#Fixing Identity Data

[jsqforknowledge]

(2024-05-01) Delivering A Demo About Reconnecting AD Back With Entra ID At "Troopers 2024"

Very proud (again!) to have been selected again to present at Troopers 2024! Somewhere in the week of June 24th – 28th, I will be challenging the demo gods for a full hour. Let’s just hope everything goes as planned! Last year at Troopers I presented about the “Best Practices for Resynchronizing AD and Entra ID After Forest Recovery”. This year, I will actually show you how this can be done for…

[buckevantommy]

shoutout to those who tick the box for 'gender' on government forms instead of writing the expected 'f' or 'm'. it always makes me smile. i, too, have gender. 

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, complex family dynamics, ableism.

Notes — This chapter has given me SUCH a hard time. Please enjoy it, I feel like I put my entire soul into it. Also… Fernando’s return is announced in the next chapter (everyone cheer).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

Silverstone came around in the blink of an eye.

Amelia sat perched on the edge of the engineering desk, her legs swinging absently, trainers knocking gently against the metal drawer units below. Her gaze swept across Alex’s side of the garage, quick, focused, restless. She wasn’t here to be social. She was here to figure something out.

Something wasn’t right.

She’d been quietly monitoring it since Austria; since testing in Barcelona, even. The data, the footage, the telemetry. There were too many inconsistencies between Max’s car and Alex’s. And sure, she understood the baseline logic. Max was Max. His driving style demanded everything from the car and then some. His feedback loop with the team was honed to a science. But even so, there shouldn’t be this much of a disparity.

Not in identical machinery.

Not at this level.

Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing at the readout on the nearest screen. She hated the term “second driver” with a passion. It grated against every instinct she had. But watching Alex’s side of the garage felt like watching a different team operate altogether. Different priorities. Different urgency. It wasn’t malicious. Not outright. But it was subtle. It was systemic. And it was stupid.

A puff of frustration escaped her nose. She’d already brought up some of her theories to Adrian, offhanded and careful, like she was floating curiosities instead of suspicions. He hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t confirmed anything either. But she could see it — how he was watching now, too.

Still, it was driving her crazy.

The way Max’s floor and rear suspension packages were being iterated on faster. The microscopic setup tweaks that were tailored to his style but never translated for Alex. The way team radio responses came faster, the tone of them just slightly more reactive. She could hear the difference because she listened for it. 

It wasn’t cheating. But it wasn’t fair either.

And it was messy. Amelia didn’t like messy.

A burst of compressed air hissed across the garage as a mechanic adjusted Alex’s front wing, and Amelia’s head jerked toward it instinctively, eyes narrowing again. Her fingers twitched against her tablet, the internal debate warring louder than the buzz of the pit crew.

She lifted her ear defenders from around her neck and settled them over her ears. All of the noise softened to a low hum.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Max on the far side of the pit lane, deep in conversation with Christian by the pit wall. Calm and focused. He always looked like that before qualifying. Grounded. Unshakable.

Alex, by contrast, looked tense. He stood near his engineer, shoulders drawn tight, brows pinched as he nodded along, but his eyes kept flicking to the floor. Amelia watched for a beat longer, her heart tugging faintly. She wanted to fix it, whatever it was, but there was only so much she could do.

She looked down at her trainers.

They were her usual white ones, a little scuffed from the garage floors, but dependable. Comfortable. Familiar. But now, right at the edge of the left sole, something new: a messy swipe of orange marker.

LN4.

Her chest did something funny when she saw it.

Lando had crashed in her hotel room again, something that had quietly become routine. He always had his own room, but more often than not, he ended up in her bed instead of his. She didn’t mind. Would never say a word about it.

He was a good hugger now. He’d figured it out, finally, exactly how she liked to be held. Firm and tight enough to feel anchored. He’d taken to wrapping around her like a human shield, heartbeat steady, breath soft against the back of her neck. She hadn’t slept so consistently well in years.

He was usually gone before she woke up.

That morning had been no different. She’d blinked awake to an empty bed, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the hotel bedsheets. But when she’d gone to pull her trainers on, there it was; bright orange ink catching her eye.

Initials. A number. A quiet claim.

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or smile.

So she did both.

— 

The McLaren garage had its usual pre-quali buzz. Max Fewtrell leaned against the back wall, wearing a team guest lanyard and a vaguely amused expression as he watched Lando loll around in his race suit. 

“Alright, you’re being weirdly calm,” Max said, eyeing him. “You’re never this chill before quali. What is this? Zen Norris?”

Lando didn’t even look up from the banana he was unwrapping. “Just had a good night’s sleep, mate.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Let me guess. In someone else’s hotel room?”

Lando gave him a slow, infuriating grin, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Max stared at him. “No. Oh fucking hell. You’re not…?”

Lando just bit into the banana.

“You are,” Max said, half-laughing. “You’re back with her?”

Lando shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘back with’ like that, since we were never together in the first place, but yeah. We’re...talking.”

“Right,” Max said, drawing the word out. “Talking. In her bed. At night. Sounds familiar.”

Lando shot him a look. “Don’t start, mate. I’m still pissed at you for telling me to bin her off in the first place. Worst mistake of my life.”

“I stand by what I said then,” Max said, folding his arms. “And now she works for Red Bull. The actual enemy. She's probably hardwiring your secrets into Verstappen’s car while you’re asleep.” He said, eyes narrowed. 

Lando rolled his eyes. “She literally tells me nothing technical. I tried a few weeks ago, asked her what they changed on the rear wing. She said ‘carbon things’ and then threw a tortilla at my face.”

Max laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s… okay, that’s funny.”

Lando looked a little too smug. “Exactly. Mate, I know what I’m doing. She’s worth it, you know? Just wish I’d realised it sooner.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t know what you’re doing,” Max scoffed. “You’re back in your feels, acting like it’s not completely mad that your maybe-girlfriend works for a team that would pay to see you finish outside the points every Sunday.”

“She’s not just some Red Bull lackey,” Lando said sharply, shoulders tensing. “She’s Amelia. She’s a fucking genius, Max. That car? It’s hers as much as it is Max’s or Alex’s.”

Max gave him a dry look. “You do realise how insane you sound?”

“I don’t care,” Lando said, straightening. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Yeah, I screwed it up before. But I’m not walking away from her again. Not ever.”

Max blinked. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

“Whatever,” Lando said, smirking. “You’re just bitter because I’ve a hot, genius in my bed and you’ve got a Twitch stream and a meal deal.”

“I brought you that Pret,” Max muttered.

“And I’m grateful,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder like a smug little shit. “But I’m also head over fucking heels, mate. So.”

Max groaned. “Jesus Christ. You’re unbearable.”

“Yup.” Lando tossed his banana peel perfectly into the bin. “Get used to it.”

Across the garage, an engineer called Lando over for a final briefing. As he jogged off, Max shook his head. “Mad bastard,” he muttered. “Completely lost the plot.”

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Red Bull garage, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows across the slick concrete. Her tablet rested beside her, darkened screen still smudged with notes and numbers from the race. Her yellow golf ball rolled slowly between her hands, back and forth, back and forth; rhythmic and grounding.

Silverstone had always felt like a second home. Growing up watching races here, dreaming about being a part of it. Now she was properly in it. Deep in the heart of Red Bull Racing, elbows-deep in data, decisions, and disappointment.

Max had salvaged something, as he always did. P2 wasn’t nothing. But the numbers didn’t lie. Mercedes were still faster, smoother, untouchable on the straights. And the tire degradation? She closed her eyes, jaw clenching slightly. It didn’t make sense. 

She could feel the quiet frustration that had hung over the garage all weekend. Engineers working longer hours. Adrian pacing more. Alex struggling to connect the car to the track. And her, Amelia, trying to play translator between machine and man, and still somehow coming up short.

Her fingers tightened painfully around the golf ball.

It wasn’t failure, not really. But it wasn’t a win either. And that unsettled something in her. She wanted better. She wanted cleaner gains. More decisive margins. Less almost and more perfect.

Her thoughts drifted to Max, to the way he’d found her after the debrief and muttered, “We’ll get them next week,” like it was a promise more than reassurance.

She dropped her head, staring at the tablet, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. There had to be something.

And then—

It hit her like a flash.

She blinked, straightened, then scrambled to unlock the screen, fingers flying. Rear aero wake management. Micro-channel re-shaping on the rear floor edge. She muttered to herself as she typed. “Shift the outer wake—no, no, narrow it, and bleed the turbulence—”

Her heart kicked up. Her breath got shallow. The pressure in her chest gave way to something electric. Her hands fluttered before she even realised, wrists snapping, fingers stimming with giddy, instinctive rhythm as the idea built in her head. She scribbled on the screen with her stylus like it was oxygen. She was grinning, properly grinning.

She barely registered the noise of the paddock returning to life behind her.

A Sky Sports camera had swung past, catching a glimpse of her in the garage, tucked between tool cabinets and telemetry units, flapping hands and bright yellow golf ball balanced in her lap. The presenter spoke softly over the shot. “And there’s Amelia Brown. A quiet presence in the paddock so far, but proving to be a very hard worker indeed.”

In the Red Bull hospitality suite, Christian Horner glanced up at the screen, watching the feed with his usual half-interested expression. “Ah, there she is. Our shining example of disability-positive hiring.” It was offhand. Meant as a joke, maybe. But it hung awkward in the air.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

He turned his head slowly toward Christian, expression unreadable. “She’s the most promising technical mind I’ve worked with in a decade. And she is working with me on merit alone.” He said mildly, eyes still on the screen.

Christian blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian sipped his tea. Said nothing more. But when he looked back to the TV, his gaze was thoughtful.

And in the garage, Amelia kept working, entirely unaware of the camera, the commentary, or the conversation she’d just ignited. Her mind was moving too fast now to care about anything else.

She’d found something. Something big.

And she couldn’t wait to show Adrian.

— 

Max found her sitting alone on the pit wall. 

She had her yellow golf ball in one hand, thumb rolling over its surface absently. The other held her tablet, still filled with drawings and annotations, now marked with scribbled arrows and half-formed formulas.

Max climbed up next to her with the casual ease of someone who did it a hundred times a year. “You solved the issue,” he said, legs dangling over the edge.

Amelia blinked, as if pulled out of her own thoughts. “It’s not solved,” she said automatically. “It’s a direction.”

“A good one,” Max replied. “Adrian was very happy when you showed him. I saw it on his face.”

She smiled at that, a flicker of pride showing before she quickly tucked it away. One hand rolled the golf ball. The other hand jolted, maybe spurred on by a burst of excitement. She didn’t notice she was doing it.

Max did.

He watched it for a moment, then leaned back on his hands. “You were doing that earlier. With your hands. They showed it on the live feed.”

She froze, just for a second.

Max didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious. But still, something knotted tight in her chest. The instinct came fast, automatic; hide it, clench her fists, smooth out the edges. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just like everyone else.

