#economics honors courses

[stackslip]

lmao this clownish, hypocritical, farcical, vindicative mess of a country. this loony nation that will literally throw a whole tantrum, from government to media stations to randoes on the street, because it deeply believes that it is entitled to the spoils and fruits and suffering of the people it oppressed for centuries, as *thanks* for "civilizing" them. any backlash to that notion creates unprecedented fury and petty vindictiveness towards the nationals of said country. on one hand the new governments of niger and mali are "human rights abusing juntas", on the other any national from this country must be severely punished for their governments' refusal to bow down and lick the sole of france's boot like they're supposed to.

[jcmarchi]

Nurturing success

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/nurturing-success/

Nurturing success

The start and finish of a degree program are pivotal moments in the lives of MIT’s graduate students. In her first three years in MIT’s Department of Political Science, professor Mariya Grinberg’s mentorship has helped numerous students start their graduate journeys with confidence and direction. Nuh Gedik, who joined the Department of Physics in 2008, looks to the finish line: he finds joy in seeing his students reach personal and professional success at the end of their PhDs. Both were recently honored as “Committed to Caring” for their support of graduate students. 

Mariya Grinberg: Commitment to intellectual growth

When Mariya Grinberg joined the MIT Security Studies Program as a faculty member in 2021, the department was in a state of flux. The Covid-19 pandemic was in full swing, several core faculty members were nearing retirement, and the program had welcomed the largest cohort of PhD students in its history. As Grinberg entered the community, she embraced these challenges, meeting and exceeding her expected duties as an advisor.

In her role as assistant professor of political science, Grinberg’s research interests center on the question of how time and uncertainty shape the strategic decisions of states, focusing on economic statecraft, military planning, and questions of state sovereignty.

As a junior faculty member, Grinberg shoulders one of the largest advising loads in the department. Despite this, multiple nominators praised Grinberg for her prompt and discerning feedback. Students note her efforts in reading through and commenting on many rounds of paper drafts, supplemented by hour-long brainstorming sessions at her whiteboard. “It’s rare that someone can become both your most incisive critic and staunchest advocate,” a nominator noted. “I never took it for granted.”

Throughout these sessions, Grinberg delivers her advice with both confidence and empathy. One nominator shared how meetings put them at ease: “Normally, I am quite anxious about meeting with faculty, but I never felt that way during my meetings with Mariya.”

Grinberg believes that failure is an integral part of the learning process and encourages her students to embrace and learn from setbacks. She acknowledges that the pressure to accomplish tasks within time constraints often leaves little room for failure, which can lead to decision paralysis. Grinberg reassures her students that investing time in a dissertation idea, even if it turns out to be non-viable, is not time wasted.

When asked about her philosophy on mentorship, Grinberg emphasizes that the advice of mentors is just that — advice. It represents their best effort to steer students in what they perceive to be a fruitful direction, but it does not mean the advice is invariably correct. Grinberg encourages students to critically evaluate any feedback and make their own judgments that may not align with their advisor’s thoughts.

Grinberg shares a concept she first learned from a creative writing professor: “When someone tells you there is something wrong with your work, 90 percent of the time they are right. When someone tells you how to fix it, 90 percent of the time they are wrong.”

Nuh Gedik: Mentoring the next generation of scientists

Gedik is the Donner Professor of Physics at MIT. His group investigates quantum materials by using advanced optical and electron-based spectroscopies. Gedik employs these techniques to study topological insulators, high-temperature superconductors, and atomically layered materials.

When asked about what keeps him motivated, Gedik says that he is driven by the professional development of his students. Gedik prioritizes the growth of his students above all else, and believes that academic output follows naturally with personal and professional growth. One nominator shared one of Gedik’s favorite sayings: “Finding a job for you is my job.”

As a result of this mindset, the alumni of Gedik’s group have achieved spectacular professional success, including members who are now faculty at top universities such as Stanford, Harvard, and Columbia universities. Several group members are also in leadership roles at companies like Intel, Meta, or ASML.

Alongside his academic pursuits, Gedik is deeply committed to promoting diversity, equity, and inclusion within his research group and the broader academic community. He dedicates regular portions of the weekly group meetings to discussing literature and practices related to these topics. Not only do these discussions educate the group on important issues, but they also help lab members integrate inclusive practices into their day-to-day endeavors.

By integrating inclusive principles into his teaching and mentoring, Gedik creates a culture where students are supported personally and academically. In fact, a nominator shared that many of these practices stem from the professional development courses that Gedik voluntarily attends. His proactive approach not only benefits his current students, but also sets a standard that influences others as well.

In addition to his efforts within the lab, Gedik is proactive in scientific outreach and mentorship within the broader community. He attends annual science fairs in educationally under-resourced communities, aiming to inspire the younger generation to pursue careers in STEM. One nominator praises these fairs for “igniting interest in science and technology among diverse audiences,” with a particular focus on inspiring the younger generation.

[dirtyheathencommie]

DEAR EDUCATIONALLY NEGLECTED HOMESCHOOLERS

I’ve gathered some resources and tips and tricks on self-educating after educational neglect. This is only what I did and what I know helped me. I’m about to graduate college with honors after having no education past the age of 9. I wouldn’t be here without the following. Everything is free, and at/well above the standard for education in the US.

The holy grail: Khan Academy. Nearly every course you could take is available here, in order and by grade level. Their open-source free courses rival some of the college classes I’ve taken. This is your most solid resource.

For inattentive types: Crash Course offers a variety of courses that are snappy, entertaining, and extremely rewarding. They work for my ADHD brain. They also have college prep advice, which is essential if you’re looking to go to higher education with no classroom experience.

To catch up on your reading: There are certain books that you may have read had you gone to school that you’ve missed out on. This list is the most well-rounded and can fill you in on both children’s books and classic novels that are essential or at least extremely helpful to be familiar with. You can find a majority of these easily at a local library (and some for free in PDF form online low key). There are a few higher level classics in here that I’d highly recommend. If it doesn’t work for you, I’d always recommend asking your local librarian.

*BE AWARE* The book list I recommend suggests you read Harry Potter books, and given their transphobic author you may or may not want to read them. If you choose to, I’d highly recommend buying the books secondhand or borrowing from a library to avoid financially supporting a living author with dangerous and damaging views.

TEST, TEST, TEST: Again, Khan Academy is your go-to for this. I don’t personally like standardized testing, but going through SAT and ACT courses was the best way I found to really reveal my gaps so that I could supplement.

Finally: As much as you can, enjoy the process. Education can be thrilling and teach you so much about yourself, and help shape your view of the world. It can get frustrating, but I’d like to encourage you that everyone can learn. No pace is the perfect pace, and your learning style is the right learning style for you. In teaching yourself, be patient, be kind, and indulge in the subjects you really enjoy without neglecting others. You are your teacher. Give yourself what others chose not to.

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer— Part Three

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: alcohol use, mention of drugs, mentions of scars (azs hands), slight Tamlin slander (lighthearted tbh), reader being observant, az being… well az :)

Word Count: 4.7k

Previous Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Introduction to Philosophy was taught by professor Jeff Davids. 

It was one of the smaller classes you’d taken in freshman year. Though many people took it to fulfill a General Education requirement, it was more significant for you. It marked the beginning of your Philosophy major and a longstanding obsession with the ideas of ancient thinkers.

It was the same for Morrigan and Feyre, both of whom you met in Professor Davids’ class. Like you, they were Pre-Law students. And while you’d sat with Feyre on the first day out of pure chance, you were sure that it was fate that pulled you both into an assigned group with Mor— and Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. The three boys had chosen Intro to Philosophy because it had enough seats for all of them.

There were many things you remembered about your Intro to Philosophy class. Professor Davids was a rockclimber, the Allegory of the Cave was one of the most well-known philosophical concepts, Cassian always came ten minutes late, and Mor’s first major presentation was an in depth and perfectly executed criticism of Plato’s The Republic. You remembered it clearly. She argued against the idea of Plato being classified as the ‘first feminist’. Even if you hadn’t already shared Mor’s belief that Plato fell short of feminist ideals, her presentation would have won you over. Just two months into your friendship, Mor had already made a lasting impression. You remembered her eloquence, the way she commanded the room—a woman of honor and dignity.

It was strange, in an endlessly entertaining way, to see the same woman before you now down on one knee, chugging the last of her drink in the Summit Pulse parking lot. 

She let out a belch as she stood and Cassian responded with an approving whistle, giving her a sloppy high five. “Fuck,” she said, gingerly dabbing at her smeared lipstick. “Can someone pass me my bag?”

Summit Pulse had officially begun twenty-five minutes ago, at 11:30 AM. You’d arrived at 11, found two open parking spots, and began your small, almost humble, tailgate— consisting of various seltzers, shooters, and beers for the boys. 

You’d driven in two cars: Feyre and Rhys in one, and Az, you, Mor, and Cassian in the other. It was more economical to get two parking passes for the three days, so the boys had devised a plan. The idea was simple: whoever wasn’t driving in the morning would get heavily intoxicated right from the start, making full use of the tailgating privileges. Since the sets ended around 10 PM, by the end of the night one of them would be sober enough to drive. For today, Az was the designated driver, while Cassian would take over for the ride home. 

Rhysand’s plan was far simpler. He would only drink modestly throughout the day— but no matter what, he was driving home. This was for two reasons. First, no one but him was allowed to drive his car anyway, and second, he didn’t want Feyre to be worried about her ride home. 

When you’d asked the boys why they hadn’t included you, Feyre, or Mor into the shifts, they had shrugged and adamantly opposed. According to them, it was their job to take care of you, to let you have fun at a festival knowing you’d have three eyes watching over you. Not to mention that they knew their alcohol tolerances better than you three. 

Rhys, with a sly smile, had also pointed out that your edibles made predicting sobriety a bit unreliable.

He was right, of course, so you didn’t argue— even if you hadn’t brought them today.

You handed Mor her bag. Her nimble, ring-clad fingers dug through it as you grabbed your phone, offering the camera screen to her as a makeshift mirror. She sung out a small thank you in response.

It was already hot out, a fact you’d prepared for but nonetheless hated, and the seltzers in your stomach gurgled in the heat. It suddenly crossed your mind that you should’ve had a heavier breakfast. But the morning had been chaotic, so you were now forced to rely on the festival food— food that was bound to cost three times as much as it would outside of festival grounds.

Two voices joined the sounds behind you and you cranked your head in time to watch Feyre bound over, a bounce in her step. She wore simple shorts and a flowy, linen tank that swayed with her movements. The look of it seemed to perfectly pair with the outfit Rhysand wore— white linen shorts and a short-sleeved button up, a few more buttons undone than necessary, of course. An image flashed into your mind of a very probable future: Feyre and Rhys married in this very city, white linens and salt-air breezes at their reception. 

Cassian and Azriel would fight for best man, of course, and when they were both asked, they’d fight about which was number one and which was number two. Feyre’s maid of honor would be a much more nuanced choice, balanced between her two sisters and you and Mor. 

At least, if you and Feyre were still friends by then.

You pushed the thought away— a silly, irrational, and anxious thought. They appeared a lot, especially when you weren’t as busy as you’d conditioned yourself to be these past few semesters. It was strange how those thoughts manifested when you were at your happiest. But there was no room for those this summer. You’d told yourself this over and over. One summer to just live, you repeated in your mind, one summer to exist. 

Feyre wrapped her arms around your shoulder, tight enough to give you a welcome squeeze but tender and careful so as to not disrupt your mirror duties. 

“You smell good,” you told her as the sweet smell of pear reached your nostrils. She met your eyes from the side as you grinned. “Look even better too.”

A small blush painted her cheeks and Feyre smiled. “You think?” 

You nodded and Mor ran a gentle nail around her lips, picking up the excess red gloss with her nails. You watched as she struck a pose. 

“And how do I look?”

There was a mischievous glint in her eyes that seemed to intensify by the second. Her excitement grew as the drink she chugged began making its way through her system. 

“Good enough to get free drinks.” 

You felt Feyre nod in agreement against your shoulder. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Summit Pulse had been going strong for hours and you were riding the high of it all. The sun was still glazing in the sky, your ears were still ringing, and the crowd's anticipation for the next set was almost tangible despite it not starting for another hour.

