#AEWA

[bisexual-kane]

🎶Staturday . . . Staturday! Staturday . . . Staturday!🎶

[migratorybirdday]

Unveiling the WMBD 2024 Poster - "Protect Insects, Protect Birds.

"We are thrilled to present the poster for this year's World Migratory Bird Day!; The hand-drawn illustrations by the talented artist Anna Rosepaints beautifully capture the essence of our campaign. Their intricate details not only showcase the beauty of birds but also emphasize the vital role of insects in the health and well-being of migratory birds.

Join us in spreading the word and building our conservation movement that transcends borders and languages. Share this incredible artwork far and wide to inspire others to protect our migratory birds!

Together, let's make this World Migratory Bird Day a catalyst for change and a celebration of the incredible journey of birds. Share, support, and soar with us towards a brighter, more bird-resilient future!

[sheeperson]

The Shadow Suns are amongst the most feared foes in the Galaxy. Their body and mind honed into a deadly blade through a lifetime of training, a single Shadow Sun is capable of taking on even some of the most feared Cyborgs in the galaxy, despite being un-augmented themselves. Pictured above is the Legendary Shadow Sun Aewas-Shem battle such a cyborg. It is believed that Aewas is amongst the most powerful psychics in the galaxy, utilizing his powers to imbue his Shadow Sun Warblade with such terrible potency that it may cleave through even hardened Durasteel. It is said that as a boy, Aewas had a vision, that if he never cut his hair again, he'd become the greatest warrior of all time. Time will only tell if his prophecy is the will of Gaia, or just another fairy tale.

[postsofbabel]

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[linejasims]

Aewa Kaory

Sims 2 female Download

[batnbreakfast]

The Secretariats of CMS, AEWA and EUROBATS have issued a joint notification concerning the Coronavirus and migratory species, in particular bats.

Facts about Bats and COVID-19

As efforts are stepping up around the world to prevent the further spread of the coronavirus disease (COVID-19), there have been numerous reports that various communities and governmental authorities in several regions of the world have been culling bats in a misplaced effort to combat the disease.

Through this joint notification, the Secretariats of the Convention on the Conservation of Migratory Species of Wild Animals (CMS), the Agreement on the Conservation of Populations of European Bats (EUROBATS) and the Agreement on the Conservation of African-Eurasian Migratory Waterbirds (AEWA) are bringing this alarming situation to the attention of all of our Parties and partners, to seek help in taking action to address such activities.

Bats do not spread COVID-19. COVID-19 is being transmitted from humans to other humans.

There is no evidence that bats directly infected humans with COVID-19 in the first place. Scientific investigations are pointing to a chain of events that may have involved bats but most likely only through an intermediate animal.

There are some 1,400 bat species living in the wild around the world. Many have adapted to urban environments, living in backyard gardens, urban parks and even roosting under bridges, without posing the slightest threat to their human neighbours.

Bats provide enormous benefits including pollination, seed dispersal and pest control, worth billions of dollars annually.

Many bat species are in trouble and need our help to survive. Dozens of bat species are protected by CMS and EUROBATS. But much more needs to be done to ensure the survival of bats around the world. While the killing of bats will not have any effects on the spread of COVID-19, it would adversely affect the conservation status of bat populations.

A similar misdirected focus occurred at the height of the 2006 avian influenza, with calls for widespread culling of migratory waterbirds and the draining of their wetland habitats.

Let’s not do this again.

[tetsustation]

[ LOOSE TIES ]

pairing :: osamu dazai (bsd) x f!reader

synopsis :: ex-coworker and “friend,” osamu dazai, has always been a man you could relate too, being one of the only people to make your heart and mind race. finding him again after years of separation, however, proves to be more difficult than you’d initially figured it to be.  

word count :: 2.8k 

genre :: coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers, lovers to enemies, reminiscing & angst, reader is a part of the port mafia 

warnings :: gun violence, murder, blood, mentions of suicide, nihilistic/apathetic behavior, miscellaneous violence, typical bsd content warning, swearing, suggestive speech—please read at your own risk!!

notes :: had a little writing break but i think i’ve gotten my touch back—this is my first swing at a long(er) bsd fic, dedicated to @maisbunny i hope u don’t cry

The ring finger dancing on the curve of the trigger was one that you recognized as your own. The weight of the gun was familiar, something you’ve grown accustomed to seeing more than most other things in your narrow life. However, context was always key—you’ve learned. 

Mere years ago, you dreamed of placing a band around the same finger—something light and dainty, perhaps gold, if you could manage. Maybe then, you’d have something more flattering resting around your fingers, as opposed to the chilled steel.

