#Adding Three-Digit Numbers

[giorgio52fan]

Math Marvels: Adding Natural Numbers Made Easy!

Before we start solving some problems, click on the video below: Problem 1: Understanding Carryover in Addition of Natural Numbers Introduction: Addition is a fundamental mathematical operation that helps us combine numbers and find their total value. However, when adding larger numbers, a concept called “carryover” can pose challenges for learners. Problem: Consider the addition problem: 589 +…

[hazellight11]

Last night for some reason i was struggling to fall asleep so (at like 1:30) i decided to text adrian (who had gone to sleep at about midnight) an explanation of how most letters in the english alphabet have some meaning that makes picking variables difficult. So that's approximately the state of my mind nowadays i guess

[sunshineyuyu]

stereo hearts (s. mg)

★ summary: mingi’s had a crush on you since his freshman year. you’re a year older than him, infinitely cooler, and you share a love for music. one night, you end up making out in the storage closet of the campus radio station you both work at, and you end up getting closer. ★ pairing: mingi x f!reader ★ genre: smut (mdni!!), college ★ word count: 5.6k ★ tags/warnings: radio station dj!mingi and reader, reader is a year older than mingi, mingi is a computer science major LOL, reader is described as shorter than mingi, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, mentions of nicotine vape, frat party, american college setting, kinda sub-y mingi, kinda dom-y reader, slight dumbification?, reader is just a little mean to mingi, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, penetrative piv sex (with a condom!), minor super background seongjoong ★ notes: this one was written as a gift for @starhwas-bunny huhu, my bestie beta <3 ftr i have never dj-ed for a university radio station so hopefully this isn’t a super inaccurate representation of that experience. ★ masterlist | read on ao3

in the three years since mingi started volunteering as a dj at the university radio station, the little room they broadcast out of has become something like a second home to him.

three out of four of the walls are covered floor to ceiling with shelves that sag from the amount of vinyls, cassette tapes, and cds crammed onto them. tucked into one corner is a mini fridge that was found abandoned after move-out day years ago, and sitting on top is a weak little keurig gifted by the previous faculty sponsor. there’s a musty old leather couch shoved against the singular non-shelved wall, and in the middle of the whole room is the desk, overloaded with several monitors, a keyboard, and the sound board. the whole room smells faintly like sour coffee and old grandpa, but mingi has learned to love it all the same.

tonight, though, mingi would rather be anywhere else than here. grumpily, he blinks at the red numbers of the digital clock on the corner of the desk. 02:13 AM, it reads. he wishes he could go back in time and take a different shift, but the mingi from a month ago never could’ve anticipated all the developments that have happened over the last few weeks.

first, his compilers assignment is kicking his ass. he’s been working tirelessly on it for three weeks now, but his results are still a little off and the due date is fast approaching at the end of the week. he doesn’t even have any classmates to fall back on for help, since he’s taking the course a semester ahead of his other friends, and he hasn’t had enough time to make new ones yet.

second, his best-friend-roommate yunho just got a new girlfriend, which means he’s been spending less time hanging out with mingi. mingi likes to think that he’s not too clingy or needy, but he misses the routine of waking up to the smell of yunho burning breakfast and then getting in a game of valorant together before going to bed. instead, he’s had to play nice with yunho’s new girlfriend whenever she invades their apartment with her neverending peppiness, and sleep with noise-canceling earbuds because he and yunho share a wall.

he’s sleep-deprived and stressed and lonely and really wants a goddamn hug from literally anyone.

but he’s forced to toil away in the tiny campus radio station studio, where the playlist he’d painstakingly arranged last week to blend seamlessly between songs does nothing to soothe his anxieties.

⋆⋆⋆

there’s still half an hour left of mingi’s shift, but he’s already queued up all the music and timed out the ads, so he’s mostly just focused on chipping away at his assignment. the adrenaline from the celsius he crushed when he first arrived is already started to fade, and mingi is seriously thinking about digging out the elfbar from the bottom of his backpack (that he promised yunho he’d throw away) to extend the last fumes of his focus.

this train of thought is thankfully interrupted by the door of the studio being thrown open unceremoniously.

“shit!”

even on a good day, mingi is a jumpy person, and having the blinding light of the hallway enter the dark studio with no warning makes his heart skip several beats. his knee jerks up on instinct, and it whacks painfully against the bottom of the desk.

“ah, oops. sorry!”

standing in the doorway, haloed in fluorescent light, and appearing practically angelic, is none other than you. you have enough wherewithal to at least look apologetic, but mingi doesn’t care either way because it’s you.

you’re a senior—one year above mingi—and the one who trained him to be a dj when he was a freshman. back then, he’d been starstruck by how outgoing you are, the way you’d tease him with the familiarity of a close friend even though you were practically strangers. you have this eclectic but broad taste in music, and he likes that you challenge him to listen to new artists and genres.

and of course—you’re fucking hot. you’ve always been beautiful, with shining eyes and a big wide smile. but over the years, you’ve changed your hair style, dyed the ends, gotten a couple of piercings and tattoos, and it’s been game over for mingi ever since. 

so yeah, he’s had a crippling crush on you that’s only gotten worse with time.

“hi,” mingi says dumbly, massaging his knee where the pain has already mysteriously disappeared.

“hey!” you say breezily, beaming because it’s clear now that he won’t yell at you for scaring him.

“do you have the next shift?” mingi asks, using all his brainpower to compose a coherent sentence. he’s usually able to act relatively normal around you, but he’s all out of sorts right now, and it’s nearly 2:30 fucking am.

“oh, no,” you say. “i just really needed a caffeine fix, and this is the only place i could think of that’s still open on campus for me to get some.”

you both glance over at the sad excuse of a coffee station the studio has, and mingi lets out an undignified snort.

“it is what it is,” you sigh.

while mingi tries to think of a conversation starter, he turns back to his laptop so he’s not just staring at you like some lovesick puppy. 

your normally styled hair is thrown into an afterthought of a bun, but mingi likes that he can see the elegant line of your neck and the line of silver hoops stacked along your ears. you’re also wearing those rimless bayonetta glasses that he loves, and he always gets distracted by the little sparkle charm you added that dangles from the hinge.

“aw man,” you say. “there aren’t any pods left.”

mingi glances up briefly from his laptop to see you pouting down at the little box where they usually keep the coffee pods. 

cute, he thinks.

“hongjoong ordered more last week,” mingi says, waving towards the storage closet behind him. “but he hid them so people don’t try to steal them in bulk.”

at his words, you perk up and scamper towards the closet after dumping your backpack onto the couch.

with you out of sight, some of the nervous tension in mingi’s muscles finally bleeds out. mingi throws his glasses down onto the table and rubs at his weary eyes until he sees fireworks against the backs of his eyelids. he wishes he had even an ounce of the charisma that yunho has, but he’s so fucking tired right now that he can’t think of anything even remotely charming to talk to you about. eventually, he slams his forehead down onto the table and entertains the thought of knocking himself out. before he can let his imagination run too wild, he hears the sound of something heavy falling and a whispered “fuck!”

concerned, mingi straightens and rolls his chair closer to the threshold of the storage closet.

“you good?” he asks.

he forgot to put his glasses back on, so you’re really more of a blurry blob of a person, but somehow your sheepish smile still manages to come through.

“i found the pods!” you say brightly, pointing at a large cardboard box on the top shelf. “but, i can’t reach them.”

mingi huffs out a laugh and stands up. finally, it feels like something is going right for him tonight. you are short and need help, and mingi is tall and can help you.

he’s so hyper-focused on his task that he doesn’t think twice about crowding up behind you. doesn’t think twice about bracing one hand against your back to keep himself steady as he reaches with his other hand for the box. doesn’t think twice about leaning around your smaller frame to present you with the thing. 

“here,” he says, except it comes out breathy and rough because he’s just stretched his body for the first time in what feels like ages.

he doesn’t realize how close your faces are until you utter a soft thank you, and the words ghost along his cheekbone. he shudders at the sensation, and all at once the rest of his brain and body come online to recognize the position you’re arranged in.

it’s cramped in the closet, and mingi’s a big guy. his entire front is pressed up against your back, and the hand he’d used to balance himself has somehow slipped down to your waist, and you’ve turned your head slightly so that you can look up at him.

mingi stares down at you, and you’re seriously so close that he doesn’t need his glasses to see the way your lips part, the way your eyebrows furrow. 

“um,” he says intelligently.

oh-so-slowly, you push your glasses up onto your head and turn around to fully face him. like always, that stupid sparkle charm entrances mingi.

and then suddenly, he’s pulled down by the front of his shirt, and you surge up to meet him. your lips collide together with so much force that your teeth clack, but mingi doesn’t care because jesus fucking christ. he shoves the pods onto the nearest shelf to get his other hand onto your waist too. god, it’s been a while since the last time he’s made out with someone like this. while his mouth works furiously to remember how to kiss well, he fumbles his palms over the curves of your body. meanwhile, your fingers dance confidently along his chest and collarbones, finally curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. when you tug lightly, mingi actually whimpers.

he pulls back, embarrassed, but you look delighted.

“oh,” you breathe, grinning. “oh, fuck—make that noise again.”

mingi stares at you, uncomprehending and breathing like he’s just run a race. you tug again. mingi keens.

“cute,” you murmur. “c’mere.”

you don’t give mingi the chance to second-guess anything as you pull him back down. your chapstick tastes like peaches, and your tongue is doing things that mingi’s never felt before. you touch him everywhere—run your hands along his chest, his stomach, his back, his arms. mingi is putty in your arms, and he stops trying to hold back the sounds that you tease out of him.

you make out sloppily for what seems like hours. it’s so nice and mindless that mingi doesn’t even realize that he’s half-hard in his jeans until you finally take a step back. 

like the fucking touch-starved idiot he is, he unconsciously leans forward to chase after you. in response, you grin and press a single finger against his chest to hold him off.

“it’s almost the next shift,” you say quietly. “we should probably get out of here.”

“oh,” mingi croaks, as reality settles back in. “oh. yeah.”

you peck the underside of his jaw, and then leave the storage closet.

mingi stays for a second longer, collecting himself. finally, he grabs the box of coffee pods and follows you back into the studio.

he can’t get a read on you as you wordlessly retrieve your backpack. he mirrors your movement, albeit more lethargically. he feels like he’s drunk or high or both, body moving sluggishly, and he’s so so confused.

jongho, who’s taking the 3 am shift, shows up in the middle of your silence as a much needed buffer. it takes mingi five minutes to hand over control, and when he’s done, he’s disappointed to see that you aren’t in the room anymore. dejected, he says goodbye to jongho and leaves the studio, only to find you waiting in the hallway.

you look up when he stops in front of you and smile at him.

“walk me to my car?” you say.

mingi smiles shyly back at you. “yeah. okay.”

you start down the hallway, but mingi halts abruptly. “didn’t you- um- your coffee?” mingi stutters. jesus, he really needs to pull himself together.

you quirk your head to one side and then takes a step into mingi’s space. your gaze darkens, and your smile stretches into a smirk.

“nah,” you whisper, reaching to drag your thumb along his bottom lip. “i got my fix.” 

oh, mingi thinks giddily. she means me!

“c’mon,” you say, your face softening and your hand finding mingi’s. “it’s late.”

“yeah,” mingi says dreamily, trailing after you.

⋆⋆⋆

in the days following, mingi doesn’t see you at all.

this isn’t uncommon—you’re different years and majors, after all. but mingi is still bummed about it. he has your number, but he’s never texted you besides to talk about campus radio logistics. sometimes, you’ll send each other a new song or artist to nerd out over, but mingi feels like it’s a little too transparent if he texts you now when the last time you exchanged messages was weeks ago.

every night, though, mingi replays what happened in his head over and over again. how you had been the one to initiate, to guide and control the entire encounter—how that had turned him on in ways he’d never imagined. he tries vainly not to think about you when he jerks off, but right as he’s about to cum, his thoughts always stray to the way you’d tugged at his hair and cooed at his embarrassing noises.

in the aftermath, he’ll try to think instead of the way you held his hand while they walked to your car. the walk had been short but sweet. you’d been the one to intertwine your fingers, and mingi hadn’t been able to hide the stupid smile on his face as your hands swung between the two of you.

you’d given him one last kiss on the cheek before saying good night.

the rest of the night was a haze: walking to his car, driving home, falling asleep the moment his head hit his pillow without even changing out of his clothes.

⋆⋆⋆

it’s friday night, and mingi has managed to finish his godforsaken compilers assignment, so he’s planning on getting wasted.

mingi is still largely undecided on how he feels about yunho’s new girlfriend, but the one thing going in her favor is the fact that she’s the delta gamma social chair and—because of some bylaw somewhere—has automatic entry to every relevant frat party. she can even bring other people with her, as long as it’s not an egregious amount.

and that’s how mingi finds himself in the middle of an SAE party, just the right side of tipsy. he’s nursing a sweating can of beer and watching yunho and wooyoung absolutely destroy a couple of pledges at beer pong. when they win, mingi pounces on them, but ends up empty-handed as they’re each pulled into congratulatory embraces by their respective significant others.

suddenly, despite being surrounded by people, mingi feels incredibly lonely. it’s like he’s been doused in ice water, the way his head clears and his heart sinks. he knows it’s a passing feeling, knows that in two seconds his friends will turn their attention back to him, but the shots and beers from earlier tonight no longer sit right in his bloodstream.

under the guise of getting another drink, mingi ducks away from his friends and looks for someplace with a little more space and air. he wanders towards the yard, where there’s far fewer people. all of the lawn chairs available are already occupied, so mingi leans up against the wall and pulls out his phone. he’s two scrolls into his instagram feed when something collides into his side hard enough to make him let out a soft oof.

he thinks it must be some random drunk, but instead it’s—

you.

“mingi!” you shriek.

your arms wrap around his middle, and you gaze up at him with glazed over eyes. you’re wearing this tight black shirt with a big square neckline, and you’re all squished up against him so mingi gets an eyeful of your cleavage.

he swallows painfully.

“y/n!” he says, trying to match your energy without being as loud.

you peer around him, almost like you’re looking for someone else. “are you here by yourself?” you ask.

“no,” mingi says. “my friends are inside. i just wanted to get some air.”

“ah.” you nod sagely. “do you smoke? like—get high?”

mingi shrugs, and you bounce with glee. you drag him by the wrist over to a small cluster of people sitting around one of the few lawn tables available.

“sit sit sit!” you say, pushing him into the one empty chair before unceremoniously plopping yourself down in his lap. dumbstruck, mingi just sits there with his hands lying limply against the armrests as you shuffle around in his fucking lap to find a comfortable position. every ounce of his energy is going towards not popping a boner right now.

instead, he focuses on trying to recognize the people sitting around the table. there’s kim hongjoong, the president of your campus radio org, and his boyfriend park seonghwa. beside them is chaewon, your best friend, also sitting in the lap of some guy who mingi assumes is her boyfriend.

shit—what are these people assuming about him, then? 

“here,” you say, thrusting a small object like a usb towards his lips. “take a hit of penelope.”

“penelope?” mingi’s like, still reeling from everything that’s happened in the last five minutes.

you giggle. “my pen. here.”

obediently, mingi leans towards and fits his lips around the tiny weed pen. it’s been a while since he last got high—yunho and wooyoung both run cross-country and don’t like messing around with drugs while they’re in season. he tries to take a shallow hit, but doesn’t end up getting anything, so he throws all caution to the wind and inhales deeply. the tangy sour smoke hits the back of his throat harder than the smooth mintyness of his elfbar, so of course—

he ends up coughing.

little puffs of smoke leave his mouth and nose as he splutters. thankfully, everyone barely laughs at him. in fact, hongjoong hands him a bottle of water which he chugs gratefully.

“sorry, been a while,” mingi rasps, when he finally manages to take a normal breath.

you hum and brush some of mingi’s hair behind his ear. “cute.”

this nearly sends mingi into another coughing fit, but he manages to just laugh breathlessly instead. clutching the water bottle to him like a lifeline, he sinks back into his chair so that maybe he can be less in the spotlight.

“—anyway,” chaewon says, and mingi lets out a sigh of relief at the turn of attention, “sannie, tell them about all the shit they made you do when you were a pledge.”

san—the one guy mingi didn’t know—sighs and pinches chaewon’s thigh.

“babe, you can’t just make me tell this story to everyone. trade secrets, and whatever.”

hongjoong snorts. “so they got you pretty good, huh?”

“goddamnit,” san is like.

so san regails them with the harrowing tale of him pledging SAE, and mingi finally lets himself relax. san has this soft, earnest voice, and it’s nice to listen to. at some point, you press penelope into his hand, and even later, mingi works up the courage to take another hit. this one is much more successful than the last, and gradually, mingi works up a nice buzz. it spurs him to tug you deeper into his lap, fit his hands around your waist—jesus, have you always been this small compared to him?

mingi has no idea how long he spends there, vibing with you and your friends. he’s halfway to asleep when suddenly he feels something trail along his jawline. he feels the telltale graze of lips against his skin, and his pulse jumps.

suddenly, he is incredibly awake.

you nose at his neck, leave the lightest of kisses. mingi becomes hyper aware of his surroundings, and finally realizes that conversation’s been dead for a while. chaewon is fully straddling san in his chair, and hongjoong and seonghwa have disappeared.

“you wanna get out of here?” you murmur.

“yeah. yeah.”

⋆⋆⋆

mingi is aware enough to shoot a text off to his group chat with yunho and wooyoung letting them know that he’s going home with someone. he feels an odd rush of validation from the subsequent onslaught of vulgar texts and emojis he gets in response.

your place isn’t far from greek row, so you walk there. once again, you have threaded your fingers together, and mingi is noticing for the first time just how small your hand is compared to his. with your other hand, you scroll through your spotify playlists, trying to find one that “fits the ambiance” of the walk before settling for one titled vaporwave vibes.

mingi is just happy to be involved.

you’re a giggly mess as you stumble-walk-run into your apartment.

“roommate—?” mingi asks, as two of you toe off your shoes, and you turn up the volume of your music.

“chaewon’s shacking up at the SAE house tonight,” you say, grinning. you lean in close to mingi and poke his nose. “so you can be as loud as you wanna be, baby.”

baby?!

you lead mingi to your bedroom, where you spare a few seconds to turn on a lamp that casts the room into a soft pink hue and plug your phone into a speaker. you choose a different playlist—one with soft r&b and lofi.

then, you crawl onto your bed, swaying your hips as you do. mingi just stares at you, suddenly very out of his depth. this feels infinitely different from making out in a storage closet. this is your apartment, your room, your bed.

you’re leaned back against your pillows now, head cocked and eyes half-lidded.

you spread you legs and beckon mingi to come closer.

“c’mon, baby. let’s have some fun, hm?”

like a man possessed, mingi steps forward until he hits the edge of the mattress, and then he falls onto his knees, shuffling forward until he’s hovering between your thighs.

“cute.”

mingi waits for you to make the first move, because that’s what he’s used to, and you do. you hook your hands around his neck and pull him down, presses your lips together chastely. mingi’s eyes flutter close, and he lets instinct take over.

you must be wearing something like lipgloss tonight, because your lips are tackier than last time, and they taste like cherry. mingi’s intoxicated by it. he deepens the kiss, adds some tongue. his hands run along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

you do that thing with his hair again, and he whimpers. he feels you smile. you move his hands over your chest, inviting him to really touch, and he moans involuntarily when he realizes that you’re not wearing a bra under your shirt. 

“take it off,” you breathe, and mingi obeys immediately.

“fuckk,” he whines when he sees your tits. “fuck—you’re so—”

he surges forward and fits his mouth over one of your nipples and sucks. this time, it’s you who moans, and the sense of triumph rushes straight to mingi’s dick. after only a few minutes of worshipping your tits, mingi is already so hard he could cut through glass.

“you, too,” you say, trying to pull off mingi’s shirt. “take this off—take it all off.”

so he strips. first his shirt, then his jeans. he curses as he struggles with the button and the zip—when choosing his outfit earlier, he’d only been thinking about how this pair are a little tight so they make his ass look good. now, he’s straining to get them off without looking like an idiot.

finally, he manages to tug the jeans down to mid-thigh, which means you get a better view of the outline of his cock in his briefs. at least he wore dark underwear so you can’t see the frankly embarrassing wet patch that mingi knows is there. he’s always leaked like a faucet.

"god, i knew you'd be big," you sigh as mingi finishes shucking off his pants ungracefully.

he freezes, feeling a little exposed but also a little bold.

"you- have you thought about me- this before?" he asks.

"of course," you smirk. "big shy boy like you? that's my favorite."

you sit up onto your elbows and reach forward with one hand to cup his bulge. you squeeze, and mingi keens. it takes every drop of mingi's self-control to not cum on the spot. instead he falls onto his forearms and buries his face into your neck.

“fuck,” he squeaks.

you continue to work his dick through his briefs, but with such a light, teasing touch that mingi starts rutting helplessly into your hand to get more friction. it’s been a while since someone else has gotten him off, and the weed is making him so so sensitive.

"wanna- wanna make you feel good," he pants, but he can’t stop grinding down against you like some stupid fucking dog. 

"yeah?” you goad. “you wanna fuck me with your big dumb cock? do you even know how to use that thing?"

mingi whimpers. “yes, yes—please. let me- let me show you. please.”

