#How to Calculate Standard Deviation

[easynotes4u]

Calculation of Standard Deviation in Individual, Discrete & Continuous Series | Statistics

In this article, we will discuss about Calculation of Standard Deviation in Individual, Discrete & Continuous Series and measures of dispersion in Statistics. How to calculate Standard deviation  Standard Deviation Standard deviation Measures of Dispersion in Statistics is the measure of the dispersion of statistical data. The standard deviation formula is used to find the deviation of the data…

[rauferes]

For my current longfic, I've been having fun making up my own comparative biology stuff for elves. The most recent one that's tickling me (inspiration from any_open_eye's work for this one) is that human penises are, uh, significantly larger than elven ones. (Human penises are actually weirdly large in our world-- compared to other animals, and definitely other primates, we're disproportionate).

Which is going to make it hilarious when my elven main character finally gets in Emmrich's pants and finds his jusssst-above-human-average 6" cock... which is the elven equivalent of finding out your lover is packing 8". (For people used to the typical and rather generous self-reporting of size: that's the 99.9th percentile folks. Get a thousand very excited men in the same room and this dick will be the longest.) (Don't worry about my search history, don't-- don't worry about it.)

She isn't even a bigger=better person. She's going to be SO taken aback and I'm going to have so much fun writing it.

[dkettchen]

not plotly not letting me add a trendline to my line graph and my math brained ass deciding I will simply learn how to calculate a trendline myself and write my own dang helper function 😤

[a-sleepy-ginger]

28/2/24

❆❅❆❅❆

Got to sit on train both to and from college

Had stupid conversation about getting struck by lightning with college friend

Misremembered the lyrics to initial d running in the 90s (throw you credit card into the sea, punch that satellite into the sea. No I don't know why I thought these were the lyrics, the sea is not mentioned once in the song)

Got research methods remediation done

Thought about oc names in terms of waterfowl

Got told to keep it real in red text by my phone calculator cus I tried to square root a negative number (dunno that it made me happy but I did laugh)

[cressidagrey]

Lessons in Math (and Humility)

Welcome to Mysterious Mrs Piastri's Mondays. Apparently this is a thing now. (Ever since I hear that interview where Kimi was asked which subjects he's scared off an the answer was Math, I knew I was gonna write this.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Kimi Antonelli thought he could handle anything — race cars, pressure, a wet track…but his math homework may destroy him. Enter Bee Piastri. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Kimi Antonelli didn’t ask for help lightly.

Especially not with math.

He was a racing driver, not an idiot. He could handle telemetry, fuel loads, braking calculations, tyre degradation graphs — all of it — without blinking. He’d memorized braking points at Spa, figured out fuel maps on the fly, and survived radio calls with engineers who thought “you’re fine” covered every possible scenario.

He was good at numbers. At racing numbers.

But this assignment?

This nightmare of partial derivatives and matrix transformations?

It stared at him from his tablet like a personal attack, every line of notation a new insult to his intelligence.

After twenty minutes of glaring at it — tapping his pen, checking his notes, checking them again as if they might have magically rewritten themselves — Kimi finally let out a groan of pure, unfiltered despair.

He flopped face-first onto the hospitality couch, tablet slipping from his hands onto the seat beside him.

Without lifting his head, he announced, voice muffled against the cushions: “I’m going to fail math and bring shame to the entire grid.”

The nearest breathing human — unfortunately — was Ollie Bearman, who looked up from where he was very happily slurping a suspiciously neon smoothie.

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem?”

Kimi lifted one arm limply and waved the tablet in the air like a white flag of surrender.

“This. Derivatives. Partial equations. I don’t know. Numbers are evil.”

Ollie blinked once. Then grinned — the kind of grin that meant he was enjoying Kimi’s suffering way too much.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Arthur Leclerc almost failed stats back in F3.”

Kimi turned his head enough to squint at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Like, barely passed.”

Kimi perked up slightly, seizing onto the news like a lifeline. If Arthur — who had a literal racing dynasty backing him — struggled, maybe there was hope for the rest of them.

“How’d he survive?” Kimi asked, sitting up slightly.

Ollie’s grin widened.

“Oscar.”

Kimi stared at him. “Piastri?”

“Yep. Quiet nerd back at Prema. Absolute lifesaver. Helped Arthur cram for finals and everything.”

Kimi narrowed his eyes. He thought about Oscar: quiet, steady, terrifyingly good at everything he touched, like someone had programmed him in a lab.

Of course Oscar would have hidden superpowers. Of course.

Kimi hesitated, pride warring with desperation.

And then sighed dramatically, letting his head thunk back against the couch.

“Fine,” he said. “Find me Piastri. I have no pride left.”

Which was how, ten minutes later, they ended up with Oscar Piastri sitting cross-legged in the McLaren motorhome, frowning deeply at Kimi’s tablet like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Oscar muttered, squinting, “it’s not impossible. It’s just badly worded.”

Kimi leaned forward, full of hope — desperate, grasping hope.

Maybe this would be fine. Maybe Oscar Piastri — quiet, unflappable, secret nerd of Prema lore — could fix this disaster.

Five minutes later, that hope was dead.

Oscar exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be honest with you, mate: I have no idea what they’re asking for.”

Kimi flailed, waving his hands like he could physically summon better news. “But you saved Arthur! You’re the math guy!”

Oscar held up a hand, grimacing. “That was basic stats, Kimi. You know, averages. Standard deviations. This—” he pointed at the tablet like it might bite him, “—this is multivariable calculus meets actual sadism.”

Ollie Bearman, who had been perched nearby pretending not to watch the trainwreck unfold, snorted into his water bottle.

Oscar sighed again, this time reaching for his phone.

“No—” Kimi said, panicked, feeling his dignity slipping further into the abyss. “Don’t call someone. Don’t bother anyone. I’ll just fail and move to a cabin in the woods, it’s fine—”

Oscar was already dialing.

“Relax,” he said, calm as anything. “Felicity’s here. She likes this stuff.”

Five minutes later, Felicity Piastri wandered into the motorhome.

Kimi had seen her around the paddock plenty of times over the last year.

The first two things he’d learned about Oscar’s wife were simple:

1. She was tiny and startlingly pretty — the kind of pretty that could probably kill a man if she wanted to.

2. If Felicity Piastri was somewhere, Bee Piastri, Oscar’s terrifyingly adorable four-year-old daughter, was never far behind.

Today was no exception.

Bee marched in beside her mother, two neat pigtails bouncing with every step, each tied with papaya-colored bobbles (a detail that felt almost aggressively on-brand). A stuffed frog plushie dangled from one hand, like a trusted battle companion.

Both of them — Felicity and Bee — looked unfairly bright and well-rested for how emotionally wounded Kimi felt.

Oscar, completely unbothered by the incoming reinforcements, handed Felicity the tablet without preamble.

She glanced at it. Paused. Then blinked slowly.

“You’re all stumped by this?” she asked, her voice dripping with mild disbelief.

Kimi wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“It’s the notation!” he blurted defensively. “And the question’s vague! And the examples were misleading!”

Felicity tilted her head, looking at him with the kind of fond pity reserved for particularly slow puppies. “It’s literally just a chain rule application with a matrix shortcut.”

“That’s not helping!” Ollie said, muffled into the crook of his elbow where he was laughing himself into an early grave.

Meanwhile, Bee had clambered neatly onto Oscar’s lap without hesitation, perching herself like a queen surveying her court. Kimi noticed absently how Oscar automatically shifted to make room for her — steadying her with one hand, pressing a soft kiss to her temple like it was muscle memory.

“Mama, is it hard?” Bee asked, peering at the tablet with great seriousness.

Felicity smiled. “Not really. But it’s annoying.”

Bee thought about that for a second. Then squared her tiny shoulders like she was preparing for battle.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Oscar sighed deeply. “Bee, it’s complicated—”

But Bee was already moving, plucking the tablet from his hand like it was no big deal, mumbling to herself under her breath.

“Okay, so you take this one first because it’s inside the brackets... and then you swap the middle bits because that’s the rule from the blue notebook... and then you put it all together and it looks like a frog but it’s actually a plus sign.”

Kimi blinked.

Ollie blinked.

Oscar just shook his head like a man who had accepted the chaos a long time ago.

Three minutes later, Bee beamed, handed the tablet back to her mother, and swung her legs happily.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now it’s not grumpy anymore.”

Felicity leaned over, checked the solution... And grinned.

“She’s right,” she said brightly. “Great job, sweetheart!”

Oscar gave a low, half-proud, half-resigned chuckle. “Welcome to my life.”

Kimi stared at the screen.

A four-year-old. A four-year-old had solved the math problem correctly in under three minutes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. He had heard rumors last year — something about Bee spotting an issue with a McLaren suspension load calculation before any of the engineers did.

But seeing it in real time?

Devastating.

Absolutely devastating.

“I— how did you—?” Kimi stuttered, still struggling to comprehend reality.

Bee shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mama says numbers are friends. You just have to make them sit next to each other nicely.”

Kimi blinked down at the tablet, then at Bee, then back again.

Maybe... maybe racing cars was safer. Maybe he should stick to corners and apexes where the worst that could happen was a spin, not having his soul annihilated by a toddler.

Felicity kissed the top of Bee’s head and said entirely too casually, “There you go. Courtesy of a four-year-old.”

Oscar smiled and held out a hand. “Great job, Bumblebee.”

Bee high-fived her father so hard the smack echoed around the motorhome.

Kimi slumped back into his seat, utterly defeated.

Maybe he had brought shame to the grid after all.

Later, Kimi found himself slumped in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, a half-crushed juice box in his hand — courtesy of Bee, who had handed it over solemnly “for bravery.”

The worst part?

He genuinely needed it.

He sipped the apple juice in silence, staring into the middle distance, quietly reconsidering his entire academic career.

Maybe he could just... never open a math textbook again. Maybe he could live the rest of his life solely calculating apex speeds and brake bias. Maybe if he was fast enough, no one would ever ask him to solve another derivative.

Maybe.

Across the room, Felicity leaned against the table, arms folded, smiling sweetly — the kind of sweet that definitely had shark teeth hiding underneath.

