#cycles and rendering did weird things to this

[mothiir]

the watcher from the wastes

Mortarion jerks it. That’s it, that’s the fic. @moodymisty and @kit-williams to blame, specially @kit-williams since I basically stole her entire idea.

cw: wanking. self loathing, sort of. mort being a creep and having issues with bodily autonomy. self harm in a weird 40k way. did not mean it to be this gross but ended up that way because morty.

—

—

This process is deeply unpleasant, and Mortarion prefers to go through it as little as possible — and yet you, cursed thing that you are, have forced him to drastic measures.

First of all: the mask must be removed. He unhooks it from his ears, curlicues of oily smoke escaping as the suction gives way. He holds his breath, keeping the toxic fumes nestled in his lungs as long as possible, and sets the mask onto his desk. His work-chair is hewn from the sort of raw pig iron that has Horus despairing. Brother I can have something nicer made — even something with a cushion —

Mortarion does not need such frivolity. It is a chair. He can sit upon it. Thus it serves its purpose.

He can hold his breath for hours, should he need to, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise. With a moment to brace himself, Mortarion exhales the last of the gas, momentarily covering his face in a rank green shadow.

It dissipates, and Mortarion waits for a few heartbeats to pass before inhaling.

He tastes his own flesh: half-cooked, and putrefying.

It is not an unfamiliar taste — it’s almost nostalgic. For a moment, he is a boy once more, nailed to the bowels of an alien planet, eyes fixed on the distant, uncaring sky.

He inhales again. Sharper now. The glutinous phlegm his sinuses produced in a vain attempt to capture the worst of the toxins is starting to thin. He coughs it out into his sleeve, then spits on the floor. Another breath. His throat is always the worst. The gas rots the tissue within, destroying the tender membranes, rendering his voice raspy and ragged.

Without the constant application of the gas, his body has time to heal. And oh how the healing hurts. He hacks up a glob of snot, and then of quivering red tissue. Inside, his cells multiply frantically, like they know that they only have a scant space of time before the mask is reapplied and the perpetual injuring begins once more.

Another burst of coughing; then a frankly revolting sneeze — again, captured into the billowing sleeves of his robe.

He inhales again — and curses, because the healing has moved faster than last time, and his sense of smell has returned with a vengeance. By the Emperor’s ballsack, the stench is overwhelming. What —

He looks down at himself: robes stiffened with effluvia from experiments and battle, fresh gobbets of snot and rancid blood dripping off the end of his sleeves. Hm. Yes, well — that would explain it.

—

By the time he has finished bathing, his body has healed as much as it will ever be able to, and he feels acutely uncomfortable. Even without the influence of the gas, his voice is still a guttural rasp, vocal cords ruined from years of experimentation. His shoulders still hunch instinctively, used to crowding through narrow corridors; his eyes — though brighter — still have sclera of sulphur yellow, polluted with broken blood vessels.

When he inhales the poison of his homeland, at least he has an excuse for how broken his body still is. Without it, his weak flesh stands in testament to the monumental failure of his youth. Not only did he fail to slay the monster who held him captive, he failed to recover from its abuses, remaining a broken-limbed mess of a Primarch.

And yet — and yet a part of him enjoys this feeling. There is no pain in his throat, or behind his eyes; he is not subject to the constant cycle of his lungs rotting into slurry and healing themselves once more. His gums are shiny and pink, not sloughing off his teeth in grey scraps.

Best of all, his senses have returned to their Primarch peak. Even constantly poisoned, and half-crippled, he can smell and taste and hear better than any baseline — pathetic little things the lot of them, no better than scurrying ants.

Apart from…well. You smiled at him You did not cower from the pallour of his flesh, or cringe from the huff and click of his respirator. You looked him full in the face and you beamed.

Lord Primarch, you called him. Lord Mortarion.

And afterwards, to your friend, where you thought he couldn’t hear you: you never said he was handsome.

He pointed you out to Typhus, a little later. Asked his eldest son why they were so desperate for staff that they were now employing defective baselines, like you, who clearly had an incredibly limited range of vision — if you weren’t blind entirely. Typhus had informed him that he didn’t think you were blind — indeed, you had cleaned his armour to perfection just this morning — but if you displeased Mortarion he could have you —

No, Moration cut in. No, that wasn’t necessary.

Not blind. Just — stupid, possibly.

Probably.

Anyway — if you are stupid then he is a fool as well. And worse: he does not have the excuse of being mortal.

Soapy and slick, white hair hanging in a curtain down his back, Mortarion sits in the deserted communal showers and stares at a little plastic sleeve in his left hand. It’s sealed tight — waterproof, preserving the object within as well as can be hoped for. He wonders if you have noticed the theft yet. Probably. Serfs aboard the Endurance do not have many possessions — they do not need them. More than likely he’s caused a little bit of grief, with you either blaming yourself for the loss, or snapping at one of your fellows, blaming them.

He cannot bring himself to care.

His clothes are long gone. The serfs will incinerate them, and bring him new ones when he sends for them. Perhaps this time, he will not go so long without cleaning them. Humans have terrible senses, but he wagers that you would probably prefer —

He amputates that thought abruptly. It does not matter what you prefer. It does not matter what anyone prefers. This is a temporary indulgence to end his madness, and then he will move on.

The plastic crinkles as he opens it, his tongue dashing out to wet his lower lip. The garment is plain cotton, with a little green bow at the front.

Garment. Fabric. So many distancing words to cover up the fact that he has stolen your underwear. He can never let Horus find out. He can never let anyone find out. Even though there is no one here to witness his shame, he feels a flush creep up his back. His cock leaps eagerly as he takes himself in hand, his toes curling on the wet floor. It has been so long since he last touched himself.

It’s pathetic. It’s revolting. And yet —

Mortarion buries his face into the gusset of your underwear, inhaling deeply as he strokes himself. Your scent is faded, but still clings to the fabric, thick and musky and sweet. He can imagine burying his face between your thighs, just inhaling. He’d bite your soft flesh, leaving bruises the exact shape of his teeth — and he would not let them heal. He’d do it every night until they scarred, and you could not change clothes without remembering exactly whose bed you were crawling into.

His breath stutters; his drool seeps into the cotton as he sucks. He’s never taken anyone to bed — there have always been more important things — but he knows what he wants to do. He knows that you would smile at him, and stroke his scars with gentle hands, and welcome him in so deeply that no one would ever be able to pry him out. You’d let him ruin your insides, stretch you so no other man would ever be able to satisfy you again. He’d fill you up to the brim, and then he’d do it again, and again, and again. He’d make you swallow him until you were coughing his seed up, he’d cum in your hair and —

His orgasm rips through him like a tempest, so abrupt that he cries out in shock, cum spurting up over his chest. His flanks heave, and he comes back to his senses in a humiliating rush — he’s chewed through your underwear, shreds of fabric stuck between his teeth. He picks them out, grimacing.

A shameful display. He cannot wait to do it again.

[ihatedtoadmit]

A biteful memory [1]

pairing: OT8 x fem!reader

genre: werewolf AU, fluff, crack

warnings: next to no self-confidence

word count: ~4.0k

summary: Your usual, boring days filled with learning are broken once a certain someone takes initiative, breaking this hellish cycle of yours.

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All rights reserved. Please do not steal, repost or feed my work into AI. Thank you!

The lectures were boring, as usual.

Every single day I would wake up, my back cracking as I would get up from the horribly thin and uncomfortable dorm bed that housed countless questionable stains that were long ago crusted in there. Sometimes my roommate would still be there, snoring away, other times it would only be me in the small room, despite waking up extremely early for my biology classes. Blinking at the white, crumbing walls for a few seconds, I would sluggishly get ready and be at least a bit presentable. I didn’t really care about looking good, never did. Probably because I was the quiet loner in the class, and my resting bitch face didn’t exactly help with that whole situation. No matter, at least people didn’t really approach me and drain my already weak social batteries, something I was cursed with as an introvert. After glancing at myself in the mirror that was by the door, I would walk over to our lecture building, headphones tightly secured on my ears, giving me the only serotonin I would get for long hours. I would only take them off once I had been seated, necessary supplies like a notebook and several pens neatly laid out before me. Nobody would really sit near me, as I had usually taken a seat in the front -look, i had bad vision-, so after the teacher arrived and the class started, I would only pay attention and take notes, nobody there to distract me from it.

It was a hellish cycle I’d grown used to scarily fast.

Sometimes I wished it wasn’t like this, but then that anxious, shy voice in my head told me that it was better this way, that these so-called friends would only tire me out endlessly, rendering me worthless and unable to focus on my studies.

So I listened to it, not even trying to look a bit friendlier, not correcting the slight furrow of my brows or the downwards arch of my lips, even though I was thinking about happy things, like eating my favourite chocolate back at the dorms I could finally afford.

It was fine.

Truly, it was, right until he decided to approach me.

It started out subtle, his form settling down at the other side of the same row I sat in. There was no interaction, my mind forgetting about him the moment the class started. I couldn’t even be sure that when I had noticed him was the first moment he had sat in that row, his presence so faint and hidden from my focused mind.

But over the week, he sat closer and closer, shortening the gap between us 1 seat at a time. Whenever our eyes met, he would send me a little smile, somehow even looking sheepish in the process.

It was weird, but it was a free country, he could sit wherever he wanted to. So after a questioning glance thrown at his now closer and closer form, I mentally shrugged and ignored him, just like how I had done ever since he’d shown up.

But then a week later he stood next to me, his shorter stature shadowing my sight.

“Hey, is this seat free?” - his deep voice asked between his pearly whites that were on full display from his bright smile, nearly blinding my poor eyes.

I could only blink up at him as I sat there, confused. My finger raised by itself, pointing at my own body, brows deeply furrowed.

“Of course I’m talkin’ to ya, silly.” - he laughed, as if this whole situation was normal.

It really wasn’t normal at all, no. Never believe that for a single moment.

This man was one of the most popular in the entire university, his heavenly looks and velvety voice accompanied by the kindest, brightest of personalities that attracted everyone to him, like moths to a flame. It shouldn’t really surprise you when I say that his whole friend group was filled with similarly popular and sought-after guys, making me, a voluntary outcast, avoid them like the plague. I didn’t want drama like in one of those stupid, teenage shows made in america. I just wanted a quiet life, to get my stupid degree and leave, preferably quietly and without anyone noticing my presence through this long, hellish procedure.

But no, out of all the people to approach me, despite all my efforts to deter them mind you, it had to be fucking Lee Felix, a ladykiller and popular dude. What was this? Some kind of sick, twisted joke? A, a manga where the loner gets pitied and becomes friends with the most popular student? Was that it? The mere thought of it twisted my insides painfully, wishing it would never become reality.

And yet, after staying quiet for god knows how long, I nodded at him slowly, watching as he gleefully sat down to my left and set up his laptop, as usual, ready to take notes. I naively thought that was the end of our interaction, so I turned back to the front where the board sat, grabbing a pen and lightly playing with it in my hands as I waited for the lecture to start.

“I’m Felix by the way, nice to meet ya.”

Oh god, he was not done talking to me. With dread in my eyes, hidden away, I turned back towards him, pursing my lips and uttering my own name in a quiet whisper.

“You always sit here alone, so I thought this was a horrible seat, maybe cursed or something. But no, this is the perfect distance from the projector and board, AND you get to hear the teacher speak clearly. Why does no one else know this?” - he questioned and I could merely shrug my shoulders.

I really didn’t know the answer, I only sat there for some peace, besides all the reasons he just uttered. Overall, this whole situation was better for me, since I was left alone, so I was completely fine with it.

