#Ecosystem Orchestration

[leonbasinwriter]

The system is moving. Not just AI, not just business—intelligence itself is in play.

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[xoxorealitygalore]

Hopelessly Devoted

Roman Reigns x Multiracial OC

Part one: Returning to Fook Island

Summary: A year ago, Joe met Princess Pensri on Fook Island, and they quickly fell in love. Unbeknownst to her, Joe paid her bride price, planning to marry her. Now, he returns with his family to fulfill his promise, ready to begin their life together.

A year had passed since Joe first set foot on the lush, mysterious soil of Fook Island, an island draped in the sort of serenity that seemed to exist only in fairy tales or the rarest of dreams. What had seemed like a typical vacation, a chance to escape the daily grind and immerse himself in new experiences, had turned into something far more profound. A journey of fate and destiny. It had begun with an impulsive decision to visit Fook Wildlife Sanctuary, a decision that would soon intertwine Joe’s life with a woman who, unbeknownst to her, had become the center of his world. A woman who had become his future. The love of his life.

Her name was Princess Pensri, the third in line to the Fookian throne and the enigmatic owner of the sanctuary, a haven dedicated to protecting endangered species and preserving the delicate balance of Fook Island's lush ecosystems. A year ago, Joe had no idea that this regal, poised woman, whose presence commanded the respect of everyone around her, would leave an indelible mark on his heart.

He had wandered through the sanctuary on his first day, captivated by the vibrant flora and the sense of awe that arose from the sight of wild animals in their natural habitat. But nothing had prepared him for the moment when he met her. Pensri had approached him as he stood gazing at a group of tigers, their powerful bodies lounging in the sun, their eyes half-closed in contentment. She was serene, yet there was a spark in her eyes, something unmistakable, a sense of duty and grace that blended with an unspoken warmth. Her smile, when it came, was warm and inviting, a contrast to the royal demeanor she wore with ease.

Their conversation had flowed effortlessly, as if the universe had conspired to bring them together. They spoke about the sanctuary, about the island, about the wonders of nature. But as the day unfolded, they spoke more about each other. There was something undeniably magnetic about her, something that drew Joe in. He wasn’t sure if it was her beauty, her intelligence, or the way she seemed to connect with the world around her, but there was no denying the pull. It felt as though fate had orchestrated their meeting.

By the end of the tour, the bond between them had deepened. Pensri, despite her royal lineage, was far from aloof. She was down-to-earth, unpretentious, and passionate about her work. But there was something more, something in the way she spoke, the way she looked at him, the way she listened. It was as if the universe had opened up just for them. Joe had always believed in love at first sight, but never had he experienced it quite like this. It wasn’t just the spark of attraction; it was the sense that something larger was at play.

The days that followed were a whirlwind. They explored the island together, swam in crystal-clear waters, dined under the stars, and laughed until their cheeks ached. Joe found himself completely taken by Pensri, by her passion for wildlife conservation, her unshakable devotion to her people, and her deep connection with nature. He learned that she was not just a princess in title, but in spirit. Her love for Fook Island was palpable, and her respect for the land and its creatures was evident in every action she took.

During that magical week, Joe had been able to do something that only a few people in the world ever had the privilege of doing: he had named a group of tigers in the sanctuary after himself and his cousins. It had been a moment of sheer delight, a moment of connection not just with the tigers, but with the island and the life he was beginning to envision with Pensri.

As they shared those intimate moments, Joe realized that he had fallen in love with her. Truly, deeply, and irrevocably. But there was more to it than just love. There was something he had come to understand about himself and his future. He could not imagine his life without her. He knew, deep in his soul, that she was the one.

It was in the quiet of one evening, as they sat side by side watching the sun dip below the horizon, that Joe made a decision, one that he had not taken lightly. Pensri, with all her grace and elegance, did not know that in the quiet corners of his mind, Joe had already planned his future. While she was still unaware, he had secretly made the arrangements to pay her bride price, a tradition in her culture, which would ensure that she could marry him. In a way, he had already committed to her, even before she had a chance to say yes.

That night, beneath the blanket of stars that stretched across the island like an ancient tapestry, they shared a kiss that sealed their bond. The kind of kiss that spoke volumes without a single word. It was an unspoken promise of a future together. A promise that Joe would honor, no matter the distance or the obstacles that might arise.

A year had passed since that life-changing vacation, and now, Joe was returning to Fook Island. But this time, he wasn’t just a tourist. He was returning to marry the woman he loved, the woman who would soon become his wife. The woman who, unknowingly, had already become his forever.

As Joe sat in the back of the car, the island’s warm breeze tousling his hair, he couldn’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. He had spoken to Pensri only a few times since their week together. They had exchanged phone calls, messages, and gifts, but the anticipation of seeing her again, of holding her in his arms, filled him with an overwhelming sense of joy.

The car bumped along the winding roads of Fook Island, and as they neared the sanctuary, memories from that fateful week rushed back to him in vivid detail. The scent of the jungle, the warmth of the sun on his skin, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It was all so familiar. It felt like home.

As they approached the sanctuary’s gates, Joe’s heart began to race. He had spent the last few months preparing for this moment, arranging everything with Pensri’s family, speaking with the elders, ensuring that all the traditions would be respected. He had brought his own family with him, eager to witness the wedding and show their support for the union. But even with all the preparations, he felt a sense of nervousness. After all, this was more than just a wedding, it was the beginning of his new life.

The car finally came to a stop, and Joe stepped out, his eyes immediately scanning the familiar surroundings. He could see the tigers in the distance, their striking eyes peering from behind the trees, just as they had a year ago. But his gaze soon fell on her, the one person who had captured his heart in ways he never thought possible.

Pensri stood in the doorway of the sanctuary’s main building, her presence as commanding as it was graceful. She was dressed in a traditional gown, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in waves, her eyes shining with a mixture of joy and nervousness. As their gazes met, time seemed to slow. Joe could feel the pull of her presence, just as he had felt that first moment they met. The world around them fell away, and all that mattered was the woman before him.

Pensri stepped forward, her smile lighting up the space between them. Joe felt his chest tighten with emotion as he walked toward her, his feet moving almost as though they had a mind of their own. When he finally reached her, he pulled her into his arms, his heart swelling with a happiness he had never known before.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Pensri pulled back slightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You came back,” she said softly, as though she couldn’t quite believe it.

