#reciprocal squared function

[math-journal2]

Parent Functions

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 888

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter

Warnings: A/B/O, non/con elements , dub/con elements, enslavement, pandemic, non/con drug use, collaring/leashing, forced mating, forced breeding, BDSM elements, show-level violence

*Additional warnings to be added

*Square filled: @spnabobingo - Alpha Challenging Alpha

A/N: * UPDATED 3/24

A/N II: Still working on reigning myself in, keeping each part reader-friendly length, and have no clue how many parts this will end up being.

A/N III: a few notes about designations in A/O sub-genders for this story.

Alphas-Dominant (head of the pack/family) Subordinate (obey Dominant) Breeders (rare & highly coveted by the government. Can challenge Dominant for pack/family leadership)

Omegas -Domestic (mostly wiped out by plague, few natural born left) Feral (government-supplied breeders sold commonly called O's) House O’s (3rd generation+ Feral/Dominant breed. Used as servants/sex workers) Pack (rare & highly coveted by the government)

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

GIF by antiquerss

Part II

“Dean's preference of type doesn’t matter, but I want one under eighteen.” 

Sam’s head snapped up in shock. That wasn’t the plan; John was specific that O should be older than Dean and preowned, making them cheaper to repurchase. “Dad, why are you wanting…?” John cut him off with a low growl, provoking Sam’s inner wolf to reciprocate, neither noticing Helms studying their interaction with interest.

Alpha Winchester can’t wholly control this beauty like the other one. The boss will be pleased to learn about these developments. 

“A House O would normally do on paper,” Helms interrupts, “But I know this judge, they will not be satisfied with that alone.”  Both Winchesters have matching, confused expressions, and he continues before John can ask what that means.

 “The judge will require that I follow the statutes in Hibbins and your pack's unusual dynamics: three virile, unmated Alphas with no permanent abode, residing whatever. House O’s have a breed down to need stability, so a Pack Omega would be ideal even if they're as scarce as Phoenix and need the right connections, but there's your social standing.” That remark made Sam snort. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned their social standing, not so slyly code for a dirt-poor pack. 

“I have a few in the preferred age range we could negotiate over, but I suspect you won’t allow your Subordinate to breed them. The judge probably will consider that a deal breaker. The best option is an altered pre-owned Feral. And fortunate for you, I’ve recently acquired a selection from a fire sale. This way, gentlemen.” 

Dean's wolf whines, watching his pack move farther into the building. At the same time, he can only stand there, as ordered, and observe these unfortunate creatures bartered over as the livestock society considers them. His Alpha knew it would eat at his ingrained, perpetual guilt and is part of the repentance he has to endure because, once vexed, John Winchester never forgave or forgot.

Sam's inner wolf was getting more unquiet the longer they were in this den of iniquity. He knew the only reason John wanted him near was an additional jab at Dean to emphasize his failures. Fuck, he hated their Alpha using Dean's guilt against himself whenever displeased. Sam couldn’t see Dean from where they were, getting pissed that John was now only focusing on a couple of O’s that’d caught his interest.

Sam instinctually knew she was all wrong and, without realizing it, started vocalizing his displeasure. “What’s your problem now?” John barked at him. “They’re undoubtedly your type, sir,” Sam replied with his usual bluntness that made John's jaw clench, grudgingly reflecting on his youngest observation.

As the Dominant Alpha of his pack, John ultimately decided how they functioned, including mating. He cringed internally, remembering the drinking confession inadvertently made to Sam shortly after he presented.

It was a typical night when John was around.

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table finishing up some calculus homework. At the same time, John, sprawled on a couch, hovering between drunk and passed-out drunk, started talking about his mother.

Mary used to say three-year-old Dean was a handful, and now about to whelp again; it was too much for an Alpha herself to handle not having the instincts. She insisted John procure a House O to wet nurse the new pup because after extending the nursing of Dean, she wasn’t willing to do that again. John told her they couldn’t afford one, and Mary retorted if they had one, they could hatefuck their anger out on the O instead of John leaving. 

Sams revolted learning that the mother he never knew, one his brother practically worshiped, had wanted to purchase a House O to raise her litter and use them as a fuckslave to keep her mate happy and at home. When John started drunkenly lauding the pleasurable attributes of an Omegas natural slick pussy versus female Alphas, Sam grabbed Dean's CD player, pumped up the volume, and pretended to be working until John eventually passed out.

Shoving the books into his backpack, Sam retreated to their shared bedroom and retrieved the cobbled-together black-market laptop Dean secretly got him. Firing it up, he began researching the history of Omegas, the Hibbins Procurement Act, eventually going down the rabbit hole, finding blogs about how the effort to repopulate Omegas became perverted over the decades and obscure provisions secretly added during extension reviews that the government schools omitted felt his meager dinner about to reappear and bolted for the toilet.

Dean came rolling later, finding the laptop open on the bed, and immediately started worrying. His brother never left it out when their dad was around, followed the scent of sickness to find Sam lying on the bath floor, looking like he’d picked up an illness. Dean cleans him up, then tucks Sam into bed, diligently watching over him the rest of the night.

Surveying the area for hidden trouble, Sam catches an irresistible scent. His inner wolf hurls itself frantically against its cage of skin and bone, growling home home home in his mind. Flicking an eye towards his Alpha, whom Helms had distracted by another O. Without a second thought, Sam follows the wolf’s instincts, slowly backs towards the door left ajar, and slips through unnoticed.

Part III

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx @lyarr24  @flamencodiva    @lassie-bird @nancymcl   @spnbaby-67   @leigh70

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl

WF: @slamminmine @ladysparkles78 @deans-spinster-witch @ilovetaquitosmmmm

[sexy-azalin-rexy]

For @arsarcane 's Kingmaker game. If you see typos, no you don't.

“I am the face of love’s rage.” It was an offhand remark, nothing meaningful, but Valentin saw the very instant Linzi clamped down on it like a starving dog. Dammit. The halfling analyzed them, and for a moment they felt paradoxically small, every mote of their being seen as though dissected. The halfling ended up being just decent enough to say nothing of it, but Valentin could see her jotting a note of it. It was a split second decision.

“You will be wanting the whole story,” Valentin said, screwing their eyes shut, “and who am I to deprive you of it?”

“Oh, I love a good trauma dump. Let me wet my quill, and then tell me of your sordid affair.”

“‘Affair’ implies reciprocation, does it not? No. It was no affair, no tryst, nothing.”

“What, then?” Linzi perched, almost birdlike, on one of the horses–she’d been safe at Oleg’s, and the beasts seemed to quite like her.

“A kindling. A single torch, on a shore a league away.” They took off their glasses, polishing them for a second. “Is lover more of a synonym for companion, or mirror?”

Linzi didn't reply. She was entranced by this, clearly, and so Valentin stopped stalling, and told the damned story.

–

Peotyr’s castle had been designed with function first and aesthetics second. The fact that the aesthetics were still enough to rival grander palaces said something about the Rogarvia’s sense of taste. The outer wall was comprised of dappled stone, white and grey granite carved to as slick a surface as could be managed, such that no escalade would find decent purchase on the wall. The inside of it was a touch less refined, considering that it had been slowly built inward over time–it was a good four yards thick, now, and stonecutters had lived and died over the course of its gradual expansion. The gates were wood rather than iron, and frequently replaced; the top of the wall, constantly patrolled. This was not the impressive part of the manor.

Inside the imposing walls, beyond the empty, moat-like courtyard, the hall stood. It was four stories in the shortest places, with the tower standing far higher than that, large and square, with a view for a mile. Being that it was Brevoy, there was no grand courtyard, nor a palacial garden, nor a broad moat. The courtyard would have been buried in snow, the plants frostbitten, the moat gone from a deathtrap to a moderately dangerous ice skating course. The comforts were thus fewer than they might have been further south–but the palace was still a marvel.

Instead of a courtyard, the Grand hall sat near the center of the building, roofed entirely in glass. On a clear night, every star would shine down on that hall–and the light of the torches would shine upward such that the glass nearly glowed, from where Valentin often sat in the tower. They could make out many goings-on below. It was a fascinating thing to watch. From this distance they had no hope of lip reading, even with the opera glasses they'd picked up from someone or other. That didn't matter too much. The way people moved still told a story, their closeness or distance, where they touched or refused to touch.

No one wore more distance than Peotyr Rogarvia. There was no great dias in the Grand Hall, no throne set apart, but there may as well have been for how Peotyr was treated. He was far enough down in the line to refuse marriage proposals, though that rarely mattered–he was far enough down that he only occasionally received them. Thus there were ladies below, many of them, of all descriptions–Valentin’s eye had been caught by a plump beauty with pearls sewn into her brunette hair, showing more cleavage than was in fashion, until they'd realized she'd not be wooing, certainly, because she was one of Peotyr's younger aunts. The Rogarvias of all people had not come to that, just yet, owed to the startling fecundity of the lot of them.

Even those ladies unrelated to the young prince showed little real interest. There was kindness, certainly, a word exchanged here or there, but it seemed that in all the Hall, there was no one with their sights set on the hand of the man. Valentin liked it that way. The dance around him was a beautiful thing, not scripted, but propriety demanded certain actions, and these rippled in a shockingly steady rhythm through the hall. From above it was like watching petals floating on water, or some frenzied, insane dance. They could have watched all night–they were supposed to be looking out for poisonings–but pity got the better of them.

Valentin had little in the way of proper party attire–their ideal parties required no attire, at all, not a stitch on them. There weren't many of those. A girl could still dream. Throwing together something worth wearing was a challenge, but they had enough eye for it to only be a decade or two out of fashion–a faux pas, but not terribly much of one.

