#Call for Paper 2016

[ploverbear]

everyday i find a new account on something to try and crack back into to get a date on its creation and any inkling of information i can drain from it and leave it again, satisfied

[halles-notebook]

ᯓ★ 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓎 ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: what happens when you overhear a conversation between steve and tommy about how ‘clingy’ you are?

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: steve harrington x fem!reader

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: two tiny uses of y/n, brief moment of douchey king steve, angsty distancing, sad+confused steve, etc etc!

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: hi honeys!! in honor of the season 5 trailer, i had to write for my bby since 2016!!! also, first season of stranger things came out on my birthday… meant to be??? i hope u guys enjoy!!!🤍

nerves of excitement raced through your veins, heating your blood and making your heart pound. you were speed-walking through the halls, gaining a couple of odd looks, but you were too happy to care.

you had a sheet of paper clutched in your hand, a bright red stamp on the right corner. A+. you struggled greatly in chemistry, a fact all your friends and family knew. the class was practically created by a sociopathic masochist, math and science rolled into one? no way.

but you’d studied until your eyes crossed for this exam, and clearly your efforts had paid off. you couldn’t wait to tell steve. knowing his last class of the day, you opened the door to the gym and pranced in, a proud beam on your face.

your eyes found his figure immediately, stood a couple of feet away chatting with tommy. you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but their conversation easily met your ears, making you guiltily hide behind a rack filled with basketballs to understand their topic.

“great game, dude. me and the boys are gonna be at marcus’s house tonight for a get together, beer and basketball. you in?”

“i can’t, sorry. i’m having dinner with y/n tonight.”

you felt tommy’s scoff more than you heard it. “again? when was the last time you hung out with us, man? seems a little clingy if you ask me.”

ouch. clingy. you’d been called it more times than you could describe in past relationships, being told you’re “too much.” you’d confided in steve about it, as well. your deep-rooted insecurities that you were overwhelming and annoying, your affections drowning.

he’d assured you with that smile that was just so steve that you were the perfect amount. that he loved your attention and endearments, and for the first time, you’d believed him. surely he would defend you, right? wrong.

his laugh met your ears, and you swore you could hear a little crack in your chest as your eyes began to water. if only you could see his face, you’d see how forced and uncomfortable he truly looked. “i mean, i guess.”

“i’m telling you, it’s toxic. i had a girl like that before, had to ditch her. wasn’t healthy, y’know? you gotta look after you man.” your breath hitched, anxiously awaiting his response. there was silence for a couple of moments, and then… “yeah, you’re right. i’ll think on it. thanks, tommy.”

“no problem, dude.” you could taste the salty tears running down your cheeks onto your lips. you briefly heard the crinkle of paper as your hand made a fist. you had to get out of here. you turned, mood drastically different than when you entered, and left the foul-smelling building.

the whole way home as you drove, the words repeated in your head. clingy. toxic. clingy. toxic. you’d just have to show him that you could be different, then.

ᝰ.ᐟ

it had been two weeks. two weeks of no phone calls, no hand-holding in the halls, no dates, nothing. just forced laughs and a distant look in your eyes whenever he spoke. steve was going mad, racking his brain for whatever could’ve caused this.

he’s lost count of the times he’s asked you if you were alright. before this, you would’ve looked at him with a fond smile and a roll of your eyes, leaning on his shoulder and replying, “i’m fine, stevie! you worry too much.” now, all he gets is an unconvincing mhm and a too-bright smile.

he’s unbelievably confused. and more than that, scared. what had happened to make you act like this? so… not you? which is how he finds himself outside of your house sunday morning, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand and an anxious deposition.

he’s going to apologize. what for, he has no clue, but it doesn’t matter. he needs you back. not this robotic version of you. palms sweaty, he brings his hand to knock, hearing a couple of shouts and jingling before the door opens to reveal your mother.

“oh, steve! hey, sweetie. i didn’t know you were coming. y/n is just upstairs, you can head on up.” he murmurs a tiny thank you, slipping off his shoes before walking up the stairs, passing the photos of you throughout the years on the way. his chest clenches.

he reaches your door. closes his eyes. inhales. exhales. opens his eyes. and then knocks. he hears a tiny, “come in,” and slowly twists the knob. there you are, in all of your glory, hair in a tussled bun as you sit on your windowsill, book in hand. you look up, and steve swears his can see the briefest flash of panic in your eyes before you shutter it and put your book down.

“what are you doing here?” it slips out of your mouth before you can stop it. is he here to finally break up with you? he hesitates, and then takes a seat at your desk across from you.

“did i… do something? to make you like this?” he waves his hand towards you, and your brows furrow. he continues you before you can say anything. “i mean, you haven’t called me ‘stevie’ in weeks. you barely talk to me, we only see each other at school, and when we do, you’re not actually there. you’re like- like detached. i miss you. please let me fix whatever this is.” his chest huffs from the speed of which he spoke the frantic words, and you blink, confused.

“i… i thought this was what you wanted?” you say, voice small and perplexed. steve lets out a disbelieving, sad laugh. “why the hell would i want that?” you pause, and then to his utmost horror your eyes begin to fill with gut wrenching tears. you sniffle, and his his heart breaks.

“i heard you. with tommy, in the gym. you-” hiccup. “he said that i was clingy and toxic. said that you should break up with me. you… you agreed. i thought that… that if i give you some space-” steve’s expression is a horrified, panicky visage of despair. “oh god, honey, no. fuck. i’m so, so sorry. i would never.” he stands, and within a moment, he’s with you, holding your shaking form in his arms.

“i just said that to get him off my back. tommy is an asshole, and he’ll never change or understand my viewpoint. there’s no point in arguing with him. i’m so, so sorry that i made you think that. jesus, if anyone’s the clingy one, it’s me. i was going insane. i love you. i love your ‘clinginess’ more than you could ever understand. it makes me feel loved and wanted, and i’m so sorry that i made you feel the opposite. i want my girl back.”

your tears are leaking into his shirt, each one feeling like a punch to his gut. he holds you tighter, as if the stronger his embrace, the more he could chase away your insecurities. you sniffle, hope slowly creeping back up. “really?”

“fuck yes, really. i brought you white roses and everything. i will get on me knees and beg, if you want me to.” a giggle slips out of your mouth, and steve feels his heart slowly being glued back together.

“what a sight that would be. king steve, begging for my forgiveness.” he pulls away, hand gripping your jaw gently. “i don’t want to be king steve. i want to be stevie, yeah?” a soft, teasing smile appears on your face.

“i thought you hated that nickname.”

“i’d kill a demogorgan to get it back right now.” he answers with no hesitation, complete seriousness in his unwavering gaze. you laugh, and the sight makes steve want to cry out of relief.

“i forgive you, stevie.” his lips are on yours in an instant, the kiss sloppy and desperate and everything you both need. every swipe of his tongue a reassurance, every whimper a promise. “thank you.” he speaks against your lips, over and over again. he pulls away, both of you panting and flushed, foreheads rested together. “i love you.” he whispers, the syllables drifting out of his mouth and straight into your chest. “i love you, too.” it’s silent for a peaceful moment, and then…

“oh my god, i got an A+ on my chem test!!!”

[furiouszealot]

UPDATE: As of 25/04/2025, 4chan is back up and running again. This post and its addendum will be kept as is, and will no longer be updated unless it goes back down again. If you were on /ghost/, it was a pleasure shitposting with you.

All right, I know no one gives a shit, but let me give you a recounting of the fall of 4chan from the perspective of someone who was there and has been lurking both 4chan and tumblr for a few years now.

I'll try to provide as much context as I can, but a lot of images were either lost or im too lazy to look for them in the +5000 reply thread in soyjak party.

Anyways, info below:

So, necessary context: a few years back, 4chan had a board called /qa/, which if you know little about the page, you may think every board is like /b/ or /pol/, which means a containment cess pool of grifters, (you) baiters, incels, and other deranged individuals. The thing is, /qa/ was somehow worse. The entire board was plagued and infested with soyjack edits, board culture was a nuclear disaster, anons were incredibly hostile in there, you know the drill, the big bad 4chan, but this time its actually true.

One day, moderation deleted /qa/, anons that posted there got mad, tried to raid other boards, failed, and then moved on to an altchan called soyjack party, which entire purpose you can guess from its name alone.

Apparently, the boards that allow pdf uploads (paper and origami, for example) didn't check if the uploaded file was actually a pdf file, so postscript files could be used to get access. This is as far as my understanding of web backend goes, sorry.

The hacker claims to have been working on this since 2021, and that he had access since about a year ago, but was recopilating data.

Now, what actually happened when the hack ocurred? Well, a banner of miku dancing with a song that played automatically was placed on top of every board, with the text "/QA/ IS BACK", this was possible because apparently no board was ever deleted, they were just hidden from the public.

