#How to select journal papers

[linfcor]

Create a journal using these tips and ideas.

[friendlyneighborhoodshark]

"How to Life" Masterlist

Cleaning and Tidying

Make your bed in the morning. It takes seconds, and it's worth it.

Reset to zero each morning.

Use the UFYH 20/10 system for clearing your shit.

Have a 'drop-zone' box where you dump anything and everything. At the beginning/end of the day, clear it out and put that shit away.

Automate your chores. Have a cleaning schedule and assign 15mins daily to do whatever cleaning tasks are set for that day. Set a timer and do it once the timer is up, finish the task you're on and leave it for the day.

Fold your clothes straight out of the tumble dryer (if you use one), whilst they're still warm. This minimises creases and eliminates the need for ironing.

Clean your footwear regularly and you'll feel like a champ.

Organisation and Productivity

Learn from Eisenhower's Importance/Urgency matrix.

Try out the two-minute rule and the Pomodoro technique.

Use. A. Planner. (Or Google Calendar, if that's more your thing.)

Try bullet journalling.

Keep a notebook/journal/commonplace book to dump your brain contents in on the regular.

Set morning alarms at two-minute intervals rather than five, and stick your alarm on the other side of the room. It's brutal, but it works.

Set three main goals each day, with one of them being your #1 priority. Don't overload your to-do list or you'll hit overload paralysis and procrastinate.

If you're in a slump, however, don't be afraid to put things like "shower" on your to do list - that may be a big enough goal in itself, and that's okay.

Have a physical inbox - a tray, a folder, whatever. If you get a piece of paper, stick it in there and sort through it at the end of the week.

Consider utilising the GTD System, or a variation of it.

Try timeboxing.

Have a morning routine, and guard that quiet time ferociously.

Have a folder for all your important documents and letters, organised by topic (e.g. medical, bank, university, work, identification). At the front of this folder, have a sheet of paper with all the key information written on it, such as your GP's details, your passport details, driving licence details, bank account number, insurance number(s), and so on.

Schedule working time and down time alike, in the balance that works for you.

Money

Have. A. God. Damn. Budget.

Use a money tracker like toshl, mint, or splitwise. Enter all expenses asap! (You will forget, otherwise.)

Have a 'money date' each week, where you sort through your finances from the past seven days and then add it to a spreadsheet. This will help you identify your spending patterns and whether your budget is actually working or not.

Pack your own frickin' lunch like a grown-up and stop buying so many takeaway coffees. Keep snacks in your bag.

Food and Cooking

Know how to cook the basics: a starch, a protein, a vegetable, and a sauce.

Simple, one-pot meals ("a grain, a green, and a bean") are a godsend.

Batch cook and freeze. Make your own 'microwave meals'.

Buy dried goods to save money - rice and beans are a pittance.

Consider Meatless Mondays; it's healthier, cheaper, and more environmentally friendly.

Learn which fruits and vegetables are cheapest at your store, and build a standard weekly menu around those. (Also remember that frozen vegetables are cheap and healthy.)

Learn seasoning combinations. Different seasoning, even with the exact same ingredients, can make a dish seem completely new.

Misc

Have a stock email-writing format.

Want to start running, but find it boring? Try Zombies, Run!.

Keep a goddamn first aid kit and learn how to use it.

Update your CV regularly.

Keep a selection of stamps and standard envelopes for unexpected posting needs. (It happens more regularly than you would think!)

[milkoomi]

inner glow up. ᥫ᭡

while we focus on our physical selves to glow up, we tend to forget about our minds and hearts. we also need to focus on letting more light come into ourselves. the way we think, the way we love, the way we expend our energy; all of that can have this aspect of “glowing up” too! in this post, we’re going to discuss how to glow from within and let that beautiful new energy radiate outwards.

let’s begin …

୨ৎ — the mind

deep clean your thoughts

meditation:

take a moment, even if it’s just for 5 minutes, to sit and clear your head. focus on breathing exercises, concentrate on the rhythm of your heart, listen to the ambient noises of your surroundings. meditation is a fantastic way of clearing your mind and removing those overwhelming thoughts that are piling up in your brain! you also don’t need to be sitting, you could also meditate while in the shower! i have an entire guide on how to do so! you can also take meditative walks and focus on your surroundings.

journaling:

just dump all your thoughts onto a page, write down everything that’s on your mind. once you’re done you can even rip up the paper and toss it away! doing these journal dumps can help release those racing thoughts and clear your mind. it may even help to relieve some weight off your shoulders!

decorate your mind with peace & kindness

write down affirmations or go to a mirror and say those affirmations to yourself! fill your head with positive thoughts and calming reassurance.

try recording a voice message & send it to yourself! you can say your affirmations that way or give yourself a motivational mini-speech. this way, you can go back to those messages when you need an uplifting message from someone. and it’s always better to get back up with kindness and love from yourself!

organize your headspace

make room for positivity, peace, and grace and throw out all the negativity that’s tossed around in your head. don’t let negative talk from others, media, or yourself take up space in your head! your mind should never hold a spot for negativity.

distance yourself from those who bring you down

delete social media that no longer serves you or take regular breaks to unplug from your phone

replace negative self-talk with positive affirmations

replace “i can’t” with “i can”

୨ৎ — the heart

nurture your heart

as your mind is an important place to keep thoughts of joy, kindness, and love, your heart needs to feel it!

practice self care

take care of your physical needs (shower, drink water, brush your teeth, eat nutritious and delicious foods, move your body)

write yourself love letters

say “thank you” when receiving compliments

provide protection for your feelings

your heart is scared and access to it should be very limited. don’t let just anyone in. now, i’m not saying you have to put iron walls up around your heart and feelings, but i’m saying that you need to be selective. be picky about who you surround yourself with.

invite people who…

provide genuine & unconditional love

support you and your dreams

encourage you to prioritize your health (physical & mental)

offer guidance when you feel lost

close the doors on people who…

make jokes out of your insecurities

take your passions and dreams as something to laugh about

invalidate your feelings and thoughts

think it’s okay to walk all over you

don’t value your time and space

୨ৎ — letting in the light

i believe our energies attract different things whether we want them to or not. letting dark or bad energy ruminate within yourself and allowing it to consume you can attract misfortune, loss, and sadness which keeps us from reaching our true potential.

let light or good energy flow within you and let that energy be the one that takes up all the space. you’ll attract what you actually want rather than the things you wish to avoid.

light energy can come from…

taking up hobbies you enjoy

listening to music that makes you feel good

spending time with loved ones

going on nature walks

playing with pets

celebrating your accomplishments

final notes —

the biggest take away from this: protect your peace. becoming the best version of yourself comes with knowing how to find peace within yourself and making sure you show yourself love and kindness. the main person you should lean on for that kind of good energy should be you. let your glow up start from within!

with lots of love, faustina 🌷

[fanaticsnail]

"Good Boy"

Masterlist here

Word count: 3,200+

Synopsis: Eustass Kid didn't know exactly when it happened, but now he craves to be praised by you. He thrives beneath your words, but the one time you didn't call him a "good boy" has him in a bratty rage.

Themes: mutual pining, kid x gn!reader, fluffy, praise kink Kid, he just wants to be a good boy, no kisses just praise.

Notes: it's past 1am where I am, and I physically couldn't get to sleep until I got this request by @remisloves out of my mind. It's all about praise and softening rough characters lately with me. Good night everyone! Sweet blorbo dreams

Tag list: @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine

A shudder erupted from the base of Eustass Kid's spine to the top of his cranium. Downturning his chin, he attempted to disguise how wide his smile had risen to his lips beneath the shadow of his blast goggles. 

Never one to shy away from a challenge, Captain Kid pushed himself to the absolute limit to best his latest opponent. Blood dripping from his body, his bones bent to the point of nearly breaking. The weight of his metal arm overencumbered his body, his brute strength no longer enough to propel his legs forward. 

Successful at last, he claimed their loot in their vast treasury, selecting a few key pieces that caught his eye to present back to you: a former thief, his ships’ appraiser, and now his curator of chronological dialogue, items and routines. 

What would possess this hulking captain to risk his body and his crew to collect this small piece of art to present to you? Why would he ever risk such a heavy physical toll for a mere trinket? 

Because he was a good boy. 

And you always informed him as such.

While Kid saw no need for a chronicler initially, he very quickly warmed to the idea of maintaining one on his payroll. When Massacre Soldier Killer suggested a small snippet of their adventures be cataloged in journals, Kid never knew that reading the words back would prompt a rapid boil beneath his skin. A craving. A need. 

Seeing those words scribed on paper held him hostage. Those doting, praising, uplifting words that held such passionate composition regarding his exploits; they pushed him to go further, drive harder, propell longer in his adventures. This was all in an attempt to dream of seeing more of those beautiful words describing him articulated upon paper. 

Well, his exploits at least. 

Most of all, he craved to hear them depart from your lips. You managed to slip a single verbalized expression of praise once upon his return from doing a menial task. Since then, he was hooked on the rush it brought him. 

“Oh, wow! Captain, you've done so well! So unbelievably well!” was that first door opening to the praise he needed. 

That small snippet from you, was all well and good in his opinion. He did enjoy your recognition of his talent, but it was not what he craved the most. 

And what he wanted the most, was to be told he was, “a good boy.” 

He couldn't explain it, but the thought of hearing those words flee from your lips had his eyelids half-hooded, eyes glazed, pupils blackened and blown, and a droopy smile lazily draw itself up onto his lips. 

You had only ever come close one time to praising him personally, rather than the talent of his exploits. He felt the flutter of his heart rapidly igniting his veins with adrenaline, screaming with his eyes for you to utter the words he so desperately craved. 

And you said it. 

You finally said it today. 

His feet thumped upon the wooden deck, after he hoisted himself over the small opening on the side of the ship. The ‘away team' had finally assembled together and began greeting those who remained behind. 

Rushing to greet your Captain, he shot you a reciprocated, triumphant and winning smile, while happily presenting a small object up to you in the center of his right, flesh hand. 

