which matches popular intuitions about how language models work:

First, we run f("Fido", 0) from start to end. The function returns "is." As a side effect, it populates cell 0 of every memory block.

Next, we run f("is", 1) from start to end. The function returns "a." As a side effect, it populates cell 1 of every memory block.

Etc.

If we're running the code like this, the constraints described earlier feel weird and pointlessly restrictive.

By the time we're running f("is", 1), we've already populated some data into every memory block, all the way up to memory_16 or whatever.

This data is already there, and contains lots of useful insights.

And yet, during the function call f("is", 1), we "forget about" this data -- only to progressively remember it again, block by block. The early parts of this call have only memory_0 to play with, and then memory_1, etc. Only at the end do we allow access to the juicy, extensively processed results that occupy the final blocks.

Why? Why not just let this call read memory_16 immediately, on the first line of code? The data is sitting there, ready to be used!

Why? Because the constraint enables a second way of running this program.

The second way is equivalent to the first, in the sense of producing the same outputs. But instead of processing one word at a time, it processes a whole sequence of words, in parallel.

Here's how it works:

In parallel, run f("Fido", 0) and f("is", 1) and f("a", 2), up until the first write+read instruction. You can do this because the functions are causally independent of one another, up to this point. We now have 3 copies of f, each at the same "line of code": the first write+read instruction.

Perform the write part of the instruction for all the copies, in parallel. This populates cells 0, 1 and 2 of memory_0.

Perform the read part of the instruction for all the copies, in parallel. Each copy of f receives some of the data just written to memory_0, covering offsets up to its own. For instance, f("is", 1) gets data from cells 0 and 1.

In parallel, continue running the 3 copies of f, covering the code between the first write+read instruction and the second.

Perform the second write. This populates cells 0, 1 and 2 of memory_1.

Perform the second read.

Repeat like this until done.

Observe that mode of operation only works if you have a complete input sequence ready before you run anything.

(You can't parallelize over later positions in the sequence if you don't know, yet, what words they contain.)

So, this won't work when the model is generating text, word by word.

But it will work if you have a bunch of texts, and you want to process those texts with the model, for the sake of updating the model so it does a better job of predicting them.

This is called "training," and it's how neural nets get made in the first place. In our programming analogy, it's how the code inside the function body gets written.

The fact that we can train in parallel over the sequence is a huge deal, and probably accounts for most (or even all) of the benefit that transformers have over earlier architectures like RNNs.

Accelerators like GPUs are really good at doing the kinds of calculations that happen inside neural nets, in parallel.

So if you can make your training process more parallel, you can effectively multiply the computing power available to it, for free. (I'm omitting many caveats here -- see this great post for details.)

Transformer training isn't maximally parallel. It's still sequential in one "dimension," namely the layers, which correspond to our write+read steps here. You can't parallelize those.

But it is, at least, parallel along some dimension, namely the sequence dimension.

The older RNN architecture, by contrast, was inherently sequential along both these dimensions. Training an RNN is, effectively, a nested for loop. But training a transformer is just a regular, single for loop.

4. tying it together

The "magical" thing about this setup is that both ways of running the model do the same thing. You are, literally, doing the same exact computation. The function can't tell whether it is being run one way or the other.

This is crucial, because we want the training process -- which uses the parallel mode -- to teach the model how to perform generation, which uses the sequential mode. Since both modes look the same from the model's perspective, this works.

This constraint -- that the code can run in parallel over the sequence, and that this must do the same thing as running it sequentially -- is the reason for everything else we noted above.

Earlier, we asked: why can't we allow later (in the sequence) invocations of f to read earlier data out of blocks like memory_16 immediately, on "the first line of code"?

And the answer is: because that would break parallelism. You'd have to run f("Fido", 0) all the way through before even starting to run f("is", 1).