Joe nodded, his heart full. “I promised I would.”

And as he held her, surrounded by the beauty of the sanctuary that had brought them together, Joe knew that this was where he was meant to be. This was the beginning of the rest of his life.

Everything had led him to this moment.

Masterlist | Part two: A Dance of Destiny

[1800titz]

SIGIL | new early access series on patreon

OR The exiled fae masquerading as a human tattoo artist

The one in which there’s a spellbinding tattoo parlor, a semi-mystical man left jaded post his banishment to a realm full of coffee lovers and beings that wear boots over skinny jeans, a fresh tattoo artist in town with an odd magnetism, a situationship that lingers in the workplace (slightly unethical, mostly a new pastime), runes as a form of communication to bypass actual communication, and obvious, growing emotional stakes (that will be ignored)

HI <3 if you aren’t on patreon and haven’t seen anything about this— I’m running this new, longer, emotional slow burn series (anticipated to run a similar length to TDIAG) over on patreon as early access. After a while, chapters will slowly move over to wattpad (something to keep an eye out for), so if you don’t already follow me on wattpad, my user over there is now the same (1800titz). First chapter is already available on patreon, and there’s a short preview below the cut <3

There is something, just— 

So achingly tragic in the intricately orchestrated ecosystem of desperation and poorly sown mating rituals that takes place between the four walls of a bar. 

Darwin would be thrilled. 

It’s knuckle-gnawing. Almost morbidly fascinating. 

The clumsy slowdance of humanity’s circus in shapeshifting variety under nicotine yellow: a group of twenty-somethings in crop tops and cowboy boots taking selfies in the corner, so rehearsed it may as well be olympic choreography. The serial snapchat storyteller that’s had maybe three too many, slurring with his phone cupped in his hand like a lifeline— Harry can already hear it in the portending hangover lacing his hoarse bluster: last night was a fucking movie. The overconfident tinder king nursing a vodka cran at the edge of the bar, with the same sort of grease slicked along the notches of his smile that he’s got in his hair.

It’s natural selection, in painstaking progress, that fits so well with a side of watered down tequila and a soundless laugh track. 

There’s a kind of poeticism to the disarray of human nightlife. The sloppy architecture. The human world is so much more—

Soft, and messy, and raw. Toothless. Refreshingly simple.

    Trivial.

At home the stars were bigger. They burned so close that it felt like he could raze the skin on his palms by cupping them with his hands, and the moon smiled in topaz, and everything was all teeth. It was like the gravity of eternity buzzing under his feet. Holding him landlocked. 

(And here?)

Harry traces his fingertip across the glass. It leaves a naked, wet streak and sits untouched. It’s a prop— insignia of normalcy: I’m part of this. Because the key to the pastime is to wear apathy like an armor, and let the chaos around you orbit, rather than slipping into its gravity. 

(Here— he’s just another man at another bar.)

[icarus-wrote-the-other51]

they told me i was made to entertain ✮

and that my heart was made to bleed.

CALL ME ICARUS! I am in fact, the creator of Blacklane's little ecosystem, and of all the characters in the series, most elder to me. But are they still basically all my children? Absolutely. @/localburntoutkid is my main feel free to ask about my characters. please ask about them. PLEASE. genderfluid (any prns) ; bisexual; indian ; adhd ; procrastinator. I have Absolutely Horrible Humour ™️ and I will not apologise for it <3

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Vesper Locke is a British-Indian detective at Scotland Yard by day and a cardsharp casino operator by night. She’s made a career out of walking the edges of knives and being on the wrong sides of guns —between the law and the underworld, between her own ambition and the city’s prejudices. When a government ledger goes missing—one with enough dirt to topple half of the government cabinet —Vesper is officially assigned to “investigate” the theft. Officially, it might boost her career to something other than just a woman of color with a minimal pay. Unofficially, she recognizes an opportunity for leverage too good to pass up. Of course, she can’t do it alone. She busts Silas—erstwhile pickpocket, old friend —out of jail three years ahead of schedule, using “totally legal” (Yeah,, right, ves..) funds and paperwork that would pass a seasoned officer. Silas, a native Londoner with a knack for trouble is just the start. Vesper collects an assorted group of outlaws for her purpose. The target? The Seven Dials Mob, a new breed of Soho gangster with a taste for blackmail and a flair for Cold War drama. The ledger they’re selling could bring down governments or make Vesper untouchable—if she can get her hands on it first. Heists are planned , then promptly derailed by MI5 stings, old circus rivals, and the inconvenient revelation that Vesper is keeping a secret about the job from the crew. Trust frays, tempers flare. Meanwhile, Vesper’s double life is on the verge of collapse. She’s called in to investigate her own crimes, feeding false leads to the Yard while orchestrating break-ins and blackouts on the side. The pressure mounts, and the cracks start to show: sleepless nights, hallucinations of her long-dead mentor, and a mind fraying at the edges. The only thing more dangerous than Blacklane's criminal empire, is the woman who knows all it's secrets.

ABOUT THE CHARACTERS:

Vesper Locke, queen of the double life, connections everywhere, detective at the Scotland Yard.

Silas Vane, master thief, lockpick, ex-convict with a dark past.

Elizabeth Lauren, sharpshooter, fighting her family’s decline and the city’s violence.

Felix Marlowe , an American circus runaway whose flexibility is matched only by his rent troubles, with a knack for acoustic guitar.

Theo Alekseev, a Russian blacksmith’s apprentice and former underground brawler, wrestling with Cold War paranoia and his own heart.

Isabella Moretti, British-Italian, and an ex-brothel survivor that holds the place of the casino queen to the public.

POSTS TO LOOK AT:

places: - BLACKLANE - CASINO: CRIMSON ROYALE characters: worldbuilding: the little things (small collection of random incidents): #1 #icarus writes - ......obvious #anything but writing ts - other rants related to the characters and their backgrounds #questions and muddled answers: asks #icarus who? - character posting character tags: # a magician reveals his secrets - felix # humiliation worse than death - theo # performer in a world of bystanders - isa # they called me a bastard - silas # they called me a queen - vesper # sharpshooter with sharper words - elizabeth

TAGLIST: @dreamboyinthedarkvoid @lovely-writes-alot @st4rrylavendersk1es @blackcherriestxox! !!!

[stoicconfluxvow]

The Yin and Yang of Engineering: Jinx/Viktor

Chap. 1: Tinkering with the absurd.

