#but not without acknowledging everything in it in the first place. the foundations. who you are

[heartfullofleeches]

[brief mentions of non-consensual touching]

I kinda wanna flesh out yan cheater and "cheater" reader more. Fuel up the angst. I'm thinking high school sweethearts who promised to be each other's first as they went off to college. Yan sees the whole thing with reader with another person and goes to a friend for comfort. The friend sees this as an opportunity to tear the two apart as Yan was previously going to join their band instead of a straight shot to college. A few drinks down they're kissing the first person who makes eye contact with them at the party, forgetting all about their woes and promises - and skipping town without closure or a proper goodbye to their lover.

Couple years down the line and they're now a big shot - carrying little resemblance of the person they once were. Shows sold out in every venue and a different fan on their lap every night. They all have some feature that reminds Yan of their former flame which they muddle over to the very day their paths cross again.

Their latest tour leads them to a familiar place. A town where nothing ever happened and everything stayed the same. They learn their ex is still working hard for their degree and takes night shifts at a nearby gas station. The tension is thick from the moment they walk in. They didn't even want to be there, but it was the only station in close proximity. What do you even say to someone who's caused so much heart break after all this time?

"That'll be 21.10... Cash or credit?"

That's it.... After everything you put them through. After all those nights they spent crying over you - and craving your warmth in their bed. The future that you pictured together. The life you dream of in each other's arms. You tarnished what little hope they had - and that's all you could say to them...

"A "how've you been?" would've been nice...."

"I have nothing to say to the person who abandoned me. Can't even say that much since you hardly remind me of them."

Really classy from the one who caused this mess in the first place.

"Don't act like you're free of any guilt in this... I saw you with them that day... You seemed a lot more cozy with that stranger than you ever did with me."

"Stranger, what are you...." Your eyes dart around the room as the gears in your head click. Pulling out your phone, you fight back tears as you show them a picture of that stranger. "Is this who you're talking about?...."

Please say no....

They scoff. "So you do know who I'm talking about. You still together or did you run off with someone else same as you did me?"

The sadness and pain just... vanishes. All these years, you thought you had been the problem. Made to many promises. Loved then too much or too little. From what it seemed like now - they were the one who never loved you enough.

"That's my cousin....."

They didn't hear you - they couldn't. Couldnt acknowledge that maybe...

"What?"

"That's my fucking cousin, asshole."

Everything they ever believed was the painstaking truth - was a only a cruel misunderstanding.

"We hadn't seen each other's since we were kids. Their mom had just died... I tried calling you when I got home, but you weren't there. Did you seriously think I cheated on you? And you just ran away?..."

"I....you...." Were their everything. When they saw you that night the pressure of every problem weighting down on them finally snapped. They couldn't think rationally at that time - if only if they'd put the faith in you they always prided themself in having.

"You coward...." You throw their change across the counter, adding issult to injury as you point for the door.

"Get out of my store. Get out of my life."

"Y/n, wait..please."

"I said... GET OUT!"

The foundation of their new self crumbles. After your alleged betrayal they rebuilt themselves from the ground up as an overconfident, self serving individual, but like everything else to this point - it was all a lie. There were always those days they wondered "what if". What if they had stayed. What if they had tried to fix what had broken in your relationship. Knowing the truth, those fantasies return with vengeance. The truth would've came sooner and the wounds to mend would have been lesser. You'd talk over the miscommunication and they'd apologize fully by taking you out to your favorite restaurant. You'd start school together the upcoming fall. You'd kiss and make love and enjoy fleeting youth as one. There'd always be rough patches, but in the end you always had each other.

That's how things should have been.

They spiral - crawling to the closest bar to relinquish their pain the only way they knew how beyond finding someone new to bed. The thought of sleeping with anyone that wasn't you made them nearly lose the alcohol poisoning their system. Had you been dating since then? Had you given yourself to someone? Did they make you feel loved and saved - just as they should've

By the end of the night they wound up too drunk to even stand on their own feet. The bartender asked for a number to call to have someone pick them up. They gave the only number they could remember after all these years - and intoxicated.

The drive to their hotel room is quiet. You had nothing to say while they had the world - but none of it was anything you wanted to hear. You just wanted this night to be over so you could go back to forgetting they ever existed.

You help them into their room and give them some water from the sink. Despite everything they've done, you didn't have the heart to leave them like they did you.

"Drink. You need to flush out your system. You'll probably have a headache in the morning, but that's none of my concern."

".....how many people have you slept with, Y/n?"

You place the cup on the nightstand. "This isn't the type of conversation we should have right now."

"Have you been with anyone - or are you still waiting for that special person? I've done a lot of shit I'm not proud of, but at least they've given me experience. I can make your first the best. I can make love to you better than anyone. I already know you better than they do...."

Their hands creep around your waist, hugging your midsection same as they use to on school nights when their parents forbade guests - and you crawled through their window anyway. They always held you like you meant the universe to them. You still do.

Their lips gloss over your exposed stomach as your shirt crawls upwards, heavy tears staining your skin. "Just one night. That's all I need to prove myself to you. We were made for each other. Let's forget about the past for one night and pick up where we left off. A promise is still a promise - even if it's broken.

Their fingers dip below your waistband. You immediately shove them off you and to the floor. "Are you fucking insane?! You can't forget something like what you put me through. I've been so afraid of connecting with anyone because I'm scared they'd just run off like you did. I'm finally becoming me again- and I won't let you take that back from me. Don't call me."

The door slams as you storm out - reverberations their sole companion in their misery. This is the same thing they did to you. They deserve to be alone, to suffer - but they can't. It'll kill them. They can't live without you...and soon enough you won't be to live without them. You're soulmates, meant to be. They have power now - influence. They can support you however you need-

And destory everything that gets in the way of your happy ending.

[sykeskassie]

Missing Piece

This was originally a gift for my muse. Well, more like a reward for getting her schoolwork done. It’s been sitting for a minute and I finally decided to post it.

Pairing: Implied OT8 Stray Kids x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

𓆩♡𓆪ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ𓆩♡𓆪ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ𓆩♡𓆪｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ 𓆩♡𓆪

Something wasn’t quite right, but you couldn’t put your finger on what was missing. You had been tucked away in the repurposed office all morning, forbidding any of the pack from entering. It was your first time since joining the pack that you had made a nest by yourself. You had of course participated in building group nests with Seungmin, Felix, and Jisung —the other omegas— but you had yet to

make one solo. It had taken you a while to feel comfortable enough; despite the constant encouragement from your packmates of all designations, you were anxious. As much as you wanted to grab a member or two, you knew that this was something you had to do for yourself. 

Adjusting a pillow against the wall, you breathed in deeply. You could smell hints of cedar, pine, and eucalyptus, the scents belonging to Chan, Changbin, and Minho respectively. You had used sheets from their beds to cover the nesting mat on the ground, effectively making them the base of the nest. They were the foundation of your pack, and thus it was only natural to make them the foundation of your nest. 

It had been Minho who originally introduced you to the pack. He was just a bit older than you, always taking on a protector role even before he presented. Honestly, that’s why your families hadn’t been shocked when he did present as an alpha. When his friend Chan asked him to join his pack, he had made it very clear that they would have a frequent visitor to the den. Minho knew that he couldn’t outright ask for you to become pack alongside him; you would never have accepted that without meeting and becoming comfortable with the guys, and Chan wouldn’t just add in anyone that hadn’t gotten everyone’s approval. However, it had become clear after just a few visits how enamored everyone had become with you. 

The scents of the betas lined the walls, lavender from Hyunjin and rosemary from Jeongin. They had thoroughly scented many pillows the night before at your request. It was imperative to you to have their scent be on the items that you would rest against; their comfort and support represented in a physical way. You had spent countless hours nestled between the two of them, chattering on about nothing and everything. They had been the most instrumental in your transition to the pack, helping you adjust to suddenly living with eight raucous boys. Jeongin especially, having been the most recent to join before you, understood how overwhelming it could be. 

The blankets strategically placed around the nest were provided by the omegas. Towards the foot of nest, Jisung’s clove scent radiated comfort from fuzzy blankets. It was a strong scent for an omega to have, but Jisung was a strong omega. Though he was one of the few to intimately understand your battles with anxiety, he was a fierce protector of the pack. Placing his scent at the entry point of the nest was an acknowledgment that to get to them, one would have to go through Jisung. At the head of the nest laid pillowy quilts imbued with Felix’s nutmeg scent. Extra padding for anyone who wanted to lay down, his sweeter scent felt like a hug surrounding you. Beyond Chan and Minho, Felix had been the first member who immediately welcomed you with open arms. He had been the one to teach you about all the members, helping you integrate near seamlessly. 

Your eyes drifted to the flannel blankets that made up the middle. Even with your softer scent of fresh rain clinging to the sturdier fabric, it wasn’t quite complete. Taking each component piece by piece helped you figure out what had been missing all along. You carefully maneuvered out of the nest, making sure not to disturb anything. It was nearly perfect! You just needed your missing piece. Sneaking out of the room, you crept quietly to Seungmin’s room. 

Knocking softly, you hear a, “come in, pup!” 

You quickly slip into his room, your eyebrow raised slightly. “How did you know it was me?”

Seungmin chuckled, “You’re the only one who knocks and then waits. Everyone else either knocks and barges in, or skips knocking altogether.” He took a second before realizing something. “Aren’t you supposed to be nesting right now?”

You looked down at your feet, suddenly shy. It’s not that you were uncomfortable with Seungmin; it was actually the opposite. Minho may be the one you were closest to, but Seungmin was right behind him. Your omega shined under his attention, and he was the one who really taught you what being an omega in a pack like theirs meant. He was endlessly patient with you, putting up with your questions no matter how silly you thought they might be.

“I am! I was! But…I’m missing you.” You weren’t sure how you didn’t catch it sooner, honestly. If you had to guess, it’s because you weren’t used to having to put all the pieces together by yourself. When you did group building, you usually helped one of the omegas with one designation, while the other two omegas worked on the remaining designations. 

“Oh pup. Do you want me to scent something for you to take back to your nest?” You knew that wouldn’t be the right answer, even if you appreciated his offer. 

Shaking your head no, you say, “I have all the materials already picked out and set up. I just need you…would you mind coming with me? So I can show you where I want you?”

“You want to show me your nest? Before anyone else?”

You hadn’t really thought of that, of the significance of your request. You took a second to turn the idea over in your head. It felt right, you decided, having Seungmin be the first to see your nest. If you thought about it too hard, you’d realize that a part of you was wanting, maybe even needing an omega’s approval. Your omegas approval.

With a small nod from you, Seungmin stood up from his bed and walked towards you. “We have to be quiet though. I don’t want the rest of the pack to think it’s ready yet.”

“I understand, puppy. Let’s go see your nest.” Grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers together, you led him back to the room you had been fussing over for the last few hours. He took a look around when he entered your nest, inhaling deeply to see where you had placed everyone. Plopping down on Jisung’s section, you pointed at the spread out flannel blankets. 

“I need you there, please.” Seungmin would never say it, but his heart burst a little, knowing that you wanted his scent in the center. To be the center of a nest was a place of honor; for you to want to combine your scents? He could cry at how touched he was. Nodding very seriously, he began his task. As the warm cinnamon that was all Seungmin began to bloom around you, everything started to feel complete. No longer did you feel like something was wrong. 

“There, all finished!” Seungmin could easily tell how you felt about him, about his members, about your place in the pack, just from where you placed things. The amount of care that you had taken to get everything just right, all by yourself, all for them, could make even the frostiest of people melt. “You did such a good job, sweetheart. Thank you for building such a good nest for the pack.” 

Your smile was beaming at the praise. Here was an omega, your omega, telling you that you did a good job. “I hope the others will like it…would you go get them for me?” 

“Of course I will, be right back, pup,” Seungmin said, already eager for everyone else to get to see how much effort you put into making them nest. As you waited for the pack, you realized something; you weren’t anxious anymore. 

[ganxiously]

I am still firmly of the opinion that Buck being made a captain in s8 would not make any sense narratively speaking. What the writers decide is a different matter altogether but if we follow along with the story, making Buck captain right now is just not feasible. First and foremost, there's Henrietta fucking Wilson in the line and I dare anyone to contest the fact that she would make a great captain. And secondly, I don't know if the other characters or even the audience for that matter, would accept Buck as a captain. We have spent this whole season with Buck being treated as the baby of the group — the one pulling crazy antics, whining, sulking and being his general impulsive self and the other characters have responded to this by treating him like a little puppy you indulge and give treats to and try to keep from tripping over their own tail (re: the baking with Jee, the lawn mowing, the phone). Yes, there have been moments where Buck has shined, personally during the cemetery scene but professionally as well, when he solved the bee situation with his creativity, stopped the cars on the freeway and recently, by calling Tommy for a helicopter ride. However, these incidents are not cohesive enough to make you say with certainty that he is the best choice to lead the 118. And if we aren't saying it, then the characters definitely aren't going to. And let's be real, do you really see Chim, Hen or Eddie respecting Buck's authority enough to follow his orders on the field without question?

