#without directions. he just defaults to that.

[fires-of-ninjago]

To be fair, I think he's probably the one ninja who's best equipped to face the horrors of the Realm of Monsters. I mean, he's been put through the wringer more times than any of the ninja, both before and after meeting Wu. Just look at everything he dealt with:

He raised not only himself but Nya and, to a lesser extent, Lloyd.

He took over the family smithy and forge, and taught himself how to blacksmith.

He was the first to realize both the identity of Samurai X, as well as who the Green Ninja was.

After Zane's sacrifice, he entered into a self-destructive cycle (alcoholism, illegal fighting rings, ect.)

He defaults into a de-facto leader mode in emergency situations (directing tactics, taking the lead on the front, ect.)

The biggest difference between his past, and the land of Monsters, by and large, is that before the Merge, he had his friends and family to protect, and anchor his sanity. Once he was separated from that, without anyone or anything to help ground him, he most definitely would change.

I don't think he would have necessarily become a Monster though...he's already a force of nature (both literally and figuratively). No, I think he would instead become something worse...something that you've already pointed out with him not being okay:

In his journey to find his way home, Kai became haunted by his past.

Do you think Kai took liberties when heading to the Monastery? Do you think he stood infront of a mirror making sure he looked and acted the same before the merge happened? Do you think he cracked more jokes and laughed too hard when he was with Lloyd? Do you think he quietly mumbles the names of the people who helped him leave the realm of monsters in fear of forgetting them? Do you think the reason he talks to himself more is because its become a habit for him? Do you think he was relieved when Nya broke them out of the fear vision, and that he really was back home? Do you think he got deja vu seeing rontu and egalt? Do you think he found the nether space comforting? Do you think the reason he was so calm during everything is because he was desensitized? Do you think he's okay?

Because I don't.

[til-all-are-loved]

{This Charming Man}

Chapter 11 - Permission / Flesh for Fantasy

word count 4.7 k ao3

You hadn’t intended to keep working.

After everything that was said you figured you’d step down quietly. You had submitted your resignation. You had meant it. But then nothing happened. No acknowledgement, no reply. No shuttle rerouted back to Earth, no official directive from Ultra Magnus or your Earth-side handlers. Just... silence.

So you kept showing up. One more report. One more meeting. One more datapad handed off without fanfare. It was just easier to pretend. And if Megatron had noticed your quiet return to routine, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much at all.

The leadership meeting was uneventful—until it wasn’t.

Rodimus was at the front of the room, leaned lazily against the edge of the holo-console like he had nowhere else to be. Ultra Magnus stood beside him with arms crossed and optics narrowed, which was his default setting. Megatron sat to the side, as still as stone.

You took your usual seat. No one commented on it.

Rodimus tapped the screen, bringing up a star chart. “Alright, next matter—access clearance. Our planned route takes us through the C-X  Expanse. There’s a neutral outpost in our path. Bureaucratic nonsense. We need someone to represent us at the station’s orbital council gathering so they’ll authorize passage.”

You blinked. “A... gathering?”

“Not a big deal,” Rodimus said with a dismissive wave. “They call it a ‘civic summit.’ It’s basically a glorified mixer with a roster and badge scanners. Show up, smile politely, leave with stamped clearance. Whole thing takes one night, maybe two.”

You glanced at Megatron. He hadn’t moved.

Rodimus continued, voice light. “Which is why I’m assigning our esteemed ambassador,” he gestured to you, “and our reformed co-captain—” he gestured at Megatron, “to attend on behalf of the Lost Light.”

Megatron’s optics finally lifted. “I fail to see why my presence is necessary.” His voice landed low and professionally. 

You wanted it to slip, just a little. Enough to tell you this was affecting him too.

“You’re a captain,” Rodimus said brightly. “Other captains will be there.”

Megatron, flatly: “So it’s politics.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Call it diplomacy if that helps.”

You spoke carefully. “We’ll be expected to represent the ship’s position on what exactly?”

“Trade neutrality, expedition rights, cultural cooperation, you know.” Rodimus grinned. “The usual fluff. It wouldn’t hurt to score the Cybertronian race some brownie points, would it? ”

“Which you’re not attending yourself?” Megatron asked.

“I’m terribly allergic to bureaucracy,” Rodimus replied. “Also, the last time I was there, I might’ve punched someone. This is a cleaner option, besides Megatron. You’re so much more reserved nowadays, more than me, even.”

Silence settled again. Megatron vented once, slow and steady.

“Very well,” he said at last.

Rodimus beamed. “Knew you'd see reason. Departure's scheduled for tomorrow. You'll be taking Shuttle Three.”

Magnus gave a subtle nod.

“Any questions?” Rodimus added.

You exchanged a look with Megatron. It wasn’t the old, easy kind of look, the kind you used to pass back and forth when Rodimus was being especially dramatic. But it wasn’t cold either. 

“No questions,” you said.

“Cool.” Rodimus clapped his hands. “Meeting adjourned.”

The others began filing out. You gathered your notes. Megatron left without a word.

As you turned to follow, Rodimus blocked your exit. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “One last thing.”

You paused.

“Pack a dress.”

You blinked. “Sorry—what?”

He grinned. “The summit’s not a briefing. It’s a party.”

You stared at him.

Rodimus winked, then turned on his heel and sauntered away.

The day of the assignment came faster than expected.

You hadn’t been nervous until now. You’d gotten through the briefings, the logistics updates, the security checks. You even made it through a mind-numbingly long discussion with an outpost liaison who spoke exclusively in caveats and procedural jargon. And still, you’d been fine.

Until you stepped into your quarters and realized it was time to get ready.

Your heart hammered.

You used to go to parties. Back in school—whatever version of that counted for you—it wasn’t a rare thing. Dress up, sneak drinks, pretend the night meant something. There were Greek life mixers and graduate socials and “girls' night” events where you'd trade outfits with your friends and laugh too hard and take pictures you’d regret the next morning.

But this felt nothing like that.

This wasn’t just a party. This was something else entirely. You weren’t even sure what it was.

You peeled off your uniform and stood in your undershirt for a long moment, staring down at the bag on your cot. “Pack a dress,” Rodimus had said, the smug bastard.

Still… you did pack one. A nice one. Just in case.

You tugged it out and started changing.

If he was wrong and it wasn’t a party—well, at least you’d feel more put together than usual. You could pretend this wasn’t about him. You could pretend you weren’t dressing for anyone.

Halfway through fixing your hair, a familiar jingle came from your doorbell comm console. Swerve’s voice crackled through before you could answer.

“Hey, uh. Just heard you’re shipping out with the Captain tonight. You two good?”

You blinked at your reflection. “We’re fine.”

“That’s not a yes.”

You snorted. “Do you need something?”

“Just to say: If he wears a tie, I’m gonna lose my mind. You’ll tell me, right?”

“Swerve.”

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving. Have fun storming the diplomatic summit!”

The line clicked off.

You stared at yourself in the mirror again. You didn’t look like someone heading to a summit. You looked like someone waiting to be seen.

The shuttle ride was quiet.

You sat across from Megatron, hands folded in your lap, watching stars streak past the viewport while he reviewed mission data in silence. You didn’t talk. Neither of you had to. 

When you finally landed, the docking clamps hissed and released, and the ramp unfolded with a smooth hydraulic sigh.

The station was vast. Even through the heavy atmosphere filters of the landing bay, you could feel the sheer scale of it. It was a satellite city, several times the size of the Lost Light. Lights streamed along the outer hull. Protocol drones hovered near arrivals, scanning new entrants and assigning escorts. Dozens of ships had already arrived. 

And stepping down the ramp with Megatron at your side, it became clear: this wasn’t some dry diplomatic formality. This was a display. Delegates gathered in pairs. Some arm-in-arm, others shoulder-to-shoulder. A soft orchestral score drifted in the air, piped through public speakers. Everyone was dressed to be seen.

And then you noticed it. The way some delegates looked at you then at Megatron. The slight pause. The way they waited, as if expecting something. Your breath caught as the realization settled. A formalized social display. Everyone was arriving together.

Megatron paused at your side. His optics narrowed as he scanned the crowd, as if parsing new information.

You felt your voice catch slightly. “We’re... expected to look like a pair.”

He tilted his head.

"Is this a procession?"

You blinked, realizing your mouth was slightly open. You shut it, trying to remember what words were.

"No," you said, voice low. "This is a grand ball."

Megatron glanced around the hall again, this time with clearer understanding. Guests posed for cameras. Couples walked arm in arm. Every movement was calculated and beautiful.

His gaze drifted back to you, catching on the line of your shoulders, the cut of your dress.

"That explains the dress."

There was no irony in it. No dryness. Just a quiet, pointed observation. His gaze lingered on you for one, two heartbeats. 

He exvented slowly. “A moment, please.”

He doubled back slowly at first, then turned the corner and presumably doubled back to the shuttle.The echo of his pounding footsteps over the music made you wince. Too loud. Too fast. Too Megatron.

A few breaths passed, from around the corner you heard your name be called.

You turned to look and your throat nearly closed.

Tall. Easily over six feet. Broad-shouldered, dark heavy duster tailored in sharp lines.  It was amusing, his stylistic choices didn’t quite suit the modern male style on earth, at least not any that you encountered like this. His design held an individualistic sentiment almost like that of alternative subcultures but tempered to flatter an older man… 

White streaks cut through silver hair at his temples, swept back in a style that looked effortless but wasn't. It exposed a tall square shaped forehead revealing somewhat deep age lines. 

The cut of his jaw was too clean to be real. His cheekbones were knife-sharp. His mouth serious, stern, perfectly sculpted. Beneath that familiar pout was a trimmed goatee, it seemed to mirror his cybertronian features perfectly.And his eyes. Not the usual deep red of his optics. These were dark, warm. Smoldering. Intelligent. Still him.

He turned to you slightly, as if unsure how you'd react.

You just stared.

Not because you didn’t recognize him. Because you did. Because it felt like seeing a secret he’d kept from you. A weaponized version of restraint. And damn if it didn’t work.

He didn’t move at first. Just let you look at him.

Then wryly: “You’re staring.”

You blinked hard. “Am I not supposed to?”

His mouth twitched at the corner. “I’m not used to being... admired.”

“Get used to it,” you said before thinking. Your voice came out smaller than intended.

He stepped toward you, closing the short distance between you both. Still at a respectful length, but no longer distant. The ambient glow of the station lights danced across his avatar’s shoulders, catching on subtle metallic threading in the long coat he’d chosen.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.

The act suddenly felt so... pointed. Symbolic. A thousand subtle cues passed between delegates in this place. Every pair walking together was making a statement.

But then, in a quiet motion, you turned your hand and touched the bend of his elbow. Permission.

In his expression you caught surprise, maybe, or a recalibration. He adjusted instantly, offering his arm in full, his other hand resting behind his back with courtly precision.You tested his bicep briefly, if he noticed he didn't show it.

His voice was low, soft at your ear as you began walking together.

“Thank you for not recoiling,” he murmured. “This form is... experimental.”

You glanced at him sidelong. “You’re handling it well.”

“I’ve studied human posture,” he said, tone just dry enough to be self-aware. “And basic expressions of chivalry .” 

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked down at you, just the faintest glimmer in his eye. “Am I convincing you?”

You exhaled a single laugh. “A little too much.”

Your steps fell into a rhythm as the two of you moved through the grand hall, drawing more than a few curious looks. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get a drink,” you said, nodding toward the curved crystalline bar set into the far wall. Its base glowed with a slow pulse of color. Sleek-bellied glasses and phosphorescent bottles stood in minimalist display behind the counter, flanked by a bartender bot with an absolutely judgmental visor.

Megatron gave a slight nod. “Excellent idea. I believe I’m expected to make small talk soon, and I’d rather do it with a glass in hand.”

The two of you veered toward the bar, your arm still lightly tucked in his, the brush of his sleeve against your skin doing terrible things to your heart rate. You could feel the temperature rising in your own face—not from nerves, exactly, but from the proximity. The attention. And maybe from the fact that he was enjoying it, too. Not smugly. Not with power. But with something approaching pleasure. Delight, even.

The bar was sleeker up close, an art installation as much as a service station. Its surface shifted in subtle, mirrored waves beneath your fingers, like water frozen in the middle of movement. As you approached, Megatron let your arm go, his hand trailing away with practiced grace.