The scent of scorching metal and candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the residual ozone of active Hextech. The laboratory existing as an ecosystem of its own — a microcosm of calculated order, in which every movement was rigorously orchestrated, every instrument meticulously placed, every breath synchronized to the steady hum of interconnected machinery. The crisp scratch of graphite against parchment, the measured clink of tools — the usual praxis. Something, however, had already begun to disrupt its equilibrium.

Viktor sensed the disturbance before he saw it. A minute displacement in the air pressure, a fractional shift in the ambient acoustics; the subtlest irregularity. Then, the faintest creak from above.

He let his fingers continue their measured course along the Hextech circuitry before him, grip steady, focus ostensibly unscathed. A test, in part—to see how long the anomaly would linger before announcing itself.

He had already detected the pair of pendulous blue braids dangling into his peripheral vision; had already cataloged mass, velocity, and descent trajectories should the anomaly, as anomalies often do, spiral into a paroxysm of unpredictability.

"You look very ugly from this angle, y'know?" came the snickering, upside-down voice. The words were laced with a gummy, lopsided grin.

Viktor let out a stolid, measured exhale, slowly tipping his head up. “And you resemble a bat.” he replied evenly, tone as measured as his calibrations.

The statement elicited a gnarly laugh from Jinx, who was suspended from an overhead beam. Her entire body was folded into an improbable pose, legs hooked over the steel girder as though gravity were merely a suggestion.

The neon glow of Zaun’s skyline bled in through the lab windows, casting fragmented light over the contours of her rounded features, the faint smudge of soot dusting her jawline, the subtle asymmetry of her pupils—one slightly more dilated than the other. A tell, perhaps.

Viktor merely adjusted a stabilizer. “Should I begin to question how you got up there?”

Jinx twisted midair with a surprising economy of movement. The vertebral rotation was precise, controlled—almost acrobatic.

Then, without warning, she let go. Viktor tensed, a reflexive tightening of his grip on the edge of the workbench. The poor scientist had already begun to map trajectories, force differentials, probabilities of injury, only for the jinx to land in a perfect crouch, one hand brushing the floor for balance before springing up with the fluidity of a creature built for unpredictability.

Jinx twirled once, for no discernible reason other than self-amusement, then flopped onto one of his worktables, her limbs sprawling on the surface with careless abandon.

“So, Doc?” Jinx drawled, tilting her head toward the intricate lattice of Hextech components strewn before him. “whatcha cooking up in that fancy contraption of yours?”

"A minor enhancement,” he answered, gesturing at the faintly pulsating gemstone embedded in the device. “One that may stabilize Hextech output during large power draws. We—” he hesitated, momentarily considering whether to lump himself in with Piltover’s more refined approach "—some of us forget how violent these energies can be when not properly harnessed.”

“Violent energies, violent minds,” she mused, referring to his earlier statement, while patting down the dust on her patchwork trousers. “Nothing a little disorder can't fix.”

“Entropy requires boundaries,” Viktor corrected, keeping his voice gentle despite the admonition. “A container. Else it consumes itself and everything around it.”

"Alright, philosopher," she snickered, "so, what you're telling me is 'no boom'?"

“Absolutely not. No utility whatsoever in explosions."

Jinx's ebullient expression dropped to a saturnine one. “Boring,” she huffed, scrunching her nose. “why are you like this?”

“Functionality,” Viktor returned evenly, “is not contingent on spectacle.”

“Roger that.” she sneered. Jinx twisted at the waist, swinging gently like a pendulum.

She peered at him through the electric haze, turning a small metal sphere over in her hand—one of her bombs, he surmised, judging by the labyrinth of tiny, improvised coils etched along its surface. It was disarmingly compact, unpolished, but brimming with haphazard brilliance. There was artistry in its asymmetry, like a half-remembered blueprint from a dream.

She pressed the sphere into his palm. “Try to make this stable now, yeah?” her tone brimming with the same sardonic twang she always carried. Yet beneath that, a flicker of sincerity: an invitation to test the boundaries she had set.

Viktor’s metal brace squeaked softly as he shifted his weight, accepting the device with steady composure, analyzing the craft with composed fascination. “I am usually up for a challenge,” he replied, a faint thread of wry humor lacing his tone. “However… I must insist you not hang from my rafters again without warning. The structural integrity—”

“Yeah, yeah," she immediately interrupted him, snorting, "... deal."

Viktor set the bomb gently on the worktable and glanced at her. In the silent seconds that followed, there was no condescending tut-tut of a Piltover academic, no sanctimonious lecture of what she could have done better. Merely an unspoken accord that if they could each appreciate the other’s mania—and keep its calamitous potential in check—there was something worth building there.

He adjusted a delicate filament, the faintest suggestion of amusement sparking behind his amber eyes. “You mistake methodology for rigidity,” he randomly mused, glancing sidelong at Jinx.

Her nose wrinkled again, waiting for him to elaborate.

He rolled his wrist as he set a filament connector. “A scientist does not calculate every step merely to banish unpredictability. Calculation is comprehension—to understand a system so deeply that you know precisely where to push and when to pull. Not to prevent chaos,” he added, letting the final phrase hang, “but to direct it.”

Her lids flickered in hesitant acknowledgment; skepticism warred with fascination in her mismatched gaze. “So what you’re saying,” she pressed, “is that you do like messing with things, you quaint, boring guy.”

A soft hum escaped Viktor’s throat, ignoring the insults. “The core of invention is not the mere desire for control, but curiosity,” he continued. “The difference,” he said mildly, “is that I prefer my experiments remain intact by the end of it.”

She slid off the table and prowled around the lab, trailing her fingers over metal and wire, rifling through blueprints.

Jinx moved like she thought in tangents: erratic. Nonlinear. Pausing here, skipping entire sections there, only to circle back if something caught her eye again, in what one could call a stochastic, staccato fashion.

Viktor, wisely, did not intervene. He had long since learned that when it came to Jinx, indirect engagement was often a more effective deterrent than forbiddance.

Eventually, she plopped herself down at a workbench—one cluttered with Viktor and Jayce’s shared diagrams—scrunching them aside with a careless sweep of her forearm. Surprisingly, she took pains not to knock them to the floor or tear them. An almost incongruous note of consideration from someone so prone to what Viktor could only describe as deliberate rascality.