By structuring the computation in this specific way, we provide the model with the benefits of recurrence -- writing things down at earlier positions, accessing them at later positions, and writing further things down which can be accessed even later -- while breaking the sequential dependencies that would ordinarily prevent a recurrent calculation from being executed in parallel.

In other words, we've found a way to create an iterative function that takes its own outputs as input -- and does so repeatedly, producing longer and longer outputs to be read off by its next invocation -- with the property that this iteration can be run in parallel.

We can run the first 10% of every iteration -- of f() and f(f()) and f(f(f())) and so on -- at the same time, before we know what will happen in the later stages of any iteration.

The call f(f()) uses all the information handed to it by f() -- eventually. But it cannot make any requests for information that would leave itself idling, waiting for f() to fully complete.

Whenever f(f()) needs a value computed by f(), it is always the value that f() -- running alongside f(f()), simultaneously -- has just written down, a mere moment ago.

No dead time, no idling, no waiting-for-the-other-guy-to-finish.

p.s.

The "memory blocks" here correspond to what are called "keys and values" in usual transformer lingo.

If you've heard the term "KV cache," it refers to the contents of the memory blocks during generation, when we're running in "sequential mode."

Usually, during generation, one keeps this state in memory and appends a new cell to each block whenever a new token is generated (and, as a result, the sequence gets longer by 1).

This is called "caching" to contrast it with the worse approach of throwing away the block contents after each generated token, and then re-generating them by running f on the whole sequence so far (not just the latest token). And then having to do that over and over, once per generated token.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

John Kettler: Chief of The unSUCCESSFULS Invisible Staff

John Kettler is out after only three (3) months on the job. No sympathy for anyone who partners with these two (2) bullies. You're either too lazy to read a book or maybe you like to help bullies.

"Joshua lives with his wife in Santa Barbara, CA and holds an MBA from Clemson University with an emphasis on Entrepreneurship and Innovation."¹

Richard Eden for Daily Mail: When the Duke of Sussex appointed Josh Kettler as his grandly titled chief of staff earlier this year, it was said that he was the perfect man to 'guide' Harry 'through his next phase'. However, the Daily Mail understands that Mr Kettler has suddenly quit his job after scarcely three months, amid much intrigue. Josh Kettler is no longer working for them,' a source in California told this newspaper today. The timing is a particular blow to Harry and his wife Meghan as Mr Kettler would have been expected to accompany them on their 'quasi-royal tour' of Colombia, which kicks off this week."

The total number the Sussexes have lost since they married in 2018 is said to be at least 18, with nine or more having left since they moved to California in 2020.

Mr Kettler was seen entering St Paul's Cathedral with the duke for the anniversary service, which was attended by figures including Harry's uncle, Earl Spencer, but no other members of the Royal Family.

Later that month, Mr Kettler was a key figure on the Duke and Duchess of Sussex's three-day 'tour' of Nigeria and was by Harry's side as he met government officials in the West African country. His role on the visit was said to be a foretaste of what he would achieve in the future.

Prince Harry and Meghan with Mr Kettler (circled) by their side. His role on the visit was said to be a foretaste of what he would achieve in the future.

¹Bio: "Joshua Kettler is an experienced executive accelerator, organizer, and confidant. Seasoned in guiding C-suite functions, critical cross-functional program management, high-level strategy development, and board of directors / investor relationship management. Focused on bringing unparalleled products and experiences to customers while working in lockstep with leaders, executing on their vision.

Joshua spent the better part of a decade with Patagonia, a leader in outdoor apparel, serving as a trusted resource and right hand to the Vice President of Global Sales and Customer Experience. He helped direct all revenue driving strategies and operations worldwide, spanning seven major markets and $1B+ in yearly revenue. His efforts included managing the organization's workflow, prioritization, and oversight of regional GMs, while providing input on critical decisions including distribution strategy, customer touch points, internal and external communication, organizational structure, and personnel matters.