Their stays were easily laced, the buttons a detail of creamy stone, likely only calcite. It went well with the soft, dusty pastel of the garment. This, they'd picked up as an experiment, which had failed gravely–the dye had been meant to give it a lavender color, but had been sensitive to acids and bases, and so it was a twee sky blue. With this went leggings and a coat, the leggings nothing special and the coat an old gift from their mother when they'd travelled north. Rabbit fur, tawny yellow-blonde. It went with their eyes well enough. Last the belt, and the boots, both a cream to match the buttons. It was nothing, compared to Peotyr's full fur ensemble, but they weren't a prince, and he could take his rescue even if it came in rags.

The stairs wound downward at almost dangerous angles, made worse by Valentin’s lack of care with their things. Here and there a dried pool of…something coated the stone, leaving puddles sticky enough to pull the shoes right off your feet, if you were careless. Other spots were acid-eaten, the result of past experiences, and one wall even had long, inch-deep scratch marks, the result of Peotyr experimenting with a Drakeheart elixir. Valentin took it all quickly and easily, having descended these stairs so often that they didn't need a light to see by. They took them two at a time.

The hall was not so far off–it had been made central to the palatial design, easily reachable from any point in the house, once you'd breached the walls. They could hear the music from here, great swells of string and hollowed bone flute making something almost magical. Almost–they’d lost the bard to consumption two moons ago, and had not yet sent for another. Servants bowed out of the way as Valentin passed, save for a couple of their friends. These, they drew close for a moment, kissing both cheeks in quick greeting, appeasement more than acknowledgement.

If the dance was water, they were oil. They slid through it untouched, bouyed and bounced by the one-two-three movements of everyone around them. A pretty elf–Shoshanna Briars, by name–pressed a cup of spiced wine into their hand, which they raised in thanks, before finally sidling up beside their liege.

“You know, I could make cyanide pills next time. If you want an easier out.” This with a sip of the herbal wine. When they'd first gotten here, they'd found it thick and bitter. Years had tempered their palette to this, and to the elk and snow leek diet that was customary here. At least Peotyr tended fig trees in the hot house, and insisted that Enlarged goats be kept in order to make cheese of their milk. It was the little things.

“Someone would resurrect me. We can't be running out of spares.”

“Your people breed like rabbits, Lord. The only way you’ll see the throne is in event of cataclysm. Bloodline curse. Something.” Peotyr made a noise at that, an affirmative one. He leant back in his chair, tipping his head back at Valentin. He'd been in his cups, then–there was a redness to his pale face, a looseness of expression.

Valentin leant on the back off his slightly-fancy chair, all conspiratorial. They had nothing to actually gossip about, but let the others look and make scandal. They would anyway, now that Valentin has appeared. When they spoke to Peotyr next, it was in Gnomish, the tone mimicking rumor.

“You do well with the bread and circuses. Irroveti called this ‘The Northern Mivon’ recently, and perhaps he isn't wrong. Strange, that–I couldn't find the dig in it. He sounded very nearly sincere.” They smiled at that, conscious that even their smile was strange to these people, the down-turning corners and out-curling tusks belying the fact that they were from somewhere very, very far from here–at least by origin.

Peotyr's gnomish accent was as pathetic as Valentin's Common, which could more properly be called Hallit, elsewhere. He'd learned well, though, conjugating his verbs almost like he spoke the language.

“Flattery won't get him anywhere if he has nowhere to get. Stop manipulating the poor people, Valentin. When you smile like that, people wonder what for.”

“Mm. Your attack dog, your loose cannon, your godless tool of dark sorceries. I do threaten them, don't I?”

“If I didn't know you, you'd threaten me, and it's not about your face.”

“I could ask what you mean, but I think you'd bruise my heart.” Valentin took another long drink of their wine, thick as blood.

“I mean that you and your twin were raised well, and your mother did right by you, and still I'm not sure how far you'd go if anyone gave you half a reason.”

“The good news is that no one's giving me one. I live here, fat and happy and unchallenged. I understand the purpose of a border march, really, but you're woefully short of enemies. I'm not that nasty, Peotyr. You've dug the claws right out of my fingertips with years of steady employment and good feeding.”

“No,” Peotyr mused, swirling his own wine, “no, I don't think I have. Your claws are extant as ever, only sheathed. A knife doesn't get duller for being in a scabbard.”

“Not on your scale of time. What will happen a hundred years from now, when I serve your little cadet branch's heirs, and their heirs? When all the skin has rotted from your bones, do you think I'll still be as sharp?” Valentin dared a touch, gently scratching sharp fingernails at Peotyr's scalp. He didn't mind it sober, and drunk he leant into it lightly, almost imperceptible.

“The equilibrium will have shifted by then. Install someone for that long and they become a part of the place, a genius loci with skin. I think that's a different kind of force to be reckoned with. You understand I'm not saying this to be cruel, yes? I like your edge. In another life I'd have liked to see your mettle tested. Imagine that.” Peotyr leant his head on his hand, watching the slow winding down of the dance. “Me in gleaming maille, directing the charge. You at my right hand, spreading another type of desolation entirely.”

“Your battles sound better in books, and you are very, very drunk. I'd help you back to your quarters, if people wouldn't assume we were fucking about it.”

“Let them assume. Like I have scads of suitors? No one would want to marry this place, and to marry me is to marry it. Unless I take the throne–and I won't.”

“Some people would. You were just talking about me becoming part of this place–and how long has Shoshanna served your cups?”

“Since my grandfather's time, but she's still running from those murder charges. They think I don't know that she did it, but I've seen her long, thin knives.”

Valentin helped Peotyr to his feet bracingly, wishing ridiculous things for a moment–that they had cleavage for him to drunkenly faceplant into, maybe, or that the roof would cave in and kill them both. Their affection felt so very juvenile, sometimes, a child's fairytale. Overwrought. Still they were steadfast, because the heat that stained their own cheeks a deep purple could be written off as a product of the wine, and because no one has even bothered paying them mind. Maybe people had been assuming they'd been fucking for a while. Maybe Valentin was so low below his station for it to be unthinkable.

The walk back to Peotyr's room was decently long, only because he had insisted on staying in the ancestral bedroom where generations of his indirect line had fucked and birthed and died. It was a nice suite, at least, wood-paneled, high-ceilinged. Valentin tolerated Peotyr's body heat and the smell of his fur outfit, the tang of the bitter wine and the steps misaligned with theirs. They were sworn into service, after all, and if it wouldn't be service in battle, it'd be this. They saw him at his vanity, and he was grateful for the assistance.

It was stupid, the emotion that made them kneel before him. Their deft, sharp-nailed fingers were gentle as they undid the laces of his fur and leather boots. They were gentle as they helped him slip the coat off–unsurprisingly, the damned thing was heavy, the product of many animals stitched together. Beavers, maybe, or otters. Thick, glossy, dark hair coated the thing, and it was a hideousness–but it was a relic, so they hung it nicely in the wardrobe.

Peotyr had servants for this, dressing men that would have been happy to help–but Valentin did not call them, and Peotyr kept his mouth shut, too. He wore a heavy pendant of office, the Rogarvia sigil outlined in silver and gold. Their fingers deftly undid the clasp, and this hung above the vanity on a special hook–Peotyr was not to leave his chambers without it, though that didn't seem to stop him. Their fingers stilled and curled at the back of his neck, and again he tilted his head back to look up at them.

“I meant what I said, about serving your house after you're dust or gone. Fidelity to House Rogarvia.”

“Such a curious thing.” Peotyr was speaking Hallit again now, the people's language, rough even in his educated tones. “You're not an antique, like Shoshanna. I'm your first leige. You have your freedom whenever you want it, and certainly on my death you'd be given the choice to leave with full commission, retire to a house of your own. Somewhere warmer, if you wanted. And, speaking frankly, since the necklace is off–we both know that the right of kings is bunk. I'm not compelling you to serve, and yet you do, willingly. You'd dull your ambition forever to serve in my house.”

“I would,” Valentin said. And venerate your bones forever, they did not, not wishing to give the prince nightmares.

“Fidelity. When I write in my journals, I hope you know I'm documenting that. The house Rogarvia will have friendship forever with the house Valentin, if you start one.”

“Unlikely. One of me scares your people enough, and we run in pairs. A kingdom of blue menaces would tip the scales to revolution, I think.”

“I'll find a way to repay your service someday, Alein. Don't try my honor, on that.”

“You are forgetting that you give me a wage, a room, and board.”

“And it still doesn't satisfy you. That's all given for the position, but someone could do your job a shade as well and still get that. That's not what I want to reward you for. Your dissatisfaction is fair–because I don't pay you for fidelity, for loyalty, for–intimacy.”

“No, you would pay whores for that, if they hadn't all frozen their prodigious tits off making the journey up.”

“Valentin, I'm serious. I am–” Peotyr paused, with the look of a man whose foundational walls were crumbling. He wouldn't have looked more stricken if the twelve foot thick walls outside had suddenly disintegrated. “I am unimaginably lonely. I have my study, I have my servants, and I have you. My brothers and sisters are worlds away, married or lonely on their own. You are my only true friend. I'd be undone without you.”

“My lord,” Valentin said, and then they stopped. Their hand had not moved from the back of his neck. “Don't pay me for fidelity, loyalty, intimacy. I give it freely, and with no expectation of return. I should retire for the night–you want your bed, I see it in your eyes.”

“Val–Alein. Leave if you will, but we'll be friends first. If I've bruised your heart somehow, say that you'll forgive me. Say we can talk in the morning, with less wine between us and more light.”

“Before breakfast, my lord, if you want it.” They made to slip away, but Peotyr's hand grasped their wrist. It wasn't an iron grasp, not even an insistent one, but it was enough.