You guys had staked out a great spot near the front, close enough to give you a full view of the stage. Sadly, you hadn’t come early enough to get barricade, but you were more than content with the place you held in the growing crowd. Az and Cass had ventured off some time ago to grab more drinks and a small, worrying voice in the back of your mind began to worry that the two boys would struggle to rejoin the group. 

You tried to pay it no mind, focusing on the game of Heads Up you were playing with Feyre and Mor. Feyre held her phone to her forehead and prompted the next word to come. 

SPRING.

You and Mor exchanged a conspiratorial glance, gently pushing one another to create a space between your two bodies. A mirrored grin grew on your faces— ones with such childish glee and mischief that Feyre immediately picked up on the shared thought.

Her eyes widened as she shook her head. She dropped her hands to her side. "No," she whined, "Please don't."

You frowned in feign confusion, bringing a hand to cup your ear. "What?" you exclaimed, "I can't hear you." You looked back at Mor, watching as the face she formed mimicked yours. "Do you hear anything?"

Rhys fought to suppress a grin, wrapping his arms tighter around Feyre as she let out another helpless groan. He gave her a kiss to the temple as he leaned in further, eyes bouncing between you and Morrigan.

"I-" Mor stopped, bringing a hand to her chest as she exaggeratedly examined her surroundings. "I think it sounds like….like…"

Rhysand leaned into Feyre's ear. "Like Spring?"

"Oh god," Feyre whined. The sound fell on deaf ears. "Kill me."

Tamlin Spring was Feyre's boyfriend in freshman year, a first love so smitten with her that it bordered on slightly creepy— teetering across that fine line of obsession and adoration. You found Tamlin tolerable in small portions, but the others hated him with a passion. In truth, they hated a lot of people, your ex boyfriend included, and you just chalked that up to the reality of growing up in the same small city with the same people. You thanked eighteen-year old you everyday for choosing to attend college in a different state.

"Spring, you say?" you chimed in. Mor mimicked the motion of drawing a bow across a fiddle. She gave you a look and without missing a beat, you launched into a memorized dance, feet bouncing in an exaggerated jig while your hands moved as if playing invisible fiddles.

This abomination of a dance was one you and Mor had created one random drunken night—- a way to commemorate the infamous serenade Feyre had received from Tamlin post-breakup. At the beginning of their relationship, Tamlin's musical talent was impressive, even charming. But when he pulled out his fiddle and played what was meant to be a heartfelt apology, it left Feyre cringing and you unable to defend him anymore. Thus, the iconic dance was born.

For what it counted, the tradition to embarrass Feyre with your performance of it lasted longer than their relationship ever did. 

Feyre's face was three shades redder by time you found yourselves unable to continue the dance any longer. She leaned her head back against Rhysand's chest as he laughed and hugged her tighter, apologizing for his own musical incapabilities. She tucked her phone tightly away in her pocket, muttering some off handed comment that she was never playing ever again. 

You were still giggling and catching your breath as Azriel and Cassian returned, slowly making their way through the crowd— each holding a fresh, cold can of beer. Azriel's face was neutral as always, but a glint of amusement sparkled in his eyes as they met yours. Cassian, on the other hand, wore his usual broad grin. He murmured polite, flirty pleasantries to every pretty woman they brushed past.

"Damn," Cass said, filling in the space Mor had saved for him by proxy of a strange, wide-legged stance. You’d done the same for Az. "Did I miss you hitting the Tamlin?"

You and Mor let out another shared round of giggles and Feyre groaned into the sky once more. Cassian turned to Rhys with a grin.

"Do you two have no shame?" Az said, settling into the space between you and Feyre. He took notice of Mor's lingering gaze on his drink and offered his can to her eager hands. 

You shook your head, a grin plastered on your face as Mor brought the drink to her lips. The two of you made eye contact, and maybe it was the buzz of the drinks you’d already had, the tiny high making everything funnier, but you couldn’t hold back a laugh. Mor followed suit, the sound coming out of her in a wet snort as Azriel's drink sprayed everywhere.

Once you both finally calmed down, Mor pushed Azriel's drink back to him with an extended hand, batting her eyelashes as she met his gaze. "Thanks, Az. I needed that."

"I'm good. That's all yours now." Azriel pushed the can back to Mor with a single finger, a look of playful disdain on his face. His eyes, however, shone with amusement—enough to show that he wasn't really angry, not even disgusted, despite his expression. "I'll get a new one later. Preferably with less spit."

Mor offered him a sheepish smile. "My bad."

She offered the can to you next. You narrowed your eyes at it for a moment, then shrugged with a resigned smile and raised it to your lips. You felt Azriel's gaze on you, noticing the amused, skeptical eyebrow he raised. You waited for him to say something, to speak in that low tone he often preferred in public, but he only shook his head, chuckling softly.

His eyes lit up a few seconds later.

"Wait a second,” he said.

Azriel's gaze flicked to Cassian, and without a word, he started patting him down. Cassian angled his head to the side, brows furrowed as Az’s hands wandered around his form. “Dude,” he said, “What's with the hands?”

Azriel didn’t respond, continuing his search with focused intent. He wrapped a palm around Cassian’s exposed biceps to face him further, finally reaching the fanny pack strapped to his broad chest. 

“Got it,” Az declared. When he pulled away, you caught sight of the device in his hand. Cassian paused for a moment, and you could see an out-of-pocket response on the tip of his tongue, but he simply shrugged and rejoined the conversation he had left with Feyre and Rhys. 

His camera was held securely in his hands as Azriel turned back to you and Mor. Your eyes drifted down to the way his palm held it. It looked so natural there, a perfect fit, and the glow of inspiration in his eyes sent a flutter through your body. You hadn’t realized that he had brought it— hadn’t seen when Cassian went through security with his bag. 

Az lifted the camera in a silent invitation and Mor let out an excited squeal, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you in close. You smiled and your focus fell on Azriel. He held his camera with a careful, precise grip, ensuring you were perfectly in frame. With every movement he made, either a height adjustment or a turn of the camera, he sent a quick glance to his surroundings, quietly making sure that he refrained from accidentally bumping the people around him. 

It was sweet how he managed to remain respectful in such a large crowd, how he cared enough to be aware of such things. The thought burrowed itself deeper into the area of your mind that had gained a heavy label this past week: Longings for Azriel, as you called it. An embarrassingly fitting title. 

He took the picture with a satisfied smile and lowered his camera, the sunlight casting a warm, almost golden glow over his features. For a moment, your mouth felt dry at the sight of him. The harsh sun you’d been cursing for hours now seemed to soften, bathing his eyes in a molten blend of brown, gold, and green. Azriel had been in his element all of today. You saw it clearly— the ease in which he spoke with all of you, the way his eyes gleamed and the smile on his lips persisted. Every set you’d watched had been enjoyed through two ways: dancing with Mor, Feyre and Cassian, or admiring Az as he listened. Your grip tightened around the can you still held. 

Mor leaned in to view the image on the camera’s screen and your surroundings poured into your consciousness once more, the loud sound of the crowd rising in level. You closed the gap Az had created when he stepped back and, in a moment of self-indulgence, brushed lightly against him to view the picture.

“This is so cute. I love it,” Mor fawned. She placed a hand on Az’s forearm and gave him a sweet smile. “This is such a great photo, Az.”

Azriel angled the screen towards you. You didn’t doubt her words, but Mor was indeed right. It was a great photo.  You could see it all perfectly: the bustling crowd, the stage, the speakers in the background, and you and Mor glowing with happiness. It stirred something emotional within you, a perfect memory you could imagine showing future children to prove that their parent was once cool.

You looked up at him. “This is perfect.”

He smiled, almost timidly. “Yeah?”

“I guess you're back on track?”

Recognition sparked in his eyes. “I think I just found my mu—”

Just then, the crowd moved like a restless sea and a body pushed into you. You stumbled slightly and Azriel's hand instinctively reached out to steady you, his touch warm and firm against the exposed skin between your shirt and pants. A shiver ran through you at the contact.

You turned to look at the person. He looked to be around your age, if not a few years older, with green eyes and a strange mullet that almost gave him bangs. Mor glared at him, but it was Azriel who spoke.

“Watch it,” he growled.

“My bad man,” Mullet slurred, eyes shifting between you and Azriel. “Didn’t see you.”

Azriel’s glare followed him until his figure melted back into the crowd, muttering under his breath, “Cut that mop you call hair and maybe you’d see better.”

You suppress a laugh at Azriel’s irritation, a huge amused grin spreading across your face. You’d forgotten how protective Az could be, even if it wasn’t strictly necessary. His readiness to jump to the defense of those he cared about was endearing at its core, so you swallowed the small urge to make fun of his response. 

Instead, it was Mor who broke the tension, her voice laced with mockery. “Damn, Az.” She raised an eyebrow and a small smirk grew on her lips. “If looks could kill, you’d be a serial killer.”

Az rolled his eyes but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, betraying his true amusement despite his feigned annoyance. 

You handed Mor the canned drink back and clapped your hands together. “Alright. I need my own drink, so I’ll be back.”

Az handed Cassian the camera and turned to you. “I’ll go with you.”

You shook your head. “No, its okay. You just got back.”

Az gestured to the drink Mor had swiped. “I could use another, too.” He looked around. “And I think you might need some help getting back.”

You scanned the crowd, noting how it thickened with every passing second. Having Azriel to help navigate through would be a relief. And the prospect of some alone time with him was just as appealing.

“Okay,” you smiled. “Thank you.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The line for drinks was manageable, with only about seven people ahead of you. The festival buzzed around you, the air thick with the scent of food and the distant hum of music from other stages.

Azriel stood next to you, head slowly scanning his surroundings, silver dagger earring glistening in the sun. Your eyes lingered on the slight curve of his lips, at the way a sense of ease hung from his resting features. 

“You know, I knew you’d enjoy this,” you found yourself saying, voice carrying over the ambient noise. “The live music and all. But part of me is surprised.”

He looked at you, one eyebrow raised. “Why’s that?”

”I thought you weren’t a large gathering type of person.”

You held many memories of Azriel from over the years. The memories from the past two years were few and far between, but the ones from freshman year—- those you held in abundance. Azriel’s quietness was something you noticed before you knew him. He was content to watch, content to observe. It was why photography seemed so fitting for him, a hobby for someone who liked to collect moments, to enjoy them from a watcher's vantage point rather than that of a main actor. 

Azriel chuckled softly. Despite the festival’s noise, you heard it in perfect clarity.  

“I’m not. But that’s for gatherings where I’m expected to constantly engage. This is different. Everyone here is doing their own thing, no one is paying attention to me. I can just disappear into the crowd.” 

You let the words settle and studied him more intently. It occurred to you how unrealistic his words felt to you, how silly it was to think that people’s eyes didn’t naturally gravitate towards him. And you thought that it was a bit silly too, then, that your eyes did. 

You and Azriel were friends, maybe even in the lightest of terms. Friends that could’ve been more, could’ve had a deeper connection, platonically, had it not been for choices you made. And yet, your eyes always found him. All of this morning, all of this past week. Your gaze found him time and time again, like a magnet calling to you. 

You shook your head and a small laugh left your lips. An amused, timid sound. Azriel nudged your shoulder.

”What? He asked, but you only shook your head again, letting the smile linger on your lips. “What is it?” Azriel asked again. 

You met his gaze then, that surveying, intense gaze, and shrugged. “It’s just, you could never disappear into a crowd, Az.”

His brows furrowed and you held his gaze, watching as a flicker of confusion crossed his face—- or perhaps it was curiosity, instead. You felt a flutter of something deep and tender inside of you. You swallowed.

“At least not for me.”

The line moved forward and you sent a silent thank you to the sky, stepping ahead. Azriel lingered behind for a moment, eyes still trained on you. His brows were still slightly furrowed, but a smile tugged at his lips—-something tender, like your words touched him in a way he hadn’t expected. 

You ordered your drink, offering a grateful smile to the girl behind the table, and stood to the side as Azriel stepped up to order. The girl’s demeanor changed almost immediately—- cheeks flushed slightly, a new timid smile playing on her lips as she drank in the sight of him. You resisted the urge to laugh at it, a desire born out of total understanding rather than mockery.

Azriel was a stunning kind of attractive, a cold type of handsome that made you shiver if you stared too long. And the girl, she was pretty too, you thought, in an angelic sort of way. Blonde hair like Mor, blue eyes like Feyre. It dawned on you that you might look at Azriel the same way, with the same childish awe and longing admiration. The thought made you blush in embarrassment and you took a sip of your drink.