“You found it? You actually found it?” your eyes widened, reaching your hand out to Kid's extended right palm. His body was still dripping with the blood of his enemies, a visible shake in his fingertips as he elevated the trinket up to you. 

“It nearly cost me my other arm,” he winced through the words, his forearm beginning to twitch beneath the strain of his exhaustion, “But I brought it back for you-...” he halted his words, pondering whether it was now time to make his affections known or not “...-to add to the collection.”

“For me?” your eyes widened, looking at the shiny and ornate gold filigree design. In the center of the flattened piece lay a single garnet: small, something one would cast aside should more items be presented. But to you, a prized piece in an antique collection you had been dedicating your life to find. 

“It's the missing piece, yeah?” Kid smirked, huffing through his words as the rest of the crew assembled atop the Victoria Punk, “The one you told us about last Friday?”

“Honestly, Captain, I don't remember half of what happened last Friday,” you confessed sheepishly, up turning your brows as your fingers brushed against his palm, “You'd think my liver would be able to tolerate being aboard your ship, drinking that slosh alongside the crew by now.”

He barked a cracked cackle at your confession, prompting your own to rise in your chest. His laugh was contagious, a laugh that could be felt through his whole body springing and vibrating up within your own. 

“Thank you, captain,” you expressed your deepest gratitude to the taller man, your head nodding in praise, “You don't know what this means to me.”

After a moment's pause, he looked down at the object before bringing his whisky-coloured eyes back up to meet with your own. He inhaled a shaken breath, baited and waiting within his lungs while anticipating his next words. 

“S-So,” he stuttered over his words, scolding himself under his own anxiety, “Did I do good? Is this the one you needed? Am I a-...” he didn't want to lead you into giving him the praise he desperately sought, but didn't want to not hear it either. 

With all the patience you could muster upon such a triumphant moment in your life, you prompted him with your eyes to have him complete his sentence. 

“...Am I a good-...” trying so, so hard to say the final word, he physically couldn't have them pass his lips, “...-Captain?” He mentally slapped himself, knowing that those were not the words he craved and how stupid that must've made him sound. 

You took a moment to carefully think about your next words, noticing how bruised he was, how bloody his knuckles were, how a lot of the crew that went with him on this private ‘away mission' were faring upon return. 

“Of course you are. You captain us extremely well, sir,” you uttered with a soft smile, “I'll adjust my findings accordingly in the journals, if I may be excused?” 

A small puff of air flew from his lips, defeat almost tangibly thick as it shrouded his shoulders with its presence. He looked away after giving his nod of dismissal, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck below his feet. 

Your smile widened, claiming the object from his palm and holding your hand within his for a moment longer, before withdrawing completely. Fluttering your eyes over each fixed point of concern on his features, you searched for what his body seemed to be screaming for. 

Thanking him with a curt nod, you turned on your heel and abruptly halted your next step. 

At this moment, it fully dawned on you exactly the words your Captain wanted to hear. Eustass Kid, captain of the Kid pirates, champion and leader of the Victoria punk, devil-fruit user and wielder of Haki… had a praise kink. And he wanted you to praise him. 

A playful smile spread like warm honey up your cheeks, a scrunch in your nose as you rolled your next words over your tongue. You turned your head over your shoulder, guarding your intentions close to your chest as you spoke two words that almost had your Captain fall on his knees in gratitude. 

“Good boy.”

From that moment on, he was simply smitten. No matter what he did, whether it was aiding his crew with carrying supplies, carrying out great acts of violence, defending his Nakama from their enemies, or simply finishing his vegetables at meal time - he would look to you in anticipation, that anticipation being met with those two simple words. 

“Good boy.”

They echoed within his mind, swirling around within the chasms of his brain as slumber eluded him. He did not mind in the slightest having his lack of rest consumed with praises departing from your lips. 

Your voice plagued him, haunted him as a spectral ghost would hunt down their unfinished business. He did not mind such a haunting, in fact: he wanted more. He wanted to have more praise, more compliments, more of your verbal, beautiful words crying out from your perfect lips. 

He was smitten, completely smitten, by your compliments. The way your talented tongue made his name sound, the way your lips curved up in a knowing smirk each time you told him he was a ‘good boy.’

Until the day you didn't. 

Eustass Kid was in a foul mood, one that nobody knew the cause nor the cure for such a horrid, stampeding mess of a captain. Food, ales, meads, even gold - nothing appeared to pry him from his raging temper. Breaking tankards, tipping over tables, scattering documents on his captains’ desk, nothing was safe from the wrath he was wreaking on the furniture. 

Hunched over your desk, you continued cataloging and appraising the latest haul of trinkets and treasures thrust into your office. It was overwhelming for you, the sheer number of items scattered around your room. You attempted to alphabetize them, sort them accordingly and lump them into itemized piles. 

The toll the elevation of work raised onto your shoulders had you dismiss all those who presented you with various finds, including your Captain. He rocked on the ball and heels of his feet, eagerly awaiting and anticipating his sought-after praise - but found nothing but an anxious sigh and scratch of your neck in response to his hard labor. 

This was the reason for his intense rage.

After leaving your office, and selfishly paying no mind to your exhausted expression, he began to spiral.  

“He was so good. Why didn't you tell him he was? Was there something he could've done better? Something he could've pushed harder to strive for?” all circled within his mind as he tore piece after piece of his office apart. 

Several hours had passed, and you carved a hefty chunk of your work apart and managed to get a fair bit done. It was nowhere near complete, but it had you feeling a sense of anxious accomplishment. 

A knock at the door prompted you to raise your chin, eyes panicked and overwhelmed with the amount of work still required to be completed before mealtime. 

“Need help?” The light flickered off the cerulean and pearl colored mask of the first mate, who peeked his head around the doorframe. 

“Please,” you sighed, gesturing to your position kneeling on the ground beside you. Killer promptly entered your office, crouching beside you and sifting through the uncharted treasures still needing to be sorted. 

“What we up to?” he elevated his hand, gesturing out to the various piles in front of you both, “I think I see where they need to go. You written down them all?”

“All recorded in the book, down to the last drooped earpiece,” you confirmed, nodding to the mess in the center of the room, “They just need to be put in the right piles, locked in the treasury, and then we can call it a night. Maybe have an ale, if you're up for it, Kil?”

After a moment's pause, both of you rolling the items in your fingertips and placing them within the according: gold, silver, platinum, gemstone, raw material, ceramic, wearable materials, and weaponry piles. 

“Leave this with me,” Killer uttered, placing a throwing knife within the weaponry stack, “And you go and perform your other job.”

“What other job?” your brows knit with confusion, “I've already done the journalling of the exploits, the timetabling of the crew shift-changes, notarizing the stock we need within the kitchen-.”

“-Oh, no, buckaroo,” you could audibly hear the smirk behind Killer's mask as he teased you, “the other one. The one nobody pays you to do.”

“Which is, champ?” you taunted in return, nudging him with your shoulder roughly against his, “Be specific.”

“The one where you-...” he took this brief pause as an opportunity to sigh in huffed frustration, “...-where you tell our captain he's a good boy. Although, in his current state,” Killer rotated his neck to relieve the tension on his shoulders, “I might even go so far as to suggest you call him a bad one, considering that's exactly how he's behaving.”

Your confusion knit your brow down in the center of your face, your mind focussing on when the last time you praised the puppy you had turned your Captain into. 

“Oh, fuck! I didn't praise him when he brought in the loot!” your eyes widened in shock, promptly rising to your feet and brushing over your pants, “I just got so overwhelmed by the sheer bloody number, I couldn't think of anything else. Oh, I'm an idiot.”

“You're not an idiot,” Killer interrupted you, rising to his own feet and cupping your shoulders in an attempt to halt the rise in your anxiety, “Hell, you're not even dating him. It shouldn't be your job-,” he brushed over your shirt, adjusting the crumpled material to make it more appealing to the eye. 

“-Yet here you are,” he concluded, nodding at you before glancing down at the piles of treasure, “And here I am: the first-mate, the best friend, the confidant. The one who is unable to tear him away from his absolutely shit-house mood, because all he wants is you.”

You attempted to stifle the warm flush that drew itself up to your cheeks. Captain Kid was a tall, broad and intimidating man - those were the three assessments you initially made when you were hired to serve aboard the Victoria Punk. Then you got to know him, and were made privy to truly see who he was beneath the surface. 

The twinkle behind the feral rage, the purity in his unbridled emotions, the lack of restraint in all his advances: you adored him. When he began to seek out your praises, you were immediately swooning at his attention. 

He wanted your words, not just due to the fact words were your job, but because he wanted you to speak them. Just to speak his praises to be granted the luxury of a light tingle in his ears, a blush rise to his cheeks and a smile decorating his lips with such beautiful words. 

Now within the doorframe of your captain's office, you arched your brow and crossed your arms. Leaning on the wooden panel, you continued to watch his chest rise and fall with each exasperated and berzerk breath. Your eyes never left his body, each arch of his back and ripple of his muscles straining under the taut fabrics atop his shoulders. 

“All this because I didn't call you a good boy?” you addressed him in a low and dangerous tone. His feral eyes snapped over to you, widening as he truly witnessed the devastation in the destruction in his office. 

“You've been a bad boy, I see,” you continued in your dark tone, promptly stepping into his office and closing the door behind you, “Look at all this mess. Tsk, naughty.” 

The click of your tongue had Kid arching his back, straightening his spine as he bit back a soft whimper. His brows triangulated in the center of his face, bottom lip now quivering under the weight of your disciplinary tone. 

Circling his body, fingers brushing against his large right hand beside his hip as you leaned into him. You shook your head, stooping down and beginning to collect the paper, stationary, tankards, and paperweights that had been flung against the floor. 

Before you could say a following, disciplinary word, Kid immediately fell onto his knees and began hurriedly picking up the items he threw onto the ground beside you. 

“I-I’ll pick it all up,” he nodded his head as to confirm his words further, “I'll tidy up all this shit. Please, I-I’m sorry. I just-.”