But having said all of that, Buck becoming the captain of the 118 is the natural and only logical solution to this issue — not right this second but definitely at some point in the future because while Hen is going to be a damn good captain, she is not the right captain for the 118 specifically, as in the right one to step into Bobby's shoes. That person can only be Buck, someone who inherited Bobby's heart and his warmth and his grit for survival. That's where I think the point A and point B of the plot is at. Hen taking over the captaincy and then moving onward towards Buck finally inheriting it. And no, I really don't see anyone new coming in to fill that position because literally no one, fictional or real, would accept that. So what I see happening, if done right, is Hen becoming captain by the end of this season but as we have seen with the Denny sl and from the 8.17 promo, she is not sure if she wants the responsibility and dangers associated with the job. They could continue with this arc in the next season by showing us how much she is struggling with doing a job she doesn't want but has taken out of a sense of duty. And while she goes through all of that, Buck can slowly rise up to the occasion and take over in an unofficial manner — leading a team through a difficult situation in an emergency, using his organisational skills to get on top of the paperwork Hen is drowning in, cooking dinner to bring everyone together at the table like Bobby used to do. If they did it right, they could drag this out throughout the entire season, slowly build up the conflict, build pressure on Hen and strengthen the foundation of Buck's confidence (better if Buck and Tommy are back together so that he has a steady domestic situation to lift him up) and let everything fall into place with the end of season big emergency with Hen finally giving herself permission to quit and everyone acknowledging and accepting the fact that Buck is ready to step into the shoes that were always meant for him.

And in a perfect world and not in the show where it would mean less Hen on our screens, Hen would take a promotion to a more bureaucratic role which would keep her away from the danger and give her more time with her family. And in the distant future, she would rise to become the Fire Chief one day (as a nod to the last irl LAFD Chief who is a married lesbian with 3 kids).

[that-dreaming-dragon]

Alterhuman Community: Anglocentrism and Spirituality

Word count: 636

It's pretty common that the alterhuman community is largely English-speaking.

Or more that the community at large interacts in English.

And beyond that, many things are also US, if not western-centric, possibly due to the nature of the community being English-dominant.

There has been a bit more discussion surrounding this very phenomenon. And it is understandable why we are here with all the points brought up within that post and following reblogs (threads? I don't know my tumblr lingo). The post focused on the identity aspect of alterhumanity, and the languages tied to these identity concepts.

But I'd encounter another issue--where everything else is also tied to anglocentrism. One of them being spiritual belief.

I often felt a little disconnected from many others within the community due to my largely different background. My family and extended family, even beyond, are largely eastern in spirituality and beliefs, with Buddhism being the religion that has a larger presence in my life. Christianity was sort of like a myth to me, horror stories and tales told to me in passing. Not to say there wasn't any education going into that area, but the class about world religion back in high school means the focus is on religion across the world. I had family friends and others in my life that are Christian, not enough for me to understand all that went into such a belief. I was living in a bubble of eastern influenced belief, and then I didn't comprehend what it's like to not have such a background.

The stronger irony is that I didn't learn about the finer details of Christianity until I was knee-deep in the alterhuman community. I'm constantly a bit off-kilter when I talk about spirituality with others, and there's just a bit of a gap with others if things originate too much from earthen-established faith belief. I'm still trying to learn what Pegan and New Age encompass. I mean, they could very well be concepts I am well acquainted, but just in a different cultural lens and language.

Of course, I also need to be aware of how much and how strongly my perspective skews my view on things. I know there are those who share similar backgrounds with me within the community, and the community at large does try to keep a worldly view. Considering many of us are from completely different worlds or realms as well.

Thinking on this, it's a strange place to be. We try to focus on individual experiences without the influence of this earthen realm, but still the importance of society and culture, or everything else that follows, does have impact on our own perception of things. How we see animal through human angle, how we explain our experience with what we had outside the alterhuman scope. We acknowledge that fictionkin, therian, and otherkin are all the same experience by technicality, with different focuses (I need category terms that aren't identify-as focused, fictionfolk (which we have), animalfolk (do people use that?), and otherfolk? nonhumanfolk??). I'm wondering if this is sort of like being from fiction is like. You have something preestablished, that shaped you, and every new understanding is built upon this foundation.

I'm not entirely certain where I'm going with this, ramble as my writings tends to be. Originally I had wanted to answer in specific a Writing Wednesday prompt posted within the Alterhuman Community, specifically in regards to what sort of community project I'd like to see.

Perhaps a zine featuring alterhumanity from non-English earthen culture? I only am proficient in 2.5 languages, but I feel that it'd be beneficial at large. Talon's post inspired and encouraged folks to write in non-English languages they know (I'm not saying Native Language, I have very complicated relation with things like that…), and that is certainly a start. Though we probably will have quite a headache first just in trying to figure out how to translate concept terms.

[madamejadex]

hi mommy!

i’m mostly a sub, but recently i’ve been interested in being a domme sometimes too. it isn’t as intuitive to me, if that makes sense? like, when i picture a scene in my head, i naturally imagine myself as the sub, not the domme. but when i try to think of myself as the domme, i definitely see the appeal, and that’s something i want to explore.

that being said, at this point, i think the main way for me to know if being a domme is something i’d actually take pleasure in is to try actually domming someone. i did try once, and didn’t like it, but it was admittedly not the most well-thought out thing, and it’s hard to tell if the reason i didn’t enjoy it was because i just don’t like domming or for a bunch of different reasons, which is part of the reason i feel kinda conflicted on this.

i know that the best place to start is probably to talk to people i know who i think would be cool with it and ask if they’d want me to practice domming with them, but do you have any other tips or suggestions? thank you!!

- 🐉 (18, she/they)

Hi, little dragon.

What a thoughtful thing you’ve brought up. It’s something many of us experience in one form or another, the difference between what arouses us in fantasy and what feels right in reality. And first of all, it’s okay that those things don’t always line up.

For example, I can enjoy imagining certain submissive scenarios when I read something particularly well-written… but place me in a bedroom with someone and ask me to genuinely submit? I resist and shift the dynamic, and not in the cute, fun way either. And the same can go for many other kinks we enjoy in fiction, what feels exciting in a safe, imaginative space doesn’t always feel good when another person is involved.

But if you’re serious about trying Dominating someone again, even if your first experience wasn't good. Then let's look into different ways to help you.

🖤 Understand the Difference Between Fantasy & Reality

First of all, let's acknowledge that fantasy gives us a curated world where we control everything. But reality requires communication, trust, and safety. Desiring a role or kink in your head doesn’t mean you’ll automatically enjoy it in real-time. And that’s completely normal. Give yourself permission to explore without pressure.

🖤 Begin With Your Headspace

Before stepping into dominance physically, you must root yourself in a Dominant mindset. That means by asking yourself if you're ready and willing to take responsibility for a submissive’s safety, wellbeing, and pleasure. Because being a Domme isn’t about control for the sake of power, it’s about caring for the one who gives you their trust.

Ask yourself:

What kind of Dominant do I wish to be? Soft, strict, nurturing, sensual?

What motivates me, control, caretaking, teasing, protection?

What do I want to give to my submissive? What do I want in return?

What type of energy do I want to give off?

Am I ready for the responsibility?

🖤 Educate Yourself

No matter the style of Dominance you gravitate toward, education is key, especially when exploring physical or psychological play. Here are some areas you may want to study:

Consent & negotiation (including safewords, boundaries, limits, aftercare)

Types of play (e.g., impact play, sensation play, bondage, roleplay)

Safety protocols (especially for rope, restraint, or intense psychological play)

This education creates the foundation for your confidence, and your future submissive’s safety.

🖤 Connect With a Submissive Who Knows You’re Learning

When you do find someone to explore with, make sure you’re honest about your experience. A good submissive will want to support your growth just as much as you’ll be supporting theirs. Communication is key, and the dynamic should be built slowly, with mutual respect and understanding.

🖤 Start With Non-Sexual Exploration

There’s no need to dive in headfirst. Some of the most powerful Dommes I know and myself included began with smaller, non-sexual moments:

Giving gentle commands

Practicing posture (like kneeling or presenting)

Building rituals (asking permission, greeting, routines)

Sensory play (blindfolds, feather touches, temperature)

These help establish control, presence, and rhythm, without needing to rush into the deeper end of the pool.

Sweetheart, the truth is, Dominance isn’t about knowing everything. It’s about being present. It’s about care, intention, and connection. And it’s okay to learn as you go. What matters most is that you approach this path safely with warmth, and a hunger to grow.

So, little dragon… Be patient with yourself. Explore safely. And trust that you don’t need to be perfect, you just need to be present. The rest will come.

xo Miss Jade

[statusquoergo]

hey! It's the anon who asked about Harvey's retconning. Guess none of us saw that twist huh? What do you think about it? (I personally was never a Darvey fan,so...)

not one i expected, certainly. i mean in hindsight, it's not too surprising given how hard late-era og suits leaned in on the darvey angle, but it's. quite a little detail to randomly toss on the fire.

i have...so many problems with what they did to harvey. not even just the baby, though i definitely have problems with that, but nothing about his character development in this episode makes sense. (nothing in the premise makes sense, either; neither ted nor harvey is practicing law in new york anymore, much less working for the prosecutor's office, and regardless of their involvement with and personal investment in the case that originally landed pellegrini in prison [pellegrini is the mobster who got ted's brother killed, which is the case that prompted ted to move to california in the first place], it is absolutely not incumbent upon either one of them to see that he returns there, nor do they even have the authority to involve themselves in any way unless they're summoned to testify as witnesses.)

for those not keeping up with suits la (same), harvey and ted's big move in securing the necessary testimony to lock pellegrini up for good is to orchestrate a "fake" car bomb (it's not really fake, it's just designed to scare santoro [the guy who killed ted's brother and is now pellegrini's second in command] rather than kill him, although, dude, either way it's a fucking car bomb, you don't really have a lot of control over the fallout) to get santoro to accept an immunity deal that harvey offered (despite obviously not having the authority to do so, which, to their credit, apparently does become a plot point).

except that harvey specter would never. not only because it's extremely deceptive and unprofessional for any attorney, much less one who i guess is at least posing as representing the prosecutor's office, i.e., the city of new york, and would humiliate and discredit him if and when it ever became public knowledge, but it's also really fucking dangerous. okay, sure, harvey of 2000 (by my timeline, he worked at the prosecutor's office from 2000-2002) might have done it, but post-mike ross!harvey specter? harvey specter with a conscience? harvey specter with moral standards? harvey specter who tries to do the right thing specifically because "mike's always on [him] about doing the right thing" (s09e07)? absolutely fucking not.

but anyway.

how about that twist.

i don't like the idea of darvey having a baby. i don't think it makes sense, partly because of their ages (by my timeline, they're in their mid- to late-50s), partly because of their extreme obsession with their careers, partly because it just...never seems like something harvey really wanted. i think his marriage to donna is a form of settling, in that he still clings to this vision of a happy family home (patriarchy ftw; and yes, i do think harvey pivots [defaults] back to this vision after mike leaves and harvey loses the ability to conceive of any version of a life outside of the norm) and donna is a safe bet (in the sense that she won't leave him; she's obsessed with him, she'll fill the role without argument), but a kid? with his traumatic childhood?

there are arguments to be made on multiple sides of the issue, of course. first of all, does harvey have the emotional awareness to realize how badly his parents, respectively, fucked him up? his mother gaslit him and forced him to lie for her, yes, but by the time of her death, he seems to have come to terms with...everything, and there's a lot of uncertainty around whether he ever realized, much less acknowledged, how absent his father was, so if we're going to assume the shitty writing of s9 is the foundation for his characterization in suits la, then i'm not so sure he does anymore. i think he did, circa s5, for example, but when mike left, i think he took a lot of harvey's self awareness and ability for introspection with him.

so if harvey doesn't have emotional awareness, would he have a baby with donna? tbh i think if she wanted one, yeah, he would, but kind of the way that a parent gets their kid a dog if she promises to be the one to take care of it. like, you know you're going to be doing a lot of the work, but it's something she really, really wants, and you've got no real argument against it, so sure, what the hell, why not. which is hideously irresponsible and a terrible, terrible reason to have a child, but hey, welcome to the post-s9 era.

if harvey does have emotional awareness...i do think he would resist the idea of having a child. i'm not sure that he'd be afraid of repeating verbatim the myriad mistakes his own parents made, but i think in the back of his mind, he conceives of the idea of genuinely happy family home as a fantasy; even if he's not absent (although based on his behavior in this episode, he sure seems to be prioritizing his work over his family without a second thought), even if donna doesn't cheat on him, even if neither of them puts their family deep in debt with shady investments, even if they both manage to avoid all the mistakes of their own personal family histories, there's still gonna be something. something is going to go wrong to fuck up this kid's life and it'll be harvey's fault for bringing him into the world in the first place.

i suppose in either scenario, i have too much trouble imagining harvey as a good father to think him having a baby is a good idea. i think he would try! definitely! but...i don't think it would go well. he's got too much baggage and it's too integral to his identity to not get in the way. (i still think he needs to go to therapy, but i also think he hasn't gone to therapy and has no interest in going to therapy and no longer has anyone in his life with the wherewithal to urge him to go to therapy.) is he a good partner? a good co-conspirator? a good friend? a good husband? yes, absolutely. (well, maybe depending on who the person is on the other end of that equation 😏 but i digress.) but a good parent?

...yeah. maybe not so much.

[perrydowning]

A Path to Hope that Works for Me

We all know humanity does this thing where it has to relearn the same lesson over and over again. Just like individuals, it feels like. I've been relearning many things I thought I'd figured out in my 20s. At first it was so discouraging, I'd already done this! Plus, at 47, it is so cringe. Yet, though I'm having to learn things anew, it turns out that each lesson, though the same color, is such a deeper shade.

History repeats itself, duh. And it's easy to fall into despair, that place where everything feels pointless. Why even bother if human beings are just gonna fuck it up again? Experiencing myself making the exact same mistakes from my youth certainly made me wonder if I just wasn't worth the effort.

But then I started to notice that I was understanding myself so much better and that I was practicing. Learning in a whole new way. It's a bit like re-reading a beloved novel. Every time through, you see more and more, it speaks to you differently as you gather more experiences.

What if humanity, as a massive group identity, is like that, too? Yeah, we're repeating the same mistakes, sometimes with a truly grotesque rhyming scheme. The stakes are also about as high as it gets, as opposed to a cossetted widow's therapeutic journey.