Azriel seemed oblivious to the effect he was having, focused solely on the screen before him and paying for his drink. She turned around to face him, drink in hand, and leaned forward to offer it. 

And then her eyes fell to his hands. She let out a small breath, a sound that seemed to surprise even her, and her eyes widened in response. Az’s drink was placed on the counter much harsher than she likely intended.

As strange as it sounded, sometimes you forgot about Azriel's hands— forgot that they weren't what were considered normal to the causal observer. You didn't know if this was a good thing, if it was something Azriel preferred or had no opinion on.

Like most people, you'd noticed them when you first met him. Azriel was a quiet observer, a motionless one at times. But in class, when you caught yourself staring at him more often than you'd ever admit, you'd catch sight of the way he'd anxiously crack his fingers with the pad of his thumb. It would bring your attention right back to his hands, to the ridges on his skin.

The scars that marred his hands were extreme, yes, and a certain sadness flowed through you when you looked at them long enough— when you thought about what pain he must've endured— but they were also beautiful. Something so entirely unique; unique enough to where you knew it was him whenever he touched you.

But as hauntingly beautiful as his hands were, eventually they simply became a part of him, something as mundane and expected as his right earlobe or the freckle on his cheek— the one that disappeared into his dimple when he smiled hard enough.

The girl tried her best to catch herself, quickly pushing forward Azriel's canned drink on the surface and giving him a timid, almost apologetic smile. But it was too late. You saw the switch clear as day, watched as something dark ran through Azriel's face— something parallel to childhood fear, to deep-seated embarrassment, to heated resentment, all in one. He pressed a button when prompted for a tip, his gaze steady on his finger as it moved across the screen.

You cleared your throat, leaning forward to grab his drink in your free hand and motioning him away from the growing line. Az seemed to snap out of the daze he'd fallen into, meeting your hurried motions with a furrowed brow. You nodded towards the crowd.

"C'mon," you said, offering the can to him. "We gotta head back."

The whine in your voice did its intended job, concealing your actions as ones driven out of an impatience to return rather than a desire to protect him. It wasn't that you thought it would bother him if he realized what you were trying to do, no, but you didn't want him to read it as something rooted in pity. You didn't want him to fall further back into his head than he already had.

When he didn't reply, you pushed his drink further towards him with an impatient hum. He raised a singular eyebrow for a fleeting second, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he took the cold drink from you, fingers brushing against yours. Nothing flashed in his face at the contact— there was no twitch, no flicker of something darker in his features.

"They're not going on for another forty five minutes," he finally said.

You sighed, a dramatic and weariful sigh, and the curve of his lips blossomed into a smile.

"Az,” you began, “Some of the best moments are going to be found in that crowd while waiting."

For the second time, you beckoned towards the crowd. You ignored the flutter in your chest as you leaned forward to grab his hand, tugging him along behind you— ignored the tightening in your chest as Azriel held onto you tighter.

You made your way back through the dense crowd, struggling to move until you finally reached your friends. Feyre and Rhys were the first to spot you, offering a cheer of greeting as you and Az squeezed into the spaces they’d saved for you. Mor’s eyes traveled to Azriel, scanning his face quickly. 

“Whats wro-“

You widened your eyes in warning, giving a small, subtle shake of your head that only she could pick up on. Mor mouthed a clarifying question and in response you brought your hand to the one that wrapped around the cold can of your drink, gently brushing your palm against the knuckles.

Her eyes widened in understanding and a small frown found her lips. She wiped it off within seconds, any trace of it perfectly concealed as she grabbed Azriel's attention with a large smile. 

"Aren't you so excited? I'm so excited."

Azriel nodded, but his expression remained a bit guarded. Your stomach twisted and Mor shot you a worried glance. You looked at Az, nudging his arm with your shoulder, and his gaze dropped to you.

”Cheers?” You said, lifting your drink in invitation. “For good luck.”

Azriel’s face softened and the remaining edge washed away. His eyes glimmered as he lifted his drink. 

“Cheers,” he replied, clinking his can against yours. 

Thirty five minutes later, the crowd came to life as the band walked on stage.

They played for a total of forty-eight minutes. 

Your eyes were on Az for around twenty-seven of them. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: they notice each other 🥺🥺 they pay attention to each other 🥹🥹 god this makes me miss having a crush— noticing every small thing, those BUTTERFLIES!!! i love them your honor

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend

thank you for reading 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[munsonluhvr]

could i request steve with a confident reader? just anything other than shy reader 😭

WHAT'S WRONG WITH BEING CONFIDENT?

a/n: shy reader is the it girl rn, huh. thank u for ur request! hope u like it! this was very much inspired by the club scene from '10 things I hate about you,' aka my fav movie of all time. it felt appropriate for this request.

synopsis: king!steve harrington x confident!reader. after setting his eyes on you in the cafeteria, steve, and all of his ego, pursues you; though you don't fall to your knees quite as easy as the other hawkins high girls. word count - 3.5k warnings: some swearing, mostly just fluff. not spell checked, I'm tired I'll do it another day haha.

For the first time in a while, Steve wishes that he could tell Carol and Tommy to shut the fuck up. Carol, and Tommy, were on about something, Steve hadn’t paid enough attention to know exactly what, but all he knew is that he needed peace and quiet to be able to concentrate, to be able to watch you. 

You sit across the cafeteria, oblivious of Steve watching you closely. He watches as you laugh with your table full of friends, head thrown back, soft, round cheeks tinting pink, bright white teeth gleaming against the cafeteria lights. He has to have you. 

Steve leans over to Tommy, nudging his shoulder with his fist. “Who’s that?” Steve asks, bending low to point towards where you sit several tables away. “Who’s who?” Tommy asks, biting into his sandwich, looking towards where Steve points. Carol rolls her eyes, leaning forward to look in the direction that Steve’s pointer finger is angled at. 

“The blonde?” Tommy asks, turning his neck to get a better look. Steve is instantly frustrated, now making himself a spectacle as Tommy twists and turns to get a better look at where you sit. Steve shakes his head. “No, the girl sitting next to the blonde.” 

“Oh, she’s pretty.” Tommy says, sitting back into his chair. Underneath the table, Carol kicks Tommy’s chin with the toe of her shoe. Tommy yelps, shooting his girlfriend a scowl. “But I don’t know who that is.” 

Carol crosses her arms, chewing her gum more intensely. “That’s y/n. We’re in the same economic class.” 

Steve glances at Carol, waiting for her to say more. When she stares back, offering no other information about you, Steve moves his arms as if to say, ‘tell me more.’ Carol shrugs, picking her wad of gum out of mouth with her pointer and thumb fingers, placing it on a napkin that rests on the table. “She’s nice, totally out of your league though.” 

Steve scoffs leaning back in his seat, arms crossing against his chest. “Nobody is out of my league, Carol, girls love me.” 

Beside Steve, Tommy chuckles, shaking his head. “King Steve is back at it. Sayonara, Nancy.” 

Steve shakes his head, shooting Tommy a daring look. Though he was over Nancy, breaking up with her several months ago, Steve didn’t like hearing her name, and Tommy knew that. 

“I’m going to go talk to her,” Steve says, swinging his legs over the bench seat. He runs a hand through his thick hair, his confidence at its peak. For Steve, his good looks, decent sense of humor, had the girls of Hawkins High hooked, weak in the knees for him, all honored to have a little piece of his attention. Carol hums, shaking her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Steve shrugs off Carol, making his way across the cafeteria to your table. Weaving through crowded tables all clustered together, offering small ‘excuses me’ as he squeezes himself behind tables. 

You are trapped in your own world, enamored by all your friends who giggle around you, sharing funny stories from class. You hardly notice ‘King Steve’ making his way over to you, confidence coursing through him as he strides over. You wouldn’t consider yourself popular, per se, but you had a solid group of friends, people waved hello to you in the hallway. What set you apart from the popular girls in Hawkins is that you stood on your own two feet, had good wit, funny sense of humor, and you were genuinely nice. 

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington alert,” Your friend, Heather mumbled, her eyes shooting down to the tabletop. You shrugged, assuming Steve was just passing by your table. You weren’t wrapped up in the typical high school antics, certainly never pining over Steve Harrington. You were consumed with school and your friends; you were fine with it that way. Though your body tenses, when a hand places itself on your back. Looking across the table you see Heather’s eyes are as wide as saucers, her small mouth agape. 

“Y/n, right?” A voice you recognize as Steve’s says behind you. Stiffly, you turn in your seat, glancing over your shoulder. “Yes?” 

The commotion at your table abruptly comes to a halt, all eyes placed on you and Steve. Steve crouches down beside your chair, holding on to the empty space between you and your friend. Now that Steve is at your height, you’re forced to look his face. It’s a handsome face, all his features coming together perfectly, his fluffy hair adding a playful, boyish look. 

“I’m Steve, Steve Harrington.” Steve says, his hand out stretch to you. How odd you think, a teenage boy offering to shake your hand. You’ve never interacted with Steve before, though from all the discussion about Steve, you can’t imagine girls fawning over them if he offered to shake their hands. He always seems so confident, so arrogant, yet you almost think you sense nervousness radiating off Steve. You stare at his hand, then back at him. “Yes, I know.” You say, your hands folded in your lap unmoving. 

Steve drops his hand, using his free hand to brush his hand through his fluffy, brown hair. “Well, I just saw you from across the cafeteria and I couldn’t understand why we hadn’t met yet.” You glance at your friends, an eyebrow raised. They all watch intrigued. “So, you were watching me?” You say, tossing a glance at Steve. 

His eyes grow wide, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. “No- yes- I-“ You giggle as Steve stammers, glancing at your friends again as you hear them giggle. Steve frowns, not understanding where his confidence is lacking. He was normally so good at this. “What I mean is, I thought you were really pretty, I wanted to ask if you wanted to go out sometime? Jason Carver is having a party Saturday night, maybe we could go together.”

Before you could reply, the bell rang, students scrambling from all corners of the cafeteria to flee to their next class. All your friends sit motionless, unphased by the bell ringing, waiting to hear if you’ll go with Steve to the party. You fold your trash neatly, taking your time. Steve stands up as you swing your legs over the bench seat. “I should be going; I don’t want to be late for class,” you say innocently, shooting Steve a small smile. 

Steve frowns as you slide past him, your back turning as you walk away. Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his ego slightly bruised, as you become the first girl to reject his advances. Well, that won’t do, not for Steve at least. He doesn’t give up easily. Across the cafeteria, he sees Carol and Tommy laughing, shaking their heads at him, their eyes flickering to you as you saunter casually out of the cafeteria, your friends close behind. 

For the next half of school, Steve’s mind is preoccupied on how you escaped him, his usual charm and good looks not working on you. Steve had asked around about you, questioning various friends if they knew you. Some shook their head, others nodded, offering kind words about you: ‘She’s cool,’ ‘She’s got a good sense of humor,’ ‘She normally doesn’t date; she says she wants to focus on getting into a good college.’ It was apparent that you were going to be a tough one to crack, and normally Steve would have given up, but you intrigued him. 

The final bell hand rung, to Steve’s delight, and while he walked out of the hall towards the parking lot, relief that he was one day closer to the weekend. Steve liked the social aspect of school though he could do without the academic learning. 

As Steve walked towards the doors that leads to the parking lot, he swings his car keys around on his pointer finger, his mind wandering to you. Were you charmed by him and trying not to show it or was it hopeless to try and ask you out until you said yes? Wouldn’t hurt to try is what Steve settled on. 

Pushing the doors open and joining the rest of the school population that flees to catch a bus or a ride with their friends, he saunters across the parking lot, his freshly washed BMW sparkling against the sunlight. Just then, you walk passed him, your backpack slung over your shoulder. Before Steve can have a second thought, he picks up his pace, sliding up next to you. “Hello, y/n. Need a ride home?” Steve asks, tossing a pleasant smile towards you. 

You roll your eyes towards Steve. “No, I’m all set. Do you need something?” 

Steve raises her eyebrows, his eyes shifting from you to the parking lot that’s stretched out in front of him. “Just finishing our conversation that was interrupted by the bell earlier.” 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. You're amused that Steve conveniently neglects to remember that you were utterly uninterested in his offer and it was that fact, not the bell, that you left him in the cafeteria. “Yeah, it was totally interrupted by the bell.”   