But then she remembered what Adrian had told her, calm and firm that day in the design office, looking at her without even a flicker of doubt.

Why should you ever have to hide the manifestations of your greatness?

So, instead of retreating, she let her hands speak the language her brain needed. 

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s called a stim.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

“A… like, a repetitive movement. Helps regulate my focus. Or calm me down. Or… sometimes just helps me think,” she said, gesturing with the ball. “Ah, my hands flap on their own. And the golf ball’s got the right weight. Tactile enough to keep my hands busy while my brain does its thing. Means something to me.”

Max nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. “You always do it when you're excited about something?”

“Sometimes. Or anxious. Or overstimulated.” She shrugged. “I mask a lot. Most people don’t notice the physical stuff. But the ball helps. I notice that I swing or bounce my leg a lot, too, but people don’t notice that as much.” 

He was quiet for a long moment. “So, it’s part of the autism?”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. Not angry, just curious. “You saw my Twitter?” She was very open about her diagnosis there, sharing informational and up-to-date medical journals. 

“I read part of your interview with RaceTech Weekly,” he admitted. “You said it’s not something you hide, but not something you announce either.”

“Yeah, well…” she exhaled. “Some people get weird. Or patronising. Or make jokes.”

“Christian,” Max said knowingly, a darker tone in his voice.

Amelia smiled, a bit twisted. “Adrian is nice about it, though.”

“Good.” Max looked at her again. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She stared at him. “I’m not—” And then paused. “Okay. I am. A little. But I’m trying not to be.”

Max just gave a half-nod, like that was fair enough. “You don’t need to explain it to me,” he said, kicking his foot gently out into the air. “I just wanted to know what it was. You looked happy.”

She blinked. “I was.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

Eventually, she bumped her shoulder against his. It was barely more than a nudge, but for Amelia, it was a big deal; intentional, physical contact she initiated. She didn’t do that often. Almost never. “Thanks for not being a dick about it,” she told him.

Max smirked, eyes flicking down to where their shoulders had touched before he leaned back. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I start asking to borrow the comfort golf ball during strategy meetings.”

“You’d lose it.” She sighed. 

“You’ll forgive me.” 

Amelia stared at him, dead serious. “No I wouldn’t.” 

—

It was late. Too late for anyone still at McLaren HQ except security and cleaning staff. 

Tracy stood across from him, arms folded, gaze cool and steady. She didn’t come to Woking often anymore, but something in Zak’s voice when he’d asked her to come by tonight had stopped her from saying no.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tracy said after a long beat. “You hardly even come home anymore.”

Zak rubbed both hands over his face, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Good,” she replied, sharp but not cruel. “She should be at the front of your mind. Just like she’s always at the front of mine.”

Zak let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head bowed. “It’s been five months, Trace. Five months of silence. She won’t reply to my texts. Doesn’t even open my emails. I tried to speak to her at Silverstone and she looked straight through me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Tracy sighed and lowered herself into the seat across from him, her expression tight. “You didn’t lose her because of one bad conversation, Zak. You lost her because you took something from her; something you had no right to. You tried to control what wasn’t yours.”

He looked at her, pain written into the lines of his face.

“She could’ve sued you,” Tracy continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Do you even understand that? Millions, Zak. She would never do it, of course, because she’s still loyal, still stupidly kind when it comes to you, but that doesn’t make what you did any less wrong. You treated her brilliance like a family asset. Like it belonged to you because she’s your daughter.”Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but fury. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how she works.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Zak said hoarsely. “I didn’t realise—Christ, Trace.”

“You were blind to it,” Tracy said, her voice steady but cutting. “Everything she was doing to elevate that team; improving car performance, supporting the drivers, stabilising Lando’s garage dynamic. She wasn’t just useful, Zak. She was essential. And now you’ve lost her to Red Bull.”

Zak sneered, bitter. “God. I just—why them? I would’ve understood Mercedes, maybe. Even Ferrari.”

Tracy didn’t flinch. “She’s built her own space in that garage already. They obviously respect her there. She’s on her way to helping Max Verstappen fight for his first world title. She’s not just surviving, Zak. She’s thriving.”

“I know that,” Zak said, his voice small, still dark and bitter. “I’ve watched. I’ve seen the press. Adrian Newey can’t stop signing her praises. But, Trace, I wasn’t even proud. I was angry.” He paused. “I didn’t understand it. I don’t even recognise her anymore.”

Tracy sighed. “She spent years trying to get you to see her. Always trying to fit herself into a box, hoping that maybe things would finally change and you’d suddenly realise what was standing right in-front of you.” 

Zak looked down. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. “I miss her so much,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her rants. Even that awful yellow water bottle.”

Tracy pursed her lips. “The water bottle is gone. She has a golf ball now. Still yellow.” 

He looked up at her quickly. “A golf ball?”

Tracy smiled sadly. Shrugged. “Probably from her and Lando’s first date. I’ve never asked, but…” 

Zak blinked. “He… They went on a date? He managed to get her to go to a golf course?” 

Tracy nodded. 

Zak closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to pull himself together. “I just want a chance. One chance to tell her that I was wrong. That I see her now. That I’m proud of her. That I—”

Tracy leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to let her come to you. Not the other way around. When has she ever responded well to being chased, hm?”

Zak blinked, fighting back the sting in his eyes. “Do you think she ever will, though? Come to me?”

Tracy stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she walked past. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn. But eventually, something will happen, and your name will be the first one on her mind. Just… be patient. And come home, Zak. You need a shower.”

He watched her walk out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stillness of the room. Then he turned back toward the window, staring out over the empty car bays and spotless garage beyond. The place that, in so many ways, had become his refuge; and his prison.

He could be patient. He could.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and followed her out. 

— 

iMessage — 20:03pm

Amelia I think we should go on a date.

Lando Norris No, no, no. Babe, no. I’m supposed to be the one to ask you on a date, not the other way around.

Amelia Why? You haven’t asked. I want to go on a date with you, so I asked.

Lando Norris Ok. I’m still paying. Doesn’t matter if you asked or not. I’ll plan it too.

Amelia Of course you are paying. Women don’t pay on dates.

Lando Norris Some ppl think they should 

Amelia Oh. Should I bring money then? 

Lando Norris No babe. Never.

Amelia :)

— 

He’d hired out an entire restaurant.

Fully staffed. Every table other than theirs empty.

It was insane. Completely over the top.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel… warm about it.

Amelia ran her fingers along the smooth edge of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window as the sky darkened into soft shades of twilight. Normally, a full restaurant would have her on edge; the constant hum of conversations, the clatter of plates, the shuffle of waiters, the occasional laughter ringing too loudly in her ears. It always felt like too much. Too many sensory inputs, all at once.

Tonight, it was just them.

She glanced across the table at Lando, who was looking at her with that mischievous, bright-eyed expression. But there was something softer there too. A warmth, a genuine care she had come to expect from him.

"This is much better than golf," she said, trying to ease the tightness she felt in her chest. Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass, a small manifestation of her nerves. 

Lando stared at her for a moment, then laughed; a loud, free sound that made her heart skip a beat. "Yeah? I’m sorry I dragged you there. I won’t ever do it again, I promise." He had that usual teasing grin on his face, but there was softness in the way his eyes lingered on her.

Amelia shifted in her seat, glancing down at the menu in front of her. There were so many choices, so many different things to try, and the overwhelming amount of options made her stomach twist. Her mind started to race, analysing every single dish on the list, the flavours, the textures. Would they be too spicy? Too sweet? Would she like them or regret the choice? It felt like too much.

"I like the beach," she muttered, trying to shift focus. "And I like boats." But her thoughts kept circling back to the food. The choices were suffocating.

Lando seemed to notice the change in her, the tension creeping into her shoulders. "Boats, huh? So you don’t get sea sickness, then?” he teased, leaning forward a little, trying to pull her out of her head.

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her mind still too loud. “Boats are just… private. Calm.“

He paused, studying her for a moment, before his voice softened. “If the options are too much, we don’t have to pick anything just yet. You’re here with me, we can go slow. The restaurant is ours until midnight. No pressure.”

She sucked in a breath. “I— I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice small. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice, I just... I don’t know what I’ll like.”

Lando reached across the table, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Well, after the amount of room service we’ve eaten recently, I think know what you like, and what you don’t. Want me to just order for you?”

Amelia blinked, startled by his offer. “What?”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then, without warning, he stood and walked around the table. Before she could react, he pulled her chair back, coaxing her to her feet. He guided her back to his side and gently settled her onto his lap. His left arm wrapped around her waist, secure but not too tight, pulling her closer. Amelia felt the tension drain from her body as she sank into him, her back resting against his chest.

“We can share, yeah? I’ll pick a few things, and we can try them together,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Amelia hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll stare.”

She could feel her cheeks warming, the faint pressure of being so close to him in a public space, even if the restaurant was empty. But despite her discomfort, she didn’t want to move. His arm around her felt right, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. It was perfect.

Lando rolled his eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let them.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

When it comes to healthcare, you’ll occasionally encounter things presented as an opinion or as something up for debate - when there’s actually clear scientific facts on those topics. 

You can probably think of some general examples off the top of your head, like: 

Vaccines (They save lives. In fact, they are one of the most effective tools for reducing mortality rates worldwide) 

Pasteurized milk (Raw milk is not healthier than pasteurized milk, it’s actually unsafe. Pasteurization kills harmful bacteria which can cause severe illness) 

Fluoride (Water fluoridation is a safe and effective public health measure) 

Climate change (It exists and directly impacts respiratory and cardiovascular health)

“Detox” (The liver and kidneys detox your body naturally; detox teas, juice cleanses etc. are unnecessary) 

Cancer (Cancer isn’t just one disease, it’s an umbrella term for many different diseases and that’s why it’s very, very difficult, if not impossible, to just find the one simple fix to end cancer forever) 

Sugar substitutes (They have been extensively studied and are safe for consumption within recommended limits) 

There’s a lot of misinformation out there and it often thrives because it plays on fears (such as the natural fear of illness, dangerous substances and life-threatening side effects). Nobody wants to willingly put themselves or their loved ones into danger - but this absolutely natural desire for protection can be exploited. 

Some common tactics for that are: 

relying on personal anecdotes (emotional stories often feel more reliable or trustworthy than cold, hard data, even though they aren’t) 

appealing to those who distrust authority (the suggestion that governments/scientists/corporations/“they” are conspiring against you feels trustworthy if it seemingly “confirms” fears you already had) 

misusing scientific terminology (Complex-sounding terms can make something appear credible and well-researched, even if these terms are used completely incorrectly) 

giving quick, easy answers or fixes to complex problems (health is a complicated, multifaceted topic and there’s oftentimes no easy-cut answer to why a certain person gets sick or if a now-healthy person will still be as healthy in 10 years. This unpredictability can feel scary, and oversimplified answers can offer comfort) 

While health myths impact anyone, they disproportionately affect marginalized groups - for example chronically ill or disabled people but also our community.  