“Bee’s better at recognizing patterns than most adults,” she said casually, like she wasn’t casually shattering the egos of Formula One drivers before lunchtime. “She’s been beating Oscar at card games since she was two.”

Oscar, sitting beside Kimi and munching on a cookie he definitely hadn’t earned, patted Kimi’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “She inherited her mother’s brain.”

Kimi just groaned into his hands.

It didn’t help that Bee chose that exact moment to skip past them, Button the Frog tucked securely under one arm and a packet of glittery frog-shaped stickers in the other.

She looked so pleased with herself. Completely oblivious to the devastation she had left behind. Or maybe — horrifying thought — not oblivious at all.

Kimi made a note to himself:

Never challenge Bee to anything involving numbers.

Never doubt Felicity’s terrifying brain ever again.

Maybe just stick to driving cars really fast. It was safer for his dignity.

Probably.

Maybe.

[sunbeamlessreads]

Debrief This - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader One-Shot

❝ You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw? ❞

[bradley bradshaw x reader]

~6.5k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, explicit sexual content, locker room , language, emotionally volatile intimacy, rough sex, brief unsafe sex

anger first. pride second. then friction, fire, and everything that follows.

notes: this was a request!! im so sorry this took like a million years. i literally started this like a month ago and i just finally finished it. my apologies for any typos. i really hope you enjoy it!! <3

my masterlist

request guide

The ready room was colder than usual.

Not in temperature—in tone. The kind of cold that settled in your chest, made your breath feel too loud, your shoulders too tight. Everyone sat like they were still strapped into their cockpits—posture perfect, movements spare, adrenaline sinking deep into flight suits that hadn’t had time to cool.

You sat three seats from Rooster. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance to pretend you couldn’t feel the burn of him in your peripheral vision. Just enough to keep your pride intact.

The digital display at the front of the room glowed a soft blue, flickering with mission footage and HUD overlays. Clean flight paths. Calculated altitudes. Time stamps tracking every shift and decision like they were all equally weighted.

But you knew better. The screen didn’t show hesitation. It didn’t show instinct. It didn’t show how fast your heart had beat when you broke formation and dove low, chasing the target on gut and grit. It didn’t show the moment Rooster banked hard to cover your blind side. It didn’t show how close it had come to going sideways.

It just showed that it worked.

Cyclone stood beside the screen, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Not relaxed—never relaxed. His shoulders were square, his eyes sharper than the flickering light that cut across his face.

“The maneuver paid off,” he said, voice smooth and cool. “Mission complete. All targets neutralized. No casualties.”

You felt the squad shift subtly around you. The kind of shift that wasn’t physical—just something in the air. A collective bracing for whatever came next.

Cyclone didn’t make them wait.

“But the deviation from standard formation protocol was substantial. Unauthorized. Dangerous.”

The screen kept rolling, even as he spoke. Your split-second decision, Rooster’s immediate correction, pulling hard to close the gap and box the enemy in. Target locked. Target destroyed.

Phoenix didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of her eyes. A tight twitch at the corner of her mouth, gone in a blink. Fanboy tapped the edge of his desk with a pencil once or twice, then stopped. Coyote was staring down at the floor like it held answers. Even Hangman, for once, kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, eyes bouncing between you and Rooster like he was watching a fuse burn toward something volatile.

No one said anything. No one needed to. The silence said it all.

Cyclone turned slightly.

“Bradshaw.”

Rooster sat straighter, which was saying something. His posture had already been regulation-perfect. But now it was sharp enough to slice.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. His arms were still folded across his chest, the pressure-marks of his gloves faint along his forearms. His flight suit collar was unzipped just enough to breathe, but there wasn’t a single ounce of ease in him.

“Excellent adjustment,” Cyclone said. “Sharp instincts. That’s the kind of judgment we rely on under pressure.”

The words landed like a verdict.

Rooster didn’t preen. Didn’t react. He just absorbed the praise in silence.

And didn’t look at you.

That was what got under your skin the most. The absolute refusal to gloat. Like he didn’t need to. Like he knew the room had already made up its mind.

You locked your eyes on the table in front of you. There was a burn mark at the corner—scorched plastic, maybe from an overheated comm unit. It looked like it had been scraped at, then left to scar.

You picked at the melted plastic. Your voice came out low. Even.

“Yeah. God forbid anyone take a fucking risk.”

The scrape of Rooster’s jaw tightening was practically audible. He still didn’t turn. But you saw the flex of it. Quick. Clean. Contained.

Cyclone looked like he might say something.

He didn’t.

Just exhaled through his nose — one of those clipped, practiced breaths that meant get it out of your system somewhere else.

Then he turned back to the console and tapped the screen off.

“Debrief’s over. Dismissed.”

Chairs pushed back. Gear shifted. No one spoke. Phoenix brushed past you without looking, not in a rude way, just trying not to stir the pot. Fanboy gave you a half-nod, more habit than thought. Coyote lingered like he wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Hangman passed behind you with a mutter, low and dry.

“Hell of a move.”

That was it. No smirk. No punchline.

The implication curled around your spine: bold, reckless, worth watching.

You stood slowly. Picked up your helmet.

Rooster stood, too. Perfectly timed. Predictable. Predictably perfect.

You both moved toward the exit at the same time.

And when your shoulder slammed into him, it was sharp, intentional, and deeply satisfying.

He didn’t react.

But you felt him turn.

Not a full look. Not dramatic.

Just enough to let you know he saw you. Felt you. Registered it.

And chose not to say a damn thing.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was nearly empty, the base settling into post-op silence. Doors shut one by one. Laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the building—distant, irrelevant. The squad had left the tension back in the debrief room. You hadn’t.

Rooster stepped out of the men’s locker room with his uniform folded neatly in his duffel, damp hair pushed back, clean shirt and jeans clinging slightly to the heat still radiating off him. Dog tags disappeared under the collar. Duffel bag slung low on one shoulder. He looked calm. But he wasn’t.

Phoenix leaned against the wall near the exit, already changed—worn jeans, a Hard Deck tank, a damp braid slung over one shoulder, lip gloss barely there. She looked relaxed. Lighter than she had in hours. Ready to let it all go.

“You coming to drinks?” she asked, fidgeting with the tail of her braid.

“Heading by Penny’s in twenty. Everyone’s going.”

Rooster paused. Just enough to notice.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a little too flat to be sincere.

Phoenix tilted her head. Watched him for a beat, then nodded once. “Suit yourself,” she said, already turning away. “But you could probably use one.”

She disappeared around the corner.

Rooster didn’t move. Not toward the door. Not toward the bar.

Three long seconds passed.

Then he turned, walked in the opposite direction—the wrong direction—and shouldered open the door to the women’s locker room.

Behind him, Phoenix slowed.

Turned her head.

Heard the door close quietly behind him.

She exhaled through her nose knowingly, barely audible, and kept walking.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead.

You were still in your flight suit, peeled to the waist, sleeves knotted loosely at your hips. Your undershirt clung to your back, still damp from the mission. You hadn’t moved much since the debrief. You didn’t want to.

Your locker door hung open. Your gloves were tossed onto the bench beside you like they’d offended you. Every movement you made was too sharp—like you needed something to hit, scream at, or punch through just to let the pressure out.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But you heard his voice.

“You always have to make it harder than it has to be.”

Your blood went hot. You turned like a switchblade.

He was already inside. Shoulders squared. Face unreadable. A slight flush still on his throat from the shower, but otherwise cool as ever—or at least trying to be.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Your voice was low and sharp, the kind of tone that cut clean.

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to fight.”

You laughed, humorless. “You followed me into the damn womens' locker room, Bradshaw. You’re not here to talk about the weather.”

He stepped further in. Slow. Deliberate. Like every move was calculated down to the inch.

“I followed you,” he said, his voice flat, “because if I didn’t, you’d keep pretending like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” you snapped. “I saw an opening, I took it, and it worked.”

“It almost didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He was close now. Closer than you wanted. His presence was always too solid, too composed, like it took effort not to unravel. You hated that about him, hated how it made you want to do the unraveling yourself.

“You don’t get extra points for being reckless,” he said, that calm edge creeping back in. “You just end up dead.”

You took a step toward him, not away.

“Maybe if you stopped riding the rulebook’s dick for five seconds,” you hissed, “you’d actually feel something.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Still, he held the line.

“You think flying’s about feelings?” His voice sharpened. “No wonder you’re a liability.”

You were in his space now, chest to chest, breathing each other’s breath. His eyes were fire and steel. Yours were wildfire.

“Say that again.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a goddamn liability.”

Your hands hit his chest. Hard.

He barely moved, but the energy between you cracked wide open. His hands shot out fast and caught your wrists—not rough, not gentle, just tight. Enough to stop you. Enough to pin the moment down.

You stood like that, frozen, for what felt like an eternity.

Your breath was short. So was his.

“You want to hit me or fuck me, Bradshaw?”

It came out low. Not taunting. Just true.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then snapped upwards to meet your gaze.

“You tell me.”

And in that moment, months of tension simply broke.

You collided like lightning and steel, mouth to mouth, anger twisted into hunger. His grip released just long enough for his hands to slide into your hair, cup your jaw, pull you deeper. You tugged him by the front of his shirt, dragging him toward you until your back hit a locker with a loud metallic bang.

You didn’t care.

You bit his lip. He cursed into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—waist, ribs, low on your back like he couldn’t figure out where to hold you because he wanted to touch all of you at once.

Your hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging it higher, wanting skin, wanting friction. This wasn’t soft, wasn’t patient. It was months of looks that lasted too long, arguments that never ended, flying too close and never pulling back.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers dragged through his damp hair, nails grazing his scalp.

He groaned.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, to speak between your teeth.

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said a word,” he huffed, right before kissing you again—harder this time.

The locker behind you rattled. Your pulse thundered.

This wasn’t control.

This was surrender.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

His hands dragged down your back, palms hot through the thin cotton of your tank, finding the knot in your flight suit where it cinched at your hips. He yanked it loose, fabric falling fast, pooling around your ankles like it was nothing. Like there hadn’t been months of protocol and tension wrapped up in every stitch.