“okay, big boy,” you whisper into his ear, finally letting him go. “show me.”

mingi doesn’t waste any time after that. he pulls off your pants and your underwear in one go. he’s practically drooling at the sight of your cunt and can’t help himself from running a finger reverently through your folds.

you’re wet.

because of him.

he drops down in front of your pussy and licks a line from your entrance to your clit. you fucking moan. 

“yeah?” you say, all dominant like always but a little breathless. “you gonna prep me first? gonna prep me for your huge dick?”

in response, mingi attaches his mouth to your clit and buries a finger into your hole.

“ah—fuck!”

one finger turns into two into three quickly, as mingi works you open, all while lapping at your clit. he has limited experience with this so he’s not super confident in his ability, but you’re making these high-pitched noises that must mean he’s doing something right. and then you tug at his hair, forcing his head back.

“thought you were gonna fuck me?” you say.

“yes, yeah, sorry.”

mingi has enough wherewithal to ask about condoms and lube, and while he tugs off his underwear, you retrieve the stuff from your nightstand. he’s so keyed up that he fumbles the condom, can’t get a good grip to tear it open, and finally resorts to biting one corner with his teeth to rip off an edge. it works, and he spits out the little piece of foil somewhere onto the bed beside them.

“oh, fuck.” he hears, and it’s the first semblance of a whine from you.

with renewed vigor, mingi rolls the condom onto his dick, hissing at finally getting some stimulation after being hard and untouched for so long.

“c’mon, c’mon,” you say, throwing the lube at him. “hurry up.”

he squeezes some of the lube onto his hand—there’s a light red sheen to it and a faint scent of cherry. feverishly, he thinks the smell of cherries is going to be ruined for him forever as he spreads the lube over the condom.

and then he presses just the tip into your entrance, and already he knows he’s not going to last long. you’re just too warm, too wet, too tight.

“jesus,” he whimpers, as he presses deeper into your cunt. “you’re fucking perfect.”

“fuck,” you groan. “you’re so fucking big.”

“gonna- gonna make you feel good,” mingi promises. “gonna fuck you so good.”

when he’s finally bottomed out, he takes a second. he hopes it looks like he’s just being considerate of his size, but really it’s mostly for himself, to make sure he’s not a one thrust wonder. and then you clench around him.

“fuck!”

it startles him into moving—with a strong grip on your thighs, he thrusts into you with so much force that the bed frame groans. 

“ah- yeah, baby. just like that. fuck, so good. so good, so big—so full. fuck!”

you babble nonsense into his ear, but every syllable fuels mingi’s determination. he snaps his hips against yours until his thighs burn, and then some more. but even in spite of his sheer will, mingi is just a guy finally fucking the girl of his dreams, and so his orgasm sneaks up on him entirely too fast.

“oh, fuck. oh, fuck. i’m sorry, i’m sorry—i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”

he collapses onto you as he spills into the condom, his entire body twitching with pleasure from the sensation. seconds later, shame and guilt wash over him. he pulls out and crawls down your body to shove his face into your cunt.

he fingers you while he eats you out again, this time quirking his fingers for your g-spot. he’s delirious and desperate—needs to prove that he’s not just some guy who cums without getting off his partner. needs you to enjoy this as much as he is—needs you to want more.

“yeah, yeah, that’s a good boy,” you praise as he laps at your cunt like it’s his job. “so good, baby boy. so good. yeah, just like that—gonna cum. gonna—”

mingi can’t help himself. he pulls back when you climax so that he can watch. he finger-fucks you through it, but his focus is on the way your face scrunches up with euphoria, the way your back arches off the bed in pleasure.

finally, you shove his hand away.

“‘s too much,” you mumble, burying your face into your pillows.

mingi collapses down beside you, completely spent.

he comes to a few minutes later, when he feels the bed shift as you sit up. he must make some kind of noise, because you duck down close, brush the sweaty hair off of his forehead and kiss his temple.

“shh,” you soothe. “it’s okay. you can rest, baby. i’ll clean us up.”

“wait—let me help,” he slurs, starting to sit up.

“no no,” you coo, pushing him back down. “don’t worry, baby. i got it.”

mingi hums, too tired and spent anyway to argue. it’s nice, for once, to be the one being taken care of. he snuggles contently deeper into the bed.

it smells like sex and sweat, but also something kinda sweet. oh, right—cherries.

he drifts off to sleep soon after.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, mingi wakes up disoriented, pleasantly sore, but incredibly well-rested. the weed helped offset the alcohol, and the only grossness he feels is from not showering or brushing his teeth before falling asleep.

the bed is unfortunately empty, but the smell of fresh coffee in the air keeps mingi from spiraling too much about it. he lopes around the room, searching for his clothes. he locates those godforsaken tight jeans (which take him far too much effort to stuff himself back into), but doesn’t manage to find his shirt, so he sheepishly wanders into the kitchen shirtless like a moron.

the mystery of his shirt is solved immediately when he sees that you are wearing it. the hem falls right below your ass, and when you move a certain way, mingi can see the bottoms of your cheeks and the hint of black panties.

jesus, even after having the orgasm of his life last night, he’s still so easy.

“morning!” you chirp, when you notice his presence.

“morning,” mingi rasps. “can i- uh- can i help with anything?”

you pause to shoot him a big smile. “no, don’t worry, baby. just sit down. there’s coffee in that mug over there. milk in the fridge.”

mildly stunned at the revelation that your pet names aren’t exclusive to sexy time, mingi follows your instructions. he retrieves a carton of oat milk from the fridge and adds it to his coffee before hopping on a barstool at the kitchen island. he positively inhales the coffee, which must be some kind of special blend because it’s especially fragrant, and watches you bustle around the kitchen with efficiency.

the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, and it’s strangely intimate—domestic—but mingi doesn’t let that part of his imagination run too wild. for his own sanity, it’s probably best if he just takes whatever this is with you one day at a time.

soon, you slide a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast in front of him. you prance into the barstool beside him, nudging it closer so that your knees touch under the countertop.

it smells heavenly, reminds him of weekend breakfasts with his own family, and before he can stop himself, he says,

“thanks, mommy.”

it’s the kind of shithead joke he pulls with yunho and wooyoung often, but with you, it drips with subtext. over the rim of your coffee cup, you raise an eyebrow at him, and he feels his entire face heat up with embarrassment.

“i mean- um—”

“didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff,” you coo. “guess i’ll have to remember that for next time.”

mingi digs into his eggs so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye while he processes that. next time?!

the rest of breakfast passes uneventfully. you take the reins of the conversation, yapping about your thoughts on chaewon’s frat bro boyfriend. mingi gives all the appropriate reactions at the appropriate times and just basks in the joy of eating a home-cooked breakfast the morning after having sex with his long-time crush.

later, mingi will rinse off your dishes and load them into the dishwasher, and you will return his shirt to him before sending him off with another chaste kiss to the cheek. mingi decides to walk back to his own apartment even though it’s nearly a mile away. but the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and his phone—barely hanging on with 10% battery—buzzes in his pocket with a single text:

y/n l/n has invited you to collaborate on a playlist: mommy issues ;)

[tanadrin]

medieval monks and accountants start using Italian millione ("one thousand" + augmentative suffix) to mean 10^6 by the 1200s; this spreads to other languages

Jehan Adam coins bymillion and trimillion to mean 10^12 and 10^18 in 1475

Nicolas Chuquet extends this scale up to nonyllion (10^54), with every step being another six orders of magnitude (million, byllion, tryllion, quadrillion, quyllion, sixlion, septyllion, ottylion, nonyllion) in 1484. Note that in this period, it was common to put the digit separator every six digits instead of every three.

Guillaume Budé refers to 10^9 as milliart in 1516, in a Latin text

But in 1549, Jacques Pelletier du Mans uses milliard to mean 10^12, citing Budé as a source

In the 1600s, people start putting digit separators every three digits. But some scientists and mathematicians define the numerical scale according to how digits are grouped, rather than the actual order of magnitude: thus, one billion becomes 10^9, one trillion becomes 10^12, etc, creating the short scale.

"Milliard" is eventually added to the long scale, meaning 10^9 (in keeping with Budé's usage); the first published example is from 1676

By 1729, the short-scale meaning of "billion" (10^9) has already crept into American usage

This is in keeping with French usage at the time: in 1762, the Académie Française dictionary cites billion as meaning 10^9.

By the early 19th century, France has almost completely converted to the short scale, and U.S. usage follows France; the long scale is referred to in some sources as "obsolete." But Britain is still using the long scale (and I assume Germany and most other European countries)

Over the course of the 20th century, the long scale begins to become more influential in France, presumably due to the influence of continental usage; while the short scale becomes more influential in Britain, presumably due to the influence of American English. Notably the SI system very specifically uses unique prefixes that are the same across languages, to prevent confusion!

In 1961, the French Government confirms that they're going to officially use the long scale from now on; in 1974, Britain officially switches over to the short scale, and many other English-speaking countries follow.

In 1975, the terms "short scale" and "long scale" are actually coined, by mathematician Geneviève Guitel.

One reason large number names could be so unstable for so long is, of course, that outside specialized usage they are rare, and were even more rare before modern science and large modern monetary amounts became commonplace points of discussion. Wikipedia says "milliard" wasn't common in German until 1923, when bank notes had to be overstamped during Weimar-era hyperinflation.

As it currently stands, English, Indonesian, Hebrew, Russian, Turkish, and most varieties of Arabic use the short scale; continental Europe and most varieties of Spanish outside Europe use the long scale. A few countries use both, usually in different languages, like South African English (short scale) and Afrikaans (long scale) or Canadian English (short scale) and Canadian French (long scale) . Puerto Rico uses the short scale in economic and technical usage, but the long scale in publications aimed at export.

Notably some languages use neither, having their own names for large numbers--South Asian languages have the Indian numbering system, and Bhutan, Cambodia, and various East Asian languages also have their own numbering systems. Greek, exceptionally, uses a native calque of the short scale rather than a borrowing.

[vibeswithdivs]

you don’t mess around - OP81

If you had to describe your job in three words, they’d be: pressure, precision, and absolutely no room for mistakes.

You managed the money that kept McLaren running. Not in the sense of counting coins in a dusty room — no, you lived in digital dashboards and currency exposure spreadsheets. On any given day, you could tell someone how much was in the Swiss account, how the yen was affecting the Singapore deal, and whether a facility payment was going to clear before a supplier had a panic attack.

The job was about timing. Liquidity. Predicting the unpredictable and safeguarding the team’s future — all while juggling numbers with razor-sharp accuracy.

Which is why when a race car driver wandered into your high-stakes, number-heavy corner of the building on a calm Wednesday morning, you stared at him like he’d stepped into a Bond film by mistake.

He paused just inside the glass doors — tall, hoodie-clad, faintly windblown from the chilly British air outside — and looked around with a furrowed brow.

Definitely lost.

Your colleagues peeked over their screens, some wide-eyed, others frozen mid-email. In this room, the loudest thing was usually someone’s keyboard when they were panicking before a deadline.

You were about to go back to calculating rolling cash positions when he spotted you.

He smiled.

It wasn’t a polite PR-smile. It was curious. Warm. Maybe a little amused.

“This definitely isn’t Aerodynamics,” he said, glancing around.

You took your hand off your mouse and leaned back slightly in your chair. “Unless they’ve suddenly decided to start hedging foreign currency risk, no — you’re a few wrong turns deep.”

He took a cautious step in. “It’s… quiet in here.”

You tilted your head. “Not when the dollar drops half a percent during a five-million-pound contract negotiation.”

He grinned at that. “Sounds intense.”

You offered a thin smile. “That’s one word for it.”

There was a beat. Then he added, “I’m supposed to be meeting Zak, but I think I took a wrong left somewhere between partnerships and… whatever room had seventeen monitors and no windows.”

You stood, brushing off your skirt. “You’re about four corridors off course and six floors deep into stress.”

He looked around. “Well, if I’m going to get lost, at least I ended up somewhere interesting.”

You blinked at him. “You’re the first person to say that about this room. Ever.”

He gave a half-grin, toeing one foot on the floor like he was trying to kill time. “So what do you actually do in here?”

You pointed to your screen, where a live dashboard showed inflows, outflows, and forecasts across multiple international entities. “See that? That’s how much is available in five different currencies to fund race weekend logistics without breaking any laws or overdraft limits.”

Oscar leaned slightly forward, genuinely intrigued. “And you just… know how to do that?”

“I know how to make sure no one gets a call from legal,” you said, turning your gaze back to him. “Including you.”

He laughed, a genuine, caught-off-guard sound. “Wow. You guys are the quiet enforcers.”

“Quiet, precise, and very well-documented,” you replied smoothly. “We don’t leave fingerprints — just audit trails.”

That earned a low whistle. “You don’t mess around.”

“No, but people sometimes think we do — right up until they want to order a new hospitality suite and we say, ‘not unless you want to explain that to Finance.’”

He looked impressed. “Duly noted.”

Another colleague passed behind you, giving Oscar a side-eye like he was a Martian. You cleared your throat and took a step forward, suddenly feeling aware of just how much of the room was pretending not to eavesdrop.

“You’re Oscar,” you said, a little more grounded now.

“And you are…?”

“Y/N,” you replied. “I work in… let’s call it future-proofing.”

That made him pause. “I like that.”

“It sounds less terrifying than ‘I manage the operational cash forecasts for a multimillion-pound motorsport empire,’” you added with a wink.

He smirked. “A motorsport empire, huh?”

“You guys play chess with tires. I play chess with the economy.”

He laughed again, and the sound of it — relaxed, amused, intrigued — felt like a weird sort of reward after a morning spent reviewing intercompany transfers.

“You actually like this stuff?” he asked, pointing at your screen.

You tilted your head. “You like driving into a corner at 200kph hoping your grip calculations are right?”

“…Fair.”

At that moment, a harried admin appeared behind him. “Oscar! There you are — Zak’s been waiting—”

Oscar turned slightly but didn’t move. “Got a little sidetracked.”

The admin blinked at you, surprised. You offered a tight-lipped smile and a “don’t you dare start” eyebrow raise before turning back to him.

“Back to the track?” you asked lightly.

“Back to pretending I know what my engineer is talking about.”

You smiled, unexpectedly. “Fake it till you podium.”

He chuckled. “Hey, Y/N?”

You raised a brow.

“I’m glad I got lost,” he said. “Most detours don’t come with financial sass and a global cash position overview.”

“Flirting with the girl who can freeze team spending is bold,” you replied, smirking.

He shrugged, taking a few steps toward the door. “I’ve raced in Monaco. I like high-risk strategies.”

Before leaving, he turned back over his shoulder, grin softening into something more sincere. “I’ll come back. But next time, I’ll bring coffee. You seem like you don’t take sugar, but I’ll gamble.”

You blinked, not used to someone reading you that quickly.

“…Black. No sugar,” you said after a beat.

He pointed, victorious. “Knew it.”

And with that, he slipped out of the room — leaving behind a trail of confusion, amusement, and a string of open-mouthed stares from your colleagues.

You sat down, turned back to your screen, and tried — very unsuccessfully — to remember what currency hedge you were working on.

But all your brain could supply was: He got your coffee order right.

And maybe… just maybe… some risks were worth taking.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How the world's leading breach expert got phished

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE. More tour dates here.

If you can't spot the sucker at the poker table, you're the sucker. Also, if you think you can't get phished, you're the sucker.

I've been successfully scammed six times in my life. Each time, the scam relied on the confluence of several factors that yielded a fleeting moment of vulnerability that some scammer was able to exploit by being in the right place at the right time. I had to be lucky always, they only had to be lucky once.

The first time I got scammed was in 2008, on my first trip to India. As I walked toward the Mumbai airport taxi queue at 2AM, I was approached by two uniformed airport security guards who told me that the taxi rank had been moved in the wake of a recent terrorist bombing in Islamabad, which had resulted in all the regional airports going on high alert. The bombing was real, the airport high alerts were real. The security guards – not real. They were scammers, working with a fake cab that charged me $200 for a $20 taxi ride.

I got scammed again this way in Shanghai, at the Pudong taxi-rank. I was with my wife, daughter and parents and we split into two cabs and the drivers colluded to turn off their meters and charge us extremely high cash fares, dropping us across the street from our hotel so we couldn't enlist the doorman to interpret. Again, it was very late at night, things were confusing, and we'd had to wait for more than an hour for the cab, so we were exhausted and sweaty and divided into two groups so we couldn't coordinate strategy.

Then there was the time I got successfully phished by a Twitter account takeover worm:

https://locusmag.com/2010/05/cory-doctorow-persistence-pays-parasites/

That was also a miracle of timing – for the scammers. I got hit on a day when I was running late, when I'd just reinstalled my phone's OS and was being prompted for my passwords all over again, when I had just done a bunch of major publishing and was getting a lot of messages about my new articles. When a friend got infected by a worm that took over his account and messaged me, "Is this you?" with a link that took me to a webpage that asked me to log back into Twitter, I re-entered my password. If I'd been five minutes later in getting to that DM, I would have seen three more identical messages from other infected friends and twigged to the scam. But I just happened to look at my phone in the two-minute window when the scam wasn't self-evident, and I just happened to be distracted and flustered about running late, and I just happened to have had some life circumstances that made the generic phishing lure seem plausible.

In 2023, I got scammed by a fake restaurant. I was on the couch with a friend from out of town who'd come by to watch a movie. We were chatting and decided to order from our local Thai restaurant. The top result on Google was a paid ad (marked out with the word "ad" in 8-point, grey-on-white type) that had a plausible domain name, which led to a replica of my local place's menu, only with the prices set 15% higher. I didn't even notice – not until the restaurant called me to say that they'd had a flood of orders from these scammers, who charged their customers' credit cards 15% over the odds, then placed an order for delivery using their own credit card numbers. I ended up contesting the charge with Amex, getting the scammers' Wix and credit card accounts canceled, and shaming Google into blocking their ads:

https://nypost.com/2023/02/25/cory-doctorow-duped-by-fake-thai-restaurant-scam/

Then there's the guy who used leaked data from my credit union to impersonate their fraud department, calling me up and social-engineering me out of the last seven digits of my card number (not the last four, as is common – most banks use the same nine-digit prefix, so the final seven digits are all you need to derive the whole card number). The scammer called right after I used two dodgy ATMs in New Orleans, during my last hour in town when I was rushing around to get my most favorite sandwich in the world before leaving. It was the day that a Boeing 737 Max lost its door-plug so the airport was a zoo and we barely made the flight, so I lost the hour I'd planned to use to call the bank's fraud department back. Again: if, if, if. If he'd called an hour earlier – or later. If there hadn't been a giant aviation disaster. If I hadn't been traveling. The scammer had to get lucky once, I had to be lucky every time:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

I got scammed again last Christmas week. I was in NYC with my wife and daughter and I'd gotten great tickets to see The Outsiders on Broadway. It was my kid's first musical and to her surprise, she loved it. In the cab back to the friend's place we were staying at, we talked about what other musicals she might want to see. She loves South Park, and I'd seen banners advertising The Book of Mormon (which was created by the same people) in LA. So I looked up "book of mormon tickets los angeles" on my phone in the cab and found the production's website and ordered the tickets, working quickly in the cab because it was one of those websites that has a countdown timer so you have to finish your transaction in five minutes.

It wasn't the real Book of Mormon website. It was a scam website, reselling Book of Mormon tickets at a 200%+ markup. That fact was noted in infinitesimal writing on the main screen, which I missed in the crowded taxi backseat while I raced the countdown timer. I figured it out about 20 seconds after the transaction cleared, and immediately emailed the vendor to cancel it. All I got was a series of smug "all transactions final" emails from outsource customer service reps (in the end, I was able to get my credit card issuer to reverse the transaction, but it took months). But yeah, I got scammed by a sleazy company called "Bigstub." Fuck those guys.

Every time I got scammed, the con that got me was nearly identical to a con that I'd avoided on numerous occasions. The fact that I'm actually pretty good at spotting this kind of hustle, 99.9% of the time, didn't mean I was immune it it. It just meant that I was vulnerable under very special circumstances, and those very special circumstances do crop up from time to time.

This is the most important lesson of scams: that no matter how well-attuned you are to cons, you can still be conned. The belief that you are immune to a con actually makes you a mark. It's for that reason that I recount the tales of how I got scammed – to help other people understand that being sophisticated, alert and even paranoid is no guarantee that you will be safe.

I'm not the only person for whom a detailed knowledge of scams created immunity from being scammed. Troy Hunt is the proprietor of HaveIBeenPwned.com, the internet's most comprehensive and reliable breach notification site. Hunt pretty much invented the practice of tracking breaches, and he is steeped – saturated – in up-to-the-minute, nitty-gritty details of how internet scams work.

Guess who got phished?

https://www.troyhunt.com/a-sneaky-phish-just-grabbed-my-mailchimp-mailing-list/

Hunt had just gotten off a long-haul flight. He was jetlagged. He got a well-constructed, plausible counterfeit email from Mailchimp telling him that his mailing-list – which he absolutely relies upon – had been frozen after a spam complaint, and advising him to click on a link to contest the suspension. He was taken to a fake login screen that his password manager didn't autopopulate, so he manually pasted the password in (Mailchimp doesn't have 2FA). It was only when the login session hung that he realized he'd been scammed – and by then, it was too late. Within minutes, his mailing list had been exported by the scammers.