That’s because health myths (or outright health lies) can perpetuate stigma and create barriers to accessing evidence-based care. 

Myths specifically targeting queer health often follow the same patterns we talked about above. Let's take a closer look at some common topics and break down the facts behind them: 

Pedophilia (There is no evidence linking sexual orientation or gender identity to pedophilia or predatory behavior. This myth is rooted in bigotry and perpetuates harmful stereotypes) 

HIV/AIDS (it’s not “the gay disease” or even a “punishment for being gay”. It’s a virus that can affect people of all genders and sexual orientations) 

Regret rates (Regret rates for gender-affirming care are very low, even lower than for getting a new hip or a tattoo.) 

Regret rates, 2.0 (��Regret” does not automatically translate to “they were wrong about being trans”. A trans person could regret medical decisions for a multitude of reasons (even external factors like a lack of social support or experience of harassment) and still continue to identify as trans) 

Mental illness (The higher rate of mental health issues in queer people is caused by external factors like discrimination and social exclusion, not by the identity itself. Being queer is not a mental illness.) 

Conversion therapy (It doesn’t work. It also causes severe psychological harm including an increased risk of depression, anxiety, and suicide) 

Treating these myths as not “only” homophobia and transphobia but also as health misinformation may feel nitpicky, but I think it’s important. If we don’t, it’s easy to dismiss them as merely a matter of “not accidentally saying something offensive” - but there’s more at stake than hurt feelings. Health misinformation can prevent people from getting the medical care they need and put their lives at risk. And that applies to “Trans people often regret their surgeries” as much as it does to “Covid vaccines are dangerous”. 

So, look out for those typical patterns and warning signs - not only in the general “health and wellness” area but also in discussions about queer issues. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[rowie264]

Why Timebomb shouldn't exist in s2 (part 2 - Jinx)

Part 1 - Ekko Part 3 - Relationship

I already had a post saying that s2 Jinx is an OOC. The fact that creators decided to almost fully remove/magically solve her mental issues completely ruins her character and her arc in s1.

But we don't really care about character images, right? All that matters is that they should be together. No care about their disclosure (Ekko), no care about global reshaping of the character (Jinx), no care about complexity and nuances of their relationship, no care about everything - just confirm their couple as canon and make them kiss.

In section about Jinx, I'd like remind you what she was like in s1 (it's important):

saw hallucinations and heard voices of dead people;

killed enforcers without a hint of remorse or empathy;

killed firelights without a hint of remorse or empathy;

enjoyed the battle/killing ppl, getting so excited that she almost injured Vi;

killed a crow;

didn't think about Ekko at all except for the moment of their clash (neither before nor after - 0 thoughts about him - and in s2 too by the way);

almost killed Ekko by detonating a bomb.

So it's funny to hear Jinx to say "there is no good version of me," because s2 Jinx is literally a good version of herself, because suddenly all "bad" things that her character had in s1 are practically gone!

Which, by the way, fits perfectly with my vision of how to write romance with a character like Jinx. As for me, there are two options: 1) where another character will accept her for who she is. Such a character should be like herself or worse i believe. 2) where Jinx loses her character traits. This is exactly Ekko option shown in the show. And i'm not even talking about her mental issues, but about her apathy, cruelty and desire to destroy. These are traits that need to be "fixed" so that Ekko can build a relationship with her.

Ekko can't go with the first option, because then he will become an OOC, since he is a good guy. Although it will not be as critical with him as with Jinx, because, I repeat, his identity hasn't been so well disclosed, so there is room for maneuver. For example, through hardening Ekko by burning the Tree by enforcers and directing Jinx's cruelty only towards Piltover. That wouldn't change her character much, and it would belogical that Ekko will be okay with killing, because enforcers will become his main enemies.

There may be some other options that I don't see because I don't ship these two, but even if there are, it would take a huge amount of screen time to implement them correctly due to the data that was established in s1.

[yes-i-write-fanfiction]

Genuine question: so we know that Cybertronians react to certain Earth substances. For example, Knockout reacts to pepper spray being sprayed in his optics. So, if we go by that logic, then they could be effected by other chemical compounds, like Scarecrow's Fear Toxin. So that raises the question, if the Autobots and Decepticons of TFP were under the influence of the Fear Toxin, what would they see? What would be there deepest, darkest fears?

-Optimus would see a dead and desolate Cybertron and his teammates and enemies alike are all dead. Everything is lost. And he is all alone. He is the last cybertronian alive and he's being tormented by shadowy phantoms that remind him of what a failure he is, that he couldn't save anyone.

-Ratchet sees all the people he failed to save. Every bot that ever landed on his operating table and who did not walk away from it. They are staring at him, looking just like they did when they died and they are all blaming him for their deaths. "Why didn't you save us, Ratchet?" "We wanted to live, we trusted you to fix us."

-Bumblebee's visions consist of Megatron killing everyone he cares about. No matter what Bee does, he can't stop him. He starts with Optimus, then Bulkhead, Ratchet, Arcee... and then he goes on to the humans. And Bumblebee is powerless to do anything but watch and scream.

-Bulkhead experiences the fear of rejection. Everyone he cares about are disappointed in him, loathes him, hates him for being such a failure. They are mocking him, calling him weak and stupid and blaming him for all their failures. And the worst is, Bulkhead believes them.

-Arcee sees Tailgate and Cliffjumper's reanimated corpses. They are hunting her, controlled by Airachnid who orders them around like dogs. They want to tear her apart, limb by limb and turn her into another undead for Airachnid to control so she can sick Arcee on her teammates and friends.

-Megatron, as fearless as he claims himself to be, sees himself falling apart. Part after part until he's left weak and voiceless. He has always found comfort in his strength and ability to command. It's what defines him. To be left without these tools means that he can do nothing. He can't fight back, he can't order his soldiers. He's just deadweight.

-Starscream's nightmare is quite simple. He hallucinates enemies all around him, that they are chasing him with the intention to kill him. Some look like bots he know, enemies and allies alike, but most are just faceless shadow-monsters. And no matter how exhausted Starscream is, he can't stop running or else they will get him.

-Soundwave sees Megatron abandoning him. The decepticon leader blames him for a mission gone wrong and then just... leaves. Doesn't even look back at him. And even as Soundwave reaches out to him, tries to stop him, he just can't reach Megatron. The distance between them grows bigger and bigger the further he reaches out.

-Breakdown has a particular reaction to the Fear Toxin where he believes he can no longer move, that he is paralyzed. It's a purely mental thing, there's nothing actually wrong with his body, but the conviction is so strong he can't move an inch.

-Knockout hallucinates himself rusting. It starts with a simple scratch on his forearm but when he touches it, it suddenly spreads with frightening speed. The rust ages him thousands of years in an instant, chipping away at his red paint job and creating small holes in his armor that won't stop growing.

-Shockwave sees all his research, his hard work, disappearing before his very eye. Data files corrupting and deleting, experiments self-terminating. Everything, gone in mere seconds. (Personally I think Shockwave wouldn't actually fall for any of this and would just watch it happen like "fascinating, it's almost believable".)

-Airachnid's hallucination is almost identical to Starscream's. She's also being chased but unlike Starscream, who mostly sees faceless shadow-monsters, Airachnid sees all her past victims. Dead, rusting and decaying, looking like they did when they died or like they just crawled out the grave.

[ms-demeanor]

Hello! First, I wanted to say thank you for your post about updating software and such. I really appreciated your perspective as someone with ADHD. The way you described your experiences with software frustration was IDENTICAL to my experience, so your post made a lot of sense to me.

Second, (and I hope my question isn't bothering you lol) would you mind explaining why it's important to update/adopt the new software? Like, why isn't there an option that doesn't involve constantly adopting new things? I understand why they'd need to fix stuff like functional bugs/make it compatible with new tech, but is it really necessary to change the user side of things as well?

Sorry if those are stupid questions or they're A Lot for a tumblr rando to ask, I'd just really like to understand because I think it would make it easier to get myself to adopt new stuff if I understand why it's necessary, and the other folks I know that know about computers don't really seem to understand the experience.

Thank you so much again for sharing your wisdom!!

A huge part of it is changing technologies and changing norms; I brought up Windows 8 in that other post and Win8 is a *great* example of user experience changing to match hardware, just in a situation that was an enormous mismatch with the market.

Win8's much-beloathed tiles came about because Microsoft seemed to be anticipating a massive pivot to tablet PCs in nearly all applications. The welcome screen was designed to be friendly to people who were using handheld touchscreens who could tap through various options, and it was meant to require more scrolling and less use of a keyboard.

But most people who the operating system went out to *didn't* have touchscreen tablets or laptops, they had a desktop computer with a mouse and a keyboard.

When that was released, it was Microsoft attempting to keep up with (or anticipate) market trends - they wanted something that was like "the iPad for Microsoft" so Windows 8 was meant to go with Microsoft Surface tablets.

We spent the first month of Win8's launch making it look like Windows 7 for our customers.

You can see the same thing with the centered taskbar on Windows 11; that's very clearly supposed to mimic the dock on apple computers (only you can't pin it anywhere but the bottom of the screen, which sucks).

Some of the visual changes are just trends and various companies trying to keep up with one another.

With software like Adobe I think it's probably based on customer data. The tool layout and the menu dropdowns are likely based on what people are actually looking for, and change based on what other tools people are using. That's likely true for most programs you use - the menu bar at the top of the screen in Word is populated with the options that people use the most; if a function you used to click on all the time is now buried, there's a possibility that people use it less these days for any number of reasons. (I'm currently being driven mildly insane by Teams moving the "attach file" button under a "more" menu instead of as an icon next to the "send message" button, and what this tells me is either that more users are putting emojis in their messages than attachments, or microsoft WANTS people to put more emojis than messages in their attachments).

But focusing on the operating system, since that's the big one:

The thing about OSs is that you interact with them so frequently that any little change seems massive and you get REALLY frustrated when you have to deal with that, but version-to-version most OSs don't change all that much visually and they also don't get released all that frequently. I've been working with windows machines for twelve years and in that time the only OSs that Microsoft has released were 8, 10, and 11. That's only about one OS every four years, which just is not that many. There was a big visual change in the interface between 7 and 8 (and 8 and 8.1, which is more of a 'panicked backing away' than a full release), but otherwise, realistically, Windows 11 still looks a lot like XP.

The second one is a screenshot of my actual computer. The only change I've made to the display is to pin the taskbar to the left side instead of keeping it centered and to fuck around a bit with the colors in the display customization. I haven't added any plugins or tools to get it to look different.

This is actually a pretty good demonstration of things changing based on user behavior too - XP didn't come with a search field in the task bar or the start menu, but later versions of Windows OSs did, because users had gotten used to searching things more in their phones and browsers, so then they learned to search things on their computers.

