#do a teded talk

[hoo-mama]

thinking about a lemonade stand run by girl scouts except instead of girl scouts its the U.S. government between the years of 1947-1956 and instead of lemonade its chocolate milk (that hates gay people)

[identifying-cat-phenotypes]

Do you know why it's so common for black cats to have at least a little white spotting, but white cats are solidly white? I've always wondered

Yep! Sort of? It's complicated and also very simple.

It's because of how the KIT locus works, which is responsible for white in most mammals. in cats, there are three main alleles. I won't be diving into the other, smaller-scale white genes (mittens and gloves, yknow) because they don't really effect the genes I'm talking about, but they can be in any of the blanks I provide and it'd be pretty chill.

Right. So! the symbols im using are w, S, Sᴰ which is just how I write it. Usual or standardized symbols tend to be w, ws, and Wd but I like using S because it stands out more! When researching more (which i highly suggest you do!!!) they'll use a system similar to that.

OKAY! explanation time!

Hopefully I don't have to explain punnet square genetics. I will not be doing so, because tbh in USAmerica we're taught it in like, the 5th grade, so just take this TedEd and chill. I'll also be using a pedigree in a later example. :)

I will be running a simple "simulation" of sorts, but do follow along! It's below the cut! <3

All cats below are assumed to be self, as agouti is not a factor being shown!

P0:

Xo/Xo, B/B, S/w (Black, medium-low white)

XO/Y, B/b, Sᴰ/S (epistatic full white)

G1:

1, XO/Xo, B/B, w/S (Black tortie, medium-low white)

2, XO/Xo, B/b, Sᴰ/w (epistatic full white)

3, XO/Y, B/B, S/S (Pseudo-red, high white)

4, XO/Y, B/b, Sᴰ/w (Epistatic full white)

So, this doesn't tell you much immediately. You may be thinking, "Mod Robin, this doesn't answer the question at all? Did you just do all that for fun?"

Short answer, yeah this doesn't answer the question immediately. Slightly longer answer, it does, eventually, but im having fun with making long posts about cat genetics... :3

OKAY!

So, you can see that the parents are pretty normal. Black cat x Red cat, cool! The kittens are mostly torties and red, because that's how punnet squares work. However, you'll notice that one little gene changes how the cat looks. It covers the other patterns (known as an epistatic trait) with just a single allele with the trait.

This is why a lot of the white cats tend to be solid. Again, this is a BRUTE simplicity of how the expression works with other genes on the KIT locus and how white dominant works, but bear with me.

A single allele turns the whole cat white and shuts off protein production for fur color. It's dominant over every other known trait, and is uncommon in pedigree cats. It is a lot rarer in moggie populations.

Therefor, most moggies you see, black self or not, aren't usually fully white. They can be fully white with the right expressions of the right traits without white dominant, but it's connected to a plethora of polygenes that aren't really relevant to this.

It's more common to have a cat with medium-low white spotting, or none at all, than one that is fully white. This goes for every moggie cat. Pedigree cats are different because of how selective breeding works.

So. hopefully you understand all that. sorry not sorry. uhh have a good one :3

[soymilkwithyuri]

I think kallensaku has to be the peak of mihoyo's writing because kallensaku never once exchanged an "i love you" but you can tell kallen loves sakura so much. She's willing to throw her family OATH just for sakura. There's always talk about how sakura loves kallen, but when are we ever going to talk about the lengths kallen went for sakura...

When kallen arrived at sakura's village "maybe here i can forget about everything and start over..." But after she sealed sakura, she willingly went with schicksal to go back to kolosten, even willingly get cuffed even though she could EASILY break them apart (i n thus spoke apocalypse) she didn't even defend herself in the trial. She only raised her voice when someone tried to pin the blame on sakura instead "the herrscher girl is innocent and i was in love with her!" She didn't want sakura to be misunderstood,,,,

ALSO THE WAY SIXTH SERENADES BATTLESUIT SKILLS ARE ALL NAMES BASED OFF REPENTANCE, FUNERALS AND GUILT??? STOP IT SHE WANTED TO REPENT FOR THE SIN OF SEALING HER MOST BELOVED PERSON,,,,, WAS SHE HOPING TO BE ABLE TO SEE SAKURA IN THE AFTERLIFE AND APOLOGISE TO HER,,, OR WAS SHE TRYING TO MAKE UP TO SAKURA WITH HER OWN LIFE,,,, SHE'S SO HOMOEROTICALLY DEVOTED TO HER WIFE WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT KALLEN KASLANA'S LESBIANISM

Also reminding everybody that she loved sakura SO MUCH that her cells carried her will to protect both the world AND her beloved sakura (she made a separate oath for sakura...) Her love for sakura is engraved in her cells,,, gratitude arc?? Sakura's tears activated kallen's oath of judah??? I cant do this anymore their romance is written so carefully they are the peak of "love is not contained by 3 words"

Thanks for listening to my teded talk if you have read until this point i hope you have a great day/night ahead😊

[crowsghosts]

I swear Hadestown lives absolutely rent-free in my head. The hyperfixation on the show has been going over two years strong and dear lord how do I start.

I first heard of Hadestown when I listened to the Cathedral edit of NYTW Epic III by druid-for-hire on YouTube. I don’t remember when I first ran into it, but the hyperfixation didn’t officially start until June or July of 2021. Regardless, when I did find out about the show’s plot, I went

“Oh. Oh no.”

I already knew of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth thanks to the power of a TedEd video. I knew Orpheus would turn around. But maybe he didn’t in this adaptation-

And he did. Damnit, Orpheus, you had one job.

As to why I got so attached to the show/it becoming one of my hyperfixations? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because the respective myths of Orpheus and Eurydice and Hades and Persephone stand as my favourites out of the Greek mythos. Maybe it’s because I relate to Orpheus in plenty of ways and Hades to a small degree. Maybe it’s the music genres, jazz and American blues respectively, that I’ve always enjoyed since I was a kid. Maybe it’s all of those factors, who knows? Hell, the hyperfixation caused me to dive deeper into the Greek mythology rabbit hole, see the show on tour and on broadway, want to learn the instruments used in the show, and incorporate some aspects of the show and the myth it’s based off of into my minecraft character.

I remember, during intermission at the tour show, I overheard someone talking to their friend something along the lines of…

“So, you think this will end happy? Well…”

You should’ve seen my face when I overheard that.

And when Orpheus turned around when I saw it on broadway last month, I remember hearing a very distinct “noooooo” in the audience. It always interested me how people react going into the show practically blind. No knowledge of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth. No knowledge of the ending. The hope that the pair will make it, only to be utterly shattered when the bard, doubt taken over, turns around and helplessly watch his muse descend back into the Underworld. Back to Hadestown.

I remember balling my eyes out when I first heard Epic III and nearly cried hearing it live. Twice. I know Orpheus turns around in the end, but at the same time, denial remains a river in Egypt until I see the show or listen to the soundtrack again.

Again.

And Again.

But, as Hermes says, it’s an old song, and we’re going to sing it again and again.

[floralbfs]

lord give me strength not to look into modern candle-making processes bc it's one a.m. and tomorrow is A sunday

[avastyetwats]

Stede listens intently when he speaks about the their connection to the forest and all living things inside of it and it's then that he reaches out to gently touch the tall tree, stroking it with such gentleness. "Is it... possible for humans to feel what you feel?" Probably a silly question, but he's always felt something... strange from within. He's always been different from everyone else. And now, as he touches the tree, he feels it... that strange, familiar sensation bubbling within his abdomen. "There... I feel something.." He murmurs, then pauses, waiting... he can feel it coming...

GROWL.

"Oh, never mind. Just my stomach that time." He blushes in embarrassment, using his free hand to pat his hungry stomach before sliding his other hand down the tree which elicits a gasp from his mouth. "Ooh, ouch! Splinter. Yup, felt that one." But again, not the feeling he was talking about earlier. "Must be angry with me. Sorry," He apologizes to the tree before looking down at his thumb and then at the elf. Do you ever get them?" Dumb question. "No, why would you. You're a protector of the forest, and a beautiful one at that." He can't stop complimenting him. Or rambling. "Splinters hurt." He frowns, picking out the piece of wood and wincing when he does, all the while listening to him then talk about the deer and how they could be so much more than that.

He swallows hard hearing that, far more thankful he hadn't shot that arrow. "Deer are off limits. Got it." Probably every other animal for that matter. "I'm sorry that happened..." He frowns, meaning his words, but then he wonders. "And what of the son? He wasn't punished for his father's action, was he?" Gods, S, tede was so fascinated by all of this. So intrigued and eager to learn more, but when he noticed the pained look in the Elf's eyes, his face fell, too... as though feeling his pain. And when the subject changes, Stede goes along with it. Oh, how he loved when the Elf smiled and teased him. It only made his heart flutter more! "Oh, come on. Anyone would scream if they were falling from that height!" But he did have a rather loud scream...

He'd been about to share his name when the Elf shared his first and oh... oh, how beautiful it was. "Isidore.." He repeats in a hushed whisper, pronouncing it correctly the first time, with no effort at all. There was awe in his tone when saying in it and here he was, standing in silence while gazing at the Elf once more. "A beautiful name, so fitting.." He really couldn't stop. "M-may I call you Isidore?" Oh, how sweet the name sounds, and feels, falling from his lips. "Or do you prefer Izzy?"

