#data structure assignments

[nintendont2502]

python save me. save me python

[screambirdscreaming]

The thing about programming is that there's a level on which it feels like total wizard shit, like you're grappling with concepts directly on an abstract plane, splitting them apart and restructuring them into more elegant and fundamental forms, limited only by your own comprehension which you can practically feel expanding as you synthesize constructs and destroy them and remake them

But it is also, simultaneously, one hundred percent pedantic bullshit all the way down.

[singletutor]

Assistance with Data Structure Assignments

Data Structure Assignment Help

Computer science students must comprehend data structures. Because this subject is so significant in computer science, you should know it. If not, our data structure assignment help is best.

Our data structure assignment clarification services eliminate confusion.

Data structures and algorithms must be developed, analysed, and implemented by programming students to solve engineering problems.

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All data structure courses and projects assume students can solve any data structure challenge. Data structure assignments are among the hardest for students. Students today must do extracurriculars, work part-time, and finish assignments on time.

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Data structures help organise digital data in computers. The most common data structures include arrays, stacks, queues, linked lists, and trees. Data structures organise data to enhance storage, retrieval, manipulation, and management.

The data structure topic has two main complimentary goals:

Determining the class of difficulties that functional mathematical operations can address for altering data entities and the best representations for abstract operations.

Arrays, stacks, queues, and linked lists are linear data structures.

Common data structure operations:

Traversing a structure to access each data item

Searching a collection for information

Insertion and deletion: Adding or removing data from an existing collection

Sorting requires ordering data.

merge: combining two structures.

Find out how data structure types differ from data types and other topics by reading on.

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There are many unique data structures. Thus, if you struggle with concepts, programming, logic, and math, you require data structure assignment help.

[helpmyassignment028]

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[gyuswhore]

Statistically Speaking...

part of the svt TA collab

[full fic here]

kim mingyu x reader

est. word count: 10-15k [fat chance]

est. release date: 10th September

warnings: TA! mingyu, fluff, smut [MINORS DNI], angst, statistics, more to be added in final post

synopsis: In all your years of academic endurance, you’ve never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn’t know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,…it could.

‼️ JOIN THE TAGLIST by sending an ask or replying under this post. AGE INDICATORS ON YOUR BLOG ARE NECESSARY. ‼️

[a/n]: first look into the TA collab fic!!! @camandemstudios has been along time in the making and I cant wait for you all to read all of the fics in full. accept this piece offering from me and please let me know what you think of it so far!

masterlist

“Right. How can I help you?”

Pulling out your printed assignment, you bring the sheets of stapled paper to the centre of the table, writing facing him. 

One look at the sparse format of the cover page, Mingyu blows a full mouth of air at the sight of recognition. Without you having to say a thing, he flicks to the very last page, finding the rubric printed on a separate page. 

“It’s a 37,” you inform him like he couldn’t see the bold 37/100 in the bottom Total cell. 

“Do you think you deserved a better grade?” he asks. It would have sounded direct, an accusation even. But he asks with an intonation of genuinity, like he genuinely wanted to know. 

It stumps you regardless.

“Well…I know I can do better, at least,” you decide to answer. 

“You’re here, which means you’re at least willing to try. That’s a start,” he murmurs. His eyes are laser focused on the sheet beneath him, holding it open as his eyes move faster across the page than you can keep up with. Somehow talking to you while taking in the words on the paper.

“I remember marking this,” he says, looking up to address you. “Your concepts are nearly there, but your structure and wording were the problem.”

“You marked them?”

He raises his brow, “I hope that wasn’t an accusation. I need to stick to the rubric.”

“I thought the professor marked the lab reports.”

“He’s…supposed to.” There’s a forced reservedness in his voice. “I mark them and he puts in his comments if he has any. But I’m not sure you’d fare any better than this if it was him behind that pen either.”

Every question that floated in memorisation, from the form and structure, to the nitty gritties of the data presentation, all evaporate as you realise you’re at a loss for words. 

Even more embarrassingly, you feel tears prick the back of your eyes as the next words leave you in a low voice, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“That’s alright,” he says as reassurance, though it sounds awfully rehearsed. Like he says it everyday. “We’ll work through it.”

He lets out a big sigh, adjusting in his chair and running a hand through his hair. The motion has you noticing the dishevelled nature of the mop on his head, un-uniformed and sticking out at certain places, yet still somehow cohesive with his look. His shoulders are straight and taut, fingers working as they fiddle and flick the pen in his hand. 

Despite it all, his shirt is ruffled and creased, unbuttoned at the first couple steps. The buttons are misaligned, one side of his collar higher on his neck than the other. It takes an effort to not reach over and fix it for him.

“Lab reports can be quite tricky if you aren’t sure what you’re doing. Did you refer to the tutorial?”

You mean the one that did nothing to help? “Yes.”

“You got those bits right, format and whatnot. But—”

“It was a lump of writing about subheadings and word counts,” you say plainly.

Mingyu lips are in a tight line. “Well, yes, but it helps—”

“I know the results are supposed to go in the results section. I don’t need a PDF to tell me that,” you cut him off. Your voice is reserved, and you hope it comes off as a point across and not a complaint. Although it was a complaint. “I want to know why the entire section was ruled off as incorrect when we were never properly taught how to write it in the first place.”

“Dr. Cho—”

“Is no help.”

“I understand—”

“He can’t even mark his own papers. I’m quite sure that’s not in your job description. It’s supposed to be him here. Not you.”

It’s silent. There was nothing in your voice that suggested you wished to pick a fight, on the contrary, quite calm and matter of fact. Mingyu’s fingernails are going white as his grip on his pen and paper grow stronger. 

“And yet, we continue to show up. Because we do what we must.” He raises his head in control, a small smile on his face, eyebrows unnaturally raised. “And, better that I’m here rather than no one at all. I can help you too.”

Help, he did. 

Mingyu had made it quite clear his time with you was limited, but by the end of the near 25 minute session, nearly every inch of your printed assignment was covered different colours of notes and corrections, additional papers and post-it notes pasted on the back as you remain careful to not lose them as you slip the stack in your bag. 

It’s only then that you spot the segregated stack of papers in your bag that you remember. 

“I almost forgot,” you say, grabbing the pile and placing it in front of him. 

“Where did you find this?” he asks sharply. 

“You left them at the desk of the lecture hall last week,” you say, before quickly adding, “There was a class right after you left. I took them off the professor’s hands before they got lost. Thought it might be important.”

“I’ve been looking all over for these,” he says as he goes through the pages and files. Random sticky tabs and highlighted regions across the pages. The leather strap watch with the broken clock face remains on top, and he picks it up. He looks up to you with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that feels genuine. “Thank you.”

You flush for some reason, “O–of course, couldn’t just leave them there.”

It isn’t till you’re pushing yourself out of your chair that he says something. “You can come in at 3:30 tomorrow.”

“Pardon?”

He’s stood up as well. “I have a free thirty minutes before office hours formally start. I can help you out a little more without the crowd.” 

Feet planted on the ground, there’s not much you can do but stare. “Um, sure. I can come in a little early.”

He nods casually, “Thanks again for the papers. And the watch.”

You smile, “No problem.”

[communistkenobi]

struggling to reconcile my dislike of the use of “choice” in relation to transgenderism. sex assignment itself is not a choice and I don’t find it meaningful or helpful to think I “chose” to be transgender. in fact there were many things I “chose” to do prior to transitioning to make this feeling go away and it did not. Choice is further wrapped up in intentionally de-politicised ideas about social action and agency, constantly positioned in opposition to “structure” or “social pressure” or what have you. “Choice” is what happens only in the absence of domination, it is the expression of the “individual” trapped within us all. What this leaves you with is a subject who appears to rise above the power of history, making decisions ‘of his own free will’ in spite of all this violence as a result of, um, well that’s not important! Let’s not look at the law or the state or history to see where these ideas of personal individual freedoms come from or how they are themselves enforced through violence. It’s just an individual acting on his desires! To “choose to be trans” in popular consciousness means to be given the privilege of being free from patriarchal social pressures. And this is a line terfs often use - trans people are reinforcing patriarchy by deluding ourselves into thinking we can “simply choose” to be another gender. I think committing to the idea of choice as a concept and all its attendant ideological baggage (overwhelmingly structured by bourgeois legal frameworks in the popular imaginary) forces you into some deeply flawed analyses of power and domination.

And I likewise hate that the other dominant framework is “born this way/born in the wrong body” because of how it naturalises the very political and violent nature of sex assignment and its embeddedness within state census data, administrative architecture, the pathologisation of sex and desire (all of which are not natural or eternal), and so on. furthermore I deeply respect the position other trans people have when they say that they chose to be transgender - outside of conversations of individual validity, I think that is a politically useful and powerful way to position yourself. Even if we were to accept that being transgender is fully a choice, people would still do it, because being trans is not disgusting or shameful. I am not a sick individual, or a tragedy, or a danger to others, I am transgender and that is an incredibly meaningful and fulfilling part of my life. To frame this as a sexual perversion or life-long condition means reinforcing the idea that transgenderism is a shameful deformity (we have much in common with our disabled & intersex comrades in this regard), that the cissexual body is the exclusive site of beauty and authenticity.

And so this is where I find the idea of autonomy much more useful - while ‘choice’ is situated as a thing that individuals do, autonomy is power that is granted to you. I can’t meaningfully demand choice as a political goal, but I can demand autonomy. I don’t want choice, I want the autonomy to act on my desires, and the way that will happen is through the state provision of free hrt, surgery, name and gender marker changes, and so on. Autonomy feels like a much more productive articulation of “choice” because it necessitates that we think about who and what grants autonomy, for what purposes, in which contexts. Who gives a shit about choices! Transgenderism is not a social position an individual can have in society, it is produced through cissexualism, through state and medical sex assignment, through coercion and pathologisation and violence - all of which can be changed.

As a direct comparison, I don’t think people should be given the “choice” to have an abortion, but the autonomy to do so - sure you can choose to get one, but unless there is the medical, financial, and social infrastructure available to you to act on that decision, then that is not a meaningful choice you can “make.” Abortion being legal (and therefore an action you are granted the ‘choice’ to take) doesn’t mean it is actually realisable as a decision, it just means that whoever already has the power & resources to act on that legality will, and those that don’t, won’t. Who decides which people have those resources and which don’t? Well let’s not worry about that, the important thing is that people have choices!

[orellazalonia]

Echoes of a Nobody

Summary: The Avengers discover you may now be working with a hostile organization, sparking confusion, guilt, and questions about whether you were taken or left by choice.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The Tower still functioned. The lights still came on at sunrise, the coffee still brewed automatically, and the world, predictably, still needed saving.

But it wasn’t the same. Not really. They didn’t talk about you anymore. Not in meetings. Not in the break room. Not even in the way people usually mention someone who left like “I wonder how they’re doing,” or “Remember how they used to do this?”

Your name hadn’t been spoken in weeks and no one looked at the desk the same way. Even with the new intern, no one admitted they noticed the difference in the reports. The missing efficiency. The absence of quiet competence. You’d made things easy for them, too easy. Because you hadn’t needed praise. You hadn’t asked questions when the assignments piled too high. You never made a scene when someone else took credit.

You were just… reliable. Invisible.