A thread was then made on soyjack party, claiming authorship over the hack, and shit went south from there. Anons went en masse to talk there, a lot of weird discussion happened, the thread got the bump limit removed and got pinned, more than 5k posts were amassed on the first night alone. Keep in mind this happened at about 8 pm and most of the stuff went on through midnight.

So, the hacker leaked some things, first of all, the html files for the entirety of /j/ and the email address for every moderation member (important note: the pressence of .gov mails was disproven by the hacker themselves, so i guess there were never any feds), what is /j/? the board exclusive for jannies and moderators to discuss actions taken on the website regarding spam, ban evaders, threads spiraling out of control, etc. Among other things, some of the inner workings of 4chan got revealed, such as the web extension for jannies that allows them to do their job easily, how reports are handled, and other stuff. (Anecdotically, some guy got permabanned for calling anons jews or n-words over a 100 times in the same few threads)

Then, the source code got leaked. Important to say, the hacker removed the part of the source code related to the captcha, as to not facilitate bot attacks on the future, and all information related to email verification or 4chan pass users information also got removed, so all in all users are safe.

What was found on the sourcecode? That it was old, mostly. Most boards used code that hasn't been updated since about 2016, and /flash/ used the exact same code from when it was created back on 2011.

From there, desuarchive, a site that archives threads that die from bump limit, opened a dragon ball general on ghost mode, and thus began what later got called /ghost/, a solely text based thread with well over 20k replies as of right now, where a fraction of the 4chan population took refuge and is currently discussing random things with no particular topic. Kinda hard to read, but its comfy.

What does this mean for other sites? Not a lot, really. A lot of anons already crossposted in 4chan and tumblr already, and the ones that din't most likely wont come here. Some of the bigger/most dedicated groups, like /vt/, migrated to other boards. Various altchans are trying/tried to catch some of the flock of users that got lost, but i doubt it will get anywhere, since soyjak party for example was struggling with just the influx of users that came for the hack thread given its poor infrastructure. Kiwifarms saw a surge of new accounts apparently, but a lot of anons kinda loathe the idea of having to register, so theres that.

Smaller communities, such as generals that didn't get a lot of traffic, or boards on the slower end (say, /ic/, /lit/, etc) will probably vanish or disseminate until (or if) 4chan comes back up. I'd say give it a month, don't get your hopes up whether you want it to stay dead or want it to come back.

Given how many anons are staying on places like /ghost/ or other similar archives with the same ghost posting feature, i doubt it will be as bad as people are making it sound. Besides, the communities that are most likely to migrate to places like tumblr are either /co/, /vg/ or /lgbt/ refugees, which aren't THAT bad. Not every board was like the main cesspools (/b/, /r9k/, /pol/).

From now on, either 4chan comes back up in a few weeks (somewhere between 2 weeks to a month is expected), altchans capture the migrating anons, or a brand new imageboard rises from the ashes to become the new go-to site for old 4chan posters.

In conclusion, nothing ever happens, but also don't worry, chances are this won't affect tumblr in the slightest. If it does, you can cash in your "you were wrong" ticket whenever you want, i'll take the L.

As a footnote, keep in mind: NO users were compromised, if you ever posted there and are worried for your safety, physical or digital, you are safe.

Edit: Forgot to add, if you are a 4chan refugee, im BEGGING you to dm me and tell what board you were from and where are you migrating, if at all.

[halbarryislife]

I just graduated college and took my capstone on propaganda. Not the just the history of it but also its evolution, how it works, and what makes the best propaganda.

With the ‘unbanning’ of tiktok and the inauguration being within a day of each other a lot of propaganda has been thrown at us. I want to share what is called “the ten rules of hate” from Matt Taibbi’s book “Hate: Inc: why today’s media makes us despise one another”, which was published in 2019.

To give some context for the ten rules, Taibbi says in this chapter (chapter two) regarding the news cycle, "after generations of doing the opposite, when unity and conformity were more profitable, now the primary product the news media sells is division."

But before I state the rules I just want to remind everyone PROPAGANDA OCCURS ON BOTH SIDES. Neither side is better than one another when it comes to propaganda, it is a necessity. I say this as a democrat who believes the next four years are going to be hell. Just today I saw propaganda from both sides, ironically fitting into these ten points.

THE TEN RULES OF HATE:

There are only two sides

The two sides are in permanent conflict

Hate people, not institutions

Everything is somebody else's fault

Nothing is everyone's faults

Root, don't think

No switching teams

The other side is literally Hitler

In the fight against Hitler, everything is permitted

Feel superior

What most people get wrong about propaganda is that its intention is not change your thought process immediately, no. The purpose of propaganda is to nudge you in a certain direction. Whether that be you seeing that trump unbanned tiktok and for a split moment you think 'maybe he isn't so bad' or seeing an instagram post from Path2Progress saying 'it's a dark day in America' and you get a tinge of fear.

I am making this post because I want you to be able to look at the media you are soaking up and be able to notice that people are trying to manipulate you. Of course, there are other points to propaganda that I did not get in here as I could write several papers on this subject, which I have.

And before anyone says in the comments, "but Trump is literally Hitler", I'm just going to point out that this cycle of calling people Hitler started long before Trump's presidency in 2016. Glenn Beck, who's a conservative commentator really began the "Your neighbor is literally Hitler" movement. In Taibbi's book he writes, "Beck was awesome at this. Al Gore was Hitler. Obama was constantly Hitler." I know must Democrats would not consider these men to be Hitler, but I use this example to demonstrate its use in years past on the other party.

I am going to leave you with a quote from one of the first books written about modern propaganda. It's called "Propaganda Techniques in the World War" and was written by Harold Laswell, then published in 1927.

“But by far the most potent role of propaganda is to mobilize the animosity of the community against the enemy, to maintain friendly relations with neutrals and allies, to arouse the neutrals against the enemy, and to break up the solid wall of the enemy.”

[ralfmaximus]

Two things — check that, three things — appear to have gone off the rails at the paper we used to call the Gray Lady. First, whoever is in charge of the paper’s polls is not doing their job. Second, whoever is choosing what to emphasize in Times coverage of the campaign for the presidency is showing bias. Third, the Times is obsessed with Joe Biden’s age at the same time they’re leaving evidence of Donald Trump’s mental and verbal stumbles completely out of the news. Let’s start right there. At a rally on Saturday night in Virginia, Trump confused Barack Obama, who left office seven years ago, with President Biden for the third time over the last six months. “Putin has so little respect for Obama that he’s starting to throw around the nuclear word,” Trump said, as his crowd of rabid supporters suddenly fell silent. “You heard that. Nuclear. He’s starting to talk nuclear weapons today.” You won’t find that verbal stumble and the crowd’s stunned reaction in the Times coverage of the campaign over the weekend. You’ll have to read other publications — for example, Salon or maybe the Guardian — if you want to learn how often Trump is losing his way mid-sentence at rallies and just mumbling incoherently.

The article also explores a recent Times poll favoring Trump that is so insanely, obviously inaccurate that it reads like parody.

The NYT is definitely in the bag for Trump, same as 2016.

[andhumanslovedstories]

There's so many horrible things happening in America right now that it has been interesting to see what individual horrors hurt me personally the most. I grew up going to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Musicals, plays, concerts, that weird bust of JFK, playing around on terrace during intermissions, putting on a velvet dress that you're going to ruin dropping a milk dud in your lap and not noticing until it's fully melted, wearing the pinchy shiny shoes that are the training bras of women's formal footwear, operas I didn't like but did love, jazz I didn't understand but still fascinated me, red carpet, big stairs, the absolute nightmare amount of experiences I had as a new driver as I repeatedly got trapped in the Kennedy Center's fucking private DC island or whatever the hell is going on traffic-wise, free performances on small side stages, getting to see an enormous production on the Center's most enormous stage, all of which was accessed by walking through that a long, tall hallway lined with flags of the world that made you feel like a dignitary attending the most important even in the world.

And now Trump's taken it over. He fired its board. He appointed one of his loyalists to run it. I want to throw up.

Sometimes I miss DC so much. I love the Pacific Northwest and expect I'll live here for the rest of my life, but this isn't my hometown. I grew up the edge of the District. I've lost cumulative years of my life stuck in traffic on the inner loop and outer loop. Because of the Smithsonian, it used to be so baffling to me that anyone ever had to pay to get into a museum. I've used the Washington DC zoo as a shortcut to a different part of the city because it's free to enter. You couldn't count the amount of knockoff Spider-man popsicles that I've eaten sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. My reading tastes were molded by Kramer Books in Dupont Circle. I spent afternoons walking around the National Mall, normally just a big empty field until there's an event--book fair, country music program, international cuisine, whatever--at which point for a day or a weekend or a week it becomes a sea of tents and stages. I went to protests outside the Capital and the White House about the war in Iraq. I froze my toes off watching Obama's 2008 presidential inauguration.