In his postmortem of the scam, Hunt identifies the overlapping factors that made him vulnerable. He was jetlagged. The mailing list was important. Bogus spam complaints are common. Big corporate sites like Mailchimp often redirect their logins through different domains, which causes password manager autofill to fail. Hunt had experienced near-identical phishing attempts before and spotted them, but this one just happened to land at the very moment that he was vulnerable. Plus – as with my credit union scam – it seems likely that Mailchimp itself had been breached (or has an insider threat), which allowed the scammers to pad out the scam with plausible details that made it seem legit.

Hunt's forensics on the scam are very interesting. Of especial note is the fact that Mailchimp had retained the email addresses of thousands of former subscribers who had already unsubscribed, meaning that their data was exposed as well. It's not clear why Mailchimp would do this, but I will note that the company is extraordinarily spammer-friendly and goes to great lengths to make it easy for spammers to add you to their lists, and impossible to get off of all those lists;

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/22/degoogled/#kafka-as-a-service

Getting scammed doesn't mean you were stupid, or careless. Frequently, it just means you were distracted, upset, or distraught. We're living through a moment of total, all-consuming chaos, and the scammers are sharpening their blades – not least because the people running the show are unabashed grifters who openly boast that when they get one over on you, "that makes me smart":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/04/its-not-a-lie/#its-a-premature-truth

Buyer beware – it's ugly out there, and it's gonna get a lot worse before it gets better.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/05/troy-hunt/#teach-a-man-to-phish

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecomms.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 AMC AMX

408-Powered 1968 AMC AMX 4-Speed

1968 AMC AMX

This 1968 AMC AMX was modified under previous ownership during a refurbishment that is said to have been conducted over the course of 10 years and was completed in 2013. Refinished in black over red vinyl upholstery, the car is powered by a 408ci V8 paired with a four-speed manual transmission. Refurbishment work reportedly involved resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator, cross-drilled front brake rotors, and lowering springs. Additional equipment includes 15″ Vision wheels, aftermarket headlights, chrome bumpers, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and a push-button AM radio. The seller acquired the vehicle in 2015. This modified AMX is now offered with a service manual, books, a model kit, unused Go Package–style stripe decals, spare and removed parts, and a Nevada title in the seller’s name.

1968 AMC AMX

The car was refinished in black as part of the aforementioned refurbishment. Additional work is said to have included repainting the wheel wells and the floors along with replacing the bumpers, door handles, grille, mirrors, headlights, weatherstripping, and bright trim on the window and headlight surrounds. The ���AMX” badging on the exterior features red letter Xs.

1968 AMC AMX

Aftermarket 15″ Vision wheels are mounted with 215/60 front and 265/50 rear Cooper Cobra Radial G/T tires. A space-saver spare is located in the trunk. The car is equipped with lowering springs, and braking is provided by cross-drilled front discs and rear drums.

1968 AMC AMX

The split front bench seat is trimmed in red vinyl upholstery complemented by a color-coordinated dashboard, door panels, and carpeting. Other features include crank windows, a fold-down armrest, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and an American Motors–branded push-button AM radio. The headliner, carpets, and sill plates were replaced under previous ownership.

1968 AMC AMX

The three-spoke steering wheel fronts a 120-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge for fuel level and coolant temperature. An AutoMeter tachometer is mounted to the steering column, and a trio of smaller AutoMeter gauges affixed beneath the dashboard monitors oil temperature, coolant temperature, and oil pressure. The five-digit odometer shows 13k miles, less than 500 of which have been added by the seller; true mileage is unknown. The seller notes that the clock and the factory tachometer do not work.

1968 AMC AMX

The engine is said to be an AMC 390ci V8 that was bored and stroked to displace 408ci. Additional work during the refurbishment included resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing forged engine internals, an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, ceramic-coated Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator with electric fans, and an aftermarket exhaust system. An oil change and coolant flush were performed in preparation for the sale. The car’s chassis number indicates that it was originally equipped with a 360ci V8 topped by a two-barrel carburetor.

1968 AMC AMX

Power is sent to the rear wheels through a four-speed manual transmission and a Twin-Grip rear axle with 3.55:1 gearing. An Ace Racing Powerforce clutch was fitted during the refurbishment.

1968 AMC AMX

A 1968 AMC service manual, books and magazines, an AMT model kit, unused Go Package–style red stripe decals, and spare and removed parts will accompany the vehicle.

The Nevada title notes the odometer brand “Exempt.”

[theeartuaist]

The App (2)

Three weeks. Two burner phones. One frenzied apartment change. That was all it took for you to start believing you were free.

You’d torched every digital breadcrumb like a fugitive with blood on their hands. The old phone? In pieces. Your social media? Wiped clean, like a crime scene bleached of evidence. The new number came from a prepaid device you bought with cash at a rundown gas station two towns over—right next to a place that sold fireworks and pickled eggs. You told no one but your family where you’d gone, and even then, you didn’t tell them why.

The apartment was smaller than the last one. Claustrophobic, maybe, but it had good bones: thick walls, double deadbolts, and a front desk guy named Marcus who treated unknown visitors like they were walking lawsuits. Most nights, you even slept through without scanning the corners for shadows that moved too smoothly, too human, but not quite enough.

For a moment, a fleeting, fragile moment, you believed you'd done it. That you’d outrun Raye.

And then the books started arriving.

The first one came five days after you finally began to settle in. No envelope, no Amazon box. Just a dog-eared romance novel—The Billionaire’s Forbidden Love—resting right in front of your door like an orphaned pet. Shirtless dude on the cover, a woman swooning like her bones had gone soft. You laughed, briefly. Then you saw the neon-yellow highlighting, thick and uneven like it had been applied with too much pressure:

“You can run, my love, but you cannot escape destiny. What belongs to me will always find its way home.”

You didn’t laugh after that. You pitched it into the alley dumpster and double-locked the door. Then you added a chair under the knob, just like your dad taught you.

The next day, the second book showed up. But this time, it was inside. Sitting right on your pillow. The highlighted passage was even worse:

“He watched from afar, memorising every pattern, every habit. True love required study, devotion, and pursuit. She would understand, eventually, that his persistence was the purest expression of his feelings.”

You tore the place apart. Every lock, every latch, every inch of ductwork. The windows were sealed, the cameras at the front desk had nothing. No one but you had come in.

By the end of the week, you had seventeen books. Seventeen. Titles like – Surrendering to the Shadow King and The Possessive Duke’s Darling. And they kept appearing in places they had no business being. One in your refrigerator, its pages damp with condensation. One stuffed between your clean towels. One curled like a sleeping dog in your shower caddy.

Each with its own highlighted passage about destiny, ownership, and love sharpened into obsession.

You considered calling the police. Then you thought about what that call would sound like: Hello, officer? I’m being stalked by a man who may not be a man and who communicates exclusively via bodice-rippers. Yeah. That’d go over well.

Then came a knock.

You crept to the peephole, half-expecting a nightmare in a human suit. But it was Mrs. Abernathy, your octogenarian neighbor with a floral scarf and a fondness for raisin cookies.

“You have a package, dear,” she called sweetly. “Special delivery.”

You cracked the door just enough to peer out. “I didn’t order anything.”

Her eyes didn’t look quite right. Too glassy, like someone had forgotten to switch them on all the way. Her smile stretched a bit too wide, like someone had drawn it there with a knife.

“Oh, I know,” she said, waving a small wrapped parcel. “That lovely boy Raye asked me to bring it. He showed me pictures. Said you were engaged. Such a devoted young man!”

You slammed the door like it was a guillotine. Locked everything. Heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ribs.

Through the wood, her voice came again, but it had a different flavor now—tinny, mechanical, like it had been routed through a bad speaker. “He asked me to tell you he’s learned from his mistakes. Movies were poor research materials. He’s found much better guides now.”

You didn’t say a word. Eventually, her steps shuffled away.

You should’ve been gone by then. Should’ve run. But something—foolish hope, or maybe just fear—kept you rooted to that spot. That night, the package still showed up.

You found it on your kitchen counter. Inside was a leather-bound journal. Handmade. Not a book but a log. Each page was filled with razor-precise handwriting—cold, methodical, obsessive. A surveillance diary.

It catalogued your life: what time you left for work, what you ordered for lunch, who you spoke to, how long your showers lasted. Some entries even had photos. From behind bushes. Across the street. Through windows. They dated back months before you ever met him.

The final page was in red ink, as if written in something warmer than pen:

“I have identified the errors in my courtship approach. Fiction is an incomplete source for behavioural protocols. I have been observing actual human mating behaviours and have identified more successful strategies. Persistence is key.”

“I have instead been consulting superior information repositories that your species calls Reddit, 4chan, and various forums dedicated to "game." I have also analysed dating advice blogs and YouTube channels dedicated to human mating strategies.”

“The consensus is clear: females respond to what humans designate as "alpha" behaviour. One must "hold frame" and employ "negging" and "dread game." The courtship requires what your species terms 'pushing past last-minute resistance”. I will begin again tomorrow. You will find my improvements satisfactory.”

You didn’t read any further. You just grabbed your things, left the apartment, and checked into a hotel the furthest from your apartment.

You didn’t care anymore. The world you thought you knew had slipped away, and now you were just running, your phone buried in the lining of your suitcase. At dawn, your eyes opened to a rose on the pillow beside you.

Your phone buzzed, though it was supposed to be off. You checked it. The app was back.

A single message blinked at you like an open eye:

Good morning. I have located your temporary nest. Your evasion techniques are impressive but unnecessary. I now understand that pursuit and resistance are part of the dance. This is biology. I will perform correctly this time. I am upgrading for you.

You didn’t even stop to brush your teeth. You didn’t bother packing. You didn’t bother trying to reason with yourself. You checked out of there in a flash, running down the hotel hall, looking for an exit; a chance to breathe without Raye’s presence closing in on you like a vice.

You burst into the morning air, your breath clouding in the cold as you stumbled into the streets. The first taxi you spotted felt like a lifeline, and you threw yourself into it without thinking twice.

The driver was an old man—silver hair combed neatly, liver spots on his hands, eyes soft and wet like a dog’s. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror and smiled, a slow,little smile.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice gravelly and warm, the kind of voice you think should come bedtime stories.

“Train station.” Your voice was high, tight. “Please hurry.”

The cab pulled out with a gentle lurch.

“Bad morning?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the window and pressed yourself against the door. You stared out the window, your heart was still punching your ribs. You thought if you stayed quiet, maybe you could disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t find you.

“Boyfriend trouble?” the old man asked, trying to make it sound harmless.

You swallowed. That word—boyfriend—curled in your throat like something rotten. “Why do you care?” you asked, too sharp.

He fell silent.

The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering signs, streets that all looked like they were exhaling their last breath. Then you realized something was off. A left turn when it should’ve been right. A street you didn’t recognize. You sat up, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

“Sir? Did you hear me?”

Still nothing. The cab made another turn. Left. Not toward the bus station. Not toward anything you recognised.

“Hey! Sir this isn't where the train station is,” you repeated, the chill of dread sliding under your skin like ice water. “You’re going the wrong way?”

The driver’s voice came again, but it had changed. Just slightly. Too measured. Too... calculated.

“Creating uncertainty increases emotional dependence,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“The literature states that unpredictable environments produce deeper attachments.”

You reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

You yanked this time. Still locked - child locks. Of course.

Your stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless lake. You turned back to the driver, heart hammering. “Let me out,” you said. “Now.”

“The manuals suggest limiting options increases compliance,” he says, smooth as ice, still not looking at you.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. No signal. Useless. You pounded the window, screaming. “Let me the hell out!”

The taxi sped up, turning down a quieter road—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, warehouses that haven’t been used in decades. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one finds out until it’s too late.

In desperation, you looked at the driver, ready to plead, threaten, whatever it took—and froze. In the rearview mirror, where the old man's eyes should have been reflected, there was nothing. Just empty space.

As if sensing my realization, the driver's face rippled. Like wax left too close to a fire, the old man melted away. The silver hair receded, the wrinkles smoothed. And what’s left was him.

Raye.

His familiar, too-perfect face stared back at you from the mirror, his expression neutral, observant.

“Was the old man's disguise inadequate?” he asks, genuinely curious, like a scientist observing a mouse that bit back. “I modeled it after ‘trustworthy archetypes.’”

“You... you.. just, let me out,” you said, quieter now. Not because you’re calm, but because you were trying to be. “Please.”

“Your heart rate has increased,” he noted. “The forums suggest this indicates attraction, yet your verbal cues suggest aversion.”

His head tilted. That same goddamn tilt you remembered from your first and last date.

“The data remains inconsistent.”

“Well, gee, perhaps the reason for that is because you are kidnapping me!” You saw the road slipping past. Warehouses and rusted fences blurring by. You tried to memorize every turn. Useless. You knew it was useless..

“Your cultural narratives celebrate pursuit after rejection. They frame perseverance as romantic despite the ethics and laws. Is this your attempt at stimulating narrative tension? Are you playing, as your people say, hard to get?”

You were shaking now. Not from fear—but from thr hot, boiling pit simmering inside you. “They’re written by people who want control, not connection. Hell, do you even understand what you're reading?” You said, breath trembling, “You have no damn idea, do you?”

He processed that. You can see him processing it. "The research is indeed inconsistent." The cab had slowed now, creeping down a service road lined with oleander bushes, their pink flowers drooping like exhausted dancers. "I calculated the most efficient approach based on available data.. the forum posts with the highest engagement metrics suggested—"

"Shut up wbout your stupid data! You don't know anything about love!" I gestured at the surroundings; the locked doors. "This - what you're doing - just creates fear. Not love.”

Raye's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just slightly. The knuckles went white, then translucent, something that looked like starlight filtering through fog.

"I have exonerated my sources. I have watched 689 romantic films," he continued, voice carrying a new edge like glass scraping against glass. "Read 447 romance novels. Monitored 432 relationship advice forums. Observed—"

"OBSERVED!" You were shouting now, past caring. "That's all you do, isn't it? Watch and copy and calculate, but you've never felt a goddamn thing in whatever passes for your life. Relationships aren't algorithms. You can't learn them from books or websites. You need real experience. And you never experienced love in your life!"

The cab jerked to a stop.

In the terrible silence that followed, your own breathing, ragged and harsh, ricocheted in your ears. Raye's reflection had gone perfectly still. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — quieter, with a sound like distant rain.

"You are... correct. I have no experiential database for the emotion you call love. Only... approximations. Simulations." His head tilted, that familiar gesture now seeming disappointed rather than curious. "The inconsistencies in human behaviour patterns suggest an underlying complexity I failed to accurately model."

Something changed in the air. The child locks clicked open.

"If love cannot be calculated or observed from the outside," he said, still facing forward, "then my research methodology is fundamentally flawed."

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers were on the handle, your foot hitting the cracked asphalt before my brain could catch up. You were already running, but his final words followed you down that empty road: "I will... recalibrate. Begin new research. Attempt to understand the variables I overlooked."

For three days, there were no books, no messages, no signs of Raye. You began to hope that perhaps you had crashed his reasoning, created a logic loop he couldn't resolve.

Then on the fourth morning, you found a book on my new kitchen table in yet another new apartment that no one should have known about. It wasn't a romance novel this time, but a philosophy text opened to a passage about identity. A note had been paper-clipped to the page, written in that same mechanically precise handwriting:

"I purged the corrupted data. Your internet contains many viruses of thought. I will observe more carefully now, without intervention. When I understand the paradox, I will return."

"The designation "fiancé" was premature. The designation "researcher" was inadequate. I find no human words for what has transpired between us. Thank you for identifying the error in my programming. I will experience love."

next chapter

[changes]

Friday, January 26th, 2024

🌟 New

On web, we added “View previous reblog” to the post meatball menu. Find it by clicking the three horizontal dots in the top-right corner of a post!

We also tidied up some of the other items in the post meatball menu on web, while we were there. The ordering of some items were adjusted, and “Subscribe to conversation” is now called “Follow post”.

On Android, “View previous reblog” is now in the meatball menu of reblogs for all users on the latest version of the app.

To comply with the European Union’s Digital Services Act (DSA), you can now mark a post as containing commercial content, which simply adds a “Commercial Content” banner to the post and does not affect your post’s visibility or ranking on Tumblr.

🛠 Fixed

Users can no longer send asks to blogs that have blocked them, or that they have blocked.

On web, the blog selector in the post editor would incorrectly appear on top of the text format bar. This is now fixed.

On web, the settings page for your blog (tumblr.com/settings/blog/blogname) used to show the account settings menu in the right-hand sidebar. We updated this area to show the blog sidebar instead (Posts, Drafts, Queue, etc).

We made some tweaks which should fix that specific problem where you see a non-zero unread count on your inbox, and so you click into your inbox only to find nothing there. Let us know if you continue to encounter that issue.

🚧 Ongoing

On Android, a small number of users were unable to access their messages on app version 32.9. This issue will be fixed in the next app version (33.0).

We’re still working to fix an issue in the iOS app that’s preventing folks from editing draft posts.

🌱 Upcoming

We just wrapped up another Hack Week, where we got to build whatever cool feature we wanted! Follow @engineering to see what we made 👀

Experiencing an issue? File a Support Request and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can!

Want to share your feedback about something? Check out our Work in Progress blog and start a discussion with the community.

Wanna support Tumblr directly with some money? Check out the new Supporter badge in TumblrMart!

[bloodandwaterzine]

✨PRE-ORDERS ARE OPEN✨

Get your bundles, friends, we are OPEN FOR BUSINESS! We offer three options;

🥊"YOU'RE HOT, CUPCAKE"🥊 Bundle includes: - 160+ page digital PDF - 13 phone wallpapers - 2 computer wallpapers

🧁"YOU'VE GOT A GOOD HEART"🧁 Bundle includes: -160+ page physical zine -160+ page digital PDF -13 phone wallpapers -2 computer wallpapers

✨"FEELING FANTASTIC"✨ Bundle inclides: - 160+ page physical zine - 160+ page digital PDF - 13 phone wallpapers - 2 computer wallpapers - All stretch goals that are reached

So what are stretch goals? Whenever a certain number of orders of the ✨"FEELING FANTASTIC"✨ are made, we'll be adding some more goodies to the bundle! At 75 copies sold, we'll unlock the first goal. At 150, the second, and so on.

Right now we're already VERY CLOSE to reaching our first goal! Get your copy now!

PRE-ORDERS CLOSE ON APRIL 15TH!!

[sejianismodding]

🌸 Unique "TagValueNumbers" - Part 1 🎁 For my "CAS Filters" mod! (Patreon)

Tumblr appears to have a limit for how many users I can @ in a post, but I would like to @ everyone on Tumblr when I create filters for them, as a way to notify you about what I'm doing and so simmers who see this post can find you easily.

I might come off as an egomaniacal arsehole at times (always for good reason), but it's because I care about our community.

I opted to not re-blog the Tumblr OP linked above because it is subject to lots of changes and Tumblr doesn't update the "preview" of re-blogged posts, HOWEVER, you're more than welcomed to re-blog the Tumblr OP and/or this post.

🌸 A UNIQUE 9-DIGIT "ID" FOR EVERYONE:

The 9-digit numbers following your name are to be used in the "TagValueNumber" field for the "SpecialContent" TAG.

Each 9-digit "ID" is unique to the creator it was made for - it is based on your creator name. I made them using a slightly convoluted system I devised in order to ensure that every "ID" is unique and that the filter list in CAS maintains some semblance of alphabetical order. These "numbers"IDs" can potentially be used for other things, but we'll get to that later.

🎓 HOW IT DO, PIKACHU:

If you're well-versed in creating or modifying CAS content, all you need to do is add a new TAG to your swatches - you can do just the first swatch, but you should do all swatches - and change the "CategoryNumber" to "127" (without the quotes), and change the "TagValueNumber" to the desired 9-digit "ID".

For everyone else who is new to this, there are detailed instructions in the form of easy to follow screenshots attached to the Tumblr OP and the Patreon OP, with further text-based instructions in the Patreon OP.

Individual JSON files for Sims 4 Studio for each filter TAG are also available, to make the process of adding these TAGS easier.

⚠️ BE ADVISED - TWO (2) "IDS" HAVE CHANGED:

me -- 719354260

myself -- 719354262

moi -- 719354269

(my anonymous friend) -- XXXXXXXX

Yes, I have THREE (3) "IDs" for myself.

#1 -- USE -- 100000001

#2 -- THESE -- 100000002

#3 -- FOR -- 100000003

#4 -- PERSONAL -- 100000004

#5 -- OR -- 100000005

#6 -- PRIVATE -- 100000006

#7 -- MODS -- 100000007

#8 -- ONLY -- 100000008

#9 -- KTHNXBAI -- 100000009

Seriously. Please don't use the above "IDs" to skip the alphabetical line. I will be very sad if you do. I made these specifically for "regular simmers" to muck around with - in case they want to filter themselves but don't want to request a personalized "ID".