That dream left you along with the man in front of the barrel—through grim silence, and gone before you could even think to miss it. 

“It’s nice to know you’ve climbed the ladder.” You scowled, even in the face of death his voice dribbled down like honey, “I always knew you’d surpass me one day.” 

Only when you pressed the heel of your shoe into the pit of his abdomen did he groan, his elbows pressing farther into the shattered pavement—rubble digging into the fragile skin. Personally, you hoped he’d’ve bled through the bandages, a bloody death was something you often envisioned for him—if nothing else. 

“You never know when to stop talking—do you, Dazai?” 

 A sharp hiss that held more than figurative weight slid off his tongue, “Ah, why must you resort to such formalities with me? You never did when—,” another groan.

With a swift kick to the upside of his chin, before returning back down to hold him in place, you had shut him up before he could spout whatever nonsense came to mind, in an attempt to stall the inevitable. 

 “Take this as a gift from me to you,” you lowered yourself slightly, hovering over him in a way that felt all too familiar, “Today, you’ll finally get your death wish.”

...

Frankly, you never wished to meet Osamu Dazai—or rather, you never wanted to. As a child, your mother always taught you that to live was to love, you took it with a grain of salt and with time, such a saying slipped between your small fingers. 

On the outskirts of the city, your parents ran a ramen shop—it was a hole in the wall, with scuffed white tiles that cracked easily under pressure. On Sundays, you’d be asked to scrub the grout—but years of degenerate dirt (among other things) built up, and thus, refused to let up no matter how hard you brushed.

There were four tables, a faux marble countertop, and a backroom you were never allowed to go into. The curtains were thin, but the hallway behind it was long, from what you gathered. The small list of people permitted to pass the curtain were few in number, but broad in stature. 

Almost always, would they sport a shiny gun—usually a pistol—in a belt holster. From your eye level, that was the first and only thing that resonated.   

Up until age thirteen, you had never held a gun in your life—didn’t plan on it either. Yet, plans change in the most dire of circumstance, which was why when you returned from errands one morning only to step in your mother’s blood on the way in—you picked up a familiar pistol from the ground and proceeded to shoot the guilty man in front of you. 

With bloodied hands, you became an orphan—and the white tile permanently gained a vermillion tint. 

That day you mopped, because there was not much else to do. Afterward you proceeded to refill the napkin holders and wash the dishes. You prepped the shop for a dinner rush that never came, and stepped around what you later learned to call a corpse, until the broad-statured men arrived. 

They did not accept the menu’s you offered, and instead left abruptly only to return with their numbers tenfold—and a small boy only a year or two older than yourself lodged at the front of them. The only thought in your mind being, there aren’t enough menu’s for this type of crowd. 

The boy smiled at your craftsmanship, tapping your mother’s shoulder with the tip of his dress-shoe, only to be met with a small plop back against the ground, 

“You did this?” He asked calmly, a limp finger pointed downwards. You nodded meekly and the bandage on his left eye shifted with the raise of his eyebrows, “Fascinating, very clean.”

He examined the wounds a little closer, “You must know your way around a gun.” 

Osamu Dazai placed his hand on yours that day, the other one cradling your conjoined palms from underneath—you could feel the tips of his overcoat tickle your wrist, and it was all you could focus on as he spoke to you about an offer you didn’t care about all that much.

“—and the Port Mafia will take of you.” He concluded, only then did you look up at him with wide eyes.

“And what will happen to the shop?” 

Upon seeing a small frown etch itself onto your, otherwise soft, face, he chuckled to himself, “We’ll take care of that too.” 

...

There was no reason as to why you needed saw him again, in fact, you came to perfect terms with his disappearance and didn’t give it much of a second thought. Long ago, you made a mutual agreement to not get attached, and always a stickler for promises, you followed through religiously.

Though, you were never a spiritual person. 

The small portion of your life before the Port Mafia was not something very interesting to you, so you chose not to hold onto majority of it. Instead, you held onto the things that make your blood run rampant—it’s an amusing way of living, if nothing else. 

Competing with Dazai is one of those things.

For that reason, you’ve decided to finish on top. Bending over, you swept the hair off his forehead gently with a knuckle, before delicately balancing the barrel on the skin beneath. He always had soft hair, and you had half a mind to run your hand through it, but you didn’t want to give him the luxury of feeling your fingertips rake through his locks—your pride standing in the way of any and all pleasantries.

“What are you doing on Port Mafia territory?” 