It seemed like everyone's family touched the federal government in some way. Everyone's family had moved here because they were military or state department or a political consultant or worked with an NGO or some other reason that meant you had to be here, in the nation's capital. Plenty of people had connections to the federal government that we more hush-hush. Like kids in class straight up going, "I have no idea what my parents do for a living. They're not allowed to tell me." High schoolers regularly, accidentally drove into the CIA parking lot and got escorted out because the premises were that accessible. My family moved here because my dad is a reporter who ended up covering international trade. (Imagine how much his job sucks right now.) He switched beats one summer to cover the White House instead. He got to fly on Air Force One. He got official Air Force One M&Ms. I was SO disappointment my dad didn't work there for Bush to call on him by nickname.

Every day my family got The Washington Post. I read the comics and the kid's page, then the rest of the Style section, then Metro, then news. I learned to read from it. We wrapped our delicate Christmas ornaments with its pages. We used yesterday's papers to clean our windows because they didn't leave streaks. I took journalism in high school. You can't IMAGINE how much and how frequently we talked about Watergate. When Post changed its motto to "Democracy Dies in Darkness" after Trump's election in 2016 that meant something to me. I knew Bezos owned the paper now, but that was still my paper, and the motto spoke to something I fervently believed: if people just knew what was happening, they wouldn't allow it to happen. If you expose a problem, people will naturally agree that it is a problem and that we should do something to fix it. Flash forward to Trump's third fucking campaign, and the newspaper wouldn't endorse a presidential candidate. Chickenshit cowardice. Then they change the motto. "Riveting Storytelling for All of America." Eat shit. You're nothing now.

Politics in America is just telling everyone how much you hate Washington, DC so that they'll elect you so you can move to DC. Well, guys, the city fucking hates you too. Republicans will never give the District actually meaningful political representation because no one in that city would vote for them. It's not just the policies; it's the contempt. No one in the new administration loves the city they schemed and lied and stooped to take over. It's just iconography to them, and all they care about is taking that iconography for themselves. Trump doesn't give a shit about the summer program for the Kennedy Center. He has never seen a show at the Kennedy Center. When he was president, he never attended the annual awards. He's trying to destroy one of the most significant places of my life and I'm genuinely unsure if he has ever stepped for inside of it.

[mariacallous]

In 2019, I gave a talk at TED that created waves: first at the conference, then on the internet and then, convulsively, in my own life. TED is Silicon Valley’s sacred ground. It’s the most consequential tech conference in the world and, in 2019, my talk entitled “Facebook’s role in Brexit - and the threat to democracy” was a break with normal service. It was the first time, a speaker had implicated Silicon Valley directly in the political tumult of 2016. It ricocheted out of the conference and across the internet where it’s now been seen five million times. And, most cataclysmically of all, it precipitated a lawsuit that devoured my time, energy and health.

This week I returned.

It was a big deal on any number of levels. For me, personally, for TED, and, I believe, or at least, hope, for Silicon Valley. I got to send a message to the leaders of these companies from a platform that is inside the temple. I’ve lost my voice and I feel like I’ve lived through a tornado….but with the knowledge that it’s one I’ve chosen to unleash.

TED has just released it as the first talk from the conference. I got to name what is happening for what it is: a coup. I call the Silicon Valley companies who attend this conference and even sponsor it, collaborators who are complicit in a regime of fear and cruelty. And I accuse Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, who is talking here on Friday not just of data theft but data rape.

There’s so much to say and I will write more soon but for now I’d be so grateful if you watch it and share it with your families and friends. In spite of everything, I’m grateful to have been given this platform and to be able to communicate what I believe are vital truths but I have paid a price for doing this work and the last week has been a rollercoaster of emotions: doubt, self-questioning, denial, overwhelm, fear.

And in the middle of it, the night before I flew to TED, I went to the Observer’s farewell party. This Sunday marks the end of the newspaper as we know it. Six years ago, I got to write about the experience of giving my TED talk in the Guardian/Observer. Paul Webster, the editor, put it on the front page.

This time around, that’s not possible. TED gave me editorial freedom to say what I wanted. The Guardian/Observer won’t even allow me to write about it, in any form.I pitched a piece for this Sunday about the experience. It would be my last article for the paper, it transfers to Tortoise next week who have declined to renew my contract; an epitaph to my 20-year career there and an an end point to an investigation that brought the Guardian and Observer extraordinary kudos and the most money it has ever raised from any story. It was turned down. That is an extraordinary indictment.

Here, instead, is a still from the talk. I believe that existing movements - the labour movement, the civil rights movement - are fundamental to asserting our rights against Silicon Valley, to rebuilding the internet from the ground up to rejecting the autocratic takeover not just the US but our reality: we all live on these platforms.

I’m six years older than when I gave that first talk though I feel 106 years older. Part of my reason for going through with it - and it was touch and go whether I would - was because, as I say at the end, I’m reclaiming my story. I’ve been trapped in someone else’s narrative. And I also really want to use it as a personal moment of change. In 2016, I threw myself over what felt like an about-to-explode bomb. I ended up absorbing the shock blast from something that was much bigger than me: the waves of destruction that the technological and political changes of 2016 sent through the system. I need to mark this chapter as now over and put back together some of the bits that shattered through this process.

But mostly, the talk is a huge thank you to the people who supported me through my legal trials. The 30,000+ people who contributed to my crowdfunder and held me up. You are the model for what is needed in the next days and years.

This is what we’re up against. This was Palmer Luckey, on stage the day after me. That’s an autonomous missile next to him. He’s a US defence contractor, Trump cheerleader.He got a standing ovation.

In my talk, I could feel waves of hostility coming from some people in the room. TED is ground zero of the AI gold rush. But there was also cheerleading and l’ve been overwhelmed by huge love and support from others who see exactly what is happening. It’s the weirdest time to be here. And it was the weirdest energy from an audience of any talk I’ve ever given. But then, it was intended to make them uncomfortable. Politics is technology now. Silicon Valley is desperate to deny that, but it can’t and no can we.

[ricciardo133]

Montreal 2017

maxiel, vampires, blood, dry humping, and some dubious consent

-

"You smell good, Daniel."

Daniel looks over at his teammate in the bumpy backseat of the team van that carries them post-PR event back to their hotel. In the dying daylight, Max's shockingly blue eyes are brilliantly lit up in staccato beams of light as their car passes each streetlamp. His typically direct stare somehow feels even more locked on than usual, eyes glued to Daniel. It's too dim in the car to tell if he's even blinking.

"Thanks, bud. After hauling ass around town today, I think I smell pretty fucking fresh."

"You do not smell fresh. You smell like sweat."

"Got any normal compliments?"

"You look so alive."

"Okay," Daniel says as the car blessedly pulls up to the hotel's entrance. He hauls himself up and hunches over in the van, waiting for Max to move out of the way of their shared backseat. "Love ya, man, but let's get boogying so I can shower."

Daniel knows he shouldn't be so careless with his coworker's extremely obvious crush, but a little schmoozing does work when he wants something. Max flushes and scoots off the seat and out into the crisp night. Daniel pulls on his backpack and scampers out after him. Two Red Bull managers await by the door, handing off two key cards with the same suite number written on their paper pouches.

"Gotta be a mistake, right?" Daniel asks helplessly. An apologetic headshake as he and Max are informed the hotel is overbooked and it's more convenient for the team to not add another hotel stop to their tight schedule for logistics ahead of media day. Their team helps get their suitcases upstairs, and they leave Max and Daniel in the single room with two king beds.

"Dibs on the bigger one," Daniel jests as he flops back onto the plush mattress. He figures he might as well make this as light and easy-breezy as possible. They've managed to not share a room ever since becoming teammates in 2016. He actually thought Max would look more excited at the surprise slumber party, but the young man stands unnervingly still in the cold room, staring at him.

"This isn't good. I need to...do things alone tonight," Max breathes tensely.

"You can shower first if ya need to jack off."

"No. Daniel, why would they...They're always so good about it when the timing...overlaps," he pauses and pulls out his cell phone. In a rush, he holds it to his hear and speaks quick, unintelligible Dutch to someone on the other end. The call apparently doesn't help. He pulls on his jacket in terse and quick moves. "Sorry if I wake you, when I get back."

"Don't tell me you're going clubbing without me," Daniel teases.

"Not for fun. Just going out."

"For how long? May call up a girl if you're gone for a while. No better way to get out the pre-race week jitters with a little sucking and fucking, eh, Maxy?"

Max stares at him. Rather, Daniel feels he's staring just below his line of sight, as if those blue eyes were piercing his nipples. He glances down like he may have something on his shirt but by the time he looks up, the younger man is out the door. It closes with a sharp thud.