Jinx stretched until a series of pops echoed through the quiet workshop, then rummaged in her satchel. Out came the neon-splashed paraphernalia she called her toolkit: coil springs, nuts and bolts of questionable origin, and—of course—her beloved spray cans in garish, candy-colored hues. The stark contrast against Viktor’s methodical array of polished metal components was almost comical.

Yet neither commented on it. Viktor, engrossed in refining a fractal array for stabilizing Hextech surges, offered only the occasional sideward glance. Jinx, with her usual lack of ceremony, fished out a crude welding torch and got to work assembling... something. If the shape seemed headed toward destructive potential, Viktor refrained from remark—he had long discovered that sharing space with her was a delicate dance better navigated by trusting in her ad-hoc, if not entirely safe, sense of boundaries.

Hours passed in near silence. In place of conversation was the rhythmic hum of the lab, the hiss of flux as Viktor soldered circuit boards, the faint crackle of Jinx’s blowtorch. Occasionally, Jinx broke the hush with a sudden whoop or guttural holler, purely to see Viktor jump at the unexpected noise. Each time, she dissolved into snickering laughter. He responded with measured exasperation, arching one brow but saying nothing. Even so, a trace of bemusement flickered across his features, as though he found her antics strangely disarming.

Eventually, the overhead lamps dimmed, a subtle reminder that the hour was growing late. Viktor powered down his apparatus with a final flip of a switch. Jinx, yawning in an exaggerated manner, began stowing her things in a scuffed leather pouch. "Think 'm headin' out now. Night night."

"Night."

The woman had already crept back up with the grace of a nimble rat, scaling the ceiling pipes, her long electric blue braids once more dangling upon Viktor's forehead as he scarcely managed to push them aside. She then made her way to the same improbable entryway through which she had crashed into the lab, quietly humming an off-key tune before vanishing into the sooty shadows beyond.

Viktor, by contrast, had continued his work undisturbed, denying himself even the basic luxury of sleep. When his eyelids finally began to grow heavy and he awoke from a brief micro-slumber, elbows unceremoniously propped on the workbench, he caught, in a dazed haze, the blurred image of a bizarre object with distinct animalistic contours, stationed before him as though it were unnervingly staring at him.

Instinctively, he flinched, covering his head as if to brace himself for the expected detonation which, surprisingly, never came.

The odd bitzer remained still, with no sign of malevolent nature, glimmering quietly under the workshop’s neon gloom — a squat, mechanical monkey-like figure sporting metallic plating with a grotesque smile and an odd coil in its belly.

Viktor raised a brow as he took note of the small sprig attached to its left hand, that held the monkey's weight into an erect position while seemingly mimicking the scientist's own ligneous cane. His attention was then captured by the bright yellow post-it affixed to the metallic ape with a messy bit of tape, scribbled in a deliberately sloppy handwriting:

“name's cookie... he looks like you. yuo can keep it :o)

– J”

Beneath it, a wonky smiley face scrawled in lurid neon ink, as asymmetrical as its creator’s grin.

It elicited a smile from him, who examined it as it rested upon his palm. Albeit a bit rough in its form, the artefact appeared to be crafted with a certain intent, perhaps even care. He pressed a button to test the mechanism, still half-expecting an explosive cacophony. The monkey’s tiny arms flailed in a spasmodic dance, beginning to tremble as if preceding detonation, only to splutter out a few confetti which landed on his ivory jacket. Viktor shook his head, his expression softening to one of amusement.

He let his index carefully trail over its metal plating, before placing it on his workbench beside the half-finished stabilizer, the neon-paint smudges glaring against the refined Hextech casing. For all the incongruity, there was something undeniably… charming about it. Perhaps endearing even. He'd later hang it up in a corner of the lab, a testament to the newfound, improbable synergy.

For the first time since Jayce's abandonment of the lab in pursuit of his councilor duties, Viktor perceived a vague sense of vacancy following the disappearance of Jinx and her shenaningans, which alongside his exhaustion finally prompted him to call it a day and go home, an unfortunately rare occurrence for the inventor.

In truth, this measured respect and fascination had begun well before Jinx’s impromptu acrobatics in Viktor’s laboratory — it had taken root, ironically, in moments where they’d never even met face-to-face.

Viktor recalled being urgently presented with the disarrayed collection of fuliginous, hazardous mechanical constructs—agglomerations of metallic scraps, remnants of gunpowder cartridges, and nearly comical embellishments of dubious taste, alarmingly rumored to have derived from Silco's inner circle.

"The configuration is... rough, though there certainly is a certain knowledge of engineering, if not mere intuition." Viktor mused, carefully examining the device's labyrinthine wiring and ingeniously modified spark fuses of the complex apparatus beneath him.

"Would they be capable of figuring Hextech out?" Jayce wondered aloud, his steps resonating an anxious rhythm across the chamber's floor.

"Eh," Viktor hummed pensively, "I wouldn't exclude it. The possibility does exist."

"With a complete lack of the theoretical basis? No, no. Years of research and tests only for some... sick, delinquent mind to comprehend and emulate so effortlessly? No chance." he quickly retorted, the firm incredulity in his voice coming across as an attempt at self-regulation rather than genuine conviction. "This is merely a... well-thought attempt at scare tactics. To intimidate us into allowing independency."

"The absence of formal theory, or proper equipment, only serves to underscore the inventive potential of such mechanical artistry." Viktor countered, "If only such acumen could be channeled towards something more... constructive." he then mused, lithe fingers delicately twiddling with the disassembled filaments beneath him.

"Potential? Viktor, this is sheer madness. These are seeds of entropy threatening to contaminate the flourishing utopia that is Piltover. I can not tolerate nor allow this, and may be obliged to..." he paused, simultaneously recalling Medarda's words and anticipating the partner's disapproval, "take countermeasures."

The statement did, in fact, earn a mild glare from Viktor, who was intently scanning the device's subversive wiring.

"If I recall correctly, weren't Hexgems, too, violently volatile in their raw form?" Viktor extended his arm, the servos in his brace whirring faintly as he aligned the titanium-tipped cutters with the wire he had deduced to be the linchpin of the circuitry,

"Volatility is often the embyron of great potential," he continued, finally neutralizing the bomb, "the only requirement being the correct catalyst to refine and stabilize its essence."