Steve laughs too, missing the sarcasm that laces your tone. “Yeah, so what do you think?” 

“What do I think about what?” you ask simply, knowing that Steve is referring to Jason Carver’s party. 

“The party. Going with me.” Steve says, slowing down as you reach your own car. “It would be a lot of fun, casual if you want.” 

You shove your key into the door, unlocking it with a single twist. You lean down, tossing your backpack into the passenger seat, crouching down to sit in your car. “Jason Carver’s parties aren’t really my thing; parties in general aren’t really my thing.” 

A slight panic settles in Steve’s chest. “W-We can go out to eat instead.” 

You offer a sickly-sweet smile, your eyes squinting against the bright sunlight. You wave your manicured hand, offering a small wave. “Bye, Steve.” You slam your driver’s door shut, turning your car on swiftly.. 

Feeling defeated, Steve slinks away back towards his car, formulating a new plan in his mind. 

The following day, Steve brought a new sense confidence to school. He was going to ask you, again, to go out and hopefully you would be enticed to give him a chance - you had to give him a chance, right?

It was then, as he was walking out of chemistry, his head aching from the sound of Mr. Erickson droning on and on about isotopes and ions, that he spots you exchanging your textbooks in your locker, your pink frilly dress catching his attention. Before he can change his mind, he turns in your direction, striding over to you. “The offer is still open.” Steve says, leaning his body against the locker next to yours. 

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth upturning into a smile. “Hello, Steve. Stalking me again, I see.” 

Steve lets out a nervous laugh, leaning towards you. You smell his heavy cologne, the faint smell of hair gel. “I just saw you when I came out of Erickson’s class, it was pure coincidence.” You roll your eyes, batting your thick, mascara covered eyelashes at Steve. “Well, then.” 

Steve waits a beat, his eyes taking you in. He watches as you lift your thick U.S History book into the top shelf of your locker, exchanging it for an AP Spanish textbook, locks of your hair shading your face from his glance. “So, what do you say?"

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You never give up, do you?” You were amused, to say the least; boys have pursued you before, but seldom avidly enough to show up in the middle of the hallways, pestering your further. 

Steve shakes his head, “I don’t, and I won’t. I want to get to know you.” You suck your cheeks in, your lips puckering. You squint, making eye contact with Steve. “Why me?” 

Steve shrugs. “I’ve asked around about you, everyone has only good things to say. You’re pretty too, taking AP Spanish so you must be smart. I barely passed Spanish one.” You laugh again, holding your text books against your chest. “So, you’ve asked around about me, too. You aren’t very coy, Steve Harrington.”

Steve sighs in his head, wondering why he’s so loose lipped all of a sudden. His skin heats up, nervous sweat gathering at his hairline. “So, is that a yes?” 

“No,” you say, turning on your heel towards your Spanish classroom that is a few doors down from your locker. You glance over to your left as you realize Steve has joined you for the short walk. 

“Well, is that a no?” Steve asks glancing back at you. He realizes your classroom is close by as you begin to turn into the doorway. 

“No,” You say simply, standing in the doorway. He notices your playful smile, the way two dimples appear at the corner of your mouth, adorning your plush lips. You linger for a second, then move into your classroom. 

“I’ll pick you up at 9:30, then.” Steve calls after you, noticing students who walk past in the hallway giving him an odd look. He watches as you lift your hand, offering a wave, without turning around. Steve leaves the door, satisfied, though he knows he shouldn’t expect you to ease up on him in the near future. He’s got his work cut out for him. 

As you sit in your Spanish class, ignoring the lesson that’s happening around you, your mind swirls around Steve. You were breaking your own rules by entertaining Steve; you had made a vow that you’d ignore boys in high school, they were useless anyway, and focus on your school work, making sure you got high grades to get into a great college. It’s only for one night though, going to Jason Carver’s party wouldn’t ruin your potential of getting into Harvard. 

Saturday comes quickly, in the shape of a whirlwind in fact, and you stand in front of your closet, hands on your hips, as you survey your outfit options for the party that starts shortly. Steve would be around any minute. You decide to settle on a simple purple dress, tight around your waist, cut off at your mid-thigh. It was pretty, yet casual and effortless at the same time. 

While you waited for Steve to show up, your door wide open to ensure you wouldn’t miss the doorbell ring, you sit at the edge of your bed, English textbook resting in your lap. Studying before you left is the only way you wouldn’t feel guilty for leaving your pile of homework to go to Jason Carver’s party. 

After only a few minutes, the doorbell rings, echoing throughout your home. You grab your purse, slipping on short heels on the way out of your room. With small ‘clack’ noises, you make your way down the stairs, opening the door to meet Steve. 

"Well, don’t you clean up nice,” you coo, noticing the effort Steve put into his appearance. Nothing knew, you supposed, he was well known for being full of himself, standing in the mirrors staring at himself in the boys bathroom. 

Steve shrugs, his eyes unable to pull away for the way your dress hugs your body tightly. “You t-too,” he stammers, tucking his hands into his pockets. You roll your eyes, stepping out of your house, closing the door gently behind you. Steve follows you to his car, unbeknownst to you, getting a good look at your backside. 

Since he asked you to the party, you're all Steve can think about. Though he doesn't know you well, you fascinate him, drawing him in to learn more about you.

When Steve pulls up to Jason Carver’s house, the party is already in full swing. Cars clutter the halfmoon shaped driveway, people lingering all about the yard. Inside, grey smoke lingers in the hair, congesting your nose and throat. Loud music blares throughout the house, echoing onto the front lawn. It’s almost impossible to get inside the front door, too many scantily clad bodies filling the narrow hallways. 

Steve leads, grasping at your hand to bring you along with him. Under his touch, you shiver, feeling uneasy as being seen as Steve’s newest conquest. Whatever, you think, I’ll act as if I don’t know him tomorrow, it’s not a big deal.

As you weave through the thick crowd, people clap Steve’s back, mumbling ‘what’s up’ to him happily. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your friend Heather standing in the corner, surrounded by a few of your other friends. You feel a sense of relief, feeling annoyed with being associated with Steve. You wriggle out of his grasp, his head turning to glance at you. 

“I’ll catch up with you later,” you say, turning right into the living room. The kitchen, where Steve is headed, is to the left, in the opposite direction you’re headed in. Steve stands awkwardly, frowning at your decision to abandon him. “O-Okay.” He watches as you weave through the small crowd that’s gathered in the living room, slinging your arms over your friends, all of them welcoming you happily. 

When Steve has brough other girls to parties, they always opted to stay close by him, never leaving his side. Steve shrugs it off, weaving his way through the crowd that’s gathered in the kitchen. He makes it to the table, an array of alcoholic beverages strewn about. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tommy lingering off to the side, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. They make eye contact, Tommy pushing himself off the wall to make his way towards Steve. 

“Where’s your girlfriend, Harrington?” Tommy says, watching at Steve carefully selects his drink of choice. 

“With her friends.” Steve says simply, his pride dripping away by the second. 

Tommy sighs loudly, shaking his head. “She’s not too impressed with King Steve, huh. That’s a first.” He claps Steve’s back, his fingers digging into his shoulder.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.” Steve mumbles, popping the tab of his beer can open.  Tommy laughs loudly, shaking his head. He offers Steve a pitiful look, squeezing back through the crowd to find Carol. 

Steve takes a swig of his beer, the cold liquid flowing down his throat. He suddenly has the urge to get wasted to attempt to heal his deeply bruised ego. Annoyed with the reality that you aren’t impressed with him as much as everyone else, he flees the kitchen, beer in hand, as his eyes scan the rooms of the Carver household to find you. Steve finds you sitting on the arm of a sofa chair, legs neatly crossed, beer in your hand, as you laugh with your friends who are strewn about the sofa. 

Noticing Steve standing off to the side, you turn your head, a smile already plaster on your face. "Steve."

"Enjoying the party?" Steve asks, his voice wavering. You shrug, taking a sip of your beer. "It's nice enough."

Steve stands awkwardly, your friends eyes lingering on him. Steve clears his throat, unsure of what to say. "Feel like dancing?"

Your friends giggle; Steve's awkwardness is so unfamiliar to them all, his confidence is well known across Hawkins High population. It was clear that you are what makes Steve nervous. "I'm good, I'm sure there's someone else that want's to dance though." You say, gesturing towards the crowd of teens that linger around the Carver household.

Steve frowns. He came to the party with you and you're telling him to find someone to bump and grind with? "I want to dance with you, not some other girl."

You raise your eyebrows, impressed by Steve talking back to you for the first time. You were getting a little bored with passing Steve off, his inability to function around you, seemingly nervous, was charming.

You look towards your friends; they shrug, mouthing "be nice," and "go dance." You sigh, kicking yourself off the arm of the sofa chair. "Fine, let's dance."

Weaving through the thickening crowd, Steve grasps your hand tightly, bringing you to the back porch where people have clustered together to dance. A boombox is set to the side on the ground, music blasting loudly with music from the radio. Groups of couples and friend groups gather together, their bodies moving rhythmically to the music.

Pulling you into the crowd, Steve places his hands on your waist, his fingers tightening on your hips. Feeling a little bold, maybe even flirty, you push your front against Steve, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Similar to wilting flowers, both you and Steve bend forward, your foreheads pressing together, as you sway energetically, your bodies bobbing up and down, side to side. You can't help but smile, your tough exterior slipping away. Steve was just a simple guy, his title of 'king Steve' was obviously just a persona he felt the need to act like. He seems innocent, caring. You were starting to like this version of Steve you have in front of you.

"You're beautiful, you know." Steve says, his arms tightening around you. "I don't think you're as tough as you like to seem."

You laugh, shaking your head. "You aren't what I thought you'd be, Steve Harrington."

Steve laughs, his eyes twinkling against the back porch lights the gleam against the dark night. "No? How am I different?"

You shrug. "I don't think you're as much of an asshole as you like to seem. I bet you're sickeningly sweet under all that."

Steve's nose wrinkles, his cheeks flushing pink. "I guess you'll have to find out then, get to know me more." Steve dips his face lower to yours, his lips hovering over your lips. You can smell the light scent of sweet beer and the smell of his cologne distorting your senses. You bite your lip, leaning in a centimeter further. "I guess so."

Eventually you and Steve get bored of the Carver party, the excitement coming to a slowing halt. You're exhausted, your body losing all of your energy on the dance floor with Steve; your feet hurt and you curse yourself for wearing kitten heels to a party.

Steve drives you home; the windows rolled down allowing the warm air to seep into the car, the soft wind blowing your hair around. You lean against the car window, feeling the air blow across your face. You smile, feeling content with the way your night has gone with Steve.

Steve pulls his car gently up to the front of your house, the outside lights flicked on, waiting for your arrival. You unbuckle your seatbelt, turning in your seat to glance at Steve. "Thank you for tonight," you say, folding your hands into your lap. "I, surprisingly, had a lot of fun."

Steve laughs softly, nodding. His hands tighten on the wheel. "My pleasure, I also had a lot of fun."

You smile, silence rolling over you and Steve. You sit back in your seat, biting your lip. Before you can speak, Steve fills in the silence. "Would you want to go out sometime, on a proper date I mean?"

You nod. "I'd love to."

[max1461]

Thinking about different websites...

The worldview of redditors is really Bronze Age or perhaps Iron Age in a truly interesting way. Deeply transactional, concerned with honor and commanding honor, with everything founded on property relations. The comments of any AITA post will evince this. It is "patriarchal" not in the sense of being misogynistic (which it sometimes is and sometimes isn't), but in the sense that it is structurally like the morality of the archetypal Patriarch of the isolated family unit, very Indo-European. The Man who rules his own little kingdom, his family, and who deals with other such Men through a certain kind of economically-inspired honor code. Most redditors are liberal enough that they deal with their spouses as other Men though, and indeed with their children once they reach a certain age. But I think even this has some historical precedent.

It's all about who has the Right to do what, you see, it's about who can and who can't and who must. Very Norse, very Bronze Age, very Indo-European. The redditor sees themself (actually or aspirationally) as on top and as agentic. They speak positively of learning hard lessons and of teaching hard lessons. Their world is a world of contracts, not abstract and mathematical but specific and personal.