Though, I believe we are learning. In the last, I dunno, couple hundred years, we've (I'm speaking of a human average, not all humans) gone from the concept of universal human rights being incomprehensible to something most nations at least acknowledge might be a thing, even if they hate it. That's some pretty significant growth, from a certain point of view.

I was raised without religion, so it's always felt above my pay grade. But I do have faith--deep and abiding. That faith is in humanity. How? you might ask given that the world is on fire, could I possibly believe in us?

I'm going to borrow from western faith traditions here. Those massive medieval cathedrals, that were begun sometimes over a thousand years ago, they took generations to build. The masons who built the foundation knew they would never see the spire, nor the next generation. Or the next. But they did that without even a standard unit of measurement and those soaring monuments to human achievement are still here. That happened because each wave of builders crafted the best bricks they could.

I find my hope in that. I know I'll never see the spire, but I can make the best brick I know how to make so that it supports the next builders.

The spire gets all the attention--not unlike Great Leaders in History--but it needs all those beautiful, mundane bricks to reach for the sky.

I'm just gonna work on my brick. Maybe I'll even be able to make two.

[irrelechan]

The Last Ember’s Light - Chapter 9

The Solarium

Apprentices, even ones not usually in the class, gathered around a long, oaken table scattered with colored glass orbs and enchanted tuning forks. They wanted to hear a lesson from the Archmage. The Gale had scrawled the topic on the board in neat, elegant, angled script. Applied Illusions: Precision, Discipline, and Function.

“I, as I’m sure you know, am Archmage Dekarios. Mr. Valeir, your usual enchantments and illusions instructor, is on sick leave. So, I’ve filled his place temporarily.”

Seraphyne’s mouth twitched in something close to irritation. She folded her arms and muttered under her breath, “Minor Illusion? Really?”

While adjusting the lighting, Gale didn’t turn in response. “Yes, Miss Seraphyne. Minor Illusion. You may have noticed the word ‘discipline’ in the title on the board.”

She stiffened, cheeks warming as the other apprentices whispered around her.

Of course, he heard that.

Turning at last, he stepped toward the table with that same relaxed posture he always had in lessons—one that somehow still carried an undercurrent of command.

“Attention, please.” He said as he tapped the desk. “The spell is deceptively simple. Which is why it’s easy to do poorly,” he explained, meeting the gaze of each apprentice in turn. Gale started to pace casually at the front of the room.

“Mastery of the complex begins with excellence in the foundational. If your illusions dissipate before they’re meant to, if your tones warp, if you create light with no shadow, then you’ve not conjured a truth—you’ve conjured suspicion. At that point, I would hope you remember how to cast expeditious retreat, or learn how.”

The room rippled with laughter.

He walked past Seraphyne, picking up a glass orb that dissipated from his hand. The apprentices who saw it cooed in awe and tried to touch the others to see if they were real. 

“We’re not just making distractions. We’re manipulating perception. That takes more than talent. It takes discipline and precision.”

Discipline. Seraphyne narrowed her eyes, then sighed. Gale was right. When it was her turn to recreate the sound of a distant bell using only the illusion spell, she focused harder. The first attempt was fine. The second was nearly perfect. When she sat down again, Gale passed behind her, pausing just long enough to say, “Good.”

She studied how his gestures were spare and precise, how he corrected others gently but directly. She listened to his tone that never wavered between dry wit and razor-sharp insight. She knew he was powerful. Everyone did. But seeing how much thought he put into even the smallest exercise made her realize something else.

Gale didn’t just love magic. He respected it greatly, even to the point of worship.

And he expected others to respect it too, not through fear, but through discipline, patience, and care. There was a kind of elegance to his explanations. She loved the way he wove instruction with challenge, and how he noticed everything without making a spectacle of it. Seraphyne found herself wanting to match that focus, to understand what he saw in the fundamentals she’d long since written off as beneath her. She could feel her irritation from before fading into something more humble.

When the lesson ended, the apprentices were buzzing like bees with post-class chatter—repeating clever phrases Gale had used, laughing about whose illusion had accidentally mimicked a screeching bird instead of a bell. A few glanced at her as she passed, nods of polite acknowledgment or a look of curiosity in their eyes. She ignored them and kept walking, faintly hearing Gale say to another apprentice that he would return to his study.

She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, especially not to Gale. Her thoughts still clung to the lesson—the discipline in Gale’s voice, the precision in his gestures, the way his single, lowered “Good” had more weight than a room full of applause. She didn’t want to admit she cared as much as she did.

Seraphyne kept walking, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robes. Her path turned down the long west corridor, though she didn’t consciously choose her direction. She just needed space and something to do with her hands.

The Tower obliged.

It shifted around her, but not obviously. No walls were folding, and no doors were appearing. Just a gentle redirection and rearrangement of space. She found herself at the solarium’s threshold, though she hadn’t thought of going there. She didn’t even know the Tower had a solarium.

The solarium was beautiful. The sort of place that looked like a painting more than a real place. Diffused light filtered through hanging ferns and tall glass panes framed with carved floral details in the stone rose tall to the arched ceiling. The solarium was empty, except for the soft hum of enchantment threaded through its walls.

Panes of reinforced arcane glass spilled light over stone and greenery in fractured gold. Potted plants cluttered the floors and shelves between planted ones, both magical and common. Pale green vines wound their way up carved columns like glyphs, trailing from planters that hovered just above the floor, ending in an explosion of purple and pink flowers.

Seraphyne stepped into the open room, taking in the scent of warm earth. The curve of her horns shimmered, like dull obsidian catching fire in the sun each time she stepped into a beam of light.

Seraphyne sat at the sun-drenched table in the center of the solarium, a half-finished diagram stretched before her like a dare. Someone else’s work—charcoal lines elegantly arcing into a framework of transmutation glyphs, precise and infuriatingly incomplete. She’d been trying to finish it for the better part of an hour. But every time she tried to shape it with magic, the whole spell slid sideways in her mind like a half-remembered fever dream.

It was beginning to fray her patience, though she told herself it was the diagram, not the lingering warmth in her chest from thinking about Gale.

She didn’t hear him until his voice curved around the column behind her.

“You’ve taken over the solarium, I see. Beautiful place, is it not?”

She jumped, hand flying to her chest, just short of cursing aloud. Her head snapped back to face him, upset at first then softening slightly. Gale stood in the archway, leaning on the column, haloed by the gold-washed light spilling in behind him. His mantle hung askew, and his voice bore that familiar trace of mirth he never quite bothered to hide.

“I thought you were on your way to your study,” she said, her tone more clipped than she intended. She glanced back at the parchment, swallowing hard.

“I was. My study lies en route, and I noticed a singular figure—alone, intense, and frowning as if she meant to duel the ink itself. Naturally, I was intrigued.”

“You’ve been watching me work this whole time?” she muttered without looking up.

“Long enough to witness your descent through all five stages of magical grief,” he chuckled.

She shifted her weight, pretending not to care, and gave him an annoyed exhale. “None of those stages of ‘magical grief’ include unsolicited commentary.”

“I’ve actually read up on the theory,” he said smoothly. “The philosopher Bellaryn once outlined them in a treatise on arcane loss. A noble contribution to academia, really.”

“I came here to be alone,” she rolled her eyes, though a smile threatened to surface.

“And you were,” he said lightly, “until you summoned a spell diagram that geometry itself was so offended by, it practically begged for intervention through the Weave.”

She shifted her stance, feigning indifference. “Someone left it half-finished. It’s sloppy work. It’s not mine, of course.”

He nodded solemnly. “Mmhmm, you couldn’t bear to let that crime against the Arcane stand.”

“I never said that!”

A soft laugh, then the sound of footsteps approaching closer. He was beside her now. Close enough that she could sense the ambient energy radiating off him—the slow, steady hum of magic perfectly tempered, like a still-forged blade resting in its scabbard.

“May I?”

She muttered under her breath something that sounded like approval.

He smiled. His hand passed into her field of vision, tracing one flawed glyph in the air. Two fingers dispersed it with a quiet shimmer. He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t need to.

Her breath started to anchor inside her chest.

You’ve faced summoners, slavers, cursed ruins, and one very irritated dryad, she reminded herself. His attractiveness is not a threat. It’s just proximity… Breathe, Seraphyne.

“Your circles are too tight, Sera,” Gale observed.

To Seraphyne, his voice sounded like velvet. Low and deliberate, he continued. “Look here—your anchors are drifting. The aether can’t bind to indecision. Magic likes to know what it’s meant to become.”

Without preamble, he knelt beside her. The soft whisper of his tunic’s fabric brushed her awareness before his knee edged near the parchment. He smelled faintly of cedar, and something warmer underneath—clove, maybe, or the last pages of an old spell book left in the sun.

“Would you mind if I demonstrated?”

She didn’t answer aloud, but she didn’t pull away, either.

He leaned forward, arm passing just over hers as he traced a corrected path in the air, each movement precise but unhurried. The closeness made her nerves hum under her skin. His breath stirred a loose strand of her hair. Her pulse lurched into a quicker rhythm than before.

“So, in short,” he murmured. “You’re crowding the ley. These convergence lines—here and here—need space. Let the current pass through and not gather. Mana has a tendency to sulk when confined.”

She nodded, silent as a stone.

He adjusted her hand—not forcefully, just a gentle pressure, guiding her fingers a fraction to the right. As if his intent had already moved through the weave, and hers simply followed.

Her gaze jerked to him for a second.

Gale was wholly absorbed in teaching at this point, brow faintly furrowed, mouth slightly parted in thought. The line of his jaw caught the dappled sun—of course it did. Her head felt like it was floating in the air.

She looked away sharply, back to the parchment in front of her, as if it might save her from herself.

Don’t look at his jawline, Seraphyne. Don’t think about his voice. Or his hands. Or the way he says “evocation” like it’s part of a poem.

Godsdammit, why is he so attractive when he’s explaining magical theory? That should not be a thing.

She clenched her fists in her lap under the table. Focus. Right. Diagram. Ley crowding.

She squinted at the charcoal lines. The diagram made less sense now than it had ten minutes ago. And worse, her mind kept trying to sabotage her. It started to conjure the absurd image of her pushing the chair back, crossing the space between them, and just—what? Wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him mid-lecture like an unhinged romance story?

She blinked, scandalized by her own brain.

Absolutely not. You are a rational being. You do not fling yourself at men just for having nice hands and respectable diction. Ok, get it together.

She tried again. Focus. Magic. Diagrams. Anchor points.

But something about the closeness today felt different. Not just the way he knelt beside her—she’d grown used to that—but the way his voice dropped when he focused. The way his hands moved through the air with slow, certain precision. There was no performance in it, no flourish—just the quiet coincidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

And, tragically, that made her breath hitch.

Her gaze flicked back to him.

The sun had caught in his hair again, tracing the few slight silver strands through chestnut. His mouth curved faintly at some internal thought, and she hated the part of herself that catalogued the shape of his smile like it was part of the lesson.

She could feel the rush of heat rising in her throat, pooling at the tips of her ears. Her pulse was an uninvited drumbeat, rattling against her ribs. She tried to crush the sensation down with desperation. She tried to crush the feeling, to press it down under the weight of logic and focus.

Do not feel anything right now, thank you. Especially not that.

Gale’s hand hovered in mid-air, a fingertip nearly brushing a curve of the diagram. Then—stillness.

He didn’t look at her directly, not at first. But something shifted in his posture, the smallest recalibration of presence. As if he’d noticed the sudden stillness in her—too still, too quiet. Something had turned inside her, quiet and coiled. Her breath caught, like a wire drawn taut. Then, without hurry, he turned to her fully.

Their eyes met.

And for one electric second, she forgot what breathing was. There was something in his expression—fleeting, unreadable. Something thoughtful. Her own eyes went wide a moment too late, and she knew—knew—he’d caught her staring.

“Forgive me,” Gale said at last, drawing back a modest step. “Didn’t mean to loom.”

“You didn’t!” she blurted out, far too fast. Her gaze snapped away so hard her neck tinged. “I mean. It’s—it’s fine.”

Too quick, Seraphyne.

He didn’t comment. Just nodded once, calm as a summer tide, and passed the chalk back to her.

Damn him, steady as ever.

“You nearly had it. The foundation was clean, at least. You simply over-corrected at the main anchor point, likely because you were too irritated to notice,” he smirked.

A quiet breath eluded her—something between a sigh and a huff. “Maybe.”

She took another breath and reached for the charcoal again, but her hand moved more deliberately this time. She redrew the curve, her lines cleaner now. Her control was tight and gripped. When he left, Gale’s presence had faded like warmth from a touched stone.

He paused midway through the archway, something tugging at the edge of his attention. That grip she’d used on the charcoal—not hesitant, but… constrained. Each stroke executed with the precision of someone balancing on a wire.

He hadn’t noticed her look at him once. Not when he’d approached. Not when he’d spoken near her ear. Only when they’d made eye contact, she flushed briefly—like a startled fawn beneath a hunter’s arrow.

He wasn’t certain what to make of it. She hadn’t flinched, and there was no fear in her posture. But there’d been extreme tension in her stillness. A quiet restraint, the kind employed when something needed locking down before it escaped onto one’s face. Or worse—into one’s voice.

Perhaps it was just nerves. An old reflex. She had a habit of bracing herself for imagined slights that never came. Or perhaps…

Well.

He let that thought trail off before it became arrogantly flattering.

Still, his eyes lingered on her a moment longer. The curve of her horns framed her profile like sculpture, and strands of her hair shimmered in the late sun where they curled near her ear. She was writing something now in the margin, posture too rigid for casual study.

He smiled to himself. It was small, private, and entirely involuntary.

Curious.