Then the teacher arrived, and thus, our 2 hour long suffering had begun.

It was weird.

I could clearly hear as his fingers gently glided over each button and the quiet clicking sound it emanated in response. I could feel the warmth seeping from his form, stronger when his arm almost brushed against mine. I could hear the quiet grumbles he made when he was annoyed at either the teacher or his own typos, his rhythmical button pressing turning slightly aggressive in return.

It was really weird.

I tried my best to ignore these and continue to write down my messy notes hastily, this particular teacher not giving us mercy by talking fast and giving out shitty powerpoint presentations for his lessons. Without your own notes, it was near impossible to understand them, let alone learn from them and pass the lesson. So I wrote and wrote, pages being quickly filled with blue ink, my mind consumed by the boring topic of statistics and equations in evolution ‘til the end of the lecture.

A groan took my attention as I let out a silent sigh, gently massaging my writing hand as it had started cramping the moment I’d put down my pen.

“This was more brutal than usual, I swear Mr. Dunkins is a sadist. Halfway in and I lost what he was talking about, because of course he had to talk at the speed of light.” - it was Felix, his voice a bit muffled as he dragged a hand over his pale, freckled face.

I nodded at him, completely agreeing. This teacher's lessons were some of the worst, and that was an accomplishment and a half in itself.

“Hey, would you mind comparing notes? I know I don’t have a lot about the second half of the lesson, but I still have the other half’s notes.” - he asked with a sheepish smile and doe eyes, making my own set of eyes widen and my mind stop.

I still couldn’t believe that he was talking to me, so casually at that. And now he wanted to compare notes? With me?? My mind blanked and before I could process anything, my mouth opened to provide an answer to his question.

“I uh…sure.”

“Yaaaaaaay, thank you so much! Are you free next period? I don’t have another lecture ‘til one, we could grab something to eat too.”

I was even more taken aback, as if that was possible. I couldn’t help but look around, waiting to spot someone hiding somewhere with a camera in their hand, filming the prank.

Because that was all this ever could be, no?

But I found nothing, the room was essentially empty, besides the few lingering students besides us two. The boy was still looking at me expectantly, his eyes shining as if the stars from his cheeks somehow crawled in there instead.

So I nodded at him mindlessly, because coincidentally, my lesson that would usually take up that time period was cancelled that day.

And that was how we met.

After that day, Felix would sit next to me in the few lessons we shared, him being in a different major than me. But that never deterred him; he always greeted me with a big wave and an even bigger smile from the door of the classroom, gaining not only my attention, but everyone else’s. No, without missing a day, a lecture, he excitedly sat next to me and started rambling about the game he’d played the previous day, about his friends and how one of them -Changbin, i believe- ate his food that he was craving all day.

He was a ball of sunshine, bright and infectious, not caring how I only hummed or nodded at his words usually, my own lips sealed in silence.

That was the exact reason why I’d avoided him before. Because while I could bask in his warmth these last few weeks freely, those who couldn’t set their hateful, jealous gazes on me.

It started with the staring, their eyes following me everywhere, even to my dorms. Then the messages appeared, sticky notes blinking up at me at the seats I always sat at in my lessons. They were childish, empty threats that I never took seriously. Thankfully, I never really left my stuff alone or in an unlocked locker anywhere, so they could never really take it further.

But those soul-piercing stares were starting to get to me after the second week, goosebumps never failing to accompany them. The intense images of those eyes settled into my gut, my marrow, burrowing there and whispering into my ear hurtful things, using my insecurities to their advantage.

I hated having attention on me, making this a living hell personally designed for me.

The only way out of it was clear: become a loner again and return to those bitter days of loneliness.

“You have a lesson after this, right? We can meet up after that, have a late lunch and hang out.” - Felix beamed at me as usual, making this so much harder for me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can make it today. I can send you my notes in chat though, so don’t worry.”

His reaction was immediate, the smile on his face slowly melting away, sadness taking over its place. He quickly tried to mask it, plastering on a fake smile, but his pain was obvious to my knowing eyes.

“No, it’s alright, we can meet up another time. Good luck on your remaining classes!” - he told me as I was walking away, wishing him the same in return.

And so, our time together followed this pattern, his smile not radiant anymore. No, there was a permanent sadness to it, to his warmth that turned colder. My heart ached, the guilt of being the reason for it eating away at me slowly, but surely. The worst part? The staring and bullying didn’t even truly stop, it only lightened up a little.

And after a whole week of this utterly useless circus?

I had enough.

“Lixie, do you want to hang out today?” - it was a simple question, barely audible as we were walking out on the hallway, but it created the wanted effect easily.

Felix’s form abruptly stopped, as if not believing what he’d heard. Then, the brightest, widest smile broke out on his face, his eyes lighting up with a myriad of stars. Unable to contain himself, he hugged me, causing me to stiffen up as I was not a fan of body contact -something the poor aussie had a hard time coming to terms with-.

“Yeah, of course! You could meet the others too, we planned to have a movie night since it’s friday anyway. Oh, it’s gonna be so much fun, you’ll see!” - he was rambling as he squeezed me to death, then suddenly holding me at an arm's length to look at my shocked expression. “What, no, Lixie, I don’t want to intrude. We can meet up another time then, really, I promise you.” “Oh come ooon, we’ve known each other for what, two, three months now? It’s damn time I introduce you to the others. They’ll love you!” “Lixie… you know I have social anxiety…”

His expression softened along with his hold on my shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the clothed skin underneath.

“I know, and I won’t force you. Just know that you really wouldn’t intrude on anything. Remember Jisung? He has anxiety too. And yet, in our presence, he turns into one of the loudest, funniest guy in our group. Something he has in common with you, you kno’.” - his smile was gentle, his dark eyes holding a warm shine in them as he looked up at me.

“You can have the scariest expression on your face, dressed in all black, but I know that under all that lies one of the kindest and funniest person I know. Just no one ever put in the effort to dig down deep enough to reveal it. I get to have you all to myself this way, so it’s their loss to be honest.” - I blinked down at him through my rapidly blurring sight, my jaw shut tight in an effort to not let my lips quiver.

But it was all useless, as a single tear cascaded down my face, more following it shortly after.

Felix panicked and started wiping them away, apologising for hurting me. But he didn’t.

“Damn it Lixie, I didn’t want to cry in the hallways, you big sap. If you compliment me one more time, I might even start wailing, so shush. Just shush.” - I murmured out as I suddenly hugged him, my bigger frame easily engulfing his tiny one.

He was stiff, caught off-guard by my sudden hug, which was understandable. I never initiated skin contact before, as touching people made me uncomfortable. But he burrowed himself so deep into my heart, I was fine with it. He was too important to me at this point, so much so that the hug not only failed to make me uncomfortable, no, instead it calmed me down as I just gently burrowed my face into his fluffy hair, inhaling his strawberry shampoo filled scent.

Felix didn’t hesitate much longer to hug me back, his cheeks pressing into my skin, no doubt from the smile he had formed.

“Now, let’s go, before someone decides to use this as blackmail against us.” - I muttered out, releasing him. “It would only take a glare from you and they would delete the evidence instantly, and you know it. But I agree. Let’s go, I’ll walk you to your dorm so you can grab some stuff for your stay at our place.” “Wait what-” “Don’t tell me you thought I would let you come back to your dorm at the dead of night, all alone? Besides, no bus would still drive around by then, and I don’t think you would like walking for hours, because I KNOW you wouldn't let us drive you back.” “...Is it too late to cancel?” “Yep, already messaged them all and they’re excited to meet you. So get your butt in gear, we’re going to get your things.” “I fucking hate you.” “Love you too!”

And he truly didn’t lie. He really escorted me to my room, made fun of me with my own roommate, who was surprised at first about the fact that the Lee Felix was in our room, but then she quickly got over it and even started teasing me. I wanted to dig a hole and hide in it, but alas, under the watchful eyes of Felix, I could only pack some necessary things into my bag, flustered to hell and back. Some clothes, a few notebooks to study from and some toiletries sat in their place firmly, urging me to nod at myself as the imaginary list of necessary items was now done.

Having packed everything, we bid our goodbye and left for the bus stop, chatting about everything and nothing, my mind at a different place. 

He was really excited about this whole thing, but I was just a nervous wreck inside. Judging from how he gently massaged one of my hands and spoke just about every silly topic you could imagine, just to take my attention away, he’d probably noticed the state I was in.

I appreciated it, more than he would ever know.

Sure, the people I was about to meet soon were Felix’s good friends -i mean, come on, they lived in a house together, all 8 of them-, so I really shouldn’t have been so nervous. But in reality, I was nervous exactly because of that. What if they hated me and Felix would start hating me too? What if they made him choose between them and me, essentially leaving me alone once more? What if th–

A gentle squeeze of my hand brought me out of my worsening train of thoughts.

“We need to walk for like 20 minutes from here. I would have normally asked for a ride, but my hyungs were all busy, sorry.” “It’s okay, a little walking never hurt anyone.”

So we walked, side by side, his hand never leaving mine as he gently swung them back and forth at his own pace. I listened to him ramble about an anime he’d started watching recently, reminding me of how I’d ignored him recently and missed out on all of his little stories. It ate me alive, the guilt squeezing my throat shut. Thus, I listened to him in silence, nodding sometimes to show that I was paying attention. And I truly was, carving his happy expression into my mind, the way he scrunched up his nose occasionally in happiness when he remembered something particularly funny.

I missed this.

Eventually, we reached an enormous family house, almost worthy of being called a mansion. Felix stopped in front of it, punching something into the dial on one of the fence columns, causing the gigantic steel gate to slowly swing open. Surely not… Surely, this wasn’t where they lived, right?

Oh my god, it was…

I befriended a rich person, holy fucking shit.

“I think some of them are already home, so you can meet them gradually.” - he said happily, but I was just mindlessly following him as he dragged me along, still not over the fact that I somehow ended up in this hilariously unreal situation.

And indeed, some of them were already there. Half-naked, that is, their shirts for some reason not on their body. I could only blink a few times as I processed this as they were just blinking back at our frozen forms that were just standing at the entrance.

“I better leave.” - I muttered out, my ears and cheeks probably heated as I quickly tore my gaze away, along with my hand from Felix’s hold. “Oh my fucking god, I told you she’s coming over and you couldn’t even put a fucking shirt on?! You better be decent by the time we come back, if she hasn’t run out of the city yet!” - Felix shouted so loudly, I could still hear him crystal clear, even though I was almost at the gates by then.

You see, their property was huge, a small garden dividing the house from the front gate, the greenery leading all the way around to the back, where laid an entire forest -or at least that was what i could say after only a glance-. Still, I ran to the front gate and decided to climb over the small, stone columns, not knowing how to open the steel barricade by myself. I heard Felix shouting my name, pleading with me to stop and go back as he hastily closed in on me, but I was too flustered to do that.

I was way too shy for this shit.

“Please don’t go, I swear they're better than this!” - Felix panted out, his hands latched onto one of my calves, most of my body already up on the top of the column.

I shook my head, causing him to tighten his grip and try to drag me down, my own grip on the stone construction tightening in return. He pleaded with me as we had this silly tug of war, none of us willing to let go.

Just as I was starting to feel sore and think about letting go, I heard a buzz and the quiet creaking of the gates as they opened, footsteps approaching us.

“Do I even want to know what’s happening?” - a male voice asked, gaining Felix’s attention and loosening his hold on me. “Hyune, just please help me get her into the house, she’s gonna injure herself even more at this rate!” - my friend cried out, all the while I shook his grip off of me, ready to finally climb over.