This is notably not the ideology of 4chan, which anyone who's been on that site much should know. 4chan's ideology is much less confident in itself. The 4channer sees themself as beneath, not on top, either with acceptance or with resentment. Frantz Fanon might have something to say about it. The 4channer is the subaltern.

And here? I was going to say that tumblrianas are somewhat domesticated, but I don't think this is exactly right. It's more like the world-sense of eunuchs in a harem, desperate for stimulation. Scholastic (though not scholarly) and estranged from the world—from normalcy—for reasons they can't escape. And they know this, and have mostly elected not to try. "Eh", say they, "I will read about life in one of my books," or perhaps just as commonly "I will simulate an outside-life in here with the other eunuchs, and it will be better than what they can make on the outside anyway". Maybe that's true; it probably depends on you and your eunuch crew.

I don't think I'm any of these types of guy. I've spent more of my life as a lurker than a poster. Lurkers are a whole other type of deal.

This is of course all "bullshit" you must understand.

[lockes-woods]

Kinktober '24 Day 10

Request: modern au, professor shanks( his topic of teaching is up to you) college student afab reader, dom shanks, sub reader. reader starts falling behind in his class and nobody has time to help her because its near exams n stuff ( im not 100% familiar ) so shanks offers to help her out. i guess kinda semi public, in a library, use of vibrator reward system, fingering, degradation when she gets stuff wrong, that kind of thing if you catch me drift, totes cool if it ends with sex. ( for kinktober )

Warnings: PIV, Shanks teasing, vibrator, cockwarming, desk sex.

A/N: Will edit tomorrow when more coherent

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Aw, sweetheart we just reviewed this model today, this should be easy.” Shanks chastised you. You didn’t even need to turn your head to see his smirk; it was clear in his voice. You whined as he clicked the vibrator he was holding against your clit up to the next speed of vibration. You had been cockwarming him for the better part of the last hour and it was driving you crazy. All you had to do was answer five questions in a row correctly and then he’d let you cum without punishment. When you got a question wrong it not only ended the streak, but it also meant that the vibrator he was holding flush with your clit would go up a vibration setting. If you came before then he was gonna see that you wouldn’t cum until exam season was over. The main problem was, you’d get four down, before he’d quiz you on a model you had no idea how to interpret.

While you had gotten better since the midterm, there was no way you were going to excel at macroeconomics. You knew reasonably that it was one of those classes that, while it technically applied to your major, you would never use in the real world. Fuck the midterm was the only reason you were sat here, with the tip of your professor’s cock kissing your cervix. While you knew you didn’t need this class to excel at your career, you did need to keep and maintain a high enough GPA to stay in the honor’s program. That program qualified you for scholarships and grants that allowed you to study your passion at all. When you came close to failing the course with your pathetic midterm grade you started to go to every single office hour session your professor offered.

Over the past six weeks you two have gotten close. You were almost always the only one attending office hours, if others did attend, they didn’t stay for the entire session. It had been roughly three weeks since there was a shift in your professional relationship. It was at his latest office hours he held on Friday nights. You had come in an actually put together outfit, not your normal comfy clothing. Your friend was planning on setting you up on a date that you would never get to. You had been going over one of the dozens of economic models you needed to not only memorize the effect of, but also interpret and apply the information given when you became acutely aware of how close you were to your professor. You sat shoulder to shoulder as you leaned down to get a better understanding of the graph, unaware of the perfect angle of cleavage you were unintentionally showing your very attractive professor. You don’t remember exactly how, but you quickly switched from him teaching you, to you straddling his lap in a heated make out session. You had only given him head that night, but since then he had incorporated a sexual element to each of your study sessions. The most embarrassing part was that you were genuinely doing better in the class since your relationship had turned unprofessional. It wasn’t from him giving you extra grace while grading, if anything he had gotten harsher, you just needed that bit of motivation to keep your focus.

“Fuck, please Sir,” you whined, you were getting desperate at his unintentional edging. It was always at this point in the night that you questioned if he had purposefully made it harder for you to complete his challenge, or if you were just really that dumb.

“I’m sorry baby, you know the rules I set for tonight. You can always give up, but you won’t cum if you don’t play.” He gently reminded you, before adding, “And if you succumb and do cum without my permission you won’t be getting any more relief for the next week and a half. Though that option seems to be more and more likely.”

You let out a groan, clicking on the next set of questions he had set up for you. Now fueled by proving him wrong. You got through the first two in a breeze, the third one was hard, but you had just answered right enough that he counted it, the fourth had you stumped but the pulse of him deep inside of you kept you determined. It was now not just about cumming it was proving him wrong. After a moment you went out on a limb and were thankfully rewarded with the correct answer. Now came the fifth question. Fuck you could feel him pulsing and twitching against you; he was so deep inside of you that you felt like you could cum on the spot. You took a deep breath through your nose and keyed into the last question. You recognized it as information that you had just gone over earlier today. Fuck, you groaned internally. He had you wear a remote operated vibrator today. He had kept it on low the entire class, but it garnered almost all of your attention regardless.

Okay, Fuck, Focus; you chastised yourself.

“Aw, baby you’re wasting your time. Why don’t you just cum? It’d feel so good.” He taunted you, “I’d love to make a mess of your pussy” he grunted as you involuntarily clenched around him, “It’s only a matter of time, you can give up now or be forced to give up when I turned up the vibrator. We both know how sensitive your little clity is.”

You took a deep breath his taunting only lit a fire under you. While it wasn’t always a good thing, your stubbornness kept you strong throughout his comments. You reread the question, taking time to break down each component. You slowly worked your way through the problem before leaning back against his chest. After a cursory checking you hit the submit button. A smile broke across your face as the green checkmark glowed on the screen.

“Fuck, good girl,” he said, rewarding you with a sweet kiss.

A gasp escaped you as he pulled back and quickly slammed his laptop shut and moved it to the side. He covered your mouth with his hand as he shifted you position so that you were now bent down over his desk; vibrator lost somewhere in the process.

“Be a good girl and be quiet, okay?” he said, before you were even able to give a response, he slammed into you hard. He was as desperate if not more desperate than you to get to yours, and his inevitable release. Your eyes widened as you took in the light still on across the hallway to his office mates’ area. He had never taken you before with someone else in the vicinity. He only ever fucked you after hours. You were left stunned for a moment, before the steady hard drags of his cock took all your attention. You could feel all the stress of the last hour melt away as he quickened his pace and began to fuck you with intent. You gasped against his hand, clenching down on him hard.

“Fuck, just like that, good girl.” He groaned, picking up his pace as you only tightened more.

“Fuck, Sir I’m going to-” you started,

“Fuck, go ahead baby, you’re doing so good,” he groaned. You let out a silent scream under his palm as you pulsed around him. He grunted, as he continued to thrust into you well past your release. You were a whimpering mess on his desk, as he used you how he pleased. His hips stuttering was the only warning you got before his grip became bruising. His final thrust was hard and purposeful as he came deep inside you.

You could only whimper as he eased out of you, pulled up your underwear and flipped your skirt back down.

“You okay baby?” he asked, tucking himself back into his pants before pulling you back down so that you were flush against him. You could only whine, still coming down from your high.

“I’m okay,” you said in a small voice, once you finally felt back home back in your body.

“Good,” he said kissing you temple, “I’m excited to see what you get on the exam.”

“Really?” you asked, tilting your head slightly to the side.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, “You’ve come so far since the midterm, and I don’t just mean that in the literal sense.” He said with a smirk. You only rolled your eyes at him.

“You’re such a dork,” You said, sharing a laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MASTERLIST

A/N: Thank you as always for taking the time to read! Stay tuned for Fatgum x AFAB! Reader

[nostalgebraist]

Steve DeCanio, an ex-Berkeley activist now doing graduate work at M.I.T., is a good example of a legion of young radicals who know they have lost their influence but have no clear idea how to get it back again. “The alliance between hippies and political radicals is bound to break up,” he said in a recent letter. “There’s just too big a jump from the slogan of ‘Flower Power’ to the deadly realm of politics. Something has to give, and drugs are too ready-made as opiates of the people for the bastards (the police) to fail to take advantage of it.” Decanio spent three months in various Bay Area jails as a result of his civil rights activities and now he is lying low for a while, waiting for an opening. “I’m spending an amazing amount of time studying,” he wrote. “It’s mainly because I’m scared; three months on the bottom of humanity’s trash heap got to me worse than it’s healthy to admit. The country is going to hell, the left is going to pot, but not me. I still want to figure out a way to win.”

Re-reading Hunter S. Thompson's 1967 article about Haight-Ashbury, I thought: "huh, this guy sounds like he's going places. I wonder whether he ever did 'figure out a way to win'?"

So I web searched his name, and ... huh!

My current research interests include Artificial Intelligence, philosophy of the social sciences, and the economics of climate change. Several years ago I examined the consequences of computational limits for economics and social theory in Limits of Economic and Social Knowledge (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013).  Over the course of my academic career I have worked in the fields of global environmental protection, the theory of the firm, and economic history.  I have written about both the contributions and misuse of economics for long-run policy issues such as climate change and stratospheric ozone layer protection.  An earlier book, Economic Models of Climate Change: A Critique (Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), discussed the problems with conventional general equilibrium models applied to climate policy. From 1986 to 1987 I served as Senior Staff Economist at the President’s Council of Economic Advisers. I have been a member of the United Nations Environment Programme’s Economic Options Panel, which reviewed the economic aspects of the Montreal Protocol on Substances that Deplete the Ozone Layer, and I served as Co-Chair of the Montreal Protocol’s Agricultural Economics Task Force of the Technical and Economics Assessment Panel. I participated in the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change that shared the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize, and was a recipient of the Leontief Prize for Advancing the Frontiers of Economic Thought in 2007. In 1996 I was honored with a Stratospheric Ozone Protection Award, and in 2007 a “Best of the Best” Stratospheric Ozone Protection Award from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. I served as Director of the UCSB Washington Program from 2004 to 2009.

I don't know whether this successful academic career would count as "winning" by his own 1967 standards. But it was a pleasant surprise to find anything noteworthy about the guy at all, given that he was quoted as a non-public figure in a >50-year-old article.

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

a big german newspaper (die zeit) recently published a more critical article on the so called „verrichtungsboxen“ (literally: boxes of execution; boxes on the street where prostituted women and sex buyers can go to consummate the sexual acts; anyone who knows german will know this is a gross terminology, fitting for a gross concept).

while the fact these boxes exist is in itself a tragedy, the letters to the editor are giving me hope that there are sane people left in this country - even though from their names and writing style i would guess they are of the older generation, pension age.

heinz wohner: „if you dont get a visceral reaction of disgust and shame looking at these obfuscating boxes called ‚eco toilets‘ and the image of what is going on in them, you have to be extremely cold. calling what is being done to these women for little money ‚work like any other‘ is sugarcoating the issue.“

wolfgang wendling: „maybe there are women who voluntarily prostitute themselves, but the majority is doing it out of necessity and under pressure. calling the oldest trade in history a profession like any other is pure mockery. its not an honor to call our country europe‘s biggest brothel. but it‘s true. we should be ashamed that women are being exploited, humiliated and abused before our eyes. the more severe the poverty is in the country of origin, the cheaper you can have them. we should finally stop this, which is the only appropriate action for a civilised country.“

brigitte kosfeld: „the photo of these boxes alone speaks volumes on the inhumane practices hidden behind the liberalisation of prostitution. when the law was introduced, there were convinced social democratic women who were holding speeches on ‚prostitution as a profession‘. the intentions behind the law might have been honorable, but the reality has always been deeply anti-woman.“

professor claudia reuter, phd: „the liberalisation of prostitution in germany has failed in all regards. according to a french study, the average life expectancy of a prostitute is 33 years. babbling about self-determination in this case is inhumane. the state is not supporting prostitutes’ workers rights and their health, but their economic and sexual exploitation. its about time for the swedish model: protection for women and consistent punishment for sex buyers and pimps.“

joachim kasten: „social democrat august bebel already wrote in 1879 (…) that ‚honorable family men‘ were contributing to uphold the system prostitution with their money. according to him, they were generously let off their responsibility to disappear in anonymity. apparently today we are still where we were at the end of the 19th century.“

sabine moehler: „the description [in the article] of typical injuries prostitutes have reminded me very much of those women in physically abusive relationships show as well. a man who abuses, humiliates and demeans a prostitute in any way will do the same to his partner, wife or lover as soon as he doesnt like her behavior. (…) even reading about this is upsetting me a lot.“

and of course the one sex buyer who just had to write to the editors, peter müller: „its one sided to use the misery in berlin street prostitution with sex on public toilets as a reason to debate the liberalisation of prostitution. there are many brothels were the ladies are treated with respect. of course working as a prostitute harbors certain risks - but there are women who freely choose this job, and in my experience, some of them are doing it with passion and love. the regular prices are not the dumping prices you mentioned (5-10 euros) [note: which is indeed normal in street prostitution] but actually 80-100 euros for half an hour - not to mention those dont include extras and humiliating sex practices. i met women who earn better in prostitution than some employees in germany.“

loose translation and highlights by me.