You ordered first, voice clear, posture composed. Megatron followed suit, his tones measured and surprisingly casual. He let you lead, a novelty in itself.

A pair of delegates sidled up beside you taller than either of you, vaguely insectoid, their limbs jointed in six distinct places. They spoke to each other in a dialect you didn’t understand then, in Galactic Basic, just loud enough to catch.

“Oh, how quaint. The human delegation brought representatives.”

“Must be difficult,” the other mused, not unkindly, “to keep such small creatures in sight.”

You felt Megatron shift beside you.

The taller delegate offered what might’ve been a polite nod, their expression unreadable. “Enjoy the festivities,” they added, and glided away, clicking softly as they moved.

Your drink arrived.

You stared into it for a moment before murmuring, “Do you think I count as quaint?”

Megatron’s gaze didn’t move from where the pair had gone. “If they knew anything about you, they’d never risk using the word.”

You glanced up at him. Something in his jaw had set differently. Not anger just... that old stiffness. Like a program running in the background. Like something uncomfortable in the code of his body.

So you touched his elbow lightly. “Come on,” you said, voice soft but purposeful. “Let’s make the rounds.”

You didn’t have to ask twice. He fell into step beside you again, his hand resting behind his back once more. The perfect dignitary.

The two of you slipped into the flow of the event, weaving between delegates, exchanging nods and hellos and the occasional comment. You played your part—answering questions about Earth’s current diplomatic ties to Cybertron, throwing in the occasional joke that flew over everyone’s head but made Megatron tilt his head in that amused little way that meant he got it.

Through the night you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was handsome. Painfully so, in a way that didn’t seem fair. 

Mustering your confident-ambassador-baddie aura you continued to take the lead. One hand clasping a chilly glass you held it ahead of you like the bow of a ship parting the sea of party-goers. The other hand beckoning Megatron occasionally to keep up.

​​“You carry yourself like royalty.”

You blink. Did you just mishear him? 

“Come again?”

He stiffens immediately, eyes narrowing in defence. He regrets the words as soon as they’re spoken.

“That’s not—”

“You’re terrible at this,” you say, a grin playing on your lips.

“At what?”

“Flirting. That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

“It was meant to be an observation.”

You bob your head playfully and roll your shoulders, hopefully the gesture comes off as foxy. “Sure. An observation with an aura of courtship.”

But eventually, the charm of the event began to turn. The lights felt too hot. The stares too long. The conversations started looping back, becoming redundant. Megatron’s answers became shorter. He leaned in less.

So you pulled back.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder and said, “Too much?”

He exvented quietly.

“Want to disappear?”

“Yes.”

Without ceremony, the two of you slipped through an archway, down a curved hallway lit in soft green, past a suspended sculpture that rotated slowly without sound. The noise of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by a hush that felt like reprieve.

You found a quiet space tucked into an overlook meant for VIPs. Megatron stood beside you. But something in the posture had shifted. His shoulders were no longer squared. His hands, now clasped at the small of his back, opened and closed in restless intervals.

You leaned on the railing, watching the light show from below. The delegation was in full swing now, the dance floor slowly filling as a low, pulsing rhythm took over the speakers. It was orchestral in structure but deeply physical, percussive in a way that settled into your sternum. Behind you, Megatron remained quiet.

“I know that face,” you said, glancing sideways. “You look like you’re drafting a brutal speech about the flippancy of luxury.”

He didn’t look at you. “I’m calculating the cost of theater,” he said quietly. “How much it takes from a person to wear a mask. And how long before they forget it was a mask at all.”

You turned to face him fully, arms crossed, hip resting against the railing.

“You’re not being fair,” you said. “You did everything right.”

Megatron’s gaze drifted toward you now. The lighting softened the lines of his avatar, made his expression look more human than you’d ever seen it. Tired, but still alert.

“I wasn’t trying to be right,” he said. “Only tolerable.”

The music shifted. Below, couples moved together in deliberate, synchronized steps. One pair spun gently in a half-orbit around another. Someone dipped a partner low, and laughter followed.

“Would you prefer we just disappear entirely?” you asked.

“I prefer this,” he said at last.

You smiled faintly. “I don't mind either.”

He looked at you withdrawn again. “You’re just saying that.”

You took a pause, trying to steady the pulse in your veins urging you into doing impulsive things .“Can I say something?”

His head tilted. Permission. 

You stepped a little closer. Enough to be able to lower your voice while still being heard. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” you said. “The diplomacy. The avatar. Playing along. And I know you’ll try to tell yourself you did it for appearances, or the mission. But that’s not true.”

His jaw tensed, just slightly.

“I know it’s not,” you continued. “Because I’ve seen how you are when you’re just doing what you’re told. And this... this wasn’t that.”

For a moment, he said nothing. 

Then, softly: “And what do you think this was?”

You swallowed. “Something kind. And... something that’s made me feel very, very happy.”

Megatron looked away, back toward the window.

“You say that like it surprises me,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to make a statement. I came because I thought I might make you smile.”

You blinked, stunned. He wanted this? He planned this? That was—God. That was almost romantic. Too romantic. You felt the elation bloom in your chest, dizzy from what he’d just admitted so casually.

You reached for his hand. And he let you.

The music continued below. The swirl of dancers and delegates became a blur behind the glass.

You squeezed his fingers gently.

“If you wanted to dance,” you said, “I wouldn’t stop you.”

He glanced at you again.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just know I’d like to stay near you.”

And this time, he stepped closer.

You cue for him to remove his coat by taking the sides of the collar in each hand and guiding it over his shoulders. He took the hint, shugging the garment off and slinging it over the railing. It revealed strong forearms beneath rolled sleeves, a neck just barely visible above the collar. Everything about him feels deliberately understated, and yet you can’t stop looking. You felt your stomach knot.

The music swelled again strings melting into a slow, pulsing rhythm, just enough tempo to guide motion without overwhelming it. Below, the crowd moved in waves. 

You turned to face him, heart kicking faster. 

“If you’d like to try,” you offered, lifting your hand, “I can lead.”

Megatron looked at you, visibly uncertain.

“I’ve never danced,” he said, as if it were a confession. “Not like this.”

“That’s alright,” you said gently. “I have. We’ll go slow.”

You reached for him, and he took your hand awkwardly,  unsure how much pressure was acceptable. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, guiding his other hand to your waist.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s the usual setup.”

He looked down at the contact, then up at you again. “This feels... unconventional.”

“That's because you're thinking too hard,” you said with a small grin.

“I’m trying not to step on you,” he said flatly.

“That’s very sweet,” you teased. “But unnecessary. If you stepped on me I’d forgive you”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth curved only a little. It was something.

You watched his gaze crawl across your shoulders, the line of your neck, your jaw. His eyes landed on your mouth for a beat too long. You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re observing me,” you said.

“I always do.”

Something about the way he said it left you lost for an appropriate response.

One step back. He followed, stiffly. You tried again. He mirrored, a beat late. Every motion was too precise. He was solving a puzzle rather than moving through space.

“You’re overcorrecting,” you murmured.

“I am attempting to mirror your tempo.”

“Okay,” you said softly, “but dancing isn’t just pattern recognition. It’s listening. To me. To the music. To yourself.”

He blinked once. “That’s vague.”

“You’re doing great,” you lied, because you were charmed out of your mind.

He huffed sharply,. “Where should my hands go now?”

“Same place,” you said, biting back a laugh. “We’re not doing a spin yet.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

You smiled up at him. “Exactly. So don’t worry about it.”

He hesitated again. His hands hadn’t moved. His whole form had gone a bit too still. Withdrawn, even.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed faintly. “This feels... unnecessary.”

You stepped back slightly. “Do you want to stop?”

His hand dropped from your waist. “I think I should.”

Your heart stung but you nodded, letting your arms fall, stepping gently away.

“Of course.”

You turned slightly, ready to give him the space he thought he needed.

But his voice stopped you.

“You said I didn’t have to go through all of this for you,” he said. “But I did. I wanted to.”

Your chest rose with your breath.

He looked at you like he just found the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His gaze flicks to the side, and he adjusts his sleeve again—same nervous tell. Not ready to meet you where you are. Not yet. But he's still standing here, isn't he?

“You once said I didn’t understand what I was getting into,” you say quietly, “You were right. I didn’t. Not then. But I think I do now.”

He doesnt interrupt. 

“That night… when you told me the truth. I should’ve hated you. I wanted to. But instead, I felt—” you pause, licking your lips, “—seen. It terrified me.”

He says nothing, but you can tell: he’s listening.

“You keep showing up like this,” you say gently, your voice low. “It’s getting hard to tell what this is supposed to be.”

His mouth opens like he’s about to deflect.

“Don’t,” you add quickly. “Just—don’t. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to know.”

You take a breath, fingers brushing your wrist. 

“Tell me what this is, Megatron,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to hope it’s more than it should be.”

He looks at you—on the level—and for a moment, you see it: uncertainty. Caution. Want.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Okay,” you say, stepping closer. “Then let me ask something simpler.”

You tilt your chin, steady despite the quaking in your nerves.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?”

He doesn’t speak. Just nods once. Permission.

You step into him, feeling heat radiating off his holomatter projection. Up close, he smells like ozone and something else, clean metal and the faintest scent of tobacco,, translated into something your brain can interpret.

When you kiss him, it’s not elegant. Your noses brush wrong. Your balance falters a bit. But his hand—warm and unsure—touches your side, steadying you.

His mouth is soft. Stubbled. There’s a moment when you feel him start to respond, just slightly, before he pulls back half an inch.

His eyes are still open. Of course they were.

You breathe against him, stunned.

And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough to look at you fully.

“That,” he says, voice low, “was very brave.”

You smile, half breathless. “I know.”

The satisfaction in his expression was subtle—but it was there.

Your face was at full burn by now, hot blood felt as if it was pooling beneath every pore. It was actually getting a bit too much. You looked away, it was all getting a bit overwhelming. The excitement you were gripping onto tightly the entire night refused to unwind even after your very reckless action.

Little words were exchanged between you as a few comfortable silences passed by. Meanwhile the music had drawn to a close. 

The walk back to the launch bay is slower than necessary. Neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t empty. At some point along the empty corridor, you catch him looking at you. 

His eyes—human eyes—flick downward, lingering a second longer than is strictly polite. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slight shift of fabric where your dress settles against your chest.

It’s not leering. It’s curious and innocent in its focus. You bite back a smile, heart thrumming high in your ribs. Cybertronians don’t have this kind of giveaway. You realize that now—how easily you can see where his gaze travels, how easily he betrays his own attention just by forgetting to guard it. When his eyes flick back up and meet yours, there’s no guilt there. No shame.

The launch bay doors slide open. You pause just before the ramp, and Megatron pauses with you. His form flickers and the holomatter projection dissolves into static. He’s there now. Fully. The real deal.

"So," you say, "you were already here."

"Of course," he replies, words reverberating through the thin station air. "I was never far."

The shuttle ramp hisses under the weight of Megatron’s heavy footfalls.

You follow at your own pace, the stairs ahead of you rising almost as high as your shoulders. You hesitate at the base of the first step, eyeing the climb.

Before you can even think about attempting it, a massive shadow falls over you.

You glance up—just as Megatron stoops low, one hand extending.

“Allow me,” he says, voice pitched low, almost dry. But you catch the undercurrent: an old memory. You smile without thinking and step carefully into his waiting palm.

His servos flex slightly beneath you, enclosing you. You sit demurely, hands braced lightly on the broad curve of his fingers. He lifts you smoothly, almost absentmindedly, like you weigh nothing at all.

He doesn’t set you down immediately. Instead, he carries you easily across the shuttle floor, his other hand adjusting the controls with practiced efficiency.

He glances down.

“You’ll stay here,” he says, the faintest flicker of amusement touching his tone. “I prefer to keep you within sight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too obviously.

He settles you near the front console, just beside the primary display—a safe, flat surface with enough of an edge to keep you secure. Close enough that if he turns slightly, you’re still within arm’s reach.

He powers up the shuttle. You sit quietly, the rush of takeoff pressing you back just slightly as the shuttle disengages from the station.

The night is ending. The fantasy is folding itself away.

And still, he keeps you close.

For a while, neither of you speak. The stars drift by outside the viewport, streaks of light against the velvet dark. You let your eyes follow them, feeling the hush settle deep into your bones.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, voice thoughtful. “What did you think?”