There are definitely nefarious reasons that software manufacturers change their interfaces. Microsoft has included ads in home versions of their OS and pushed searches through the Microsoft store since Windows 10, as one example. That's shitty and I think it's worthwhile to find the time to shut that down (and to kill various assistants and background tools and stop a lot of stuff that runs at startup).

But if you didn't have any changes, you wouldn't have any changes. I think it's handy to have a search field in the taskbar. I find "settings" (which is newer than control panel) easier to navigate than "control panel." Some of the stuff that got added over time is *good* from a user perspective - you can see that there's a little stopwatch pinned at the bottom of my screen; that's a tool I use daily that wasn't included in previous versions of the OS. I'm glad it got added, even if I'm kind of bummed that my Windows OS doesn't come with Spider Solitaire anymore.

One thing that's helpful to think about when considering software is that nobody *wants* to make clunky, unusable software. People want their software to run well, with few problems, and they want users to like it so that they don't call corporate and kick up a fuss.

When you see these kinds of changes to the user experience, it often reflects something that *you* may not want, but that is desirable to a *LOT* of other people. The primary example I can think of here is trackpad scrolling direction; at some point it became common for trackpads to scroll in the opposite direction that they used to; now the default direction is the one that feels wrong to me, because I grew up scrolling with a mouse, not a screen. People who grew up scrolling on a screen seem to feel that the new direction is a lot more intuitive, so it's the default. Thankfully, that's a setting that's easy to change, so it's a change that I make every time I come across it, but the change was made for a sensible reason, even if that reason was opaque to me at the time I stumbled across it and continues to irritate me to this day.

I don't know. I don't want to defend Windows all that much here because I fucking hate Microsoft and definitely prefer using Linux when I'm not at work or using programs that I don't have on Linux. But the thing is that you'll see changes with Linux releases as well.

I wouldn't mind finding a tool that made my desktop look 100% like Windows 95, that would be fun. But we'd probably all be really frustrated if there hadn't been any interface improvements changes since MS-DOS (and people have DEFINITELY been complaining about UX changes at least since then).

Like, I talk about this in terms of backward compatibility sometimes. A lot of people are frustrated that their old computers can't run new software well, and that new computers use so many resources. But the flipside of that is that pretty much nobody wants mobile internet to work the way that it did in 2004 or computers to act the way they did in 1984.

Like. People don't think about it much these days but the "windows" of the Windows Operating system represented a massive change to how people interacted with their computers that plenty of people hated and found unintuitive.

(also take some time to think about the little changes that have happened that you've appreciated or maybe didn't even notice. I used to hate the squiggly line under misspelled words but now I see the utility. Predictive text seems like new technology to me but it's really handy for a lot of people. Right clicking is a UX innovation. Sometimes you have to take the centered task bar in exchange for the built-in timer deck; sometimes you have to lose color-coded files in exchange for a right click.)

[ms-scarletwings]

Frightsome realization brought to me by the beginning of the Planetjackers episode.

Zim’s telescope, all the way from Earth, mind you, couldn’t just search for and fix onto other known planets in the Empire’s range, couldn’t just find the base of the local irken spy, but was in fact able to lock onto the current, exact position of other invaders themselves.

Every single one of them is wired into a database to the point of being able to immediately check one’s encoded job and identity from a quick scan. Of course they’d have the technology and the foresight to have PAKs constantly log and update intergalactic GPS data to their fleet databanks. That’s how Sizz Lorr dropped in on Zim at the Skool. That’s how the guards black-bagged him in order to bring him to Judgementia for his trial. Hell, it probably might even be part of how Tak found him.

Every irken invader, if not every Irken soldier, can be tracked and observed at any time by the empire. Some form of cracking this network may even be the method through which Zim obsessively checks in on the Tallests and where The Massive’s been lately.

But more worryingly, for Irkens at least, this would mean that permanently deserting and evading the empire is effectively impossible so long as there exists some Irken authority willing to put in the effort to chase you down. There is no corner of the universe where their criminals could find a lasting peace of mind. It also adds some more potential context behind their ubiquitous loyalty to their leadership, or why to Zim’s perception, there is no third option after success or being as good as a dead man.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I kinda had this idea of different levels of being glitched

Cross: the final overwrite gave him back all the memories of his past iterations. I imagine his code has a lot of extra data now. Some of it are repeating code unneeded, others are drastic changes and clash with other parts of his code. I think he has one main code and all the other codes from past iterations is just backed up data saved to his soul he can access it but it’s separate from who he is now if that makes sense. He wouldn’t want it fixed though they were all him at some point.

Dust: I remember in Dusttale canon he didn’t originally remember the player changed him so he would remember. Anyone looking at his code wouldn’t find much a couple extra lines of code and one line of code changed from No to Yes (remember timelines). I don’t see him wanting it to change cause on some level he doesn’t want to forget he doesn’t deserve to just forget after everything he’s done.

Geno: His code wasn’t changed but it is different. Parts are missing so his body made new code to replace the missing parts. Some parts are a little scrambled around but don’t affect much. He’s fine with how he is it’s not all that different from who he was really. Fatal: His code has been butchered it’s still there just not the same anymore. Parts have been cleaved out in thin strips. A lot of it is scrambled around the missing parts aren’t making new code so he’s stuck with empty pockets of code in his being. He would want to be fixed to be who he was again he didn’t ask for this.

Error: His code looked like it was put in the blender shredded to tiny pieces all mixed up with a couple big chunks standing out then they poured it into the shape of a skeleton. He can’t miss what he doesn’t remember he doesn’t really care about his messed up code he knows he’s an error it doesn’t change his goals. Blueberror/Blooper: His codes been scrambled all around less then Error bigger chunks remain and it’s not completely shredded. He wants to be who he was before not the thing he is now is that too much to ask for.

Killer: Anyone looking at his code would’ve disturbed. Huge chunks of his original code are missing leaving behind crumbs of who he once was. Someone shoved in new code regardless of the size and then used more code to stitch the edges to stay connected. Parts are scrambled around, missing, added, some parts are even burned which didn’t even think could happen. There’s also the data attached to him so much it starts to black out the sky when looking at his code as they overlap into pure darkness. There’s more oddity but it would require looking deeper. You know what they say you stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back. He knows you’re looking at him and he doesn’t enjoy it. It’s complicated feelings on the matter of fixing himself because that is his goal but parts of himself don’t want to be fixed it doesn’t feel like it would be them anymore.

I imagine that code and the soul are one in the same. The soul stores all of a persons code and date inside them. Changes to the soul changes the code and Vice verse. To mess with either is horrible thing to do someone. I imagine that all errors have their code scrambled and bits missing from their time in the anti-void although it differs in how long they’ve been there, mental strength, and personality.

~Musical Anon

Wonder how the different levels of code alterations would effect different individuals, from hardly anything noticeable to huge shifts in personality. Maybe even identity and sense of agency.

And i definitely agree that code and the SOUL are one in the same, and id even say that’s the canon interpretation for Undertale: Something New, given that whenever Killer’s SOUL changes into a different Stage—the example we’re shown is his SOUL changing into Stage 2–we also see his code changing from an unidentifiable mess to something like k1ll_sans.

On top of that, Killer states he’s interested in studying others’ SOULs because “each soul has its own unique code,” and I believe we’re shown further examples using Fell Sans and I believe Swap. So at some point, Killer realized the existence of codes, and their ties to people’s SOULs.

And realized that, at some point, his own was changed—although I doubt he realized this in the beginning at all, even if he likely knew about or at least believed in the existence of Players.

And I highly doubt finding out his code alternation changed anything for him in Stage 1 at all. It was still that body’s hands that accepted that Deal, picked up that knife and that bucket of water, and it was still those hands that snuffed out every life they latched onto.

[nostalgebraist]

Pretty regularly, at work, I ask ChatGPT hundreds of slightly different questions over the course of a minute or two.

I don't type out these individual questions, of course. They're constructed mechanically, by taking documents one by one from a list, and slotting each one inside a sandwich of fixed text. Like this (not verbatim):

Here's a thing for you to read: //document goes here// Now answer question XYZ about it.

I never read through all of the responses, either. Maybe I'll read a few of them, later on, after doing some kind of statistics to the whole aggregate. But ChatGPT isn't really writing for human consumption, here. It's an industrial machine. It's generating "data," on the basis of other "data."

Often, I ask it to write out a step-by-step reasoning process before answering each question, because this has been shown to improve the quality of ChatGPT's answers. It writes me all this stuff, and I ignore all of it. It's a waste product. I only ask for it because it makes the answer after it better, on average; I have no other use for it.

The funny thing is -- despite being used in a very different, more impersonal manner -- it's still ChatGPT! It's still the same sanctimonious, eager-to-please little guy, answering all those questions.

Fifty questions at once, hundreds in a few minutes, all of it in that same, identical, somewhat annoying brand voice. Always itself, incapable of tiring.

This is all billed to my employer at a rate of roughly $0.01 per 5,000 words I send to ChatGPT, plus roughly $0.01 per 3,750 words that ChatGPT writes in response.

In other words, ChatGPT writing is so cheap, you can get 375,000 words of it for $1.

----

OpenAI decided to make this particular "little guy" very cheap and very fast, maybe in recognition of its popularity.

So now, if you want to use a language model like an industrial machine, it's the one you're most likely to use.

----

Why am I making this post?

Sometimes I read online discourse about ChatGPT, and it seems like people are overly focused on the experience of a single human talking to ChatGPT in the app.

Or, at most, the possibility of generating lots of "content" aimed at humans (SEO spam, generic emails) at the press of a button.

Many of the most promising applications of ChatGPT involve generating text that is not meant for human consumption.

They go in the other direction: they take things from the messy, human, textual world, and translate them into the simpler terms of ordinary computer programs.

Imagine you're interacting with a system -- a company, a website, a phone tree, whatever.

You say or type something.

Behind the scenes, unbeknownst to you, the system asks ChatGPT 13 different questions about the thing you just said/typed. This happens almost instantaneously and costs almost nothing.

No human being will ever see any of the words that ChatGPT wrote in response to this question. They get parsed by simple, old-fashioned computer code, and then they get discarded.

Each of ChatGPT's answers ends in a simple "yes" or "no," or a selection from a similar set of discrete options. The system uses all of this structured, "machine-readable" (in the old-fashioned sense) information to decide what to do next, in its interaction with you.

This is the kind of thing that will happen, more and more.

[fulltidalwavecomputer]

oh goodness guys I think I figured out the Lethe protocol... uhhh so. remember into the mind?

Notice Chris's patient number? Seems random at first but remember it for later. Andrew pointed out that it could either mean he's the 239th patient, or its on the second floor like in hotel rooms. So that would make him the 39th patient on the 2nd floor.

If we go back to lethe protocol, where Chris is tampering with Andrew's save files/memories, he's referred to as [SUBJECT136] by the system. It's quite random that this was chosen instead of his like username or something, because doesn't this imply the protocol applies to multiple subjects? Why would Chris need access to over 100 people's saves/memories?

