#photon transformation

[ninjawarrior100]

Kaito Tenjo from Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal is:

Bloom from the Winx Club

Reasons:

1) Actually, they have approximately the same height with Kaito being 5'5 (167cm) and Bloom is about 5'6 (170cm)

sources:

2) They have a unique Sailor-Moon transformation:

3) They have dragons:

4) They have good friends-

and rivals:

5) In addition:

6) They're awesome main protagonists:

[ben-talks-art]

Year of the dragon! Who's your favorite dragon in media? 🐲

[autoacafiles]

[dannidorina]

WIPS // you couldn’t have paid me any real dollar amount to convince me I’d have transformers OCs six months ago.

[photonromance]

If you see me back in my Transformers feelings, just know I never left

[ajaydmr]

Global Silicon Photonics Market is expected to Reach a Market value of USD 15.1 billion by 2032 at a CAGR of 26.7%

Exploring the Global Silicon Photonics Market: Trends, Growth, and Future Outlook

The Global Silicon Photonics Market is poised for tremendous growth in the coming years. In 2023, the market is estimated to be valued at USD 1.8 billion and is projected to reach USD 15.1 billion by 2032, growing at a robust compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 26.7%. This market expansion is largely driven by the increasing demand for faster data transfer speeds, particularly in applications such as 5G technology, high-performance computing, and data centers. As we delve into the current trends, growth dynamics, and challenges within this space, it becomes clear that silicon photonics is on the verge of transforming a wide array of industries.

What is Silicon Photonics?

Silicon photonics refers to the integration of photonic devices on a silicon-based platform for the purpose of transmitting and processing data at high speeds. By using silicon as the medium for data transmission, silicon photonics can take advantage of the material's well-established manufacturing processes, cost-effectiveness, and compatibility with existing electronic components. This enables the development of highly efficient photonic devices capable of delivering substantial improvements in both the speed and bandwidth of communication systems.

Unlike traditional electronic circuits, which rely on electrical signals to transfer data, photonic devices use light to carry information. This ability to use light for data transmission, paired with silicon's excellent properties for semiconductor fabrication, is transforming the way data is processed and communicated.

Request Here for a Free PDF Sample Copy of this Report@ https://dimensionmarketresearch.com/report/silicon-photonics-market/request-sample

Key Drivers Behind the Growth of the Silicon Photonics Market

1. Increased Demand for Faster Data Transfer Speeds

The relentless need for faster data transfer speeds, especially driven by 5G networks, cloud computing, AI applications, and big data analytics, is one of the primary drivers for the growth of the silicon photonics market. Silicon photonics can efficiently manage the ever-increasing data traffic by offering a solution that combines the speed of light with the efficiency of silicon manufacturing. This enables the handling of large data volumes and reduces bottlenecks in data transmission, which is vital for modern telecommunication and networking systems.

2. Improved Data Center Performance

Data centers are the backbone of the modern digital economy, and the demand for faster and more reliable data transmission is higher than ever. Silicon photonics technologies are increasingly being adopted to improve data center performance, reduce latency, and increase bandwidth. Photonic solutions, such as Active Optical Cables (AOCs) and optical transceivers, are crucial in overcoming the limitations of copper cables, which struggle with distance and bandwidth restrictions.

3. Advancements in 5G Technology

The advent of 5G technology, which promises high-speed data transfer and ultra-low latency, has significantly impacted the demand for efficient and high-capacity communication systems. Silicon photonics plays a pivotal role in the 5G ecosystem by facilitating the efficient routing of data across networks. Additionally, the high-speed, low-power nature of silicon photonics makes it an ideal choice for 5G applications, including optical switches, optical modulators, and wavelength-division multiplexing (WDM) systems.

4. Cost-Effectiveness and Scalability

Silicon photonics has emerged as a cost-effective alternative to traditional photonic technologies. Silicon, being the most widely used material in semiconductor manufacturing, offers significant economies of scale. Its compatibility with existing silicon-based production processes makes it an ideal choice for mass manufacturing, enabling companies to produce photonic devices at a fraction of the cost of conventional technologies. This scalability is essential in meeting the growing demand for high-capacity communication systems at affordable prices.

5. Advancements in Healthcare and Life Sciences

Beyond communications, silicon photonics is making a significant impact in fields such as healthcare and life sciences. The technology's ability to enable high-speed, high-precision diagnostics and imaging is revolutionizing the medical industry. Silicon photonic biosensors are enabling faster, more accurate diagnostic kits for use in diverse settings, from point-of-care testing to lab-based diagnostics. These innovations are expected to drive further market growth as they become more integral to medical diagnostics.

Buy this Premium Report Here@ https://dimensionmarketresearch.com/checkout/silicon-photonics-market/

Silicon Photonics Market Segmentation

By Component

By Product

By Application

Regional Analysis

North America: Market Leader

North America is poised to maintain its dominant position in the Global Silicon Photonics Market, capturing 49.2% of the revenue share in 2023. This region has seen substantial investment in research and development, with collaborations between universities, research institutes, and key industry players. Additionally, the presence of major companies such as Intel, Cisco, and Marvell Technology has accelerated innovation and adoption of silicon photonics across data centers, telecom networks, and high-performance computing systems.

Asia-Pacific: The Fastest-Growing Region

The Asia-Pacific (APAC) region is witnessing rapid growth in the silicon photonics market, driven by investments in semiconductor manufacturing and technology development in countries such as China, Japan, and South Korea. With a strong manufacturing base and support from governments and research institutions, APAC is expected to be a hotbed for innovation in silicon photonics. The demand for cost-effective, high-performance solutions in industries such as telecommunications, data centers, and consumer electronics is driving the expansion of silicon photonics technologies in this region.

Europe: Innovation Hub

Europe is another key region contributing to the growth of the silicon photonics market, particularly in Germany, the U.K., and France. European countries have been at the forefront of innovation in photonics technologies, with several ongoing initiatives aimed at enhancing the performance and scalability of silicon photonics components.

Competitive Landscape

The Global Silicon Photonics Market is highly competitive, with several established players driving the industry forward. Companies are investing heavily in research and development to create cutting-edge solutions that meet the growing demand for high-speed, high-bandwidth systems. Some of the key players in the market include:

These companies are focused on developing advanced products such as AOCs, transceivers, and WDM filters, while also exploring new materials and technologies to enhance the performance and scalability of silicon photonics devices.

FAQs

1. What is the Global Silicon Photonics Market? The Global Silicon Photonics Market refers to the market for photonic devices and components built on a silicon-based platform. These devices use light to transmit and process data at high speeds, enabling faster, more efficient communication systems, particularly in telecommunications, data centers, and high-performance computing.

2. What are the key drivers of growth in the silicon photonics market? The key drivers include the increasing demand for faster data transfer speeds, particularly due to 5G technology, the growing need for improved data center performance, advancements in healthcare and medical diagnostics, and silicon photonics' cost-effectiveness compared to traditional photonic technologies.

3. What are the major applications of silicon photonics? Silicon photonics is used in a wide range

of applications, including IT & telecom, healthcare & life sciences, consumer electronics, and defense & security. It is particularly prominent in data centers, telecommunications, and high-speed communications networks.

4. What are the challenges faced by the silicon photonics market? Key challenges include thermal effects arising from silicon's light absorption, which may cause device overheating, and difficulties in integrating photonic and electronic components on the same chip. Additionally, developing cost-effective, high-performance silicon photonics solutions is an ongoing challenge.

5. Which region dominates the silicon photonics market? North America is the dominant region in the silicon photonics market, holding the largest market share. However, the Asia-Pacific region is the fastest-growing, with significant investments in research and development and a robust manufacturing base.

Conclusion

The Global Silicon Photonics Market is witnessing remarkable growth driven by increasing demand for high-speed data transfer, especially in the telecommunications and IT sectors. As industries such as healthcare, defense, and consumer electronics continue to embrace the benefits of silicon photonics, the market is poised for significant innovation and expansion. With advancements in technology, particularly in 5G, data centers, and medical diagnostics, silicon photonics will continue to be a key enabler of the digital transformation. However, companies must address the challenges related to device integration and thermal management to fully unlock the potential of this transformative technology.