[amerricanartwork]

Hi! I just wondered if you've played Hollow Knight based off how much you like Rain World. I'd be interested in any thoughts you had on it. :)

Thanks for the ask! No, I have not yet played Hollow Knight, BUT my interest in the game has been piqued! However I still have to see if the gameplay itself seems up my alley, or get invested enough in the characters that I want to discover more than I've already found out (and I have spoiled quite a lot for myself) before I actually decide to buy the game.

Regardless, from what I do know it does seem like an interesting story, albeit one far more tragic than Rain World's in my opinion. The characters I've seen are also pretty cool, both in design and personality. In fact, it was some ship fanart I found a few weeks ago that got me interested in diving deeper into the game once I realized it was where the featured characters were from, especially since one of the characters I had remembered hearing about before.

Here's a little sketch of some characters I was thinking about and whom I've been meaning to draw for a bit! Hornet because she's very Shaped™, Quirrel because from what I've seen he's quite wholesome, and Tiso because he was the first character I heard about and I think he's kinda silly!

Also, some more comparing/contrasting thoughts about the game below:

Firstly, I like how the premise of Kollow Knight involves anthropomorphic insects! It's something I never realized until recently despite being aware of HK for at least a few years, but I usually tend to take interest in stories starring non-humanoid creatures, so it's a plus! I also enjoy the more gothic/Victorian-looking magical high fantasy aesthetic, though it's pretty different from Rain World, which I'd consider far more sci-fi and specbio-esque in its aesthetic.

Now to get into themes, so far Hollow Knight seems to share Rain World's theme of lost/dead civilizations, which is also a very interesting premise to me! However, HK seems to have a greater focus on interacting with the people of its dying civilization and as such you get far more definitive knowledge about what happened to cause it to collapse. The player character seems to take on more of a classic epic hero role, because from what I've heard about the lore and endings, they end up directly influencing the fate of Hallownest, even potentially destroying or defeating the force that caused its ruin. The visuals have this very dark, cool tint overall to sell that gloomy, mournful vibe, and the structures, while presumably old, are still mostly smooth, ornate, and not super deteriorated, with these castle or manor-like appearances more similar to real-life buildings or things in other high fantasy works. Then, the orchestral music I've heard alongside all of these elements really creates this impression in me that it's aesthetic and overall concept is more akin to a high fantasy epic tale, albeit a rather tragic one.

Meanwhile, Rain World seem to have the player take more of an anthropologist role, observing and trying to piece together the story of vast remnants of its dead civilization, which seem alien and impossibly complex because so much of the history they're from has been lost to time. One of the core themes is being very small compared to these long abandoned structures, to really sell the idea that this history is so much older and more intricate than you'll ever know. The colors of Rain World are often warmer, which can be associated with old things, and the structures are far more weathered and broken down, with the only living survivors of the people who made them being the iterators, whom we only get to hear directly from two of. Combined with the focus on simulating an ecosystem, the more directly religious ideas within, the themes of natural cycles and an entire civilization evolving, changing, and ultimately disappearing over deep time, and the overall alien, sci-fi industrial designs of the architexture and strange creature designs that look like things out of "Of Rust and Humus" or some other alien speculative biology worldbuilding project make RW fit well in with that genre of fiction in my opinion.

Sorry if I seem like I kinda took a sudden shift there, but I wanted to talk about this contrast in artistic aesthetics and story genres for a moment because the "lasting impression" an art piece creates something I've recently concluded is pretty important overall in works of art, at least for mine!

But anyway, I hope these thoughts were satisfying for now! Thanks again for the ask!

[mariacallous]

Elon Musk and U.S. President Donald Trump have gutted the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), the long-standing U.S. program focused on humanitarian aid. But despite cries of outrage from much of the world, there are many in Asia who are happy to see it gone—and not just in China. Many people in the region, including government leaders, believe that the U.S. sponsorship of the nongovernmental organization ecosystem is in truth a vast conspiracy that could threaten their leadership. It is, they believe, the hidden hand behind protests and dreaded “color revolutions.” Paranoia and projection play a big role in this, but there is also a grain of truth.

Across the world, USAID has helped fight infectious disease, feed the hungry, and respond to natural disasters, among dozens of other worthy causes. But many believed this was cover for something more malign.

USAID was one target of the funding cuts carried out by Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), but so were other, more openly ideological U.S. democracy promotion projects. In Cambodia, long-standing autocrat and former Prime Minister Hun Sen, who recently nominally handed power over to his son, posted on Facebook to celebrate the Trump administration’s move to cut off funding to broadcasters such as Radio Free Asia, praising its “courage to lead the world to combat fake news.”

In India, a dubious claim by DOGE that it had canceled a $21 million contract intended to improve voter turnout in India was seized upon by a member the prime minister’s economic advisory council as a sign of something nefarious.

“$21M for voter turnout? This definitely is external interference in India’s electoral process. Who gains from this? Not the ruling party for sure!” wrote Amit Malviya, who leads the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP) National Information and Technology Department. In another post on X, the social media platform that Musk owns, he alleged that American billionaire George Soros’s “shadow looms over our electoral process,” echoing a conspiracy theory popular worldwide.

Meanwhile, representatives of the opposition Indian National Congress—rather than questioning the dubious figure, which was presented with no evidence—claimed that it was in fact the BJP who had benefited from the supposed interference.

Even before DOGE gave greater air to such ideas that U.S. sponsorship of NGOs was a grand and sinister conspiracy, the theory was already common globally, usually linked to the idea of a “color revolution.” The concept of a color revolution emerged out of the success of mass protests in the early 2000s intended to establish liberal democratic regimes by forces seen as broadly pro-Western in places such as Georgia, Ukraine, and Kyrgyzstan. Since then, the most enthusiastic promoters of the term have been Russia and China—who often use the phrase to tar any protest as a treasonous U.S.-orchestrated conspiracy. But many others have also taken up the idea.

As India watched with horror as one its closest and most important partners, autocratic Bangladeshi Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina, was ousted in a revolution in August 2024, the theory that this was a U.S.-orchestrated color revolution quickly gained traction. Never mind local grievances; critics thought this was all the work of the CIA, the National Endowment for Democracy, and Soros’s Open Society Foundations.

That same year in Vietnam, a U.S.-backed university had to deny it existed to foment color revolution and regime change, after attacks against it circulated online. In Indonesia, President Prabowo Subianto likes to blame protests on “foreign agitation”; the assumed culprit of this, for many politicians behind closed doors, is the United States.