Wired and surprisingly off-kilter, Daniel disrobes and showers. He stands under the hot spray and feels a confused rush. He would've thought he'd have to bat Max off him given the sleeping arrangement. They've never touched beyond sportsman-like claps on the back and too-firm handshakes, but it feels obvious, to Daniel, that he could ask for way more if he wanted. The way he catches Max staring, the disproportionately hardy laughs at Daniel's shit jokes, the easy-to-conjure blush with the smallest compliment, it was clear. Daniel's been on the receiving end of puppy love many times. Usually it has been fans or girls from back home, but he knows what it's like to be admired, to be wanted.

Or so he thought. Max practically sprinted out of the shared suite, seemingly with no intention of spending a second longer than he had to around him. Which was...fine, Daniel assures himself. He still feels a twinge of something like disappointment. A lad's night in could've been fun, rare sightings of seeing Max stripped of team gear. Daniel wonders if Max sleeps in boxers or briefs as he pulls on his own loose sweatpants, brushes his teeth, and nearly puts in his night guard before the door slams open again.

"Daniel," Max says through heaving breaths. Daniel goes to open the bathroom door and finds it pushed shut again. "Don't come out."

"I'm straight, Max," Daniel attempts to joke. He tries to open the door again and feels it impossible to move. "Christ, Verstappen. What gives?"

"I'm not...you can't see me. I fucked up."

"Got an impulse tattoo? Bad haircut? Ill-placed hickey? Trust me, Max. I've done it all. You can't surprise me."

"They won't go back in. I did it too sloppy, people were coming...so just...stay there, please. I'll fix this."

Daniel raises in hands in surrender as if Max could see him through the flimsy door. "Not making a lick of sense, but okay. Put whatever it is away, then." Daniel wants to make a jab at anal beads to get a laugh out of him, but Max sounds scared. It makes Daniel ache. He hears his teammate bump around the hotel room, a bag unzip, rustle of plastic, a soft swear. Daniel holds his breath and then hears a sharp gasp of what sounds like pain.

"Max," he says, pushing the door open reflexively. Max, kneeling over a bright red bloodstain in the carpet, looks up at him. Daniel sees two sharp fangs over Max's full, parted lips.

Daniel freezes. They both stare in wordless shock. Max doesn't blink. He doesn't seem to breathe. He's turned into a statue of a young racer with impossible fangs like a-

"Vampire," Daniel says quietly. "Are they...are those real, Max? The blood."

Max is up at him, holding his shoulders in a flash. Daniel didn't even see him get up and move, it was so impossibly quick.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Yeah, bud. I really was going to go into the media pen tomorrow saying I saw you sucking off a blood bag before bed. Christ, Max." Daniel looks back at the busted plastic IV pouch on the floor. "Please tell me they're fake and that's cranberry juice and you have some weird vampire kink so I can make sense of this."

"They're real. It's blood. I'm sorry."

Daniel looks straight into Max's too-blue eyes. He's tearing up. Max looks off as a tear slips down his sharp cheekbones, and Daniel feels wracked with a horrible guilt.

"Aw, hey. Max, man. Don't...I'm sorry." He pats Max's shoulders. "We all have uh...baggage, y'know? Or, sorry. Not baggage. Maybe being a vampire is fun? Or just like being allergic to peanuts? Because, let me tell you, that also sucks. Uh. Not literally sucks, like...is that what you do? Do you suck? I mean. Oh, I'm fucking this up, I'm-"

Max's hands are quickly on Daniel's back, holding him flush to his chest. Daniel freezes as Max starts to breathe in deeply at the crook of his neck.

"I normally feed once a week, alone," Max says softly into his skin. Daniel sucks in a breath, feeling his skin heat with a blooming desire. "But you're here. I couldn't feed in here with you. So I...I tried...with a guy at a club who wanted it, but..." Max pauses to lick along Daniel's neck. Daniel, instantly, is hard. He swallows, making Max keen. "Fuck, I was careless, too quick. People nearly saw me, so I ran and I couldn't finish right. They can't go back in until I get enough...blood."

"You nearly sucked a guy off at a club?"

"Not through oral, Daniel. Through here." Max kisses on Daniel's fluttering neck. He feels a mix of fear and frenzy, like he's melting into Max's arms despite his best efforts to keep it together. "That's how we feed, we...entice. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up."

And he leaves his arms. Daniel shivers in his spot, falling to sit on the bed as Max paces around in front of the hotel window. The skyline glitters behind him, a modern backdrop for an impossible man.

"Vampires aren't real," Daniel says, hands over his neck, feeling the pulse and heat and wetness left from Max's tongue. He shouldn't want more but every ounce of normalcy is out the same window. He wants more. He wants Max. Desperately, despite himself. "You said you entice?"

"Vampires can compel. We can feel who's open to it, and then we," Max pauses, making frustrated circles with his hands in the air.

"You kill them?"

"No, fuck. No, we don't kill people. Not unless you don't stop."

"Then...you turn them into vampires?"

"Also no, they'd have to drink from me, too. Not happening."

"Oh, well, that's not too bad then? Just a little blood?" Max stares at Daniel, blank and stone-like again. "Like, Max. If that's all it is, that's not a big deal. I thought you were going on a light killing spree, but you can have some blood. If you need it."

Max remains motionless.

"Unless my blood is shitty."

"Your blood smells amazing, Daniel."

"Then, uh, go to town, Max." Daniel wants to get up but he realizes his grey sweatpants would immediately reveal his surprise boner. He squirms. "Ignore the moans, though. They're super manly and super normal, but when you touched me it felt really good."

"That's part of it. You may come."

"Max," Daniel says in shock. He's used to dishing ribald remarks, hardly taking it as Max walks over with that inhuman speed and sits on his lap. "Max."

"If you don't want this, I can go."

"And risk you getting spotted in vamp mode and making me spend longer talking to the press tomorrow about my monster teammate? No dice. Just do it." Daniel doesn't even have to try to make Max swoon. Quite the opposite. His own need feels overcharged, electric, unwieldy. He needs a wordless, formless craving for more. He looks up to the younger man and means it when he says, "please."

"Oh, Daniel."

Max sinks his teeth into Daniel's neck.

Daniel's done plenty of drugs in his younger years, absconding with illicit substances in Perth summers and free-wheeling Monaco ragers in the off-season. Those were nothing. Pale and lifeless against the rush he feels now in Max's grip. He had expected getting his neck bit would be painful. It's not.

He keens, hips bucking up into Max's. Max's large hands grip into Daniel's bare back as Daniel squirms and groans despite his best intentions to hold steady. He's always the giver. Always on top. Always making girls do this under him, not like this. Not with a guy. Not with Max.

He's pliant as Max hoists him up and back onto the bed, flipping so Daniel's poised on top. Max keeps one hand on the back of Daniel's head, fingers lacing through rings of curls. The other grips on his waist, encouraging him as Daniel ruts into his thigh.

"Max," Daniel breaths as he feels a dulled sensation of sucking and the much wilder rush of his length against Max's firm leg below him. "Max."

He groans as Max sucks harder. Daniel feels his cheeks burn and a sweat breakout between his shoulder blades and drip off his forehead. His hands cling to Max's back as he works his hips down, pleasure hitting him in hard, wonderful waves as Max's presence sucks up all thought, all feeling until Daniel is snapping his hips into Max with a blissed out, thoughtless heat. It's hot and building and too fast and not enough. Daniel strains and breaks in a trembling cry as the end finally hits and he comes hard in his pants, tears pouring and the distinct feeling of wetness leaking from his neck. Max licks the tracks of blood away and then sucks with finality over the painless wound.

Daniel can't see it. He can't see anything but stars and Max's chest as he falls into him. Max's breath is tinted with gasps, his voice ragged as he speaks.

"Are you okay? Daniel?"

"Yeah, yeah. Very okay."

"We need to get you water. I think I took too much. Daniel."

He's asleep before he hears anymore than that.

Daniel wakes up to the smell of eggs. He pops up on his elbows and looks around. Max sits on the edge of the bed, untouched room service breakfast sits further on the hotel desk. The Dutchman turns over his shoulder and sighs when he sees him.

"I, um, ordered food."

So delightfully awkward. Daniel smiles, relieved. It's still Max.

"Only fair since I was the room service last night."

"Daniel. I'm-,"

"If you say 'sorry' I'm tossing that omlette at you." Daniel gets up. Max hands him a much appreciated glass of water.

"I know I took too much," Max says as he drinks the entire cup. "Of your...blood."

"So taking a normal amount wouldn't make me come like a fucking horny virgin or is that par for the course?"

"That part is normal."

Daniel laughs. "Excellent. I usually last way longer, too, just for the record. Don't go telling other hot creatures of the night I'm some two-suck chump, if vamps compare notes."

"No. I'd never tell."

"And your secret's safe with me, too."

Daniel didn't realize Max's shoulders were held tense until he drops them with a shuddering sigh.

"Thank you."

"And just ask next time."

"Ask? To use you again?"

The thought of Max doing that with some random guy in a random club makes Daniel irrationally pissed. "Yeah. I can, uh, help. As teammates. It's probably easier for you, right? So you can do it again, if you want."

