#a rigorous exercise program

[pawsitivevibe]

Ah yes my doctor's (wait no nurse practitioner because I can't even get a doctor apparently) response to my frequent headaches, extreme exhaustion, numbness in hands and feet, therapist's suggestion that I get tested for iron deficiency, concerns about long-term memory/focus/concentration issues and questions about ADHD assessment was ... "Lose some weight, maybe you'll feel better."

🥲

[cmdrfupa]

Lifetime

post shibuya!nanami x caregiver!reader

A series dedicated to healing and letting yourself have a second chance in this lifetime.

Inspired by this song that brings me to tears every single time.

content warning: shibuya arc, mentions of death, mental health awareness, angst(eventual comfort), burn victim so expect some detailed imagery.

wc: 4.9k

an: thank you for reading. I love you lots.

I.

Time seemed to trickle as Nanami waited for his physical therapist to arrive.

First at home session since being discharged.

4 days a week, 30 minutes a day.

“Individualized exercise program including rigorous activities as you progress to help you regain your independence.. Sure.” Nanami read from the pamphlet out loud and sighed as he looked over the stack of literature he left the rehab facility with.

He was thankful that he was deemed fit enough to continue his healing at home after 11 weeks in the best facility Gojo could find. While it accommodated every possible concern one could have, he was certain he wouldn’t feel confident in being self sufficient until he was able to put all he had learned into practice at home.

So there he was, sifting through paperwork and sipping his coffee as he awaited his new physical therapist and as Ino finished cleaning his kitchen.

“I think thats it! Lunch is in the black container on the top shelf in the fridge and I’ve prepped dinner for when Gojo comes to cook. Anything else before I’m off?” Takuma grabbed his keys, the jangle bringing Kento out of his reading trance as he looked up.

“Yes, that should be fine. I appreciate you coming over every morning Takuma. But it’s not necessary.”

Takuma scoffed, almost offended at the idea. “Nonsense. Its just a little breakfast and lunch. Its on my way to the school anyway. Consider it a small help.”

He could protest but Takuma would simply find another way to make himself useful. Whether it be taking him to his appointments or coming to slather his injuries: he was going to find a way to be of help.

As he adjusted his cast as best he could, a text popped up from an unsaved number.

>Hello, Mr. Nanami! Currently heading to you. ETA is ten minutes.

Signed with your name, Nanami simply reads the text and reacted to the message with thumbs up.

“Thank you, Takuma. Truly. But I think thats everything. My physical therapist is on their way so I’ll just hang out til then.”

“Alrighty! I’ll be working mostly on campus so just shoot me a text if you need me. Take it easy, Nanami.” with that, Ino grabbed his jacket and proceeded out the front door.

Nanami exhaled and got up to sit at the window. The mid morning sun was gentle but insistent, that soft golden hue brightening everything it touched.

It wasn’t harsh, just warm enough to remind Nanami of the outside world, a quiet promise that time was still moving. The warmth on his right side almost felt foreign as the dust mites danced lazily in the light. He closed his eyes, taking in the fragile sense of something stirring inside of him­— reposeful comfort in the way the sun didn’t have a sudden, overwhelming wave of joy but a soft declaration that he was still here.

Nanami hadn’t had many moments to really think about just how life changing the incident had been. Half of his body littered in 3rd degree burns, a third of that, 4th degree. Loss of hair on one side, an eye patch over his eye and a lack of feeling down his left arm.

He’d looked at himself in the mirror exactly once since the incident and didn’t do it again until he acquired his face prosthetic recently.

It was bulky and itchy, but it alleviated the deformities and more importantly, kept him from being too hard on his own appearance.

The moment felt necessary. Reminding him that the sun remained a constant while other things changed.

“I’ll need to see if I can sit outdoors for a few minutes a day. Would be good for me.” he noted outwardly before a light tapping at the front door had him shuffling towards the foyer.

One moment, please.” he paused a few paces before he reached the door to look down, remembering his shirt had a hole near the hem of it. He didn’t have time to change but only hoped the therapist wouldn’t see him as some undetermined slob with no real concern on how he looked.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Mr. Nanami?”

“That would be me.”

“Perfect! Hello! I was sent by the health and wellness agency as part of your transitioning to home health care. We have an appointment. May I come in?”

No scrubs, no accessories to signify you were a medical professional. Just a badge clip holding your ID with “HHA” boldly sitting under your name.

“Sure. Come on in.” He led you into the house, slowly walking into the living room and nodding towards the couch as you stood next to him.

You grin and sat on the far end of the couch, near the window, “Thank you.” you sat your tote littered in small pins on the coffee table and pulled out a somewhat thick file.

“Would you like anything to drink? Water, coffee?”

Shaking your head, you tapped the top of your bag. “No thank you. I have my tumbler. But I appreciate it!”

Nanami slightly bowed his head and sat in the solo chair next to the couch. “Alright so, how do we start this? I was told I’d see you four days a week with one more day possibly if I need to.”

You pursed your lips, looking down at your paperwork before looking back up to meet his neutral gaze.

“I believe that’s your physical therapist that you will be seeing four days out of the week.”

“Then pardon me for being so… impolite. But who are you exactly?”

The laugh that left your lips was a soft one but enough for Kento to lift his lips into a slight smile.

“I realize your discharge team didn’t give you names, faces, or titles. My apologies.”

“It happens.”