You don’t need to ask what he means. The night. The effort. The strange, human-shaped fantasy he built for you out of smoke and hope.

You consider your answer carefully.

“It was wonderful,” you say honestly. “Strange. Surreal. Like stepping into someone else’s life for a while.”

You shift, folding your hands in your lap.

“But…” you add, looking up at him again, eyes lidded and a smirk playing at your lips—“I think I find you more beguiling like this.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because this is the form you’ll see most often.”

There’s no regret in his voice. No apology.

And you find, to your own surprise, that you don’t want one. You lean back slightly, settling in as the shuttle speeds toward home.

___

WOAH big update FINALS ARE OVER YAY. Alexa play Flesh for Fantasy by Billy Idol

[northhopest]

Lasagna and Salad Forks

(tldr; Representation says to the audience, “I see you.” That’s been missing from Lucy for five seasons. It’s never once been present in Chenford.)

The Rookie actors are known to workshop lines with writers, and Alexi was on set for 7x16. There are opportunities to express even small cultural moments that align with Lucy's background. What could’ve been meaningful was yet another missed opportunity for Lucy. We got salad forks and lasagna instead.

I’ve spoken with friends who do peer-reviewed research on mixed-race couples and friends, and the lack of cultural reciprocity in Chenford’s portrayal stands out. While Chenford weren’t canonically a couple for very long, they’ve been “together” for over 120 episodes and across 7 seasons. In all that time, Lucy’s identity has never once been acknowledged between them—and hasn’t been referenced at all in over five seasons.

We don’t see this in other cross-cultural relationships on the show. Angela’s heritage has been thoroughly acknowledged in and out of Wopez across all seasons. Celina and Rodge aren’t even “together” and yet in one episode alone, they shared two conversations in separate scenes in her native tongue. Between episodes 7x14–7x16, Angela, Tim, Celina, Seth, and Rodge all speak Spanish. That’s meaningful.

Lucy doesn’t need to be constantly ‘ethnic-coded’ but the total absence of her heritage leaves her character defaulting into hegemonic whiteness within Asian packaging, especially when other characters’ cultures are proudly, consciously and consistently centered.

I’m not Italian or Mexican, but I love cooking and eating foods from those cultures. This isn’t about who’s “allowed” to make or enjoy what. It’s about a storytelling pattern that consistently sidelines Lucy’s identity—while giving other characters space to express and celebrate theirs.

Whether it’s through acting choices or the script, Lucy is not being given the same opportunities to express who she is. And without any counterbalancing moments that connect her to her heritage, even pasta becomes part of a larger pattern of minimization—especially when other characters’ cultures are depicted loudly and proudly in the same scenes. As they should be. But so should Lucy.

Lucy's dinner party hostess performance is white. Lucy calling her grandmother “Nana” in 5x18 is white. Lucy fussing over salad forks in 7x16 feels like something Patrice Evers would do—not Lucy Chen.

Some fans have exaggerated Lucy asking for salad forks into this idea that she’ll transform Tim’s home with every kind of fork imaginable. But this is the same Lucy who just a few episodes ago said that she budgets down to the cent. The same Lucy whose parents went bankrupt when she was in elementary school. She’s not someone preoccupied with white-coded domestic aesthetics. It’s frustrating to see her stretched into a version of white femininity that doesn’t reflect who she is—or who she’s been.

It honestly feels like Moira Kirkland, who wrote the episode, inserted a version of herself instead of writing Lucy true to character. Kirkland has written for Hawaii Five-0, a show with a main cast that included many Asian and Pacific Islander actors. She knows how to handle these dynamics—she’s done it with Celina. But she went the opposite direction with Lucy. And it seems like no one—Melissa, the producers, script supervisors—flagged it.

Tim’s father literally abused him yet his house is coded with white American boyhood. Meanwhile, Lucy’s culture is nowhere to be found. Why are we getting salad forks instead of anything meaningful that ties her back to her identity? Salad forks script her into this very specific, white suburban “perfect wife” image instead of anything connected to who she really is.

There’s a moment where Lucy walks past Tim’s rice cooker several times. He owns an “Aroma” brand. I did some research and found that “Aroma” was founded by Peter Chang in Southern California 50 years ago. It’s an Asian American kitchen staple. That suggests Lucy’s influence—because it’s unlikely Tim would own one otherwise—but it’s also never acknowledged by Lucy. She passes it after touching his arm to pull lasagna from the oven. She passes it again to get the door.

“Representation” isn’t a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appliance in the background. Representation is Celina and Zander using Spanish as code because he knows who she is. Representation says to the audience, “I see you.” That’s been missing from Lucy for five seasons. It’s never once been present in Chenford.

I would’ve loved to see Lucy scoop white rice out of that cooker. Just imagine if, instead of asking where the salad forks are, Lucy asked Tim where he keeps the soy sauce. Tim could still quip that he’s a 45-year-old who lives alone—that part doesn’t need to change—but that moment would suddenly reflect an interracial relationship.

[thebonesinmy-closet]

Mark and Rex should make out, and Mark should totally wreck Rex's face doing so, and Rex should let him. a tender kiss to Mark, when filled with passion and pent up energy, feelings like a vicious bite to Rex, but he's not quick to point that out. Mark should kiss Rex till it hurts and Rex should dig his nails into Mark's back, barely managing to break skin, even Mark says it's ok. Rex should try and match the speed and strength at which Mark is capable of defiling him, but ultimately fail — he could never dream of catching up to a Viltrumite. Rex should tell Mark he doesn't have to be gentle.

both have always had to be careful, but they can rip each other apart and welcome it. they've endured so much pain, why not find a way to enjoy it?

Mark should hold Rex tenderly with arms that could crush him, and Rex should relish in feeling secure. they should tangle their legs together and mingle their breaths and push each other against walls and mattresses and pillows. friction and heat building between them. moments where they stare at each other as Rex pants for breath and Mark waits for him to catch his breath with a look so patient it hurts they pant for breath, and there's the pull to be tender that feels slightly foreign but also so very good and right. their foreheads come to rest against each other at some point.

they talk about their insecurities. about the shit no one else wants to hear or knows what to do with. Rex covers Mark's hands with his own so he can't see the blood that isn't there. Mark takes hold of Rex's when they shake with a tremor that will never fully go away.

they aren't perfect. but they're something good. just for now.

[mclzandaya]

reposting this bc they explained and analysed the situation in such a better way than i did lol!

just to be less biased,, after this rant i decided to play as much as i could without spending too much money — spoiler, i spent way too much money bc it's impossible to catch up otherwise. managed to get up to ep 10 and here's what i will say.

yes, as many said, NG isn't even comparable to how bad CL/UL and LL were; it's a lot more fun to play, (some) characters aren't as annoying. but it still is v much frustrating to play at times for all the issues we evoked, if it wasn't for the fact that i binge-played a bunch of episodes, i would have been so frustrated with the pace of the story coupled with the interactions and again!! that was only possible because i /paid/ and a lot at that!!

just for some positiveness before the negativeness: i did enjoy playing jason's route if i ignored how many times i rolled my eyes. and i still think thomas' route seems the most enjoyable one to play, though devon seems okay as well but my LOM with him is really low so idk. but there are still so many things that just /don't/ make any sense and it's so frustrating to spend so many APs on a ridiculous storyline. spending a whole episode looking for thomas who just ended up being the most irresponsible adult i've ever seen was fucking crazy — and out of character imo!! yes he may seem illogical at times, but having him just leave his bike on the ground after an accident and go on his merry way to buy a new one right away, while saying that he called his insurance that'll cover the costs for the new bike, but just leaving the old one on the ground? that's IMPOSSIBLE!!!! he'd get a fucking fine for that!! pls!!! no one would do that idc how odd and out of touch you want him to appear that's just not something that can happen.

also tried to calculate a bit and if anyone wanted to play from ep 1 until ep 15 in one go, while playing every special scene and making sure u have every illustration (so to have a complete game lol), that alone would cost +350€!! i'm sorry but that's actually ridiculous. yes, the level of customisation we have is something that's rare in most games, but it exists! and in games that are are waaaay more developed character and plot wise! we're most definitely only half-way through the story with only one character imo whose "arc" was sort of concluded (amanda imo, pls tell me if you don't think so). let's say it takes at least 15 more episodes, considering that the chapters consume more and more APs, it would cost WAY over 700€ to play everything, and that's only for one route!!!!

everytime i explain mcl's system to my brother who plays a lot of visual novels but no otome, he's blown out of his mind by how ridiculously expensive it can be. it's not even something that you can defend bc we all know that once they're done with NG, they /will/ stop putting out content (as they've done for MCL and Eldarya), despite the fact that people may spend hundreds of euros on the game over the years.

micro-transactions are a lot sneakier and are encouraged, even if a lot of people will never spend any money on the game, there will always be some that will, and those are the ones allowing beemoov to still exist to this day. the fact that we can find so many defaults in the story plot-wise and character-wise when there /are/ people that are paying to play this game is actually insane. especially when u take into consideration the fact that they're paying for only one route! not even a whole game!

i'm glad they're taking into consideration feedbacks from players in order to better the game, but beemoov perfectly reflects the direction the gaming industry as a whole is taking. it's just really sad to witness that a game that's obviously bringing in money still has so many things to unfortunately complain about — especially when these things could be easily fixed by hiring someone that actually knows what they're doing concerning storytelling and characters development (nine you'll always be missed my shayla).

ps: not saying that this is a direct result of most of the team apparently being cis white men, but,,,,

kinda #sad but i've completely given up on my candy love new gen,, i've played up to episode 3 and then i just... gave up lol. i'm legit coming back only for the events but feel so uninvested that most of the times i'm not even able to get everything which is super frustrating.

i really wanted to like this game bc beemoov's games have been such a huge part of my life!! and despite my frustrations i always loved those games!!

but having the MC being black only in appearance when i thought i'd be able to relate to her a little more; interactions with the LIs still as ridiculous as in CL and LL (pls someone tell me i was lied to and ysaline didn't actually throw up on jason); having to pay to get full scenes even as VIPs already paying every month (just the fact that you have to pay point blank); personality system which doesn't amount to anything and none of the LIs personalities being truly interesting for /me/,,, was such a disappointment.

i truly didn't expect jason to be so cringe,, it feels like the only use they have for roy is having him half naked most of the time; amanda i would've never gone for bc i just — don't care for a rich white girl; devon's pretty petty and childish at times (same as jason imo to be fair) and thomas i guess is the only one i'm okay with. and it's only bc i feel like they did a 180 on his personality since HSL and the fact that they portray him as seeming autistic (in /my/ opinion!! not derogatory!!!) just make him straightforward enough for me not to be annoyed with him.

idk i guess we could say that it's bc it's supposed to be a game whose targets are ~teens, but considering that it's clear (imo) that their true targets are paying players (consumers) rather than F2P players,, then obv you'd think their targets are at least adults? but it doesn't feel like it considering how ridiculous the plot feels at times and how little depth they put into the characters. to be fair i felt that the same could be said for eldarya a new era, campus life and love life. i know they changed scenarists? (idk the word in english but the ppl that draft the stories/plot + the actual ppl who write the dialogues and branchings) but i just truly realised it while playing the few episodes i've played + the events.

i saw a lot of french ppl thought new gen was better than CL or LL tho so i will give it a shot at some point (+ i've actually spent money on the game lol, so might as well see it through), but i never thought i'd feel so sad and unmotivated to play one of their games after playing since 2011.

anyway this was just a lil rant of my personal feelings and why i haven't been active on here lately, pls don't attack me it only engages me!! and /my/ point of view!! not even talking abt chinomiko here bc as far as i know it's not like she can do much abt all of this besides providing a v basic draft of what should happen in the story (but do tell me if i'm wrong! nicely pls). truly no hate towards her!! i'm legit sad that she didn't continue her game beneath our scars bc it was so interesting and i was super excited to get a game of hers outside of potential directives again :( even if it probably will never be finished if i remember correctly there were two eps out so if you have a lil bit of time on your hands you should check it out!!

edit: just realised beneath oyr scars isn't available on the app store anymore :( but she seems to be working on a potential future new game with a sort of dungeons and dragons theme? so i'm super excited for that!! hope we'll be able to play it!!