Then he remembers. "I'm Stede." A sweet smile. "Stede Bonnet."

“ That is a good trait to possess, bard. Pray you never lose it. “ The elf affirmed after that apology. It was good that this human didn’t want to harm a living thing. It was in his eyes at least. It probably didn’t help seeing as he was apparently separated from whoever he was traveling with, but he found it good all the same. It taught Izzy that humans did indeed have empathy. He knew they did.. just he’s lived too many years and seen too much horror to quantify the possibility they even could. So seeing this man unable to strike down even a fawn? It was a teachable moment.

“ Some of us feel it more strongly than others. Every one of my kind can feel nature herself. Some of us have more of an incline to one or the other. If you had harmed her, I would have felt her pain. “ He was talking a lot. That wasn’t a normal thing for him, nor was talking about elves personally and intimately. But when was the last time a human cared about an elf? Not for many a long year, and for the most part relationships with other species was frowned upon, even hated. Elves could be snobbish in many a ways.

“ All of my kind are connected to the horned ones. We see them not as mere animal. One of the highest of our gods is deer-kin. The fawn you just saved might not have been that at all. She may have been a shapeshifting being, a revered being. Unless she reveals it so, neither of us will know the truth of it. “ It must have made it seem all the more horrible, knowing that a deer could be an elven god in disguise. He lowered his eyes then, as if lost in some deep dark memory. “ The father of an elf I know once struck down one unknowingly. Hadn’t asked of the forest, of the spirits themselves for permission. Killing something so sacred is forbidden and the punishment is death. “

He refuses to go on. Instead, he shakes himself free of the thought of it. Where the gods was that brat, anyway? They always parted on watch, but usually he’d hear something by now. Isidore simply hoped he hadn’t gotten into trouble. So the elf smiles a little, completely changing the subject. There’s a pain evident in his eyes that he clearly did not want to talk about. “ So. Do you have a name, bard? Or should I simply call you Shriek for how loud your screaming was. “ He smirked confidently, glancing back up to the trees. One moment he could appear vulnerable, and the next he returned to just how he was. He revealed his own sensitivity in that. “ I am called Isidore. But that’s a mouthful, so everyone just calls me Izzy. “

[ethereousdelirious]

Okayyy, unfinished O/FMD fic. I might go back and finish it later but I just don't have the capacity to walk back what I need to and then finish soooo. Y'all have blanket permission; feel free to finish this/add on or just take the idea and put your own spin on it if you'd like

Presenting, the one where Iz/zy and S/tede are locked in a room and oh no Izz/y has a fever

I did exactly 0 research for this so don't @ me about how barrels/maritime water storage/etc works

Takes place in some imaginary post-canon world where Certain Issues have been resolved bc I'm lazy tyvm just go with it

All was quiet aboard The Revenge. The ship swayed gently in calm, blue waters and even the calls of the seabirds were far away and gentle. Deep in the ship, Stede tiptoed in the darkness, looking around as he went. Anchoring his hand on the wall, he peered into one of the storerooms and beamed at its sole occupant. "There you are, Izzy!" he said in a whisper that was so loud he might as well have spoken normally. "Care to join us?" He didn't stay still long, poking about the room and prying the lids off the water barrels.

Izzy, who had been lounging against one of the barrels and lazily spinning a knife on his fingertips, sneered. "No," he said, after stretching out the silence to an uncomfortable degree.

Stede's smile never wavered. "Got you!" he said, brandishing a finger at Izzy, who clenched his fist around his knife. "It was a trick question. You don't even know what we're doing!" He turned away to peer behind the door, letting it fall shut as he examined the corner.

"I don't care what you're doing, the answer is no."

"We're playing Sardines."

"Let me fucking repeat myself, since you appear to be hard of hearing." Izzy tilted his head but did not straighten or try to get in Stede's face. "Fuck. No." So saying, he sheathed his knife and made to leave. It was an awkward maneuver due to the barrels and Stede's proximity, made more awkward still when the door refused to open. Izzy shook it with less violence than Stede would have expected, then slammed his open palm onto the unforgiving wood. "Fuck!"

"What's the matter, Iz?" Stede asked with weaponized cheerfulness, cocking his head like a curious dog.

"Forget it." Izzy brought his palm to his forehead and fell back, leaning heavily against one of the barrels. Not faring well under Stede's expectant silence, he added: "Fucking door's stuck."

"Oh, dear," said Stede, unperturbed. He hopped onto a barrel and kicked his legs, waiting for Izzy to say something he could no-sell, but nothing came. Izzy slouched against his own barrel, arms crossed over his chest and breaths coming heavy through his nose, and said nothing.

"Hot in here, isn't it?" Stede remarked, eyeing up the sweat on Izzy's brow and the unusual flush on his cheeks. Stede was quite comfortable in his culottes and shirtsleeves, but a rare opportunity to torment Izzy with relentless cheer had just fallen into his lap and he leapt at any opportunity for conversation.

But Izzy, too, was practiced in the art of the no-sell "If you say so," he muttered, pointedly not looking at Stede.

"Ah-ah," Stede replied, "that won't do. I'm your captain now." And, artfully sharpening his voice to a point, he added, "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Izzy looked. His glossy, beleaguered stare reminded Stede of a kicked dog, though the livid red in his cheeks spoke of a deep, burning rage. But neither emotion came through in his voice. "Yes."

"Something's bothering you," said Stede, paternal as could be.

As though in reply, Izzy sank to the floor, his back sliding the length of the barrel. It almost looked deliberate and indeed, Stede would have taken the action as such if he hadn't been watching Izzy so closely. He had seen the gaze go out of focus, seen the brief fluttering of eyelids and parting of lips. "I don't want to talk to you," Izzy said, letting his head rest against the barrel as his eyes fell shut.

"Are the other boys bothering you?"

"Fuck off." Izzy raised a hand to flip Stede off, and his whole arm trembled with the effort.

Stede stared in silence for a moment too long, even after Izzy had dropped his hand and gone still, his body stiff with the effort of hiding his shivers. Puzzle pieces and context clues danced in Stede's mind, and only his residual fear kept him from piecing the bigger picture together. But he had told himself in no uncertain terms that he was no longer a coward; for better or for worse, Stede Bonnet was not that cringing, sniveling crybaby he'd so often been accused of being. Even so, even if he wasn't afraid of Izzy anymore, the man was still no toothless pushover. Despite his unwillingness to yield, he hadn't yet broken. He might not ever, Stede warranted, frowning at the sweat on Izzy's brow. For all Stede knew, Izzy's will could have been unbreakable.

"You alright?" Stede asked cautiously, not moving from his perch atop the water barrel.

"I'm n-not talking to you."

Stede chose to let this go. He looked around, time and silence stretching out in the darkened room. He'd forgotten his pocket watch. The only gauges he had to keep track of the time were his own bodily discomforts (sore legs from sitting atop a barrel, sore everything else from decidedly more pleasurable activities with Ed) and the deterioration of Izzy's condition, which progressed at a mercifully slow rate.

He looked miserable, sitting there with his eyes closed and his chest heaving with shallow breaths, sweat on his brow and livid red stains on his cheeks.

Izzy had been locked in battle with this fever since the previous day, when the only outward signs of illness had been his especially nasty temper. Stede's crew had made a game of riling him up, and the resultant sleepless night had done nothing but worsen his condition. But as exhausted as he was, his body aches and unwillingness to fall asleep in Stede's proximity left him wide awake and brimming with a tense, nervous energy that made his stomach turn.

There was nothing either of them could do but endure the discomfort, even if Izzy had already mentally thrown himself at the door until his body bled at every joint and fingertip from his frantic need to get out. He watched himself do it, staring with glassy, empty eyes at the door. He threw himself at it, striking forehead and elbow against the unforgiving wood, heedless of the blood dripping into his eyes, because he would rather be half-dead on the floor than spend one more minute in Stede Bonnet's company.

Stede watched Izzy retreat further inside his own mind, his face shining like a beacon as though to indicate the raging fever to all who set eyes on him. There was no denying it now; he was plainly ill and, like it or not, Stede was responsible for him. "Alright, Izzy?" he ventured, watching the tremors race through Izzy's shoulders. There was no answer, not even an irritated twitch of the eyebrow to indicate that Izzy was ignoring Stede on purpose. "Hey! Izzy!" Stede waved a hand, lace cuffs trailing. Nothing. After briefly cataloging all the places from which he'd seen Izzy produce a weapon, Stede hopped down from the barrel and tip-toed over, noting the creasing of his boots in only slight dismay.

When he knelt beside Izzy, the fight Stede had been expecting did not come. He made no move to attack. But he turned his head, slowly, and looked at Stede with a grave, expectant expression. "Do it," he rasped, drawing up his arms over his chest despite himself. "Hurt me."

"Oh, Izzy." Stede raised a hand and smoothed Izzy's hair back, a few short, gentle strokes. "Oh, dear." Izzy's fever reared up against Stede's hand, slamming against it like waves against a seawall.

Izzy grabbed Stede's wrist and looked him dead in the eyes, lips parted and breaths coming fast and hot. "Do it."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Izzy."

"I know you want to."

Stede sat back on his heels, not allowing himself to get caught up in Izzy's delusion. His children had been sick before. He knew how to handle this. "Hang on, soldier," he said, and gave Izzy's shoulder a pat before standing up. He allowed himself only a moment's hesitation before getting into one of the water barrels, wetting his folded handkerchief.