Narrowing his eyes, and uncrossing them after watching you place the weapon, he looked back a you. The subtle smirk that lifted his lips was aggravating, and you wondered if strangulation was worth the trouble of straining your hands. 

“Took a walk in the park. Got lost. Think you could show me the way home?” A beat, “I always felt safer with a pretty woman on my arm.” 

Stunned at his utter gall, you scoffed, “And how about now? Do you feel safe?” With your knee pressing into him, and your favorite gun pressed against his head, it wasn’t too hard to predict his answer. Still, you asked—since he seemed to crave conversation oh-so much.

He hummed in thought, as if you’d just asked him his favorite color, and entirely too nonchalant for the predicament at hand, “Get a little more comfortable on top of me, and I’ll consider it so.” 

A harsh slap against the apple of his cheek was how you responded, and unsurprisingly enough, it was not the first time you’d slapped him for a comment of that nature. 

Momentarily, you questioned his submissiveness. He knew your next move, your next expression, your next thought before you’d even had the time to think it. So why does he remain so still? 

So obedient? 

...

Plunging your foot into grey water, the unwelcome feeling of a wet pant-leg against your skin was almost instantaneous.

“Fuck me!” 

“Promise?” 

The back of your hand met his head before you could swear a second time. As he rubbed the spot of impact in faux offense, you eyed him down with malicious intent. Only when he put his hands up to feign innocence did you continue walking past him.

The slap had echoed off the walls of the tunnel, and you were tempted to laugh at the way the sound had ricocheted dramatically, but you maintained a poker face and kept going. Blame it on your superiors for partnering you up with a sixteen year old boy, of all people.

With nothing else better to do, you had joined the Port Mafia after the... untimely death of your mother, and the murder of your father. It was that, or an absurd prison sentence that made you want to choke on mechanic degreaser. 

Unfortunately, your recruiter became your superior (despite his age), and your only goal in mind was too surpass him. One mission after another, that desire only became more prominent in your behavior, as he constantly teased you for your lack of a gift among other things.

The only thing that kept him tethered to his senses when it came to his rather reckless commentary was the ace up your sleeve—your undeniable skill for armed weaponry—specifically, pistols.

Humble as ever, you’d called yourself a fast learner, but being double jointed is a genetic trait from what you’ve heard. You can only thank your bloodline for your quick fingers and flexible joints, you might not be alive with it. A good pair of eyes never hurt anyone either.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” 

“Why? Scared of the dark?” 

Good grief, you’d shove your gun down his throat if it’d make him shut up. You didn’t ask again, and instead followed the bounce of his black trench coat reluctantly as he skipped ahead. If only you held the power he did, you would’ve reached your destination already, subordinate or not—you were simply a better directioner than he was. 

“Thinking you’re better than your superior will get yourself killed.” He sang, without turning around nor stopping.

Your eyes widened as he vocalized your thoughts, “And what if I am? I’m supposed to surpass you, aren’t I?” 

He held up a hand, pointing upwards dramatically, as if he were passing down a generational truth, “Nothing is guaranteed in this life darling, never forget it!” 

Before you could retaliate such an insufferable endearment, there was a rattling from above you, to which sounded like the cement lining of the tunnel was about to fall directly above you. Jumping out of the way, you knocked into Dazai, to which he requested an ‘accommodation to his personal space.’  

The guards of the same man you were following appeared in front of you, and in a moment of great haste, you tossed him the spare pistol you held for his disposal. 

“Make sure you hold it in the right hand this time.” 

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” 

That much was true, because as unbearable as he was, Osamu Dazai always listened to you. 

...

Hesitation was not a word in your vocabulary, you found no need for it. Alone, in an alleyway, in the city’s underbelly was one of, if not the best, place to blow him to bits—get the revenge you didn’t know you were craving. Though, the craziest part of this was, you weren’t craving it at all—in fact, you felt empty.

If you let the gun slip out of your hand right now, what would he do? 

Probably straighten out his overcoat, clear his throat, and wish you a good night. With the gun to his head, however, you reminded yourself this was exactly what he did—burrow in your skin, until you got so itchy you had no choice but to let him slip past, back into the shadows from whence he came.

Though, Osamu Dazai didn’t deserve the luxury of living after what he’s done—or so you’ve heard. While he’s never hurt you personally, you’ve heard the tone he’s taken with his subordinates, the commands he’s given to officers with nothing written between the lines—a clean slaughter—on more than one occasion.

The relationship you have, or had, with him was always one of a fleeting nature, momentary thrills looser than gravel. Still, there was no doubt you cared about one another—that care, however, was estranged in the sense that it could be turned on and off like a switch.