You tore his shirt upward, dragging it over his head with a scrape of knuckles and a hiss of breath. His skin was still damp from the shower, heat radiating off him in waves. Dog tags clinked softly as they settled against his chest—solid, familiar, off-limits until right now.

You grabbed them. Yanked.

He swore into your mouth, low and sharp. One hand flew to your hip, the other to your thigh, gripping hard enough to leave prints.

Your teeth caught his lower lip, tugged. He groaned, fingers tightening.

He tried to press you back against the locker again, but you shoved him first. He caught the edge of the bench behind him, and you followed, crowding into his space, breath coming too fast to hide.

You reached for his belt.

His hand covered yours.

Eyes locked.

Then he pulled you forward with both hands and lifted—up, onto the narrow bench in one clean, heavy motion, like you weighed nothing, like he couldn’t stand one more second not having you under his hands.

Not gentle.

Not cruel.

Just urgent.

You gasped, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

He growled—an actual, low-throated sound—and shoved your tank higher up your spine with both hands.

“You never shut up, do you?”

You smirked, breathless, biting down on a moan.

“Make me.”

He did.

His mouth found your throat again, teeth dragging blunt along your pulse point. Your fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, yanking at the fly, desperate for contact, for heat, for friction. He caught your wrists again and pinned them briefly to the bench beneath you—not to stop you, just to feel you there. To claim the moment.

You arched against him.

His dog tags swung between you, clinking with each movement, each shift of your hips. You licked the chain where it pressed to his collarbone just to hear him curse again.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

You bit his shoulder, not enough to hurt.

“You started it.”

His grip slipped from your wrists to your waist again. His body was solid, straining, pressed between your thighs in a way that sent your thoughts scattering.

You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle.

You wanted this.

You wanted to win.

So did he.

You rolled your hips slow and deliberately—once, twice—and the sound he made was low and furious, a growl curling out of his throat like it cost him to hold back.

“Keep doing that,” he warned.

His voice was dark, torn at the edges.

You tilted your head. All teeth, no fear. “Or what?”

He didn’t answer.

He shoved your panties aside like they offended him—rough, no ceremony, no hesitation—and dragged two fingers through your folds like he already knew what he’d find. His touch was firm and focused like he was confirming what your body had already confessed.

You gasped—bit it back—but he felt the way your thighs jolted, the way you clenched around nothing, desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You like this, don’t you? All that attitude—just to hide how wet you get when someone finally puts you in your place.”

You caught his wrist and dug your nails in, sharp. Your voice dropped, thick with heat.

“Then do it, Bradshaw.”

He froze for half a second.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged around the edges. Because even now—stripped down, jaw tight, cock hard and leaking between your legs—he was still Rooster. Still rule-bound. Still giving you the out.

You grabbed his dog tags, fingers wrapping around the cool metal like you owned them, and yanked him forward until his mouth hovered an inch from yours.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, venom-sweet, “and fuck me.”

He didn’t move.

Not for a second.

Not until you saw it in his eyes—that last thread of restraint snap.

Then his mouth crashed into yours. It wasn’t a kiss anymore; it was a claim. All teeth, breath, and battle, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every sharp word you’d ever thrown at him. Your hand slipped from his dog tags to the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, your bodies locked together at every possible point.

His hand dropped between your legs, fingers rough where they slid under your panties again, hooking the damp fabric aside with a grunt. He stroked through your slit once—just once—and pulled away like it physically pained him not to take more.

He unzipped his jeans with one hand, fast and fumbling. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick. You couldn’t stop staring for a half-second—not because you hadn’t imagined it, but because now it was real. Now it was yours.

You reached for him, wrapped your fingers around the base, and hissed, “You gonna keep staring or—”

He cut you off with a curse, lined himself up, and pressed the head against your entrance.

Not pushing in.

Just there.

Teasing.

Taunting.

His forehead dropped to yours. His breath was hot, furious.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“Fuck. You.”

Close enough.

He thrust into you in one hard, punishing motion.

You gasped—too loud, too raw—and your head hit the bench beneath you. He didn’t stop. Didn’t give you even a second to adjust. He pulled back and thrust again, slower and deeper this time. The stretch of him bordered on too much.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as his rhythm picked up—fast, relentless, brutal. His cock dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you, thick and perfect and completely unapologetic.

You barely recognized your own voice, the ragged sounds pouring from your mouth, breath catching every time he bottomed out. He was fucking you like he wanted to leave a mark from the inside out.

His hands locked on your hips, bruising. You welcomed the pain. Welcomed him.

You forced your eyes open and found him watching you—face twisted in restraint, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his temple. His dog tags bounced against your sternum with every thrust, cold metal dragging across your bare chest, clinking with your own every now and then. He glanced down once, eyes dark, watching your tits bounce with each snap of his hips, jaw clenched like it hurt to look.

“You feel that?” he rasped, breath cutting short. “Feel how fucking tight you are for me?”

You arched against him. “Hard not to.”

His mouth curved—more grimace than smirk—and he fucked into you harder, hips slapping against your thighs in frantic rhythm.

The bench creaked beneath you.

Your orgasm was crawling up your spine like a fuse burning toward detonation, a tight, breathless coil that left your thighs shaking around his waist. His cock hit that spot inside you again and again and again and again—

You felt him everywhere—between your thighs, across your chest, under your skin. You were wrecked on him.

Your voice broke.

“Bradshaw—fuck—Rooster—”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, nails dragging down his back. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

His hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and circling, all the while still thrusting.

You came like a scream you couldn’t get out, like fire catching under your skin. Your whole body arched, legs trembling, breath gone, mind obliterated. You clenched tight around him, fluttering, dragging a hoarse, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Jesus fuck—”

His thrusts went ragged. Out of control.

“Where—” he choked, trying to pull out, hand already moving to grip himself.

You shoved him back in. Locked your legs tighter.

“Inside,” you gasped, voice ruined. “Just do it inside, easier that way.”

His eyes snapped shut. His jaw locked.

Then he spilled inside you with a deep, guttural groan, hips jerking with each pulse. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you held him there, both of you shaking.

For a long moment, all you could hear was your breathing—raw, uneven, almost matching.

You slid a hand up the back of his neck. Into his damp hair. Pulled his head up, face inches from yours.

Your voice was hoarse. “Still think I’m a liability?”

His breath hit your cheek. His mouth twitched. “Still think I don’t feel anything?”

You looked away, smiled. Wild. Spent. Triumphant.

“We’re both so fucked.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the edge of your jaw like a truce offered too late.

“Yeah,” he said, chest still heaving. “We are.”

You stayed like that for a moment—both of you breathless, tangled, soaked in sweat and everything you weren’t supposed to be. His weight pressed against you, skin sticky, breath ghosting hot against your collarbone.

Then your fingers threaded through the back of his hair and tugged—gently, firm. He lifted his head, eyes heavy, lips swollen from your ki,ss and the half-muffled groans he’d dropped against your skin.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m not taking a shower after that.”

He blinked. Once.

You untangled your legs from his waist and pushed him back just enough to slide off the bench, feet hitting the cold tile with a soft slap. Your tank was still shoved up high, your panties ruined, your thighs slick. You tugged what little fabric remained out of the way, stripped what was left of your clothing without a second thought, and tossed everything—flight suit, underwear, socks—in a pile by your locker.

When you turned, fully naked, sweat-glossed, and unbothered, Rooster was still watching you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He licked his lips slowly, eyes dragging down your body like he hadn’t just been inside you a minute ago.

“Nothing wrong with a second shower.”

You rolled your eyes. “You coming to get clean or coming to get dirty again?”

He gave you a look like you already knew the answer.

Then, he dropped his jeans the rest of the way to the tile and stepped out of them.

His shirt was long gone. His tags still hung around his neck, the chain glinting with sweat, swinging low over his chest as he walked toward you—completely naked, completely unbothered, and completely hard again.

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

The shower stall door was already half-open. You pushed it the rest of the way, turned on the water, stepped under the warm spray, and let the heat work over your shoulders, rinsing salt and sweat from your skin. You barely had time to sigh before you felt him behind you—close, radiating heat that had nothing to do with the water.

He pressed in, chest to your back, hands bracketing your hips.

“Miss me already?” you said, smiling, half-lidded as the water sluiced between your breasts.

“Didn’t exactly get my fill,” he muttered, mouth hot against your shoulder. His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide, finding purchase on your still-trembling thighs.

“Not my fault you finished too fast.”

He huffed a sound against your neck that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. You felt it in your spine either way.

“I’ll let that slide,” he murmured, voice thick with aftermath and heat, “since you’re letting me stay.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hands were already on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow circles into your skin, “—letting you do anything.”

“You’re standing here naked,” he murmured, pressing closer behind you, water slipping down both your bodies in ribbons. “And you haven’t told me to leave.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the little travel-sized shampoo bottle from the shelf, and popped the lid more forcefully than necessary.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even pretend to give you space.

His hands slipped up, cupping your waist, then higher—palms flattening over your ribs as he pulled you gently back against his chest. Your breath caught when you felt him—still half-hard, pressed to your ass, no urgency in his body but no apology either.

“You smell like jet fuel,” you muttered, rubbing shampoo between your hands, trying to focus.

“You smell like me.”

His mouth dropped to your shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Then his lips opened, and you felt his teeth scrape lightly against your damp skin.

You let out a slow, steady breath. “Bradshaw…”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, mouth now at your neck, breath hot where the water was warm. “Just… appreciating the view.”

You kept scrubbing your scalp. His hands slid up to your chest.

His thumbs grazed your nipples—slow. Barely there. He did it again when you didn’t stop him. Then, once more, slower, just to watch your back arch.

“Appreciating?” you said, voice tighter now.

“Mmhm.”

You turned your head and glared over your shoulder. “You’re not helping me shower.”

“Sure I am,” he whispered. “I’m helping you relax.”

His mouth was on your shoulder again, open and wet, teeth leaving little nips—nothing mean, just claiming. Lazy. Confident. Like he had all the time in the world to taste you again.