You continued. “I’m your Home Health Care Provider. While you were still in recovery, you met with your primary care provider and you spoke of your in home care, correct?”

Nanami nodded. “Yes.”

“Going over the team you’d have for your in housee rehabilitation, you were assigned a home health aide 5 days a week.”

His brow furrowed. “So you are that, I assume?”

“Yes. I will also be the one looking over the full team that provides you with your in-home care.”

“This feels very unnecessary.” The tone in his response was sharp. “I have people who come to help me with my daily needs. Having an entire team sounds like an exhausting back and forth to have coming to my house. A waste of resources.”

Your demeanor remained soft and understanding as you listened to his concerns. “Mr. Nanami. I understand that it sounds overwhelming. If I had to be in the predicament of needing a care team after an incident, I too would be a bit apprehensive.”

“But you aren’t. I am.”

The immediate smile that grew on your face wasn’t one that came from kindness. It was your defense, albeit an understandable one. “You are correct. I’m not. But I implore to at least hear me out on why its important to have us.”

A rush of emotions filled Kento’s chest. He wanted to pull his hair out from sheer frustration. But he remained calm.

His discomfort was obvious to you and you wanted to remedy the ache somehow.

“I want you to have an idea of what this could look like as you approach the first steps of gaining a sense of normalcy. Would you be willing to let me give you an example of what a week may look like for you? And if you don’t like it, we can adjust to a schedule that fits better for you.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Splendid.” You reached into your file and pulled out a thoroughly detailed schedule and turned it for Nanami to look along with you.

“So, this schedule is based loosely on the day to day you had while in the rehab facility. No matter who, anything involving someone from your team wouldn’t be arriving until 10am. This is unless you decide to utilize me. Then I would be here at 7 every morning to aide you with your morning routine.”

“What if I don’t want extensive help?”

“I would respect the boundary.”

Nanami took a closer look at the schedule, seeing the words ‘kitchen prep healing exercise’ highlighted for every Tuesday and Thursday. “What does this entail? Kitchen prep healing.”

“Your passions shouldn’t suffer because of changes. So I created a regimen that would help us get in the kitchen and get busy while making sure we help maintain your range of motion and fine motor skills.”

Nanami looked up at you for a moment, trying to assess just how serious you were about changing what he was uncomfortable with.

“So if I only need you for meal prep and assisting with chores around my house.”

“Then I will only help you with meal prep and assisting with your chores around the house.”

He handed the schedule back to you. “And if it isn’t something that I’ve mentioned?”

Trying to test you. Cute. “If you mention to me that would like me to assist you in going to the grocery store, fixing your bed, helping you get ready for your appointments, then I will. Because my goal is having you confident in yourself and your abilities.”

That nagging feeling of what if filled his chest and mind. Nanami knows he can’t do it alone. But to be a burden is the last thing he wants to ever become.

“I don’t want to become too dependent on you and your teams’ services.” He sat up as best he could, stretching out his legs and wincing at the unexpected intensity of his blood flowing through his left leg.”

Not wanting to lose the momentum, you sat on the edge of the couch alert of and aware of the pain he showed. “Your independence will not falter. We are merely an extension. We are the claw arm that’s in your reach if the jar of pickles are too high up, if you will.”

Nanami tried to stop the half smile on his face but faltered. “I understand.”

“Do you have any questions for me?” You smiled politely.

“A few,” Nanami cleared his throat. “When it comes to changing my dressings..”

“I will be the only one who sees them completely outside of your primary physician.” You answered, as if you were waiting for that specific question.

“Second question: can you properly fold a fitted sheet?”

You laughed, nodding. “The trick is in how you hold the corners. Line up the creases and you’ll always have a perfect fold.”

Nanami nodded. “Interesting.” The intense blood flow in his legs ceased and his body noticeably relaxed. He sat forward. “Final question, if you were to start tomorrow, could we have your start time for 8am? I like having the first hour of the day to myself.”

“If you want me here at 8 am, I will be at the door by 7:55 to knock at 7:59.”

The moment of silence was filled with hope as you realized you got to him. You let him see genuine concern and thats all he wanted. But this was only the beginning. And you were willing to be his guide to a sense of independence all the way through.

___________________________________________

The silence of the early morning was heavier than usual— a quit hum of of the refrigerator reached his room as he slept with his bedroom door open now, a new practice he’s since learned is a response to his trauma.

He sat on the side of his bed, staring down at his slippers that warmly held his feet as the barely visible morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and unrelenting.

“I embrace healing.” He spoke out loud, his voice still low, sleep riddened, as he slowly rose from the bed and grabbed his cane.

“We aren’t going to be hard on ourselves because this is still new to you, Kento. Its okay to not know what to do.”

Mornings were more of a drag than he would like for them to be.

His body was more stiff. More rigid. He needed 30 minutes minimum to sit on the side of the bed and stretch just to muster up enough internal energy to get up and grab his cane.

He sounded off, flipping the bathroom light on and adjusting the sink to run warm water. “Today will be a great day.” He washed his hands, meticulously washing between his fingers and flicking the excess off his fingers before he dried them, reaching for a clean towel and letting it soak under the faucet.

“You will be more than okay.” this time, he spoke as if someone would overhear him talking to his self.

Nanami shook his head, lowly chuckling at what he found himself doing.

Yuji began to send him various videos that initiated ‘positive self talk’ and ‘daily affirmations for healing the body.’ Yuji hoped to try and help expedite a process that Megumi told him more than fives times, would take awhile.