In 2021, Joshua shifted is focus to start up ventures, becoming Chief of Staff to the CEO of Better Place Forests and most recently joining Cognixion as Chief of Staff and Head of Strategic Partnerships, helping to accelerate and support the transformative AR / BCI company.

Joshua is an avid trail runner and skier, and a steadfast supporter of conservation and the environment. Joshua lives with his wife in Santa Barbara, CA and holds an MBA from Clemson University with an emphasis on Entrepreneurship and Innovation."

[fanhackers]

Anne Kustritz’s Identity, Community, and Sexuality in Slash Fan Fiction

Anne Kustritz’s new book, Identity, Community, and Sexuality in Slash Fan Fiction: Pocket Publics has just been released by Routledge (2024).  You might know Kustritz, a scholar of fan cultures and transmedia storytelling, from her early essay “Slashing the Romance Narrative,” in the Journal of American Culture (2003) or maybe from some of her more recent work on transmedia and serial storytelling. But this new book is an exciting addition to the fan studies canon, and Fanhackers readers might be particularly interested, because the book “explores slash fan fiction communities during the pivotal years of the late 1990s and the early 2000s as the practice transitioned from print to digital circulation,”--which is the era that a lot of the fans involved in the creation of the OTW came from. As I noted in my book blurb, “​​While there has been an explosion of fan studies scholarship in the last two decades, we haven't had an ethnography of fan fiction communities since the early 1990s. Kustritz's Pocket Publics rectifies that, documenting the generation of slash fans who built much of fandom's infrastructure and many of its community spaces, both on and off the internet. This generation has had an outsized impact on contemporary fan cultures, and Kustritz shows how these fans created an alternative and subcultural public sphere: a world of their own.”

Kustritz doesn’t just analyze and contextualize fandom, she also describes her own experiences as a participant-observer, and these might resonate with a lot of fans (especially Fanhackers-reading fans!)  Early on in the book, Kustritz describes her how her own early interest in fandom blurred between the personal and the academic:

Because I began studying slash only a year after discovering fandom on-line, my interest has always been an intricate tangle of pleasure in the texts themselves, connection to brilliantly creative women, and fascination with intersections between fan activities and academic theory.  I may now disclaim my academic identity as an interdisciplinary scholar with concentrations in media anthropology and cultural studies and begin to pinpoint my fan identity as a bifictional multifandom media fan; however, I only gradually became aware of and personally invested in these categories as I grew into them.  This section defines the scope of the online observation period that preceded the active interview phase of this research.  In so doing it also examines the messy interconnections between my academic and fannish interests and identities. Trying to pick apart what portion of my choices derived from fannish pleasure and which from academic interest helps to identify the basic internal tensions and categories that slash fan fiction communities relied upon to define themselves, the pressures exerted upon these systems by the digital migration, and complications in academic translation of fannish social structures.

Later in the book, Kustritz discusses how fans have organized and advocated for themselves as a public; in particular, there’s a fascinating chapter about the ways in which fandom has adopted and transformed the figure of the pirate to forge new ways of thinking about copyright and authorship.  If the OTW was formed to argue that making fanworks is a legitimate activity, the figure of the pirate signifies a protest against the law and a refusal to be shamed by it: 

[F]ans also use the figure of the pirate to make arguments that validate some fan activities and consign others to illegitimacy.   At the urging of several friends involved with slash, I attended my first non-slash focused science fiction and fantasy convention in the summer of 2004.  The program schedule announced a Sunday morning panel discussion provocatively titled “Avast, Matey: The Ethics of Pirating Movies, Music, and Software” with the subheading “Computers today can distribute [more] intellectual property than ever before--not always legally. Is it ever okay to copy, download, and/or distribute media? Sorry, ladies, none of us will be dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow.”  The panel’s subheading, which obliquely warned away both lusty women and pirates, led a small contingent of slash fans to shake off Saturday night’s convention revelries unreasonably early and implement a plan of their own for Sunday’s panel.  As many fan conventions encourage costumes, known as “cosplay,” one of my friends and research participants happened to have been dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow of Pirates of the Caribbean that weekend, so I entered the piracy panel with Captain Jack and a motley crew of slashers, some of them intent upon commandeering the discussion.