It was possibly nothing. But possibly not. He turned, boots echoing softly in the corridor’s hush as the Tower rearranged the sun across its tiles. Whatever it was, she was acting very suspiciously.

And if there was meaning to be found in her tension, well — He intended to over-analyze it as he did with everything.

Seraphyne, left alone in the glowing hush of the solarium, looked back down at the diagram. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t focus on the spell in front of her. And that annoyed her more than anything. She waited until she was sure he was gone.

Then, with a string of mousy curses under her breath and two clenched fists at her side, Seraphyne pushed herself up from the chair and began to pace.

The solarium was still warm with the late sun, still perfumed faintly with flowers and greenery. But the moment was gone. All that lingered was the echo of her heartbeat in her ears and the residual embarrassment of the encounter curling tight in her stomach.

Stupid. Stupid. It was just proximity. Instruction. Nothing he hadn’t done for any other apprentice. We’ve done this a million times by now. We’ve even hugged before, godsdammit, why is this worse?

She raked a hand through her hair, ignoring the way her fingers caught on a knot near her horn. Her steps carried her across the patterned light on the stone floor, back and forth like a restless pendulum.

I’ve fought spells. I stole my way through a winter, stealing through cities that would have rather seen me dead. And one ‘objectively’ handsome man kneeling too close makes me forget how to breathe? Stupid.

She turned sharply on her heel.

It wasn’t just that he was a powerful mage. It was not even the way he never rushed her, never made her feel lesser, even when she fumbled something simple. It was—

She stopped pacing.

It was the way she noticed. Really noticed him.

The sound of his breath on her shoulder. The heat of his magic was steady and calm, buzzing around hers. The weight of his attention, unflinching and unchanging. No mockery, no agenda. Just presence. Close enough to touch. And for a moment, she’d even wanted—

“No,” she said aloud, sharply.

Her voice echoed to the glass and stone. The Tower rustled a vine of ivy reassuringly overhead.

She exhaled heavily through her nose, shielding her eyes with her hand on her forehead as if it would shield her from the Tower. Her pacing continued.

Also, It’s inappropriate... probably, right?

He’s my mentor. By the gods, He’s the Archmage of Blackstaff, maybe even all of Waterdeep, I don’t know! Why would he ever be interested in me like that, anyway? I’m just a nobody tiefling. He probably has more beautiful people lining up to…

She stopped pacing suddenly. For a second, the thought of that made her stomach sink like a boulder into the sea. She began pacing again, pushing the thought down with it.

I don’t even have a last name! I barely even trust him!

Her mouth flattened into a serious line. That wasn’t entirely true. She did trust him—more than she’s ever trusted anyone. Enough to let him near without flinching. Enough to listen when he spoke, low and close beside her. And maybe that was the worst part. Seraphyne let out one last irritated breath, grabbed the piece of charcoal, and shoved it into her pocket with dramatic intensity. Her boots echoed as she crossed the solarium with brisk steps. She left with purpose, her jaw set and her breath held like a drawn bowstring.

Three corridors later, her stride slowed. The air in the tower cooled slightly the further she walked. The warmth of the sunlit room faded off her skin, and the stone beneath her boots shifted texture from tile to a carpeted runner, dampening her steps. Her thoughts didn’t stop—the volume of them lessened in her mind.

It’s not like he meant anything by it...

Her pace adjusted again. Slower. She passed a window. The sky outside was deepening, stars beginning to prick holes through the dark navy blue.

He was teaching. That’s all it was. You’re just tired. Hyper-aware. Off balance. That’s all.

The knot in her stomach loosened a little, but not entirely. She rubbed at the base of her neck without thinking, then let her hand fall. There was no mark or lingering trace of heat. Just a memory.

You are being grossly inconvenient, body of mine.

She sighed.

The tension bled out of her in stages. Step by step. She rounded a final turn and let her eyes drift, half-lidded, toward the windows ahead. Moonlight stretched long shadows across the stone walls, easing her tension until none remained. The Tower was quieter now, settling into the rhythm of the night. Lights dimmed ahead of her like sleepy eyes blinking shut. It smelled faintly of old wood, as if someone had recently aired the library.

By the time she reached her room, her muscles ached—not from the magic, but from trying to hold too much restraint in her chest all day. She let the door close behind her with a thud. The candle had nearly burned itself out. Its light fluttered against the stone walls like a heartbeat slowing to rest, matching her own.

Seraphyne sat curled in the corner of her bed, a book open yet unread in her lap. Her thumb flicked absently along the edges of the worn pages. Her eyes had drifted over the same paragraph four times. Her mind held no focus.

She was thinking about the solarium. She remembered how her pulse had quickened without warning. As if her body had recognized something before her thoughts had a chance to catch up to it.

She let out a heavy exhale and shut the book.

“…He’s too close sometimes,” she muttered to the room, struggling to get her boots off. “Too... talented for his own good. Smells too nice... ugh.”

There was silence in the room except for the ticking of her clock. The atmosphere wasn’t ominous; Instead, it felt warm and inviting, like an old friend quietly waiting to share a word. Seraphyne had just begun to relax, halfway through pulling her boots off, when something shimmered faintly at the edge of her vision. She paused.

A soft, glimmering line of light was forming above her desk on the far wall. Not etched in a book or whispered in her thoughts, but there, unmistakably visible, words coalescing in slow, deliberate script.

So, the Archmage is too good for you?

Seraphyne sat up straight.

“Oh,” she said aloud, blinking. “You’re writing on walls now?”

The script paused, as though caught in the act, then placed a question mark at the end to finish its thought.

“That wasn’t what I said, by the way,” she replied, pushing her hair back behind one horn.

“And you’re not supposed to be reading what I didn’t say out loud.” She exhaled from her nose sharply. “Do you eavesdrop on all the apprentices, or just me?”

This time, the pause lingered just long enough to feel thoughtful.

Only the interesting ones...

The writing shimmered and reshaped itself by rearranging the letters.

You think very loudly, and you stomp too hard on my floors when you’re annoyed.

She blinked, then laughed out loud. “You’re teasing me now?”

A pause. The light pulsed—just once, like a shrug made of magic.

“Well, I’ll have you know that I wasn’t ‘stomping’ because of Gale. The glyph I was trying to complete frustrated me.”

Then why won’t you stop thinking about the Archmage’s breath on your neck?

Her jaw dropped open in shock. “That is not— I wasn’t—!” She snapped her mouth shut, then both her hands covered it. “Excuse you, Tower! I was not—” She tried to get the words out, but instead, her face flushed a deep, wine-colored crimson. She pointed at the wall like it had personally betrayed her. “You’re just an old, smug, nosy pile of overgrown stone!” She laughed.

No reply was given. Just the last line fading slowly in playful silence, until a final phrase appeared in gentle, glowing script.

Sleep well, little storm.

It made the teasing edge dull just enough to feel like comfort... almost. Her posture slouched, breath leaving her in a reluctant exhale as the words settled somewhere soft in her chest. She couldn’t help feeling some sort of affection for this old, smug, nosy pile of overgrown stone.

She stared at the wall long after the last of the script vanished, like dew in the morning sun. The room held still around her, warm and present, like someone keeping watch just outside the edges of sleep. It felt like care and intentionality were laced through the air.

And from a building, no less.

After leaving the solarium, Gale wandered through the Tower’s winding corridors, the soles of his boots whispering over ancient stone. He didn’t return to his study chamber. Instead, he turned toward the scent of scorched copper—Aegis’s lab. It lingered in the hall like a stubborn ghost.

Gale didn’t knock. The faint clatter of tools and a steady string of muttered Dwarvish curses were as good as a welcome sign that Aegis was inside.

He pushed the door open just in time to witness a broom animating itself, launching after a skittering, metallic spider across the floor. The spider emitted an indignant squeal.

Aegis looked up from a snarl of enchanted wire, his eyebrows a bit singed, and his mustached grin entirely intact.

“Oh, hello, lad. Thought I smelled guilt in the air.”

Gale leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the chaos with resigned affection. “I’ll pretend you stopped at ‘lad’.”

“Ye should. The next word woulda been glowery. Ye brood louder than soup caught in a rain.” Aegis gestured at the spider, which zipped behind a pile of gears. “Come to lecture me on classroom safety, or just checking in before ye dissolve into yer books?”

“No lecturing. Just...” Gale exhaled through his nose. “Checking in.”

“Mm.” Aegis nodded, then added, “Nae one’s exploded today, if that’s what yer after. Minor planar hiccup, barely big enough to swallow the stool. Nell patched it up right quick.”

“She always does,” Gale muttered, eyeing a rune-ring pulsing ominously above their heads. “I assume that’s meant to pulse?”

“Define ‘meant.’”

Gale sighed. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Aye. Structure with a splash o’ chaos. Just what you hired me for, wasn’t it?”

“Against my better judgment.”

“Which is why ye need me,” Aegis shot back, flashing a grin. Then, with a sharp look, he added, “That new apprentice of yers. Seraphyne. Firecracker, that one! Stares at glyphwork like it owes her money. I like her.”

“She’s... sharp,” Gale said carefully. “Focused. How is she doing in your class?”

Aegis arched a brow. “And yer asking about her because...?”

Gale hesitated. “Just wondering if she’s been acting oddly. Any unusual behavior. Skittish, maybe?”

“No more’n anyone caught in my class,” Aegis said with a shrug. “Though she did flinch when I accidentally reversed gravity on the worktable. Brave lass. Kept hold of her inkpot like it was precious.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly, the smile turning sly. “But I think ye’re askin’ after somethin’ else entirely, hm?”

Gale didn’t take the bait. “She’s progressing well. That’s all.”

“Right…” Aegis said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, if she starts tryin’ te levitate furniture or act in any odd way, I’ll let ye know.”

Gale gave him a dry look, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Thank you… I guess I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Gale turned to leave, and Aegis raised a tiny tuning fork in mock salute.

“Try not tae look so grim all the time, Archmage. Ye’ll scare the illusion portraits right off tha walls.”

Gale left to the sound of Aegis humming some off-key tavern tune. The corridors stretched quietly around him, and by the time he reached his quarters, his thoughts still trailed somewhere between charcoal lines and golden eyes.

The next morning, the courtyard was quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind in the ivy and the occasional birdsong echoing off the stone. Fresh bread and herbs wafted through the air from a faraway window of the Tower’s kitchens. Sunlight filtered through the open arches, catching on the edges of Seraphyne’s open tome. She hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

She sat with one leg tucked beneath her, the other foot idly tracing the groove in the flagstone below the bench. Her gloves—new, finely tooled leather embroidered with the Blackstaff’s sigil—rested beside her, untouched. So did the pages in front of her. She wasn’t reading. She was ruminating.

She exhaled through her nose and tried, once again, to pretend she wasn’t thinking about Gale.

Unhurried footsteps pulled her back to the present. She didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Peaceful morning,” he said cheerfully, rounding the bench with a slight tilt of his head. His tunic was layered, hair less tamed than usual. He looked a touch sleep-rumpled, which, somehow, made things worse.

Then, he held out an open box. Steam rose in gentle curls. “For you. I come bearing bribes.”

Seraphyne blinked. “You brought me breakfast? Why?”

“I did. I also brought some for myself.”

She reached for a pastry inside, accidentally brushing fingers with his, which made her side-eye him to see if he noticed. It was warm—spiced, with a faint trace of honey. She blinked again, then smiled involuntarily.

Gale caught it. His expression shifted, not dramatically, but enough to soften the corners. “There it is,” he murmured. “Sunlight through fog.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That smile of yours is most elusive. I’ve been trying to coax one out of you since last week.”

“Have you?” She laughed.

“Subtly. Like a gentleman thief.” He settled opposite her, crossing one leg over the other with a flourish that threatened to spill his tea. “Success, it seems, has arrived flaky and powdered with sugar.”

She shook her head, fighting a wider smile. “You’re insufferable.” She glanced down at her mug. “It’s good, thank you.”

“I consulted the Tower. It gave me a menu of sorts labeled ‘The Art of Diplomatic Patisserie.’ I took that as encouragement.”

Seraphyne snorted softly. Her hand drifted to the gloves beside her, fingers brushing the tooled stitching. Gale followed her gaze to the gloves.

“Are those being broken in, or just admired?”

“I didn’t want to ruin them...They’re too nice to use.”

“Hmm, a gift is meant to be used, not preserved in amber. Though I suppose if you prefer aesthetic admiration, I could have them gilded and displayed in the Hall of Honors.”

“No, I like them!” She said quickly, with a laugh. “Very much.”

“Good. Good. That was the intent.”

There was a comfortable pause, tinted with warmth.

“Has the Tower ever… teased you, Gale?”

He blinked at her over the edge of his breakfast. “Teased?”

She nodded. “You know...whispered at you. Rearranged things in your room. Made certain doors stick when you were already late?”

He considered her, then gave a slow sip of his tea.

“It once turned my entire wardrobe inside out. Every stitch reversed. I spent an entire lecture as if I’d dressed in the dark during a magical accident.”

She gasped. “It did not.”

“Oh, it did indeed. I’d just published a paper claiming the Tower’s sentience was conditional. I believe that was its rebuttal.”

Seraphyne laughed quietly. “It does have a sense of humor, then.”

“Vindictive and ancient, but yes. You sound like it’s been targeting you,” his eyes shone with amusement.

She laughed. “Not targeting. Just… noticing too much.”

“Ah.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well. You are rather difficult not to notice.”

She almost choked on her pastry.

He probably didn’t mean it that way, right?! I’m just around a lot.

​​​​​Seraphyne started coughing in fits and grabbed her tea to wash it down.

“Are you quite all right?”

She waved him away, nodding as she drank more.

Then he added, obliviously, “You’ve a certain intensity that draws the Tower’s attention, I think. That and the recent transmutation failures. It probably wants to supervise in its own way.”