Slowly pulled away the dressing on his cheek, Nanami watched small bits of dead tissue peel away from his healing skin. He threw it in the trash hamper, then pumped a small dot of antimicrobial soap on the wet towel he’d soaked and gently began to wash his face.

He looked closely, inspecting every patch he wiped over to take notice of any changes in how his skin looked. He tried very, very hard to not look into his own eyes.

Rinsing and patting to dry, he washed his hands again then reached for the jar of salve, precisely swiping a thin layer over his left cheek and forehead before he placed his transparent face mask on.

Finishing up his morning bathroom routine went without a rush. Going to throw on yet another loose fitting t-shirt and casual pants before sliding his slippers back on.

Slow and steady. Nice and easy.

“I am going to have a great day today.” the rubber end of his walker softly thudded against the wooden floors as he made his was down the hall. “It is a new day. New chances.”

He wasn’t going to confirm or deny if these affirming exercises were doing anything. But he’d admit that saying them aloud was probably the silliest he’d felt ever doing anything.

The living room held a welcoming warmth as he drew the blinds open that faced the street.

The third floor apartment view was always the one thing that made the asking price of his condo worth it to him.

The patchwork of traditional rooftops and modern buildings met the edge of the cities outskirts. Bare branches stood against the pale early morning winter sky, hints of early plum blossoms added a hint of a spring that would soon come and wipe away the muted landscape.

Kento sat on the window seal, taking in the low mountains in the distance. That thin veil of mist hiding the peaks that were still dusted in snow. With a deep inhale, he looked down at the street to see a bundled up pedestrian loading his car with boxes as another, that looked only slightly familiar, was exiting their car in a slow jog to the front steps of his building.

He glanced over at the clock on the wall.

7:55 am.

“Timely.”

slowly, he went to open the rest of the blinds around the living room, a slow tango that made him a feel like he still had just enough control, timing the last curtain opening perfectly as your soft knock filled the foyer yet again.

He stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the frame, before opening the door and stepping aside in a half step to let you in. His expression was neutral — not unkind, but carefully composed, as if he were still deciding how much space to give you in his life.

“Good morning,” you spoke softly, offering a polite smile.

“Morning,” Nanami replied, his voice low and steady. “I was about to make myself a simple breakfast. Coffee too.”

It wasn’t quite an invitation, but it wasn’t a dismissal either. It was just a statement — a line drawn firmly down the middle.

You nodded. “That sounds good.”

You sat your bag down on the ottoman against the wall and followed his lead. The condo was quiet — too quiet, the kind that felt deliberate. Like he'd stripped the space of anything deemed unnecessary. A few trinkets here and there, clean lines, muted colors.. But the kitchen felt like the homeliest part of the space.

Black stainless steel appliances, cold press juicer and blender sitting on the counter. A top of the line built-in double electric convection wall oven, a display of every herb and spice on a dark mahogany shelf sitting high on the wall.

“You have a very beautiful kitchen.” Your eyes grazed over the quartz cabinets, taking in the light blue finishes until you landed on what you knew to be as the best stand mixer that only experts chefs and bakers would have.

“You have a Bosch… Its even more beautiful in person.” You inspected it as if it were a lost artifact seeing the light for the first time in 500 years.

Nanami cocked his head for a moment. “Are you that taken by a stand mixer?”

“Mr. Nanami, I’d have to work 3 weeks nonstop to not only get the mixer but to financially recover from it.”

Your half suppressed laugh had Kento smiling. “Understandable. It is a big purchase. I use to bake fresh bread for my weekly use.”

“You’ll have to give me a demonstration one day! Would love to see the Bosch in action.”

Nanami raised his brows. “You think I can get back to that one day?”

The small flick of something resembling hope flecked in the richest parts of his brown eyes.

“We can get you back to that. I’m sure of it.”

He nodded, a silent acceptance of an unspoken challenge. He opened the refrigerator, bearing his weight on the cane as he used his dominant hand to grab the butter, holding it out.

“Do you mind taking things as I pass them to you?”

You reached out, taking the butter and placing it on the counter. “Don’t mind at all.”

A pack of bacon, a jar of jam and an orange followed after and you awaited his next instruction.

“I’m going need your help with peeling orange. I believe I can manage the rest.”

With quiet acknowledgment, you grabbed the orange and began to peel as he placed 2 pieces of bacon in the skillet.

It took less than 10 minutes and Nanami moved to the dining table, a slice of toast placed next to his bacon on a plate and setting out a small dish of fruit with the addition of an apple now. You brought out 2 mugs of coffee, placing his in front of him and sitting across from him with yours.

A butter knife rested awkwardly beside the jar of jam he chose. It was clear he had intended to do more, but something had stopped him.

You didn’t move or say anything, you sipped your coffee and watched as he reached for the jar. His right hand gripped the jar while his left hovered over the lid. His fingers trembled — just slightly — but enough that the lid refused to budge.

You didn’t move at first. You’d quickly learned that Nanami wasn’t the type to appreciate overstepping, even if it came from a place of concern. So you waited, giving him the space to either push through the task or acknowledge the struggle.

After a long moment, his jaw tightened. The jar didn’t budge.

You opened your mouth — not to offer help, but simply to ask if he wanted you to hold the base of the jar steady when his voice cut through the silence.

“Can you…” He paused, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. “Can you open this for me?”