He was certain, based on that wide-eyed quintessential stare and now much deeper flush that Max did want it. He maybe always had wanted it. Daniel just didn't understand why he wanted it, too. A question for later as he wonders if Max is blushing with his own blood.

"I'd like that a lot, Daniel."

"And if you can turn into a bat, you gotta let me watch."

Max laughs. Daniel feels relieved, as he always does when he can pop Max's nerves into a relieving rush of giggles. "No, no. No bats. I can fly without being a bat."

"Now you're just bragging. Next you can tell me you can read minds."

"No, you are too obvious, I don't need to read minds."

"Me the obvious one?"

"You are very easy to understand, Daniel."

"Like how?"

"You like to stare at me, especially when I stare at you."

Daniel, now flushed himself, chucks a pillow at Max's head. The young man laughs as Daniel glances at his teammate's now evenly straight teeth, picturing the fangs from last night, thinking of all that came after.

"Just staring since I'm trying to see if you ever actually blink, you weirdo."

"I don't have to blink. I have to remind myself to do it."

"Okay, then remind yourself to also not compliment someone's sweat smell. Or stare at their jugular. How's this, I'll teach you how to be more human in exchange for super lowkey orgasms between bros, kapeesh?"

Max laughs again, earnest and fangless for now. "It's a deal, Daniel."

It's something. It's weird, but it's them. Daniel and Max shake on it, and Daniel feels the urge to pull him in and hold him tight despite himself. Later, he thinks. After media day, if Max needs it. Daniel silently hopes he will, that he'll need him over and over like that again and again for as long as they are teammates. As long as they are together.

[macgyvermedical]

Um... What is whump 😅

Well, like a number of fandom terms, that's a lot of different things to a lot of different people. If you look on a bunch of whump blogs, you will see almost as many answers to this question.

I personally feel it boils down to a genre founded on the way of showing a character's vulnerability in fiction without the necessarily using romance or sex. So generally that means some kind of illness or injury, where one character has to take care of another (or the much more recent version, which is one character hurting another character, with or without the care aspect).

It's been around in a variety of ways since fandom was a thing. The first name for the genre probably originated out of the Star Trek fandom, whose authors wrote "Get!Character" (for example, Get!Kirk or Get!Spock) fanfic in paper zines in the 1960s. The next term, "charactertorture" (for example, muldertorture) came out of The X-Files fandom in the 1990s. Livejournal and Fanfiction.net preferred the term "Hurt/Comfort" to refer to the genre as a whole, without tying it to a specific character or fandom. Finally, around 2005, we started seeing the actual term "whump" gracing entries to Gateworld forums, though originally it referred to "ShepWhump"- injuries and illnesses befalling the character John Sheppard of Stargate Atlantis, which later broadened to include characters from Stargate SG1 and then any other fandom or character. At this point, people who enjoyed whump were called "whumpers".

Around 2016-2018 there was a shift to include explicit torture without following it up with the care and comfort that had long been part of the genre. Now instead of the vulnerability coming only from opening oneself up to care in a dire situation, the vulnerability could be forced onto the character by another character. It is still to an extent accomplishing the goal of causing a character to experience vulnerability, but it depends on the author/reader/watcher as to which definition of whump they ascribe to. At this point, the term "whumper" started to refer to the character who was doing the hurting/torturing within the story, if there was one.

It's honestly been a relatively big split in some parts of the community, which is why you saw the poll I reblogged the other day asking whether people preferred whumperless whump (old definition) or whump with a whumper (new definition).

[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.

[reasonsforhope]

African poverty is partly a consequence of energy poverty. In every other continent the vast majority of people have access to electricity. In Africa 600m people, 43% of the total, cannot readily light their homes or charge their phones. And those who nominally have grid electricity find it as reliable as a Scottish summer. More than three-quarters of African firms experience outages; two-fifths say electricity is the main constraint on their business.

If other sub-Saharan African countries had enjoyed power as reliable as South Africa’s from 1995 to 2007, then the continent’s rate of real GDP growth per person would have been two percentage points higher, more than doubling the actual rate, according to one academic paper. Since then South Africa has also had erratic electricity. So-called “load-shedding” is probably the main reason why the economy has shrunk in four of the past eight quarters.

Solar power is increasingly seen as the solution. Last year Africa installed a record amount of photovoltaic (PV) capacity (though this still made up just 1% of the total added worldwide), notes the African Solar Industry Association (AFSIA), a trade group. Globally most solar PV is built by utilities, but in Africa 65% of new capacity over the past two years has come from large firms contracting directly with developers. These deals are part of a decentralised revolution that could be of huge benefit to African economies.

Ground zero for the revolution is South Africa. Last year saw a record number of blackouts imposed by Eskom, the state-run utility, whose dysfunctional coal-fired power stations regularly break down or operate at far below capacity. Fortunately, as load-shedding was peaking, the costs of solar systems were plummeting.

Between 2019 and 2023 the cost of panels fell by 15%, having already declined by almost 90% in the 2010s. Meanwhile battery storage systems now cost about half as much as five years ago. Industrial users pay 20-40% less per unit when buying electricity from private project developers than on the cheapest Eskom tariff.

In the past two calendar years the amount of solar capacity in South Africa rose from 2.8GW to 7.8GW, notes AFSIA, excluding that installed on the roofs of suburban homes. All together South Africa’s solar capacity could now be almost a fifth of that of Eskom’s coal-fired power stations (albeit those still have a higher “capacity factor”, or ability to produce electricity around the clock). The growth of solar is a key reason why there has been less load-shedding in 2024...

Over the past decade the number of startups providing “distributed renewable energy” (DRE) has grown at a clip. Industry estimates suggest that more than 400m Africans get electricity from solar home systems and that more than ten times as many “mini-grids”, most of which use solar, were built in 2016-20 than in the preceding five years. In Kenya DRE firms employ more than six times as many people as the largest utility. In Nigeria they have created almost as many jobs as the oil and gas industry.

“The future is an extremely distributed system to an extent that people haven’t fully grasped,” argues Matthew Tilleard of CrossBoundary Group, a firm whose customers range from large businesses to hitherto unconnected consumers. “It’s going to happen here in Africa first and most consequentially.”

Ignite, which operates in nine African countries, has products that include a basic panel that powers three light bulbs and a phone charger, as well as solar-powered irrigation pumps, stoves and internet routers, and industrial systems. Customers use mobile money to “unlock” a pay-as-you-go meter.

Yariv Cohen, Ignite’s CEO, reckons that the typical $3 per month spent by consumers is less than what they previously paid for kerosene and at phone-charging kiosks. He describes how farmers are more productive because they do not have to get home before dark and children are getting better test scores because they study under bulbs. One family in Rwanda used to keep their two cows in their house because they feared rustlers might come in the dark; now the cattle snooze al fresco under an outside lamp and the family gets more sleep.

...That is one eye-catching aspect of Africa’s solar revolution. But most of the continent is undergoing a more subtle—and significant—experiment in decentralised, commercially driven solar power. It is a trend that could both transform African economies and offer lessons to the rest of the world."

-via The Economist, June 18, 2024. Paragraph breaks added.

[a-bad-case-of-the-stephs]

Top 5 times Alfred Pennyworth has blatantly lied to peoples faces with absolutely no remorse

5. Jason nooo we never ever gave up on you lol vs. it might not even be the same dude master Bruce beat his ass

This one I find delightful. I support this motion. It’s okay to lie here the alternative is way worse.

(there's some gray area on whether or not this is strictly a "lie" or not. But let's be real, Alfred's laying it on a little thick here either way.)

(Red Hood and The Outlaws #7 (2016))/(Batman #645 (1940))

4. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about I don’t have a secret code

This one is fine. But I do think it’s funny that he denies it twice. Really plays up the drama! Not like it's urgent or anything, we're only trying to clear Bruce Wayne of a murder charge... (Nightwing #68 (1996))

3. No I didn’t put that ad in the paper what weird how that ended up there

This one was just embarrassing. After quitting his job during Knightfall In a last ditch effort to make Bruce stop being recklessly endangering himself, Alfred comes back after a vacation by placing a Butler Wanted Ad in the newspaper FOR Bruce, and then Alfred feigns ignorance when showing up for the job. Insane! (Batman #521 (1940))

2. You’re too late….

Just straight up lies to Nightwing to imply Tim died of The Clench. Seriously why would he say that. Seriously what the fuck. Genuinely no reason for him to do this. (Azrael #16 (1995))/(Robin #28 (1993))

1. No one calls me Alfie but you lol!!!

I get it Alfred: you wanna get laid, but lying to your ex girlfriend about a nickname that you are REGULARLY called by MULTIPLE people is not the way to go about it! (Nightwing: Alfred’s Return/Detective Comics #622/Detective Comics #563)

In conclusion, Alfred Pennyworth is addicted to shamelessly lying, for his own benefit, for the good of others, and oftentimes just because he finds it funny. Once an actor always an actor I suppose!