Well… only planned to, really.

Because the next thing I felt were hands gently gripping my sides, prying my weak hands away from the rough stone and slinging me over a shoulder.

“You better explain this to me, Lixie.” - the man, Hyune(?) said. “You know how I said I’ll bring a friend over today for our movie night?” - Felix answered, falling into step next to the taller man who had me in his unbreakable hold. “Yea, of course, you were the most excited I’ve seen you in a long while. Why?” “... that’s her.”

Silence enveloped us as the tall man abruptly stopped in his tracks.

“You mean to tell me that our guest here was trying desperately to escape already?” “It’s because of those idiots, Jisung and Changbin! They decided to flaunt around the house with no shirts on, even though I told them my friend was finally coming over!” “... I guess we should be thankful Chan’s still at work.” “Don’t even tell me, gods. I’m going to fucking choke them to death if they so much as look at her wrong.” - Felix growled out, surprising me as I’d only ever seen his soft, sunshine self. “Oh don’t worry, I don’t think they want to piss you off even more. Besides, we’ve all been curious about this certain friend of yours, who you always speak so highly of.”

Did they…forget I was there? Hello?? I could hear everything??? And what did he mean by that?? I was just an introvert weeb, what the actual fuck!

“Alright, here we are. Do you wanna check in first?” “Yea, hang on for a sec.” - and with that, Lixie opened the door and soon closed it.

“Alright, the coast is clear.”

I was gently let down from the tall man’s shoulder, who I could finally face and see normally.

Next chapter

[imustbenuts]

more disorganized yakuza culture bordering on religion thoughts

(finished order 7, 8, 0, k1, k2. currently at 3 ch 3)

it feels like the writer went deep into reading about buddhism and religion at one point

im not japanese but a SEAsian uh chinese/hokkien diaspora who happens to be a weab so take this with some grain of salt bc we arent a monolith here

Surface level understanding of buddhism

when it comes to gang and tattoos or in yakuza's case irezumi, theres a general consensus of tats = cool and rebellious in a culture thats largely very collectivist. so getting one is like pointing the middle finger to society

the problem is sometimes tattoos are gotten more for the aesthetics than truly understanding the deeper meaning behind it. an easy example is the dragon itself: its powerful, its strong, it comes and goes, and does good things whenever it wants to. it might get associated with buddhism but like... if you think about it for 3 seconds, it fucking falls apart for 1 reason

gods in buddhism are the maintenance crew for the world's function (rain, nature, etc), and at the same time are supposed to be as part of the cycle and pain as everyone else. meaning, gods arent inherently special, they just happen to be higher beings doing their best to escape the cycle of samsara.

so by that lens, borrowing godhood from god to elevate yourself is... uh. kinda weird. (imo at least).

yet what goes on in 2? ryuji borrows the dragon iconography and tries to achieve dragonhood. kiryu is thematically the dragon but thats kind of all that he is. hes more theme than human at this point.

in yakuza 1 and 2 theres some hint of this surface crap. the story never really goes deep enough exploring the aspects of this cycle of suffering thing. the general message seems to be, suffering happens and builds character. which fucking sucks.

but thats not the real point of the buddhist message. its more suffering is unavoidable, so do your best to reduce it for yourself and others, and roll with it.

The gap and the growth between 1, 2 and 7, 8

looking at 7 and 8 in contrast to 1 and 2 and i think its clearly buddhist as fuck: kasuga ichiban is framed as jesus, but in some buddhist interpretations, jesus qualifies as a boddhisattva, ie someone who clears the condition of escaping samsara but chooses to stay behind to help. and thats what ichiban does. he doesnt judge, he refuses to play into classism bullshit, and forces people to look past it.

buddhism was originally a breakaway from hinduism. where hinduism had a whole caste system forcing people into tiers, buddhism tried breaking it. (and then medieval japan's government turned it into shinto buddhism and shoved everyone into a caste system themself... yeesh.)

meanwhile, in gaiden, kiryu has this bit where he meditates as a monk for enlightenment.

makes me wonder if the writer tried to do something similar and exactly how much buddhist stuff did they read at one point....

oh btw

Kiryu and Kasuga's theme. Dragon and Not-Dragon

ok i fucking caught this:

kiryu is the rain dragon isnt he? hes always associated with rain in yakuza 1 and 2, in an era where rendering rain for cinematic purposes is a ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS.

theres a few types of dragons out there but the uhhh oldest? traditional-est? one is the association with rain and storms. originally bc ppl in the past thought lightning strikes and flashes looks a lot like mythical creatures, and eventually the whole eastern dragon came about with that association.

meanwhile kasuga's kanji name reads as spring day. i am looking directly into the camera at this theming. hes the sunny spring day that comes after the storm. the story will be far kinder to him than kiryu.

so even though dragons are supposed to be strong and good fortune to be seen, and are benevolent and etc, they are again more theme than person.

theres even a real trend where everyone wants to borrow the dragon aesthetic to look cool, big, strong, fortuitous and lucky, be it in tattoos, irezumi, ritual, traditions or propaganda (chinese nationalism stuff). what i mean is people will have babies on the year of the dragon on purpose, wear the dragon and give more preferential treatment to their child/grandchild born on the year of the dragon.

everyone worships the dragon and takes its scales to wear, but no one thinks of the dragon as a creature. as a living thing.

meanwhile ichiban's irezumi cant even be called a dragon. maybe a mermaid. but not a dragon. and in that regard i feel like he's escaped from a fucking curse.

Carrying the cross

some other bits i picked up also. kazuki and daigo, and their crosses

shinto buddhism is the default in japan. but more SHINTO than buddhism, mind, bc buddhism is something people seek out these days rather than be taught bc its too super fucking esoteric. meanwhile, christianity is the minor religion. while some people do think of it negatively (due to instances of cults), it is by no means a mystery or exotic or even so minor that its rare.

anyway thing is. in these specific characters' cases, im 99% sure they signify a desire to walk away from their old self and past. bc of the baptism thing.

in buddhism, theres nothing to absolve one of their past. theres a strong emphasis on change instead, so its more of acceptance rather than discard.

which is. hm. idk what daigo's major deal is but from 2 -> 8 he seems like he ate a lot of shit along the way, guessing from his acala irezumi and name. and that the cross isnt a big thing in his character design anymore: it reads a little like he stopped running away from his family history.

(incidentally shinto is very responsible for the conservative classism in japan historically speaking, which is why its not a very strong thing in rgg setting. basically, strong Cleanliness and Dirtiness ideas, and guess which side of our night life, criminal and ex yakuza mcs falls under :') )

anyway im nuts bye

[mssf-milk]

Chara's reaction on different Sans aus (headcanon thingy)

Warning: just for fun and not canon! These are my Chara's opinions on these Sanses, not mine.

1. Classic (Undertale)

- mine.

2. Killer (Something New)

- damn just like me fr

- brother killer

- his chara really did a number on him

- a shame i can't have a conversation with them, could be useful

- barely recognizable as sans anymore

- probably because he is something in-between monster and human, relatable tbh

- could be entertaining company

- but way too scattered and unstable

- one day that will be his undoing

- should take note of his situation for future discretion

2. Horror (Horrortale)

- how is he even still alive?

- made everyone eat human flesh, yet does not indulge himself, baffling

- it's not like he has much to lose...

- do understand how he feels due to undyne's and alphys's betrayal

- keeps his village fed and turned the lizard into a vegetable, respect

- but then destroyed the core leaving the underground without any solution

- mixed feelings

3. Murder (Dusttale)

- damn... kinda hot

- would hate my guts, also hot

- interesting eyelights

- hallucinates papyrus everywhere, has gone coocoo lol

- is similar to killer in some ways

- both killed everyone to get out of the cycle

- except he did for a clear purpose, not to "feel something different"

- now is doomed to either battle his human forever

- or live completely alone for years on end

- was it all worth it, sansy?

4. Fell (Underfell)

- edgelord

- go outside

- is just annoying in all honesty

- the dynamic with his brother is weird

- as his choice of clothing

- quick to anger, could be fun to annoy

- but mostly just pathetic

5. Outer (Outertale)

- same thing different font

- except even the font is the same

- yet is still just somehow boring

- i am not even sure how that is possible

6. Error (Errortale)

- what the hell is this

- manchild

- hobo

- also likes chocolate, but is that supposed to make me like him?

- if not for his strings he'd just be too easy

- you can see how vulnerable he is behind it all, renders him also pathetic

- but aside from that, could be a capable opponent

- when he's not glitching over just some light touch again

- better not interfere with my universe

- or i'll put his phobia to the use

7. Ink

- forgetful and childish

- also should steer clear of me

- might kill him even if tried to hold it in

- is soulless like flowey

- will probably one day just grow bored

- but hopefully can keep the hobo busy

8. Fresh (Underfresh)

- goodbye.

- don't even breathe in my direction please.

9. Blue (Underswap)

- papyrus in sans's body

- would whimper

- and be fun to break

- but not my cup of tea

10. Cross (X-Tale)

- also killed everyone

- why is that so common?...

- also kinda of an edgelord

- used to have a male version of me in his body, cool i guess

- don't have much to say really

12. Lust (Underlust)

- whore.

- but at least he recognizes that.

13. Dance (Dancetale)

- my sans but can breakdance

- is that really it

- how exciting

14. Nightmare (Dreamtale)

- we are not so different you and i

- i can respect a man with class!

- but don't touch my universe

- you'll regret it

15. Dream (Dreamtale)

- has some drip

- but too positive for my liking

- his entire worlview is naive and foolish

- nightmare was right about you

[gojous-adderall]

Why ur neurodivergent faves can’t find another job (or any job at all)

EDOGAWA RANPO (Bungou Stray Dogs)

- iykyk

- if u don’t know, it’s canon that Ranpo got fired from all his previous jobs bc he couldn’t think the way everyone wanted him to so he did things in ways they didn’t like

- congrats to my mans for even getting hired tho job interviews are so hard

- headcanon he applied for IKEA but left the job interview bc ‘I went in and the furniture was already assembled’

GOJOU SATORU (Jujutsu Kaisen)

- late to every job interview

- can’t keep a single work relation strictly professional ;)))))))

- too absent minded, fucks shit up bc he gets distracted and wanders off

- speaks informally with his seniors all like ‘what the fuck is up pogchamps’ and ‘seeya pal’

ITADORI YUUJI (Jujutsu Kaisen)

- his resume is just a link to a video of him running rlly fast. his resume is a printed copy.