It wasn’t a whisper, nor was it loud. Just a calm, measured request, but you could hear the effort behind it — the weight of a man who wasn’t used to asking for assistance.

You stood and went to his side of the table and gently placed your hand on the lid. “Turn when you’re ready.”

His hand dropped away, switching his left hand out for the right gripping the glass part and his left fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. The lid gave way with a soft pop, and you set it down in front of him without a word.

He didn’t thank you, but there was a small nod — barely noticeable, but it was there.

“Would you like me to slice the apple for you?” you asked, careful not to overstep.

Nanami shook his head. “No. I can manage.”

You sat back down, sipping your coffee as he asked you more questions about your fascination with his Bosch.

_______________________________________

The morning moved quickly. Breakfast cleanup was a breeze as Nanami continued his light reading and non rigorous solo exercises.

During breakfast, you’d been given what you called the key to the cupboard by Nanami. He uttered, with few words, that he didn’t want to prevent you from doing your job. While he limited what that might be, he was quick to say how appreciative he’d be if his bed could be made up, his laundry started and lunch done. He’d have a friend come by to do the rest.

You happily complied and began working on laundry the moment he sat down post breakfast. And by noon, his physical therapist had arrived to continue his exercise routine and mobility work.

Despite the pain he would occasionally feel from the intense stretches he felt near his ankles, this was Nanami’s favorite part of his rehabilitation. Feeling the tightness dissipate as he stretched his neck and chest together. He closed his eyes, allowing the PT to guide his body on top of the exercise ball.

“Now a slow exhale as you reach your arms over your head. Nice and easy.”

The short man moved the ball under Nanami and he grunted.

“Sorry Mr. Nanami, too much?”

Nanami wheezed a chuckle out, “Not enough. Can we do this one more often?”

The therapist exhaled and smiled. “We can. Your body is reacting as it needs to and it seems to be the best exercise to get a reaction out of you. Does it feel like your body is loosening up?”

He nodded, slowly sitting up with assistance. “Definitely. My skin feels less taut at my hips and chest when I open up my arms like that. It feels.. good.”

“That’s what I like to hear. We’re going to finish off with some hands exercises then your aide will be tagged back in to finish the day off with you.”

His session proceeded and came to an end before he knew it. He walked with a bit more confidence as he escorted his therapist to the door and went to find you in the kitchen finishing lunch.

Nanami watched you sliced the cucumber. He nodded at the precision of the knife movements, impressed with how perfect each little sliced green disc was as you added it to the salad bowl. He waited to speak once you sat the knife down.

“You have some really great knife skills.”

You looked up and smiled, wiping your hand on the dish towel nearby. “4 years of cooking for a group of broke college students as a college student. 2 of those years were spent dating a sous chef who taught me some of what I know.”

“I’m sure this sous chef would be happy to know you use these techniques so well.”

“We could only hope,” Expertly, you avoided giving that a full response that would push the topic of your ex. “Where did you learn to cook, Mr. Nanami? I’m sure you are amazing with a Bosch in your kitchen.”

Nanami walked behind you, reaching for two bowls out of the cabinets and placed them next to you. “My grandfather wanted me to be self sufficient once I moved out on my own.” He slowly opened the silverware drawer, pulling out a pair of forks and knives. “And cooking in itself is its own therapy for me.”

You finished placing the grilled chicken in the salad bowl and handed over the tongs to Nanami. “How does cooking make you feel?”

He looked down at the tongs, his heart fluttering with an anxiety he couldn’t place. His eyes found you. “Do you think I can?”

“I’m right here,” you slid one of the eating bowls directly next to him and smiled. “What does cooking do for you?”

Nanami put his eyes back onto the salad and took a deep breath. He grabbed the tongs, gripping them, feeling the cold stainless steel rest in the part of his palm that still had feeling. “Cooking requires me to pay attention. Smell, sounds, how my food is looking.”

He widened the tongs, lowering them into the salad and tossing it lightly, as if he’d harm the lettuce if he placed any pressure.

“What do you usually cook with?” You noticed his hesitance in squeezing the tong tips together, his grip faltering as he exhaled from frustration. “I’m going to hover my hand below yours. Claw extension. Only if you need it.”

Nanami closed his eyes, slowly breathing out as he tried to not lose his momentum. “Garlic. Fresh minced garlic.” He tried again, slowly working his hands closed until he had salad gripped between the flat tips. He carefully moved it over to the dish, hand shaking but making it with no spillage. “I prefer to mince it and store it in water. Taste great every time.”

You smiled as he looked at you for a hint of validation and gave a nod of acknowledgment.

He moved the tongs back to the serving bowl with a glimmer of determination in the way he rolled his shoulders back. He grabbed more and placed it into the bowl, releasing a with a bit of force before sitting the tongs down. “I think I want a bit more tomato.”

Fork in hand, trying to pin down a slice of tomato so he could cut it. His right hand hovered awkwardly, meant to steady the cutting board, but his left — the one gripping the fork — trembled just enough to betray him.

The fork slipped.

The tomato skidded to the side, smearing juice across the surface. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

You didn’t speak either. You knew better than to rush in with help he hadn’t asked for yet.

He reset the slice, pressing the fork down again. His grip was too tight — his knuckles pale from the strain — but the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t let up. The fork scraped against the board, missing the tomato entirely this time.

A sharp pain ran through his forefinger and he dropped the fork, cursing under his breath as he massaged his purlicue.