For opponents of U.S. influence, the shredding of USAID is a great moment. Encouraged by the rhetoric of the Trump administration, they are inclined to see U.S. funding as the supposed originator of the domestic protests and agitations that they fear—and as promoting values antipathetic to their own views and regimes.

Vanity is one factor at play here, with local elites preferring to blame outsiders and conspiracies for their own mistakes. So is paranoia, a natural outcrop of autocracies where internal plots are often real and governments lie on a regular basis.

Finally, there is projection. Sponsoring grassroots groups (of varying degrees of genuineness) and distributing cash as a political tool to help pack out rallies, form the core of a protest, or provide muscle as needed are all normal behavior for many politicians in many countries. Prabowo’s long-standing relationship with the alleged gangster— or so-called  “mass organization”—leader Hercules has recently come under scrutiny. And organized social media harassment of democracy activists is par for the course in countries such as Thailand.

Such views are also encouraged by actors including Russia and China—whose elites often genuinely believe in these theories. Chinese President Xi Jinping has spoken about foreign powers exporting color revolutions. Banning or limiting the work of foreign NGOs has become commonplace in autocracies.

The result is sort of a weird mirror of how U.S. conservatives viewed international organization Communist International, or the Comintern, during the Cold War. Behind every incident of popular unrest across the world lies not a complex web of local factors and actors, but the hidden hand of Moscow—or, in this case, Washington.

But there is also a shard of truth. Just as the Soviet Union did genuinely try to sponsor revolutionary movements—with varying degrees of success—the United States has also, for decades now, sponsored organizations that it sees as contributing to a liberal democratic civil society. This is a good thing, but inevitably, nonliberal and nondemocratic regimes see this as a threat.

Many of the United States’ democracy promotion programs during the Cold War were explicitly started with the idea of propagating U.S. influence, undermining its foes, and maybe someday promoting regimes friendlier to it. The critics of Trump’s moves who pointed to the effect it would have on U.S. “soft power” were right—but soft power is still power.

Zbigniew Brzezinski, a great grand strategist for the United States, saw sponsoring human rights organizations in the Eastern Bloc, such as Solidarity in Poland and Charter 77 in Czechoslovakia, as a key tool against the Soviet Union. This diagnosis would be dramatically vindicated by the wave of nonviolent, civil society-led revolutions that eventually dismantled the Soviet bloc and eventually the USSR itself.

In his book Aid Imperium, Salvador Santino Regilme makes a convincing case that funding from USAID, as well as private groups such as the Ford Foundation and Asia Society, played a big role in developing liberal and democratically inclined civil societies in Thailand and the Philippines, which in turn helped shape government policy.

Over time, U.S. efforts seemed to have become less focused than they were under Brzezinski, mirroring the United States’ own confused strategic thinking post-Cold War. But a sprawling network organizations and people holding views seen as sympathetic to U.S. values benefited from Washington’s patronage for decades—and without these resources, many groups are now struggling.

This does not mean that the people and organizations sponsored by USAID were U.S. puppets. Brave activists, journalists, and others in many countries risked their own lives and freedom to try to promote human rights, anti-corruption, and environmental protection as they believed in them.

Those that gained traction tapped into genuine popular angers and discontents. Like the global south’s revolutionaries during the Cold War, their agendas were their own, not dictated by the power whose resources they took advantage of.

In a final, strange irony, a major reason that Musk and others on the MAGA right were so enthusiastic about feeding USAID “into a woodchipper” is because they seem to have adopted many of the paranoias of autocratic elites abroad.

As demonstrations about USAID swelled, Sen. Mike Lee from Utah posted online and suggested the protesters were perhaps paid by none other than USAID. Musk later suggested that “Tesla Takedown” protesters were paid, the projection nakedly apparent from a man who handed out million-dollar checks to voters at a political rally to support the campaign of a conservative judge for Wisconsin’s Supreme Court.

Where do these ideas come from? A key early promoter of the paranoid interpretation of U.S. NGO patronage was Putin’s Russia—its views shaped by the collapse of the Soviet Union and sharpened by the original color revolutions in Georgia, Ukraine, and Kyrgyzstan in the early 2000s.

This does not mean to say that this is all a Russian conspiracy. Instead, what happened is that Russia, China, and others effectively sponsored people and organizations to promote their message. And eventually, that message was picked up by a wider range of people—from Tucker Carlson to Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and lesser known figures such as Darren Beattie—who were sympathetic to the message and magnified it on social media.

The practices that empires use abroad have a strange way of coming back home. Just as the United States has for years sponsored organizations friendly to its aims to influence societies and elites abroad, today, its own domestic elites are parroting the messages of authoritarians elsewhere.

[persephones-domain]

A Reckoning Demands Resolve: Do Better—Or Be Buried

Let’s forgo the pleasantries, shall we?

The world is not gradually slipping away—it is being systematically throttled. This isn’t entropy; it’s execution. And those pulling the trigger wear suits, not uniforms. They sit in boardrooms, parliaments, and glossy sustainability panels, draped in the language of progress while orchestrating collapse.

Ecological collapse is not a separate issue from genocide. They are threads in the same imperialist noose.

This isn’t “climate change.” This is climate violence.

Genocide, ecocide, displacement, starvation—these are not unfortunate side effects. They are features of a system that has never once operated without blood at the foundations. Call it what it is: neo-colonialism in a recycled bottle.

The same imperial powers that carved up continents, enslaved generations, and razed cultures now pillage ecosystems in the name of GDP. The same logic that justified empire now sells us lithium, beef, palm oil, and fast fashion—drenched in ruin, wrapped in convenience.

Shall I repeat that? The same powers that trampled over bodies to seize land are now torching that land to feed their endless appetite. Entire ecosystems are being sacrificed—not for survival, but for profit margins. For quarterly growth reports. For some corporate bastard’s second yacht.

Enough. We have to do better. Far better. And we must start now.

It is obscene. It is deliberate. And we let it happen every time we shrug and say “Well, what can I do?”

Fucking hell, as a collective, as a society, as a people who claim to give a damn, there's a great deal of actions that can have a monumental impact — but rest assured:

You will not buy your way out of extinction. You will not vote once and sleep through the rest. You will not hashtag your way through collapse.