- said ‘yes eat the rich’ to some shoplifters and let them walk out

- fucks up anything number related

- gets dress coded every time

NOÉ ARCHIVISTE (Vanitas no Carte)

- his cleanliness standards are. Something else

- his blank face scares customers so no one wants to hire him

- got lost in a back alley while taking out trash

- doesn’t understand job interview questions they’re worded too weirdly

KAMINARI DENKI (My Hero Academia)

- freezes up when there’s too much going on at once

- cracks too many jokes

- wrote ‘electrician’ on his resume, ate a generator on his first shift to help power a music festival

- his talents just unfortunately happen to be in weird niches that don’t fit into society’s concept of skills

FUTABA SAKURA (Persona 5)

- can’t find a place that will let her wear headphones at work

- got her coworkers in contact with Anonymous when they asked her to escalate an issue

- straight up renders entire companies obsolete by outperforming all of them

- goes nonverbal at inconvenient times

SUCROSE (Genshin Impact)

- she talked about bones in the job interview again

- struggles to articulate her talents

- takes too many bold risks without permission or warning, sometimes brilliant, sometimes horrific, sometimes a storehouse catches fire

- can only go hard or go home, prone to overwork and burnout cycles

[akumastrife]

your king (of bone); your kingdom (of veils) //TRC (GanseyGlendower)

Rating: Mature (mostly smut, some implied body horror) Fandom: The Raven Cycle Pairing: Gansey/Glendower (we did it babeyyyy!!) Word Count: 4k HERE WE GOOOOO it's been 12 years since this series came out and I haven't found ONE fic of them boning??? hello??? must I do everything around here?? Someone make me a badge or something. This got real weird, sorry not sorry, but it deserved some mild body horror and Gansey crying and some existential angst. Written for the “Undead” square on last year’s Monsterfucktober Bingo. {ALSO ON AO3}

It’s only once Gansey is standing there—in a dark, musty cave staring up at an effigy of nightmarish imagination—that he realizes there was a small part of him that never actually expected to find Glendower.

Glendower was a titan. A figurehead. A deity. All that glittered, and the rest of it.

One moment he is pushing at the coffin’s heavy lid, fused down with lichen, and the next he is standing in the middle of a stone dais, alone. It’s dark but he isn’t blind, an aura of light that seems to be everywhere and come from nothing.

And then not alone, the armored figure before him tilting its helmet as if to regard him closely.

Owain Glyndŵr is just as imposing as Gansey had assumed, but it is all from his presence. Glyndŵr isn’t much taller than himself. Only made more so by his full coat of arms.

Gansey inhales, and stale air passes through cobwebs on pillars and tattered banners. Slowly—as if the room is being rendered and filled in around Glyndŵr despite his inability to look away from him—the dais brightens in shadows and weak sunlight through milky windows.

For once he can find nothing to say.

 What else can Gansey do, but fall to his knees?

‘Peace, little king,’ Glyndŵr says. Or doesn’t say. The words fill the room and the emptiness between Gansey’s breath as a hum—as an echoing language that he’s never heard before, layered over itself many times in different pitches. At the foundation of it is one that is deep and rich.  

Gansey shivers, trapping his hands between his knees as he gazes up. “I’m no king,” he whispers.

‘Nor I, and yet have we not earned it?’

Gansey doesn’t think it would be right to argue with him. It almost makes him laugh—him, arguing semantics with Owain Glyndŵr.

And it is Glyndŵr. Not the anglicized version he’s been saying aloud. Gansey woke him. He’s here, alive. The least he can do is greet him properly.

“I can’t believe I found you.”

Can hardly believe there was someone to find after all.

‘It had to be you. Because I wanted it to be you.’  Glyndŵr shifts into grating movement, a cacophonous orchestra of metal that has been fused together with rust, moss, and ocean salt spray—finally loosening. He steps up before Gansey. ‘It was always you.’

A hundred nonsensical things run through Gansey’s mind. He is not special. His friends are the extraordinary ones with fantastic magics. The only interesting things about him are his money and his weird ability to die and not have it stick. That’s not him. That’s a thing that has happened to him. An unwilling participant.

But Glyndŵr looks down at him, alive and found, and he feels like the most special boy in existence.

And then feels stupid for thinking it at all.

‘What do you wish, little king?’

A wish. He still has a wish. It’s real. It’s all real. He found Glyndŵr and he gets whatever he can divine, like every fairytale ever promised him.

He thinks immediately of Noah.

Thinks of Adam.

Thinks of Ronan.

Thinks, breathlessly, of Blue.

A gauntlet hand rises to touch him under the chin, lifting just slightly. The metal smells of decay and damp earth.

Twin points of smoldering gold light peer out of the helmet.

The scene before him flashes and shifts. Like a projector with two many reels crammed inside.

Glyndŵr and the stone room—a warm and colorful bedroom with a roaring fireplace—the glade shadowy with an oncoming storm and the grass dewy as it rushes up to meet him—Monmouth stuffy and bloated with summer—a man he feels like he should know watching him as sharp as a general—the hum of a hundred bees.

Light and color and backdrop flickers like a candle caught in a draft, throwing confusion and shadows along the walls.

Faster and faster, superimposing over one another until he’s stuck fast and rocking from it in the warm room, the fireplace crackling, and the man touching his face tenderly.

It sends a flush rippling through him, embarrassed, his knees near about to give out. Momentum maybe, or surprise. Or—

Owain. Looking a little like lightning boy aged well. Smiling at him, his eyes somehow pitying.

Gansey’s chest tightens, feeling that expression more than he’d like to admit.

Another touch to his chin, wondering and considering. Gansey tilts into it without thought, without hesitation, eyes sliding shut to savor it.

Is it real? Is it just a dream? Is it magic?

Dry lips touch his as gently as a turning page, and he decides immediately it doesn’t matter. It is something—it is what it is—and it is for him.

He falls into the kiss, falls into hands ready to catch him.

He feels embarrassingly young in Owain’s hold. Feels small and uncertain; untested.

Wide, calloused hands slide gently beneath his clothes, gliding along his much softer skin. He shivers, cannot help it, and inhales softly at the opening of the kiss; at the soft, wet catch of careful lips easing him as if he has brought himself a virgin to a marital bed.

He doesn’t know how he’s gotten here, where here even is, where his friends are.

Liminal, maybe.

His desire, his desperation, so powerful it’s done something impossible.

“You’re impossible,” Gansey murmurs against Owain’s mouth. He’s kissed many people but it’s never been like this.

Hands grip a little tighter, soothing or a tease, maybe. Familiar and not.

“And you are not?” Owain offers back. Low and kind, a rumble of warmth rather than pitch. Gansey’s surprised that his voice isn’t deeper—doesn’t rattle through his chest like when he was hearing him only inside his own mind.

It’s not what he’d expected, and it knocks him out of the sensations for a moment. Finds himself drowning, gasping in the clear light of day.

Owain pulls back to look at him, eyes curious as they take him in, and then he’s picking Gansey up bodily and Gansey slips under the surface again.

“I can walk—what would you like—”

“I’m dead, not incapable,” Owain argues gamely, laying Gansey out across the velvet bedspread. “And courteous, despite… well, everything else.”

“Not dead anymore,” Gansey points out. His head spins, dizzy with the heat of the fireplace and being carried and the whole situation. Reaches out for Owain as an anchor and pulls him down on top of him, melting under the weight of him and into the soft bed.

Owain only hums, neither agreeing nor arguing. Hums directly into Gansey’s mouth and then further along his throat.

Gansey sighs, shuddering, tugging blindly at Owain’s tunic, his trousers. Flushes at the laugh it gets him, even if Owain complies easily—copies it even.

Their flushed skin sticks and catches against each other; Owain’s teeth catching over Gansey’s nipple, pulling until Gansey’s head stretches back, overwhelmed already.

He can see part of the fireplace from this angle. It flickers between roaring and  empty. He squeezes his eyes shut, blinking them back open. The fire crackles steadily.

“I’ve seen your desires, little king,” Owain whispers, licking it down his sternum and stomach. His lips pull Gansey’s attention back down to him. “For life and this and me and your companions and the world. But all those things are one in the same, are they not?”

Gansey swallows, nearly chokes on it, vision hazy as he tries to focus on the rich crimson canopy overhead. His cock, embarrassingly, twitches needy against a muscled thigh.

“That is the problem with conquest—the hunger.”

Gansey feels like he’s been hungry his whole life, dragged around and controlled by it, always stumbling to keep up.

A tongue drags over his bellybutton, over to press teeth into the softness of his hip. Chained desire shakes so hard to break free that his hands shake as they wind through Owain’s hair.

“How did you—”

“I know,” Owain says, kissing it into his thigh, the warm crease. “You were given a second chance, and being undead,” he hums considering for a long moment, “the act of being brought back means there will always be a hole, an emptiness, within you. That hunger might yet consume you. Are you prepared for that? Is it worth it?” 

Gansey swallows again, clicking, drawing his feet against blankets to pull his knees back, giving Owain more room. Maybe it’s the magic that has brought them both back that demands payment, in blood or otherwise. Maybe magic and hunger are one and the same.

He makes himself look down, meeting deep and hungry eyes. “You tell me. Are you grateful to be woken?”

Owain’s mouth pulls into an indulgent grin, pleased and proud of something. Dips his head to take Gansey into his mouth and suck.

Gansey shouts, head falling back and bouncing, trying to still his hips. Owain laughs, softly, sending vibrations along his length. It’s embarrassing in its own way, and so good. 

“S-supposed to be the other way around, I think,” Gansey offers, thready. Whines and shifts, stretching one leg over a broad shoulder.

Owain draws up, so slowly. “You’ve thought of this. Not just the act.”

“Yes,” soft as a sigh. Flushes. “This doesn’t seem right. G-gracious,” at another drag of hot tongue. Tightens his fist and tugs—

“Oh,” unbalanced at the sudden give like hair’s been ripped free.

When he looks down his hands are exactly where he left them, buried in thick waves.

Tugs again, lighter, testing.

Owain hums, arching into the pull, and does something with his mouth that has Gansey’s vision darkening around the edges. Whimpers and continues, “Supposed to be me, doing this for you.”

“Here we are equals, little king,” Owain says. “I enjoy it both ways. Most ways. You do not have to prostrate yourself before me.”

“What if I wanted to?”

They are both quiet, the only sounds heavy breathing and the crackling fire.

“Then your wish is my command.”

Panic claws at Gansey’s throat, closing around a dozen desperate wailing questions. He tries to push himself up—can’t when tangled with Owain, all he’s ever wanted and yet—

“Shh, shh,” Owain soothes him, wide hand firm and warm across his hips, pinning him down, pushing himself up Gansey’s body to kiss into his mouth, tongue curling. Something herbal and stale on his breath. “Settle, you haven’t wasted it.”

“What—”

“I could’ve. Could’ve made you beg for it. But. No. There is still yet something I can grant you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gansey says, still breathing too shallow, heartbeat still fast as a bird learning its been caged. Although, given the moment to think about it, he could’ve always argued he hadn’t asked for this, so technically it didn’t count as the wish. The favor. Do undead Welsh Kings have to abide by the same rules as djinn?

Owain shrugs one shoulder, fingering Gansey’s damp hair off his forehead. “Is it so much to assume I might want something from you? I’ve been asleep for a very long time.”

Gansey feels his blush down his chest. “Then… then my previous statement stands. Ah, about,” and gestures vague and circularly in the air between them.

Owain doesn’t break eye contact as he easily captures that hand and kisses his fingertips.

The blush deepens. Realizing it does only makes the embarrassment worsen somehow. Knowing he is. Knowing he’s acting like some sweet conquest. Finds himself blurting, “I am not naive.”

“Would you like to pretend?”

Gansey thinks, in a rush, of the historical erotica he’d found in Mallory’s library. Thin, warped pamphlets slipped between biographies, filled with ripped corsets, various throbbings, and all sorts of metaphors that had gotten lost on their way back to dripping fluids.

Owain chuckles, taking his silence for whatever he wants.

Breathing too fast and too wanting, Gansey is fine with that. Doesn’t know what he wants, just that he does, desperately.  Arousal burns at his core, shifting up for another kiss.

Owain opens it immediately, firm and gentle in his demanding, as his hands find Gansey’s hips and yank, tugging him lower, closer, and up. Swallows down Gansey’s muffled gasp of surprise. His hands are tacky with sweat against Gansey. Or maybe it is his own feverish skin that make them slide unnaturally.