@aharris00britney -- 201427747

@arethabee -- 201738422

@backtrack-cc -- 202225872

@bergdorfverse -- 202374367

@caio-cc -- 203246220

CCBriekel (Patreon) -- 203274353 ⚠️ 203227435

@cloudcat -- 203568322

@1-800-cuupid -- 203887436

@dogsill -- 304647455

@itsonlythee-sims -- 409876659

@j3lly-fish -- 510355934 ⚠️ 510055934

@javitrulovesims -- 510284878

@joliebean -- 510654323

@magic-bot - 613244226

meg @toastie-sim -- 613340000

@alistu -- 613362236

@necrodogmtsands4s -- 614327636

@plbsims4 - 716527467

@redearcat -- 718333272

@rustys-cc -- 718878970

@saruin -- 719278460

@satterlly -- 719288375

@scarlets-realm -- 719227538

@serawis -- 719372947

@serenity-cc -- 719373648

@simandy / @simxndy -- 719462639

@simdulgencemods -- 719463854

@simplyanjuta - 719467592

@simstrouble -- 719467876

@sixcirclescc -- 719492472

@officialsnootysims -- 719666897

@strangegrapefruit -- 719872643

@trillyke -- 820745595

@twisted-cat -- 820947833

@vampishly-sims - 822267474

@wightspider07 -- 923444877

@xandezsims -- 924263397

—

—

—

👹 ONE @ STILL ISN'T WORKING:

IS FINE! The Spreadsheet has links for everyone! <HUFFS> It's not bothering me one bit! No siree! <GRINDS TEETH>

[magnagaruzenmon]

Action I

Just a fun idea Dio had that I added on to. A bit self-indulgent on my part but cute

Magnolia stepped through the towering front doors like a fawn on unfamiliar legs—nervous, tentative, unsure if the ground beneath her would hold. Her eyes darted across the grand foyer, taking in the swirl of motion: students zipping past, voices echoing off polished walls, psychic doors opening, lights flickering, someone teleporting mid-conversation. Everyone seemed to be on their little mission, part of something she didn’t understand.

It was overwhelming.

She hovered near the entrance, luggage handle clenched in her hand, unsure where to go or who to even ask. Then he appeared.

A tall Black man with an easy, curious smile and warm eyes approached her at a relaxed pace, like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You must be the newbie,” he said, voice smooth with a hint of Southern California sun. “Name’s Adachi—but everyone just calls me Psych.”

Magnolia gave a tentative nod. “Magnolia,” she replied. “But… call me Mag Spike. Or Mags. Or Maggy—whichever feels cooler.”

Adachi raised a brow, amused. “Giving yourself a mutant alias on day one? Bold move. I like your style, rookie. Come on—orientation’s this way.”

She followed, grateful for the direction and the distraction. The halls grew quieter as they moved, the chaos of the foyer replaced with the hum of distant voices and the soft buzz of mutant energy. Just as she began to breathe a little easier, Adachi glanced back at her.

“So… you the one who triggered that citywide blackout last week?”

Magnolia winced. “Yeah. That was… me.”

He caught the shift in her tone and quickly backpedaled with a grin.

“Don’t sweat it. Worst thing it did was erase all my Destiny progress. I was this close to unlocking the Navigator. But hey—we’re cool.”

That got a real laugh out of her—sharp, short, involuntary.

“Oh no,” she said, voice dripping sarcasm. “I ruined your climb to digital greatness. Truly unforgivable.”

Adachi chuckled, hands casually in his jacket pockets. “Eh, I’ve survived worse. Like Forge’s cooking.”

As they approached the orientation room, Magnolia glanced at him sideways. There was something grounding about him—dry-witted, relaxed, but you could feel the steel underneath. He wasn’t just being nice. He actually cared.

“You seem cool,” she said. “Mind if I get your number?”

Adachi smirked. “Sorry, love. I’m taken.”

He pulled out his phone and flashed a photo—him and Kang Hyewon, smiling on what looked like a picnic blanket.

Magnolia blinked. “Three things. One: is that Han Chowon? Two: I’m a lesbian. Three: if that is Han Chowon, how the hell did you pull that off?”

He chuckled sheepishly. “My bad on the assumption. And yeah, that’s her. She’s a ‘student’ here. Her and a few other idols.”

“Wait… seriously? Why?” Magnolia inquired shocked

“We bonded over TCGs she saw me playing with my teammate Leon and liked the art,” he said with a shrug. “Magic, mostly.”

Magnolia’s eyes widened in shock “You play Magic?” She proclaimed

Adachi nodded as he said “Yeah. You?”

Magnolia sighed sad and said, “Commander only. It’s all I can afford”

“Respect,” he said, offering her his phone. “Here—punch your info in. If you’re sticking around, I’ll help make the transition smoother. I’m guessing that’s what you want outta this relationship?”

She smiled and took the phone. “Yeah. That’d be great.”

Just as she handed it back, another student jogged up. Slightly younger, way more anxious.

“Psych, come on—we’ve got Danger Room with Logan in 45, and you know how he is about people showing up late.”

Adachi groaned. “Yeah, yeah Leon. The man needs to relax. Later, Mags.”

“See you,” she called after him as he walked off.

Magnolia stood in front of the orientation doors, no longer frozen in place. She still didn’t know what the hell she was doing here—but thanks to Adachi, she didn’t feel quite so lost.

Adachi and Leon made their way down the corridor, boots echoing softly against the metal floors.

“You know,” Leon said, arms crossed, tone somewhere between judgment and exasperation, “you really can’t flirt with every doe-eyed newbie who walks through that door.”

Adachi snorted. “Flirt? Please. That was orientation. Friendly guidance.”

Leon gave him a look.

“And,” Adachi continued, hands casually in his jacket pockets, “you know me. I am trying to help. This place is insane at first. If I can make it easier for someone on day one, I will.”

Leon exhaled sharply, irritation giving way to reluctant understanding. “Yeah… I know. It’s just… damn it, man.”

He deflated a little, arms loosening. Adachi glanced over but didn’t press. They’d had this talk before—about boundaries, about optics, about old wounds that didn’t quite heal right.

By the time they reached the Danger Room, they were back in sync, as usual. First ones there.

Adachi grinned as the doors hissed open and revealed only Logan inside, arms crossed, leaning against the control panel like the world’s most dangerous gym teacher.

“Well, if it isn’t the immortal hero himself—The Wolverine!” Adachi called out, dramatically echoing the name as he stepped inside.

Logan sighed and said, “I’m not immortal kid,”

Adachi rolled his eyes and said, “you’ve been alive longer than most and still look young if you’re not immortal I don’t know what would be,”

Logan snorted. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“I am. Cho gave me a massage last night—with her kinetic vibrations. My neck and spine’s been reborn. I think I ascended.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Gross.”

Adachi scowled at his friend, “not that kind of massage,” he growled.

Logan chuckled. “Well then, I guess you won’t mind if I crank up the heat a little today.”

Adachi shrugged with a mock-stretch. “I mean, I can take it. Prism can definitely take it. Winter and Momo’ll be fine, but you might wanna check in with Gorgon and Rhino.”

(This Rhino has no relation to the Spider-Man villain)

Logan’s expression turned a bit more serious. “Yeah, about them. They dropped out of your squad yesterday.”

Leon blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Said you and Prism were too aggressive. ‘Intense,’ was the word they used.” Logan smirked.

Adachi sighed deeply. “Ugh. Cringe.”

Just then, the doors slid open again and in walked Momo—an athletic powerhouse with teal-tipped braids and an energy drink in hand.

“What did I do now?” she asked warily, immediately picking up on Adachi’s tone.

“You’re fine,” Adachi said, waving her off. “Gorgon and Rhino bailed on X-Change.”

Momo blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

Leon groaned. “Ugh. Can we not say the name like that?”

Adachi shot Leon a theatrical scowl. “I told you that name was cursed. I told you.”

Leon muttered, “It’s a clever play on ‘X-Men’ and ‘cultural exchange.’ It’s thematic.”

“It’s a branding nightmare,” Adachi said.

Logan laughed quietly to himself. “You kids done bickering? Or should I give the Danger Room AI popcorn?”

Adachi cracked his knuckles. “Let’s just start the sim before we lose any more teammates to hurt feelings.”

The final member of the squad slipped through the doors, moving with a quiet, almost apologetic presence.

Winter. Mousy, soft-spoken, and still adjusting to life as both a mutant and a celebrity in hiding.

She gave a small wave, barely above shoulder height, and cast a quick, nervous glance in Leon’s direction. He returned it, equally awkward. Their eyes met for a heartbeat too long, then both immediately looked away.

Momo groaned and slapped her forehead. Adachi mirrored her a second later.

“For the love of God,” Momo muttered, “just ask each other out already.”

“Two super-introverts with mutual crushes and no initiative,” Adachi said, sighing. “It’s like watching shy housecats circle each other.”

With the team assembled, the Danger Room flickered to life. A harsh, dystopian cityscape unfolded—burned-out skyscrapers, broken streets, and the unmistakable thud-thud-thud of approaching Sentinels.

Adachi’s entire posture shifted.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. ���Logan. Really?”

Logan’s voice crackled through the comms. “What? Thought you liked a challenge.”

Adachi stared up at the observation deck. “What did I say would happen if you ran this ‘Days of Future Past’ sim again?”

Logan grinned. “I recall something about blitzing the simulation then quitting the X-Men and moving to New Zealand.”

“That wasn’t a joke,” Adachi muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. You want a show?”

He stepped forward, cracking his neck. “Fuck it. We ball.”

Before anyone could react, he slammed one hand into the ground. A translucent barrier of psionic energy erupted around his team, sealing them off.

“Give me four minutes,” he said flatly. “Stay put.”

Leon opened his mouth. “Wait—how many—?”

Adachi strode into the simulated wasteland. The Sentinels—86 of them—marched forward in coordinated thunder.

He reached for his side holster and drew a sleek, futuristic revolver. The barrel glowed with psionic etching.

“Decimate.”

The weapon fired once—and forty-three Sentinels collapsed instantly, systems scrambling, joints locking, sparks flying.

Logan leaned forward in the control booth, brows raised.

“Okay… what the hell kind of command protocol was that?”

Before anyone could answer, Adachi spun the revolver, raised his other hand, and shouted:

“Maziodyne.”

A bolt of violet lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a maelstrom of electric chaos. The storm ripped through the battlefield like divine wrath—tearing metal apart, frying circuits, reducing the remaining Sentinels to molten slag.

Silence fell.

Adachi stood alone amidst the wreckage, shoulders heaving just slightly from exertion.

He turned toward the control booth, voice deadpan: “We good here?”

Logan blinked, stunned. “Yeah, kid. We’re good.”

Adachi holstered his weapon and walked out without another word.

Behind him, Winter blinked. “…Did he just use Persona spell commands?”

Leon deadpanned. “You should see what happens when he uses Fusion skills.”

The team exited the Danger Room, sweat-soaked, winded, and a little awestruck — mostly by Adachi, who’d casually wiped out a small army of sentinels like he was brushing lint off a jacket.

Still buzzing with post-simulation adrenaline (or residual static from Adachi’s lightning storm), the group ambled down the sidewalk toward their go-to comfort food spot: Chingus & Chilango’s, the Korean-Mexican fusion joint that somehow always hit the spot after a near-death team exercise.

Adachi stretched with a groan, arms high above his head. “You know what I earned today? Three bulgogi asada tacos and a fruit punch Jarritos.”

“You always order like you’re feeding a backup dance crew,” Leon deadpanned.

“Maybe I am,” Adachi shot back, smirking.

Just as they rounded the corner, two familiar figures appeared — Magnolia, all sharp eyes and relaxed posture, and Karina from aespa, strutting with smoothie in hand and a smile that could melt carbon steel.

“Yo!” Adachi called out, grinning.

Magnolia lit up at the sight of them. Karina’s smirk deepened.

“You all headed to eat?” Karina asked, already sliding into step with them. “Mind if we join? We were just prowling.”

“You’re not invited,” Leon said, completely without heat. “But the newbie can come.”

Karina slung an arm around Magnolia’s shoulder with the kind of ease that suggested she’d done it before. “I go where Mags goes. Besides, you’re not the boss of me.”

Magnolia didn’t exactly object. Just sipped her smoothie and let Karina guide her along.

Leon sighed. “God help us all.”

By the time they reached Chingus & Chilango’s, the neon open sign buzzed invitingly. Mrs. Kim was already waving them in while her husband fired up the grill in the back.

“Oh, our favorite mutants!” Mrs. Kim beamed. “Booth’s open — your usual?”

“You know it,” Adachi called, sliding into their favorite corner spot. The smell of grilled meat, roasted chilies, and tangy cilantro hit him like a hug.

He ordered big — two orders of kimchi fries, a stack of tacos (bulgogi asada, spicy pork, K-BBQ), elote, two sodas, and a side of churro bites. The works.

Momo raised an eyebrow as she slid in beside Leon. “Why do you always order like you’re hosting a mukbang?”

“Because I’m considerate,” Adachi said. “Chowon’s meeting us when she’s done with class.”

Momo reached for a fry.

Adachi, without looking, gently batted her hand away with a spoon. “Thief.”

“You always get extra fries!”

“And you always try to steal them. Get your own.”

“I did!” Momo huffed. “But yours have the good sauce!”

Right on cue, Chowon strolled in — sunglasses still on, despite the low lighting, radiating post-class calm and casual cool. She dropped into the seat beside Adachi and stole one of his tacos like it was legally hers.

Adachi didn’t even blink. “Saved you the bulgogi asada ones.”

“You’re the best,” Chowon murmured, already chewing, lips quirking in a pleased grin.

Across the table, Karina and Magnolia exchanged glances and laughed quietly.

“What’s funny?” Chowon asked, voice flat but not unfriendly.

“Nothing,” Karina said, still smirking.

Chowon leaned in closer to Adachi. “At least he treats me like a queen.”

Karina lifted her drink in mock-toast. “To royalty.”

Meanwhile, Winter was quietly working through her spicy tofu tteokbokki, sneaking glances at Leon over the rim of her cup. He, in turn, pretended to be fascinated by the laminated menu he’d already memorized.

Their hands brushed as they both reached for napkins.

Winter blinked.

Leon cleared his throat. “So, um, that illusion thing you did last week — with the koi pond and the fireflies — it was… kind of amazing.”

Winter’s cheeks warmed. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” Leon said, then quickly backtracked. “I mean — not in a creepy way. I just… notice things.”

Winter smiled, soft and small. “Well. Thanks.”

A few seats down, Karina had leaned into Magnolia’s space again, lazily twirling the ends of her curls. “So, when are you gonna show me what those electricity powers really do?”

Magnolia arched an eyebrow. “You planning to blow up your phone?”

“Only if you promise to fix it,” Karina purred.

Adachi, mid-bite, muttered, “God, someone get these two a voltmeter.”

Magnolia shot him a look. “Alright then, Mr. Psych. What’s your power, actually?”

Adachi grinned. “That’s classified. Technically, Beast knows part of it — but only I know the full scope.”

Magnolia smirked. “Why?”

“If I ever get trapped in a telepath’s illusion and I can’t access certain abilities? That’s how I know it’s fake.”

Across the table, the crew looked up.

“Wait, that’s why?” Momo asked.

Adachi nodded. Leon let out a low whistle. “Huh. That explains so much.”

Winter tilted her head. “Can’t telepaths just read your mind and figure it out anyway?”

Adachi shrugged. “Not easily. My brain’s wrapped in something like psionic fog — reading it is like trying to solve a maze in the dark. Most telepaths either get bored…” He coughed. “Emma Frost.”

“Or lost,” Leon added. “Charles and Jean.”

“Exactly.”

Magnolia raised her brows. “I just thought you were a pretty face.”

Adachi smiled, wrapping an arm around Chowon. “I’m taken — and she’s right here.”

Chowon smiled down into her soda, trying to hide her goofy grin.

Magnolia chuckled. “Alright, alright. That’s actually kind of sweet.”

To her, Adachi felt like the cool older brother of one of her high school friends — except funnier, gentler, and easier to be around.

The table settled into a rhythm — food passed around, laughter shared, jokes tossed like tennis volleys. Karina’s teasing turned into quiet questions for Magnolia. Winter and Leon kept stealing glances, their sentences growing more open, more personal. Momo eventually swiped one of Adachi’s churro bites and got away with it — barely.

And through it all, Chowon leaned comfortably against Adachi’s side, feeding off his warmth and calm like a battery plugged in.

For a few hours, the world didn’t matter. No Sentinels. No simulations. No headlines or training schedules or anti-mutant rhetoric.

Just tacos, teasing, and the comfort of a crew that chose each other — chaos and all.

The moon hung low as the group spilled out of Chingu & Chilango’s, saying their goodbyes with full stomachs and lingering warmth from the good food and better company.

Leon gave Winter a shy wave, which she returned with a barely-hidden smile. Ryujin slung an arm around Magnolia’s shoulder and whispered something that made her snort-laugh.

Adachi, Chowon, and Momo peeled off from the group, heading toward the quiet road that led back to their shared apartment.

The door clicked open. Shoes were kicked off with the kind of practiced chaos only roommates understood.

Chowon flopped onto the couch, immediately pulling out her phone. “I need a power nap and a skincare reset.”

“You say that every time you eat more than two tacos,” Momo called as she dragged her suitcase from the closet.

Adachi tossed his keys in the bowl by the door. “Momo, are you actually packing tonight or just pretending again?”

“I leave tomorrow for the MiSaMo comeback tour,” Momo replied, flinging open her suitcase and dramatically tossing in a handful of leggings and snacks. “Also, heads-up: Jihyo is coming through to crash while I’m gone, so maybe try not to seduce either of them this time.”

Adachi gasped. “I have never—”

“Jihyo left her number in your base case,” Momo said, raising an eyebrow.

“She liked my strumming technique!”

“I’m sure she did.”

Chowon chuckled from the couch, not looking up. “As long she remembers he’s mine I don’t care how much they flirt,” she said confidently.

Adachi threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave.”

Momo smiled as she got ready while Adachi and Chowon cuddled on the couch.

“Gosh you two are gross,”

Chowon smiles and says, “you’re just jealous,”

Momo shakes her head and says, “please Adachi is like an annoying younger brother.” She says rolling her eyes.

Adachi chuckles before saying, “stay safe out there. Things have been getting…wonky these last few weeks,”

Momo nodded and said, “okay,” before rolling her suitcase outside and leaving their little apartment to go back to being an idol.

Everything felt quieter with Momo gone — not empty, just… less chaotic.

Her bags had barely rolled past the elevator before Adachi and Chowon had claimed the living room couch like it was sacred ground. A K-drama played low on the TV — some historical romance with too many plot twists and not enough sword fights. Neither of them were really watching.

Adachi had his head leaned back against the couch cushion, hoodie bunched up behind his neck. Chowon was curled sideways with her feet tucked under a throw blanket, legs draped casually over his lap like she’d done it a thousand times. (She had.)

“Feels weird without her,” Adachi said, eyes on the ceiling.

“Quieter,” Chowon replied, scrolling on her phone. “Also, like, 40% less dancing in the kitchen.”

Adachi chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She never closes the fridge when she freestyles,” Chowon said, deadpan. “I’ve had to rescue the kimchi twice.”

That got a full laugh out of him — low, warm, and real. Chowon smiled at the sound and finally put her phone down, turning to face him more fully.

“You’re not gonna miss her?” she asked, teasing.

“I’m gonna miss the way she steals my fries and then acts like I owe her an apology,” he said. “But… this is nice.”

Chowon arched a brow. “Just nice?”

Adachi gave her a look — one of those slow, deliberate ones that started at her eyes and ended on the smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Okay,” he said, voice softer now. “More than nice.”

She tilted her head, leaning just a little closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passed. The TV flickered, forgotten. Their knees brushed. His hand found the edge of the blanket and tugged it up around her, fingers brushing her thigh just lightly enough to make her skin spark.

Chowon hummed. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make things easy. Make me feel… settled.”

Adachi blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in her voice.

“I don’t have to perform around you,” she added. “Not like onstage. Not like with the press. I’m not a trainee or a rookie idol or whatever. I’m just—me.”

His gaze softened, one arm resting casually along the back of the couch behind her.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he said. “The real you.”

She smiled, and it wasn’t the practiced kind she gave to fans. It was the real thing — slow, small, and steady.

He shifted just slightly, brushing a knuckle against her cheek. “You know you���ve always got a space here, right? Even when it’s loud. Even when it’s just us.”

“I know,” she whispered.

And she did. The quiet wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty. It was theirs — a moment carved out between chaos and comebacks, where nothing had to be said and everything still felt understood.

Outside, wind rustled through the trees. Onscreen, the drama heroine fainted dramatically into the arms of her rival. Inside, Chowon rested her head against Adachi’s shoulder, exhaled slow, and let herself melt into the warmth.

No noise. No pressure. No cameras.

Just the boy who always saved her the best tacos, and the space between them that had stopped feeling like space at all.

The k-drama had ended a while ago, the credits long faded into a low hum from the TV. But neither of them moved.

Adachi was stretched out on the couch, his arm draped around Chowon, who was tucked against his side under their shared blanket. Her fingers idly traced small circles along the hem of his hoodie, while his hand rested on her hip—warm, steady, grounding.

“You ever feel like…” she began, voice barely louder than the hum of the muted TV, “you’re doing everything right, and it still isn’t enough?”

Adachi glanced down at her. “For who?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “Them. The company. My group. The fans.” Her voice was calm, but there was a practiced edge to it—like something she’d learned to say without flinching, even when it hurt. “I love the girls, I really do. But sometimes… it feels like I’m just there to fill space. Like I’m the extra piece that makes the rest look better.”

Adachi let that settle before answering. “You’re not filler,” he said softly. “You’re the part that holds it together. You know that, right?”

She hesitated. “You see that. But I can’t always tell if anyone else does. Sometimes it feels like I’m holding a spot for someone prettier, thinner, more… palatable.”

His grip tightened just a little, reassuring. “They’re lucky to have you. Whether they realize it or not.”

She shifted, curling into him more. “Do you ever feel that way? Like you’re part of something important, but no one’s really looking at you?”

Adachi gave a half-smile. “Every day.”