Izzy's posture was tense, anticipatory. He sat with folded legs, arms wrapped around himself and knuckles white with how hard he held on. Reality flowed around him like warm honey, soft and sickly and certain. Stede could hurt him easily, leave a mark somewhere intimate knowing full well that no one else could see it. Drive in the knife, strike a match, even just pinch with his fingers. Blood for blood. Making him wait for it was cruel, though, Izzy thought. He was ill-equipped to deal with the psychological torment of waiting.

He held stiff when Stede grabbed his shoulder, setting his jaw against the blow he knew was coming. But Stede just tugged, insistent but gentle, and Izzy jerked away. The motion made his head swim and sent a sharp pain up the back of his neck. It exploded across the back of his skull like fireworks and dissipated near his temples.

"Lie back," said Stede, not wanting to manhandle a struggling Izzy.

The mere thought of arguing made Izzy feel as though he'd sprinted the length of the ship six times over. Obeying Stede and lying back was equally as unthinkable, and yet, when Stede applied pressure to his shoulder, Izzy melted sideways as the room whirled around him and pressure pounded behind his forehead. He flinched when Stede pressed the rag to his forehead and then went very, very still.

"Just relax," Stede said, though he was acutely aware of how stiff he was, how volatile Izzy would be if he snapped out of this fever haze. "I don't care if you want to pretend this never happened once we get out of here, but right now you need to do as I say. So calm down. That's an order."

[theassthatquits]

In the Margins Ch 4

You can read the first three chapters here.

Notes: This was a tough one for me to write because I kept wanting to jump back in time and tell the story of what happened, so now I have a bunch of writing about the specifics of their experiences and might turn that into something, lmk if that is interesting to you!

The text from the book is in bold and Barry’s notes are italicized. 

40 years is not a particularly long time for an elf, but it has been a very eventful and long 40 years. Lup doesn’t remember a lot of things and will often go through the journals Lucrecia keeps in the common room to remember specific things. Sometimes it’s like she’s reading a biography about someone else, not her or the people she loves. 

Reading this textbook was kind of like that.

This was from very early on, maybe 5 cycles in? They were still new to the whole regeneration thing and despite spending every waking moment together for half a decade, the crew didn’t fully trust each other yet. They weren’t the family they are now and their personalities clashed a lot. While Lup and Taako were pretty sociable, they didn’t get close with people. Revisiting this year was a reminder of who they were before they found their family. It was uncomfortable to remember those feelings, yet satisfying and heartwarming to know how far they have come and what they have created.

The first thing that Lup noticed about this book was that Barry’s name (his real name) was written in the cover: Sildar Hallwinter. And underneath that, in parentheses, was scrawled in newer ink: (Barry Bluejeans).  She smiled to herself and grazed her fingers over the older print, as if attempting to feel the spirit of the man who once wrote that. Lup and Taako weren’t the only ones who have changed in the last several decades. 

The first chapter was all about the history of the celebrations: The plane was in constant strife, people weren’t happy. Then the 7 deities came down from the Astral Plane and claimed to have the solution to all of their problems. Everyone was desperate for a reprieve and followed everything they said. Each God had their own lesson and thus the seven celebrations were born:

The Day of Sacrifice

The Day of Humility

The Day of Honesty

The Day of Reconciliation

The Day of Love

The Day of Warmth

The Day of Dance

It was easy to tell which notes were made by Sildar and which were made by Barry. (Her Barry she thought subconsciously and then shook the thought away because he isn’t hers, necessarily). 

The older notes were in more faded ink, its age clearly showing. They were also more focused on the academic side of history, adding in details that he had learned from the residents or theorizing about different things. The newer notes were in crisp, dark ink and they told the story of what had actually happened during those different celebrations while they lived there. It seems Barry was recently doing quite the walk down memory lane. 

Flipping to the first celebration, Lup tried to recall any specifics about this year. She remembered having a lot of fun at the different parties and events they went to, there were some weird ones and uncomfortableness, but she remembered mostly positive feelings. This was the year she and Barry started to become actual friends, she’s pretty sure. They fought side by side against the hunger at the end of that year, backs pressed up together shooting off spells as the Starblaster took off. She was stabbed through the abdomen and collapsed in his arms. The last thing she remembers of that year was staring into his eyes as he yelled her name while holding her tight, even though they were about to regenerate on the ship in a matter of minutes.

This was something she wouldn’t find out about Barry until much later in their journey - he felt everything, and he felt it incredibly deeply. 

----

The Day of Sacrifice

Tedes, the God of Humility, had watched over the town very closely for a long time. He had observed how they tended to use their best traits and strengths against one another, instead of using them to come together. After some consideration, he thought his lesson would be to take away what they valued the most. These were not material goods that were so casually ripped away from everyone’s being; Tedes took away the sense of self.

He took traits, abilities, memories that were so intrinsically tied to everyone’s being and simply took it away for the day. 

On the side, Sildar had written what each of them lost:

Davenport - Confidence/Ability to lead

Taako - Taste

Lucretia - Writing ability

Magnus - Strength

Merle - Healing powers

Lup - Fire Magic

Barry - Desire to learn

Oh, yeah. It was starting to come back to her, waking up that morning and everyone realizing that they had lost something. Taako was first, he woke up the ship with his distressed wail about not being able to taste his morning iced coffee. They had just thought he was catching a cold, nothing to be super concerned about. Davenport brought Merle over to try to maybe help but no matter how hard he tried, Merle couldn’t cast any healing magic. Things just spiraled from there until Lup, in her fury to figure out what the fuck was going on, found this book. She remembered being angry at Barry, that he didn’t seem to want to know what was going on and why. The horrible realization that she couldn’t cast anything, couldn’t defend her and Taako. She was afraid it would last forever, having to rely on the other members of the group for their magical abilities. Magnus went through something similar, the man designated to protect them all could barely lift his weapon. 

It had been a tense day, full of snark and attitude. Lucrecia had decided to go back to bed, hoping to sleep through the day. Taako furiously whipped up every potent recipe he could, throwing his spoon across the kitchen every time he tried to taste something and couldn’t. Barry just….actually, she wasn’t sure what Barry did during that day. She didn’t remember seeing him after snapping at him for not helping her. 

A little pang of guilt showed up in her chest, she was pretty nasty to him that day. He didn’t deserve that. Maybe she could make it up to him somehow. 

The first Day of Sacrifice was chaos. Everyone panicked, losing something so important to them without knowing for sure if it would ever return was devastating to so many. Then something remarkable happened - they turned to each other. That night, after arguing and fighting and mass panic, the village gathered in the center of town and simply talked. Those who could still cook brought food and the townspeople, who had been so divided just hours before, told stories of their past. What they lost and what that had meant to them. What they would do if it never returned. 

This is an exercise in trust, Sildar had written. Trust others enough to be vulnerable in front of them, trust that others will help when it is needed, trust that what was lost will be returned. It took a long time for us to figure this out. Talked with Magnus, Lucrecia, Davenport, and Merle. I think we are stronger for it now. I only made the connection after Lup threw this book at me. 

So that’s what he was doing, holding a therapy session with the rest of the crew. A little jealous that she wasn’t involved, but she did take off into the woods soon after throwing said book at Barry. There was another note underneath that one, written by Barry many years later. 

Trust that others will help when it is needed. I will trust her until the end of my days. 

Still prefer trust fall exercises instead of this, though.

She blushed and smiled, heart skipping at the thought of him writing about her. Putting the book, Lup stood up and went to go find him, suddenly eager to be in his presence. 

[overfedvenison]

A kind of interesting aspect of the internet is that like, recently, a lot of more ‘folk knowledge’ has caught on over the typical academic knowledge we might have expected from the internet in the past. For example, people are sharing knowledge of cooking, and foods, and gardening, and increasingly pushing for cooking meals at home, sewing patterns, and people sharing all manner of other ‘traditional’ things which can be freely explored or sold through sites like Etsy. There’s a budding movement pushing for more traditional architecture and lifestyle including just why certain design elements were made, and it encompasses everything from tradwives to people examining architecture to ‘cottagecore’ and all have this ideal of a more pastoral future. Some of these are certainly sketchy, and some don’t really ‘get it’ and just like the aesthetic, but all do base itself around ideas based in folk traditions that were previously on their way out and were mostly restricted to small communities or familial lines. And many less ideologically aligned are exploring old books, old knowledge and old history casually - I’m betting a lot of you just saw a historical recipe, which would be obscure to the point of being non-knowledge 20 years ago, as entertainment video -today- And there are new ‘folk traditions’ too, like how internet artists evolved to be basically completely outside the traditional art community, and we have thriving craft communities - Such as miniature painters, or fursuit makers, and the like - Which have evolved spectacularly since the advent of the internet. We are in a golden age of miniature painting - It’s in no manner academic, but has exploded with the advent of 3D printing, sharing files, and sharing tutorials and knowledge with one another. You can see these emerging traditions everywhere. At some point, outsider art and folk crafts became the norm. And there are also more... Unorthodox aspects, as well: Many of us have learned about greek philosophy not through an academic setting, but primarily through stories shared online. So now we are all going around quoting Diogenes and philosophy casually, despite that being a baffling thing to do outside of high academia just a few decades prior. There are certainly darker sides to this. Vaccine skepticism and dodgy psuedo-medicine, for example, is also something based a lot in this idea of traditional knowledge and folk traditions. And an issue is that people co-opt high-level political theory as a sort of community value instead of a thing you study, and as a result are full of opinions based on things they don’t exactly understand or have never had explained by someone who truly knows what they’re talking about. But even so, it’s... Weird, and indicative of this approach By contrast, actual academia has been... Slow. Institutional learning has not adapted to the internet well - Which is -bizarre- compared to how antiquated and dying craft traditions have - and many of the more academic sources are locked behind paywalls. There are exceptions - Sites like TedEd and Great Courses Plus, and the various internet archives of old books, and even Wikipedia (Which is not an academic source, but is an encyclopedia,) are examples of ‘academic’ sources of knowledge in the digital era. But it seems like, by and large, we all kind of expected everyone in this era to be incredibly educated as academia was increasingly available to the masses instantly through the internet... And ended up with most people instead rediscovering historical knowledge, and innovating folk traditions in ways that that no one would have expected from a glitzy, technologically advanced future