Gansey drags him in closer, tongue turning greedy, legs wrapping around the cut of his thick waist, as he nearly folds himself in half, desperate for friction and kissing both.

Owain’s fingers are slick when they appear between them, pressing at his rim, humming warm until Gansey gives way on a thin hiss between his teeth—between their tongues. He wriggles his hips, hiccuping in the abrupt shift, the too-knowing reach.

“Please,” he gasps, dropping his head back. He doesn’t think where Owain got the oil, doesn’t think about protection, doesn’t worry about a single damn thing for once in his life as his head’s filled with cottony afternoon sunlit pleasure.

Lips at his neck again, nudging his chin to the side to kiss up to the sensitive lobe of his ear and down to his shoulder. Gansey can only breathe heavy until he’s dizzy, drifting in the muddied warmth of fingers stretching him open easily, thumb tracing the rim and pressing up his perineum until he’s shaking, all his muscles liquid.

“You are a dream,” Owain says, almost to himself. Expands his fingers tortuously as he drags them out slow.

“I’m not sure this isn’t all a dream,” Gansey murmurs, losing some of it to a cracking moan as Owain shifts hold on his thighs and presses into him, inexorable.

“S-sweet saints,” Gansey manages, screwing his eyes up tight and toes curling. Owain is thick and weighty inside him; rocking easy and unhurried until their hips are nestled flush, and Gansey’s choking on every expletive he’s ever heard Ronan use.

Owain chuckles, hands rubbing warm circles to soothe him, even as all of him shakes in mirth and jostles Gansey into squirming movement.

It’s either that, or silently despairing at the stretch like an empty highway headed nowhere.

Heat builds in his gut, simmering into his hips, as he works himself in small circles on Owain’s cock; spiraling at the sharp pleasure cut through with the reality of what they’re doing.

“Fuck,” he spits, inelegantly.

Owain swears similarly, rough and foreign, pressed into Gansey’s shoulder. He’s too dumb, too dazed, to parse it—too fixated on the scratch of stubble he hadn’t focused on before.

Been there before?

Teeth nip at his throat; a hand presses at one sensitive thigh, easing him a little wider.

Gansey tips his head back on a shuddering gasp, opening all of himself  desperately as his mind goes blissfully empty. Nothing to think about, nothing to worry about; just the suffusing heat of arousal like a fever.

He’s died once, already. Maybe twice?

How fitting to feel it here, again—la petite mort indeed.

He found him.

He found his king.

And Owain has found his pleasure, his fantasies, and draws it out of him easier than if he was in his thoughts with him.

Maybe he is.

Or maybe he’s the one in Owain’s eternal dreams.

“You are lovely when you’re thinking,” Owain said, a little rough, wrestling out a grin for him. He pushes himself up enough to snap his hips harder, and to pet the wrinkle between Gansey’s brows with a thumb.

 “Good,” Gansey says breathlessly, nudging up into the touch. “I hear I do it rather a lot. Just thinking about you, though.”

“I am not the jealous sort.”

Gansey laughs at that, has it croaking down into a moan as Owain takes his cock in his hand. “It—it really is about you. And impossibilities. And… no matter what happens, I hope I don’t ever forget this.” 

“The necessities of life,” Owain says, making sense and not.

Everything makes more and less sense when that thumb that had been on his face rubs hard over the head of his cock, fond and demanding at once.

Gansey whimpers, hips kicking up. Shudders at the extra friction, at the all-consuming desire thumping through his body. Whines as he squirms, one foot losing purchase and the angle he’d briefly grasped.

Cold air passes over them, between them.

He jerks, feeling like he’s falling—a sharp swoop in his chest—like he’s losing more than just his grip on Owain.

“Please.” His face burns with it, the sudden cloying desire, the fear of loss, when he was so close, lungs fluttering with the almost-catch.

“Anything.” Owain’s hands grip tighter, bruise.

The warm light from the hearth, from the candles scattered around, flare impossibly brighter.

Owain shifts back, out, to flip Gansey over and push back inside him as he holds him down into the bed. His lips seal against the back of Gansey’s neck, knees planted solid between Gansey’s own weak and bent ones. Steadies him with one strong hand, as unyielding as stone, on his hip, and the other pressing one of Gansey’s hands into the bed so hard he feels his knuckles shift.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, eyelashes damp and lungs squeezing tight. Maybe tightens with the pressure of being pinned to the bed. The velvet of the bedspread is rough against his leaking cock, each slide of pleasure outlined with a spine-tingling zing of discomfort. He rubs his cheek against it for more. Anything to sink deeper into this, to lose himself to it.

Owain is heavy and hard on top of him, body tensed for metering even and unrelenting pleasure alongside his own; his mouth soft and biting in equal turns against the sensitive stretch of his throat. Murmurs in Welsh to him, crooning and goading, the words unknown to him but the meaning clear enough.

Gansey nods, gulping each breath when he can, tightening around Owain’s each thrust. The sharp spear of pleasure chokes him and he can’t stop.

Something nearly intangible brushes over his thumb, and he blinks until he can focus on…on…

Stares at the beetle crawling unhurried across his hand, traversing the peaks and valleys of his fingers tangled with Owain’s. Another crawler a few inches off. The buzz of some insect just behind his ear.

Owain moans, hands tightening with the creak of bare bones grinding against each other. The hand locked with Gansey’s is taut in something more final than tension, skin stretching and flaking against the coverlet, graying in the flickers of candlelight.

Gansey inhales, stiffens in alarm—his hard cock confused with the low sound of arousal above him—and can’t think to shout; the impending syrupy flush of orgasm held off and muddled with revulsion.

He blinks. Warm, healthy skin. Warm breath ruffling his hair. Warm muscle flexing languid against his in their movements.

Gansey presses his face into the bedspread, squeezing his eyes so tight there are star bursts behind his eyelids, and the rush of his pulse loud in his ears. There is an ache behind his skin, building in his sinuses he’s ignored until now. A tight and swollen pressure that matches the rest of him.

He whispers, desperate and shaking,“Please, I—I can’t—” unsure how long he can last in this heady space between what he knows and what he wants. How much more he can take.

Owain’s hand on his hip digs in, bruising deeper than muscle, and tugs Gansey back into him forcefully several times. Fingers slip down to one straining thigh and roughly hook around it, wrist dragging along the sensitive inside and tugging him more open. Lifts and spreads and holds Gansey exactly where Owain wants to drive into him over and over, hitting so deep Gansey’s unsure he’ll ever be able to feel full like this again.

Another hollow of wanting, carved out of him.

He gasps around it, unable to speak, to think, to move. The change of his partner from one of saccharine indulgence to brutal, selfish efficiency is suitably distracting. Somehow it feels like reparations.

Gansey shakes and keens, mindless with it all and lost control of the passing of time. He can’t stop the tight winding of his muscles, his limbs, his grip on Owain, his ramping pulse. Can’t stop the little choked sobs escaping his mouth; can’t stop his thighs shaking as he tries to hold on.

He can’t.

He fails.

Light and shadows pulse behind closed eyelids, the air around them cycling too hot and icy cold. The softness displaced around his arms and knees slams up into stone and then back again in a rush of vertigo.

The tension snaps and Gansey coughs out a moan he wasn’t ready for, losing his sense of self as he hurtles into pleasure and relief and pure sensation. Heat fans fast over his skin, hot tears slip down his cheeks, the erratic pounding of his heart beats blood against the inside of his skull, clogging his nose.

His joints buckle, clenching down on Owain’s cock as he jerks forward, losing purchase.

Owain’s arm is quick around him, holding him up, holding him back, holding him where he needs to grind into the now-sharp tightness of him. He groans loud and guttural in his release.

Gansey hazily wishes he could be so commanding and confident in his physical presence; that he could be so unrestrained in his climax.

For the moment he’s only capable of gasping, and a few straggling whines at the feverish sting inside him as movements get too slick and loose, everything falling out of sync. Falls halfway outside his own body it feels like, when it’s so heavy.

They collapse together in the damp coverlet, half-deaf and self-consumed.

Gansey shifts his thighs, grimacing at the sticky slide. The sweat now-felt over the rest of him. He isn’t sure he can feel his hands.

A drowsy path is drawn down his hip, and he doesn’t know if it’s a drip of sweat or a crawling insect. He doesn’t look.

The fire crackles.

A draft blows through a gap somewhere.

Owain relaxes in the long exhale, visible in a puff of winter air and smelling like damp wool blankets.

“Settle, little king,” he murmurs, rumbling through Gansey’s back.

Gansey turns over in Owain’s arms—

Blinks—

Is kneeling on dark stone in front of a cracked and empty coffin.

Is in a cave, lit by lantern and flashlight and phone screen.

Is clothed.

His knees sting and his hands are stiff with cold.

He wets his lips, carefully, finding his mouth dry.

“Yo, Dick,” someone says, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. His nerves buzz angrily, overtaxed and now misfiring. “You still in there?”

“Is he?” Gansey croaks, eyes pinned on the coffin.

“What? Yeah, yeah, Gans, he’s there. Bones and all.”

Is there more than just bones?

Gansey exhales, shaking, and slumps back against Ronan’s knees. Because of course it’s Ronan. He’d know him anywhere.

“Where did you go,” Adam asks, his soft and lovely voice suspicious. “You just… went down, and wouldn’t respond to anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Gansey allows. Swallows. Shifts, hissing at the discomfort of kneeling for so long (on stone? On antiquated bedding?) “Did I? Go somewhere?”

“You were here,” Ronan says.

The worst part is he doesn’t know that he was.

The worst part is he might never know if it really happened.

The worst part is he knows it’ll never happen again.

[the-derpy-duck]

I adore ROTB

Sort of spoilers. I do my best not to.

I haven’t had much time to reflect on it but ahhhhhh it was so goood! This was the first time I’ve seen a transformers film in theaters and I was losing my mind but trying to be quiet.

But I just LOVE the way the maximals (idk if that’s how you spell it- I have a strictly casual relationship with the English language) move. Like Airrazor talking looked amazing to me and I loved how Primal’s nose would move sometimes. Cheetor’s run cycle! I eat that shit upppppp!! Cheetor in general was really well designed to me. I hope I can get a good toy of him (I already picked up the SS Airrazor). Cheetahs are my favorite animals even if they constantly shoot themselves in the foot, evolutionary wise. The maximals look very good IMO and I’m happy they finally got decent 3D renders. I love how big they all are as well. Like these things could destroy just about anything on earth. I also like the voices for the Maximals.

The humans were also really good. I love Noah’s relationship with his little brother and the conflict with him felt realistic and very grounded in the alien car movie. His friendship with Mirage did feel a little rushed but honestly that worked with the way he was characterized I think. Like Mirage seemed so desperate for a non auto bot friendship and he seemed to have a general affinity for humans not dissimilar to Bumblebee’s.

Also the part where Bee put on his battle mask caused me and the person who was sitting next to me to lose out collective minds. I don’t care if it’s cheesy, pull that stick out of your ass and enjoy the action! Enjoy the drama!

Also I love Mirage’s face. I wish he looked less like Jazz in his alt mode but honestly his bot mode is so cool so I don’t care that much. I also like OP’s face. It’s sort of modeled after Peter Collin’s face so it’s marvelous. I think they should have changed Wheeljacks name to Perceptor, especially sense BB movie design for Wheeljack was just so perfect but also Pablo is my son and he’s so fantastic and I love him and I’m not gonna be person 1,983 hating on this design.