“-Just wanted to be praised, hm?” you hummed at him. He hid his head from view, his painted lips pouting while his eyes held their attention firmly against the mess. 

He nodded, the weight of finally admitting his craving lifting off his chest and shoulders as he received the items you were holding atop the stack he was forming. 

“Tidy up your mess, handsome,” you smiled, elevating your right hand to capture his pointed chin within your thumb and index finger, “I'll watch every step you take, and let you know how good you're being, if you do it properly.”

Kid’s breath caught in his lungs, a pink dust settled against his cheeks and ears. He hurriedly rose to his feet, up-turning his askew desk and dusting off his captains’ chair. He extended it outwards, wordlessly and politely gesturing for you to take a seat. 

“My, my,” you commented, rising to your feet and accepting his invitation, “Such a gentleman, you're being. But, you've gotta’ work a little bit harder to earn that title you crave.”

Captain Eustass Kid was a dutiful, whimpering puppy under your watchful eyes. He was, almost, happily rearranging all of the objects he had thrown askew. He even took the time to appropriately categorize the pages he didn't complete prior to his little tantrum.

“Hm, very good. Well done picking up after yourself.” He blushed further at your words, but craved so much more. 

“Oh, look at how much time you're taking on that bookshelf. I can even see how clean you're making each of the panels. Look at you go, big boy.” That praise had him whimpering, his eyes fluttering shut as he continued to clean in silence. 

“So strong, picking up that heavy weight all by yourself. So proud of you.” He could not stop the audible gasp, nor the rush of blood seeping to places they had no business in flooding to at that moment. 

He completed all this while glancing over his shoulder and thriving beneath the giddy feeling rushing to his chest upon being the center of your unwavering gaze. 

Upon the last paperweight being placed and straightened atop his desk, he knelt between your knees and glanced up into your eyes. He looked innocent of all wrongdoing, all prior anger and malice fleeing from within his silent pleading. 

He was desperate for those words, those two simple little words that he so yearned for. Noseying up further between your knees, his shuddering metal and flesh hands cautiously placed themselves gently on your calves. 

Soft and slow circles were traced against your legs, his eyes never leaving yours as they began twinkling with hope. All his mind was screaming, silently and internally, was a simple repetition of: “Please, please, please. Say it, say it, say it.”

And you obliged him by leaning down, caressing his left, scarred cheek and drawing your lips close enough to taste the tingle of his breath upon your skin. Hovering before contact was made, you floated your gaze between his whisky-hued orbs and his parted lips with a soft smile. 

“Good boy.”

[ruinix]

Can you please write about Quinn writing letter to y/n before he leave for every road trip?

You are making me soft. Heart, mushy. I am officially distracted once again. Also, side note, I just bumped my head while opening a cabinet. I, for some reason, was leaning forward?? Crazy. Natural selection would catch up to me soon if I don't get it together. Anyway...

18+. Fluff thoughts ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Quinn would always take his time to stare at your sleeping form while he did his last-minute packing. Your breaths were heavy and accompanied with soft snores. You looked incredibly content under the heavy blanket with a pillow between your thighs and a plushie in your arms.

Looking at you would make Quinn want to cuddle with you again. He would pay the world millions if he could. You just fit so well between his arms. Your soft scent would easily make him sleep, because it was truly comforting. You were a perfect mix of soft yet firm, delicate but strong. He loved cuddling with you.

However, he got somewhere to be. Somewhere being the away games. He would be so tempted to call in sick but he wanted to play.

So, shaking his head to push away the temptations of you, he finished packing his luggage. Then he would quietly sit on the armchair that was set up in the corner of the room, taking a paper from your stack that you usually used for annotations and journaling.

Quinn would write his letter. It was like his little ritual prior to any away games. It was one of the reasons he woke up earlier. It started because he saw you keep the little sticky notes that he would leave whenever he goes out for a run or for his morning skate. At first, he just wanted to up his game. Just wanted to see how you would react. Oh, you did react. You instantly videocalled him with the prettiest and happiest smile that made his heart beat like thunder that could shake the whole fucking world. He fell in love with you harder when he was already head over heels for you, and all he could think about was seeing you smile like that instead of looking so lonely when you call him. So, he continued writing.

He wrote about the things he loved about you, the things he would love to do with you once he was home, the things you've told him in passing, the things you've dreamt about and wished for, the things he may or may not be planning.

He would drop so many hints about anything. Sometimes you would catch on. Sometimes you wouldn't. He wouldn't mind either way.

His heart would be pounding in his chest as he glanced at the specific little box you've kept everything he has written, as he stared at you shift in your sleep, murmuring his name.

He would write and write and write.

Every word were little pieces of his heart.

Every thought put into them were little slices of his soul.

He would give everything in these letters, knowing that he, along with his words written with his life, would be safe with you.

Good night, lovelies. Love you all.

-> more thoughts? List. Want to be notified? Join my taglist!

[o-craven-canto]

Rough timeline of the discovery of genes and DNA

(mostly condensed from the first half of S. Mukherjee, The Gene: An Intimate History, 2016, and this 1974 paper)

1857-1864: Gregor Mendel experiments with breeding peas at the monastery of Brno. The results show that information about flower color, pod shape etc. is transmitted in discrete blocks that do not mix, and can persist unexpressed in a generation to manifest again in the next.

1865-1866: Mendel's results are published in a minor journal and effectively forgotten for 35 years. He corresponds with physiologist Carl von Nägeli, who dismisses them as "only empirical" (???).

1868: Unaware of Mendel's work, Darwin proposes pangenesis as mechanism of heredity: every body part produces "gemmules" that carry hereditary information and merge to form gametes. This does not explain how new traits aren't immediately diluted out of existence, or why acquired changes aren't inheritable.

1869: Friedrich Miescher extracts a mysterious substance from pus on used bandages and salmon sperm. He calls it nuclein (later: chromatin), as it seems to be concentrated in cell nuclei.

1878: Albrecht Kossel separates nuclein into protein and a non-protein component, which he calls nucleic acid, and breaks it down in five nucleotides.

1882: Darwin dies, bothered -- among other things -- by the lack of a plausible mechanism to transmit new variation. Legend has it that Mendel's paper lay on a bookshelf of his study, unread.

1883: August Weissmann, noting that mice with cut tails always give birth to fully-tailed mice, theorizes that hereditary information is contained in a "germplasm" fully isolated from the rest of the body, contra pangenesis. At each generation, only germplasm is transmitted, and gives separate rise to a somatic line, i.e. the body, which isn't.

ca. 1890: Studying sea urchin embryos in Naples, Theodor Boveri and Wilhelm von Waldeyer-Hartz notice large coiled masses of nuclein inside cell nuclei which can be dyed blue with aniline. They call them chromosomes, literally "colorful bodies". Simultaneously, Walter Sutton discovers chromosomes in grasshopper sperm.

1897: Hugo de Vries, after collecting hundreds of "monstrous" plant varieties near Amsterdam, realizes (also unaware of Mendel's work) that each trait is due to a single discrete particle of information, never mixing with the others, which he calls pangene in homage to Darwin. He also notices the appearance of completely new variants, which he calls mutants. In the same year, Carl Correns -- a former student of Nägeli, who had completely neglected to mention Mendel's work -- reproduces it exactly in Tubingen with pea and maize plants.

1900: Having finally found out about Mendel's publication, De Vries rushes to publish his model before he can be accused of plagiarism, which happens anyway. Correns does the same. Erich von Tschermak-Seysenegg also independently recreates Mendel's results with pea plants in Vienna. Come on, guys, this is embarassing.

1902: Boveri and Sutton independently propose that hereditary information is carried by chromosomes. Supporters of this hypothesis generally hold that information is carried by proteins, with the simpler nucleic acids (only 5 nucleotides vs. 20 aminoacids) serving as scaffold.

1905: William Bateson coins the word genetics to describe the field growing mostly from De Vries' work. He realizes it should be possible to deliberately select organisms for specific individual genes. Meanwhile, Boveri's student Nettie Stevens discovers in mealworms a strangely small chromosome that is found only in males -- chromosome Y. This is the first direct evidence that chromosomes do, in fact, carry genetic information.

1905-1908: Thomas Hunt Morgan and his students breed and cross thousands of fruit flies in a lab in New York. Contra Mendel, they notice that traits are not passed down in a completely independent way: for example, male sex and white eyes usually manifest together. This suggests that their information particles are attached to each other, so that the physically-closest traits are more likely (but not guaranteed!) to be transmitted together.

1909: Phoebus Levene and his coworkers break down nucleic acids by hydrolysis into sugars, phosphate, and nucleobases. They assume that nucleobases must repeat along a chain in a repetitive sequence. In a treatise on heredity, Wilhelm Johannsen shortens "pangene" to gene. It's a purely theoretical construct, with no known material basis.

1911: Using Morgan's data on trait linkage, his student Alfred Sturtevant draws the first genetic map, locating several genes along a fruit fly chromosome. Genetic information now has a physical basis, although not yet a mechanism of transmission.

1918: Statistician Ronald Fisher proposes that traits appearing in continuous gradients, such as height, can still be explained by discrete genes if multiple genes contribute to a single trait, resolving an apparent contradiction. (Six genes for height, for example, are enough to produce the smooth bell curve noticed half a century earlier by Francis Galton.)

ca. 1920: Bacteriologist Frederick Griffith is studying two forms of pneumococcus, a "smooth" strain that produces deadly pneumonia in mice (and people) and a "rough" strain that is easily dispatched by immunity. He finds out that if live "rough" pneumococci are mixed with "smooth" ones killed by heat, the "rough" can somehow acquire the deadly "smooth" coating from the dead.

1926: Hermann Muller, another student of Morgan, finds out he can produce arbitrary amounts of new mutant flies by exposing their parents to X-rays.

1928: Griffith describes the acquired "transformation" of bacteria in an extremely obscure journal.