[carrion-aac]

if you say shit like "fiction doesn't affect reality" or "people who can seperate fiction from reality are amazing and are really smart." 1.) dont talk to me 2.) learn some shit before speaking.

most of us know that "murder is bad, incest is bad, human trafficking is bad, kidnapping is bad," etc etc. that's because we're taught that. and i get your attempted point that "fiction doesn't affect reality." except it can, does, and has. so your point? no validity, i'm sorry.

in this teded video, the speaker, emilie soffe, talks about how when we read fiction, our mind essentially travels there because fiction is often an escape from reality. and it is! as someone in a fandom and often in them, i whole heartedly agree. however as the video goes on, soffe explains that when we travel to these fictional places, our mind picks up the naratives that are often mixed within. most fiction books are based off real world problems. and most real world problems are probably based off fiction books. (MOST!!!! NOT ALL!!!)

soffe goes on to say that many researchers in different fields of study including psychology, neuroscience, and biology, have come to a realization that stories (fiction) can change someones pov on something (reality). not to mention they've done studies and come to multiple conclusions that culture and most of our systemic beliefs are actually shaped by fiction rather than the non-fiction we were taught in schools.

soffe continues to say that many literary and scientific developments that came around such as charles darwin's theory of evolution and samuel richardson's pamela; or, virtue rewarded came to be because of fiction. not to mention other systemic beliefs like class, gender, marriage, color, etc etc are new.

yes, most people who read or write murder don't go on to commit it. but did you know in 2014, there were 2 girls who attempted to murder their best friend for slender man? the case became known as the slender man stabbing. they stabbed their friend 19 times because they wanted to become proxies of slenderman. the victim survived, luckily. the assailants, however, were charged with 25 and 65 years in a mental institution. they were 12 and that is all they will ever know.

personally, this post from @/muchymozzerella explains it quite well. and this post from @/reignitedspyro explains both pros and cons to fiction affecting reality.

the best thing i can suggest if you really don't believe me? do your own research.

there are multiple articles from online blogs, tumblr blogs, scholarly articles, even an article from the national association for media literacy education.

by all means!!! enjoy your fiction!! go watch marvel, starwars, naruto, spongebob, whatever the fuck you want. make fancontent for it, live your best life! i do it too man. but know that while it might not affect you personally, it affects others.

[thefandomlesbian]

We’re All Born Naked (The Rest Is Drag)

Summary: A series of crimes at a gay club leaves the BAU scrambling for a way to locate the unsub before they have another victim. After a surprising revelation about Spencer, he's assigned duty on stage--performing as a drag queen so he has the opportunity to spot the killer from above. While undercover with Hotch, feelings develop.

Read it here on AO3!

...

“We're all born naked, and anything anybody wears at any time is drag.” -Tede Matthews

…

The heady air of the club before it opened collected in thick clouds around the team. Hotch spoke with the owner a few yards away from the others. Spencer watched their conversation, unable to hear what they said, but understanding from the exchange of nods that they were making some kind of deal regarding the club and its patrons.

For the past three weeks, every Friday night, a man from this club had gone missing and turned up disemboweled two days later.

Tonight, they intended to catch him in the act.

Hotch left the owner and approached the rest of the team. Spencer fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt. In a few minutes, the club would be opening, and he wanted to be far out of here before people began to arrive. It wasn’t a risk he wanted to take. JJ shot him a sideways glance. “You alright, Spence?” He nodded.

Hotch inclined his eyebrows as he stopped in front of them. “The owner has agreed to let us bug the place. Reid, you’re undercover with me.”

Spencer gulped. “Er—I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” Hotch frowned. He kept fidgeting with his sleeves. “I’m… not sure that’s something I can do.” Defying a direct order? He never did that. Hotch had told him, not asked; refusing wasn’t an option.

Morgan pursed his lips. “C’mon, man, what gives? You fit the type. You’re gonna be a lot more helpful on the ground than the rest of us.”

“I know, I just—I have certain concerns that my ability to do this may, uh, may be compromised.”

Emily cocked her head. “Reid, are you… homophobic? ”

“No!” Spencer bristled. “No, I’m not homophobic, I just am worried about certain things—”

“What kind of things?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but across the dance floor called a familiar voice, “Spencer!” that sent cold chills running down his spine. He closed his jaw with a quiet click and closed his eyes, willing the voice to go away, but it didn’t, and he could hear footsteps trotting up behind them. This kind of thing. Peter propped up an arm on Spencer’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy! I thought you said you had to work tonight! Listen, you are gonna be so excited— Damien B is back in town. Remember the last time he was here, I was too drunk to walk, so you went up to him and tucked that wad of cash into his G-string for me? Best night ever! Plus, the drag race is on. Are you gonna roll again? Runner up last time—you’ve got a real shot.” I wish I were the unsub’s last victim. Peter’s excitable grin did not fade as he looked up at the rest of the team. “And you got us some newcomers! C’mon.” He nudged Spencer pointedly. “Introduce me to your friends!”

Some part of Spencer prayed that if he willed it hard enough, the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He reluctantly opened his eyes, gauging the expressions on each of his teammates’ faces, ranging from shock and horror to Hotch’s completely impassive poker face (Spencer was quite grateful at least one of them had the grace to look like himself). He opened his mouth again, and again, Peter interrupted him. “Oh, who’s this tall drink of water?” He pushed into the circle of the BAU and brushed both of his hands down Hotch’s arms. Peter smirked and winked. “Who’s your daddy, big guy?”

Oh, please don’t hurt him, and please don’t hurt me. If he hadn’t been paralyzed to the spot, Spencer might’ve had the willpower to turn away and run, run out of the club, down the street, to the bus stop, and take the city bus all the way to Canada where he would change his name and never return. He cleared his throat. He could not move. That meant he had to speak. “Peter, these are… my… colleagues. We are working a case here.”

“Oh.” Peter blinked somewhat surprised. Then, he withdrew from Hotch. “Well, this one can arrest me any time. ” Spencer’s entire face and neck flushed maroon. “I’m Peter! Nice to meet you guys.”

Emily was the first to find her words. “So you two are…” She gestured between them with her index finger.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Us? Oh, no, ma’am. We’re just the twinks who have to try to find a ouija board to summon the top we both need. Right, Spencer? Up top!” Peter lifted up his hand. Spencer merely stared at his palm. “Oh, don’t leave me hanging!”

Hotch coughed, interrupting the shame circulating between all of them. “Thank you, Peter, but we really need to resume our investigation.”

“Oh, sure, sure. I’m gonna be hovering around the bar all night—and your drinks are on me.” Peter pointed at Hotch, and then he swung around and trotted back toward the bar.

Spencer released a long, pent-up sigh. “That. That’s my concern.”

Silence followed. Finally, JJ broke it. “You’re gay? ”

“Mhm.”

“Called it,” Rossi said, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. Spencer’s belly did a sick flip. “Morgan, you owe me.”

Emily tilted her head. “Were you ever going to tell us?”

“Honestly? No, I wasn’t.”

Morgan countered, “I don’t owe you anything. I called Emily, remember? We’re even now.”

JJ blinked incredulously. “You guys are taking bets on who’s not straight?”

“Yeah, princess, and my money says you and Emily bang it out before the end of the year,” Morgan countered. JJ’s cheeks flushed as red as Spencer’s.

Emily piped up, “So Rossi does owe you.” Morgan fist-pumped.

“Can we get back to work?” Hotch interrupted pointedly. Everyone fell silent and fell in line, looking back toward him. “Reid, you’re not on the floor anymore.”

Rossi snorted. “That’d be a bad idea. He might end up at the glory holes.”

Hotch shot Rossi a dark warning glance. Spencer flushed with warmth, but then Hotch continued, “I have a better idea.” His gaze swept the room, the flyers on the wall, taking heed of the layout, the speakers, the stage, the bar. “You’re on stage. You’ll have the best vantage point of the whole club from up there. You’ll see more than any of us can from the floor. Drag show starts at nine. Get dressed.”

I wish I were dead.  

…

In a skin-tight dress, five inch heels, and a poofy blonde wig, Spencer crossed his arms and stood beside the foot of the stage. The crowd had packed into the room. I deserve a raise for this. He looked up as Hotch parted the crowd, coming up to him. Hotch hadn’t changed, and frankly, he didn’t look like he belonged, with his suit and his tie and his too-nice shoes.