[thislovintime]

Photo by Bob Willoughby.

“The boys’ suite on the 20th floor [of the Hilton Hotel] was literally cluttered with gifts from fans. There were coloring books, toys, a large homemade cake in the shape of a guitar and, of course, bananas. Peter Tork, ‘Monkee’ guitar player, views the longhairs’ loyal following as a sign of popularity. ‘Before, popularity for me was measured by the amount of money in my basket,’ explained Tork, a former folksinger at a ‘pass-the-hat-house’ in Greenwich Village. […] Dolenz believes the reason for ‘The Monkees’ success is that ‘we are playing ourselves and are natural.’He spoke admirably of his partners in ‘Monkee’ business. ‘We’re really the best of friends,’ he said, ‘of course we’re four distinct personalities and we do have occasional squabbles, but they’re only minor.’ […] Tork, the son of an economics professor at the University of Connecticut, is known to have strong feelings about Vietnam in particular, but he is beginning to realize he is skating on thin ice whenever he makes a statement.” - article by Ed Romanoff, The Washington Reporter, January 5, 1967 “‘I thought that we had no business being in Vietnam, and I said so to the New York Times,’ Tork recalled. ‘I was asked (by Monkees’ management) to retract the statement. I called the Times and did that.’ It was, said Tork, a question of honor; he had signed a contract, and he would abide by its terms.” - We all want to change the world: Rock and politics from Elvis to Eminem (2003) Peter: “Well, they wouldn’t let us criticize the war in Vietnam.” Q: “Really?” Peter: “Really.” Q: “Did you want to?" Peter: “Yup. I actually did, to a New York Times reporter, and they made me, asked me very seriously, very strenuously, to call her and ask her to withhold that section of the interview. And I did, and she did, she was very kind about it. But it was… I look back on it and it seems kind of silly, but I think that the whole point of the project was: don’t make waves. Look like revolutionary, look like something new, but don’t make waves. On the other hand, in the experience of an awful lot of our audience, we were something new. So I can’t knock that.” - NPR, June 1983 (the NPR interview - part 1 & part 2)

[arkhamsrevenge]

PS5 Harry Osborn x Reader requested by @seele-opal - how abt something with harry and the symbiote before he went full venom? maybe something abt how it'll react to its hosts' romantic partner

Trigger Warning! This story contains violence and talks about abuse, suicide  and death!

You went to high school with Peter Parker, Mary Jane Watson and Harry Osborn. They were always nice to you but often left you to your own devices. A couple times you had scared off Flash and his buddies due to your wit and unwavering hate for the school bullies. When you heard Harry’s mother had died, you secretly started to make copies of your school work and put his name on them to lessen the load for him when he returned to school. You had kept your secret hidden well for a while until you ran into Peter Parker in the school library. Well more like he ran into you, papers scattered everywhere and as Peter helped you pick them up he saw doubles of each paper you were working on. 

“So you’re the one passing Harry in Honors Lit and Economics.” He whispered. You shrugged. 

“He’s going through it. Thought I’d lighten the load.” After that, Peter and MJ started eating lunch at your table. They never forced you to take your headphones out when you wanted to eat while listening to music or if you didn’t say anything at all. In fact, you were starting to like their company. Harry eventually came back to school and was surprised to know he wasn’t missing many assignments. Peter of course brought him up to speed and later that day you received a note in your locker. It was from Harry, a thank you note for helping him out. You smiled and tucked it into your bag then someone cleared their voice behind you. You turned to see Harry himself holding a small bunch of violets. 

“I know they aren’t much and I picked them outside the school but I wanted to get you something and MJ said you keep drawing violets on your paper when you're bored.” You blink not knowing just how closely those two had paid attention to you. You swallowed roughly and a small smile appeared on your face. 

“Thanks. That was really nice of you.” Harry laughed. 

“You…I’m the one that should be on my knees thanking you. I’m still going to graduate on time because of you.” You shook your head. 

“It was nothing really. It’s tough to go through…a loss. It sucks. Feels like you’ve been gutted and your chest feels like someone keeps putting weight on it. It’s hard to even get up and walk most days.” You chose your words carefully. 

“Sounds like you’re familiar with this.” Harry’s eyes dropped down, tears starting to well up in his eyes. Your heart started to break. No one had been there to hold you together when your sister died by suicide. You had to hold everyone together because they were falling apart and looking to you, the oldest sibling, to fill in the cracks. It was so hard but you got through it. Now you go to therapy once a week to correct all the damage done to your mind. 

“I am.” You say stepping closer. “If…uh…I’m a good listener. You know, whenever.” Harry met your eyes and a small smile appeared on his face. 

“Thanks. I gotta go meet up with Pete for a project but catch you later?” You nodded and laughed as Harry waved goodbye. A couple weeks later Harry took you out on a date and you guys were a thing, not really a couple officially but a thing. MJ and Peter had the same thing going on. You even had your first kiss together in Pete’s backyard when you guys hung out for a movie night. Pete and MJ had gone into get more snacks and silence fell between you and Harry. You turned to him to ask him something when he kissed you. It wasn’t a perfect kiss by any means but you both kissed each other and then DIDN'T SPEAK OF IT AGAIN. Awkward as both were, kisses were still stolen in private. Graduation came and went but all of you kept in touch until Harry just disappeared one day to go to Europe. Eventually Peter and MJ found out what had happened to him, he wasn’t in Europe. He was sick and dying, he had been diagnosed with the same disease his mother died from. Shock would be an understatement as MJ was telling you this over the phone. 

“Shit that's..awful. Where are you now?” You ask when you hear a honking noise from outside your apartment complex. “Outside. Come on.” MJ answers. You laugh and grab your bag and head out the door to run into…Harry Osborn? After not seeing him in months you expected from him to be sickly, dying but he looked just like you remembered him. 

“Woah. Sorry. Uh…” He said steadying himself with his cane. You held him, got his footing and waited. “I had this whole image of me learning on the wall over here all cool while you came outside but got too excited I guess.” He even sounded the same. He had the same bright tone in his voice and he didn’t sound out of breath or anything. The look in his eyes confused you. You couldn't understand what it was but he was looking at you like he was fighting something back. But still you huff out a laugh. 

“How bout you get more of your strength back then you can try to put the moves on me, OK?” Harry laughed and pulled you into a hug. You wrapped your arms around him and let him hug you for as long as he wanted. 

“Thought I’d never see you again.” He whispered. You held on tighter and Harry let you go. “I’m sorry. I was being treated here in the city and didn't want you to worry about me. I’m OK though. I’m in remission.” Your jaw dropped. 

“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.” Then another honk came from behind Harry. Peter was honking Harry’s car. 

“COME ON! I’D LIKE TO GET TO CONEY ISLAND TODAY!” You laughed and rolled your eyes. Harry offered you his arm and you both laughed as you carefully assented down the stairs. MJ opened the car door for you and held out a hand as you climbed in. Harry got into the driver's seat and drove to the docks where you guys caught a boat to Coney Island. Once there, all four of you went on all your favorite rides. It was just like back in high school except trouble struck. The villain known as Tombstone was captured by other bad guys? You weren’t sure because all you could do was look for your friends as you all had been separated. Tombstone looked so scared. You felt bad for him, just seconds ago he was telling you where to get the best caramel apples on Coney Island and even said thank you for talking to him. Well these people were trying to take him so as SpiderMonkey was fighting most of them off you went to try and help Tombstone. A net had been thrown on him so you started to cut it with your pocket knife, trying to free him. 

“Get outta here kid! It aint gonna cut it!” He shouted at you but you were determined to help him until you were thrown to the side landing rough. You look up to see a man standing over you with a knife. You kick him in the shin and take off only to have a sharp pain run up your thigh. The bastard had thrown his knife and it sliced through your thigh. You fell and held your hand to you leg hoping to stop the bleeding. As you hid around a corner Spider-man ran off to save the people on the busted roller coaster. You started to get light headed, wanting to call out to the hero but didn’t want the people on the roller coaster to die. 

“OH MY GOD!” You feel someone jerk you which makes you yell out in pain. You look to see MJ’s scared eyes. “Ohmygodohmygod oh no nonononono. Just stay with me alright? I’m gonna…I’m getting you help just keep putting-HARRY!” MJ screamed. Your eyes started to get heavy. You're losing too much blood. “HEY HEY HEY! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT! LOOK AT ME!” Hands grab your face and shake slightly. Your eyes try to focus knowing the voice belongs to Harry who was desperately trying to keep you awake. 

“We gotta stop the bleeding! Keep putting pressure on the leg. I'll go get a paramedic!.” MJ says as Harry carefully puts his arm behind you and his other under your legs. He pulls you closer to him and whispers

“Just say with me. OK? I’m not losing you a second time. We barely got a chance to- '' You suddenly feel something crawling up your leg, you don't have the strength to move it but you do have enough to open your eyes. Black goo like tentacles were creeping up your leg, stopping at the gash in your thigh, the goo covers it and the pain slowly fades. Are you imagining this? “Holy shit.” Harry. Harry’s still here? The goo continues to cover your body until everything fades to black. 

You gasp for air look around frantically, your still at Coney Island but on a roof top and someone was still holding you. You look up to see Harry, sitting with you curled up against him. 

“Hey.” He breathes sounding relieved that you woke up. 

“Hi? What happened?” You ask. 

“Well…we need to talk.” You turn to see Peter in a Spider-man suit. “Now I know this might be shocking but-” “Oh please.” You croak. “I’ve known for years.” You say starting to move trying to stand. 

“Woah. Not so fast OK? You lost a lot of blood.” Harry says holding you tighter. “Your body temp is still a little low so just…for now just stay.” 

“I should be dead.” You whisper. “How is it I’m not?” Harry looks to Pete who looks right back at him. 

“I…think I healed you.” Harry says. You blink thinking he’s lost his marbles. 

“Huh.” Then tentacles start peaking out of Harry's back. So you weren’t hallucinating. “Harry what?” 

“It’s my treatment. This exoskeleton suit is healing me but…it healed you leg and then like wrapped around your entire body until you were healed enough. I have no idea who it works but I’m glad it did.” Your jaw is still on the floor not knowing what to say. “Pete and I are going to run some tests and you're gonna come. I’m not letting you out of my sight until you see Dr. Connors.” Harry says picking you up with ease. He wasn’t able to do that before. 

“Harry, how-” “The suit. It really did heal me more than I could have hoped for.” 

[verdemoun]

I'm still thinking. Hosea is a grandfather. A grandpa, if you will. There's Isaac, the boy he barely saw before timewarp, the boy he actually *watched* grow up. And Jack. Oh, Jack. (I am so normal about him.) The bright boy running around camp, turned into this. Just as emotionally fucked up as John and Arthur were at his age. And then there's timewarp kids, and then he figures out Jack had a younger sister. How does he handle THAT???

yes. y es i thought abt jack and hosea. because yes i fuckinf think jack would happily put up with hoseas bs. that is his grandpa and grandpa loves him.

oh fuck you you can't attack me in the feels like that and not expect an immediate reply covid has your brain cOOKING. sorry john + abigail jack is actually my son my baby my blorbo

If dad Hosea is intense, papa Hosea is willing to resort to the lowest honor tactics to protect his grandbabies. Like mama grizzly bear to the extreme: he might look the part of sweet old man but he will murder someone with his bare hands if they even LOOK at his grandbabies wrong.