And oddly enough, Osamu Dazai seemed to have a bright light bulb hanging overhead. 

Gritting your teeth, you circled your brain for any synonym that could justify what exactly it was you were doing right now, that didn’t sound or feel like hesitation. If it was true that you felt so entirely numb with him underneath you, there was no logical reason to stall any longer—you weren’t him—you could end this without the bloody entrails. 

There was an itch in your brain that made you twitch if you thought about it too hard, the opposite of love was not hate—but indifference—and if you were so indifferent to his being or not being outside of the Port Mafia, there was no love between you. 

Right, there was nothing stopping you—but you moved the gun from his forehead to his right rib. 

...

People were always a hassle, building parasitic relationships with any and all hosts that could satisfy their selfish, short-lived, desires. Living itself was not the issue, instead, living amongst others was the root of your frustration. 

The thing with Dazai, however, was he did not have enough will in him to engage in such symbiosis with you—or anyone else for that matter—because his issue with living lied in just that, and frankly, it was easier for you that way.

Dazai often served as a stimulant, a stealthy conversationalist that bounced your thoughts back and forth with ease—he was truly the only person you’d allow to break your periodic isolation—and he felt comfortable in the fact that he could do that much. 

 Still, the nature of his words could sometimes sound similar to the spouts of humans, in which you were quick to level with him on.

“You’re so dramatic, suicide is such a hassle—just wait to be killed on the job,” you scoffed, spitting the pit of your cherry over the railing of the pier. 

Howling in protest, he dropped his shoulders like a denied child, “That’s so painful. I hate pain.” 

“Too bad,” you popped another sweet berry between your lips, “You know, I have to do all your paperwork if you choose suicide.” 

A shallow gasp, “Aren’t you going to grieve me?” 

Truly, you could laugh at him, “No time, someone’s gotta take up your dirty work.” 

“How sacrificial.” He brought a hand to his chest, before taking one of your cherries for himself, and popping it in his mouth whole. 

“Poetic?” You wondered aloud.

“No—,” It’s muffled, as he made work with the stem in his mouth, “Poeticism is made up by people—who can’t understand themselves.” 

“They look for answers where there aren’t any, it’s all fake.” He then sticks his tongue out in punctuation to reveal a tied stem resting on the tip. It was elegantly maneuvered, something you could never figure out how to do for yourself. 

Sometimes you wonder if your story with Dazai was poetic, as you deliberate existentialism with him, over a bag of cherries, at twilight. It seemed to be so, or perhaps it was all made up, like he said. It made the most sense, because when the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, he always left you alone again. 

...

Thus, it was all for naught. One could even go as far to say that it never happened at all. Speech was nothing but vibrations riding the air, that disappeared in seconds—you always knew Dazai would leave—and you had no qualms when he did.

This was not a problem, it shouldn’t be a problem, exactly why it won’t be a problem—you tried not to listen when he spoke again. 

“When did you stop caring?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, though his body language read mischief, “Don’t tell me you believed all that nonsense about meaningless affection, did you?” 

As your patience ran thin, he sped up his speech, “You know, the word ‘meaningless’ in and of itself holds meaning, making it an oxymoron.” 

“I had no reason to not believe you,” You denied him. 

Osamu Dazai was an estranged man, you always knew that much, even more so as he continued to contradict himself, “Personally, I, myself never stopped caring the way I promised too.” 

“Then you were just shitty at your job.” You pressed the gun harder into his ribs, “I wish I could say the same.” 

Pressing down on the trigger with ease, the shot rang in your ears, but dulled slightly as it dug into his skin. Strangely, you wanted to smile, but the tickle in your throat was undeniably pushing emotions of another nature. As you stepped back following the recoil, you watched him slump, hissing as he held down the wound.

How dramatic, he’ll survive. 

You walked away quickly, trying your best not to trip on the raised sediment. Flinging your neck backwards, you took in any and all air that would fit into your strained lungs—it had been a while since a shot felt like this. Sighing, you continued back out into the street, refusing to look back or give it any afterthought.  

A gun always looked prettier around your ring finger, anyways. 

✿ TETSUSTATION — 2021 ; do not repost, translate, share without permission, or recycle my writing & layouts. this blog does not hesitate to hardblock in that instance!

[dahvangogh]

and empty word are evil| Jason Todd

[ prologue | one | two | three | four ]

[ao3 link] [masterlist]

note: hello, there! I KNOW, I KNOW. I'm a day early but I finally got two new comments on this story: one on AO3 and another here in Tumblr, so I got excited and decided to upload it a bit earlier.This chapter sets in motion many things for this story. Also, despite perhaps not being as exciting or long as the others, it is key to the development of the whole thing. As usual, I apologize if there are any grammatical mistakes. I corrected it myself but I'm no English native.Please, could you leave a comment or kudos? It really helps a lot! 