And now, you were gone. Not fallen in battle. Not reassigned. You left on your own terms. And somehow, that made it worse. Because the truth was, they’d all gotten used to you being around without ever really seeing you.

Sam noticed first. He didn’t say anything out loud, but every time he found an old file tagged with your formatting or caught a smart line of code the intern didn’t recognize, his jaw would clench just a little.

Clint complained more. “Why is everything in the wrong place?” He muttered once, staring at a disorganized gear locker that used to run like clockwork under your watch.

Bruce rubbed his temples during mission debriefs now. Things were falling through. Small details, easily fixable mistakes, but they stacked up. Quietly. Subtly.

As for Bucky, he still didn’t say anything either. He still trained. Still showed up. Still leaned into quiet corners with that girl he was so drawn to, the one with the bright laugh and easy smile. They were exactly what they were meant to be: Happy. Whole. Seen.

Yet still, something in Bucky’s expression occasionally flickered. Like when he asked the intern for last quarter’s field logs, the kind you used to prepare without being asked. The intern blinked had. “Wait, were we supposed to keep those updated?”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t scold. Just nodded tightly and walked away.

He hadn’t really known you. Not the way he knew her. But maybe he knew enough now to feel the edges of your absence even if he didn’t understand it. Because no one really understood what you did until you weren’t there to do it anymore.

And now, the Tower moved on like it always does. Your desk still sat there, empty. No one had claimed it really. And when the lights dimmed and the late night silence crept in, the air around your space felt heavier. Like the room knew something had been lost.

Not loudly. Just quietly. Like everything you ever did.

Therefore, what came next was a surprise to them all. It was Bruce who discovered it first, he didn’t mean to find it.

It was late that day, late enough that the Tower was more shadows than light, more quiet hums of distant servers than footsteps in the halls. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago and he wasn’t even sure why he was still at his desk. The mission reports were dull, mostly cleanup work from intel they’d intercepted last week from an anti-shield faction operating out of the Balkans.

He was skimming out of obligation, not curiosity until he opened the fifth folder.

The file tree wasn’t remarkable at first. Standard formatting. But the subfolders were ordered a little too neatly. The names weren’t generic; they were contextual, smart. Predictive.

Then came the layouts. His eyes narrowed.

Line after line of data filtered across the screen, and his breath caught, not because of the content, but because of the structure.

The headers. The symbols. The little quirks in spacing that most people wouldn’t notice.

But Bruce did. Because he remembered seeing it for years. Quietly, reliably, every week formatted the exact same way. You used to send summaries with this layout. It wasn’t a style. It wasn’t even a system. It was… you. Distinct. Efficient. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Bruce sat up straighter, heart tapping a little faster. He clicked deeper. Opened a timestamped diagnostic from a surveillance relay taken offline days before an attack. Whoever wrote the analysis had restructured the data logs to show energy signatures layered over civilian heat maps. It was clean. Elegant.

Too elegant.

“Wait,” He muttered, leaning closer.

There were redundancies in the formula. Little backups, hidden verification lines built into the metadata. He’d seen them before. He remembered once asking about them, years ago, why you'd included them when no one else did.

You had shrugged. “Because systems fail. People forget. I don’t.”

Bruce’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He sat back slowly, eyes still fixed on the screen. The quiet hum of the tower seemed suddenly louder, more isolating.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Didn’t want to assume something that wasn’t possible. Except… it was. And no matter how much he told himself it couldn’t be you, that this was probably just someone who used your old files, or mimicked your workflow, he felt the truth in his gut.

This wasn’t mimicry. This was your work. Your habits. Your voice, written in lines of code like a ghost.

He didn’t say anything to the others at first. Not yet. Because if he was right… It meant you weren’t just gone. You were working for them now. And there was a high chance, you weren’t coming back.

-

Bruce spent most of the night reviewing the files again, hoping he’d find something, anything that would disprove his gut.

He didn’t.

So when the team gathered for the morning briefing, he stood silently near the edge of the table, clutching his tablet like a lifeline. Steve was mid-sentence about a possible weapons facility when Bruce finally spoke.

“I think she’s working with them.”

The room shifted. It was subtle, but sharp. Natasha looked up. Clint stopped halfway through unwrapping a protein bar. Sam’s brows dipped in confusion. Steve frowned.

“What?” Steve asked.

Bruce tapped his tablet and cast the projection into the center of the room and said your name. The file structure lit up in pale blue: neat, layered, and efficient.

“She designed this,” Bruce said. “The data formatting, the way it parses real-time risk indicators, and the multi-tier flagging structure. This isn’t like hers. This is hers.”

Bucky, who’d been leaning against the wall near the back, arms folded, finally looked over.

“You’re saying she’s helping them now?” He asked, voice low. More like a statement than a question.

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bruce admitted. “But this level of detail? It’s not someone copying her style. It’s her work. I’d bet everything on it.”

Sam squinted at the file, then crossed his arms. “So, what? She was a mole this whole time? Just embedded with us, waiting?”

“No.” Bruce’s tone sharpened. “No way. She didn’t have access to anything sensitive until the last year, and even then she didn’t take advantage of it. This is recent.”

“So she was taken?” Natasha asked. “Maybe they’re forcing her to work for them.”

“Could be,” Steve said quietly. “We’ve seen that happen before.”

Bruce hesitated, his thumb brushing over the edge of his tablet. “If that’s true, then why does this read like she cares? There’s attention to detail in this. Clean backups. This isn't bare minimum compliance. It’s-“

“Deliberate,” Bucky finished.

Everyone turned to him. He didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his arms folded, eyes fixed on the holoscreen, jaw tight.

“She used to keep my files color-coded,” He said after a pause. “Even though I never asked her to. Wouldn’t even have thought to.”

“She did that for you?” Clint muttered. “She never even looked me in the eye.”

“She barely talked,” Sam added.

“Because none of us ever really gave her a reason to,” Natasha said, voice quiet.

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She was reliable. Smart. I just thought she preferred to be behind the scenes.”

Bruce looked down. “Well, if they’re treating her better… if she’s found a place where she feels like she belongs…”

“…Then maybe she didn’t need to be forced,” Natasha finished.

There was a long silence that sank into the walls like fog.

Sam glanced at Steve. “So what do we do?”

No one answered. Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing: If you chose to leave, if you found people who valued you in ways they never did…

Do they even have the right to go after you? And worse, would you even want to come back?

The holoscreen was still glowing when she walked in, heels soft against the floor, a cup of something warm in her hand.

She smiled easily, the kind of smile that made people look up even when they didn’t mean to. Bucky did. His posture eased just slightly, eyes flicking toward her like muscle memory. The one he loved brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she passed him and made her way to the table.

“Hey,” She said with a curious tilt of her head. “What’s all this?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately. Neither did Bruce. The tension still hung from earlier like humidity in the air.

“We think one of our old administrators might be working with the group we’re tracking,” Steve finally said, tone careful.

She blinked. “Oh?” Her eyes flicked to the display, then back. “Who?”

Bruce hesitated. “She left a few months ago. Used to run most of our comm scrubs and data threads.”

A small pause before her mouth curved. “Ohhh. You mean the quiet one? I think I remember her.”

She said it gently, like trying to recall the name of someone she might’ve sat next to in a lecture hall years ago.

“She didn’t talk much, did she?” She continued, sipping her drink. “I always thought she seemed sweet, but kind of… you know. Overwhelmed?”

Bucky didn’t respond. Natasha’s expression sharpened subtly, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t mind.

“She left,” Bruce said, steady but not unkind, “Because we made her feel invisible.”

Her brow rose slightly, as if surprised by the weight of the statement. “Oh. I didn’t realize she felt that way.”

“She might’ve been taken,” Steve said. “Or maybe she joined them willingly. We’re still piecing it together.”

The woman tilted her head. “And you think she’s helping those guys now?”

“We have signs of her system work embedded in their infrastructure,” Bruce confirmed. “The designs match her exactly.”

A thoughtful hum. She leaned lightly against the table. “That’s kind of impressive, actually. I mean… good for her?”

There was a pause.

She blinked. “I just mean, it sounds like she found a place where she fits, you know? I always thought she looked like she didn’t want to be here most of the time.”

“She probably wanted to be useful,” Natasha added.

“Sure, but maybe she is now,” The woman replied, light and certain. “I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh or anything, but if she didn’t have much clearance, how dangerous can it really be?”

Bruce stiffened. “She knew more than anyone realized. She was just never loud about it.”

“Right.” A gentle nod, like she understood. “Still… maybe it’s not worth making this a whole mission. I mean, do we really want to drag her back into this if she’s finally found her place?”

No one answered, not right away.

“She might be compromised,” Steve said firmly. “Or being manipulated.”

“Of course. But if she’s doing it by choice?” She gave a soft, almost sympathetic smile. “It just doesn’t seem worth disrupting everything over someone who didn’t even seem to like being here.”

“Maybe she didn’t like how she was treated,” Bucky muttered.

She blinked again, this time with a little laugh. “Oh… well, we were all busy. I’m sure nobody meant anything by it.”

Sam and Natasha exchanged a look.

She gave Bucky’s arm a soft squeeze. “I just think you all have bigger things to worry about than chasing down someone who’s probably better off without us. But… I know you’ll do what you think is right.”

She offered them all one last sweet smile and drifted out the way she came, calm and weightless as a breeze. Only when she was gone did anyone breathe again.

Bucky’s gaze turned back to holoscreen.

He didn’t know what unsettled him more: her gentle way of brushing it all aside, or the fact that he’d once agreed with her without even thinking twice.

He wasn’t sure what was right anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal

[slattlicker]

college age schlatt i beg 🙏 like the proper nerdy computer science college student everyone seems to forget he was

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * no recursion without return ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: hot engineering nerd meets cute cs nerd. she needs help passing a required class. he needs someone who actually listens. one tutoring session turns into two... and then they build something together. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: college schlatt is real, actually. nerds deserve romance too. i'm so so sorry if this is inaccurate,,, i am an english writing major (who used to be in biochem) so take everything stem-talk in this with the biggest grain of salt ♡

warnings: academic setting · lots of stem talk (cs + engineering) · mutual nerd crushes · slow-burn vibes · tutoring sessions · project bonding · lab flirting · light insecurity · soft & earned first kisses

✧✧✧

it starts with a room that smells like dry-erase markers and burnt coffee.

tuesday afternoon, 3:15 pm. you’re ten minutes early to the cs building’s third-floor lab—mostly because the alternative was sitting through another insufferably slow dining hall lunch, and partly because you weren’t sure if you’d find the place at all.

the whiteboard has a half-erased doodle of a mushroom in glasses. someone’s labeled it fungi with a minor in comp sci.

you snort, drop your bag onto the table, and slide into the nearest swivel chair.

you're not exactly struggling in the class—but you're also not thriving. cs230: data structures and algorithms. it’s mandatory for your minor, and you’ve been putting it off for two semesters too long.

the professor announced last week that office hours would be staffed by the department’s “stem peer guides.” you hadn’t planned on going.

but then the last lab nearly made you cry in the library bathroom.

so here you are.

you’re still tugging your laptop out of your bag when the door creaks.

he walks in backwards—wearing a hoodie that probably cost too much and socks with cartoon ducks on them, juggling two coffees and a laptop under one arm.

