#FOUR AND A HALF BILLION YEARS TRYING TO SAVE HER

[sentientsky]

hey mr. moffat did u just want to stomp on my heart right now or do i have to make an appointment?

[reasonsforhope]

"Chicago’s 82-story Aqua Tower appears to flutter with the wind. Its unusual, undulating facade has made it one of the most unique features of Chicago’s skyline, distinct from the many right-angled glass towers that surround it.

In designing it, the architect Jeanne Gang thought not only about how humans would see it, dancing against the sky, but also how it would look to the birds who fly past. The irregularity of the building’s face allows birds to see it more clearly and avoid fatal collisions. “It’s kind of designed to work for both humans and birds,” she said.

As many as 1 billion birds in the US die in building collisions each year. And Chicago, which sits along the Mississippi Flyway, one of the four major north-south migration routes, is among the riskiest places for birds. This year, at least 1,000 birds died in one day from colliding with a single glass-covered building. In New York, which lies along the Atlantic Flyway, hundreds of species traverse the skyline and tens of thousands die each year.

As awareness grows of the dangers posed by glistening towers and bright lights, architects are starting to reimagine city skylines to design buildings that are both aesthetically daring and bird-safe.

Pictured: Chicago's Aqua Tower was designed with birds in mind.

Some are experimenting with new types of patterned or coated glass that birds can see. Others are rethinking glass towers entirely, experimenting with exteriors that use wood, concrete or steel rods. Blurring lines between the indoors and outdoors, some architects are creating green roofs and facades, inviting birds to nest within the building.

“Many people think about bird-friendly design as yet another limitation on buildings, yet another requirement,” said Dan Piselli, director of sustainability at the New York-based architecture firm FXCollaborative. “But there are so many design-forward buildings that perfectly exemplify that this doesn’t have to limit your design, your freedom.”

How modern buildings put birds in danger

For Deborah Laurel, principal in the firm Prendergast Laurel Architects, the realization came a couple of decades ago. She was up for an award for her firm’s renovation of the Staten Island Children’s Museum when the museum’s director mentioned to her that a number of birds had been crashing into the new addition. “I was horrified,” she said.

She embarked on a frenzy of research to learn more about bird collisions. After several years of investigation, she found there was little in the way of practical tips for architects, and she teamed up with the conservation group NYC Audubon, to develop a bird-safe building guide.

The issue, she discovered, was that technological and architectural advancements over the last half-century had in some ways transformed New York City – and most other US skylines and suburbs – into death traps for birds...

At certain times of day, tall glass towers almost blend into the sky. At other times, windows appear so pristinely clear that they are imperceptible to birds, who might try to fly though them. During the day, trees and greenery reflected on shiny building facades can trick birds, whereas at night, brightly lit buildings can confuse and bewilder them...

Pictured: A green roof on the Javits Convention Center serves as a sanctuary for birds.

The changes that could save avian lives

About a decade ago, Piselli’s firm worked on a half-billion-dollar renovation of New York’s Jacob K Javits Convention Center, a gleaming glass-clad space frame structure that was killing 4,000-5,000 birds a year. “The building was this black Death Star in the urban landscape,” Piselli said.

To make it more bird friendly, FXCollaborative (which was then called FXFowle) reduced the amount of glass and replaced the rest of it with fritted glass, which has a ceramic pattern baked into it. Tiny, textured dots on the glass are barely perceptible to people – but birds can see them. The fritted glass can also help reduce heat from the sun, keeping the building cooler and lowering air conditioning costs. “This became kind of the poster child for bird-friendly design in the last decade,” Piselli said.

The renovation also included a green roof, monitored by the NYC Audubon. The roof now serves as a sanctuary for several species of birds, including a colony of herring gulls. Living roofs have since become popular in New York and other major cities, in an inversion of the decades-long practice of fortifying buildings with anti-bird spikes. In the Netherlands, the facade of the World Wildlife Fund headquarters, a futuristic structure that looks like an undulating blob of mercury, contains nest boxes and spaces for birds and bats to live.

The use of fritted glass has also become more common as a way to save the birds and energy.

Earlier this year, Azadeh Omidfar Sawyer, an assistant professor in building technology in the Carnegie Mellon School of Architecture, working with student researchers, used open-source software to help designers create bespoke, bird-friendly glass patterns. A book of 50 patterns that Sawyer published recently includes intricate geometric lattices and abstract arrays of lines and blobs. “Any architect can pick up this book and choose a pattern they like, or they can customize it,” she said.

Pictured: The fritted glass used in Studio Gang’s expansion of Kresge College at the University of California, Santa Cruz, depicts the animals in the local ecosystem.

Builders have also been experimenting with UV-printed patterns, which are invisible to humans but perceptible to most birds. At night, conservationists and architects are encouraging buildings turn off lights, especially during migration season, when the bright glow of a city skyline can disorient birds.

And architects are increasingly integrating screens or grates that provide shade as well as visibility for birds. The 52-floor New York Times building, for example, uses fritted glass clad with ceramic rods. The spacing between the rods increases toward the top of the building, to give the impression that the building is dissolving into the sky.

Gang’s work has incorporated structures that can also serve as blinds for birders, or perches from which to observe nature. A theater she designed in Glencoe, Illinois, for example, is surrounded by a walking path made of a wood lattice, where visitors can feel like they’re up in the canopy of trees.

Pictured: The Writers Theatre, designed by Studio Gang, includes a walking path encased in wood lattice.

Rejecting the idea of the iridescent, entirely mirrored-glass building, “where you can’t tell the difference between the habitat and the sky”, Gang aims for the opposite. “I always tried to make the buildings more visible with light and shadow and geometry, to have more of a solid presence,” she said.

Gang has been experimenting with adding bird feeders around her own home in an effort to reduce collisions with windows, and she encourages other homeowners to do the same.

“I’ve found that birds slow down and stop at feeders instead of trying to fly through the glass,” she said.

While high-rise buildings and massive urban projects receive the most attention, homes and low-rise buildings account for most bird collision deaths. “The huge challenge is that glass is everywhere.” said Christine Sheppard, who directs the glass collisions program at the American Bird Conservancy (ABC). “It’s hard to know what I know and not cringe when I look at it.”

Tips for improving your own home include using stained glass or patterned decals that can help birds see a window, she said. ABC has compiled a list of window treatments and materials, ranked by how bird-safe they are.

Whether they’re large or small, the challenge of designing buildings that are safe for birds can be “liberating”, said Gang, who has become an avid birdwatcher and now carries a pair of binoculars on her morning jogs. “It gives you another dimension to try to imagine.”"

-via The Guardian, December 27, 2023

[quietwings-fics]

in the meantime

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Doctor Who Ship: Gen (Thirteen & the Fam) Additional Tags: Gender Identity, It/Its Pronouns For The Doctor (Doctor Who), Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Doctor (Doctor Who), Coming Out, Friendship Wordcount: 1,845 Summary:

The Doctor clarifies its gender.

It's disoriented.

Really, it's the height that gets it first. The Doctor's been tall for centuries now. Bad enough running around high on regeneration energy, trying to save its new friends, but with half the legs it normally had? And it's still getting used to that. There's always an inch between where its hand is and where it should be. It adjusts to looking up rather than down at most everyone when it talks to them. Graham and Ryan are around to practice that on, and Yaz is around to remind the Doctor of how nice it was to easily look down its nose at people, once.

And if it focuses on all of that, then it doesn't have to think about the other thing. 

Which works until it doesn't. It's over (four-point-five billion) two thousand years old; it should know better by now.

"There, see, she's always cooped up in here." The Doctor looks oddly at Graham. It isn't sure where else he expects the TARDIS to be but within-throughout herself. "You should really get some fresh air, Doc. Without the threat of death attached to it." The Doctor stands on the console platform and fumbles the greeting it carefully prepared while waiting for its companions. Friends. Fam. It rises on the balls of its feet without the words coming back, and then it turns back around to the safety of the TARDIS console to find different ones without having to look at them. She dispenses a helpful biscuit. The Doctor doesn't have to speak with its mouth full.

They say she, they mean me, it taps the console in rhythm with the saying. They say she, they mean- The word is poking into its lungs and making it hard to breathe. Footsteps left and right, and even without a greeting, they all seem comfortable coming back. Good. They should be. It wants them to be. This should be like their home, too. They say she- The Doctor inhales biscuit.

The next few seconds consist mostly of coughing and nearly not dodging Ryan's intended-to-be-helpful knock against its back to stop said coughing. He doesn't try a second time, and as it shakes off the sudden biscuit assault on its esophagus, it catches his apologetic look. Ryan's very good at the not-touching bit. They'd all probably be good at it, if it said anything, but it didn't and doesn't and likes too much that Ryan started noticing on his own without being told, (enough to silently bear it and wait for Graham and Yaz to catch up, too.)

"You alright?" Yaz says. The Doctor looks from her down to her hands folded against the TARDIS, sees the right index nail chewed shorter than the rest and adds a tally to how many times it's noticed that. The count is thirteen now.

"I'm really more of an it," the Doctor says because of that. Then, like an olive branch, it offers, "but you can call the TARDIS she. She's always liked that." Not one of its Fam looks like they know what it's talking about. It pauses, tries to remember which parts of this conversation have been out loud and which have only been in its head (most of it), and realizes they have every right to be confused. It would be confused, if not for the permanent residency it has inside itself. Semi-permanent. It's been a weird life. "When referring to me," it clarifies. "It. Like"—stars and planets, ghosts and relics—"biscuits. Or, biscuit, singular, you'd call multiple ones 'they', and that's not right anymore. For me, not for the biscuits."

It had no idea how harsh that pressure against its lungs was until it's gone in a rush. A popped balloon.

"What?" Yaz says. It's what they all want to say—At least, judging by their expressions, not something the Doctor's ever skilled at doing but it's better with these eyes than the last pair, it thinks.—but Yaz gets there first.

The Doctor sucks in a breath to try to keep the pressure from reasserting itself. "It," it repeats. "It. You keep saying she, but-" It doesn't like being on the back foot like this, so it switches, pinches its mouth. "You didn't even ask. It was rude." It feels good, for a moment, to see someone that isn't itself reel, but then it remembers that it's Yaz, and she's just trying to understand, and now, she looks like she thinks she's failed the Doctor. It draws back in on itself. "No harm done," it says, raising its hands, back to smiling. Smiling's good, smiling sets people at ease, and it's an easy set of muscles to control. Yaz is already relaxing again. No harm done, Doctor, no harm done, it reminds itself.

"This has to do with how you said you were a man before?" Graham ventures. The three of them always say that like they still don't really believe it, and it really isn't sure how that's the difficult bit, between the time travel and the TARDIS and the aliens. Maybe it's because it keeps saying it. Humans... Twenty-first century? They usually keep those things secret. The Doctor doesn't see the point.

"I made an alright man," the Doctor says. "Not sure about how I'm doing now, though. It's new. Am I a good woman, Yaz?" It looks at her, the moment the words leave its lips, and for a moment, Yaz is not Yaz, Yaz is big eyes and a familiar smirk and Clara-my-Clara. Only for a moment, and then she's just Yaz again. Yaz, sort of frowning, sort of pained looking, like she's swallowed something too large and got it caught in her throat. The Doctor is about to clarify that it wouldn't choke her with a question like that, that it's older and wiser and knows the answer is no nowadays anyway. It's only asking about genders, which shouldn't be as hard.

"You've-" she starts and never finishes the thought. She tries another one. "You're doing okay?" Yaz is lying to it. The Doctor decides it won't notice.

"Thank you," it says, smiling at her.

"It's not the sort of thing you get 'good' at," Graham says. "It's not a competition." It frowns at him until it parses out that tone. He has no idea what the Doctor is talking about, but he means it kindly.

"Of course it is," the Doctor says, and it looks- Oh, it snaps its head away from the empty corner of the TARDIS fast and hard enough to hurt, but it was looking for her, waiting for her laugh, waiting for her to agree. "Just not one I've ever won. When other people are judging." There wouldn't be any doubt who the winner was if she was here. But she's not.

"Doctor," Ryan asks, "are you not a woman?" His voice is not his voice. The Doctor blinks. You know that, Bill. The Doctor blinks again. Ryan is waiting for an answer—because he doesn't know—and the Doctor tries to think through the Bill-shaped words as they bounce inside its cranium, only each time they sound less like Bill and more like steel and- 

"No. Yes. Ask a different question," it demands, too loudly for the room and too quiet to hear itself inside its own head. Ryan's eyes dart to Yaz. The Doctor would welcome her voice, too. Any voice. Anything at all.

"If you're not a man or a woman, you'd be..." Ryan glances at Yaz again.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" she asks. He immediately turns his gaze away, flustered. The Doctor shuts its eyes and lets their voices fill up its head.

"I thought you might- Who else am I supposed to look at?"

"You could ask me," Graham says. Ryan and Yaz both turn to him. "I didn't say I knew, but you shouldn't assume-"

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor interrupts. "I'm just the Doctor." It wants that to sink in first, so it might avoid some questions. "The label you're looking for is"—It pages through a collection of words, narrowed by species, by language, by decade.—"nonbinary."

"And you're..." Ryan still trails off without saying it, like he's afraid he'll do something wrong.

"No," the Doctor says. Thinks. "Sometimes. I'm better at that than some of the others."

It might be easier for them if it had said yes.

It wants to be understood. These things stand in opposition to each other.

But it knows. Allowances must be made. Baby steps. Room for mistakes.

It runs fingers over the TARDIS console. "Don't say she. We can start there." The weight settles on its lungs again, but less, bearable, for now. It hears Ryan inhale, but no response forms. It hears Yaz tap her nails, bitten and not, on the console, without arguing.

"No, we can start with what you want to be called," says Graham, quite certain of himself. The Doctor meets his gaze.

"It," it says, one last time. It doesn't mean that to be a challenge, and it doesn't think Graham hears it as one either. But it is.

"It," he repeats, and he does a funny thing with his mouth, snapping his expression between his certainty and the sudden stumble of what it's asking of him and back again to the determined stubbornness to follow through on a promise. "That'll take some getting used to. No more than the rest of you, Doc." The Doctor wants to take Graham's honesty, keep it in a bottle, and shake it to hear it rattle around. It smiles with no need to soothe anything or put anyone at ease.

"Really?” it asks. The challenge is gone. What’s left isn’t disbelief because it knew, eventually, at some point, they’d all come around to this. It’s just surprised that it’s this easy. Nothing’s ever this easy.

“Of course,” Yaz jumps in, sounding more sure of herself than the nervousness in her eyes betrays.

“Granddad’s right. It’ll take a bit, but I’ll get there.” Ryan fixes the Doctor with a look, one that pins it and holds it steady in a way that’s very hard for anyone to do. “And we’ll catch on faster if you’re telling us when we get it wrong.” 