[thedevotionaltour]

top 10 headcanons me and kyle ever discussed still remains saying hal could be a log cabin republican

[bonefall]

Is there beef with the Holstein cows and you or what was that joke lol

It's kind of wild It's just never come up on this blog before, but I HATE holsteins. Bottom 10 cow breeds for me. I hate how they're so common they account for the majority of milk produced. I hate that they're the "default" cow to the point where some don't even know cattle HAVE other colors. I hate their tiny horns (IF THEY EVEN HAVE THAT. LOSER ASS HORNLESS COW) and their painfully massive udders.

Legit I'm trying so hard to not launch into a No Mouth Must Scream style AM speech-- shoot my hand slipped.

(AM speech about why i dont like holsteins below the cut)

For starters, I have to give a brief lesson on what these terms mean; the "Holstein" is the American strain of the "Frisian" breed. Frisians are an ancient breed from Frisia, in the north of what we now consider the Netherlands. Crosses between the breeds are "Holstein-Frisians."

(There’s even more to this but im keeping it as simple as possible. Also one of my friends is Frisian and she is probably going to kill me for describing it like that.)

Historically, livestock was adapted to the environment they lived in. Frisians were bred by the Frisii people for hundreds of years in extremely grass-rich, lush, flat environments. The "polders" of the northern parts of the Netherlands. They're huge and eat a LOT of food.

Traditional Frisians were developed to produce as much meat and milk from a single individual as possible, without compromising the health of the cattle with constant inbreeding to get quick gains. We are talking about a breed that is over 2000 years old. They had the perfect environment to make The Ultimate Food Cow and by god they did it. I can respect that.

So, take that, drag it across an ocean to a place that does NOT have polders, and add the rapid enshittification of capitalism to it. BAM you've got a fucking holstein.

There is ONE goal for "improving" the holstein. Make More Milk. As long as the black and white milkbag leaks enough, nothing else matters. Health? Fertility? Feed ratio? Ability to not die of infection? WHO CARES. MILK LINE GO UP.

Over 90% of holsteins are inbred to start with, because Milk Line Go Up. To the tune of having an average COI of 8%-- where extreme negative effects (think Hapsburgs) start to crop up around 10%

Holstein bulls are aggressive bastards (many dairy bulls are), so no one wants to keep intact males in their herds, meaning most cows are artificially inseminated

Not being limited by the natural lifespan of a living bull means that the same stud can keep having direct offspring for decades after his death

Toystory the bull had 500,000 calves before he died, and hit over 1 million offspring in 2015. That's ONE animal and to put this in perspective, there are 9 million holsteins in the US.

DON'T WORRY IT GETS WORSE

Not only can 99% of holsteins be traced back to just two bulls-- 99% of male holsteins share one of two exact Y chromosomes with those two bulls.

The gene pool is so small that it's equivalent to about 60 individuals. Warrior Cat allegiances are larger than that. That's barely bigger than modern ThunderClan.

"Massive lack of genetic diversity" does not begin to capture the existential dread of this situation. Mark my words, WATCH, when the Bird Flu finally mutates a strain that rips through a mammalian population, it's gonna be in the USA and it's going to be through our dairy cattle.

This is not prophecy or me laying a curse on the land, this is the natural consequence of basing the stability of US milk production on the equivalent of 9 million clones of two classrooms worth of individuals, and then packing them in close quarters

And we don't have to wait for doomsday for the impacts to be apparent on the cattle themelves

Holstein fertility has also dropped by half since the 1960s when the intensive inbreeding really kicked into high gear

Because their whole body is dedicating all of their resources to milk production, they have a notoriously "bony" frame.

Show judges, however, like this because they think that's a very "feminine" look for a 1600 pound ruminant. Very normal thing to think.

Like. I don't know if i can communicate this to people who don't look at cows a lot (it's not quite as obviously dramatic as a pug skull) but here is a comparison of an "ideal" show holstein and an "unselected" holstein from a herd that's been established as a sort of "control group" for what they looked like back in the 1960s;

The way that the artery on the "modern" cow's belly runs to the udder like a big pink worm freaks me out the most ngl

The udder also bulges out from between the back legs

The show cow is so thin

And then compare these both to a Holstein-Frisian cross who leans more on the Frisian side;

Proper weight, developed legs. Its biggest "problem" is actually just the udder shape-- deep udders, which "hang" low like that, aren't optimal for milk-focused breeds because the higher away from the ground the less chance there is of infection. In that department, the "unselected" holstein clearly outclasses the holstein-frisian.

But it probably won't be surprising to hear that the "show holstein," with its massive, swollen udder, is SUPER prone to infections such as mastitis.

But it is also just more prone to getting sick generally

And, to keep up with these insane demands, holsteins need a TON of food. You aren't going to just turn these things out into a pasture and be done with it. Even its ancestor the Frisian needed premium Dutch polder grass to be such a good cow-- crank that up to 11 with these Monuments to Humanity's Hubrice

The Texas Longhorn developed in semi-feral conditions and can eat a bush to become the best thing in a 10 mile radius. The Scottish Highland was iron-forged in upland moors with a steady diet of turf and rain.

Meanwhile if a Holstein has less than 5 homemade meals a day without poland spring bottled water it will die to death.

And the WORST part? You have to use these if you want to make money in dairy farming. It's WAAY too expensive to just run a suboptimal farm. Their milk isn't great, but they sure do make a lot of it.

...so Holsteins and Holstein-Frisians (and other "super efficient" breeds) have absolutely decimated heritage cattle. The American Milking Devon is a deep reddish brown with gorgeous horns and low maintenance; rare. Randall Linebacks are painted with lines of white speckles down the back and can be used for any purpose; critically endangered. The Niata was a pug-faced cow who could fight jaguars; extinct.

And THAT'S what makes me hate them most of all. I LOVE cows, but whenever I see a reference to one, it's a holstein. It's always boring black and white splotches with big pink udders. They're practically synonymous with "cow" when their homogeniety is actually hiding much cooler breeds from you.

Did you know cows can be tiger-striped?

And that England has its own type of longhorn?

Or that cow horns can twist upwards like an antelope?

And that they can have REALLY LONG ears?

And that they can be blue?

And that's not even getting into some of the cows that have gotten a small crumb of attention lately, such as Highlands, Ankole-Watusi, and Texas Longhorns. There's so many cool cows out there! And they're all really different from holsteins! MOST of them are also a lot healthier and produce tastier milk and meat!

TL;DR yeah i don't like holsteins and I like sniping at them. For reasons both legit and petty.

[thelogicalghost]

I'm sure Nate isn't homophobic - the show makes it pretty clear that all his catholic guilt is directed firmly inwards and we never see even a hint of disapproval over others' personal lives - but he's still an older white guy and definitely defaults to cishet assumptions.

Which makes me desperately want, like, a 5+ type fic of gay flirting for the con where Nate progressively gets his mind blown.

Because Sophie flirting with a woman might throw him for a beat or two, but she's a world class grifter and an actress, of course she can flirt with anyone

And then Parker had to be taught how to flirt in the first place and she's Parker so sure, she's completely faking it either way, she has no internal biases, okay

The first time a man chats up Hardison and the hacker reacts exactly the same way he does when he tries to flirt with women, Nate is so glad Sophie takes over the comms to give flirting advice because it takes him half a minute to recalibrate and edit his expectations

But then Sophie's failing to hook a mark and Elliot steps in without missing a beat, flashing his farm boy smile, and Nate is finally like, "how is it that I'm the only one here who's surprised by any of this?" and the team just shrugs and goes "idk that sounds like a you problem"

The +1 is the only time Nate attempts it and they all agree to never try that again because it was awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved

[goodluckchamp]

PURE NICOTINE (18+)

PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Reader  WORD COUNT: 2415 CONTENT TAGS: Smut, MMF threesome, bondage, edging, cigarette burns, sex toy, vibrator, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, light sadism, everyone is technically a switch but mostly bratty!Patrick + subtop!Art + dom!reader SUMMARY: You and Art have had enough of Patrick Zweig. Time to tie him up.

Patrick without Tashi is a problem. 

He’s always been smug, always been rowdy, but Tashi could keep him grounded. But with her away on a trip? He’s like a dog who managed to slip away from his leash— all unchecked energy and sharp teeth. 

And it’s wearing you and Art down. 

He’s the worst in the bedroom— dominant by default, with an endless stamina that leaves you both scrambling to keep up. He throws his weight around, laughing when you squirm and going harder when Art cries. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he does— he’s just excited to finally have some form of control, abusing his newfound freedom. 

God, you miss Tashi. 

Because now, you’re spread out on your and Tashi’s beds pushed together, the gaps between the mattresses barely noticeable beneath the damp sheets twisted around your legs. It still smells like Tashi against your face, her perfume something flowery and addictive. The air is thick with salt, sweat, and warmth, but the half-broken fan does nothing to cool you, stirring the heat around while you try to catch your breath. Your fingers idly trace the aching parts of your body, sticky with a mix of Art and Patrick. 

Art is worse, collapsed against the pillows, chest rising and falling rapidly as he pants. His golden hair is wet against his forehead, skin stained pink where Patrick’s fingers had dug in too hard. He barely moves with his eyes squeezed shut, except for the slow, twitchy shift of his fingertips against the sheets, like he’s trying to bring himself back to reality. 

And then there’s Patrick. 

Patrick is half-sitting against the headboard, one arm draped behind his head while the other entertains a cigarette. His body glows in the shitty, dim lighting of your room, letting the smoke curl up to the ceiling and dissipate. His hair is a mess, but he leaves it like it's all a part of the experience, looking too pleased with himself. 

His gaze flicks between you and Art, relishing his moment of glory— and when your eyes meet, he grins. 

You recognize what it means and groan. Not again. “No.” 

Patrick rolls towards you but you shove him away, hard.

“Patrick, get the fuck away from me.” 

“Come on, one more.” He practically whines at your rejection, hand crawling towards your stomach as he exhales smoke in Art’s direction. Art shivers. “You both look like you can handle one more...” 

You huff, pushing yourself up from the sheets. Art blinks at you, dazed, and you stare at him with intention— and you don’t even have to say it. He knows what to do. 

Art takes a breath to steady himself, then crawls towards Patrick. He shakily brings himself up to press his lips to Patrick’s, and Patrick grins, taking it as a sign of Victory. Not missing a beat, he grips onto the blonde curls to yank Art closer, deeper. There’s a muffled gasp at the pull and Patrick chuckles against the kiss, completely lost in it, not even realizing that you have grabbed his discarded belt from the floor. 

As you climb onto the bed again, Art shifts, straddling Patrick and pushing him onto his back. Art grabs Patrick’s hands and forces them up towards the headboard. There’s a sharp change in the way Art is kissing him now— teeth digging into his lower lip, threatening to break the skin. Patrick moans, trying to move away to touch Art— but Art is determined, locking him in his place.

Patrick falters for a moment, his cigarette slipping from his fingers and landing on his stomach. 

A choked sound escapes Patrick at the sudden contact. The hot tip of the cigarette presses against his skin and he jerks— it stings. You quickly use the time to wrap the belt around Patrick’s wrists, securing them tightly against the headboard.

“Shit—” Patrick sputters. “You— fucking—” 

Art watches smoke drift from the cigarette, almost satisfied at the way Patrick writhes beneath him. You give him grace and reach for the cigarette from his stomach, watching his muscles tense at the graze of your fingertips. Patrick lets out a sharp breath at the sight of a red mark, but you ignore his pained, almost betrayed expression.

He watches as you bring the cigarette to Art, pressing it to his pink, puffy lips. 

Art takes it without a word, locking eyes with Patrick before slowly inhaling, letting the nicotine fill his lungs. He breathes out, letting the smoke drift across Patrick’s slick skin. 

Patrick tugs against the leather restraints, like he’s testing how serious you two are with this, but there’s no way out now. You smile, pleased with the turn of events, taking a drag of the cigarette yourself. Bitter. 

“What are you gonna do to me, huh?” Patrick tries, trying to claw back some control. 

Without indulging him, you head to the drawer beside the beds, pulling out a small, unmarked cardboard box. You lift the lid, revealing a neat collection of toys, some bought by you and some gifted by Tashi. Your fingers ghost over the selection, eventually choosing a sleek black dildo.

Patrick stills at the sight of it, a nervous laugh leaving him. 