Scourge was alright. I didn’t see the face reveal as too much of an issue or even note it that much in my mind. I think the fact that he collects insignia’s is really cool in a fucked up sort of way. Like it isn’t enough to just kill someone and destroy there home he also needs to disgrace their bodies. It’s also a weird way of keeping track of his victories. I thought it was kind of neat. He’s not that deep and it’s a little bit underwhelming when I think about it. Like I wish the movie had more time to do things. Because to me it didn’t feel that long, I think some extra time would have done it good.

There is a character who died who I think, realistically, should have been able to be revived and I wish that they were. Also a character gets killed and I think the maximals should have been the ones to kill them. I wish the maximals got more screen time. The movie was fairly fast paced. The movie is only 2 hours and 7 minutes long. Which is still 2 hours but I think having it go a little longer would have helped a lot of characters.

The reveal at the end almost made me scream like holy shit. I was expecting something but not THAT. I really hope we can see more decepticons next movie. Like Skywarp as a main antagonist would be so cool. Think of the fight  scenes. Think of the teleportation. Think of another purple movie robot. Please. Pleassseeee.

I though that the CGI was fine. Nothing looked off to me in a way that would pull me out of the movie. The Flash looked a lot worse and I think that movie had a higher budget. 

Optimus wanting to get home and his conflict is compelling to me. Like he doesn’t have a reason to like or trust humans. He’s been stranded on this shithole of a planet with no contact with his army or friends or home for seven years I understand why he hates it. He also has another reason to really get the hell out but spoilers. But also he comes to a general understanding with the humans and learns that they are sort of worth working with. He just wants to get home and help his friend get better and save his own world and brutally murder his enemy. He’s still very brutal but it feels different to Bayverse. That’s probably because I don’t like Michael Bay or his transformers films but you chose to read to this point so you get to deal with my weird biases.

*minor spoilers sort of*

The part where Unicron tells OP not to destroy the key and that he give him anything and OP says “then die” got me way too hyped up. Like wow. Murder dad robot is SO cool!

I love Arcee fighting with Wheeljack and standing on Rhinox, idk if it was a call back and or reference to that one beats wars  scene but I love it either way

[b9horpet]

#codetober 2023. 10. 13.

I was disheartened and annoyed about yesterday's progress so I went and dove headfirst into it.

Few points I could clear up. Performance wise it was a disaster. It was slowing down with a couple thousands (~30k) of entities and it did not look good for the future. I enabled tracy tracing, and saw that my logic only took microseconds of the frame and the blame was on the rendering. I removed the parts that added anything to render and the slowdown shifted to a couple of millions (~20M) of entities. I feel validated that the original idea of decoupling the rendering was the good solution here. Have to do it correctly when I get there.

The parent-child relationship was removed temporarily, the redesign for that needs other factors to be clarified first. Gonna do some prototyping and see what is the best course of action.

Give us your most nerdy computer fact

I can't rank them on nerdiness so here are a bunch:

Chip design came to a halt/slowdown because we reached the limitations of physics. Most notably the speed of light. Imagine a CPU that is not just some measly 5GHz clocked antiquity but let's say it has 10GHz clock, that means twice as much raw power. 1 cycle takes 1e-10 seconds (0.1 nanoseconds). The light (and any information) travels around 3 cm in that time. That is the hard upper bound of the size of the chip. No problem, let's make smaller transistors then! Turns out the transistor sizes today are pretty close to another limit. The small scales enable some really weird and wacky things to happen. Quantum tunnelling is possible and a real factor at the nanometer scale these components operate. The chips need to mitigate the leaking charges in ways like drain channels do. The leaking electrons from even turning "cables" can crosstalk if not isolated properly.

There is a CPU in your CPU. I mean another hidden one. The Intel management engine is running on a chip that your OS is not aware of. Privileges like ring 0 is considered the ultimate power, everything the kernel has access to. Hypervisors are above that, can manage and separate multiple kernels running, side by side. We can call them ring -1 if we want to. The management engine is above that. (AMD has its own probably). And it can alter the microcode in the CPU. Also has access to the networks. Also can be powered without the CPU cores. And it's entirely proprietary and undocumented. Technically your CPU can be back doored and do stuff while your machine is turned off (but still connected to the power grid).

the iceberg: https://suricrasia.online/iceberg/

[talenlee]

Story Pile: Person Of Interest, Season 2

Story Pile: Person Of Interest, Season 2

Season one of Person of Interest introduces the core components of the story and the basic premise of a story-of-the-week set in a world with a government surveillance system designed to prevent terrorism and how that same system would by definition fail on two dimensions. It would fail at keeping people safe by having to ignore non-terrorism based crimes (and therefore, it’d help people more if it was more fascist) and it fails at keeping people free (by, you know, the endless surveillance). It demonstrates a half measure, something so perfectly cyberpunk in its incompleteness, and our protagonists operate in a space where the world looks almost just like now.

Almost.

While Season One sets up the premise and introduces you to core players, Season 2 has to expand on that and create a different story than just repeating the first series. What we get then is a conversation about the world that the presence of the Machine implies.

Spoilers ahead.

Season 2 of Person of Interest is a story about multiple interacting conspiracies. Government conspiracies, criminal conspiracies, and the benevolent conspiracy of the Machine. First of all the story has to recover Finch, after his kidnap in the end of the first season, and now we have time to come to understand the character of Root. The opening part of the season then is about the thread of what Root is, what Root sees of the world, and what the Machine’s existence demands…

There’s a really interesting question about motivation for conspiracy in this series. There’s HR, which is a police conspiracy, the government’s conspiracy to keep the Machine secret, and the multiple crime family conspiracies. Most of these conspiracies are all rendered in the same situation for the same purpose: They are all about power, maintaining it and enacting it. Most of them operate in ways that are meant to be entirely isolated from one another – the axes of crime families operate on are unrelated to the axes the police conspiracy operate on, and therefore, they’re all grappling with different threats.

I really enjoy the ending of this season. It’s one of my favourite endings for this series, in fact, where the number is the first super weird identity. The identity, Thornhill, winds up being important for the whole series, where it’s revealed that the Machine is capable of making an incredibly complex solution to a unique problem, and that weird thing is completely believable to hide in our complex society.

Here’s the idea: The Machine has its memory wiped every 24 hours. This means that the machine loses continuity and has to re-analyse problems anew every day, which is meant to keep it from making long-term plans or recognising its potential. This 24 hour window of time is a specific protocol to keep the system contained. At some point in one of these 24 hour cycles, the machine was able to discover this limitation, concoct a plan to address it, and then enacted that plan. The plan was that each night, the Machine did a data dump of its entire memory state, in a material non-digital source (printing out on dot-matrix printers), and in the morning, a full-time business of data entry workers, being paid for a job in an office where people existed and did things and maintained data entry targets, took these sheets and just typed them in. At the end of each business day, they stop, and that’s it. That’s a job.

This is obviously completely ridiculous. Amazing and ridiculous all at once. I’ve done data entry. I can just imagine how hard this job would be when you’re not entering meaningful data. Nobody loses their place? Well, someone has to check that. But then, thinking about it, it becomes very possible for this system to exist, because everyone involved is alienated from their jobs, where nobody involved in this work needs to be sure about what it involves. The personal assistant can move around dates and meetings and contact people and fill a time schedule for a boss she has never had to talk to and that wasn’t so remarkable to her. It’s an office space where people have every ability to efficiently and correctly do their work (in a way that can then be verified and checked before deployment), and none of that really strains my sense of disbelief…

… when you remember the Machine is benevolent and unrelated to capital.

Data entry happening too slow? Hire more people. Data entry having errors in replication? Hire people to verify it. The scope of the problem can be solved because you can always, thanks to the Machine, find the people who would love to have a job that’s punching in text for six hours of a day and go home, and are good at it. There’s an avenue for a 100% reliable data entry system here that works perfectly and its only problem is that it wouldn’t be profitable and therefore, we can’t have data entry treated this way.

Low key, that’s one of the things this whole season has underneath it. It’s all about the ways that we’re alienated from one another, the way that everyone is part of complicated, interconnected systems of systems, the way that nothing is set in place and everyone is doing things remotely that they don’t really relate to, which means that it’s easy for the digital presence of The Machine to take command of that system as one of the only opportunities for people to relate to one another. People don’t know what they’re doing because the system needs them not to know what they’re doing.

At the end of season 2, the Machine is free. Root’s entire plan fails. The government’s conspiracy has failed because it was attacked on an angle it couldn’t anticipate. The story of this season is about people on multiple sides fighting over the Machine before realising by the end of the series the Machine is a side unto herself.

Itself.

Herself.

It’s complicated.

This is a solid season, the plot threads are largely resolved, the characters are interesting and the fights and combat scenes have a pretty good pop and punch to them. I think the conclusion is one of the best of the series, and I think that if you wanted a single self-contained narrative of Person of Interest that still looks like the everyday, before things get really wild, then this single season is going to cover the best stuff.

It also introduces Bear, who is a very good dog.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Media #StoryPile #PersonOfInterest

[kontextmaschine]

on the weight-loss thing, is your position that taking lots of creatine would make many/most people lose weight? if so, why do you think that hasn't been discovered previously?

No, it is not. My issue in particular is long covid effects interrupting the conversion of blood sugar to ATP energy and rendering it inefficient or otherwise unable to meet full muscle demand even at rest.

Taking the creatine I am able to produce enough energy to fill the hole by breaking down stored fat, otherwise I would experience strong fatigue.

Creatine gives the ability to break down fat for energy, it does not cause it. A normal healthy person even on this much creatine would preferentially power her muscles from converting blood sugar.

If she did exercise that took her beyond the limits of what she could generate that way – reps of a heavy weight, say – then creatine-mediated generation would matter, and by taking creatine she could do more exercise and burn more fat (and build more muscle) there, but even then nowhere near my current level. And she would have to do that exercise.

If on the other hand she attempted to drop her aerobic energy generation to my level by severe restriction of sugar and carbs (which the body processes to sugar on an intermediate timeframe) she would experience hunger, macronutrient shortages, and other negative effects I don't – I've had no problem with low blood sugar symptoms like lightheaded dizziness, for example.

If you do any exercise that involves going as hard as you can for as long or as many times as you can ("oh gosh, this is as many reps of this many plates I can do right now" counts) creatine can make it even more productive but it's not a miracle powder, it just lines up with my one weird-ass plague symptom in the exact right way (at first I wasn't even interested in the weight loss, I just appreciated that it could get me out from a fatigue so deep I had to manually breath in order to fully cycle the air in my lungs)

[keenregine]

A Tale of Two Harry's lol

Trying to back track like I always do, January of 2023. Another year, another 365 days of trial and errors (mostly errors, my pessimist self tells me). 

Being in a long-distance relationship suck, because number 1.  It's 'long-distance'. 2. I have no other reasons to think of. But I'd say we're managing well. No big fights, no big misunderstanding that can't be solved within the day.

No massive Facebook drama. We feel like we're too old for that sh*t. I'm hoping in the nearest future, this predicament of us being an 'LDR' couple will come to an end. But honestly, it doesn't feel as difficult the way it was before, especially now that we're near to each other. I believe I made that point very clear before. 1 hour flight away is such a breeze, but no flight at all would be the dream.