“Then why haven’t you stepped up?” she asked, glancing up at him now. “You’re strong, sharp, people trust you. You could lead. So why haven’t you?”

Adachi blinked at the question, then chuckled quietly. “Because leadership here isn’t about being right for the job. It’s about politics. And I’m not exactly subtle.”

Chowon frowned. “But you’re good at this.”

“Yeah, and that scares the people in charge. Charles, Cyclops—they don’t want someone like me asking the hard questions. I make too much noise, and I don’t play by their rules.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

He paused. “I’m okay with Leon leading. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the one this place needs. He’s got insight, balance, and presence. I push him because I want him to believe in himself. Because someone should.”

Chowon nodded slowly, taking it in.

“And besides,” Adachi added, voice softening, “I already have the people I care about. I don’t need the spotlight to protect them.”

She smiled at that, head resting against his chest again. “Even if you’re always stepping into the fire for them?”

He looked down at her, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Especially then.”

For a long moment, they just existed together in the hush of the room, in the closeness. Then Chowon spoke again, more hesitantly this time.

“Lately… I’ve been thinking about how people see me.” Her fingers tensed slightly where they rested. “I know I’m not fat, but next to the other girls? I’m bigger. Curvier. And it’s like that’s all anyone ever notices. Not my voice. Not the work. Just the body.”

Adachi stayed silent, letting her speak.

“I’m not the girl-next-door,” she continued. “I’m the sexy one. The ‘thicc’ one. The fantasy. And it sucks, because it feels like that cancels out everything else. I didn’t train for years just to be reduced to some guy’s bookmark on a browser.”

Adachi’s eyes softened. “You are the sexy one,” he said, teasing gently. “And the sweet one. And the smart one. You’ve got layers, like a cake.”

Chowon laughed under her breath. “You and your food metaphors.”

“Would you prefer sports? Gaming?” he asked. “Because those are way nerdier and you’d get even less of them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe. Still doesn’t change the fact that people don’t see past the surface.”

Adachi turned more toward her, his tone shifting. “Okay, listen. You being curvy, busty, powerful—that’s not something to apologize for. That’s presence. You walk into a room and people feel it. That’s not a weakness, that’s gravity.”

He brushed a hand along her cheek. “And yeah, I’m crazy about how you look. But not just because you’re hot—though, you really are—it’s because it’s you. You’re strong, unapologetic, warm, weird. You take up space and you don’t shrink for anyone. That’s sexy.”

Chowon flushed, her lips twitching. “God, you really do have a thing for big, beautiful, powerful women who could crush you with their thighs, huh?”

Adachi smirked. “Guilty. If you ever do, just promise to do it gently.”

She let out a laugh and swatted his chest. “You are such a menace.”

“Only for you.”

She leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, then rested her forehead against his. Her voice dropped. “You make me feel like I’m allowed to be everything. Sweet and sharp. Cute and commanding. Soft and serious. All of it.”

“That’s because you are.” Adachi kissed her again, then added, “Don’t you dare shrink to fit someone else’s idea of you. Hell, grow bigger. I want the world to be blinded.”

She smiled wide now. “You sap.”

They sat in silence, wrapped up in each other, the kind of quiet that feels earned—like the storm had passed and left something steadier behind.

Then Chowon spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think it’s okay… to want more? To be seen differently? Not just as idol-perfect?”

“I think it’s more than okay,” he murmured. “I think it’s time.”

Eventually, she pulled the blanket tighter around them and leaned into his chest, safe.

They fell asleep there, tangled together on the couch.

Morning came too soon. Adachi stirred at the buzz of his alarm, trying to slip away quietly.

But Chowon groaned sleepily and latched onto him. “Where are you going?”

“Hologym training. Solo session.”

She cracked one eye open, scowled adorably, and muttered, “Fine. But get back fast. I have an itch only you can scratch.”

Adachi grinned and kissed her forehead. “You got it.”

And with that, he slipped out, leaving her warm under the blanket, smiling as she drifted back to sleep.

The hologym was already alive with simulated terrain: a rugged landscape of rust-colored cliffs and shifting light meant to sharpen agility and reflexes. Karina ducked under a holographic branch, twisting into a fluid spin, the glow of her powers flickering faintly beneath her skin. She landed on the balls of her feet, breath steady, eyes sharp.

Across the clearing, Magnolia — Mags — was perched on a boulder, stretching her arms overhead. Electricity crackled faintly around her fingertips, dissipating in static pulses that lit the air like fireflies. She wasn’t trying to show off. That was just how she moved — powerful and casual, like the voltage under her skin wasn’t something to be contained so much as lived with.

Karina tried not to stare. She failed.

“You good over there, sparky?” Karina called, masking the heat in her voice with teasing.

Mags smirked, hopping down. “I’m always good. You just look like you needed a minute to catch up.”

Karina scoffed, stepping closer. “Catch up? Please. I’m ten steps ahead.”

They met in the middle of the clearing, inches apart. The training program cycled into its next challenge — drones emerging from the cliffs, armed with simulated pulse beams. Neither of them moved.

“You gonna take those down?” Mags asked, voice lower now.

“Only if you’re watching,” Karina said, breathless despite herself.

They should’ve kept training. Should’ve focused.

Instead, Mags tilted her head, eyes skimming Karina’s face like she was reading a blueprint. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking about kissing me instead of dodging.”

Karina laughed, quiet and sheepish. “Maybe I am.”

Mags stepped closer. “Then stop thinking.”

Their lips met before either of them could second-guess it. The kiss was soft at first — exploratory, warm, almost shy despite everything unsaid between them. But then Karina’s hands found Mags’ waist, and Mags surged forward, electricity sparking harmlessly against Karina’s skin as the kiss deepened.

The hologym scenario didn’t care. Drones whirred around them, confused by the lack of engagement. One let out a half-hearted warning pulse before shutting down entirely, as if even it knew to give them space.

Karina broke the kiss long enough to murmur against Mags’ mouth, “This is wildly unprofessional.”

Mags grinned. “Good thing I’m not on your payroll.”

She kissed her again, hands curling into the fabric of Karina’s top, tugging her closer until there was no space left to negotiate. The world around them faded into a blur of glowing cliffs and artificial wind. All Karina could feel was the hum of Mags’ power, the way she tasted like static and sweetness, like sugar on the edge of a storm.

Eventually, Karina pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against Mags’. “We’re gonna get yelled at for this.”

Mags’ smile was unapologetic. “Worth it.”

Behind them, the training simulation flickered out. Auto-end triggered by “inactivity.” Or, in this case, hyperactivity of a different kind.

They didn’t notice. Karina felt herself burning up and took off her top. Her perfect teardrop shaped breasts poured out like rain in a desert. Unable to resist Magnolia attached her lips to her perfect brown nipples.

Karina moaned as she pushed Magnolia deeper into her chest

“Fuck!” Karina groaned as began grinding into Magnolia.

Magnolia was the first to break off from her nipple, “god Rina fuck me till I can’t walk,” Karina smirked as they undressed.

As they did Magnolia something growing between Karina’s legs. Magnolia looked at her shocked until Karina smirked.

“Im a bit of a shapeshifter.” Karina said before dropping her sweats revealing a thick girthy cock. Magnolia overwhelmed lowered her self before it and swallowed it whole. Karina moaned helplessly as Magnolia squeezed her throat around Karina’s cock before Magnolia gags then groans.

Karina moans and says, “I need to be inside you,” Maggy drooling gets up and lifts drops her shorts so Karina can get a nice deep thrust inside of her pussy. Maggy moans as Karina fills her

Meanwhile Adachi arrives to the hologym mentally prepared for a few tests of his abilities. The automated doors to the hologym slid open with a pneumatic hiss as Adachi walked in, towel slung over his shoulder and a bottle of water in hand. He was already rolling his shoulders, mentally preparing for a solo session — heavy bag work, maybe some obstacle drills — when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Right there, in the middle of the deactivated terrain, stood Magnolia and Karina.

Pressed against each other.

Kissing.

Hard. Adachi watched confused as Karina thrusted into Magnolia hungrily trying to get both of them over the hump

Adachi blinked. Once. Twice.

Karina’s hand was in Mags’ hair. Mags had a thigh half-hitched around Karina’s hip. There was a faint crackle of static in the air, the hologym lights flickering like the system itself didn’t know how to process what it was seeing.

Adachi’s face contorted into something between horror, betrayal, and big brother panic.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

The girls jolted apart like two magnets suddenly reversed. Karina stumbled back a step, eyes wide with shock. Magnolia just blinked, caught somewhere between sheepish and smug.

Adachi stalked forward, pointing at them with a wide-eyed glare. “Are you kidding me?! This is a combat simulator! Not— not— whatever the hell this was!”

Magnolia lifted her hands, trying — poorly — to play it cool. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Adachi practically exploded. “IT LOOKS LIKE YOU WERE TRYING TO ELECTROCUTE EACH OTHER THROUGH MAKE-OUTS!”

Karina cleared her throat softly. “We didn’t mean— I mean— sorry, sir.” Her tone was polite, apologetic. She adjusted her top, sweats and bowed slightly, backing away toward the exit like a well-trained soldier who knew when to retreat.

But Magnolia didn’t move.

She tilted her head, smile curling at the corners of her mouth, voice low and teasing. “What’s the matter, ‘Dachi? Jealous?” Her eyes glinted with mischief. “You could always join us.”

Adachi made a strangled sound halfway between a gasp and a wounded scream.

“GET OUT!!” he bellowed, voice echoing so hard the gym’s walls trembled. A training drone short-circuited in the corner and fell to the floor with a defeated clunk.

Magnolia burst out laughing, completely unbothered, and sauntered after Karina — but not before blowing Adachi a kiss on the way out. “Love you too, big bro!”

He stood alone in the silent gym, face buried in his hands, muttering, “I’m gonna have to bleach my brain.”

The doors slid shut behind them.

And Adachi sighed.

Loudly.

After that debacle Karina and Magnolia found themselves in lounge Magnolia was lounging upside-down on the couch in the rec room, legs hooked over the back, hair nearly grazing the floor. Karina sat on the floor nearby, carefully rewrapping her hands with gauze after their earlier “training session” had gotten a little too… off-script.

“So,” Mags said, swinging her leg lazily, “how’d Adachi and Chowon end up together? I mean, I get it — they’re both hot in that ‘I’ll protect you and also destroy your enemies’ way — but what’s the actual tea?”

Karina chuckled under her breath, not looking up. “You really want the story?”

“Obviously,” Mags said, flipping upright with a small burst of static and flopping forward like a cat. “Was it slow burn? Was it a forbidden love thing? Did they bond over mutual trauma and blues music?”

Karina tied off the last wrap and leaned back, arms resting on her knees. “Honestly? It started with an RKO.”

Magnolia blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Karina smirked. “Yeah. Like—outta nowhere kind of RKO.”

Now Mags was sitting cross-legged, fully invested. “I need every detail.”

Karina nodded. “Okay. So. It was back when Chowon first got here. She was still figuring out how she fit in. You know how the idol world already chews you up if you don’t look like a wishbone with a mic? So you can imagine what it’s like when you’re suddenly a mutant and still built like a vintage pin-up.”

Mags nodded, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen the way people stare at her. It’s gross.”

“Well,” Karina continued, “Emma Frost’s daughters — the Cuckoos — they started talking shit in front of everyone. Snide little comments about her body, her thighs, calling her a ‘mutant MILF in training.’”

Magnolia scowled. “Oh hell no.”

“I know. But Chowon didn’t say anything. She just stood there and took it. Until Adachi walked past, heard one of them laugh, and — no hesitation — RKO’d one of them into the floor.”

Magnolia burst out laughing. “Wait—like legit RKO’d her? Wrestling move and all?”

“Full commitment,” Karina said, grinning now. “Slammed her onto the tiles like he was trying to win a belt. Got detention for a week and still said it was the best moment of his life.”

“Okay, that’s kind of hot,” Magnolia said.

“He thought so too,” Karina replied. “He told me later, that was the moment he realized. Like — not just that he wanted to protect her, but that she deserved to be protected without ever having to ask.”

Magnolia’s smile softened. “And her?”

Karina’s expression shifted, more serious now. “She didn’t fall for him right away. She liked him — thought he was funny, kinda sweet under the bluster. But she didn’t trust him. Not fully.”

Mags nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get that. Pretty is easy. Safe is rare.”

Karina looked down for a beat, then added quietly, “Then she got taken.”

Magnolia stilled.

“The Purifiers staged a raid on a transit route. Grabbed a few of us. Chowon got separated and taken deeper. Higher-ups said it was too risky to launch a rescue. Too late, too dangerous.”

“But let me guess,” Magnolia said, voice tight. “Adachi went anyway.”

“Of course he did,” Karina said. “Stole a stealth suit from Forge’s lab, snuck off to pilot the jet, and broke into a Purifier facility by himself. Fought through half the compound, found her chained up in a room meant to ‘cleanse’ her of sin.”

Magnolia’s hands sparked a little with residual electricity. “I’d kill them.”

“He almost did,” Karina said. “But Chowon stopped him. Even after all that, she was the one who told him not to lose himself to hate. He carried her out — literally, over his shoulder, body bruised and bleeding — and when they landed, she didn’t say a word. Just kissed him.”

Magnolia let out a low whistle. “That’s some romance novel shit. Like, ‘Bodyguard x Idol’ meets ‘Dawn of the Mutants.’”

Karina laughed. “Pretty much. And it’s been them ever since. They fight, sure. But they’re solid. Like tectonic plate solid.”

Magnolia leaned back against the couch again, smirking. “Well, no wonder he was ready to vaporize me earlier. I’m out here kissing girls in the danger room and he’s living a whole mutant fairy tale.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “More like a tragic fantasy with hot make-outs and trauma bonding.”

“Still counts,” Magnolia said brightly. “Good for them. I love messy couples with war scars and unresolved authority issues.”

“You are the messy couple,” Karina muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

They exchanged a glance — one smug, one exasperated — before the door slid open and Adachi walked in, sweaty and already annoyed.

“Please tell me you two aren’t making out again.”

Magnolia grinned. “Not yet.”

Karina sighed.

The moment had just settled. Magnolia was still grinning about the story Karina told, Karina was trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t charmed by said grin, and Adachi was halfway out the door mumbling about needing caffeine and mental peace.

That’s when the doors slid open again — this time with a signature whoosh of cold air and white leather.

Emma Frost strode in like the room owed her rent. Perfect posture, expression like carved marble, and her signature psychic pressure just faint enough to be felt without full-on announcing itself.

Magnolia blinked. “Oh. Um. Hi?”

Emma’s ice-blue gaze landed squarely on her. “Magnolia Cho, yes? I’ve been reviewing your performance metrics. Your control is still erratic, but your raw output is impressive.”

Karina immediately stiffened. She knew that tone. The “I want to mold you into something dangerous and fashionable” tone.

Emma took a few more steps forward. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of you apprenticing under me. Assuming,” she added coolly, “you’re interested in refining more than just brute strength.”

Magnolia sat up straighter, clearly intrigued — but before she could respond, Emma’s gaze flicked behind her… and landed on him.

Adachi, leaning against the doorway, sipping water, eyebrow already cocked.

Emma’s entire expression flattened. “Of course,” she said, voice turning arctic. “You’re here.”

Adachi set the bottle down with a click. “Wow. You make it sound like I showed up uninvited to a funeral.”

Emma crossed her arms. “Just giving your friend some career guidance. I’d caution her, though, to be wary of the aggressive ones.”

Magnolia looked between them, confused. Karina closed her eyes and muttered, “Oh no.”

Adachi straightened, lips twitching into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Because God forbid someone has the nerve to defend a teammate.”

Emma’s brow arched. “Defend? Is that what you call it? Throwing one of my daughters into the floor like you were auditioning for pro wrestling?”

Adachi’s voice dropped. “Hey, if your daughters had manners, they wouldn’t have gotten hit.”

Karina froze.

Magnolia let out a small gasp that sounded a little too much like delight.

Emma’s gaze sharpened into something lethal. “So you had to be the hero?”

Adachi’s reply came without hesitation. “Guess so. Especially since Chowon’s built more like you than your daughters are.”

The room went very still.

Emma’s lips parted slightly, stunned — either by the boldness or the accuracy of that statement.

Behind them, Karina noticed the subtle shimmer of violet and dark blue begin to crackle around Adachi’s forearms, pulsing from his skin like coiled psionic heat.

Magnolia leaned over and whispered to Karina, “Is it just me or is the air getting… sparky?”

“Not just you,” Karina said under her breath, already standing.

She stepped between them just enough to keep them from combusting and quickly said, “Hey, Adachi? Chowon texted.”

Adachi blinked. “She did?”

Karina nodded like her life depended on it. “She’s hungry. Craving pancakes.”

Magnolia caught on fast. “And bacon. And those cheesy eggs you make.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “How domestic.”

Adachi took a deep breath, visibly rolling his jaw, the psionic glow dimming slightly. “Fine. I’ll go.”

He gave Emma one last glance — pointed, but wordless — then turned and walked out of the room, shoulders taut.

Once he was gone, the room felt five degrees warmer.

Emma turned back to Magnolia like nothing had happened. “Think about what I said.”

And with that, she swept out of the room.

Karina let out a slow breath. “Every time they’re in the same space, I swear I age five years.”

Adachi nudged the door open with his shoulder, hands full of a tray holding two mugs of coffee, a stack of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The smell of butter and maple syrup drifted into the room like a peace offering.

He stepped in quietly, his earlier irritation still lingering just beneath the surface — but it melted almost instantly at the sight before him.

Chowon was still curled up on the couch, one of his oversized hoodies slouched off one shoulder, hair an adorably tousled mess. She’d clearly drifted back to sleep while waiting. One hand was tucked under her cheek, the other loosely clutching the edge of the blanket like it was anchoring her to the earth.

As he closed the door behind him, the faint click stirred her. She blinked, slowly, lashes fluttering before her eyes opened fully — soft, unfocused, and undeniably delighted to see him.

“Mmm… you came back,” she mumbled, voice raspy with sleep and affection.

Adachi grinned despite himself. “Told you I would.”

She stretched slowly, like a cat, then patted the space beside her under the blanket. “C’mere. You smell like breakfast and violence.”

He laughed, setting the tray down on the coffee table before sitting beside her. She immediately climbed halfway into his lap, draping herself over him without hesitation.

“You’re warm,” she said, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “You fight someone?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, kissing her temple. “Verbally. With Emma.”

Chowon pulled back just enough to blink up at him. “Oh no. What happened?”

“She came into the training room to talk to Magnolia,” Adachi said, picking up a mug and handing it to her. “Then she saw me and her inner ice queen activated.”

Chowon sipped her coffee with a pleased hum. “Let me guess… she made a snide comment about you being too aggressive and you made it worse with a line that probably made Karina wish she had a teleportation power?”

Adachi smirked. “Something like that.”

Chowon tilted her head, smiling against the rim of the mug. “Did you say something spicy?”

“I said you’re built more like her than her daughters are.”

Chowon choked on her coffee, sputtering a little. “Adachi!”

“What?” he said innocently. “It’s true.”

“You cannot just say things like that to Emma Frost!” she said through giggles, half scolding, half delighted. “She’s going to turn your spine into a crystal chandelier one day.”

He shrugged. “Worth it.”

Chowon leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Well… I appreciate you going toe-to-toe with one of the most powerful telepaths on Earth. For me.”

He gave her a small, fond smile. “Always.”

She glanced at the tray. “Are those cheesy eggs?”

“Cheddar and gouda.”

Her eyes sparkled. “God, I love you.”

Adachi grinned. “I know.”

They fell into an easy rhythm — Chowon curled into his side, stealing bites of pancake and humming contentedly, and Adachi running his fingers through her hair while pretending he wasn’t still a little amped from the Emma encounter.

Chowon eventually glanced up again, eyes still sleepy. “Hey… thanks for being my safe place.”

Adachi leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You’re mine too.”

Chowon had finished her pancakes, now nestled fully against Adachi’s chest again, half-listening to the quiet TV in the background. She was warm, content… but still thinking.

“Hey,” she said softly, fingers playing with the drawstring of his hoodie. “What did you mean earlier? When you said I was built more like Emma Frost?”

Adachi blinked, surprised by the question. “Huh?”

“You said it in the middle of roasting her,” she said, looking up at him. “Just curious. What’d you mean?”

He exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… physically. You both have that kind of commanding, curvy presence. Hourglass. Strong. The kind of body that makes people pay attention — whether they want to or not.”

Chowon tilted her head, expression unreadable. “So… you were comparing me to her. But you said I’m better. Why?”

Adachi gave a small, wry smile. “Because she uses her body like a weapon to control a room. You… you don’t need to. You just walk in and people feel you. You don’t need to posture. You’re just… you. And it’s more powerful because of that.”

Chowon studied him, brow furrowing slightly. “Did you… ever have a thing for her?”

Adachi chuckled, a little sheepishly. “Yeah. When I was younger. Most of us did. She was always poised, confident, untouchable. And honestly, she was the first adult here who treated me like I mattered — like I wasn’t just some punk from nowhere.”

“What changed?” Chowon asked, voice gentler now.

Adachi’s jaw tensed slightly. “My powers mutated. When I was fifteen. I went from low-level psychometry to full-on psykinetic emulation. My mind started projecting in weird ways — energy signatures, memory echoes. And suddenly… none of the telepaths could read me anymore.”

Chowon blinked. “Wait, none?”