You also can’t recycle your way out of a world built on extraction. You can’t “both sides” genocide. You can’t manifest your way through collapse while clinging to Amazon Prime and Nando’s chicken.

There is no neutral ground left.

So here it isan uncompromising inventory of resistance:

Withdraw your complicity. Boycott the unrepentant giants: Nestlé, Amazon, Unilever, BP, Coca-Cola. If they are profiting, someone else is paying in blood.

Divest immediately. If your bank funds fossil fuel projects—Barclays, HSBC, Santander—move your money. Stop underwriting destruction.

Revolutionise your diet. The livestock industry is a planetary death machine. If you can go plant-based and aren’t, then your comfort is costing lives. Meat and dairy are not cultural birthrights. They’re weapons.

Burn the fast fashion pipeline. Your £5 Primark or Shein haul is someone’s poisoned river, someone’s child coughing through carcinogens, someone’s stolen home. Buy second hand! Who gives a rat's arse about fashion anyway?

Buy local. Grow food. Share resources. Mutual aid isn’t charity—it’s resistance. It’s how we survive what’s coming.

Get involved. Now. Join direct action groups. Occupy. Strike. Blockade. Educate. Organise. We need legions, not 'likes'.

De-normalise comfort. Do not be agreeable at the dinner table while the biosphere burns. Disrupt. Make it awkward. Make it unignorable.

Fund Indigenous resistance. They have been the custodians of the Earth long before the West “discovered” it. They know what’s at stake—and they are being murdered for it.

Expose the greenwashers. From oil-sponsored science museums to “carbon-neutral” airlines, drag their names into the light. Let no lie go uncontested.

Boycott the performative climate class. The influencers who plant trees for clout while jetting to Dubai. The think tanks who warn of collapse but won’t name capitalism. The politicians who promise net-zero by 2050—cowards, the lot of them.

Reforest, Replant, Regrow! Collect a myriad of autochthonous seeds and disperse them! Plant seeds of trees, help them thrive in degraded areas.

The list can go on indefinitely...

We are not passive victims of this system. We are its foot soldiers—unless we resign our post.

Stop telling yourself you’re powerless. That is the single greatest lie capitalism ever sold: that you are small, and it is inevitable. It is not. But it will not dismantle itself.

Comfort is complicity. Moderation is cowardice. Neutrality is betrayal.

The empire is dying—but like every cornered beast, it’s most dangerous in its final throes. It will drag everything down with it—forests, oceans, species, people—unless we intervene. Relentlessly. Radically. Together.

So don’t just do better.

Be ruthless. Be principled. Be defiant. Be bloody serious!

We are out of time. Choose a side.

[banjjakz]

I loooove arranged marriage + affair fics! Are we thinking reader being younger than gojo? I kinda have a thing for poor young lovers dmdmkkd

[arranged marriage au og post]

“poor young lovers” well you’ve come to the right place anon!

arranged marriage AUs are in & of themselves quite compelling. however, it wouldn’t be a banjjakz story™️ if there wasn’t a twist — in this verse, i’m convinced that is is gojo himself who orchestrates the arrangement. subtly slipping your family portfolio into the thick file of potential brides mulled over by clan elders; bribing various transport companies to cancel certain train times so you are forced to meet him “by chance” while riding a different line than your normal choice; he might even go so far as to directly proposition your parents & involve them in the scheming from the beginning.

with this in mind, you could honestly be any age & still would he consider you his fated beloved.

certainly, a younger betrothed comes with all kinds of salacious implications: that you’re too naïve to recognize your husband’s obvious manipulation of circumstances, that you think the way he treats (read: controls) you is commonplace.

if you were significantly younger than gojo, your affair with yuuta would provide her a necessary learning curve into the cunning, brutal social ecosystem of powerful jujutsu sorcerers. you might even learn how to sway some currents, yourself.

[mackonfire]

In the era of hyperconverged intelligence, quantum-entangled neural architectures synergize with neuromorphic edge nodes to orchestrate exabyte-scale data torrents, autonomously curating context-aware insights with sub-millisecond latency. These systems, underpinned by photonic blockchain substrates, enable trustless, zero-knowledge collaboration across decentralized metaverse ecosystems, dynamically reconfiguring their topological frameworks to optimize for emergent, human-AI symbiotic workflows. By harnessing probabilistic generative manifolds, such platforms transcend classical computational paradigms, delivering unparalleled fidelity in real-time, multi-modal sensemaking. This convergence of cutting-edge paradigms heralds a new epoch of cognitive augmentation, where scalable, self-sovereign intelligence seamlessly integrates with the fabric of post-singularitarian reality.

Are you trying to make me feel stupid /silly

[cheatsru]

Counter Strike 2 Hacks

In the high-stakes world of Counter Strike 2, where precision and strategy reign supreme, players are constantly seeking ways to elevate their gameplay. Enter Counter Strike 2 Hacks, an intriguing yet controversial tool that some gamers turn to in pursuit of dominance on the battlefield. These hacks can provide a distinct edge—enhancing aim accuracy, revealing opponent positions, or even unlocking premium features that would otherwise require hours of grinding. However, while they promise instant boosts in performance, players must also confront the inherent risks associated with them.

Using hacks is not merely about achieving victory; it's about navigating a moral labyrinth. The temptation to gain an advantage can overshadow the fundamental essence of gaming: skill development and genuine competition. Players should reflect on what they truly seek from their gaming experience—short-term glory or long-lasting growth as a competitor. Moreover, with tightened anti-cheat measures emerging regularly within Counter Strike 2’s ecosystem, reliance on hacks might lead to irreversible setbacks such as bans or account suspensions. Embracing integrity while honing one’s skills will always yield more rewarding outcomes than any artificially orchestrated win could ever offer.