About Us

Dimension Market Research (DMR) is the ultimate one step solution to all your research needs and requirements. Dimension Market Research is India and US based company, we have headquarter in USA (New York) with offices in Asia pacific region. Dimension Market Research is specifically designed to provide most relevant syndicated, customized and tailor made market research to suit your specific business needs. 

[snowseasonmademe]

What’s your dream ride?

word count: 6,171

warning ‼️: smut

pairing: william saliba x black female reader

summary: you finally play into the rumors and a night a slow seduction deepens your connection

tag list: @sucredreamer @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@amirawrah @simplementemeencantafutbol

@kjlovesbigwilo @kyoshithewriter

note: hey y’all. my writers block is gone (for now) and finally wrote something after 564 days🥳. i actually had this idea ahead ago but i haven’t been able to wrote anything. no song this time, crazy lol. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spotlight was where you thrived. Not just a place you stepped into, but a place you belonged—like a second skin stitched from gold thread and flashbulbs. You didn’t just stand there for attention; you existed there, luxuriated in it, stretched yourself across its glow like you were soaking in sun on the French Riviera. The light found you and lingered, as if even photons were seduced by your presence.

The cameras, the murmuring crowds, the rising tide of admiration that always seemed to follow in your wake—they weren’t distractions. They were fuel. You moved like a secret whispered on velvet. Every gaze that trailed behind you fed something warm and pulsing inside your chest. Something electric. You loved being watched, not in some hollow, thirsty way, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who knew they were worth watching. You didn’t chase attention—it chased you, breathless and grateful.

You weren’t the type to try. You didn’t need to. You were the woman they designed phrases like “showstopper” for. The one who walked into a room and made even the chandeliers pause. Heads turned not because you demanded it—but because not turning felt like a mistake. Your presence was magnetic, your allure effortless. You were the main event in every room you entered, and you wore that truth like perfume: subtly, seductively, completely.

You liked your life the way you liked your drinks—fast, full-bodied, and with a little bit of a kick.

You craved momentum. You thrived in the blur of packed calendars and back-to-back calls. You wanted your name on everyone’s tongue—group chats, editorials, podcast recaps, late-night tweets. You didn’t just live in the moment; you owned it. And modeling, well… modeling didn’t just suit you. It was written in your bones.

To you, it wasn’t a job. It was tempo. It was transformation. You could turn it on like a light—be storm or siren, flame or silk. You understood angles the way a dancer understands gravity, knew when to soften and when to scorch. And when the camera flash cracked the air like lightning? You gave it thunder. You gave it legend.

And fame? Fame never rattled you. You wore it like vintage Versace—bold, intentional, a little cheeky. You smiled at the whispers, winked at the headlines, never let your crown tilt. Fame was the easiest part. You didn’t chase it. You invited it in, offered it a drink, told it to take off its shoes and stay awhile.

Of course, the perks were nice. The way velvet ropes parted like scripture when you approached. The hotel suites. The fashion house gifts. The stylist who FaceTimed you from Paris when a last-minute gala popped up in Cannes. But the real magic was in the small, sparkling details: handwritten notes from designers who said you were their muse. Messages from fans who swore you’d made them feel beautiful just by existing. Little girls clutching your campaign ads with their eyes wide and their hair in braids, whispering that they wanted to be you one day.

That part kept your feet on the ground. That part reminded you that what you were doing meant something.

But if there was one thing—just one—you couldn’t stand?

It was the way people treated your love life like public property.

Not your skincare routine. Not your clothes or your shoot locations or the hotel you were spotted leaving. No—him. Whoever he was at the time. The man beside you in one blurry photo and suddenly you had a whole new narrative.

You could tolerate curiosity when it was shallow. But this was invasive. Speculative. Obsessive. Every dinner outing became a Reddit thread. Every hand brush or shared laugh became a fucking thesis paper. Theories built off the shape of a shoulder. Your happiness dissected like gossip was an Olympic sport.

At first, you pushed back. You denied, deflected, dodged every “Who are you seeing?” like it was a punch. You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But eventually… something shifted. You stopped fighting. Stopped hiding. Started playing the game your way.

Let the rumors hang in the air like perfume. Let the people guess.

A little mystery wasn’t just protection. It was power.

Like tonight.

Tonight, you weren’t just in the spotlight—you owned it. On the red carpet for the highly anticipated F1 movie premiere, you were nothing short of divine. A vision dressed in liquid moonlight. Custom, of course. A designer two-piece crafted just for you: a white satin bustier, sculpted to frame your body like it had studied you first. The beading at the hem sparkled with each breath you took. The trousers—wide-legged, trailing the floor—moved like melted pearl, rippling over your heels like they were floating. Around your neck, diamonds dripped like water. Your skin glowed like dusk. Your hair was pulled sleek, not a strand out of place. And your lips—plush, painted, kissable—curved in the kind of smile that made photographers forget their settings.

You looked like wealth. Like elegance dipped in sin. Like you knew something everyone else didn’t.

And maybe you did.

Because tonight… you were thinking of him.

William.

The French defender. The wall of muscle wrapped in calm. A man who made silence sexy. Whispers had followed the two of you for weeks—restaurant sightings, hotel lobbies, courtside seats at games. Photos that weren’t exactly damning, but weren’t innocent either. A laugh shared too close. A hoodie that may or may not have been his. Internet sleuths were working overtime. Was it a PR stunt? A new situationship? Was it love or lust?

You weren’t saying. Not yet.

As you made your way down the press line, the usual questions came: “Who are you wearing?” “Do you follow Formula 1?” “Are you team Mercedes or team Ferrari?” You answered smoothly, charmingly, letting your voice curl like smoke. And then it came. The question you’d been waiting for.

“We’ve seen you out with a certain someone recently,” the journalist teased, eyebrow arched, tone playful. “What’s going on with that?”

You didn’t blink. You smiled, slow and sweet, head tilting just so. A laugh like honey spilled from your lips.

“I’ve been seen with a lot of people lately,” you said, teasing right back. “Life’s moving fast—I can’t track every person I’ve seen.”

Another laugh. Breathier this time. A glimmer in your eye. The journalist grinned, knowing she wouldn’t get more. Not yet.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “Last one. What’s your dream ride, Ms. Y/N?”

You let it linger. Let your lips part as your tongue tucked into your cheek. Your eyes went to the camera. And then—

“My dream ride?” you repeated, voice syrupy. “A Rolls Royce.”

You smiled like you knew something they didn’t. Because you did. And with that, you turned and walked away, heels clicking like applause trailing behind you. You checked your phone briefly before heading inside the theater.

And there it was.

Already posted. Already viral. Already on his For You Page.

Wilo – *link to the video*

Can get you your dream ride.

You – How quickly?

Wilo – 8 days. 6 if I’m lucky.

You – Expedite shipping please 🙏🏾.

Wilo – Will do what I can. See you soon sexy x.

You bit your lip as you locked your phone, the flutter in your stomach unmistakable.

He always knew how to keep you smiling.

~~~~~~~

Later that night, curled on your couch under a cashmere throw, skin still glowing with champagne and attention, you opened Instagram one last time. Posted a story thanking the premiere team. Tagged the designer. Then sat back, letting the comments roll in.

“you’re fw wilo i knew it!!!”

“new WAG alert 🚨🚨🚨”

“she bad af AND she got saliba? i’m not okay”

“ok but imagine how good the sex is 😭😭😭”

“tell wilo to tell saka i love him 😏”

“you didn’t confirm it but you didn’t deny it either 👀”

“you’re a goddess. period.”

You laughed out loud, the screen casting a soft light on your face.

It wasn’t a hard launch. Not quite a secret either. It was something better—something soft, luxurious, intentional. Like silk over skin. A reveal that hinted without screaming. That let you have something for yourself, while giving the public just enough to feed on.

And that felt… good. Right. Like breathing for the first time in weeks.

Because the truth was, those twelve names they’d paired you with over the past year?

They didn’t matter.

There was only one man who made your heart thud when your phone lit up.

Only one who touched you like your body was gospel.

Only one you were willing to be patient for, to risk it all for.

His name?

William.

Wilo.

Your dream ride.