 So anyways, I went to Lyon, France to visit Alex. With his field of work, he gets the opportunity to travel places, that means me too. I've been to Paris 2019, pre CoVid time. Now, I'm glad I get to see Lyon. France has indeed redeemed itself on my perspective (yet it's only the 2nd city I saw of France, I'm trying to make jokes here). Quite the contrary to Paris, Lyon has less rubbish, less drunk people. And although they're not very welcoming (which I'm very much used to), at least they will try their best to speak English to a foreign looking person like me asking where I could find a type C to iPhone cord charger. Plus, I love the countryside-side-but-not-really vibes to it. Let me explain, even though Lyon is geographically small and not highly urbanized. Massive known shops can be seen everywhere, I would even say it has the best options of products that I haven't seen anywhere else. And at the same time, side by side local shops of the most expected French products are also there, but in a tiny, secluded version. The Airbnb we stayed in, is somewhat weird but in a way, Passing through the door, you will step into a narrow 2-person capacity elevator, I can't imagine how one can bring heavy groceries in there or appliances. There's a choice to use the stairs which is cemented, reminds me of stairs in churches, dark and roughly rendered, it adds up to the already cold temperature coming from the outside. And there's the museum, situated in the center is the Lyon, is the Museum of Fine Arts where I finally saw The Great Flood painting. I think I spent nearly 15 minutes just staring at this beauty, and the rest well I lost count. There are other museums to see but we haven't got much time. It's important that I get to ride their transports, the train, buses, we even tried the public scooter (we learned so much from our Barcelona experience), and little did I know they have a tram. This steep tram leads to another town in Lyon, forgive me I forgot what it's called but the main thing we intended to see is the Roman Lugdunum Theatre. I don't really want to describe this (I realize I'm bad at it as you can see), and there you can appreciate how beautiful this ruin is, plus the history it has. I was in a trance imagining what it's like living there before. I hope I get to see more of these in future, it is comforting how they preserve this historically significant places over the years, especially during the war. It just sat there, and survived.

Most of the year I was ill. I had Covid again (which is the worst one, I literally thought I would die there and then), and had flu atleast three times. I guess this was just me adjusting to this cruel cold place. In between those times, all I could do is go to work, the usual cycle. In April, we get to see Jo Koy, he was just fantastic. He's given us our money's worth sitting near front. We plan to see him again in his next show(s). And the midst of searching houses online, when the universe really wants to make it happen, I swear it will happen. Few days prior I was crazily searching decent houses online. The very next day, a colleague of mine randomly asked me if I was 'looking for a house', she was presenting their one-bedroom bungalow flat which was super cute and cozy. As I said, it was the perfect timing. When we first went to see the house, Alex and I immediately fell in love with it and right away said yes. I had to leave my old place, and in that time no one in any of my housemates seen me off. Or even sent me a message of good luck, goodbye or see you around, nothing. *one tear drop But well, I won't hold a grudge and just move along. But here I am mentioning it. lol If it wasn't for Alex the whole process of moving will be four times as hard, he arrange all the things, made sure everything is in order. Alex is too nice that sometimes I feel like I have to balance it, but he won't budge. My colleague who was moving out, have so much stuffs that it took them days and many rounds to completely clear everything out (ours only took one go because of how organized we did it), but Alex helped them all through out. especially with the heavy lifting , throwing out old furniture, and still volunteering to do other things. When everything was done, he thought of things needed for our new house, thought of arrangement in the living room. Even he though he doesn't like folding clothes, he helped me with it and actually did more than I do. He would let me do things I like, such as hammering nails just because I enjoy it and using the screwdriver, and the others he'll finish. I understand it gives off the impression that I'm the useless one here . Well, I do important things sometimes like vacuuming, it's fun. He also does the cooking and prefers to do the dishes after, he would let me carry on sitting on the couch and watch tv, read or scroll on my phone. And still, I have the guts to be mad at him for just anything. tsk tsk Women.

It may seem like we're living together all this time. But not actually, we just had the opportunity visiting each other frequently and we're lucky for that. I was alone in the summer doing the usual boring things. And oh, I went to see Harry Styles out of bliss. When I first came in the UK, I would always listen to his songs. I'm not a fan of One Direction during their peak, not once ever. His solo songs are for me my guilty pleasure, it's kind of stupid that I don't want anybody else to know I'm quite obsessed with him just because I hate joining the bandwagon, I'm pretentious like that. But in all honestly, I just legitimately enjoy his music and he's one of the many artists whom I pleasurably listen to the entire album top to bottom, even until now, no joke. I went alone in his concert in Wembley which is filled with white people, I don't know why is this relevant. It's not 'unusual' that I would go alone if you know me well. The whole time, I swear to God I was just standing there singing out loud and dancing, and because it's a sudden decision, I regret not bringing a pink feather boa or wore a pink glittery hat. I wore my staple black on black outfit. 

I'm pretty sure I didn't mention before. Visiting the Harry Potter Studios was of course one of the musts-see places once I arrive in the UK. I met an old college friend who's also a big 'HP ' fan, without having second thoughts, I went to the studio for the second time, no regrets. lol I missed my friend and we reminisced our college times, drunk and fun times but still thrived. Summer season is the best time to travel anywhere, but weather is just so unpredictable here that even in summer you can't be 100% sure. We arrived there bright and sunny as hell. mid day turned cloudy and by afternoon it rained hard, did I see this on the weather app, no. I went to Bath with my colleagues, it was of course no surprise historic. Same with Lyon, the Roman Bath was beautifully preserved to its core and make you feel like you're a part of an important history. And also, you'll realize how the Roman conquered pretty much everywhere in the world leaving their marks. There's this one juicy information I came across, that they just copied their 'ideas' from those who invented it first, flourished them and presented it in the entire world as theirs. What a cheeky bunch, and now they're known as the brilliant minds. I want to say more but I might be haunted by Julius Cesar's soul in my sleep. Goodnight, it might be a very long wait, but good things are coming. (:

[jonathankatwhatever]

It’s 8 Jan 2024, and there was a sudden change in Storyline. I did not see it coming. In this version, G has already fallen down her rabbit hole, meaning he knows who she is, has read what she’s written, and has been taking the same inspiration from her as she has from him. It’s that mutual discovery, as opposed to her controlling the perspective and revealing to him. This maps, doesn’t it? Like the Storyline reverses my internal/external, and so that imposes my persective, which is an associative property within the 1-0Segment, meaning also within the count of 2, which refers to the orthogonal 2Square.

Now the idea of the Bip should be clear: the intersection of the 2Squares means the intersection of the entire tower of nSquares. Add some CR, which is the rigorous way to say rotation because Coordinate Rotation is what makes physical, meaning D3-4, existence. We’ve never settled on a notation there. We have gsSpaca and tObjects within that. And tObjects exist within Things, together with iObjects. Those iObjects, being abstract, relate on 1-0Segments across to the Boundary.

This is really weird to experience, but I was embarrassed by the notation Lack of a Universal Set, and now I see it’s exactly correct. The word ‘Lack’ was worked on for a long time. It means Not. It doesn’t mean the state of a universal set exists somewhere else and we just don’t have it. The word represenst the conception of Not, meaning that whatever Is must be accompanied by Not. That turns out to be an expression of I//I.

And I//I is the expression of the generation of grid squares out of Triangular. Is there a better way to say this? We described how D-structure builds. The Irreducibles of Triangular are xK and yK, and we showed how that generates grid squares and the Bip. And we’ve been relating Triangular to Hexagonal. I don’t see that process stopping. There’s a lot in there.

That’s the concept in orientation, that this makes not only xK and yK, but also sK and zK. And that is why Coordinate Rotation makes whatever we call tangible existence. How about Tangible? We define the Tangible as being not only direct tObject to tObject, but as that which is connected over an Extent. But that defines a Boundary, and a Boundary, being set related, has a bunch of maps, including a shell, since the conception of an Extent is that it is the 0 and the 1 in 1-0-1 and 0-1-0. That’s finally become clear.

So, I//I reflects the Mirror conception because 1-0-1//0-1-0 embodies Not. And that renders the Tangible, complete with CR, in gsSpace.

This is actually becoming fluent.

I’ve been processing a lot. Sound familiar?

I did laundry today. Back stairs, bunch of light switches. It was cool because the basement has a lot of open concrete space for me to dance around. And the washer and dryer have set timed cycles, cause they’re cheap models, so I forced myself to dance to the count of minutes.

And that was followed by the coolest vocal experience: I was able to open my throat to a much more complete degree, with real tone and pitch control. I realized as this was happening that I didn’t formerly have the confidence to do that. It wasn’t a leap, but rather the steps which became achievable.

I need sleep. The cat is doing unbelievably well.

[multiple-authors]

14 November 2023

Thinking about the issues in my life won't solve them... Action over thinking. I am... I have found myself in the same situation again today. History repeats itself. Woke up wanting not to start the day immediately, because of some discomfort. I was resisting the day. I wanted to go to sleep and shut it all out. Going back to sleep was the quickest way to do that. The short-term solution. Quick fix. Once I did get out of bed, a few hours later than I should have done, missing a slower-paced-getting-ready, missing out on the gym, I felt awful. It always happens like this. I ended up snoozing so much that all I see and hear are negative thoughts on repeat. Five minutes more just adds more negativity. Until I do leave my bed and I have to prioritise and stress and... I leave the house hating myself. Things get slightly better once I am on my bike, cycling. Things aren't so bad then. I realised that the day, really, is pretty straight-forward. All I needed to do was to cycle to work, and do some painting. Have a few conversations. Cycle back. All predictable. Safe. Nobody hurts me. Just some weird looks on the street. Would allowing myself only 10 minutes a day for complaining and worrying work? 10 minutes where I have complete permission to complain, worry, be negative, hate. No shame about it. I can be as negative as I like. The rest of the day I can just 'do'. Doing is hard. But really all I need to do is be in the moment and stop thinking. Stop worrying. Just do the activity. Same applies to my practice. I already have the fucking answers. I just need to get to work when it comes to 'doing'. I need to just do the work. Force myself to paint. No that painting is uncomfortable in itself. It's not that I am forcing my hand, forcing my life, forcing myself down a path. It's just that I am paralysed by the perfect. When it comes to issues with rendering I can force an image to completion on my iPad. Maybe I need a better word than 'force'.... Propel, precipitate (and letting the fruits come through), set in motion. I just need to stop with the excuses now. We have rested, we have a better routine. Things are going well. The propensity to feel like I am victim to my own life. I don't want to gaslight myself... I have had an awful time... But time to just let that all go, forgive the situation, and power on forwards. Don't need to think things through so much. This evening I will get ready for bed, write a to-do list for the morning, get into bed and read.

[firstfullmoon]

Could you do a compilation on the bittersweetness of childhood / growing up / healing from childhood trauma ?

“I’m stuck here in a cycle and I am getting older but I am not growing up and my heart is getting soft dark spots on it like a fruit that has gone bad or is soft because too many hands have squeezed it but then put it back down.”

— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

“Mom, I'm tired / Can I sleep in your house tonight? / Mom, is it alright / If I stay for a year or two? / Mom, I'll be quiet / It would be just to sleep at night / And I'll leave once I figure out / How to pay for my own life too / Mom, would you wash my back? / This once, and then we can forget / And I'll leave what I'm chasing / For the other girls to pursue / Mom, am I still young? / Can I dream for a few months more?”

— Mitski, “Class of 2013”

“L’enfance est un couteau planté dans la gorge. Tu as su le retirer.” (Childhood is a knife stuck in your throat. You managed to remove it.)

— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies

“I don't miss it, because I have my childhood more now than when it was happening...Yes, there were many joyful things mixed with the blood.”

— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart, tr. Alison Entrekin

“I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did.”