The clash that followed exemplifies a structural fault line between various types of fan communities regarding their shared norms and beliefs about copyright law, the relationship between fans and producers, and appropriate fan behavior.

If you want to find out how this clash played out–well, you’ll just have to read the book. 😀

–Francesca Coppa, Fanhackers volunteer

[hero21us]

The Golden Age: A Century of Transformation

2024: The Dawn of the Golden Army

It began with a team. The Golden Army, an elite soccer squad formed in 2024, was more than just a sports phenomenon. Their players—each sculpted like gods—seemed almost unreal. Their uniforms shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and their skin bore an uncanny metallic sheen under the stadium lights. At first, the world marveled at their athleticism, their flawless movements, and their seemingly supernatural endurance.

The transformation started subtly. Their bodies became more reflective, their muscles denser, and their eyes gleamed like polished orbs. Whispers of "golden blood" spread through the media. Scientists dismissed it as an optical illusion, a trick of lighting or advanced training regimens. But then, one by one, the players stopped aging.

2035: The Expansion

The Golden Army was no longer just a football team—it was a movement. Athletes from every sport sought to join, believing the transformation was the ultimate evolution of the human body. Soon, soldiers, laborers, and even corporate elites clamored for the secret.

A discovery was made: a unique alchemical gold pond, kept secret by the team's founders, was the key. The molten gold within it could be manipulated and incorporated into clothing, spirals, food, almost anything. If ingested it caused a fundamental rewriting of human biology. Those who embraced the transformation experienced a euphoria beyond words. Strength beyond measure. And above all—immortality.

Governments tried to regulate distribution, but by the 2040s, resistance was futile. Entire nations embraced the Golden Path. Those who resisted were left behind, their flesh and blood a relic of the past.

2055: The Great Conversion

By the mid-21st century, nearly half of humanity had undergone the transformation. Cities glowed with a golden hue, their streets lined with beings who no longer needed sustenance or sleep. Art, culture, and even warfare took on a celestial quality.

Wars were fought, not with weapons, but with displays of radiant power. The Golden Men could channel energy, communicate without words, and reshape the world around them. The old ways of life crumbled as organic humans faded into obscurity.

By 2075, the last of the flesh-born governments surrendered. The Golden Council was formed—a ruling body of the first transformed, led by the original members of the Golden Army. Their decree was absolute: "All shall ascend."

2100: Earth Reforged

With no more wars, no more disease, and no more hunger, humanity turned to a new purpose—reshaping the planet. Every structure was rebuilt in gold. The oceans shimmered with golden waves. The forests, once green and untamed, now gleamed with metallic splendor. Even the sky, infused with particles of transmuted gold dust, reflected a brilliant eternal sunrise.

Space travel was abandoned—there was no need to leave. Earth itself had become the celestial paradise that mankind had always sought.

2125: The Radiance Complete

By the dawn of 2125, no flesh remained. Every man had become gold, their thoughts linked in a grand, harmonious consciousness.

The Earth radiated like a second sun, a beacon visible across the cosmos.

The universe took notice.

And somewhere, in the depths of space, other celestial beings turned their eyes toward the Golden Planet, wondering what mankind had become.

Would they see gods? Or something beyond?

Only time would tell.