“I'm being an egoist,” Peotyr said, softly, “and I'm being interminably presumptive. I can't ask you for more, but I will–I’ve hurt you. Stay the night in the servant's quarters off this room, please–I won't be able to sleep, thinking that I've caused you to run away. Gods but I've done ill by you. Years of friendship and still I sit here like a stone, whining about how alone I am.”

“You're not whining, you're drunk. I'll stay in the quarters, and I'll administer your hangover cure in the morning, and you will rest easily, my lord. My heart has taken bruises and will take more, but you didn't put one there. I've had it for a long time. Been pressing it with my fingers every so often to refresh the pain.”

“That's no way to live.”

“My fidelity is yours, Peotyr, and my loyalty, and my intimacy. Now you want my heart, too?”

Peotyr didn't answer that, chewing on his cheek softly, and looking at them with eyes a dark and liquid brown, depths of dark water that they couldn't parse. They met them as best they could, well aware that their own stare was piercing at best. Finally, Peotyr answered with a final tightening of his hand on their wrist, and then by releasing it.

“Sleep well, Valentin. If you get cold, or want your nightclothes–let me escort you. There's something unsettling me tonight, and it would ease me like nothing else to be sure that you were safe.”

“You cage your little bird, and then insist you watch as it flits from place to place.” Valentin gave another small smile at that, confident that of all the people in this building, Peotyr was one of few who would take their smile as it was.

“That's not a no.”

“It isn't. We'll take up the candle together if I find myself missing my things–though if I get cold, I'll steal your blankets, and if I feel exposed I might well steal your night robe.”

“And such is the payment for fidelity. Sleep well, Valentin, I say it again. We'll speak in the morning with clear heads and, I hope, clear consciences.”

“You have nothing to worry after on my account. Your conscience can be clear as water.”

They left him at that, and they didn't come for his blankets, or his robe, or a midnight walk through the palace. In point of fact, they didn't emerge until morning, and by then Peotyr's sheets were cold. It was the last time the price was ever seen alive, and Valentin had held onto it for long, long years. The bruise on their heart had gone from a healing green to a hematoma black, that morning. Their conscience and their mind had not been clear since.

[authorjond369]

Common Graphs and Formulas in Algebra: Your Visual Library of Functions

Common Graphs and Formulas in Algebra: Your Visual Library of Functions Every algebra student needs a visual library of basic functions and how they appear on a graph. These aren’t just important for exams—they form the foundation for transformations, modeling, and calculus. This final reference page summarizes six of the most common parent functions: quadratic, cubic, square root, reciprocal,…

[industrial-air-solutions-cbe]

How to Choose the Right Air Compressor for Your Business?

Due to their versatility, air compressors are great additions to any business. In comparison to electric power tools, these robust and reliable machines perform a wide range of tasks. Applications range from supplying energy to small appliances to industrial processes. Industrial and commercial businesses cannot function without air compressors. It can be difficult, however, to find the best air compressor suppliers for your business needs. There are a few factors to consider while choosing the perfect air compressor for your business.

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Customers often choose products based on their appearance, and then they suffer later due to downtime issues. Long-term performance is determined by the quality, construction and the air compressor features. In this regard, we at IAS sell ELGi industrial compressors of the highest quality and made using the best materials available. Also ensure that the supplier is stocked with genuine air compressor parts in case you need it. The objective of an air compressor supplier is to increase the efficiency and reliability of the air compressors that they sell. Compressor technology is continuously evolving, so the best air compressor suppliers emphasize incorporating these newer innovations into their products and systems.

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Volumetric flow of air and pressure at which it is compressed determine an air compressor's capacity. The power rating of an air compressor (in kW or HP) is likewise determined by this. Air audits help companies to get valuable insights into their plant’s compressed air utilization.

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Generally, Industrial Recep compressors can operate at a duty cycle of 75% to 100% and Screw compressors are designed for a 100% duty cycle, making them capable of continuous operation. An understanding of the life cycle cost of a compressor is essential before making a purchase decision. It is composed of Initial Cost + Maintenance Cost + Energy Cost.

If the compressor usage is between 75-100% load pattern and on Budgetary, a reciprocating compressor should be selected.

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Controls

The two main types of control systems used in air compressors are fixed-speed and variable-speed controls, both of which aim to match air supply to air demand. Consider the controller and the features of the machine before buying an air compressor. It might be digital or manual. You can also access maintenance schedules, history, and warnings. These systems provide you with the exact data that you need for optimal functioning of your air compressor.

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The noise level of an air compressor system varies from model to model. Be it any model, some amount of noise while operating is common when it comes to compressed air systems. Many air compressors are designed with a noise reduction system to make the workplace more comfortable. No one needs a noisy machine. So before buying an air compressor it is important to consider the amount of noise level of an air compressor.

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To make the most informed purchase, you should consider your business needs and budget carefully. Compare quotes from several suppliers and choose the one with the best model, quality, and reliability. Therefore, it is essential to ask about the warranty, after-sales air compressor service and maintenance plans before purchasing an air compressor because they are expensive to repair often. So, you could save money by using the warranty to protect the compressor and even other parts.

Our professionals at IAS can simplify your work and help in selecting the industrial air compressor that is right for your small or medium sized business.

[misartrading]

Top 10 Bosch Power Tools Every DIYer Should Have In Their Toolbox

When it comes to tackling DIY obligations, having the proper gadget could make all the difference. Among the many brands available on the marketplace, however, Bosch stands proud of its exceptional first-rate quality, reliability, and innovation. Whether you're a seasoned DIY fanatic or just starting out, having a selection of Bosch power tools in your toolbox can substantially enhance your competencies and efficiency. In this article, we will find out the top 10 Bosch power tools and equipment that every DIYer should not neglect adding to their arsenal.

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For immediately cutting and ripping through lumber, a round saw is a must-have device. Bosch round saws are designed for sturdiness and performance, making them appropriate for an extensive range of DIY applications. With capabilities like laser publications.

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For tasks that include paint stripping, thawing pipes, or bending plastic, a heat gun is critical. Bosch warmness guns provide variable temperature controls, ergonomic designs, and protection functions for unique and efficient warmth application.

Laser Level:

When it comes to making sure specific and accurate measurements are taken, a laser degree is essential. Bosch laser stages offer dependable overall performance, intuitive controls, and various mounting options for leveling, aligning, and squaring obligations.

Conclusion:

Having the proper equipment could make DIY initiatives more exciting, green, and a hit. Bosch electricity equipment is renowned for its satisfaction, reliability, and innovation, making it the appropriate preference for DIY fanatics. By making an investment in the top 10 Bosch power gears referred to in this newsletter, you could equip yourself with the tools you need to tackle a huge variety of projects with confidence and ease. Whether you're drilling, reducing, sanding, or leveling, Bosch has you covered.

[robhorninginternalexile]

LLMs are automated structuralism

From Fredric Jameson, "Metacommentary"

structuralism as a method or mode of research is formalistic in that it studies organization rather than content, and assumes the primacy of the linguistic model, the predominance of language and of linguistic structures in the shaping of meaningful experiences. All the layers or levels of social life are ordered or systematic only insofar as they form languages of their own, in strictest analogy to the purely linguistic: styles of clothing, economic relationships, table manners and national cuisines, kinship systems, the publicity apparatus of the capitalist countries, the cosmological legends of primitive tribes, even the mechanisms of the Freudian mental topology — all are systems of signs, based on differential perceptions, and governed by categories of exchange and transformation.

Probably obvious, but LLMs are automated structuralism, predicated on the idea that the "linguistic structures" Jameson mentions here (what we might now think of in terms of digitization or datafication) are capable of capturing everything significant about lived experience, if not things in themselves.

In place of the anarchy of the free and arbitrary play of signifiers in these interlocking levels of systems that function as languages, there is a faith that accurate probabilities can be assigned to every possible combination so that all the systems are anchored to some base reality.

Jameson argues that strcuturalism is anti-substantialist: it locates meaning in the difference between contrasting elements and not the thing in itself: "substance is replaced by relationship," so that "all meanings are organized, following the pattern of phonology, in pairs of oppositions or determinate differences."

But I find it hard to square that with what Lévi-Strauss, in his Introduction to the Work of Marcel Mauss, seems to want to insist about the relation between signifier and signified, that it is not arbitrary but the essence of the progress of human knowledge.

the two categories of the signifier and the signified came to be constituted simultaneously and interdependently, as complementary units; whereas knowledge, th a t is, the intellectual process which enables us to identify certain aspects of the signifier and certain aspects of the signified, one by reference to the other — we could even say the process which enables us to choose, from the entirety of the signifier and from the entirety of the signified, those parts which present the most satisfying relations of mutual agreement — only got started very slowly. It is as if humankind had suddenly acquired an immense domain and the detailed plan of that domain, along with a notion of the reciprocal relationship of domain and plan; but had spent millennia learning which specific symbols of the plan represented the different aspects of the domain.

I have to admit that I don't know how he can mean that, but maybe the idea here is that there can be no science or knowledge at all if we don't allow for words to relate in some necessary way to things, or that the statistical patterns of reference revealed in language use en masse isn't merely conventional or historical but reveals some basic a priori truth about the human condition, the universe as it has been given once and for all and how it really works. (The LLM = AGI fantasy partakes of this idea, I think.) But it just seems like a theological claim. The conclusion that Lévi-Strauss comes to here seems very odd to me:

The universe signified long before people began to know what it signified; no doubt that goes without saying. But, from the foregoing analysis, it also emerges that from the beginning, the universe signified the totality of what humankind can expect to know about it. What people call the progress of the human mind and, in any case, the progress of scientific knowledge, could only have been and can only ever be constituted out of processes of correcting and recutting of patterns, regrouping, defining relationships of belonging and discovering new resources, inside a totality which is closed and complementary to itself.