“hey—sorry,” he says, turning around and freezing when he spots you. “didn’t think anyone was gonna show up.”

he sets the coffees down. his glasses slide a little down his nose when he tilts his head.

“you here for cs230?”

you nod. “yeah.”

he blinks. then smiles—just a little. you catch the beginnings of smile lines.

“i’m schlatt,” he says. “stem guide. i did the class last year.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and survived?”

“barely.” he slides into the chair across from you and cracks open his laptop. “what are we working on?”

you pause. he’s surprisingly cute for someone who clearly color-codes his life. his keyboard has custom caps. his notes—when he turns the screen to show you—are annotated with little pixel cats.

you try not to show your amusement. “i think i broke my brain trying to write a recursive function.”

schlatt huffs a laugh. “you and everyone else.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, then pushes the other cup toward you.

“extra,” he says. “in case you need brain fuel. also because i got nervous and ordered two by accident and i couldn't tell them i didn't want the other one.”

you accept it without thinking. warm. lightly sweet. you usually take yours iced, but it's cold in this room, so you'll take it.

“thanks,” you murmur.

“no problem,” he says, already pulling up the assignment prompt on his screen. “let’s untangle some loops.”

✧✧✧

you’re twenty minutes in and already rethinking your life choices.

not because schlatt’s bad at explaining things. actually, the opposite.

he’s good. really good.

he’s got the kind of brain that makes metaphors on the fly—comparing recursive functions to russian nesting dolls, stack overflows to a laundry chair that’s reached critical mass, and call stacks to cabinets held open in sequence.

“okay,” he says, spinning the whiteboard toward you, “so imagine you're opening those russian dolls—you know, the ones that keep getting smaller?”

you nod, watching as he draws a series of half-circles nestled inside each other.

“each function call is like opening another doll. every time the function calls itself, it goes one layer deeper. but the only way to start returning values—to actually finish—is to reach the smallest one.”

“the base case,” you murmur, tapping the smallest doll he’s drawn.

his smile quirks. “exactly. once you hit that, you start putting them all back together. one by one, returning values up the chain.”

you tilt your head. “so recursion’s not about jumping around—it's about going in and then back out in the same order.”

“bingo.”

he pivots to his laptop and pulls up a short recursive function on the screen. you lean in.

“okay, next part—this,” he gestures at the lines of indented code, “is the call stack. think of it like trying to put dishes away.”

“…dishes?”

he nods, animated now. “you open a cabinet to put a plate in. then you grab another plate, but instead of closing the first cabinet, you open a second one. and a third. and a fourth. you keep opening cabinets without shutting the old ones.”

you raise an eyebrow. “sounds like how my roommate loads the dishwasher.”

he grins. “right? but the point is, each open cabinet is a function waiting to finish. they can’t finish until the one they just called returns. so when you hit your base case, you finally start closing those cabinets, in reverse order.”

you stare at the screen, tracing the indents with your eyes.

“so,” you start slowly, “the top function keeps waiting—holding its cabinet door open—until the one it just called is done. and that one’s waiting for the one it called. like a long hallway of open doors.”

“yes!” schlatt nearly bounces in his chair. “and that hallway is your stack. it fills from the bottom up—every time you go deeper. but if there’s no base case—or it’s too far down?”

“then the hallway gets too crowded.”

you glance up at him. “and the stack… overflows?”

he throws both hands up, mock-dramatic. “you get it!”

you laugh—really laugh—and shake your head. “it actually makes sense. which is annoying. because i was ready to just declare defeat and become a barista.”

he nudges his coffee toward you. “nah. baristas don’t use call stacks.”

you take a sip, smiling into the lid. “honestly? if you’d used metaphors in the lab handout, i might’ve passed the last quiz.”

“metaphors are how i survive,” he says, then lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy. “they trick your brain into thinking you’re doing storytelling, not math.”

you grin. “you are such a dork.”

“thank you,” he says, deadpan. “that’s the highest compliment in this lab.”

you roll your eyes—but you’re still smiling.

✧✧✧

you hadn’t meant to invite him.

it just slipped out—somewhere between scribbling return values and teasing him for his handwriting—your mouth said, “hey, i’m grabbing food after this. you want to come?” like it was the most normal thing in the world.

he blinked. just once.

then shrugged and said, “sure,” like he wasn’t surprised either.

now you’re sitting across from him at a corner table in the dining hall. your tray’s got a slice of pizza and a sad salad. his has a sandwich, two cookies, and three chocolate milks.

“you know,” you say, chewing thoughtfully, “for someone who talks like a grad student, you eat like a middle schooler.”

he takes a sip of one of the chocolate milks. “middle schoolers are onto something.”

you snort. then pause. then blurt it out—because you’ve been thinking about it since the cs homework started, and he feels safe, in a quiet, weird way:

“okay, don’t judge me, but i’ve been working on this stupid little side project where i’m trying to build a low-power prosthetic hand using recycled printer motors.”

schlatt looks up, mid-bite. “wait. seriously?”

you nod. “yeah, i’ve been salvaging parts from the e-waste lab and retrofitting them. it’s dumb and janky and probably not functional, but—”

“that’s so sick,” he says, with total sincerity. “like—you’re making that from scratch?”

you sit up a little straighter. “well, not the whole thing. i’m using an arduino as the controller right now, because i suck at microprocessors and writing drivers from zero is hell. but i’ve been wiring it to flex sensors, and i’m experimenting with these homebrew 3d-printed phalanges—”

you don’t stop.

not once you get going.

you talk with your hands, gesturing wildly, pulling up half-broken images on your phone, sketching quick shapes on your napkin with a pen in the side-pocket of your backpack.

and the whole time? schlatt just watches.

listens.

not just politely—but engaged. interested. like he wants to hear it all. like you’re not over-explaining, or rambling, or going on too long about a niche thing that keeps your brain lit up at 3am.

you pause somewhere around “wrist articulation via recycled watch gears” and finally look up.

his eyes are warm.

“you know,” he says, grinning, “i think you just activated my stem side quest.”

you blink. “what?”

“i wanna help,” he says. “i mean, if you’ll let me. i’ve never coded a servo system, but… i’m a fast learner. and i think it’s badass.”

you don’t say anything.

not right away.

because your chest feels kind of full. your face feels warm. and for once, your brain doesn’t immediately try to shrink you back down.

instead, you nod. just once. “okay.”

he smiles at you over his chocolate milk.

and you think, shit, maybe office hours weren’t the highlight of the week after all.

✧✧✧

the next few weeks settle into a rhythm.

it starts with tutoring.

once a week turns into twice. then three times. not because you’re struggling (anymore), but because he’s… kind of fun to talk to. at least when he’s not roasting your variable names or trying to explain recursion using empty cereal boxes.

he sits across from you at the library table, hoodie sleeves pushed up, laptop screen smudged from how often he drags his fingers across it to point something out. sometimes he forgets to eat. you learn to pack granola bars in your pencil pouch. he never says thank you—just steals one with a smirk and keeps talking.

you start getting better. grades creeping up. error logs shrinking. you don’t dread opening your ide anymore. the code starts making sense—not just his, but yours.

one afternoon, you casually mention a project idea you’d been playing with—something stupid, just for fun. something to do with hardware integration. you expect him to laugh.

he doesn’t.

he spins his laptop around and starts mapping out a database schema like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

that’s how the side project starts.

lunches get longer. office hours get later. one day you bring your soldering kit to the library, and he lights up like you just handed him a rare pokémon card. the whole table smells like burnt plastic for an hour. no one complains. but no one sits near you either.

you nerd out hard. unapologetically. you find yourself going on tangents—about conductive thread, or how weird the i2c protocol is—and instead of zoning out, he asks questions. good ones. thoughtful ones. he doesn’t just tolerate your rants; he builds on them.

and okay, maybe you start noticing things.

like how he mumbles to himself when he’s focused. or how his hands are always warm. or how he smiles at you—not in a big, charming way, but in a quiet, earned one. like you’re the only one who gets to see this side of him.

it’s nothing serious. just… a shift.

you brush it off.

but your code’s never looked cleaner.

and your heart’s never beat louder.

✧✧✧

it happens by accident.

you’re heading toward the back patio of the student union, iced coffee in one hand, a stack of circuits notes in the other, when you spot him.

schlatt.

at one of the outdoor tables.

not alone.

there’s a group of students—three of them, maybe four—leaning in. cs majors, you recognize them. they’re the type who ask three questions per lecture and answer five more that weren’t theirs. big voices. bragging energy.

you can’t hear everything, but you don’t need to. the body language’s loud enough.

schlatt’s sitting off-center. not really in the circle. elbows tucked in, voice low, like he’s trying to contribute. like he wants to. but they’re talking over him. dismissing. one of them even laughs—not the good kind. the kind you’ve felt in your spine before.

and you watch it happen:

the way schlatt’s mouth tugs tight at the corner. the way he adjusts his sleeve, like it’ll make him smaller. the way he tries one more time to speak, then gives up halfway through the sentence and shrugs it off, pretending it didn’t matter.

they keep talking.

he goes quiet.

you’re frozen in place, coffee sweating through your fingers, because it clicks.

he’s like you.

he is you.

all that time you thought he was the confident one—the one who belonged. the one who was already part of something. but he’s not. not really. not when it comes to this. not when it comes to them.

he’s just better at hiding it.

better at laughing it off.

but the look in his eyes, right then—small and a little tired—that’s a look you know too well.

no one talks about what it feels like when your brain lights up for something and everyone else treats it like a joke.

no one talks about what it’s like to be too much in the wrong direction.

and suddenly, all your late-night rambling about microcontrollers and e-textiles feels different.

because he listened. not just because he was polite. but because he got it. you don't think you've ever felt so fully understood until him.

you take a step forward. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you’re not about to leave him sitting alone in a conversation that doesn’t want him.

not when you know what that feels like.

so you walk over.

“hey, there you are,” you say, nudging your knuckles gently against schlatt’s shoulder. “i was looking for you.”

he turns, surprised—then relieved. “oh—hey y/n.”

“sorry,” one of the students says, hesitant. “uh, are we… interrupting something?”

“nah,” you say, easy. “just didn’t want to miss my favorite stem guide.”

schlatt’s ears go a little pink.

you glance at the table—some kind of project group, you think. their laptops are open, notebooks out, but their conversation’s turned awkward now. the vibe’s off. not hostile—just… cliquey.

“you guys working on something for fundamentals?” you ask, glancing at their notes.

“uh, yeah,” one mutters. “trying to figure out the recursion stuff.”

you smile. “then you’re in luck. this guy’s a recursion whisperer.”

schlatt huffs a little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“i’m serious,” you say, looking at him now. “you explained it to me with like…those russian dolls. made it make sense in ten minutes.”

“you remember the russian dolls?”

“obviously,” you grin. “changed my life.”

he smiles, a little shy, but brighter now.

you turn to the group. “anyway, sorry to interrupt. i just wanted to steal him for a bit. we’re working on something together—well, more like, he’s doing the hard part and i’m nodding along and pretending to contribute.”

they chuckle. the tension eases.

“good luck, though,” you add, friendly. “you’ve got a good one here.”

you tap the back of his hand.