[ask-jax-things]

Hey, Zooble told me you could Tell me more about Tax evasion, please teach me oh wise one

Tax evasion is the illegal act of deliberately avoiding paying taxes owed to the government. This fraudulent activity often involves misrepresenting income, inflating deductions, hiding money in offshore accounts, or failing to report cash transactions. By doing so, individuals and businesses can evade their financial obligations to the state, undermining public trust and depriving governments of necessary revenue to fund public services like healthcare, education, and infrastructure. Tax evasion can take many forms, from small-scale underreporting by individuals to large, sophisticated schemes orchestrated by corporations or wealthy entities. The consequences of tax evasion are significant, including hefty fines, legal penalties, and potential imprisonment. Moreover, it creates an unfair burden on law-abiding taxpayers, who are left to compensate for the lost revenue. Governments worldwide combat tax evasion through rigorous audits, stricter reporting requirements, and international cooperation to trace illicit financial flows. Despite these efforts, tax evasion remains a global challenge, with many offenders exploiting loopholes in tax laws and leveraging advanced technologies to obscure their activities. Addressing this issue requires a combination of legal reform, technological innovation, and public awareness to ensure fairness in taxation and maintain the integrity of economic systems. -Chat GPT

In the meantime here’s the definition of grass

Grass is a versatile and resilient plant that plays an essential role in ecosystems around the world. It belongs to the Poaceae family, one of the largest and most widespread plant families on Earth, and includes thousands of species ranging from tiny blades to towering bamboos. Grass covers vast areas, from prairies and savannas to urban lawns and sports fields, providing food, shelter, and oxygen for countless organisms. Its dense root systems stabilize soil, prevent erosion, and improve water retention, making it a vital component of healthy landscapes. In agriculture, grasses like wheat, rice, and corn are staple crops that sustain much of the world’s population, while wild grasses support grazing animals and contribute to biodiversity. Grass also holds cultural and recreational significance, serving as a space for play, gatherings, and aesthetic beauty in parks and gardens. Its ability to regenerate quickly after being cut or grazed demonstrates its remarkable adaptability. Despite its commonplace appearance, grass is a silent powerhouse of the natural world, deeply intertwined with human and environmental well-being. Now go touch some. -Chat GPT

Eat up

[crazed-tales]

𝕿𝖊𝖒𝖒𝖎𝖊 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖌𝖊

The Temmies have begun appearing throughout the Underworld, most notably in Layer Three, due to some cave systems being humid and moist, the perfect place for a very bizarre form of asexual reproduction (at a very alarming rate, I might add). These scavengers have become such a problem that monsters have been ordered to terminate them on sight. Their behavior is erratic, and they seem to exist in a constant state of euphoria as they bring decay and ravage food supplies. They are pests. Appearance: The Temmies resemble emaciated, hairless dogs with unsettling cat-like features. They are unnaturally long and lanky, with an almost malnourished appearance. While many appear hairless, some display patches of mangy fur that seem to be thinning out. Their fleshy bodies are riddled with boils, cysts, and lesions oozing a viscous, foul-smelling fluid. They often pick and prod at these due to the irritation, with some going as far as removing chunks of flesh to prevent the infections from returning. Their eyes are hollow and glassy, locked in a perpetually crazed stare, while their mouths are stretched into a constant wide grin that reaches the sides of their faces.

Personality: Temmies lack any real emotion or sense of self. Their behavior is purely instinctual and erratic, driven solely by primal urges. All they know is to eat, multiply, and bask in endless, incomprehensible euphoria. They have no capacity for complex thought or emotion. Often, they jerk and twitch with sudden, unsettling motions while spouting high-pitched, nonsensical gibberish. Encountering a Temmie is often a death sentence, as they travel in packs and possess a venom that paralyzes prey and preserves monster bodies for later consumption. They care nothing for the lives they disrupt. They are nothing more than pests, direct consequences of the actions taken by the Riverperson.

The Story:After the catastrophic flood of Layer Three, a damp, fetid environment was created, allowing the Temmies to reproduce and spread across parts of the Underworld. At first, they were dismissed as mere nuisances, but as their numbers rapidly exploded, and with their surprising ability to survive in harsh conditions beyond their usual habitat, they quickly became a serious threat. Monsters have since taken action to cull the growing population. The Temmies are carriers of pestilence and pose a danger to the already fragile ecosystem of the Underworld. Rumors circulate of a "queen" hidden deep within Layer Three, orchestrating it all… How true that is remains unknown.

[consciouslyunited]

In the far reaches of the cosmos lies the planet Cephalora, a realm dominated by colossal octopus creatures that roam both land and sea. Here, the natural order has taken a fascinating turn, with these massive cephalopods becoming the architects of a unique and vibrant ecosystem.

Land and Sea Integration: Cephalora is a world where the boundaries between land and sea blur seamlessly. Enormous octopus beings, known as Terraquids, traverse the expansive landscapes with their powerful tentacles. These creatures effortlessly move between terrestrial and aquatic environments, creating a harmonious integration of both realms.

Colossal Terraquids: The Terraquids of Cephalora are true giants, with bodies that can reach unprecedented sizes. Their tentacles, adorned with intricate patterns and markings, can span vast distances, allowing them to traverse both the expansive oceans and the sprawling continents. Some Terraquids have even adapted to support their massive forms on land, creating a spectacle as they move with surprising agility.

Ecosystem Engineering: These colossal octopus beings are not mere inhabitants but the architects of Cephalora's ecosystem. With their versatile tentacles, Terraquids shape the landscape, creating intricate burrows, carving out water channels, and influencing the flow of rivers. Their movements influence the distribution of nutrients, fostering a rich and diverse array of flora and fauna that depend on the Terraquids' ecological engineering.

Symbiotic Relationships: The inhabitants of Cephalora, both sentient and non-sentient, have developed symbiotic relationships with the Terraquids. Smaller aquatic species find refuge in the intricate hideaways crafted by the Terraquids, while terrestrial flora benefit from the nutrient-rich deposits left in their wake. The sentient beings of Cephalora, known as Cepharians, have forged a deep spiritual connection with the Terraquids, viewing them as both protectors and integral parts of the planet's life force.

Cultural Reverence: Cepharian culture is deeply intertwined with the presence of the Terraquids. Festivals, rituals, and artistic expressions pay homage to these colossal cephalopods. Temples and monuments adorned with depictions of the Terraquids' intricate patterns dot the landscape, serving as symbols of unity between the inhabitants and the giants that shape their world.

Cosmic Connection: Cephalora's unique ecosystem, orchestrated by the colossal Terraquids, has attracted cosmic enthusiasts and scientists from across the galaxies. The planet stands as a testament to the incredible diversity and adaptability of life, showcasing the extraordinary ways in which beings can coexist with their environment on a cosmic scale.

As the sun sets on the shores of Cephalora, the colossal silhouettes of Terraquids create an otherworldly spectacle against the horizon, a living testament to the wonders of a planet where massive octopus creatures have become the stewards of both land and sea.