“Flattering,” she said dryly, but her ears were starting to turn a darker shade of red. “So when it teases you, it’s retaliation. When it teases me, is it affection?”

“I think that’s correct,” he mused. “It flirts through metaphysical inconvenience.”

She looked at him sidelong, and her voice was light when she asked, “Do you flirt that way?”

He blinked, utterly blank. “Pardon?”

“Through metaphysical inconvenience.”

“I try not to cause any, generally.”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “I suppose that rules you out, then.”

He watched her more carefully now, eyes warm, amused, a little uncertain. “You’re different this morning.”

“So are you.”

He nodded. “True. I think we’ve both started lowering our wards.”

She glanced at him. “Dangerous territory.”

“Necessary,” he countered. Then, his tone shifted to be softer. “For what it’s worth, Sera, I… value and enjoy your company. Not just as an apprentice. As a person. Despite how often I might teasingly provoke or make high academic demands of you.”

She stared down at her almost-finished pastry, unsure of what to say. Gale, to his credit, seemed to realize he was treading close to some sort of unknown line that had been drawn. He cleared his throat nervously.

“Apologies, that sounded far too sincere. I’ll be disbarred from the Guild of Arcanely Wry Individuals.”

She laughed. “I didn’t know that was a guild.”

“Exclusive membership. I’ll nominate you once you’ve sufficiently mastered the school of sarcasm.”

She rolled her eyes, and just like that, the tension loosened. Seraphyne’s puzzle pieces gently folded back into safer shapes. He took a last sip and stood, brushing off the back of his robe. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. The Tower labeled it ‘A Mollifying Breakfast for the Stubborn.’ Make of that what you will.”

She arched a brow. “For me or for you?”

Gale gave a smile. “Yes.”

And with a rustle of sleeves and an air of pleased retreat, he vanished around the corner, leaving Seraphyne with the morning, the sunlight, and the unmistakable giddiness still curling in her chest.

[androgynouspenguinexpert]

Hello! Fellow English child here lmao. I was wondering if you'd be interested in sharing your thoughts on Cutie?? I really like the way you think :D

If not, no worries, and have a nice day!

*cracks knuckles*

i would like to preface the following rant with the blanket statement that people are products of their environment. how you are treated affects the way you treat others.

cutie is the first real example i can think of (from here in the shallow end of the asmr paddle pool) in which the listener is placed in the role of the abuser in a relationship. and i don't want to mince words - i believe cutie was emotionally manipulative and abusive, and the series treats that with an appropriate amount of weight and respect.

i also think that cutie, like geordi, displays a great deal of insecurity, and expresses it by being controlling rather than as geordi's avoidance. listener backstories are left up in the air to allow for people to put on the mask of the character, save for a handful of small and usually inconsequential details (see darlin's fling with quinn, ollie's partner having a rocky relationship with their family, etc) - but i agree with the people saying that cutie probably comes from a similarly emotionally manipulative environment.

telepathy is a super compelling wrench in geordi and cutie's already unstable relationship. thoughts are (to us, anyway) as private as you can get. literally nobody has to know what's going on in your head if you don't want them to. that's why i think cutie's repeated breaches of geordi's trust make me and i think a lot of others extra uncomfortable - the idea of someone being able to hear everything you think at any time with no warning is terrifying! cutie cites wanting to know what geordi is 'really' thinking, but geordi is 100% correct in the assertion that bypassing the filter of what's in someone's head versus what comes out of their mouth is essentially skipping over their personality entirely. i think that cutie's environment (whether that be upbringing, a past relationshop, or something else) has made them somewhat paranoid of people keeping true feelings from them. this means they're a lot more likely to pry, seeking 'the truth' of what geordi thinks of them, unable to take his word for it.

personally, i find that cutie is the most distinct Character out of the listener group - not just because they're multifaceted, but because they go against the grain of what most of the audience expect from a pov character. i know i'm not the only person who was incredibly disappointed in cutie listening in on geordi's thoughts after their argument about that exact topic - and that's good drama! it takes a lot of talent and incredibly good writing to build a compelling character that never has a single line of dialogue, let alone conflicts between that character and others around them.

geordi, and by extension the narrative, acknowledge that cutie isn't a bad person. they're not trying to be malicious, but they end up hurting the people they care about because they don't know any other way to maintain control over their life. i find it very refreshing that cutie is not being treated as a villain or as an innocent bystander. they hurt geordi by repeatedly crossing a hard boundary, and he's justifiably upset. however, cutie (presumably after trying to direct that controlling insecure behaviour at something or someone else and failing) does seek outside help to start to work those learned behaviour knots loose.

geordi and cutie's story doesn't have a villain. neither of them are The Bad Guy, and even geordi acknowledges that they're both partially to blame for the shaky foundation of their relationship. even without a voice, i believe that cutie has potential for a really strong character arc where they learn to examine the reasoning behind their actions instead of trying to maintain a death grip on every aspect of their life.

so the moral of the story is... maybe listen when someone sets a boundary. it'll save you a lot of trouble.

[princeescaluswords]

(contd) Like the twins want in on Scott's pack and Derek literally asks them if they'd be willing to die for him because to Derek anything less is just not gonna cut it.

Then the twins want to run bc of the Nogitsune and Derek has his whole speech about what an amazing leader Scott is.

Derek and Scott's heart to heart at the hospital has Derek going all "yeah you have the same place as protector of this town as my late mother and family and everybody needs you and you have taught me so much."

It always mystifies me when I read certain people's criticism of Teen Wolf: The Movie. These criticisms fall into three main categories.

Too much attention is paid to Scott and Allison's relationship.

How can you bring the nogitsune back without bringing back Stiles?

Derek's death and its aftermath was pointless and unfounded.

Rebuttals of the first two criticisms deserve their own metas, but I'll give them a brief summary. If you carefully watched the first three seasons, Scott and Allison's relationship was the foundation of the show, not in terms of consuming romance, but in terms of how it helped Scott and Allison define who they are in the face of exterior forces, which is a key part of growing up. While Stiles was the focus of the action in 3B, the story was still mostly about Scott's maturing as a leader by giving him a Kobayashi Maru: a no-win scenario pitting his desire to protect others against his love for his best friend. But it is the third criticism that I'll address in this post.

Derek's death at the end of the movie is a tragedy. This can't be stressed enough, but it is also a culmination to his entire character arc. The end of Season 3A saw him renounce the fear of loss and desire for power that almost doomed him that season, made him an antagonist in Season 1 and a villain in Season 2. His departure at the end of Lunar Ellipse (3x12) symbolizes both that renunciation but also indicates his arc for 3B: what will he become?

He starts with a journey to the past. "But that's not the only reason I left. I needed to talk to my mother." He finds Talia's claws, coerces Peter into using them, and then emerges with a new vision of himself. In Riddled (3x18), he acknowledges the passing of the alpha mantle to Scott (and I would argue begins to act as Scott's beta) with "This town needs someone to protect it, someone like you." but it's very important to note that while he is inspired by Scott, he does not emulate Scott. Following another person doesn't require the obliteration of self. Derek works with Chris Argent and he doesn't take killing Stiles off the table the way Scott does. He physically attacks him. He doesn't rush to Oak Creek, because he can be more helpful rescuing the twins from what will turn out to be Kate.

We see that in the way he talks about Scott throughout the season. It may look like he wants to join the Scott McCall Fan Club, but he rejects that, even in his big speech in The Divine Move (3x24). This is the key line: "You've had it wrong the whole time. You don't fight for a leader. You fight for a leader's cause." He's going to work with Scott, protect what Scott decides needs protection, and even be Scott's beta, but he's going to be his own person while doing so. He learned this from Scott who was willing to work with him in the first three season but who wasn't willing to simply do as he's told. He learned this, in a negative way, from Peter who manipulated him repeatedly, in Visionary's flashback (3x08), in Wolf's Bane (1x09), in Battlefield (2x11), in Alpha Pact (3x11).

Unlike Scott, who chooses to place the most value on life (but not above everything), Derek's more than willing to kill victims like Stiles in order to protect the town, as he tried in De-Void (3x22), but unlike his attempts to kill Lydia in Season 2, he's not doing it out of fear. In addition, as he says to the twins, he also believes he should be willing to die to protect what he cares about as well as kill. This manifests in his willingness to die in Season 4, and that willingness allows him to evolve. However, it's a reaction to what Kate did to him, not a decision to die in order to achieve an end. In the movie, however, it is an active choice. The nogitsune will never stop coming for his family, his alpha, his friends, and he makes the decision to sacrifice his life in order to prevent that. He doesn't do out of a reaction to the horrific memories of the Hale Fire; he's does it because he values family and pack; that's virtue. He's not doing because he's mindlessly following Scott or being manipulated by Peter, but out of own conviction that it is the right thing to do, which is strength of character. He faces fire, the same terror that destroyed his first family, without fear, which is force of will. He didn't mimic Scott's path to a new set of red eyes; he forged his own.

As tragic as it was, how could it be anything but satisfying?

[mischas]

First, Merry Chrismukkah & I hope you have a happy 2024! Second, I was wondering if an O.C. revival ever happened, how would it play out in terms of story, characters, & a R+M reunion? (I see it like the final scene in Titanic, the trope where they don't get a happy ending, but still end up together nonetheless)

Hello! Same to you! Happy belated Chrismukkah! ❤️🎄

Do you mean revival as if Marissa went off to Greece? I operate in this head canon daily so I'm always thinking up random scenarios. I'm personally of the mind that she goes to Greece, comes back a year or half a year later, enrolls in NYU, lives her best New York life, visits Providence a bit to see SS, becomes besties with Seth, has a college-spanning situationship with Ryan as they mine their high school traumas. Sometimes I wonder if RM would ever really talk everything out or if Marissa would hold things against Ryan unintentionally that keeps them in the situationship phase. I also see them deciding to be a couple again for good without ironing everything out and that coming back to bite them in the ass. Avoidant babies doing avoidant baby things.

As for the others, I imagine Julie marrying Neil but still making time for Jimmy when he pops back into her life. Which Marissa and Kaitlin are more than aware of and it impacts how they view love and marriage. Enter: convenient situationships.

I also sorta head canon that Marissa and Summer are more reticent about marriage than Ryan and Seth ever are. Ryan obviously comes from a broken home but has lived with the Cohens' since he was 16 and he and Seth don't really live with frayed parental relationships in the ways Marissa and Summer do. Sometimes I think that Seth proposes to Summer and that's when their relationship falls apart. I think they'd still find their way back to one another someday but it quickly dawns on Summer in college that she's been with one guy her whole life.

Kirsten starts a foundation for lower-income addicts in Southern California and Sandy gets back into the PD's office. There's no earthquake so the Cohen home endures.

Seth gets back into creating for Atomic County and has a fun, though sometimes tense, working relationship with Zach. There's no big-budget adaptation shit going on but it's steady money and mildly successful. At some point Seth plans to create a spinoff set on the east coast but is still figuring that out.

Seth visits New York a lot for work meetings and indie concerts and stays with Marissa who becomes his bestie. They smoke weed and talk about Allen Ginsburg. Seth-Ryan time is still on the books every week but it's hard to do so when they live on opposite coasts and have different schedules. Ryan grows mildly jealous that he sometimes gets more Marissa updates from Seth than he does Marissa herself. But them being such good friends warms his heart, and it warms Summer's too.

At some point Trey dies and it forces Ryan to face some things he's been pushing down for years. I think Marissa's been working on things in therapy but it's still a source of tension between them. Marissa's all-too-understanding that Ryan's confused about his grief and he's mad that he's grieving at all. It translates into them finally acknowledging this thing between them is built on a love that is unconditional and profound and has existed since they were 16. It's a connection that they've always been scared of losing if they were to ever give into it fully. Their propensity for jumping into full-on-yet-noncommunicative commitment in their youth contrasted with their friends-who-hook-up-nature in college is a twist I like imagining them taking, especially as their lives mellow out when living outside Newport.

As for the ending up together yet sorta unhappy ending, I can see Marissa and Ryan finally jumping into long-term commitment after years of being friends who hook up and it taking a while before it all slots into place. I do think it would, but there's the idea in their heads that maybe this is a relationship that cannot last because it's never been all that successful before. And I think they both have a ton of self-loathing to work through before their hearts can be open to the possibility of happily ever after.

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🦇 Good Fortune Book Review 🦇

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

❝ But meeting him now felt like meeting him for the first time, glimpsing a new side of the person she want once imagined she knew. It unsettled her, how little she could trust that her impression of him would stay true to the versions she met later. ❞

❓ QOTD What's your favorite Austen adaptation?

🦇 Elizabeth "LB" Chen's mother is all too excited when she sells the neighborhood's beloved yet derelict community center to two Chinese men from Hong Kong, but LB isn't convinced these investors have the community's best interests at heart. With stubborn albeit good intentions, she fights for the community, too often butting heads with uptight, arrogant Darcy Wong in the process. The two are forced to spend time together, each venturing into the other's world longer than they're comfortable with. Can they see from one another's perspective, or will pride and prejudice get in the way?

💜 It's a truth universally acknowledged that many book lovers adore a good retelling—emphasis on "good." There are many that fail to hit the mark, neglecting the qualities that led readers to fall in love with the original story in the first place.

🧧Good Fortune hits every mark...and then some.