“I didn’t exactly ask if you were okay with this.”

Spencer shrugged. “Less okay things have happened. This is something I’ve done before.” He hadn’t expected his team to ever know about it, nor would he have wanted them to, but now that they did… well, at least he could catch a killer.

Hotch gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, so have I.” What? Spencer wanted to ask. How? Why? “You have a smudge in your lipstick. Hold still.” Hotch licked his thumb and wiped at it, framing Spencer's face between his two large hands, and Spencer's words died in his throat, unable to make a sound. The floodlights illuminated the room, casting Hotch's face in bright light and the rest of him in shadow, giving his hickory eyes an odd gleam, his brows drawn together as he worked at wiping away the smear of lipstick at the corner of Spencer's mouth.

When his hands pulled away, Spencer's belly flipped over. He somehow felt hot and cold at the same time. He parted his lips, wanting to ask something, wanting to say something, but he couldn't conceive of the correct words. “Um, thanks—” He tried to push the stammer out of his voice. He didn't think he succeeded.

The announcer called out, “Now introducing Miss Sparrow Wings!” and Hotch offered him a leg up, thrusting him onto the stage before he could ask another question.

Spencer’s heels clicked beneath him as he strolled down the runway. He had done this before, the costume makeup, the dress, the wig, everything—the performance and the anonymity that came with it was all part of the fun. But knowing that somewhere down there, Hotch watched him, gave him some strange and embarrassing thrill. The MC held out the microphone to him. I didn’t have time to prepare an act. The last time, he’d sung a song—badly, but still, it was better than it would’ve been if he had tried to do stand-up, which was his first choice when Peter talked him out of it.

Of course, he had public speaking skills. He could use them.

“Today, I’m going to talk to all of you about string theory.” The crowd cheered. Either they were too drunk to know what he had just said or they thought he was joking. “In summary, string theory is the framework in which the point-like particles of physics are replaced by one-dimensional objects known as strings. String theory describes how these strings propagate through space and interact with one another.” This time, they did not cheer. They mumbled in confusion. “On distance scales larger than the string scale, a string looks just like an ordinary particle, with its mass, charge, and other properties determined by the vibrational state of the string. In string theory, one of the many vibrational states of the string corresponds to the graviton, a quantum mechanical particle that carries gravitational force. Thus string theory is a theory of quantum gravity.”

He scanned the crowd, ignoring the ones sloshing beer at his feet. They had a profile to work with. The man they were looking for would hang back from the main crowd and charm the lone wolves he spotted, the ones whose friend groups had abandoned them, and eventually lead them away. He would not be among the men popping molly crowded around the front of the stage.

Hotch worked along the back walls, patrolling, failing to look inconspicuous. He chose a corner and hovered there with his arms crossed. A younger man approached him, grabbed him by the arm, and gestured in the direction of the glory holes. Spencer’s abdomen clenched with something—jealousy, perhaps?—at the sight, but he forced himself to tear his gaze away. He could not focus on Hotch right now. He was looking for a serial killer.

“Now, you may be asking yourself, how could something be one-dimensional? After all, everything we analyze in basic life is either three-dimensional—like me and you, like this feather boa—” Spencer took the feather boa off from around his neck and tossed it into the crowd. The guy who caught it stumbled and landed on his ass. “—and then there are things that are two dimensional, like the little heart patterns on my panties. You boys will see that if you’re lucky.” Like hell. It kept their attention, though, which was what he needed. “One dimensional objects exist in physics and mathematics. Like on a number line, every single spot on the number line can be indicated by a single digit.”

At the bar, he spotted Peter far below, chatting up the bartender. He sifted over the crowd with his eyes, eager to find anyone looking or acting suspicious. Anyone without friends, keeping to himself, watching the others too closely, approaching loners… There’s a handful of them down there. He spotted a tall man with dark hair clinging to the corner, sipping his own drink. This man wouldn’t be drinking. He wouldn’t compromise his own judgment. But there was every possibility he had a virgin drink to give the appearance of inebriation. It’s all part of the act. Spencer knew about the act.

“Now, the thing about these theoretical dimensions is that they’re difficult to conceive of without some kind of proof. Not easy to believe. But then again, tons of things are unbelievable…” Spencer flipped his wrists over and produced another feather boa, one that had been concealed under the jangly bands on his wrists. “If you believe in magic, the thing about theoretical physics is that everything is magical in its own right—because just like physics, magic always has a logical explanation.”

Spencer spilled a deck of cards over the floor from where he had hidden them. He watched the figure cross the floor to the bar, and he vanished into the crowd where Spencer could not spot him. Shoot. He couldn’t continue to track him like that. He checked the clock. Two more minutes. He could lecture about string theory for two more hours—but he preferred not to have to do it while he was working and appearing on stage in drag.

Running his mouth? That was his expertise.

When his time was over, he swung off the stage and headed toward the bar. Hotch intercepted him only a few steps through the crowd, pushing the surging men away from one another and away from Spencer. “What did you see?”

“Dark-haired white guy, wearing a blazer. He headed toward the bar and I lost him in the crowd.”

“He wouldn’t head into the crowd unless he’s chosen a victim.”

“Yeah, I know. Should we start canvassing?”

Hotch’s dark eyes darted around the room in the flashing lights. “No. If he spots us, he’ll startle and leave, and we’ll have lost our shot. We need to be discreet until we’re sure, and then get him away from this crowd. If we cause a panic, we’ll lose him.” Spencer’s eyes scanned Hotch’s face. “Let’s sit at the bar and wait for him.”

“Together?” Spencer questioned.

“You’re wearing six inch heels. You’re not exactly in position to give chase if we split up,” Hotch pointed out. Spencer mused on this, and then he nodded in agreement; he wouldn’t have very much luck making chase in these shoes, and he didn’t have a gun under this dress, or cuffs, either. Trying to apprehend a suspect in this getup would be ridiculous at best, downright dangerous at worst. He needed to stay with Hotch.

They sat side-by-side at the bar. Spencer reached up and disentangled the poofy, blonde, Dolly Parton-esque wig from his hair and let it fall to the counter with a dull thump. At the sight of it, Hotch gave a muted smile—or something Spencer could only describe as a smile. The disco lights reflected in his eyes, giving them a certain illustrious gleam which drew Spencer into their depths. “The wig suits you. You clean up well.” Clean up well? Spencer felt a lot of things right now, but clean wasn’t one of them. He sat in a seedy club with smoke clogging up the vents, too loud pop music, flashing lights that hurt his eyes, the stench of vomit and liquor and everything in between, and he wore an ill-fitting drag dress with six inch heels, gaudy costume makeup, and a heavy hot wig that someone else had certainly sweated in before him.

The whole thing struck Spencer as fairly bizarre—that Hotch offered him these compliments, the nature of them as a whole. Spencer wondered what, if anything, motivated him to speak in this way. If anything? Something had to be behind it. Hotch would never ordinarily speak to him this way. “Er, thanks,” Spencer said. “It gets really hot,” he admitted, “especially under the floodlights, and… well, this stuff isn’t mine, so I’m trying not to sweat in it.” He didn’t cart drag materials around to work with him in case he needed to go undercover; he’d borrowed everything from Peter, and lord knew who else Peter had loaned it out to over the years.

“I’m sure you wear it better than any of the other twinks that came before you.” Spencer’s face flushed at that. He fisted his hand in the wig on the table, trying to distract himself, and studied the men mulling behind them in the reflections of the glasses and the bottles as they passed by, trying to spot their subject. He went into the crowd around this area.

Every moment they sat here without seeing him was another moment of the possibility he had already chosen his victim, had already led him away, had already packed him up into his vehicle and driven him away to his final destination.

“See anything?” Spencer shook his head. Further down the bar, the distinct sound of Peter’s laughter crowed through the crowd, but Spencer couldn’t see him through the blur of people—nor did he particularly want to. Peter had already managed to humiliate him in front of Hotch once today (more than once, if he was being generous, since almost every word Peter had uttered had sunk Spencer to new depths of embarrassment), and Spencer didn’t care to repeat the event. “Tell me about your friend.”

Weird. Spencer knew they had to talk—they had to give the appearance that they were participating socially here. It wouldn’t look right if they sat here without speaking, and it could head someone off. “Peter? He’s… a lot.” Hotch could’ve asked him about anyone, and he asked him about Peter. Maybe… he’s interested in him? Spencer found that hard to believe, though; he found it difficult to think Hotch could ever be interested in someone like Peter. And besides, Peter had made it pretty clear that he was available for anything Hotch wanted. There was no need for Spencer to act as a liaison between the two of them. The mere thought made Spencer all hot and itchy and uncomfortable on the inside. “He’s not looking to settle down. He just wants to have as much fun as he can.” That was an accurate assessment of Peter.

“And you are? Looking to settle down.”

Spencer fidgeted with the jangly bracelets on his wrists. “Er… I don’t know. I don’t exactly have a settling down type of job, do I?” Hotch looked steadily back at him. This is a weird conversation. “I guess, if I found the right person… I just don’t see it happening, though.” What did Hotch have to gain from asking him these questions? They could’ve talked about anything and it would’ve kept up appearances. Even particle physics would’ve made Spencer more comfortable than he was right now, sharing intimate aspects of his personal life with Hotch at his request. I didn’t even want them to know I was gay.  