Maybe I don't understand how he means to use the words "universe" and "signified" and "totality" here. But it seems like he is saying the future is not unwritten, and that seems entirely unacceptable.

[aircompressor88]

Air Compressor for Industrial Use: Powering Efficiency and Productivity

Air compressors have revolutionized industries by providing a reliable and efficient source of power for a wide range of applications. From automotive manufacturing to construction, these machines have become essential in powering various pneumatic tools and processes. In this article, we will explore the world of industrial air compressors, their types, benefits, and how to choose the right one for your specific needs.

What is an Air Compressor?

The process of converting power into potential energy and storing it in compressed air is achieved by an air compressor, which is a mechanical apparatus. It works by drawing air into a storage tank and then reducing its volume, thereby increasing its pressure. This compressed air can be utilized to power tools, machinery, and equipment, making it a versatile and indispensable tool in numerous industrial settings.

Types of Industrial Air Compressors :

Industrial air compressors come in various types to cater to different applications and environments. The most common ones include:

1. Reciprocating Compressors

These compressors utilize a piston-cylinder mechanism to compress air. They are ideal for small-scale operations and are known for their durability and efficiency.

2. Rotary Screw Compressors

Rotary screw compressors use helical screws to compress air continuously. They are perfect for heavy-duty applications, offering a constant and smooth flow of compressed air.

3. Centrifugal Compressors

Centrifugal compressors are used for high-pressure applications and large-scale industries. They work on the principle of converting kinetic energy into potential energy.

Choosing the Right Air Compressor

Selecting the appropriate air compressor for your industrial needs is crucial for optimal performance and efficiency.

1. Required Air Flow (CFM)

The required cubic feet per minute (CFM) depends on the tools and equipment you intend to power with the compressor. It is essential to choose a compressor that meets or exceeds the total CFM demand of your applications.

2. Pressure Requirements

Ensure that the compressor can provide the required pounds per square inch (PSI) of pressure needed for your tools to function correctly.

3. Power Source

Industrial air compressors can be powered by electricity, diesel, or gasoline engines. Choose a power source that aligns with your site's availability and environmental considerations.

4. Tank Size

Consider the size of the storage tank, as it impacts the compressor's duty cycle and the continuous operation time.

Factors to Consider for Industrial Use

When using air compressors in industrial settings, several crucial factors should be taken into account to maximize efficiency and safety:

1. Proper Installation

Ensure that the air compressor is correctly installed by following the manufacturer's guidelines and safety protocols.

2. Regular Maintenance

Perform routine maintenance, such as changing filters and oil, to keep the compressor running smoothly and prevent breakdowns.

3. Safety Precautions

Train operators on safety protocols and provide protective gear when working with air compressors and pneumatic tools.

4. Noise Level

Consider the noise level of the compressor and choose quieter models if operating in noise-sensitive environments.

Benefits of Using Air Compressors in Industries Air compressors offer numerous advantages to industries, including:

Increased productivity through the use of pneumatic tools.

Cost savings due to reduced manual labour and increased efficiency.

Versatility in applications, from painting to powering heavy machinery.

Environmentally friendly compared to other power sources.

Maintenance and Safety Tips

Maintaining your industrial air compressor is essential for its longevity and safe operation. Follow these tips:

Regularly check for air leaks and fix them promptly.

Monitor and change air filters according to the manufacturer's recommendations.

Drain accumulated moisture from the tank to prevent corrosion.

Common Applications of Industrial air compressors find applications in various industries, such as:

Construction: Powering jackhammers, nail guns, and concrete vibrators.

Manufacturing: Running assembly lines and operating robotic machinery.

Food Processing: Operating pneumatic conveyors and packaging machines.

Understanding CFM and PSI

Cubic feet per minute (CFM) and pounds per square inch (PSI) are critical metrics when choosing an air compressor. CFM indicates the airflow rate, while PSI measures the pressure level.

[newsbites]

News from Australia, 3 July

The Queensland opposition is demanding the state government to explain and fix the inadequate healthcare in Indigenous communities following a coroner's findings on the deaths of three Indigenous women with rheumatic heart disease.

The coroner's report highlighted the failure of health systems in remote Indigenous communities and emphasized that rheumatic heart disease is preventable and largely a result of poverty and social disadvantage.

The opposition leader is calling for a full review of the government's Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Cultural Capability Framework, release of the implementation schedule for the coroner's recommendations, and an independent review of the government's strategy to end rheumatic heart disease.

2. Scientists have developed an approach to select coral species for reef restoration programs, focusing on species that can optimize coral reef survival in a warming world.

The selection process considers both ecological characteristics and trait diversity to ensure species diversity and ecosystem function in future coral reefs.

This approach provides a simple framework for restoration practitioners to select target species based on spatial scale and available resources.

3. The Reserve Bank of Australia is expected to raise its interest rate by 25 basis points to 4.35% in order to combat high inflation.

Economists are divided on whether the RBA will hike rates or hold them steady, with a near split between those expecting a hike and those predicting a pause.

Despite a slight slowdown in inflation, the RBA is likely to continue tightening monetary policy due to strong employment growth and the need to address the disinflation task.

4. Indonesian President Joko Widodo's visit to Australia near the end of his term is seen as an important statement for bilateral relations and the potential for concrete economic projects.

Talks between Australia and Indonesia may focus on the supply of minerals for battery and electric vehicle manufacturing, with opportunities for reciprocal trade and cooperation.

While there are concerns about the AUKUS defense pact, there is potential for positive steps in security cooperation between the two nations in the Indo-Pacific region.

5. The Indonesian government is actively working to increase the number of Indonesian language learners in Australia.

Efforts are being made to support the development of Indonesian language learning in NSW, Queensland, and South Australia.

'Indonesia in Action Day' organized by AIYA NSW and the University of Sydney showcased the importance of promoting Indonesian language and culture.

[crispyfishsticks]

Are Jeih and Ary a 'thing'? :O I seem to remember you being very against gay art of lockjaws?

Generally my Lock art rules are:

No nsfw lock art (exception is Jeih, if I know you or if you ask first and are not a creep about it)

No fan Lock chars please.

Gift art is fine, be it random Locks or my chars.

Ship art of my chars is fine, don't care what flavor it is. Used to be super against this in general if it wasn't canon, and I don't care anymore. Just leave Jarovin out of it and give a nod to canon if you will.

To your first question - might as well do the lore update thing while I'm here to square everything away. Brace for long Ary & Jeih post.

Quick background:

Locks aren't inherently sexual beings. They don't have sex or gender within their own 'species', it's not something that's on their radar and they don't really mess around with it (with few exceptions - like Jeih, who is a wildly NSFW character). There are Reasons, for that.

Locks aren't social entities, they don't have all the relationship levels like social species do. They basically have two modes:

Companions - 'we share a major goal, our teeth are turned away from each other.' This is a joint choice. There's not much Lockian intimacy here, the focus is whatever the goal is and that usually relates to the primary heirarchy stuff (North Cliff, Empires, etc). It sets a baseline for consistent non-aggressive behavior between parties.

and

Bonded Companions - 'we're inexorably bound together, can't escape each other, and will eventually merge into a single entity.' This is not a choice either party has. It usually takes a while (sometimes thousands of years+) to resolve and is often a major source of conflict between strong personalities. This state also involves Lockian intimacy, which revolves around patterns and has nothing to do with sex. The pattern stuff drives the bonding process. Pattern stuff = bonds of some sort will happen, and you will be forced to deal with it.

There is a semi-secret third mode that involves Aryion.

Ary's work and specialty with the lesser wills is pattern manipulation, in Lockian healing and repair. His symbiosis with Jarovin tempers his aggressive nature and allows him to tolerate partial bonds - which is any bond created by the pattern work he's doing. So Locks that he is actively working on may partially bond to him, for a short time. These partial bonds are mostly one-sided. Ary does not, will not, and cannot reciprocate on a Lockian level (indomitable wills are incompatible with lesser wills anyway, from a bonding standpoint).

Where Jeih is concerned:

Jeih's pattern has been buggered since Hons tore up Yahndrall and started chowing down on the lesser wills. Jeih was unfortunate collateral before he even came into consciousness. In the aftermath of the Hons vs Ary battle that happened at that time, Ary sought out all the damaged, unsalvageable lesser wills from Hons's rampage to put them out of their misery. As he came up on Jeih, Jeih figured out a workaround in his pattern to keep himself functional and Ary made the decision to allow him to live.

Ary exists with that choice, takes responsibility for that decision and is ready to be the one to end him should he destabilize at any point. He has no emotions tied to that decision or that outcome - Jeih is beyond his ability to repair for a long time.

Aryion eventually acquires the skills needed for major pattern reconfiguration (several eons and a few partial bonds later) and is able to step in when Jeih does finally destabilize. In the time before Ary's able to help, Jeih meets his bonded companion (Kyrin) but is unable to bond, goes to Ary for help (he can't), he defects from the primary hierarchy, and then for thousands of years spends his time living as various material plane creatures, finally settling on being human and playing out a multitude of human lives. He embraces humanness and embeds himself in that race. He cannot bond and is propelled to seek out intimacy in a myriad of other ways, but these are no substitute for bonding so his appetite is insatiable. Plus side - he gets very good at making and breaking relationships, he learns to relate and emote like humans do, he can flawlessly human. Downside - he also stops living and feeding like a Lock and starts down that blood-soaked path of seducing and eating people, and starts losing his mind as he slowly starves.

When Jeih spirals and is on the cusp of giving up, Ary forcibly takes over maintaining his pattern and locks his consciousness in a human body. The move saves Jeih by allowing Ary to stabilize his pattern and buy him more time - but it also creates an intensely strong partial bond between them, much to Aryion's dismay and mild horror. Ary is so dismayed, in fact, that he refuses to acknowledge the bond's existence and Jeih spends a good bit of time incredibly confused on why he's constantly drawn back to the indomitable will. It's only after Jeih is up and running properly, after he's modified his behavior, has been released from his binding (to be a Lock again), and is actively trying to work out things with Ary, that Ary relents and fills him in on what happened.

