#it has been bad for a very long time and there's not many ways to make it not horrible

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: banner credits to the talented rockwsesx on pinterest, i loved this. this is very self indulgent and not your typical vamp!au. pls read the tags before starting this one. this is the prologue, just to set the vibe.

warnings and tags: sfw content but suggestive • mentions of sex • dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing • literally landlord!sunghoon x reader • enhypen live together and are mentioned all the time • vampire!enhypen • vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader • gore, mentions of violence and blood • description of violence• in this au, humans and vampires coexist and vampires are almost extinguished • HEAVY ANGST • poor attempt at comedy • fluff if you squint • bad writing • NOT lore friendly, i'm talking about enhypen lore and vampires lore, pls don't come for me, i just did what i needed to keep this story going • reader's dad has cancer • complicated mom and daughter relationship • family drama • sunghoon is 633-years-old and reader is 23 LMAO.

word count: 5.8k

prologue — pink tiles┃chapter one — the seonghyeon building┃chapter two — hydrangeas & homicide┃chapter three — six-hundred-and-thirty-three┃chapter four — do not flirt with your food.

it had been theirs for so long. the whole floor. silent, still, untouched by anything that could interrupt the quiet sunghoon’d learned to rely on.

he’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone this close. and being the creature that he was, with the privileges he’d earned long before this city was ever built, sunghoon couldn’t help but be curious. tired, but curious — about the human life brought so suddenly, so carelessly, within reach.

about you.

sometimes he thought curiosity was the only thing left in him that hadn’t turned to stone. when you are six hundred and thirty-three years old, at some point, the news, the wars, the seasons — all of it stops meaning anything. life ends up being nothing but a blur.

some of his mates still lived like there was a tomorrow they didn’t know, like there were things left to feel surprised about.

but he had seen everything. the wars, the loves, the taste of absinthe in 1880s paris, watching jazz get born in a basement in harlem, affairs with queens, duels at dawn, crimes.

niki would joke that it was because he was the oldest — the supposedly strongest vampire among them and the most experienced. even though heeseung, jake and jay had lived longer human lives, it was sunghoon who carried the weight of stronger suits and deeper stories to tell.

he didn’t care for that, along with the many other things he didn’t care on his vampiric life, each of them filled their days differently.

jay still walked through the city like it belonged to him — expensive coats, sharp shoes, always returning just before dawn with the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him, though he never smoked.

heeseung worked in a gallery in gangnam, all clean lines and polished marble floors, standing quietly among paintings that cost more than most people’s lives. he said it passed the time.

niki was always moving — fixing the things no one else cared to fix. the old elevators that still shuddered on their way up, the tangled network of wires behind the walls. sometimes he disappeared for days, slipping into parts of seoul sunghoon no longer bothered to map.

they had found ways to pass the time.

sunghoon, on the other hand, had stopped trying.

the seonghyeon building remained the same. the long hallways, the locked doors, the windows that watched over a city none of them had been born in.

and now there was you across the hall. a girl. young, human, carrying with her the soft, fragile scent of something that had not yet been broken by time.

your first encounter was an accident. your mail had been delivered to their door by mistake, and sunghoon was the one chosen to return it. why? because his brothers were rarely seen at home during the nights.

he rang the doorbell five times before you opened it, a towel wrapped loosely around your body, hair still wet and clinging to your skin. he felt a little bad. you were visibly uncomfortable with the unexpected visitor, shifting your weight, one hand gripping the towel tighter — but he was just doing a favor. 

“oh you must be the neighbor next door”, you thanked him with shy eyes and pink cheeks. “i kept hearing noise during nights but never seen anyone at the corridors”.

“we’re noisy sometimes, i apologize”. sunghoon said and left, clearly unbothered by the way you eyed him and seemed interested in starting a conversation. he delivered your package and went back to the coven.

he didn’t pay much attention to the way you eyed him, the way your gaze lingered longer than it should have, tracing the sharp lines of his face with something close to disbelief.

he didn’t notice that, for you, it was the first time you had been struck silent by beauty. not admiration, not attraction — but something closer to awe.

you wanted to ask his name, ask what did he mean by saying “we”, but he left before you could ask that.

sunghoon was used to the curious eyes following him. he was a vampire, after all — people tended to have that reaction around them. they looked at them as something too ethereal for humanity, even though, over the years, some humans had begun to approach that same untouchable beauty.

the human world was getting bigger, louder, messier — while the covens quietly disappeared. aesthetic procedures had become more common, more seamless, blurring the line between natural beauty and something manufactured.

it made recognizing a vampire — one truly blessed with longevity — harder than it used to be.

their history was reduced to bullet points in textbooks and museum exhibits. he didn’t blame you for the curiosity, most humans lived entire lives without ever meeting one.

the politics, the power, the endless cycle of protecting what was theirs — it didn’t feel urgent for sunghoon anymore. it just felt old.

and you — you seemed like the kind of person who knew about their kind in the same way everyone did now.

you’d learned about vampires in school, probably. seen the documentaries, skimmed the news articles, maybe overheard a story once about someone who claimed to have met one.

but you didn’t really bother looking up, thinking you’d never meet one in real life.

that was exactly what sunghoon had in mind the second time he saw you — when you appeared at their door, shivering, apologizing, not realizing what you were walking into.

your dried hair was long, the color pretty enough to draw sunghoon’s attention. your voice was the same he remembered from two nights ago, shy and  jovial.

sunoo jumped from the couch at the sound of your voice, nearly spilling his glass of hibiki — the rare whiskey he kept for nights when his favorite mexican telenovela reprise was on. his mouth turned into an “o” before his features contorted into a frown, the fact that they never had visitors making him scared.

sunghoon watched from where he always did, leaning just out of the light, letting the others fill the space first.

you explained — almost freezing in your apartment, standing there in your blue pajamas, shivering, no idea how to work the thermostat.

niki was the one who helped, eager, slipping on his sneakers before anyone could stop him. he seemed more than willing to visit your apartment, bright-eyed at the sight of your silky hair, your warm skin, the way you smiled in gratitude.

he left their sight and heeseung tsked at him, knowing he was in for a ride if he decided to get involved with their neighbor, of all people. niki was young and naive, just turned into a vampire 65 years ago, but none of them could pinpoint exactly what was wrong with that, not really.

they all had their phases, after all.

jake had a partner now — a human girl he swore was his soulmate, like that made it any less predictable.

heeseung used to have one, too, years ago, but now he mostly kept to himself, reading philosophy books and drinking overpriced wine like he wasn’t still haunted by it.

sunoo was practically celibate at this point — voluntarily, or so he claimed, though they all suspected it was just laziness.

jungwon had chosen power over companionship. he had made peace with the sharp, necessary parts of what they were. he didn’t look for softness, didn’t ask for it. he carried the weight of all of them — their violence, their survival — like it was just another tailored coat he’d thrown over his shoulders before stepping out for the night.

and then there was jay.

jay burned through life like he thought he could outpace the centuries by moving fast enough, killing often enough, fucking hard enough. he liked the blood. liked the ritual of it, the power, the intimacy. that was why jungwon kept him close — a weapon that knew how to wield itself, but only just.

sunghoon was the opposite of it, wanting to keep it calm after years of forcing his strength on mankind. he liked things peaceful, that was his trait for being the most experienced and unbothered. 

sunghoon was still thinking about that — about their lives, their loves, and how it always went with their kind — when niki’s voice cut through the apartment, bright and human in a way none of them really were anymore.

he came back from your apartment, shrugging off his shoes and grinning like he’d just come back from a field trip.

he dropped onto the couch next to sunoo, who was still nursing his glass of hibiki, eyes fixed on the muted telenovela playing across the screen.

for a second, niki just sat there, catching his breath, hands drumming against his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do with all his leftover energy.

then, finally:

“her kitchen tiles are all pink,” he said, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

sunghoon didn’t look up, not really interested in the younger one’s shenanigans.

niki kept talking — about your apartment, your kitchen tiles, your laugh — until sunoo finally complained that he wanted to watch his novela in peace.

the youngest rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and left the room, already talking about some party he needed to get ready for.

sunghoon stayed where he was, silent, still, as the bright sounds of the television filled the space, too loud for how late it was — but no one told sunoo to turn it down.

your shivering figure kept replaying on his head, curious of how a young soul like you could end up in a place like seonghyeon.

——

being the owner of a luxury apartment complex had its perks. one of them was that the rules didn’t apply to them. no noise complaints, no curfews, no awkward meetings with building management about renovations or guest policies.

they just did what they wanted.

sunghoon supposed that was part of why they’d stayed in seonghyeon so long — not just the history, not just the privacy, but the simple fact that here, no one told them what they could or couldn’t be. they owned it. the whole floor. the garden. the elevators. the library. the sauna.

it meant sunghoon could spend hours tending to the greenhouse on the south terrace without anyone asking questions — without anyone asking why a creature who didn’t need air or light or warmth would care about something as fragile as plants. but he did. he always had.

the garden had been his for decades now, shaped slowly by his hands and his moods, a place that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the quiet practice of control. rows of white camellias stood in perfect symmetry along the inner walls, their waxy petals always immaculate, while midnight violets sprawled low in the corners where the light softened in the late afternoon. a line of blood-red amaryllis stretched defiantly across the back wall, always blooming too early, too violently, as if they’d learned impatience from him. climbing wisteria looped lazily over the old wrought-iron trellises, hanging in pale lavender sheets that dripped scent and memory. 

watering them wasn’t about necessity. it was about the fact that they could still die if he wasn’t careful. about knowing there was still something in this place — in this life — that required attention, precision, presence. he liked that. maybe more than he should have.

and maybe that was why, on your second week in the apartment, he noticed you standing there in the garden, just beyond the misting system he had just adjusted, your figure soft and unexpected against the geometric order of the plants. he hadn’t heard you come in. one minute, he was watching the fine spray bead on the thick green leaves of the orchids, admiring the slow accumulation of moisture, and the next — you were there. you stood in that tentative way humans always did when they weren’t sure if they were trespassing, your gaze moving from the camellias to the violets to the amaryllis like you didn’t quite know where to settle.

the doors to the south terrace were usually locked, but being the owner of the building made sunghoon never lock anything. he hadn’t thought anyone would find their way in — no one had for years — but here you were, standing in the one space he’d kept mostly to himself, looking around like you didn’t quite know if you were allowed to stay, but too curious to leave.

you wore a grey puff jacket, zipped up carelessly like you’d just come in from outside — and you probably had — with a pair of clear-washed jeans that shaped your body in the kind of effortless way sunghoon knew wasn’t really effortless, but still looked like it was. your hair was tied back, loose strands falling against your cheek, and your phone was in your hand, its pink case bright and stupidly soft-looking, practically begging for attention even as your eyes stayed elsewhere, lost somewhere in the rows of flowers you didn’t yet understand. 

you noticed sunghoons presence seconds after you almost tripped over a ceramic vase tucked near the base of the trellis, your body pausing mid-step, that quick human flicker of embarrassment crossing your face before you steadied yourself. sunghoon didn’t move. he waited, curious in that quiet, distant way he always was, just to see if you would stay when you saw him or if you’d do what most did — apologize quickly and rush off, pretending you hadn’t intruded.

sunghoon didn’t mean this in a bad way, but you didn’t look like you belonged in seonghyeon, not in the way the others did. the residents here wore discreet wealth and predictable detachment. he wondered, absently, how you’d ended up in a luxury complex like this, being so young and, from the look of it, so alone. you didn’t wear your money, if you had any. your clothes were simple, practical, none of the curated casual that most of the residents draped themselves in.

they knew the old owner of your apartment, of course. everyone did. a grey-haired woman with a sharp tongue and a perpetual scowl who’d refused to rent the place out, even when she could’ve made a small fortune doing so. stubborn as hell, but private, always private.

sunghoon hadn’t seen her in years, not since the last time she’d walked through the hallway, muttering about the elevators being too slow. she must’ve sold it to a distant relative, or maybe she’d passed, and her family sold it off to make their clean exit. he didn’t know, hadn’t asked.

either way, now you were here. standing there, looking nothing like the old woman he knew was the previous owner, staring right back at the man dressed in all black and with dirt in his hands.

the awe in your face made sunghoon suppress what might’ve been an annoyed frown, barely, keeping his expression as blank as it always was, waiting — with the same tired patience he carried everywhere — for your voice to make its debut in the quiet space he hadn’t intended to share.

“are those… hydrangeas?”

your voice broke the silence, flat but curious, as you stared at the pale clusters blooming stubbornly near the base of the trellis, their soft petals full and heavy in a season where nothing should be.

you frowned, shifting your weight like the flower itself was personally offending you.

“what the hell are they doing alive right now?” you muttered, then glanced at him, squinting. “pretty sure these things are supposed to give up by, like… october.” you paused, then, after a second, added, quieter, “wish i had that kind of energy.”

sunghoon’s eyes drifted to the small crease at the edge of your jacket sleeve, the way your fingers kept fidgeting against the fabric, tightening and releasing like you couldn’t quite decide whether to stay or go. your voice, too, had that persistent edge — soft but insistent, pushing through the silence he offered like you refused to be ignored, even though most people would’ve walked away by now.

he could’ve told you the hydrangeas weren’t real — not in the way you meant — but he didn’t.

he just stood there, perfectly still, expression unreadable, like he hadn’t even heard you at all.

“you know, the pink ones don’t even look real,” you said, crossing your arms, staring at the hydrangeas like they’d personally wronged you. “like someone’s out here spray-painting flowers at midnight for instagram.”

you kept talking, which was… annoying, probably. but also maybe kind of charming, depending on the angle. “do you, like… spray-paint them?” you asked, glancing at him. “because honestly, that would be some next-level dedication to aesthetic.”

still nothing.

sunghoon crouched down beside the nearest planter, adjusting the soil with careful, practiced hands — like you weren’t even there. like you were part of the wind or the background noise. he could see you clear your throat, trying again.

“so… are you a florist or just a very intense hobbyist?”

again, silence. you were now officially having a one-woman conversation in a secret garden with the hot neighbor who either hated you or literally couldn’t hear you.

you hadn’t even decided what your next brilliant line was going to be when his voice finally cut through the stillness, low and even, almost like it wasn’t meant for you at all but just the space between you.

“you’re the new neighbor.”

simple. detached. obviously not what you were expecting.

“you remember me,” you said, grinning a little too wide, like an idiot, but whatever — small victories.

he didn’t say anything to that, didn’t confirm or deny it, just stood there like he always did, still as the damn hydrangeas.