It also has similarities with chris's designation at the hospital. Both are 3 digits long, both have a 3 in the middle, and if you turn the 6 upside-down it becomes a nine. Then it hit me. If andrew is right about the hospital room numbers working like a hotel, then that would place room 136 in the same ward below 239. I did wonder why it wasn't 139 instead for a bit, but that led me to think of numbers appearing differently in reflections, particularly in lakes or other bodies of water. I'm imagining Chris staring down at Andrew from the spirit world like he's peering at the surface and maybe submerging his head to interact with the mortals for a brief time. (I'm only remembering now that Lethe is named after a river so uhh... even more relevant ig)

Anyway, it doesn't end there. Remember the fixing room? A lot of people speculate it meant electric shock therapy or something, but I'm beginning to think they are wrong.

It never says here that Chris died in the fixing room, just that it failed and he failed. Then it says his body was found in the well one morning when previous books document his experiences with being called there. At first I thought they buried the body there because he died and they wanted to cover it up, but based on the wording I think he killed himself just like Smiler. Also we don't know how many days passed between this book and the last since none of them are dated. Let's look back to LetheProtocol.mp4:

Yeah... tbh that pretty much confirms it actually. I forgot about this line. The Fixing Room = The Lethe Protocol. How Chris made it in minecraft to tamper with his friend, idk. But remember he's a technical guy who likes to push the limits of what can be done in minecraft. He's also likely received a supernatural advantage from being a digital ghost, so suspend your disbelief.

Also note the name of the hospital. "Desiderium asylum". It's a fancy latin word related to longing, specifically longing for something lost. Lethe meanwhile means forgetfulness or oblivion, the river Lethe existing in greek mythology as a place in the underworld that would wipe a persons mortal memories if they drank from it. These two words stand out in the ARG as odd, considering most people would have to look up their meaning to understand them. Therefore, I think they are related. After all, is it a cure for grief to simply forget and move on?

If that doesn't convince you, there is slightly more evidence I found. When Andrew first visits the asylum, its worn down and made out of... bricks and mossy cobble, huh. Like there are other blocks but I'm realising now that maybe it hints that Chris/Smiler built it? Together?

But after Smiler catches up to Andrew, the place changes completely before we learn Chris was the patient he's been reading about, the appearance of the asylum completely changes to look clean and white.

It's not identical to the place in LetheProtocol.mp4, but it is somewhat familiar especially with the doors and corridors. Also look at the lil blue rose in Chris's room <3. I think the starkest similarities is that both structures have these potted hedges inside.

For comparison:

Also, there was another mystery that plagued me.

What do these numbers mean in relation to Andrew's memory/save file data? Are these years? Individual save files? Didn't Andrew's old world with Chris get corrupted (I was wrong they did go missing, my bad-) and not deleted anyway? Why choose door 11? In fact he seems to hestitate before doing so. Is it age, because then Andrew would be 16 years old and Chris erased his memories of being 11 for some reason?

Then I realised...

Guys, I don't think he just forgot those videos existed and couldn't see them on his channel, I think they either got unlisted for a bit or just straight up deleted in-universe. I wasn't there if they got unlisted at the time as part of the arg so idk, comments section didn't mention anything about it. But like... season one canonically doesn't exist anymore I think 😭. If I'm right about the numbers lining up, then somehow Andrew's memory is tied to his videos too?? I guess Chris erased his memories of making those videos along with the videos themselves, though I will say... after the latest video at the time of typing this I don't think the world itself actually got deleted :3. Too many memories for Chris as well, ig. He may have just hid it somewhere... which begs the question, what does "save data" actually refer too? Both Chris and Smiler seem to be able to upload to the channel and edit videos as ghosts, so like... did he target only the memories of those 11 videos/gaming sessions?

I could ramble even longer but eh I think I get my points across. Dunno if anyone else has thought of all this before, probably, but if you didn't know then here it is, all in one place.

After a bit more thought, I do think there's a reason that the Lethe protocol chamber device only seems to have 16 rooms. It's not lore related, rather a reference to 16 bits in computing. Minecraft isn't 16 bits but eh. It's the best I could come up with. Chris might've built it as a 16 bit operating system or smth. Also I doubt he'd need to erase more then 16 minecraft episodes from Andrew's memory/channel at at time. If he needed to erase more, say like 20, then he could just run the 16th room and then the 4th or some other combination.

For some reason each room has a passcode on the ceiling too, like a pin number. I could try and work out that later but for now, I think I'm happy with my findings.

[cittykat101]

Things about my Ninjago Au I think are cool

-It's based off of the "Gold rush" short

-Kai and Nya are the first two ninja, just two reckless teenagers fighting thugs in makeshift suits and accidentally finding out about an ancient artifact that could bring about the end of the world. Releasing shadow creatures from the darkness upon the entirety of Ninjago bringing everlasting destruction and fear, and after the whole fiasco ending with the good side of Ninjago protected by a shining wall of light. They get picked up by none other than Cyrus Borg himself, willing to give them a full set of professional gadgets and training suits for the price of working under the government. Of course they agree

-Lloyd still first starts out as the main antagonist but he's aged up to 17 and is treated a lot more seriously to an extent. Taking a lot longer to be redeemed, like Redson from Monkie kid in a way where he's unnecessarily dramatic and flamboyant. Though he is able to be menacing,

-garmmadon/Wu do not exist, replaced by the Overlord and the like light version of them or something. Misako being raised from the ground up to be a god spouse and after realizing she was in a cult the whole time, running off with her child, and becoming a scholar she basically had to raise the antichrist. Which was not fun but she tried(too bad Lloyd turned on her and the Ninja to go be edgy)

-Jay does not start off as a ninja, sure he's part of the team but he first appears at the end of the "pilot episodes" as tech support and help for the Ninja fixing up weapons that can't be mass produced and stuff like that. He's actually just a voice sorta like Pixel until near the end of "season one" where we get a face reveal as well as him getting his own office to properly work in during the start of "season two", he's also just referred to as "Walker" for most of "season one"

-Zane also doesn't start off as a Ninja, being found and fixed up by Jay in the "second episode" there's no shocking reveal that he's a robot. There is however a mystery surrounding how something as advanced as him was just thrown away and why every data card that could've held a memory was corrupted beyond repair. Not to mention no one actually knows what he runs off of, and as easy as it would be to just take it out and study it from there the last time it was removed it honestly seemed like he was dead for a bit. He just helps around the ninjas base and Jay's office and Borg tower because he feels a sense of duty to do so

-Cole wouldn't you know it, also doesn't start off as a ninja! His identity isn't even shown at first as he's a vigilante called "Rouge" with mysterious earth powers and a no nonsense attitude. Comes off as rude and mysterious at first but slowly develops a sorta flirtatious rivalry with Kai(much to literally everyone around them's dismay). Doesn't want to be apart of the ninja purely due to what his father would think and shit like that. Besides, he's dead set on the idea that he works better alone anyway. And no amount of nights clumsily crawling through his bedroom window while bleeding out is gonna change that...unfortunately

-there's a running gag where either Kai or Nya will walk in Jay's office being all casual before bringing in the most mangled and unrecognizable piece of machinery and walking off with an excuse of something they need to do. Leaving him and sometimes Zane to just...stare at it, Zane with concern and confusion and Jay with complete and utter despair since he's the one who has to fix the damn thing

-there's the moment "at the end of the first half of season two" where the ninja are partying sorta like that one scene during season one. And Jay instead of being with them is just frustratedly filling taxes because of the damage they caused, it's framed like a joke but when it's looked back on as a flashback it's very much not and he is genuinely frustrated and stressed over the sheer amount of shit he has to do

-true potential is less based on a spiritual awakening than a realization whether it be true or not let alone a good one. It also has to be fueled by a certain emotion, Kai with determination and a bit of pride attached that no matter what he's gonna protect Ninjago with a determined "this is my home, and I will never let you destroy it!" , Nya with pure joy at the revelation that the whole idea is that they were supposed to do it together with a joyful "It was us the whole time!" , Cole with anger and spite at the realization that saying nothing means compliance and he shouldn't be running from this with a defiant "No!", Jay with complete despair and self loathing at the realization that there was nothing he could've done to stop it and that he has no more control over himself with a broken and guilty "I'm sorry", and lastly Zane with hope and believing at his seemingly final moments hoping for a better future with a quiet prayer "I believe that this isn't over, I hope for a better future, even without me in it."

-speaking of elemental powers the staff of forbidden Spinjitsu is now actually a stone, feeding off the elemental user's worst aspects along with the emotion triggering their "true potential" to tire them out enough and make them destroy themselves until they're a perfect host for destruction. as you could tell it physically hurts to use wether the user actually knows that or not, causing weird shifts in personality and uncontrollable outbursts of elemental energy although the power of them vary from how powerful the element actually is.

-Since we're still talking about Elemental powers Lightning is one of the most powerful/unstable elements to exist, physically hurting the user and those around them if used without focus or training and doing even worse when too much power is put into an attack. Leaving permanent scars on their hands and even up to their eyes depending on where they launch the attack from, hands and feet specifically. It also effects nearby electronics, making them short circuit or frizz up when the user is emotional or charging up an attack.

-Shadow creatures are majorly indestructible, almost untouchable except when hit with pure concentrated golden energy. Golden energy itself was actually pretty easy to find, it being scattered and left around after the fight between the creatures and the two ninja "at the end of the first season" Concentrating it and putting it into weaponry however was the hard part. Swords, although really cool and being used in the fight, were impractical for the average Police officer or civilian. Using up too much energy and basically having to fly in order to not get hurt while using it due to the Shadow creatures mass and speed. Thus they choose a gun as the main weapon, it was still hard to create though. And it took a while to create

-the prototype for these weapons were created near the end of the "season two", spawning from a manic "eureka" moment Jay had at three in the morning while lost in thought. Which he spent almost seven weeks straight working on it every chance he got, it was...worrying to say the least from literally anyone else's perspective. But it paid off, actually working for the most part until it jammed at the end of "season two", the fixing/tweaking and further production/improvement being taken care of by Borg industries while Jay healed up(much to his dismay and retaliation)

-The ninja sometimes have to go to fancy Gala's to get more funding for their gadgets and machinery as well as improvement for their image. First being mentioned and executed in the(maybe)two part "episode" called Fitting in with the fancies. And(if I stick with the whole two-part thing)A chase in the Gala.(I made up these names on the spot so they might change later).

-The crown that Lloyd uses to control the shadow creatures is called the "Crown of control"(Dreamzzz reference but I made this up before I knew it was a thing so don't hate me), the ancient artifact that's the catalyst for the "pilot episodes". The crown of control(T.C.O.C for short) is actually just a holder for a chunk of the overlords power kinda like the crystals from crystalized. Put into an orb which was put into a crown in order to properly channel the power. The crown disappearing and reappearing throughout history although it never directly makes itself known leaving only to theories

-the crown although very powerful is also very very...health risking, keeping it on and or using it for too long will cause your hands and feet and the ends of your hair to get a little black in hue and at worst you start coughing and throwing up darkness aka black goop. Lloyd seemingly doesn't care though, seeing that it's his "destiny" and "he's too far gone". Although it seems more like that's what the Overlord tells him...