Ary's work is not finished - not nearly so. The pattern reconfiguration requires Jeih to participate, which Jeih doesn't outright want to do for a while. And in the meantime, Jeih brings all of his humanisms, all of his charm, all of his innuendo and insatiable 'need to connect' energy down on Aryion. He would 100% love to squirrel Ary away and do sexy stuff all day. He does in fact convince Ary to borrow an actual human body and he does bargain for some Things at one point, but it's short lived. Jeih embraces his bond with Aryion and wants to take it as far as he can, because why not? Why not do all the things while they're there, explore it all, enjoy it all? He is content to treat Aryion like he wants to treat Kyrin - who, like Ary, does not really enjoy this flavor of attention.

Ary does not share Jeih's enthusiasm. He wants to do his job unbothered. He does eventually come to enjoy Jeih's company when Jeih gives him space, and eventually accepts their bond as a thing, but it is a struggle and it takes him a while to get there. He will tolerate some of Jeih's harmless eccentricities, he will tolerate the snuggles and some of the handsiness and the clinginess and will even now and again humor Jeih's desire to go on random human adventures. But it is not Ary's jam, Jeih is not his bonded companion and is not his preference. He has a long suffering attitude, and when Jeih annoys him enough he pulls rank and drives him off, viciously.

Until Jeih consents to the pattern reconfiguration they exist in this push-pull partial bond limbo. Jeih wants Ary's attention and is starving for any glimmer of affection, Ary just wants him to behave and be able to get to work. When the reconfiguration is eventually agreed upon, they consent to become companions and with that, Jeih gets the validation he wants and Ary gets to start on the reconfiguration. They figure out how to get along. They end up very patient and are generally very sweet towards each other, both giving space and neither asking too much.

Over time, as Jeih's pattern is repaired he's able to start properly bonding with Kyrin. That satiates him, and as he spends more time with Ky his partial bond with Ary dissolves and the two go their separate ways.

tl;dr - in summation, they're kind of a thing, just not a romantic thing, as much as Jeih would enjoy that.

In Lockian eyes they're partially-bonded, and companions, with the ultimate goal of repair and resolution. Their perspective is clinical, and they are waiting to see if Ary can actually pull the repair off. Ary's been in partial bonds before and while that's curious to them (due to his proximity to Jarovin), it's not unusual for him or to them.

Scott's team has a hard time wrapping their heads around Lockian perspective, they lack context a lot of the time and they just take Jeih's words and actions as gospel since he's the one always talking. Jeih absolutely delights in this, and he tends to bring 9000 level hornt to every situation so they just assume Ary & Jeih are a weird couple. It does not help that Jeih is in human form for 95% of the time, that Ary takes human form frequently in response to interact, that Ary often tolerates Jeih's shenanigans without complaint, and that they both can be affectionate at times (as even partially bound locks are occasionally apt to be).

[greetings-inferiors]

∞

Okay so the first thing to get out of the way is that INFINITY DOES NOT EXIST. IT ISN’T A THING THAT EXISTS.

The very definition of natural numbers says that for every number, there is a number one larger. This means that if infinity was a number, there would be an infinity plus one, which obviously is absurd as it goes against the definition of infinity, being ‘larger than any countable number’

So nowadays, infinity isn’t considered ‘a countable, natural number’, but more a concept, like i, the square root of negative one (which funnily enough can also act like a number).

Basically, mathematicians acknowledge that infinity doesn’t exist, but say ‘let’s pretend that it is a number’ and see what happens.

This is where I left it off, only to start writing again at a later date. Enjoy.

First of all, some very weird things happen. For example, there are such things as ‘countable infinities’ and then when you have infinity infinities that’s a second order infinity or something. Then you get infinite order infinities and I don’t know what’s after that. It’s wild.

Also cool thing about limits, that are very useful for calculus, is cancelling out infinities.

The main thing you need to know is 1/infinity tends to 0, so you want to get to 1/infinity somehow because that’s when you can cancel out. Also until the very end of when you satisfy (is satisfy the right word? It feels wrong, but I can’t remember the right term) your limit, you act as if infinity is an algebraic variable, let’s say t, so while infinity minus infinity is infinity/undefined, t-t = 0, so as t tends to infinity, t-t tends to 0.

Some functions f(x) and how they tend when x tends to infinity:

All trigonometric functions are undefined. This is because they repeat, so infinity could technically be any value. And as they’re functions, you must have one value for every input. So they’re undefined.

Hyperbolic functions are different - for sinh and cosh, sinh(x) and cosh(x) are undefined as x tends to infinity, that’s because they’d equal infinity, which is undefined. Cosech(x) and sech(x) are 0, because they’re just the reciprocal of sinh and cosh respectively, and both tanh(x) and coth(x) are 1.

All logarithms are undefined, which feels like a copout, but still. If you’ve got ln(infinity) or whatever, that’s undefined, baby.

Exponentials depend. If it’s something to the infinity, and something’s magnitude is more than one, it’s undefined. If it’s something to the negative infinity, and something’s magnitude is more than one, it’s 0. Swap those for if something’s magnitude is less than 1. If something is 1, it’s just 1 either way. Treat zero as magnitude less than 1.

So let’s say you’re working on your limits, substituting t into everything, and you get t^2. Of course that on its own is undefined, but if its t^2-t^2, then that equals zero, so when satisfying the limits it’s zero. If it’s t^negative number, it’s zero anyway.

That’s all I can think of in terms of functions!

Anyway go look up videos about infinity, I can’t do it justice. It was something me and my best friend used to argue about a lot (when he still did maths), just like imaginary numbers (before I realised that sqrt(-1)=i was an axiom. I argued ‘what makes the square root of negative one less imaginary than the square root of negative 4? Shouldn’t they both equal i? I realised why I’m wrong.)

[authorjond369]

KNOW THESE GRAPHS from Algebra!

Essential Graphs from Algebra You Should Know! In this video, we review the key graphs every student encounters in an algebra class. These foundational graphs help you understand functions, transformations, and relationships between variables. The video includes: Linear functions, Quadratic and even-power functions, Cubic and odd-power functions, Square root function, Reciprocal function,…

[kickingitwithkirk]

Winchester's Folly

Summary: When Dean gets into trouble John decides to hide the truth for his family

Word Count: 759

Warnings: A/B/O, subjugation, pandemic, mentions of nudity, leering, mention of collaring/leashed, sexual/slavery, rut/heat, physical altercation, murder conviction, parental dominance

*Additional warnings will be added

*Dark! Fic-don't continue if you are disturbed by the subject matter.

Square filled: @spnabobingo - Alpha Challenging Alpha

A/N: Each part follows in sequence

*Divider by @firefly-graphics

*No Beta-all mistakes are mine

Part II

“I need one under 18.” 

Sam’s head snapped up in shock..that wasn’t the plan. The Omega was to be older than Dean, preferably one that had been sold before, making them cheaper to purchase.

“Dad, why are you wanting..” 

John cut him off with a low growl provoking Sam’s inner wolf to reciprocate, neither noticing Helms studying their interaction with interest. 

Alpha Winchester can’t completely control this beauty like the other one..the boss will be pleased to learn about these developments. 

“House O would normally do as your eldests property on paper,” Helms interrupts, “but I know this judge, they will not be satisfied with that alone.”  Both Winchesters have matching, confused expressions and before John can ask what that meant he continues, “so I have to take into account your packs unusual dynamics, a Pack Omega, while as scarce as Phoenix ash, would be perfect but alas, there’s your social standing.” 

Sam snorted. It wasn’t the first time someone brought up their social standing, not so sly code for being a dirt poor pack. “The best option will be a Feral. Lucky for you, we have a fair selection of resales, this way gentlemen,” he leads them deeper into the building.

Deans his wolf whines watching his pack move farther into the building while all he could do was stand there as ordered to and observe these unfortunate creatures being bartered over like the livestock society considered them. His sire knew it would eat at his ingrained, perpetual guilt and was part of the penitence he had to endure it because, once vexed, John Winchester never forgave or forgot.

Sam's wolf was getting more restive the longer they were in this den of iniquity. 

He couldn’t see Dean from where they were study’s the O who’s caught his sires' interest instinctively knew she was all wrong started vocalizing his displeasure without realizing it.

 “What’s your problem now?” John barked at him.

“These O’s are your type sir,” Sam replied with his usual bluntness that made John's jaw clench, grudgingly reflecting on his youngests observation.

As Dominant Alpha of his pack it was ultimately his decision regarding how they functioned, including matings, internally cringed remembering an inadvertent confession he’d made awhile back.

It was a typical night.

Sam was sitting at the rental kitchen table finishing up some calculus homework while John lay sprawled on a couch between drunk and passed out drunk. 

He started talking about the House O’s, how Mary wanted to get one when they found out she was pregnant with Sam, saying that Dean was a handful to deal with and, as an Alpha herself, didn’t possess the natural instincts to properly care for multiple pups and he could pretend to be happy with his pack, she knew all the times he’d left was renting out one.

The purchase never happened.

Sam’s skin felt uncomfortable finding out the mother he never knew, the one his brother practically worshiped, tried purchasing one. Then John started drunkenly lauding the pleasurable attributes of O’s have, and as his details became more graphic Sam grabbed Dean's CD player, pumpin up the volume and continued working even though they would be leaving soon. 