Step into the future join golden army today message @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 today

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 28

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III - Historical Materialism

The materialist conception of history starts from the proposition that the production of the means to support human life and, next to production, the exchange of things produced, is the basis of all social structure; that in every society that has appeared in history, the manner in which wealth is distributed and society divided into classes or orders is dependent upon what is produced, how it is produced, and how the products are exchanged. From this point of view, the final causes of all social changes and political revolutions are to be sought, not in men's brains, not in men's better insights into eternal truth and justice, but in changes in the modes of production and exchange. They are to be sought, not in the philosophy, but in the economics of each particular epoch. The growing perception that existing social institutions are unreasonable and unjust, that reason has become unreason, and right wrong [1], is only proof that in the modes of production and exchange changes have silently taken place with which the social order, adapted to earlier economic conditions, is no longer in keeping. From this it also follows that the means of getting rid of the incongruities that have been brought to light must also be present, in a more or less developed condition, within the changed modes of production themselves. These means are not to be invented by deduction from fundamental principles, but are to be discovered in the stubborn facts of the existing system of production.

What is, then, the position of modern Socialism in this connection?

The present situation of society — this is now pretty generally conceded — is the creation of the ruling class of today, of the bourgeoisie. The mode of production peculiar to the bourgeoisie, known, since Marx, as the capitalist mode of production, was incompatible with the feudal system, with the privileges it conferred upon individuals, entire social ranks and local corporations, as well as with the hereditary ties of subordination which constituted the framework of its social organization. The bourgeoisie broke up the feudal system and built upon its ruins the capitalist order of society, the kingdom of free competition, of personal liberty, of the equality, before the law, of all commodity owners, of all the rest of the capitalist blessings. Thenceforward, the capitalist mode of production could develop in freedom. Since steam, machinery, and the making of machines by machinery transformed the older manufacture into modern industry, the productive forces, evolved under the guidance of the bourgeoisie, developed with a rapidity and in a degree unheard of before. But just as the older manufacture, in its time, and handicraft, becoming more developed under its influence, had come into collision with the feudal trammels of the guilds, so now modern industry, in its complete development, comes into collision with the bounds within which the capitalist mode of production holds it confined. The new productive forces have already outgrown the capitalistic mode of using them. And this conflict between productive forces and modes of production is not a conflict engendered in the mind of man, like that between original sin and divine justice. It exists, in fact, objectively, outside us, independently of the will and actions even of the men that have brought it on. Modern Socialism is nothing but the reflex, in thought, of this conflict in fact; its ideal reflection in the minds, first, of the class directly suffering under it, the working class.

[1] Mephistopheles in Goethe's Faust

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[mariacallous]

The headlines coming out of COP29—the recently concluded United Nations climate conference—focus on one key number: $300 billion. This is the annual amount of climate finance the governments of wealthy countries are responsible for generating for developing countries by 2035.

But to focus solely on whether the number is too big or too small misses what it means and why it matters. The agreement does not automatically produce any funds on its own, and no court can enforce it.

Wealthy countries will not provide most of the funds directly; the money will pass through entities like the World Bank, the Green Climate Fund, or even private companies. And the $300 billion number is not even the only climate finance goal to come out of COP29—the agreement also includes a target of $1.3 trillion per year in climate investment from all sources for developing countries by 2035.

As many have argued, the $300 billion goal is too small, and both it and the $1.3 trillion goal are riddled with ambiguities. But the agreement is also a rare force that places pressure on developed countries’ climate finance, and taking its targets seriously demands more transformative action than developed countries had been anticipating. Actually achieving the agreement—and more importantly, maintaining a safe shared climate—requires a set of actions that must unfold across the global economy. Setting the goals was just the beginning. What matters most is what happens next.

The $300 billion goal is structured similarly to the original climate finance goal agreed upon in Copenhagen in 2009, which said that developed countries would provide $100 billion per year by 2020. It is perhaps the greatest failing of the new climate finance agreement that it did not correct the key unanswered questions in the formulation of that goal: the distribution of responsibility among developed countries; the allocation of resources between developing countries; how and whether to distinguish between grants, subsidized loans, and market-rate loans; and the relationship between climate finance and development finance.

The ambiguities are so great that countries could not even agree if the original goal has been met. Developed countries say they met it in 2022, but earlier versions of the new climate finance agreement contained dueling language on the question. It proved so impossible to agree that the subject was simply dropped from the final draft.