His gaze stayed locked on the tomato, his shoulders tense.

“You did good. You and the tongs are quite the dynamic duo.”

Nanami felt a heated tear well in his eye before he sucked it back in. “This. Its all so hard sometimes. A fork? I can’t hold a damn fork and its been months.”

He needed to let the frustrations out. It was going to be the only way he could get over those hurdles to feeling whole again.

You stood in silence for a moment, giving him space to process and feel. “Don’t give yourself a timeline but do give yourself grace.”

“Is this all worth it?” You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or himself until he took a few steps back and leaned against the counter looking at you. “Will I be the same person I was before all this? Because I feel like even when I’m giving 200%, I’m failing with no progress.”

“This feels like it’s never going to get better,” Nanami said, his voice low — almost too calm, but there was an edge to it. A rare crack in the carefully composed man standing next to you.

The words hung between you both, heavier than the silence.

You gave him a moment before you spoke. “It’s frustrating,” you said softly. “I know.”

Nanami’s jaw shifted, his lips pressing into a firm line. He didn’t respond right away, as if letting the admission sit out in the open was already more than he was prepared for.

His hand flexed at his side — open, then closed — before, at last, he exhaled through his nose. “Can you help me?”

The question was quiet, but it felt like a victory in its own right.

You nodded, letting him take a few steps forward before stepping in slowly so he had the chance to pull back if he wanted. When he didn’t, you picked up the fork, steadying the tomato with your other hand. The prongs sank into the skin with a soft pop — a simple act, but weighted with everything unspoken.

Nanami’s hand hovered near yours for a moment, then dropped back to his side.

He didn’t thank you, but the small, almost imperceptible nod he gave was enough.

You didn’t push for more words. Instead, you handed him the knife, stepping back just far enough to let him reclaim some of the space —he had let you stand just a little closer, and it was a sign that he was willing to let you in to help.

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Please Professor

It’s my first upper division English literature class and only a month into the semester but I’m already struggling and getting marked D’s and F’s on assignments. I can’t fail this class, I need it to keep my university scholarship to stay in school. I reach out to my professor, asking to meet with him for some extra guidance and he agrees, but only has availabilities late in the evenings. I’m happy to comply, making the trek from my dorm to the English building at 9pm for our first meeting.

The English department is on the edge of campus and when I walk into the building, the whole place looks deserted this late at night. His office is the only one with lights on and I knock softly on his open door before stepping in.

“Hi Professor, thank you so much for finding the time to meet with me for extra help!” He looks up from the papers he’s grading and smiles at me. “Not a problem, I know my class can be overwhelming for a lot of students who aren’t used to the rigor that I expect. Come in and take a seat, we’ll have you whipped up into shape in no time.” He steps out from behind his desk and closes the door behind me as I walk in. I’m too preoccupied with getting my notes out to notice that he turns the lock on the door, locking us in.

“Let’s talk about some of your recent work, and we’ll work on a few things I have my mind on to help with your technique.” He circles around to the bookcase against his wall, grabbing a textbook. “Oh go ahead and reach over my desk to grab that workbook on my desk. There are some exercises there that I think will help you.”

I stand and reach across his large, dark-stained wood desk to grab the book. Suddenly, he’s on me. Before I can straighten up, he grabs the back of my neck and slams me against his desk. I scream briefly as the workbook tumbles out of my hand and I find myself pressed against the desk, the front of my body flush on it while I’m bent over. Before I have time to react fully, he bends down over me, and whispers darkly, “Now don’t struggle, because I’d hate to have to fail you for being a bad student. And I know how badly you need my class to stay in your program so right now, you listen to me and be a good girl and maybe I’ll consider letting you pass my class.”

I cry out, “Stop please professor, I don’t understand, what are you doing?”

“Of course you don’t understand, you stupid little slut. Too dumb to even comprehend what’s going on around you huh?” He chuckles darkly and I feel his hand cup my ass briefly before it cracks down on me, spanking me harshly over my skirt.

“Ah, wait no! Please, you can’t do this!” I try and push up off the table but he’s too strong. “Oh no pretty slut, you are going to take whatever I give you or else I will fail you right now and you’ll be kicked out of the school by the end of the week. Do you want that instead?” His hand rests on my ass, kneading my flesh roughly and the other one increases the pressure on the back of my neck.

“Please, no,” I whimper brokenly. I feel him breathe deep against my hair and he groans softly. “You’re mine for the semester, slut. And you are going to do whatever I want, just to keep your pretty little self on your scholarship.”

I start to cry, shaking slightly as my tears are dripping down my face and onto his desk. His hand comes off my neck and I hold still, knowing I can’t fight back in any way. His hand flips my skirt up and he sees the white panties I’m wearing with pink little bows printed all over them. “So pretty, slut,” he says as he runs a finger down between the globes of my ass, towards my pussy. I whimper softly and my hands come to grip the side of his desk.

“I don’t want you making any noise,” he says and without warning, I feel his hand crack down on my ass again, this time with more force. The spank makes my body lurch forward on the desk, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. He doesn’t hesitate as he begins to rain down harsh spanks all over my ass and upper thighs. I cry harder, muffling my sobs as best I can as I feel each hit adding to the soreness.

He’s methodical as he continues, not stopping or slowing for what feels like hours. My ass and thighs are burning but slowly, I can feel my pussy reacting as well, swelling and starting to drip more and more with each hit. I squirm slightly, trying to discreetly rub my legs together to relieve some of the tension. He notices.