“I was planning to,” it says. It wasn’t. 

Ryan believes it and drops that look, possibly without ever knowing he managed to see through the Doctor so clearly.

It glances between its Fam one last time. It stops itself abruptly when it realizes it’s biasing it’s own data-seeking, more prone to stiffening its spine at the hint of what might be a scowl than seeing how bright all three of them are looking at it.

Acceptance, acceptance, it will one day stop being a stranger. 

"Good," it says. "Good!" It closes off that part of the conversation and tucks it away, handled. It returns to perfectly stable ground. "You want fresh air? I know a city in the clouds, can't get fresher than that. The planet's surface is all seas, so..."

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[little-peril-stories]

My Most Common Tropes

I was tagged by @i-can-even-burn-salad in this post. (....in August, lol.) Thanks, Elli!

Rules: Look back on your work, both past and present, finished and unfinished. What are five to ten narrative elements or tropes that continuously pop up in your work?

OPEN TAG

My most common tropes and narrative elements are....

Angst

Girl Power

Violence & Power Dynamics

(Sad) Family Stuff

Slow Burn

Classic Big Bad Villains

And because I'm me, find four billion examples below the read more. :)

✨ Angst

What more can I say? I love it when my characters are sad. And hurting. And feeling hopeless. And helpless.

No matter what I do, I can’t move. I can’t get to her. I’m helpless. I’m useless. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been—failing Jamie, failing IA, and now I’m going to fail Bree, too. - TPOT

What difference did it make? He would take her home, and she’d be his pretty possession once again, and every choice she’d made to escape the fate she’d so foolishly chosen for herself four years before would mean absolutely nothing. - TQOL

Yes, the thief thought, he was lucky. Lucky to have had Bree—who didn’t even know him—and her gentle hands on his skin, taking care of him for reasons he didn’t know or understand, doing something for him when he could never, ever pay her back. [...] Lucky that she was real, and that she had been there. Lucky, most of all, that she was gone, and that he would never see her again, because if he did, he’d have to face all over this alien, unwelcome pain of farewell. - TQOL

Being dead and suffering through some kind of purgatory was the least palatable option he’d come up with, yet the scholar half-hoped it was true. If he had died, the hell he was living through now was the false reality. It would eventually crumble into oblivion, blown away on the wind with his ashes, or buried in the ground with his decomposing corpse. - Man of Letters

✨ Girl Power

Action Girl / Plucky Girl / Determinator

Pour one out for my girls Bree, Colette, Alice, Fen, Ivy, Bridget, Nalia, Oriana, Ker, and Balain. Even when they're fucking up, which they do a lot, they're making it through and, in some cases, saving the day. Girls rule, boys drool. (shhh I'm just kidding)

Those same fears come back, renewed and armed with sharper, more vicious teeth than before. But so, too, does that promise. And even though the wind is just as cold as it was that night, and even though what I am leaving behind is infinitely more precious than what I abandoned four years ago, the taste of freedom on the wind is just as sweet. - TPOT

“Put the princess in a pair of pants and watch what happens.”- TQOL

“I chased a fucking wagon across this goddamn city. And then I chased a carriage across it again. I nearly got trampled twice. Do not fucking start with me.” - TQOL

They didn’t know what they were getting themselves into when they decided to kidnap me. I hope I get the chance to make them regret it. - TCOR

“I may be dying,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “but I’m not dead. And I’m not going to lie around waiting to die, either.” - Book 1

✨ Violence & Power Dynamics

Violence is the Only Option / Jack Bauer Interrogation Technique / No-Holds-Barred Beatdown / Restraints / I Will Punish Your Friend For Your Failure / Defiant Captive

No respite—the rope grew tight again, accompanied now by Baden Hatchett’s hand on his chin. “Tried to take what wasn’t yours, and when she was rightfully repulsed by you, you thought you’d get to me another way instead?” - TQOL

I can’t suppress the cry that escapes as he twists and presses his fingertips against the wound. - TPOT

“Answer me,” the prince said softly, tightening his grip just enough that the scholar’s jaw began to ache. - Man of Letters

“Try to run away and I’ll let him drown your friend,” she said, digging her fingers into Nalia’s arm. - Book 1

✨ Family Stuff

Annoying Younger Sibling / Disappointing Older Sibling / Dead Parents / Abusive Parents

When Will kept bouncing, seeming not to hear their mother’s question, Jamie picked up one of his brother’s abandoned socks from the floor, crushed it into a ball, and hurled it at his head. - TPOT

“No one says anything. No one. Even you. You got arrested and you never fucking told me and he had that old record and that’s how he knew your name, and I can’t believe you never said anything, for fuck’s sake, and that happened when Ma was still alive—” - TPOT

The entire time I was in jail, truly believing and even hoping that my brother had skipped town and saved himself and left me to die, I never wanted to hurt him as much as I do right now. - TCOR

A knife under the ribs. It was Bridget’s fault. “I didn’t—I should’ve—I know I waited too long to go to the feds. I’m going to regret it forever, you know.” - Fen and Freddie

“Keeping me here to suffer more because your mother died on you, that’s not fair.” I know these words will hurt her. I don’t care. “I watched my ma die, too.” - TPOT

“My mother…she used to. She lives in the country now.” A distant look came into his eyes. “My dad’s dead. Of the fever. When it came here.” - Book 1

The soft words of her mother often came to her in such moments—the gentle but fragmented counsel that had helped Cecilia Cooper through her own marriage to Silas Cooper, a bitter man prone to temper and partial to drink. Stay with me, my love, she had whispered so often, and I will keep you safe. A mostly empty promise, untrue but well-meant; Breanna had known even then that her mother had tried her best. Let’s practice some sums, she would sometimes say, smoothing away her daughter’s tear-damp locks, watching the door with a frantic eye in case the handle began to turn. - TQOL

✨ Slow Burn

Make them go through a billion and a half awkward moments and almosts before they kiss!

Almost Kiss / Rescue Romance / Sleep Cute

I bet that hair practically glows red when the sun hits it just right. Especially in the light of sunset, when the sky turns to pink and orange flame. - TPOT

Dawn, of course, does not reach us inside our cell. Its rays can’t drift inside and wake us gently, can’t illuminate our fingers that remained entwined through the night; perhaps it is some innate, natural understanding that it’s almost time to rise that makes my eyes flutter open. A pair of hazel ones stares back. - TPOT

Are we closer than we were a minute ago? Can I better see the flutter of her eyelashes, glittering with tears, as she looks up at me, her cheeks pale, her lips parted to let every frightened breath pass, her hair brushing against her skin in perfect disarray? - TPOT

This was different: lovely, potent, thrilling. Like silken threads woven with bronze, like some entity of creation had crafted this man from warm earth and molten metal. - TQOL

This gaze burned like sunshine—like spring, like warmth on meadow grasses, like the glint of golden light off a pond. It burned, and it didn’t waver, and she knew where he was looking when he shifted a strand of damp hair away from her neck. - TQOL

He fixed her with that annoyingly penetrating gaze, like she was a book he wanted to read. - Book 1

✨ Big-Bad Style Villains

Big Bad / Lack of Empathy / Blaming "The Man" / The Chessmaster / Implacable Man / Evil Gloating

“Mouth off to her again,” he said softly, “and I’m going to make you very sorry.” - Book 1

“Oops,” Brockhurst said. “That might have broken a rib. Or several.” - Fen and Freddie

“Look at you. You’re no hero,” Hatchett says. My eyes fly open again. “A thief is all you are—a terrible one at that. Iustitia aecum, indeed.” He bares his teeth. “You and the others, you wear your guise of honour. Still, you are nothing more than lowlife, thieving criminals. Her, just as much as you.” He scoffs. “She says you saved her, once upon a time. Today, you will not.” - TPOT

“I most certainly am not mistaken,” says Jean Regent. “I did hope we could be civil from the start, but if you continue to be evasive and spout pointless lies, then I am afraid I shall have to resort to more barbaric measures rather quickly.” - TCOR

“Remember this, will you?” Regent lifts the poker from the hearth. “Remember that I could have ended your sorry life and chose not to. Remember that I showed you mercy. And remember…” His smile widens to a grotesque, gaping grin. “Remember that if you anger me again, the girl pays the price.” - TCOR

OH MY GOD THIS WAS SO FUN THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME IN THIS AHH

[sorrow-already-spoiled]

A Light Touch

The planet of Maliv was a shining beacon of light and technology across the vast galaxies, a crowning achievement of human advancement. A billion lights glowed across its surface, rivaling a small sun. Home to the Empire’s monarchy, and its central seat of power in the universe, Maliv was a utopia, casting its shadow long and far. 

The beating heart of the planet was undoubtedly Stellaris Academy, home to only the top 0.01% of candidates. Cadets move with precision, each step and breath calculated and practice-perfect. Neat black cut uniforms adorn their forms, boots and gold buttons polished to a shine. Three colors of arm bands were visible amongst the students. The carmine of sentinels, the azure of nulls, and the vastly outnumbered ivory of guides. The academy produced generals, politicians, cutting edge engineers, diplomats, pilots… Any alumni of the Academy was most assuredly worth something. 

Students of the Academy were hand picked at age 18 to spend the next four years preparing for the rest of their lives. Half of those students would not graduate from the program, the intensive demands of the curriculum leaving them husks of their former selves, dropping out in shame. 

Vellin was a special case. 

“We’re pleased to have you join our ranks Cadet Lawrynce. Please let me know anything I can do to help you adjust.” Dean Astin smiled. “I will do my best to see you succeed here.” Vellin only nodded in response. Dean Astin seemed like a nice woman, but he was not keen to trust her. Trust didn’t seem to go well for him. The freshly upgraded cybernetics in his arm ached on cue.

The non-lethal blaster pistol on his hip felt like a ridiculous toy after the reality of his previous few years. He hadn’t expected the engineer who did the preliminary work on his arm to send a video of his rehabilitation training to the Academy, and certainly hadn’t expected them to come to collect. He wouldn’t care at all, if the Academy couldn’t offer him what he wanted. 

A guide. 

Vellin’s battalion had one. A handsome, but chronically twitchy thing with deep set circles under his eyes. He had been a tall, muscular thing, good structure for a guide. It hadn’t saved him. Auxiliary guides were ineffective things, they died easily. Vellin wanted something more than that. He was going to need more than that. He had things he needed to do, and he couldn’t afford to lose himself to a powerful zone. He needed a bonded guide - a good match. Only the academys could provide that. 

Vellin was at a disadvantage already. He was 23, the last year of eligibility for Stellaris Academy. He lacked the educational basis that the rest of the students had, though he had not been recruited for his intellect. His schedule was full of specialized courses, ready to prime him for a military position on the front lines. His evenings were to be filled with one-on-one meetings with guides. He was going to need them all. He had no pre-existing connection to a guide, so any match would have to be strong without any chance of conditioning. 

He could feel eyes on him as they passed through the halls, the dean herself escorting him to his first class. He could hear every whisper. 

Who’s that?

A new student at this time of year?

He’s a sentinel. 

He looks strong. 

Vellin only cared about the ivory armbands. He would get what he came for. He squared his shoulders and followed Dean Astin. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------

After the seventh guide broke down sobbing, or became catatonic after trying to guide him out of a shallow zone, Vellin was beginning to become a bit disillusioned with the whole process. 

“The bombs… why are there bombs? It’s so loud…”

“It’s a mindscape, how can it be that dangerous?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Vellin was not the typical sentinel. For one, his mindscape reflected the things he’d seen, and it wasn’t pretty. Second, he had absolutely no faith in guides. 

Vellin threw himself into guilt, and hauled himself out the the zone. Dean Astin raised an eyebrow, and he avoided her gaze. He knew sentinels couldn’t typically end a zone on their own, but he dismissed her curiosity with an excuse of the zone being shallow enough it ended on it’s own. 

In reality, it was a skill learned under fire, and one he didn’t care to discuss. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------

Vellin sat with his back against one of the massive birch trees in the courtyard. His arm was aching, a throbbing pain lancing through artificial veins. At least it numbed him to the noise of the academy. It was easier to ignore the hundreds of footsteps and conversations filling the air. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to actually focus on the pain. He could feel where the oil and blood were mixing at his elbow joint, kept apart by only a thin carbon fiber sheet. He could feel the electric currents running through each individual copper wire, and where the wire was fraying and diffusing the current into his muscles to cause a twitch in his arm. 

A gentle warmth pressed unexpectedly against his shoulder, and it was warm, it was gentle, it was warm, it was gentle, it was warm, and Vellin descended into his own mind, spiraling into a true zone for the first time in over a year.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

This room was too familiar. Sterile. Only the small window at the top of the room, too tall to see out of, gave him any indication of the passage of time. Light came and went, day and night, again and again. The glow of bomb-light was brighter at night, turning the darkness to a red glow, as the foundations shook. Vellin stayed in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, the warmth on his shoulder burningly gentle. That couldn’t be right, he couldn’t be warm and safe here. He couldn’t be in anything but agony here. He didn’t know where this feeling went, where could it go?

Quiet steps echo from the hallway, somehow audible through the gray steel door. It was not the steps of the warden, not the steps of his brother, he did not know these steps. Soft but sure. The door swung open without a key, inviting the unknown guest in. 

He’d never seen this woman before. She wore the academy’s uniform, with an ivory armband around her bicep. Half her hair was dyed in a bright kaleidoscope of colors to create a purple holographic effect, and caring caramel eyes looked at him from the doorway. Her features were delicate and etched with concern. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a zone. Honestly, I was checking to see if you were still alive. Your breathing was so slow, I was worried you’d fully died in the courtyard.” 

Vellin blinks as a bomb goes off in the distance. The girl does not flinch, or take her eyes off him. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice is hoarse.

“I was planning on helping you out of your zone, if that's alright? My name is Staziya.” Vellin blinks again, nodding slowly. 

“You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“No, I’m not. Where am I supposed to be?”

“Somewhere safe. Away from the war. Away from the compound.” 

“Take me there then.” Staiya reaches out her hand, and he takes it. He follows her down the hallway. “Look back for a moment?” He does, and the warmth on his shoulder becomes bearable. He blinks again and she slips out of his mind, dragging him to the surface with her.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

Her hand was still on his shoulder when he opened his eyes. She was crouched down in front of him with that same look of concern he’d seen in his mind. 

“Seriously, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Her hand left his shoulder, and she stood up, preventing the sun from shining right in his eyes, creating a halo effect around her. 

“I guess I know you aren’t dead or dying then. What’s your name?” 

“Vellin Lawrynce.” 

“Oh, you’re the new student right? The mysterious fourth year?” 

“Yeah. Who are you?” 