~~~~~~

Now here you were.

Days later. Different outfit, same ache in your belly.

Because he listened—of course he did.

Wilo was many things: fine as hell, easy to read, sometimes slow with his texts—but when it mattered, he heard you. He always did. He read between the playful, flirty lines you texted after the premiere. Picked up on your hints like signals sent in code. He caught every one.

And then he moved.

Quietly, smoothly, confidently.

He expedited the shipping of himself right to your damn door like he was the package. Fragile, maybe. But fully intact. Fine as hell. Marked priority.

It didn’t take six days. Or eight like he said it might.

It took five. Just five.

And honestly? You’d take five days of silence in exchange for the look on his face when you opened the door—over and over again, without question.

Because that look had done something to you.

And everything since then had made it harder to pretend like this was casual. Like y’all weren’t careening straight into something big and breathless and impossible to deny.

No more games.

No more ducking cameras. No more strategic exits or slipping out of hotel lobbies like shadows. No more avoiding each other’s tags in Instagram photos, no more “that could be anyone’s arm” captions. No more pretending like you didn’t spend most of your week wrapped up in each other.

You weren’t hiding anymore.

You were moving through the world together now.

Arms linked. Steps matching like rhythm. Bodies tilting into each other like you’d done it for lifetimes. Every touch was second nature. Every glance told a secret. Every sidewalk became a runway when you walked beside him.

And people noticed.

Oh, did they notice.

You trended for three days straight. Three. Days.

Your names bounced off each other in hashtags like echoes. Twitter could barely keep its lungs. Every five minutes, someone reposted a blurry photo of the two of you: laughing, holding hands, sharing a look so heavy it could sink a ship. Existing in the same frame was enough to send entire fandoms into tailspins.

You were becoming the dream couple of someone’s stan account fantasy.

The soft launch to end all soft launches.

A couple curated by God, styled by accident, photographed by fate.

Even your orbits started bleeding into each other.

Some of his teammates had started following you.

Your mom followed him—him!—and had the nerve to send you a screenshot like, “He seems sweet. I like his eyes.”

You’d been caught doing normal things: shopping for groceries, making out in the back of some building you were doing fittings at for an upcoming show, comparing the scents of fabric softener like you were building a home, laughing outside a corner store with matching plastic bags swinging from your hands. He kissed your temple like it was routine. Tied your sneaker on a public sidewalk like it didn’t matter who saw.

At one point, you caught yourself fussing in his hair—standing between his knees as he sat on a bench outside your apartment—and realized…

You were acting like he was yours.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he liked it that way.

The truth was simple: you’d both stopped pretending.

There were still no labels. No contract. No talk of titles or timelines.

But there was… this.

Whatever this was—sweet, slow, electric. The two of you wrapped around each other like you were studying, tracing, learning. Getting close enough to burn but never pull away.

And sure—maybe it scared you. Maybe the speed of it made your heart knock sideways in your chest.

But you didn’t show it.

Because tonight? Tonight was easy.

One of your favorite kinds of nights: no pressure, no flashing lights. Just you and Wilo, walking hand-in-hand down your block to the little Italian place you loved—the family-owned one that always played Anita Baker like it was church, the one where the gnocchi melted in your mouth and the chef greeted you with a hug.

The hostess led you to your usual table by the window without even asking.

You stood across from him, pretending to study the menu.

But the truth was, you couldn’t concentrate on anything.

Not when he looked like that.

Not with that fresh damn haircut. That razor-sharp fade that made him look even more edible than usual. Skin deep and golden under the glow of the wall sconces. Jaw dusted with the clean edge of his beard. Eyes slow and knowing, lips parted slightly every time he said your name.

Every time he licked them?

It was like being touched without contact.

Your brain stopped functioning properly somewhere around the wine menu. It was too much. Too sharp. Too clean. Every glance was a seduction. Every movement, an invitation. You started fidgeting with yourshirt, thighs pressing tighter together every time he leaned in.

You were not going to make it through a meal.

When the waiter came to check on you, you didn’t even pretend.

“Can we have it to go, please?” you asked sweetly, voice wrapped in velvet.

Wilo blinked, surprised. “I thought we stay and eat ‘ere?”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “I’d rather eat at home.”

He stared at you for a beat.

Then his mouth curled slowly. Lazily. Like he knew exactly what was waiting at home and couldn’t wait to unwrap it.

He reached, pulled you in gently—arms folding around your shoulders, chin resting on your crown like he could hear your pulse from there.

“Okay,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your hair. “We eat at home.”

You melted against him, cheek resting on his chest as you took in the scent of him. Expensive. Warm. Slightly sweet. Like cedar and cream and something uniquely him.

“Mm.” A hum slipped from your throat uninvited.

He chuckled low and deep, the sound vibrating through your bones.

“I know bébé,” he said, mouth near your ear. “We will be home soon. You can ride your Rolls Royce.”

You laughed, a soft, surprised snort that crumpled against his hoodie.

He always knew.

Maybe your thoughts were just too loud around him. Or maybe he really saw you—heard the things you didn’t say, felt the way your body responded to his like a magnet.

Either way, at that point, you were ninety-nine percent sure the entire restaurant could guess what the rest of the night had in store.