In a few short hours, he had gone from completely closeted to his entire team seeing him in drag from head to toe. He didn’t know how he felt about that yet. The ambivalence of the moment plagued him, the satisfaction from knowing he was doing something good to stop a killer, the shame… Oh, the shame. Logic told him he had nothing to be ashamed off, that being gay wasn’t a bad or embarrassing thing, that no one on the team would judge him, that their disparaging remarks were just jokes. But he didn’t want to face those disparaging marks anyway, no matter how teasing. And Morgan would undoubtedly dangle this over his head for the rest of his life, the moment when Sparrow Wings went on stage to spot a killer from above.

Hotch crossed his arms, resting his elbows on the counter in front of them. “You could’ve said something sooner,” he said.

“I know.” Spencer jangled his bracelets. “I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

He drummed his fingers on the counter and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess… I guess JJ said it best, when she and Emily got together, that sometimes it’s easier not to have everyone up in their business. That we don’t really get to have secrets, so when there is something the rest of us don’t know about, it’s pretty sacred.” The rhythm of swinging the bands around his wrists grounded him in the moment. “And, I mean, Morgan is never going to let this go. He’s going to be making digs at me about this for the rest of our lives.”

Hotch inclined his eyebrows. “You’re right about that,” he confirmed grimly. “So you knew about JJ and Prentiss?”

Spencer nodded. “I was the only one who knew,” he said. “But… I didn’t know Rossi and Morgan were taking bets on, y’know, all of this.”

Hotch wore a somewhat grim look upon his face. “They still have one bet out on the rest of us.”

What? Spencer wanted to ask, and he jiggled his bracelets again, and finally, Hotch put his hand over Spencer’s wrist to still it and quiet the jingling. Spencer glanced down at where Hotch’s large hand covered his wrist. His stomach jumped and quivered at the sensation, the warmth of another skin pressing against his. The texture struck him, the roughness, the callouses on Hotch’s hands, the breadth of his grasp and his fingertips. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He gulped, trying to remember how to breathe and how to speak, because suddenly both of those things seemed incredibly difficult. “Sorry—” His voice sounded strangled, and he wasn’t sure why he apologized—for making the noise that had irritated Hotch, for this weird reaction, for something else, and why was Hotch still touching him?

“Don’t apologize.” Spencer’s lighter eyes darted up to Hotch’s in the shadows of the club. His tongue flitted out across his lips, wetting them. What can I say? Words failed Spencer, and he could only think of something he wanted to do, something which Hotch would almost certainly reject—

There. In the reflection of the wine bottle to Hotch’s right, Spencer saw him. He spun on the barstool, and Hotch whirled around after him. Spencer didn’t point. The man walked right past them. His gaze flicked to Spencer, and he smiled and winked a coy thing, and then he continued through the crowd. “You think that’s our guy?” Spencer asked.

“Yes.” Hotch hopped up from the barstool. “Stay close to him. He’s still rounding the floor, so he hasn’t picked a target yet. We can’t take him until we have evidence of wrongdoing.”

Spencer nodded. The crowd made room for him to pass through; after all, he was five inches taller than normal and wearing a sequin-strewn dress which made it difficult for him to miss. He stuck the blonde wig back on his head so he didn’t have to drag it around in his hand, stuffing it over his hair. The unsub stalked up behind a handful of guys chatting at the bar. Spencer grabbed the empty table directly across from them so they could keep a close eye on him—they wouldn’t risk losing him among the ocean of people again. Spencer’s jaw shifted in discomfort. “If he sees me again, he’s going to know something’s up. I’m too recognizable like this. He’s going to realize we’re following him.”

“We have to risk it.”

From the distance, they could not hear the unsub’s words or see the men he approached, nothing more than their silhouettes, but within a few minutes, it became clear he had targeted one man. He eased this man away from the others, placing himself between him and the rest of the group, secluding him. He waved his hand to the bartender and placed an order, and then his arm reached around the man’s waist, trailing over the small of his back. The unsuspecting victim sidled up close beside the unsub. He turned his head into his embrace. The flashing strobe lights of the club illuminated the victim’s silhouette. Spencer’s eyes widened. The man tossed his head back and laughed a familiar, braying laugh. Spencer upstarted from his seat—

Hotch’s arm coiled around his waist and anchored him to the spot. “Don’t.”

“That’s Peter! ” Spencer’s heart clenched in his chest.

“He’s safe. We’re watching him. They won’t get out of our line of sight.” Spencer tried to wriggle out from under Hotch’s arm, which fit all too well around his waist, like something familiar, like something meant to be there, like hundreds of millions of years of evolution had transpired just to lead to this moment where Hotch’s arm was meant to fit around his middle and hold him there, almost pressing their bodies against one another. “If you go now, you’ll blow our cover, he’ll pick a different club, and we’ll have more victims before we have a chance to catch him again. Do you want that to happen?”

Reluctantly, Spencer settled down in his chair, his face and stomach both churning. Everything inside of him constricted like a snake, tense and hot. Hotch did not withdraw his arm. “We can’t let them get out of this building.”

“And we won’t.” Hotch was making a promise—Spencer understood that. He prayed it wasn’t a promise he was going to break. “Can I trust you not to fling yourself at them like Norman Bates wearing his mother’s clothes, or do I need to keep holding you in place?”

Spencer’s face flamed. He sucked his front teeth. “Maybe,” he said softly, “you can trust me…” Or maybe I like this, the way it is right now.  

“Maybe?” Hotch arched an eyebrow, daring Spencer to say something else.

Spencer held his gaze. He did not fold. Sparrow Wings, after all, did not fold. She was a powerful woman, and she wouldn’t buckle, no matter how Hotch stared at her, and she would have no problem telling him exactly what she wanted—but she also didn’t give a flying fuck if Spencer was still employed tomorrow, so Spencer had to make some executive decisions on how much he allowed her influence to take over right now. “Or maybe… I think this is good for our undercover act. Maybe I think we blend right in, like this.”

The scent of Hotch’s cologne wafted off of his body from the proximity between them. In spite of Spencer’s layers of clothes and the heavy makeup and that damn wig (he left it on now, in case he needed to make a run for it and didn’t want to leave it behind), he craved the warmth bleeding through Hotch’s suit, the heat metabolized by Hotch’s blood and tissues through every minute of every day. Spencer found it intoxicating.

He didn’t imbibe any longer, but if he wanted to get drunk on anything, he thought he would start with the scent of Hotch’s cologne.

“Is that so?” Hotch asked, and his words sounded almost like a dare. “This is good for being undercover?” Spencer nodded. “Is that all?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but the unsub began to turn, as if to glance behind him, and Spencer didn’t have a moment to think; at the first glimpse of movement, Hotch grabbed him, spun him around with his back to the unsub, and dragged him into a bruising, open-mouthed kiss. Spencer blinked hard, once, twice, This is a dream, this whole thing has been a weird dream, I’m going to wake up now and it’s going to make so much sense— Hotch’s hands intertwined in his wig, obscuring as much as his body from view as possible, and Spencer watched in the reflection of the wine glasses on the table as the unsub surveyed the room behind him and did not take note of Spencer, in spite of his colorful garb.

After all, two guys shoving their tongues down each other’s throats were pretty inconspicuous in the middle of a gay club.

The rough stubble from Hotch’s face scratched into Spencer’s, chin to chin, cheek to cheek. The unsub had turned around, but Hotch didn’t stop, molding Spencer’s mouth to his own like a potter over a lump of clay. Their tongues twisted and danced to the beat of the flashing lights and dropping bass, until Hotch pulled away and Spencer gasped for breath. His head spun. His limbs felt heavy. His stomach felt light. His head felt like butterflies had tossed out every piece of information he had ever known and now battered their wings against the inside of his skull, seeking a way out.

Arm around Peter’s back, the unsub pulled back from the bar, and they walked away from the bar, all wound up in one another. Hotch jumped up, hand wrapped around the inside of Spencer’s elbow, and jogged after them. “Do you know where they’re going?”

Spencer shook the delirium from the forefront of his mind. “Exit A, it’s the easiest way out without being spotted—”

“You stay on them, I’ll go around back, and we should be able to trap him.”

Before Spencer could say another word, Hotch vanished from sight, and Spencer trotted after the unsub and Peter, keeping them in his sights. He folded himself back between a pillar and the wall when the unsub glanced behind them, and when they rounded the corner, Spencer caught up to them, watching as they approached the exit.

The red lights from the sign marking the outlet illuminated their faces. “Before we go,” purred the unsub, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He held his hands behind his back. Spencer spotted the refraction of light off of the blade of the knife he concealed. “Are you ready?” Peter nodded. “Close your eyes…”

“FBI!” Spencer ducked out from his hiding place in the shadows. “Put your hands up! You’re under arrest!” Hotch is right outside, he’s waiting right outside this door—

“Spencer, what the hell? We were just about to—” The knife clattered to the floor, and the door swung open. The unsub sprinted through the door out into the darkness of the night.

Spencer chased after him. “Stay right here!” he called over his shoulder to Peter.

The unsub vaulted himself over the railing of the short staircase and landed clumsily on the asphalt. Spencer hit the railing. He couldn’t climb over it—if he landed wrong in these shoes, he’d snap an ankle. Hotch rounded the corner. Spencer tore the shoes off his feet. “Where’s he going?”