“Anastaziya Kingsley.”

“You’re a guide.” The corner of her lip curved up as she tried to prevent a smile from taking over.

“How did you know?!” Vellin stared at her. He couldn’t be mad, it had been an obvious answer. “I’m more than just a guide though, for the record. I was extraordinary before I ever came to the academy.” Somehow her tone sounded more like she was rattling off a statistic than bragging of her abilities. “Not that it matters much now.” She shrugged. “Anyways, seeing as you aren’t dead, I should get back to the lab. Have a good rest of your afternoon, Vellin.” Vellin blinked. 

“I will?” Staziya smiled, warm enough to take his breath from him, and turned on a polished heel to head towards the labs.

She was a guide. A guide who did not cry, or go catatonic, or flinch at his mindscape. He hadn’t even felt her moving about, and the door to his cell had opened for her. The defenses that pushed out other guides had not only allowed her in. They had escorted her. She had pulled him from a true zone without any side effects, or trace of exertion on her part. 

Vellin didn’t know much about auras, or about guides in general, but he knew what a touch that light could mean. They were a match. A perfect match. 

[itsfazee]

The Beauty of Ugly Lawns: Creating Tidy Wildlands in Your Yard

Transforming Your Yard into an Ecological Eden

This year, a Tasmanian yard that hadn’t been watered in 10 years and featured a dead brushtail possum won the title of ugliest lawn in the world. The contest, organized by the island of Gotland in Sweden, rewards those who turn over their yards to nature to save water and change the world’s perception of the ideal lawn.

It also raises an important question: Who wants an ugly lawn, really? An admirable, dedicated contingent embracing ugly lawns’ ecological bona fides is willing to draw “disgusted glances from neighbors – and a round of applause from around the globe,” as the contest organizers put it.

But far more people just want a nice yard that won’t provoke their neighborhood homeowners association (HOA).

“If we’re saying we’re all going to have the ugliest landscape in the world, that’s not going to catch on,” insists Doug Tallamy, an entomologist at the University of Delaware who’s proposing a different approach. “I’m trying to reduce the area of lawn and do it in an attractive way so you’re not thrown out of your neighborhood.”

Tallamy is part of a growing movement to create ecological Edens out of yards while keeping them palatable to society. Want an unruly meadow? Carve a path inviting you in.

Planting a profusion of native trees and shrubs? Border it with a strip of manicured grass.

These subtle but crucial signals differentiate a mess from a “lawn.” That might be enough to move wildlife conservation beyond public lands to the backyards �� and even balconies — of millions of people, propagating tidy wildlands across the country.

“We need ecosystems to function everywhere, not just in parks and preserves,” he argues.

What we've lost

Americans have transformed 95% of the natural landscapes in the country. Around half the Lower 48 states are now cities and streets, infrastructure such as airports and shopping centers, or isolated habitat fragments, with farms covering much of the other half.

Only about 13% of the United States enjoys some form of protection.

That’s hardly enough to sustain wildlife. If nearly three-quarters of habitat is lost, ecologists say, then we’re likely to lose three-quarters of species, as well. In just half a century, for example, a staggering 3 billion breeding adult birds, or nearly 30% of their populations, have disappeared.

To save America’s biodiversity, Tallamy wants us to share the land. To do this, he’s enlisting private owners of more than 83% of the United States to create what he calls “homegrown national parks” from tiny city plots to corporate campuses. He envisions turning over half of the 40 million acres of lawns in the United States — an area roughly the size of New England — to imperiled native plants and trees, embracing what Aldo Leopold, widely regarded as a father of modern conservation, called the “land ethic.”

“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us,” Leopold wrote in his 1949 book, “A Sand County Almanac,” popularizing the idea that healthy ecosystems are vital to humanity’s survival. “When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.”

That means restoring four ecological functions that healthy landscapes perform: nourish the food web, supply clean water, pull carbon out of the air, and feed and shelter native insects and pollinators.

“Lawns do none of them,” says Tallamy. But they could, on almost any scale, including a tiny side yard or even a container.

What the new yard could look like

The typical objection to “natural” yards and native plants boils down to one word: “messy,” says Haven Kiers, a landscape architect at the University of California at Davis.

The public perception of lawns is binary: clipped and manicured or abandoned and ugly. Kiers is charting a third way, transforming her own scraggly grass lawn in Davis into an explosive profusion of native plants combined with a few ornamentals that people and pollinators love.

“It would be great if everyone planted only natives,” she says, “but I’m also dealing with a public that wants to do well and wants gardens to look good.”

So she’s designing native landscapes as formal gardens. Her students lay out elaborate botanical landscapes that draw on ordered garden styles while using only plants from the West. Ironically, this may mean reintroducing them to Americans in a new light.

Our native plants such as pokeweed, American sweetgum and Virginia creeper are fixtures in formal gardens in Paris, and elsewhere in Europe. We just need to learn to love them as much they do.

The key is a landscape philosophy called “cues to care.” First introduced in a 1995 paper called “Messy Ecosystems, Orderly Frames,” it argued that intentionally designed elements — mowed grass margins, flowering plants with crisp edges or trimmed shrubs — should delineate larger “messy” wildness such as a meadow or prairie gardens. These signs of human presence make the landscapes socially acceptable while preserving their ecological value, which is often invisible.

Ultimately, the lack of social acceptance is what makes the “ugly” frame such a hard sell. Yards are not afterthoughts for most people. They are status symbols and artistic expressions.

To make native landscapes acceptable, we need to marry human touch with ecological function.

How to create a tidy wildland

- Take it one small patch at a time. Kiers recommends slowly replacing strips of lawn with native (or a few suitable ornamental) plants that can support pollinators and local fauna. For Kiers, the backyard is a work in progress.

With each passing year, her grass recedes as her garden beds and natives grow.

- Go native, but no need to fear all ornamentals. Native plants will give you the biggest ecological bang for your buck. Typically, they won’t need water after they get established.

Start by asking your native plant society or nursery. There’s one in every state, or search for master gardener groups and extension services online in your area who can answer your questions (for free!). Adding ornamentals to the mix can add appeal without losing much ecological value.

“There’s so much pressure to only go native,” says Kiers. “That’s silly.” Just prioritize natives and avoid invasives.

- Plant keystone species, feed the food web. These plants support the most wildlife. White oaks and relatives, for example, are exemplary trees for wildlife in 84% of U.S. counties.

But every region is different so do your research. Homegrown National Park lists the top plants for your area. And don’t forget to leave areas under trees and shrubs with leaves, logs or small native seedlings.

More than 90% of the caterpillars drop off their host plant and need ground cover to finish their life cycle.

- Spread seeds for an instant flower garden. Any clearing at the edge of a path, around a tree or even a sidewalk can become a thriving garden with a few seeds and some occasional watering. If you do buy potted plants, use small pots (1 gallon vs. 4 gallon), as the plants are more likely to thrive.

Don’t have a lawn? Plant a balcony or become a guerrilla gardener. Biodiversity can thrive on your balcony, terrace or rooftop.

Containers are “refueling pit stops” for native pollinators, says Homegrown National Park. Large pots are best, and some perennial species will return year after year. And there are plenty of forgotten spaces where a wildflower garden can take root — you don’t even need to own it.

Throw a few “seed bombs” on bare ground, and after some initial watering, a native garden can bloom almost anywhere from a Brooklyn sidewalk to back alleys.

- Express yourself. The natural world has a nearly infinite variety of species for you to grow into. After some trial and error, you may find yourself as more than a gardener, but the creator of your own tidy wilderness.

“The good news is that we can fix our ecological problems by indulging rather than sacrificing,” says Tallamy. “It has been very difficult to address environmental issues by asking people to give up something.”

By creating tidy wildlands in our yards, we can contribute to the restoration of ecosystems and support native wildlife. By incorporating native plants and implementing cues to care, we can have beautiful, aesthetically pleasing yards that also benefit the environment. It's time to reimagine the traditional lawn and embrace the potential of our own backyards to create a sustainable future for both humans and nature.

[qqueenofhades]

Ok I am dumb so according to some research of mine the top 1% hold over 50 trillion in wealth. If we taxed that at the 91% you mentioned before, how much money would that generate? Because I do not get tax brackets or shit at all no matter how much I try to educate myself.

Okay, I'll help you with the math here. You're fairly close on the overall number; the estimate as of 2021 was that the richest 1% of Americans hold $41.52 trillion in overall wealth, which is 16 times more than those in the bottom 50% combined, and more than the entire middle class. If you expand it to the top 10%, they hold 70% of all the wealth in the country. The 1%, meanwhile, gained $6.5 trillion in wealth just last year alone. Six. Point. Five. Trillion. Written out in numerals, that is $6,500,000,000,000. That is thirteen figures. In one year.

Elizabeth Warren's Ultra-Millionaire Tax plan page breaks this down fairly well, and her wealth tax plan is considerably conservative compared to American taxation rates in the past. Here's what her plan calls for, and the expected revenue result:

While we must make income taxes more progressive, that alone won’t straighten out our slanted tax code or our lopsided economy. Consider two people: an heir with $500 million in yachts, jewelry, and fine art, and a teacher with no savings in the bank. If both the heir and the teacher bring home $50,000 in labor income next year, they would pay the same amount in federal taxes, despite their vastly different circumstances. Increasing income taxes won’t address this problem.

That’s why we need a tax on wealth. The Ultra-Millionaire Tax taxes the wealth of the richest Americans. It applies only to households with a net worth of $50 million or more—roughly the wealthiest 75,000 households, or the top 0.1%. Households would pay an annual 2% tax on every dollar of net worth above $50 million and a 6% tax on every dollar of net worth above $1 billion. Because wealth is so concentrated, this small tax on roughly 75,000 households will bring in $3.75 trillion in revenue over a ten-year period.

Rates and Revenue

Zero additional tax on any household with a net worth of less than $50 million (99.9% of American households)

2% annual tax on household net worth between $50 million and $1 billion

4% annual Billionaire Surtax (6% tax overall) on household net worth above $1 billion

10-Year revenue total of $3.75 trillion

You will notice a) that the expected ten-year yield of $3.75 trillion is barely half of what the 1% earns in one year, b) she’s only calling for a 2% tax on multi-millionaires whose net worth is between $50 million and $1 billion, and c) only 6% on billionaires. Back in the pre-Reagan days, the highest tax brackets ranged from a whopping 91% during Eisenhower’s presidency (1953-61) to a general rate in the high 70s during the 1960s and 1970s. What this means is that the taxpayer can keep all of their wealth up to a certain threshold, and pays a successively higher percentage rate on all wealth above that threshold. So if there was still a 91% tax rate on, say, all wealth above $400 million, here’s what that would look like for someone with a net worth of $1 billion:

They can keep all the wealth they make up to $399,000,000.99. Any sane person will agree that if you can’t live EXTREMELY comfortably on four hundred million goddamn dollars, you have problems.

Above $400,000,000, however, the marginal tax bracket kicks in. That means our theoretical person with a one-billion-dollar net worth would be liable to pay a 91% rate on $600,000,000, which is the proportion of their income subject to that highest tax bracket.

$600,000,000 ÷ 100 = $6,000,000 (six million dollars)

If the tax rate is 91% of that, we multiply six million dollars by 91.

The total of that is $546,000,000 (five hundred forty six million dollars). From taxing ONE billionaire at the Eisenhower rate. They even get to keep the additional $54 million that ISN’T covered by that tax, so they even still make a LOT of extra money.

There are approximately 700 billionaires in the US at any given time. Most of them are worth multiple billions, not just one. So the absolute bare-bones minimum amount that you could make from taxing 700 billionaires $546 million each is $382,200,000,000 (three hundred and eighty-two billion, two hundred million dollars). That would multiply exponentially per billion that every billionaire was liable for. This would be repeated every year, so the 10-year yield would be approximately $3.8 trillion. Again, at an absolute minor minimum.

Even at Warren’s two-percent or six-percent tax, Medicare for All (a universal healthcare, single-payer, free service for all Americans) is easily feasible. The Lancet and the National Library of Medicine, two of the most eminent medical research institutions in America, each conducted separate studies on the prospect and costs of universal single-payer/Medicare for All. Here’s what the Lancet said about the cost:

Using our previously developed model of health-care costs in the USA, and updating the plan to 2020 US$, we calculated that reaching universal coverage without conversion to a single-payer system would increase the national health-care budget by US$149 billion annually, relative to the status quo. This would increase the overall health-care budget to more than $3·6 trillion per year, compared with an estimated $3.0 trillion for Medicare for All. The decision about whether to implement either policy should consider the cost-effectiveness of each policy relative to the status quo, as well as to each other [....]

Our calculations indicate that incremental steps to achieve universal coverage en route to a single-payer system are a worthy investment. At the same time, expansion without structural improvement is not ideal. Medicare for All is the end-game strategy both economically and morally.

So Medicare for All, at $3 trillion a year even before any other fiscal reforms or cost, is easily doable with the addition of even a modest billionaire tax to the public revenue stream. The current Department of Health and Human Services budget is $1.3 trillion in mandatory funding and $94 billion in additional discretionary funding -- so yes, it would need more money, but our tax code is also ridiculously broken and designed to spare the wealthiest people in the country from having to pay anything substantial into it. Fixing that would also fix the shortfall. That $3 trillion is also only the initial first-year launch-fee amount, and the costs would fall every year thereafter. The National Library of Medicine, in its study mapping out 22 different models of single-payer programs and funding, concluded:

What did the researchers do and find?

We found and compared cost analyses of 22 single-payer plans for the US or individual states.

Nineteen (86%) of the analyses estimated that health expenditures would fall in the first year, and all suggested the potential for long-term cost savings.

The largest savings were predicted to come from simplified billing and lower drug costs.

Studies funded by organizations across the political spectrum estimated savings for single-payer.

What do these findings mean?

There is near-consensus in these analyses that single-payer would reduce health expenditures while providing high-quality insurance to all US residents.

To achieve net savings, single-payer plans rely on simplified billing and negotiated drug price reductions, as well as global budgets to control spending growth over time.

Replacing private insurers with a public system is expected to achieve lower net healthcare costs.