Honorable mention: Tim’s Birthday Gaslighting

I didn’t include his involvement with Tim’s Birthday Gaslighting because he was asked to do that and didn’t lie entirely of his own volition, and he also expresses a small degree of remorse once he’s caught. However it is insane enough to garner an honorable mention. You really dressed up in elaborate prosthetics and makeup in order to help gaslight the 16 year old ON his birthday by making him extremely paranoid about all of his friends for vague training reasons, and then have the gall to be like "oh my god thank goodness thats over!"

Alfred, you didn’t have to do that. You are literally always going against what Batman Bruce Wayne tells you to do. Literally all the time.

Robin #117 (1993)/Robin #120 (1993)

[ghostpoetics]

Come, Mephistopheles. [Exeunt.]

Okay, so I watched the 2011 The Globe version of Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus with Paul Hilton as Faustus and Arthur Darvill as Mephistopheles, and I have a particular scene I want to comment on. Granted, it's been ages since I read the play for Brit Lit + my Faust seminar.

Anyway, there's this interaction:

Context: When Faustus begins to doubt selling his soul to Lucifer (which he's already done), Mephisto summons Lucifer and different demons and vices to entice him. After they leave, Faustus simply commands Mephistopheles to come with him. The Globe version does something interesting w this moment.

A side note: Faustus calls out Mephistopheles' name in pivotal moments; his name is the last thing Faustus cries out in the play before he's dragged off to Hell. Not God, not Lucifer, but Mephistopheles. (He also says "Come, Mephistopheles" quite a few times to order Mephistopheles to follow him.)

In this version, Mephistopheles, who usually stands in the corner and is partially obscured by a column, sits at the front of the stage with a solemn, thousand-yard stare.

In Marlowe versus Goethe, Marlowe's Mephisto tends to be more somber, sad, and focused on Hell being the absence of God.

Another interesting thing about this scene: Faustus is dressed identically as Mephisto, except that Mephisto removes the Franciscan friar cap.

Excited by the parade of demons and vices he's just witnessed, Faustus approaches Mephistopheles with a smile but seems to detect Mephisto's mood and grows serious.

Faustus then steps close and sets his hand on Mephistopheles' head, and well, Mephistopheles' expression changes as his head leans back into the touch.

Faustus' hand trails down to Mephistopheles' shoulder, which he pats, and that's when he says the line, "Come, Mephistopheles" to beckon Mephistopheles to leave the room (and thus the stage) with him.

Faustus goes to leave, but stops and looks behind and waits for Mephistopheles, holding out a hand. Mephistopheles follows, and with their hands together, they leave together laughing. Keep in mind again: Unlike in Goethe's Faust, Mephisto in Marlowe very rarely smiles or laughs!

This small addition is probably my favorite part of this production. I think it does a good job at emphasizing Mephisto's melancholy after having done something to keep Faustus from salvation. Despite being summoned and tempting him, Marlowe's Mephisto warns Faustus many times about how miserable Hell is, but the tragedy is that Faustus is too arrogant to understand and listen until it's too late. But when Faustus does doubt, Mephisto, as a servant of Lucifer, is obligated to make him stay on the course to Hell.

Overall, I like this quiet moment because it humanizes both characters. Faustus, usually arrogant, takes a moment to reach out and show tenderness toward Mephistopheles--how long has it been seen Mephisto has ever received a touch or consideration like that? This one minor part is a far cry from the usual dynamic where Mephisto is Faustus' sworn servant and therefore is the one who always caters to Faustus' whims, whether somberly (Faustus) or sarcastically (Goethe). Faustus reaches out to him and shows compassion, and it even makes Mephistopheles smile. :')

P.S. For more Faustopheles, here is my university paper I did analyzing Faustian myth adaptations through a queer lens way back in 2016. Enjoy!

[harloqui]

What I've Been Saying!

I know there was discourse a while back about p-shifters and "why don't they call themselves delusional" and "is the idea of p-shifting itself harmful" and the like. A new paper came out by Dr. Jan Dirk Blom (a clinical lycanthropy expert, he's talked about otherkin before) about clinical therianthropy and a comparison to non-clinical therianthropic and otherkin groups. What he's saying seems fairly relevant to the current discourse:

"Misdiagnosis of clinical therianthropy can also be made in terms of overpathologizing certain individuals who report strong identification with animals. In order to avoid this possibility, certain terms and group memberships will be discussed. However, in reviewing the professional and online literatures, there seems to be an unavoidable degree of fuzziness or overlap in current definitions (Plante et al., 2016) and, at least at present, a definitive definitional guide seems lacking."

"Another relevant group, already alluded to, is called therians. Therians overlap with furries to a degree, but the identification of these people with animals (or rather as animals) seems to be far stronger. This could range from a strong perceived connection to their fursona to a firmly held conviction that they are less than 100 % human or would even prefer not to be human (Grivell, 2014). Reviewing the literature, people may identify themselves as therians on psychological, behavioral, spiritual, metaphorical, or existential grounds (Scribner, 2012)."

"We would argue that misdiagnoses can be avoided by focusing on i) the nature of the animal identification, ii) the presence or absence of a belief in actual transformation, iii) one’s overall level of reality-testing, and iv) the presence of clinically significant distress and impairment."

"The notion of zoomorphism has such a long and impressive track record in the history of humankind that it is probably safe to say that it has always been around. It has been part and parcel of many cultures, and individuals may have felt attracted to the belief that human-to-animal transformations are possible under the influence of psychological, social, religious, philosophical, chemical, and cultural influences."

"That the number of published cases of clinical therianthropy is so modest is probably due to underdiagnosis, but it may also indicate that zoomorphism in its numerous different forms is a harmless trait that only leads to excesses in relatively rare cases where people feel misunderstood, become socially isolated, and start showing grossly erratic behavior."

"First, and consistent with prior reports, clinical therianthropy rarely occurs on its own, but far more frequently in the context of other serious psychiatric or somatic conditions and occasionally intoxications. It may therefore be a useful additional diagnosis or diagnostic qualifier with no assumption of it becoming a ‘standalone’ diagnosis. Second, we advise against applying this additional diagnosis or qualifier to nonclinical cases (i.e., to situations where people fulfill one or more criteria of zoomorphism in the absence of clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning). We thus hope to prevent a spurious epidemic of nonclinical or ‘minor’ cases of therianthropy, as well as to protect people who enjoy their perceived non-human animal characteristics - or perhaps simply tolerate them - from seeing their ideas and sensations being pathologized."

(bolding mine)

He also went into some interesting questions regarding clinical therianthropy (like if a person claims to turn into a mythical creature, are they still a clinical therianthrope? Probably not) as well as the -anthrope names for some common and uncommon animal transformations.

[lochallthedoors]

Context: For every one of Noel's songs they play on the show, they're asking him to tell a story about the song. They've just finished playing "Lyla."

Interviewer: Anything on that one? Noel: No-- Interviewer: Oh, there must be one. Noel: I remember giving Liam the lyrics and him looking at it and going, "Is this about your bird?" And I'm like, "No, no, no, no, what?" He had a real problem if there was a song that was clearly about the love of a woman. He'd be like, "Who's this about?" Interviewer: Why? Noel: (pause) Because he's an idiot. [They all laugh] Noel: You know, who cares what it's about? Sing it, please. You know? "Is this about your bird?" "No, no, no, no, Lyla doesn't--it doesn't rhyme with Sara. No, not at all!" Um, and he was suspiciously like "This better not be about your bird." Well, and it clearly is. Interviewer: Yeah. He couldn't work that out though. Noel: Eh? Interview: He didn't work that out. Noel: No, no. Interview: Does he know now? He might be listening, going, "I knew it! I knew it!" Noel: Oh, he'll be listening--don't you worry about that. I'd be surprised if he's not tweeting by the end of the show. Interviewer: How long does it take? I'm always curious--how long does it take from when you show him-- Noel: Showed. Showed. Interviewer: Showed him. Noel: Yeah. Interviewer: A new song 'til he can learn it and remember it when you play it? Noel: (thinking) Erm. Interviewer: Hours, days, weeks? Noel: Um, no, we'd usually be in the studio, and, um--there was always this, uh, funny--well, there'd be a funny--for years, 'cause I'm kinda dyslexic, and when I write--write sentences out, I miss-- Interviewer: So it was called "Sara," but you just spelled it-- [They laugh] Noel: I, uh--I write, I miss whole chunks of sentences out, and I think I've written. And Liam would be looking at these words, going, "This doesn't make any sense!" And I'd be like, "Just sing what's on the paper!" And then he'd be singing it, and I'd think, "That's a bit psychedelic. What's all that about?" And, uh, so, my writing's not--was never the best back then. But he could pick it up pretty quick actually, particularly in the early days. He had an uncanny habit of picking it up pretty quick. Interviewer: And when you write a song like that, does he sing it differently to you would have written it? Do you go, "Okay, it sounds different, as I imagined, or--?" Noel: Well, hence, all the arguments stemmed from, um, you know, me going, "Yeah, it don't go like that. It goes like this." And him saying, "Well, I'm not singing it like that. I'm gonna sing it like this." And me going, "Okay, well, that's fine, all right? But it goes like this." Interviewer: Right. Noel: "Yeah, yeah, but I'm not gonna do that." You're like, "No, I get that! I get that, all right? But it goes like this!" You know? And, uh, repeat incessantly to our band breaking up in 2009.

source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FSZjiyzoAo

[agroteraa]

Never Be Like You

Felix Catton x f!Reader

My fic masterlist

Summary: AU where Saltburn's ending never happened. Felix lived happily up to 2016 (and on), where he met you at your new job. Meaning he is around 29 here and you are younger.