Unfortunately, developed countries will presumably continue using the same, disputed method of counting climate finance as they did before. And as with the original goal, only a relatively small share of the $300 billion will come from grants from a developed country to a developing country. Bilateral climate finance—climate finance from one country to another—currently adds up to $41 billion.

Increases in this bilateral finance, which tends to place the greatest strain on national budgets, will likely only go a small way toward the $300 billion. It is not that developed countries do not have the means to provide more, but that domestic political realities stand in the way.

Contributions from major developing countries, which are not required to contribute toward the new goal but can do so voluntarily, may add some money. For example, from 2013-2022, China provided an average $4.5 billion per year in climate finance under the label of South-South cooperation.

Finance through multilateral climate funds like the Green Climate Fund will also increase. The new agreement called for a tripling of financing through these mechanisms, but they are starting from such a low baseline that even this would only form a few percentage points of the $300 billion.

This leaves two main sources for developed countries to meet the goal. The first is mobilizing private finance, which developed countries controversially count toward the total. But despite years of ambitious plans to mobilize private finance, it has demonstrated little success. In the most recent year with data, less than a fifth of developed countries’ climate finance came through mobilized private investment.

These realities mean that multilateral development banks (MDBs) like the World Bank are the most viable route to power the growth in climate finance needed to reach the $300 billion goal. They were already the fastest-growing source of climate finance under the $100 billion goal and became the single largest source in 2022.

These banks provide few grants, but they provide loans at cheaper interest rates than borrowing countries could access on the market. And they are cost-effective for donors: They can lend out several multiples of what governments put in. However, if MDBs are to provide finance on the necessary scale—and if they are to ensure new climate finance does not come at the expense of development priorities—they will need shareholding countries to contribute more.

In recent years, as developing countries were hit by the COVID-19 pandemic, high interest rates and debt levels, as well as mounting climate impacts, the idea of international financial architecture reform grew in prominence. The idea expands focus beyond individual aid programs or funding priorities to the broader rules and institutions that direct money around the globe—too often in ways unfavorable to developing countries.

While the new climate finance goal does not explicitly engage with these debates, its contents make its achievement dependent on international financial architecture reform. Expanding and improving MDBs has been a major priority of these efforts: During the recent G-20 summit, members approved a road map to achieve this.

The overall $1.3 trillion investment target in the new climate finance goal is rightly criticized as vague, but it is more closely tied to the needs of developing countries than the $300 billion goal—and meeting it would require more ambitious action. The implication is that private finance is expected to fill the gap between the $300 billion goal and the $1.3 trillion goal.

But private financial flows will not suddenly proliferate without government action, and given how low private finance mobilization rates are, it is implausible that $1.3 trillion in investment could be met without an increase in public finance well beyond the minimum necessary to meet the $300 billion goal. Even the International High-Level Expert Group on Climate Finance, whose work was influential in shaping the $1.3 trillion target, projected that private finance would account for just around $500 billion of the $1.3 trillion total.

Reaching that target will also require addressing the financial constraints that prevent climate investment in developing countries. Many countries will need debt relief so that unsustainable debts do not crowd out climate investments. The International Monetary Fund will need to reorient itself to prioritize a green investment push. And international levies on undertaxed activities like shipping, aviation, and financial transactions could produce reliable revenue streams for climate finance.

The $1.3 trillion target also creates opportunities through the “Baku to Belém Roadmap to 1.3T”—a plan added to the agreement to address outstanding issues before next year’s COP30 in Belém, Brazil. It provides an opportunity to address the broader reforms needed in the international financial architecture, as well as to salvage priorities excluded from this year’s agreement, such as guaranteeing funding for particularly vulnerable countries and for adapting to climate change. With countries’ new climate action plans due in the coming months, it is crucial to give quick signals to developing countries that they will be backed by adequate finance.