“i’m sorry — i don’t want to sound ridiculous,” you said quickly, even though, at this point, you already absolutely did. “it’s just… i saw movement around here these days and kind of wondered what this place was. i mean— this building’s so big, i get lost sometimes…” you trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the flowers, like they might somehow back you up.

sunghoon didn’t say anything.

just kept standing there, quiet and still, watching you with that same unreadable expression that somehow made the whole thing feel even more absurd.

sunghoon was quietly enjoying your suffering, your ridiculousness — the way you stood there, talking about plants you didn’t even know the name of, trying so hard to say something that would make you sound interesting, or smart, or at least not completely unhinged.

hell, he might even start to feel bad for you at some point.

but right now, all he felt was… entertained.

and that, in itself, was surprising, considering the fact he always won the nonchalant competition among his brothers.

sunghoon watched you for another long, weighted second, letting the awkwardness sit there just a little longer — not because he wanted to make you uncomfortable, but because he didn’t feel any particular need to make you comfortable either. you’d come into his space, after all. 

“you’re not from here,” he said, not a question, just an observation, as flat and certain as everything else he said.

if you’d been expecting something softer — comfort, maybe, or even mild curiosity — that wasn’t what you got. your expression shifted, barely perceptible, a micro-flicker he wouldn’t have caught if he weren’t so instinctively attuned to such things. disappointment, perhaps, but he didn’t bother parsing it further.

especially because you kept talking — as you always seemed to do.

“no… i’m not,” you said, shifting your weight, your fingers tightening reflexively around your phone, the pink case creaking softly under the strain. “it was… my grandmother’s place. she passed it down to me. not really her place, i guess, because she didn’t even live here, but… she was the owner. or something like that.” you let out a small breath, frowning at your own explanation. “i don’t really know. we weren’t… on talking terms. like… ever.

and then, as if suddenly realizing how that sounded, you rushed to clarify, gesturing vaguely in his direction — even though it made zero sense to be over-explaining your family drama to a stranger, here, now, at this hour.

“not that she was a bad person!” you blurted out, your hands lifting automatically like they could somehow catch the words before they fell. “we just didn’t have much contact. she… kind of didn’t like my father. and then made my mom divorce him and…”

you trailed off, finally hearing yourself, finally realizing how absurd it was to be standing here, next to a man you didn’t even know, unloading all this like he’d asked.

“i just moved in. i’m starting college this semester.” and then, because you couldn’t help yourself, because silence around him felt too heavy, too final, you added with a small, awkward laugh, “so… yeah. this place is huge.  i get lost. a lot.”

sunghoon didn’t smile, but there was something almost like recognition in his eyes, some small flicker of understanding that passed before he looked away again, toward the hydrangeas, as if they were suddenly more interesting than your confession.

“it’s a big building,” he said simply, like that explained everything, like that was all the conversation you’d need — like you hadn’t just overshared half of your family trauma in a single breathless sentence.

you wanted to hide your face in the fucking dirt right then and there, to disappear between the neatly arranged hydrangeas and never be seen again, because congratulations — you’d just made a complete fool of yourself in front of the cute neighbor.

“yes, it’s big,” you blurted out, immediately wanting to die all over again, because what the fuck kind of recovery was that.

but sunghoon just stood there, silent as ever, his eyes flicking briefly to the hydrangeas, then back to you.

he wasn’t particularly interested, not really. not in your family — he’d gotten what he was curious about; you were Miss Han’s granddaughter and that was… fine, that was enough. not in your college status, not in your awkward over-explanations or your objectively terrible flirting attempts.

he just found you… weird. and, honestly, kind of a perfect match for naïve little niki, but he wasn’t about to get deeper on that.

but still, as he watched you standing there, fumbling through your stupid, nervous words about plants and getting lost and college, sunghoon felt it — that sudden, unfamiliar pull right in the center of his chest. not curiosity, not concern, but something quieter, something older, maybe even something he’d almost forgotten how to recognize.

the urge to not leave you alone with your own awkwardness, sunghoon felt the pull right as his eyes came in contact with your neck.

the ridiculousness of it — of you, of his weird and sudden fixation on that part of your skin — should have made it easy to let the conversation die, to turn away, to retreat back into the silence he’d always preferred.

but instead of leaving, he exhaled softly — almost imperceptibly — and shrugged out of his outer coat in one smooth, practiced motion, folding it over the back of the wrought-iron chair beside him like he wasn’t even thinking about it. then, without a word, he crouched down beside the neat row of haworthia at his feet — their dark green, ridged leaves fanning out in perfect, geometric spirals, small and sharp and quietly alive — and started tending to them, his long fingers moving methodically through the soil, checking the roots, adjusting the placement of a few stones that had shifted.

it was just past eight in the evening, the kind of quiet, transitional hour where the last traces of the day’s heat had already bled out of the air and the garden slipped into something softer, colder, more his.

sunghoon ignored your boots, even though they were tracking faint streaks of dirt across the polished stone floor, ruining the clean lines he’d so carefully maintained.

he ignored the fact that you were still standing there, hesitating like you weren’t sure whether you were meant to stay or leave. 

he ignored the way he could distinctly hear your pulse from across the winter garden, could track the subtle rise and fall of your chest, and almost taste the scent of your plasma in the cold air.

why was it so distracting?

you shifted slightly, as if sensing his hyperfixation on your breathing, your boot scraping softly against the stone, the sound sharp in the otherwise muted space.

“do you… live here?” you asked, your voice careful, like you weren’t sure if it was a stupid question or not, but you had to say something, anything, to puncture the silence.

he didn’t look up right away, his focus still on the plants at his feet, his fingers moving absently through the soil as if your presence hadn’t already disturbed everything.

“yeah.”

simple. flat. like the answer wasn’t even worth more than that.

you nodded, swallowing a breath, your grip on your phone tightening again.

“alone?” you asked, like an idiot, like there was anything cool about standing in a winter garden awkwardly interviewing your neighbor. “i just… moved in,” you tried again, your voice a little too high, a little too eager to fill the space he left open. “across the hall.”

he knew that, obviously.

but he didn’t say it.

just made this quiet, non-committal sound — something between acknowledgment and indifference — before brushing a bit of soil off his palm and shifting the smallest succulent in the arrangement by half an inch, like that was somehow more important than responding to you.

you were just standing there, shifting your weight, fidgeting with your stupid pink phone case, breathing too fast, smelling like soap and cold air and something he couldn’t quite name but could almost taste in the back of his throat.

god, he could literally taste you. why was that?

that quiet, metallic sweetness of human blood — not sharp, not urgent, but there, unmistakable, teasing the edge of his senses in a way he hadn’t let it in years.

and it wasn’t just that.

it was the way you smelled different.

not perfume, not anything artificial. just warm skin, faint nerves, the clean press of cotton from your jacket, and underneath all of it, that subtle, unavoidable pulse — your body doing what human bodies always did, announcing itself in ways it didn’t even know how to hide.

it was distracting.

unnecessary.

sunghoon couldn’t remember the last time his body reacted like this to anyone, let alone someone so… ordinary.

you weren’t doing anything special — just standing there, awkward, fidgeting, your breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

and yet, something in him was already responding, already tuning itself to the rhythm of your pulse, already marking the way your warmth cut through the sharp edge of the winter air like you belonged here, like you’d always been part of this place.

he didn’t like that.

he didn’t like that his focus was slipping — that this old, instinctive part of him, the part that was supposed to be dormant, was sharpening, waking up, paying attention.

he hadn’t let it in for years.

he hadn’t needed to.

he could hear every beat, every shift in your breath, every flicker of hesitation as you started moving, walking slowly, carelessly, past the rows of carefully arranged plants, getting closer to him like you thought maybe he wouldn’t notice.

you stopped just beside him, close enough that he could feel the faint change in temperature, the heat radiating from your body cutting through the cold air that clung to the winter garden.

you tilted your head, curious, peering down at what he was doing, your hands tucked awkwardly into the sleeves of your jacket.

“are you deaf?”

your voice broke the quiet again, small and casual, like this was just another normal interaction, like you hadn’t just crossed some invisible boundary neither of you knew how to name.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away, finding your question hilarious.

he didn’t move, didn’t even look up, didn’t give you anything to read.

but inside —

his hands had gone still, fingers curling slightly into the cold edge of the pot he’d been tending, anchoring himself in the familiar texture of the soil because the simple fact of your proximity — the smell of your skin, the sound of your breathing — was enough to send a low, sharp pulse through his body that he hadn’t felt in decades.

sunghoon adjusted the last pot in the arrangement, brushing a trace of soil from his fingers with a practiced efficiency, then finally straightened up to his full height, his eyes flicking to you — not with interest, not even with annoyance, but with that same quiet, unreadable detachment he wore like armor.

“you shouldn’t be in here.”

his voice was calm, even — not accusatory, just factual, like you’d accidentally wandered into an employees-only section at a museum.

then, without waiting for your response, he stepped past you, moving down the narrow path between the plants with the kind of smooth, controlled grace that only made you feel even more awkward for still standing there.

you hesitated for half a second, then — stupidly, impulsively — followed.

he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t turn, just kept moving, stopping at the old stone basin tucked into the corner, turning on the cold water with a smooth twist of the brass tap and rinsing the soil from his fingers like this was just another routine moment, like you weren’t trailing quietly behind him.

“why shouldn’t i?” you asked finally, your voice lighter than you felt, more curious than confrontational. you glanced around, gesturing vaguely at the space. “isn���t this a… common area of the building?”

he dried his hands on the edge of his coat, not looking at you, not offering anything more than a simple, quiet:

“not really.”

“what do you mean?” you asked, frowning slightly, still trailing after him as he dried his hands. “are you… the owner or something? i thought this was a common area, and, as a resident, shouldn’t this be ok?”

sunghoon didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he answered, just kept walking toward the exit, his voice calm and detached, like he was reading from some impersonal list of facts.

“i’m the owner.”

then, after a beat, almost as an afterthought, he added:

“the seven of us live in the penthouse. this is our building. we have our rules.” another pause as he pushed open the door, the cold air slipping through. “one of them is to not circle around after nine p.m. without previous notice.” and then, with the same offhand finality, like it didn’t even matter: “and yes. this area is privately mine. i bought it. it’s my part of the deal.”

your breath caught for half a second — not because of what he said exactly, but how casually he said it, like it wasn’t the most intimidating thing in the world.

you blinked, following him out the door like some stubborn ghost of your own embarrassment, still trying to catch up with everything he’d just revealed.

“oh,” you said, brilliantly. then, after a beat: “oh my god, i didn’t know… i thought you were just— i don’t know— some guy who lived with his roommates or something. i mean— there is seven of you?”

sunghoon finally glanced at you then, and for the first time, really looked.

his gaze wasn’t unkind — sharp, yes, unreadable, yes, but something in it softened just slightly at your flustered panic. the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to pass for one if you weren’t being too picky.

“we are strangers, so it’s not a surprise you don’t know,” he said simply, like that settled it. “what happened to your grandma?” he asked right after, almost flatly, but the question hung heavier than he meant it to. that was the only curiosity left in him.

you shifted, hesitating.

“she died,” you said, voice quieter now, not sure about his sudden interest about your family after ignoring you for the last 20 minutes. still, stupidly, you answered. “a few months ago. no one told me until after the funeral. i think… i think she left the apartment to me just to spite my mom. she never… she never mentioned seven guys living in this area, she actually rarely was here or so i thought”

you tried to laugh, but it came out too small, too hollow to be anything but a ghost of amusement.

sunghoon didn’t press further. he just nodded, slow and deliberate.

he didn’t stop walking. didn’t turn. just kept moving toward the last exit with that same smooth, unbothered rhythm, like you hadn’t just trespassed on his private space and asked him a string of questions he had no intention of answering properly.

and maybe it was that — the sheer fact that he was just going to leave, that he hadn’t even given you the basic politeness of his name — that made you blurt the next thing without thinking, desperate to catch at least one thread before it all slipped through your fingers completely.

“what’s your name?” you called after him, your voice softer now, but still stretched tight with nerves — like the words had to fight their way out of your chest. and then, as if some part of you panicked at the silence he left in his wake, you added the kind of thing people say when they’re trying too hard to seem casual, even though it only made you feel more ridiculous the second it left your mouth:

“i’m sorry. i don’t really know anyone in seoul yet. i thought maybe… i could make friends here.”

you winced internally as soon as it was out there, like hearing it aloud confirmed how pitiful it sounded. but it was also the truth — raw and a little embarrassing, hanging between the two of you like a thin thread waiting to snap.

sunghoon paused at the door, his hand still resting lightly against the iron handle, fingers curled like he was weighing whether to just keep going, to let you stand there with your awkward apology and your too-late question hanging uselessly in the cold air.

but then, without any particular urgency, he turned.

for the first time, really turned — not that distant, impersonal glance he’d given you earlier, but a full, deliberate look, his dark eyes cutting through the space between you like he was finally seeing you, not just another tenant or a passing distraction, but something else entirely.

and then —

he smiled.

small, barely there, more reflex than intention, like his body had decided to acknowledge you even if his mind hadn’t fully signed off on it yet.

“sunghoon,” he said simply, his voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier indifference, just… plain.

and for a second — just one — his eyes stayed on yours, steady, almost curious, like he was letting you take the name, hold it, decide what to do with it.

then, just as easily, he turned back, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hall without another word, the sound of his boots fading smooth and even against the marble floor until it was like he’d never been there at all.

author's note: this wasn’t proofread yet, so i’m sorry if the mood is a little weird. i still don’t know where this is going, but already started the first chapter. if you read this, pls tell me what you think of it. i'm sorry if this is trash, just give it a shot pls. nonchalant sunghoon until he is obsessed with reader hehe. send me a request • my masterpost

[rederiswrites]

Congratulations on mastering gardening! I would like to ask if you know how to plan a tree in your yard and then not kill it?

Ahahahah boy I wish I'd mastered gardening. Technically I'm not even a Master Gardener yet--I have to do the volunteer hours. I'm an intern currently. My husband is enjoying calling me an unpaid intern, which is true, but the joke is that Master Gardener is a volunteer position anyway, so ain't nobody getting paid. But thank you for the congrats; I'm pretty happy. I really like our local MG program.

I also don't know how to plant a tree and not kill it. I have killed three so far this year alone. However! I do know many ways to kill a tree, so you can not do those.

Probably the biggest mistake is not watering them. Newly planted trees are larger than a tree that naturally grew in a spot would be, and have greater water requirements than rainfall usually provides. You need to water them--very slowly, so the ground absorbs the water and it doesn't just run off--at least once a week pretty much for the entire first year until winter dormancy.

Here, at least, the next biggest problem is that you need to protect them from deer. I put rings of wire fencing around mine, supported with t stakes. This will also make the tree less vulnerable to mechanical damage like with a weedeater or mower. Any cuts are entry points for disease, same as on a person.