He actually prefers being called Uncle Hosea because he loathes reminders of how old he is (even though growing old is something he is very, very grateful for). Isaac looked him dead in the eye when Hosea tried to correct him and said 'no I am calling you Pa and that's that'. He also calls Bessie Meemaw. Everyone else calls him Uncle Hosea but Isaac has that Morgan stubbornness.

Also Isaac is finally old enough for the 'yeah your dad was an outlaw and all those strange timewarp people are fellow gang members' and is immediately eyes sparkling. Knows outlaw bad but also how cool is that?? He will excitedly sit at Hosea's feet to hear stories about the old days and of course Hosea loves telling very true and not exaggerated tales of their adventures.

Between having no understanding of modern currency and economics and also the excitement of having a grandchild he gets to see whenever he wants because not running for lives anymore, Hosea is the worst when it comes to spoiling his grandbabies second only to Bessie.

Isaac, going from being raised by a 90% of the time solo parent to having such a massive family in the gang, loves all of them so much. Suddenly having grandparents for school events and those dumb family tree assignments. Isaac also inherited the theatrics genes. He's doing a video interview about Hosea's career and of course Hosea is just telling stories about scams and cons he ran but Isaac's in full old timey interviewer garb newsie cap on microphone and clipboard.

Isaac slamming the door at Arthur's fuck you I'm going to Pa's house when he's grounded. Arthur calling to say he's grounded do not spoil him send him home asap and Hosea merrily agreeing only to cut to Isaac getting cake and coffee while they play dominos. Hosea blindly agrees that Arthur is taking him getting suspended a second time far too seriously.

Old man bawling getting to hold baby Maeve. Sean trying to tell him to stop because he's going to wake her up but Hosea is the softest bastard when it comes to babies.

Emotionally ruined to find out Jack has a younger sister but also she was the first Marston to die and so young. He is always the first to offer to babysit and it was a very common occurrence to find her sitting on his lap drifting off as he reads to her. Practices her reading with her and plays tea parties with actual tea and does voices for different characters obsessed with playing with his smaller grandkids.

BUT HOSEA AND JACK. Hosea has been through the emotionally fucked teen outlaw gig so many times he is an expert. He knows when Jack needs space or to talk or company before Jack does.

As easy as it is to focus on that damage all that trauma and emotions and just darkness Jack carries with him, Hosea still sees their little prince.

The sheer emotion of knowing how much reading came to mean to Jack. The hurt but comfort of knowing that Jack, even if he didn't remember Hosea as clearly as Hosea remembers him, held onto something Hosea helped him with and gave him so tightly. How he read so much Abigail teased him despite how proud she was of the life he was going to have before everything turned to shit.

When Jack is still adjusting and understandably awkward and also mentally not coping, Hosea showed him their expansive private collection of books and saw the way Jack's eyes lit up. They both finally have someone to talk to books about.

Not only Jack lighting up a little like a candle being exposed to oxygen again but actually laughing as Hosea starts stacking books he recommends in his arms. Hosea being excited to talk about books without spoiling them also also just so excited to see that bright little boy is still in there.

Catching Jack curled up on what is usually his reading chair, book still in hand but fast asleep. Remembering the first times Arthur, and John, and Tilly and all those troubled young outlaws they picked up along the way felt comfortable enough to sleep around him, and knowing deep down Jack is going to be okay.

[jcmarchi]

SPURS Fellowships offer time out to reflect, learn, and connect

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/spurs-fellowships-offer-time-out-to-reflect-learn-and-connect/

SPURS Fellowships offer time out to reflect, learn, and connect

Sixteen international mid-career urban planners and public administrators recently bid farewell to the MIT campus, having completed a 10-month exploration of North American education and culture designed to expand their professional networks and infuse their work with new insights as they return to influential positions in government agencies, private firms, and other organizations throughout the developing world.

Hailing from Argentina, Bhutan, China, Egypt, Honduras, India, Kosovo, Mexico, Nepal, Pakistan, Trinidad & Tobago, Yemen, and Zimbabwe, they comprise this year’s group of MIT Special Program for Urban and Regional Studies (SPURS) Fellows. Founded in the Department of Urban Studies and Planning in 1967, SPURS has drawn from 135 countries to host more than 750 mid-career individuals who are or will be shaping policy in their home countries. Along with admitting several fellows directly into SPURS, MIT has competed successfully to be among 13 U.S. universities that also host a larger group of fellows annually selected and funded by the U.S. Department of State’s Hubert H. Humphrey Fellowship Program.

Recipients of the Humphrey Fellowship have their travel to the United States, living expenses, and other costs fully financed by the U.S. State Department. Perhaps equally valuable — and some say unique among international fellowships — is a focus that frees all fellows to explore beyond classroom teachings to learn, and advance their professional development without the pressure of earning a degree.

“This is the best reward of my life, this year at MIT and Cambridge in general,” says Carina Arvizu-Machado of Mexico, former cities director for Mexico and Colombia at the World Resources Institute and Mexico’s former national deputy secretary of urban development and housing, who is sponsored by the Humphrey Fellowship. “I think this year of stepping back and stepping out of the active life that we have as professionals and being able to reflect, to learn, to exchange ideas — it’s very useful.”

Arvizu-Machado’s sentiments are echoed by many past and present fellows, says Bish Sanyal, MIT’s Ford International Professor of Urban Development and Planning and director of SPURS since 2004.

“The fellows mention that this one year has given them a real opportunity to reflect on what they have done in the past and what they are going to do in the future,” he says, adding that the value of developing professional networks with peers in other developing countries can’t be overstated. “Some have never met colleagues from another country before. The program provides the ideal setting to reflect on professional challenges, collectively, without political concerns which stifle frank deliberation in their home countries.”

While some SPURS Fellows might not be well-traveled before coming to MIT, they are nonetheless a uniformly “very highly motivated and politically powerful group,” Sanyal says — movers and shakers in their home countries in fields such as urban planning, economics, governance, and business development. Some notable alumni include the current managing director of the International Monetary Fund, a former CEO of the World Bank, former ambassadors to the United States from Colombia and Haiti, the corporate vice president of strategic programming of Banco de Desarrollo de América Latina or CAF (Latin America’s largest development bank), and a Nepalese Supreme Court justice.

“When the Ebola outbreak happened in Africa, the person who headed the Ebola response team in Liberia was a SPURS Fellow,” Sanyal says.

The benefits of having a such an accomplished and cosmopolitan group of people on campus flow both ways, says Allan Goodman, CEO of the Institute of International Education (IIE), which administers the Humphrey Fellowship for the state department.

“It really enriches MIT … and all the places that are participating,” Goodman says. “The undergraduate and graduate students interact with the fellows, and they wouldn’t ordinarily have that chance. You have a ready-made group of international consultants who are focused on the theme of your department.”

Each university participating in the Humphrey Fellowship program is assigned fellows based on a specific area of expertise. With SPURS housed within the Department of Urban Studies and Planning at MIT, the programmatic focus is on urban and regional planning. Sanyal remarks that this focus is deliberate and consistent regardless of whether fellows are sponsored by the U.S. Department of State or other agencies from the fellows’ home countries. One difference, however, is that Humphrey Fellows are required to be professionally affiliated for at least six weeks with U.S.-based organizations in their areas of work or interest — an engagement described as a cross between an internship and pro-bono consultancy that provides fellows the opportunity to develop professional relationships with U.S. practitioners.

Peter Moran, director of the Humphrey program at IIE, says the biggest value to fellows at MIT and other participating universities is the ability to step out of their past professional lives and reflect from a fresh perspective on their professional aspirations to serve their nations in an interconnected world. In the process, they also benefit from the relationships with other fellows and professional partnerships that last years after they return home.

“To say it broadens your perspective really undersells it,” he says. “The diversity of the fellows is remarkable. It’s a lot of the world … and we are putting them all around the table together.”

By continuing to put fellows from diverse corners of the world together for over 50 years, SPURS has sparked lasting partnerships between fellows, as well as among SPURS alumni, MIT faculty and students, and other professionals they encounter during their time in Cambridge.

Two factors are key to maintaining the high quality of the program, Sanyal says.

First, additional funding could strengthen the program, and, to that end, he envisions sponsoring financially sustainable relationships with over a dozen local, national, and international agencies as long-term partners.

The second challenge is to revise the program’s objective in a rapidly changing world. This is harder to surmount. When SPURS was established in 1967, Sanyal says, there was widely held public perception that the United States ought to look outward to help democratic nations of the world.

“I think the challenge now is that many countries, including the U.S., are looking inward,” Sanyal says, adding that this inward turn increases the importance that SPURS develops a diverse portfolio of funding sources.

As Arvizu-Machado prepared to return to Mexico this spring, she recounted myriad positive experiences enabled by her fellowship — from lectures she was invited to give and graduate courses she attended to practicing yoga with her undergraduate dorm mates.

“Most important, I think, is the people I’ve met,” she says. “This includes, foremost, the other fellows. They are just amazing people. They have become part of my family. But also, some of the faculty and the extended network which this fellowship allows you to have access to. I’m very grateful to be part of this program.”

One of Arvizu-Machado’s co-fellows, Tenzin Jamtsho, agrees that the opportunity for personal connections with other fellows as well as with faculty highly respected in their fields is the aspect of SPURS that will continue to resonate when he returns to his native Bhutan. Jamtsho, director of administration and finance at Bhutan’s Druk Gyalpo’s Institute (formerly the Royal Academy), who is sponsored by the Humphrey Fellowship, says he pursued the fellowship after colleagues at home told him it would be “life changing.” His actual experience at MIT affirmed this expectation.

Jamtsho says the MIT campus offers fellows a “free-flowing environment” for learning, with opportunities to take whatever classes they’re interested in. During his fellowship, Jamtsho says he came to appreciate different ways to approach challenges — viewing problems through a “systems lens,” which he calls “a valuable skill that I am taking back home.”

Also returning to Bhutan with Jamtsho are some less-tangible aspects of his time at MIT.

“I’ve been fortunate to interact with people who are very intelligent and passionate,” he says. “What I’m going to take home is the kindness and humility of these people.”

[columtard]

Marc Lépine’s suicide letter.

This post includes both the Original French and the translated English text of Marc Lépine’s suicide note, found in his jacket pocket, which as well contained two other letters to friends.

English (Translation)

"Forgive the mistakes, I had 15 minutes to write this. See also Annex.

Would you note that if I commit suicide today 89-12-06 *December 6th 1989* it is not for economic reasons (for I have waited until I exhausted all my financial means, even refusing jobs) but for political reasons. Because I have decided to send the feminists, who have always ruined my life, to their Maker. For seven years life has brought me no joy and being totally blasé, I have decided to put an end to those viragos.

I tried in my youth to enter the Forces as an officer cadet, which would have allowed me possibly to get into the arsenal and precede Lortie in a raid. They refused me because asocial. I therefore had to wait until this day to execute my plans. In between, I continued my studies in a haphazard way for they never really interested me, knowing in advance my fate. Which did not prevent me from obtaining very good marks despite my theory of not handing in work and the lack of studying before exams.

Even if the Mad Killer epithet will be attributed to me by the media, I consider myself a rational erudite that only the arrival of the Grim Reaper has forced to take extreme acts. For why persevere to exist if it is only to please the government. Being rather backward-looking by nature (except for science), the feminists have always enraged me. They want to keep the advantages of women (e.g. cheaper insurance, extended maternity leave preceded by a preventative leave, etc.) while seizing for themselves those of men.

Thus it is an obvious truth that if the Olympic Games removed the Men-Women distinction, there would be Women only in the graceful events. So the feminists are not fighting to remove that barrier. They are so opportunistic they *do not* neglect to profit from the knowledge accumulated by men through the ages. They always try to misrepresent them every time they can. Thus, the other day, I heard they were honoring the Canadian men and women who fought at the frontline during the world wars. How can you explain *that since* women were not authorized to go to the frontline??? Will we hear of Caesar's female legions and female galley slaves who of course took up 50% of the ranks of history, though they never existed. A real Casus Belli.

Sorry for this too brief letter.

Marc Lépine

Annex *list of 19 names and telephone numbers of women Lepine identified as feminists*

Nearly died today. (The lack of time because I started too late) has allowed these radical feminists to survive.