The new climate finance agreement demands transformative action in the international economy. It is also eminently achievable. Even the broader $1.3 trillion target equates to about 1 percent of global gross domestic product. It is around half of global military spending. U.S. President-elect Donald Trump will likely pull the United States out of the 2015 Paris Agreement—again—but Washington already provided relatively little climate finance.

Much depends on whether rich countries see this year’s new goal as the bargain at the heart of global climate cooperation or an unwanted obligation they should minimize, as many developing countries understandably perceive them to have done under the original goal. This dynamic is part of why the $100 billion struggled to advance the objective it was meant to address—the need for developing countries to manage climate impacts they did little to cause and to forgo the fossil fuel-heavy development model today’s developed countries used to get rich.

Since the signing of the Paris Agreement, a period in which global emissions should have fallen rapidly, global emissions have grown, with two-thirds of growth coming from developing countries other than China. If developing countries cannot reduce emissions, any emissions savings from initiatives like the Inflation Reduction Act in the United States or the Green Deal in Europe could quickly be canceled out.

Wealthy governments will need to understand the centrality of climate finance to their global legitimacy, as well as the inescapably global nature of the climate crisis. And supportive domestic political constituencies must put organized pressure on them to follow through on the agreement.

Still, this climate finance agreement is not what decides whether humanity pays for climate change. Someone will pay. It could be—and often already is—farmers spending their savings to replace drought-ravaged crops and governments drowning in interest payments they incurred to help citizens drowning in floods.

It could be the governments of developed countries paying for the consequences of emissions and instability they could have helped avoid. But it doesn’t have to be. Working together to pay now is cheaper and fairer than paying the price later.

[karanseraph]

How I "worldbuild" city-states on Cybertron (or for other speculative fiction)

What I do not actually do (though I may joke that I do) is one-to-one draw inspiration from a real location on Earth so that I'm 100% doing "fantasy counterpart culture" trope. I don't just say a fictional alien robot city is Alien Robot New York, for example.

BUT, I do combine aspects of multiple real cities and regions to inspire the fictional ones.

Here's an example:

When I needed to write about the existing canon city-state of Tarn on Cybertron, I first looked at what was established in canon. But, Transformers franchise(s) doesn't seem to have world-built in this way. The information doesn't say what architecture a city-state is associated with (some locations have art when depicted in official media but not all). Most often the distinctive things about a city-state will be which famous bot is from there, what famous attack or battle happened there, when that city was attacked or destroyed, and which characters were affected by the destruction.

We do know bots from Tarn have some distinctive accent, which more recently could be alien-robot-Scots. It's in or near a valley. It had or has some military cultural influence. Structures include fortresses and power plants. In some continuities it has been lead by dictators or overlords, but sometimes revolutionaries come from there. It rivals Iacon in some ways like military power or size, but also sometimes rivals Vos in which it is the west to Vos' east within some region.

The word "Tarn" on Earth can mean a small mountain lake, but may also be associated with tarnish (metal oxidation) or abbreviations of words like tarnation meaning some damnation darnededness.

So, I decided it must be a city-state in a region that geologically was in a basin or valley.

I also thought about how "tarn" sounds like a corruption of "eternal" (like eternal damnation) and there are "eternal cities" in Earth.

So, eventually, I made a table comparing Kyoto and Rome from historical periods. (it's bullets here but mine was a columned table.)

once capital

includes enclave

had religious and/or cultural influence as a "capital" (not necessarily politically)

aqueducts and/or fountains

in a basin, versus known for famous hills

temples and shrines or temples and basilicas

rail travel and/or famous for roads

festivals

known in whole or part as "Eternal City"

may have catacombs

So, the point isn't that Tarn is Kyoto or Rome. The point is that different cities from different cultures can have certain things in common that give then city-ness or capital-ness. And Tarn should have these common traits.