Next, use a fertilizer. Just pick a tree fertilizer and follow the directions.

Uhhh...what are some other basics? Oh! Better to plant a smaller tree than a larger one. The larger the sapling, the more likely that the root growth has been restricted, and a smaller tree may well suffer less transplantation shock and make up the difference with faster growth--plus it'll cost less.

Oh, and DON'T do those mulch volcanoes. Mulch is great, but don't put it directly against the tree trunk. That makes a great environment for insects and fungi that could damage the tree. Put a couple inches of mulch in a ring *around* the tree, but not against it. Mulch donuts, not volcanoes.

I guess the last tree I killed this year was probably because of low winter temperatures. It was a hardy pomegranate which was theoretically good to go in this temperature zone, but I planted it in fall, so it had very little time to establish itself or save up resources for dormancy, and then we had an exceptionally harsh winter. Sometimes, you just have losses you couldn't reasonably predict or prevent, but if I had filled that tree's protective cage with a light mulch like tree leaves or corn husks, it's possible that I could have provided enough insulation to get it through the winter. It does highlight the importance of only planting varieties that are suited to your climate, though. Do your research. Generally, don't buy those fruit trees at the grocery store--go somewhere reputable. Online if you don't have something good locally.

The husband very correctly wants me to point out that choosing the right tree for the right spot goes well beyond what your USDA growing zone is. It also includes things like is this a soggy spot? Is this a protected south facing slope? Is this partially shaded at any point in the day (bad for many trees, necessary for some)? and so on. A tree is a long-term commitment, as well as a kinda expensive one, so you really wanna do your research.

Of the other two trees I killed this year, one was deer damage and one was probably a disease, because it was doing fine and then one day it just all wilted simultaneously. I don't know. Sucks. It was a black cherry in its third year of growth.

[hehe-69]

Jordan Weaver X Reader

(I couldn’t find a pic of Jordan anywhere so Calvin Evens it is)

Summary: Jordan has always wanted to be the good guy, the hero, he wanted to get out of his shitty apartment in LA and live a good life. He wanted to help people.

He’s not exactly sure when he lost sight of all of that, not sure when he lost himself in drugs and alcohol and bad habits. It became this hole that he just kept falling deeper and deeper into, but he told himself he was fine. He was in control, life coaching himself as much as he did others. But now he’s found you, now he’s got an honest job and a new life.

You have seen every side of Jordan, and you’ve loved him through it all. Now that Jordan trusts himself enough to be inmate with you, it’s time to take the next step in your relationship.(idk why but I love a good redemption arch)

Warnings: Smut, first time in a relationship, lil angst, sad boi Jordan, mentions of drug abuse, recovering Jordan, non descriptive smut so it’s gender neutral but still very very spicy, established relationship, FLUFF (may or may not have a reference to ‘Lessons in Chemistry’ in this fic)

Not proof read…sorry, also there is no use of Y/N in this story

——————

To say Jordan was nervous would be an understatement, the man was horrified of doing something wrong. He’s done a so many bad things in his life, some of them could be blamed on his past addictions but a lot of them couldn’t be. Jordan never claimed to be a good man, sometimes he wouldn’t even try to pretend to be one. But now, now he can at least say he’s trying, and now that is exactly what he’s doing. He’s gone to rehab, he’s worked on himself for years and it shows. He still flawed, as all humans are…but now, now he can be something more, something he can take pride in being.

Jordan has a lot of guilt for the things he’s done. You and him have worked so hard to get to this point in your relationship. From a small friendship to a deep bond and a romantic relationship. He really doesn’t want to fuck this up.

———

“Jordan, honey relax.” You can’t stop the small giggle that escapes from you as you speak. The poor man has been stiff as a board for the last 2 minutes. He glares at you in a playful manner as you laugh softly at him from your place straddling his hips. Jordan is usually so carefree, it’s not like he hasn’t had sex before it’s just never really meant anything, and the two of you haven’t exactly been family friendly in the past.

The experience Jordan has had before you was only ever casual and this is serious, he wants to be good for you. Jordan has expressed in the past that he has this fear that at any given moment this spell he’s somehow managed to cast upon you will break, and you’ll finally realize that he’s actually not good enough for you. “Jordan…look at me.” Your voice is soft and tender as you speak, as you hold his face in both of your hands. Hesitantly, he looks you in the eyes, and for a man who is so tall and 80% muscle…he looks so small in this moment. “I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is whisper out softly and tuck a stray curl behind his ear, he usual smoothed back look now all messed up from you running your fingers through it.

“At this point, you’re going to have to chase me away with a stick.” You smile as a small chuckle escapes his lips. “And even then…I’d keep coming back. I love you, and that’s not something you have to earn.” Shakes his head before pecking your lips and looking up at you in awe.

“I love you…more than anything.” You smile at his whispered out confession, Jordan has always been theatrical in his life. In the time you have known him his dramatic ways have seeped into how he shows affection. You wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped you and gave you this long winded but beautiful speech about his undying love and affection for you.

You can see him gearing up for one of those speeches right now, you can’t help the grin that comes across your face as you lean down to kiss Jordan. Pouring in every ounce of anticipation, excitement, and the deep rooted, white hot desire that’s been flowing through you these past couple of weeks. Finally, he melts into you. His shoulders relax and he kisses you back as he breaths a wistful sigh through his nose.

His hands move up the small of your back to hold you closer, slipping underneath your shirt to rub against your bare skin. He chases you as you attempt to break the kiss for a breath of air, causing you to become breathless with burning lungs as Jordan begins to kiss along your jaw. Warm hands rub up and down your skin, blunt nails scraping against it just enough to make you gasp out, before moving to tug your shirt up and off of your body. A heavy breathing Jordan inches away from your body within a split second, barely enough time for him to remove the garment passes before he’s back upon you in a frenzy.

Moving with renewed vigor and purpose, Jordan takes his time with you. And it’s intense, breath taking, how bright this man can burn when he’s passionate about something. When he really, and I mean really wants something…needs something…when he craves it like a starved man. You’re on your back breathing heavily before you even fully processed the shift in gravity as Jordan moves with practiced precision, it’s memorizing. Your heart pounds against your ribs and you can feel it pulsing in your neck as your stomach flips with excitement for the night to come.

He knows how to get you going, knows what makes your pulse jump and your heart race. He drags it out, makes you so wound up you feel like you’re about to burst at the slightest touch of his skin against yours. Eventually, you get to the point where you cannot stand much more of his teasing, so you put him on his back. Licking and kissing down his body at a snails pace, and Jordan seems to be so into it. Never one for keeping his mouth shut, he lets moans and whine slip from his lips, he says the dirties things sometimes but it’s mostly terms of endearment and admiration that he voices…when he’s not crying out.

On your trail down to the bulge in hus boxers, you stop to tease his nipples. There was a time where he had a piercing through one of them, but he’s long since had it removed. When he had gotten it done, it was very poorly pierced and over time the pain and discomfort over ruled the aesthetic of having one. You both mourned the loss of it day it was removed. But, thanks to its removal and a split second of curiosity from you, you and Jordan had the pleasure of discovering just how sensitive his nipples really were.

The two of you have discovered much about each other in your time together. Things about each other both inside the bedroom and outside of it. Each discovery making you fall in love with each other even more. It’s taken awhile for the two of you to reach this point in your relationship, to trust one another completely, neither of you have known such a deep and profound connection as the one you share.

Maybe that’s why you’re heart is pounding and every bush of his skin against yours sends an electric shock of adrenaline through your veins. You and him have done this dance many times, but going all the way was something you expect to go awkward when the time arrived.

But it comes to you like second nature, the way you anticipate each others moves, the way you fall into a rhythm. In the end, you end up on your back with him on top of you, moving at a snails pace. But the way his hips snap steals the breath for your lungs as he keeps brushing against that spot within you that makes you sees stars.

It’s intentional, how his movements have your brain short-circuiting and every single one of your nerves are light up like a live wire. And from the sounds leaving his mouth…Jordan is feeling the intensity of the moment just as much, and if not, more then you are. All you know is that you’re climbing higher and higher more then you ever thought possible, you’re wound up tight, and all the sudden, like a rubber band, the tension snaps. And it’s a swan dive off the edge, you can faintly make out the sounds Jordan makes as he falls seconds behind you.

You both lay there in the aftermath, soaking up the feeling of your sweat silken skin against one another as you catch your breath. Jordan lays on top of you, boneless and sedated. The second you catch the sound of him softly crying, and feel his tears dampen your shoulder. You move to your side, facing Jordan and cradling his head in youre hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.” His voice is soft as he chuckles breathlessly, attempting to calm himself and wipe his tears.

“Never thought I’d be one to cry after sex…fuck-” He puts his hands over his eyes and rolls onto his back as a broken sob rips through him. You’re so quick to comfort him.

“Hey hey, it’s okay.” You tone is light and sweet as you attempt to pry his hands away from his face. “Common Pretty Boy let me look at you.” You whisper out softly and Jordan finally lets you move hus hands away. His deep blue eyes are full of so many emotions, it’s both beautiful and heartbreaking.

“What’s wrong?” You say as softly as you can, running your fingers through his damp curls. “I just…I was just thinking.” You wait patiently as Jordan pauses to compose himself. “I wouldn’t have ever imagined a life like this for myself. I never thought life could be this good.” You watch as Jordan presses his lips together after his voice begins to crack. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You see me, all of me and somehow you still manage to love my mess.” Jordan starts to tear up again as he leans up to put his forehead against yours, his hand braces the back of your neck as he breath shaky breaths.

“You make me want to be a better person, constantly I try to keep bettering myself…because not matter what I do I will never deserve you-“That’s not true.” You rush out as Jordan’s voice buckles under the pressure of all the emotions he held back just to get those words out. You pull him close into your embrace and kiss his head. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you Jordan. Sure you have made mistakes in the past.” You run your hand through his hair once more as he burrows himself into your chest. “But so has every single human being on this planet. I know I’ve made plenty mistakes in my life. Jordan, we are not the sum of our worst moments. We are the sum of all that we do to grow, to change and you have done so much good.”

You move his head so you can look him in the eyes. “I’m so proud of who you are Jordan. You’re my favorite person, you’re goofy, and loud, and so so very compassionate and loving…I love you, and you will never have to worry about messing that up.” It’s now that Jordan smiles at you. “And here I thought I was the one with the fancy speeches.” You grin at him, shoving him playfully as you shake your head. He always has a way of de-escalating an intense moment with his relentless teasing, but it’s just one of the many things you’ve grown to love about him.

“Don’t make me eat my words pretty boy.” You glare as seriously as you can mange, and you almost sell it. Till your face softens at the look in his eyes. The one that makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters to him in this moment. “Now…if we can move past all the…emotional and vulnerable bits and get right back to the hot steamy stuff I would really appreciate it.” Jordan whispers out as he gets all shy, you just laugh at him and kiss him as deeply as you can.

It’s gonna be a long night, but your more then ready for it. More than ready to have him like this for the rest of your life. Jordan could ask you to steal the moon from the night sky for him and you’d spend the rest of your life trying to do just that. But you best believe that if you ever asked him the same, he’d devote himself to the task just as deeply as he is devoted to you.

————

I’m so sorry this took me so long, night shift has been kicking my ass. Sometimes I don’t even know what day it is anymore because my sleep schedule is all sorts of jacked up.

But I sincerely hope you enjoyed this story.

Thanks for reading.

Love ya🫶

[astradyke]

as a butch love your take on femme dani especially from your own perspective ❤️❤️❤️

butch anon ask in my inbox kicks my feet HI i hope you are doing well happy pride month ^_^

i really appreciate it!!! i think a lot about fiona x dani butchfemme dynamics, because i think one of the interesting elements of phyuri is trying to translate what we know about dan and phil into that sphere, with different identities at play. i think fiona may not have been the first lesbian dani knew, but she was-- in my mind-- the first butch lesbian dani had ever met (even though fiona was still at the beginning of her own butch journey by the time they met, due to societal pressures). before, dani very much in the terrain i think a lot of young lesbians find themselves in, where they're kind of the queer experiments for people who-- after a brief night of sapphic connection-- wander off back to their boyfriends (which in itself is an immensely complicated queer experience driven by lesbophobia and misogyny, but specifically focusing on the blowback experienced by the lesbian experiment in question). so dani linked being femme with a protective cloak, because every other girl was femme with boyfriends and so dani tried to be femme-- but what dani was actually doing was trying to be a straight feminine woman, not trying to be femme. the disconnect between femme lesbianhood and straight feminity created the dysphoria that would permeate a lot of dani's younger years.

so then she meets fiona and gets really enraptured by the concept of being butch, because that's like actually subversive of something-- it's unfamiliar to her, but it's one of many signs that fiona is different from everyone else she knew. more importantly, it signals that fi isn't just going to sweep their relationship away whenever the stakes are too high, because fi can't hide her queerness and thus, can't hide dani. so fiona being butch is a signal to dani of the permanence of fiona in her life.

but obviously that complicates things for dani who has to return to the idea that she kind of doesn't feel like she's butch? that's not her experience. she relates to some roles that are very traditionally assigned to butches (ex. topping, being more physically strong than fiona, etc), but the actual core identity of being butch isn't her experience, so she again is in a weird place. but over time she starts to settle into her relationsip with fiona, and thru therapy she starts to realize that the problem wasn't her not being femme, it's that for her femme = bad, femme = impermanent, femme = not real. it loops back to trauma led self hatred

and THEN years pass and dani starts like, well. she likes being a femme lesbian, but what is a lesbian? what is a femme? what do these mean to her? she had boyfriends before and they weren't really comphet, not like fiona's experience-- she genuinely really liked them. but she doesn't really identity as bisexual, either, so it's confusing. is dani even a woman, or a she/they, or-

so then she just decides fuck it, i'm just dani. i'm queer. i'm a lesbian. i'm femme. but also, maybe i'm not. and at some point she starts thinking about it and experiments with like, drag king personas. and that's an interesting way for her to engage with the concept of masculinity while still being feminine. it's a way to navigate this tension she feels. i'm still working on what i want her drag king persona to look like, honestly, which is partly because for personal reasons i'm trying to veer a bit away from just genderswapping sister daniel, but idk! not super sure.

... sorry for the really long reply. i'm like workshopping a fic for this but i don't know when i'll get to it so, um. here's my headcanons for dani at least. i definitely have a lot of fiona thoughts as well but i'd love to hear from you or other butches about your thoughts too ^_^ this is a rare occasion but the astradyke inbox is open for business :]

[anim-ttrpgs]

Isn't it illegal to shit talk competitors while drawing direct comparisons between your product and theirs?