Alea Jacta Est”

French (Original)

“Excusez les fautes. J'avais 15 minutes pour l'écrire (Voir aussi Annexe)

Veillez noter que si je me suicide aujourd'hui 89/12/06 ce n'est pas pour des raisons économiques (car j'ai attendu d'avoir épuisé tout mes moyens financiers refusant même de l'emploi) mais bien pour des raisons politiques. Car j'ai décidé d'envoyer Ad Patres les féministes qui m'ont toujours gaché la vie. Depuis 7 ans que la vie ne m'apporte plus de joie et étant totalement blasé, j'ai décidé de mettre des bâtons dans les roues à ces viragos.

J'avais déjà essayés dans ma jeunesse de m'engager dans les Forces comme élève-officier, ce qui m'aurais permit de possiblement pénétrer dans l'arsenal et de procédé Lortie dans une rassia. Ils m'ont refusé because associal. J'ai donc attendu jusqu'a ce jour pour mettre à exécution mes projets. Entre temps, j'ai continué mes études au grès du vent car elles ne m'ont jamais intéressée sachant mon destin à l'avance. Ce qui ne m'a pas empécher d'avoir de très bonnes notes malgré ma théorie de travaux non remis ainsi que la carence d'étude avant les examens.

Même si l'épitète Tireur Fou va m'être attribué dans les médias, je me considère comme un érudit rationnel que seul la venu de la Faucheuse on amméné à posé des gestes extrèmistes.

Car pourquoi persévéré à exister si ce n'est que faire plaisir au gouvernement. Etant plûtot passéiste (Exception la science) de nature, les féministes ont toujours eux le dont de me faire rager. Elles veulent conserver les avantages des femmes (ex. assurances moins cher, congé de maternité prolongé précédé d'un retrait préventif, etc.) tout en s'accaparant de ceux des hommes.

Ainsi c'est une vérité de la palice que si les Jeux olympiques enlevaient la distinction Homme/ Femme, il n'y aurait de Femmes que dans les compétitions gracieuses. Donc les féministes ne se battent pas pour enlever cette barrière. Elles sont tellement opportunistes qu'elles ne négligent pas de profiter des connaissances accumuler par les hommes au cours de l'histoire.

Elles essai toutefois de travestir celles-ci toute les fois qu'elles le peuvent. Ainsi l'autre jour j'ai entendu qu'on honoraient les canadiens et canadiennes qui ont combattus au front pendant les guerres mondiales. Comment expliquer cela alors que les femmes n'étaient pas autorisés à aller au front??? Va-t-on entendre parler des légionnaires et galériennes de César qui naturellement occuperont 50% des effectifs de l'histoire malgré qu'elles n'a jamais exister. Un vrai Casus Belli.

Désoler pour cette trop compendieuse lettre.

Marc Lépine

Annexe *Suit une liste de 19 noms*

Ont toutes Failli disparaitre aujourd'hui. Le manque de temps (car je m'y suis mis trop tard) à permis que ces féministes radicals survives.

Alea Jacta Est”

source

[drsonnet]

"Today, in this upside-down world, we feverishly await the final vote in the U.N. General Assembly on the genocide in Srebrenica, while Gaza has been destroyed, and its people starved and denied water." (Illustration by Erhan Yalvaç)

Of villains, heroes and the final act

Of villains, heroes and the final act | Opinion (archive.org)

BY FARHAN MUJAHID CHAK - MAY 14, 2024

A UNGA resolution condemning the Srebrenica genocide is developed by countries like Germany and the U.S., despite their complicity in the ongoing genocide in Gaza by supporting Israel

Ino longer believe in fairy tales, although I once did.

Raised with ideals of sacredness in life, I was taught to honor the sanctity of humanity, to champion international law, and to cherish freedom of speech as the cornerstone of societal progress. I believe the Geneva Conventions were a manifestation of our collective conscience that mandated the rules of war and held nations to account. Women and children; hospitals and schools; the elderly and infirm were inviolable. I was taught that "peaceful protest" was the quintessential liberty of a sophisticated society that understood the relationship between civic activism, social change and progress. I listened, attentively, to the lofty rhetoric and was enthralled. I would utter high-sounding words on democracy, equality and freedom, and those grand glutinous words stuck to my teeth. I was – in a way, smitten.

Head-over-heels over values that deeply resonated in me, yet I slowly became disillusioned. It became evident those hollow words were never meant to be believed, only used to establish authority and reproach others with their inhumanity. Justice was not blind, and race, color and creed mattered in the application of the law. It is in this troubled context that the United Nations General Assembly (UNGA) will vote on whether to declare July 11 "The International Day of Reflection and Remembrance of the 1995 Srebrenica Genocide." The complex intersection of the ongoing genocide in Palestine, the war on students and free speech on university campuses across the United States, Canada and Europe, and the former genocide in Srebrenica deserves closer scrutiny. The U.N. vote on the Bosnian genocide could not come at a more condemnable moment in world history.

On May 1, after considerable delay, a draft U.N. resolution on the Srebrenica genocide was submitted to the president of the 193-member U.N. General Assembly. Recall that in 1995, the town of Srebrenica was a U.N.-declared safe zone promised protection by a U.N. Dutch force. Dozens of able-bodied Muslim men in the town were asked to disarm, which they did. Despite that, fanatical Serb forces overran the safe zone and murdered 8,372 Muslim men and boys. Such is the perverse reality of the world we live in, that a U.N.-mandated safe haven, supposedly protected by U.N. forces, was invaded by terrorist Serb forces and a genocide ensued under their watch.

Bizarre irony

Now, a UNGA resolution on the Srebrenica genocide, partially modeled on a similar resolution for Rwanda, has been developed by several countries including Germany and the U.S. Absurdly, both are collaborators in the genocide currently underway in Gaza by direct military, economic and diplomatic support for Israel. This is the bizarre irony of being complicit in an ongoing genocide and putting forth a U.N. Resolution condemning the same.

What is the point of passing a resolution on genocide and turning a blind eye to one going on for the whole world to see? Sadly, villains need masks and no better cover than virtue. It is politics, not ethics, that is driving the U.N. Srebrenica vote. Of course, this does not diminish the necessity of it or the need to condemn the Srebrenica genocide and its denial. Still, the larger macro-level betrayal of the Geneva Conventions and International Human Rights Law by the U.S., U.K. and Germany is an indictment of the Western-led global order.

It is that outright duplicity, the sheer savagery of the genocide in Palestine, and the silencing of dissent that has provoked a whole generation of young people on campuses throughout the West. After all, they, too, were told stories about diversity, inclusion and pluralism. They were taught to condemn discrimination based on ethnicity, religion or gender. About equality before the law and the inviolability of non-combatants. They were raised to feel empowered and encouraged to peacefully organize and express their opinions. And, that society benefits when individuals exercise their civic duty. Now, they are witness to the flagrant disavowal of the moral archetypes that were instilled in them. They feel duped and are protesting, as heroes do, the enabling of genocide by their universities. Idealistic and courageous, they are sacrificing their education and careers to condemn the genocide in Palestine. Except rather than being celebrated, thousands of students have been beaten, harassed and arrested. Condemned for believing in the values that they were taught.

Now, we seem to be in the final act. One of impunity – if you will, in which we close our eyes to the genocide in Palestine, condemn students who protest it, and negotiate ways to commemorate a past genocide in Srebrenica – when ignoring it while it happened. Today, in this upside-down world, we feverishly await the final vote in the UNGA on the genocide in Srebrenica, while Gaza has been destroyed, and its people starved and denied water.

Yet, no matter the outcome of the resolution, it will not stop future genocides. Still, if nothing else, it will forever be a testament to the twisted dystopian reality in which we live and be a symbol of the urgent need for a new world order. Maybe, one faraway day, we can muster the will – for whatever purpose, and pass a U.N. resolution condemning it. Or name a highway after the martyrs. We will tell noble stories about those who were killed since it seems our twisted world only after their death feigns to honor them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Professor of International Affairs, Visiting Research Faculty at Al Waleed Center for Muslim Christian Understanding at Georgetown University

[nrdmssgs]

Activision doesn't understand, how Russian language works

Spoilers to CoD MW3 below the cut.

@sofasoap @siilvan @cumikering @stag-beetle-wastaken @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot be my guests.

First and most important: this rant is not aimed to 'make Russian culture great again'. I am not offended as a representative of some cultural or linguistic group. But as a member of gaming community, I feel, as if Activision... kinda didn't give a flying f about the gaming experience, that they are trying to sell me for 60 Euros. And I can't say, I like this feeling.

Second: I will be criticizing some approaches to language, that I will never criticize in fanfiction. Because you guys are doing it for free, for the sake of having fun. So I will be ok with you just straight using Google translate to write e.g. Nikolais lines in Russian. Because you never ask me to pay 60 Euros for the right to read your works. With that being mentioned, lets roll!

Activision doesn't pay attention to their own script, when it comes to Russian lines

Ok, this is a major issue. Because Activision sometimes gives completely different information in character line and in the subtitles. And it is not some minor information, we are talking about major plot details!

Let's just watch 20 seconds of a playthrough (time code 8:44)

Pay attention closely to how Makarov starts his monologue after Nolan says "Its an honor, commander". Makarovs subtitles say 'four years', when Makarov says something like 'shest let'. "four" in Russian is "chetyre", "six" is "shest`". These words sound nothing alike! And to check this, you literally need 5 seconds on google translate! Here, Activision, I did your work for you and I don't even ask for 60 freaking Euros! You learn these numbers on your second-third lesson of Russian 101!

There are ways to fix this scene. There are even ways to do it without reshooting Julian (because ok, I get it, maybe he costs so much, that all our 60 Euros purchases would never help Activision to economically recover...). All you need is to ask him to record TWO WORDS!

Activision doesn't care for wording even in the simplest proverbs

You remember a saying "enemy of my enemy is my friend"? I mean, of course you do, even John Price remembers it! And you know, who forgot this saying? Activision did! Because honest to god, I was very happy with our new Yuri, until he produced this ominous linguistic construction... (time code 56:10)

And if you think, it sounds just a tad off in English... Well, in Russian this sounds, as if a Colonel, a man, who spent tenths of years constantly communicating with soldiers, superiors, officials, started learning Russian... a month ago.

This is an international proverb, it exists in many languages! Now this is a safe case to use an automatic translator! It gives you a very simple answer.

But for some mysterious reason, Activision writes their strange line, translate to russian and find a poor-working synonym so that Yuri doesn't say 'opponent' twice... And in the end it kinda still makes sense, but this whole phrase sounds so off!! You never choose this sick long, overloaded wording for a proverb, that you literally learn at school. They just make it look like zarin is already there and it affects Yuri heavily.

This is just one example, but in reality, almost every Makarovs monologue sounds very strangely formulated. I just got you one example, but believe me, this is a systematic issue here. And the strangest thing is that all their errors are so easy to fix, but they never bothered!

Activision doesn't care for how Russian sounds

Ok, this is not a rant against Julian Kostov. The guy does his wor absolutely gorgeous! He steals every scene, where he appears, and I have nothing, but respect for him. However... Russian is a complicated language. For real. It is full of long words, with many unfamiliar for European ear sounds. It is not only difficult to understand it - it is complicated even to imitate it.

Now apparently Julian knows Russian to some extent just because of his origin and age. But that doesn't save him from swallowing some letters, syllables, sometimes even big parts of words. And when it happens in almost every line of his character - it becomes an issue. An issue, when even Russian-speaker has to read subtitles to understand, what is going on in a scene with two Russian characters!

This whole scene is a nightmare (time code 1:42:54). Replaced letters, disappearance of parts of words, strange accents - they collected a bingo on this one.

And I dont blame actors here! Because on every shooting there is a director - a guy, who is responsible for how overall scene will look and sound in the end. There is always a possibility to find someone, who actually speaks the language and make them sit and listen! And if there are many issues with pronunciation revealed - you just come to your actors and say 'guys, you did amazing jobs, we are so happy to work with you. Now can we please do another shot and pay attention to these lines of yours?'.

And believe me, it is ok to have multiple shots for ingame cutscenes! Actors are ok with that! I don't ask for a perfect pronunciation, I just ask Activision to make sure, their characters don't sound as if they are speaking gibberish!

The most strange part here is that there are super-clean lines in game as well! Milena spoke with accent too, but she sounded clear! Some NPCs sounded perfect!

So Im sorry, but at the end of the day - this your most accurate Russian character by Activision. Because he chose to speak English.