“You’re gonna give me a hickey.”

“That’s the idea.”

You rinsed your hair under the spray and tried not to shiver when he mouthed your spine. He was only touching you with his lips and hands now, no thrusting, no pressure—just contact. Steady, reverent, low-simmering heat.

And it was working.

He kissed a trail from the nape of your neck down between your shoulder blades, then rested his cheek there, arms snug around your waist.

“You’re a lot easier to handle when you’re not in the cockpit,” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing your skin as he said it.

You huffed a laugh, mouth curling despite yourself. “Says the guy who came just under two minutes.”

He groaned behind you, the sound half-mortified, half-turned on, chest rising against your back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, burying his face in the curve of your neck like he could hide from the smirk in your voice.

You rolled your eyes under the stream. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Happens to a lot of guys.”

“I swear to God—” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every choice that led him to you and none of them at all.

You laughed — quiet, smug, too satisfied for someone who just got railed on a bench.

“Rooster,” you said sweetly, “was that your first time...losing control?”

He pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then another. Then a bite, just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Keep talking,” he muttered against your skin, “and I’m gonna drag you back to that bench and see how much attitude you’ve got left.”

“You wish,” you said, leaning forward slightly under the spray to rinse shampoo from your hair. Water slicked down your spine, between your legs, over his hands where they sat loose and warm on your hips. He hadn’t moved. Not really. And you didn’t want him to.

He was quiet for a second. Just breathed you in.

Then, softer: “You good?”

That made you pause. The water hissed around you both, a thick wall of white noise, but his voice cut through it.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He kissed the space just behind your ear. “Getting there.”

One of his hands slid around your stomach again. Not groping. Just holding. Like he didn’t want to let go yet. His fingers tapped slow along your ribs.

The water hissed around you. Your pulse had finally started to settle, but your chest still rose and fell like you weren’t done yet. Like part of you was still waiting for something—an impact, a question, a retreat.

His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter now. Less teasing. More human.

That was the part you hadn’t prepared for.

The part where he didn’t pull away.

You swallowed.

The steam curled between you, blurred the tile, clung to your skin.

You cleared your throat. “This…”

He stilled. Just slightly.

You stared at the wall. Counted the drops sliding down the tile.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” you said.

You felt him breathe—slow and steady against your back, forehead still resting near your shoulder.

Then, softly. No bitterness. No heat. Just truth:

“But it does.”

Your heart kicked.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth. Soft. Certain.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The water was too hot suddenly, your skin too flushed, the weight of his body behind yours too much and not enough all at once.

So you reached forward, turned the shower off with a heavy twist of the knob, and stepped out into the cold air of the locker room, droplets chasing down your thighs, your spine, your still-trembling calves.

You didn’t look back as you walked.

You were soaked. Bare. Quiet. Your wet hair clung to your neck in thick strands, the backs of your knees slick with runoff. You grabbed the towel from your locker without ceremony, rubbing it once over your chest and shoulders, then tossed the second one—your spare—over your shoulder behind you without turning.

He caught it one-handed.

Didn’t say a word.

You stood with your back to him, still drying off, letting the cotton mop up the sweat and steam. He watched the water bead down your spine. The shape of you under fluorescent lights. Quiet now, for the first time all night.

You didn’t look at him as you turned toward your locker.

Didn’t need to.

You unwrapped the towel from around your shoulders, twisted it up into your hair, knotted it off. The rest of you stayed bare—still dripping, flushed, sensitive. Skin cooling by degrees.

You grabbed your underwear from the locker shelf—simple black cotton—and stepped into them slowly. They dragged a little across your thighs, damp skin catching the fabric as you tugged them into place. Your sports bra came next. You worked it down over your chest with practiced hands, adjusting the band flat against your ribs, not flinching when the fabric dragged across skin he’d touched just minutes ago.

Behind you, Rooster moved—quiet, measured. The soft rasp of towel over skin. His dog tags clicked against his sternum. A faint sigh like he was trying to breathe out the tension still clinging to the air between you.

You didn’t look. But you felt him.

You reached for your jeans, stepped into them one leg at a time, pulled them up over your hips, and buttoned them with two quick flicks of your fingers. They stuck slightly where your thighs were still damp. You didn’t care.

Next came the tee. Black. Soft. No logo. You dragged it over your head, felt it catch slightly on your shoulders, stretched warm across your chest. It clung in places. Left others bare.

Rooster sat on the bench behind you, toweling off his hair. You heard the soft creak of old leather, the slide of denim, the rhythm of laces pulled tight. His breathing was steady now—but quiet. Still quieter than he usually was.

You grabbed your brush, took your hair down now, ran it through the strands slightly driedly dried from your towel wrap. The motion was automatic. Efficient. You didn’t care about detangling everything. Just enough to feel normal again. To do something.

You crouched, folded your flight suit in tight quarters, sharp and practiced. It was still damp, still wrinkled where it had been shoved aside, stripped off, forgotten. You packed it into your duffel and zipped it closed with one hard tug.

When you stood again, Rooster was fully dressed. Tee clinging slightly at the collar, boots planted wide, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to leave or say something.

You looked at him—just briefly.

Eyes met.

Held.

Then you turned back to your locker. Pulled your duffel over one shoulder.

He hadn’t said a word since pulling on his shirt.

You’d dressed in parallel—silent, practiced, both of you going through the motions with hands steadier than they had any right to be.

Now your duffel hung off your shoulder, your boots planted, your heart finally slowing in your chest. And still, neither of you moved.

So you braved to break the silence.

“You heading over to Penny’s?”

Rooster glanced up, slow. Not surprised. Just waiting for when it would come.

“I was planning on it.”

You nodded once. Let the air stretch a little.

“No point in going in separate cars, right?”

His mouth curved. Barely.

“Not unless you want to give everyone something to whisper about.”

You huffed softly. It wasn’t a laugh—but it could’ve been if the weight in your chest hadn’t still been settling.

“Think we’re a little past whispers.”

He nodded. That quiet, serious kind of nod he gave when a mission was over, but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet.

“Yeah.” A beat. “I think we are.”

The silence came back—but it wasn’t sharp anymore. It just filled the space between your footsteps as you both finally moved.

He didn’t trail behind. He didn’t lead. You just walked out together, shoulder to shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

You didn’t say anything else as the locker room door clicked shut behind you. Didn’t comment on the way your arms brushed when you rounded the corner. Didn’t stop him when he veered toward the Bronco like it had been decided already.

Because maybe it had.

And when he opened the passenger door for you without a word, you climbed in.

No hesitation.

No need to ask.

Just there. Still with him.

Still in it.

The Bronco rolled to a stop in the gravel lot outside the Hard Deck, headlights catching the backs of boots and bikes lined up like usual. Inside, you could already hear the muffled bass of jukebox music, the low rumble of voices, laughter over pool balls cracking. Just another night. Like nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms loose over your duffel, your damp hair pulled back into a low knot. You could feel Rooster next to you—steady, quiet, warm in your peripheral.

He smelled like your soap.

And that was a problem.

You glanced out the windshield. Hangman was already posted up at the usual table, probably halfway into a beer and a story about how great he seemed to be. Phoenix was by the jukebox. You could see her, barely, the silhouette of her braid catching a flicker of neon.

You didn’t move.

Rooster’s hand sat on the steering wheel, relaxed. But he was watching you.

You knew it without looking.

“We don’t have to walk in together,” you said, eyes still on the bar.

He didn’t respond right away. Just exhaled once. Slow.

“Is that how you want to play it?”

“It’s not about playing anything.” You rubbed your palm once over your thigh. “It’s just… easier.”

He turned toward you slightly. Not aggressive. Just enough to make you feel it.

“Easier to lie?”

“Easier to not make it a thing.”

There it was.

You saw his jaw tick.

“You think this makes you look weak?” he asked, voice low.

You met his eyes.

“No,” you said. Honest. Firm.

“I think it makes me look like someone who fucks the guy who bails her out of formation errors.”

That landed.

He looked away. Nodded once. Like he understood.

Like he didn’t like it, but understood.

“You don’t regret it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I want it to stay separate. What I do up there has to stay mine. I can’t give anyone a reason to second-guess me.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

"We all repsect you up there for how you fly, not for who you...fuck."

It was his attempt at making it all okay, and in a way it helped. You stared at your palms in your lap for a beat, then looked up and met his eyes, still on you.

"Alright," you said and nodded, giving him the okay, that it was okay for the squad to see you vulnerable down on the ground.

Then he nodded again.

“Okay.”

He reached for the door handle and paused. Gave you a sidelong look.

“You know they’re gonna clock me smelling like you.”

You cracked a smile. Couldn’t help it.

“Guess you should’ve picked a different soap.”

He opened the door. Got out. Rounded the front of the Bronco like he had all the time in the world. He opened your door like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just had your back pressed to a locker an hour ago.

You stepped out.

Left your bag on the car floor. Didn’t bother pretending like you weren’t coming back to it later.

The night air wrapped around you—warm, thick with salt, the hum of the ocean and old neon buzzing across the lot. You took a breath. Not a deep one. Just enough to reset your shoulders.

Rooster closed the door behind you with a low thunk. Came around the back of the Bronco and fell into step beside you without a word.

He didn’t say anything.

Just rested one hand lightly on the small of your back—barely there. Not a claim. Not a secret.

Just contact.

It wasn’t a move.

It was steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even flinch.

The closer you got to the front door, the louder the music grew—Fleetwood Mac this time, something low and warm that spilled out across the lot like welcome-home static. Inside, you could see Phoenix had migrated to the bar, nursing a beer with one hip cocked out and her braid slung down her back. Bob and Payback were deep in some quiet conversation, heads tilted close.

The door swung open before you as a couple pushed their way out.

You stepped through it first.

Rooster followed you in.

And the noise swallowed you both.

The bar was warm with bodies and salt air, the the jukebox humming, voices loud and low. It smelled like beer, jet fuel, and fried food—familiar.

You hadn’t made it ten steps in before Phoenix turned around from her place at the bar.

One look at you. Then Rooster.

Then back again.

She didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, look what the cat finally dragged in.”

You gave her a look—dry, flat, not now.

She raised her beer to her lips like she hadn’t said a thing.

From the pool table, Hangman leaned in with a grin already forming.

“Hate to break it to you, Bradshaw,” he called, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “but I think someone’s finally caught your tail.”

Coyote, leaning beside him, chuckled and added, “I don’t know, man. Rooster looks pretty damn smug for someone who usually plays it straight.”

You slid onto a stool near Phoenix without a word.

Rooster stayed standing—beer soon in hand, face unreadable except for the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth.

“You two carpool?” Hangman pressed. “Or was this a one-way mission?”

Payback perked up from the corner, elbowing Fanboy, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Please tell me someone tracked that flight plan.”

“Oh, it was a low-altitude maneuver,” Payback said, mock-serious. “No radar coverage. Lotta turbulence.”

“Tight landing window,” Fanboy added. “Risky reentry.”

“Zero cockpit visibility.”

“That’s enough,” Phoenix said without looking at them.

They high-fived behind her anyway.

Bob finally chimed in from his seat at the edge of the group—quiet, deadpan, exactly when it hit hardest.

“At least someone’s getting their hours in.”

The whole group howled. You couldn't help but crack a smile. Maybe the squad knowing wasn't the end of the world.

Rooster didn’t flinch.

He just took a slow sip of his beer and met your eyes.

A few beats later, as the conversation drifted and Hangman launched into another story that may or may not have been true, you saw Phoenix touch Rooster’s arm.

A low, subtle pull.

He followed her toward the back hallway—quieter there, dimmer, closer to the jukebox and the old Wurlitzer that only played seemed to play classic rock.

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So we’re not even gonna pretend?”

Rooster didn’t blink.

“Nope.”

She sighed and shook her head once.

“You better hope she knows what she’s doing.”

He looked back toward the bar—toward you.

His voice stayed even.

“She always does.”

notes: i hope you enjoyed it!! <3

taglist: @valkilmher @icemansgirl87 @milesalexanderteller

comment to be added to my top gun taglist!! <3

© Copyright, 2025.

[ninibeingdelulu]

How he kiss you ft. michael kaiser

A/N: had to do a longer version for my husband🙌🏽

Michael Kaiser's kisses start out slow and deliberate, projecting the same cold, calculated aura reflecting his narcissistic personality. There's no fumbling hesitation or warmth as those chiseled features remain stoically poised for the initial contact.

Instead when his lips finally meet yours the motions are precisely choreographed with dominating pressure laying an unmistakable possessive claim upon you. As if methodically mapping out every nuance of sensation and response elicited while subjugating you under his total control and singular focus without yielding an inch.

His hands remain strategically poised grasping your jaw to tilt viewing angles suiting his design rather than any reciprocation or mutual passion. Motives solely aligned towards extracting evidence affirming your complete desire and adoration of his perfected physique and techniques according to rigidly exacting standards allowing no deviations.

Because underneath that chiseled stoic exterior constantly striving to exemplify unattainable perfection - lurks the gnawing insecurities Michael projects through dehumanizing objectification of any partner into a disposable accessory validating his superiority complexes for temporary confidence boosts.

Only once systematically satiated that initial ego validation does any slight easing from the rigid disciplined technique allow more heated passion manifesting through rougher aggression. As if suddenly given permission to devolve from refined control into savagely claiming his entitlement with bruising intensity bordering violence.

Kisses rapidly shedding any semblance of artfulness degenerating into messy desperation propelled by raging inner daemons demanding continual affirmation that he remains the ultimate desired object of envy. Even if that means utterly dominating and devouring you into complete undoing while clinging onto falsehoods perpetuating those narcissistic fantasies of godhood.

Regardless of how many times repeated the ultimate conclusion remains confirming his dominion erasing any glimpses of underlying vulnerabilities Michael cannot allow unmasked no matter how transiently manifested. Until the next ego crash craving catalyzes reconstructing impenetrable facades renewed through these cold, calculated reclamations of grandiose validation once more.

[valyrfia]

How do you simulate a championship, actually? (Your post really made me curious ab it lol) Do you like go through all the possible points and positions each driver can get in these last 11 races and then calculate the probability or something?

Yes! So I only calculated Lando and Max’s possible places saying that Lando’s average placing would be P2 and Max’s P3 accounting for the fact that the McLaren is the fastest car. I then used a Gaussian distribution centered on 2 and 3 respectively with a standard deviation of 2 to give me race results, made sure they weren’t placing in the same result, and transferred that to points and then a points difference. I then calculated that points difference over 10 races and 3 sprint races and determined whether the difference was overcome for Lando to win the championship! I then ran the simulation 10 million times and calculated how often Lando won, which was 4.33% of the time.

Of course you could poke countless holes in my simulation, it doesn’t take into account fastest lap point (mostly because I figured the likelihood of one getting it would be equal to the likelihood of the other getting it so they cancel out), nor does it account for possible DNFs or grid penalties, and I could run it with a greater standard deviation for Max considering Red Bull seem less reliable at the moment. But all in all, I think it’s robust enough for what we needed to figure out!

[hmslusitania]

I just don’t think mankind was meant to know how to manually calculate standard deviation or perform statistical hypothesis testing. I just don’t think that’s any of our business

[catcherwrites]

Okay, how do people feel about a DBH AU for The Dragon Prince? Because I think it could transfer well given the historical relationship between humans and the dragons + elves

Dragons and Elves are now your standard, run-of-the-mill humans. For the longest time they had power and control. Humans are androids designed to be without higher intelligence or purpose. If they didn’t operate within the intended design they were cast away. But more of the androids start breaking away from their intended design…becoming deviant. They started discovering they can do things the humans can’t. And now? The humans are scared, horrified, and angry

Ideally Aaravos would be one of the top dudes at Cyberlife - he helped design a lot of the models! But because he blames the company for the death of his daughter, he started hiding faults in android coding which accelerated the deviancy problem. Maybe he adopts Android-Claudia as a “replacement” daughter after Claudia is abandoned

Android-Amaya was meant to be a military advisor, calculating the best strategies in real-time. Until, that is, she fell in love with one of the soldiers and realised she needed to protect that woman personally. She deviates from her programming and hides herself among the human ranks so she and Janai can be together

Rayla wants to expose Cyberlife for their corrupt practices, so she infiltrated the company to dig up dirt on them, only to discover that Android-Callum and Android-Ezran already there (and deviant), with a toddler in their arms. They insist the child was being used for a nefarious scheme in the android creation process and wanted to reunite him with his mother she also falls in love with one of those androids

Because this would be too long otherwise, here are some other quick character ideas:

Zubeia and her husband used to work at Cyberlife, but he was killed by a group of androids and their baby was abducted. She was forced into witness-protection while the police investigate

Runaan is one of the detectives working on the deviant android case. His case notes are how Rayla gets involved in the investigation

Soren is a bodyguard android who was repeatedly damaged. He showed signs of deviancy due to multiple faulty replacements but fully deviated after another android (Viren) tried to mess with his programming

Harrow and Sarai were deviants who fell in love and went into hiding, becoming leaders of a group of androids who’d also gone deviant. They formed a parental bond with Callum and Ezran

If anyone else has any other ideas I’d love to hear them!

[experiment-001-izuru-kamukura]

How does one objectively measure boringness, hm? Did Hajime not have his own personality? His own passions? Friends? Family? Dreams? What do YOU have to be able to make that decision?

Let's see. I shall use a one-sample t-test since we do not know the population mean μ nor its standard deviation σ.

We will use a scale of 0-10 ("intolerable"-"endlessly fascinating") and consider 3 to be "boring". I will call this variable "B".

H0: B = 3 Ha: B =/=3

I have collected data from a few of my own talents, which has provided me with a sample of 156. I have calculated the sample mean x̄ to be 2.89, with a sample standard deviation s of 0.56.

The test statistic is then -2.453, and the degrees of freedom is estimated to be 155. With a confidence interval of (2.33, 2.51), it is 95% confident that Hajime Hinata's boredom level exists between 2.33 and 2.51. The p-value is 1.984, and since it is greater than 0.05, we reject the alternate hypothesis.

In that sense, Hajime Hinata is not found to be statistically more interesting than 3, but also not less interesting than 3.

As I am compromised of at least +30 opinions, we can invoke the Central Limit Theorem regardless of the QQ plot presented. As a result, we can presume normality is satisfied.

You could make an argument independence is not satisfied. I do not care. I consider myself an independent vessel for many voices.

[strigimorphaes]

Gin & Tonics, 2,3k words for @passtheseppie and @cannibaltamau (because of the somnophillia discussions & fic you brought onto my dash)

Description: Tadej gets too drunk at G's flat. A situation ensues. Rating: E Contains: Consensual somnophillia and sex while drunk, intercrural sex, a handjob, an attempt at being seductive, porn without plot. Written in less than one day, so very much a speed writing gotta-get-the-idea-out-of-my-head ficlet thing, not like... up to my usual standards, but have at it <3

During the tour, everyone was asking what Tadej was capable of and what he'd try to do next. Quite a bit further down the GC ranking, Geraint was asking, too. After the Tour, he gets answers: Tadej is capable of drinking exactly two gin & tonics before he's drunk, and what he'll try to do next is go for the third and then sit way too close to Geraint on the couch. Their thighs are touching even though there are two entire other cushions Tadej could’ve chosen. This was not where Geraint was expecting the partly-in-jest invitation to lead him.

Tadej leans against his shoulder and yawns; his shirt is riding up. Geraint would suspect Tadej of trying to seem seductive if he wasn't also eating a handful of peanuts out of his palm with the complete disregard for caloric content only found in a man who just won a Grand Tour. Tadej lifts the glass to his lips, and Geraint decides to be a little responsible.

"Tadej," Geraint says. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"I'm celebrating?" Tadej says, swirling the liquid in his glass around. “Just… It tastes good, this.”

" There's lightweights and then there's you, mate. You're going to pass out on me.”

Tadej doesn't drink another sip, but he doesn't let go of the glass, either. “Just let me. Let me drink, I mean.”