Holding the heels in his left hand, Spencer jumped over the railing. “Around the block—you go that way, there’s an old plywood fence, he’ll come over that and meet you, I’ll stay behind him—”

His bare feet slapped the stony surface of the asphalt, kicking up old loose pebbles, splinters, and shattered glass, as again he and Hotch separated. In hot pursuit of the unsub, Spencer did not let the pain in his feet distract him. The shadow of the unsub up ahead circled the block, headed toward the fence, where Spencer had known he would try to climb to escape.

He flung himself up over the fence. Spencer stood there, watching him. From the other side, Hotch called, “FBI! Put your hands up!”

The unsub teetered there on top of the fence for a moment. He looked down at Hotch, then back at Spencer… and he dropped back onto Spencer’s side of the fence. Hotch discharged his weapon, but he missed. The bullet glanced off of the side of the brick wall beside them and ricocheted. Oh, shit. The unsub barreled toward Spencer.

Spencer didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t have handcuffs, or a taser, or a baton. He had himself, his wig, his bare feet, and the stilettos in his left hand—in his hand as he held up his hands to brace himself for impact as the unsub jumped on top of him.

The man intended to knock Spencer down and keep going. Spencer grabbed onto him, hands fisting into his clothes, dragging him to the asphalt. Spencer’s dress tore where it caught under his feet. “Don’t go anywhere!” Spencer couldn’t overpower him, but he could stall him long enough for Hotch to get over the fence and help.

An elbow shoved across Spencer’s face. Pain shot through his nose. White light blinded him. He tasted blood. A hand clawed its way into his mouth. He snapped his teeth together. He tasted more blood. “Get off me, you stupid fairy!” The man thrashed. Spencer took his left hand, the one with the shoes, and smacked him in the face.

The resulting shriek of agony shook the alleyway. The brick walls trembled with the power of it. Spencer, blinking through the pain, landed on top of the unsub with both knees between his shoulder blades, hands pinning the man’s arms to the ground, but he didn’t try to fight anymore. Now, he only tried to curl up into a ball, hands reaching for his own face, where the heel of one of Spencer’s stilettos had penetrated his eye, the shoe still fixed there and dangling.

Hotch vaulted himself over the fence. “What the hell, Reid?” Spencer wiped a smear of blood away from his nose, sliding off of the unsub when Hotch took him and cuffed him. “What’s the matter with you?”

Spencer stiffened. “I don’t have a gun. I had to improvise.” I didn’t exactly intend to impale his eye with my high heel, but it stopped him.

“So you weaponized stilettos ?” Hotch repeated, aghast. “Why aren’t you concealed carrying?”

“Do you see anywhere for me to conceal a weapon in this outfit?”

Hotch scanned Spencer, his heavy costume makeup sweating off, his blonde wig all askew, his skintight dress torn, many of his jangly bracelets lost in the chase, his bare feet cut and bloodied from racing along the glass-littered pavement, blood trickling down his nose. His gaze lingered on Spencer in an almost affectionate way. “Not the kind of weapon we use.”

Spencer’s whole body flushed.

The unsub turned his head from where Hotch pressed his face into the concrete. “It hurts! ” he wailed desperately. “My eye! You ugly fag, my eye —”

Hotch pressed one broad hand to the column of his throat. “If you call him that again, I’ll finish the job with the other shoe.”

A tingle rushed through Spencer as the unsub squeaked and fell into silence.

…

At Quantico, Spencer looked at himself in the mirror of the men’s bathroom, his face still dirty and stained from wrestling the unsub on the ground. His feet had pressure wrappings around them where they fit in his shoes; the paramedics had painstakingly dug the glass out of the soles of his feet and then treated the wounds. With gauze stuffed up the bleeding nostril of his nose, he looked worse for wear, though he had returned to his preferred clothes—his pants, his sweater vest, his long-sleeved shirt.

He stared at his reflection, hair all dirty and messy, face beginning to break out from the low quality makeup. Huh, he thought as he looked at himself. The whole thing felt so surreal. Had Hotch really kissed him? Had Hotch really put an arm around his body to hold him in place? Had Hotch really planted the heel of his hand against a man’s throat and threatened to blind him if he said another word against Spencer?

Was Hotch really entering the bathroom right now, silently nearing him, reaching for the paper towels, wetting one with warm water, pressing it to Spencer’s face, wiping away the itchy makeup and the dirt?

“You alright?” Hotch’s voice breached the calm. He smoothed the paper towel down Spencer’s face, not enough to hurt him, but firmly enough to take away most of the heavy makeup and dirt. When he’d soiled one paper towel, he wetted another one.

In the mirror, as Hotch stripped the layers of grime from his face, the rash underneath became more apparent. “Yeah,” Spencer replied. “I’m fine.” He looked away from his reflection in the mirror and glimpsed at Hotch’s face, afraid to let his gaze linger for too long—afraid of what he would or wouldn’t see. “Can I ask you something?” Hotch gave a noncommittal hum of agreement. “Why are you still here? Everyone else went home.”

Hotch ceased his ministrations, having gotten the most grime off of Spencer’s face, and he returned his gaze, a surprisingly tender expression on his face. “You made a pretty big sacrifice to catch this guy, and I owe it to you to make sure you’re okay.” Spencer grunted in response. He wondered if Hotch had something else to say. “Have you talked to Peter?”

Oh. Right. Again, Hotch expressed interest in Peter, and again, Spencer wondered if he meant to suggest something else. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s—he’s shaken up, but he’ll be alright. I think he’s thinking about taking a break from the club, though.” Hotch opened a tube of cream—anti-itch cream, Spencer noted. He squirted a small amount onto his fingertips and applied it to the rash covering Spencer’s face. “How did you…”

“You always get sun poisoning when we’re in the field,” Hotch said. The intimacy of this moment took Spencer aback, his face in Hotch’s hands as Hotch massaged a soothing lotion into his skin. “I thought the cosmetics might irritate your skin.” Spencer didn’t know what to say in response. “When will I get the opportunity to see Sparrow Wings again?” he asked as he capped the tube of lotion, having rubbed the cream into Spencer’s skin completely, leaving no residue.

Spencer puffed a short breath from his nose. “I think Sparrow Wings is retired permanently.” He spun his watch around his wrist. It didn’t jangle annoyingly like the bracelets had. “Everybody’s going to know she’s an undercover cop now. Gay people don’t like it when cops invade their spaces. The last time it happened, there was this big riot. You may have heard about it.” He crossed his arms, guarding himself—from what, he wasn’t quite sure. Was Hotch just mocking him in some elaborate joke? Asking about his drag persona, asking about Peter, cleaning his face, applying the medicated lotion, was it all some farce?

Spencer didn’t think so, but he also knew better than to trust anyone’s intentions.

A small, easy smile spread across Hotch’s face. “Then maybe I could arrange a private show.”

Spencer studied Hotch’s face in the strange, fluorescent light of the bathroom, seeking any hint of deception upon him, but he found nothing—nothing but the same steady and forthright look in those hickory eyes. Spencer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, the question, any of it.

Yet, Hotch still understood. “I am.” Hotch kissed him again. Now, Spencer understood, too. Hotch severed the kiss. “If you are—”

“I am.”

Hotch breathed a short sigh of relief. “Rossi and Morgan break even again.”

Spencer paused. “What?”

“The last bet. Rossi’s money is on this.”

Spencer blinked in surprise. Then, he shrugged. “Guess it’s better if they don’t owe each other.” He followed Hotch out of the bathroom, feeling lighter than he had felt in years.

[broadwaysymposium]

I’ve missed you tumblr - A Stage Management Problem and more...

Dear tumblr (and all the wonderful people who have been following us for the last few years),

I haven’t posted in a while and It’s been too long. Like a dear friend who you love and care for, but lose touch with, we’ve fallen off. Life happens and you can turn around one day to realize that it’s been over a year since you’ve talked with that special someone.

Well, life has definitely been happening! As you know, being a stage manager can be all consuming. It’s one of the big #smproblems and rarely addressed. We work really long days, the first person in and the last person out usually. We are also on call for our cast, creative team and producers practically 24/7, in addition, there always seems to be something more to do. I’m sure you’ve felt, like I have, that your to do list gets longer and longer, not shorter, no matter how hard you work. It’s like Sisyphus, rolling that boulder up the mountain, only to have it roll down and start all over again!

If you’ve ever felt this way, check out the TEDEd video below for an insightful look at Sisyphus. Because, that can easily be a metaphor for stage managers! Even on the best of teams, the workload can be overwhelming. From prep and rehearsals, to the long days of tech, the constant change of previews and the many unexpected challenges during a run, managing to have free time can be quite difficult.

I was once asked by a young stage manager, “how do you deal with work/life balance?” I didn’t have a great answer, “I struggle with it all the time. I don’t have an easy solution, but we all grapple with boundaries and when to say no and making time for ourselves.” There is a reason those T-shirts with, “I can’t, I have rehearsal” are so popular....

But - the good news is, it’s never too late to start fresh. New Year’s Eve isn’t the only time to make a resolution. Every day is first day of the rest of your life!

So - we are back on the horse, reloading and moving forward into 2019 with renewed vigor! We’ve had some exciting developments to catch you up on, like the webinar. Launched last year, it was a huge hit and stage managers joined us from Australia to Hong Kong! Anyone can now log in and participate from anywhere or watch a replay of anything they miss. If you can’t make the trip to NYC for the Symposium this is a great option.