1929: Levene identifies the sugars in "yeast nucleic acid" and "thymus nucleic acid" as ribose and deoxyribose, respectively. The two will henceforth be known as ribonucleic acid (RNA) and deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA).

ca. 1930: Theodosius Dobzhansky, who also had worked with Morgan, discovers in wild-caught fruit flies variations of wing size, eye structure etc. that are produced by genes arranged in different orders on the chromosome. This rearrangement is the first physical mechanism for mutation discovered.

1940: Oswald Avery repeats Griffith's experiments with pneumococci, looking for the "transforming principle". Filtering away the remains of the cell wall, dissolving lipids in alcohol, destroying proteins with heat and chloroform does not stop the transformation. A DNA-degrading enzyme, however, does. Therefore, it is DNA that carries genetic information.

1943: By mixing flies with different gene orders and raising the mixed populations at different temperatures, Dobzhansky shows that a particular gene order can respond to natural selection, increasing or decresing in frequency.

1944: Avery publishes his results on transforming DNA. Physicist Erwin Schrödinger writes a treatise (What Is Life?) in which he states, on purely theoretical ground, that genetic information must be carried by an "aperiodic crystal", stable enough to be transmitted, but with a sequence of sub-parts that never repeat.

1950: In Cambridge, Maurice Wilkins starts using X-ray diffraction to try and make a picture of the atomic structure of dried DNA (as Linus Pauling and Robert Corey had done earlier with proteins). He is later joined by Rosalind Franklin, who finds a way to make higher-quality pictures by keeping DNA in its hydrated state. By hydrolyzing DNA, Erwin Chargaff notes that the nucleobases A and T are always present in exactly the same amount, as if they were paired, and so are C and G -- but A/T and C/G can be different amounts.

1951: Pauling publishes a paper on the alpha-helix structure of proteins. Having attended talks by Wilkins and Franklin, James Watson and Francis Crick attempt to build a physical model of DNA, a triple helix with internal phosphate, but Franklin notes it's too unstable to survive.

1952: Alfred Hershey and Martha Chase mark the protein envelope of phage viruses with radioactive sulfur, and their DNA with radioactive phosphorus. The phosphorus, but not the sulfur, is transmitted to host bacteria and to the new generation of phages. This indicates that DNA is not just exchanged as "transforming principle", but passed down through generations.

1953: Pauling and Corey also propose a structure of DNA, but they make the same mistake as Watson and Crick. These receive from Wilkins an especially high-quality photo (taken in 1952 by either Franklin or her student Ray Gosling). Combining this picture with Chargaff's measurements, they conclude that DNA must be a double helix, with a sugar-phosphate chain outside, and nucleobases meeting in pairs on the inside (A with T, C with G). The complementary sequences of bases give a clear mechanism for the storage and replication of genetic information.

1950s: Jacques Monod and François Jacob grow the bacterium Escherichia coli alternately on glucose and lactose. While its DNA never changes, the RNA produced changes in step with the production of glucose-digesting and lactose-digesting enzymes. So DNA is not directly affected, but different sequences are copied onto RNA depending on need.

1958: Arthur Kornberg isolates DNA polymerase, the enzyme that builds new DNA strands in the correct sequence. By inserting into DNA a heavier isotope of nitrogen, Matthew Meselson and Franklin Stahl show that each strand remains intact, separating during replication and then serving as template for a new one.

1960: Sydney Brenner and Jacob purify messenger RNA from bacterial cells. This seems to copy the sequence of a single gene and carry it to ribosomes, where proteins are built. RNA must encode the sequence of aminoacids of a protein, presumably in sets of 3 nucleotides (the smallest that can specify 20 aminoacids).

1961-1966: Multiple labs working in parallel (Marshall Nirenberg-Heinrich Matthaei-Philip Leder, Har Khorana, Severo Ochoa) map every possible triplet of nucleotides to a corresponding aminoacid. Synthetic RNA is inserted into isolated bacterial ribosomes, and aminoacids are marked one at a time with radioactive carbon to check the sequence of the resulting proteins.

1970: Paul Berg and David Jackson manage to fuse DNA from two viruses into a single sequence ("recombinant DNA") using DNA-cutting enzymes extracted from bacteria.

1972-1973: Janet Mertz joins Berg and Jackson, and proposes inserting the recombinant DNA into the genome of E. coli, exploiting the bacterium for mass production. Herb Boyer and Stanley Cohen perform a similar experiment merging bacterial DNA, and linking it to an antibiotic-resistance gene so that the recombinant bacteria can be easily isolated.

1975-1977: Frederick Sanger isolates template strands of DNA to build new ones with DNA polymerase, but uses altered and marked nucleobases that stop polymerization. By doing so, then segregating the shortened sequences by length and recognizing their final base with fluorescence, it's possible to read the exact sequence of bases on a DNA strand.

[vergess]

You've probably seen some folks fear-mongering about an "M.I.T. study" that was recently released "proving" that using LLMs causes "cognitive decline."

In fact, I can link you to the very study right now. It's DOI page:

And the study PDF itself, which you can reach by clicking the "view PDF" in the upper right of the DOI page.

So, this is a very scary study that uses a lot of advanced jargon from two fields with fairly little overlap. That makes it a hard read. Which wouldn't be an issue if it were going through peer review. However, it was published to an archival service; it is not a journal and it is not peer reviewed.

The first red flag we all need to consider is that this was not read by other specialized experts in cognition, machine learning, or the overlap between the two fields. It wasn't reviewed by anyone beyond a content moderator making sure it looks "appropriate and topical. Material that contains offensive language, non-scientific content, or is plagiarized may be removed."

So the number one thing to remember, as I critique this study, is that it has had no review. Which forces every reader to do their own review. Which is a problem when you're writing in specialized technical language from two rarely overlapping fields.

So now that we know there was no review and the only oversight came from the authors themselves, let's look at those authors.

Nataliya Kosmyna is a human/computer interfacing expert who specializes in neurotechnology. She is also extremely pro-AI. Make a note of that, it will be important later.

Eugene Hauptmann is an AI developer himself, with a "faith based" AI company he started to build a "technological singularity".

Ye Tong "Tina" Yuan graduated Wellesley last month (May 2025)! First off, congratulations to you, Tina. Well done on getting this much press attention as a fresh Bachelor!!!

Xiao-Hao "Harry" Liao is an expert in UX design. He is also pro-AI, and even develops his own LLM interfaces.

Ashly Vivian Beresnitzky has no other publications or significant online presence I was able to find.

Iris Braunstein is another AI developer and design expert.

The same is true of Pattie Maes.

Are we noticing a pattern here?

We have a lot of computer scientists--dazzlingly advanced experts--who love AI. We also have a stark absence of cognitive scientists of any sort.

This study was not authored by experts in cognition. It also did not use any standard forms of cognitive testing.

That's right! It turns out writing essays with electrodes on for 20 minutes once a month for 4 months isn't "cognitive testing."

Those electrodes measure how many signals different regions of your brain are sending, with relatively low precision. They do not and cannot measure how hard you are thinking or how well you are learning. That is not how that works.

They also graded the essays. Oh wait, no they didn't. An LLM graded the essays.

But they did do n-gram analysis on the essays too! That's where you look for common word groups of different lengths. In fact, n-grams are the underlying mathematics of LLMs! Which is why this batch of LLM scientists decided to use them. And worse, they used them exactly the way you would use them to test an LLM's functionality.

So, let me repeat that in different terms:

A bunch of computer scientists decided to run a cognition study, using only their familiar computer science methodologies, consulting no cognition testing experts, and without actually grading the fucking essays.

They then published their unreviewed gibberish to an archive, where the media picked it up, misread it, and misapplied it.

I say misapplied, because if you look at the selection of experts who wrote the paper, another pattern emerges from their past published works: they are making LLM software in direct competition with chatGPT.

This was an attack ad to try to drive AI loving consumers away from chatGPT and towards their own products.

And then people somehow misunderstood that and went ballistic about how interacting with AI is ~basically brain damage~. A thing the study was not even trying to prove in the first place, and in no way proved by accident either.

[alphynix]

Isisaurus colberti was a sauropod dinosaur that lived in what is now India and Pakistan at the end of the Cretaceous Period, about 70-66 million years ago.

It was part of the titanosaur group of sauropods and had some unusual proportions* compared to its close relatives, with elongated forelimbs and a relatively short chunky neck. Since it's only known from a partial skeleton its full size is unknown – estimates have been made as large as 18m long (~60') but it was probably somewhat smaller, closer to around 11m in length (36').

(*Measurement errors in the original paper resulted in some very weird proportions, but more recent and rigorous reconstructions have made Isisaurus not quite so cursed-looking.)

Like most other titanosaurs it probably lacked the thumb claws seen in other sauropods, and it may also have had some bony osteoderm armor studding its skin.

Coprolites that may represent Isisaurus' poop show evidence of several different fungi that grow on tree leaves in humid tropical and subtropical climates, suggesting that this sauropod was a selective browser somewhat like modern giraffes.

———

NixIllustration.com | Tumblr | Patreon

References:

Jain, Sohan L., and Saswati Bandyopadhyay. "New titanosaurid (Dinosauria: sauropoda) from the Late Cretaceous of central India." Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology 17.1 (1997): 114-136. https://doi.org/10.1080/02724634.1997.10010958

Naish, Darren. "The hands of sauropods: horseshoes, spiky columns, stumps and banana shapes." Tetrapod Zoology, 29 Oct. 2008, https://web.archive.org/web/20121022121526/http://scienceblogs.com/tetrapodzoology/2008/10/29/the-hands-of-sauropods/

Sharma, Neeta, et al. "Fungi in dinosaurian (Isisaurus) coprolites from the Lameta Formation (Maastrichtian) and its reflection on food habit and environment." Micropaleontology 51.1 (2005): 73-82. https://doi.org/10.2113/51.1.73

Wedel, Matt. "How shortweird was Isisaurus?" Sauropod Vertebra Picture of the Week, Aug. 13 2009, https://svpow.com/2009/08/13/how-shortweird-was-isisaurus/

Wikipedia contributors. “Isisaurus” Wikipedia, 27 Dec. 2024, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isisaurus

Wilson, Jeffrey A., and Paul Upchurch. "A revision of Titanosaurus Lydekker (Dinosauria‐Sauropoda), the first dinosaur genus with a ‘Gondwanan’ distribution." Journal of Systematic Palaeontology 1.3 (2003): 125-160. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1477201903001044

[mother-giselles-hat]

Do you think Emmrich keeps a little notebook. Do you think when he was an uncertain young boy, terrified of the dark and the gloom and the inescapable inevitability of death being so very in front of him so shortly after a devastating loss, he needed an outlet? And perhaps an older, kinder Mourn Watch member who themselves did not choose their path but rather stumbled upon it gave the gangly youth before them a small collection of pages to work through his racing thoughts in?