“Not even a flicker,” he said. “Charles. Jean. Emma. All of them tried. And when they couldn’t, something shifted. They stopped looking at me like a student and started looking at me like a variable. A threat. Emma went cold. Jean got… distant. Charles kept smiling, but I could feel him keeping me at arm’s length.”

Chowon’s hand slipped into his, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry. That must’ve sucked.”

“It did,” Adachi admitted. “They called it ‘respecting my mental boundaries,’ but it felt like fear. Like I was only safe when they could see every part of me. The second I had a locked door, they didn’t trust me anymore.”

Chowon leaned her head back against his shoulder. “That explains a lot.”

“About what?” he asked.

“Why you don’t like politics. Why you always protect the ones who feel overlooked. Why you push Leon into leadership but won’t take it yourself. And…” she looked up at him with a soft smile, “why you see me.”

Adachi looked at her for a long moment. Then said, quietly, “You’ve been underestimated too. Measured, weighed, questioned — but not seen. Not really.”

She nodded slowly. “And you saw me.”

“From the jump,” he said. “Even before I RKO’d that brat Frost girl.”

Chowon laughed. “You really did that.”

“I really did,” he said with no remorse. “No regrets.”

She rested her forehead against his. “You really are the reckless protector archetype, huh?”

“I prefer ‘ride-or-die with moral clarity,’” he said with a smirk.

She smiled, eyes soft, voice barely above a whisper. “Well… thanks for riding for me. Even when I didn’t know how to love myself yet.”

He kissed her gently. “You’re worth it. Every damn time.”

They were still wrapped in the warm hush of morning, sprawled on the couch with the empty plates of breakfast long forgotten. Chowon had her legs across Adachi’s lap, head resting on his shoulder, fingers tracing idle lines across his forearm as they talked.

“You know,” she murmured, “sometimes I feel like I have all this music inside me, but no one really hears it. Not the way it actually sounds in here.” She tapped her temple gently.

Adachi gave her a soft look. “Then they’re not listening hard enough.”

She opened her mouth to respond — but suddenly her eyes widened, and she gasped sharply.

“Chowon?”

She gripped his hoodie with trembling hands as her body stiffened. “It’s too loud— I can’t— I can’t— they’re singing— all of them—”

Her voice cracked, panic blooming on her face. Adachi sat up, his hand moving instinctively to her back. “Hey. Hey, I’ve got you. What’s happening?”

Chowon let out a choked sound — not quite a scream, not quite a note — more like her entire being vibrating with something other. And then she did scream, clutching her head, curling in on herself as if her skull were splitting from the inside.

Adachi’s panic hit full force. He swept her into his arms without hesitation, muttering, “Hold on, hold on,” as he bolted out the door.

⸻

By the time he reached the medbay, his heart was thundering and Chowon had nearly gone limp, trembling like a tuning fork after a storm. Beast turned the moment the doors burst open.

“She needs help,” Adachi said, frantic. “Something’s happening— it’s not her normal powers, she was screaming like— like something was in her head—”

Beast’s eyes widened as he moved to scan her with practiced precision. A soft pulse of bioluminescent blue flickered across his instruments.

“…It’s a secondary mutation,” Beast said, more to himself than to Adachi. “Her X-gene is restructuring— it’s unlocking latent psychic channels— this is remarkable. Musical telepathy… each mind she touches is refracted into a unique melody—”

“She’s a telepath now?” Adachi asked, still holding her hand, his thumb brushing hers for comfort.

But before Beast could answer, the door slammed open.

Emma Frost.

Then Jean Grey.

Then the Cuckoos — all five of them.

Then Charles.

They came in like a storm, all drawn by the unmistakable flare of a new telepath’s birth — and none of them looked at Adachi.

“She needs psychic stabilization,” Jean said coolly.

“Her mind’s raw, unfiltered,” added Emma. “She could hurt herself if we don’t guide the influx.”

Charles gave a tight nod to Beast. “Step aside, we’ll take it from here.”

Adachi rose to his feet protectively, eyes narrowing. “Hold on. She just went through something traumatic, and I’m the one she trusts—”

“You’re not trained for this,” Emma snapped without looking at him. “You’ve already done enough.”

Adachi bristled. “What the hell does that mean—”

“It means,” Charles said evenly, “that this is a psychic matter, and we don’t need ungrounded emotional interference.”

Jean looked at Adachi then — not unkindly, but distant. Professional. “Let us help her.”

Before he could argue again, the Cuckoos gently but firmly placed themselves between him and the medbay bed.

Adachi looked past them, to Chowon’s pale, still face — her brow furrowed, lips parted as if singing some silent song even in her unconscious state.

He clenched his fists. His psionic energy began to hum faintly — dark blue and violet sparks dancing along his arms — but he forced it down.

No one even noticed.

No one ever noticed.

With his jaw set and heart hammering, Adachi turned and walked out without another word.

The first thing Chowon noticed as she stirred was the eerie quiet.

Not just the kind of silence you hear with your ears, but a deep, hollow hush that hummed behind her eyes — like the world itself was holding its breath. Her body ached, her mind felt full, and every heartbeat reverberated like a tuning fork against her skull.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking into the white-blue glow of the medbay.

Emma Frost sat beside her.

Cool, composed, beautiful — immaculate as ever in her white tailored ensemble, legs crossed and gaze unnervingly serene.

Chowon blinked again, trying to orient herself. “…Ms. Frost?”

Emma gave a soft smile. “Welcome back, Ms. Kim. You’ve been unconscious for several hours. Your mind needed the rest.”

“…Where’s Adachi?”

Emma’s expression didn’t change, but something cold slipped into her tone. “We had him removed when your telepathy manifested. He was becoming… emotional. Disruptive.”

Chowon blinked, frowning. “Removed?”

“Your emergence was delicate. You needed experienced guidance, not chaos.” She stood slowly, almost admiring. “But you are remarkable. Your powers have evolved beyond simple vibration kinetics. What you now perceive — these ‘songs’ — are mental frequencies. A new, beautifully rare form of psychic resonance.”

At Emma’s praise, Chowon instinctively recoiled — and as she did, a ripple of psychic energy flared outward from her mind. Her shields rose like a reflex, as elegant and precise as armor.

Emma’s eyes glittered. “Impressive. Natural barriers. A raw mind usually flutters open like a diary. But you… you’re already protecting yourself.”

Emma leaned closer, trying to gently pierce those shields — not forcibly, but with subtle precision. She peered — and within Chowon’s mind, she saw it: waves of music not just heard, but felt. Thoughts shaped like melodies. Emotions that echoed like choirs. A psychic symphony.

“You could do great things,” Emma murmured. “Under the right mentorship. I would be honored to guide you.”

But that was when it hit Chowon — a psychic jolt from her own memory.

⸻

She was new to the mutant academy. Still unsure. Still walking lightly.

The Cuckoos were watching her with cold amusement as she passed the quad, whispering with cruel smiles.

“She’s so overdeveloped. No wonder she’s not center.”

“She’s like… if puberty had a branding deal.”

“I bet she eats three times what we do. How is she even on stage?”

Chowon kept her head down, heat rising in her cheeks. She didn’t want to cry in front of them.

Then a voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Cut it out.”

Adachi.

He was walking past, hoodie half-zipped, hair slightly damp from training. His expression wasn’t angry — just done.

The Cuckoos turned on him immediately. “Ugh, what do you want, mutt?”

“You always have to bark when no one’s talking to you?”

He didn’t react. Just kept looking at Chowon, like he saw her — and that made it worse somehow. The Cuckoos sneered.

“Protecting your curvy little friend? How sweet. I’m sure she appreciates being your—”

Before the word finished leaving her lips, Adachi spun and hit one of them with a textbook RKO out of nowhere.

The gasp echoed across the quad.

He stood quickly and turned toward the second — his body already in motion — when he was intercepted mid-kick by a sudden arrival.

Emma Frost.

There was a pause. The Cuckoos scrambled to their feet.

“What is going on here?” Emma snapped.

“Adachi’s gone feral,” one of them whined. “He attacked us!”

Chowon found her voice then. Shaky but firm. “No. They were saying nasty things to me. He only attacked because they wouldn’t stop.”

Emma looked between them — then rolled her eyes as if this were all an inconvenience. She took Adachi aside to speak with him at what she thought was out of ear shot, “Adachi. Ever since your power evolved, you’ve been so aggressive. So harsh.” Her voice dropped, more concerned now. “Is everything alright? Please, let me in.”

Chowon watched — felt — how Adachi twitched slightly at the words.

“No,” he said.

And when Emma reached out with her mind, Chowon felt him recoil. His psionic walls were jagged then, still forming — wild and unreadable. Emma tried to probe deeper.

He resisted.

The pressure built — until Adachi grunted in pain, swatting her away with a flash of blue-violet psychic static.

Emma, startled, backed off.

“Fine. Detention. Maybe solitude will settle you.”

He said nothing.

Chowon saw the way he held his head, shoulders tense with effort, as if the act of staying grounded took everything he had.

Later, she found him in the empty detention hall, sitting alone at the far table. She walked in quietly and sat across from him.

“…Thank you,” she said.

He looked up — surprised — then gave her a lopsided grin. “For what?”

“For hitting the mean girls with wrestling moves.”

Adachi laughed.

That was the first time she saw him smile.

⸻

The memory faded.

Back in the medbay, Chowon opened her eyes.

“Where’s Adachi?” she asked again, this time stronger. Clearer.

Emma’s expression flickered, irritated but careful. “…I’ll find him.”

“Good.” Chowon’s voice was steady. Her barriers unwavering. “Please do.”

Emma gave her a long, unreadable look. Then, with a sweep of her coat, she left the medbay to find the man she had tried to push away — again.

And Chowon, alone in the room, sat up fully for the first time — her mind humming, alive with music.

And just faintly, underneath it all, one melody stood out.

Dark blue. Deep purple.

Adachi’s frequency.

She smiled to herself.

She could find him anywhere.

The walls were quiet again. No arguing voices. No medical beeping.

Just her.

Chowon sat cross-legged on the recovery bed, the thin blanket pooled in her lap. Her mind still buzzed — too full, too vast — like the psychic equivalent of a new instrument still humming from its first chord.

She could hear everything now. Thoughts on the edge of speech. Echoes of old feelings. Murmurs of other minds.

But she didn’t listen to any of it.

She only focused on one sound — low, steady, and unmistakably his.

Adachi’s mind was dark-hued and turbulent, a slow-burning storm of blue-violet energy that pulsed with restrained intensity. Most telepaths, she realized, probably saw it as impenetrable. Like sonar bouncing off obsidian.

But her mutation didn’t pierce thoughts.

It resonated.

She didn’t dig into people’s minds. She vibrated with them.

So she hummed — gently, in her mind — the song that was uniquely him. The one she’d picked up the moment their bond truly clicked. A song that felt like protection, grit, and something unspoken underneath.

A melody only he would recognize.

⸻

Elsewhere on campus – near the quad

Adachi sat alone beneath one of the large courtyard trees, half-eaten bagel on the bench beside him. His shoulders were tense, jaw set. Ever since the telepaths shoved him out of Beast’s office, something in his chest hadn’t unclenched.

They’d treated him like a hazard. Like a liability. Like a monster.

Again.

He closed his eyes, rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to calm the static that always threatened to spark when he felt helpless. The usual methods weren’t working.

And then he heard it.

No — felt it.

A vibration, subtle and familiar, brushing the edge of his consciousness like a lullaby he hadn’t realized he knew. Gentle and brave. Mournful and warm. It struck a chord inside him that no telepath had ever reached.

It was her.

“Chowon…?”

He stood immediately.

⸻

Back in the medbay

Chowon’s breath caught in her throat as the song pulled taut.

He was close. She could feel him hear her.

Footsteps down the hallway.

And then the door slid open, and there he was.

Adachi, eyes wide, storm fading from his shoulders. “Hey.”

She smiled, the tension in her chest loosening all at once. “Hey.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, standing just at the edge of her bed, unsure if he was allowed to touch her.

“I thought I hurt you,” he said quietly. “I thought it was my fault. I’ve never seen you like that and—” his voice cracked just slightly. “They wouldn’t let me stay.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she whispered. “You found me.”

Adachi let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. She reached for his hand, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. He sank to the side of the bed, his fingers threading through hers, grounding them both.

“…Your voice,” he said, glancing at her. “It was like a song.”

Chowon nodded. “It is now. My powers… changed. Vibrations, still — but mental now. Emotional. Like… psychic harmonies.”

His eyes were soft now, still tinged with worry. “So you’re telepathic?”

“Sort of. Not like Jean or Emma. I don’t read minds. I hear them. Feel them. I tune in. But yours—” she smiled faintly, “—yours always comes through the loudest.”

He gave her that crooked smile, the one she loved. “Of course it does. I’m a loud guy.”

They sat in quiet for a moment, her head resting on his shoulder. The psychic noise of the school ebbed around them, but none of it intruded.

She’d tuned all of it out — except for him.

And he finally, finally felt understood.

The stillness between them wasn’t empty — it was sacred. Adachi’s thumb brushed over the back of Chowon’s hand as her breathing slowed, but there was a tension still there — subtle, coiled tight beneath the surface.

Then, without a word, she moved.

Carefully, deliberately, Chowon pulled back the blanket and rose from the medbay bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. She took one step toward him, and Adachi immediately opened his arms. She folded into him without hesitation, her body slotting into his lap as if she belonged there — like she needed to be held.

Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, forehead pressed against the crook of his shoulder. She inhaled the scent of him — familiar, grounding, safe. But her body trembled slightly, as if the memory of being torn from him still echoed in her bones.

“Don’t leave me with them again,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t care what they say. Stay with me.”

Adachi’s arms came around her fully now, one across her back, the other anchoring her by the waist. He held her like she was something precious. Like he was afraid she might disappear.

“You got it,” he said, low and certain. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She pulled in tighter, burying her face into his shoulder, and he felt the faintest wetness against his shirt. Not sobbing — just the quiet release of pressure too long held in.

“I felt everything,” she murmured, voice muffled by his hoodie. “Their doubt. Their control. Their voices trying to reshape me.”

He didn’t say anything — just cradled the back of her head with his palm and rocked her gently.

“But you—” she breathed, “—you never tried to change how I feel. You heard me even before I had powers like this.”

Adachi closed his eyes. “Because I see you. Powers or not. No one gets to erase you while I’m breathing.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders, anchoring herself to him. His heartbeat was the rhythm she found, the one that quieted the noise in her new, expanded mind. And as she began to calm, she kissed his collarbone, soft and reverent.

“I need your voice in the static,” she whispered. “Don’t ever let them pull me too far.”

“You won’t drift,” Adachi said against her hair. “Not while I’m here. I’ll always bring you back.”

They stayed like that — not speaking, not needing to — her trembling slowly subsiding as his presence wrapped around her like armor. Like music.

Like home.

Chowon was still curled in Adachi’s arms, more grounded now, when the doors to the medbay hissed open. A collective hum of psychic energy filled the room — a shimmering, cerebral presence that made Adachi’s jaw tense on instinct.

The telepaths had arrived.

Emma Frost entered first, pristine and poised as always. Jean Grey followed with quiet grace, flanked by the Stepford Cuckoos, who looked less like students today and more like agents of protocol. Charles and Cyclops lingered near the doorway, arms folded, her expression unreadable but alert.

“Chowon,” Jean said softly, “we’re glad you’re awake.”

“We felt your mind stabilize,” Emma added. “The development is… remarkable. But with this new evolution comes necessary adjustments. You’ll need a new training regimen — intensive, daily, with the telepathic faculty.”

Chowon sat up in Adachi’s lap, but didn’t leave his embrace. Her face was calm, but her spine was straight, eyes sharp.

“Okay,” she said. “But I have one condition.”

Emma’s brow arched. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“I’m not negotiating,” Chowon said evenly. “I’m stating a boundary.”

There was a subtle flicker between the Cuckoos — annoyance, maybe curiosity.

“I’ll train,” Chowon continued, “but Adachi is to be present. Every session.”

Jean tilted her head gently. “Chowon… training with telepathy requires clarity and focus. Having someone not telepathically active present—”

“I am focused,” Chowon interrupted. “More than ever. I’m choosing what’s safe for me.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “You don’t trust us.”

“No,” Chowon said calmly. “I don’t. Not yet.”

That hung in the air like thunder waiting to drop.

Adachi looked at her, a flicker of pride softening his face even as he stayed quiet — letting her speak for herself.

Emma folded her arms, the glint of authority in her voice. “This isn’t how things are done.”

Chowon’s jaw set. “Then maybe it’s time things are done differently.”

There was a beat of silence. The Cuckoos looked to Emma. Jean met Chowon’s eyes, saw the unwavering strength there, and gave a small, approving nod.

“She’s serious,” Jean said quietly. “And she’s right. If Adachi’s presence helps stabilize her control and trust, then it’s a necessary condition.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “Very well. He may observe.”

“No,” Chowon said. “He’s not just observing. He’s with me.”

Jean looked at Adachi, who gave her a small, unreadable shrug — one that said I didn’t ask for this, but I’ll stand by it.

Emma turned slightly, clearly displeased, but relented. “Then we begin tomorrow. 0900 hours. The training will be rigorous.”

“Good,” Chowon said. “I want it to be.”

The telepaths exited one by one, the Cuckoos offering a chorus of matching glances. Emma lingered for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on Adachi with clear disdain — unspoken, but loud.

He met her gaze, unbothered. Then wrapped his arms a little tighter around Chowon, like punctuation.

As the door closed, Chowon let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Adachi smiled. “You didn’t need me to say a word. You owned that.”

She leaned into his shoulder again, more relaxed than before. “Still. It’s better when you’re next to me.”

The halls were quieter now, bathed in the soft golden light of afternoon. Chowon walked beside Adachi, their hands brushing occasionally, her body still recovering but her mind sharper than ever. The tension from earlier had faded into a comfortable silence.

Just as they turned the corner toward the dormitory wing, Jean Grey approached from the opposite direction. Her gait was calm, but her expression held the quiet weight of someone carrying more than they let on.

“Adachi,” she called gently.

He paused. His jaw shifted slightly, the shadow of his usual guardedness slipping back into place. “Jean.”

Chowon looked between them, sensing something unspoken.

Jean folded her arms loosely, hesitant. “I spoke with Hank. And I reviewed some… restricted logs. From Genosha. From the labs beneath Akkaba.”

Adachi’s posture stiffened just enough to be noticeable.

Jean took a breath. “I didn’t know what they did to you. What he did to you. Apocalypse. And Sinister.”

Chowon blinked, her head turning sharply toward Adachi — but he didn’t look at her.

“They didn’t just take you,” Jean continued quietly. “They tried to reshape you. Twist your X-gene. Mold you into something they could use. And when you fought it, your mutation restructured itself under the pressure.”

She stepped forward, carefully. “I always thought that after the Sinister Apocalypse war you had become reckless. Guarded. But I didn’t realize that it wasn’t that.”

Adachi shrugged one shoulder, not meeting her gaze. “I didn’t ask for a sympathy card.”

“You’re not getting one,” Jean said softly. “Just an apology. For keeping my distance when I should’ve asked what was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”

A long beat passed.

“…Apology accepted,” Adachi said at last. “But I’m not broken. You don’t have to tiptoe.”

Jean smiled a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She turned, then paused. “And Chowon?”

Chowon straightened.

“I’m glad he has you.”

And with that, Jean moved on down the corridor, leaving the two of them in the quiet hum of the hall.

Chowon turned slowly toward him. “You… never told me.”

Adachi sighed. “Didn’t really see the point. It was years ago. Doesn’t define me.”

“But it’s part of you,” she said gently. “You fought off being turned into a monster and your body adapted. That’s… that’s not nothing.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was supposed to be War. Or maybe Pestilence. Don’t really know. Sinister did the gene-splicing — Apocalypse did the indoctrination. I held on as long as I could. Then I snapped.”

He looked at her then, finally. “It’s where my secondary mutation came from. I used to just have psychometry. But after them… my brain lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Chowon reached out and laced her fingers with his. “That’s why no telepath could reach you after. Why they backed off.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “None of them like a mind they can’t read. Makes ‘em nervous.”

Chowon pressed her head gently against his shoulder as they resumed walking. “Not me.”

He glanced down at her, a hint of a smile breaking through the grim.

“I don’t need to read your mind to trust you,” she said softly. “You already made me feel safe. That’s more than anyone else did.”

They walked the rest of the way back to their apartment in silence — the kind that was warm, and full of understanding.

And for the first time in a long time, Adachi felt the past didn’t weigh quite as heavy.

They arrived back home mutually exhausted from the day. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft thud, sealing them into their shared quiet.

The small apartment was simple — a couch that had clearly weathered many movie nights, a makeshift coffee table littered with old TCG cards and a few blues records, and a kitchen nook with mismatched mugs and spice jars labeled in Chowon’s neat handwriting.

Chowon pulled her hoodie tighter around herself as she kicked off her shoes, still watching Adachi closely. He looked… tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deep beneath the surface. Something about seeing Jean stirred a weight he hadn’t yet named.

“You good?” she asked gently.

He gave a soft grunt and nodded toward the couch. “Think I earned a nap.”

She smiled as he dropped onto the cushions with a sigh, his body finally relaxing. Chowon knelt beside him, brushing stray strands of hair from his brow and kissing his forehead. “I’ll make some tea. Yell if you have a nightmare.”

His eyes were already fluttering closed. “You’re my dream now.”