So.... creating a public universal system would actually LOWER costs, provide long-term budget savings, provide a better standard of care, reduce the healthcare budget year on year, and otherwise replace and upgrade the nonsensical, insane, expensive, and inefficient privatized for-profit system that currently exists. Our insistence on keeping it this way is actually costing us MORE money, and certainly a lot more unnecessary deaths, than if we changed it. This was also not a partisan study; as noted, organizations from across the political spectrum agreed that this was a basic common-sense conclusion that was supported by the data. This is not something that could never be done. It’s just not being done because it’s more convenient for the ultra-wealthy to maintain a system that wildly and disproportionately favors them, even if there’s no feasible way they could ever spend all their hoarded wealth in their lifetimes, their children’s lifetimes, or indeed their grandchildren’s lifetimes. In other words, I actually think that Warren’s tax rate doesn’t go far enough, but even that would be subject to an INSANE amount of screaming from the Elon Musks and the Elon Musk groupies of the world, who fondly delude themselves that one day they might be that rich too and need to be able to hoard it. It would likewise raise a significant amount of money and start the process of correcting the generational, embedded, wildly skewed income inequality in America, which -- like everything else -- is also racial. Gee, I wonder why white supremacists want to keep Black and Latino people poor.

Anyway. There you have it. Never say I never did any work for y’all.

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

thinking about duty of care. clara saying i have a duty of care about courtney in kill the moon. the doctor trying to show clara how they thought of her and it backfiring spectacularly. clara saying “you walk our earth, you breathe our air” and the doctor listening. and echoing it back to her in forest of the night after clara is doing her duty of care for her kids (sorta) the whole episode and the doctor being compared to those kids. clara going “this time the human race is saving you” like ‘i have a duty of care about you too’ and the doctor saying “this is my world too” like ‘i have a duty of care about you’

“four and a half billion years? why would you even do that to yourself?” “i had a duty of care”

im thinking about the doctor hearing yaz say “we were worried about you” and echoing back “we’re all worried”. hearing yaz say “youre like the best person ive ever met” and echoing back “i think you’re one of the greatest people ive ever known”

just, the doctor, listening to the people they love and expressing their love in the language they showed them love in

[seaweed-brain2-0]

Not only is it Percy Jackson's birthday today, it is also Percabeth's (12th??) Anniversary, so here are some of the best Percabeth moments in PJO and PJO alone. [The light blue is just me being me]

“You drool when you sleep.” (obviously)

“Me, go with you on the… the ‘Thrill Ride of Love’? How embarrassing is that? What if someone saw me?” (It was at this scene when I knew, these two would be my comfort couple in the future)

“I don’t know what my mom will do, I just know I’ll fight next to you.” “Why?” “Because you’re my friend, Seaweed Brain. Any more stupid questions?”

Annabeth’s shroud was so beautiful—gray silk with embroidered owls—I told her it seemed a shame not to bury her in it. She punched me and told me to shut up. (ah, young love)

PERCY CARRYING AROUND ANNABETHS PICTURE IN HIS NOTEBOOK TO REMIND HIMSELF THAT SHE WAS REAL no i’m not taking this one straight from the book, the paragraph is too long.

But whenever Annabeth talked about the time she spent with them, I kind of felt . . . I don’t know. Uncomfortable? No. That’s not the word. The word was jealous. (and it still took him four years to realize he was in love with her??)

She looked good. Really good. I probably would’ve been tongue-tied if I could’ve said anything except ‘reet, reet, reet’.

She tackled me with a hug, then pulled away just as quickly. “I’m glad you’re not a guinea pig.” “Me, too.” I hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt. (nine year old me is SCREAMING)

“I’ll get us back to the ship,” I told her. “It’s okay. Just hang on.” Annabeth nodded to let me know she was better now, and then she murmured something I couldn’t hear because of the plugs in my ears. (THE INTIMACY)

The crowd cheered. Annabeth planted a kiss on my cheek. The roaring got a lot louder after that. (THEIR FIRST KISS DFGHJNBGVFDFGH why am I still fangirling over this, I've seen them kiss a billion times-)

“Um, who should I ask?” She punched me in the gut. “Me, Seaweed Brain.” “Oh. Oh, right.” (✨slow dance✨)

[Aphrodite] When she smiled at me, just for a moment she looked a little like Annabeth. (I repeat: AND IT STILL TOOK HIM FOUR YEARS TO REALIZE HE WAS IN LOVE WITH HER????)

“You didn’t believe I was dead?” “Never.” (I believe I was dead at this point)

“I, uh, was thinking we got interrupted at Westover Hall. And . . . I think I owe you a dance.” She smiled slowly. “All right, Seaweed Brain.” (✨slow dance✨ part two *more screaming*)

“Think positive. Tomorrow you’re off to camp! After orientation you’ve got your date—”

“It’s not a date!” I protested.”It’s just Annabeth, Mom. Jeez!”

“She’s coming all the way from camp to meet you.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’re going to the movies.”

“Yeah."

“Just the two of you.”

“Mom!”

She held up her hands in surrender, but I could tell she was trying hard not to smile. (this whole scene deserved to be in here and you know it)

“Hey, it’s . . . it’s okay.” I patted her on the back. I was aware of everything in the room . I felt like I could read the tiniest print on any book on the shelves. Annabeth’s hair smelled like lemon soap. Behind me, somebody cleared his throat. It was one of Annabeth’s half-brothers, Malcolm. His face was bright red. I stepped away from Annabeth “We were just looking at maps,” I said stupidly. (imagine falling madly in love with Annabeth Chase and not knowing it until she kisses you, couldn't be me 😐)

Annabeth glared at me like she was going to punch me. And then she did something that surprised me even more. She kissed me. (*screaming intensifies*)

Annabeth and I pretty much skirted around each other. I was glad to be with her, but it also kind of hurt, and it hurt when I wasn’t with her, too. (I've just given up on screaming at Percy for not realizing his feelings sooner 😐🔫)

Annabeth wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Seaweed Brain.” “Thanks,” I said. “Me too.” (you know what I'm not glad about? Beckendorf's death 😃👍🏽)

We locked eyes. I thought of a different time last summer, under Mount St. Helen's, when Annabeth thought I was going to die and she kissed me. She cleared her throat and looked away. “Prophecy.” “Right. Prophecy.” (ahaha pain)

Malcolm grinned at me. “We’ll wait outside while you finish inspection.” The Athena campers filed out the door while Annabeth cleaned up her bunk. I shuffled uneasily and pretended to go through some more reports. Technically, even on inspection, it was against camp rules for two campers to be . . . like, alone in a cabin. That rule had come up a lot when Silena and Beckendorf started dating. Anyway, for some strange reason I was thinking about this as I watched Annabeth straighten up. (fOr sOmE rEaSoN)

“Hold on, Seaweed Brain.” It was Annabeth’s voice, much clearer now. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.” (*sobs*)

“I’ll go with Percy,” Annabeth said. “Then we’ll join you, or we’ll go wherever we’re needed.” Somebody in the back of the group said, “No detours you two.” (stop saving the world and go make out 🙄)

Before I could lose my courage, I said, “Don’t I get a kiss for luck? It’s kind of a tradition, right?” I figured she would punch me. Instead, she drew her knife and stared at the army marching toward us. “Come back alive, Seaweed Brain. Then we’ll see.” (AND COME BACK ALIVE, HE DID)

“You’re cute when you’re worried,” she muttered. “Your eyebrows get all scrunched together.”

“You are not going to die while I owe you a favor,” I said. “Why did you take that knife?”

“You would’ve done the same for me.” (HOLY F U C K)

I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But this was Annabeth. If I couldn’t trust her, I couldn’t trust anyone. (goodnight.)

I glanced back. Annabeth was trying not to meet my eyes. Her face was pale. I flashed back to two years ago, when I’d thought she was going to take the pledge to Artemis and become a Hunter. I’d been on the edge of a panic attack, thinking that I’d lose her. Now, she looked pretty much the same way. I thought about the Three Fates, and the way I’d seen my life flash by. I could avoid all that. No aging, no death, no body in the grave. I could be a teenager forever, in top condition, powerful, and immortal, serving my father. I could have power and eternal life. Who could refuse that? Then I looked at Annabeth again. I thought about my friends from camp: Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, so many other who were now dead. I thought about Ethan Nakamura and Luke. And I knew what I had to do. “No,” I said. “I’m honored and everything. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just . . . I’ve got a lot of life left to live. I’d hate to peak in my sophomore year.” The gods were glaring at me, but Annabeth had her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were shining. And that kind of made up for it. (THIS WHOLE SCENE RUINED MY PERCEPTION OF MEN. THEY ARE, IN FACT, NOT AS PERFECT AS PERCY)

“I am never, ever going to make things easy for you, Seaweed Brain. Get used to it.” When she kissed me, I had the feeling my brain was melting right through my body. (I'M MELTING)

We held hands right up to the moment they dumped us in the water. Afterward, I had the last laugh. I made an air bubble at the bottom of the lake. Our friends kept waiting for us to come up, but hey—when you’re the son of Poseidon, you don’t have to hurry. And it was pretty much the best underwater kiss of all time. (DFGHJHGFDFGHJNHGFDFGHJNBVCFGHJMNBVCFKIJUHYGT I DON'T THINK I WILL EVER RECOVER FROM THIS ITS TOO PERFECT GOODBYE FOREVER)

[sentientsky]

never not thinking about her (clara oswald)

[seijorhi]

This isn't a request or anything but I had a soulmate AU idea that I think you'd like.... And reminded me of Oikawa. Imagine you find ur soulmate from their name written on your skin on ur 16/18 bday, but.... You're blind. And dating Oikawa. And he /swears/ your name is on his skin... But when your birthday rolls around, he insists you don't show anyone else.... And starts buying you clothes to cover the mark.... And you hear him whispering about his mark to Iwa.... And you begin to worry. 👀

I know it wasn’t specifically meant as a request, but I took the idea and ran with it - I hope it’s okay!! 💕

Oikawa Tooru x Female Reader

TW gaslighting, manipulation, dub con nsfw, blind reader

Part II

Always

“You promise me it’s there?”

Are you sure it’s me?

Rich, warm laughter fills the air around you, and despite the tension gnawing away in your stomach, the corners of your lips twitch into a soft smile.

“You don’t believe me!”

He’s happy. Even gasping in mock indignation Tooru can’t quite manage to keep it from his voice.

He has every reason to be; you’re both home for the first time in a year and a half, settled in the well worn couch at his parents house, your friends sprawled out either side of you. He’s twenty one today and as of five minutes ago the proud owner of his very own soulmate mark.

Or so he tells you. 

“Well it’s not like I can see it,” you tease, nudging yourself closer so that you can rest your head against his shoulder and sighing loudly. “It could be Issei’s name for all I know, and you’re all just too nice to break the news to me.”

The choked snort from your left side makes you giggle, but not as much as the sound of your boyfriend fake gagging. 

“Please, he fucking wishes!”

“Iwa tell her!” Oikawa demands, and you can just imagine the way that Iwaizumi’s eyes must roll before he ultimately gives in.

He always does.

“It’s yours,” he sighs. “Unfortunately you’re stuck with him, Y/N. My condolences.”

Yours. 

It’s hard, even as raucous laughter fills the air around you and Oikawa turns to shout at his best friend, to deny the warm fluttering in your chest. The arm around you eases you closer, a thumb absentmindedly stroking at your side and you allow yourself to relax against him. 

It’s your name on his skin. You’re his soulmate. 

For the first time in weeks, it feels like you can breathe easy. You wonder if Oikawa knew, if he noticed the way you held onto him just that little bit tighter - like you were scared to let go.

You’ve loved Oikawa for as long as you can remember, but you only get one soulmate. Was it really so outlandish to wonder whether his first love would be his last? Whether you could ever be good enough to be his?

The little blind girl, always following at his heels.

For all your faults, you’ve never been naive. You know how amazing he is - Tooru has always been destined for great things and you were just his highschool sweetheart.

A hindrance, one of his very dedicated fans had once taken the time to inform you, clinging desperately to whatever scraps of pity he felt charitable enough to throw your way.

Neither one of you had realised that Oikawa had heard every damn word. 

—

“Can you just…”

Oikawa pauses, the hand he has wrapped around yours squeezes lightly. “Hmm?”

Breathe deep. Just say it. 

Tell him. 

You’re almost at the gate, your flight’s leaving in twenty minutes (and you would have been there sooner if he hadn’t insisted on dragging you through every overpriced store in the damn airport) and in a few hours, you’ll be home again. 

But it isn’t the thought of being back in Japan that worries you. Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, your heart thumping unsteadily in your chest. His birthday is in two days, and that’s when he’ll find out who his soulmate is supposed to be. And you trust him, you love him. Even if the name on his forearm isn't yours, it’s not like he’s just going to suddenly toss you aside like yesterday’s trash, but… things’ll change, you know they will. And you couldn’t even blame him for that, because how much effort can you really be expected to put into a relationship if you know they’re not the one you’re supposed to end up with?

The doubts you have, the ones that fester and play on your every insecurity, keeping you up at night long after Tooru has drifted off -  you’ve tried to shut them out and ignore them as best you can, but you just can’t get on that plane without having some kind of reassurance.

What if it’s not you?

“Just promise me that if…” your breath catches in your throat, and you try to force a smile on your face even though you know that it wobbles. “If it’s not- if I’m not-”

Soft lips press against yours, cutting you off. It’s only for a heartbeat, enough to get you to stop the panicked tumble of words you couldn’t quite get out, but for you it feels like it lasts a lifetime. You could lose yourself in Oikawa’s kisses, you think. Lose yourself and be happy for it.

A warm palm cups your face. “I love you,” he says, and it isn’t the murmured declaration first thing in the morning, his voice still thick with sleep as he rolls over to kiss you good morning, and it isn’t the cheesy, throwaway line he gives whenever you save him the last bite of the milk bread that he specifically bought for you (because god knows his coach would kill him if he found out he ate the entire thing himself).

It’s a promise.

“You are my soulmate,” his thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and you can’t help but lean into the touch. “You’re the only one I’m ever going to want.”

Standing on the outskirts of your gate, moments away from boarding the plane that’ll take you both home, you’re not entirely sure if he’s trying to tell you that he’s certain that the name on his arm is going to be yours, or that he doesn’t care if it isn’t.

Either way, it’s enough.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, and captures your lips in another kiss - this one brimming with ardent devotion, a love too deep for either one of you to speak.  

 —

Hours later, Iwa, Makki and Mattsun are all asleep downstairs and it’s just Tooru and you curled up in his bed. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that being back in his childhood bedroom did little in the way of curbing his appetite, but between giggles and breathy moans, Oikawa’s hand clamped over your mouth and his lips at your ear-

‘Shhh, you have to keep it down, cutie. Unless you want the whole house to hear all the pretty sounds you make when you’re about to cum for me?’

- he manages to wring four orgasms out of you before the two of you collapse back against the mattress, all sweaty and panting.

And you think he’s fallen asleep now, an arm slung around your waist, his face buried against the nape of your neck despite the warmth of the balmy summer night. With his chest flush against your back, you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart, lulling you gently to sleep with every beat. 

Soulmate.