Not that I don't enjoy it

Well, there’s multiple answers to this. First of all, no, as long as you aren’t lying.

If we said something like “Call of Cthulhu sucks because every third page of the English rulebook is accidentally printed in Chinese, and our game is better because the whole English version is printed in English.” then yeah that would potentially be grounds for a lawsuit.

To say “an issue we and many other players had when playing Call of Cthulhu is XYZ, and so when we made Eureka we fixed this by doing ZYX.” is not illegal.

Second answer is it doesn’t matter because lawsuits are stupid and in reality any company could sue us for anything at any time and just rely on them having more money to win no matter how stupid their claims are.

The real deciding factors over whether we get sued or not are

A. If the company is even aware we exist.

B. If they think that whatever we’re doing is costing them more money than it would cost to pay lawyers to shut us down.

The answer to both is No across the board for pretty much any company worth more than about $10,000. In fact we have actually driven quite a lot of traffic to specifically Chaosium and gotten people paying for some of their products who otherwise wouldn’t. Not that corporations always make the best financial decisions, but really we consider pretty much any developer or studio making half-way-decent games to be more of an ally than a “competitor” even when those games have things directly in common with our own games. (That just means that our products have a better chance of being cross-compatible and people have more a reason to buy both.) I am not saying “a rising tide raises all ships,” because that isn’t true, but in the state of the industry right now, and the mission of A.N.I.M. to get people to play TTRPGs seriously as an artform with rules and design that matters, and stay afloat enough as a business that we can afford to live, it’s really most of us vs Wizards of the Coast.

Then there’s “shittalking.” I recognize that I have a bit of a “4chan accent” as some people have said, and that this wouldn’t hold up super well in court, but I wouldn’t say that most or any of what I’ve said while running the A.N.I.M. account is really “shittalking” (unless it’s the occasional reblogged funny post about D&D5e).

This is an artform, and art is meant to be engaged with, it needs to be engaged with. Sometimes art is good and sometimes art sucks. Very often art is really good in some areas and totally fails in others. That isn’t a moral judgement, I don’t subscribe to the philosophy of “playing D&D badly is activism,” I don’t think that making or playing bad games makes you a bad person. People who do think all that are going to read it like that and take offense, but those people would take offense to anything anyway, so there’s no point trying to please them.

Identifying and expressing where and how different RPGs just plain fail has been invaluable to my growth as a TTRPG designer, and Eureka would be nothing without it. Eureka would make all the same mistakes.

Without anyone being able to recognize or express when things suck, that they are lazily or misguidedly designed, that they fail to accomplish their artistic intent, nothing in the artform ever gets better. This is plainly apparent in the changelogs of our own projects. “Removed this because it sucked.” “Removed this because it was bad.” “This failed at what we were trying to do so we’re trying something else.”

You gotta say shit sucks sometimes. It looks ugly that way maybe, but in my opinion it’s a lot better than a lot of the “criticism” we’ve gotten that starts out pseudo-polite and then descends into rancorous anger, relational violence, and callout posts as soon as our response is something along the lines of “we are aware of that and working to fix it,” “we don’t think that’s a bad thing,” or God-forbid “that criticism is based on a misread of the text.”

[dandelionsresilience]

Hello I just want to say I really appreciate your dandelion news collections and to ask if you have any that are about tackling covid. I've been super anxious and having more panic attacks over it recently and I need a bit of hope that this nightmare might be over soon

Thanks for reaching out, I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. To get the bad news out of the way first, covid probably won’t ever be “over” at this point, because individuals and governments are doing very little to control it, much less eradicate it. however, there are plenty of ways we can protect ourselves and others even in the presence of covid, and research is ongoing worldwide to help treat and prevent it.

Here’s how we can tackle covid, first what you can personally do and then some of the research that’s happening:

First and foremost, don’t demand perfection from yourself! anything is better than nothing!

Join COVID Advocacy groups

Get a free or low-cost covid shot

Know that the “high-risk” conditions that keep you eligible for the vaccine in 2025 include mood disorders like depression (among many other conditions)

Advocate for the right to mask

Speaking of right to mask, “Illinois could become the first state in the country to ban mask bans.” HELP THIS BILL PASS by indicating support and getting updates, sharing your story of mask-based discrimination, and saying how it would affect similar efforts in your state

Jewish New Yorkers can sign their support to this open letter against mask bans

CleanAirCrew has loads of resources for cleaning your air

Wash your hands thoroughly and frequently

Take a covid test if you think you might’ve been exposed or if you have symptoms

How to get free paxlovid (2024)

Quarantine/isolate for at least 5 days after being exposed to covid, even if you don’t have symptoms yet

One of the best things you can do to protect others is wear a mask.

it’s never too late to start masking again / what to say when people ask why you’re wearing a mask

How to identify fake(non-certified) masks

Here’s where to get good masks of all different kinds - if you find masks uncomfortable, please check out the wide variety of styles!

These ones are specifically marketed as extra-breathable

Canadians can request a free mask here

Encourage others to mask with these free images

Research:

Nasal vaccine that prevents transmission is in phase I trials

Inhaled vaccine is in phase II trials

This filter can capture nanoparticles such as viruses, they’re working on improving air flow for use in masks

They found biomarkers for long covid

A CRISPR modification increases “the stability and effectiveness of mRNA vaccines”

New technology makes mRNA last longer in vaccines, increasing efficacy

New lipid nanoparticle drug-delivery method prevents lung damage

“Students perform equally well in-person or online”

Updated booster shots broaden range of immunity to other related viruses

”mRNA vaccines induce an epigenetic 'training' of innate immune cells,” broadening and extending efficacy

DNA “origami” greatly increases sensitivity of rapid tests

Prevention and long-term effects of covid are being studied

I hope some of this helps, but if the anxiety persists please consider seeking therapy to learn ways to head off panic attacks, or get medication if you need. Here’s a list of mental health hotlines if you need someone to help you through a panic attack. Keep your head up, we will get through this together

[bomberqueen17]

home/writing

back in buffalo for the week. i am always so discombobulated when i first arrive. i did get a bunch of shit done yesterday but all of it was odd little discrete tasks, or i only worked on them for a little bit and didn't finish them. i have things to do today as well, and i'm trying to be coherent about it.

one of the things i did manage to do was publish another chapter of the solarpunk sequel to the beta doc. i'm like.... halfway through the sequel i think, and it's going slowly because i'm not sure how i'm going to get the plot climax to come together. and i'm paying the piper, as i foresaw: fanfiction has a level of engagement that original fic doesn't, and I really tried to cushion myself against that by trying to collect people who'd come along with me, but of the 20 or so people i gave access to the doc, only half have engaged with it at all, and of those, only about half made it all the way though the first one and into the sequel, and I know people are still plugging away and I did expect there to be some tapering-off-- it's so many words! it is and real life is so busy, etc-- but I had foolishly expected a few more people to actually follow through, since I'd made it so very very opt-in to start with. So I do treasure every comment but there just aren't very many, and I know the first novel needs some structural changes but I don't know how to identify or make them, and I know I need to slog through and finish the thing before I can decide how to revise the start of it. And as I had sort of expected, I'm really having trouble being alone with myself in it, and it doesn't help that the pace is so slow because I don't have very much time to work on it now-- when I do have time, I have to spend so much effort convincing myself that people will care and it is worth doing etc etc. Lack of momentum is a real bitch.

No shade to those who haven't been able to actually interact, but, I am struggling. Last week was really bad, for hormonal reasons I suspect, but having come out the other side of that, I am grimly aware that it wasn't just that, it is a real problem I'm dealing with. So, if you did request access to that doc and have been thinking about getting around to it, I'm still in need, maybe more than ever. And if you did request access and never saw the email where I granted it, do let me know. And if you didn't request access because you thought so many other people already had, or something like that, well. I never closed the form.

I keep trying to convince myself it's not a bad story. I did just get to the exciting bit, I think. It's got first draft problems but I swear there's good bits. But sometimes I feel like I'm just deluding myself that anybody's going to want to read this. Yeah I've published millions of words on AO3 and reasonable numbers of people seem to love them, but those were other people's characters; my own just aren't that compelling, is the unavoidable feeling it gives me. So I'm having a really hard time with that, but I knew I would.

In my weary despair last week I tabbed back over to my fanfic docs but you know, that's a sort of false comfort-- it's been so long since I updated most of those stories that I don't think I'd get a lot of engagement if I did finish the half-done chapters and get them up. I might try; I know there are a few rereaders, and some people subscribed who'd probably come back and look. But I'm really determined to finish this story with the solarpunk stuff and the mammoths and talking dolphins and so on, even if almost nobody wants to read it, because I never was going to be able to sell it anyway and sometimes you just really need to tell a story.

It's just lonely, and I'm tired.

Anyway. I just spent two hours trying and failing to make myself write more and am giving up to go do more unconnected home tasks because idk what else to do.

[onskepa]

Left Behind: We begin

Hellooooooooo!! Here we have another chapter! And YES! This is where we begin the Way of water plot! Now keep in mind some stuff will be altered and changed but I make it my best to be close to the movie. Enjoy!

Left behind series

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For as long as he can remember, neteyam always dreamed of having an older sibling. Didn't matter if it was a sister or a brother. Just someone he can look up to, someone to lean on, someone to trust whenever he feels doubt. In short, he wants someone who looks after him as he looks after his siblings. 

He loves being a brother, a big brother. Neteyam enjoys being around his younger siblings. Making sure they are out of danger, they are not hurt and that they are overall happy and healthy. 

He also loves his parents. The strongest yet kindest people. Neteyam loves them very much. He just wishes someone, anyone, can do the same for him. He knows his family all love him. They hug him, tell jokes, and make sure he is also happy and healthy. 

Yes, there is spider who is older. But neteyam sees him as a little brother due to size and how he can easily get hurt in the forest. 

This is a secret he won't share with anyone. Not to his parents, not to his siblings, much less his grandmother. All Neteyam wants is someone to look at him with kind worried eyes and say “Are you alright tsmukan?” 

Sucks that he is the first born. 

Kiri prays in silent whisper, despite being told to be quiet from the avatar, she continues to pray. The forest around them was dark and silent. Eywa is aware. Very aware. Kiri has faith that her parents will come soon to rescue them all. They have been in worse situations before, they have dealt with enemies like this. 

The best thing to do in situations like this is to remain calm and listen to the call. 

‘YAHP!’ 

There it was. The call. 

They are here and the children know. Hopefully these fakes dont.

“That you Mrs. Sully? I recognise your calling card. See you and jake got a litter” 

Jake and Neytiri knew that disgusting voice all too well. 

“DEMON! I will kill you as many times as I have to!” neytiri shouts in the dark. Through the foliage she sees her children escaping without a scratch. Good, now to take care of this parasite. 

However, 

Neteyam was quick to kill the first fake he saw. His mistake was continuing to stand where he stood. 

‘NA’VI!!” 

Bullets begin to fly towards his directions. He was quickly saved by his dad by shoving him down. Swiftly they hide behind some trees. His dad can save his lectures later, he isn't going to let some fakes take his siblings. 

Neytiri sees them both and makes a run for it. 

“Leaving so soon jake?! That's a damn shame! I have a surprise for ya!” Quaritch's taunting voice echoes through the forest. 

Surprises be damned. 

Spider felt a crack on his mask the second he fell down. The air was leaving the filter and his lungs. Felt like this hot burning sensation. He was fucked. Even worse, he can see lights coming his way. 

The ugly copy of Quaritch was quick to pick him up while shouting fall back to the remaining squad. High winds and brighter lights were glaring down. As much as spider wanted to fight back and protest, he was physically in no condition to do so. His mind was still dizzy but he realized what was going on. 

Quaritch and spider were being lifted up to a valkyrie. This is bad, really really bad. 

“One hostage? You said there were 4” a older woman said in his vision range. Clearly she was disappointed. She looked mean and tough. 

“Well we got into a bit of a scuffle, the sully came back and managed to save his litter, well, almost all of them” quaritch said. Too much happened so quickly, all of a sudden his mask was being taken off by him. 

“You hear that proto? What do you think of this?” The older woman asks. All heads turned to someone. Spider couldn't help but turn his head too. At the back, making her way towards to spider, was a girl with the  coldest blue eyes he has ever seen. 

“I say…night night” 

A boot met his face and was knocked out. 

The Sully children heard their parents argue after the scary incident. After learning what happened and quaritch taking spider, it was clear they nor the people were safe. 

“Spider won't tell right…?” tuk asks in a whisper. Neteyam cuddles his baby sister, “no, he won't” he replies in a low tone. If they have any faith, spider won't let an utter sound  escape from him. 

“What if they make him…?” lo’ak whispers, so many terrible thoughts crosses his mind. He can't imagine what the sky demons will do. But as the siblings continued to hear their parents talk, something popped up in tuk’s mind. 

“What if spider gets the surprise?” she asks. This made her older siblings turn to look at her. 

“What surprise tuk?” kiri asks. 

“That demon guy, when we were running, I heard him shout to dad. That he has

a surprise for him. What if spider gets it?” 

The other siblings share looks, not sure of what the recom ment. Everything happened so fast, they didn't catch what he said. 

“I'm sure it was just a threat. Empty words to make dad fall for it. Don't think so much about it, "Neteyam reassured. While tuk nodded, she couldn't shake it off. That demon was very scary and an asshole but something about those words held weight to them. That this ‘surprise’ was something her dad wasn't supposed to ignore. Was it a good surprise? Or a bad surprise? 

*BANG!* 

It's been 2 hours and spider has not shown to stop for a second at throwing the table and chairs in a room he was locked in. Staring at the mirror, he knows there are people on the other side staring at him. Perhaps showing disgust or hate. Not that he cares. 

He shouts insults in na’vi, hissing and lashing out. While he is in full strength, he knows it won't be like that much longer. 

Hearing the doors begin to slide open, spider was quick to dash towards the exit before a boot meets his chest. Tumblings backwards into the room. 

��OOF!!’ he couched out. The kick was really hard. Feeling instant pain on his chest, he wouldn't be surprised if a rib was cracked just by that. 

“Going somewhere?” 

A female voice was heard. The same voice from the air ship. Trying to rub the pain away, spider looks up and sees the young woman who knocked him out. Damn, it seems she wasn't going to be an easy one. 

She makes her way inside while the recom that is some copy of his biological dad walks in. Recom Qauritch gave spider a smug look, his amber eyes glaring down at him. Spider hates but given the height, even though he grew up in and around na’vi, this recom somehow makes him feel small. 

“Miles Socorro, now that we have better lighting I can finally see you. That mask covered your face up. See the Quaritch genes are strong in ya” recom quairtch said. Made spider inwardly cringe. He hates being reminded of who he looks like. 