“Why do you even buy those?” A smirk. “You have me.”

“Well,” You flick on the small button and the silicone starts to pulse. You press it against your palm, letting the sensation ripple out as you lift your gaze to Patrick. “You don’t vibrate, so…” 

Patrick swallows, eyeing the silicone as if to size it up. He’s excited, you can tell, with his cock an angry shade of red and hard as a rock— totally shameless about the fact that he is.

And that’s the annoying thing about Patrick Zweig— he’s never embarrassed about what he wants and how he gets it. If you try to humiliate him, he’ll lean into it. If you make him beg, he’ll do it loudly. If you try to break him, he’ll give you a show.  

So, how do you wreck someone like Patrick? 

Art moves away to sit beside Patrick as you settle back onto the bed, kneeling between his legs. He watches you with an expected grin. Like he knows he’s still getting what he wants out of this. 

“You’re both acting like I won’t enjoy this.” 

His arms flex against the belt. His cock twitches, blatant, but you don’t give it focus yet. You press the toy against his stomach, watching Patrick hungrily move towards the vibration. You move it across his abs, following his happy trail but not quite getting to the pleasurable areas. Patrick’s breath hitches, anticipation forming from his depths as he licks his lips.   

“What do you want from me?” He’s too impatient. “You want me to beg? I’ll beg.” 

Annoyed, you push the toy on the cigarette burn and he hisses, muscles twitching at the aching sensation. 

“Mm.” He tries to shift away, body bending and rocking the bed with it— but Art’s hand snaps out, slapping his chest. Patrick lets out a surprised gasp at the sting, a red mark blooming over his pec. “Jesus Christ, Art—” 

Art ignores it, forcing another sharp slap down to the same place. This time, Patrick moans, the heat of it going straight to his groin. 

You turn the vibration up, then slowly drag it down to the tip of his cock, rubbing it against the precum beading at the slit. He drops his head back against the pillow, mouth parting open with a happy groan. You let it hum right there, just enough to give him some friction as Art moves towards you. 

He starts kissing your jaw, hand moving to touch your tits to give Patrick something to watch. Patrick bucks his hips because it’s not fair, it’s not enough— his head clouds at the smoke curling at his face and you flick the ash off the tip of the cigarette. It falls in a fine gray trail, landing against his pelvis. 

Just when Patrick feels like something is starting to form, you turn it off, taking it all away. You bring the dildo to Art, pressing it against his mouth and he obeys, letting you slide it between his lips. He coats it in his saliva, taking it deeper as you peer down at him, drawing another hit of nicotine. 

Art closes his eyes for a second, breathing through his nose as you push it down his throat. You can hear him moan softly as he works around the length, letting Patrick see it all. The toy slides in and out with a wet, rhythmic sound. 

“Cock slut,” Patrick says from the background. 

Art pulls back with a glare, letting you wipe some of his spit off his lip. You laugh at Patrick’s unearned confidence, lining the dildo up to Patrick’s entrance. 

“Finally.” He grins. “You’re gonna fuck me good.” 

Out of spite, you shove it inside him, the sudden intrusion making his body jolt. A sharp gasp tears from his chest, and he clenches around the toy, twisting at the belt around his wrist. 

You don’t give him a chance to adjust as you start the vibration again, this time at the highest setting. It slides in deep, legs bracing and abs rippling at the pulsing sensation. Meanwhile, Art squirts some lube then moves to take Patrick’s cock in his hand, watching it twitch against his touch. He starts to stroke him, up and down, at an unbearably slow speed. 

“Mmm, fuck,” Patrick pants, thrusting up towards the contact. “F-faster–” 

You twist the dildo and it hits the spot that makes him whine like a dog, his head tilting back, revealing his Adam's apple bobbing with every strained breath. You smoke as you watch Art pump Patrick up and down, going faster by the second. 

It’s not long until Patrick starts to beg.

“Keep going, I’m right there, I—” He stutters, clenching his eyes shut. “Holy— fuck—” 

“Stop.” 

Patrick’s eyes flutter open in panic. 

“Wait—” 

Art obeys immediately, and you turn off the toy as Patrick’s head tilts backwards. He thrashes in his place, as if he can somehow chase his lost orgasm. 

“Oh, come on, come on,” He babbles, turning to you with a strained smile. Like he’s amused but deeply terrified at the same time. “That’s your plan? Denial? That’s—” He cuts himself off when you start the toy again, the low buzz just enough to make his hips convulse. He huffs. “Okay. Okay.” 

You give a nod towards Art who starts again, looking at you with arousal in his eyes. You realize that his own cock is standing at the sight of Patrick’s subjugation, and you smile, leaning closer and locking lips with him as he continues to work the length.

And the two of you edge him over and over again. 

It's been, what, an hour? Maybe two?

And Patrick is a mess.

His body shifts instinctively toward any touch, seeking relief, seeking pleasure— but the moment he gets too close, you remove everything, pulling him out, forcing him to simmer in the cruel, dizzying ache of being edged to his breaking point. 

Patrick is so loud— he’s always been loud— but louder now that you’re being mean. His voice is raw and hoarse as he whines and curses between short, erratic breaths. 

But after a while, you hear no noise, except for the shallow, wrecked sounds slipping out of this throat. When you finally look at him properly after an hour of disregarding his pleas, he’s flushed all over, skin damp with sweat, lips swollen from biting down too hard. Half-lidded eyes glossy with something dangerously close to tears. His hands are slack against the restraints, body trembling with muscles twitching uncontrollable from overstimulation yet no release. 

He’s somewhere between pleasure and agony, and he has never looked prettier.  

You lean closer to him, taking out the dildo but he barely registers it, clenching around nothing. You brush your hand against his chest and he jolts, thighs contracting and breath stuttering. He’s too sensitive, too desperate, every nerve alight with the unbearable ache of being denied. 

Delicious. 

“You want to come?” You whisper against his skin. 

Patrick releases a strangled moan. He’s beyond begging now— he doesn’t have the strength. 

You tell Art to move over and glide your hand on Patrick’s cock, squeezing and tugging the way he likes it. Patrick mouths something none of you can hear as he feels his orgasm approaching. You press your fingers into his mouth and his tongue circle around them, like he’s thanking you for this, thanking you for torturing him—

With a twist of your hand, the tension snaps— the orgasm hits him like a train— and you immediately move away from him. 

“Fuck!” Patrick cries, watching his cum splatter onto his spasming muscles yet feeling no pleasure. It’s too much and not enough all at once. The contractions are practically painful as he pathetically winces, and fuck, he’s still hard. He groans. “No, no, no…” 

You look over to Art, who looks painfully turned on at the sight of Patrick. 

“Think he’s had enough?” 

Art smiles. “He looks like he can handle one more.”

“Fu-uck,” Art drawls, rutting into Patrick as the headboard slams against the wall. 

Patrick's cock hits his stomach with each thrust, squirting out precum every time Art reaches a particular spot. You place the vibrator on his tip again and he wails— finally breaking down. 

“S- So deep,” Patrick sobs as you pat his hair, wiping the sweat off his forehead while he falls apart underneath Art. “So fucking deep—” 

And Art takes that as an invitation to thrust faster, harder, giving Patrick exactly what he needs. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room. Patrick lets out a broken cry, body completely surrendering to the two of you. Art slaps his hand over Patrick’s mouth, cutting off the only form of resistance he has. 

You grin, pulling out your phone. The screen glows as you frame the shot— focused on Patrick’s weak, desperate expression, with Art hovering above him, his back tenses and glistening with sweat.

Perfect.

You snap the picture, attaching a follow-up message with it. 

Attachment: 1 image Come home the kids miss you <3

And then, just for the hell of it, you take a cigarette from Patrick’s stash, lighting it up. You watch the smoke swirl through the air as you hit send.

NOTE: Cigarettes are also called fags. So. Also this is my first time writing SMUT smut so... yikes it's kind of rough, kind of wattpad, but... I'll get better !!!

[callsign-rogueone]

Going off your wingleader!Liam idea… Liam and reader are third-years and total couple goals. A first year comes in and starts flirting with reader every time he sees her. He doesn’t know she’s dating his wingleader. She’s polite but doesn’t mention Liam.

One day during training the new guy is watching reader and running his mouth about how hot she is, nudging other guys in his squad and making all kinds of remarks, even going so far as to make a comment to Liam. Liam just smirks, showing off those cute little dimples, as reader walks over and kisses him in front of everyone. New guy just stares in absolute shock (and horror when he realizes the woman he’s been objectifying is his wingleader’s girl.) Need a fic like this immediately 😭

I love this so much. I don't have the bandwidth to write this into a whole chapter but I DO have ideas. so here they are. (future Liz here… I got very carried away. but it’s Liam, so it’s fine.)

this guy clearly thinks he's hot shit. not even bonded yet, but his ego is bigger than Tairn's. so of course he goes after you, a third year with a leadership position at the top of your class. (because Liam's girl is as perfect as him.)

at this point you're used to these boys coming in and trying to flex on everyone. so you know how to brush it off. it's so routine that you don't even mention it to Liam, because you've got more important things to do / discuss.

anyway.

a couple weeks go by of the same thing, until one day, mister confidence is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. running his mouth without realizing who's around him, watching you demonstrate something and making comments to his friends instead of paying attention. Liam's about to elbow him and tell him to shut up, and then he realizes that they're talking about you.

immediately, he's upset — he's just itching to tell this guy off, both for talking when he's supposed to be listening to directions that could save his life, and also for saying those things about you, making comments on your body and how much he wants to... you know what I’m getting at here. anyway.

you can see Liam standing at the back of the gym, can see the visible frustration on his face and the way his jaw is clenched, his shoulders tight and tense... and you know it's hard to upset our sunshine boy, so something bad must have happened.

you wrap up the demonstration, get the youngins paired up to work, and then you slip away to Liam and give him a little kiss, because that’s your default greeting, that’s just automatic at this point when you see him, and take his hand and ask what’s wrong.

and then all the stress and tension just fades out of him, and he gives you a genuine smile, pulls you closer and holds you in a way that makes it clear that you’re a couple.

normally he isn’t one for PDA, so you’re a little surprised, but you don’t question it at all, just happy to cuddle up with him, resting your head on his shoulder and taking a moment to relax — his presence is always so soothing, and you don’t get moments like this very often in your very busy days as a wingleader and a section leader.

you don’t even notice the boy’s slack-jawed look as he realizes that you have a boyfriend. you’re too busy appreciating the moment you get to spend with Liam — but over your shoulder, he’s definitely smirking at the kid, like… get fucked, she’s mine. not that our boy would ever say that. he’s just thinking it really hard.

he gets a little pouty once you're behind closed doors, though, and tells you about it.

you laugh, and remind him that the first year boys can look all they want, but he's the only one who can touch, and if they do, they're going to get their nose broken. and that he's the only one who can set foot in your room, because you absolutely warded them like Xaden and Violet's.

that pacifies him, but he’s still thinking about it for the rest of the day.

he doesn’t consider himself particularly possessive, but he realizes that he just wants people to know that you’re his — or more so that you’re together and in love, and you’re it for each other.

the pair of you have always been focused on the present, the incredibly stressful lives that you lead here at this death trap of a school. but now he starts really thinking about the future.

you’ll be graduating soon, a pair of lieutenants headed off… somewhere. he hasn’t decided yet. he’ll get his choice, being a wingleader. but what about you? section leaders aren’t promised anything. there’s only one other way to guarantee that you’ll stay together… and damn, does he like the idea of you having matching name patches on your flight jackets.

but you deserve a real proposal, a romantic one, not something rushed, decided out of practicality. and when is too soon in your relationship to talk about that? you’ve been together since your threshing, but it feels like a lot longer than that — everything you’ve endured has brought you closer, he supposes.

you curl further into his side with a sleepy hum. “what’s on your mind?”

he’s about to tell you it’s nothing, but you know him better than that. “you have that look on your face,” you mumble, your eyes still closed. “know you’re thinkin' about something.”

“about you," he answers honestly, lifting the arm you have slung around his waist and finding your hand, taking it in his. it fits perfectly, your skin smooth against the callouses and scars decorating his hands from years of making his carvings. a dangerous hobby, you’d joked. you have a point. he’s amassed more tiny injuries from his own knives than from anything Basgiath has put him through. “about us.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he answers, his thumb brushing over your ring finger, where a wedding band would go. “about the future.”