This, here, in Oikawa’s arms, this is where you belong, where you’ve always belonged. And yet even with happiness and relief and an overwhelming love singing through your veins - keeping you wide awake - you can’t deny that it feels… strange almost, knowing that out of seven and a half billion people, you’re the one he’s marked for. 

He’d sounded so sure back at the airport, like there wasn’t even the possibility of doubt in his mind that you were the one for him. And maybe he was just saying it to calm you down and get your ass on the plane, but if the situations were reversed and it was your birthday first… could you really say with one hundred percent certainty that you knew it would be his name that’d show up on your arm?

You love him more than you’ve ever loved anybody else (more than you ever probably will love anybody else), it’s just that you’ve always known that the two of you were on wildly different paths. Tooru’s the starting setter for a pro volleyball team, and there’s already whispers of that national squad, Olympic selection.

He’s talented and driven and sometimes you wonder whether you ever would have left Miyagi let alone Japan at all if it hadn’t been for him dragging you along with him. 

You’ve always been so content in your own little bubble. You cling to what’s comfortable, what you know - all your life, you’ve been told that you’re not defined by your disability, but you’ve never tried to push yourself beyond it. 

With Tooru, you’ve never had to.

That girl, years ago - she wasn’t wrong. You do cling to him, like you’d clung to your friends and your family. And maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world, but when you compare what Oikawa has to offer his soulmate compared to what you bring to the table, and-

“I can hear you thinking from here,” your apparently not-so-asleep-after-all boyfriend murmurs in your ear. “Tell me what’s bothering my pretty girl.”

You sigh, rolling over to face him. It’s pointless to lie to Tooru - he can read you better than anyone else - but admitting the whole truth, even here under this little refuge of soft intimacy between the two of you, feels harder than it should be.

“You’re not… disappointed, are you?” 

The harrumph that escapes his lips sounds almost offended, but the brush of his lips against the tip of your nose is sweet. “How long have I known you?” he asks.

Your forehead wrinkles at the question. “Fifteen or so years, I guess?”

You’d only been six or so when your family had moved in the house next door to his, across the street from Iwaizumi’s, and you can still vividly remember the first time you met him - crying in your front yard with a scraped up knee - always too eager for your own good.

“Hmm,” he acknowledges, “and how long have we been dating?”

“Seven-ish years?”

He chuckles, kissing you again, this time on your cheek. “And how long do you think I’ve been in love with you?”

Your whole face warms, and you fight the urge to bury it in his bare chest, especially when he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of place back behind your ear. “Tooru-”

He sighs again, the sound tinged with just a hint of fond exasperation. “Give me your hand.”

You oblige, and you feel his long fingers curl around yours, tucking all of your fingers but your index away and drawing your hand closer towards him. It’s only when your pointer brushes against skin that you realise what he’s trying to do. Still, you don’t offer a word as Tooru slowly traces your finger along the dark letters on his skin - his soulmate mark.

Your name. 

“I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, Y/N. You’re mine, you’ve always been mine, just as I’m yours,” he vows, and you almost shiver with the intensity that burns in every word. “Any other name would have been nothing more than a filthy lie.”

Any further protests are swallowed up by another kiss, and your boyfriend takes it upon himself to show you exactly how much he adores you, over and over again, until sheer, utter exhaustion drags you to sleep in his arms.

 —

Your own twenty-first birthday is a vastly different kind of affair. For one, the two of you decide to stay in Argentina - Oikawa’s mid season and can’t afford the time off training to traipse back home again.

Which means that it is just the two of you alone in your villa when you feel an odd burning sensation start to creep through your left arm. It doesn’t hurt exactly, more like a warm tingling sensation that flows along your skin as one by one the letters of your soulmate’s name come to light.

The sharp little gasp that slips from your lips must have alerted Tooru - hovering as he had been for the better part of the day - because his hands are on your arm within a moment, flipping it over and eagerly dragging it closer for him to inspect. His own breath hitches in his throat, his fingers tightening on your soft skin and a tentative smile works its way across your face. 

People have told you before that your boyfriend is handsome - stupidly beautiful, you’d once overheard one of your old high school classmates bemoan. His voice certainly is, soft and pretty and lilting, warm like the first rays of the sun on a cool winter’s morning, though not without its sharpness. Oikawa always has had a wicked tongue. In your head, you picture a face to match, delicate, angular features, warm eyes and a grin that’s just a little impish. Trouble, but the irresistible kind. 

You wish you could see it now, watch your soulmate’s eyes widen with delight, or maybe soften with quiet awe. You want to see him happy, deliriously so, you want to look into those lovely eyes of his and see all the love that’s coursing through your veins right now reflected right back at you. 

He still hasn’t spoken a word.

The slow drag of a breath, shaky and too sharp, had your bright smile freezing on your face. His grip hasn’t relented, fingers calloused from years of playing volleyball digging into your arm almost painfully. The air between you two is still, he hasn’t moved, not so much as a twitch.

Unease creeps its way into your stomach.

Why hasn’t he said anything?

He’s never exactly been the strong, silent type, and you love him for that. Iwa often complains that his best friend likes the sound of his own voice too damn much (half heartedly at best), and maybe that’s true, but he never realised that it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. 

It’s different for you, not being able to see. 

You don’t exactly blame them for not understanding - how could they, really? Without your sight to help you, your other senses have to work in overdrive just to make sense of things. Tooru’s voice builds the world around you, imbues it with a spark, guides you like a hand stretching out through the darkness. It’s a gap in the void, a reassurance you cling to - because without it there’s nothing. You’re alone with only your thoughts to keep you company. 

So when he goes quiet like this, it’s never a good sign.

A lump lodges its way in your throat. Without your sight, his silence is almost impossible to read, but you can sense the sudden heaviness in the air, the tension hanging thick between the two of you. 

You expected dramatics. Tears, maybe, or a burst of affectionate cuddles and kisses. Gushing over your mark just as he had when his own had come through. Hell, you thought he’d grab his phone and take a thousand and one pictures just to prove to the world that you were his as much as he was yours - because you loved each other. Because you were soulmates. 

Is there something wrong with your mark?

“Tooru?” you murmur, the edges of your smile starting to slip as your panic rises. “I-is everything-”

“You’re mine.”

The clipped words are little more than a whisper, hoarse and choked. It takes you by surprise, making your heart skip a beat, the knot in your stomach tighten, yet just as that paralysing apprehension starts to take root, he clears his throat, and a laugh bubbles to the surface.

Slowly, like ice thawing, his fingers relax on your forearm, gliding up over your shoulder to curl around your neck. “You love me, right?” 

Your eyebrows knit together, but you nod anyway. “Always.”

There’s another shaky breath, and suddenly his arms are wrapping around you, drawing you into a tight embrace. You don’t fight it, still bewildered by the sudden whiplash of his tone.

His own heart is racing, you can feel it as he holds you against him. The question burns deep inside of your chest, a thought you don’t want to give voice to, but you can’t seem to stop yourself - it slips out before you even realise you’ve opened your mouth.

“It is your name, Tooru, isn’t it? You’re my soulmate?”

There’s a beat of silence, and Oikawa hums, resting his chin against the top of your head. “Of course it is, cutie,” he chuckles. “Who else’s name would it be?”

He takes you out for dinner to celebrate. You’d originally picked one of his favourite dresses to wear, a strapless white number with a pretty, flowing skirt that fell to your mid thigh, but Oikawa stops you before you can leave, passing you over an old denim jacket of yours.

“It’s cool out tonight,” he says as he eases it over your shoulders before you can protest.

You don’t question it.

—

He fucks you that night, hard, fast and unrelenting, holding onto you so tight that you swear you’ll have bruises come morning.

—

Oikawa likes doing little things for you. 

He likes it when you hold onto his arm and let him guide you around when you go out together (you do have a cane - it sits in the back of your closet for ‘emergency uses’ only). He likes to buy you pretty things, jewellery, clothes, little trinkets that remind him of you - spoiling you with every opportunity he can, doubly so now that he has a salary that affords him that luxury.

It’s not uncommon for him to pick out your outfits. For one, you can’t see so you kind of have to rely on somebody else’s help so you don’t end up a mismatched disaster, and Tooru seems to enjoy doing it. He likes seeing you wear the things he buys for you - lacy, soft and demure. 

He also likes it when people know that you’re his.

So it doesn’t strike you as odd when Tooru insists on you wearing his club hoodie over your dress the next time you go to one of his games. You might not be able to see him fly across the court, but you can hear the cheers, the roar of the crowd as they stamp their feet and chant like a battle cry when San Juan scores. You can taste the excitement in the air, and whenever your soulmate steps up to the plate to serve, you feel the rabid excitement of the crowd thrumming in your veins. 

It’s warm in the stadium with so many people crammed close together, you push the sleeves up without even thinking. It’s not an issue - it shouldn’t be - but when your boyfriend slips his arms around you, fresh from the locker room post match, it’s the first thing he notices. He’s tugging them back down before you can so much as offer a hello, tersely muttering something about you getting a cold when you frown.

There’s a tiny flicker of unease at the odd behaviour, but he’s kissing you before you can linger on it for too much longer.��

And if that’s all it was, maybe it would be easier for you to shove that niggling worry aside. 

But once you start noticing things - little, inconsequential things you would have just shrugged off before - you can’t seem to stop, and that tiny seed of doubt starts to take root, to sprout and grow.

Your friends stop calling by. Back home your social circle was pretty much limited to Tooru, Iwa and their friends - not that you minded at all, you love them all dearly, it’s just that you didn’t really have any friends of your own outside of that little group. When you moved across to Argentina and Oikawa started training for longer hours, dedicating himself wholeheartedly to his new team, you got lonely, sitting in your new home just waiting around for him to come back to you.

And it took a while, but eventually you started to venture outside of your comfort zone and lo and behold - even with your stumbling Spanish, you managed to make a few friends! Though you can tell that your beloved boyfriend wasn’t exactly thrilled by the burgeoning new friendships you gushed to him about, he’s never begrudged you them. If it made you happy, then he was happy. 

Lately though, they’ve been kind of distant. And by distant, you mean… well, nonexistent. They don’t come visit you anymore, when you call their numbers, it just rings out. 

You can’t even leave voicemails - there’s just an automated voice telling you their message banks are full. Regardless, not one of them has made the effort to call you back, and it’s not like you can text them to ask why they’re avoiding you. Life gets in the way, you know that, and sometimes people just drift apart but it’s like all of a sudden they’ve just dropped off the face of the planet. 

But when you mention venturing out into town one day without them while Tooru’s at practice, he seems strangely resistant to the idea. 

“I just don’t like the idea of you wandering around by yourself. It’s not safe out there for you, cutie,” he tells you.

The words are saccharine, as sweet as the kisses he presses against your lips when he coaxes your chin upwards. You love him, you do. And you understand that he worries - even away from the hustle and bustle of the big cities, San Juan isn’t exactly a crime free neighbourhood, but for the first time the strong, muscular arms that wrap around your waist don’t bring comfort. 

It’s like they’re a cage, locked around you and dragging you slowly down to the depths, and it’s driving you mad because you can’t figure out why it feels like that.

Biting back your annoyance, you sigh, forcing yourself to relax against him. You love him - this is normal, couples disagree all the time. “I’m not an invalid, babe. I’ve done it before - I can’t just sit around the villa all day moping all alone or I’ll go crazy.”

He hums noncommittally, his fingers trailing idly across your skin as he draws you closer still, and the conversation is dropped. 

Two days later, you find your cane snapped in two in the back of the closet. Oikawa has some weights stuffed in an old gym bag for when he can’t be bothered leaving home to work out - the bag must have fallen on your cane and cracked it when he put it back after his session yesterday afternoon.

An accident, it has to be. He’d never deliberately do something so petty, right?

And there are moments where you can forget the doubts that gnaw away at your insides. Tooru has always been a caring, attentive lover - the perfect boyfriend. He seems more determined that ever to shower you in love, whether that’s by waking you up with his tongue eagerly lapping at your cunt, bringing you home bouquets of fragrant flowers and cooking the two of you dinner, or just with the tiny gestures of affection - tucking your hair back away from your face, linking his hands with yours, the little kisses and compliments he lavishes you with on a daily basis.

When it’s just the two of you, lounging around on the couch, his head resting on your lap and your fingers carding through his hair, it’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine. The two of you love each other. You’ve been his rock, his biggest supporter right from the early days, and Tooru’s the one who drew you out of your shell, who makes you feel like you’re actually worth something.

That you’re beautiful, and loved.

It’s not until you come home one afternoon from an impromptu trip to the local bakery just down the road that all the little pieces fall into place, and you realise why.

The craving for something sweet was what drew you out. Truthfully, you hadn’t really thought twice about it. It was a short trip, one you’d made a thousand times before, and it wasn’t like the locals didn’t know you, wouldn’t watch out for you if they saw you about to unknowingly hurt yourself or trip over something. 

The alfajores in your hand were supposed to be a surprise, Tooru had been wound up from practice lately, more stressed than he usually was this late in the season, and you knew you weren’t the only one with a wicked sweet tooth. You’d just wanted to cheer him up. 

You hadn’t expected to come home to find Tooru pacing in your bedroom, muttering to himself, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to whirl around at the sound of your approach, snatching at your wrist and all but hauling you inside. 

You certainly aren’t prepared for the snarling, bitter words he hurls at you. 

And yet even as tears fill your eyes, a choked sob bursting free as he berates you for leaving the villa without telling him, Tooru clutches at you so tightly it feels like your arm’s going to snap. 

“You can’t leave me! You can’t - you’re mine!”

He doesn’t stop, barely pauses for breath, but those eight words hit you like a freight train, and everything else fades out into white noise. You can’t for the life of you explain how or why, but in that moment, you know with absolute certainty that the name on your arm can’t be his. 

Tooru lied to you. 

He’s not your soulmate. 

It’s all you can do to stand there numbly while your boyfriend falls to pieces in front of you. The angry yells and screams turn into wretched sobs, and suddenly it’s Tooru collapsing in your arms, clinging to your neck like it’s a lifeline as he sniffles against your chest, and when desperate apologies turn into desperate kisses and he starts to lead you backwards towards the bed, you don’t fight him.

He treats you like you’re made of glass, worshipping every inch of your skin, fervent declarations of love spilling out between kisses like prayers of the devout at an altar. He fucks you slowly, lovingly, moaning your name so sweetly as he searches for absolution within the plush walls of your sex.

And with his fingers coaxing at your clit, his lips dancing against yours you fall off that precipice with him.

You have no idea long the two of you lie there in silence, limbs entangled with one other, but eventually you register the warmth of his hand on your cheek, caressing it with a gentle kind of tenderness that makes something deep inside of you ache.

“You still love me, don’t you?” Tooru’s voice is quiet. Hesitant. It reminds you of the little boy you knew, the one who confided all his fears of never being good enough to you, desperately seeking the validation you always gave so freely. 