💜 The first 25 pages feature language so unique and enthralling that, for a moment, you'll forget this was a retelling in the first place. The writing is full of sass and quick wit without compromising the charm or formality of Austen's original works. Modernized, the language is moving, thought-provoking, and refreshing. Once it ensnares you, you'll find the sun has long set—or perhaps, just beginning to rise—as the story makes you forget all sense of time. Despite the familiar characters and plot, Chau does stunning work of making the story her own. The smallest of details—like LB's photography, the issue of gentrification, and Darcy's community outreach—to foundational changes—like setting the story in New York's Chinatown and making the sisters children of Chinese immigrants—all play a part in the story's progression. Chau never abandons the themes that make Pride and Prejudice such a monumental story, instead using them to bring attention to the same problems that still exist today: cultural identity, class divides, the burdens and responsibilities of family. Culture is infused in every page, granting this story a unique authenticity that other retellings lack. Infusing this story with the Chinese-American children-of-immigrants perspective only makes the classical class divide AND family values all the more poignant.

🦇 I think most readers will feel conflicted about the minor adjustments made to some of the supporting characters (namely, Jade and Lydia, who are a little more frustrating than usual). However, the frustrations both cause give LB the push she needs to adjust her perspective. Lydia's scandal and brattish behavior made me set my Kindle aside more than once, but I've never been a fan of Lydia Bennet.

🦇 Though I don't think the book needs to be longer, I do wish we got a little more of LB and Darcy together at the end. However, the original Pride and Prejudice story, along with most retellings, stop at the point they're together, so I understand it. The playful, rather than abrasive version of their banter is so entertaining that it only left me starved for more.

🦇 Recommended for fans of the original Pride and Prejudice, readers eager for diverse stories, and lovers of Sonali Dev's The Rajes series (another great retelling you NEED to read if you haven't already). Book bats, you've gotta grab this one!

✨ The Vibes ✨ ㊗️ Debut Novel 🎩 Contemporary Pride and Prejudice 🏮 Enemies to Lovers 🥠 Class Consciousness 🥟 Family is Everything 👠 Stubborn Integrity

🦇 Major thanks to the author and publisher for providing an ARC of this book via Netgalley. 🥰 This does not affect my opinion regarding the book.

[emptymanuscript]

One of the things I really wish and think would help, is doubling down on that "no one is perfect" idea.

That one of the most effective thing we can do is to stop looking for the clean hands ideal.

No one's hands are clean.

Life simply doesn't work that way.

No one belongs a pedestal. No one is ideal. No one is the totally innocent, pure as the driven snow, sacred cow of purity.

The world isn't broken up into neat lines. We, ourselves, as individuals, aren't bordered by tidy boundaries. And that's not only normal, it's ok. No one is perfect. So you not only don't have to be, it isn't a goal worth pursuing.

Because I think that's a big part we don't acknowledge. That a lot of the desire for purity and the resulting condemnation of the other, even if I, myself, am the other, is the fear of not living up to our own ideals. It's the denial of imperfection in the self so we don't have to feel disgust at just being... this, being human, being fallible, having the experience of thoughts and feelings that we would like to say we would classify as bad. Which is peanuts to all the stuff we've actually DONE that we're ashamed of.

Much easier to simply say, no, I can't be bad because of X, Y, Z, and therefore X, Y, Z is good while A, B, C as the recognizable alternative must be bad. Just force everything into that and life is suddenly neat and tidy and easy to define without a lot of work and mess.

But life isn't like that. It's work and it's mess. The very worst person deserves all the rights that everybody else does. The very best person doesn't merit free reign and dictatorial control. Hitler SHOULD get a meal and a bed. Jesus should NOT get to force me to live by His ethical code.

More importantly, no matter how highly or poorly I think of myself and my own favorite people, I and they should be kept in the same boundaries as everyone else. I SHOULD NOT have the right to be dictator over you. I SHOULD NOT have the ability to claim total goodness and purity without flaw or slip. I SHOULD NOT get everything I want. Not even every possible grace for prior good behavior just as I do not deserve eternal punishment and ridicule for past misdeeds. I'm the same as everybody else, within acceptable statistical tolerances.

No one should be the exception to the rule. If there's an exception, it's not really a rule. It's just a rule for a particular class of people. Which is the problem of class in the first place.

WHY should one set of people get a class distinction to change the set of rules that govern them compared to other sets that are treated differently?

It generally boils down to a very tiny set of reasons as justification:

The class is a victim and deserves compensation / The class is predatory and so has incurred a debt that it deserves to pay

The class is better, superior to the common masses, and so deserves special license / The class is inferior to the common masses and so deserves special oversight and less self determination

The class has greater accomplishments in their history and those accomplishments have earned them special license / The class has a history of failures which has earned them special curtailment of their rights

The class has special needs and so require special privileges in order to live an equivalent life to the rest of the population who don't have those special needs / The class has a special cost to the rest of the population and the rest of the population should not have to pay that cost when it isn't their problem

The class is idealized and the rest of society wants to lift up the ideal as an expression of itself and its values / The class is demonized by the rest of society which wants to derogate it as an expression of its boundaries and self definition

The class is foundational and needs to be favored in order for the society to maintain its current identity / the class is antithetical to the current identity of the society and so needs to be othered in order to keep that identity

All of these are problematic. They often overlap as ways to justify each other. And they all, also, have their uses. It's still not clean.

But divvying up the world to look for the clean hands makes those hands fall neatly into those justifications, doesn't it.

Clean hands CAN'T be predatory, they can only be neutral (but then why would you care?) or a victim, which automatically means they deserve compensation. The class can be both superior and inferior at the same time, superior in their suffering or plight or nobility because of how they are treated as inferiors by everyone else. The class has greater accomplishments because of how hard it is to have clean hands in this dirty-dirty trash-heap pile mess of a fucked up world, so they deserve a special license of protection from the big bad world as a reward, haven't they suffered enough? The class absolutely has special needs, the rest of this pure dag-nasty evil world is trying to crush them so we need to arrange for their protection before it is too late. It is idealized as what we want to be, we all love an underdog story, we all want to have clean hands ourselves, and if we reward and venerate them it shows that we value that over the rest of this inadequate shit. And finally, either foundational or antithetical works, depending on the point of view. If it is foundational, well, then it needs to be focused on and protected as a confirmation of that identity. If it is antithetical, well, then society is the problem and it needs to be attacked in order to keep them separated. Most of the time that one is actually a kind of manic-depressive back and forth of we're wonderful and they're terrible as the subject moves between states of connection and disconnection with their own place in society.

But you see the set up here.

Especially if you are defining yourself into this class.

You CAN'T be a predator - only neutral or a victim. Your suffering makes you better. You're a survivor so everyone else owes you from the suffering you have already endured, you shouldn't have to suffer any more. We're the ideal by which we judge the rest of the world. So we focus on us as good and any challenge to that means that society is the problem for picking on you.

It is a completely circular argument, a wall of self definition that has to keep every challenge out because the definition is the wall itself.

I experience this nasty little combo most of the time when I start considering my ethnicity. I end up re-enacting it over and over again until I notice it and challenge it. Most of the time this comes around in a negative of disappointment. I am very angry with my ethnicity, I am disgusted by a lot of representative action, precisely because most of how I encounter it is violently contrary to how I was raised to think about it.

I was raised to think of us as victims but that that victimhood had taught us to be a kinder and more giving people. We survived atrocity and everyone even vaguely sane recognized it was an atrocity and agreed that intolerance of us was unacceptable, we have suffered enough, and so shouldn't de denigrated any more, because we were innocent victims and have learned and have a lot of wisdom and generosity of spirit to give to the world because of that. So we're the good people which means not only that the world shouldn't pick on us any more but that we aren't doing anything that deserves being picked on for. The exact opposite, we're showing the world how to be better.

Which, if you file the numbers off, is just plain old racism.

And, no, the numbers don't actually matter. It IS just plain old racism.

It just happens to be the "positive" aspect. We're superior. As opposed to the "negative" aspect: You are inferior.

Part of the reason I love my BFF is because he got kicked out of his place in our community for calling us on it. I suppose I shouldn't say us, I wasn't there, different community, but it was a beautifully protestant thing in the best possible way. He saw right through the wall and called it for what it was, in exactly the words that would resonate with it. Horn of Jericho blowing. And the only possible ways to deal with it was to change or evict the blasphemer. So they kicked him out. It was too fundamental a blow.

Unfortunately, we're just living in that circular hell.

And I just keep thinking over and over that we should know better. We had this done to us. We've been on the other side of the wall. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over AND HOW DARE THEY!?!?!

This isn't what we are. This goes against everything I was taught that being part of this ethnicity meant. All the parts I rejected, yeah, sure fine. But all the parts I kept. The parts that I feel define me as part of the ethnicity.

I am furious, not just because I think what my ethnicity is doing is morally repugnant, but because it is the blowing of the horn, it's the too fundamental blow, the wall of this is what it means to be my ethnicity, can't stand up to the facts of the real world. It is an unsurvivable attack on my own self definition.

I can't be defined by that wall of definition when it doesn't apply as a definition.

And that's the other problem, that everyone is looking for dirty hands when it comes to racism. We're looking for the 10 foot tall baddies who look demonic and wear SS uniforms while spewing baldly evil sentiments and noxious bile of murderous hate just grabbing up children and tossing them on a great pyre that smokes like a mushroom cloud and is swarming with plague flies.

We know that's not us, so we "know" we're not racist.

We know we aren't monsters.

So our hands aren't the really dirty ones.

And once we're defined as not dirty, while at the same time we're purposefully looking for clean, it starts to look like nothing but a hop, skip, and a jump from where we are to where we want to be.

We just have to hold the right views tight, we just have to say the correct things right, we just have to have our heart set where it belongs.

For most people, clean is simply not being dirty.

For most people who do better than that, clean is just washing your hands as necessary. You confess your sins, and you come away shriven. You're clean now.

For most of the rest, it's just cementing ourselves self righteously in our purposeful attempt to recreate Ethical OCD. We get real judgey as a self defense.

It's really quite rare and difficult to just sit with yourself in the mess and recognize that dirty and clean are abstracts. You're not really either. We're not really either <- see, hard for me to say, because I'm very rarely up in the recognition of my own messy humanity. I spend most of my time bouncing between the lower levels but keeping the judginess.

I'd argue that even most of the people who do occasionally just sit with themselves in that messy humanity are like me and can't hold it very long. It's the airy elites of the self wise who live there. Worth aspiring to, rarely achieved. Because it's hard. But it does let you deal with the world better. It does let you hate less. It does feel like taking chains off.

I don't have to be like that.

I don't have to be defined by my ethnicity. Or my gender. Or sexuality. Or religion. Or any of any of that crap. We can co-exist. We can overlap. But we can co-exist without destroying each other.

Some days anyway.

While distracting myself from my own failings with giant essays instead of the like button.

I recommend the attempt.

Many lgbt teenagers and young adults growing up on the internet today have socially conservative beliefs that they voice at all times that they got from their conservative parents which they’ve never challenged because they think the life experience of being gay or trans makes them politically progressive

[aghost-writer]

Logistics Operations Group

Assignment: SCP-1007

Information about SCP-1007 here. 

This is a SCP Foundation Female Reader Insert This series will have periods in it where it will have repetition in order to build up events. I am forewarning the readers as I know some of y'all do not like that. It can sort of be read as a day to day log in a way. A lot of it is showing Y/N's interaction with SCP's as part of her job. 

Y/N L/N entered the logistics office with a steady, deliberate stride. She had only been at Site-13 for a single day, but already, she felt a sense of familiarity in the rhythm of the building—the hum of fluorescent lights above her, the soft shuffle of papers being organized, and the quiet murmur of people typing away on their keyboards. Her focus was sharp, honed over years of training, and it was no different now as she walked past rows of desks toward the one that belonged to Carla.

Carla, who had been the first person to introduce Y/N to the daily routines of the logistics team, sat behind her desk, flipping through a series of reports. Her face was a mask of neutrality, and she didn’t bother looking up when Y/N entered. Instead, Carla cast a quick glance out of the corner of her eye, acknowledging Y/N’s presence without much more than a brief flicker of recognition. 

“You’re here. Good,” Carla said, her voice barely rising above the usual quiet murmur of the office. There was an underlying irritation in her tone, though Y/N couldn’t quite place why. “You’re getting your first real assignment today.”

Y/N’s spine straightened at the mention of her first assignment. She had been preparing herself for something more substantial. Her experience had already earned her some respect among the higher-ups, even though she was still adjusting to the ways things worked at Site-13. Her previous career had given her a level of professionalism and a mindset suited for fast learning, but even so, she couldn’t shake the excitement of being trusted with responsibility so soon. 

“What’s the task?” Y/N asked, her voice steady but focused, ready for whatever was to come.

Carla set the reports down in front of her, her fingers tapping idly on the desk as her eyes briefly flitted to Y/N’s face. There was a slight shift in her posture as she met Y/N’s gaze, and Y/N couldn’t help but notice the subtle flicker of something in Carla’s expression. 

"SCP-1007. The Mister," Carla said, her tone growing a little colder. "It’s been moved to Hall 8 for testing today. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but you’ll be in charge of logistics for it today. That means you’ll handle the transport, the containment procedures, everything.”

Y/N’s mind instantly started running through the possibilities. SCP-1007, the Mister. She had come across the file briefly during her initial orientation, but she hadn’t yet worked with it directly. A quick mental review of the information she had gathered told her that SCP-1007 was an anomalous entity contained within a set of various objects, some of which exhibited odd and dangerous properties. It was considered one of the more volatile anomalies, which explained why it was being moved to Hall 8, a high-security testing area.

Carla’s eyes narrowed as she continued. "I know you’re new, but with your... background," she said, her voice stiff as she trailed off. Y/N didn’t miss the way her words hung in the air, a subtle pause marking the moment. "We’ll need you to handle this. And you might want to get used to that kind of responsibility."