When John passes out, Sam shoved the books into his backpack and went to the shared bedroom retrieves his cobbled-together, black market laptop Dean secretly got him and fired it up, researching this century’s history concerning O’s, learning of twisted truths and obscure provisions in the Hibbins Procurement Act the government schools purposefully omitted bolted to the toilet.

Dean came rolling later finds the laptop on the bed immediately starts worrying. His brother never left it out when their dad was around, catches a wif of sick and finds him laying on the bath floor thinks he’s picked up an illness fusses like always, tucking him into bed and stays up rest the night keeping an eye on him.

Sam knew the only reason John wanted him near was an additional jab at Dean, to emphasize his failures. Fuck, he hated their sire using him to guilt Dean whenever he displeased him.

Surveying the area for hidden trouble Sam grabbed his chest feeling his inner wolf hurl itself against its cage of skin and bones then frantically pacing around growling home home home in his mind flicks an eye towards his sire, who hadn’t noticed his reaction, too distracted by another O Helms is talking up. 

Following its instincts, he slowly backs towards the door marked private that someone left ajar and slips through unnoticed.

Part III

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva  @b3autyfuldisast3r  @lassie-bird @nancymcl  @spnbaby-67  @leigh70

Sam/Jared: @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen: @thoughts-and-funnies @stoneyggirl2 @akshi8278 @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl @siospins2

Sam/Jared:  @idreamofplaid Dean/Jensen:  @thoughts-and-funnies  @stoneyggirl2  @akshi8278  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl  @siospins2

[gynandromorph]

i guess it’s time for a new year retrospective thing since it’s almost a new year

this year sucked and not even in like a notably bad way, it’s just one big haze of nothing where nothing matters and nothing has any meaning because there’s literally no break in between all the stress. groceries are as expensive as ever and they’re just gonna stay that way forever while the cost of living limit for welfare stays the same so now i’m stuck between being unable to afford food AND having no healthcare. mawkish continues to get older and she has more health issues. it takes up an unspeakable amount of my time and money, but she’s happy and not declining right now. every time she skips physical therapy for her arthritis due to a cancellation i can see how it affects her, though, so i don’t know if i’ll be able to cut costs there. a lot of this is about money, huh? i just feel like i can’t even DO anything without it. i can just Be At Home which just makes me feel like a wild animal pacing in a cage. i’ve been single for a while now and i’m REALLY feeling it and i know it’s partially my fault for not wanting covid more than not wanting to be lonely but like what the fuck would i do if i put myself out there huh? tell some girl i don’t have enough money to buy lunch or a coffee so we’ll have to just sit outside at a park? yeah i’ve sat outside at parks to meet and chat with people but as like a first impression it’s not great!!!

and my art has gotten worse, of course. it’s stiffer, and i feel on edge because my hand is either always on the cusp of hurting again or it IS hurting again. i’ve gotten it back to normal again, and then i slack off on my exercises and we’re back to square 3 (i haven’t gotten so bad that i go back to square 1) because the exercises themselves are wildly time-consuming and god knows if there’s anything i don’t have enough of it’s time. i hate the tablet i’m using and i can’t even find the old ones i brought with me because of the move, but even then they’re very small and that’s why i like them and it’s also why i hurt my hand in the first place. still, the curves this tablet makes are just not the same, there’s tons of issues with it that aren’t technically issues but certainly things that impact how the art comes out and how much i enjoy making it. not really related but about a week into the new year i’ll be getting a new computer, also, and a new desk chair, since both of those are fucking falling apart. i want to do other things that i’m not going to say here because if there’s one way to make sure you never ever do a project it’s just announcing it publicly before you’ve done literally any of the work. still, we’ll see if anything changes. it feels like it won’t simply because my brain is too depressed to do anything anymore and even when i do do the thing it turns out like shit or i don’t retain it at all. these are at least things that will not require the intense use of my dominant hand.

oh and the last huge negative is i just have like functionally no religious community now because this friend i made at my last synagogue was a great friend!!!!! super friendly!!!!!!!!!!! too friendly in fact!!!!!!!!!!! and i tried reasserting that i was not interested in a relationship multiple times, i tried tolerating advances i wasn’t going to reciprocate and it just kept getting more physical, eventually i decided to get my rabbi there involved and i gotta say the response i got was disappointing at best!!!!!! this was maybe like november 2021 but it’s literally functionally cut me off from that community altogether here because i wasn’t thrilled about the drop in covid protocols and i’m certainly not more enthusiastic now that i’ve been sexually harassed just to have it brushed under the rug knowing this is an all too common reaction for jewish authorities to have!!! i literally feel like i can’t say anymore about it besides that but hey it kinda sucks!!!!!!!

that’s it dude, that’s all, i started a new comic way later than i should have but i did start it, and i’m living somewhere that kind of sucks the soul out of me but i won’t be investing a lot of time and money into a move this year not only because it’s tolerably under my sister and her husband’s roof instead of my mom’s but because rent is too fucking high for me to jump ship too. sure hope 2023 is a great year cuz it’s the last one i’ll have as a 20-something and the bar is certainly low after this one, i can’t even be more thoughtful or humble about this retrospective, i’m so tired of feeling like shit and having functionally no way to fix most of these problems

[constancelaufeydottir]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Neighbour!Bucky x reader

Warnings: Mentions of knife, blood, cursing, murder, mention of cannibalism, dark!Bucky(?), major character death, slight smut, fluff.

Summary: Bucky set his eyes on his sweet and cute neighbour who had suffered from a loss recently, determined to make her his.

Word count: 4.3k

a/n: This is my entry for @ambrosiase hotel indigo writing challenge. It’s my first ever writing challenge, and I had a lot of fun writing this! Honestly, I'm really grateful for this challenge because it motivates me to finish this wip that has been sitting in the draft for too long. Thank you for this lovely challenge mae ♡♡

Not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. If you see any mistakes, do let me know!

Room ⥤ Modern muse

Room service ⥤ neighbour + criminal

“Oh that poor thing.”

Bucky whipped his head in the direction of the voice. It was Mrs. Lockwood, his neighbour on the right.

“Huh?” He didn’t mean to voice out his confusion, but his brain was somewhat short-circuited, barely able to function when his sight was filled with you, and you only.

“That sweet girl over there,” Mrs. Lockwood was referring to you, his sweet neighbour to the left he was staring at, before the old lady came interrupting.

He had been staring for 5, 10 minutes maybe? He swore he wasn’t a pervert, you were just a sight for sore eyes, the healer of the wounds in his soul.

“What about y/n?” He asked, curious to listen to what his neighbour would say about the other neighbour. Also, he was fairly new to the neighbourhood, having just moved in last month, he ought to catch up with the gossip.

“Her boyfriend went missing a few months back, poor girl was devastated. Police suspected it was murder, even suspected y/n!” The old lady shook her head, casting pitying glances at the oblivious girl in the sundress, bathing under the sun with a book in her hand. “She’s such a sweet girl, how could they have suspected her?”

Bucky glanced at you, heart racing when you caught him looking. You shyly waved at him, a small smile plastered on your face hiding the underlying sadness of the loss of your loved one. His hand felt clammy when he raised one of them to wave back, his usual flirty self vanished whenever you were involved in the equation.

“Boy, you are in love aren’t ya,” Mrs. Lockwood teased, “I say go for it. Our lovely y/n definitely needs some lovin’ after what she’d been through and young man, I think you are the right person.” Her eyes crinkled as she patted Bucky encouragingly on the shoulder, like a loving mother cheering up her son.

Bucky, who was usually composed, blushed furiously. That big brain of his still hadn’t regained its functions thus he found himself unable to stop Mrs. Lockwood when she hollered at you.

Clearly immersed in your book, you jumped a little when you heard your name being called.

“Y/n, this young man would love to take you out on a date, what d’ya say?” His eyes widened at the accusation, though it was true that he wanted to date you, he just needed time to gather the guts to ask you out.

He saw you put down your book, walking towards him and Mrs. Lockwood. You were a front yard away from him, shielding the harsh sunlight from your eyes with your hands while leaning onto the fence.

“I’d love to,” you had to speak louder, and Bucky loved your voice as he only heard it only a handful of times now, often you were shy and quiet when you saw him.

“U-uhm, how about Saturday then,” He stuttered like a teenage boy who first received a love letter, suddenly forgetting how to speak, speech lost in the sea of disbelief and excitement, and affection.

You said nothing, only nodding and smiling at him, flashing those pearly whites.

“Great. 6pm. I’ll pick you up,”

“See you soon, James.” He watched as you walked away, a teasing smile on your face before you disappeared into the door. Gosh how he loved the way his name sounded on your lips, and he’d give anything to hear it again, and again.

Saturday came too soon, Bucky was not prepared at all. Well, he had done the reservations for the restaurant he’d planned to bring you to tonight, ironed out the creases and wiped off the non-existent dust on the dress shirt he would be wearing, so why was he nervous?

5:50 pm.

Call him old-fashioned or whatever, he’d prefer early to late and would love to escort you to his car. He stood in front of your porch, palm sweating and if his metal arm could secrete sweats, he was pretty sure it would end up like its counterpart.

You opened the door as soon as he rapped his knuckles on the wooden door, seeming eagerly waiting for him as he was for you.

He took in your outfit, the moderately revealing dress he liked, the one he saw you undress from, through his window countless times.

If it was possible to fall into a deeper love, he would.

The date couldn’t possibly be better than he imagined, it was perfect. Everything was great; the atmosphere of the restaurant, the quality of the food, and most importantly, you.

You were shy at first but opened up fairly quickly, telling him stories about you, and vice versa. You sympathized with him when he told you how he got the metal arm, your fingers grazing the delicate and intricate loops and lines on the metal surface.

His fingers were woven into yours halfway into the dinner, the cool metal fingers of his absently caressing your knuckles as you shared the story about your family, who disappeared mysteriously, then your ex-boyfriend, who went missing 5 months ago, like your family.