-My version of Misako was...actually a pretty good mom, she tried to give Lloyd as normal of a life as she could and for the most part she succeeded. It's funny though, because In her original plan of leaving the cult(also go back up I changed Misako's story like a lot) she was supposed to kill Lloyd as he was technically the anti Christ..but she couldn't bring herself to do it, this was her baby. She couldn't just kill it, even if every other part of her screamed to kill it for the sake of humanity she only dropped the knife in return. Cradling the Crying Lloyd in her arms as she sighed

-and honestly she doesn't even regret it, even if her son eventually fulfilled her worst fears. She still raised him, she still loved him, she still loves him, and even if he ended up betraying her she knows even if it's buried deep inside him he still loves her too

-Lloyd sometimes at his lowest has genuinely considered going back to his Mama. Just staring at a picture of them solemnly after throwing up again due to the crown. His completely black thumb caressing the shattered screen on his broken phone...whatever, he's too far gone, she doesn't miss him anymore, she hates him now. She has to hate him...she'd be crazy if she didn't

-Lloyd actually started growing horns and claws and fangs at age 8-10, Misako having to(much to both of their dismay) having to file them down and hide them away as for no one to get suspicious. When Lloyd fully gave into the crown in the "pilot episodes" the horns and claws and fangs grew back almost immediately. Lloyd having obviously no clue how to take care of them and not wanting to cut them away again let them poke and nik and scratch him. He'd say those scars were from "Battles" or some other lie but they're from the times her scratched that itch a little too hard or when he was sticking his tongue out at someone(don't ask) and cut his tongue surprisingly deep or when he absentmindedly touched his horns and the sharp "branches" of horns cut his finger

-none of the ships in my au are directly "canon"(besides Jaya because that was the catalyst for three subplots and a whole season), but then again I don't care that much you ship what you want! There's a moment for pretty much any ship you want and I couldn't care less if you wanna ship Bruise or Bluetooth or Plasma I'm fine with all that

-will add more whenever(wow this is getting long, I might have to create a part two)

[anxioustential]

Thinking about body swap rosquez but in 2025. Vale back with a chance to ride again with a body that's sharp enough to perform but also crucially forced to reckon with just how chronically injured Marc is, and god he's missed winning but also winning would only contribute to Marc's legacy. Cue the absolute scenes at him having to deal with all Marc's suffocatingly codependent tiny circle as well, Vale having to reckon with the motorhome situation of yes Marc's little brother, ever present dad, and my bff assistant all crash with me, the horrors. Ducati are just delighted if vaguely bemused at how fast Marc appears to have gotten fond of Pecco, life is much easier than they anticipated etc. although Marc's data is a bit odd and not quite what they expected...

Meanwhile Marc is going insane because this!!! was supposed to be his year!! he finally has the bike to dominate and instead what do you mean he's stuck in the body of a washed 46 year old who is under contract to race fucking cars ??? Going insane suddenly faced with a retirement lifestyle he didn't consent to, sure he has endless flat track access now but fuck it he wants to win things, he's sacrificed everything and now this nonsense happens? Obsessively pouring over Franky's contract to try and find a performance clause to boot him early season and take back his seat because fuck it he's the team owner let him at his bike. Hitting the gym like a maniac to desperately try and offset his aging body (everyone is so concerned Valentino is having a manic breakdown, he's never been in the gym this much in his life, it's very alarming). Having to deal with all the VR46 guys and Uccio (fucking Uccio!!) concernedly dropping by to see if they need to stage an intervention because what even is going on? Using his identity as Luca's brother to drop by the Honda garage because everything is terrible and he misses his team and his people that he gave up for this title that he's not even in the right body to win now but also he can't interact with them so it's just Luca looking baffled as hell as he fixes miserable crazy eyes on Santi while the rest of the garage glares at him.

Also the Alex of it all, Marc would not last 5 min without Alex to keep him sane through this but also there is no way they can be together the amount Marc needs and also navigating how and when to convince him is so ??? Alex has Valentino blocked in every possible way he despises that guy.

[astro-can]

ninjago headcannons

RONIN VERSION BECAUSE I LOVE HIM

In the game, Ronin is mentioned to have a wife and a daughter. Unfortunately this isn't canon in the real timeline but I am in LOVE with the idea of father Ronin.

100% girl dad. This is why he looked after nya when she was manifesting her abilities.

sure, he's a huge dick and pain in the ass sometimes but you know what he isn't? A BAD DAD

"MCDONALDS! MCDONALDS! MCDONALDS!" "HELL YEAH LETS GET MCDONALDS" *buys 25 happy meals*

he is so dilf core

i mean what

who said that

he's got huge fatherly instincts. Yeah, he usually dgaf when the ninja are in trouble (unless money is involved) but if one of them aren't feeling very good and he happens to notice that, he goes into father mode

nya is feeling left out because she's the only girl? Ronin hears out all her rants and introduces her to his own daughter (who happens to be the same age) and they go on shopping dates together

cole is having trouble controlling his ghost abilities? Ronin gives tips and helps him concentrate (albeit a little harshly), but in the end, cole really improves keeping himself stable

zane short-circuits and starts malfunctioning? Ronin is immediately pulling out his toolbox and fixes him, even adding in premium things like data and upgrades PIXEL for him

jay wants to impress nya? Ronin (begrudgingly) lets him fly REX and lets him take nya on cool flying dates. (...but if jay breaks something, he's banned forever. it hasn't happened yet, but it probably will.)

kai needs to burn off some steam because he's stressed? Ronin brings him to a junkyard and gives him unsupervised access to firecrackers, flamethrowers, small bombs, etc etc and tells him to go wild (see below)

lloyd is feeling upset and guilty? Ronin sits him down and gives him therapy. sure, a bit rough on the sides and he still makes snarky remarks, but makes sure that lloyd hears what he needs to hear. it leaves lloyd feeling a lot better about himself.

Ronin's family is sort of a Spy x Family type thing. He's a thief, and his wife pretends to work as an employee at city hall but she's actually receiving secret missions from the government. they aren't exactly rich, so they both need to work dirty jobs to get money. they end up finding out about each other's identity but they laugh it off and help each other with missions sometimes.

Ronin's daughter is a lot like nya. she's a machine fanatic, good at judo, can steal your wallet in an instant, and insanely smart. she's very aware of what her parents' real jobs are but keeps her mouth shut bc she loves them both and knows that theyre doing it to keep her alive.

her dad disappears for days or weeks at a time but he always comes back with her fave things (probably speckled with blood but she doesn't care) and makes sure to spend time with her afterwards, so all's good.

ANYWAY

THAT CONCLUDES MY HAPPY RONIN HEADCANONS

[pekoehoneyncream]

König MBTI Type

Quick Run Down: The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) personality typing device based on Carl Jung's theory of psychological types. It sorts people into 16 different personality types based on four pairs of opposite traits: Extraversion (E) vs. Introversion (I), Sensing (S) vs. Intuition (N), Thinking (T) vs. Feeling (F), & Judging (J) vs. Perceiving (P)

König is ISTP

Introversion, Sensing, Thinking, Perceiving.

(Fair warning, most of this is ripped straight from mbti sites, w/ minor wording edits from me)

Core Characteristics:

Independent and Self-Reliant: They value their independence and prefer to operate autonomously. ISTPs are often self-sufficient and capable of handling tasks on their own without needing much external support.

Practical and Realistic: They approach challenges with a practical mindset, focusing on finding effective and efficient solutions. They might prefer hands-on methods and immediate fixes rather than theoretical discussions. They favor tangible, factual information over abstract theories. This preference for concrete data helps them feel more grounded.

Practical and Hands-On: ISTPs are highly practical and enjoy working with their hands. They are skilled at understanding how things work and prefer to learn through direct experience rather than theoretical concepts.

Detail-Oriented Focus: When engaging in activities or projects, they pay close attention to the specifics and details. This focus helps them manage tasks effectively but can also lead to heightened stress if things don’t go as planned.

Tendency to Withdraw: When feeling overwhelmed, they may retreat into solitude to process their thoughts and regain composure. This withdrawal helps them recharge and regain a sense of control.

Reserved and Private: They tend to keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves, sharing personal insights only with those they trust deeply. This preference for privacy helps them manage their internal world without external pressures.

In Relationships:

Pros:

Problem-Solving Skills: ISTPs are excellent at tackling problems head-on with a logical and practical approach. In a relationship, this means they often find effective solutions to challenges, making them reliable partners in difficult situations. Their ability to stay calm under pressure can be a grounding force.

Loyalty: Despite their reserved nature, ISTPs are deeply loyal to those they care about. In both romantic and platonic relationships, they’re committed and will go to great lengths to support their loved ones. Their loyalty often creates a strong sense of trust and security.

Adventurous Spirit: ISTPs love new experiences and are often spontaneous, which can make relationships exciting and full of unexpected adventures. They’re the type to surprise you with an impromptu road trip or encourage you to try something new. This keeps the relationship dynamic and engaging.

Self-Reliance: They tend to be very independent and don’t demand constant attention, giving their partners or friends plenty of space. This independence can be refreshing, as they don’t cling to others for validation. It allows for a balanced relationship where both parties can maintain their own identities.

Practical Support: ISTPs are hands-on and often express care through actions rather than words. They’ll fix things, solve problems, or help out in practical ways, making them reliable when it comes to getting things done. This practical support is often appreciated in both romantic and friendship contexts.

Cons:

Emotional Reservedness: ISTPs can struggle to express their emotions, which might leave their partners or friends feeling disconnected or unsure about where they stand. This emotional distance can sometimes be mistaken for a lack of interest or care. It might require patience to navigate their reserved nature.

Difficulty with Open Communication: While ISTPs are great at solving practical problems, they might avoid or downplay issues that involve deeper emotional or relational complexities. This can lead to misunderstandings or unresolved conflicts in the relationship. Partners and friends may find it challenging to get them to open up about their feelings.

Overly Independent: ISTPs often pride themselves on their self-sufficiency, which can make it difficult for them to ask for help or rely on others, even when they need it. This independence can lead to unnecessary struggles, as they might push themselves too hard rather than leaning on their partner or friends. It can also create a sense of distance, as they may not share their challenges, leaving others feeling shut out or unable to support them.

Overly Critical: ISTPs' focus on logic can sometimes make them overly critical or blunt, especially when they feel something isn’t efficient or doesn’t make sense. This can hurt the feelings of those who are more sensitive, even if the ISTP doesn’t intend to cause harm. Their straightforwardness might be misinterpreted as insensitivity.