Much love xx

CHAPTER THREE

There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”

― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

“She hasn’t called me yet… why hasn’t she called me yet? This never happens to me!”

Lisa throws her hands to her head and messes the blonde tresses even more than they are, pacing back and forth in Grace’s open concept kitchen and living room, her posture completely straight.

“Oi, chill!” the raven-haired tries not to laugh, biting her bottom lip “People have jobs and lives, so it’s most likely she is busy!”

The blond turns to look at Grace, who is sitting comfortably on her big comfy sofa doodling in one of her many sketchpads, and crosses her arms under her chest.

“I also have a life, you dumbass. But not even a text? C'mon!”

Grace rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s been a week… perhaps you are getting sloppy in the flirting department?” She tries not to laugh at Lisa’s indignant face and quickly picks up a pillow seconds before the blonde starts hitting her. “Kidding! Just kidding!”

Her friend keeps hitting her, not as if to hurt her but in a playful manner.

“I will have you know that I’m the fucking best at flirting… and other things.”

Grace looks over the rim of her pillow and makes a face as if throwing up.

“Dis-gus-ting” the raven-haired accentuates each syllable, then raises a hand to stop her best friend from starting hitting her again. “No, but for real. Who cares? It’s her loss… you are amazing and the day you date someone, that idiot will be a lucky girl.”

Lisa moves her head to the side and her shoulders drop as if exhausted. Then, she bites her bottom lip while tapping her foot for a few seconds.

At last, she nods and sits next to her on the sofa. The blonde leans her head on her best friend’s shoulder. Grace smiles softly and leans her head on her friend’s crown.

“After hooking up, she told me to wait until her shift was over… then we went to eat tacos.” Lisa’s voice sounds soft and dreamy, not loud and humorous as usual; after a long week, finally telling the ink-haired girl what had happened that night. “We were there for three hours, talking and laughing, and we even closed the fucking place… And it wasn’t a simple hook-up on a nightclub, there was a connection there. I swear.”

The raven-haired smiles while imagining the scene.

“If she saw you eating tacos and didn’t leave your ass there immediately, she is clearly interested.”

Lisa raises her head a bit and looks up at her while Grace looks down, a mocking smile on her plump lips. They hold each other stares for a bit, now the raven-haired is biting her lower lip while the blonde presses her lips together.

Three…

Two…

One

They both burst out laughing, even both keep giggling after a few minutes pass and their laughter has died out.

“Shit, that's true.”

She nods, giggling about how a messy-eater her friend is and pictures it in her mind.

Grace picks the discarded sketchpad and pencil from beside her on the sofa, not the side where Lisa is sitting, and turns a page over.

She quickly draws Lisa’s face, starting with her high cheekbones tinted with hundred freckles and then her petite cute nose, following with her soft-looking jawline. In the drawing, her best friend's big blue eyes are filled with wonder, staring at something they –the viewer of said drawing or the drawer– can’t see, while her thin lips are curled in a lovely smile. Her blonde head, framed with soft long waves, is resting on her hands on the table and Grace adds a napkin holder near.

“Should I draw guacamole smeared all over your chin?” Lisa giggles at that, so the raven-haired quickly draws it. “Perhaps a bottle of Tears of Llorona No. 3 Extra Añejo Tequila besides you?”

“Nah… that thing is 233 bucks.”

Grace huffs, then asks out loud: “Who pays 233 bucks for a bottle of Tequila?”

Dad does, I saw him drink a glass of that thing many times while watching tv or reading.

“Your dad.”

Both laugh while Grace also shakes her head, her father’s expensive tastes never ceasing to amaze her.

“But not me, girl.” Her friend answers back, which makes both of them laugh again. “Desperados is more on my budget… Though sometimes I spend a bit more on a Jose Cuervo one if I feel like treating myself.”

Grace smiles sadly.

Two months after her kidnapping and before she went to Berlin, they both had graduated from their prestigious and expensive private high school. The blonde had decided it was time to come out to her parents and Grace had completely supported her, thinking that Adam and Mary would be open and accept her daughter.

She had been mistaken.

The Addington’s had completely lost it and kicked Lisa out of their home. Thankfully, Lisa’s aunt Marissa had welcomed her in her own home and called Grace to tell her what had gone down.