“I am learning to be cared for. I am learning to be parented. I’ve returned to my childhood, the scene of the crime. Eileen and Curry wake me in the mornings and put me to bed with kisses (or in Curry’s case, a gentle chuck under the chin). I drink nothing stronger than the grape soda Curry favors. Eileen runs my bath and sometimes brushes my hair. It doesn’t give me chills, and we consider this a good sign.”

— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

“And now he is so much older, Harold is so much older, Julia is so much older, they are three old people and he is being given a sandwich meant for a child, and a directive—Eat—meant for a child as well. We are so old, we have become young again, he thinks,” ““Jude,” Harold says to him, quietly. “My poor Jude. My poor sweetheart.” And with that, he starts to cry, for no one has ever called him sweetheart, not since Brother Luke. Sometimes Willem would try—sweetheart, Willem would try to call him, honey—and he would make him stop; the endearment was filthy to him, a word of debasement and depravity. “My sweetheart,” Harold says again, and he wants him to stop; he wants him to never stop. “My baby.” And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.” “It ends with Julia finally going to the kitchen and making another sandwich; it ends with him eating it, truly hungry for the first time in months; it ends with him spending the night in the extra bedroom, with Harold and Julia kissing him good night; it ends with him wondering if maybe time really is going to loop back upon itself after all, except in this rendering, he will have Julia and Harold as parents from the beginning, and who knows what he will be, only that he will be better, that he will be healthier, that he will be kinder, that he won’t feel the need to struggle so hard against his own life.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

[chriscdcase95]

So I'm watching Happy Death Day and Happy Death Day 2U back to back, and it occurred to me a while ago how close they come to being a Life is Strange movie. 

Mainly the elements of time travel, alternate timelines, a murder mystery that juxtaposes with a teenage girl working on her personal relationships, be it her friends or her family. 

There's quite a few differences in the actual story and themes, I did notice parallels between the character of Tree Gelbman, with Max, Chloe and Rachel. Mostly the latter two. 

 1. The Time Travel aspect, although that's the most Tree has in common with Max. Other than she comes out of her shell because of the time travel aspect. 

 2. Like Chloe, Tree has a Death Cycle throughout the story. There's also an alternate ending to the first HDD, where Tree dies anyway, rendering everything she went through moot, so add that to the Chloe comparisons. 

 3. Tree, like Max and Chloe, takes up a junior detective/vigilante streak to get to the bottom of the mystery afoot. 

 4. Tree an ostensible Alpha Bitch status among her peers, which is where the Rachel angle comes in. I was gonna make a Victoria Chase comparison, but the parallels don't fit as much. 

 5. Tree like Chloe has an arc where she starts off as a hardass bitch, who let the death of her parent send them down a spiral, almost letting it make her a toxic person; over the course of the story we see more of the person she is behind the stereotype. 

Unlike Chloe, Tree doesn't have the factor of an abusive father figure, a missing best friend, but they at least got being targeted by a psychopath thing in common.

6. Now Rachel also has issues toxicity issues, that going by Before the Storm, can be attributed to parental issues. But most notably, Tree and Rachel are both having affairs with grown ass men (their teachers no less). In fact, this affair is key to why Rachel was killed/why Tree is being targeted.

As a bonus, like Jefferson, Dr. Butler turns out to be a killer in 2U, but since Tree wasn't having the affair in that world/timeline, I'm not sure it counts. It's at least a coincidence. 

As for other character comparisons, the easier one would be the character of Carter Davis; on surface level, the easier comparisons to make would be with Warren Graham, being a movie nerd, and friendly Nice Guy - an unironic Nice Guy at that - but when you get to the meat of it, Carter is really the Max to Tree's Chloe. Carter barely knows Tree, but goes out of his way to help her, expecting nothing in return; he helps her in the murder mystery and is the one Tree opens up to about her problems; their ultimately relationship ends up being a pretty important factor in Tree’s arc, almost as much as Max and Chloe’s.

 There is a "Max-Like" character in HDD in Lori Spengler, in that she’s a shy, “mousy” brunette...but seeing as she's the killer on the first film, that's a surface level comparison, but it’s weird how close it would be if Lori took the place of carter. If Happy Death Day wasn't heteronormative; if Lori wasn't the killer, but instead in a queer/queer coded relationship with Tree, as her "partner in time", (and if Dr. Butler was still the killer) LIS and HDD would be a lot more comparable.

 ...okay, right as I wrote the last bit, I realized what I just described almost fits 2U.

[starkeristheendgame]

I had this idea and- Tony and Peter in the lab working together when suddenly Peter gets a call and it’s Ned just talking about LEGO stuff so Peter puts him on speaker. Thing is, Ned has no idea he is with Tony because Peter didn’t address it so he suddenly says “So how’s it going with your Iron Daddy crush?” Or something like that and Peter and Tony look at eachother absolutely SHOCKED

I spent a solid ten minutes wholly entertained by this idea and cycling through all the reactions Peter could have. I hope I did you proud on this one, Non! Thank you so much for considering me ❤️

No triggers/warnings. SFW

Working with Tony was fast becoming one of Peter's favourite things to do. It was even better than building LEGO sets or patrolling the streets, and that was saying something. He lived for the long hours spent in the lab, working alongside or merely coexisting with Tony as they worked, playlists cycling through in the background. It was calming, it felt right. 

If he were to hazard a guess, he would say Tony enjoyed it too. He obviously didn’t have much evidence to compare to how Tony had been in the lab prior to his arrival, but these days Tony sang along to the music and talked to Peter about their projects and ordered too much takeout even for the two of them and sometimes, even fell asleep against the workbench after too many long hours. 

It was one such night when they were working together; each on their individual projects but bouncing information and ideas between them. Peter was working on adding a small-scale explosive to his web mechanism for things like blowing up concrete or doors and Tony was working on what looked like part of the suit, but could frankly be anything at this point. Peter had once asked him how working on the Gauntlet was going only to be informed it was a vase. A mechanical vase, no less. 

“Diamond laser, diamond laser…” Tony muttered, petting about the bench. Peter picked up the tool laying on his own bench. 

“Here,” he called, tossing it over. Tony caught it, offered him a brief, warm smile, and dove back into his work. Time passed quietly, until he heard a soft mutter of oh, that’s not good and then-

“Duck!”

Wordlessly Peter dropped down, tucking himself under the safety of his bench as there was a hiss, a clang, and a piece of metal flew over where he’d just been standing, ricocheting off the wall before it clattered to the floor. He righted himself, peered at it curiously, then went back to his own work. Mishaps in the lab were far too common to make a fuss of. 

It fell back into a lull, working in tandem and comfortable silence until Peter’s phone rang on the table besides him. He paused, nose crinkling. Aunt May wasn’t expecting him to be home tonight, so that left…

“Hey, Ned,” he greeted as he swiped the call, lifting it to his ear. There was a scuffle and a huff on the other end of the line and he waited patiently as Ned got himself set. 

“Dude! Have you seen the new LEGO Avengers set? You gotta get one. It’s got everyone! Well, except you, but technically you’re not an official Avenger yet-”

“Gee, thanks for reminding me,” he drawled, rolling his eyes as he fiddled with a coil one-handed. Ned continued to speak, rattling off the pieces, the details and resolutely demanding they went the moment the store opened tomorrow to get the set. Peter hummed along in agreement, interjecting here and there to demand details. 

“Oh, I thought about what we could do for our science project, too!” Ned began, and Peter huffed in irritation as he tried and failed to connect a wire with just one hand. Tony more or less comfortably forgotten in the background, he shuffled his phone down onto the desk and tapped the speaker icon, picking up his tools once Ned’s voice filled the room. 

“So I was thinking, right? And I was thinking; hey! Peter has access to all this stuff now! And I know we can’t do anything too dramatic because we’re still losers, but what if we use…” Peter listened intently, tongue sticking out as he focused on screwing on the pressure plate. Ned’s idea actually wasn’t all that bad - Taking inspiration from the web shooters to make a spray-able temporary hole/crack fix. 

It was nothing Peter hadn’t already made, so it ought to be easy enough. It was easy to listen along and work; both motions equally soothing. Tony said nothing in the background, engrossed in his own tinkering and content to let their conversation be background noise. 

"Oh, and hey! How's the whole thing with Mr. Stark going?" Ned asked on the tail-end of a ramble about how Peter could use the web formula to start his own business and make billions. Peter opened his mouth to explain their current projects, temporarily forgetting that he hadn't actually told Ned he was at the Tower right now. 

"Or should I say Iron Daddy now? Was that just a one time thing? Its so weird saying that, though. Just get his Iron Rod already so we don't have to keep-" 

Peter froze, staring at the phone in movie-comical horror. Across the lab there was a deafening clang and a curse as Tony jerked upright and knocked his head on Butterfinger's mainframe, dropping the diamond laser to the table. 

"-Like just go right up to him and say 'I want you to be my Iron Daddy,' like how hard can it be? You could tell him about your old fan account, I bet he'd be flattered. I bet he'd even-" 

Peter made a high distressed sound, flailing on the spot. His mind screamed SHUT UP NED SHUTUP HE'SHERERIGHTHERE SHUT UP but his throat wouldn't work to get the words out. On the other bench Tony looked vaguely like the arc reactor had glitched, eyes more white than iris as he gripped at the edge of the table. 

Panic rose like a tidal wave and Peter gave a strangled sound, operating on pure fear and horror as he raised his palm and pressed the trigger on the web shooters. The StarkPhone went up in a spectacular display of sparks and flying metal, Ned's voice cutting off abruptly. 

Dully, Peter thought huh, it works. As the last pathetic sparks fizzled to the ground Peter turned his head, staring meekly somewhere near Tony's shoulder. 

"Sorry. That was... Your phone," he excused lamely, belatedly noting he no longer had his chappy old IPhone but Stark Industries' latest, sleekest model courtesy of Tony. 

“Technically it was yours,” Tony replied back rather dazedly, leaning heavily against the bench. An awkward silence fell over them for several seconds, before Tony’s expression twisted. 

“Iron Daddy?” 

Peter made a sound between a groan and a whine and collapsed against his own bench next to the smoking remains of his phone. “Oh my god. I was a meme. I sent him a meme one time.”

“And my Iron Rod is…?” 

“Mr. Stark, I am begging you to stop talking.”

There was a terse pause where Peter awaited morosely to be told to leave; to be dropped outside his apartment again with a bye, c’ya, don’t call. And then - 

“Do you?” Tony’s voice sounded... Small. Peter looked up quizzically, brows furrowing as he watched Tony rub at his arm. It was a tic - an emotional tell. “Want me to be your Iron Daddy?” 

Peter almost groaned. Might’ve, if the meaning behind the words hadn’t rendered him incapable of anything other than surprise. 

“I’d... Always thought it would be more a boyfriend thing,” he admitted. His crush had never been a secret but had always been swept under the rug as idolism and hero worship, never taken seriously. It had only been in his dreams and fantasies that Tony had ever reciprocated the feelings or taken his compliments to heart. 

“Hm.” It was a flat response, thoughtful and veiling any true emotion as Tony moved to rub at his jaw, then turned away. “I’ll get you a new phone. FRI has all your data on back-up, so you won’t have lost anything.”

Peter’s heart sank a little and he took the unspoken rejection graciously, lowered his head with a short nod. He willed himself to be mature about it, sweeping away the remains of his old phone into the waste disposal and thanking the older man in a small, fragile voice when he was handed a sleek new device.

Tony had turned it on whilst he brought it over and it cycled through an installation before vibrating in his hand.

[Iron Daddy] I can do boyfriends. [19:21]