It was hard, talking about missing loved ones. Bucky could tell, by the way your hand unconsciously tightened, the lingering sadness in your eyes as you mentioned how happy you were before him. The way your tears were brimming in your eyes, threatening to glide down your face, it wrenched his heart, seeing how broken you were. He would try to pick up every broken piece of you in a heartbeat, mending them back together, fixing you until you were happy again if you would let him in.

He was kind of glad your ex-boyfriend was out of the picture, though it was a selfish thing to say. He desperately wanted to claim you, wanted to be your last and only boyfriend.

He’d been going on dates with you for a few months now. You were perfect, almost too perfect if he would say. You were practically his dream girl, so kind and generous. So sweet and loving. Pretty much everybody in this neighbourhood would agree with him and he sometimes wondered if he really deserved you. A beauty mingling with a beast. No one would ever want to see that, after all, even the beast turned into a handsome prince at the end of the fairytale.

Bucky wondered, if you found out what he did every night after you were asleep or what he took from your closet when you were away, would you still want him? If you found out the beast within him, would you still love him the same?

His thoughts were occupied and it wasn’t until the sharp pain in his fingers that he snapped out of his trance.

“Fuck!” You heard him cursing and went to him, gasping when you saw the streams of blood flowing from the deep cut from two of his fingers.

Hastily reaching out for the clean cloth from one of the drawers, you placed it over the wound, applying pressure on them.

The red quickly seeped through the pristine white cloth, two colours clashing as the red engulfed the white.

Bucky noticed you wincing at the red, gulping at the sight, head slightly turned away. It was obvious you were uncomfortable at the sight of blood, so he took the cloth himself and nudged you to wash the faint hint of blood on your palms.

“Sorry, now you might have to do this alone,” Bucky gestured at the ingredients on the counter, “and sorry for the cloth, blood stains are quite hard to get rid off.”

“Don’t you worry, a little hydrogen peroxide and the cloth will be as good as new,” Bucky let you tend to his wounds and pushed him towards the living room where he would sit at the couch for the next hour while you were busy at the kitchen preparing dinner.

While he was in the living room, he took in the interior of your house. He never got to take a close look, as he always had to sneak in when it was dark. The beige colour walls, cream coloured furnitures, books arranged perfectly on the floating shelves. The pictures and art hung on the clean walls, not one of them is crooked. The square coffee table with only the remote and a display plant on it, and when he shifted himself to sit at the center of the couch, did he realize the coffee table was lined up perfectly in the middle of the TV and the couch.

Bucky’s eyebrows raised, he didn’t depict you as a meticulous person. No wait, whenever he went out with you, you’d arrange the plates to sit between the utensils perfectly. When you get boba, the straws must precisely be in the center of the cup, and if you missed it, your eyebrows would furrow in annoyance subconsciously.

His eyes wandered over to your figure in the kitchen and was not surprised to find you wiping and hanging the cutting board on the ceramic wall, adjusting it with your fingers so it wouldn’t be crooked while waiting for the stew to simmer.

You caught him looking at you and threw a smile at him in which he reciprocated, then continued to let his eyes wander through your living room. This could easily be an IKEA showroom, he thought.

Another week went by, Bucky found himself more and more in love with you, if that was possible in the first place as if he didn’t already dedicate all the space in his heart for you.

You were both in the kitchen again. This time however, he was busy mixing the sugar, flour, and cocoa powder mixture, with you snuggling behind him, arms circling his waist as you watched him do the magic.

He felt sorry for not helping last time so he was making up to you by baking some brownies.

As you both were cleaning up, brownies baking in the oven, Bucky turned to you.

“Hey, I never asked, but what do you do for a living?” He questioned nonchalantly while wiping the huge plastic bowl.

The wet spatula fell from your grip, dropping into the sink of water, droplets of soapy liquid flecked on your shirt.

“O-oh, i’m an artist!” You let out a laugh to conceal your flustered state, “Aspiring artist to be exact.”

“An artist,” he hummed, as if chewing onto the meaning of the word, “could you show me your works?”

Your head whipped towards his direction, mouth parted in surprise. Nobody has ever appreciated your dream. Your family, your friends, your ex-boyfriends, all of them claimed that being an artist would lead you to being unsuccessful, and you deemed to prove them wrong.

“Yes, yes, of course,” you were overjoyed. Abandoning the half-washed utensils, you clasped your hand around his wrist and dragged him to follow you towards the second floor, into a room hidden behind another beige coloured door, where you kept all your works.

Rows of headless mannequins clothed in white dresses painted with red blossoms appeared before him as you pushed open the door.

He was utterly mesmerized. He trailed his gaze across the display, a smile painted his lips as he deduced that every piece of them was unique. No two dresses had the same pattern.

Some had plain red blossoms splattered on it, some had dark red waves littering on the bottom hem; some with brush strokes of red. There was also a different tone of red, bright and dark or somewhat in between.

“Wow, this is just … amazing!” He found himself at a loss for words, “are those blood?”

“Yes, they are.”

“I thought you don’t like blood?” Bucky teased.

“These are animal blood. I’m fine with it as long as it’s not coming out from a human,” you retorted.

He chuckled. Once again admiring the intricate patterns of your works, marvelling at how talented and perfect you were. His heart sank at the thought of the question he frequently found himself asking, how can someone so perfect like you end up with someone less than perfect like him.

You apparently noticed his changed demeanor as you inched yourself closer to pull him into an embrace, placing your chin on his chest, eyes searching for his sad blue ones.

“Are you okay?” He hugged you tighter, sighing.

“I’m fine. I just … I think you’re perfect and you’re everything I've ever wanted. But I'm not sure if I'm perfect enough for you.”

“Oh James, you’re more than enough. I assure you, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted too.”

Bucky felt like his heart was filled to the brim with adoration, butterflies erupted from his stomach. Your assurance was everything to him, keeping his wandering soul anchored and he was grateful for it, grateful for your existence. The more the reason to cage you by his side so you couldn’t ever leave him.

His lips were on yours the next second, his grip on your waist tightened as you deepened the kiss, tongue finding his; busy hands sliding from his stomach to his shoulder.

Both of you were drowning in this ecstasy, unwilling to part away from each other’s touch.

The loud ding of the oven startled the both of you. Momentarily parting from each other, you stared at him with a heated glance. His eyes were hooded, filled with lust, desire.

“Fuck the brownies,” you whispered, molding your soft lips on him once again, the hunger for each other far greater than the stupid brownies, “need you now.”

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, large hands cupping your bottom as you hopped and hooked your legs behind him, arms instinctively went to his shoulders for support.

He brought the both of you to your room, the one he was all too familiar with, the one with the same cream coloured theme which could definitely pass as another IKEA showroom judging by how perfect the layout was.

The only odd thing that stood out in this far too perfect room was the trail of scratch marks extending from the door frame to the wall outside of the room.

The deep scratch marks were somehow etched deep in his brain, he couldn’t let it go. It felt as if there was a dot of blank ink on a piece of white paper, and even though there was more white than black, you’d only be fixated on the dot of black.

He would ask you about the haunting marks on the wall and your fingers that were tracing patterns on his skin would falter, you’d give him the warm smile he loved while brushing it off saying it was the huge Dobermann your aunt owned which did that.

Even when he was balls deep in you, the vivid image of the scratch marks were there in his head, though you were quick to draw back his attention with a grind on his hips, both of your bodies covered with sheen of perspiration. Strands of your hair sticking to your body, but you pay no care to them as you rocked your hips, chanting his name over and over again like a mantra, like a prayer.

His eyes were on your fucked out state, his grip on you like steel. The cool surface of his metal arm contrasted with your hot flushed body as you chase your high like a traveller chasing the oasis in a desert, desperate for a quench of thirst.

Even when he was chasing the same high, vision blinding with bliss, the marks were still there and this time they were accompanied by the white dresses painted with red, and red only.

Bucky was always a doubtful person. Doubting every single decision he’d ever made. Doubting himself, doubting others. But there was one thing he was certain of, there was something less than innocent lurking underneath your skin. Of course, he was still head over heels for you but he was pretty adamant to find out the sinister in you, hoping it would answer his questions, mainly the recurring image of a certain mark.

Bucky was a lot of things, dumbass , dork, clumsy(per sam), but he was not stupid. Hell, he was far from stupid. Those scratch marks, definitely not the Dobermann.

You were a perfectionist, you couldn’t possibly leave the mark there and acted like nothing happened in the first place. He’d imagine if it was the dog, you’d probably have someone fix the dent the same day, unwilling to allow even a speck of blemish in your flawless house.

Bucky was a lot of things, and being a dumbass was definitely one of them as he was showing up on your porch in the evening unannounced.

He’d considered sneaking in like he used to do but he knew, he saw that you were still in the house. He couldn’t and wouldn’t jeopardize your relationship with him knowing he’d get caught.

He knocked on your door, hearing footsteps paddling, rushing to him.

As you opened the door, your eyes widened at the sight of an awkward Bucky. Although you were quick to throw him an unalarming smile, he still caught the nervousness in you.

There was something off with you. The disheveled hair, thin layer of sweat adorning the crown of your head, unknown wet liquid staining your shirt.

He caught a whiff of the strong smell of chemicals wafting through the door, it smelled a lot like bleach.

“I’m sorry,” he scratched at the back of his neck, “is this not a good time?”

“It’s fine, come on in.”

The smell of bleach invaded his nose the moment he stepped into your house, flooding and overwhelming his senses causing him to wince.

“Were you deep cleaning?”

“Yeah, I accidentally spilled some of the animal blood this morning. Had to use hell lots of hydrogen peroxide to get rid of them. Sorry for the smell.”