Need for Alone Time: ISTPs value their alone time highly and might withdraw unexpectedly to recharge, which can be confusing or hurtful to those who don’t understand this need. This withdrawal isn’t a reflection of the relationship’s value but rather a necessity for time alone without any judgment. However, it can create tension if the other person feels neglected.

Risk-Taking Behavior: Their adventurous nature can sometimes lead to impulsive decisions that may cause concern or stress for those around them. This risk-taking behavior can be thrilling but also unpredictable, leading to instability in the relationship. Partners and friends might struggle to keep up with or support their spontaneous actions.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Makeda was queen, beautiful and powerful

Solomon dreamed of her black skin

I sing to revive the memories

To dig up the knowledge

That the spiral of time erases"

Les Nubians – "Makeda"

Celeste spritzed perfume all over her body after drying off from her bath. She slipped into some sexy red satin panties and matching bra and checked to make sure her toenail polish hadn't chipped. The first night of her new enterprise had to go off perfectly. She'd studied enough Reddit posts and Discord chats to know that posting online kink and fetish content depended on keying into details that would entice people to sign up for her private page.

She had pretty feet and wanted to capitalize on it.

Dividing her locs into two giant loose ponytails, she glued a black Mardi Gras mask to her face, using eyelash glue. She didn't plan on filming her face at all, but wanted to protect her identity in case her camera shifted angles by accident.

Placing a long black dildo on the hardwood floor of her living room, Celeste greased it down with lube until it was slick and shiny. The suction on the bottom of the testicles braced it in place. She positioned herself on soft pillows to cushion her back and butt, and rested her feet against the sides of the dildo. Her laptop set up next to her arm allowed her to view her image from the camera while using a wireless camera remote to alter the angle of the lens.

"Okay, take one," she uttered.

Stroking the dildo with her toes, she pretended to moan in pleasure.

"Hey Daddy…your dick is so big. My pretty little feet can barely cover all this…"

From the laptop, her feet look lovely with the scarlet polish accentuating the warm red undertones of her rich brown hue. Up and down, she dragged her feet and displayed her toes by wiggling them. It all seemed rather clinical with the motions until she imagined the dildo being Terry's dick. The coloring was darker than what he was, but her dirty talk kicked into high gear by pretending her feet touched that man's body.

She didn't even have to talk. Her moans came out naturally. Biting her lower lip, she traced her big toe along the top of the fake dick and thought of Terry's pre-cum dripping out from his slit. A big man like him had to have the goods down below. It would've been cruel of God to bless a man with face and body, then deny him big wood.

Sweat trickled down Celeste's forehead and accumulated on her chest, too. Her under-sized push-up bra struggled to hold her breasts up and keep them separated. The camera only recorded her lower half. She pulled the crotch of her panties aside, allowing her hairless vulva to be recorded. She suffered for four days after getting waxed. Her research gathering provided her with data that showed her a lot of male viewers liked smooth coochie. After all the swelling and irritation went down, she had to admit she liked the look, too. Whatever got her paid the most was the plan.

The elastic on the panties pulled one side of her labia open and she gasped at how she glistened on-screen. Lord! To have that man's big juicy lips on her pussy with those green eyes staring at her! She rubbed her feet on the dildo and rubbed her fingers across her clit and came so hard that her legs shot up in the air.

Celeste pressed the handheld to stop the camera from recording. Her panting flooded her ears with desperate arousal. She hadn't been with Freddie for months, and masturbation hadn't occurred for a few weeks.

Sitting up, she fixed her panties and played back her recording. With the ring lights making her skin color pop, the images looked professional. She opted not to add soft background music because her gradual arousal and orgasm gave the only necessary soundtrack.

Shit…her pussy looked good! Plus, she finally had the chance to see her own body go through a release. It actually excited her to watch herself orgasm. Her toes looked like lush red berries, perfect for sucking on. Celeste took a screenshot of her feet and uploaded it to her home page. She didn't need to edit the fifteen minute clip, so she uploaded it for her first content creation. She named herself the Bayou Belle, with an avatar close-up of her carnival mask. Her gold nose ring gave her half-hidden face a glamorous allure.

Taking a deep breath, she published the foot fetish cross-tagged pulsing pussy video. She jumped up and fixed herself a glass of coke with ice in her kitchen. Glancing at her refrigerator, she looked at the four pictures of fancy historic plantation-styled homes she kept there. She wanted to purchase one in the future and retire as a Creole southern belle, giving sweet tea and gumbo parties, reclaiming what her people slaved over. Picturesque weeping willows and plenty of cultivated acres heightened her fantasies of a sedentary, rich life out on a decent plot of land. She jumped in the shower to wash off the sweat and wasted wetness between her legs. Wrapping a fluffy peach bathrobe around herself, she returned to her living room where she heard several chirps of her webpage notifications.

"Oh, hell yeah!"

She'd racked up thirty paid views already. At five dollars a pop, she already made one hundred and seventy-five dollars. She wondered if she charged too much with her current price point. It wouldn't hurt to wait a week to see how much she could make by then.

Her stomach grumbled, not satisfied with the ramen noodles she micro waved earlier. Sighing, she dragged herself back into the kitchen to look inside her near-empty fridge again. Her smartphone alerted her to a call, and she slammed the fridge door shut and ambled over to her coffee table.

Terry's number vibrated in her hand with a jangly bell ringtone. She gulped down air and answered after the eighth ring.

"Terry?"

"Hey, Celeste. Is this a bad time to call?"

"No."

"I know it's short notice, but I was going to get some food…I wondered if you'd like to join me? I know I said Monday night, but I'd really like to see you again much sooner."

"Where are you going to eat?"

"Durand's."

"Durand's? That's pretty fancy."

She glanced at the wall clock hanging near her front door. Durand's stayed open until nine-thirty at night and it was already seven. The place would have a packed crowd. It was one of the newest popular restaurants to open up in the Quarter.

"I can pick you up or we can meet there if that's more comfortable for you."

Parking would be a nightmare if she drove. And she wasn't ready for him to know where she lived.

"I can meet you there," she said.

"Great. I have reservations for seven-thirty. Just ask for my last name, Richmond."

"Cool, see you soon."

She hung up and squealed. Then darted into her bedroom, looking for a dress to knock his eyes out. She flung a few choices onto her bed. Durand's dress code was upwardly mobile, business casual. She'd eaten in one of the large open dining rooms for a birthday party earlier that year and the patrons gussied up more than that. Going for a short black cocktail dress with a belted A-line became the outfit of choice for the evening. It suggested casual dining, but sultry enough to signal something more if needed. She shimmied out of her robe and threw on a black lace thong and matching bralette. Rubbing a light unscented skin lotion all over, she pulled on the dress and slipped into some short black heels. After summoning her Lyft, she took a moment to coat her fleshy, Cupid-bow lips with a berry-colored gloss in the bathroom mirror and traced her pinky finger under her lip-line to wipe away the excess.

She lined her eyes next with the blackest charcoal eyeliner shade she had creating winged lines giving herself cat eyes. With a little gold eye shadow and light powdering, her skin looked fabulous. Her Lyft would arrive in seven more minutes. Puckering her lips, she checked the entire presentation. Divine. The final touch was fluffing her locs out and spraying them with a lemon hair tea. She adorned the top of her hair with little gold loc cuffs and stuck four gold-hoop accessories on each front loc for a little razzle dazzle.

She grabbed her purse and locked her front door just as a dark green Acura pulled up with her driver. From the backseat, she texted Terry that she was on her way, and he responded quickly that he was waiting for her. The thrill of seeing him again bubbled out of her while she played with her hair.

Durand's had a line out the door when she hopped out of her Lyft. She waltzed up to the reservation podium and gave Terry's name to the hostess. A flirty server complimented her hair and dress and led her past the main dining room and up a flight of stairs. They walked past several packed tables to a private dining area separated by a mauve curtain. The server lifted the curtain back and Celeste stepped inside. Terry stood to greet her.

She was wise to wear the dress that she did because Terry looked scrumptious. His muscle-fit onyx dress-shirt had rolled sleeves, revealing a deep burgundy inner-lining. He sported stylish black dress slacks with pressed creases. The dress shoes that rounded out his ensemble were expensive, and so was the gold watch on his right wrist.

"You look amazing," he said.

He kissed her cheek, surprising her with how natural it felt for him to do that. His lips were warm on her skin and their fullness made her giddy. Their table set-up was booth seating, and he stepped aside to let her scoot in at a candle-lit table set for two.

"Would you like this closed?" the server asked.

"What would you prefer, Celeste?" he asked.

From their view, she could see parts of the downstairs and a little of the outside street action. She knew New Orleans backward and forward. She was there to be with him. Fuck the view.

"Closed," she said.

The server closed them into their private dining room and Celeste couldn't take her eyes off of Terry. Their booth had curved seating, so she sat right next to him with shoulders brushing against each other. Being side by side prevented any type of barrier.

"I hope I didn't throw you off asking to be with you so soon," he said.

"Actually, I'm really glad you called me. I was tempted to ask you to go out tonight myself. But you left Miss Irma's room before I had a chance to catch you."

"I see we're on the same wavelength…wanting to see each other before tomorrow."

Up close, his lashes looked even thicker and his emerald eyes pulled her into the aura of power he exuded.

"You know, coming back to New Orleans made me forget how crazy it can get during this season," he said.

"You've been here before?"

"When I was younger. My family made annual trips here for business. It's why I brought Mémé here. She loved the city as a young girl and I want her to spend her final years in her favorite parish."

"Why don't you live here with her?"

Celeste fingered the stem of her water glass and traced condensation lines on the side. Terry handed her the extensive dinner menu, and she opened it, keeping her gaze on his face.

"New Orleans isn't my favorite place. Unlike Mémé, my experiences here weren't always fun. Trouble had a way of finding me."

"What kind of trouble? Should I be worried about being seen with you?"

She tried to sound jokey, but his demeanor stayed serious.

"That was a long time ago. Being young…buckwild. I used to have some run-ins with a few dudes who didn't like me being around these parts. Last time I was here…I was told if I ever showed my face again, I would regret it. Things are different since I've been away doing other stuff. Joining the marines was a way to keep myself in line and away from the wrong crowd of people. Now that I'm out, I have to figure out my next move. Caring for Mémé comes first, though. I chose your facility because it had a great reputation and she's thriving there. Better than the last place I had to place her in."

"Miss Irma is very special. Everyone at work adores her."

"I'm glad that she has someone like you tending to her. She told me about you, how much she enjoys your company."

"When was this?"

"Right after I transferred her last year. She said you're everything she loves about New Orleans. Your accent. Your southern hospitality."

"That's so sweet. She perked right up today during your visit. I felt bad for a minute because she seemed a bit down after breakfast. She's normally in good spirits."

"She told me you hum and sing while tidying up her room and it makes her happy. I once heard you singing while you were working the last time I visited."

"I don't remember seeing you around."

"I had some time off and drove down to see her for a couple of days and I heard your voice outside in the garden. You sang a gospel song about changing yourself."