I'm picturing clumsy doodles of flowers from graveyards that as one flips through the years of journals kept neatly on a personal bookshelf turn into masterful sketches worthy of publication in a scientific journal. Rough strokes with lots of pressure behind them, intent on getting the repeatedly written rituals correct so that he no longer has to reference a cheat sheet. Maybe even a list of names, pages upon pages worth crossed out until at last, underlined so strongly the pen tore through paper, we find the name Manfred.

And I like to think that he goes through at least a journal and a half while getting to speak with so many companions from so many parts of the world he has previously never dreamed of traveling to himself, not when there's so much to be done at home. Recipes are scrawled out in Bellara's and Lucanis' handwriting and pasted into the back. There are attempts at drawing the anatomy of Assan, a list of what snacks Halla like best courtesy of Davrin. Even a carefully curated, bullet-pointed selection of topics that seem to work best when trying to get Taash to let down their guard. And of course, a cross-sectioned diagram of the Yam-And-Jam-Slam.

And then, permit me if you will, the opportunity to ruminate on human Emmrich, on a day yet to pass, in which a romanced Rook that never violated their love's privacy finally feels brave enough to go through some of his untouched belongings to see what they want to keep, and finding such lovely records of their first months together. And despite the ache in their chest and the tightness in their throat, they don't stop at the first sign of something more, a little scribbled observation about how much sadness this Rook has in their eyes for someone so new to the field. And then they find the portraits, the loving detail put into the light of the fade reflecting off their cheekbones, their eyes. The carefully crafted notes on what sort of jewelry might do them justice, small scenes of a man, his beloved, and a skeleton strolling across sandy beaches, through shadowed forests, across snowy mountain peaks and through bustling city streets. Until they blink, wipe the tears from their eyes, reach the end of the last journal in what feels like mere minutes (but in all reality is probably something closer to hours).

The handwriting is less structured, the pen doesn't press quite so insistently as it once did. But the sentiment, the sincerity, of the final entry could only be his.

Death is not so frightening knowing how fiercely I have lived. Nothing it could take is greater than all I have been given.

Idk. Just wondering.

[throneofsapphics]

you're the venom, i'm the serpent prologue

dark poly!rowaelin x reader

summary: with each journal prompt, you couldn't decide if you lost or regained more of you. years dedicated to them, tossed away when you'd had enough. little did you know, Rowan and Aelin have a plan ... but even they can't decide if it's to get you back or make you suffer.

warnings: breakups, emotional turmoil, while this fic is dark and deals with dubious themes, the reader consents to everything that’s happening, which will continue to become clearer through the fic!

a/n: written for day 7 of @polysjmweek

series masterlist // chapter one (coming soon)

When did you realize you'd never mean as much to them as they do to you?

The words lingered on the page of your journal, the one your friends recommended. They said it would help, but right now … all you felt was pain. Pain at ripping open a wound that barely had the chance to close, if at all.

It would be a miracle if you made it through this intact. You were already shattered, like pieces of glass on carpet, hiding and waiting to strike at the right moment. In your pain, you drove away all but a select few who refused to give up on you. Those few would never know how much it meant to you. Thinking of their faces, the cautious hope when you'd accepted your gift, gave you the strength to return to the page.

When did you realize you'd never mean as much to them as they do to you?

Dipping your pen into the ink pot, you tapped off the excess and angled your head. Air leaving your lungs, arm tensing, teeth digging into bottom lip, you let yourself go back there. Pen scratched against paper.

One week earlier.

Rowan paced in front of the fireplace, wallowing in misery of his own creation. Even if it was perhaps the most honest thing he'd said to you in…months.

“We're mates, what did you expect?”

For some reason he hadn't expected your tears, didn't have time to set expectations.

“Thank you,” you'd said, tears running silently down your cheeks. He thought you looked beautiful like that, in a tragic way.

“Why?” He responded flatly.

Mouth pursed, as if you might regret the words that came next. Rowan wished you would, at least he'd know you're saying how you truly feel then.

“I know now,” your hand twitched, “that I'll never mean as much to you as you do to me. I always saw us as equals,” you sucked in the word like venom seeping into your veins, as if he was the serpent who'd struck sure, “but I won't stand here and beg for you. You can tell Aelin what happened.”

“Aelin would agree with me,” the words were instinctive but uncertain. He was treading in waters he'd hoped to never cross, but knew he always would one day.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hands.

Closing the book, you let tears drip down your cheeks, wetting the leather cover. Not a particularly emoting volume, but the ending got you. Rowan was there in an instant, as if he'd scented the salt of your tears on the winds he carried with him. Moving the book to the side, he gripped your chin with one hand, the back of his other wiping away the tears. He pressed a kiss on the tracks left behind.

“I don't like seeing you cry, beautiful,” he murmured.

“It's just a book,” you sighed, laughing softly as he eyed the book like he wanted to rip it and its author to pieces for hurting you. “Aelin wouldn't appreciate that, it's hers.” The look in his eyes softened at her name.

The six feet between you suddenly seemed like miles. Rowan was stuck in a vacuum as your lips moved, relaying the final blow he may or may not recall later. He would always recall the pain that struck right into his soul, that brought him to his knees as he watched your hand close around the doorknob, heard it snick shut softly. You'd snuck into their lives, a soft and gentle calm, a summer wave, and left as a hurricane, destruction and chaos in your path.

Aelin found him, still on his knees, gaze fixed on the gods-damned door handle.

He was aware of her kneeling before him, of her taking his cheeks in her hands.

“What happened my love?” The words were a distant whisper.

Aelin's forehead pressed against his, turquoise and gold eyes digging into his own with a startling intensity. “What happened?” She repeated, more forcefully this time, fingertips digging into his cheeks, the soft hint of heat bringing him back to the present.

“She left,” he all but whispered, words leaving with the last of the air from his lungs as he crumpled. His fist hit the carpet. “She fucking left.”

“Who?” Aelin asked. He didn't answer. She knew.

He watched, eyes glazed, as she whirled towards the door, eyes on the doorknob. It had been polished just this morning, but now bore a smudge from clammy fingers wrapped around it, a slight streak where your fingers had slipped. In his delusion, Rowan thought you'd faltered, that there was a chance to fix this. He clung to the sign, burying it deep inside of him.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How the kleptocrats and oligarchs hunt civil society groups to the ends of the Earth

It's a great time to be an oligarch! If you have accumulated a great fortune and wish to put whatever great crime lies behind it behind you, there is an army of fixers, lickspittles, thugs, reputation-launderers, procurers, henchmen, and other enablers who have turnkey solutions for laundering your reputation and keeping the unwashed from building a guillotine outside the gates of your compound.

The field of International Relations has studied the enemies of the Klept in detail: the Transnational Activist Network is a well-documented phenomenon. But far more poorly understood is the Transnational Uncivil Society Network, who will polish any turd of sufficient wealth to a high, professional gloss.

These TUSNs are the subject of a new, timely scholarly paper by Alexander Cooley, John Heathershaw and Ricard Soares de Oliveira: "Transnational Uncivil Society Networks: kleptocracy’s global fightback against liberal activism," published in last month's European Journal of International Relations:

https://ora.ox.ac.uk/objects/uuid:5e5a3052-c693-4991-a7cc-bc2b47134467/download_file?file_format=application%2Fpdf&safe_filename=Cooley_et_al_2023_transnational_uncivil_society.pdf&type_of_work=Journal+article

The authors document how a collection of institutions – some coercive, others organized around good works – allow kleptocrats to take power, keep power, and use power. This includes "wealth managers, company providers, accounting firms, and international bankers" who create the complex financial structures that obscure the klept's wealth. It also includes "second citizenship managers and lawyers" that facilitate the klept's transnational nature, both to provide access to un-looted, prosperous places to visit, and boltholes to escape to in the face of coup or reform. It includes the real-estate brokers and other asset facilitators, who turn whole precincts of the world's greatest cities into empty safe-deposit boxes in the sky, while ensuring that footlose criminal elites always have a penthouse to perch in when they take a break from the desiccated husks they've drained dry back home.

Of course, it also includes the PR managers and philanthropic ventures that allow the klept to launder their reputation, to make themselves synonymous with good deeds rather than mass murder. Think here of how the Sacklers used charity to turn their family name into a synonym for culture and fine art, rather than death by opioid overdose:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/11/justice-delayed/#justice-redeemed

Beyond providing comfort to "Politically Exposed Persons" and "High Net-Worth Individuals," TUSNs are concerned with neutralizing TANs. Activists in these transnational networks play an inside-outside game: in-country activists will recruit peers abroad to bring attention to the crimes of their local kleptocrats. These overseas partners target the klept in the places they go to play and spend, spoiling their fun – and if they succeed in getting corrupt leaders censured abroad, then in-country activists can leverage that bad press to fight the klept at home.

To fight this "Boomerang Effect," TUSNs seek to burnish corrupt officials' reputations abroad, getting their names on humanitarian prizes, beloved sports teams, cultural institutions and great universities. They seek to capture international governance institutions that might wrong-foot kleptocrats, co-opting them to enable and even celebrate looters.