“You’re getting turned on by this aren’t you, slut?” He laughs softly and I whimper in protest, “Please no, I’m not, please stop.”

He grabs my neck again, “Don’t lie, that’s not the behavior of a good student. I can see your pretty pussy dripping through your panties from here, you dirty little slut.” I whimper, feeling my face burn as hot as my ass. He reaches down and slides a hand against my pussy, through my panties and I gasp. His fingers dance along my lips, my wetness making my panties cling to the outline of my cunt. Without warning, he grips my panties and tears them away from my body, leaving my pussy fully exposed and my skirt still bunched around my waist. I whimper and feel myself gush a little at his actions, the clench of my cunt making me feel even worse.

His fingers come to meet my bare body now, and he slides them against my slit, laughing when he feels how much I’m dripping. “Oh we’re gonna have fun this semester,” he says. His fingers pluck my swollen clit, and I arch my back and moan, the sound erupting out of me unbidden. He’s relentless as he works my clit quickly, my wetness letting his fingers slide deliciously over me, the friction making me eyes roll slightly. My legs are trembling as I feel my orgasm fast approaching and he knows it too. “Little slut, are you going to cum like this? All splayed out for your professor, so desperate for that passing grade that you’ll do anything, even degrade yourself like a common whore?” I whine softly, my head spinning from the pleasure as my pussy clenches.

I vaguely hear his belt jingling and the rustle of clothing but I’m too preoccupied with my approaching orgasm to understand what that means. He doesn’t let up on my clit and I can feel myself seconds from erupting, moans and whimpers coming out of my mouth desperately.

My body seizes and I feel my orgasm rush through me, making me let out a strangled moan as feeling hits. Suddenly, I feel his long, hard cock slam into my cunt and I wail. He fucks me hard and fast through my orgasm, not stopping to let me adjust to his length or his speed. I’m scrambling to stay on the desk as he rails into me, his harsh grunts in my ear and his bruising grip on my hips. “That’s it, squeeze my cock just like that, slut. Fuck, your cunt feels so good.”

My eyes roll back into my head as his cock pound into me, my previous orgasm hasn’t even faded before I feel a second one building. He doesn’t seem to care about slowing down to let me recover as he keeps his unforgiving pace, drilling into me and pulling groans and whimpers out of me. His hand goes back to play with my clit and I scream, the throbbing of my cunt mixed with his attention pushes my second orgasm over the edge. I feel my walls flutter around his cock and he groans in my ear as I cum, sobbing from the overstimulation. He doesn’t stop, he fucks me through my second orgasm, the rubbing of his cock against my g-spot making me see stars.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum in your tight little pussy slut.” I feel his thrusts becoming erratic as he nears his orgasm. “I hope you’re on birth control, slut, because I’m gonna fill your cunt,” he says, his words punctuated by his thrusts. His groan is deep and guttural when he cums, the feeling of his cock erupting inside of me making my cunt clench harder around him, pulling him in. He stops for a second, letting his body cover mine, pressing even harder into the desk. His harsh breathing in my ear sends shivers down my spine.

“Flip over, get on the table, and hold yourself open,” his voice is gravelly as he pulls away from me, his cum dripping out of my cunt onto my legs. I whimper as I force my body to comply, pushing my sore and fucked out body onto his desk and spreading my legs, leaving my dripping cunt exposed to him. He smirks, “Stay there, slut.” He circles around his desk and I hear him opening a drawer and grabbing something before he comes back. It’s a vibrator. My eyes widen and I whimper, “Wait, no please. I can’t, it’s too much.” He leans into my face and growls darkly, “I don’t care, you’ll take what I give if you want to pass my class, got it slut?” I nod as tears start to fall again.

He clicks the vibrator on and I watch as the head blurs with its intensity. He brings it to my cunt, smirking slightly as he places his free hand on my hip, preemptively holding me down. His hand travels down and parts my folds to reveal my swollen clit, red and puffy from his previous attention. Without any preparation, he pushes the head of the vibrator directly on my clit and I scream. The intensity is so high and my body is already reeling from the overstimulation from his cock. The vibrator makes it all so much worse, but so good. I arch my back and buck my hips, desperately trying to dislodge him. “It’s time to earn your next grade, slut,” he says smirking.

“For every orgasm, you get 10%. Cum 10 times, and you’ll get 100% on the next essay.” My eyes widen and I sob, “No please, I can’t, please it’s too much!”

He smirks, “Or I could fail you now.”

“Ah please, no no no!” I’m crying, from the feeling of my poor clit being so thoroughly overstimulated and from the idea of him failing me. Despite my previous orgasms, I feel myself barreling towards another. The feeling builds as he grounds the vibrator harder against my clit, and I scream it out, feeling my pussy gush as I squirm and shake. He smirks, “10%.”

My next orgasm seems to blend with the first and I’m hardly coherent enough to process his words as he forces me to cum again and again.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve cum seven more times and my body is at its limit. “Please no more, please professor.” I’m almost unconscious, my voice cracking from my constant screaming and my cunt bright red from the vibrator. He’s uncaring as he stands over me, forcing my body to endure orgasm after orgasm.