Three days later, Lisa had been notified that she had been written out of her parents’ will and she wouldn’t be able to get a single penny from the family’s fortune. Plus, to add salt to the wound, she should never call her parents or even step a foot on her old home.

The raven-haired remembers how heartbroken her best friend had been, crying loudly on one of the beds of her aunt’s many guest rooms, while Marissa explained what the family lawyer had informed her.

She hadn’t been sad about the money but her parents’ hatred and lack of love for her.

Despite all of that, Marissa had sat down at the rim of the bed and had helped Lisa sit down. When she had calmed down –Grace remembers running to the kitchen for a glass of water and some chocolate–, her aunt had announced that she wasn’t going anywhere. Marissa unofficially had adopted Lisa, using her own wealth to help and support her niece.

Yet Lisa didn’t like asking for much, too independent and still licking her own wounds.

“Next week, I will buy a few bottles of the expensive ones and we will drink them all while watching RuPaul Drag Race: All-Stars, how does that sound?”

The raven-haired hears her friend harsh breath as if holding her cries.

“Fucking amazing, Gracie.”

She smiles, understanding what her friend is truly saying underneath coarse language, and pats her on the hand.

Thanks.

[ – – – ]

It has been a few hours and they both have just finished eating Chinese Takeaway, sitting in the same position as before but with a big and fluffy warm blanket wrapped around them. Grace is drawing again while they both watch the new season of  Peaky Blinders  on the big living room TV.

Grace is drawing from memory one of her favorite paintings of Empress Sisi, with her beautiful half-braided hairstyle decorated with silver flowers, and lovely white wedding gown. Don’t mistake her, she prefers others over this painting of Sisi, but someway somehow she had memorized only this one.

So beautiful, poor heartbroken Sisi.

“I’m a proud lesbian, okay?” her friend says, her blonde head moving on Grace’s shoulder as if she speaks with her whole self and not only with her mouth. Grace stops her pencil moving. “But I totally understand why so many people want to be dicked down by Tommy Shelby.”

She laughs at that.

“Yeah, he is hot…”

Suddenly, Lisa raises her head from her friend’s shoulder and mimics her friend’s posture, sitting cross-legged and reclining her back against the sofa. Then, the blonde starts arranging the blanket better around her.

“But?” she asks, still busy arranging the big blanket.

“I don’t know... ” Grace sighs loudly and looks at her friend, shrugging her shoulders. “He is handsome, in an i-would-draw-him-time-and-time-again way, but I never thought, and excuse my vocabulary, oh I would totally such his dick.”

Lisa now leans her head back, now looking at her best friend with a sad smile, the TV series completely forgotten or unimportant to them.

“How long has it been since you dated someone?” her voice sounds rueful, though the blonde knows the answer already. “Or kissed someone?”

Grace shakes her head, almost embarrassed about what she is about to confess, and even feels herself blush.

Here we go.

“Since I was eighteen.” the raven-haired sighs, then rubs her hands together, forgetting her drawing for the moment. “I can’t still stand someone touching me that way… It’s hard for me to trust any men. I mean, when you start a relationship you expect to have sex or at least close skin to skin proximity… ”

The last words make Lisa laugh loudly.

“Why do you say it so… formal and weird?”

“Because it’s true!” Grace feels her smile completely gone, her feelings and worries pouring out of her mouth without a stop.“People expect to be able to touch, hug, kiss or do sexual things when in a relationship with someone. But I can’t… I couldn’t possibly stand it. I want to, but I can’t!”

Lisa instantly hugs her tightly, caressing the arm her hand rests on.

“Well, that’s okay. Your mental health is above any fucking relationship.” her friend’s voice is soft and kind, still hugging her tightly. “One day, you might meet someone who will understand and maybe you might try.”

Grace sighs, though weirdly enough something in her stomach starts moving.

I hope it's a stomachache... better to have diarrhea than a relationship.

“Or maybe, you might meet an amazing hot dude with a big dick and only want to kiss him until you die of lack of oxygen… ”

That last sentence makes her laugh loudly, Lisa quickly joining her.

“Doubt it, but hey… if it happens, it’s not a bad way of dying.”

Both laugh again.

“Now, seriously. Have you talked to anyone about it?” her friend looks at her, worry all over her freckled face. “I mean a psychologist. Or perhaps participated in a PTSD group therapy or rape survivors group therapy? It might help, you know... ”

She can’t help but whimper when hearing that word.

“No.” Grace closes her eyes and leans back against her sofa. Despite being best friends, she didn’t like talking about what had happened those three days, though she did explain a bit so her friends, family and police would understand. “My dad made me see a psychiatrist for a few years in Berlin, it was one of his many conditions so I could stay there. To give him peace of mind, you know?”