When it comes to elite philanthropy, TUSNs are necessarily selective. Kleptocrats' foundations don't fund anti-kleptocratic groups – they stick to "education, public health, the environment and the arts." These domains steer clear of human rights questions that might implicate their benefactors. Russian oligarchs love children's charities and disability rights – provided they don't target the Russian state.

If charitable giving is reputation laundering's carrot, then "reputation management" is the laundry's stick. Think of organized copyfraudsters who clone websites that have criticized their clients, then backdate the articles, then accuse the originals of infringing copyright in order to get them de-listed from Google or taken offline altogether:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#dark-ops

Reputation managers also spend a lot of time in court. In the UK – the world's leader in libel tourism, thanks to a legal system designed to let posh monsters sue muckraking journalists into silence – Russian oligarchs have perfected the art of forcing their critics to shut up and go away:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/04/londongrad/#enablers

Indeed, London is a one-stop shop for the global klept, a place were forelock-tugging Renfields will buy you a Mayfair mansion under cover of a numbered company, sue your critics into silence, funnel your money into an anonymous Channel Islands account:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/07/the-klept/#pep

They'll sell you whole galleriesworth of "fine art" that you can have relocated to a climate-controlled container in a Swiss or Irish freeport:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/14/poesy-the-monster-slayer/#moneylab

They'll give your thick-as-pigshit progeny a PhD and never check to see whether he wrote his thesis himself:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LSE%E2%80%93Gaddafi_affair

Then they'll hook you up with a cyber-arms dealer to hunt your enemies by capturing their devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/27/gas-on-the-fire/#a-safe-place-for-dangerous-ideas

But don't let Brexit stop you from shopping for bargains on the continent. The Golden Passports of the EU – available in a variety of flavors, from Maltese to Cypriot to Portuguese – offer the discerning failson access to the luxury good shops and fleshpots of 27 advanced economies, making it a favorite of the Khmer Riche – the junior klept of Cambodia's ruling faction:

https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/cambodia-hunsen-wealth/

But golden passports are for amateurs. Skilled klepts travel on diplomatic passports, which offer the twin benefits of free movement and consequence-free criminality, thanks to diplomatic immunity. The former Kazakh dictator's son-in-law enjoyed a freewheeling diplomatic life in Vienna; one daughters of the dictator of Tajikistan had a jolly time as an envoy to DC; another, to London (where else?).

All this globetrotting serves a second purpose: when rival elites seize power back home and force the old guard into exile, those ex-monsters can show up in the lands they called their second homes and apply for asylum. It turns out that even bomb-the-boats UK will welcome any asylum seeker who enters via the private jet terminal at City Airport (to be fair, these "refugees" have extensive properties in Zone 1 and country places in the Home Counties, so they won't need housing).

This stuff works. After Kazakh state goons murdered at least 14 protesters at a Zhanaozen oil facility in 2011, human rights groups around the world took up the cause. But they were effectively neutralized by TUSNs, with former UK PM Tony Blair writing on behalf of the Kazakh government to the EU condemning any kind of international investigation into the mass killings (add "former Prime Ministers" to the list of commodities for sale in the UK to sufficiently well-resourced murderer).

The authors close their paper with two case-studies. The first is of the daughters of Uzbek dictator Islam Karimov, Gulnara and Lola. And President Karimov was indeed a dictator: he trapped his population within his borders, forced them to use unconvertible scrip in place of money, and ordered the murder of hundreds of peaceful protesters, plunging the country into international isolation.

But while Uzbeks were sealed within their borders, Gulnara Karimov became an international player, running a complex network of businesses that mixed the products of the nation's oilfields with her family's fortune. She solicited – and received – bribes from Teliasonera, MTS and Vimpelcom, who were all vying for the contract to provide service in Uzbekistan. All told, she extracted more than $1b in bribes, laundering them through Latvia, Hong Kong and New York. She acquired real-estate in France and Switzerland, and her spree continued until her father collaborated with Uzbek security to seize her assets and place her under house-arrest.

Lola Karimova-Tillyaeva was Gulnara's estranged younger sister. She and her husband Timur Tillyaev ran the Dubai-based SecureTrade, which did extensive business with "opaque Scottish Limited Partnerships," laundering more than $127m in a single year to offshore accounts in the UAE and Switzerland. They acquired many luxe assets – a jet, a Californian villa, and an LA perfumier.

Lola styled herself as the face of the Karimovas abroad, a "philanthropist and cultural ambassador." She was a UNESCO ambassador and commissioned works of monumental art – and also sued the shit out of news outlets that reported factual matters about her family repressive activity at home. She organized AIDS charities in the name of Uzbekistan – even as her father was imprisoning a writer for publishing a book explaining how to have safer sex.

The second case-study is on Isabel dos Santos, "Africa's richest woman," daughter of Angolan dictator Jose Eduardo dos Santos. Isabel's vast fortune stemmed from her personal capture of vast swathes of the third-largest economy in Africa: "telecommunications, banking, diamonds, real estate and cement, among many others." Isabel enjoyed seemingly limitless access to state credit and co-investment, and was given first crack at newly deregulated industries. Foreign firms that invested in Angola were required to "partner" with Isabel's businesses.

Isabel claimed to be a "self-made woman" – a claim credulously parroted by the western press, including the FT. She used her homegrown fortune to become a major player abroad, especially in Portugal, where she was represented by the leading Portuguese law-firm PLMJ. Her enablers are who's who of corruption-loving lickspittles: McKinsey, Ernst and Young, Boston Consulting Group, and the Spanish BigLaw firm Uri Menendez.

Isabel cultivated a public facade of philanthropic giving and public spirited activism, serving as head of the Angolan Red Cross. She attended Davos and spoke at the LSE (she was also invited to Oxford, but her invitation was subsequently rescinded). On social media, she dismissed critics of her wealth and corruption as "colonialists," decrying their "racism" and "prejudice."

Isabel dos Santos's corrupt sources of wealth were finally, irrefutably exposed through the Luanda Leaks, in which the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists mapped the network of "top banks, management consultants and legal firms that were central to dos Santos’s operations."

Both case studies shed light on the network of brilliant, driven enablers and procurers without whom the world's greatest monsters would falter. It's a rare window on a secretive world, one that is poorly understood even by its inhabitants. As Michael Mechanic wrote in Jackpot, his 2021 book on vast, intergenerational fortunes, the winners of the lucky orifice lottery often lack any real understanding of how The Money is structured, grown and protected:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/13/public-interest-pharma/#affluenza

This point was reiterated by Abigail Disney, in a brave piece on what it's like to grow up subject to the oversight of these millionaires who babysit the children of billionaires:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/19/dynastic-wealth/#caste

This is an important contribution to the literature. We naturally focus on the ultrawealthy individuals whose reputations and fortunes are the subject of so much attention, but without the TUSNs, they would be largely helpless.

Going to Burning Man? Catch me on Tuesday at 2:40pm on the Center Camp Stage for a talk about enshittification and how to reverse it; on Wednesday at noon, I'm hosting Dr Patrick Ball at Liminal Labs (6:15/F) for a talk on using statistics to prove high-level culpability in the recruitment of child soldiers.

On September 6 at 7pm, I'll be hosting Naomi Klein at the LA Public Library for the launch of Doppelganger.

On September 12 at 7pm, I'll be at Toronto's Another Story Bookshop with my new book The Internet Con: How to Seize the Means of Computation.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/24/launderers-enforcers-bagmen/#procurers

Image: Sam Valadi (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/132084522@N05/17086570218/

CC BY 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

--

Colin (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Palace_of_Westminster_from_the_dome_on_Methodist_Central_Hall_(cropped).jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[selenezq]

🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞MDNI🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞

I bring to you, a snack from my horny brain. Edited by the lovely @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes

Alastor x Reader

Reader is AFAB

CW Masturbation, Ejaculation, Thievery

Stealing Panties

Alastor stalked the hallways that lead to your room, careful to slip around using only the shadows. He certainly didn't want to be seen like this. With a speed and ease befitting a predator, he slipped into your room without anyone's notice. It smelled like you in here, he observed. Taking a moment to relish your sweet scent, he paused. 

You were gone for the day, running some errands for the hotel, so he wasn't worried about being caught in the slightest. Alastor found your presence absolutely baffling; never before had he worried about baser, more physical urges. That is, until your arrival at the hotel. Your innocence, sweetness, and positive demeanor coupled with your tantalizing body had him experiencing all sorts of new sensations. 

Alastor made his way to your desk, picking up papers and reading through the journal you had on it, looking for anything interesting. He made sure to place everything back exactly where he’d found it, like he had never been there at all. He wasn't even sure what he was searching for: something, anything to tell him more about you, he supposed. You were a beautiful mystery he very much wanted to unravel. 

Deciding there was little to be gained from reading over your notes, he made his way to your large dresser. Surely the massive piece of elegantly carved wood ought to hold better secrets; he was sure of it. Quietly pulling open a drawer at random, he was not disappointed. 

Inside the drawer sat neatly folded pairs of your panties. Alastor's gaze fell on them greedily. He knew he shouldn't be here, doing this, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He was a man possessed by a mighty need for you. He raised a clawed hand up to them, carefully, reverently running it along your well organized undergarments. 

Selecting a red, lacy pair, he pulled the thong out gently. Alastor brought the pair to his nose and took a large inhale, wondering if your cunt would smell this pleasant. His cock hardened instantly in his trousers. He noted that the elegant, satiny material felt wonderful in his hand and against his face. It made him wonder how it might feel somewhere else on his body, somewhere much more sensitive. 

With the hand that isn't holding your undergarment, Alastor unbuttoned and unzipped his pants as quickly as he was able. His massive cock sprung free, red and swollen, precum beading at the tip. He brought your panties away from his face and placed them on his throbbing member, thoughts of your beautiful face swimming in his mind. 

The delicate, lacy material of your panties made for quite the welcome contrast against his hard, swollen, cock. He pumped his hand up and down along the length of his considerably large dick, starting out slow; he was unfamiliar with having the urge to do this. He wondered if your hands would feel as soft as your panties do around him. 