Your eyes flutter shut, another stray tear spilling down your cheek, and your heart breaks anew.

“Always.”

[reachexceedinggrasp]

I would love to hear your thoughts on why you like the Twelfth Doctor and Clara, individually and together, if you feel like talking about it! I've only seen what amounts to now half of New Who, Nine, Ten and Eleven, and I've been watching Twelve and wow. He's really special. Eleven is like the opposite of Twelve, he's so underhanded, yet Twelve is like generous even when he's harsh. It's so funny how different they are. What romantic beats do Twelve and Clara hit for you?

Haha sorry if that's a really broad question. I've been through your Tumblr tag for the pairing already lol. For a more specific question, what do you like about Twelve more than the other Doctors? And how does the Doctor and Clara compare to other ships you ship? Hope you are having a great day, I love your blog!

Oh, so you've already seen my Whouffaldi Text and Subtext dissertation. When I read your first ask, I was going to just lead with that lol.

I don't know if you read all my tag rambles where I talked a bit about some of this, but I'll try to explain why it's such a Ship of Dreams for me. There was actually a hurdle I had to get over, because my parents raised me on lots of Classic Who, so it did feel really weird to ship the Doctor. Just because I imprinted on it super young and related to him as a kind of avuncular figure lol. I know there's a whole wank about this in the fandom and a lot of old school fans are hardcore NoRomo and regard him as a totally non-sexual being, but the show has never supported that reading. (The First Doctor is not only travelling with his granddaughter- who is never implied not to be his literal, biological granddaughter- he also dated an Aztec woman and even flirts occasionally. All the Doctors flirt with the possible exception of Two. Four/Sarah Jane is borderline explicitly romantic.)

Anyway. That reluctance aside, this pairing is very nearly tailor-made to be Relevant to My Interests.

Because it's the 'unlikely on the surface' thing where they are from such vastly different worlds and have such vastly different frames of reference. He's a nigh-immortal prickly alien who is a weird combination of selfish trickster god and ethical paragon, who is always some degree of abrasive and impatient in every version of himself despite the fathomless well of compassion he has for all forms of life. The Doctor is always both a child and an ancient world-weary old man, which makes him a very complicated person to have a serious relationship with, even a platonic relationship. He's difficult. Where Clara is a normal adult with a normal maturity level and a primary school teacher ability to turn on a friendly, upbeat, nurturing social persona. People take her to be sweet and simple at first glance. They seem an odd match on the surface.

And I love a pairing where people on the outside can't imagine how it happened. I like when you can't judge the book by its cover. They slot into my broader Beauty and the Beast archetype (which really describes 99% of my ships in some capacity).

But even more so than that, they have a tangible, adult connection which is very grounded and real, but they are also this epic, all-encompassing, universe-destroying, can-be-contained-only-by-poetry, destinies entwined, deathless true love, Gothic Romance, out of hand soulmate thing. The Doctor endlessly incinerating his own body and chiselling away at the impossible for 4.5 billion years just for a potential opportunity to save her life? Not even be with her, just save her? A chance! Fucking ROMANCE. Clara's abject devastation that he would do that to himself, her equally insane antics to try to protect him, her realisation of being so overwhelmingly loved by this absolutely terrifying force of nature and her response to that being 'we're such idiots we should have talked about this, we're going to talk about this right now!' It takes until the very end, the utmost extreme, for Clara to recognise his devotion for what it is,

(because both of them have been idiots about this throughout their entire relationship- afraid to be hurt, afraid of all that it would mean, of change, afraid to be rejected again, etc. etc.- and have been pining away in denial that their feelings are mutual, paralysed by fear of losing each other)

but when she finally understands that he loves her, she has to wrestle with the Frightening Scope of Being So Loved and she rises to it, undiminished, boldly human and not needing to be any more than that to stand shoulder to shoulder with this profoundly alien personified time abyss who ushered in the end of all things to see her smile again. One smile. I'm breathless!!

I love that they're so different and there's such a massive disparity between how others perceive them, between the powers afforded them, yet they're also so similar and complementary and equal. They're both caretakers who tend to be bossy and controlling in part as an expression of that caretaking, they're both quite self-absorbed egoists who are capable of absolutely staggering selflessness, they're both idealists who refuse to give up, and they have the same sense of humour. There's a genuine intimacy and unspoken simpatico I think is unmatched by any other relationship the Doctor has ever had.

Each of them wrote and became a fairy tale for the other. Clara threw herself into his timeline and became The Impossible Girl, shattering herself into every fragment of his life to rescue him from being physically destroyed. Then she rescues him from being emotionally destroyed by stepping in to stop him using the Moment. Then she secures him a new set of regenerations. Clara is hope, she is his guardian angel. She became a story and then when she again stays to help him after he regenerates, they break down all the façades and idolisations between them and strip down to bare humanity. I talked about how her idealisation of the Doctor was broken down over series 8 in the post linked above, but he goes through the same thing with her. Their connection is tested and purified and rebuilt, always being reaffirmed, always growing stronger.

On the simplest level, they just adore each other. They can't stay apart because that affinity they share is irresistible; they're never bored if they're together and they work perfectly as a team. What makes it so special to me is that it's both this stupid simple mundane thing of they delight in one another's company like real people and it's this operatic epic of story and destiny and having woven themselves into each other's fate for all eternity. That's everything I want in a romance. I want the small and the big, Gothic drama and warm cosies. I want love which feels both transcendent and domestic.

Anyway, I'm kind of rambling but I love Magical/Mundane pairings, I love Immortal Fae Being/mortal angst, world-crossing, layers of identity, Sarcastic Aloof Super Genius with Heart of Gold/Vivacious Practical Person, Physically Powerful Man/Emotionally Powerful Woman, etc. They're ticking a lot of boxes.

And I love Twelve so much because a) Peter Capaldi is the only person to ever play the Doctor who played all the Doctors. He doesn't just feel like he's in continuity with the other regenerations where there are core traits that carry over, he feels like he tangibly still is all of them in this uncontrived and magical way. That he can contain all those aspects at once, that he's really the same man with the same interior landscape and actually lived all those lives, did all those things. He makes me believe it in a total, simple way I never quite have before. b) He and Tom Baker are the only two that, to me, genuinely felt alien and they both sometimes give me goosebumps because of that. They convey this point of view outside and beyond humanity which shouldn't even be possible for an actor to achieve, but which is necessary for the Doctor.

c) my many rants about forgiveness and compassion and how series 9 is the most profound, demanding, and uncompromising study of those themes in the last twenty years of anglo pop culture. Just absolutely unflinching idealism, all the more powerful and heroic because it's coming from such a deeply flawed character who has done truly horrific things himself. That Twelve can be so clearly worn down by darkness both within himself and out in the universe, be such a burdened melancholy character staggering under the weight of unspeakable guilt and terrible responsibility, yet be infused with so much childlike wonder and incorrigible curiosity, always excited to keep learning... always willing to hope.

Like I want to go on a whole side tangent about what a BRILLIANT cliffhanger Magician's Apprentice/Witch's Familiar is because the cliffhanger isn't about the plot or who will survive at all despite that being the ostensible stakes, it's about whether the Doctor will live up to his principles. And we know he's failed before. That's where the suspense is- vengeance and playing hero are temptations he's fallen to before. That the most brutally difficult mercy to give allowed for the possibility of victory is just...! Yes!!!

But also he's hilarious and grouchy, deeply profoundly kind and patient while also just having... zero time for people's nonsense (and people consist mostly of nonsense, so he doesn't have time for much). He will believe in and hope for the best from anyone, wants to save everyone, but he is almost exclusively irritated by social interaction. The dichotomy of his loving, compassionate embrace of all living things as infinitely valuable and his cloak of misanthropy is getting at something extremely poignant about the struggle to be an optimist in the real world.

And one of my favourite favourite things about Twelve is that the story doesn't just tell us he's brilliant and move along. We don't get only the normal outsider perspective of him seeming to know almost everything or pulling random quick fixes out of nowhere. We get to see his mind at work. Heaven Sent actually walks us through his genius and not only how he thinks, but how he makes it look effortless. It's just... one of the best character studies in the history of television. It's a masterclass on the Doctor: who he is, who he wants to be, and why he's such an infinitely wonderful, fascinating character.

And it's also a study of grief, of perseverance, of despair and hope. It is the most triumphant tragedy I've ever seen and everything about it is just so beautiful and so romantic. The Doctor breaking down and exhausted and wanting to give in, but roaring through Hell to keep living and keep striving in his cloak of tattered idealism because the flame of hope in his heart will never go out. It is majestic.

I love the Doctor because he's so full of contradictions while being such a vibrantly alive, resonant personality that we recognise as somehow 'real' or 'true', and no one incarnation encompasses a more vast range of these contradictions working in more perfect harmony than Twelve.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Regular (Part 1.5): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: Geto is back for more, but innocence and sincerity isn’t something you’re used to.

word count: 2k

tw: none 

a/n: This is just a brief interlude between part 1 and part 2! It will get steamier in part 2 for sure. 

The squeal of the hinges alerts you to someone’s presence in the dressing room, and you look up from your phone and into the blue eyes of Mrs. Lampton. She’s wearing a shit-eating grin and holding out a wad of cash, obviously very excited to speak to you. “This is for you! VIP room tonight. You know the deal.” Before you can stretch out your hand to warily accept the cash, you raise a brow in question. “Oh, it’s the man from last night.” She answers quickly, a blush fanning across her fair cheeks. 

Geto. 

You stand to take the cash from the manager, noting the thickness of the stack and the way that the bills were pressed smooth - not crumpled like the ones thrown at you in haste. Someone had counted this money and stacked it with you in mind. 

“This is--” 

“It’s more than enough to cover the nightly operating fees for a week,” Mrs. Lampton waves away your observation, disappearing as soon as she finishes speaking. The hunter green two-piece you wore was no longer appropriate, and you take a look at the small offerings of clothing you had at your disposal. He had already seen the red lingerie, and that left you with the only other thing you had bothered to bring: a baby blue silk slip dress. Sliding the flimsy thing over your head, you think about his intentions tonight. Would Geto touch you? Would there be any sign of his arousal beyond the uncomfortable shifting? Or would he perform the “I’m going to save you from this place” act? You didn’t want to be saved from the club, that much you knew. The club had saved you. This environment provided you a well-needed distraction from the constant chaos that was your daytime life. Compared to that, the strip club was absolute heaven, and nothing would change that. Not even the wads of cash you were bound to receive from the mysterious man. 

It’s the main reason why you empathize with your clients: escapism isn’t just a luxury they could afford. It’s one you desperately need, and they just bring the money for you to enjoy the feeling of being someone else for a change. On stage, you were someone everyone looked at with lust and desire. The attention on you there was rarely negative and if you could trade your daytimes for your night times, you would do it in a heartbeat. 

Before you can slip back into your true self, you look at yourself in the mirror and fluff your natural hair. No wigs, that’s one of Geto’s rules. You take one more look at your reflection, decide it’s enough, and slide the thin black robe over yourself before exiting. 

“Come here.” The request is met with immediate obedience, and you feel your legs magnetically pulled to the man sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed in a dark blue shirt and black slacks. The top three buttons on his shirt are open, letting you catch a glimpse of the strong, pale chest beneath. “You look alluring, as always.” 

Geto extends a hand out to you, and you tenderly take it, sliding your fingers into his large palm. Surprisingly, the pads of his fingertips and palm aren’t rough and calloused. That’s the sign of a man who doesn’t have to work hard for his money, your aunt would say. And you found that to be mostly true. Yuma never had calloused hands, not with his late father’s money cushioning him from any hard labor. 

When Geto pulls you into his lap, you perch yourself on his right leg precariously, letting his right arm wrap around you and settle onto your hip. Instinctively, you lean into his frame, resting your head on his massive shoulder. His smell is different tonight. It’s earthen and full of some essential oil you can’t quite identify, but it suits him. 

“Talk to me,” he murmurs over the soft music. He had the selections changed, you notice, the usual songs sexual and explicit. Now, you were surrounded by jazz, which changed the entire environment of the VIP room. You no longer felt like you would have to dance around sensually for him. Now, you felt like you were in a fancy, upper class yacht club, except in a robe and a night slip with no shoes on. Was he trying to save you? “Tell me about your day.” 

“I’d rather not,” you whisper, thinking of the tension-filled morning and the afternoon you slept away. “Tell me about your day.” Geto rests his cheek against the crown of your head, inhaling deeply before exhaling; his chest rising and falling exaggeratedly. 

“I’d rather not.” A moment of understanding passes between you, but he squeezes your hip suddenly, laughing a little. “Tell me, y/n… you seem well-adjusted. Did you choose this career path or did this career path choose you?” 

“Well…” you think about the question deeply, and choose accordingly. “I chose this.”

“Do you enjoy what you do?” 

“I do,” you breathe, remembering Yuma for a second. “I enjoy it here. Do you enjoy what you do?” When the man doesn’t answer, you lift your head off of his shoulder and look into his onyx eyes. There’s a certain stare in them - not a long stare, but enough to make you wonder - and it isn’t until he blinks that his lips part to answer. 

“I do what I have to in order to survive.” 

“You make it sound like you’re a mobster.” The laugh that resonates in his chest is deep and thoughtful, like he was just considering the prospect of it all. He reaches out a hand to touch your cheek, which you shy away from slightly. It isn’t unusual for a man to attempt to touch you in a more intimate way, but all of this coming from Geto feels too familiar. He clears his throat and drops his hand, looking away from you and at the lamps on the wall. 

“If I said I was, what would you do?” 

“Nothing,” you admit. “There’s not much I could do. Who would I tell?” The thought that this man could actually be a mobster just needing a break sticks a little harder than it should. It would explain the cash, the nice outfits, the need for privacy… 

“No, I don’t associate with the underbelly of society. It’s not my game. Gojo, though…” You frown at the name, and he looks at you with a blank stare. “My bad; my friend from the night before.” 

“Blue eyes?” 

“Yeah,” he begins, looking away. “He brought me here to ease my nerves… I thought a few drinks would do the trick. But here I am.” He gives you a half-shrug, lips turning back up into a smile. That’s when the question you’ve been dying to ask falls out of your mouth without caution.

“Why do you pay more than you have to for... this room?” For me, you want to add, but decide that’s a step too far into personal details. Geto blinks, no doubt sensing your unspoken addition, and tilts his head to the side. “I mean, you could have an escort come to you every single night for the amount you pay for all of this…” You wave your hand around at the furnishings as if to prove your point. “And you could have sex with them.” 

“That’s not what I’m looking for right now.” He replies, and you squint in disbelief, moving off of his leg. 