The raven-haired snuggles into her best friend’s side, searching for warmth and acceptance, then continues explaining.

“I still get in touch with her once or twice every few months.”

Dr. Louise Bell had been like an angel sent from Heaven. She had been kind and patient with her, explaining how the impact of that incident goes far beyond any physical injuries, supporting her and never judging her. Also, the psychologist had been right.

Grace had spent a month in the hospital because of her physical injuries but to this day, she was still recovering from the internal ones.

The world will never feel like a completely safe place ever again.

Nor will she trust others as much as she did before.

Neither does she stop self-degrading herself or questioning her judgment from time to time.

She still has nightmares, a few flashbacks and unpleasant memories coming back to her from time to time. Nevertheless, time helps to heal.

“You are not dirty, Grace. Neither are you damaged goods or unworthy of love.” she always replays Louise’s words in her mind when she is feeling bad about herself or in one of her depressive episodes.

She has improved a lot in many aspects. Grace doesn’t shower three times a day anymore, nor does she start shaking when seeing a man and she has been able to go to a park again.

Not Central Park, though. Not yet.

The raven-haired has gained much confidence and self-love through her friends, Louise’s help and her powers –the last thing helping a lot.

But relationships and intimacy are yet impossible for her.

She had tried but it had gone wrong so soon.

“I did try… I went on a couple of dates with this guy in Berlin and…” She sighs, the memories fuzzy in her mind because of how scared and anxious she had been back then. “All was going well until we kissed but… he touched my waist and I flipped out.”

He had gone flying, but Lisa didn't need to know about that.

Lisa, always kind to her, hugs her closer to herself; letting Grace confide and vent if she needs to.

“Dr. Bell told me to talk about it, to challenge myself from time to time, to reconnect with my body and feelings while not avoiding or numbing them,” Grace explains, thinking back about all she learned in her sessions with Louise. “You know I also took some self-defense lessons, learned yoga and even did massage therapy to not be so uncomfortable with being touched.”

And became a night vigilante of some sort.

“I can stand people touching me but... ” she rubs her hands together, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly. “A relationship means trusting someone and having intimacy… I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”

“And that’s okay, Grace.”

“Yeah, I know. Dr. Bell always reminds me that everyone deals with trauma in their own way. So even if it has been six years, I can take all the time I need.”

Lisa pats the arm her arm is draped on.

“Please, don’t think I’m pressuring you into going around hooking up or dating random people… I just worry about you sometimes.”

Grace looks up at her friend and gives her a soft smile, nodding. Then, she rests her head on her shoulder, looking at the TV.

“He really looks hot while smoking though.”

She is talking about Tommy Shelby, who is currently smoking a cigarette in front of a nun, looking like a dark prince.

“Fuck, he really does.”

[ – – – ]

Grace is an early bird, she had always been one and probably will always be. The raven-haired likes sitting on her balcony, the views of her skyscraper apartment always being better than any morning News program, with a cup of coffee or even a smoothie.

The building, all constructed with glass and sustainable materials, has forty floors and her apartment is in the thirty-nine. Each floor is divided into two apartments, her thirty-nine neighbor is a nice woman recently divorced who works in an expensive and reputed law firm.

The raven-haired doesn’t usually interact much with her neighbors, though she knows that the five low floors are used for work purposes and that her neighbor from the forty bought his whole floor to make his apartment bigger because he is an eccentric millionaire who doesn’t like sharing that much.

Also, he sometimes likes to use the stairs instead of the elevator.

Imagine using the stairs in a skyscraper of forty floors and with your apartment being in the last? Can’t relate at all.

She looks around her balcony, which is quite bigger than a standard one, and smiles proudly at her good taste in furniture. The raven-haired selected white and black furniture for this place, plus added many plants. A low garden glass table is in the center, a big white sofa placed against her big glass windows and looking directly towards the table and subsequent views, a big white armchair on the left of the table looking at the low table and all big beautiful pot plants through the floor of the whole railing, surrounding it.

“Grace, do you prefer having breakfast here or we go and hit Pauli’s Diner for a quick meal?”

Her blonde friend asks from the kitchen. The big balcony is connected to the living room, which is open-concept with the kitchen, so her voice sounds quite close to her. Grace stands up, places her coffee on the glass table, and folds her fluffy grey blanket on the white armchair.

She picks her cup and walks inside, seeing Lisa in the kitchen preparing more coffee, her stereo on in the WXYZ Radio channel.