“Listen, I know you hate being here. But if you leave through that door, proto here won't hesitate to shoot you dead” 

Spider was willing to take his chances and darts again, but the recom used force by shoving his hand onto his chest and put him on the table like a little kid. “Stand down proto”. Spider turns to look at the girl, her gun out and pointing at his head. Following his order, she puts the gun back into its holder. Her expression is solid, empty, it kinda freaked him out. Quaritch, noticing this turns to proto, “say why not give us a few minutes? I got this” . 

‘Proto’ gives him a look before silently walking out, the doors shutting behind. 

“There, now it's just us…” 

Sanchez groans in misery as he looks at the sorry excuse of human food. The world government spends a gazillion dollars on this place and there isn't enough for good consumption? “I miss my snacks…” he says to himself. 

He grabs his tray and makes over to the training field of the recom team. A few were killed during their first mission but a good chunk made it out alive. 

From a balcony above he can have a clear view of the current spar that is happening. 

Proto vs the recom that calls herself Z-dog. A real bitch she is. Tough cookie, but like all cookies, she will eventually break and fall. 

‘What the…?!” z-dog yelps in surprise. Proto launches herself from behind, using her body weight to drag the female recom down. Proto was quick to use the kuru and wrap it around the blue’s neck. Tightly. 

The other recoms were watching, what began with chuckles are now looking in worry. 

“Hey! HEY! Knock it off!” another recom, lyle, warned proto. But the human doesn't listen, z-dog taps the floor, signaling she gives up. Tears and blurry vision were taking over, unable to mutter a word. Z-dog was beginning to panic, wanting to be let go but she can't. Looking at this twisted girl, her eyes piercing down at her with no emotion. Was she human? 

Tension was rising quickly, the recoms starting to make their way towards the two. 

“Stand down” tatianna barked out her commands. Looking down at proto and Z-dog. 

So proto does so. Letting go of the kuru and moving away from Z-dog who was gasping for air. 

“What the fuck kid?” lyle glares down at proto. But the girl says nothing and heads up to meet sanchez and tatianna. 

“That bitch is crazy!” Z-dog shouts in a raspy voice. 

“Or you are just weak” proto quick as a whip responded. Tatianna places her hand on her shoulder and the three leave. 

“And quaritch trusts her?!” Z-dog questions, not caring who is listening. The other recoms look amongst each other. From what they saw of the two, they seem to trust each other with their lives. 

“Miles Socrorro, or ‘spider’ as he likes to call himself, is the biological son of the late Colonel Miles Quaritch” sanchez throws a short file of spider onto the table. In a small conference room was himself, tatianna and proto. Expressions were mixed, wary, pissed off, confused, and for one person, no emotion. 

“And prey tell, why didn't the mole tell us about him? Fucker had 16 years to say shit” tatianna grits her teeth. Her nails tapping on the file. 

“No, better yet, why didn't that recom tell us or his director?” she questions more. 16 years and this is a massive surprise. 

“Maybe he didn't care,” proto said in a monotone way. Her eyes on the photo of spider. 

“Or that he wasnt worth remembering…” 

Sanchez and tatianna share a look before focusing on her. 

“He was with the sullys. Of course he is worth remembering” 

“About that” sanchez pulls out a small device. It displays a holographic video, he presses play to show what was in it. 

“I know you are close with the sullys” quaritch points out. He sits next to spider as the boy crosses his arms like a toddler. 

“More than you will know, more than you'll ever know!” spider barked out. 

Quaritch raised his hands, a gesture that he is no threat nor that he is instigating anything. “I know I know. And I know you won't rat them out. You are smarter than that. Give out info to the enemy. You know that is a brave move too. Despite being surrounded by all this metal shit, you remain tight lip” 

“But I won't lie to ya kid. You don't have many options here. Ardmor knows you hold valuable information, key to hunting down the sully traitor” 

Before spider could say anything, Quaritch held up his hand, “ah ah, let me finish. You dont have many options but I can get you out of here. Not the best option I know, but its your saving grace. Just ride along and things will be fine otherwise…I will have to give you up to the lab coats. Between you and me, they aren't the fun type” 

“That blue balls bastard” sanchez curses out. 

Tatianna narrowed her eyes. Just what is he planning? 

“Proto-” 

“I know” 

Proto gets up and walks out from the conference room. “I wont get distracted” 

The doors shut, leaving now sanchez and tatianna alone. 

“This is an unexpected curve ball…” sanchez speaks first. Tatianna rubs her forehead, her aging skin wrinkling with every motion. Until she stopped. 

“And like every curve, we maneuver over them….” 

There was that grin again. The old hag was up to something. 

“He isn't going to answer on his own free will” proto was meeting with general ardmore. A tough woman with only humanity in her mind. With a side of cruelty. 

“You think I don't know that?” Admor questions, she isnt stupid. 

“Hm, no. But also don't forget either. Just from a glimpse that child is gripping on an iron fist. He won't make a sound….” a small smile escapes from proto. If there was anything good to take from the feral child, it was his stubbornness. Something she also holds to a certain degree. 

“And how do you suggest we get him to talk?” Ardmore asks. 

The small smile grew into a menacing one. 

“Like all iron, they melt with intense pressure…..” 

She turns to look at the general with a look that almost puts Admore in a wary mood. Almost. 

“Is that brain machine ready?”

Aaaaaaaaand that is it for this one! What do you guys think? How will spider and proto get along? What is quaritch planning? What will the sullys think? All of this and more on the next chapter! See ya!

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[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐ ROOFTOPS AFTER DARK

summary — in which a new vigilante has popped up in hell's kitchen, and he keeps taking up space on your rooftop. already annoyed that he's making your life difficult, you're ready to tear him a new one.

pairings — matt murdock x invisible!reader

pronouns — none

word count — 1306

note — invisible!reader is so special to me i have so many small ideas half-written.

IT WAS YOUR ROOFTOP. there was no reason to be so civil and let the strange man in a black mask take up mantle on it . . . but you were curious. 

reports had been popping up for weeks now. they were calling the masked man the devil of hell’s kitchen and naturally you were curious. even more so curious when he got to places before you did, leaving behind a pile of groaning, unconscious men that should’ve been yours to take down.

it wasn’t just a jealousy thing. sure, you had been doing this way longer and brought little attention to it because you kept yourself invisible for most of the time. some of which you even staged as accidents. sometimes scaffolding just . . . fell . . . and happened to land a few bad guys in hospital. but here was this guy, the proclaimed devil, and he was making your job harder. he was leaving trails that left you having to hide away for a while, watching from a distance while he did the most insane martial arts you had ever seen in between getting his ass kicked.

knowing nothing about him, you remained invisible, stretching the ability to its absolute limit to cover your breathing and heartbeat also. there was something about him and his mannerisms that made you wary — the way he would tilt his head when he heard something was strange. then again, considering the god-awful mask that covered most of his face, you just assumed it had something to do with being a knock-off superhero with a shitty design. 

each footstep was silent. crossing the rooftop without a sound, you didn’t stop until you were hardly a metre away, watching, calculating. he was doing that head tilt thing again, each siren in the distance catching his attention, but the way he paused in the silence as if he could hear something that wasn’t there was intriguing. it was like that every time, and when you followed, it always led you into watching him take on the demons lurking around the dark alleys. 

he was well-built in a way you hadn’t managed to notice before. the skin-tight, black long-sleeved shirt hugged every muscle from his shoulders down to the point where he may as well have been wearing no shirt at all. there was no way it possibly protected him from anything, very much unlike the black tactical gear you sported that was thick enough to form lightweight armour. it was almost like he was asking for a beating.

without much of a thought, you broke concentration on your heartbeat, not that that had ever been a problem before. people couldn’t just hear heartbeats.

with the fist that was suddenly flying towards your face, apparently the devil could.

you reacted on pure instinct, ducking immediately and layering a shield back over your heartbeat to mask it once more. for good measure, you jumped high enough to twist your legs around his neck, maneuvering until you used as much force as you could to drop both of you to the ground, pinning him effectively. he felt stronger as he struggled, but he didn’t let up so easily. 

“woah,” you gasped in the cold night’s air, replenishing the lack of oxygen in your lungs. “look!” you felt that familiar shudder spring down your spine as you turned yourself visible again. “i’m . . . i didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” you couldn’t help but trail off, trying to decipher how he even knew you were there when there was no way he could see you and your breathing was masked. all you did was drop the cover on your heartbeat . . .

his head tilted again, lips forming a thin line as his hands found your arm. you watched, unsure, not exactly wanting to loosen your grip on pinning him just yet. “who are you?”

“no one, really,” you answered with a shrug. he wasn’t struggling anymore, and letting go of him was probably the nicest way you could go about this situation right now. you released his limbs, watching as he quickly got to his feet and put distance between you. “who are you?”

“no one,” he answered, lips curling in a silent taunt. 

“you know this is my roof, right?” you drawled, not bothering to stand up and instead getting comfortable on the cold roof floor by crossing your legs. “like, it’s been my roof for well over a year now, man.”

the devil’s head tilted again in the same direction as your movements. it was as if he were tracking them with every sense he had. “you’re never here when i am.”

“i’m always here.”

something seemed to change in him, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place, the flick of a switch sparking a light through the darkness. “always here, huh . . .” he trailed off, “you’re the ghost they speak of, aren’t you?” you watched as he crossed his arms over his chest, muscles bulging against his shirt. you noticed that he didn’t look in your direction when he spoke, facing just off to the left of you as if you weren’t there at all.

the only thing ever printed in newspapers about you was as indirect as conspiracy could get. every bad person something terrible had happened to had been at the cause of an accident that couldn’t be proven to be at the fault of another person. there were few theories that some sort of ghost was lurking around hell’s kitchen, doing the dirty work and covering it up, and though they were right because it was you, they would never learn of that. it was more so something to place the blame on because it was so absurd. the devil’s handiwork painted sharply across the front pages, your little ghost clean-up act was barely even thought of anymore. it was more of a joke than anything, and you had heard people at your day job laughing at the absurdity of it all. all they would ever know was that various strings of bad luck struck down bad people.

“mhm,” you hummed, not affirmatively nor in denial, but just a gentle acknowledgement that you were listening. “you make an awful mess around here, don’t you think? you’re gonna create some enemies by ending up on the front page of the new york bulletin every week.”

“i get shit done,” his voice was a lot more gruff than it had been seconds ago. “i get information before the ambulance gets to them — before the cops.” it was a dig that you didn’t take too kindly. you weren’t interested in information from any of the people you took down, you just wanted to see justice be served because the cops were nothing but useless and you were sick and tired of watching yet another family be let down. 

“find your own roof,” was all you could say, covering up both your breathing and your heartbeat once more. the devil reacted by pursing his lips, looking from left to right as if you had disappeared. “wait . . .” you mumbled, and his head swiveled back to where you were, like he had finally pinpointed your location. the location you hadn’t moved from since you took him down mere minutes ago. “ . . . you can’t see me.”

he made no move in denying it. instead of saying anything, he turned his back to you and jumped over the edge of the building. by the time you stood up and rushed over to the edge, nothing but dimly lit side-streets stared back. still, in the depths of the night, you shouted, “find your own fucking roof!” and hoped he heard it from wherever he had disappeared to.

[mystxmomo]

I'm also getting into Vhaeraun's lore. He's such a messy deity with nice texture! There's just so much in the older dnd lore books!

What's something about Vhaeraun that you think gets overlooked a lot?

Eugh. Had to sleep on this one because that other write up kicked my ass for a bit. But it gave me time to turn this over in my head.

YEAAAH I agree. I didn't realize just how much we had about him to go off of until I started really digging into him (and also the other elf gods, because there are some gods that have like. A cool concept but only a few paragraphs at most.) but he's a lot of fun.

I think I actually have three different things that I want to focus on (it won't be nearly as long as the last though, lmao) I have a Personal opinion, a "people don't think about the connotations of" tidbit, A Fun Lore Tidbit

Personal opinion, most sincere character read: To me he so clearly reads as a character that's actively burning the fuck out. Like. Not only one bad day from a nightmare of a paranoid meltdown, but that if Eilistraee and Mystra hadn't tag teamed him and taken him down during the failed assassination attempt, that would have been THE bad day braking point. I think in his attempt to do as much as he can for as many of his worshipers as he can, he's spread himself incredibly thin, and it shows in how he's logic-ing and reasoning. This guy is due to have a mental health crisis so bad that it blows up half the church in the blast radius and then he comes out of it feeling worse. Because why did he do all that.

I think he comes out of that nap 80% more normal and refreshed because he just spent a century+ recovering from millennia of burning the candle at both ends.

But also, I don't think the average Vhaeraunite is going to see that side of him, because even if he was aware of this he would bury that shit deep in his chest and never show it. (and to be clear: he's not. Aware of this. The Masked a Lord does not introspect on his health and wellbeing. He's a God it's HIS job to take care of his guys he can't let something like that get in the way)

Fun tidbit that people don't consider the implications of: This guy is still like. Technically A Fae God. I think that the way he does logic and reasoning is inherently a little inhumane (not in a callous way, but in a "even if this wasn't a divine, he still wouldn't be human.")

And I don't think this would count as "overlooked" because this is a "me and mine" belief, but I do want to take the chance to add my agenda again. I think he's a trickster god. I think he likes being a little mischievous. It's just in his nature to do rug pulls and cause problems on purpose, and I don't think it's a moral wrong for him to be doing so because that's just The Nature of WHAT he embodies. And I think that's a fun aspect to add to his character, because it so heavily contradicts and conflates with the position that he's found himself in and what he has to be doing to survive. In a different world, he gets to be the Loki of the elves. Y'know.

Lore implications:

So. Again not explicitly Canon persay, but something I find really interesting about Vhaeraun is that there's this like. Undercurrent implication that his stealth magic and abilities aren't a magic implicit to his being. Like. He didn't spawn into existence with the stealth abilities, they are a learned skill that he became especially proficient in and learned how to give out and teach.

I would argue that a lot of the things that he has that are implicit to him as a deity are things dealing with the mind and being. He can't be charmed even by creatures stronger than him, he gives magic that lets you steal and take advantage of an enemies soul, he can read people's minds even when they aren't devoted to him and does so very frequently, and he can sear images into people's minds. None of that feels implicit to the Stealth skill set.

And I think this is interesting because it adds to the larger narrative of what he is. The stealth abilities feel like the emotional equivalent of "My mother used to kick my ass so I learned to sneak out through the window instead." While the things involved around the mind feels like abilities implicit to who he is. He didn't learn how to not be charmed. He just Can't Be Charmed. He did learn to teleport though, and he does like doing it ... Makes him feel safe.