And honestly? You didn’t care.

~~~~~~

Back at your place, the clothes came off before the lights even had a chance to come on.

Well—his clothes.

You had rules. House rules. The kind that kept your energy clean and your peace preserved.

No outside clothes in the bedroom.

No exceptions, no matter how fine the man.

So like he’d done before, Wilo stepped over the threshold of your sanctuary and peeled himself out of the day like it didn’t belong here. Left his hoodie near the door. Kicked off his sneakers with the laces still tied. Shrugged out of his shirt like it owed him nothing.

You slipped into the closet, traded your dinner outfit for something soft—just a black tank and cotton shorts that skimmed your thighs and hugged your hips. Comfortable. Breathable. Slightly dangerous.

When you stepped back out, he was in front of the vanity mirror—shirtless, brushing out his curls with an easy, self-assured rhythm that made your mouth water. Calm. Casual. Knowing exactly what he looked like.

And still pretending like he didn’t.

The shorts on his hips hung low. Teasingly low. Just enough to show off the deep dip of his waist, the firm line of his stomach, the warm sheen of skin kissed by lamplight. His back flexed with every movement. Shoulders broad. Collarbone gleaming.

You bit your lip, pulse kicking.

The only thing you could think, over and over, was:

Don’t bother fixing your hair, baby. I’m about to ruin it anyway.

He caught you in the mirror—your gaze hungry, your posture poised.

And he turned slowly. Walked to you like he had all the time in the world. Stopped at your knees, opened your legs a bit so he could step between them as you sat on the bed. Reached down with both hands and cradled your face.

Held it like it was art.

Held you like you were his.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Like silk. Like sky. Like something sacred.

Your hands rose instinctively, fingers wrapping gently around his wrists—not to pull him closer. Just to feel him. Anchor yourself. Let him know you were here. You were ready.

He pulled back just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you—really look.

“You tell a lot of people about us,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just… observant.

You blinked. Searched his eyes. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Non,” he said with a faint shake of his head. “But you move fast… all the time. We can be slow… sometime.”

A kiss followed. Featherlight.

You smiled, lips brushing his. “Whatever you want baby.”

Then you kissed him again. For real this time—mouth open, breath shallow, body leaning in. Your fingers skimmed his skin like a map you already knew by heart, but wanted to rediscover just the same.

And that was it.

That cracked him open.

He melted into you, pressing you down into the sheets like you were made to be there. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, palms trailing over your skin like they had a purpose, like they had faith.

He found your waist—warm, firm.

Slid up your ribs. Up your sides. Reverent.

Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was velvet.

And the rest of the world vanished.

The kissing didn’t stop.

Didn’t stutter. Didn’t stray.

It just deepened—grew more molten, more intentional, more spellbound by the gravity of being this close to someone who truly saw you. Who felt you like music. Like sunlight. Like a slow tide pulling two bodies into the same current.

You moved together beneath the sheets like something blooming in real time. Tangled limbs and flexing hips. A slow, steady grind that built from the center and spread outward. Breath became sound—quiet moans slipping from your lips, low grunts blooming in his throat. Heat collected in the space between you. A hush of friction. A rustle of cotton. A hiss every time a new nerve lit up from a touch that felt too good to be gentle.

One of his hands found your neck. Not tight, not demanding—just resting. Just holding. A reminder that you were here. That he was too. The other slipped beneath your waistband, bold and familiar, nestling right where you needed him most. His fingers explored you like he was reading Braille—slow and sure, mapping every tender spot, coaxing them open with reverence.

Your hand mirrored his. Slid around the weight of him like a practiced secret. Stroking in time with his rhythm. Giving back what he gave you. Matching his patience with your own.

You were in sync.

More than that.

You were in communion.

Breath to breath. Pulse to pulse.

Each of you listening without speaking, answering without words.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat already misting the edges of his hairline, and his lips brushed your cheek before hovering by your ear.

“Want you so much bébé ” he whispered, voice gravel-warm and laced with restraint. “Can I have you?”

It wasn’t just a question.

It was a petition. A promise. A vow tucked inside a breath.

And your answer floated out of you on instinct.

“Yeees.”

That single word cracked the world open.

He pulled away, exhaling hard, chest rising and falling as he crossed the room like a man possessed. Focused. Needing. His shorts came off without preamble, hitting the floor in a soft puddle.

And there he was.

All of him. Unapologetic. Glorious.

That wasn’t just anatomy. That was worship.

The kind of beauty that made you ache.

Made you want to drop to your knees and praise him with every inch of your mouth.

Your breath caught. Lips parting slightly as you stared—eyes wide, chest fluttering with anticipation. He was already hard, already slick at the tip, already impossible not to want. You watched as he reached for his bag, tore open a golden square with his teeth, and slid the condom on with the care of someone handling fine silk.

You bit your finger nail, unable to hide the hunger in your voice.

“You ever get back pain from that thing?”

He chuckled, low and indulgent. “Non. You hold it for me.”

He took a step toward the bed like he meant to climb back on top of you—but your hand on his chest stopped him. Firm. Commanding. Sweet.

“Mm-mm,” you shook your head. “Sit against the headboard for me.”

Something in his expression shifted. His brows lifted slightly, but the glint in his eyes darkened. Curious. Obedient. Turned all the way on. He circled around to the head of the bed and sat, legs parted just enough, muscles flexing beneath his skin like they were answering only to you.

His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slow—just enough to keep the edge from fraying.

And then you moved.

You crawled to him like temptation incarnate, hips swaying, arms graceful, your whole body fluid like seaweed uner soft waves. You weren’t rushing. No. You were savoring. Drawing out the moment like it was dessert. Like he was something to unwrap, taste, and savor down to the last drop.

When you reached him, he looked like he’d already lost the first round. His lips were parted, his jaw tense, his breathing shallow and uneven.

You straddled his lap, heat pooling where your thighs met his. But you didn’t sink down onto him—not yet. You hovered. Teased. Touched. Your hand found his again and replaced it, fingers curling around his length with care, with confidence. Your strokes were slow and precise, pressure perfect.

He hissed. Jaw clenched. Muscles tightening.

“You ready for me baby?” you asked, voice soft but heavy. Thick with need.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and drowning in lust. But when he looked at you—really looked—he saw something new. Your pupils blown wide, irises nearly consumed by desire. Your eyes looked like twin obsidian stones—glimmering, hungry, bottomless.

And he loved it.

Loved the way you didn’t hold back.

Loved that you let him see just how badly you needed him.

Loved being the reason for the unraveling.

“Of course,” he said hoarsely. “I’m always ready for you.”

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your flushed wet lips, the rise of your chest, the softness of your thighs wrapping around his. And lower, to where your hand still worked him with slow reverence, each stroke promising more.

He groaned. Deep and broken. His hands found your ass, kneading and spreading, anchoring you to him like a man unwilling to risk losing his center of gravity.

But you weren’t done yet.

You let go of his shoulder long enough to tilt his chin up with your fingers, bringing his gaze back to yours.

“Up here,” you said, your tone silk-wrapped steel. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

His breath hitched. His eyes held yours.

He was used to your voice. Commanding in boardrooms. Charming in public. Playful in private.

But this?

This was something else. Something potent.

And he gave into it willingly.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Y/N.”

You smiled at the sound of your name on his tongue. Like a promise. Like a surrender.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” you asked, slowing your strokes, letting the weight of the question settle in the space between you.

His throat flexed as he swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“How many times?”

You leaned forward, mouth brushing his ear. Teeth grazing the lobe.

He shivered.

“As many as you want bébé.”

That did it.

Your smile turned wicked. Dangerous.

Your body swayed forward, mouth catching his in a kiss so deep it felt like a plunge into warm water.

And the night finally began.

Not with a bang.

But with a promise.

With a rhythm.

With you, riding him into a place where only the two of you existed.

And neither of you planned to come back anytime soon

You guided him in silence—fingers wrapped firmly around the base, angling him just right. His thick, glistening tip slid through your folds, slow and sure, not entering—just there. Stroking. Teasing. Claiming.

The first brush over your clit sent a jolt through your spine—so sudden, so sharp, it left your thighs trembling.

You moved him again, gliding him up and down through the slick heat of your arousal. Wetness coated him easily, like your body had been waiting all night for this exact moment. The glide turned your breath shallow. Your lips parted. Your head tipped back, spine arching as sensation bloomed everywhere at once.

But still, even with your body writhing in response, you kept one hand steady on his jaw—tilting his face toward yours. Holding his gaze.

Look at me.

You needed him to see.

See what he did to you—how you came undone with nothing but the head of him resting against you. How your breath caught. How your chest rose. How your need poured out like prayer.