“Good morning, Gothamites! It’s me, Alan Scott and currently, it is seven AM of this fine Saturday morning. If you have been paying attention to social media or the News, you probably already know that last night things went crazy in our dear city. But to those who don’t know, last night Poison Ivy was being personally delivered to Arkham Asylum by GCPD until things went BOOM!”

Both Lisa and her look at the stereo with interest, confusion across the blonde’s pale face while the raven-haired waits for confirmation of Harley’s plan succeeding.

“Fuck, what happened now?” her friend mutters.

“I don’t know” she says a white lie, after all she truly doesn’t know what really happened.

“Literally, things went BOOM. The crazy bird Harley Quinn blew up many of GCPD car patrols and the SWAT van where Ivy was being transported allowing the eco-terrorist to escape. Five policemen died on the spot and other seven are in critical condition. Unfortunately, two passed away on their way to Gotham City General Hospital. Despite Batman and Robin trying to help, as of now Harley and Ivy are missing. Commissioner Gordon and Mayor Sebastian Hady’s joint press appearance is scheduled at 10 am today and we will get further information. Now, Molly. What do you think about this horrible incident?”

“God, the Hospital and the clinic are probably bustling.” Lisa’s hands go to her head as if going insane just thinking about it. Then, she turns towards her best friend. “Yesterday and today are my free days, should I call my boss and offer my help?”

Grace is completely in shock.

She had specifically asked Harley to not kill any policeman. The raven-haired had done so when they first talked about the plan in the nightclub VIP room, then twice at their “sleepover” and another time after delivering the explosives.

Harley had promised her she wouldn’t.

That damned harlequin...

“Grace?” her friend calls her, looking up with concern towards the kitchen ceiling where the lights are flashing on and off nonstop. “Grace?!”

I’m going to fucking kill that lying harlequin and make myself a carpet with her hyenas.

The lightbulbs in the ceiling explode, Lisa lets out a very high scream and protects her head with her hands while bending over a bit.

You are a dead man walking, Harley Quinn.

[migratorybirdday]

Overview of Light Pollution Impact.

Webinar entitled ''Overview of Light Pollution Impact'' was held on Thursday, 6 October 2022, at 11 am New York Time /5pm Bonn Time/ 1am Canberra Time (7th October Canberra time).

[widowedfcked-blog]

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐯𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐚 for a new start after her husband passed away. She could not stand to be in England anymore and took what she needed, closing her estate in England to travel to Canada. One day she may return, but all she needed was her horses. May lives in Avonlea, a young spinster, training and breeding horses in the small town. She’s fairly wealthy, but lives a modest and simple life & it brings her some joy. She enjoys working with the children when she can - for fear one day she may never get the chance to have them. 

She’s quite active in the community, offering what she can to those who need it. She attends church each sunday & helps out at the school when they’re in need. Some days she longs to return back to england - to a life , but it offers her nothing but heartache. 

[jinanreona]

Touches his kitty ears

Instinctively he leans away at the sudden contact, swatting the hand away harshly as his ears lay flat on his head in clear displeasure. With a glare over his shoulder, he scoffs, "Oi, didn't anyone teach you not to touch people randomly. I'm in a good mood so I'll let you keep that hand of yours this time..." Next time, he made no promises.

[narcisisto-archive]

garen: you like him right? draven: well yeah but i mean it doesn’t matter garen: so ask him out draven: someTIMES I FEEL I’VE GOT TO *bashes table twice*

                                          R U N  Æ W Æ !

[wearelebanon]

The Bisri Valley is considered one of the most important Landscapes in Lebanon, according to the National Physical Master Plan of the Lebanese Territory (2005). The valley encompasses a variety of natural habitats including a distinctive pine forest. With its widespread shallow water, the valley is an important habitat for migratory birds, especially the Black Stork, the Sparrow White, the Crane, the White Swan, the White Pelican (all protected by the AEWA Agreement signed by Lebanon) and the Dalmatian Pelican. By @dr.firaschakra #WeAreLebanon (at Marj Bisri) https://www.instagram.com/p/B_enLzpjj6A/?igshid=1erh335w54duz

[footstepsinthegambia]

Caspian Tern

Caspian Tern | Its name come from the Latin and, like the name suggests refers to the Caspian Sea. The Caspian Tern is one of the species to which the Agreement on the Conservation of African-Eurasian Migratory Waterbirds (AEWA) applies. Their global population is approximately 50,000 pairs. While their numbers in most regions are stable, the Baltic Sea population is declining and is now a…

[news247planet]

#Ricky #Starks #AEW Ricky Starks Defeats Chris Jericho at AEW Revolution 2023 https://news247planet.com/?p=228808