+ Quick bonus, because I was talking to a friend earlier in the night and they pointed something else out. The Vhaerath have absolutely fascinating implications and I want to talk about that since I have been considering it while I work.

So in one of the books, an Eilistraee worshiper corners a Vhaeraunite and is like. "Can't you see it? Ellaniath is located in Carceri! It is a prison. If you die he'll trap you. But Eilistraee can save you." And he basically spits in her face and tells her to fuck herself as he dies, right. Average religious 1v1 theological debate things.

However. A lot of the lore around the Vhaerath contradict that (Not in a "this is a massive lore oversight" way, but in a "this is explicitly an unreliable narrator, and I think the implication of both that and the truth of it is FASCINATING" I actually think don't hate Cavatina, I think she's kind of a fascinating logical extreme to what Elistraee's Dogma is. Like Of course there are priestesses of hers that act like this. People tend to do insane things when they think they're saving other people from damnation and I like when authors play into subversions of expectations.)

Vhaeraun being a character who's skill set includes stealing the souls of other people. Who turns a prison into a safe haven for himself and his followers, gives them their memories back in death, and then gives them ways to come and go from his plane as they please.... I really do think his explicit and long term interest for the drow is and has always been freeing them from his mother and the cycle of reincarnation and abuse she seems to keep them trapped in. And I don't think everyone asked to be saved, and I think this is a fate that would genuinely terrify a lot of people.

But I do think he has the best intentions. Y'know. Y'know....

[beckwritesfiction]

Forbidden Lab Partners

pairing: Isaac Lahey x Female Reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: Minors, do not interact! brief mentions of reader being abducted, porn with a plot, reader is a virgin, teen angst, mutual masturbation, dry humping, setup for part two

author's note: This is my first request in a while, but I did promise this to an antonymous reader months ago. See the post here. I'm inspired again, so here it is! This wasn't beta read, so excuse any errors. I was my own beta reader, which sometimes means missing a few mistakes.

It was hard for you to wrap your head around Scott McCall, the guy who you grew up with, being a werewolf. Your twin brother, Stiles, was his best friend, and it meant you were around him a lot. It was hard for Stiles and Scott to hide the truth from you for as long as they did, but Stiles thought it was for the best, and kept the secret to protect you. It was easier when you knew the truth, especially when it came to covering for Stiles with your dad.

Isaac Lahey wasn’t a stranger to you. He was your lab partner first and, at the command of Derek to get leverage over Scott and Stiles, your kidnapper for a short period of time. Scott saving you and Stiles’ crisis about what would’ve happened had you gotten hurt was how you found out the truth about werewolves. It also made you fear Isaac, which you didn’t think was possible. He was the nice, quiet guy who was way better at science than you. There were many times when you noticed the bruises, but you were far too afraid to bring it up.

His sharp turn from quiet loner to bad werewolf was disappointing to you—no matter how many times he insisted that Derek told him, Erica, and Boyd that they shouldn’t actually hurt you. It had been weeks since the incident, and the last thing you heard about Isaac was from Stiles: he was staying with Scott.

Your lab partner was sick, and instead of sitting with someone from the lacrosse team like he had for a while, Isaac sat beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his tone resembling the Isaac you knew; not the one Derek had created.

“Hi,” you replied, deciding it was best to leave it at that. He had something to say, and it was best to let him say it.

“I know I’m not really supposed to talk to you after what happened, so I’m sorry if I’m bothering you. I just… I wanted you to know that I wasn’t really thinking about anything other than doing what I was told. I didn’t realize I had a choice until Scott showed me that I do. I’m sorry about what I did. I should’ve told you we were going to hurt you when I took you that day.”

“I’m not that good of an actress, so I probably would’ve ruined your plan.”

“I’m still really sorry. You were the nicest person to me before people started noticing me. I was too afraid to talk to you back then beyond mitochondria and bacteria. I wish I would’ve.”

“That would’ve made it harder for me to forgive you.”

“You forgive me?” he asked hopefully.

“Everyone makes mistakes. Probably not on such a large scale, but not everyone has the problems you have. So sure,” you assured him. “And now the tables have turned. Well, maybe not. No one ever noticed me. Then or now. It’s the Stilinski curse.”

“I did,” Isaac admitted. “I do.”

All you could do was look at him. You were so surprised. Isaac wasn’t sure how to interpret the look on your face, so he added very quickly, “Sorry. I didn’t intend on making a move when I came over here. I really just wanted to tell you that I regret what I did, and I’m sorry. And if I could do it all over again, I’d be the one saving you, not throwing you in the back of a car.”

“Oh, so you’re making a move?” you asked with a smile. His smile was uncontrollable, and he had to look away at the board.

“You probably shouldn’t. Stiles said you’re not allowed to talk to me. And I’d definitely have a hard time following that rule if you asked me to hang out with you.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from meeting me later to work on our project together? We’re lab partners again, right?”

“I don’t have a car, so you’d have to pick me up,” you said, your heart beating quickly. He made you nervous, and it would be a lie if you said he always made you this nervous. He was cute before, but now there was something so different about him. The bite that turned him into a werewolf not only gave him confidence, but a few more inches in height, and possibly even more toned arms. You went to all of Stiles’ games, even if he warmed the bench most of the time. You’d noticed Isaac’s arms before. And they were very different post-bite.

“I don’t, either,” he replied, looking a little conflicted.

“You’re… what you are now,” you decided to say, resisting the urge to say werewolf in public. “If you really want to, you’ll find a way to my house. My dad’s working overtime right now, and Stiles asked me to cover for him in case Dad comes home early. That means he’ll be out super late.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod, biting back a smile.

The first time he was in your room, there was a certain tension that neither of you could ignore. He kept his distance, and you appreciated that at first. You actually did your work, and he helped you even when you didn’t need it. It became a regular thing, and you met so many nights in a row that you did most of the project when you still had weeks before the due date.

On the fifth night, he moved your hair out of your face when you were reading beside him on your bed.

“Do I scare you?” he asked. You hadn’t flinched, but your lack of effort in finding ways to touch him was a little discouraging.

“For a while you did. But it wasn’t just you. It was a really fucked up way of learning that your brother’s best friend, who’s really like a brother at this point, is a werewolf, and so is your lab partner, and that guy with a beard that sometimes shows up for reasons that aren’t obvious to you.” You rambled on a normal basis, but you rambled even more when you were nervous. “It was just a lot for a while. But no, you don’t scare me.”

“Were you just waiting for me to make the first move, then?”

You averted your gaze, laughing nervously. “I don’t really… I mean, maybe. Yeah, I guess so.”

“You just tried to say like three things at once and all of them are confusing to me. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hang out with me like this.”

“I’ve just never really hung out with anyone in any capacity other than the literal sense of just hanging out. So when you look at me and make the world’s most intense eye contact, it freaks me out because it seems like something else should follow. And I’ve never done that before. So, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I… feel like I’m going to embarrass myself. So I avoid it because it’s easier than having this conversation.”

“Wow,” Isaac said, surprised by your honesty, and how quickly you spoke. “Well, I’m not trying to have sex with you. So don’t be nervous about that. Just because I look at you doesn’t mean that’s the immediate next step. I’ve never done that, either, so—”

You got to your feet, the embarrassment of the moment overwhelming. Being on your bed with him was unbearable.

“No. No. Um,” you stopped, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t think because you flashed your hot werewolf eyes at me that you wanted to rip my clothes off and have sex with me. I was talking about something way tamer. You know, like the time you do ten steps before sex.”

Isaac sat up, moving to the edge of your bed. “That’s fine. If it makes you feel any better I’ve never kissed anyone because I really wanted to.”

“Was… traumatic for you?” you asked, trying to be sensitive despite the burning in your cheeks.

“What? No. Not like that. I meant that it was all for show,” he assured you.

You sighed, relieved. “Oh, okay. Good. I thought this was moving in a much more depressing direction. Something even more depressing than me being sixteen and never having kissed a boy.”

He got up, towering over you in your tiny room filled with your childhood memories and very specific interests.

“You’re working yourself up. I can hear your heart racing,” he said.

“You can hear that?” you asked, panicked. Your heart raced a lot because of a lot of things he did. Sometimes even stupid things that were embarrassing for anyone to know that you found hot.

“Yeah. Werewolf stuff. It’s cute, though.”

Isaac took this rare moment—one where you were rendered speechless—to kiss you. He moved his hands to your face, and leaned down to kiss you. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how much taller he was than you. When you kissed him back, initially a little unsure of yourself, your instincts made you move onto your tiptoes. Just as you felt as though you were really getting into it, he stopped.

“Pulling away to see a frown isn’t the most encouraging thing,” he said, smiling.

“Well, I didn’t really want you to stop. Couldn’t you hear that while eavesdropping on my heartbeat?”

He laughed. “I don’t do it on purpose. I can’t help it. It’s just… sort of there.”

“Alright. Well, why don’t you eavesdrop while you kiss me?”

When he kissed you again, you expected it. What you didn’t expect was for him to move his hands to your waist, then go lower until he was able to pick you up. Being level with him was very different, and once you got over the initial shock of being picked up, you kissed him even harder. Everything you ever read about now made sense. It did feel electric, and you didn’t want it to end.

Isaac waited a short period of time before he put you down on the bed, moving so that he was on top of you. Instinctively, you parted your legs, making room for him to be even closer to you. You found that you liked the weight of him against you, and he liked that feeling, too.

His hand caressed your leg until he moved back to your waist. It made you think that you should touch him, too. Before your mind could explore all options and choose the best one, his lips began to shift. The unfamiliar sensation of someone kissing your neck was definitely something you liked. Your heart skipped a beat, and a pang of warmth spread through your body. You moaned, surprising yourself. His grip on your waist tightened, and it made you move your hand to his hair.

Your fingers grasped at his short curls when the kisses turned into something more dangerous. There was a chance, as he sucked gently at the soft skin of your neck, that he could leave marks. But neither of you were thinking like that.

The only thing that stopped him was something completely unintentional on your part. You were so lost in the moment that you—or, more accurately, your body—wanted more. You shifted your hips, grinding yourself against him. Then you stiffened, and he pulled away so he could look at you.

“I want to die right now,” you blurted out. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“But you want that?” he asked, searching your eyes. You had no choice but to look at him, and you could tell that he wanted you. That was a confidence boost that you didn’t even know you needed. All you could do was nod.

He went back to kissing you, grabbing your hips and repositioning you so you were pressed against him perfectly. The way you gasped made him kiss you even harder. He moaned, too, and the feeling of him moaning while kissing you was exhilarating. You were doing that to him?

Any over-analyzing was impossible when he moved his hips, his large bulge pressing against your core. The sensation was not unfamiliar to you, but it was unfamiliar to have someone else doing it for you. The sighs that escaped your lips only made him continue, and his grasp on your thigh tightened every time it was a moan instead.

Your arm wrapped around his neck, and it only made his muscles more evident. Just as you felt lightheaded—the friction he’d created built up a tension that made every part of you feel heavy and extremely needy—he stopped.

“I just need a second,” he said, embarrassed. He was a werewolf but it somewhat didn’t help his stamina in this case.

You were a virgin, but you were not clueless. “Just keep going. I don’t care.”

Isaac knew that continuing would mean there was a chance he’d have to figure things out for you after, but it was too tempting to worry about that. When it seemed like he was going to kiss you, he bowed his head, burying his face in your neck. Not to kiss you there, but to stifle his groans.

It was undeniably hot, even if it was less than a minute before he came, still moving against you as it happened. Male orgasms weren’t something you’d ever seen or completely understood, but you liked it. You moved your fingers through his hair, unsure if it was what he wanted, but hoping it was. You liked the way he moved so desperately, sporadic as he came down from his high.

He lifted his head, his face flushed. It made you smile, and he mirrored your expression.

“I’m not going to be the guy that asks you if you came,” he said. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize for doing the thing you do when you… do this.”

This time, it was you that kissed him. You had no intention of judging him, especially not when what he was apologizing for turned you on even more. He grabbed your waist again, and moved so that you were on top of him. The idea of it was more intimidating than how it felt. It wasn’t clear if it was what he thought you were going to do when he switched positions, but he didn’t protest when you moved onto his leg. In fact, he sat up, leaning against your wall. You liked it better that way, and you didn’t know if he guessed or if he’d sensed it.

Kissing him was enough to pick up where you left off, but when he moved his hand into your hair, and gently gathered some in his hand, that was enough to earn another moan. The movement of your hips on his leg ensured that it wasn’t the last. He almost couldn’t believe it was happening when just one week ago he was banned from speaking to you. He still was, but you were breaking that rule together. And you were doing a lot more than breaking it.

You only stopped kissing him when you were close to finishing, unable to focus on anything other than maintaining the rhythm that was getting you there. You closed your eyes, tightening your hold on him. Your chest pressed against his, and he couldn’t ignore that feeling that did to him. His hands guided your hips, wanting to grab you, yet knowing you didn’t need the help. Him touching you like this was enough, and your orgasm washed over you, lasting longer than you expected. It was intense; blurring your vision and leaving you breathless. It was only when it was over that you considered you might’ve been loud. Your thighs burned as you got off of him.

“Do you… do that a lot?” he asked, not thinking before he spoke. He had looked at you too long, too transfixed on how you looked when you were on top of him.

“What do you mean?” you asked, even though you were pretty sure that you knew. You didn’t want to tell him that you did, and he think you did it with other guys before him.

“You know…” he trailed off, fixing your hair. “You just seemed like you knew what you were doing. I liked it.”

“I’m a virgin. I don’t have a lineup of guys on speed dial,” you replied, making a joke feeling like the only way you could talk about it.

“I could be. I really like you, and I liked this.”

“I think you’re underestimating how often I do it.”

“I’m not that far away.”

You couldn't believe you were talking about this, but you felt comfortable enough with him to, and that meant something.

“Is that all you want? I just want to know before I overthink this. I overthink everything.”

“No. Unless that’s all you want.”

“We’re not even supposed to be talking. Scott said he’d rip your throat out if you even looked at me again.”

“Doesn’t that just make you want it even more? We’ll go on a secret date. I’ll figure something out. No one will know.”

You couldn't fight the smile that appeared at the idea of that.

“If we did this before our first date, then what are we doing after?”

“Hopefully something where I don’t cum in my underwear in the first few minutes.”

You laughed, then moved closer to him. “I liked it. Watching it happen, I mean. It helped me along, I guess you could say. I can’t wait for the real thing.”

He tensed momentarily, then said, “You have to. Someone’s in the driveway. I should go.”

Isaac kissed you one last time, then went out your window. It wasn’t how you thought your day was going to go, but it seemed like it would be hard to top.