His grip on your ass tightened—rough and possessive.

“Ughhh, Wilo,” you moaned, your voice a soft rasp, heavy with need.

That was all it took. He surged forward, mouth on your neck like he’d been starved for it—dragging lips, grazing teeth, open-mouthed kisses stamped against your skin with growing urgency. Every touch was wetter than the last, darker, deeper. Like he wanted to mark you. Map the shape of you in kisses and bites.

His hands slid upward, slow but sure, settling at your waist.

No more waiting.

He lifted you in one smooth motion, the strength in his arms making your stomach tighten. You braced yourself on his shoulders as he guided you down, the head of him pressing again at your entrance.

The stretch knocked the wind from your lungs.

You eased down inch by inch, the fullness taking your breath with it. That slow burn that always made your thighs shake. That feeling of being split open just right.

“Ahh—shit,” you both moaned together, tangled voices breaking in the quiet.

“So big,” you whispered against his mouth, forehead resting to his, toes curling against the sheets.

He held your waist steady, strong hands keeping you grounded while you adjusted. He never rushed you. Never pushed. Just let you take him slow, let you feel all of him. Every inch. Every ridge. Like he wanted you to remember what you were made to take.

When your hips finally pressed flush to his, your walls fluttering around him, you leaned in and kissed him deep—tongue sliding, lips sucking, kissing him like you were trying to crawl inside his chest.

Your hips began to move, slow and fluid. A soft rock forward, then back. Each grind deep and dragging, making him moan into your mouth.

His head fell back with a soft thud against the wall, a strangled breath leaving his chest like it’d been punched out of him.

“Ugh—Y/N… if you keep doing that—I will cum fast,” he warned, voice rough, body twitching beneath you.

His grip on your hips tightened, trying to slow you down—but you didn’t give him room.

“That’s okay,” you purred, breath hot at his ear. “We can go again.”

You flexed around him deliberately, rolling your hips harder now, deeper, each movement soaked in heat and want.

He unraveled beneath you.

A long, broken grunt tore from his chest. His hands clutched your ass, squeezing, spreading—like he needed to anchor himself to you. Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

You felt it. The tremble in his thighs. The pulse of him inside you. Once. Twice. A third.

Then stillness—his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin.

“Damn babe…” you laughed softly, chest heaving as your muscles relaxed.

“I told you,” he groaned, voice slurred with pleasure as he leaned back to look at you, eyes hazy, grin crooked. “You feel too good. I can’t last. But next time, I will.”

You kissed him sweetly, mouth soft and lazy with satisfaction. He lifted you gently, easing out with care, and you gasped at the loss—still aching even after.

He stood, peeled off the condom, and tossed it, pulling another from the drawer without a word. There was no teasing this time. Just hunger. Just intent.

He climbed back into bed with purpose, hands on your thighs, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

And this time, he teased first.

He took your hand in his, wrapping it around his softening length, guiding you into slow, steady strokes—reviving him beneath your palm.

But while you worked him, he worked you.

His fingers dipped between your legs without warning—two thick digits sliding in effortlessly, coated in the aftermath of your shared high. The heat of your body clung to him.

Then he curled his fingers forward—hard and sure—right into that sweet, swollen spot that made your hips jerk and your breath vanish.

You gasped, back arching, toes digging into the mattress.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me get you ready again.”

But you already were.

You were soaked. Open. Trembling.

Still full of everything he’d just given you and desperate to take more

Your arousal was a symphony—bold, shameless, wet. The slick sound of his fingers working inside you echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls like water bursting from a cracked pipe. Every stroke carved new waves of heat into your skin, crashing between your thighs, loud enough to rival your moans and ragged breaths.

“F- uck, William,” you gasped, voice fraying at the edges as he curled just right.

That spot.

The spot.

The one that made the world fade to static. The one that seized your lungs and swallowed your breath whole.

Your thighs jumped. Your hands trembled. Your head rolled back so far it nearly cracked against the wall.

You lost your grip on him. Your hand slipped from his length without a second thought, useless now—your body hijacked, your mind white with want. But that didn’t matter. Not to him. Watching you come undone was enough. More than enough. His chest rose and fell faster. His jaw clenched tight. His dick pulsed against your thigh like it was knocking, begging, waiting for its turn.

“Right ‘ere?” he murmured low, teasing—fingers relentless.

“Ooohh—yes,” you cried, eyes glassy and dazed. “Right fuckin’ there—yes.”

Your nails dug crescents into his shoulders. You braced yourself as he dragged you to the edge, each thrust of his fingers rough and reverent. He watched your face like it held scripture, reading every twitch, every plea in the arch of your brow and the part of your lips.

But you stopped him.

You grabbed his wrist, breath ragged. “Wait—wait… I don’t wanna cum yet,” you pleaded, voice nearly breaking. “I need you inside me.”

He obeyed instantly. Fingers sliding out, glistening, dripping. He brought them to his mouth without hesitation, licking them clean in long, hungry strokes. And the sight of him tasting you—savoring you—cracked something open deep inside.

You surged forward, crashing into his mouth like a wave. Tongue greedy. Lips fierce. Both hands cradled his face like you were afraid it might vanish. You kissed him like you needed to taste yourself in his mouth to believe this was real.

And while your tongues tangled, you slid down onto him again—one smooth, searing stroke. You took him like you were made for it, like your body had only ever been meant to house him.

He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your ribs.

“Y/N…”

You rolled your hips with slow, devastating grace—each lift and drop, a spell you put him deeper into. He groaned again, voice hoarse and wrecked, his hands back on your ass, dragging you down, deeper. And you let him.

You lived for this part. For the unraveling. For the moment when cool, collected Wilo—the man the world thought they knew—shattered under your touch and revealed the hunger he hid from cameras. That fire? That desperation? It was only for you.

“Fuck,” you hissed through clenched teeth as he started thrusting up, hard, matching your rhythm stroke for stroke.

“You feel me bébé?” he asked, eyes glued to you—dark, wide, worshipful.

That look… that look could’ve ruined cities. It nearly ruined you.

His eyes weren’t just hungry—they were drenched in awe. Lust. Reverence. Like you were the altar and the sermon.

“Keep looking at me Wilo,” you whispered, breath catching as your hips ground harder. “Don’t stop.”

The room answered for him—music made of flesh and breath and love. Wet slaps. Swollen lips in every form. Hushed moans. Raspy graons. Nasty words. The rustle of sheets. The creak of the bed. The sharp gasp when he bottomed out. Burning muscles. Every sound a chord in your own private symphony of worship and want.

Your bodies gleamed in the low light, drenched in sweat and lust. Your neck shimmered. Your lips were swollen. Your moans spilled like dark chocolate over his ears, rich and molten.

And then you shifted gears.

You began to ride him with purpose. With fire. With ownership. Like you were claiming what was yours, not asking for it.

“Harder baby,” you said—and he listened.

His hands clamped down on your hips and pulled you down to meet every sharp, punishing thrust. He slammed into you with force—deep and demanding—his thighs slapping against your ass like applause. You welcomed it. Craved it.

You buried your hands in his curls and tugged, grounding yourself as you bounced faster, filthier, hips meeting with a sinful rhythm.

“Oh my God, fuck, William—right there. Yessss,” you moaned, eyes wide, voice shattering around the edges of pleasure.

“This pussy feels so fucking good,” he groaned, jaw slack, voice thick with reverence as your walls clenched around him again.

Another slap landed on your ass—loud, stinging, perfect. Then he gripped you again, harder this time, like he wanted to etch the memory of your body into his palms.

Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building eavesdrop. Let them all listen. You didn’t care.

The bed howled beneath you. A pillow flew to the floor. The windows fogged.

And still—you rode.

He licked his thumb, reached between you, and pressed it against your clit. Tight, furious circles.

“Make me cum baby. Please I’m right there.” you begged, a cry, a command, your voice cracking as the pressure climbed to unbearable.

He didn’t speak. He just worked.

You screamed.

Your back arched. Your hands clawed at his chest. Your thighs shook as heat surged through you like fire in your veins. Your body clenched, shook, broke.

Your ass clapped. Your legs locked. Your pussy gripped him like a vice.

And then it happened.

You froze—mouth open, eyes wild—then moaned loud and long as your orgasm overtook you. It hit like lightning. Your body stuttered. Your hips jerked. Your walls fluttered around him, dripping, milking, claiming.

That was it.

He growled your name like a curse and a prayer, his whole body seizing as he thrust once, twice—then spilled into the condom with a sound that split the air between worship and surrender.

You collapsed into him, chest to chest, forehead pressed to his. Both of you heaving. Both of you dazed. Drunk on sweat and sex and each other.

He wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you might drift away. One hand stroked your ass softly now—like he hadn’t just marked it as his.

“You okay?” he murmured, his fingertips tracing light, lazy circles on your back.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling into his neck, your voice syrup-sweet and sleepy.

Then you pulled back, lips still tingling, and whispered, “Just thinking about if I wanna be on top again next round. It’s a lot of work being a chauffeur.”