Alastor increased the pace, his hand pulling your underwear up and down his lengthy shaft eagerly. He let out a wicked groan, the thought of you helpless and submissive for him flitted across his mind. He wondered what sort of moans you would make if he were to touch you like this. 

His cock was slick with precum as he pumped faster and faster. With a stifled cry he orgasmed, cum shooting out of his tip in ropes all over your pretty panties. Alastor decided then and there that he had to take the pair of your panties with him. He certainly couldn't leave the evidence of his lust for you behind. Only slightly ashamed, he carefully shut the drawer before using his shadow to whisk himself away to the safety of his own room. Your panties, stained with his cum, were still in his hand.

[see-arcane]

a section from the paper on the Harkers' androgyny about Jonathan's connection to the old heroine tropes

Jonathan’s selective silences are reminiscent of the Radcliffean heroine’s unwillingness to name her fear of sexual violence directly, in that both serve to obscure the unspeakable. For an author like Radcliffe, naming the fear of rape would be scandalous. Matthew Lewis named them, and more: in his works, “the paranoid fears of a Radcliffe heroine are made the real exploits of diabolical protagonists” (M. Ellis 84). In truth, the contents of The Monk were not altogether dissimilar from other “under-the-counter publication[s] for gentlemen’s interest only” (M. Ellis 115), but that it was published as a Gothic work earned it at least an assumed female readership (M. Ellis 94). The form brought it to the attention of young women, and because young women might read it, the novel was deemed obscene. He faced public backlash (M. Ellis 114). Ann Radcliffe, whose books were wildly popular with young women, would have had to be very careful in what she addressed. Her novels could speak to fears of sexual violence, incest, patriarchal oppression, the sins of the father and more, but only obliquely. [...] By placing Jonathan in a situation generally reserved for an imperiled heroine, Stoker appears to be doing the same. A situation is set up wherein the threat of sexual violence is encoded without needing to be named. Jonathan is young, vulnerable, and comparatively naïve, and an older man of higher social status takes him as his prisoner. They are alone in a remote location. A reader familiar with Gothic tropes will see that Jonathan’s situation is like that of a Radcliffean heroine and may infer from there that Dracula, or someone else in the castle, may be a sexual threat to the young solicitor. [...]Of all the first-person narrators, only Jonathan, not Mina or Lucy, can be said to make use of the hysterical voice. His journal contains significant gaps, for one: between his resolution to cautiously learn more about Dracula and the next entry, where he first sees the Count climbing the exterior of the castle, seven days pass without any comment (Stoker 35). On the 31st of May, he finds his travel papers have been stolen; he does not write again until 17th of June (Stoker 46). These breaks in the narrative are never acknowledged, and no note is ever made of how this time was spent. Where he does write, as previously exemplified in the section on the threat of sexual violence, information and details are sometimes omitted without explanation. His fractured, evasive narrative which makes use of feminine-coded language and identifications can thus be considered a hysterical narrative and, consequently, as another level of gender performance.

(those are again significantly cut to not become huge blocks. hopefully I find an accessible link soon)

🍽️

Thank you for this, I love every word

[jstor]

hello! i’m looking for a very specific paper by wayne patterson from 1993 about korean migration to mexico from the seoul journal of korean studies volume 6, but it doesn’t seem like that paper is available anywhere on the internet (including through my institution). how come jstor only has the seoul journal of korean studies from volume 26? just curious. i’m realizing you probably don’t know the answer to this lol

Hi! Thanks for your question. Publishers—like the journal you're referring to—decide which content is indexed on JSTOR and how it’s made available (e.g., open access, moving wall, or institutional access only). It’s likely that this particular content wasn’t selected by the publisher to be shared on JSTOR.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Blackout & Erasure Poetry

Poetry is one of our most ancient forms of creative writing, used to convey strong emotions, striking imagery and ideas about the world. Certain forms of poetry, like the haiku or sonnet, have been around for centuries. Other styles, like blackout and erasure poetry, are recent developments that represent the constant evolution of an age-old art form.

Erasure poetry - a type of found poetry in which the poet takes an existing source text and creates their own poem by erasing, redacting, or otherwise obscuring the words in the original text. The resulting text of the final poem can be arranged into lines or stanzas, or it can remain as it appeared on the original page of text.

Blackout poetry - a subcategory of erasure poetry. In a blackout poem, the poet uses a black marker, permanent marker, or Sharpie as a redaction tool, blacking out the original text until a new work is formed. The combination of new meaning derived from the remaining text as well as the aesthetic quality of the redactions create a type of visual poetry. Blackout poets often use old books, newspaper articles, or pieces of paper to make blackout poetry.

How to Write a Blackout Poem

Blackout poetry can be a great way to open up new creative writing pathways, work through writer’s block, or begin an original poetry collection. Here are some simple steps you can follow to create your own blackout poems:

Choose your source material. Your source material can be anything: a non-fiction book, a magazine article, a copy of yesterday’s copy of the New York Times, or even your middle school yearbook. All that matters is that your source material has plenty of text to redact and manipulate.

Examine the page. Look at the text. See if there are any words or phrases that jump out at you. It might be helpful to identify one or two anchor words—that is, words that seem particularly striking or meaningful for you to build your blackout poetry project around. Create a box around your anchor words to separate them from the rest of the text.

Identify connecting words. Once you have your anchor words, identify some other words that relate to the theme or idea of your anchors. It may also be helpful to select some connecting words, like conjunctions or prepositions, to unify your thoughts. Box those words as well.

Black out the rest. Now it’s time to make your mark. Use a Sharpie or black pen to black out all the words that aren’t your anchors or connectors. You can use straight lines, wavy lines, or thin connection lines. If you see your poetry as more of a visual arts piece, feel free to use your redaction pen to color in shapes or designs. You’re well on your way to creating your very own poetry journal of blackout poems.

Examples of Erasure Poetry

Doris Cross is thought to be one of the first to employ the erasure technique in poetry with her 1965 “Dictionary Columns.” Other well-known erasure poems include:

A Humument by Tom Phillips

Radi Os by Ronald Johnson

Nets by Jen Bervin

I Am Not Famous Anymore by Erin Dorney

The ms of my kin by Janet Holmes (adapted from the poems of Emily Dickinson)

Examples of Blackout Poetry

A Humument by Tom Phillips (which features elaborate painted designs on the pages of a Victorian novel)

Newspaper Blackout by Austin Kleon (a collection of newspaper blackout poems)

The O Mission Repo by Travis Macdonald (modified from the 9/11 commission report)

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Found Poems

[its-time-to-write]

hi sweetheart! i was wondering if you could do a jamie imagine where the reader is a physical therapist and he’s always finding the most ridiculous excuses to go see her, like getting a paper cut and things like that. i would also love if it could be before they got together :)

it’s okay if you don’t want to do it or already did it and i didn’t see it. thank you anyway, you’re one of my favorite writers here on tumblr 🩵

you called me sweetheart, so now I would die for you. pet names are the way to my heart, in case u didn’t know. hope u enjoy🍊

(important disclaimer, I don’t know how physical therapy works so if I’m wrong about things, remember this isn’t a medical journal, I am just a girl)

before you go

Apparently, it’s impossible to purposely give yourself a paper cut, but Jamie Tartt has been doing his damnedest all day to get some kind of ailment, so if that means being careless with some photographs in his locker then so be it. 

He really wishes his leg would cramp or something, but Will’s been keeping him far too hydrated for that. 

So Jamie has to settle for slipping a picture of his mum at just the right angle to draw blood. 

“Shit,” he whispers softly. He puts his finger to his mouth to catch the first beads of blood. 

“Paper cut?” Sam asks sympathetically. Jamie nods, finger in between his teeth. 

“Ay, sí, you should go see the physio for that one, amigo. Ask for the Rojas special,” Dani says with his ever-present grin. 

“It’s just a paper cut, mate,” Jamie says in order to keep up appearances. 

Sam knocks his arm. “You have to go. Dani only just let me request the Rojas special last week, and Richard still won’t talk to me about it.”

“Ça c’est merde,” Richard calls from across the locker room. “Put on a bandage and go home.”

Jamie won’t. He sticks his tongue out at Richard and turns to go to the treatment room because he needs treatment right away. Never mind that it’s a cut and not a muscle injury. He can hide under the excuse that Dani sent him. 

Jamie taps on the door and pushes it open to find you sitting on the table, absentmindedly tapping your fingers on your knees. You jump down at the sight of Jamie. 

“Hi! I was wondering if anybody’d be over today,” you grin. “Where does it hurt?”

Jamie holds up his finger. “Dani sent me.”

“Ah, right,” you nod, grin never leaving your face. Jamie wonders if your sunny disposition is why you and Dani are such good friends. Suddenly, he’s gripped by uncertainty. Maybe you and Dani are morethan good friends. After all, Dani is strangely tight-lipped about his affairs and besides, it’s not good for the physio to be openly screwing a player. 

Maybe he should go. 

But you’ve already come back to him after rummaging in a cupboard, small box in hand. 

“Technically, this isn’t part of my job,” you say as you select a band-aid, “but I’ve been doing this since I started going to my nephew’s footie matches. Kid’s almost ten now, but he still asks for me every time he gets a scrape. First time I was here it was like, force of habit, but Dani said it reminded him of his sister, so…” you trail off. “I dunno, it’s funny that even big strong footballers still want silly bandages, yeah?”

Jamie watches as you open a green bandage with yellow flowers and wrap it carefully around his finger. You press a kiss to it and smile up at him. “There. All better.”

Jamie is… well, he’s flustered. He’s heard about the so-called Rojas special and how it’s available through recommendation only, but he wasn’t prepared for the sweet way you cradled his hand or the fact that your lips touched him. In fact, he wasn’t prepared for anything beyond a bandage and the fact that you slipped sweets to Sam and Dani to numb the sting of injury. 