Yes, a fic based on THAT Jacob Elordi edit

Using the song "Never Be Like You" by Flume feat. Kai

Shout-out to Kasey @kcsvids ❤️

Tags: fluff, implied slow burn, AU.

Word Count: 3,8K

Early August in London this year was quite rainy, but fortunately, the day you had to go around the city with the documents turned out to be surprisingly sunny and pleasant. It was the second month of your new job.

The bell on the door in the coffee shop tinkled as you went inside in search of your senior colleague, whose errands you had been running for half the day.

"Annabel, hi! I’ve signed the documents, made copies and notarized them. Here are the originals in the folder, and here are the copies," you said, sitting down on the opposite chair and rummaging in your bag, taking out all the necessary papers.

"Oh, thank you, Y/N! I expected that you would only have time to pick up the documents, and you have already done everything! Cool, you're doing great!" the girl smiled at you, and then added, "Our new capable young employee."

She said this to a young man in a colored seemingly expensive shirt who was sitting relaxed close to her on the couch and drinking coffee. He looked at you with a smile while Annabel was having a dialogue with you and complimenting you on the work done. God. This was the guy from your job, whom you saw rarely and from afar, but you really wanted to know more about him. You didn't even know his name because you were too shy to ask, and besides, you didn't talk close yet to people in your new place.

"Felix. Felix Catton," he introduced himself, extending his long arm across the table.

"Y/N," you answered a little timidly, shaking his hand. His fingers were no less long than the hand itself, and his palm was warm, "Um... Y/N L/N."

"Okay, I have to run, bye, Ann," the guy kissed her on the cheek, threw some money on the table and smiled at you again, "It was nice to meet you, a new capable young employee."

Young. Not that young, it was your second full-time job after graduating from the university, but of course you were younger than the two of them. Annabel, as far as you knew, was almost 29 years old. Felix was probably about the same age, it was hard for you to tell. It seemed that he could be aged from 23 to 33, given that he looked so youthful and lively.

"So... does he work for our company? It seems that I saw him in the office, but very rarely..." you tried to find out information about this man from Annabel as casually as possible.

"Yes, Felix has... a more of a free schedule. His father is a co–owner of the company. So, he is not particularly worried about being a worker of the year. However, it's not like I live at work either," Annabel began to tell you openly. It seems you had already realized that she was also a pretty laid-back person, "So… What are you ordering?"

Despite your protests, Annabel ordered and paid for you coffee and lunch anyway, and then continued, "We studied at Oxford together. You could say he helped me get a job here later."

Oh. You got it. It seems that the picture in your head had finally begun to take shape. It became clear to you why some people worked hard from early morning till night in the same office as someone came at lunchtime at best and generally behaved as if they had known each other half their lives. Because that how it was. Many of them were Oxonians, and had known each other since the university, and some even from boarding schools. Of course, you also received a decent education, but it was nothing compared to Oxford. But this was also often not only about education, but also about lifestyle in general. Your family was not any close to be called poor, but still it was not comparable to this level of life, and you were able to get a current job only because of your hard work and probably decent amount of luck.

You felt a little sad at the thought that for them you probably were a girl who came out of nowhere and did the paperwork, and it was very possible that you would remain that way in their eyes. In Felix's eyes, in particular. That was how you imagined his life as a golden boy, who was apparently at this stage of his life employed in his own parents' company, where he did not need to make any effort to stay there and at the same time receive a round sum of money. Usually it also led to a certain lifestyle.

While Annabel was stirring her coffee with a spoon, you noticed an engagement ring on her hand, which you didn't seem to notice before or just didn't pay attention to.

"Oh... can I... congratulate you?" you asked, barely hiding your awkwardness, "Is it... Felix?"

"Yes, thank you… What? Felix?" the girl laughed, "No. We used to date back at the university, and after that… Well, now we are not. I can't imagine Felix as a fiancé or husband. To be honest, I don't think he can either. He's a pretty free spirit, let's put it this way."

You exhaled and nodded, on the one hand satisfied with the answer, and on the other hand you were upset and got into thinking even more. Yes, it seemed that you two were different, too different, and it came to be clear in just a half an hour on a lunch.

But that didn't stop you from thinking about him anyway for the whole next month. He still rarely came to the office, but now he nodded and smiled broadly if he saw you. You even chatted briefly a couple of times in the hallway and over a cup of coffee in the office kitchen. You still didn't know what he really was like, but he seemed nice and friendly, even though he was always in a hurry for somewhere else. Or someone else. You couldn't help but still look forward to these short meetings.

And that how the autumn came.

"Well, lucky you, Y/N – it seems that a small anniversary of three months of your work here coincides with our seasonal party," sipping from her cup, Annabel informed you, "Once in a season we go out somewhere with the whole team. Well, to be more exact – with the least boring group of people here. Come with us? We're thinking of going to a club this time."

You willingly agreed, pleased that you were invited to this party. After all, it was not for nothing that you'd been Annabel's indispensable assistant, helping her out all the time. And, to be honest, you did a lot of her own work for her. And also you hoped that you and her began to get closer in personal level, even though you were quite different, it was still quite a fun.

Week later, you were hurrying along the streets while looking at the navigator where exactly the club that Annabel was talking about was located. You were late because you spent a lot of time on dressing up and doing makeup. You wanted to make an impression and you were a little nervous. Nervous because all this time you were wondering if Felix would come or not. You were worried about both scenarios, but you still wanted him to come first of all, even though you had no idea what and how should happen next.

The place greeted you with loud enough but pleasant music and colorful lighting. Your colleagues were sitting on the sofas nearby. Annabel waved cheerfully, "Y/N! We're here! Hi! Yes, you're not even the last one, so make yourself comfortable."

You greeted everyone who was sitting. You felt quite awkward, because you didn't communicate with everyone at least on the same level you did with Annabel, but you hoped that the evening would go well and that you didn't come in vain. And it turned out to be quite alright, but anyway, part of your thoughts was roaming whether Felix would come or not.

"Okay, guys, and now we'll drink to the Y/N! She's been helping me a lot lately. Y/N, I hope this is just the beginning of your work with us!" Annabel toasted.

"To a new young capable employee!" said a velvety deep voice behind you. You turned around. Felix stood behind, dressed in a white shirt and jeans. He had a shot glass in his hand and he had some kind of red cowboy hat on a rope behind his neck and back.

You all clinked drinks together and then started to sit back down on the sofas.

"Hello, Y/N," Felix smiled broadly at you, "Glad you were invited too."

"Oh, Felix, where have you been?" your colleagues began to ask him as he sat down with them and began to tell about being stuck in another club and then getting through traffic jams here to you all.

"Unexpectedly. I thought he wasn't coming, huh," you said softly to Annabel.

"Why wouldn't Felix come to the party? It's not like going to office meetings, you know," the girl chuckled.

You continued to chat with Annabel this evening. Felix, unfortunately, did not approach you, and seemingly had fun chitchatting with all the people on the couch in front of you, although he kept glancing at you, so it seemed to you. But maybe it just seemed, because you had been drinking for the first time in a long time, and your head was already starting to feel a little dizzy.

But over time, your interlocutor talked more and more about her own with her long-time colleagues and friends, until she almost completely forgot about your presence. You began to feel gradually lonely in this company. Maybe you were right. A girl from nowhere who couldn’t even afford too many drinks in this place in central London, who was helping Oxford graduates who were, are and will be fine, with paperwork they weren’t really willing to do. But it was better to splurge on another drink than to sit and think all these thoughts.

Walking through the crowd to the bar, you stood in line and chose what to take for yourself. Something strong, but not very expensive, if possible.

"You have a small anniversary in our company today. It should be celebrated," a pleasant voice spoke softly almost in your ear. Turning your head to the side, you found Felix, who was leaning almost his entire body against the counter. He had definitely had a drink and was even more relaxed and cheerful than usual, "It's all on me, of course."