“two kids and a cat,” you murmur. “and trips to Morraine in the summer. rent a little house on the lake for a week or two, and just lay around.”

“sounds perfect.”

you just hum in reply, too tired to keep talking. Liam presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling the covers a little higher. “I love you.”

“Love y’too.”

[wannaeatramyeon]

Being Goo Kim's Secret Friend: Gitae Kim

2.2k. G/N. Gitae Kim x reader. Reader is morally grey. Gets spicy (Prequel-ish: An Introduction) Other Masterlists

“So, let me get this straight."

"Mm." Goo hums, meaning go ahead.

"You're paying me to babysit?"

"Man-sit," he interjects.

"Whatever." You flap your hand, "but I am looking after this person, correct?"

"Yes my little sweetpea." Goo rests his head on your shoulder, so close you could count his eyelashes and see the way his pupils dilate. "It's my secret friend's first time back in Seoul after being away. It'll be good for you to show him around."

"...I'm charging my usual rate."

"Sure-"

"And you're covering our expenses."

He rolls his eyes, "Ugh, fine."

.

.

Gitae Kim, from what you have managed to find out, is patricidal and a powerful man with unsavoury dealings.

"Play nice," was Goo's parting advice when you came to him with your concerns.

"Play nice?!" You say, voice shrill. Goo grins.

"Fuck you, my rate just tripled."

The grin drops and is replaced by a scowl.

.

.

"I thought we could try this place. It serves the best yukhoe." You gaze over to Gitae sitting in the passenger seat as you navigate the roads, checking if there's any response. 

Nothing.

"Raw beef tartare." You explain, "I've heard you can be bloodthirsty."

His eyes flicker to you and you give him your most charming smile.

.

.

Head resting in your palm and elbow on the table, you observe him.

You find his table manners leaves a lot to be desired and watching him has put you off your own meal.

He eats like a beast but if the ferocity that he attacks his food is anything to go by, you're right on the money with guessing his taste.

"Let's get you another drink," you murmur, signalling for the staff. "Goo will kill me if you choke to death and I'm not practised with the heimlich."

.

.

"That was good, right?" You ask, striding alongside and trying to match Gitae step for step as he ignores you.

"I think you enjoyed it. Or you look like you did. I'm not really a fan of raw anything to be honest but gotta be a good host." You direct a smile his way and he hasn't even glanced over at you. You shrug it off and continue to ramble. "I'm still pretty hungry. There's a really good bubble tea place round here and they have a limited edition drink I want to get-"

"No," Gitae cuts in rudely.

"It won't take five minutes."

"No." He repeats, indicating there's no room for argument.

"Aww, cmon," you pout and he once again continues to ignore you. You consider going anyway, with or without Gitae. 

Goo, face scrunched up in anger and shrieking obscenities, pops into your mind's eye when you imagine telling him that you might have lost his secret friend because you wanted a bubble tea.

"Fine," you grumble and throw Gitae a dirty look.

.

.

Gapryong's eldest is a man of few words and it only adds to his intimidating and menacing aura.

You've seen his list of achievements and he is not someone you want as an enemy. But when someone is this difficult, your default is to try and see what response you can get out of them.

"You know they have vapes now," you signal at the pipe hanging from his belt as you continue to walk next to him.

"Do you smoke?" you ask, and expectedly, he doesn't respond,

"No? I guess it's cool you're committing to it for aesthetic reasons." Then dammit, you wonder what has gotten into you. Maybe it's hanging out with Goo too much because you can't help but add, "Even if it makes you a bit... y'know."

He slows, looking over at you at the same time that you pull a face. Indicating clearly you meant 'cringe' even if you didn't say it aloud.

"You do you though," you say, giving him a thumbs up.

He looks at you for a beat longer, head tilted and eyes narrowed, before continuing on his way with you scurrying to catch up.

.

.

By the end of the first week, Gitae has responded to exactly three things that you've said.

The second week, he's still mostly silent but he actually looks at you sometimes when you talk.

The third week, he calls you by your name when he demands your attention and you're surprised that he even knows who you are.

And the fourth - you manage to make him laugh.

Ok, maybe laugh is a bit generous, but he exhales harder than usual and you're sure he's at least amused.

.

.

GItae thinks you're strange.

You run your mouth like you don't know who you're talking to, though you anticipate his needs and preferences like you've been studying him for most of your life.

You're this side of irritating, but not irritating enough that he wants to kill you. 

And, the few times he tunes in to your comments, he admits that he finds you quite entertaining.

No-one has spoken to him like you do in a long time. There's a refreshing honesty to your words, and he's also confident that you're not going to stab him in the back at any second to wrest control of his cartel territory, which is also a welcome change from his usual company

It means that he can relax around you, or relax as much as someone like him can..

All in all, progress. Gitae finds himself trusting you like you're his second-in-command.

.

.

"What do you do for fun?" You ask. Gitae doesn't respond.

Right, you think, back to ignoring me.

You roll your eyes and start to ramble about this and that. You tell him that you're chronically online, giving a wry smile, and say it's a general side effect of your job but at least it's interesting to know the ins and outs of a few things.

Really though, maybe you should consider taking up some exercise to get fit or even as a form of self defence with your line of work and the people you come into contact with (you give Gitae a side eye at this) but it's kinda hard to find the time and-

"I can teach you," comes Gitae's low voice.

"What?"

"I can teach you," he repeats and your mouth drops open in shock.

.

.

Ok, as far as bad ideas go, this is a terrible one.

First, Gitae is huge. There is no chance you could even win in a spar or anything against him. You doubt even bullets would be able to penetrate that muscle.

Second, there is a lot of close contact and even more touching.

You aim a punch with all your might at him, any part of him. He deflects without effort, capturing your fist in his palm and he pulls you to his body. Chest against your back, wrapping his arms around you and pinning your own to your side as you try to wriggle out of his grasp.

He leans down to murmur into your ear. "You're very weak." You can feel his voice rumbling through his chest. "But you're very fun."

Your eyes snap to his at his words.

He's grinning, for the first time you've been with him. Eyes crazed and pupils blown, breath hot on your skin.

"Thanks!" You dip your head just before throwing it back sharply, connecting to Gitae's nose with a loud crack.

.

.

Gitae's nose isn't broken though it is bruised.

You apologise profusely and he tells you you have nothing to apologise for.

"It's a great hit."

You halt in your apologies, peering up at him through your lashes with a smug smirk, "I know."

.

.

Your response plays on his mind.

The lift of your lips, the sharpness of your smile, the confidence in your eyes, that half-lidded gaze.

"I know."

.

.

Gitae sees you in a new light.

He has enough of an understanding of Goo Kim to know that he's selective with his secret friends, and you have talked enough that Gitae also understands you play the role of brain rather than brawn.

Though he did not expect such viciousness to hide under your veneer, or you to be capable of such an underhanded move.

He's impressed.

.

.

"Why do all these shows make Mexico so blue?" You ask, watching a scene unfold on your phone. "Is it actually?"

You hold out the device to Gitae, some drama show playing and Mexico is indeed blue tinged.

"No."

"Hmm. It'll be cool to see for myself." You murmur, pulling your phone back.

Gitae pauses. The idea of you in his territory is very appealing. He can demonstrate to you exactly the kind of man he is, the power he wields. He can relish the impressed (or horrified) look on your face.

"I can show you," he says and you beam at the offer.

"Deal!"

.

.

“How many people have you killed with this?” you flex your hands, signalling ‘gimme’ and Gitae passes over his axe.

“Too many to count.”

“Cool,” you say nonchalantly,  testing your grip. Gitae gives you a strange look.

“I gather intel, remember. That’s my thing,” you say, swinging the axe experimentally a few times and appreciating the heft behind it.

The meaning is clear: I know all your secrets and Gitae, to his surprise, feels some respite at this fact.

.

.

"Fuck," you squirm to no avail, trapped underneath Gitae as he looks down at you lazily, inches from your face.

Your wrists are pinned above your head, held in place by his grip as his other hand rests, light but threatening, on your throat.

You have had a few other training sessions since the first one, and the way they had gone was all pure luck. You had managed to gain the upperhand by complete fluke.

This time you feel completely stuck. Movement completely restricted. Gitae straddles your hips and you’re left unable to escape. You have no way to get close and cause any damage.

"Looks like you lose," he says.

You buck your hips, trying to throw him off but the weight and strength difference is too vast. He barely moves even with all your effort and you’re left more dishevelled than before. Shirt riding up and hair in your eyes and mouth.

“Fuck,” you groan again, elongating the word and pouting.

You peer up at Gitae and find his eyes flicking between your jutted out bottom lip and your sliver of skin on show.

An idea pops into your head. It may be your worst one yet.

Throwing caution to the wind, you tilt your head up in one swift movement and kiss Gitae full on the mouth. You make contact harder than anticipated, almost clashing your teeth painfully together but adjusting the angle just in time. 

His body stills when he realises what you’re doing.

“Why-” he asks, pulling away, and you take advantage of the distance to nip at his bottom lip and reel him back in.

Gitae’s thoughts are cut off. 

You bite down roughly, feel your sharp canines punctuating skin.

Blood bursts onto your tongue and he lets out a guttural groan, eyes boring into yours and darkened with lust.

His other hand releases your wrist, caressing over your body, slipping down until it reaches your bare exposed skin. He slides his palm under your top, long, thick fingers splaying over your ribs.

With your hands now free, you continue kissing him, mingling spit and saliva and bursts of metallic tang.

You squirm and this time, Gitae gives in to what you want; rearranging his position without breaking contact. Tongue delving into your mouth. Tasting you as you wrap your legs around his hips.

Taking advantage of the situation, you hug your arms around his neck and use your body as leverage to flip him over. Straddling him as his hardness grinds into you and his hands circle your waist to press your body close.

You can feel exactly how turned on he is, how much he wants you. And god, you’re just as fucking horny. You want him just as badly, except now you’ve managed to climb on top, the whole point of this came rushing back. You absolutely hate yourself for stopping this but-

It’s the principle.

“You know,” you murmur into his mouth, then pushing up off his chest to sit up, “I think I’ve won. Again”

Gitae frowns at the sudden loss of contact, “What?”

“I’ve won. Pretend this is a knife,” you smirk, holding your hand against his throat, in an almost-mirror image of your previous position. “I would have killed you.”

Gitae’s eyes widened in surprise, “You did this… to win?” 

“Yep!”

“I didn’t expect you to play so dirty.” He says, grinning maniacally as the pieces click into place and he finds himself completely captivated.

“I play as dirty as I need to,” you tell him, tongue swiping out to lick the remnants of his blood from your lips before dipping your head down to kiss him and continue where you left off.

[reasonsforhope]

"As a Deaf man, Adam Munder has long been advocating for communication rights in a world that chiefly caters to hearing people. 

The Intel software engineer and his wife — who is also Deaf — are often unable to use American Sign Language in daily interactions, instead defaulting to texting on a smartphone or passing a pen and paper back and forth with service workers, teachers, and lawyers. 

It can make simple tasks, like ordering coffee, more complicated than it should be. 

But there are life events that hold greater weight than a cup of coffee. 

Recently, Munder and his wife took their daughter in for a doctor’s appointment — and no interpreter was available. 

To their surprise, their doctor said: “It’s alright, we’ll just have your daughter interpret for you!” ...

That day at the doctor’s office came at the heels of a thousand frustrating interactions and miscommunications — and Munder is not isolated in his experience.

“Where I live in Arizona, there are more than 1.1 million individuals with a hearing loss,” Munder said, “and only about 400 licensed interpreters.”

In addition to being hard to find, interpreters are expensive. And texting and writing aren’t always practical options — they leave out the emotion, detail, and nuance of a spoken conversation. 

ASL is a rich, complex language with its own grammar and culture; a subtle change in speed, direction, facial expression, or gesture can completely change the meaning and tone of a sign. 

“Writing back and forth on paper and pen or using a smartphone to text is not equivalent to American Sign Language,” Munder emphasized. “The details and nuance that make us human are lost in both our personal and business conversations.”

His solution? An AI-powered platform called Omnibridge. 

“My team has established this bridge between the Deaf world and the hearing world, bringing these worlds together without forcing one to adapt to the other,” Munder said. 

Trained on thousands of signs, Omnibridge is engineered to transcribe spoken English and interpret sign language on screen in seconds...