“You’re telling me you don’t want to have sex.” 

“Is that a question or a statement?” He asks, chuckling a little at your wary expression. 

“Both.”

“Can’t I just get to know a beautiful woman in the privacy I can afford?” 

“You could date a rich woman and take her out to fancy dinn-” 

“That’s a lot of commitment.” Geto interrupts, holding a hand up to cut you off. “I don’t think that’s something I want splashed across every gossip rag.”

“And this is?”

“No one comes here to gossip. The focus is you and your co-workers, and they know what I come here for. It’s not as headline-inducing as taking out the heiress to a billion-dollar company to eat overpriced scallops in a five-star restaurant that pays its workers too little.” He hasn’t raised his voice a single octave, instead looking at you with a soft gaze and planting his hand on his now-abandoned leg. You take in all of the information he’s offered, uncrossing your arms and now standing akimbo, unsure of how to respond. 

Gossip rags… Heiresses… Headlines…?

Geto wasn’t just rich. People had their eyes on him. Why hadn’t Mrs. Lampton warned her? Who else knew about his status in a world that she couldn’t truly occupy? 

“Please,” he begins, stretching his hand out once more. “Sit with me. I enjoy your company.” You take his hand again, and this time he slides you in next to him, your bare leg touching his soft pants. “Now, tell me about the day you wish you had.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

Your alarm goes off at exactly seven am. It isn’t ideal, but you know that in order to even get to your aunt’s flower shop on time, you had to give yourself an hour head start. Waking up was hard enough, and with the situation you were facing, it seemed like times would be getting even harder. 

It isn’t until you get into the shower that you recount the details of the last night. 

“I’m going to be away for a few days, but here’s a little something that might warm your hands while I’m gone.” 

The impossible had happened yet again, and the thick stack of twenty dollars bills Geto handed you sat in your safe - untouched, uncirculated, and the seal around them remained unbroken. You had tried to look him up and find out what exactly he did during his day life, but the search results turned up absolutely nothing but an article from four years ago proclaiming the winner of a chess tournament in India named Geto. When you clicked on the article, you couldn’t read it, but the thirteen-year-old champion was absolutely not the man that had lavished you with cash. 

You tried looking up his white-haired friend, Gojo, but found nothing on him as well. Whoever they were, there was not a single gossip rag that published a photo, quote, or mentioned them. 

Because they paid them off, stupid. 

You nod to yourself at the realization, and wash yourself completely before toweling off in the steamy bathroom. You’re in the middle of wondering what kind of people actually paid to have their names taken out of magazines when the door shudders violently under someone’s fist. 

“Fucking hurry up,” one of your housemates yells from the other side, and you gather your things before rushing past the man in the doorway, ducking your head so he couldn’t accost you. But you’re roughly yanked to the side, making you drop your dirty clothes to the floor. Rough, calloused fingers bite into your arm, and you gasp, staring at the unfriendly face of the only male in the house.  “Stop using all of the damn hot water in this house, y/n. I’ve told you that you get only three minutes of hot water, or else you’re paying the entire water bill, got it?” 

“Sorry, Ryo…” you shrink away from the man’s harsh gaze, and he lets go of your arm silently, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door shut. This. This is what you needed saving from. 

Ryo’s girlfriend, Hasia, timidly shuffles into the room and gives you an apologetic look. She always did that, coming behind Ryo to apologize with her face and never her words. But it was almost over. Soon, you’d have enough to move out and be on your own - and if Geto was going to stay, then all of his money would trickle into your savings for rent, utilities, and new furniture. As it stood, you had enough to purchase something halfway decent, and with the rest of the incoming money, you would be able to fix it up to appear quite nice. You just had to time everything right, and keep your new regular coming back for more.

[heyheydidjaknow]

Hiya! I have a request for an x reader songfic. Snap out of it by the Arctic monkeys gives me so many 2012 Donnie vibes. Maybe one where the reader is in love with Donnie but he likes April and the reader wants Donnie to, you know, "snap out of it" and notice that maybe April isn't the best person towards him. It can end in unrequited love or with a happy ending, that's for you to decide but I just really want to see this concept. Thanks! :>

(feel free to ignore this request if you want 👁️👁️)

Oh, I’m not about to turn away a chance to be pushed out into foreign territory. I admittedly hadn’t known what a songfic was until wikipedia and @kunimikat saved my ass, so this was fun-- and a bit scary-- to write. I hope you like it, even if it might not have been exactly what you were expecting.

April was your friend. She had been for a while, now, since she had moved to NYC. The two of you had come even closer after her kidnapping and initiation into the “Hamato Clusterfuck” as you had affectionately called it at first—you had wisely made a conscious effort to only get involved with them as far as you could throw them, sticking solidly to offering emotional support and half-decent food. At the beginning, you had, on multiple occasions, even begged her to stay out of it, trying to reason with her that getting herself killed by a psychotic armored man with an axe to grind for the crime of hanging out with four teenage shut-ins was an incredibly bad idea. When your logical arguments fell on deaf ears—her owing them apparently being her ball and chain—you had designated yourself as her supervisor to make sure she did not do something overly impulsive. She was reckless, overly trusting, immature, but you loved her like a sister. You balanced each other out.

One of the benefits of knowing someone for so long is that you learn things about them that they do not know about themselves. In April’s case, it had been that she was terrible at making up her mind

 What's been happenin' in your world?

You had borne witness to the love triangle transpiring between Donatello Hamato, Casey Jones and her for the better part of a year now. You were relieved that the two boys had backed off each other’s throats somewhat over the period, but it was as infuriating as it was fascinating to watch them fight over her like a chew toy. Of course, April had her preference between the two, favoring the hockey player mainly for his general normalcy, which was a decision you could approve of, but she had hesitated until recently to make that obvious to the other point because, in her words, “The last thing I want is to deal with is all of that awkwardness.” You could hardly blame her for her hesitation, but you thought it almost cruel not to make her feelings apparent to her lovestruck puppy.

 What have you been up to?

Donnie was the most tolerable of the five, the most normal in your opinion. He was an infatuated, insecure teenage boy with more an affinity towards machines and, best of all, seemed concerned for your friend, all things that you could get on board with. In your opinion, overbearingness is preferable to negligence in this case, and you were just happy that someone physically capable had her back. As such, when you were stuck at the lair for hours waiting for her lessons with Splinter to be over—you were her ride—you found yourself spending the most time around him, and as time went on, you started going out of your way to do so.

Seeing as April and Casey were your only other friends, it was natural you would get romantically attached. They—a couple by high school standards—approved of your crush, and all you told your guardian(s) was that they were smart, fit, and financially responsible, so they asked few questions.

You knew, logically, this was not a competition and that April had little interest in him.

But something about the way he gazed at her made you burn green with envy.

 I heard that you fell in love, or near enough.

His eyes were just so… wistfully longing. He watched as the redhead and her boyfriend played against Michelangelo and Raphael in a game of charades. His expression was just so soft, lips pursing and popping silently as he grieved from his seat in his lab.

It had been a downhill spiral on your end from there, and as your own attachment grew for him, his own depression worsened. Your eyes drifted from your friend as you tried to make him see that, no, the world was not ending because his first crush did not like him back. You would make subtle comments about how happy his brothers were, how happy she and Casey were together, how smart he was and how many people would die for a kind, loving, smart guy to come around and sweep them off their feet. This, again, fell on deaf ears; he would always comment on how, if he were such a catch, April would not have chosen Casey, like It is his fault for her having more of a taste in cocky, fun-loving guys than intelligent ones. Half of it was probably your lack of experience in subtlety, but no matter what you would try to say, whenever romance came up in conversation, his words turned sharp and bitter.

On that day, you just cracked.

 I gotta tell you the truth.

You walked over to the lab door, closing it in a single fluid motion. ‘I’m better at being blunt, anyways.’

He blinked; his trance was interrupted by the small slam.

“She’s not into you.”

“Huh?”

You crossed the room and placed your hand on the desk, expression stern and stone cold. “April,” you repeat. “She’s not interested.”

He did not meet your gaze. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.” You leaned down to look him in the eye. “You aren’t her type. You’re supposed to be smart.” You placed the other on the back of his chair, arms cagging him in, almost. “ She has a boyfriend,” you continued, softer. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” He tapped the side of his thumb against the table absently, throat tight. “But what else do you suppose I do? Submit to the fact that I’ll be alone forever?” He looked up at you. “I know this may be hard for you to believe,” he continued, easily slipping out from under your arms, “but I don’t exactly have a ton of options. She’s the only person who’s ever looked at me like that; how am I supposed to move on from the only person who’s ever even given me a chance?”

 I wanna grab both your shoulders and shake, baby.

 You rolled your eyes, turning to watch him as he crossed to the other side of the room. “That is some blatant bullshit,” you glared curtly.

“Is it, though?” His back was to you as he crouched down in front of his centrifuge, fiddling with it. “As someone who’s never—”

“So help me, if you go off about me not understanding being rejected and feeling like they’d die alone, I’ll rip your tongue out.” You stood back up properly.

“What would you know about it?” He followed suit, eyes locking on yours. “You have other people to choose from.”

“And you don’t?” You crossed your arms, smiling incredulously. “How do we differ, exactly?”

“Besides the obvious?”

You scoffed. “You’ve seen your brothers. Never stopped them.”

“And I’m happy for them, that they’re so charismatic as to be able to find partners so easily.” You could taste the bitterness in his words. “But I’m not them, in case you didn’t notice. That girl out there?” He pointed to the door. “She’s the first and only person in the universe who’s ever given me a second glance.”

“So you’re just fucking blind, now?” You heard your voice rise without your input.

“What’re you talking about?” His voice grew with yours.

“You’re lovesick,” you spat. “Snap out of it.”

 Snap out of it.

You ran your fingers through your hair. “Or maybe you’re just dense.” You felt a laugh rise in your throat. “I mean,” you gestured, “clearly picking up on verbal subtext isn’t your forte.”

You gave him five seconds. “What,” you continued, rubbing your face with your hands, “Are you—” You stopped. “You are, aren’t you?”

Nothing.

You took a slow breath, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “Let me put it in simple, plain English for you.”

 I get the feelin' I left it too late, but baby—

 “As her friend? You’re a fucking creep.” You crossed your arms across your chest. “Following her the way you did—wait your turn—” A finger interrupted his defense. “Following her the way you did? Objectively creepy. Staring at her all the time? Also fucking creepy.” You felt your nails dig into your skin. “Any person would call it as it is.”

He opened his mouth again to argue. You did not interrupt him this time, but he did not argue, the silence falling like a weighted blanket over the two of you.

“As your friend,” you continued, voice lowered, “as someone who cares about you, I know April, and she can’t give you what you want. It’s not her; she needs to be free, and I love her, but you’re looking for something that’s just not there.” Your voice was certain. “You’re looking for someone to spend your life with. I’m right, aren’t I?”

 Snap out of it.

 He was still for a moment, looking off into the ether. He nodded, face melancholy.

You walked over, resting a hand on his shoulder tentatively. “I’m not saying it’s stupid of you to not be over her. Again, I love her to bits, so I see the appeal.” You broke eye contact, trying to articulate exactly what you meant. “But I’m worried,” you explained slowly, “you’re only hung up on her because you’re scared of being alone. That’s not fair to her or yourself.”

“Do you know that?”

“No,” you admitted easily, “but you and I are the same way, and trust me, I’ve been around the heartbreak block.” You smiled, trying to relieve the tension.

That earned a chuckle. A small one, but a chuckle none the less.

You reached up, cupping his cheek in your hand. “There are seven billion people on this planet. Any one of them—myself included—would be lucky to have a life with you.”

 If that watch don’t continue to swing—

 A pause.

“Do you honestly believe that?”

You nodded, your thumb running along the line of his eye socket. “I do.”

 —or the fat lady fancies havin' a sing—

 You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his cheek gently.

 —I'll be here, waitin' ever so patiently—

 “Y/N!” You pulled back as you heard April calling your name. “We need a moderator!”

You started back towards the door, waving gently. “I wish you good tidings, Donatello.” You smiled quietly, serenity itself standing in the doorway. “May whoever is fortunate enough to call you their own bring you happiness. You deserve it.” You slipped out of his lab, running over to break them up.

Donatello rested his fingers on where your mouth had lit his skin. He felt a bittersweet smile fade onto his face.

—for you to snap out of it.

And that was when it began.

List of Works

[mxargo]

some days

spencer reid

summary: spencer takes his time with a girl that he thinks may be it for him.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of past deaths, spence being in prison, age gap of ten years. honestly lmk if I forgot anything.

word count: 2475

most of this is from spencer's pov

○○○○

some days are better than others, some make it and some don't. that's just how life is now. people get hurt, good people.

bad things happen to good people. good people who decide to live their own lives fighting other peoples wars just so they don't get hurt.

they're total strangers so why do it? why do others let themselves feel great pain just to save someone they don't know?

if we started questioning the good and their good intentions, there wouldn't be any left. that's why we don't do it.

when new cases come around, we push the why in the back of our minds and focus on the how. how are we going to save these people in time? and what if we don't? how many bad endings can occur during these cases before we start questioning our own sanity?

that's where spencer was.

questioning his sanity.

after prison, everything was different. he wouldn't want to admit that because it was the truth. a truth he wasn't yet ready to face, especially not by himself.

he saw the world differently, things he used to be able to do before just faded away in a locked compartment he built for himself in the back of his mind.

the part of him he'd never want to open. why do we do this? what happens if someone takes away the important. the reason he'd believe kept him steady.

his mother.

she wasn't well. he knew that to be true, didn't mean he liked to admit that.

he would defend her world without a thought of his own, but that tasks he kept only for himself is what started to strip him of what he once was.

thirteen years ago, the once smaller man who was so innocent. the man who just joined the bau thinking that this, this is my way out.

his way out of his mothers world. he loved her no doubt, no one needed proof for that but he wanted his own.

that's what he that he was doing when he met maeve. only knowing her for his own redemption, his migraines.

he wanted her. he loved her but he couldn't admit it. he didn't want to. if he told her he loved her everything he once built for himself would be gone.

she was being hunted and he couldn't handle any more loss he was sure to happen, and when she did die, It was like a part of his soul broke apart and fell deep inside his locked box.

after gideon died, he thought he'd almost lost it. in a way, he was like a father to him after his own abandoned him.

in some ways more than most, some days are better than others, some make it and some don't.

after he got realised for prison early, he went straight back to work. that's just the kind of man spencer reid was. he wanted to continue to help others even though he clearly needed the same for himself.

so when emily decided to send him home, he was alone again, and he wasn't used to living in something bigger than a 6x6 cell.

but it didn't feel very much like a home anymore. he knows what it used to feel like, a warm place away from the harmful rays of the terrible people outside his green walls.

he couldn't stay here, at least not right now. so when he left his apartment walking around dc, he started to realize what he was losing. his sense of happiness, and he'd do anything to get it back.

maybe if he did his house would start to feel like a home again.