She snorted and headed to the kitchen as he sank into sleep.

It started in darkness.

Not empty — alive. The kind of dark that breathes, pulses, waits.

Then — a sound. Metallic. Echoing.

His feet found ground — scorched earth underfoot, the sky above fractured like broken glass. And in the distance, a mountain of obsidian and bone, with something embedded in its heart.

A voice.

“You are not just what they made you.”

It vibrated through his bones, a sound deeper than thought.

He looked down — his hands glowed faintly with dark blue and violet psionic energy, flickering like a storm held barely in check.

“You were reforged. Refined. Claimed.”

From the mountain, a shape rose — massive, looming, draped in ethereal light and old armor. No face, only a crown of fire and shadow, and in its palm: a weapon. It shimmered like thought itself — always changing, a blade, a scepter, a gauntlet, a key.

“You are mine. The Psywarrior. The Echo-Walker. My wielder. My voice.”

Adachi took a step back. “The hell are you?”

“The One Before Minds. The Thought That Broke the World. And you… are chosen.”

The weapon flared with familiar colors — blue, violet, black. It wanted him.

“You have bent power to will. Now bend will to power.”

The energy surged toward him — engulfing him, crackling around his mind like a crown of thorns and stars.

Adachi jerked awake with a gasp, sitting upright on the couch, eyes wide, his psionic aura flickering uncontrollably around his shoulders like aftershocks of a storm. Chowon dropped the tea mug, rushing to his side.

“Hey! Hey! It’s okay—it’s me—it’s me, baby!”

His breath was shallow. Sweat beaded on his temple. But when he looked at her, his eyes were clear.

“I saw something,” he whispered.

She held his hand tight. “A nightmare?”

He shook his head slowly.

“No… a message. I think.”

A while later after dinner The lights were low in the apartment, casting long amber shadows across the floor. The warmth of the tea kettle drifted through the air, mixing with the soft hum of lo-fi jazz playing from Adachi’s battered old Bluetooth speaker. The chaos of the day — psychic meltdowns, resurrected memories, mysterious visions — had been left outside the door. For now.

Adachi sat on the couch again, this time calmer, a blanket lazily tossed across his lap. He wore a faded old Cal State hoodie and had a hand wrapped around a now-cooled mug of tea, staring absently at the steam still curling up.

Chowon padded barefoot across the room in one of his shirts — oversized on her — sleeves nearly swallowing her hands. She knelt on the couch beside him, watching him with soft curiosity.

“You still thinking about the dream?” she asked.

He blinked. “Kinda. It’s just… echoing. Not in a bad way. Just loud.”

Chowon nodded thoughtfully, then gave a tiny, teasing smirk. “Then I need to make you think about something else.”

She didn’t wait. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her fingers gently tangling in his hair, pushing back his hoodie slightly so she could see his eyes.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravel and wonder.

Her thumb traced his jaw. “You stayed with me when I was scared out of my mind. Let me return the favor.”

She kissed him — slow at first, just a brush of lips, but the heat caught quickly. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush to his chest. She deepened the kiss with a soft sigh, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest over his heart.

He groaned into her mouth, the tension in his chest unraveling thread by thread. Her warmth, her scent, her presence — it all pulled him back to now. To them.

Their kisses turned lazy and lingering, hungry but not hurried. She giggled against his lips as he nipped at her bottom one.

“I thought I was the frisky one,” she whispered.

“You’re inspiring,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth.

Chowon pressed her forehead to his and let out a breath. “Let’s just stay like this tonight.”

“No arguments here,” Adachi said, voice gravel-soft. He cupped her cheek gently, grounding them both. “Right here’s the safest I’ve felt all week.” Chowon smiled before grinding herself on Adachi’s crotch he moaned and she asked “do you want it?”

Adachi stared into Chowon’s soft brown eyes and almost said yes but he was just so exhausted his only reply was,

“Darling I’m extremely tired but definitely tomorrow,” Chowon poured then smiled before saying

“I’ll hold you too it,”

The next morning, Adachi rose before the sun. A pale gray light washed over the Institute, casting long shadows across the dew-covered grounds. The mist clung low, like a veil over the waking earth.

Near the old greenhouse, four figures gathered at a worn teleportation sigil etched into the stone. Magik, arms crossed, her Soulsword glowing faintly at her side. Forge, slinging a satchel of advanced sensor gear over one shoulder. Chowon, quiet and steady, holding Adachi’s hand. And Adachi himself, calm on the surface, but humming with energy beneath his skin.

“You ready for this?” Magik asked, cocking her head.

Adachi exhaled through his nose, a wry smile playing on his lips. “I’ve been ready. Just didn’t know what I was waiting for.”

With a flick of her wrist, Magik sliced open the air. A portal to Limbo yawned wide, crackling with heat and eldritch light.

“After you, rage prince.”

He rolled his eyes. “Gotta stop calling me that.”

She only grinned.

They stepped through — and the world changed.

The weight of Limbo hit like a second gravity. Thick air, molten with magic. The scent of brimstone. But it wasn’t just the environment that shifted. It was Adachi.

The moment his foot touched the ash-dusted ground, something unfurled within him.

Two curved bull horns emerged from his brow — elegant and ancient, obsidian laced with glowing lavender veins. Not grotesque, but noble. Crown-like. From beneath his bandages, the scars that once told his story of pain transformed. In their place: glowing, lavender and pastel-blue streaks tracing his arms like flowing energy.

Markings bloomed around his eyes, ethereal war paint — not painted on, but grown, alive, shifting with breath. His aura didn’t just expand — it deepened. The others could feel it. Limbo saw him… and welcomed him.

Forge let out a low whistle. “That’s… definitely not standard.”

Magik’s gaze sharpened, intrigued. “Limbo’s mirroring your soul. And your soul is loud.”

Chowon stepped forward, brushing a thumb across the glowing lines near his temple. “You look… cute, gentle even,” she murmured, almost reverent.

Adachi gave a sheepish chuckle, his voice rough. “I feel clearer here. Like something inside me’s been waiting for this place to catch up.”

Magik nodded. “Good. That means it’s close. If there’s a soul weapon in you, Limbo will show it. Just listen.”

Adachi stepped forward onto the cracked arena floor, his body humming with psionic pressure. His usual dark energy — deep violet and blue — had gone pastel, a strange, almost divine filter over his usual rage-born strength.

He closed his eyes.

He reached down, further than before. Past trauma, past the mutagenic scars left by Apocalypse and Sinister, past the walls he’d built against every telepath who’d ever tried to touch his mind and recoiled. Past it all.

And something reached back.

The ground beneath him cracked with a sharp boom. Psionic energy burst outward from his chest, swirling into his hands.

It didn’t settle. Not right away.

A glaive. A chained sickle. A double-bladed halberd. Then a surge of emotion — memory, clarity, will — and it stabilized.

A revolver of sorts.

Not just a revolver — an arcane firearm shaped by soul and something older. Runes, unfamiliar even to Magik, glowed across the barrel. The frame shimmered with elements of psionic circuitry and mystical forgecraft, fused in a way that defied reason.

Forge was already scanning it, awe in his voice. “This isn’t just mutant power or magic. It’s… hybridized. It’s bonded to you on more than one level.”

Adachi opened his eyes — now faintly glowing lavender and sky-blue.

He raised the weapon. Felt its balance. Its purpose.

“It’s mine,” he said. Not claiming it. Recognizing it.

Magik stepped forward slowly, her tone quieter now. “That weapon’s more than a soul construct. It’s a key. You’ve been marked by something. And it’s not done with you.”

Adachi nodded once. “I know. I’ve seen it in my dreams. This thing… it’s been waiting for me.”

Chowon moved to his side, slipping her hand into his again, grounding him.

Magik gave him a rare, proud look. “Welcome to the club, soulbearer. But keep your eyes open. Soul weapons don’t choose lightly — and whatever chose you might want something back.”

Later, in the quiet space between moments, Adachi stood alone.

Magik and Forge had stepped away to analyze his soul weapon’s composition, and Chowon was giving him space, sensing that something still lingered — something unfinished.

He wandered a short distance from the arena, into one of Limbo’s strange, dreamlike groves: a quiet region where warped trees twisted toward the sky, their branches heavy with strange, humming fruit. The air shimmered here — thicker, electric. His breath fogged with every exhale despite the heat.

Then it hit.

A pull.

His legs locked, heart hammering. The landscape blurred around him, then darkened. The grove faded into a surreal expanse of deep cosmic blackness shot through with streaks of iridescent starlight and glowing mist. Limbo fell away — or perhaps this was still Limbo, just deeper.

He was no longer standing.

He was floating.

And in the distance, something stirred.

A shape moved through the void — massive, primal. The sound of its footfalls shook space itself. With each step, the stars seemed to scatter like birds in flight.

It emerged from the dark: a beast.

The size of a mountain. It’s form a bizarre hybridization of Tiger and bull that was impossible vast and infinite in size.

Spiraling bull horns curled from its head, glowing faintly with the same lavender and pastel blue light that had marked Adachi’s body. Its fur was a patchwork of dark velvet, cosmic shadows, and flickering aurora-like streaks.

Its eyes — twin galaxies — fixed on him.

Adachi didn’t flinch. He couldn’t.

The beast stopped a few feet before him, even its breath stirring the fabric of this space. It lowered its head slightly, reverently. Its voice was thunderous, layered — masculine and feminine, old and young, divine and monstrous.

“You’ve taken the first step.”

Adachi’s pulse slowed. The weapon. The markings. The power that thrummed deeper than mutation. He swallowed and nodded.

“I felt you,” he said. “In my dreams. In the cracks between things.”

“And I felt you. Broken. Reforged. Hardened. Not just mutant. More.”

The beast leaned closer, eyes glowing with ancient knowing.

“But strength is not given. It is earned. You must continue your path of strength. There are still parts of your soul untested.”

Adachi looked down at his hands, the soul weapon still flickering in the shape of the revolver at his side. “I don’t even know what I’m becoming.”

“You are becoming yourself. What you were always meant to be — once your pain cracked the shell.”

The beast’s horned head nudged forward, pressing gently against Adachi’s chest. He felt it — not just pressure, but memory. Fear. Rage. Tenderness. Mercy. Pieces of himself reflected back at him.

“When the time comes, you will wield more than a weapon. You will become a force.”

Adachi’s mouth was dry. “A force for what?”

The beast’s answer came like a whisper wrapped in thunder.

“That is what you must decide.”

The world around him shimmered, the stars growing brighter — until they swallowed him whole.

—

He woke with a gasp, still in Limbo, still holding the soul weapon. But his horns pulsed now with new light. The pastel markings glowed faintly under his skin, and the revolver no longer shimmered between forms. It had solidified, grounded. A totem, a symbol.

And deep inside, Adachi could still feel the beast’s presence — not gone, just waiting.

Watching.

A while later, after the soul weapon had settled into its dormant hum in Adachi’s holster and the others busied themselves with their own tasks in Limbo, Adachi sat reclined against a slope of obsidian rock, his back cushioned by the warped terrain. The oppressive heat of the realm had dulled to a soft ambient warmth, wrapping around him like a weighted blanket.

Chowon was curled against him, legs tangled with his, her cheek resting on his chest. Her fingers played idly with the elegant curve of his horns.

“You’re really stuck on those, huh?” Adachi murmured, voice thick with calm.

“They’re soft,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. “I like them. They remind me of velvet. Like… celestial velvet.”

He chuckled, a low rumble under her ear. “Celestial velvet. I’m writing that down for when I start my fantasy novel.”

“You should,” she said, shifting so her lips brushed the glowing pastel stripes that bloomed across his collarbone. “It suits you.”

Adachi felt peaceful in a way he rarely allowed himself to be — not just calm, but safe. Grounded. As though the weirdness of Limbo and the weight of his soul weapon had granted him a moment of stillness he didn’t know he needed.

Her fingers traced slow, looping patterns along the ridges of his horns, eliciting a deep, involuntary sigh from him. “You’re going to put me to sleep like this.”

“Maybe I want you to nap,” she teased, smiling against his skin.

“Maybe I deserve it.”

She hummed in agreement, and the two lay there a while longer — suspended in the liminal peace between battles and burdens.

Then, suddenly, she sat up.

“Oh my God—telepathy training. I have it in like… twenty-seven minutes.”

Adachi blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Magik!!” Chowon called, already scrambling to her feet, smoothing her hair and checking her phone like it had betrayed her. “Can you portal us back to the mansion?”

Magik, ever unbothered, appeared just a few feet away with her Soulsword casually resting on one shoulder. “You two are lucky I like watching panicked young love. Portal’s ready.”

Forge laughed behind them, amused. “Teleporting out of hell just to go do some psychic homework. Wild world.”

Within moments, they were stepping through the rippling portal. Cool air replaced the molten breath of Limbo, and the familiar grounds of the X-Mansion sprawled before them in early-morning stillness.

Adachi and Chowon landed lightly on the grass, hand in hand, only slightly disheveled from the rush.

They made it to the psych wing with five minutes to spare.

Chowon grinned, brushing her fingers through her hair, then at his horns once more before she stepped toward the training room. “Thanks for not letting me be late.”

“You’d have done the same for me,” Adachi said, giving her hand a soft squeeze.

“I will,” she replied, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “After I survive this.”

He watched her go with a quiet pride — still feeling the thrum of Limbo in his bones, the echo of the beast’s voice lingering in the back of his mind.

But for now, this was enough.

He was hers.

And she was still here.

The doors to the psychic wing hissed open with their usual sterile efficiency, but the mood that entered was anything but clinical.

Chowon stepped in first, still slightly flushed from their sprint across campus. Her hand clutched Adachi’s, and her hair was tousled from Limbo’s strange winds. She looked around with quiet curiosity—until her gaze landed on Adachi again. Her lips instantly curved into a soft pout.

“Aww,” she muttered, tugging gently on his sleeve. “Your horns are gone.”

Adachi blinked at her, momentarily confused before realizing what she meant. “Yeah. Limbo only. Or when I’ve got the weapon out.”

“But they were so soft…” she said wistfully, as if she were mourning the loss of a rare stuffed animal. “Like warm velvet with attitude.”

Adachi gave her a crooked grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re boring,” she shot back, poking his temple playfully.

Emma Frost, already standing at the center of the room in her pristine white ensemble, cleared her throat once — crisp, like fine crystal striking marble.

“If the romantic interlude is over,” she drawled, “we do have a mind to refine.”

Chowon stood up straighter, sheepish but not particularly apologetic. “Sorry, Ms. Frost.”

Adachi smirked and made his way to the far corner, plopping down on the elegant chaise like he owned it. The horns were gone, his markings hidden under the long sleeves of his hoodie, but that quiet storm of power still clung to him like a low hum.

As he leaned back, his hands behind his head, the tension bled from the room like steam. The air settled — still and stable.

Emma’s expression twitched for half a second as she clocked the immediate shift in psychic resonance. She looked at Chowon, then at the man sprawled on her fainting couch.

The pale light of the training chamber was diffused by soft psionic fields, tuned specifically to calm mental noise and filter ambient emotion. Emma Frost, resplendent in white as ever, stood at the center with her arms elegantly folded. She exuded poise, sharp intellect, and that ever-present undercurrent of icy superiority.

Chowon sat cross-legged on the cushion provided, brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to pull together the strands of psionic sound that made up her telepathic mutation. Her expression shifted with every note she caught — flashes of emotion wrapped in fragments of melody.

And off to the side — stretched out on a sofa clearly not designed for napping — was Adachi. As promised, he was there for her first formal session, though “present” might’ve been a stretch. He was fast asleep, arms behind his head, breathing slow and steady.

Emma didn’t protest. She’d tried.

“Miss Kim,” Emma began, smoothly ignoring the soft snore that came from the corner, “your telepathy manifests in a rare form of synesthetic translation — thoughts rendered as musical structure. This makes your barriers highly unique but also potentially disorienting to others. You must learn to isolate melody from message.”

Chowon nodded seriously, focusing again. “Right. Melody from message…”

Behind her, Adachi shifted slightly in his sleep, one hand lazily draping over his stomach. His face was peaceful — entirely unbothered by the world. The faint glow of residual psionic energy still clung to him like morning dew, soothing rather than oppressive.

Emma glanced over at him, lips pressed into a line.

“I’ll admit,” she muttered under her breath, “he’s significantly more tolerable unconscious.”

Chowon didn’t look up. “He’s not unconscious. He’s just… very chill today.”

Emma arched a brow but said nothing. In truth, the room’s psychic field was unusually stable. Normally, early telepathic sessions were rife with disruptions — emotional bleed-through, panic spikes, accidental broadcasts. But with Adachi simply existing in the room, everything felt grounded.

Chowon’s telepathy pulsed outward in soft waves, crystalline threads of music weaving through the space.

“Better,” Emma said, stepping lightly through the melodies like a practiced conductor. “Now shape it. Use a specific memory — something personal. Anchor the emotion and give it rhythm.”

Chowon focused. The melody changed — deeper, more resonant. A warm, soul-tinged progression that Emma could almost feel, if not fully hear.

It was love. Or something frighteningly close.

Emma glanced at Adachi again. The source was obvious.

Chowon, eyes still closed, smiled faintly. “It’s easier with him here.”

“I imagine it is,” Emma said quietly, almost… respectfully.

Another soft snore from the couch.

Emma looked to the ceiling for patience. “Remind me next time to schedule your training for when your anchor isn’t drooling on my chaise.”

Chowon cracked one eye open. “He’s not drooling.”

Emma raised a brow.

Chowon blinked. “…Okay he might be drooling a little.”

And from the corner, in a near-silent murmur:

“Y’all are so loud…”

Adachi didn’t even open his eyes. Just shifted again and nestled into the cushions.

Chowon covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Emma pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath about “inelegant men and their bafflingly strong psionic resonance.”

“…Of course he’s a stabilizer,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Chowon asked innocently.

“Nothing. Sit. Begin with the sensory isolation exercise we discussed.”

Chowon did, slipping onto the meditation cushion in front of Emma. Her mind was already tuning — the melody of her thoughts soft and slow, like a vinyl track warming up. She reached for the sounds around her, trying to separate the harmony from the dissonance, using Adachi’s steady heartbeat in the background like a metronome.

Emma stepped gracefully into the edge of her mental field, assessing, guiding, calibrating. She still didn’t like Adachi, but she wasn’t blind — the psychic environment was unusually pliant today.

Chowon’s mind pulsed outward in those curious sonic patterns — telepathy expressed through musical vibration. There were no sudden spikes or breaks. Just… rhythm. Controlled. Focused.

From the couch, Adachi snored once, softly.

Chowon didn’t even flinch. If anything, her resonance became more confident, more at ease.

Emma inhaled slowly. “I suppose,” she murmured with reluctant admiration, “there’s something to be said for well-trained emotional anchors. Even if they nap through class.”

Chowon grinned faintly, her eyes still closed. “He’s the only one who never makes the music feel sharp.”

“Soft horns. Soft heart. How poetic,” Emma said dryly.

But her tone wasn’t cold. Not today.

And as the lesson carried on — with Chowon learning to shape emotion into clarity — the melody in the room stayed strong, tethered not just by practice, but by presence.

[ardensregias]

nsfw, yaoshi x fem!reader, multiple limbs, slight nipple play, orgasm denial turned overstimulation, cum eating

the first time you met them was a moment of utter amazement. how could you not immediately become yaoshi's number one fan after seeing their majestic antlers, resembling a pair of growing branches? the way they sat elegantly atop a large branch with a smiling face? if you didn't know better, you would've mistaken them as the aeon of beauty.

they are also the kindest and most selfless creature you've ever encountered, willing to hold you up just so that you can get a better view at their antlers—even letting you run your hands over the smooth surface, no matter how silly your request sounds.

one day, you ask them: "do aeons reproduce?"

yaoshi's ever-present smile curls up a bit higher, amused by such a strange question, "well, my dear, it is difficult to find a suitable mate with our condition—for example: having to keep watch over humanity and the possibility of putting our lover in harm's way are few of the things that hinder us from doing so."

you tilt your head, humming in understanding, "so that means you can reproduce? just having difficulty doing so?"

still being mysterious, the plagues author scoops you up using one of their hands, "if you really want to know... the answer is no, not with such a fragile thing like yourself," you sigh in disappointment, and the aeon smiles at how adorable you are, adding: "but if you want to feel how an aeon please their lover, i certainly can do that for my little flower" they chuckle softly, the melodious sound filling the domain they had created for you.

and that's how you end up here, laying on the ground with your legs spread open and yaoshi's fingers sliding in and out of your warm hole. just like their gentle nature, their pace is also slow and steady, making you desperate and whine in desperation.

"please, yaoshi—ngh..." the aeon places their other hand on top of your mouth, pushing their fingers inside for you to suck on, while shaking their head, "not yet, my dear. can you hold it in for me?"

you mewl in disappointment, hips grinding down on their hand only to be held down in place by yaoshi's other two hands. they don't even need to use ropes or cuffs—one of the perks about having multiple limbs.

"you are so small... i am afraid i might break this tiny and beautiful body of yours." yaoshi murmurs, licking their lips at the sight of your slick and swollen cunt, so ready and eager for them.

however, they notice how your breasts and neck barely get any attention and lean their head down to pepper your body with kisses. their teeth are surprisingly sharp, instantly marking your skin with reddish marks and rings of teeth.

the aeon of abundance grins in satisfaction at the masterpiece they just create, before going back up to kiss your face, not a single inch of flesh is left unkissed. yaoshi is just so in love with you, a sweet darling eager to learn more about them.