“Just one more and you get a 100%, you’re so close, slut. Don’t stop now.” His smile is feral as he keeps the vibrator directly in my clit. My legs shake and I feel myself teetering at the edge of one more orgasm. The feeling overwhelms me, pain and pleasure blending into a euphoric feeling and my eyes roll and my back arches for one final time.

As the orgasm fades, my body lies limp, my legs dangling off his desk and head lolling. He finally clicks off the vibrator. “Good job slut, your first A in my class. Keep it up and maybe you’ll be passing in a month or so. I’ll see you next week same time.”

—

The semester ended last week and my grade for the class is already finalized on my transcript, an A+. But here I am, spread wide on his desk again, my cunt clenching and dripping around his cock as I cum like a perfect little whore for him.

“Such a good slut.”

[kifkay]

class swapping winx and the specialists (+ trix)

currently brainrotting about an au where the girls are specialists and the boys are the magical ones.

specialist! Aisha:

the undisputed best fighter and leader

has a plasma weapon that can change forms — from a scimitar to a spear, from a spear to dual swords, etc.

is incredibly popular with the student body but could not be more unbothered by it

has ridden a dragon before (a rite of passage for all specialists), but prefers the company of the monsters of the deep ocean

specialist! Flora:

the pacifist <3

and is super jacked. as a treat. for me.

(just like in the og cartoon) Flora’s signature move is detaining/grappling her enemies, rather than explicitly harming them.

bolas is her weapon of choice:

but I can also see her using escrima sticks or a bo.

Saladin has a soft spot for Flora because she reminds him of Helia. He is also the one to introduce them to each other.

still as patient and kind with everyone as her og version, but more reserved/quiet. Flora is a bit of a mystery to her peers.

specialist! Stella:

the Red Fountain is THE nepo school of all time. all nobles worth their salt send their little trust fund cases there to get them a prestigious rank of a Specialist; no matter if their offsprings are actually suited for the lifestyle of a hero.

Stella’s parents enrolled her in RF in order to rehabilitate her image as an irresponsible party girl/failure of an heir to the Solari throne.

Stella retaliated by not giving a damn about her education — she even had to repeat a year due to her skipping practices.

her behavior began to improve once she was assigned to the Winx and became inspired by their heroism/courage/honor.

but it took the girls almost getting killed saving Stella’s ass on a mission, for her finally to start taking her training seriously.

her weapon of choice: a family relic — a sword.

Stella does become a proficient sword-fighter and a Specialist, being able to fend off a wyrm to save her father’s life (akin the scene where she gets her Enchantix in s3).

although controversy follows the blonde specialist, she earns sincere admiration of fellow Solarians for this act of heroism.

she chooses to pursue dragon-riding beyond the mandated RF course. the dragon that she bonds with is Synfire (wink wink).

specialist! Bloom:

in this AU, she is adopted by Hagen.

he teaches her the art of smithing magical weapons.

Bloom is less of a fighter and more of a tech/engineer. she creates magical artifacts/weapons for the girls, devises strategies and acts as their support.

she is also the healer of the group (or tries to be, this girl is still a clutz disaster)

Bloom is very idealistic, grown on legends foretold by Hagen and whatever remains of the Company of Light.

Bloom is probably equipped with top-notch weapons from head to toe, but always defaults to using whatever is laying around to defend herself. rusty pipes, bats, bricks, etc.

her dragon is a huge, scary and old thing everybody calls Fang. she calls him Kiko <3

specialist! Tecna:

loves to train in the simulation rooms.

actually a very good fighter: Tecna was taught her craft by the most rigorous Zenithian educational programs.

she mostly relies on her speed and agility in fighting.

her weapons of choice: tranquilliser guns and daggers.

devises strict exercise regiments for the rest of the girls.

Tecna stills handles any and all technology, but, unlike Timmy in the og cartoon, cannot stand being side-lined from battle.

a perfectionist.

specialist! Musa:

I see Musa as a ranged fighter, using guns & grenades & arrows.

she’s a wild card. high risk, high reward battle strategies are her bread and butter.

she also pursues dragon-riding. her dragon is nicknamed Pearl, a fast and furious creature.

a menace, honestly.

the boys:

Sky is a fairy of wind currents (since… y’know his name. but also because I like the irony of Sky having the ability to fly but yet feeling trapped and bound to his duties as a crown prince)

Riven is a witch of shadows/negative energy, like Darcy. he’s not evil though.

Brandon is a fairy of constructs. I picture his powers to be like the earth-benders from ATLA.

Timmy is the witch of technology.

Helia is a wizard, like his grandpops.

Nabu retains his powers but is a fairy instead of a warlock.

the Trix are fairies <3 they’re still evil, but in a whole different way: instead of revelling in their villainy, they are convinced of their own self-righteousness and purity of ideals. they try to usurp power of the Great Dragon because they believe they can make for better rulers, forgetting, of course, that would just make them dictators.

[squigglysquidd]

Juxtaposed Snippet

Fifteen months.

Fifteen long months.

Fifteen months on top of the initial six of qualifying instruction pre-N-training.

After so long, she’s finally completed the extensive, rigorous, and torturous drills, exercises, and simulations and can call herself a true, hard-earned N7 Alliance soldier.

When the Alliance told her she’d been recommended for the N-7 training program, she never expected all the attention would focus on her because of Akuze.

Akuze was a failure in her mind. All she did was survive by outrunning, out-jumping, or—fucking—leaving people behind to die.