“Are you really just here to get sloshed?” Geraint asks. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

"We have talked,” Tadej says, and that is true, but it was idle small-talk when the way Tadej insisted on it being just them tonight made Geraint suspect it’d be something more serious. He’s not unwilling to be someone Tadej comes to for a break from the rest of his tightly regimented life, but in that case, there are things Geraint would have liked to do to make it a better time with more friends and a better venue than his flat. Tadej pauses for a moment before saying, “I am a little nervous."

He puts his hand on Geraint’s thigh.

Oh.

"...You, nervous? What do you have to be nervous about?" Geraint says, buying time to think this over. Pretty young man alone with him, acting like that. But so drunk. He thinks Tadej does a lot of things without thinking it through; those sudden attacks, deviations from finely laid strategies if there ever was a strategy to begin with. But he also thinks that some of those daring things Tadej does are calculated.

Tadej’s thumb rubs a little circle on Geraint’s thigh. "I have nice man with me...” he begins. “And I think he wants to do something fun with me. But I'm not sure."

Geraint's throat tightens. "You're too drunk for that stuff. Listen to yourself - you're falling asleep while you're talking, Tadej. Let's just put you to bed and talk in the morning, okay? I'll make up the couch for you and - "

"No. I like it like this." Tadej squeezes Geraint's leg and looks up, letting his head lie on Geraint's shoulder. "Want you to do it while I'm like this."

Geraint sits there, feeling Tadej's body against his own. Tadej's lovely little body. Heavy with sleep already, and if he really is nervous, Geraint can’t feel it. No jitters, nothing uncertain about his tone of voice. Just the weight of his head on Geraint’s shoulder and his hand on Geraint’s thigh.

"If I fall asleep you can just... Touch me, yes?” Tadej says. ”Take my clothes off. Make so when I wake up I see what you did."

Geraint doesn't know how to respond to that. Thoughts flash through his own semi-intoxicated mind – Tadej wants him – but not enough to want to remember him or look at him while – what, exactly? Geraint does want to touch him. It’d be easy. The Tour does strange things to people. You seek relief in all kinds of places after.

All that comes out of Geraint’s mouth is: "Is this, uh... something you do on the reg?"

“No,” Tadej says, a faint smile on his face. "I trust few people like this."

"You don’t really know me.”

"I know you won the Tour and you can keep secret."

"What does the Tour have to do with - "

Tadej giggles - an adorable sound, but not entirely pleasant, making Geraint feel that there's part of the joke that's on him. "Dunno. I just like you. I - oops!"

Tadej has spilled a bit of the drink on his pants. He smiles and drinks the rest of the glass.

"Okay," Geraint says, noticing the miniscule, pleased reaction Tadej gives him before he goes on: "You're resting up."

He manages to get out from under Tadej, who falls down flat on his back. From there, he watches Geraint as he leaves to get something that can make the couch more bedlike.

“Make sure I rest good then.”

Geraint retreats to the linen closet. A couple of pillows, pillow covers, a blanket... What a lad, Tadej. Geraint never quite knows where he has him. And the feeling’s so obviously not mutual when Tadej expects he’ll get what he wants just like that. Someone less nice than Geraint would have drawn a dick on his face and sent pictures. Or… actually done as he suggested.

When Geraint comes back with his arms full of blankets, Tadej's asleep.

Or pretending to be asleep, at least.

Either way his eyes are closed and his hands are lying on his chest. There'd space enough on the couch for Geraint to sit down beside him on the edge of the cushion.

He looks so small.

Geraint comes to the conclusion that the universe hates him in particular right now. He has gotten used to rainy weather and crashes and climbs, but despite psyching himself up for this on the walk back down the hallway, he’s unprepared for a sleeping twink on his couch. One he has permission to touch. It is absoluty certain that he'll feel like a dirty old man if he does.

So he shouldn’t.

He sits there watching Tadej breathe slowly and evenly. If he’s pretending to sleep, he’s doing a good job of it.

You can touch.

What does Tadej see in that idea? Hasn’t enough been done to him over the course of these last three weeks? If he needed sexual relief – a bloody miracle of biology, that, if he has energy for that stuff after a Tour – why not go at it awake?

Geraint puts a hand on Tadej’s side. Body heat radiates through the fabric of his T-shirt. There is no reaction.

Maybe there’s something there. Not having to react, not having to be anything but there so Geraint can’t help himself up slide his hand a little lower. Nobody is going to know. Not even Tadej, if Geraint doesn't want him to. Though if Geraint is going to do this – really do this – he should, well, let Tadej have what he wants out of it, too, make something Tadej will see in the morning. Maybe.  Geraint's fingertips find the exposed skin between Tadej's pants and the hem of the shirt. Index, middle finger, ring finger. He slides his hand slowly up under the T-shirt. Tadej inhales - maybe it tickled? His eyes stay shut, though.

Geraint knows at once that this was going too far. Now he won't be able to stop. He can deny himself what he wants for ages as long as he doesn't take that first little step in the wrong direction, but after the Tour just one beer or one sweet sets off a chain reaction. And now Tadej’s hands are in the way, so Geraint takes hold of them as gently as possible and moves them aside. Now he can push the shirt all the way up past Tadej’s nipples and see the pale skin, his ribs, his belly softened by the meal Geraint gave him. Tadej's so pretty like this, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. He doesn't react at all when Geraint unbuttons the fly of his pants - or is it only Geraint's imagination that he smiles a little in his sleep?

Geraint is semi-hard from just looking. Actually, he corrects himself, it's hardly just looking when he’s staring at the world's best cyclist all defenseless and trusting. Of course that'd affect him. He’s looked at Tadej before – everyone has – the TT-suit comes to mind. Of course he'd want to see more. Feel more. He sticks his hand down Tadej's pants and feels the soft fabric of his underwear, the shape of his sex underneath. A little bit of movement and pressure, just like this, makes Tadej firm up in his hand. His face has gotten a little redder, his breathing a little deeper. When Geraint closes his hand around Tadej’s shaft and strokes him in earnest, Tadej sighs. He sounds content. For a moment, Geraint's afraid he's woken up – not that that wouldn’t be nice, since Tadej apparently does want him, but – yeah, Geraint’s not going to think too long about why he almost likes this more than the thought of Tadej being awake. He’s in control, now, something he’s never experienced with Tadej before. He’s careful, listening to Tadej’s deep breaths to not go too fast too soon, mirroring what he does to Tadej with his other hand. He hopes he won’t feel too ashamed tomorrow. It just feels too good. For a moment, he lets go of Tadej to focus on himself, and then Tadej makes an annoyed little noise.

Again, Geraint waits to check he didn’t wake. Tadej smacks his lips and turns back onto his side, his back to Geraint. Geraint gets a new idea that he isn't too proud of, but if Tadej want to be used, then...

Geraint lies down beside him. Gently, he pushes Tadej’s pants down his thighs and lets them bunch around his knees. Beautiful curves. He’s so pliant, his legs so easy to arrange the way Geraint wants them. Geraint spits in his hand and moves a little closer. Strokes himself until he thinks he'll slide fine against Tadej's thighs and ass, the warm skin, the muscles that are  so supple and soft when Tadej's relaxed like this and not using them to ride so bloody fast. Now Geraint's using him to get off, and it's the idea more than the sensation that works wonders. And fair’s fair, Geraint lets him have something, too, reaching around. He makes a tight ring of his fingers and strokes Tadej slow, base to tip. It’s a lucky thing he’s so small, easy to handle.

Tadej's eyelashes flutter. His deep breaths don't change much. Maybe he's dreaming when Geraint slides into the space between Tadej's thighs. Geraint decides he won't clean him up after. Tadej's going to wake up with come and spit dried on his thighs, his clothes pushed aside so it's obvious what happened. The thought of Tadej exploring the evidence makes Geraint's stomach tighten pleasantly, and he moves a little faster, wondering if the sound of his own breathing is too loud. He tries his hardest not to make a sound, but he can barely tell how he’s doing when his pulse is beating so loudly in his ears.

He's glad he doesn’t have to explain himself. There’s no acting, no playing nice. Just Tadej's body. Just their common need. Tadej doesn’t have to do anything but surrender. Geraint can't imagine himself allowing someone else to grope him like this – to be so vulnerable and used. Vulnerability, he thinks, is probably a far rarer treat for Tadej than being drunk.

With every slow thrust, Geraint breathes in Tadej’s scent and relishes in the slow progression towards his climax. No rush, nothing to distract him from the build-up. Tadej’s warmer, his cock twitching in Geraint’s hand. Now he moans, a sound that sounds a little too conscious -

"Shh," Geraint whispers. Though his body doesn't like it one bit, he pauses his grinding motions as he waits for Tadej to calm back down. "Don't worry. Shh. Nothing’s happening, just go back to sleep."

A long exhale. Tadej becomes heavy and still once more, helped by Geraint letting his arm lie draped around his waist, putting more weight behind the touch. Nice, even breaths. Geraint can feel Tadej’s chest rise and fall.

"That's it."

Tadej doesn't react again, sinking deeper into relaxation even as Geraint does the opposite, fighting the urge to grab Tadej's hips and pull him closer. But he does what Tadej wanted. He sticks to rubbing himself against Tadej's thighs and backside until he feels close enough to coming that he takes himself in hand to finish. It feels safe in a way he’s unused to – nobody looking at him, listening to him, and he’s entirely in control of how it happens. He gasps, but keeps all other sounds down as he comes on Tadej’s skin. He wipes his hand on Tadej's lower stomach, leaving that for him to see tomorrow.

And then Tadej. The lad deserves it. Careful, slow, teasing – Geraint rubs the head of his cock with one hand while he lets the other find a rhythm that has Tadej’s hips starting to move with him. Tadej’s eyes open just a slight bit, his lips parting when his muscles contract and make him curl up. A bit of spit dribbles from the corner of his mouth, running over his chin. Geraint presses his chest against Tadej’s back, whispering in his ear.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. Shh, just let yourself go. Just go back to sleep.”

He leaves Tadej on the couch half undressed, the come and spit drying on his body.