[queendumpling]

(I originally wanted to just put this as a reply on the post but clearly got too excited and had too many thoughts and hit the character limit too quickly.. >_<;;)

I always love seeing people writing/talking about my favorite book, so thank you so much Slug for sharing your thoughts on Babel!!

I think all your criticisms of the book are very valid and I've seen them come up a lot in other reviews as well. It's a little bit funny to me that the Babel gets criticized for being either too basic or too didactic with its exploration on translation and translation theory, but I think it's fair to say that if you're a reader who has a lot of experience in this field (or even bi/multilingual), you're likely not to find much of what Babel explores in that area to be very interesting since it's treading ideas that you've already had many developed many thoughts about for a long time.

I also agree that Robin can feel like he's just a cardboard cutout being dragged on strings and does arguably very little throughout the book, but to me this is what actually makes him a more compelling character! his inability to take any decisive action, to properly reckon with his identity, who he wants to be, and what he will decide to stand for until the very last moment (and by then it is too late) makes him a really tragic sort of character, that made the ending for me hit a lot harder at the end. Robin is forced to cast away his entire identity from the very beginning of the book, taking on a name at random that he adopts for the rest of his life, and only at the very end does he think about his mother's last words to him - his true name (which we never actually learn and honestly this fact haunts me constantly) - does Robin find some measure of peace with all that's he's been grappling with throughout his life. and of course it only happens at the very end a bit too late, once he's decided to take the most decisive action of all.

there's a good point made about Babel the story as a piece of narrative translation, in that the narrator for Babel is the author of a fictionalized account of the translator's revolution. the fictional narrator authoring this historical narrative is by their very nature taking their own artistic liberties about the actions, motivations, characterizations of the people involved in the revolution they are writing about. it's a historical narrative penned with the narrator's best guess (we would hope), but also likely to be inaccurate on some level in about. well, nearly everything. so it's possible, in a way, to view things like how most of the characters can be easily divided between being "good" vs "bad" based on whether they are POC or not, to be a narrative device employed by the fictional narrator to simplify the historical narrative. (once again circling back to any historical account of an event, written later. how will history remember these events and the people who were linked to it?) of course, that leaves out the actual author of this book and whether any of this layered bit of nuance was ever actually RF Kuang's intention, but I do agree that there are missed opportunities for Babel to provide more nuance, instead of the current good/bad sides the story does present.

I again admit that Babel is one of my favorite books so I know that some part of me does a whole lot of mental gymnastics to justify the story and its flaws with its execution.. it's definitely not perfect and I can really understand why Babel's execution doesn't work for everyone, but it's why I also really like to read other people's thoughts on it, positive or not. I'm also definitely not an experienced translator, so Slug, reading your really detailed thoughts on Babel and how it tackles translation as a whole was really interesting to read. thank you again for sharing!! (and giving me an excuse to yap about Babel)

A Reflection on Translation's Role in R. F. Kuang's Babel or the Necessity of Violence

I don't think I've ever encountered a work that pairs messages I so completely agree with and an execution that I so profoundly dislike. What a frustrating combination.

I'd had this book hyped up to me by colleagues in the Jp -> En media translation field, and I went into it with the impression that it was an adult fantasy/dark academia novel. I don't read much dark academia--the genre doesn't tend to do much for me--but due to a stroke of unfortunate timing had read dark academia's posterchild, Donna Tartt's The Secret History, just before this, leading me to draw unfavorable comparisons between the two. Furthermore, despite its marketing, Babel strikes me as much more of a YA novel--or at the very least pure pop fiction--and inherits many subjectively negative traits from this classification. Too high expectations, a dislike for the book's genres, and a greater understanding of translation theory than the lay audience--I was never a part of Babel's target audience and had little chance of being perfectly satisfied with it.

Nevertheless, I do think the book has tremendous value to those who aren't translators/translation studies academics or who enjoy dark academia pop fiction. While I don't read much English pop fiction, my subjective lack of enjoyment is not a statement of objective lack of value in this type of literature. I would highly recommend this book to anyone with even the slightest interest in language's effect on the world, and I commend R. F. Kuang's ability to deliver Babel's important messages to a wide audience.

At the same time, the book's status as a translation of 18th century events to a modern audience is fascinating and bears looking at, particularly in how this framework serves to undermine the characterizations and, consequently, the novel's core messages.

The Basics of Babel (Beware of Spoilers!)

Babel is, first and foremost, a medium to deliver certain key messages. The pursuit of empire is inherently evil; when the ones in positions of power will never listen, violence is one of multiple necessary tools; together we stand, divided we fall; spheres of oppression overlap in intersecting patterns; revolutions disproportionately affect the already disenfranchised; even so, structural change is necessary to alleviate structural ills; academia appears to be disconnected from the real world but has real, lasting impact. And so on. I agree (as would, I assume most of this audience--I don't think any of these ideas are especially challenging) with all of these; I'm also not trained in these fields and don't have much to comment on here.

Of secondary importance and primary prevalence in the novel are messages about language. Translation is both a tool of violence and liberation. There is inherently a degree of "betrayal" (the book's term) or "transformation" (mine) in all translation. Language and translation have real effect on the world and its individuals. It is impossible to translate with absolute fidelity and yet an absolute necessity to try. Translation--and by extension, all communication and all human contact--is the necessary violence expressed in the subtitle.

And again, I agree! I agree so completely I struggle to remember a time these themes weren't so self-evident to the point of being part of my self. Where my disagreements begin to creep in occur at the level of the characterization where, by virtue of being flattened in the "translation" process, the characters are inadvertently dehumanized to the degree of undermining these core concepts.

Babel consists of two distinct segments, the former being a 400-page sprawl of the four protagonists' upbringings and undergrad experiences in 19th-century fantasy Oxford as translation students. In this universe, magic is performed by matching a pair of words with the same denotative meaning in two different languages. The unshared secondary meanings or connotations are then manifested into the real world, thus implementing the spell. As a simple example, an English watermelon is not an English vegetable, but a Japanese スイカ is a Japanese 野菜. Therefore, if 野菜 and vegetable were matched, this spell might latch onto the notion of a watermelon/スイカ--something that exists in the Japanese definition but not the English definition--and make the melons grow faster. The protagonists thus spend the bulk of the novel learning translation theory, spell crafting, and the ways in which the British Empire is built upon the back of these spells and global exploitation.

Tensions slowly ramp up until one protagonist ultimately murders another, at which point the somewhat doddering pace revives and proceeds at a brisk clip for the last 130 pages while the surviving pair of "good" protagonists stage a revolution out of Oxford's translation magic hub. While the revolution ends in death for all but two of the "good" characters, it is implied that the revolution's aims are largely successful, with the bulk of the British Empire's spellcasting abilities destroyed. This latter segment of the story has some of the same juvenile, almost fairytale-esque simplification of the rest of the book (it's a tempting fiction to believe the destruction of a single building by a small handful of elites could bring an empire to its knees; this book ultimately reads as an academic's power fantasy), but I actually quite like it compared to the rest of the book. The narrative finally grants the main character some much-needed agency, the characterization improves by leaps and bounds, and the protagonists' views are at long last explored with contrasting and three-dimensional opinions. It's a welcome breath of fresh air and complexity.

The problem, as I see it, is that because Babel tackles such critical and multi-faceted ideas as the ethics of revolution and translation, complexity is a necessity that Babel too often forsakes. Babel flits between the competing notions of an educational call for action spoken by real, imperfect people and a cozy, somewhat twee fantasy of paper dolls coming together across racial, gender, and class lines for justice. If the work wants to discuss dehumanization via language, it can't afford to dehumanize its own characters with its language.

Babel as Translation

Kuang's narrator and narrative work hand-in-hand to produce this uncomfortable and clumsy effect.

The book is framed as a historical text written by a minor participant in the revolution in an effort to humanize the characters, "a record that doesn't make us out to be the villains." (504) This aim is achieved as Kuang's narrator follows the internal life of Robin Swift and, to a lesser degree, the three other members of his Oxford cohort in dramatic fictional prose. The text is peppered with footnotes providing extra context, much like a translator's gloss, generally about historical injustices but with occasional dips into the protagonists' private thoughts. The narrator themself, while content to remain in third-person, injects their personality heavily with didactic commentary on oppression and translation theory. I don't knock this as a storytelling technique in and of itself; a brutal hammer of a narrator could be an interesting parallel to the brutal hammer of systemic oppression. It does, however, create the impression that the narrator is hovering just over the story's shoulder at all times, unwilling to trust that the characters will perform their allotted roles once the narrator's back is turned.

Furthermore, the narrator's voice is firmly grounded in its time and place--the time being 2022 and the place being the leftist internet. The prose is undeniably the rhythmic, somewhat dramatic style presently in vogue in the English fiction market, and arguments are formed in the thinking patterns and vocabularies of modern day English internet discourse. When the work itself is set in the 1800s, this creates a slightly jarring effect--language supplanted into a setting where we wouldn't expect to see it.

This suggests the narrator is, effectively, translating a series of events written in an older English into the English of our day and age.

We must assume the narrator is taking their fair share of liberties. Apart from the inclusion of vocabulary that's wildly anachronistic (the word "narcostate" would not materialize in English until long after the 1830s), we also see the narrator's presence in the similar speech styles of all English-speakers across place of origin, class, and upbringing. Compare the college-educated Robin:

But how do you know? ... You didn't see what I saw, you don't know what the new match-pairs are-- ... It's just... It just feels like--I mean, I'm the only one who's always at risk, while you're just-- (182, quotation picked somewhat at random)

to the working-class laborer Abel:

"Is it really as bad as all that?" Robin asked Abel. "The factories, I mean." "Worse," said Abel. "Those are just the freak accidents they're reporting on. But they don't say what it's like to work day after day on those cramped floors. Rising before dawn and working until nine with a few breaks in between. And those are the conditions we covet. The jobs we wish we could get back. I imagine they don't make you work half as hard at university, do they?" (493)

Similarly, most characters retain the same vocal quirks as the narrator and Robin. See also on page 493, a third character starting and stopping herself in an identical fashion to Robin, "It's just... it's a side of the story we don't often think about, is it?" or on page 529 the same character copying Robin's habit of amending her comments with I mean, "Possibly the younger students... The ones who don't know any silverworking, I mean."

This produces a muted, washed-out effect wherein characters struggle to differentiate themselves on the basis of their personalities. But, in terms of translation, is this necessarily a bad thing? Is it wrong to familiarize the unfamiliar with the vernacular of the target audience?

Fortunately for us, Kuang's narrator has their own opinion on this very subject, delivered to us through the mouth of Ramy, Robin's love interest and generally all-around "good" character. In fact, one of the very first things we learn from Ramy is his dislike for a certain style of translation:

That's a terrible translation. Throw it away. ...and for another, it's not remotely like the original. What's more, Galland -- Antoine Galland, the French translator -- did his very best to Frenchify the dialogue and to erase all cultural details he thought would confuse the reader. ... And he entirely cuts out some of the more erotic passages, and injects cultural explanations whenever he feels like it -- tell me, how would you like to read an epic with a doddering Frenchman breathing down your neck at all the raunchy bits? (52)

Blessedly, we are spared that specific experience--if any raunchy bits existed, Kuang's narrator has trimmed them accordingly.

The reader, at this point, is expected to know little of translation theory on their own and should accept Ramy's opinion as that of fact. Ramy is the first character with purely positive associations in Robin's life, and the narrative swiftly propels us through the process of Robin and Ramy falling in love within a handful of pages. ("Robin felt a strange, bursting feeling in his chest then. He'd never met someone else in this situation, or anything like it..." (50) "...they sat cross-legged on the floor of Ramy's room, blinking like shy children as they regarded each other, unsure what to do with their hands." (50) "And [Robin] wanted so badly to impress Ramy. [Ramy] was so witty, so well-read and funny. He had sharp, scathing opinions on everything..." (51))

The reader is therefore expected to associate a liberal or heavy-handed translation style with bad practices--that is, until we learn that Ramy himself "was always ready to abandon technical accuracy for rhetorical flourishes he insisted would better deliver the point, even when this meant insertion of completely novel clauses." (224) (We must also note that this is the "polar opposite" of a "bad" character's style, which we will touch upon shortly.) Ramy, it seems, is allowed his liberties because he has "an uncanny ear for rhythm and sound. He did not merely repeat the phrases he absorbed; he uttered them in such precise imitation of the original speaker, investing his words with all intended emotion, it was like he momentarily became them." (269) Meanwhile, on page 383, we are told "Non-European texts [translated into English by Europeans]...tended to be loaded down with an astonishing amount of explanatory content, to the effect that the text was never read as a work on its own, but always through the guided lens of the (white, European) translator." This information might have been better received were it not in an explanatory footnote that takes up the half page.

I would like nothing more to give Kuang the benefit of the doubt and assume these hypocrisies are intentional, but writing a heavy-handed 500-page book just to poke fun at heavy-handed translation in a single footnote is either a Modernist masterpiece or simply not happening.

I also understand and acknowledge that there is plenty more nuance to these arguments. The Galland translation of One Thousand and One Nights bears a strong moral impetus toward exact fidelity as an introduction of a work of enormous cultural value to a society largely ignorant of that culture; Ramy's translation is a college writing assignment. Elisions for cultural sensitivity are not the same as additions for aesthetic sensibilities or contextual glosses/footnotes. Kuang's narrator is translating concepts from an academic environment to a general audience, where the balance of power is relatively equal, whereas Galland is translating across a broader power gap between cultures. Etc etc. I don't take umbrage with any of that--I also think Galland's translation practices were unacceptable, and I'd be a fool to pretend I don't take translation liberties when appropriate. My concern is that the general audience lacks this background and, when asked to reconcile these hypocrisies, will draw the conclusion that Kuang's narrator is espousing "white, European = bad / non-white, non-European = good."

Which, in the broadest brushstrokes of this colonial environment, is true! The British Empire--and empire in general--is cartoonishly evil, and I don't care much that most of the white English cast is flattened into 2D caricatures as a consequence. It's the reverse that's far more troubling.

Unfortunately, for the first 400-some pages of the book, the narrator plants all intelligent, kindhearted, or otherwise pleasant thoughts in the heads of non-English characters. (Here, non-English refers to any PoC character born outside of Britain, any half-white characters, and the one "good" Irish character. "Non-English" is a terrible classification system, but as all the "good" characters don't self-identify as British or English anyway, this will have to do for now.) Arguments between non-English characters are astoundingly minor; worse, they have little to no bearing on the overarching plot--it takes the murder of a white man to turn the story from academia romp to goodnatured revolutionary conspiracy. (And this only boils over into full revolution because a white English girl takes negative action!) Non-English characters' worst traits are annoying at best to the point where one, their repeated inability to understand intersectionality, comes across as bizarrely out of character and inappropriately dim-witted. Even then, such comments are set up to be angled at "less oppressed" characters. Robin and Ramy frequently fail to conceptualize the struggles of their female classmates or, at times, have rude thoughts about women. However, when their black female classmate Victoire is having anxiety attacks and white female classmate Letty is suffering nervous breakdowns, Robin ignores Victoire to say Letty is "not helping the general feminist case that women were not nervous, pea-brained hysterics." (368) Victoire simply cannot allowed to be "bad" in any way.