“ready, genius?”

he nods. stands up. follows you without question.

and once you’re a few steps away, you glance over and say, casually but soft:

“for the record? you’re way too smart to sit through that kind of conversation, with those kinds of people, and not say anything.”

his voice is quiet. “didn’t think they really wanted my advice…or any of my input, for that matter.”

"sucks for them," you bump his arm. “i do.”

he looks at you.

and smiles.

“you’re different,” he says.

you shrug. “nah. i just don’t have the patience for people who don’t know a good brain when they’re sitting next to one.”

he laughs under his breath—bashful, but warm.

“besides,” you add, nudging him again, “you’re the only guy on campus who’s ever made me care about code.”

“flattered,” he says, with a little bow of his head. “high praise.”

“it is,” you nod. “don’t let that go to your head, though.”

“too late.”

you both laugh.

and as you walk side-by-side down the hallway, something feels… lighter.

✧✧✧

the lab is mostly empty—just the hum of old fluorescents overhead and the rhythmic click of schlatt’s keyboard echoing off the cinderblock walls.

you’re both hunched over the prototype, wires splayed like spaghetti across the table, your laptop screen casting a pale blue glow over your notes. it’s late. not late-late, but late enough that you’ve lost track of time in that delicious, focus-hazed kind of way.

“okay,” you murmur, “i think that’s the last adjustment on the sensor matrix. wanna try running the loop again?”

schlatt doesn’t answer right away—he’s rereading your code, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open like he’s working through it out loud in his head.

you wait.

he presses enter.

the terminal blinks once more.

and then—

nothing.

the servo doesn’t twitch. the sensor reads null. everything is still.

you groan, letting your head thunk forward onto the table. “are you kidding me?”

“hang on,” schlatt mutters, already scrolling. “it’s not a full crash. there’s something—it’s just not hitting the output loop.”

“i swear,” you grumble, face still mashed into your notes, “if this is another semicolon issue, i’m throwing myself into a ditch.”

“nah,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “it’s not your code.”

you lift your head just enough to side-eye him. “it’s not yours either, huh?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

instead, he reaches for the breadboard, fingers quick and precise as he repositions a single wire—green to yellow. it’s such a small shift you almost miss it.

“that,” he says, “was plugged into the wrong pin.”

you blink.

he presses enter again.

and this time, the prototype moves.

just a little—just a careful curl of synthetic fingers, one joint at a time, like a hesitant wave from a ghost hand.

your jaw drops.

schlatt stares too. for once, he’s quiet.

“…did we—?”

“yeah,” he breathes. “we did.”

you let out a half-laugh, half-squeak. “dude—”

you turn to him without thinking.

and he’s already looking at you.

and before your brain catches up with your body, you’re reaching out—arms around his shoulders, heart in your throat.

he stiffens for a second. then melts into it.

his arms curl around your waist, tentative at first, then tighter. his cheek brushes your temple.

“holy shit,” you whisper, still breathless. “we did it.”

“we really fucking did it.”

the hug lasts longer than it needs to. it shifts. softens. becomes something else.

your hands curl in the fabric of his hoodie. his thumb rubs slow circles at your back.

neither of you move to pull away.

but eventually—awkwardly—you both realize you probably should.

you shift first, just a little, arms loosening. schlatt mirrors you a second later, like he’s waiting for permission.

and then—

your foot bumps a loose cable under the table.

you stumble, just a half step, enough to make you grip his hoodie tighter out of instinct.

he catches you by the elbow—quick, steady—but in doing so, he knocks into the edge of the desk.

a pen clatters to the floor. your hip bangs against the chair. both of you freeze.

then, in perfect harmony:

“sorry—”

“sorry—”

you look at each other.

he’s flushed to the tips of his ears.

you’re no better.

his hand’s still on your elbow. yours is still in the front pocket of his hoodie. neither of you seems to know what to do with yourselves now.

“…so,” you say, trying to laugh it off, “we’re, uh—officially engineers now, right? or, mad scientists? mad engineers? built something that works and almost died doing it.”

“sounds about right,” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting yours.

you step back fully, brushing imaginary lint off your sleeves. he clears his throat and bends to pick up the pen—just a little too quickly.

“we should, uh…” he gestures vaguely at the wires. “log this. before we forget what we changed.”

“yeah,” you nod. “documentation. good. yep. very sexy.”

he snorts.

and the tension cracks just enough for both of you to breathe again.

✧✧✧

friday lunch.

same table.

you’re there first, as usual—tray to the left, elbow room cleared, and your little “project napkin” tucked just out of sight beneath your phone.

it’s not schematics, not exactly. more like an outline of “natural” movements. lean angles. average post-meal proximity. potential trigger phrases that could ease the moment into something more than just eye contact and banter.

it’s stupid. it’s excessive. it’s so you.

but it’s not like you’ve kissed him yet.

and it’s not like you haven’t thought about it. a lot.

he slides into the seat across from you—slightly out of breath, hoodie slightly askew.

“hey,” he says. “sorry, i ran into a professor who wouldn’t stop talking about his cat’s gut biome.”

you snort. “sounds riveting.”

“almost kissed him out of pity.”

you choke on a bite of salad. “what?”

“nothing,” he mumbles, sipping chocolate milk. “just—brain fried. bad sleep. lots of… thinking.”

you nod. you get that.

you were up half the night replaying yesterday’s hug on a loop. you hadn’t meant to squeeze him that tight. hadn’t meant to say “good job, genius” like that. hadn’t meant for your fingers to linger on his hoodie hem when you stepped back.

but he hadn’t pulled away.

so.

so.

you both eat in silence for a minute. your foot brushes his under the table. once. twice.

neither of you moves.

finally, you say it. quiet. almost like a confession.

“i, uh… may have tried to engineer a perfect kiss scenario today.”

he freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth.

“...engineer?”

you nod, cheeks warm. “like… ran a few simulations in my head. built a model. set parameters. i was…probably gonna initiate if you laughed three or more times by the end of lunch.”

his jaw drops. “are you serious?”

“extremely.”

he blinks. “because i wrote a whole conditional loop for this.”

“…what?”

he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out a sticky note. it reads:

python: if eyes_hold >= 3.5 and cafeteria_noise == low: lean_in()

you stare at it.

then back at him.

and burst out laughing. “we’re so stupid.”

“no,” he says, laughing too. “we’re scientists.”

“why can’t we just communicate like normal people?”

“who needs normal?”

he’s still smiling.

you are too.

and this time?

there’s no plan. no diagram. no if/then logic.

you just… lean in. and he meets you halfway.

your noses bump. just slightly. your knees knock beneath the table. it’s clumsy at first—uncoordinated, like every group project you’ve ever had to rescue last-minute.

but then his hand grazes your wrist. your mouth fits against his like it already knew how. like maybe, all along, this wasn’t something to calculate.

it just needed to happen.

and suddenly, none of it feels theoretical. not the way his lips press softly, then more certainly. not the quiet exhale he lets out when you shift just a little closer. not the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie like you’ve done it a hundred times.

no flowchart could’ve planned this.

it’s instinct. it’s connection. it's human.

it’s easy.

you pull back first. slow. breath caught somewhere behind your grin.

but before you can say anything—

he leans back in. less hesitant this time.

his hand cradles the side of your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw. his mouth meets yours like a spark catching on dry kindling—familiar, but heady. deliberate. like he’s trying to commit it to memory. like he’s making up for every time he could’ve kissed you and didn’t.

your heart stutters. your fingers grip the edge of the table.

he tastes like chocolate milk and lip balm and something stupidly addictive.

when you part again—barely—you stay close, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“you’re gonna break my brain,” he whispers.

you grin. “then i guess i'll be the one to tutor you.”

his laugh is low and warm and very, very fond.

“deal.”

[drdemonprince]

I was never really certain about my transition in the way that most gatekeeping hormone prescribers and curious members of the public demand that a trans person be. I didn’t “always know” that I was not cisgender. I haven’t “always known” anything about myself. Very few truths about me have always remained true, my existence is too interpersonal, contextual, and ever-evolving for all of that. (So is most everyone else’s, I think). I don’t think that the fact I’d eventually choose to exercise my body autonomy at age 30 by taking hormones is a decision I could have foreseen when I was a child. All that I knew about being transgender when I was a kid was a fact that most children intuitively know: gender assignment was a violation of my freedom, of everyone’s freedom in fact, and it was wrong. As an infant and then a child and teenager, people kept imposing labels on me; they kept forcing me and my body into prescribed gendered boxes, and while the specific labels and boxes never really felt like the right ones, the most disturbing part about it all was the forcing. No coerced identity would have ever felt right. Children can tell when secrets are being kept from them, and when adults are restricting their choices. They notice that they and the other children are being lined up boy-girl, boy-girl, without ever being told what a girl or a boy even is. They can see their parents frowning when they reach for the doll with the shimmery hair, or climb atop the neighbor kid on the playground. Kids know that they are forbidden from sitting with their legs spread wide or flicking their wrist, and their gender illegibility is shamed in them, long before they get any answers about what gender means or where it comes from or why it’s so important that they make themselves easy to understand.

Like the cloned children in Never Let Me Go��who grow up being conditioned for a life of forced organ donation, children in a cissexist society grow up conditioned to fall within certain gendered boundary lines, and by the time they learn that the reason for this is almost completely arbitrary, they can’t imagine any alternative. Not until some of them hear about gender transition and find the prospect very compelling, for some reason. You can say that reason is because some of us are inherently trans, but there’s absolutely nothing in the way of brain science, genetics research, or even sociological data to back that up. Besides, the search for a biological “reason” that people are transgender or queer runs counter to the goal of queer liberation in the long run. Science only needs to explain the existence of transgender people (or queer people more broadly) if our existence is in some way aberrant or a problem. If queerness is accepted as a form of human diversity that simply exists, then there is no need to excuse it by claiming that it is never a choice. It can be a choice, if a person wants to make it, and hopefully it satisfies them, but maybe it won’t. Freedom to choose means freedom to forever be dissatisfied, to search endlessly for more, and yes, to capable of making a mistake. I would say that viewing myself as transgender was a choice. I decided to break away from the straight, female categories to which I had been assigned, and doing so allowed me to view the legal and societal power structures that had restricted me more clearly. It helped me better understand myself. But that does not mean the actual act of breaking away was always the truest reflection of who I am. The version of me that transitioned was a person on the run — and how a person behaves, thinks, and self-conceives when they are fleeing is not a great reflection of whom they might be if they were safe. If we all lived in a world free from mandatory gender assignment, and where our bodies were not mined for meaning about the kinds of sex we liked, the clothing we should wear, the personality qualities we have, the roles we should play in society, and the connections we are allowed to form with others, who knows who each of us might be. But none of us get to live in that world, or ever gets completely free from the frameworks of heterosexuality and the gender binary. These frameworks shape every legal institution we encounter, every school we attend, every item of clothing we put on, every substance we take into our bodies, every piece of paperwork that ever gets printed about us, and every look another person ever gives us. And so we make due with rewriting and recombining those frameworks as best we can. It should come as no surprise that those us who break away from the binary have to experiment and revise how we understand ourselves quite a bit — sometimes getting things “wrong,” sometimes searching forever for the semblance of something “right.” Sometimes reveling in the “wrongness” of all the available options is kind of the point.