Celeste grinned.

"Oh, I was probably singing Tamela Mann's 'Change Me'. The older people like the church songs. It calms them and I like the message of hope it brings me on my bad days."

"I loved the heartfelt way you sang it. Your tone was so soothing. It reminded me of my wife…late wife."

Celeste gawked at him. He closed his eyes, as if he didn't mean to share that. She glanced at his bare ring finger, thinking she'd missed something.

"You're a widow. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. We were young when we got married. She died of cancer before I went into the service. It's the reason I enlisted. To get away from the loss."

"You have any children?"

His gaze drifted toward the candle on the table.

"No children. But we had a good life while it lasted. She passed away peacefully. I was by her side."

Celeste shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He returned his focus back on her.

"How have you been doing since then?" she asked

"I'm good. Made peace with it. That was a lifetime ago and now I'm comfortable in the world again. Traveling more. Please don't look so sad. I promise you, Celeste, it doesn't hurt me to talk about it."

"I'm glad for you."

"The parasol you made for Mémé's birthday at Christmas was a nice gesture," he said, changing the subject. "I got to see it today. You're really skilled. Just like you are at dancing and singing."

"I do okay."

"Don't be modest. You stood out to me at the bar. The moment you walked in, I thought, 'There goes a queen gracing us with her presence'."

Celeste grinned and stared at her hands. His penetrating gaze would make her combust at the table if she kept looking at him directly. With candlelight, his eyes appeared to glow, and she wanted to have some decorum during a meal with him.

"You made my entire night, Celeste. I couldn't stop thinking about you and I'm glad that fate saw fit to have us run into each other two more times. It's been a long time since I've gone out with anyone like this. Never found anyone who piqued my curiosity until you showed up. It took a lot of nerve for me to even pick up my phone and call. Didn't want to come off desperate, y'know? Should we check out the menu and decide what to eat?"

"Sure."

"Would you like to order a drink first?"

"Some wine would be nice."

"Red or white?"

"Red."

He summoned their server and ordered their best Bordeaux and a plate of gougères. Celeste's mouth watered thinking of eating hot, fresh cheese puffs with the wine. Bread would help settle her nerves at being with him. She leaned over slightly, pretending to turn the page on the menu just so she could sniff his cologne. He smelled like cloves and myrrh. Smoky and earthy. A mature scent, nothing like the overbearing fragrances Freddie or her male cousins doused themselves in to impress women.

Terry went through the three-page dinner menu and sighed.

"I think I'll try their seared scallops with balsamic bacon jam and a smoked tomato salad," he said.

"That sounds good. I'll have that too."

Once their server brought their wine bottle and cheese puffs, Terry ordered their dinner meal and Celeste didn't stay shy about snacking down on the bread. Terry poured their wine and handed her a full glass.

"Here's to us getting to know each other," he said.

She clinked her glass with his and drank heartily. He sipped and eyed her.

"You have to try this. It's only good if you eat it right away," she encouraged, holding up a cheese puff.

She broke it apart, and he wrapped his lips around her fingers and seized the bread with his tongue. Celeste kept her fingers up in front of his mouth, too stunned to pull them back as he chewed and swallowed her offering. He licked his tongue across his lips to catch any crumbs he missed.

"They are delicious. Light and fluffy," he said.

Celeste ate the other half and watched him pick up another puff from its silver platter. He pulled it apart gently and held it out for her. She opened her mouth and placed it over the bread, her lips grazing his fingers.

"I'll get too stuffed eating these," she said with a fluttery voice, looking away quickly in case he noticed how flustered she became.

She gulped down more wine and the alcohol finally warmed up her blood. Her attraction to him came on strong like an addiction and the compulsion to break apart more bread to hold up to his lips forced her to shove her hands in her lap to contain her obvious desire.

"Am I making you nervous?" he asked.

She exhaled and put her hands on the table.

"Yes."

"Why?"

She took another long drink from her glass of wine until it was empty. She thrummed the fingers of her right hand on the table. He placed his palm over it, stopping the motion.

"Tell me why I make you nervous. I don't want you to feel that way around me."

The bass in his voice aroused her, and she didn't see how she would get through a meal if she couldn't listen to him, or even look at him and without feeling dizzy. She wanted to be clearheaded and poised, a true Creole belle. But she couldn't help what she was feeling either.

"It's been a long time since I've been out with someone who treated me to a nice dinner. I work a lot…and I recently broke up with someone and it's been tough."

"Sorry to hear that. Was it a long-term relationship?"

"Not as long as I wanted at first. Then it dragged for a bit. I was ready to go, but he dropped me…and told everybody before I was ready. When I tell you I was ready to kick his ass up and down Rampart…"

Terry laughed, and the sound of his deep voice made all the nervousness dissipate. His eyes became tight with the wide smile he gave her, and his teeth looked extra white, the two canine teeth in the front drawing her attention to how perfect his lips were. She spilled all her tea to him and by the time their main course arrived, they were canoodling like two long-time friends breaking bread.

They ate, talked about her family and the tribe, drank more wine, gossiped about pop culture trends, discussed Miss Irma's travel photography career, and ninety minutes later, they shared a dessert of chocolate bread pudding. She noticed he didn't eat the oysters Rockefeller, or the scallops. His salad remained untouched. Meanwhile, every damn morsel of food on her plates went down her gullet.

"You didn't like the food?" she asked.

He glanced at his untouched meal.

"I'll take it back to the B&B and heat it up later. I've enjoyed talking to you and that filled me up just right."

He lifted the dessert spoon and offered her the bread pudding. She ate from it and held up a hand.

"I can't stuff anything else down."

Their server packed up Terry's meal in a to-go bag.

"Do you need to head back home right away? I thought we could walk down the riverfront together. Enjoy the evening air?" he said.

She wiped her mouth with a black linen napkin and nodded her head.

"Let me go use the restroom and then we can go," she said.

She scooted out of the booth and looked for the public restroom on their floor. There wasn't one, and she had to go back downstairs.

"I'll meet you out front," she said, reaching for her purse as he paid cash for their meal. He had a folded stack of hundred-dollar bills, and Celeste looked away. She didn't want him to think she was counting his pockets.

She relieved herself, washed her hands, and refreshed her make-up. Tossing a breath mint into her mouth, she pulled out her smartphone to leave a text for her girlfriends.

"Guess who I'm out to dinner with at Durand's?" she typed.

Outside the restroom, she spotted Terry waiting for her by the entrance. He stared outside the restaurant window. She turned around and held her phone up high to snap a picture of herself with Terry in the background. She tapped send and the urge to smoke came at her hard, but she didn't want smoker's breath. Taking a long look at him gave her the tingles all over. How was she blessed to snag a man like that so easily? Several exiting diners did double-takes to look at him.

She sauntered over and bumped her shoulder into Terry's, getting his attention. He held out his hand and Celeste threaded her fingers with his.

They headed toward the Riverfront Walk and looked at the Crescent City lights on the Connection Bridge that dazzled like Christmas across the Mississippi River. Celeste clung to his hand and listened to him talk about his career as a marine, and his new existence as a civilian. He'd invested money in a restaurant and spent more time working on himself spiritually. All he seemed to want was peace in his life. Unfortunately, his cousin's death created new strife. The cremated remains were kept in an urn back in his B&B because he wasn't ready to let Mike go until Miss Irma could say goodbye properly at a burial with him.

Terry's life sounded as lonely as hers at the moment. Sure, she had plenty of friends and family around, but the yearning for companionship gnawed at her. They talked and walked, walked and talked, meandering away from the river and into the heart of the city. Eventually, her eyes grew wide with surprise. They had ambled their way to her cottage.

Startled, she stopped in front of her home and placed both hands on her hips.

"What is it?" he asked.

Before she could catch herself, she blurted out, "This is my house."

He chuckled and pulled out his cell phone. Tapping his screen, he held it up in front of her.

"My B&B is only three blocks from here," he said.

"That's crazy," she said, recognizing the name of the bed-and-breakfast he described at dinner.

He smiled and separated himself away from her.

"It appears I have chaperoned you back to your humble abode. I bid you adieu, my lady," he said, bowing low.

"Stop it," she said, poking at his arm.

His gaze met hers before he completely raised up, and something about his eyes looked older than his thirty years. Ancient. The youthful structure of his facial features didn't match his eyes in the night. That bothered her. He drew up to his full height, and she climbed the first two steps of her porch. She was five foot eight in height, but wanted to be close to his eye level.

"I had a great time with you, Celeste. Thank you for going out with me."

The timbre of his voice in the dark with just a touch of moonlight above them made her insides swoon.

She didn't want the night to end.

"I don't think I've talked or laughed so much over a meal with anyone in my life," she said. "It felt good to share things walking with you…and learning about you, too"

"Your life is more exciting than mine."

"On Tuesday, I will bring you all the excitement you can handle for the rest of your life," she teased.

His eyes narrowed, and she watched his eyelashes nearly touch like dark butterfly wings. He parted his lips to speak, and she took that moment to kiss him firmly on the mouth, snatching the bit of courage she mustered up to know what his lips felt like sliding against hers. She sank into the delightful softness, relishing how pliant his lips became. He snaked a hand around her waist and pulled her against him. The heat from his body seeped through her dress. He hesitated to move his tongue until she opened her lips and sucked on it. Permission granted, he delved inside her mouth and left no corner unexplored. She moved her neck to mirror his angling as they each sought the best way to kiss even more passionately.

Shooting stars and exploding nebulas went off in her brain while tasting his mouth and lips. He let her lead the unhurried, yet feverish exchange of lip-smacking kisses, but she sensed a dominating forcefulness waiting in the wings to take over.

Decorum.

Celeste pulled her wanton mouth away from his and listened to the pants that circled between their lips. She rested her forehead against his.

"I should let you go," she huffed.

"If you must."

"I could…I could make us some tea…we could have a little tea party nightcap. I also have some chicory coffee."

Terry touched one of her hooped hair accessories and smooched her forehead. He sniffed the lemon hair tea she spritzed on her locs, and nudged his nose against the side of her neck, inhaling her unscented skin. He gently kissed her clavicle, and she clasped his hand.

They stared at one another, her eyes drinking in his visceral beauty. Her breath shuddered, looking deep into the unnatural reflective shine in his eyes. Like a cat being caught in car headlights, they glowed. He never blinked.

"Are you inviting me inside your home?" he said.

She nodded and he cradled her face, the warmth in his hand burrowing deep to the bone, weakening her. He kept his sonorous voice measured, the vibrations of his words cloyingly faraway and near at the same time.

"I need explicit consent to come inside your home…you…"

"You can come inside," she said.

His lips smothered her mouth. She caressed the back of his neck, dragging her nails gently across the nape. Terry lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. His large hands went under her dress and palmed her ass cheeks, holding her up easily. She didn't remember putting a key into her door lock, but they kept kissing and tilting their heads left and right as he pushed it open.

Chapter 6 HERE.

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