The constant need to be "good" strips characters of any ability to develop personality, deep character flaws, or culpability for their actions. For 4/5 of the book, Robin, Ramy, and Victoire are so caught in the narrator's stranglehold that they appear only little more three-dimensional than the paper-thin villains. This, while unintentional, is nevertheless a tragedy.

The Translated Narrative

Similarly, the narrative suffers from being a modern day experience transplanted onto the 19th century setting.

Protagonist Robin and the other members of his cohort are introduced as linguistic geniuses, all of whom have studied from a young age--and not always willingly--to be part of an elite class of undergraduate translators at Oxford. From the age of eleven, Robin spends hours every day studying Greek and Latin, both of which have historically been taught and to this day are taught with copious amounts of translation work. We are shown Robin translating Latin into English as a child (31)--amusingly, the author he works on will be complained about later as very difficult to translate when taught in the later years of undergrad, an inconsistency I can only assume is unintentional--and have every reason to believe it is done competently. Furthermore, Robin continues to retain his native fluency in Mandarin, meaning he should be intimately familiar with basic translation theory and the differences in language by the time he reaches university.

However, the modern day reader is not expected to share this same linguistic background, and the narrative must quickly bring them up to speed. Thus, upon arriving at Oxford, the narrative takes the audience on a ride through a series of bare-bones basic translation theory lectures.

The first lecture opens on the professor "try[ing] to impress upon [the protagonists] the unique difficulty of translation," (104) an absurdity when presented to characters who have been translating for years. Suddenly, characters are catapulted out of their 19th century elite backgrounds and into the bodies of 21st century freshman.

"I don't understand," says trained classicist Letty. "Shouldn't a faithful translation of individual words produce an equally faithful text?" (105) (Later, we discover that Letty's translation style leans strictly literal in opposition to Ramy's. This is posited as a bad choice--which is broadly speaking true--but becomes an uncomfortable parallel between Letty's unyielding, "bad" personality and her "bad" translation choices. Ramy also equates being a good listener and with being a good translator (535), leading to one of the few places where I openly disagree with the narrator. In an ideal universe, truly good translation could only be unlocked with great care; unfortunately, technical skill does not equal strength of character.)

"Is faithful translation impossible, then?" a professor later "challenges." "Can we never communicate with integrity across time, across space?"

"I suppose not," reluctantly (153) says Victoire, who is "raised to read and compose and interpret." (541)

The notion that these characters can have drilled in languages and translation for years on end without having ever considered these basic concepts is laughably absurd. It is like an engineering student receiving a full-ride scholarship to MIT, walking into class on the first day, and saying, "What are all those letters doing on the board next to the numbers?"

And yet the narrator would have us believe this because, fundamentally, the narrative is that of a 21st century university undergraduate's experience. Someone with an interest in languages but little formal training in translation--we certainly don't teach that in American high school--could, conceivably, walk into these lectures and be charmed by "this dramatic mysticism, these monologues that must have been rehearsed and perfected over years of teaching. But no one complained. They loved it too." (107)

Our imaginary 21st century undergrad takes Robin by the hand and leads him along four years of lectures, luncheons, exams, rowing club, and endless giggle sessions with friends. It's cozy and cute. Everything is magical and ready-made for a Pinterest board.

Meanwhile, the bloody cogs of the British Empire churn relentlessly in the background. Robin is invited to participate in a largely low-stakes revolutionary operation and, for about 200 pages, most of his inner turmoil centers around the conflicting desires to lean into the revolutionary movement and the desire to cement himself in a cushy life at Oxford.

Here, the lighthearted atmosphere is by design; for the modern-day reader to feel shock at the abrupt turn in tone, the luxuries and conveniences of an idyllic modern-day academic experience must be shown. However, it must be stressed that this tonal shift occurs over 400 pages in. The slow pace hinders the narrative's ability to be considered in its full 19th century ramifications. We spend so long in Robin's 21st century head that the core struggle, for a sizable chunk of the novel, is coming to terms with one's position of privilege in society and how that affects one as a translator. These are valuable things to consider, and it is something the audience--most of whom are closer to Lettys than Victoires in terms of societal position--should devote time and attention to, but I cannot help thinking there could've been more efficient use of space in this book. It is difficult to examine more of the hard-hitting topics when so much of the book is devoted to the author's nostalgia for their college experience.

The narrative's other core issue interweaves with something I touched upon earlier, the lack of agency in its core characters. For most of the book, Robin is largely shepherded along by forces outside of him, giving him an (intentional) learned helplessness under the oppressive colonial system. However, likely unintentional narrative choices contribute to this problem and give Robin the impression of being even less empowered than he is meant to be. Robin's first two decisive actions of any note are triggered when another character forces him to make an "It's us or them" style choice. In both cases, Robin chooses to side against the revolutionaries for self-motivated reasons, and the narrative later rewards him with a third "It's us or them" choice motivated by purely selfless desires. These could be great character-establishing moments--if any of those choices mattered. But they don't! After choice 1, Robin winds up in contact with the revolutionaries again due to complete coincidence. After choice 2, Robin faces the personal fall-out of turning in the revolutionaries...until a more pressing issue turns up, only partially of Robin's doing (the question of whether this was intentional or accidental is discussed heavily throughout the rest of the book), at which point the personal issues dissolve and vanish. Oh, and the revolutionaries suffered no consequences after Robin ratted out their safe house. Everything is fine and dandy!

And also deeply frustrating. If Robin's actions don't matter, then why have Robin act at all? Is Robin a person or a cardboard cutout doll?

Similarly, the narrative is littered with deus ex machinas to an unfortunate degree. The reader quickly becomes accustomed to a common narrative structure: A problem presents itself, the protagonists panic and make an attempt to fix the problem, that solution fails, tension heightens--and a side character (often a revolutionary) steps in and resolves the problem. So, too, are the major turning points orchestrated by other people. Robin's father instigates his own murder by approaching Robin. Robin is radicalized by Letty setting the police on the revolutionaries.

Robin, then, has no more control over his person than a puppet until the final 1/5 of the book. This is partially intentional as a means to demonstrate Robin's unconscious conforming to racial stereotypes of passivity as a means to be "accepted," even partially, in colonial British society. Had this vanished entirely upon Robin's dramatic turn to agency in the final hundred pages, I wouldn't have been the slightest bit concerned--but it doesn't. Once Robin seizes control of the magical translation tower on page 448, he sits and waits for outside forces to act. And waits. And waits. And waits. The army arrives, but that's all right, because here come the townspeople, who've made a miraculous turn of heart and are ready to be good revolutionaries alongside the Oxford elites. Oh no, they're running out of food--oh, whew, the problem solved itself by virtue of the townsfolk showing up. Uh-oh, Robin has to make the decision of breaking the siege under flagging moral--oh never mind, here comes Letty to take that problem away. I can't wait for Parliament to respond and end the siege for us, but until then, we just all have to wait. And wait. And wait.

It is 84 pages before Robin takes another action.

Translation as Necessity

I don't fault Kuang for the ideas she presents, nor the means she chooses to employ, but I do think it's a tragedy that her own writing skills are inadvertently undercutting her work. Babel is, at heart, a heavy translation of a fictional 19th century event that accidentally does the very thing it criticizes--making people less than people through the act of translation.

And yet still we must translate.

Kuang is correct and expresses herself elegantly when her narrator says:

Language was just difference. A thousand different ways of seeing, of moving through the world. No; a thousand worlds within one. And translation -- a necessary endeavor, however futile, to move between them. (535)

Communication is an attempt to link two agents to one another, and communication is informed by its medium. The conventions and limitations of e-mail shape a message differently than does a phone. A translation, then, is an act of communication wherein the medium plays a dual role of conveyance device and additional agent. The translator, be they human or machine, must always make choices. There is no chance a message can passage from agent to agent to agent perfectly intact.

But then, can a message ever be perfectly communicated? If languages are only another medium, then so too will the language inform the delivery of the message. The words I've chosen in this essay are not the same as my thoughts, nor is your impression of this text the same as my words. Language itself, of course, has no inherent meaning. Even single words--let's take "vegetable" again--conjure different images and different associations with different people. There is no Platonic ideal of "vegetable" we can point to and say this, and only this, is "vegetable."

And if it's that hard to communicate with individuals who share the same language, what about individuals in other languages? Or how about when languages overlap? My command of English is informed by the facts of my life, both the demographic--white, American, Latino, male, born in the 90s, asexual, multilingual, middle-class, blah blah blah--and the experienced--listened to this life-changing song, read those books, played those games, loved and cherished those other people. Your English, too, is informed by all the millions and millions of things that make up you--some of which may be other languages. If, being as you also speak Japanese, you consider a "watermelon" to be a "vegetable," who am I to tell your concept is lesser?

In the way English is no monolith, Japanese is no monolith. So are Spanish, French, Mandarin, Swahili--every individual uses their language or languages in a different way in an imperfect attempt to express their unique thoughts. It's daunting, then, to be the medium with which someone else reaches out and attempts to convey a message.

But that's no excuse not to try. Rather than not convey anything at all, we all have to try, and try our best, to convey ourselves. The fact that it's impossible to translate--to communicate--should not be the deterrent it so often is. Without conveyance, we are nothing to one another. It is communication that allows us to shape ourselves and shape the world around us.

I think a lot about translation as an act of betrayal or violence. I agree that it can be, and often is, but underlying that I think it's even more simple--translation is an act of transformation. Transformation, or change, can be influenced by malice or sheer clumsiness. We are betrayed by and violated by those who would seek to change us against our will; on a broader scale, it's remiss for anyone working with different languages to ignore the power dynamics between their source and target cultures.

At the same time, is it always such a bad thing to be changed? I'm reminded of all the vocal tics I've picked up from friends or favorite books. It's an honor to see colleagues integrate phrases I often use in translation in their translations; in turn, I'm constantly writing down words I see in their works and adding them to mine. I'm molded by everything I've ever cared for and that's cared for me, and so are you. So is everyone on the planet Earth.

When we communicate, then, it's vital that we do so with care. We must try to be conscious of our changing, even if doing so will not guarantee success. We have everything to lose by not trying at all.

While the nature of today's Japan-Anglosphere relations are nothing like the relationship between the early 19th century British Empire and its colonies, there are undeniable power balances and cultural considerations to be made. I'm always cognizant of the freedom my US salary gives me versus that of my JP counterparts, the skewed relationship of American vs Japanese global power, the US's continued military presence in Japan, and so on. I don't let it bother me on a daily basis--guilt with no outlet isn't productive--and I recognize how very lucky I am to be able to dismiss that at all. I'd prefer to continue to listen to others and, when possible, use what powers I have for assisting.

At the same time, I don't deny that differences of race affect many core tenets of my work. Japan occupies an odd position in the Anglosphere cultural world of possessing both immense soft power and a strong perception of negative alterity. Besides the overtly offensive opinions, we see so often notions of Japanese stories--and by extension, their Japanese authors--as excessively exciting or alienatingly weird by virtue of being Japanese. Japanese society is so polite! Or, on the flip side, Japanese society is so racist! People draw conclusions--sometimes containing a kernel of truth, sometimes not--from the whole and apply it to the individual.

Even talking about it too much leaves a funny feeling in my mouth. When I speak in broad strokes about what applies to how most people use Japanese, will that be taken as a statement about every individual person's command of the language? If I constantly compare Japanese, English, Japanese, English, Japanese, English, won't that serve to make them seem like two irreconcilable things? What about all the many people who make their home in both languages? And third, fourth, fifth languages too? When I talk about English with the unconscious expectation that this is where the lack of alterity is found, am I driving away those who approach English in another fashion? And so on.

It's especially difficult working in media, unlike interpretation or other related fields with small target audiences, when the target audience is so big. I change the way I talk when I address my friends vs my coworkers--but what about when I address a vast sea of people, an audience I can't control? How do I know what English phrases resonate with them? How do I tailor my communications and the communications I've been entrusted with so the messages land home, as close as they possibly can?

What I do, then, is try to translate in such a way that always considers the person first. When a line shines, I want it to shine in English. I want authors to appear clever and goofy and banal, because people--Japanese-speakers, English-speakers, both, and neither--are way, way more similar than we give ourselves credit for. I want my one weird author to sound weird in all the right places, because he's not weird by virtue of being Japanese, he's weird by virtue of being a feral goblin of a man. I want my one socially sensitive author to sound caring and clever, even if the words she uses don't align with English discourse. I want the sexy scenes to sound sexy, the funny scenes to be funny, the kinda stupid to be kinda stupid--because people are dumb. And amazing. And so very, very good.

I think a lot about a beginning Japanese learner saying "I'm sorry!" (which came across as "Because it's my fault!") when hearing her instructor had a cold. I think a lot about the man who spoke very little English and still went "D: Fall!" to alert me when I dropped a bag. I think a lot about how, no matter how imperfect, we all want to express care for our fellow human beings. I love all the many things that make us different, and I love all the many ways in which we're exactly the same.

Betrayal, violence, and care bubble out of us no matter how much we try to stop them. It's on us to channel the ways in which we change the world and it is, of course, a necessity.

This book drove me up the wall. Go read it.

[thedrotter]

comparison!! yuu as I drew him in 2024, february 5th; and this panel from my latest post that just so happened to be drawn in february 5th 2025...

it has been a full year since i started to draw re:kinder like crazy www when drawing yuu i'd always reference one of my own drawings of him for consistency, yet even the way i draw him changed quite a lot www

but im very happy with it😊😊 thought id share this since im amused by the evolution of it

[b-plot-butch]

well. this is shitty. i’m not making any definitive decisions at this exact moment, since the reporter who broke the story is boris johnson’s sister and, after a cursory search of her work, seems to hold a LOT of bigoted opinions. i’m hesitant to hold her word as law until more information comes out.

however, and more importantly, the way i’m thinking about it right now is…stopping my support of an author is not going to traumatize me. not posting about his work is not going to traumatize me. what can be traumatizing is seeing a bunch of people flock rabidly to the defense of the man who sexually assaulted you, and i will not do that to the survivors.

above all, i hope their paths to healing are smooth.

[akkivee]

choose your fighter: ichikuu lyrics edition

[lemongogo]