I wrote about my detransition, retransition, and the eternal dissatisfaction that is probably the corest truth of my identity. It's free to read or have narrated to you on my Substack.

[lepidopdragon]

Code. it's code.

Well I mean I guess I'm technically writing again

[simaddix]

Opening TS3 Medieval Market

Hello, my lovelies! Today I would like to talk about an opportunity for our beloved medieval (and historic) TS3 community!

Interested? Well, I guess let’s get into it and see how far it goes.

Why Discord, rather than a Tumblr Community or a personal page?

That’s a great question – and one that might be better explored as time goes on. However, here are a few perks that I’ve noticed.

1: A discord server as a download market presents an ideal solution by combining accessibility, organization, and engagement.

2: Organization – less scattered forums/websites. Discord allows structured categories and channels to keep content well-organized. We have the option to create additional channels or categories to keep content separated – so there’s less confusion when people stop using a tag, or add a new one that other’s aren’t tracking. There are also transferable roles assigned by moderators, so if someone wants to leave – there is no data lost, and the server stays active as usual.

3: Direct downloads – requiring no additional host/server. If you’re a part of the creator discord pages, then you’ll notice there is a hoard of available downloads that bypass the need to go to an alternate download site. Creators can upload their content directly into the appropriate category.

4: Discord servers have little to no spam bots (that I’ve noticed, anyway), and if there are issues, it’s relatively easy to remove those pests and keep the community protected.

5: By centralizing downloads in a dedicated server, creators can upload their content, receive immediate feedback, and build faster relationships with their community, and followers can immediately engage, comment, or download. Discord mimics Tumblr in that it allows for real-time interactions, sneak peeks, polls, events and more.

Here's what I've established so far inside the server:

A welcome channel established for people to drop into the server, and members to say hello!

More channels to host discussions, show off real life/other games/hobbies/etc. And of course, everything TS3 - because we like seeing people play!

All the "Market" tabs you could want! (And if it's not there, we'll add it to the list - free of charge lol)

The "Cargo" section mimics the creator discords a bit in that it allows you to ask WCIFs, make CC requests, trade and barter another member/creator for CC (I.E - swap CAS for BUILD/BUY items, etc), start collab projects, and more.

I highly recommend also keeping up to date with the other creator discords, there's already so much activity there!

_____________________________________________________________

Is the market meant to replace Tumblr pages, other creator discords, or personal pages?

Absolutely not! As we all know, there are many Tumblr pages/websites/servers dedicated to the TS3 community at large. Ts3 has thrived for so long partly because it has such a dedicated modding community, and hosts player-made content. However, distributing and protecting all of the content effectively while also fostering a sense of community is challenging. There has been a massive amount of effort put into the community through wonderful pages such as @katsujiiccfinds and @pis3update, (as well as all the other CC pages out there), I am personally a member of two creator discords that have been essential to me as I’ve learned to create, and now tumblr is exploring the new community options. However, the fallback of this is that hosts get burnt out, stop creating themselves, or abandon pages/websites all the time. There are many of these “ghosts” haunting Tumblr as we speak – though we all love a good comeback story, so to those who have returned, or will return, we all welcome you back with wide open arms! Right? Right! Huzzah! The point is, this discord is not meant to replace any of these options, but it might help us find a centralized location.

Modern/electrical CC will be booed – but possibly tolerated lol

This Discord is being opened as of right now – so don’t be surprised if you pop in and there’s no CC yet. These things take time – Rome wasn’t built in a day.

You will need a Discord account to follow the invite!

Paid only content will not be allowed on this discord. If you would like to upload paid content - you can always start free servers on Discord! When your content is free - absolutely feel free to add it to the market!

See you there! (Please let me know if there are any link issues!)

Personal Letter of Invitation: https://discord.gg/e6skNu9t

[sunsets-and-crows]

I Wanna Be Yours - Chapter 1

Pairing: Sylus X Reader

Words: 4.8K

- - -

Tasked with infiltrating the life of Sylus, the most wanted man in the N109 zone, you're torn between what is right and feels right, blurring the line between duty and desire. As danger escalates, you must decide whether to carry out your mission or succumb to the magnetic pull of the man you're meant to destroy. In this game of power and obsession, betrayal could cost you everything.

Content warnings ⚠️

Dark Themes, Yandere! Reader and Yandere! Sylus! Power play. Violence and Gore. Smut (in later chapters). Stalking/surveillance. Reader slowly losing her mind maybe. Sylus being hot and a menace.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

You’d woken up too early. One of those mornings where your eyes snapped open and your brain decided to start doing laps well before the sun even bothered to show up. Anticipation thrummed under your skin, buzzing through your veins like static. There was a charged suspense hovered in the air. Everyone at the Hunter’s Association could sense it. Something big was coming. 

Captain Jenna had pulled you aside before you left work the night before, quiet voice and sharp eyes. “Come and see me first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve got new mission details for you.” This was not a suggestion. It was an order, one that came wrapped in secrecy and spelled out nothing good. 

So you did what you always did when nerves got the better of you: breakfast, workout, shower. All before sunrise. You’d regret it later when you were half-asleep at your desk, but at least the routine helped. 

Now, sitting across from Captain Jenna, in the dim glow of the ops room, you weren’t so sure.

She didn’t speak at first,, just scrolled through her data pad, the flickering blue light casting harsh shadows across her face. Her expression was unreadable, as always, but her gaze had a new edge, sharper than usual, more assessing. 

You were used to mission briefings, had gone through so many in the past, but something about this one felt different, heavier. Dangerous. 

Finally, she spoke. “The N109 zone.” She didn’t look up. “What do you know about it?”

You blinked. “Uh… I've heard rumours, mostly. I’ve read reports, but I’ve never been there.”

Jenna hummed. “It’s not a place people walk into and survive. Especially not outsiders.” 

You sat up a little straighter, fingers twitching in your lap. “I think I understand how it all works out there. The risks.”

“You don’t.” She tapped the pad and a projection flared to life between you. The N109 zone.  Sprawling clusters of decrepit structures, flickering neon lights and seedy underground hubs all compiled together in a city whose streets more resembled veins than roads. It looked almost abandoned but everyone knew that the N109 zone was far from empty. 

“This is where we’re sending you.” 

Your stomach twisted. Reports and projections weren’t necessary to know what the N109 was about. Everyone in the Association knew. It was the underworld’s favourite playground. Smugglers, mercs, traffickers. The worst of the worst. And at the centre of it all-

“Sylus Qin,” Captain Jenna said, like she’d read your mind. “He runs the zone like it’s his personal empire. And we want him.”

You froze. 

Sylus Qin. 

You’d heard stories, of course, everyone had. He had the type of reputation that entirely preceded him. Brilliant. Brutal. Untouchable. He was the reason for countless operations that turned south and why some hunters categorically refused to even enter the N109 zone. 

“We’re assigning you to bring him in,” Captain Jenna said. 

Everything in your head jammed to a stop. “Me?”

She switched off the projections and fixed you with a steely gaze, one betraying the seriousness of the conversation, as if you had at all misunderstood. 

"This is a high-stakes operation. The Hunter’s Association has been trying to bring Sylus in for years, but he’s too careful. He doesn’t make mistakes. He keeps his allies close and his enemies firmly in check. No one’s managed to get near him. We need you to do what others couldn’t. Get close, make him trust you enough to come willingly." 

It was a death sentence. 

You were sure of it. 

Your hesitation must have shown on your face, understandably so. 

Jenna sighed, her eyes softening a touch at your clear hesitance. “You were personally recommended. By me.”

It didn’t help, but you nodded anyway. 

“He’s not careless,” she continued. “He doesn’t let people get close. Beautiful you can… earn his trust. Get him comfortable. Make him want to come in. That's the mission.”

A laugh had to be stifled at the implication. “You want me to seduce him?”

“I want you to survive,” she said flatly.”if that’s what it takes to make that happen, then… yes.”

Dread, or something worse, crept down your spine. 

“He reads people like books,” she added. “So you better be a damn convincing character.” 

You schooled your features into something resembling calm, even as your brain scrambled for solid ground. “Right. And once I’ve got his trust… I lead him to an extraction point? We arrest him?”

“Exactly. Quietly. Cleanly. No backup. No heroics.”

“No pressure,” you muttered. 

Jenna didn’t even blink at the tone in your voice. “Sylus has outplayed every trap we've set. He’s dismantled teams mid-mission, burned entire networks to the ground and decimated his rivals in inconceivable ways. But he will never see you coming. That’s the angle here.” 

You rubbed a thumb over your palmtrying to smother the nerves crawling under your skin. “And what happens if he does see me coming? If he figures it out, I mean?” 

Her gaze sharpened. “Then you die. Plain and simple.” 

A lovely little motivational poster, that.

She stood, shutting down the data pad and any chance at trying to convince her this was a bad idea. “You’ve been assigned an alias. Equipment’s prepped. Mission begins tomorrow.”

“Why me though?”

“You’ve got a history of slipping into tight spaces and making people trust you.” A pause. “And you’re one of the few who hasn't been on his radar. Yet You’re adaptable. You’ve been at the HA for a long time, never failed in a covert mission and that’s been noticed. By people higher-up .” 

“The Association is sure this will work?" you asked.

Jenna narrowed her gaze, her lips pressed into a hard line. "No. But it’s the best chance we’ve got. The truth is, Sylus is too dangerous to let his network grow any further. The higher-ups have made it clear, they’d prefer him alive. Alive and arrested. If you succeed, this will be the biggest takedown in recent history. You’d be rewarded of course.” Her implication is clear, the promotion you'd been after for years.

You nodded, doubt creeping in. "And if I fail?"

"You won’t." The steel in her voice was unyielding. "Failure isn’t an option. Sylus doesn’t give second chances, and neither do we. You know that.”

The silence suffocated. The mission’s weight crushing the air from your lungs. For a moment, you questioned whether you were truly ready for this,  whether anyone could be. 

“I’ll bring him in,” you said, steady enough.

Jenna gave a short nod. “See that you do.”

You weren’t sure why you’d come out, honestly. Distraction?Denial? Probably both. The bar was buzzing. Neon lights, the low hum of music and the accompanying murmur of too many hunters half-drunk and half-broken. You’d earned a few hours to pretend. 

Back in training, after gruelling missions, this was where your cohort came to breathe.

Tara slid into the booth beside you, like she owned the place, draping  her arm around your shoulder, a drink in her hand. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips as she pulled you in tighter. "You’re going after Sylus freakin’ Qin! I still can’t believe it," she hissed into your ear. 

You gave her a side-eyed stare, barely suppressing a smirk. “Could you say it a little louder, Tara? I don't think the entire bar heard.” 

She snorted, an inelegant but simultaneously adorable sound that only she could pull off. “Oh, puh-lease. Like half the people in here aren’t already gossiping about it.”

You sipped your drink, hoping it’d dull the creeping anxiety. 

“So much for confidential,” you said simply. “Nothing stays a secret long around here.” 

You breathed out a laugh. “I’m not even sure why they picked me for this.” Despite Jenna’s recommendation, others were more experienced. So why you?

Tara gave you a playful shove, your drink sloshing around and threatening to spill as she did so. "Are you kidding? You're a total badass! If anyone can take that on and come out alive, it’s you." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Besides, I heard Sylus is ridiculously hot.”