He chuckled—low, warm, real. You felt it in his chest before you heard it in his throat.

But you weren’t joking.

You’d driven him all night.

And needless to say—

you rode your Rolls Royce till the gas light blinked red.

[theneptuneflytrap]

Since new people are joining the Transformers fandom I thought I'd make a couple post's about different characters that can be seen in the background of TF: One. Specifically, I wanted to repost their original toy tech specs and their Marvel Bios. Firstly, Jazz:

Left: Jazz in Tf: One, Right: Jazz from the 1984 Marvel comics

His original toy tech spec reads: "Jazz loves Earth culture. Always looking to learn more. His knowledge of Earth makes him the indispensable right-hand man to Optimus Prime. Takes most dangerous missions. Very cool, very stylish, very competent. Equipped with photon rifle, flamethrower, full-spectrum beacon, 180db stereo speakers. Creates dazzling, disorienting sound and light shows. Versatile, clever, daring, but prone to be distracted".

His quote (most Western tf toys came with a quote): "Do it with style or don't bother doing it."

The following information is from Marvel's "Transformers Universe"

Function: Special Operations, Saboteur

Profile: "Jazz would be cruising down Bourbon Street in New Orleans or be double-parked outside a cellar club in Greenwich Village soaking up the local sounds if he weren't in the middle of a war. He's a confirmed Earthen culture junkie-he can talk fluently about ballet or break-dancing (although he prefers the latter), and he's always on the lookout for more stuff to turn on to. His knowledge of Earthen ways and his easy adaptability to Earthen environments make him the indispensable right-hand man of his commander, Optimus Prime. He's often given the most dangerous assignments, and, with characteristic coolness, usually pulls them off using something out of his seemingly bottomless bag of tricks. He'd rather dazzle you with style than accomplish a mission the easy way".

The abilities section is a near copy of the tech spec but it adds: "His biggest asset is the versatility and cleverness he possesses in using the resources at his disposal".

Finally, Weaknesses: "Although Jazz's fire-power and strength are weak relatives to that of some of the other Autobots, he more than compensates with his daring and skill. He's prone to be distracted from his primary assignment by Earthen behavior pattern that he finds interesting. this sometimes leads to disastrous consequences".

And there you go! I hope this gives any new fans a good idea about what he's like!

[dark-falz]

The boss was meant to be gigantic, so we decided to go with a worm, as we wanted to create a sense of gigantic size with its length. The person in charge was new to this kind of design, so he consulted various sources and studied armor and body colors, and it seems he had a hard time expressing its strength and poisonousness. In fact, it seems he had even more trouble moving it… The shell-like, or skull-like helmet on the head was added along with the tentacles, in response to a request for a distinctive face. /Satoshi Sakai

A giant worm that lurks in the underground waterways. Its overall length is larger than that of a dragon. Its head is covered in a hard shell, so a blunt attack cannot penetrate its armor.

Its main means of attack are the beam-like photons it spits out of its mouth and the scattered photon bullets it fires from its head. In addition, the destructive power of the mine-like parasites and tentacles it occasionally spits out cannot be ignored.

The tentacles extending from its head are organs for injecting bodily fluids into other living things. The injected living things are transformed into something completely different from their original nature. Research has shown that the Altered Beasts that appear in the cave are born in this way.

This monster was created in response to a request for a long enemy. Apparently, the design was inspired by the worms in the SS software "Panzer Dragoon." Also, initially, mammoth-like enemies and sandworms were also considered for the boss.

[mindblowingscience]

Researchers at Heriot-Watt University have made a discovery that could pave the way for a transformative era in photonic technology. For decades, scientists have theorized the possibility of manipulating the optical properties of light by adding a new dimension—time. This once-elusive concept has now become a reality thanks to nanophotonics experts from the School of Engineering and Physical Sciences in Edinburgh, Scotland. Published in Nature Photonics , the team's breakthrough emerged from experiments with nanomaterials known as transparent conducting oxides (TCOs)—a special glass capable of changing how light moves through the material at incredible speeds. These compounds are widely found in solar panels and touchscreens and can be shaped as ultra-thin films measuring just 250 nanometers (0.00025 mm), smaller than the wavelength of visible light. Led by Dr. Marcello Ferrera, Associate Professor of Nanophotonics, of the Heriot-Watt research team, supported by colleagues from Purdue University in the US, managed to "sculpt" the way TCOs react by radiating the material with ultra-fast pulses of light. Remarkably, the resulting temporally engineered layer was able to simultaneously control the direction and energy of individual particles of light, known as photons, a functionality which, up until now, had been unachievable.

Continue Reading.

[mysticstronomy]

IT IS POSSIBLE TO TURN LIGHT INTO SOLID??

Blog#488

Saturday, March 15th, 2025.

For the first time, researchers have transformed light into a "'supersolid" — a strange state of matter that is both solid and liquid at the same time.

Although scientists have made supersolids out of atoms before, this is the first instance of coupling light and matter to create a supersolid and it opens new doors for studying condensed-matter physics, researchers explained in a paper published March 5 in journal Science.

But what exactly is a supersolid, and why is this new development so exciting? Here's everything you need to know.

Supersolids are a strange state of matter defined by quantum mechanics where particles condense into an orderly, crystalline solid but also move like a liquid that has no viscosity. (Viscosity refers to a substance's internal friction, governing how smoothly it flows). Usually, solids don't move on their own, but supersolids change direction and density depending on particle interactions while maintaining an organized lattice structure.

Supersolids require extremely low temperatures to form — usually very close to absolute zero (minus 459.67 degrees Fahrenheit, or minus 273.15 degrees Celsius). Most of the particles have to occupy the lowest energy state available, and heat makes particles jump up and down like excitable toddlers in a ball pit.

If a material is cold enough, the temperature no longer obscures how the particles interact with each other. Instead, the tiny effects of quantum mechanics become the defining factors in how the material behaves.

Imagine the toddlers have gone home and the ball pit has settled into a calm state. Now we can study in peace how the individual components of the ball pit interact with each other to define its characteristics.

Viscosity is a measure of how easily a fluid changes its shape. A fluid with a higher viscosity tends to stick to itself more and, therefore, resist movement, like how syrup moves more sluggishly when poured from a container compared with how water streams from a tap. All fluids, except superfluids and supersolids, have some amount of viscosity.

Supersolids have been made from atomic gases before. However, the new research used a novel mechanism that relies on the properties of "polariton" systems.

Polaritons are formed by coupling photons (light) and quasiparticles like excitons through strong electromagnetic interactions. Their properties allow them to condense to the lowest possible energy state in a similar way to some atomic gases. In other words, light is coupled with matter, and together, they can be condensed into a supersolid.

Originally published on https://www.livescience.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, March 19th, 2025)

"IS DARK MATTER LIGHT??"

[cultkinkcoven]

me: so the phosphorus absorbs light and then re-emits it, like a person absorbs knowledge and applies it to life.

Lucifer: Almost. The phosphorus doesn't re-emit the same light, but rather absorbs the energy from the light and is excited. As the excited electrons return to their ground state, they release excess energy as light, which is emitted at a longer wavelength than the absorbed light. The original photons are not re-emitted, their energy contributes to new light. The initiate does not regurgitate the same information he fed on. Inside of him, the energy is being absorbed, amalgamated with his own understanding, and transformed into something new and personally fulfilling.

me: that's so cool...

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #58 – Ministry for the Future by Kim Stanley Robinson

Introduction

Kim Stanley Robinson is one of those names I’ve been meaning to around to since approximately forever ago, one of the real Canonical science fiction writers I’ve always felt slightly ashamed I’ve never read (see also: Gene Wolfe). Ministry for the Future in particular is a book I remember getting an immense amount of buzz and downright hagiographic reviews when it came out, even well beyond the usual science fiction circuit. So I went into this with vague impressions and high expectations – which, as it always does, turned out to be a rather dire mistake.

I do not regret having read this book, but that’s on its merits as a cultural artifact rather than a work of literature. Which is to say, I think this is interesting more than it’s good. It’s more or less equal parts a (rather experimental) novel, a work of futurism, and a political manifesto – and despite being incredibly sympathetic to the latter project, I’m not sure it really succeeds at any of them. Which might just be because I’m reading it now instead of when it came out – it is incredibly of its time, in a way that’s genuinely impressively dated even just a few years latter, and which continuously took me out of it.

It was, at least, very formally interesting. The tiny chapters and constant bouncing between different areas of interest kept it from ever becoming too much of a grind, too.

Synopsis