So, I wrote that Tarn the fictional alien robot city-state is located in a depression that bots differ on the origin of, saying it was once a glacial lake now dry, or that its the remnant of the clawmarks of a dark god, or a crater from a long-ago cataclysm.

Because it's in the depression and because it has industry, it suffers smog (like real Los Angeles or Athens in their basins) and thus solar type energy is not really available here and bots are accustomed to the red-tone Hadeen settings and poor air quality.

The city-state has an enclave within it known as The Eternal City which is walled and contains many many shrines and temples to Primus, various Primes, other less-common faiths, and even to artifacts. The architecture inside the Eternal City is older, with roofs pitched to distribute precipitation that is less common now and a lot of detailed metal work like cast murals and panels.

Outside the historical enclave Tarn has streets paved with clinker, a byproduct of all the smelting that is done. As an adaptation many bots here have tredded vehicle alt-modes to help distribute their weight on the uneven pavement and turbine heels are at a disadvantage.

Many bots are in mining or industrial occupations. There are many parts warehouses for the construction and engineering markets. There's a lot of hard labor to be done. So rugged alt-modes are also common.

They also have developed strong labor protection in the form of "crewes" that represent various groupings of bots with similarly occupation or similar background. Like, the Knights of Nemesis who protect fellow miners from exploitation or the Crew or The Resurrected Fortress who represent the city-state's seige defenders.

After their labor, the bots want entertainment to wind down, so gladiatorial combat, or a regulated with-reprieve sort, is very popular and there's a stadium for that. Many traditional oil houses and gymnasia are also common for workers and/or gladiators.

The area is mineral rich, but not energon rich, so they rely on an energon duct known as the Ener Helexandria which transfers energon via ducts and pipes from Helex further north to Tarn. In exchange, Tarn ships various materials to Helex via rail. Their foreign dependence on fuel makes fair distribution of energon via the various Crewes vital to Tarn.

Once, in history, Tarn was considered the Capital of Cybertron, but a schism happened and power shifted to present-day Iacon in the North, while those who were more traditional or conservative in terms of Cybertronian culture remained in Tarn. As such, bots in Tarn have a somewhat negative view of how bots in Iacon conduct their politics and religion.

For example, Tarn is among the locations where the legendary Megatronus has a brooding and tragic but generally positive reputation, while in northern city-states they tend to count this figure as "The Fallen".

Later in history, bots from Iacon who were in power at the time sought to have a reverse-season vacation spot without returning to Tarn itself, so they founded Vos to the east of Tarn, at a spot where there was a dramatic formation of energon-river and canyon. Then, over time a local Vosian culture of permanent locals developed who were viewed as downright libertine and hedonistic compared to Tarn or Iacon.

This led to further religious and political differences and energy disparity. Though, secretly, there exist smugglers' routes between Tarn and Vos along underground energon river courses in Cybertron's interior, indicating that bots from Vos and Tarn mix more than is perceived from outside or by bots in Iacon.

Bots in Iacon probably view Tarn and Vos as examples of extremism where one is staid and holds serious devotion to all the Primes and to their social duties to each other and has a lot of miners and manufacturers who plod around on treads while the other is nearly atheistic and hedonistic yet manages to have a lot of energy scientists and air-frames.

Meanwhile, the other city-states view Iacon as compromised in the war with the Quintessons and their senate as corrupt and non-representative and weirdly obsessed with whoever is The Thirteenth. And as having some kind of populist or faux-populist politics that pretends to be concerned with various causes and issues but mostly just keeps bots currently in power in power.

So, anyway, that's how I do it.

I think about the existing name and canon features.

I then decide which traits it must have,

Then I think about *why* a city would develop those traits or what it would mean for bots if their city had those traits.

And I think about what all that would mean to other city-states and the bots in those places.

So, on a level, one could say Tarn is robot-alien-Scotland-Kyoto-Rome. But it's also just Tarn and has some traits like those places.