You choked slightly. “Tara!”

“I’m just saying!” she continued, giggling loudly and brightly. “If you end up in close-quarters, you know really up close and personal, I expect details.”

Xavier, sitting across the table and pretending not to listen, let out a loud cough as he choked on his drink. 

“Oh my god, don’t start. It’s really not like that.” You muttered, trying to drink your grin away.

"But it could be!" She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a teasing whisper. "Think about it. A tall, sexy man. Dangerous, brooding, probably smells like gunpowder and leather…"

“Please,” you groaned. “You’re projecting again.”

Tara wiggled her brows. “I’m manifesting.”

Before you could shut her down again, Xavier’s voice cut through the banter. Quiet , even, but with that unmistakable edge that always made you look twice. 

Xavier finally looked up from his drink, eyes cool but a little too focused. “You know the N109 zone’s not like your other missions, right?”

You didn’t answer right away. His worry scratched at something in your chest.

"Just… be careful."

You looked over. He was still holding his drink, staring at it like it held answers. Eyes lowered, jaw tight. 

“You won’t have backup, and Sylus… he’s a different kind of threat."

His words were thick with an unspoken heaviness, like something else was riding on them. Xavier had always been like this. Quiet concern, wrapped up in something softer, something harder to name. 

"I know,” you said. “I’ll be fine. Captain Jenna wouldn’t have assigned me if she didn’t think I could handle it.”

Tara scoffed, leaned back in her chair with a dramatic eye roll. "Please, Xavier. She’s not a rookie. She’s a grown ass woman. She can handle herself. Besides, she’s not going to let some psycho in a leather coat throw her off her game, even if he does have a jawline sharp enough to perform surgery."

You chuckled under your breath, the edge in your nerves blunted just a little. 

But Xavier’s frown only deepened. "I just don’t like the idea of you going in alone," he said, refocusing his attention on you properly. “I’d feel better if you had some sort of backup."

You sighed, thumb circling the rim of your glass. "It’s a solo mission, Xav. That’s part of the deal. I’m supposed to gain his trust, remember? How can I do that with you hovering around in the background or Tara creaming herself at the mere sight of him?" You tried to lighten the mood, but Xavier’s expression didn’t change. 

“I would cream myself,” Tara uttered cheerfully, not even ashamed. "Actually, gaining his trust…" she added, suddenly humming under her breath. "Mama, I’m in love with a criminal…"

You snorted, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable.”

Tara grinned, proud at her attempt to lighten the mood. “Someone’s gotta keep this place entertaining.” 

Xavier didn’t laugh. His gaze said too much without saying anything at all.  "Just… don’t do anything reckless, okay?"

You met his eyes. That thing, whatever lived behind his concern, was still there. Hovering. Waiting. 

He’d always been protective. Maybe a little too much. You appreciated it.But it made you bristle. Like he was waiting for you to break. He should’ve known you better by now. 

"I won’t," you said, keeping your voice level even as the air between you shifted.

Tara, clinked her glass against yours with a grin. "Cheers to you! The only person brave enough to flirt with death and hopefully get felt up in the process of bringing down the most wanted, sexy criminal!”

You laughed, letting the pressure crack for a moment. "You’re impossible."

"And proud of it," she quipped right back. 

The conversation drifted after that, skimming lighter waters. You let yourself get swept up in the celebration with the music from the bar filling in the gaps between conversations, for a while, you let yourself forget about tomorrow. About the N109 zone. About the fact that you might not come back. 

But then you caught Xavier watching again. Quiet and unreadable. Something still unsaid, still sitting behind his eyes. 

You swallowed, the words falling out like a reflex.

"I’ll be fine," you said again, quieter this time. Almost to yourself.

Xavier didn't push. Didn’t argue. He just raised his glass, his voice soft and steady. "To your success,” he said. “And your safety."

Tara beamed, “To the girl who’s gonna take down the galaxy’s hottest criminal and live to give me every filthy detail.” 

You clinked glasses. Smiled, and tried not to let the unease ruin the taste of victory.

Your first day in the N109 zone was, in a word, disastrous.

The unease started before you even crossed the city line. Slow and cloying, like humidity that stuck to your skin and refused to let go. The air was thicker here. Tighter. Charged with tension, secrets and the kind of danger that stays quiet. Street lights flickered with erratic pulses, casting shadows that writhed and pulsed across cracked pavements. The sky above was bruised and murky, tinged with the threat of a sunrise that would never happen. 

You’d read the files. Done the prep. But none of that could’ve prepared you for this. 

You pulled up the map on your Hunter’s watch, keeping your head low as you moved deeper into the district. The glowing display lighting-up in the half-dark, acting almost like a torch lighting your way. 

Information flowed like a murky river in the N109 zone, and every face you passed felt like a mask hiding something sinister. Their eyes slid past, knowing looks, cold, dismissive. You didn’t belong. 

The first few contacts led nowhere. Dead ends. One after the other that led deeper into the seedy underbelly of the district. Conversations fizzled into silence, doors slammed before a word left your mouth. No one wanted to talk, and even fewer wanted to talk about him. 

You lingered outside a rundown bar, trying to recalibrate. You were drowning in it, completely out of your depth. 

“Hey, you new around here?” a rough-looking man asked, eyeing you as he lingered in the doorway. His crooked smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

You didn’t flinch. “Just looking for information.”

He chuckled, the sound sending spit flying in your direction. “Yeah?” he said when he finally collected himself from the hilarity of the conversation so far. “Then you’ll wanna stop wearing that.” he gestured lazily to your clothes. 

You bristled at the implication. This could go bad fast. He chuckled again at your clear discomfort. “You stick out like a bright, shiny cop.” 

Relief crept in as the threat passed. Your shoulders eased. You looked at yourself. HA issued boots, jacket, gear just subtle enough to pass in a normal area. But this wasn't a normal area. It was the N109 zone. 

“Duly noted.”

“And what information are you looking for anyway?” he asked, his tone turning casual. 

You paused, mulling over your next words carefully. “Sylus Qin.” 

His expression shifted the second the name left your mouth. The amusement vanishing. His jaw tightened. “Don't say his name like that,” he muttered. “He’s not the guy you wanna be messin’ with, sweetheart.” 

You stiffened, but stayed silent. 

“Best advice you’re gonna get today?” he turned to leave. “Stop asking about him.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the never ending shadows. 

You stood there for a moment, frustration bleeding through your mask. This wasn’t working. You needed to be smarter. Subtler. Starting tomorrow, you’d change everything. It was time to ditch the uniform, blend in, move like the locals. All black. No insignia. Eyes open. Mouth shut.

Because what the files could never tell you about this place, was that the N109 zone wasn’t just dangerous. It was alive. It hated outsiders. And the beating heart of it was Sylus Qin

By the time night fell, your nerves were frayed and your instincts were screaming at you to get as far away as you could. So you cut your losses and made your way back to Linkon, head down, heart racing. 

You leaned against the wall of your living room and stared at your watch, willing the day to make sense. It didn’t.

The mission felt less like infiltration and more like walking into quicksand. 

The darkness of the N109 zone was not just a backdrop, it was an entity that clung to you, whispering of your inexperience and vulnerability. 

The days that followed weren’t much easier, just quieter. A strange familiarity began to wave into your routine. You stopped trying to push and started watching instead. Listening. Adapting. 

This is what you were good at. 

A strange sense of routine began to weave itself into your days. Slipping into seedy businesses where no one asked names and everyone was armed, became your norm. The subtle nuances of the district's unspoken rules and underhanded dealings revealed themselves little by little. And slowly, you learned how to navigate the complexities of the very top layer of the N109 zone. 

You tried to blend in, just enough to rouse a few glances, never suspicion. You honed your investigative instincts. 

Eavesdropping in beat-up coffee shops, letting yourself fade into the background, until slowly, the district started to shift around you. Not welcoming exactly, but less hostile. You learned the rhythm of the place. Where not to walk. When to keep your eyes down. Who to avoid. 

And the whispers started to take shape. 

Shipments. Deals. Power shifts. Him. 

“It’s near the old foundry,” a waitress murmured one afternoon, passing a coded envelope to a greasy looking regular.  “He runs things from a compound, in one of them old manor houses. He keeps to himself mostly, but you’ll know it when you see it. Just follow the road past the southern docks.”

That was all you needed. 

Your pulse spiked, a rush of determination thrumming through your veins. You wanted to run out and chase down the new lead, but you kept your composure. Keep it casual. You sipped your drink, stood up slowly and made your move. 

A first move on a chessboard that you hadn’t even discovered yet. 

You found the estate easier than expected.

It stood, proud and tall, just beyond the southern docks, like something from another era. A manor really, an old stately home, refurbished but not flashy. Its structure loomed tall against the decay around it, its wrought-iron gates polished, its exterior immaculate in a way that felt… deliberate. A calculated flex. 

The house seemed to hum with unspoken arrogance. I don't need to hide. I own this place. 

This was Onychinus’ base of operations. And the home of Sylus Qin. 

You watched from across the street, half-shrouded in shadow, your breath catching in your throat as movement stirred near the gate. 

Finally, you saw him. 

Sylus. 

No confirmation needed. You just knew. 

He stepped out from a side building, blazer draped over his broad shoulders like a goddamn magazine cover. His silver hair tousled in that perfect, reckless way that made it look like he either didn’t care or had killed the last person who tried to touch it. His red eyes scanned the streets. No urgency. No paranoia. Just… command. 

He walked like a man who never needed to run. There was nothing in the galaxy that could challenge him, so why would that ever be needed. 

Too tall. The kind of height that shrank everyone around him, physically, psychologically, spiritually. And it wasn’t just the height. It was the way he moved. Fluid and calculated. Each step made with deliberate grace and dangerous intent. His steps were quiet, but you felt them. Measured. Controlled. Dangerous. 

His presence, even from such a distance, was commanding. 

Your eyes betrayed you. 

Blame Tara and her thirsty little fantasies.

They trailed down. To his arms, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. Veins, tendons, lines that shouldn’t be distracting. The shirt was slim-fitting, the material clinging to him like it was lucky to be there. 

Your brain short-circuited at his proportions. Broad chest. Narrow waist. The ratio alone should’ve been illegal. Every line of him was sculpted like some bored deity decided to make a man too attractive for his own damn good. You blinked hard, tried to reel it in. 

And then… his hands. 

Strong. Elegant. The kind of hands that could probably dismantle a gun in five seconds flat, or dismantle you in half that time. Hands like those had always been your weakness. You could imagine exactly how they’d feel, tracing your- nope. You shut that thought down immediately. 

He was a criminal. A warlord. A manipulative psychopath with a kill count longer than your resume. His hands, as beautiful as they were, had more blood on them than you could ever imagine. There was nothing innocent about them.

And yet… you couldn’t look away.

No one could. He walked in a room and people reacted, it wasn’t in fear or reverence. It was gravity. A directional pull of people towards him. 

Your eyes snapped back up. 

His face was angled slightly away, but even in profile, you saw enough. Sharp jaw, cleanly shaven and skin so smooth it would’ve made Greek statues cry at the injustice of the perfect marble. Lips full and infuriatingly kissable. You physically clenched your jaw at the sight, curing the heat that rose in your cheeks. 