“Thanks,” he chokes out, aware of the fact that you’re still holding his hand. You give it one last squeeze before dropping it. 

“See you around,” you say. 

Jamie mumbles something unintelligible and finds his way out the door.

“Fuck you,” he says to Sam as soon as he catches him in the car park. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t get a chocolate. Did you not hold still?”

“I- you- it- fuck you,” Jamie says again. “You fucking knew.”

“Knew what?” Dani asks. He’s a horrible liar. 

“You knew I thought she was fit. You didn’t tell me she’s, like, emotionally fit as well. So fuck you both for that.”

Sam mouths emotionally fit as he and Dani dissolve into laughter. 

“Which band aid did you get?” Dani asks when he finally regains control of himself. “She ran out of Peppa Pig last week, but she promised to get some more soon.” 

Jamie holds up his finger, wishing the cut were on the middle one. 

Sam and Dani lean into inspect it and nod once. 

“Well?” Jamie demands. They just look at him with stupid grins. 

“Good night, Jamie Tartt,” Dani says, opening Sam’s passenger seat door. 

“Good night, Jamie,” Sam echoes. 

The fuckers just leave him standing in the lot, heart racing like a fucking idiot. 

—

Jamie’s ankle is barely twisted. Like, barely. But he grew up watching football so he knows how make an injury seem worse than it is. He’s mastered the art of not going overboard.  

“You should see the physio,” Beard tells him. Jamie pretends to protest a little bit, ignoring the way Ted shoots Dani and Sam quizzical looks. They’re making some sort of face and Jamie’s not going to figure out what they mean because he doesn’t care. 

(Or maybe he already knows what they mean. But he doesn’t give a shit.)

So he hobbles his way to the treatment room where you’re typing something on the computer. Reports, probably. 

You look up with a smile when you see him, the quickly school it into a frown. “Where does it hurt?” you ask. 

“My ankle,” Jamie grimaces. 

You pat the table and he obliges, sitting down on the crinkly paper. 

You squat to undo his boot and Jamie realizes that maybe this isn’t the best way to get you to fall for him but it’s too late now because you’re gingerly sliding it off his foot. 

“D’you mind if I get the sock as well?” you ask, and it’s all Jamie can do to mutely shake his head. You lightly run a cool hand over his ankle. 

“Feels a bit swollen,” you say. “What happened?”

Jamie has to gather his thoughts firmly away from the way he could feel the callouses on your palm. “Tackle,” he says. 

“Hm,” you reply. “Does this hurt?”

Jamie gasps as you press your thumb at just the wrong spot. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you say. “Lie down. I’m going to massage it for a minute then put it on ice. You’ll be good to go in an hour.”

Jamie obeys, trying to ignore the way his breath hitches when your hand squeezes his calf for a fraction of a second. 

You’re able to find all the right spots, gently pushing the muscle back where it needs to go. You pat his foot gently and go to get an ice pack. “Keep this on for fifteen minutes, off for five, then on for another fifteen. If it still hurts I’ll get you another pack, or maybe a heating pad. Depends on what type of pain you have, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“You sending me back?” Jamie asks in a feeble attempt to be his usual confident self. 

You hesitate. “I mean… the other option is you stay here. I won’t lie to you, it’s pretty quiet back here but it doesn’t smell. Will got me on these scent diffuser packs, so this is one of the least-gross rooms on the lower level. I usually just type reports, but I’ve finished for now so I was going to read but we can chat if you like. You don’t have to, but I can monitor your ankle for the next hour if you’re here. It’s up to you.”

Stay and flirt with the pretty physio or sit on the bench instead of practicing?

Jamie positions himself better on the table. “What’s your book about?”

—

Jamie wishes that he were just making an excuse to come see you, but if that were the case he’d have made sure to be showered. Instead, he’s fresh off the pitch after a long day of practice and he needs his joints like, replaced or some shit. 

He stumbles into the treatment room and practically flops facedown on the table. You’re up in an instant, combing his hair away from his face with your fingers. 

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, voice filled with concern. 

“Everywhere,” Jamie groans. 

“Okay, so full-massage with the extra-large ice pack at the end, then,” you say. 

Jamie just grunts in response and tries not to think about the fact that this is the most unromantic way he’s ever tried to date a girl. He tells himself that you’re a physio, that you’ve seen grosser, and that you’re not even interested in him anyway. It still doesn’t stop him from asking about your day and cracking stupid jokes the entire time you’re popping his muscles. His voice squeaks every time you forcibly release tension, but you just laugh and tell him, “You should hear Isaac.” So yeah, the worst training of his life has now turned out to be a goddamned blessing in disguise because you’re joking back and forth for a solid twenty minutes. 

“Come back any time,” you tell him with a wink as he heads out the door. “You don’t have to be injured to say hey.”

Jamie smiles at that, and goes to tell Sam and Dani that they’re shitheads but he loves them very much. 

—

It’s been a long week and an especially long match, but thank fuck it’s over. There’s a bit of an ache in his legs but he doesn’t give a flying shit. They’ve won, for once, so as a reward to himself he’s going to invite you out with the lads. Proper, like, probably with the words, “Hey I think you’re fit,” except he’s thinking he should probably swap “fit,” for beautiful, or stunning, or the most wonderful, funny, amazing woman he’s ever met and no, it’s not just because of the magical healing powers you seem to possess. 

Jamie showers, changes, then heads purposefully down the hall. He knows you’re still here, you never leave after matches until everyone who might possibly need physio is gone. 

He bangs open the door, ready to regale you with the shit Ted’s up to post-match when he catches sight of your face. Or rather, the fact that it’s in your hands as your shoulders shake. 

He rushes over to the desk and turns your chair so you’re facing him. 

His hands are on your knees as he urgently whispers, “Where does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t,” you gasp, wiping your eyes. “I’m fine, I don’t know what came over me, I’m good, I promise. What’s up?”

You move to get up but Jamie presses lightly where his hands were resting. “You don’t look fine, love,” he says, then internally winces. Not a good thing to say to a girl, no matter how true it is. 

“I’m good, swear down,” you choke. You move to wipe away another tear but Jamie beats you to it, swiping it with his thumb. You shudder involuntarily, trying not to notice the rough feel of his skin on yours. 

“I’m not hurt,” he says tentatively. “Came to see if you wanted to go out with me ‘n the lads.”

“Oh!” you exclaim, still trying your absolute best to pull yourself together and failing miserably. “Right. I um, I’m going to be here a while so you should just go, yeah? Tell Dani I’m proud of him.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Ain’t leaving you here all by yourself.” He realizes your hands have found their way into his, and he has no idea who put them there. He lifts one to his lips and brushes a kiss to your knuckles. “Just tell me where it hurts, yeah?”

Another shiver wracks your body. “You can’t- I can’t- you have to go, okay Jamie? I need you to go.”

Jamie will, he’ll do anything you ask, but first he has to know- 

“Why?” he asks, so softly. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

“Don’t-” you half-choke. “Not- I’m gross right now.”

Jamie can’t stifle his laugh in time, so he does his best to save it. “Love, you’ve seen me at my fuckin’ worst. We’ll call it even.”

You’re breathing a little easier now, but just barely. You don’t seem too eager to get rid of him so Jamie pushes his luck and stays kneeling on the floor. 

“Tell me,” he urges again, but you just shake your head. 

“You really should go,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t want to keep Maia waiting. Heard actresses are notoriously particular about being on time.”

That’s confusing. Maia- do you mean Maia Stanwood? You must, that’s the only Maia he knows. But how did you know her, Jamie had run into her at dinner the other day and there’d been a brief article in the papers, but nothing that connects to what’s happening here. 

Unless-

No. 

Except- it’s the only thing that makes sense. 

But you don’t like him like that. At least, he’s pretty sure. And anyway, isn’t it prickish to assume everyone’s in love with him?

But you’re not everyone, you’re the team physio with nice hands and a sweet smile and an affinity to fix people, to mend what’s broken in the best way you know how. 

“I love you,” he says instead of everything else he had planned.

You’re silent, and he’s not sure you’ve heard him so he says it again. 

“Yeah, alright, I love you too,” you sniff with a half-smile, except it’s the way you’d say to a brother, the way you’d say it to Dani or Sam. 

“No,” Jamie says more insistently, “I love you. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you, wanted to take you out proper. Impress you with my dancing and chat you up at the bar. Make the lads jealous that I’ve got a beautiful girl on my arm, then sneak out early to kiss you like I’ve been fucking thinking about since that fucking paper cut. Had a right crush on you like an idiot since you got hired.”

You’re staring at him open-mouthed, unable to believe what he’s saying, and Jamie doesn’t know much all the time but he knows that you’re gripping his hands like it’s a lifeline. He knows your eyes are wide open and that he was on the mark about you thinking he was with someone else. So he does what anyone in his position would do. 

He captures your lips in his, letting go of your hands only so he can slip one hand around your waist and another in your hair. 

God, you feel like you’re melting. 

Jamie Tartt is kissing you like there’s no tomorrow and the floor is tipping out from under you, but apart from that vague feeling all you’re aware of is his hands on you and the fact that he tastes like spearmint. 

His lips are soft against yours, mouth warm and inviting. 

It’s like taking a breath of air for the first time in months. 

“I love you,” you say as soon as you break apart. You’re breathing heavily as if you’re the one who just played a 90-minute match. Jamie’s lips are swollen and your hair is mussed, but you both share the same look.

“All better?” he asks, and you nod. 

“Good. You want to get dinner? I know a few places we can go, don’t have to worry about paps.”

“The team-” you begin, but Jamie waves that away. 

“They’ll understand,” he says. “Been flirting with you for ages, getting injured all the time. Think Ted’s starting to get fucking worried.”

You run your thumb down his jawline. “I always wondered about that,” you murmur. “Thought it was in my head how much you were down here. Didn’t want to be unprofessional.”

Jamie reaches up to hold your wrist and you just sit there, on the floor of the treatment room, looking at each other in the dim light. You’ll get up, eventually, but for now you’re going to savor this moment you have together.