♡♡♡♡

sitting in a small cafe sipping on the same coffee he's had for the last hour he started resembling the coffee to himself, he loved coffee. it was one of his favorite things in the world, aside from books.

but as now, he couldn't finish it. on any other days he'd at least be on his fifth cup by now having read already a few of his books.

but he didn't have any with him now. just him and his now half empty cold cup of back coffee. since when did he stop putting sugar in his coffee? was it before or after prison? what changed?

when did the sweet and softness in his like go away?

it was all his could think about now, which was a good thing come in handy, since thinking about what was really bothering could have ended up with him causing a scene in the same cafe he's been going to for the last two years.

it was a bit far out from his apartment but there was a girl here. a girl he like to watch, not in the senseless creepy way but he liked to watch her.

he liked the way you laughed, the way you smiled as you passed along coffee to other people. he loved the way you'd hum soft melodies to yourself as youd clean coffee stains of the counters. he loved the way youd listen to him on his rambles and ask him questions as you made his coffee. and the first time he met you, he knew he couldn't walk away forever, but it was all by accident.

walking into a cafe, he was in a hurry. it wasn't the same one he'd been going to that was across the street from where he lived but it was close now to where he was and he needed energy.

as he waited in the small line inside the small building, he realized there was only one person working there.

a girl.

she smiled at the elderly woman who was complementing on the younger womans earrings.

"those are lovely, I would've loved to wear those and walk around like you when I was as young as you. so beautiful"

and after that she couldn't stop smiling, but by that time it was my turn and she was attempting to revive my attention after I'd zone out.

"oh I'm sorry"

"don't be, it's alright. what can I get for you?"

her voice was so sweet sounding, intoxicating, in the good way. she sounded almost angelic. the kind penelope liked to remind us are the best of this world, and now that I've heard it for myself, I couldn't wait to see her and thank her for it.

but as I waiting on the other side of the counter as she made my cup, I didn't like the silence. I wanted to hear her again and the only thing I could think of was the same thing I always do, rambling.

coffee facts, of course.

"did you know that coffee is originally from Yemen?"

she looked up a me and when her eyes met mind, my heart felt like it was going to crawl out of my chest and land in her hands.

"I didn't"

"yeah, coffee is consumed in such great quantities, it is the world's 2nd largest traded commodity, surpassed only by crude oil. It is our most beloved beverage after water. It's worth well over $100 billion worldwide"

"that's interesting, I don't know much about it I've only been working here for a couple months"

"why are you working here?"

"just extra cash, figured I could use it if I want to graduate college"

college. that word kind of hit me like a truck.

she must be what then, twenty-two? I felt almost weird trying to get her attention more.

"I just turned twenty-three a few weeks ago and having to work five years instead of four has been hard"

I didn't know what to say by then. ten years. ten. that's the distance between us and it felt dreadful.

he never did it. he never asked her out or poked around to see if she was every seeing someone.

he wasn't hers and a part of himself hated that. but what would his friends say if they knew he was with someone so much younger than him.

they wouldn't be very supportive. he didn't need that from his family, but this one girl. shes the only one that's been able to get under his skin since maeve. the only girl hes been able to admit that he had feelings for, and strong ones because if they weren't. he wouldn't be going out of his way to walk four blocks away from his apartment everyday to see this one girl. if his feelings weren't real he wouldn't spend his time sitting in the cafe from the time it opened till it closed on the days that he could.

he just liked seeing her. and they were friends, he didn't think they were. they didn't talk as much as he wished but when she told him that he was her best costumer he figured everyone else had heard the same. but when she told him that she'd probably quit if she didn't see him everyday, he couldn't believe that she had cared for him that much.

"refill?"

hm?

"what? oh hey y/n"

"hey"

she smiled at me and looked around the table sending me back a confused look.

"no books?"

"oh um no. I forgot to bring some"

"you forgot?, I thought your brain was all mighty, never forgetful. I remember when you told me that I also should tell you I remember all the little gifts youd leave me"

"wha-"

"what? you didn't think I'd know it was you? I've known since I found a copy of gaspty on my car. youre the only one I told I'd accidentally ruined my old one"

"yeah.."

"are you doing alright spence? you've been here only an hour and no books and only one cup of coffee which I'm sure is cold by now"

by now she sat across from me pleading those very same eyes I'd fallen for two years ago at me.

"just in a bit of a mess"

"I know that your job is super hectic but I haven't seen you in three months"

how could I tell her? would she look at me differently? would she leave me alone?

"just work stuff"

"oh. well whatever it is, I'm sorry and I'm here for you. you know that right?"

"of course"

she smiled at me grabbing the coffee pot and ruffling my hair as she walked away.

being in prison reminding me of how much I loved her. how much I'd miss the way she'd sit with me after hours reading books with me and listening to my ramblings. it took me a bit to admit that I love her, but when I did I'd made a promise to myself I wouldn't let her go, but I wouldn't let her get hurt either.

by the time the cafe started to empty and the clock hit 9pm I'd notice her walk up to me handing me a book.

"I figured you could use it."

"thanks"

when she sat by me she didn't too close, giving me space but not too far where I couldn't feel her next to me.

"what's going on with you spence? I'm really worried about you"

"it's just work"

"you serious?"

"yes"

"then why don't I believe you?"

"I just-

"you can trust me. I care about you spencer. you disappeared for months and I just- I was worried something bad happened to you. at one point I thought you mightve-

died? I couldn't do that to her.

"no. no, I'm okay. sorta I guess. about a week ago I was realised from prison, I was framed for uh- murder"

that was the first time she bad been made speechless. she didn't say anything. she didn't look angry, or upset. just sad.

"I'm really sorry. why didn't- god I should've-

"should've what? there wasn't anything you could've done"

"I could have been there for you. I just- I feel like I should've been there thats all. your not alone, are you?"

sitting back, resting my head against the back of the booth meeting her eyes, I realised if I'd told her how I felt, i couldn't have anything else to lose.

"I have you"

she looked in my eyes for what I'm guessing is the answer to her confusion.

"what?"

"I have you. you're here. you always have been, and I'm grateful for it. I really am. i- I didn't know how to tell you before but I care for you. in ways I probably shouldn't. I don't know of this would work or not but if there is even a 1% chance there would I'm willing to take it. I love you y/n, I always have. since I met you. y'know I didn't normally go to this cafe. I live four blocks away from here. I came here on convenience and after I met you i couldn't stay away."

"I'm glad you didn't"

grabbing her hand, she didn't pull away.

"me too"

she pulled herself closer to me letting her head rest on my chest.

"you're such a good person. I hope you believe that. some days are better than others, some make it and some don't. i really want you to make it, and if youd let me, I'd really like to be here and help you with it, because I love you too and I like seeing you happy. I'm sorry for what happened to you, I know it wasn't your fault. I hope you understand that."

"I do now, thank you hon"

I could feel her smile again the thickness of my coat, I guess she just had that ability. and when she leaned up to kiss my cheek, I had pulled away.

"oh, I'm sor-

and when I kissed her. I stopped feeling guilty about how other people might feel about us. I stopped worrying about the fact that maybe one day, this might all blow over, but if it did, at least I'd known I'd done something about my feelings instead of wallowing in regret of what could've been.

derek once said that penelope was his god given solace, and the only thing I ever wanted was to find mine.

to be honest I believe I did.

I have her now, and hopefully it doesn't ever end. another reason to keep me steady other than my mother, and being hopeful for the both of us in whatever this will be wouldn't hurt.

she makes me feel things, things I've never felt before. I used to hate it, I used to want to make her take it away but now, it's all I cant think about and I don't believe i could ever let it go.

spencer reid finally found the one piece of his soul and he let y/n gracefully put it back into place.

[reading-writing-revolution]

Heather Cox Richardson

October 4, 2021 (Monday)

“hello literally everyone,” the official account of Twitter tweeted this afternoon, after Facebook and its affiliated platforms Instagram and WhatsApp went dark at about 11:40 this morning. The Facebook outage lasted for more than six hours and appears to have been caused by an internal error. But the void caused by the absence of the internet giant illustrated its power at a time when the use of that power has come under scrutiny.

In mid-September, the Wall Street Journal began to publish a series of investigative stories based on documents provided by a whistle-blower.

The “Facebook Files” explore how the company has “whitelisted” high-profile users, exempting them from the rules that put limits on ordinary users. Another article reveals that researchers showed Facebook executives evidence that Instagram damages teenage girls by pushing an ideal body image and that they flagged the increasing use of the site by drug smugglers, human traffickers, and other criminals; their discoveries went unaddressed.

Concerned about declining engagement with their material, Facebook allegedly privileged polarizing material that engaged people by preying on their emotions. It appeared to have encouraged the extremism that led to the January 6 insurrection, lowering restrictions against disinformation quickly after the 2020 election.

Last night, on CBS’s 60 Minutes, former Facebook employee Frances Haugen revealed herself to be the source of the documents. She is concerned, she says, that Facebook consistently looks to maximize profits even if it means ignoring disinformation. Her lawyers have filed at least eight complaints with the Securities and Exchange Commission, which oversees companies and financial markets. Facebook’s vice president of global affairs, Nick Clegg, said it was “ludicrous” to blame Facebook for the events of January 6. Chief executive officer Mark Zuckerberg and chief operating officer Sheryl Sandberg have not commented.

Lawmakers have repeatedly asked Facebook to produce documents for their scrutiny and to testify about the social media platform’s public safeguards. Tomorrow, Haugen will testify before the Senate Subcommittee on Consumer Protection, Product Safety, and Data Security about the effects of social media on teenagers. Her lawyer, Andrew Bakaj, told Cat Zakrzewski and Cristiano Lima of the Washington Post that Haugen’s information is important because “Big Tech is at an inflection point…. It touches every aspect of our lives—whether it’s individuals personally or democratic institutions globally. With such far-reaching consequences, transparency is critical to oversight, and lawful whistleblowing is a critical component of oversight and holding companies accountable.”

Amidst the outrage over the Facebook revelations, technology reporter Kevin Roose at the New York Times suggested that the company’s aggressive attempts to court engagement reveal weakness, rather than strength, as younger users have fled to TikTok and other sites and Facebook has become the domain of older Americans. He notes that Facebook’s researchers foresee a drop of 45% in daily use in the next two years, suggesting that the company is desperate either to retain users or to create new ones.

While the technology Facebook represents is new, the concerns it raises echo public discussion of late nineteenth century industrialization, which was also the product of new technologies. At stake then was whether the concentration of economic power in a few hands would destroy our democracy by giving some rich men far more power than the other men in the country. How could the nation both preserve the right of individuals to build industries and preserve the concept of the common good in the face of technology that permitted unprecedented accumulations of wealth?

While money is certainly at stake in the issue of Facebook’s power today, the more pressing issue for our country is whether social media giants will destroy our democracy through their ability to spread disinformation that sows division and turns us against one another.

When we began to grapple with the excesses of industrialism, lots of people thought the whole system needed to be taken apart—by violence if necessary—while others hoped to save the benefits the technology brought without letting it destroy the country. Americans eventually solved the problems that industrialization raised for democracy by reining in the Wild West mentality of the early industrialists, protecting the basic rights of workers, and regulating business practices.

The leaked Facebook documents suggest there are places where the disinformation at Facebook could be reined in as the overreaches of industrialization were. When Zuckerberg tried to promote coronavirus vaccines on the site, anti-vaxxers undermined his efforts. But one document showed that “out of nearly 150,000 posters in Facebook Groups disabled for Covid misinformation, 5% were producing half of all posts, and around 1,400 users were responsible for inviting half the groups’ new members.” Researchers concluded: “We found, like many problems at FB, this is a head-heavy problem with a relatively few number of actors creating a large percentage of the content and growth.”

“I don’t hate Facebook,” Haugen wrote in a final message to her colleagues at the company. “I love Facebook. I want to save it.”

While most Americans were busy watching Facebook crash—the falling stock took between $5 billion and $7 billion of Zuckerberg’s net worth—drama in Washington, D.C., was an even bigger deal.

Los Angeles Times reporter Sarah D. Wire noted that the rioters who broke into the Capitol on January 6 ran more than 100 feet past 15 reinforced windows, “making a beeline” to four windows that had been left unreinforced in a renovation of the building between 2017 and 2019. They found the four windows, located in a recessed part of the building, Wire wrote, “by sheer luck, real-time trial and error, or advance knowledge by rioters.”

The Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack on the United States Capitol will likely look into this oddity.

The committee has begun to take testimony from cooperative witnesses. Observers expect fireworks on Thursday when former White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows, longtime Trump aide Dan Scavino, Trump adviser Steve Bannon, and Trump appointee Kash Patel must hand over documents. Trump has vowed to fight the release of any information to the committee. Chair Bennie Thompson (D-MS) says the committee will make criminal referrals for anyone ignoring a subpoena.

Finally, today, the debt ceiling fight got even hotter. While Congress passed a continuing resolution to fund the government through December 3, the issue of the debt ceiling, which stops the government from borrowing money Congress has already spent, remains unresolved. Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen says the government will be unable to pay its obligations after October 18, and warns that a default, which has never before happened, would be catastrophic.

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-KY) insists the Democrats must raise the debt ceiling themselves, although the Republicans raised it three times under former president Trump and added $7.8 trillion to the debt, which now stands at $28 trillion. But when Democrats tried to pass a measure to raise the ceiling, Republicans filibustered it. As Greg Sargent points out in the Washington Post, McConnell is trying to force the Democrats to raise the debt ceiling through reconciliation, which cannot be filibustered. Since they get only one chance to pass such a bill this year, this would force them to dump their infrastructure bill.

McConnell is holding the nation hostage to keep the Democrats from passing a very popular bill, and today, Biden called him on it. McConnell complained that congressional Democrats were “sleepwalking toward significant and avoidable danger,” prompting Biden to demand that Republicans “stop playing Russian roulette with the U.S. economy.... Not only are Republicans refusing to do their job, but threatening to use their power to prevent us from doing our job—saving the economy from a catastrophic event—I think, quite frankly, is hypocritical, dangerous and disgraceful. Their obstruction and irresponsibility knows absolutely no bounds.”

When asked if he could guarantee we would not default on our debts, Biden said, “No, I can’t…. That’s up to Mitch McConnell.” If McConnell doesn’t blink and the Republicans continue to filibuster Democrats’ attempts to save the economy, there will be enormous pressure on the Democrats to break the filibuster.

Meanwhile, every day this drags on, Congress does not pass the Freedom to Vote Act.