This was bad. You were in trouble. Not because he was dangerous, you already knew that. But because your body was betraying you. Heart racing. Mouth dry. Thoughts swirling in very unprofessional directions. 

You thought of Tara, and her endless teasing. “Tell me if he’s hot.” she’d said. She had no idea. 

You’d tell her the truth later. Maybe. Or maybe you’d lie. Maybe you’d say he looked normal. Plain. Not like someone who made you forget how to breathe for a full sixty seconds. 

You forced yourself to focus. You had a job to do. There was no time to be mentally writing fanfiction about your target. 

But then… 

He smiled at someone. A soft, beautiful thing that made something in your chest twist, hard. 

Shit.

Now you’d found him, you kept your surveillance as tight. As tight as you could manage. 

It started small. Quick glimpses as he moved through the N109 zone. You tracked his movements, noted down his patterns and filed away every minute detail into reports. That was the plan. That was the job. 

But he kept…surprising you. 

One morning, early, you saw him pull up in a sleek, matte black car. Expensive. Exactly the kind of car you’d expect a power-hungry kingpin to flaunt. You figured he was off to conduct shady dealings. Intimidation, a shakedown, smacking an orphan or two. Standard Sylus behaviour. 

Except, he opened the trunk and it was full of…tuna. Dozens of tins, stacked neatly like a pantry haul. You blinked. Then just stared, dumbfounded as he carried them into a narrow alleyway and crouched before a rusted pipe. A swarm of stray cats sat, waiting for him like worshippers at an altar. 

And he fed them. All of them. 

There was no rush to his moments, it clearly wasn’t a chore. His precision betrayed the ritual of it. And it tugged at something deep in you. 

One of the cats, a scruffy tabby with half an ear, nuzzled his boot and he reached down, petting it oh so gently. 

You heart fluttered and you hated it.

Get a grip. None of this erased the man’s body count, but it did make you forget it momentarily. 

Still, the way he knelt, getting his trousers dirty without a second thought. The way his fingers curled and caressed the soft ear of the little animal… it didn’t match the man in the reports.

It didn’t line up. It clashed hard  with every story you’d heard. The blood. The warnings from Captain Jenna, Xavier, everyone. 

And it was messing with you. 

A few days later, you saw him outside a rundown school on the edge of the zone. The building was a husk of its former glory. Cracked windows, crumbling paint, the playground rusting into the dirt. Still, resilient as ever, kids ran circles around each other, laughing, playing, like they didn’t know the world wanted to chew them up and spit them back out again as hollow shells. 

Sylus approached the headmaster and handed over a thick envelope. It was a quiet exchange. The headmaster’s eyes misted as he opened it. Sylus just nodded and walked away. 

You wrote it down anyway. Not for the Hunter’s Association. For you, because your brain wouldn’t let it go.

Why would he do that?

What was the angle?

The lines blurred a little more every day. You watched him meet with an array of men and women. Suits, shadows, finery, tattoos. Every kind of person. There was no shouting. No threats. Just…smiles. Handshakes. Laughter, sometimes. He talked with people like a leader, not a tyrant. 

You knew what he could do. But watching this version of him, soft, almost kind, it rattled something loose.

You tried following him on foot once, just to see where he went after these meetings. But his stride was relentless. Long legs. Unbothered pace. You couldn’t keep up without making it obvious, and you hated how much you appreciated the sight of him. 

Eventually you gave up and fell back on your surveillance equipment instead. Cameras, drones, audio links. Cold tools that didn’t care how attractive he looked in low light. 

The problem wormed its way into your mind, taking root there and niggling just enough to have you thinking. 

Who the hell was Sylus Qin really?

The question followed you home. Haunted you into the morning. Even as you prepped your gear and checked your optics.

Your professional mask slipped, just a touch. The feeling of being lost, chasing your own and his tail, gnawed at you. 

A few days later though, for once, you were ahead of him. 

You’d overheard it in passing. Just a sliver of conversation between two dealers in a grimy back alley cafe. Names dropped too casually. A location. A time. You hadn’t expected it to mean anything, but instinct told you to follow it up. 

And once you were situated in the steel rafters of a warehouse, it was clear that your hunch had been right. 

For once, you weren’t chasing him. 

He didn't even know you were there. 

The space below you was empty save for the people that Sylus would be meeting. The air was still, speckled with dust that shone in strips, lit by old industrial lighting that buzzed irritatingly overhead. Exposed brick walls stretched upwards, rusted metal beams crisscrossing like the ribs of something long-dead.

It was quiet, but not calm. There was a tension that stretched, taut. Raising the hair on the back of your neck, twisting low in your tummy. Like something was waiting to snap. 

You adjusted your position quietly, setting up the mic, eyes scanning. 

He wasn’t here… yet. 

You pulled out your data pad, creating an entry for the meeting. 

8:45 pm 51.49217141714811, -0.19296825975441936 Matthew Halbard - 43 Y/O (see file attached) Details: MH and associates present. High-grade weapon components and altered protocores visible.

Matthew Halbard was a weapons dealer in the N109 zone. The Association already had a file on him, one that was rather comprehensive. 

He was a mid-level player, with a top floor ego, dressed like money but stinking of desperation. He’d clawed his way into the outer edges of power in the N109 zone by making all the right friends and screwing over all the right enemies. Until he started believing his own hype. Extortion, tech trafficking, suspected murders. None of it unusual for the line of work he did. 

You folded away the data pad and stored it as you heard a set of footsteps that you recognised. 

And there he was. 

No fanfare. No armed guards. No announcement. Just Sylus, walking in like he owned every inch of ground his boots touched. And he probably did. 

He was flanked by two men in crow masks who left after a discreet nod from Sylus himself. He dismissed them.

The light hit him differently here. Harsher. His blazer still hung off his shoulders with that effortless sort of confidence, but the softness you’d seen in daylight hours was gone. Here, under this fractured lighting, he looked sharper. More angular. And somehow older than his 28 years. 

Halbard waited for him, surrounded by armed men and a few low-rank enforces, all posturing and arrogance. 

None of them spoke at first. They both just stood there, seemingly sizing each other up. 

You trained your scope on Sylus. 

He was calm but alert. His stance was loose in the shoulders, shifting his weight from heel to heel. Each movement precise. Minimal. Tense beneath the surface, like bowstring being pulled back just right.

Eventually, they exchanged pleasantries. Discussed the trade. 

Halbard must have taken Sylus’ stillness for acceptance or compliance.

He started posturing. Gesturing too wide, talking too loud, spinning some bullshit about pricing, loyalty, supply chains. You couldn’t catch every word but the smugness carried just fine. 

You waited, watching for any sign of tension from Sylus. And then, something shifted. 

You weren’t sure when, but suddenly, you could feel it. The moment things turned. The way the tension in the room thickened, the way Sylus’ posture changed by a millimeter. 

You leaned in close, heart picking up speed. 

They must have felt it. Sylus’ instincts had to have been sharpened over the years right? He had to know that something wasn’t right. That Halbard had something other than trades and deals on his mind. 

The smallest twitch. A hand going for a concealed weapon. 

One of Halbard’s men. 

Stupid.

Sylus exhaled. 

The man who reached for his weapon froze mid-motion. Strands of red and black wrapping around his limbs and jerking him unnaturally. His limbs seized. His breath came out shaky and tight, like he was being grabbed by the throat and spine all at once. His feet lifted off the ground, body hovering for half a heartbeat.

And then he crumpled. 

Literally.

His body folded in on itself with a sickening crunch, bones snapping like twigs as his chest caved under the pressure of the energy. 

Sylus’ evol. 

It wasn’t showy or explosive. 

Just precise, silent. Inescapable. 

The others reached for their own weapons with barely enough time to process what they'd seen before Sylus moved. 

He was armed, of course. But he didn’t draw.

He grinned, something sinister and sardonic that had fear stabbing through your body. 

He dismantled their attack with brutal efficiency, each movement deliberate and lethal. A force of nature with his fists and evol working together. His knuckles glowed with the same red light that crushed Halbard’s man. Each hit resonated in the space, a thunderclap echoing through the metal beams above. 

His Evol sliced through the air with deadly accuracy. 

Every strike was purposeful. No movement wasted. Sylus tortured them, calmly, decisively, acting as both judge and executioner in a single breath.  The executions were brutal. Calculated. Each one more grotesque than the last. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Every death was horrific, yet undeniably earned. They’d  underestimated him. And maybe… so had you.

This wasn’t a fight. It was a culling. 

Halbard made a break for it. Coward. He bolted toward the loading bay doors, already yelling something about betrayal. 

Sylus turned.

Raised his hand. 

And Halbard stopped.

Just stopped mid-stride, frozen in place. 

Sylus closed his fist, the red tendrils tightening around Halbard’s body. Reminiscent of how snakes constrict around their prey. 

Halbard gasped, hands flying to his throat as his feet left the floor. His body dangled a few feet off the ground. Shaking. Twitching. Held in place by those ominous red and black strands.

Sylus walked slowly towards him. His evol flickering and pulsing, thrumming with energy. Steady and controlled. 

He stopped just short of Halbard’s feet and spoke in a soft hush. You couldn’t hear the words but their effect was clear. Halbard sobbed. Something deep and guttural tearing from his between his lips. A plea maybe.

Sylus tiltedhis head and without so much as a flicker of emotion, he lowered his hand. 

Halbard dropped like dead weight. Alive, but broken. 

Dust curled around Sylus’ boots as he stood over him. And then, he smiled. 

The same smile you’d seen when he fed the cats in the alley. Warm. private. Unsettling. 

He looked up.

Your blood ran cold as his gaze swept the ceiling. Not frantic. Not searching. Just… checking.

You stilled completely. Didn’t so much as breathe. Your mic off, hidden in the shadows. Thankfully, you were completely hidden.

He couldn't see you. 

It was the perfect time to make your escape. 

And that you did. As soon as the coast was clear you were gone. The adrenaline thundering in your chest urging you to go fast. Faster. 

Sylus’ lips curled upward in a smirk as he snapped his fingers. 

“Mephisto.”

The dark bird on a distant beam tilted its head towards its master. The lenses in its eyes shifting with a mechanical whirr, like it was listening. 

 “Keep an eye on that one,” he murmured, an amused smirk curling his lips. “Let’s see what she does next.”

 In your apartment, everything felt… off.

You showered. Changed. Poured yourself something strong and tried to ignore the slight shake of your fingers that made the bottle rattle against your glass. You told yourself that the tightness in your chest was just adrenaline wearing off. 

But the images wouldn’t stop replaying over and over again in your head. 

You paced. Got up again. Watched the footage from the warehouse, then turned it off five seconds in. 

The crunch of bones..

The way his evol moved like an extension of his will. Of him. 

And his face. 

His beautiful, un bothered face. Focused and so serene. 

You leaned your forehead against the windowpane, the glass cool against your skin. The lights from Linkon twinkled lazily outside. The trees swayed in the summer winds. Cars on the road. Normal things. 

But you didn’t feel normal.

You felt on edge. Like his eyes had followed you home, like you were an exhibition.

How could it be that this vicious predator was the same Sylus that you saw feeding stray cats and donating to schools? The same man that you had begun to almost romanticise as a misunderstood, misrepresented, soft-hearted man.