The book is, roughly, a history of the struggle against climate change and to restore the biosphere to equilibrium, beginning with the signing of the Paris Agreement in 2015 and continuing over the next half-century so until the world has been nigh-unrecognizably transformed and victory in that struggle seems more or less assured.

It is, nominally, focused on its only explicit divergence from our own world before the book was written (so, somewhere in 2017-2019) – the titular Ministry, a subsidiary body created by the Paris Accords to pursue and safeguard the interests of future generations – at first this is basically conceived of as a meaningless goodwill gesture by most of the really powerful people agreeing to it. But after a monstrously deadly heat wave across South Asia kills tens of millions of people in a matter of days, more and more people around the world start to wake up to the necessity of drastic action.

Over the next generation the Ministry plays a major (though less so than you might imagine) role in the transition of the world to a sustainable and just future, and the book follows both their efforts and the changing conditions around them that make any of it possible.

The story is told through a dizzying variety of perspectives – there a couple of what you might call protagonists (the minister for the future herself, a Scottish aid worker caught in the heat wave who barely survives and spends the rest of his life failing to cope with PTSD), but they occupy what has to be much less than half of the book. The rest is short persuasive essays, meeting minutes, anonymous vignettes from everyone from an Antarctic research scientist-turned-geoengineer to a de facto enslaved miner in Namibia, and odd little prose poems from the perspective of ‘the market’ or ‘photons’ or similar. It’s all mixed together quite thoroughly – few chapters are more than six or seven pages, many much less, and each new chapter marks a perspective jump. It’s a fascinating reading experience, if nothing else.

Taken As A Novel

...The Ministry for the Future is just not a very good one.

Partial blame goes to I think the very admirable instinct to avoid making some select group of technocrats and activists the Protagonists of History and instead try to maintain something like a global perspective. But the unfortunate reality of it is that the world is very big, and even at 500 pages the book is comparatively quite small. The result is that this is a story where the overwhelming majority of the plot is told in the passive voice, exposition relaying how trends never before mentioned and institutions not yet introduced are conveniently doing this or that to help fix the world, and then rarely if ever mentioned again. One wonders why the titalur Minister was chosen as a protagonist at all, given how the vast majority of her narrative could just as easily been filled by another other ‘life-on-the-ground’ level perspective (her great contribution is convincing the assembled centrall bankers of the world to do something about two thirds of the way into the book).

Also – while the instinct to avoid making ones main characters the perfectly agentic and hypercompetent engine of history is certainly admirable, it’s rather undercut by then still having one of those, but just giving us no real insight or perspective into it.

The mystique of the shadowy, untouchable terrorist syndicate has a powerful hold in the minds of action and science-fiction authors, and Robinson is apparently no exception. The energy transition in the book is greatly sped up by a near-omnipotent ecoterrorist movement that, through everything from sabotage and assassination to drone strikes and missile barrages, (literally) decapitates the entire fossil fuel industry and destroys so many planes and cargo ships so as to cripple the global airline and shipping industries. I’ll leave aside plausibility (for now) – but it just seems so self-evidently obvious that these are the main characters of the story. But with the exception of a single anonymous vignette, the story refuses to ever give the people involved names, faces, or personalities, nor dive into the whys and hows of specific operations. It’s quite frustrating, all the moreso because it feels like the author just saving himself the work of figuring any of that out.

Our two ostensible main characters themselves also just feel like – not a wasted opportunity, but definitely one more could have been made of? The world changes dramatically, almost unrecognizably, through the course of the novel, but their lives really don’t. Here and there sure, there’s not nothing, but the overwhelming majority of their pagecount is spent living what could very easily have been somewhat atypical lives in contemporary Switzerland. Despite all the talk of a ‘super-depression’ and the crippling of global trade, no shortages ever particularly affect them, no natural disasters touch ther homes. A lot of Mary’s chapters really just kind of read like tourism ads for the country Robinson clearly fell in love with at some point.

Taken as Futurism

Which is to say, taken as an exploration of how the world might actually develop, and a plausible prediction of the future based on current trends. Which, given the sheer amount modern frontier technologies, economic and political theories, and just general social trends are all discussed (not to mention a great deal of the breathless marketing and reception it received) the book is clearly trying to be. And which – woof, it does not work out.

The book is full of generational political upheavals occurring mostly because it’s a dramatically convenient time for them to. Most glaringly, the cataclysmic heat wave that sets off the book’s plot also conveniently utterly discredits the BJP and leads the landslide election of an entirely fictitious political movement across all of India, who then spend the next decades dramatically transforming the nation’s politics and economy with unbroken success and to a reception of thunderous applause. There’s no characters with names or faces actually involved in this, no more than a couple paragraphs of encyclopedia-like exposition devoted to it, but it’s the example and engine the whole rest of the book hangs on. The transition of the African Union to a powerful and legitimate supernational entity and the granting of permanent autonomy to Hong Kong (and much of southern mainland China why not) are even less dwelt on.

Now, this all could be excused as just the inevitable causalities of trying to write a book with a global scope – and I am sympathetic to that. But to begin with, I know just barely enough about the politics and the economics of a lot of several of the places touched on or used as dramatic examples to see how surface level and implausible the predicted changes are, and I can’t help but think it’s probably a similar story with all the other lightly touched on placed I don’t know much about (I remain agnostic on the accuracy of the geoengineering and carbon-clearing technologies projected, except that a lot of them suspiciously amenable to a single coherent aesthetic of the future).

More damning, to me at least, is the matter of agency – only the ‘good’ people seem to possess any of it. The conservative opposition exists as this vague, undifferentiated mass – standing athwart history and slowing things down in vague ways, but never really vital or active, never a danger to the political movements that have won or the progress that has been made. There are references to xenophobia and anti-refugee sentiment, but despite a refugee crisis that makes that of the 2010s look like a rounding error, it never leads to any really dangerous political backlash. Given how the world’s actually trending, the book’s vision of politics goes beyond optimism and into outright delusion.

This is especially true for how the book conceives of violence. Political violence is, in the book’s telling, near-universally the province of the ecological Left (with the exception of two events that provide excuses for dramatic set-pieces but fail to actually achieve anything at all). As mentioned above, seemingly omnipotent and untouchable eco-terrorists assassinate dozens of hundreds of the global elite for their crimes against the planet, destroy so many jet liners and cargo ships to force the adoption of new transportation methods, and sabotage so many coal- and oil-powered plants they help force the abandonment of the as fuels. They do this with no real blowback or reverses, no ruthless campaigns of state violence breaking apart the networks or destroying the infrastructure, no loss of public support from the disruptions in food and fuel their attacks would cause – it is not a realistic vision of what ecoterrorism might look like in the coming decades, it’s a plot device in the form of Robert Ludlum villains with no action movie secret agents around to stop them.

As a Political Manifesto

Which is, after all, clearly the real motivation behind the book, and the reason it received as many accolades as it did. It’s also where the book is easily at its most interesting – if, tragically, rather incoherent. Which might be me holding it to a higher standard than is fair but look, there’s only so many essays extolling the failure of the market or the coming obsolescence of war or whatever you can put in your book before I start holding it to the standard of actual rigour.

Mostly it feels like the book is undercut by its commitment to relentless optimism and need to jump around – a great deal of the book is spent giving the most positive possible gloss on particular phenomena or institutions from across the world in a paragraph or two, then say it needs to be scaled up on a national or global scale with no further thought or consideration of costs. Even when it’s not wrong it just feels unserious.

The subject the book spends the plurality of its time on – the main thrust of its program, if anything is – is economics and monetary policy. The great project of the Ministry is convincing the assembled central bankers of the world to create a new currency – a ‘carbon coin’ minted as a reward for sequestering or preventing the removal of a single ton of carbon for at least a century, with a guaranteed minimum value and appreciation over the same period – which would in time replace the us dollar as a global reserve currency and medium of exchange. The arguments around which are frustrating, because they go from plausible and compelling to wildly optimistic to the social science equivalent of star trek technobabble and back again without warning or any detectable pattern. It’s an interesting idea, at least, though one you get the sense is being imperfectly relayed – and the arguments for why the uncrowned monarchs of the global financial system would actually agree to it just aren’t convincing in the least.