And we’ll also have an amazing new venue this year in NYC. It’s a fabulous space for us (but can’t announce it yet). So standy by for more info to come on that front.

I’ve missed you tumblr, and your exciting discussions, open communication, creative posts and funny memes about stage management, theatre and numerous other topics. We are here and look forward to sharing more about our crazy lives, the work we love, stage management and the theatre. 

We’re also looking forward to the 2019 Symposium and another great conference where Broadway’s professionals share their insights and information. June 1st & 2nd, more info on the website.

[ehh-is-the-name]

Watching a TedEd video that talks an experiment done that’s very out of date now and god some things this guy says just irks me to no avail. 

The whole jist of it is that “guys can get over they’re sex addiction” which is true of course, but he says it as an all encompassing statement. Like every guy watches porn, every guy masturbates, yatta yatta yatta. Plus he was making a joke that they couldn’t do a study because they couldn’t find anyone to be their control group, which makes me just feel like they weren’t trying hard enough. Then again I’ve never had to run an experiment like this.

Part that pisses me off the most is that no women were used in the experiment? Or if they were the guy just doesn’t talk about them at all?! I don’t know, but I’m still mad that this is acting like this is only a guy problem. OH AND- And he was implying that sex is only healthy, like you can’t have a sex problem in the same way one could have a porn addiction. Even though you can definitely use excessive sex as a form of escapism in the same way people with a porn addiction might.

[gaguhantayo]

Hi. My name is Axel Rosse, and I just recently turned 20. People always see me laughing but they immediately turn a blind eye when I start to panic. Why do I panic? You might ask. I have been clinically diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder on June 8, 2017, after I had my worst breakdown.

It took me more than five years just to seek professional help. Seldom did I open myself about what I feel to other people, especially to my family. I was too afraid of the idea that they would see my feelings are trivial, and that they didn’t matter. I am afraid to hear my friends say that it’s all in my mind and a bottle of beer would help me get through this. Don’t get me wrong, I did muster enough courage and tried to make them aware of my growing anxiety, however, my hunch didn’t fail me. I was told by my parents that it’s all in my head and I should stop worrying about it. Most of my friends laughed, saying sakit pang mayaman lang yan. No! It’s not all in my head, and a bottle of beer won’t help me get through this. It’s not trivial. It’s happening and it’s real. Do they really need to wait for seven breakdowns before they actually consider that I am not doing fine? Yes, it took seven breakdowns at work before they decided to have me checked. It was only when my supervisor asked my family to take things seriously because it’s already affecting my performance as an agent.

Everyday I feel pins and needles, not only on my hands, but also half of my body. Everyday I count my pulse and I watch my breathing because I am too scared of the idea that in a minute it will stop and I haven’t done anything good in my life. I cry over trivial things. I panic when things don’t go right. I don’t feel safe unless I am inside my room. My breath shortens to the idea that the bus I am riding home will crash. My thoughts consume me during nights where I am most tired. I am impulsive. I know that I am bigger than my anxiety but it eats me alive.

A month had passed and I am still on Iterax. My therapist made me watch stuff like TedEd and Bo's inspirational talks. I have friends who made me feel that I am loved and I also had people making me feel that my feelings are valid. Blogging helped me cope up. Drawing kept my mind off things, and my family started taking care of me. I never hated them for being unaware. I had shortcomings too as their son, but the good thing here is I am no longer alone in this mind war. I know I’m not going to be okay anytime soon since being okay is a long term process, as per my therapist. However I look forward to the day where I can tell to the world that I am no longer anxious.

Mental illnesses aren’t made up stories. ADHD isn’t just a need for attention and Bipolar Disorder isn’t just typical mood swings. Schizophrenia is more than seeing things and Major Depressive Disorder isn’t being sad. People are afraid to seek help because of other people not wanting to understand. Mental health is as important as physical health. Let's not wait at the expense of our physical health before we take importance of our mental health? 7 Filipino people commit suicide everyday. It could have been prevented if only we are all ears. These things are happening. Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Be someone who understands, lend an ear or a shoulder. Be a friend. Let’s help each other and stop this stigma.

Again, I am Axel Rosse and I am for mental health.

[chichayyyyiy]

ARF! Animal Rescue Force in ACTION!!!!!

Source: Youtube (TEDED TALKS)

Bloodied animals, abused without a chance to fight back, these are quite a prevalent problem in the society, not only in the Philippines, but in the whole world. People treat animals without a care, some use them for their living, some use them as illegal resources, and some even kill them for their own benefit. But these people, they forget that these animals, have life too, they help the planet and balance the ecosystem. They guard our resources and serve as our companions, if our own race are not there for us. They fight with us, not against us, so why would we, people, humans, with proper thinking, act inhumane with them?

Sources: Gustavo Mirabel Castro (Google)

9GAG

ANIMAL RESCUE FORCE

In his book Animal Liberation, Peter Singer states that the basic principle of equality does not require equal or identical treatment; it requires equal consideration. This is an important distinction when talking about animal rights. People often ask if animals should have rights, and quite simply, the answer is “Yes!” Animals surely deserve to live their lives free from suffering and exploitation.

Source: PETA

End the suffering of poor animals! Fight against the exploitation of animals! Fight for their rights! They can feel something too. 

IF YOU WANT TO LEARN MORE:

Take this advice from PETA,

Take vital steps to cut thoughtless cruelty to animals out of your life and to educate others around you. Check out the most comprehensive book on animal rights available today! In The PETA Practical Guide to Animal Rights, PETA president Ingrid E. Newkirk provides hundreds of tips, stories, and resources. It’s PETA’s must-have guide to animal rights.

If a kid could realize this, what hinders us to do so?

Source: Youtube (TEDED TALKS)

[marco42james]

4 Ready to Go tips for Project Based Learning and Maker Spaces

Nicholas Provenzano gets us started

From the Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis

Follow @coolcatteacher on Twitter

How do you get started with project-based learning (PBL) and Maker spaces? Nicholas Provenzano, the author of the book, Beyond the Poster Board, gives us four tips to get started with effective PBL and Maker space use in your school and classroom.

Today’s sponsor: Advancement Courses. Choose from over 240 online graduate-level PD courses in 19 subject areas that are self-paced with up to six months to complete. Go to advancementcourses.com/coolcat and save 20% off each course by using the code COOL20. That’s just $120 per graduate credit hour or $160 for 50 clock hours. You can also receive graduate credit through CAEP and regionally accredited university partners for continuing education requirements. Never stop learning!

Listen to Nicholas Provenzano talk about maker spaces and PBL

Listen to the show on iTunes or Stitcher

Stream by clicking here.

Subscribe to the Show

Get Credit! Some schools, districts, and organizations allow credit for listening to podcasts. Whether they do or don’t, to get the most out of listening you can use this Podcast PD Template Hyperdoc. Just make a copy and adapt it for your use or print it. If you don’t have Google Docs, just use this PDF.

Maker space and PBL Classroom Pics

I’m geting excited for @_mvddie’s ARP Project She has been working so hard and problem solving along the way. She also been teaching me about Feng Shui as part of her project. She’s also learning to use CNC machines, @dremel.

This is Evee. She fell in love with woodworking last year when using the #KnightsForge Innovation Lab for a class. She decided to make creating a curriculum for a new woodworking class for her Senior capstone project.

Moustrap car design and building in the Knights Forge kingdom.

Design Thinking for the 78 Innovation and Design Class. The students will use Minecraft to build.

Building Bridges and coding Sphero to drive across it.

Students are designing their newspaper shoes for Innovation class with four sheets of newspaper and 1 foot of duct tape.

Uniggett students making their homecoming shirts fancy in the Knights Forge Innovation Lab this morning.

Unliggett students are using Makey Makey to learn about open and closed circuits.

  Nicholas Provenzano – Bio as Submitted

Nicholas Provenzano is the Technology Coordinator and Makerspace Director at University Liggett School in Michigan. He is also an author, maker space builder, international keynote speaker, and consultant.

He writes on his website, TheNerdyTeacher.com, Edutopia.org, as well as many other prominent educational websites. He has been featured on CNN, Education Week, and other media outlets. He has been recognized as the Technology Teacher of the Year by MACUL and ISTE.

Nicholas is a Google Certified Innovator, ASCD Emerging Leader, Microsoft Minecraft Mentor, Raspberry Pi Certified Educator, Adobe Education Leader, and a TEDEd Innovative Educator.

His best-selling books, Your Starter Guide to Makerspaces, The Maker Mentality, and Beyond the Poster Board can be found on Amazon. Nicholas is sharing plenty of nerdy things on Twitter and Instagram at @TheNerdyTeacher.

Twitter: @TheNerdyTeacher

Instagram: @TheNerdyTeacher

  Disclosure of Material Connection: This is a “sponsored podcast episode.” The company who sponsored it compensated me via cash payment, gift, or something else of value to include a reference to their product. Regardless, I only recommend products or services I believe will be good for my readers and are from companies I can recommend. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

The post 4 Ready to Go tips for Project Based Learning and Maker Spaces appeared first on Cool Cat Teacher Blog by Vicki Davis @coolcatteacher helping educators be excellent every day. Meow!

from Cool Cat Teacher BlogCool Cat Teacher Blog https://www.coolcatteacher.com/4-ready-to-go-tips-for-project-based-learning-and-maker-spaces/