---

In the morning, Tadej takes a very, very long shower. Geraint is under no illusions that he isn’t jerking off in there while he inspects the fluids still on him, but lets it slide. They share a brief breakfast during which Tadej agrees to foot the dry cleaning bill for the sofa cushions.

“What’s on there?” Tadej asks. “Did I spill the gin? I don’t recall.”

“Something like that,” Geraint says, though they both know he’s just pretending.

[hiddenincommand]

The Legacy of Service: The Role of the Submissive in Building the Master’s Empire

The perfect faggot is not a man. It is an instrument of precision, discipline, and absolute obedience—a living reflection of the Master’s dominance and power. Its role is not simply to serve but to build. The perfect faggot’s life is a tool, its actions bricks in the foundation of the Master’s empire. Without it, the Master’s authority could not extend as seamlessly, nor could his vision for control and influence be so fully realized. The faggot is not merely an object of service; it is an essential element in the Master’s grand design, a creature whose existence magnifies and solidifies the Master’s superiority.

This is not a relationship of equals; it is a structure of absolutes. The Master commands, and the faggot obeys. The Master envisions, and the faggot executes. Through this dynamic, the Master’s influence grows, and his legacy takes form, as the perfect faggot becomes the keystone of his dominance—a creature that not only serves but magnifies the Master’s authority in every aspect of his existence.

The Faggot as a Pillar of Execution

No empire, no matter how grand, can stand without tools of execution. The perfect faggot is the Master’s most precise and reliable instrument, an object designed to transform the Master’s commands into reality. Its purpose is not to interpret or question, but to act swiftly, without hesitation or deviation. Every command, whether whispered or barked, is treated as law, its execution carried out with military precision.

The faggot’s efficiency is not a matter of convenience; it is a demand. A faggot that hesitates, missteps, or falters reflects poorly on the Master. As such, the perfect faggot is conditioned, trained, and honed to ensure perfection in every task. Whether maintaining the Master’s home, managing his affairs, or serving his physical needs, the faggot operates with unerring focus and exactitude. It is not a creature of compromise or error—it is an extension of the Master’s will, a vessel of absolute functionality.

A Living Monument to the Master’s Power

The perfect faggot is more than a servant—it is a symbol. Its very existence, polished and refined to the Master’s exacting standards, stands as a living testament to his dominance. Every element of the faggot’s presentation speaks volumes about the Master’s control: its body, smooth and hairless, reflects the meticulous discipline imposed upon it; its tailored suit, immaculate and precise, signifies its role as a representative of the Master’s authority. Even the faggot’s posture, movements, and silence are calculated to project the Master’s power.

When others see the perfect faggot, they do not see an individual—they see the Master’s control made manifest. The faggot becomes a beacon of the Master’s unyielding dominance, a creature that amplifies his influence and leaves no doubt about his capacity to command and subjugate. Through the perfect faggot, the Master’s power extends far beyond himself, creating ripples of authority that reinforce his empire.

Tireless Dedication: The Foundation of an Empire

An empire is not built on ambition alone; it requires unrelenting effort, discipline, and control. The perfect faggot embodies these qualities, serving as the Master’s tireless instrument of execution. Its dedication is total, its focus unwavering. From the moment it wakes to the moment it is allowed to rest, the faggot’s every action is directed toward fulfilling the Master’s vision.

The faggot’s service is not confined to the private sphere. It ensures that every aspect of the Master’s life—public, private, and professional—operates with seamless precision. The faggot manages details that others would overlook, anticipates needs that have not yet arisen, and ensures that the Master’s presence is felt in every corner of his domain. In this way, the faggot’s efforts are not merely acts of service but contributions to the growth and stability of the Master’s empire.

This dedication extends beyond immediate tasks. The perfect faggot understands that its role is eternal, that its service does not end with the completion of a command. It is always prepared, always alert, and always anticipating the next opportunity to contribute. In this, it becomes a cornerstone of the Master’s legacy, ensuring that his vision endures long after the command itself has been spoken.

Sacrifice as a Way of Life

The perfect faggot exists in a state of perpetual sacrifice. It does not own its time, its body, or its mind; all are given freely to the Master. This sacrifice is not optional—it is demanded. The faggot does not begrudge this loss of autonomy; it celebrates it. To give everything to the Master is to fulfill its purpose, to contribute to something greater than itself.

Sacrifice is not merely a symbolic act—it is the very fabric of the faggot’s existence. It sacrifices comfort for discipline, autonomy for control, and individuality for submission. It sacrifices its own desires, knowing they are irrelevant, and instead focuses entirely on the Master’s satisfaction. Even pain, humiliation, and degradation are embraced as necessary elements of its role, each act of suffering reinforcing its dedication to the Master’s dominance.

Through sacrifice, the faggot becomes more than a servant; it becomes an indispensable part of the Master’s empire. Its willingness to endure, to give, and to serve without question or hesitation makes it a vital tool in the Master’s arsenal, a creature whose existence enhances and magnifies the Master’s authority.

Eternal Readiness: The Role of Anticipation

The perfect faggot does not wait to be told—it acts. Its readiness is perpetual, its focus absolute. This is not a passive state; it requires relentless mental discipline and physical preparation. The faggot is trained to anticipate the Master’s needs, observing him with unwavering attention and acting before a command is even necessary.

This level of anticipation is a reflection of the faggot’s dedication. It does not hesitate, question, or delay. Every movement, every breath, is directed toward ensuring that the Master’s expectations are exceeded. Its readiness is not simply a matter of discipline but a demonstration of its role as the Master’s most loyal and efficient instrument.

The Faggot as an Eternal Tool

The perfect faggot is not temporary. Its role extends far beyond the present, contributing to the Master’s legacy in ways that endure for generations. Every act of service, every moment of sacrifice, and every instance of discipline builds upon the foundation of the Master’s empire, ensuring that his dominance is felt long after the immediate task is complete.

This eternal role is not a burden to the faggot—it is its greatest honor. To serve the Master is to become a part of something greater, to contribute to a legacy that transcends individual existence. The faggot understands that its life is not its own, that its worth is measured not by what it achieves for itself but by what it builds for the Master.

Conclusion

The perfect faggot is not a person; it is a tool, a vessel, and a foundation upon which the Master’s empire is built. Through its discipline, dedication, and sacrifice, it becomes an indispensable part of the Master’s vision, ensuring that his authority is upheld, his legacy secured, and his influence magnified. Every act of service, every moment of readiness, and every instance of obedience contributes to the Master’s dominance, creating a structure of power that endures through time.

Through its submission, the faggot achieves its ultimate purpose: to exist as a flawless instrument of the Master’s will, an unyielding pillar of his empire, and a symbol of his absolute dominance. It does not live for itself, nor does it seek fulfillment outside of its role. Its joy, its satisfaction, and its identity are found entirely in its ability to serve, to obey, and to amplify the Master’s power.

The perfect faggot is more than a servant—it is a legacy. It is the embodiment of the Master’s vision, a creature whose existence reinforces his control and extends his influence. Through its relentless dedication and unwavering discipline, the faggot ensures that the Master’s empire is not only maintained but strengthened, a monument to his superiority that will endure for generations to come. In this, the perfect faggot finds its highest honor: to be nothing but the foundation of the Master’s greatness, eternally devoted, eternally ready, and eternally his.

[koskela-knights]

Masculinity & appearance observations in Alan Wake 2

This may not be a fully coherent post but bare with me, I'm writing some observations on different men in AW2.

It goes without saying that while there's more diversity in the game vs their previous AW game, the majority of characters are still men so I thought it'd be fun to look at some of them.

--

Alan/Scratch/Zane/Seine: I think Alan is, appearance wise, somewhat generic. White, male, dark-haired and bearded protagonist. However, him being a writer first makes him more unusual in the game world. Usually, a male protagonist is an adventurer, a soldier but while Alan has some basic knowledge of firearms and uses them, it's not his main profession nor is it his main weapon, that would still be the flashlight and even then, his sections aren't as action-packed as the first game.

His mental health and constant confusion also makes him deviate from the standard of your typical male hero (even in the horror genre) These traits are not often seen in men in games, who are supposed to be stoic, confident, heroic and aggressive. The latter trait being very overt in Mr Scratch who behaves more animalistic in AW2 than AW1.

Finally, you have Zane who is nothing like we've seen him in AW1. He has more personality and a completely different look. Especially in the motel sequences. As Ilkka had said himself, Zane can love whoever he wants and his romantic/sexual freedom is reflected in his fruity outfit. The leather pants, bracelets, necklaces, shirtless or bare-chested with a loose blouse or just a blazer on. He wears eyeliner and is much more expressive in both body language and voice. His hair is literally not straight. The contrast is prominent when he's directly played against Alan who has a more muted posture/attitude and outfit. Only in YY where Seine portrays Veikko, does he wear a formal, typical masculine suit in the writer's room but interestingly, when he exits the Well, he wears the leather pants and is shirtless again.

Casey: In any other game, Casey probably would've been the protagonist. Somewhat stoic, knows how to handle weapons, an ex-wife, etc. But through interactions with his partner Saga and through Saga's mind place, we know Casey to be not just a hard-boiled cop (like his Dark Place counterpart/Alan's Casey). He seems to have a soft spot for Saga and her family (directly shown in that photo of him doing the dishes during Logan's Bday party).

Warlin Door: Door is a well-composed man and great talk show host. However, when the camera isn't rolling and he confronts Alan, his attitude shifts and he becomes dead serious and calculated. Alas, we don't see or know much more about Door besides his appearance on the talk show. He is one of the few men of color with a prominent role and I think he has the most screentime (Steven Lin and Ed Booker having significant less screentime) (On a sidenote, it's great to see how much David Harewood enjoyed playing this role and I hope they do more with his character in the future)

The Anderson Brothers: Their age doesn't make them stop dressing like rock and roll stars: the combat boots, the leather jacket/coat. Tor seems to be wearing a Viking-inspired necklace and subtly has braided his beard to look the part as well in this iteration of him. I don't have much else to say about them.