You protested a little, but Catton quickly dismissed all objections, taking two drinks for you at once and one glass for himself, "And this is about time you tell me how do you find the work here with us, where you came from and generally about yourself."

You headed back to the sofa with drinks. Since the path was laying through the dancing crowd, and you had two glasses in your hands, Felix held you protectively, placing his hand on your back and guiding you through all the people, making sure that no one would touch you. The feeling of his big warm hand on your back, on your skin, half-opened due to the design of the dress, definitely excited you and gave you goosebumps.

Some people from your company, including Annabel, was already gone to the dance floor, so you sat down on an empty sofa together and started talking. It was very uneasy and unusual for you to see Felix so close to you, also in such an informal setting. His big brown eyes looked at you attentively while you talked a little about yourself, about your education, how you got a job at this company, what you were doing here and who you started communicating with. What dark fluffy eyelashes he had. He was so handsome. You blushed a little and got embarrassed, but still, because of the abundance of information that you had to tell him, your brain was a little distracted and calmed down.

"That's great, Y/N. You're so... hardworking. And, apparently, you’ve achieved a lot on your own. That's very cool," Felix nodded with a serious face.

"Well, I haven't achieved anything special yet that I would really like, but thank you for the kind words. It's great that you're interested in your future subordinates."

"Oh, so you know? Well... we'll see about that. My dad is a co–owner of the company, but not the owner. So, it's not at all a fact that I'm going to manage over here," Felix was a little embarrassed and cleared his throat, "And I don't know what's going to happen next, I don't guess into the future for that long… Maybe I'll go abroad somewhere, like I've already done before, huh."

Then Felix began to tell about some parts of his own life - a little about his childhood, about studying at Oxford, what he did there and where he went later. He was quite modest and obviously tried not to emphasize his fabulously luxurious lifestyle, but this was the kind of thing that could not be completely kept to oneself. This manifested itself even in behavior and appearance, not to mention the stories.

But you liked, you really did like talking to him. With all that said, Felix Catton had a talent for making you feel like you were welcome, that you were no worse than him, that your lifestyle was no less boring or less important when he wanted to grant his attention. Even if you were completely different. You were listened to very attentively.

Due to this feeling, combined with his appearance and charisma in general, you were ready to never get up from this couch, if only your conversations would last forever.

But the forever ended quickly when Felix's friends yanked him onto the dance floor. Friends, and maybe not only friends. It seemed that many female colleagues and just a lot of the girls nearby were staring endlessly and smile charmingly at him in the hope of getting more of his attention. Of course, you could understand that oh so well. But all the same, you were upset that your chances were probably much less than those of all his acquaintances in his circle. Even if it was just about a sort of a close communication.

You finished your second drink and went to get another one. While you were standing in line, one of this year's hits started playing in the hall. A gentle female voice began to tell her story:

What I would do to take away

This fear of being loved, allegiance to the pain

Now I fucked up and I'm missing you

Never be like you

I would give anything to change this like-minded heart

That loves fake shiny things

Now I fucked up and I'm missing you

Never be like you

You couldn't take your eyes off Felix, who was having fun in the middle of the crowd – he was giving himself up to the music, dancing to the beat. Green, blue and sometimes purple spots of light slid across his face and his clothes. How graceful and natural he was now, as if he had been born on the dance floor.

I'm only human can't you see

I made, I made a mistake

Please just look me in my face

Tell me everything's okay

'Cause I got it

Never be like you

Felix completely broke up and went dancing at the pole jokingly. You didn't know if he was already so tipsy or just so relaxed naturally to that extent, but you couldn't look away with your mouth slightly opened. He was holding onto the pole with one hand, and with the other he was waving in the air, also swinging his hips.

How do I make you wanna stay

Hate sleeping on my own

Missing the way you taste

Now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you

Never be like you

Stop looking at me with those eyes

Like I could disappear and you wouldn't care why

Now I'm fucked up and I'm missing you

Never be like you

Your heart sank. Even though this song was about trying to bring back an existing relationship, it still somehow resonated especially with you right now. Particularly the line "Never be like you", which seemed to repeat your thought, which you carefully tried to hide from yourself tonight. You would never be like Felix.

The crowd gathered at the bar gradually pushed the gawking and not moving you closer to the dance floor, where Catton noticed you.

"Hey, Y/N, why are you just standing there so lost? Join me," the guy said cheerfully, slightly pulling you by the hand closer to him.

You started dancing together, he put on his red hat on to make you laugh a little. He was smiling widely, swaying from side to side bewitchingly in front of you.

I'm only human can't you see

I made, I made a mistake

Please just look me in my face

Tell me everything's okay

'Cause I got it

Never be like you

His white shirt was unbuttoned now, apparently, he had been hot for a while. Beads of sweat gathered on his skin and disappeared with him in the rays of the strobe light from time to time, which shone behind his back. In such lighting, it seemed as if he was moving in slow motion, and that was all a beautiful movie in which you accidentally fell into the place of the main character. But it wasn't a fantasy, it was your night right now.

I'm falling on my knees

Forgive me, I'm a fucking fool

I'm begging darling please

Absolve me of my sins, won't you

You wanted this moment to last forever. And unlike the conversation on the couch, it really felt like it was happening, like in a dream that no one dared to break. You were drowning in his magnetic gaze and smile, which he was giving only to you now. He was like Prince Charming of the 2010’s.

I'm only human can't you see

I made, I made a mistake

Please just look me in my face

Tell me everything's okay

'Cause I got it

Never be like you

Baby, baby please believe me

Come on take it easy

Please don't ever leave me... oooh

Never be like you

You mentally repeated the last lines of this song until your face itself took on a slightly pleading look. Felix seemed to catch it and touched your shoulder. His lips parted in the desire to say something, but he just stood there for a few seconds in silence, as if considering what to say and do next.

"... by the way, you look great today. I mean, your office looks are cute too, but this… You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he said after a while.

You smiled sheepishly as you continued to dance, drifting back into a musical and slightly alcoholic trance until it was interrupted by several of Felix's friends and your colleagues.

"Buddy, we've going home," the guys shook hands, and then started talking about some of their business. You moved a little to the side, and as soon as you did that, Felix slowly began to be surrounded by familiar and not so very familiar people. You went for a cocktail, and then headed to the couch, where you started talking to a colleague of yours. You kept glancing in Felix's direction at the same time, but he still didn't come up, engrossed in talking and some dancing.

After saying goodbye to your colleague, who also left, you finished your cocktail and finally decided to check your phone. Oh. You didn't know it was so late. You started looking for a taxi, but it costed a lot right now. Confused, you sat alone, staring at the screen and sucking from a straw a mix of melted ice and a cocktail from the bottom of a glass.

"Please pardon me for leaving you for a while," the hot hand laid on your back and then its owner appeared behind it, who plopped down on the sofa next to you. He looked at you with slightly regretful doe eyes, "Are you... leaving already?"

"Yes, it's very late, and there's a lot to do tomorrow… But the taxi is still expensive, I guess I'll wait a little longer."

"What are you talking about? I'll get you a car right now," Felix took out his phone and began to quickly type something on it.

"Oh, come on, don't..."

"Hey. We're celebrating your anniversary at work, our new best employee. Have you already forgotten?" the guy interrupted you, grinning, "Tell me your address, please."

You gave your address, Catton smiled slightly.

Five minutes later, a business class taxi pulled up to the club. You just went outside, and the warm air of an early autumn night pleasantly enveloped you after the hot and stuffy nightclub.

"Is this really my car?" you were amazed. Felix turned his head to the left and right, and then, leaning over, said in a serious tone, "I don't see any exactly the same beautiful girl waiting for exactly the same taxi, and do you?"

You giggled and blushed noticeably. There was a pause hanged in the night air.

"Thanks for your company, Y/N. I'm glad you're with us now. I hope we'll see each other more often from now on."

You looked him straight in the eye, and then nodded slightly and slowly.

"Good night. Please text when you... Ah..." Felix rolled his eyes at himself, "I don't have your phone number."

He looked down, shaking his head and chewing lightly on his lip. A knot tied in your stomach. Felix. Catton. Asked. You. Your. Number. It might had been more of a common courtesy, of course, but your heart started beating a lot faster anyway. Of course, you dictated your phone number to him, which made him full of ill-concealed joy. Having recorded it in his smartphone, he said, as if nothing had happened, "Yeah, great, now I have a place to text to find out how you got home," and put you in a taxi.

He gently touched your shoulders once more when he put you in the car. He pressed his lips almost weightlessly to your ear, "Good night again, Y/N. Thank you for this evening," his mumble was very warm and pleasant, you felt your hair rising on your skin.

Watching the taxi leave, from which window you looked at him back, Felix lit a cigarette. He was smiling widely and contentedly, exhaling smoke and slightly twitching his whole body on the spot from another surge of energy. He was obviously going to attend the work more often from now on.