You shook the thought off. You were jumpy, understandably so. He hadn’t seen you. You were careful. You’d been careful. Everything was clean, untraceable. You’d covered your tracks.

You knew you had. 

You turned away from the window, reaching for your drink to clear your head. Two piercing eyes stared back at you from the balcony’s edge, making you almost scramble backwards in fear. 

It was a bird. 

Large. Unnervingly still. Feathers black as oil slick, eyes sharp and glassy. It didn’t twitch. Didn’t caw. It just… stared at you. 

You took a step to either side, growing more unnerved as its gaze followed you. Too smoothly. Too deliberate. 

You squinted at the thing. “What a strange…bird,” you murmured. 

It cocked its head, as if acknowledging the comment. And, as if realising that you were uncomfortable, the bird gave a soft, mechanical click. Its wings stretched once. Then it launched into the night and vanished.

Gone.

You stood there for a long moment, pulse thrumming, hand clutching at your chest. 

Sylus leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of a dozen surveillance feeds reflecting in his eyes. The bird cawed and flew to land on its perch in the corner of the room.  “Mephisto,” he chuckled, a spark of amusement lighting his carmine eyes as he leaned back in his chair, focussing entirely on the footage of you in your apartment. 

The bird let out a soft caw, feathers ruffling in something that almost looked smug.

Sylus chuckled under his breath, reaching for the glass of whiskey on the table beside him.

“That’s her, then,” he murmured. “Curious little kitten.”

He brought the drink to his lips, eyes fixed on the screen as you reappeared. Nervous and unsettled, pacing like someone being hunted.

“Maybe you ought to be a little more subtle next time,” he drawled lazily to the bird. “We don’t want her to know we're onto her.” 

Mephisto cawed in response. Its orders received. 

“Let her think she’s winning,” Sylus said softly, mostly to himself. “Let her think she’s safe.”

He smiled.

“That’s when hunters are the most interesting.”

I hope you enjoyed chapter 1! Please let me know what you think ♥️ reach out. Let’s talk! 🌹 I've finally re-written this chapter! It was a labour of love but I'm so hapy with how it's turned out! Let me know what you think pleeeeaaasseeee!

[miyadollie]

𐙚 DRAWN INTO YOU part one ♡ . part two ★ starring fine arts student sunghoon x fem cs student reader ☆ wc 1k ☆ has fluff , slow burn(ish) , comfort fic material <3 , slightly ooc hoonie ☆ miya says !! PLEASE NOTE that even if ur not a cs student u can still enjoy this fic TT i just couldnt write vaguely for a subject so i mentioned cs , its only mentioned like twice so u can ignore it :3

part one — the first sketch you don’t see him at first.

the campus lawn is uneven in places, but you’ve found a spot where the grass is soft and doesn’t stain. it’s early in the semester, the sun mild and slanting, and there’s enough wind to keep the heat from clinging to your skin. you have your laptop open, knees drawn close, and fingers paused mid-code. there’s a bug in your program you can’t quite trace, and every time you run it, something new goes wrong.

you sigh and sit back. a straw wrapper flutters beside your shoe.

a few metres away, someone else is sketching. you don’t know that.

he’s sitting beneath one of the older trees, branches stitched like quiet lace above his head. he wasn’t planning to draw today—his studio assignment’s due in two weeks and he’s behind on his sculpture work—but he saw you hunched over your screen and couldn’t look away.

you look like a still from a film, unposed. real. a little frown between your brows, your thumb absently brushing the corner of your keyboard as you think.

he sketches quietly. not all at once, not with grand movements, but in pieces. the curve of your wrist. the way your hair catches the sun. the subtle shift in your posture when something clicks in your mind.

you don’t see him.

but he’s already seen you.

—

you meet three weeks later.

it’s at a mixer organized by your department—not the kind of event you usually attend. but your roommate dragged you along with promises of free food and the chance to meet upperclassmen who could share notes.

the room is too warm, crowded with students standing in half-circles, laughing a little too loud. you linger by the table with the juice boxes, scanning for a quiet exit.

then someone says your name.

you turn and find him there. tall. calm. familiar in a way you can’t place.

“you’re in cs, right?” he asks. his voice is even, low. “i’ve seen you around.”

you nod slowly. “yeah.”

“i’m sunghoon. fine arts.”

“oh,” you say, unsure what to follow it with.

he offers a small smile. it doesn’t feel forced. “i like this room. the light’s soft.”

you blink. “sure. if you say so.”

“do you mind if i sit?”

you hesitate, then step aside. “it’s not my table.”

he smiles again. “thanks.”

—

it becomes easier after that.

you see him again in the library, head bowed over a sketchbook instead of a textbook. you wave, unsure if he’ll remember you. he does.

you’re not used to people like him. he’s quiet, but not shy. his silences are deliberate, never awkward. and when he talks, he listens more than he speaks.

you find out he’s in his third year. that he’s focusing on portraits and figurative sculpture. that he doesn’t like drawing digitally—it feels too clean, he says.

you tell him you’re trying to survive data structures. that you hate recursion with a passion. that you like rainy days because they sound like static.

he tells you he understands that. he doesn’t say much more.

but you catch him doodling in the corner of your notebook one day when you’re explaining something on your screen.

he draws a tiny umbrella.

—

the first time you see his art is by accident.

you’re walking past the art building on your way to your afternoon class when you glance through one of the open windows. there’s a display board near the entrance. it’s a student showcase—drawings pinned up with small cards bearing names.

you stop when you see your face.

not exactly, but close. not photographic, but observant. the curve of your chin, the slight slouch in your posture, the way your hair frays at the ends.

you look at the name beneath it.

park sunghoon.

your heart skips.

you don’t bring it up the next time you see him.

but when he catches you looking at his pencil case, crowded with loose graphite sticks and smudged kneaded erasers, he just says,

“you’re easy to draw.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you say nothing.

he doesn’t seem to mind.

—

it’s not sudden, the way he becomes a part of your days. it’s not loud. there’s no click, no big moment. he’s just there. steady.

you sit together sometimes. share snacks. talk about nothing in particular—classes, professors, how the vending machine always eats your coins.

one evening, when the air turns cool and you’re both sitting on the steps outside the library, you ask him why he draws people.

he thinks for a moment.

“because they move,” he says finally. “even when they’re still.”

you think about that for a long time.

you don’t realise you’ve started watching him the same way he watches the world.

you notice the way he tugs his sleeve over his hand when he’s thinking. how he tilts his head when he’s reading. how he glances at you sometimes—not with expectation, but like he’s taking a mental photograph.

you wonder if he notices how you’ve stopped sitting on the lawn with your laptop alone. if he knows you check the art building window every time you pass it.

you think he does.

but he doesn’t say it.

and neither do you.

—

it’s weeks before he brings it up.

you’re in the campus café, laptop open between you, your drink long forgotten. you’re trying to debug something, muttering under your breath, when he sets his pencil down.

“you’d make a good subject,” he says, not looking at you.

you glance over. “subject?”

he nods. “for a piece. a project i’ve been thinking about.”

you blink. “you want to draw me?”

he shrugs slightly. “maybe.”

you close your laptop. “is this how you ask?”

he looks up then. there’s no teasing in his expression. just quiet honesty.

“i’d like to try. only if you’re okay with it.”

you stare at him for a beat.

then you nod.

“okay.”

that’s how it begins.

you don’t know what it means yet. what it’ll become.

but in that moment, it feels like something’s begun.

and for once, you don’t overthink it.

tbc in part 2 please please please leave a heart emoji in the comments or rb w a heart emoji if u enjoyed reading till here ! it helps me understand how many ppl enjoy my work and motivate me to keep writing <3

header temp © lenzegar on dA. lenzegar on twitter. DIY taglist ౨ৎ @sievenderz

[isagrimorie]

Rewatching Revulsion and I just noticed this for the first time. This is the episode Chakotay assigns Harry and Seven to work together and update/upgrade the Astrometrics Lab with Borg tech.

I was watching along until I hit this scene:

Seven: The proper instrument was part of my thoracic assembly before the Doctor removed it.

Do you mean to tell me the Astrometrics Lab doesn't just have any Borg part-- but it's actually upgraded and made from Seven's own parts???

And thoracic, or thorax, from wiki:

The thorax (pl.: thoraces or thoraxes)[1] or chest is a part of the anatomy of mammals and other tetrapod animals located between the neck and the abdomen. [snip] The human thorax includes the thoracic cavity and the thoracic wall. It contains organs including the heart, lungs, and thymus gland, as well as muscles and various other internal structures. Many diseases may affect the chest, and one of the most common symptoms is chest pain.

The navigational data that helped Voyager through large swathes of space was from Seven's internal implants, from her thoracic!

Also, this is the first episode where Seven gets injured as an ex-Borg:

I don't think Seven even considered she could get hurt before this moment. But this is a rude awakening for Seven, and the first among many instances where Seven realizes she's not as invincible as she used to be. And she has to constantly visit Sick Bay just to function regularly.

[helpmyassignment028]

How 5 Things Will Change The Way You Approach Data Structure Assignment

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Five Game-Changing Approaches To Data Structure Assignment 

In the dynamic world of programming and problem-solving, mastering data structure assignments can often seem like a daunting task. However, fear not! This blog is your ultimate guide to not only conquering those challenges but also elevating your skills to a whole new level. Whether you're a seasoned coder seeking a fresh perspective or a newcomer looking for solid foundations, our five transformative approaches, coupled with expert data structure assignment help, are here to pave the way for your success. Let's embark on this journey of discovery and innovation, where complex problems become opportunities for growth.

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[codemerything]

A structured way to learn JavaScript.

I came across a post on Twitter that I thought would be helpful to share with those who are struggling to find a structured way to learn Javascript on their own. Personally, I wish I had access to this information when I first started learning in January. However, I am grateful for my learning journey so far, as I have covered most topics, albeit in a less structured manner.

N/B: Not everyone learns in the same way; it's important to find what works for you. This is a guide, not a rulebook.

EASY

What is JavaScript and its role in web development?

Brief history and evolution of JavaScript.

Basic syntax and structure of JavaScript code.

Understanding variables, constants, and their declaration.

Data types: numbers, strings, boolean, and null/undefined.

Arithmetic, assignment, comparison, and logical operators.

Combining operators to create expressions.

Conditional statements (if, else if, else) for decision making.

Loops (for, while) for repetitive tasks. - Switch statements for multiple conditional cases.

MEDIUM

Defining functions, including parameters and return values.

Function scope, closures, and their practical applications.

Creating and manipulating arrays.

Working with objects, properties, and methods.

Iterating through arrays and objects.Understanding the Document Object Model (DOM).

Selecting and modifying HTML elements with JavaScript.Handling events (click, submit, etc.) with event listeners.

Using try-catch blocks to handle exceptions.

Common error types and debugging techniques.

HARD

Callback functions and their limitations.

Dealing with asynchronous operations, such as AJAX requests.

Promises for handling asynchronous operations.

Async/await for cleaner asynchronous code.

Arrow functions for concise function syntax.

Template literals for flexible string interpolation.

Destructuring for unpacking values from arrays and objects.

Spread/rest operators.

Design Patterns.

Writing unit tests with testing frameworks.

Code optimization techniques.

That's it I guess!