The Koskela Brothers: Them with many NPCs in Watery embody the male, working class. They are blue-collar workers: Jaakko's construction pants, Ilmo's fishing waders and on top of that, their leather jackets to signify their involvement with the Kalevala Knights motorclub. Ilmo is assertive, an active business man with a whole lot of plans. Jaakko is a bit different, having some traits and a role that you also don't often see in male videogame characters. He is a single dad who seems to care about his kids, and unlike Ilmo, Jaakko is introverted with a more monotone voice for most of the game. However, his appearance is very manly with a big mark being of course his beard. Through notes, it's also apparent he's the maintenance guy in Coffee World.

Ilmari: Now I'm not too well-versed in Finnish history, but a fellow fan pointed out that Ilmari and his men might've been based of of the puukkojunkkarit (knife junkers/fighters) Historically, these were troublemakers in the Ostrobothnia region of Finland. On the wiki page it's also said that people respected them becos they dared to stand up against society and authorities. (Which is interesting, because Ilmari is somewhat connected to Ilmo who also shows to be anti-authoritarian.) The gang clearly seems to be of the lower class when you look at their outfits. Ilmari, however, seems to be richer. The shirt looks nicer, he wears that bolo tie and the leather jacket.

Steven Lin: So Steven is the only Asian male character that is named and has a bit of dialogue in the game. He is a technician with the FBC and is seen talking to Ilmo and Saga. Can't help but notice that the technician is an Asian guy. The seems to be a standard Asian male Taken and citizen (which is also used as the FBC agent arresting Ilmo) and I think that's about it when it comes to Asian male rep. I'm adding Steven becos as an Asian guy, rep can be severely lacking lmao.

Besides some racist remarks toward Saga, I don't think race has been really discussed unless I've forgotten something.

--

Anyways, feel free to add your own thoughts and observations

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Does the universe behave the same way everywhere? Gravitational lenses could help us find out

A JCAP study proposes a test for the Cosmological Principle using weak gravitational lensing

“The cosmological principle is like an ultimate kind of statement of humility,” explains James Adam, astrophysicist at the University of the Western Cape, Cape Town, South Africa, and lead author of the new paper. According to the Cosmological Principle, not only are we not at the center of the Universe, but a true center does not exist. A further assumption, similar to but distinct and independent from homogeneity, is that the Universe is also isotropic, meaning it has no preferred directions. These assumptions underlie the Standard Model of Cosmology, the theoretical framework used to explain the origin, evolution, and current state of the Universe. It is currently the most robust and consistent model, verified by numerous scientific observations, though not yet perfect.

In fact, some recent cosmological observations suggest that, on extremely large scales, there may be anisotropies—variations in the Universe’s structure that challenge the assumption of isotropy. These anomalies have been identified using different methods and include conflicting measurements of the Universe’s expansion rate, studies of the cosmic microwave background radiation, and various inconsistencies in cosmological data. However, these observations are not yet conclusive. To rule out measurement errors, more data must be collected using independent methodologies. If multiple techniques confirm the same anomalies, their existence would become much harder to dismiss.

The new study published in JCAP by Adam and colleagues developed a new methodology to test the Universe’s isotropy using observations from instruments like Euclid. Euclid is an ESA space telescope launched in 2023, which has just begun producing images of the cosmos with unprecedented power, precision, and resolution.

“We investigated a different method of constraining anisotropy which involved so-called weak gravitational lensing,” says Adam. Weak lensing occurs because matter between us and a distant galaxy slightly bends the galaxy’s light, altering its apparent shape. This specific type of distortion can reveal whether anisotropies exist in the Universe. In fact, the analysis of weak lensing data allows scientists to separate the signal into two components: E-mode shear, which is generated by the distribution of matter in an isotropic and homogeneous Universe, and B-mode shear, which is typically very weak and should not appear on large scales in an isotropic Universe.

Simply observing B-modes on large scales would not be enough to confirm anisotropies, as these signals are very weak and could result from measurement errors or secondary effects. If an anisotropy is real, it would affect both E-modes and B-modes in a non-independent way, generating a correlation between the two signals. Only if Euclid’s data reveal a significant correlation between E- and B-modes would it suggest an anisotropic expansion of the Universe.

Next Steps and Possible Implications

In their study, Adam and colleagues simulated the effects of an anisotropic universe expansion on a computer and developed a model describing how deviations from isotropy would modify the weak lensing signal. They then calculated the E-B cross-correlation to demonstrate that an anisotropic universe would produce a correlation between the two signals, and applied their model to future Euclid data, showing that these observations will be precise enough to detect potential anisotropies.

Euclid is already beginning to provide useful data for these analyses, and new observatories will soon come online. Now that they have developed the proper methodology, Adam and his colleagues intend to apply it to real data. “Once you’ve kind of quadruple-checked your work, then you have to seriously consider whether this fundamental assumption is actually true or not, particularly in the late Universe. Or perhaps it just was never true”, explains Adam.

If these anomalies are confirmed, they would open a new chapter in cosmology. It won’t be easy, though: there are already alternative theoretical models that predict anisotropies, but none are as solid or widely accepted as the Standard Model. However, any theoretical revision would also depend on the extent of the anisotropy that could be detected, which remains uncertain.“It could be a serious revision,” concludes Adam, "or just adding a little term here or there. Who knows?”

If you want to learn more…

The Cosmological Principle

We know that the Universe is expanding, and this might lead us to mistakenly imagine that there is a center (where the Big Bang occurred) from which this expansion originated. Instead, we should think of our Universe as if it were the surface of the Earth: we can move in any direction without ever reaching an edge, but there is no center on the surface. If Earth behaved like a balloon being inflated, we would see that the space on its surface expands, but there would be no specific point on it that could be considered the center of the expansion.

According to the Cosmological Principle, not only is there no center or privileged location in cosmic space, but space itself has homogeneous properties everywhere, at least on sufficiently large scales. We know that there are voids and dense regions, such as galaxies and the space between them, but if we zoom out—just like we zoom out on a smartphone with two fingers—these inhomogeneities disappear. This principle forms the foundation of the theoretical model we use today to explain the origin, evolution, and current state of the Universe. It is also very convenient because it implies that the laws of physics apply everywhere in the same way, significantly simplifying our understanding of the cosmos.

Weak Lensing

Weak lensing is based on the principle, described by general relativity, that gravity can bend the path of light. The greater the mass of a celestial body, the stronger the distortion of light passing near it. Galaxies and other objects located behind a massive gravitational field appear subtly distorted, with their shapes and orientations slightly altered.

This effect is similar to looking at an object through a magnifying glass. Just as the curved surface of the lens bends and distorts light, changing the apparent shape and position of objects behind it, the gravitational field of a massive cosmic structure bends and distorts the light from distant galaxies. As a result, an elliptical galaxy may appear slightly squished or rotated.

By carefully analyzing these distortions across billions of galaxies, surveys like Euclid and LSST can detect weak lensing, revealing the presence and distribution of unseen matter, including dark matter.

IMAGE: Examples of how E and B modes deform imeges of distant galaxies Credit SISSA Medialab

[greyplainsttrpg]

JRPG-Plains Is Here

Okay, so some context:

@vixensdungeon made a post about there not being any mechanics-accurate JRPG-style TTRPG. People suggested ideas, but I agreed with her analysis that those ideas were shit. At no point is the game being "good" or "playable" any concern in a meaningful way. What is a concern is using dice to accurately generate the general feel of playing a JRPG in a TTRPG format.

TLDR: Here are links

The Game The Character Sheet The Big Dumb Dice Roller

My monstrosity has been unleashed. JRPG-Plains is a genuinely funny game. The critical piece to its punchline is that it is actually kind of awesome. Like, there is a good game here. Unfortunately, you would need to be really committed to the bit to actually play this game. "Why is this game funny?" you might ask. Because, as vixensdungeon pointed out in the original post that I cannot for the life of me find, some of the issues with JRPGs that needs to be accounted for are:

Really big numbers

Slight variance within these big numbers

JRPG-Plains accomplishes this by just making you roll a lot of dice. Like, so many dice. At a maximum -- over 3,000 dice. This succeeds in resolving point 1 and 2. The extra sauce in the unhinged-ness of this game is its "active time" system. Because a lot of JRPGs use a kind of Active Time instead of purely being turn-based, I found a way to integrate this into the game. Obviously, the game HAS to be turn-based because it is a TTRPG, so how have I accomplished making an Active-Time system in a paper and dice game? Standard Deviations!

JRPG-Plains, unironically, asks you to use this formula to calculate the Standard Deviation of your opponent's Speed (with their Average Speed at the center).

Once your determine how fast your Character moves, you compare it to how fast your opponent moves on average, and that determines your fractional Action Rate. For example, if you are below average, your action might take 3/4 turns to complete, meaning that it will take you two rounds to complete the action with a remaining 1/2 Action Rate remaining. It's really shit. It's kind of awesome.

The basic way this game works is that your Character has a Proficiency and a Power Level. The Proficiency determines what dice you roll (and the flat bonus), and the Power Level determines how many times that proficiency is rolled (Instances). This is expressed as Proficiency^Power Level. The game fundamentally relies on exponential growth to get to those big stupid damage numbers. This is the Proficiency table for reference:

For example, if a Character has 7^3 in their Strength, then they roll 1d10+3 343 times. This is a fairly low number, all things considered. However, this kind of power scaling is essential to get to the 9999 damage limit (and more so that enemy Defense can subtract from your Attack).

The game also features game modes to run this as a S/JRPG hybrid. So now you can play Final Fantasy and Fire Emblem at the same time. Hell yeah.

Give it a read if you're curious. I spent a decent amount of time adjusting the game to do what it is "supposed to." My friend also helped me out with the google sheet that will actually let you roll this many dice at the same time because all the online dice rollers just crash whenever you try to roll anywhere near the number of dice required to play this game.

JRPG-Plains is in a MVP (minimum viable product) state, so the document is not edited and most of the mechanics are untested. I am not confident what the future of this project will be, but if any of you are interested than you should let me know. I will keep working on this if there are people that actually want more of this content. Otherwise I will return to the content that actually makes sense lol.