Given the amount of times the book uses standard progressive language about how vital empowering minorities, women, the traditionally excluded and so on is to the fight to save the planet, it’s honestly kind of amusing the degree to which the big dramatic set pieces involve appealing to the conscience and principles of the most embedded representatives of The System imaginable. Running through the book are both a disdain and dismissal of economics as a field and a strongly felt technocratic sensibility and desire to have seasoned experts at the helm managing their areas of expertise – it can never quite decide whether bringing the world’s central banks under increased political control is something to be fought for, or a threat to hold over the bankers heads to get them in line and focused on the important task of creating a de facto world state (the quasi-utopia envisioned at the end of the book could just as easily be the globalist dystopia from any conspiracy theorist’s screen with no changes but the valence of the adjectives used to describe it).

It’s more peripheral, but Robinson’s clear affection for the nation of Switzerland and continuous praise of its many virtues in both politics and society does clash a bit with, well, reality. It’s weird to go from a chapter about needing to abolish tax havens to talking about how enlightened self-interest has left the Swiss government entirely behind the mission of fighting climate change.

A Product of it’s Time

Is a weird thing to call a book written barely more than five years ago, I’m aware. But it’s honestly kind of shocking just how aged and dated the book feels, reading it in 2024. Despite just everything I’ve written above, I’m trying not to judge it as harshly as I might, because I feel like I’d have been much more generous if various things didn’t keep taking me out of it.

Some of them are things that can’t really be held against it – the passages about Russia and it’s relationship with Europe reads as almost comical now, to be sure, but so does every sci fi book in the ‘80s talking about the USSR – but that doesn’t mean they don’t hurt the feeling of reading the history of the future. The book was published in October 2020, so the complete non-mention of not even COVID specifically but just any pandemic or major disease outbreaks feel positively unreal.

Other things are less the book already being falsified by history and more just seeing what turned out to be pretty transient intellectual fashions immortalized in print. Seeing a serious, celebrated book talk about the revolutionary potential of the blockchain to create a democratic new economy is enough to turn a hair grey. And on a less extreme level, talking up Modern Monetary Theory as this revolutionary hack of solve economics just feels so very incredibly pre-pandemic.

Too Long; Didn’t Read

Not angry I read it, but more because writing this review was fun and engaging than for its merits as a work of art. Can’t judge it too harshly, given that the task it set for itself is basically impossible – but Robinson’s written enough books that he probably should have known that before he started it.

The set piece at the beginning of someone living through the dead heat wave was incredibly compelling drama, at least.

[avengersmansion-official]

Hello, i'm not american so i don't know a lot about american heroes like the avengers.

Like, i know they exist and i do see them once in a while in tv but the rotating roster really doesn't help so...

Could you go into the basics? Like, founding members or the regular members.

Certainly! So the Avengers have a long and storied history, going back to the dawn of the modern age of superheroes.

Shortly after the debut of the Fantastic Four, several other costumed crime-fighters began to make their appearances known, largely here in New York City.

These included:

Thor Odinson, prince of Asgard, cast down from the Golden Realm to learn humility by his father Odin.

Iron Man, armored bodyguard of Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark - later revealed to be Stark himself.

Ant-Man, alias Giant-Man, alias Dr. Henry Pym, who had developed a way to alter his size and a way to communicate with insects.

Janet van Dyne, the Wasp, Dr. Pym's partner and socialite daughter of scientist Vernon van Dyne.

Meanwhile, in the deserts of New Mexico, Dr. Robert Bruce Banner had begun to transform into the Hulk at sundown every evening, having been exposed to a near-lethal dose of gamma radiation in the process of saving the life of teenager Rick Jones.

Jones was the leader of an amateur radio group called the "Teen Brigade". When the Hulk went on a rampage - spurred on by a trick by Thor's stepbrother Loki, God of Mischief - Jones and the Teen Brigade attempted to hail the Fantastic Four to get them to subdue the Hulk.

However, the Four were otherwise occupied - but Thor, Iron Man, Ant-Man, and the Wasp responded to their distress call. The four of them teamed up to find the Hulk, and then all five of them join forces to defeat Loki.

(an image of a statue of the founding Avengers, plus Captain America, who was granted retroactive founder status soon afterwards)

The Hulk soon left the group, not exactly being a team player at the time, and the Avengers find Captain America frozen in a block of ice at the bottom of the North Sea, who effectively replaces the Hulk on the team - and who, for legal purposes, is recognized as the fifth founder of the Avengers.

As for the current roster, here's a quick rundown of both officially sanctioned Avengers teams in current operation.

(a publicity photo of the current Avengers roster)

The current "primary" team of Avengers consists of Carol Danvers (Captain Marvel, center), as well as (clockwise from top right) the Vision, Captain America (Sam Wilson), Black Panther (King T'Challa of Wakanda), Storm (Ororo Munroe, former Regent of Sol), and the Scarlet Witch (Wanda Maximoff). They operate from the team's newest member, The Impossible City, a sentient city in geosynchronous orbit above the Earth.

(a publicity photo of the Avengers Emergency Response Squad)

The other currently active team of Avengers is the Avengers Emergency Response Squad, operating out of right here in Avengers Mansion. This team, hand-picked by Steve Rogers, is designed with the express purpose of swiftly responding and reacting to crises across the globe.

Their current roster consists of:

Captain America (Steve Rogers)

Lightspeed (Julie Power)

Shang-Chi

Hawkeye (Clint Barton)

Photon (Monica Rambeau)

Hercules

She-Hulk (Jennifer Walters)

Wonder Man (Simon Williams - yes, that Simon Williams)

Wasp (Janet van Dyne)

Lightning (Miguel Santos)

Night Thrasher (civilian identity is a secret)

With other operatives brought in on an as-needed basis.

Now, I could go on about all the other Avengers splinter teams and sub-groups there have been throughout the years - but I hope this gives you a good enough overview to start off!

[celadons-penultimate]

Monica Rambeau was once a harbor patrol officer, before a mad scientist's experimental machine jump-started energy powers she had suppressed in her youth (including the powers to perceive, manipulate and transform into electromagnetic energy); she has since taken several hero names, including Captain Marvel, Pulsar, Daystar, Spectrum & currently Photon, using her powers to aid the Avengers, Nextwave, Ultimates & more!

[baitpaintsbadly]

"The Thallax were specialised, cybernetically-augmented shock troops manufactured and principally used by the Ordo Reductor of the ancient Mechanicum. The particular augmentations undergone by one of the Thallax are both severe and extreme, retaining only the brain (and in many cases the skull and spinal column), the life-sustaining viscera and nervous system as the basis of the articulated and armoured robotic frame which encompasses it. Other principal features of the design included a high-energy compact reactor system (whose emanations could not be endured by a less augmented organic system), allowing for extremely potent portable weaponry to be utilised, embedded Incunabulan Jet-Pack systems and arcane implanted sensory apparatus operating outside the usual realm of organic perception.

The sinister blank-faced helms of the Thalaxii conceal an array of inhuman sensory apparati through which they experience the battlefield as a raging storm of electromagnetic turmoil, blood-heat and seismic percussion. However, for the organic brain to handle this hurricane of data, it must be surgically mutilated, removing the mere Human senses such as sight and hearing. The unfortunate side-effects of these systems on the living components, however, were continuous agony and psychotic breakdown; effects ameliorated by the surgical excision of some of the brain's emotional centres. For some within the Mechanicum this transformation of the Human mind skirted the edge of abomination such as that posed by sentient "Abominable Intelligence"

The resulting machine-creature is capable of far greater tactical flexibility and independent action than a mere combat servitor, although terminal deterioration of the subject's psyche was certain over extended periods of time."

The 6 Thallax from the HH Mechanicum box, which I will be using as Kataphron Breachers in 40k. These lads are my favourite unit from the Mechanicum range, both in looks and lore and I forever hope and wish they get legend-ed in to 40k (never happening I know, but a trooper can dream). I shoved them onto some 60mm bases to avoid any "modeling for advantage" accusations and I'm pleasantly surprised by how ok they look on the larger base size, I was worried they'd look a bit weedy but I think they fill the space well (though I am very biased). They have some really cool extra gun options, with the Phased Plasma Fusil's, Photon Thrusters and Multi-Melta's, but not enough to fill a whole squad with. I dont want to muddy the proxy waters any further than I am already, so they're all getting the same, still very cool, Lightning Guns that I can pretend are Heavy Arc Rifles. So I'll keep the fancy ones for future kitbashing. Pic with Skit for Scale under the cut.

Also, hello to my Dark Heresy players, sorry that this is how you find out what that one character actually is, try not to worry too much about it :) .