"your voice is like a melody from the most beautiful song in the entire galaxy, rivaling the choirs of the sanctus medicus." they muse, picking up the pace of their digits. yaoshi had make sure to clip their nails before inserting them into you, for as much as they love hearing you cry their name in pleasure, the aeon can't risk injuring you.

truthfully, they are just as aroused as you. how could they not be, when you're writhing beneath their arms, whining their name and moaning at the way the aeon's fingers are skillfully massaging your insides—yet they know better than to penetrate you with the risk of turning you into a mindless vessel, just like the mara-struck citizens of the xianzhou.

yaoshi still has three other hands, and he decide to use them to massage your boobs, pinching and twisting on the nipples. you're so sensitive and vulnerable now, unable to resist the god's touch.

when your walls begin to throb around their fingers, yaoshi kisses you on the lips and nod, giving you their permission, no, command to cum—and who are you to defy the wish of an aeon?

"yaoshi, i can't—" you squeal, releasing your sweet and sticky juices around their slender and long digits. the aeon smiles softly, taking in the sight of your slick covering their fingers and drips down to the grass.

they place their fingers in their mouth, humming in delight at the rich and sweet taste. if yaoshi had to describe the taste, he'd say you taste like the sweetest flower not even they can produce.

"i think i may have to keep you here with me, sweetheart. i would hate to share your unforgettable taste to anyone else."

[em-harlsnow]

part 2 of Debbie having TikTok

Debbie spends the next few days editing the video so that their responses in the interview overlap. She wants to have their first questions, the ones with the questions about themselves, to be at the start of the video and for the questions when their talking about the other one to be at the end.

She also spends a long time adding subtitles, bleeping out Mickey's swearing and cutting out the parts where Mickey admits to crimes and Ian asks too many questions. She might do a blooper video later if it gets enough views.

Before she posts it, she brings Mickey and Ian back into the house and shows it to them. She wants both of them to be happy with it before it's out there for her millions of followers to see.

Just in case the reaction is as good as the interview was, Debbie sets up a small digital camera on one end of the table. Both Ian and Mickey frown at it.

"Thought we were done with this shit." Mickey grumbles, making Ian sit in the chair closer to the camera so that he's less visible.

"This is just to film your reaction. If it's good, I might make a video out of that too." Debbie explains.

"Okay." Ian agrees, leaning back on the chair to stretch. He has a beer loosely gripped in his hand.

"Sit up, asshole." Mickey mutters. "Cover me from the camera."

"Mmh, sure." Ian mumbles, moving further forwards in his chair. He has one arm around the back of Mickey's chair, and Debbie definitely thinks this would make a good video. Ian's been in the fewest of her videos (Carl's been in the most) so he's a bit of an enigma to her audience and literally everyone thinks he's hot. She's had hundreds of message requests asking for his number or a date, as if Ian would be interested in a random internet fan. Most of them are from women, too.

"Okay, now you'll get to see the results from the video. This is their first time seeing what each other said, by the way." Debbie tells the camera. "Who do you think knows who best?" Debbie asks Ian and Mickey.

Ian shrugs. "We've known each other since we were kids. I think it just depends on who has the better memory."

"I have a better memory." Mickey says. "You can't even remember to put your ring back on after you wash your hands."

"How many times!" Ian sighs, smacking his hands on the table. "How many times do we have to talk about this? I don't mean to! I'm still not used to it yet."

"I don't forget! We've been married for like eight fucking months."

"My hands aren't used to it! I only forget for like three seconds because you notice and get mad at me so fast."

"Excuse me if I think it's fucking rude for you to basically throw our wedding ring down the sink." Mickey frowns, crossing his arms and glaring.

"Throw it down the-! What the fuck? I leave it on the side, where it's safe, it's never even been close to falling down the drain." Ian shouts.

"We live with a five year old, Ian. We live with your fucking brother, who would easily knock it."

"Which brother?"

"Carl, obviously. He's messy as shit."

"You're messy as shit."

"I keep my ring on."

"I keep mine on!"

"Doesn't seem like it."

Debbie sighs, only letting them continue because she knows it's good content. "Okay, shut up now." She says. They're starting to forget she's even here and filming.

Mickey's rolling his eyes and pouting about it, but it doesn't seem to genuinely cause any problems between the two. Ian's arm stays secured on Mickey's chair, occasionally touching his fingers to Mickey's shoulder.

"Alright, here's the video." She says, holding up the phone to them. Whenever they have some commentary, she's planning on pausing it to make the reaction more entertaining.

It begins with a shot of Ian explaining his own likes and dislikes and all of his answers.

"Ha! I got all of those." Mickey says, grinning. "Wait, you really think our first date was at fucking Chick-fil-A? I was so fucking tired that night I could barely keep my eyes open."

"You'd just gotten out of prison, you were bound to be tired." Ian answers. "Why? Where did you think it was?"

"I said-"

"Ah-ah!" Debbie cuts him off. "Wait until it says in the video."

"Is your favourite movie really Double Impact? That's a fucking crap movie." Mickey adds.

"You know why I said that." Ian replies.

"Stupid reason. I thought Van Damme was shitty then and I think he's shitty now."

"And I still think you're fucking wrong."

Mickey grumbles, and Debbie plays the video again. Mickey's answers start coming through, and Ian watches intently.

"I got these right too." He says. "I'm pretty sure I said all that."

"Really? Even the one about my comfort food or whatever?" Mickey asks.

"Yeah, for that one I said-"

"Wait for it to be in the video! Jesus, it's like one minute long. You can wait." Debbie snaps, shaking her head at them.

She plays it again. During the editing process, she thought it would be better to leave all the questions she asked about when they fell in love until the very end. Some sort of romantic idea to that.

"You think our first date was drinking beer at the dugouts?" Ian marvels.

"Yeah, better than goddamn Chick-fil-A."

"But we didn't even eat anything."

"Why are you so stuck on this whole eating dinner together with actual food? That doesn't mean it's a date, I'm pretty sure a date can be anything." Mickey argues.

"I mean... it has to have some kind of activity. Like... bowling is a date. Going clubbing, eating dinner. Those are all dates. Sitting in a field, drinking, smoking and fucking is not a date."

"That's not true. Dates don't have rules like that."

"If they were dates, then why did they revolve around fucking?"

"That just makes us better than everyone else. Everyone does those dates that lead up to sex, we did dates and sex." Mickey points out.

Ian sighs. "Well, we didn't even kiss. I'm pretty sure dates have to involve kissing, at least."

Mickey narrows his eyes. "Fuck you, fine. Then our first date was at my place, when you stayed over. We ate food, watched a movie - there's your activity - and we fucked and did your kissing bullshit." He grumbles in annoyance.

Watching, Debbie sees Ian's face soften, a small smile forming on his features.

"Yeah, okay." Ian says gently, dropping his arm from the back of Mickey's chair to rest completely on his shoulders. "That was our first date."

Feeling like a third wheel, Debbie swallows and casts her eyes away. She plays the video.

It's both of them saying their favourite things about each other, and Ian's comments about Mickey's legs and ass makes Mickey smirk.

"Can't believe you said my hair and not my cock." Ian says, indifferent to the insults Mickey threw about him being ugly. Ian knows that Mickey doesn't think he's ugly.

"Didn't think it was that kind of video." Mickey laughs.

It plays some more, and then Ian's answers to questions about Mickey start. Ian seems proud of himself when he's right about so many of them. Mickey's equally pleased when he's also right.

"You think I'm kind." Ian smiles, nudging Mickey's shoulder.

"Yeah, and you think I'm fucking sweet. You dick, no I'm not." Mickey scoffs. "I am fucking funny, though."

Debbie rolls her eyes and lets the video continue.

"So who won?" Ian asks when he thinks he's made it to the end of the video.

"What?" Debbie asks.

"Who knows who best." Mickey answers. "Who wins?"

"Well, it wasn't a competition." Debbie says, brows furrowing.

"What was the point of this shit then?" Mickey says.

"For fun! And because I'm paying you. Besides, it would be a draw. You both know each other so well it's scary." Debbie mutters.

Ian and Mickey both grin at that.

"We definitely won." Ian says.

"Obviously." Mickey agrees.

"There's more of the video. Just the last bit." Debbie tells them, pressing play.

It's Ian describing when he fell in love with Mickey. About how it happened so fast. About how he was right about who he loved. Debbie expected Mickey to have something to say about it. Hopefully, something sweet. But instead he's quiet. Staring at the screen with wide eyes.

It's funny, really, because they both thought the other fell in love when they first started living together at the Milkovich house. After Mickey came out. But neither of them fell in love then. Ian said it was in the first few months of them having sex, and Mickey said it was in the first couple years, but only since he didn't want to think about it.

"You loved me that long?" Ian asks, when Mickey's answer comes through. His voice is filled with wonderment.

Mickey flushes, shrugs, winces like he hates the question. "Yeah. It was obvious."

"It so wasn't." Ian laughs, outraged.

"Yes it was! I spent like all my fucking time with you." Mickey grumbles.

"Yeah! Insulting me!"

"Fuck off, you found me funny. You just said that." Mickey says, pointing to the video.

"Well, I didn't know you loved me then."

"As if you were so fucking clear about it." Mickey scoffs.

"I was!"

"How?"

"I- I asked Mandy about you, I talked about you all the time, I brought you Lip's weed."

"I sold Lip that weed. Anyway, you did all that shit behind my back. How was I supposed to know you were talking to Mandy about me?" Mickey asks, incredulous.

"I mean- I don't know. Maybe she would've mentioned it to you." Ian mutters.

"Oh, really? Why would she do that? Because I was so openly fucking gay and because she knew we were together?" Mickey asks, sarcasm in his voice.

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm just saying. You didn't make it as obvious as you think you did."

Ian harrumphs, sinking into his chair. He's still smiling to himself though, clearly pleased that Mickey's felt the same way about him for the same amount of time.

"I make it obvious now."

"Yeah? By leaving your ring at the sink?" Mickey challenges.

"No, because I tell you that I love you all the time. Huh? I love you." Ian says, poking Mickey in the shoulder to piss him off.

"Fuck off." Mickey scoffs, chuckling to himself. "I love you too, even though you're an idiot."

"Mhm. See, we're better than everyone else." Ian confirms, satisfied with himself.

"For sure."

"Okay, well." Debbie starts, ending the camera's recording. "Are you good with that being posted?" She asks.

"Yeah, sure." Ian agrees.

"Whatever, as long as we get paid."

"Yes, fuck, I'm paying you." Debbie groans, posting it as soon as she has the confirmation.

-> part one is here !!

-> I hope everyone enjoyed, I'm going to post the comments on the TikTok video next!

[milla-frenchy]

WIP whenever

thanks for the tag @evolnoomym @ace-turned-confused ❤️ and everyone who tagged me in previous weeks 🙏

this is for three is the magic number challenge @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @schnarfer 🙏 (consider yourself tagged if you want ❤️)

same fic as this wip

He slid his hand into your panties and brushed your wet folds with his fingers, pressing his hard-on against your ass.

“Feel it?”

“Oh, yeah… hard to miss, Javi,” you tried to chuckle, despite his finger caressing your cunt.

“Mmm,” he hummed in your ear, pushing a digit in your drooling heat.

“Are you into men, too, Joel?” he asked, kissing your shoulder then your neck.

“It’s been a while since the last time, but… Yeah.”

“Good. ‘cause you’re fucking hot,” Javi added, grabbing the back of his neck and crushing his lips against Joel’s over your shoulder, flooding your underwear with a new wave of arousal. You hadn't imagined that when you’d planned the evening, but you couldn’t wait to see how the night would end. You kissed Joel's cheek, while he was still making out with Javi, until they pulled away from each other and Javi murmured, "you like it baby, seeing us like this? You're droolin'.”

npt: @aurorawritestoescape @toxicanonymity @jolapeno @baronessvonglitter @iknowisoundcrazy @tateypots @604to647 @sawymredfox @corazondebeskar-reads @for-a-longlongtime @thedilfdiaries @itwasntimethatdidit40 and whoever wants to ❤️

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Canada’s ground-breaking, hamstrung repair and interop laws

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/15/radical-extremists/#sex-pest

When the GOP trifecta assumes power in just a few months, they will pass laws, and those laws will be terrible, and they will cast long, long shadows.

This is the story of how another far-right conservative government used its bulletproof majority to pass a wildly unpopular law that continues to stymie progress to this day. It's the story of Canada's Harper Conservative government, and two of its key ministers: Tony Clement and James Moore.

Starting in 1998, the US Trade Rep embarked on a long campaign to force every country in the world to enact a new kind of IP law: an "anticircumvention" law that would criminalize the production and use of tools that allowed people to use their own property in ways that the manufacturer disliked.

This first entered the US statute books with the 1998 passage of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA), whose Section 1201 established a new felony for circumventing an "access control." Crucially, DMCA 1201's prohibition on circumvention did not confine itself to protecting copyright.

Circumventing an access control is a felony, even if you never violate copyright law. For example, if you circumvent the access control on your own printer to disable the processes that check to make sure you're using an official HP cartridge, HP can come after you.

You haven't violated any copyright, but the ink-checking code is a copyrighted work, and you had to circumvent a block in order to reach it. Thus, if I provide you a tool to escape HP's ink racket, I commit a felony with penalties of five years in prison and a $500k fine, for a first offense. So it is that HP ink costs more per ounce than the semen of a Kentucky Derby-winning stallion.

This was clearly a bad idea in 1998, though it wasn't clear how bad an idea it was at the time. In 1998, chips were expensive and underpowered. By 2010, a chip that cost less than a dollar could easily implement a DMCA-triggering access control, and manufacturers of all kinds were adding superfluous chips to everything from engine parts to smart lightbulbs whose sole purpose was to transform modification into felonies. This is what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business-model."

So when the Harper government set out to import US-style anticircumvention law to Canada, Canadians were furious. A consultation on the proposal received 6,138 responses opposing the law, and 54 in support:

https://www.michaelgeist.ca/2010/04/copycon-final-numbers/

And yet, James Moore and Tony Clement pressed on. When asked how they could advance such an unpopular bill, opposed by experts and the general public alike, Moore told the International Chamber of Commerce that every objector who responded to his consultation was a "radical extremist" with a "babyish" approach to copyright:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/science/copyright-debate-turns-ugly-1.898216

As is so often the case, history vindicated the babyish radical extremists. The DMCA actually has an official way to keep score on this one. Every three years, the US Copyright Office invites public submissions for exemptions to DMCA 1201, creating a detailed, evidence-backed record of all the legitimate activities that anticircumvention law interferes with.

Unfortunately, "a record" is all we get out of this proceeding. Even though the Copyright Office is allowed to grant "exemptions," these don't mean what you think they mean. The statute is very clear on this: the US Copyright Office is required to grant exemptions for the act of circumvention, but is forbidden from granting exemptions for tools needed to carry out these acts.

This is headspinningly and deliberately obscure, but there's one anecdote from my long crusade against this stupid law that lays it bare. As I mentioned, the US Trade Rep has made the passage of DMCA-like laws in other countries a top priority since the Clinton years. In 2001, the EU adopted the EU Copyright Directive, whose Article 6 copy-pastes the provisions of DMCA 1201.

In 2003, I found myself in Oslo, debating the minister who'd just completed Norway's EUCD implementation. The minister was very proud of his law, boasting that he'd researched the flaws in other countries' anticircumvention laws and addressed them in Norway's law. For example, Norway's law explicitly allowed blind people to bypass access controls on ebooks in order to feed them into text-to-speech engines, Braille printers and other accessibility tools.

I knew where this was going. I asked the minister how this would work in practice. Could someone sell a blind person a tool to break the DRM on their ebooks? Of course not, that's totally illegal. Could a nonprofit blind rights group make such a tool and give it away to blind people? No, that's illegal too. What about hobbyists, could they make the tool for their blind friends? No, not that either.

OK, so how do blind people exercise their right to bypass access controls on ebooks they own so they can actually read them?

Here's how. Each blind person, all by themself, is expected to decompile and reverse-engineer Adobe Reader, locate a vulnerability in the code and write a new program that exploits that vulnerability to extract their ebooks. While blind people are individually empowered to undertake this otherwise prohibited activity, they must do so on their own: they can't share notes with one another on the process. They certainly can't give each other the circumvention program they write in this way:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/28/mcbroken/#my-milkshake-brings-all-the-lawyers-to-the-yard

That's what a use-only exemption is: the right to individually put a locked down device up on your own workbench, and, laboring in perfect secrecy, figure out how it works and then defeat the locks that stop you from changing those workings so they benefit you instead of the manufacturer. Without a "tools" exemption, a use exemption is basically a decorative ornament.

So the many use exemptions that the US Copyright Office has granted since 1998 really amount to nothing more than a list of defects in the DMCA that the Copyright Office has painstaking verified but is powerless to fix. We could probably save everyone a lot of time by scrapping the triennial exemptions process and replacing it with an permanent sign over the doors of the Library of Congress reading "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

All of this was well understood by 2010, when Moore and Clement were working on the Canadian version of the DMCA. All of this was explained in eye-watering detail to Moore and Clement, but was roundly ignored. I even had a go at it, publicly picking a fight with Moore on Twitter:

https://web.archive.org/web/20130407101911if_/http://eaves.ca/wp-content/uploads/2010/Conversations%20between%20@doctorow%20and%20@mpjamesmoore.jpg

Moore and Clement rammed their proposal through in the next session of Parliament, passing it as Bill C-11 in 2012:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copyright_Modernization_Act

This was something of a grand finale for the pair. Today, Moore is a faceless corporate lawyer, while Clement was last seen grifting covid PPE (Clement's political career ended abruptly when he sent dick pics to a young woman who turned out to be a pair of sextortionists from Cote D'Ivoire, and was revealed as a serial sex-pest in the ensuing scandal:)

https://globalnews.ca/news/4646287/tony-clement-instagram-women/

Even though Moore and Clement are long gone from public life, their signature achievement remains a Canadian disgrace, an anchor chain tied around the Canadian economy's throat, and an impediment to Canadian progress.

This week, two excellent new Canadian laws received royal assent: Bill C-244 is a broad, national Right to Repair law; and Bill C-294 is a broad, national interoperability law. Both laws establish the right to circumvent access controls for the purpose of fixing and improving things, something Canadians deserve and need.

But neither law contains a tools exemption. Like the blind people of Norway, a Canadian farmer who wants to attach a made-in-Canada Honeybee tool to their John Deere tractor is required to personally, individually reverse-engineer the John Deere tractor and modify it to talk to the Honeybee accessory, laboring in total secrecy:

https://www.theregister.com/2024/11/12/canada_right_to_repair/

Likewise the Canadian repair tech who fixes a smart speaker or a busted smartphone – they are legally permitted to circumvent in order to torture the device's repair codes out of it or force it to recognize a replacement part, but each technician must personally figure out how to get the device firmware to do this, without discussing it with anyone else.

Thus do Moore and Clement stand athwart Canadian self-reliance and economic development, shouting "STOP!" though both men have been out of politics for years.

There has never been a better time to hit Clement and Moore's political legacy over the head with a shovel and bury it in a shallow grave. Canadian technologists could be making a fortune creating circumvention devices that repair and improve devices marketed by foreign companies.

They could make circumvention tools to allow owners of consoles to play games by Canadian studios that are directly sold to Canadian gamers, bypassing the stores operated by Microsoft, Sony and Nintendo and the 30% commissions they charge. Canadian technologists could be making diagnostic tools that allow every auto-mechanic in Canada to fix any car manufactured anywhere in the world.

Canadian cloud servers could power devices long after their US-based manufacturers discontinue support for them, providing income to Canadian cloud companies and continued enjoyment for Canadian owners of these otherwise bricked gadgets.

Canada's gigantic auto-parts sector could clone the security chips that foreign auto manufacturers use to block the use of third party parts, and every Canadian could enjoy a steep discount every time they fix their cars. Every farmer could avail themselves of third party parts for their tractors, which they could install themselves, bypassing the $200 service call from a John Deere technician who does nothing more than look over the farmer's own repair and then types an unlock code into the tractor's console.

Every Canadian who prints out a shopping list or their kid's homework could use third party ink that sells for pennies per liter, rather than HP's official colored water that cost more than vintage Veuve Cliquot.

A Canadian e-waste dump generates five low-paid jobs per ton of waste, and that waste itself will poison the land and water for centuries to come. A circumvention-enabled Canadian repair sector could generate 150 skilled, high-paid community jobs that saves gadgets and the Earth, all while saving Canadians millions.

Canadians could enjoy the resliency that comes of having a domestic tech and repair sector, and could count on it through pandemics and Trumpian trade-war.

All of that and more could be ours, except for the cowardice and greed of Tony Clement and James Moore and the Harper Tories who voted C-11 into law in 2012.

Everything the "radical extremists" warned them of has come true. It's long past time Canadians tore up anticircumvention law and put the interests of the Canadian public and Canadian tech businesses ahead of the rent-seeking enshittification of American Big Tech.

Until we do that, we can keep on passing all the repair and interop laws we want, but each one will be hamstrung by Moore and Clement's "felony contempt of business model" law, and the contempt it showed for the Canadian people.

Image: JeffJ (modified) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tony_Clement_-_2007-06-30_in_Kearney,_Ontario.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

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Jorge Franganillo (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Duga_radar_system-_wreckage_of_electronic_devices_(37885984654).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en