“Our dream is that the technology will be available to everyone, everywhere,” Munder said. “I feel like three to four years from now, we're going to have an app on a phone. Our team has already started working on a cloud-based product, and we're hoping that will be an easy switch from cloud to mobile to an app.” ...

At its heart, Omnibridge is a testament to the positive capabilities of artificial intelligence. "

-via GoodGoodGood, October 25, 2024. More info below the cut!

To test an alpha version of his invention, Munder welcomed TED associate Hasiba Haq on stage. 

“I want to show you how this could have changed my interaction at the doctor appointment, had this been available,” Munder said. 

He went on to explain that the software would generate a bi-directional conversation, in which Munder’s signs would appear as blue text and spoken word would appear in gray. 

At first, there was a brief hiccup on the TED stage. Haq, who was standing in as the doctor’s office receptionist, spoke — but the screen remained blank. 

“I don’t believe this; this is the first time that AI has ever failed,” Munder joked, getting a big laugh from the crowd. “Thanks for your patience.”

After a quick reboot, they rolled with the punches and tried again.

Haq asked: “Hi, how’s it going?” 

Her words popped up in blue. 

Munder signed in reply: “I am good.” 

His response popped up in gray. 

Back and forth, they recreated the scene from the doctor’s office. But this time Munder retained his autonomy, and no one suggested a 7-year-old should play interpreter. 

Munder’s TED debut and tech demonstration didn’t happen overnight — the engineer has been working on Omnibridge for over a decade. 

“It takes a lot to build something like this,” Munder told Good Good Good in an exclusive interview, communicating with our team in ASL. “It couldn't just be one or two people. It takes a large team, a lot of resources, millions and millions of dollars to work on a project like this.” 

After five years of pitching and research, Intel handpicked Munder’s team for a specialty training program. It was through that backing that Omnibridge began to truly take shape...

“Our dream is that the technology will be available to everyone, everywhere,” Munder said. “I feel like three to four years from now, we're going to have an app on a phone. Our team has already started working on a cloud-based product, and we're hoping that will be an easy switch from cloud to mobile to an app.” 

In order to achieve that dream — of transposing their technology to a smartphone — Munder and his team have to play a bit of a waiting game. Today, their platform necessitates building the technology on a PC, with an AI engine. 

“A lot of things don't have those AI PC types of chips,” Munder explained. “But as the technology evolves, we expect that smartphones will start to include AI engines. They'll start to include the capability in processing within smartphones. It will take time for the technology to catch up to it, and it probably won't need the power that we're requiring right now on a PC.” 

At its heart, Omnibridge is a testament to the positive capabilities of artificial intelligence. 

But it is more than a transcription service — it allows people to have face-to-face conversations with each other. There’s a world of difference between passing around a phone or pen and paper and looking someone in the eyes when you speak to them. 

It also allows Deaf people to speak ASL directly, without doing the mental gymnastics of translating their words into English.

“For me, English is my second language,” Munder told Good Good Good. “So when I write in English, I have to think: How am I going to adjust the words? How am I going to write it just right so somebody can understand me? It takes me some time and effort, and it's hard for me to express myself actually in doing that. This technology allows someone to be able to express themselves in their native language.” 

Ultimately, Munder said that Omnibridge is about “bringing humanity back” to these conversations. 

“We’re changing the world through the power of AI, not just revolutionizing technology, but enhancing that human connection,” Munder said at the end of his TED Talk. 

“It’s two languages,” he concluded, “signed and spoken, in one seamless conversation.”"

-via GoodGoodGood, October 25, 2024

[scientia-rex]

Sometimes people tell me I'm a good person. I'm not a good person by nature, or by default. I'm a good person because I've decided that it's important to me to act like one, on a daily basis, forever.

My actual nature is that I want power. I want power and I want my life to be easy and I want other people to be forced to be nice to me even if they hate me. I want other people to have to suck up to me, I want to watch people who I know hate me suffer through the indignity of having to suck up to me. I want to hurt people who hurt me. I want all of these things in the same exact deeply recognizable way that a gorilla or a chimpanzee does. I watch those documentaries and I recognize myself, intimately. The fact that I can behave like a good person in spite of that has taken me a long time and a lot of effort to achieve.

What you feel isn't as important for your "goodness" as what you do. And you get good at what you practice. So practice your skills at being polite, pleasant, kind. Practice gently interrupting negative behaviors--whether that's someone's negative behaviors directed towards themselves, or directed towards someone else. The idea that we have to be inherently without sin is such Christian garbage. It's psychological gibberish. We want things! We want everything! That is normal and human and the key is not acting on every bad feeling you have.

I have taken my insatiable desire for power and to manipulate people and I have used it for good. I have learned how to manipulate people into coming to the doctor and taking their blood pressure medication and being honest about their recreational substance use. I have taken my psychology education and I have used it to craft a persona that makes people feel at ease. I go home at the end of the day exhausted, because maintaining a persona for ten hours straight is exhausting, but I do it happy, because I manipulated the people I work with into feeling better and having brighter days. I manipulated my patients into feeling good about their achievements and recognizing where we need to do things differently.

The hard part is that when the mask slips, people find it not just off-putting but deeply upsetting. When I explain things like "I have thought very carefully about how I would conduct a career in domestic terrorism because I would genuinely like to bomb the headquarters of most American insurance companies, but I don't see a way to do it without getting caught and either killed or spending the rest of my life in prison, and at the moment I consider that an unacceptable outcome," people go from "ha ha! my wacky colleague" to "Jesus Christ, I didn't realize there was something actually wrong with you."

Anyway, don't make your kids read the extended works on Machiavelli at twelve, my dad thought he was helping me but all he accomplished was making me sad I'll never be a king.

[bumbled-bees]

How Lily Draws In Her Audience

One of the more disturbing aspects of Lily’s influence is that she specifically attracts people who are vulnerable—people who have been abused, marginalized, or mistreated—and then weaponizes that against them.

For abuse survivors, especially those who are still healing, it’s easy to latch onto someone who speaks with absolute certainty. Lily presents herself as someone who’s been through it all, who knows what abuse looks like, who sees through manipulation—but in reality, she just demands blind loyalty and paints anyone who questions her as an abuser.

A few ways she traps people:

She presents herself as an authority on abuse. Since many of her fans are survivors, they naturally trust her judgment. But she exploits that by redefining abuse to suit her needs, convincing them that anyone who criticizes her must be an abuser.

She provides a "safe space"… that’s actually a trap. The more people invest in her community, the harder it is to leave. If they start questioning her, they risk losing their entire support system.

She feeds into their fears and trauma. Many of her fans have a deep fear of being manipulated again. Instead of helping them build healthy skepticism, she teaches them to see her enemies as manipulators while blindly trusting her.

She isolates people from outside perspectives. Any criticism of her is framed as “transphobia,” “abuse apologism,” or “bad faith.” This keeps people locked into her narrative because they fear being seen as bigots or enablers.

Lily also specifically appeals to neurodivergent and LGBT+ fans by framing herself as a champion for marginalized groups—someone who "tells it like it is" and "fights for the oppressed." But in reality, she weaponizes their experiences and struggles to keep them under her control.

How She Hooks Neurodivergent Fans

A lot of neurodivergent people, especially autistic folks, struggle with black-and-white thinking, difficulty navigating social nuance, and a strong sense of justice. Lily exploits these traits by:

Presenting herself as a voice of moral clarity. Many ND people prefer clear-cut rules over messy social politics. Lily gives them that by framing every situation as good vs. evil.

Encouraging "righteous" anger. Many ND people have been dismissed, gaslit, or ignored in real life. Lily taps into that frustration, making them feel validated—while directing their anger toward her enemies.

Punishing critical thinking. If someone questions her, she dismisses them as "brainwashed," "supporting abusers," or "part of the problem." Since ND people can already struggle with social cues, they may second-guess their own instincts and default to trusting her version of events.

Using a rigid rule system. Her community operates on a set of unspoken but harsh, inflexible rules. Break one, and you’re ostracized. Many ND people follow strict rules in social settings to avoid conflict, so they adapt to Lily’s without realizing they’re being manipulated.

How She Hooks LGBT+ Fans

Lily markets herself as an unapologetic trans woman who doesn’t care what cis people think. This attracts other trans and queer people, many of whom have faced discrimination and feel like they have to “play nice” in society. Lily offers them an alternative:

"You don’t have to be polite anymore." She encourages LGBT+ fans to be openly hostile to their critics. This is appealing to people who have been bullied, harassed, or discriminated against. But instead of healthy boundary-setting, Lily fosters a siege mentality—"you’re either with us or against us."

Weaponizing transphobia accusations. Any criticism of her, no matter how valid, is labeled transphobic. This makes her LGBT+ fans afraid to question her, because they don’t want to be seen as betraying another queer person.

Claiming she understands LGBT+ oppression better than anyone. She dismisses any queer person who criticizes her. She uses this as a way to delegitimize her LGBT+ critics—even though many of them respect her identity but simply disagree with her behavior.

Lily’s entire mode of operation hinges on controlling the narrative. She doesn’t present arguments—she declares facts and expects her audience to accept them without question. If you challenge her version of events, you aren’t just wrong in her eyes; you’re malicious, an enemy, a “stalker,” or a “bad faith actor.”

This is why she never provides evidence or proof for her claims. She doesn’t feel she needs to. Her authority as a figure in her community is enough for her followers. If Lily says something, then it’s true by default. Any contradictions or inconsistencies get hand-waved away because her fans trust her, not facts.

Her black-and-white mindset reinforces this. There is no room for nuance in her world. Either you support her fully or you’re against her completely. There’s no middle ground. This ensures that even when people start noticing inconsistencies, they’re unlikely to speak up for fear of being branded as part of the enemy camp. It’s easier to rationalize the contradictions than to risk being exiled.

This same strategy applies across all aspects of her behavior. She tells her fans Joon the King’s documentary is just drama and should be ignored—so they ignore it, despite the fact that it presents mountains of evidence.

This is why Lily thinks she can lie so freely. She assumes her audience won’t remember or care if she contradicts herself. And in many cases, she’s right. Because she’s conditioned them to trust her above all else.

[orkbutch]

Rambling about Astarion bc im bored at work. I like Astarion because I think he is a genius take on The Evil RPG Companion, and is an especially great take on The Fixable Bad Guy. I don't think hes evil, but I do think Astarion is a genuinely bad person at the beginning, and I think Astarion is only drawn away from being a bad person - and experiences a great redemption arc - via active intervention from others. Astarion would not redeem himself without guidance; he is absolutely bent toward self destruction and evil at the beginning of the story.

I think comparing him with Shadowheart is what drew me to that conclusion. If you are nice to Shadowheart, as in you talk to her and respect her boundaries and do stuff she generally agrees with, she will choose to free Nightsong all on her own. You don't need to roll to convince her at all, or romance her or even push back on her Shar worship that much. You just leave it up to her, and she chooses that path. (Side note, what brilliant writing.)

Astarion is not like that at all. Even if you were tight as fuck he would not choose the good option, with no input, in Act 2. Astarion, like all the companions, needs help and connection to reach healthy actualization, but I think its great, resonant writing that Astarion needs the most active intervention of all. Because he's had his autonomy so completely taken away from him, he simply doesn't know how to use it anymore. He doesn't know how to connect with other people anymore. He's someone that's learned to enjoy cruelty, to resent the pleasure of others, and to be entirely selfish for survival. It makes sense that he must be dragged back into being capable of trust. He needs to be forced to be part of a community again; caring about things; allowing for vulnerability and optimism.

And like. How fucking smart is it to have THIS guy in THIS game. Because of the tadpole and the existential threat they're up against, he is actually forced to work with you. This kind of character is so hard to do in most RPGs because its like... why wouldn't he just betray you all and leave? Why would he stick with you? The tadpole clears all of that up. Astarion must stick with you or hes lost and dead. Astarion knows that you and the other companions are collectively stronger than him, so he can't betray you. He is forced to rely on you by default.

This is also what makes him SUCH a good version of the "you can fix him" romance; you are almost never the direct target of Astarion's bastardry because he can't fuck with you. The problem with Fix Him's is that usually they are a threat to the romantic lead, and fixing him requires enduring, soothing and forgiving the worst of his badness as some kind of test of loyalty, hopefully proving to him that being bad isn't necessary (toxic shit). But Astarion... can't do that. He is afraid to actually fuck you over because you are directly tied to his survival, and because you quickly show yourself to be more capable than him. He cannot have real power over you. (Until he's ascended, then he becomes the absolute worst version of the fix-it.)