“No no, it’s okay. Let me just open the windows and door, okay?” He was getting a little light-headed now, desperately needing some fresh air. “Doll, you need to ventilate every time you use bleach, it’s harmful for your health to inhale all these fumes.”

You blushed at the term of endearment, yet wanting to blame him for not calling you that earlier.

He went over to open the windows, sighing contentedly at the waves of fresh air hitting his face as the wind blew in.

He felt your arms snaking around him, head leaning against his broad back.

“I love you, James. Wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I love you too.” He turned around and hugged you, his chin propped on your head, not knowing you had a solemn expression on your face.

He’d spent the evening with you, watching TV on the couch with you in his lap. It was so mundane yet he’d never got bored of this, wanting to do this with you for the rest of his life.

Outside the window, the orange and yellow sky faded into darkness.

“Let’s order take out, how about Thai food?”

“I’ll cook,” you kissed him on the lips and got up from his lap before he could reply anything.

“Ok, you need help?” He heard a faint ‘no, it’s fine’ coming out of the kitchen followed by the clanking of pots and utensils.

His neck stretched to peek at your figure in the kitchen, too busy chopping up ingredients to notice he was no longer at the living room.

He made his way down the basement, where the pungent smell of the bleach was still lingering.

The wood creaked as he stepped on the stairs, announcing his arrival to the darkness surrounding the basement. The soft glow of light illuminated the large space, a wall of tins stacking on each other revealed to him. A few easels of different sizes were propped on the wall with several grey aprons hanging beside them.

He walked closer to examine the insane amount of tins. A small label that said Pig blood was stickered on the body of the white tin.

His eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. Do people really sell animal blood in metal tins, wouldn’t they go bad?

There were loads of questions in Bucky’s head, questions with answers only you could provide.

He noticed a chest freezer sitting in the corner of the basement and his legs brought him to it before he came to realize. The whole basement was so quiet he could hear the soft ringing in his ears, the racing of his heartbeat amplified as his hand inched towards the lid.

There was nothing in the freezer, to his surprise.

The empty freezer stared back at him, as if mocking his fruitless attempt. He was relieved, or disappointed, he couldn’t tell the difference and there was no point in distinguishing them now since you had nothing to hide. He wasn’t even sure what he was expecting to find in the freezer.

“Babe?” You stood behind him with an apron on, a knife in your hand, a second after he closed the door to the basement.

He leaned against the door frame, hand went to his head, eyes squeezed shut as he pretended he was having a headache.

“Felt dizzy all of a sudden, I was just making my way to the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay. I was just about to tell you dinner's almost ready,” a tooth-rotting smile was plastered on your face.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he watched as you walked away, letting out the breath he’d been holding. His palm was clammy, heart beating rapidly.

“I love you,” You placed your hand on his arm, eyes meeting his.

“I know, doll. I love you too.”

This was seconds before dinner.

“James, I love you.” You whispered, watching him giving you a grin before he stuffed the meatball into his mouth.

“Wow, I'm so loved today. It’s the secon- no, third time you’ve said ‘I love you’ to me today.” He grinned, heart bursting with love. “You know I love you too.”

This was mid-dinner.

“I love you so much, James.”

Bucky was getting suspicious of you. Were you hiding something, perhaps cheating on him? For there were no reasons for you to keep telling him you loved him even though he knew how much you loved him and vice versa.

“I love you,” you kissed his knuckles, “this might be the last time I get to say I love you, James.”

His eyebrows furrowed at your statement, mouth parting to question what you meant. Before he could voice out something, the world faded into nothingness.

A thin film of blurriness clouded his eyes when he opened them, Bucky had this feeling like he was drowning in a swamp and his whole body was bound.

Blinking furiously, he regained his vision. You were sitting on a chair leaning forwards while looking at him endearingly, your elbows propped on your knees, palms supporting your chin.

“Hello, my love,” you were smiling oh so sweetly. The same smile that got him mesmerized and head over heels, except this time he didn’t feel the warm fuzzy feeling exploding in his chest, this time it was the goosebumps crawling on his arms and the chill creeping up his spine.

Now everything made sense, every single of his questions was answered.

You looked down at his body, the one that was once full of life, full of love. You watched as his glassy blue eyes etched with fear quickly reduced into this grey lifeless orbs, still pretty but lacking the element of a beautiful soul.

You weep for him, mourn for him. Mourning the short duration of love shared between the both of you. Mourning for yourself, for falling too hard. Mourning for him who kept you always in his heart.

To be honest, you were a little hesitant to end his life, he was better than the last one. He was perfect, warm, kind, loving, gentle, but not perfect enough. He simply did not reach your expectations, and you, could not bear imperfections, even the slightest. The answer to his downfall was pretty easy, he was too close to the ugly truth. And despite you knowing his love for you outweighs his doubt and fear in you, you simply couldn’t risk it.

Your love for perfection exceeds your love for him.

The melodious music of your ringtone echoed in the ample space of the basement, you brought up your phone to your ears as you answered the call.

“Mrs. Lockwood? Yes. Of course. I did. No no no, I’ll do it for you this time. He would definitely taste delicious I assure you.”

Time to get to work, you sighed as you stood there with a white dress splattered with blood. How artistic, you thought.

You always loved this part of the process, you’d wear the whitest piece of dress you own whenever you work with your projects.

You loved how the blood peppered your clothes, forming blossoms of dark red flowers on the fabric.

You kept every single piece of them, because no two are the same. Every one of them tells a story, of men and women who loved you and who you loved, of those who were once a body with a soul.

Wiping away the tears rolling down your cheeks, you gave Bucky one last loving look and the blade of your butcher knife came in contact with his once pink but now pale skin as you hummed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the basement, forming echoes.

A few blocks away, a baby cried, body covered in mucus. The tiny infant cried, each time louder than the previous, wailing his lungs out, as if mourning. For one soul born, another reaped.

[jqupohtia]

Edit in 2023: This post is now out of date, I have reworked some stuff with timelines, things I forgot would affect things, etc. Will be making a fresh post for this soon.

And now it’s time for my thoughts on J’qupoh/G’raha. Mostly under a cut because it ended up LONGER than the rest of the Scions combined.

J’qupoh’s first thought on actually meeting G’raha Tia was “what a try-hard little brat.” He was not impressed with the run around he was given with the aethersand, nor the dramatic entrance. But he pranked the little shit later and called it even.

For a week G’raha dealt with little things like quills or his aetherometer going missing only for people to insist they were right in front of him. No matter how many times he would reach for the spot they pointed to nothing would be there. Or his gear would be temporarily dyed eye searing colors that apparently only he could see. (Conjury may be what J’qupoh is most known for, but illusions were the first magic he learned and excelled at.)

Nothing was permanent or would interfere with something's function of course, because J’qupoh’s not a complete asshole.

After that they started to get along, between J’qupoh genuinely finding G’raha’s knowledge and ramblings about the Allagans interesting and G’raha being an enthusiastic audience for J’qupoh’s stories of his adventures and the things he’d witnessed with the Echo, especially when punctuated by little illusory images when J’qupoh had a hard time describing something and preferred to just try to show it. They spent a lot of the downtime during the expedition together, at least what J’qupoh could spare. Square’s timeline is kind of funky (you really want me to believe Alphinaud only had the Crystal Braves active for a couple weeks at most?????), but it feels like the expedition would have occurred over a few months? So time enough to become fairly good friends, and leave J’qupoh checking in with the Sons frequently in case of any changes with the tower after it’s sealed.

Attraction started with the Exarch though he had suspicions it was actually G’raha under the hood. At least once he got over being mad about the Scion Snatching. The calm confidence and air of authority got to him, but also the little moments of care: ensuring J’qupoh had a meal waiting for him in his room, personally checking in with him to see how he was. Always making a point that he was asking and not ordering an

The sandwiches and tea being the start of him realizing it. Then he began using his downtime to check in with the Exarch, especially on learning that the man went huge stretches of time without rest. He’d return the favor and bring him meals, taking advantage of the guard being instructed to always let the Exarch’s most recent guest pass. He needled Lyna for her grandfather’s favorites so he could find something he can actually make or obtain. He asked the Exarch for stories about establishing the Crystarium, and fell for the love and pride he could hear when the Exarch spoke about his people and how far they’d come. And there was the occasional bit of flirting, wherein J’qupoh would come in confident and then completely lose his shit anytime it was reciprocated.

And of course came the reveal, and he was...a little conflicted. He suspected the whole time it was G’raha, but getting the confirmation and then the details of just how far this man went to save not only their future but him specifically as well? G’raha referring to him as his inspiration? He wasn’t sure he could possibly measure up to whatever G’raha saw him as, especially every time he made a comment along the lines of wondering if he’ll be worth mentioning in the Warrior’s story. J’qupoh wanted to shake him and tell him that he’d feel lucky to be included in G’raha’s story. Fighting some light wardens and almost dying didn’t feel comparable to the literal centuries G’raha sacrificed and the planned suicidal sacrifice after so they’d all live.

Though J’qupoh did make a point of spending as much time as possible with him, trying to catch up with him as G’raha rather than the Exarch and to try to keep him from working himself to death.. At least up until G’raha once again awoke within the Tower, but this time to an incredibly relieved Warrior who was just waiting for the excuse to sweep him off his feet and carry him back to the Rising Stones. Or at least down to the chocobo waiting at the base of tower, sorry Raha but even you will seem heavy after a while and he might have been getting a little carried away back there. Yes his arms are killing him, no you’re not allowed to make fun of him.

By the end of Endwalker I think they’ve worked through that (at least with G’raha seeming to get out of that hero worship/ “I just want to be part of your story” mindset) but they were still dancing around actually being in a relationship. At least until the incredibly cheesy Valentione’s Day confession