Y/N didn’t let her curiosity get the better of her, though the implications were clear. Carla’s tone had shifted—there was a hint of something behind her words that seemed to suggest Y/N’s previous experience was both a blessing and a potential source of resentment among some. It wasn’t unusual, though; Y/N had already grown used to the ways in which people sometimes reacted to her background, especially when it gave her an edge in certain environments. Still, it wasn’t something she chose to dwell on. She was here to do a job.

She blinked, her expression neutral. “What do you mean?”

Carla met her gaze briefly, her lips tightening slightly before she sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her voice softened, though there was still a noticeable edge to it. "Look, I’m not saying you’re not capable," Carla said, her eyes not quite meeting Y/N’s, "but you’re moving fast, faster than most people here. Your military experience, your background in research... You’re going to be moved to Level 3 clearance in no time. Hell, thirty days from now, they’ll probably have you running full operations. It took me two whole years to go from Level 2 to Level 3." She leaned forward again, offering a brief, almost reluctant smile. "But hey, good for you. You’ll catch up."

Y/N nodded, taking in Carla’s words with a quiet nod of acknowledgment. She hadn’t expected to climb the ranks so quickly—her military experience and research background had certainly been assets, but she hadn’t anticipated such rapid progress. It didn’t faze her. Everyone had their own path. 

“I appreciate the trust,” Y/N said simply, her eyes glancing at the file on the desk, which now seemed to hold all of her attention. She wasn’t the type to revel in idle talk. “I’ll make sure to handle it.”

Carla nodded, but there was still something in her eyes that suggested a tinge of rivalry—whether born from genuine envy or simply the natural discomfort of having someone move so quickly through the ranks, Y/N couldn’t tell. Still, she didn’t let it faze her. It wasn’t the first time she had been in a position that rubbed others the wrong way. It wouldn’t be the last.

“Just be sure to keep the tablet with you at all times during the assignment,” Carla instructed, her voice returning to its no-nonsense tone. She pushed a sleek, black tablet across the desk toward Y/N. It looked ordinary enough, but Y/N knew better. "It’s your lifeline here. It’s loaded with all the details you need for containment, transport, and security protocols for SCP-1007."

Y/N reached out, her fingers brushing against the tablet. It was lightweight and compact, fitting easily into her palm. She could already tell that it would become an indispensable tool in her role here, providing all the necessary information and protocols for every task she would undertake. If there was one thing Y/N prided herself on, it was being meticulous, and the tablet would allow her to execute her assignments with even more precision.

“I’ll keep it on me,” Y/N said, her gaze flicking from the tablet to Carla, whose expression seemed to soften slightly, the professional distance maintained.

“Good,” Carla said simply, offering a curt nod. She didn’t linger on pleasantries, instead turning her attention back to the reports scattered on her desk. Y/N knew this was her signal to get moving. The job had just begun.

With the tablet in hand, Y/N turned and left the office, her mind already shifting to the next task ahead. She walked through the corridors, her thoughts focused and her steps deliberate. SCP-1007 would be a challenge—there was no doubt about that. But she was prepared for whatever the day would throw her way. The assignment was hers to complete, and she intended to handle it with the same precision and professionalism that had always defined her work.

As she moved through the building, she reminded herself once again that this was just the beginning. The path ahead was long, but she was ready. Whatever came her way, Y/N L/N would rise to the occasion.

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Y/N L/N walked with purpose through the hallways of Site-13, her mind already working through the logistics of her assignment. The tablet she carried in her hand was a constant reminder of her responsibilities as she made her way to Hall 8. Despite her cool exterior, a small spark of anticipation flickered within her. She had faced many anomalous situations before, but the Misters were unlike anything else she had encountered. There was something uniquely unnerving about the anomalies housed within Hall 8, and SCP-1007, in particular, had a reputation for being one of the most peculiar entities in the facility.

SCP-1007, also known as “Mr. Life and Mr. Death,” was a mystery in itself. The anomaly was a human-like being who lived an entire life within just 75 minutes. Its body would age rapidly, suffering the painful transformations that came with each passing second. Once the 75 minutes expired, the being would undergo a violent death, its body decaying into a state of irreversible expiration. No one understood why SCP-1007 existed, and it had been the subject of numerous studies, but despite the efforts to comprehend its existence, the truth remained elusive. The one constant was that every cycle was filled with pain.

Y/N entered Hall 8, her senses immediately assaulted by the sterile, clinical environment. The room was stark white, almost blinding in its brilliance, with minimal decoration or distractions. SCP-1007’s containment unit stood in the center of the room—a coffin-like structure known as SCP-1007-1. The small metallic key that accompanied it rested beside the unit, its significance critical to the anomaly’s existence. The key was essential for resetting the entity’s life cycle, allowing it to reverse the rapid aging process—but only within the 75-minute timeframe. If the key wasn’t used in time, the creature would age to the point of death, and there was nothing that could prevent its expiration.

Y/N walked over to the containment unit with a quiet reverence. She wasn’t afraid of SCP-1007, nor was she unfamiliar with the pain and suffering it endured. The files on the anomaly had been carefully read and re-read by her the night before, and she was prepared for anything that might come up during her shift. What had once been a mystery was now just another part of her day. SCP-1007 was not some abstract anomaly; it was a living, suffering being, and in her role, Y/N had to respect that.

Placing her tablet on the desk beside the containment unit, she watched the screen light up with real-time data on SCP-1007’s status. The information showed that the anomaly was stable for now, but she knew that wouldn’t last for long. Time was of the essence. 

SCP-1007 remained dormant in its coffin, its body hidden beneath a thin, gray shroud. Y/N approached it cautiously, her footsteps soft and measured. There was no need to disturb the creature prematurely. The file indicated that the being often stirred as the countdown to its transformation began, and Y/N was keenly aware that the clock was ticking.

She took a moment to glance at the small metallic key beside the coffin. She was well-versed in its role—without it, SCP-1007’s cycle would end in inevitable death. Y/N felt the weight of its responsibility in that moment. The key was her tool, her responsibility, and she couldn’t afford to falter. It was a reminder of the fragile line between life and death, a line she walked every day in this line of work.

"Good morning," she said softly, almost to herself, as she stood over the coffin. She glanced at the creature within, her voice calm and steady. "Another day, huh?"

SCP-1007’s body stirred slightly at her voice, and Y/N’s attention shifted immediately to the screen of her tablet. The countdown had begun. It would be only a matter of minutes before the creature began to feel the familiar, excruciating pain of its aging process. She could already hear the faint sound of its bones cracking, a noise that made her stomach churn despite the many times she had encountered it before.

"Sixteen minutes until the pain hits, huh?" Y/N whispered, more to herself than to the entity in the coffin. Her fingers brushed across the tablet’s surface, monitoring the countdown carefully. "Hang in there."

As the seconds passed, the sounds of the anomaly’s distress became more pronounced. SCP-1007’s body began to twist and contort, muscles stretching unnaturally as the aging process took hold. The agony was unmistakable, and Y/N’s eyes never left the screen of her tablet. The data confirmed what her senses told her—SCP-1007’s suffering had begun. Its body had started to break down, its skin wrinkling and tightening as it aged rapidly.

The sound of cracking bones filled the room, a reminder of the cruel reality SCP-1007 faced every day. Y/N stood motionless, her calm demeanor masking the sympathy she felt for the entity. She had worked with countless anomalous beings, some violent and dangerous, others simply misunderstood. But SCP-1007 was different—it wasn’t just an anomaly; it was a creature cursed by its own existence.

"That’s it," Y/N murmured, her voice a quiet comfort in the otherwise sterile room. "You’re almost halfway there."

SCP-1007 groaned in pain, its transformation progressing rapidly. Its bones continued to crack and shift, muscles bulging as they fought against the unnatural forces at play. Y/N’s fingers hovered over the tablet, ensuring the safety protocols were followed and that everything was in order. Her job was clear: monitor the countdown, ensure that containment was secure, and provide whatever support SCP-1007 needed to survive the cycle.

As the minutes passed, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with the creature. Despite its painful existence, it never begged for mercy. It endured the inevitable, resigned to the never-ending cycle of life and death. Y/N, too, understood what it meant to endure, to live a life twisted by circumstances beyond her control. She, too, had found herself trapped in a cycle she didn’t choose but was determined to survive.

"Almost done," Y/N said with a soft smile, though the smile was more for herself than for SCP-1007. "Just a few more minutes, and you’ll get to rest."

With just five minutes remaining, the worst of the transformation seemed to subside. SCP-1007’s body had fully matured, and the agony had settled into a strange, peaceful stillness. Its form now looked like that of an old man, frail and withered, but still alive in a way that was both tragic and beautiful. Y/N could hear a faint sigh escape the creature, almost as if it had found a brief moment of peace in its suffering.

The tablet beeped softly, alerting her to the imminent expiration of SCP-1007. The countdown had reached zero, and Y/N stood silently, her eyes fixed on the creature. SCP-1007’s body slumped forward, its form suddenly lifeless as the final breath of life left it.

Y/N’s fingers moved automatically, confirming the data on her tablet, filing the necessary reports with clinical precision. SCP-1007’s cycle had ended once again—brief, painful, but complete. There was no more to do for now, no more to say. The creature had lived and died in the span of 75 minutes, a cycle that would repeat again and again.

As she filed the final report, Y/N looked over the lifeless body one last time, her expression calm. Despite the brevity of SCP-1007’s life, there was something about it that lingered in her thoughts. Its resilience, its ability to endure, was something that resonated deeply with her. It was a reminder that life, no matter how painful, was worth living—even if only for a moment.

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As Y/N L/N finished the final touches on the report, she leaned back slightly, allowing herself a moment of quiet. The room was still, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. She couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction as she reviewed the data one last time. SCP-1007’s cycle had been completed, as it always was, but today felt different. The usual detachment she maintained with these creatures was harder to summon. SCP-1007, with its perpetual pain, had a way of crawling under her skin in a way no other anomaly had before. She knew she had done everything by the book, but a part of her still lingered on the strange connection she had felt with it—the way its silent resignation mirrored her own in many ways. 

Before she could delve too deeply into her thoughts, a light knock on the doorway pulled her back to the present. The sound was almost delicate, barely enough to break the silence, but she recognized the familiar pattern.

“Y/N,” came the voice from the doorway, and she turned to see Carla standing there, her arms crossed. Carla was one of the more senior staff members at Site-13, overseeing containment operations, and she had been observing Y/N’s progress since her arrival. Carla’s expression was unreadable, but Y/N knew her well enough to recognize that something was different. Carla had a way of maintaining an almost indifferent attitude, as if nothing truly impressed her. But today, there was a shift—a subtle, almost imperceptible change.

"Looks like you handled it well," Carla remarked, her tone slightly less aloof than usual. There was a hint of approval hidden beneath the surface. "The process went smoothly. Not bad for a Junior Logistics Officer."

Y/N’s lips curved into a small smile, though she remained composed, not wanting to appear overly pleased. "Thanks," she replied evenly, her voice calm. "It went pretty much as expected." She didn’t need to elaborate on the complexity of her internal reaction to SCP-1007. It was something she kept to herself, especially in front of someone like Carla. The connection she’d felt to the anomaly was a fleeting thought, something she couldn’t allow herself to indulge in too much. It was, after all, part of the job to separate emotion from duty.

Carla's eyes lingered on Y/N for a moment, studying her. Y/N could tell that Carla was more than just the cold, calculating figure she projected to others. There was a certain sharpness to her, a quiet understanding of the inner workings of the site and its staff. Y/N had learned that Carla kept an eye on everything, from the smallest details of the containment protocols to the personal dynamics among the team members. She didn’t say much, but when she spoke, her words always carried weight.

"I’ll let you go for lunch," Carla continued, her voice softening ever so slightly. "You’ve earned it." There was a flicker of something almost approving in Carla’s eyes as she said this. "But remember, things only get more complicated from here."

Y/N nodded, appreciative of the brief moment of praise, though she could hear the warning beneath Carla’s words. She had already anticipated that things wouldn’t remain simple forever. Site-13 was no ordinary facility, and the work here was anything but straightforward. The anomalous entities contained within its walls were often unpredictable, and every day brought new challenges, especially when it came to SCPs like SCP-1007. Though this cycle had gone smoothly, it was only a matter of time before something unexpected happened, something that would test her mettle even further.

"Got it," Y/N replied, her tone steady. She had been working at Site-13 long enough to understand that no day was ever truly predictable. With SCPs, there were no guarantees, and she knew better than to let her guard down. Yet, despite that, she couldn’t shake the feeling that today had been a step forward. Maybe it was just the weight of the report finally being filed, or perhaps it was the strange sense of connection she had felt with SCP-1007, but Y/N allowed herself a small moment of pride.

Carla gave a small nod, her sharp gaze lingering on the younger woman for a brief moment before she turned to leave. “Take your time, but don’t get too comfortable. The next shift starts soon.” With that, Carla disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet corridor.

Y/N stood still for a moment, her mind processing the conversation. As much as Carla’s words carried a hint of approval, they also served as a reminder of the constant vigilance required in this line of work. There would always be new, unforeseen challenges waiting around the corner. But that was exactly why she had chosen this path. There was something about the unpredictability, the way the world of anomalies stretched the boundaries of what was possible, that intrigued her. It wasn’t just about the job—it was about the constant test of her abilities. And while her connection with SCP-1007 had been unexpected, it reminded her that she could never become too detached from the anomalies she worked with. They were living, breathing beings—some of them in unimaginable suffering—and they deserved that much, even if it was only from someone like her.

With a deep breath, Y/N gathered her things. She powered down the tablet, tucked it into her bag, and moved towards the door. The day had gone smoothly, yes, but there was always something in the back of her mind, a nagging feeling that this was just the calm before a storm. Carla’s warning echoed in her thoughts, and Y/N knew she couldn’t afford to become complacent. There were still many layers of the site and its secrets that she had yet to uncover.