I do think the trade off is that Astarion not directing his bastardry at you makes it easier to Ignore that Astarion is A Bad Guy, but I think that'd happen even if he was more of an asshole to you, so who cares. I think he's got the best written Redeemable Evil RPG Companion arch I've seen honestly. I love that he's so fun while being so tragic, whether redeemed or not.

[kaiserposting]

How to Subtly Show Someone You're Interested

PAIRING: Michael Kaiser/Reader WORD COUNT: 2.4k TYPE: Humor, Bad flirting, bickering WARNINGS: huge Kaiser tw

#1 Eye contact

Kaiser has been acting strange.

Usually this would not be an observation you'd be making (as he acts weird all the time so it's not worthy of note), but today he's been so odd, it's starting to bug you even more than his default level of being annoying.

He keeps just… staring blankly. At you. You don't know what you did to deserve this horrible treatment — perhaps you did not grovel enough after accidentally butting into His Majesty’s shoulder, or breathed in his direction too hard without permission, or some other similar tragedy — but it's getting unsettling.

Well, honestly, it was creepy to begin with, but it's making your skin crawl more and more the longer it goes on. Like, what does he want? Are you going to be on the news soon? His eyes are blue and lifeless and evil like always, so you know he can't be up to anything good each time he burns your body to a crisp with his stoic serial killer gaze. It's even worse when he smirks at you while he does it, that's how you know the torture you'll endure at his hands will be slow and painful, and he's already delighting in his demented plans before putting them into action.

Kaiser attempts to maintain his stare down with you while he makes his way out of the training room and you stay behind putting away whatever you need to, observing him in confusion and fear. Though, of course, you would not admit to something as lowly as letting Kaiser intimidate you out loud (since you don't want to partake in an action that seems to give him a mental orgasmic feeling), at least to yourself, you can concede you're on edge.

… That is, until his dedication towards being a scrote proves detrimental even to him because he runs into the wall, hitting about half his face. It seems tormenting you is too distracting for a sick sadist like Kaiser. He palms at his skin, probably seething to himself while trying to seem cool and collected and totally not on the brink of shitting himself in anger on the outside, as if such a small thing as a solid wall could not faze him or even cause him pain.

You point and laugh at him. Kaiser pretends not to see you and walks out tall and proud like nothing happened. This will have to do as your revenge, for now.

#2 Initiate conversation

“Did you have a nice weekend?” asks Kaiser.

“It's Tuesday,” you reply, once again confused. Why is he talking to you, does he have nothing better to do.

“Right,” he says in a casual tone, like he didn't just ask you an irrelevant dumbass question. “The weather is nice.”

You ignore that one, but you can't help wondering if something is wrong with him and if this is an obscure call for help. Blackmail from a drooling fan perhaps? After all, it's unlike him to say anything so boring and ordinary, and you don't imagine he would make small talk with you unless it's a complicated code to signal that his life is in danger.

“What restaurant would you recommend?” Kaiser tries again.

“What?”

There's an uncomfortable silence during which you're just looking at each other, you perplexed and him expressionless, the previous guise of pleasantries and fake sweet smile wiped off. It is possibly even more uncomfortable than anything else that has unfolded between you two in the past. Then Kaiser says, “You know, I think you're an ingrate.”

“What?!”

“You’re not appreciative enough of my efforts.”

“For what?!”

Kaiser scoffs, averse to elaborating due to humiliation (either because of his apparent failure or because it's plain embarrassing to state his intentions when you don't seem receptive to them or because being outright on the matter requires him to express himself, which is in nature disgusting). Then you watch while he walks away from you in a moody fit.

Well, at least if he has the energy to act temperamental, that must mean he's not in any shittier spirits than usual. It is way less unnerving than his earlier civility, for one.

#3 Compliment them

Kaiser has no respect for personal space. Or more like he only deems his need for such important and disregards everyone else's. You know this.

But you can't lie in good conscience that he's gotten this close to you before, examining you, leaning in way too close. Close enough that you feel Ness planning your murder from across the field. Close enough to warrant a harassment complaint.

You assume Kaiser must be looking for miniscule flaws to fake laugh at like a missing eyelash or the fact that you have pores, but instead of doing what you predicted, after a long while of making you almost throw up from nerves — what's with this guy and staring at you like a microbe under a telescope so much? — he says, “You have beautiful sclera.”

???

You bristle at the sound of the strange thing he said. Unperturbed by your visibility negative reaction, Kaiser continues,

“And I love the way you look at me, like you want to kill me. It gives me a thrill.”

What's wrong with this guy? you think to yourself.

“Your bone structure can almost rival mine-”

“Kaiser, stop talking nonsense and go… back to doing something else somewhere away from me.”

“Hmph.” He backs off to a more socially appropriate distance, crossing his arms. “I see you still haven't fixed your attitude.”

“Me? I need to fix my attitude?! When you're the one acting like a depraved person?”

“Wow, if you think that's what I'm doing, you must not understand anything about the world at all,” he says in a condescending tone, smirking at you with played up amusement.

“You have some nerve! Kaiser, go away before I take advantage of my position and put rat poison in your water bottle. It'd suit you to go out that way.”

“You're so obsessed with me.”

After that declaration, he whips around to make a dramatic and majestic exit, with a deliberate swat of his hair to your face. Maybe you'll be spitting out gross blue strands after this. You fume to yourself.

#4 Light touches

Once again, Kaiser is plaguing you. Today's method of inflicting trauma seems to involve more gratuitous touching than usual.

He awkwardly drags his hand over your shoulder.

You stare at him as if this is the most scandalous offense you've been on the receiving end of. Maybe it's not, but he's been walking on your nerves all day with other such inept attempts at caresses. “Did you just wipe something on my sleeve?”

“What?” he asks in a flat tone. “No. Are you dumb?”

Your expression doesn't show anything other than incredulity. Certainly not the fluster and admiration Kaiser is hoping for.

You then go right back to ignoring him like he is dust. This is outrageous, he's going to be sick. Kaiser takes fate into his hands and embraces you stiffly from behind (once again showing his lack of etiquette).

Startled, you ask, “Are you gonna put me in an octopus hold?”

“No? Do you always have to assume I'm going to do something bad to you?”

“Well, it's not like you ever do anything good.”

Kaiser lets go of you even though he doesn't want to — truly a moment of his character development you're witnessing —, his arms dropping limply by his sides while he frowns at you like a kicked kitty. Exquisite manipulation tactic, however, you're not moved by the display at all.

He says, “I still think you need to fix your attitude.”

You roll your eyes and let him have his little moment with his snide remark. An immediate retort hasn't come to mind after all, and you'd rather play it off as disregarding him than admit to the shameful lack of a comeback. It's not your fault his incomprehensible behavior leaves you speechless, anyway.

#5 Be there for them

Kaiser decides to skip this one as it's even more vile than when he lowered himself enough to the point he tried to hug you.

#6 Use humor

Kaiser stands in front of you, trying to think of something funny to say, which isn't an activity he engages in often (as the comedy of his existence is often unintentional or manifests in the form of being a bitch for no reason and antagonizing people unprovoked). During this process, you're once more forced to endure the weight of his unrelenting, vacant stare.

“I have a controversial football opinion,” says Kaiser, finally.

“As usual.”

“The ball is sentient and it hates getting kicked around like that.”

You tilt your head, not understanding why Michael Kaiser would say something so… silly? “Well, I'm sure you take some delight in imagining that,” you say in an unsure voice, not knowing how else to reply.

Kaiser smirks at you in an attempt to shrug off his latest failure and feign casualness. Then he tries again because his spirit is as tenacious as his gawping. “You should always make sure to distinguish between ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I apologize’ at a funeral.”

“Why? Do you speak from experience? Is that a little slip up from when you attended the funeral of one of all those people you killed?”

“No. I think if I killed someone, I'd be the type to facetiously say ‘rest in peace,’ just to piss them off in the afterlife.”

“I can imagine you doing that. Good for you I guess.”

Kaiser snickers to himself — maybe because he's enjoying imagining all his enemies dead — and plays with his fingers in an almost nervous manner, which makes you question if you're perhaps hallucinating. He ponders if he's funny or not.

#7 Text them

(04:55 AM) Michael Kaiser: [5 image attachments]

(06:32 AM) You: why are you sending me shirtless mirror pics lol

(06:46 AM) Michael Kaiser: Wrong person

(06:50 AM) You: did you mean to send that to ness

(07:02 AM) Michael Kaiser: No

(07:05 AM) Michael Kaiser: ???

(07:43 AM) You: well you only talk to me and him so if it's not for us who else could it be for

(07:44 AM) You: lol don't tell me you did that to seem sought after haha

(07:48 AM) Michael Kaiser: Let's stop talking for a little while.

#8 Give them attention

Kaiser gives you plenty of attention, and he doesn't even make you do tricks for it. Like for example right now, when he's poking you in the ribs while you're trying to fill out something unfinished on the tablet during your break.

You slap his hand away. “Kaiser. What.”

He moves onto poking your neck instead, forcing you to wiggle away from him as he continues his antics despite your dodging.

“What do you want?!”

“I just don't want you to feel neglected by me,” he says in a tone he probably believes is suave.

“I don't.”

“You're trying to seem brave, but your eyes give you away.”

“You're crazy,” you say, not even in shock or embarrassment, but rather a very apparent disorientation. “If anything I've been overdosing on you lately.”

“There’s never enough of me. You don't need to pretend just to humble me. It's not cute nor clever.”

“Kaiser, quit it before I cut off your finger and poke you with it instead.”

To your surprise, Kaiser stops. You watch him warily for a few seconds before feeling safe enough to turn around and try doing your work again.

Kaiser pokes you on the sides.

#9 Playful teasing

“You look like shit today,” greets Kaiser with a smirk, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Did they let the clown academy off early today?”

“Kaiser, you're so immature.” You shrug him off. Usually you'd allow the contact, granted he's not being rude or creepy, but he's done the former a nanosecond into the conversation, so you're not going to stand for it.

“I assume you're stupid or uptight enough to take me seriously. That's always fun.”

“Trust me, you're the last person in the world I'd take seriously.”

“No, but really, you're quite unencumbered by the standards of beauty today.”

“So I'm ugly and stupid? Awesome, thank you so much.”

His traitorous hand which had grabbed at your shoulder earlier moves lower around your waist instead, pulling you closer. At his actions, you squint your eyes and look at him as if he is a dirty wet sock. “Don't worry, I'd still take you though.”

This horrendous thing he just uttered makes you gape in shock. Then it morphs into disgust, and you smack him on the arm and retch at him.

#10 Mention being single

You expect something horrific to happen this time when Kaiser approaches you, but instead, out of the blue, unprovoked, nobody asked or moved — as most things are with him — he announces, “By the way, I'm single.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, not sure what to do with this information. “Yeah, that figures.”

“What do you mean? Tons of people want me, but I don't want them back. That's why I'm available, that's all.”

“Don't explain yourself to me, I don't care,” you say flippantly, crossing your arms and shifting your weight to one leg.

“Well, you should.”

“Sure, Mr. ‘Sorry Wrong Chat.’” You snort.

Kaiser upturns his nose and glares at you. “You’re mischaracterizing me and presenting that whole situation wrong. For one, I didn't say sorry.” Then he scoots closer to you, grinning without smiling with his eyes whatsoever. “Anyway, I'll forgive you. As long as you remember the main point, which is that I'm single.”

“I know, dipshit.”

“Wow, can't you rub your little brain cells together, the whole two of them, and understand what I've been getting at?” Kaiser snaps, frustrated that the fruits of his incompetent labor aren't ready for reaping yet.

“It's not my fault you can't say whatever you have to say properly,” you say, delivering your line in a pointed tone so that he can grasp the implication you're making this time.

Kaiser blinks with the small frown still on his face, a remnant of his earlier scowling. Then realization sets in and his lips form a thin line instead. His cheeks color slightly.

You're fucking with him on purpose.

___

Some slop I wrote on my phone on vacation in between drinking and sweltering in my own gooch in the sun. Enjoy or don't