As she exited the room, the hallway seemed almost quiet, its cold, clinical atmosphere a stark contrast to the chaos she often encountered in her work. Y/N didn’t mind the silence. It gave her a chance to process her thoughts before heading to the cafeteria for lunch. She passed by a few colleagues on her way, offering them small nods of acknowledgment. None of them seemed particularly interested in striking up conversation, and Y/N was content with that. She preferred the solitude of her own thoughts.

The cafeteria was relatively empty when she entered, with only a handful of staff members scattered around the room. Y/N grabbed a tray and made her way through the line, her mind still processing the events of the morning. SCP-1007 had been a delicate operation, and while it was over for now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something about it had felt... different. She found a quiet corner to sit, the clatter of trays and the murmur of conversation fading into the background as she ate her lunch.

The food was simple, nothing more than a basic meal to keep the staff fueled for the long hours ahead. But as Y/N ate, her thoughts drifted back to Carla’s words. "Things only get more complicated from here." She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she had a feeling she would find out soon enough. The world of anomalies was ever-changing, and Site-13 was a place where nothing stayed simple for long.

But for now, she allowed herself a brief moment of rest.

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The rest of the day unfolded with a strange sense of normalcy. Despite the deep, lingering impression that SCP-1007 had left on her, Y/N found herself swept up in the rhythm of her duties. The logistical tasks at Site-13 had a way of pulling one’s focus, keeping her mind occupied with the nitty-gritty details of containment protocols, the tracking of inventory, and ensuring that the security measures for each anomaly were properly followed. It was routine work, but that didn’t mean it was without its complexities. 

As Y/N moved through her checklist and completed her remaining assignments, her thoughts occasionally drifted back to the coffin in Hall 8—the way SCP-1007 had shifted in its agony, the way time itself had seemed to bend around it. The creature’s perpetual cycle of life and death was enough to haunt anyone, and though she had managed to stay focused, it was impossible to forget. It wasn’t the first time she had encountered a being suffering in such a profound, inescapable way. But something about SCP-1007’s resignation to its fate struck a chord in her, and she couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of connection it had created in the brief moments they had shared. 

Despite the fleeting nature of that connection, Y/N understood the need to compartmentalize such emotions. She was part of an organization that specialized in containing the anomalies of the world, where neutrality was paramount. In the world of the Foundation, sentimentality was dangerous. You couldn’t afford to empathize too much with what you contained. It made everything too complicated. 

Still, it was difficult to ignore the way SCP-1007’s existence had affected her. The creature had been a constant reminder of the impermanence of everything in the Foundation—both the anomalies and the people who worked here. They were all part of an endless cycle. Anomalies were contained, studied, and cataloged, but in the end, they too were part of something that was larger and more complex than any of them could understand. The Foundation itself was no exception to this. It was a machine that ran on logistics and protocol, but even the most flawless system had its cracks. That was the truth Y/N had come to learn in her brief time here.

The hours passed quickly, and before long, her shift had come to an end. Y/N sat at her desk for a final check of the reports she had filed, scanning the data on her tablet one last time. Everything seemed to be in order. The containment of SCP-1007 had been flawless, the protocol had been followed to the letter, and no unexpected incidents had occurred. It was just another day in the life of a Junior Logistics Officer, and while it hadn’t been a particularly difficult day, it had been an exhausting one nonetheless. There was always a certain weight to the work at Site-13—a subtle pressure that seemed to hang in the air, even when things were calm. The Foundation had a way of making everything feel significant, even the most mundane tasks. 

Y/N let out a quiet sigh of relief as she closed her tablet, the final report now officially submitted. She felt a small sense of satisfaction, a quiet pride in having handled everything so efficiently. The day had been long and at times, taxing, but she had made it through. The feeling was comforting in its simplicity. There was something about completing a day’s work without incident that gave her a sense of accomplishment, even in the midst of the chaos and uncertainty that permeated the site.

As she began to gather her things, slipping her tablet into her bag and straightening the papers on her desk, Y/N couldn’t help but reflect on how much she had grown since her arrival at Site-13. She had started as a newcomer, unsure of her place in the grand machinery of the Foundation, but now, she was beginning to find her rhythm. The job wasn’t easy, and it was far from glamorous, but it was important. Every item cataloged, every anomaly contained, and every report filed contributed to the delicate balance of the world the Foundation sought to protect. And Y/N was becoming increasingly aware that she was an integral part of that balance. 

She could still remember her first days at the site—the overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity, the strange, almost eerie atmosphere that hung over everything. But now, the sterile halls of Site-13 were beginning to feel more like home, even if the concept of home was vastly different here than it had ever been before. Home was no longer a place where comfort was found in routine or safety, but a place where survival meant adapting to the constant unknowns of the world around you. The Foundation was a world in itself—one with its own rules, its own sense of order, and its own invisible boundaries. To survive here, Y/N had learned quickly, one had to become a part of that system, to understand it, to function within it. It was a delicate dance between following protocol and adapting to the ever-changing landscape of the anomalous world.

As she stepped away from her desk, Y/N took a deep breath and exited the office, the long hallway stretching out before her. The site was quieter now, the hum of activity from earlier in the day starting to subside as personnel wrapped up their shifts. The night shift would be taking over soon, and though they would handle the remaining duties, Y/N couldn’t help but feel the pull of the door closing behind her. The workday was over, but the world of anomalies never truly rested. There was always something—something hidden in the darkness, waiting for attention, waiting for containment. But for now, Y/N had done her part, and that was enough.

She walked through the hallways, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the empty space. The cafeteria, where she had grabbed a quick lunch earlier in the day, was now deserted, and the familiar hum of machinery seemed quieter at this hour. The stillness of the site was a stark contrast to the chaos of the anomalies it contained. It was as though the entire facility held its breath between the rotations of its staff. 

Outside, the night air greeted her with a cool embrace as she stepped into the parking lot. The sky above was clear, a scattering of stars visible despite the usual glow from the facility’s lights. Y/N paused for a moment, taking in the stillness of the world outside. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if the outside world, in all its quiet simplicity, was a stark reminder of just how strange her life had become. 

Tomorrow, she would return to Site-13, and the cycle would begin anew. The Foundation’s secrets would continue to unfold, and Y/N would continue her role in it all—navigating the complexities of containment, monitoring anomalies, and ensuring that everything stayed in order. 

But for now, she allowed herself a brief moment of peace. She had survived her second day, and that was enough.

[exilley]

I hope it's okay to add on to this post with some of my own commentary. I agree with everything mentioned here, I'd like to expand on it.

I find myself caught between wanting to be empathetic to those people while remaining enormously personally frustrated by their words and actions, because there isn't necessarily malice when someone claims an experience without acknowledging every single theoretical and semantic nuance... the issue is that they're ignorant of those nuances in the first place, and it perpetuates aimlessness in discourse. People want their struggles to be validated in the eyes of others but the only script they've been taught for self-advocacy neglects mutualism in dialogue-- a lot of posts are still worded in a way that calls into question the reader's integrity/morality if they don't internalize everything outlined in it immediately. A lot of us are also less patient and less sympathetic to others than we'd like to admit... It's to the point where even the handful who do understand these complexities can only use their knowledge simply to negate a point they disagree with, and discussion is effectively shut down when the original poster reacts to their words/experiences being "written over".

The things that hurt us in life are foundational to our sense of selves. Begrudgingly, it makes sense people would want to cling that hurt being something that distinguishes them from others, particularly if they also believe (subconsciously or not) that relinquishing that uniqueness will make their pain less real conceptually. I think what's really important is that we try to place less emphasis on labels and stop romanticizing our alienation from society. That kind of mentality snowballs very quickly into a belief that you are unable to connect with those who don't share your exact experiences and feelings. I'm guilty of indulging those types of thoughts myself, and I want to prove those fatalistic instincts wrong.

I also think that when I see people demanding a *unique* oppression, that they are asking for something impossible and also are very much misunderstanding intersectionality in the first place.

I don't believe any oppression is truly unique. I do think there are faces of oppression that change with the demographic, but more likely than not you as Oppressed Group X have way more in common with Oppressed Group Y than you might think.

But also, Crenshaw's original paper on intersectionality discussed a specific context: black women being skipped over for hire where black men and white women were both getting hired, making that specific context unique to the intersection of black womanhood.

People get skipped over for jobs they are more than qualified for all the time. Even within the paper itself, there is discussion about this happening to black men and white women at other companies, just that this specific company was excluding specifically black women from its pool of candidates due to their specific bias against black women.

Experiencing workplace discrimination and hiring discrimination is not at all unique to black women. The *context* was. It was not "just racism" because black men were being hired, and it was not "just misogyny" because white women were getting hired. It was the intersection of both that resulted in black women being excluded.

When a trans man states that he is being removed from, say, a reproductive rights conversation and it's happening specifically because he is a trans man, what's meant shouldn't be that no one else struggles with reproductive rights. It means that it's not happening to the cis women who are actively leading the conversation, nor is it happening to the cis men who are pitching in. It is, however, happening to anyone with a uterus who is deemed as too "gender devient" to count: trans men, trans women, intersex people, and nonbinary people. Albeit, for different reasons, and the face of which changes depending on the demographic of the person receiving it.

But the conversation around reproductive rights is also one that must include disability, must include race, must include sexuality, must include class, must include age, because these things also have a direct effect on discrimination within the medical field and whether someone truly has access to the autonomy needed to make reproductive choices of their own without others choosing for them.

Similar to how we can understand the context provided in Crenshaw's coining of intersectionality to examine how black women specifically were experiencing something that neither black men nor white women were victim to within that specific example, so too must we understand that these are contextual and circumstantial conversations that will not always be truly unique.

After all, black men and white women do both get rejected for jobs on account of race and gender. Cis women and other marginalized genders frequently must battle for their right to make their own reproductive choices.

But when someone says "this happened to me due to the combination of my race and my gender", we must understand that likely the combination, the intersection, created a unique scenario that cannot be understood by only examining a single piece of that person's identity. So, too, must we understand the same when someone says "this happened due to the combination of my transness and my gender".

So when I see a challenge to name something unique from someone also flinging around the "learn intersectionality" phrase at those who are trying to describe the things that happened to them that hurt them, all I can think is that clearly that person does not understand interaectionality. Nor have they ever actually read the words of the woman who coined it. She's still alive. Her TED talks are on YouTube. Many of her essays are online for free.

Finally, I must remind these people that Crenshaw is not the woman who coined misogynoir, and while both Crenshaw's and Bailey's theories do work in conversation with each other, being discussed by different people does mean there is not a 1-to-1 basis to compare them to. There will be disagreements and inconsistencies between the two because they are two different people.

[forspringtocome]

i’m back on my “everyone please read Intuitive Eating by Evelyn Tribole and Elyse Resch” kick in full force. i feel like i don’t see enough justice done when people recommend this book, and too often it ends up being made out as another “take a hot bath and love yourself babe” self help book. and that couldn’t be further from the truth??

so here’s my sparkling love letter and glowing endorsement of Intuitive Eating - and WHY below. if you’re a science lover or big into deconstructing and unlearning colonial standards of health and beauty please read my rambling i’m on my knees

Intuitive Eating has become a cornerstone text in an entire specialty within dietetics and nutrition. this is a book that is regularly used in treatment for eating disorders both inpatient and outpatient. it has not only inspired, but been the basis for a wealth of peer reviewed academic studies that have given us valuable quantitative and qualitative data regarding topics that had been previously overlooked entirely.

the book, especially later editions, heavily references various different studies throughout the entire text. it references other valuable books within the sphere of intuitive eating, anti-diet culture, and body acceptance. it doesn’t shy away from discussing the deeper, more complex elements that play into all of this - gender bias, sexism, racism, Western ideals, etc. it acknowledges what areas are lacking in research, while drawing reasonable inference from areas where we do have a stronger basis of concrete research. it’s also worth noting that they draw on research done that isn’t directly related to the framework of intuitive eating, but speaks to various markers that are pinnacle to this discussion regarding a variety of topics.

the authors are both highly respected registered dietitians with masters degrees in their field (which is now a requirement for becoming an RDN, but that was implemented within the last 5 years and the first edition of this book came out 19 years ago).

yes. this is absolutely a book that is meant to be used to unpack the messaging learned from diet culture, and to learn how to become an intuitive eater. but this is a research based structure, and the very same methodology as is used by clinicians. and even with the wealth of research and information packed into it, it’s beautifully written in a way that is highly understandable and relatable even if you have absolutely no basis in reading a digesting academic research. every single therapist and dietitian i have seen, in treatment and outpatient, people i have seen for my own treatment and people who focus more heavily on public education - this will always be the one book that every single one will tell you to read. it’s the basis and foundation for almost everything that we know and understand, and it has only grown as time and research have expanded on the knowledge it had originally contained.

it will not shy away from giving you further reading recommendations - from research papers and studies, to other books by different authors - without the authors getting any financial kickback from this. it doesn’t want to be the only source of information to people who decide to become intuitive eaters - in fact it is very much opposed to the idea of there being one true text. but it still understands that it’s going to continue to serve as the cornerstone text, and it handles that place and that responsibility in an incredibly ethical way.

i need y’all to know when i’m up on my fucking “READ THIS BOOK” horse - its not some cheesy, shallow, self help book that “absolutely change my life and y’all should really pay for this workshop and-”. it’s a deeply academic text made readable to the masses, that beautifully deconstructs generations of harmful misinformation regarding health and nutrition, and played one of the largest roles in constructing a framework to help people get back to a relationship with food and with their body that we all had at birth, but that was stripped away from us by diet culture and western health and beauty ideals. Tribole and Resch have said it before and they’ll say it again, in a perfect world it wouldn’t be called intuitive eating - it would just be called eating.