The Alliance fluffs its reports and tries to turn a blind eye to a serious fuck-up but she knows better. Perhaps this N7 position is meant to boost her through the ranks and inadvertently give Akuze some semblance of success to the masses.

Ignorance is bliss at its finest.

N-training took on a different meaning when she was enlightened on her reason for being here. Since then, she’s been fighting tooth and nail to prove to the instructors and herself—the worst and loudest critic—that she deserves to be here.

Surviving Akuze doesn’t make her a good soldier worthy of advancing to the N7s. Akuze was fate unforgivingly clearing the board.

A soldier worth commendations is able to take their squad out and bring every last one of them back. They earn a position where their leadership is the pivotal piece to accomplishing the mission and bringing everyone home.

Their people trust in them.

It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t commanding officer on Akuze because when the shit hit the fan, it came down to a situation where she became an unofficial leader to a group. This group trusted her, believed she could make decisions that would overcome their fears and get them to safety.

She should have been ready.

She wasn’t, and other people lost their lives because of it.

Her dreams know the truth. Although they haven’t reared their ugly heads while she’s been training, she’s sure they’re waiting for any sign of weakness in her mental walls.

They punish her for surviving. For the longest time, she believed it but she’s starting to see through her self-hatred.

That only goes so far, though.

She’s usually so run-down after training that any time off is equated with pure exhaustion. Her tired mind is so hazy that she barely remembers getting into bed before blacking out as soon as her head hits the pillow.

Now, despite all her objections in the beginning, she knows she’s earned her ranking among the N7 candidates.

Her training has been fueled by pure stubbornness and determination to prove she’s more than a pathetic ‘survivor.’ She’s more than her failures, more than sheer luck, and she used every fucking fiber of her being to prove that to the Alliance.

Soaked in blood, sweat, tears, and filth, it’s now that she truly feels worthy.

Things weren’t easy.

She succeeded.

She completed the same hellish training the Alliance put every marine through during the ‘Interplanetary Combatives Training,’ which is the last—and most grueling—stage of N-training. It’s at this point where she stands in a position where so many had been unable to continue.

It’s all because she did the work, she put in the effort, and she pushed her limits.

She deserves the N7 ranking, and as the ceremony’s acting Admiral pins her medal onto her formal uniform, she holds her head up in pride.

Everything blurs around her, except for the ever-so-slight weight of the medal as it lies on her chest and the sound of her name and newly earned ranking ringing over the crowd. She doesn’t care about the crowd clapping or the salutes she mindlessly returns to her superiors as she passes.

All that matters is that she’s made Akuze mean something.

It’s more than nightmares now.

It’s finally the turning point in her military career that she’s wanted.

Tonight, she attends a small, Alliance-sponsored gathering at the human embassy on the Presidium. Its purpose is to commemorate the ‘journey’ she and her fellow N7 graduates had taken throughout the over year-long N7 qualification drills.

Not every graduate is here, though, so it can’t really be qualified as an N7 event. The legitimate ceremony happened on Arcturus Station a few days ago.

This seems more like an unofficial recognition of those N7 soldiers who spent the last of their training period aboard spacefaring vessels. There are mostly Captains—there’s even been one or two Admirals—walking around, mingling, and chatting about those N-trainees who had served aboard their ships. She’s even sure she’s seen a few N7 patches or medals on formal jackets or shirts.

She hasn’t been directly approached by anyone yet, but she has a feeling this is part of an initiation. The Reds had plenty of them when she was young. Many of them, she even participated in.

So, she suspects that even though she’s wearing the N7 medal, she still has to impress the masses to truly belong.

[max1461]

I'm terminally humanities brained, but I am kind of interested in pure mathematics and POM and generally just more mathematics oriented philosophy stuff/mathematics in general, I haven't studied any kind of maths since Highschool, how should I get into it? Should I read Quine?

Oh, this is a great question and I am very happy you have decided to send it to me! My answer reflects my particular views on mathematics and what it is all about, of course, so keep that in mind.

The number one thing I would like to convey about mathematics to someone coming from the humanities is that mathematics, far more than most fields, is something you do in addition to something you learn. Mathematical thinking has to be practiced, it is a skill that you train. If your primary interest is in philosophy of math, I'm afraid I haven't read very deeply on the subject and probably can't recommend a good starting place. Maybe... Russell? Look into Hilbert's program, and why it failed? But if you want to understand math "from the inside" instead of "from the outside", then you have to do math, and to that end I think "who to read" is the wrong question.

This might sound a bit scary, but I don't think it needs to be. Math is not so hard to do, although it is a very foreign type of thinking to those who are not practiced at it. In fact, this is why I think doing math is important even if your interests are primarily in POM; math is ultimately a human activity, regardless of e.g. what you believe about the ontology of mathematical abstractions, and I believe that in order to understand it fully (to have a picture of it beyond just its ontology) it must be understood as a human activity. Thus, one must do it, at least a little bit. It is, if nothing else, a whole realm of human experience all its own, and I think just about anyone would profit intellectually from spinning their mental gears in a mathematical way here and there.

Thankfully, there are many great places to start if this is your aim. I assume that what we're talking about here is "proof based" math rather than just calculation. To that end, a great introductory book is Velleman's How to Prove It, which will give you some guiding principles and many examples of how to approach a mathematical proof. Beyond that, I think you'll want to pick up an "entry level" introductory text (that is, an introductory text aimed at undergrads, etc.) on any math topic that strikes your fancy, and work through it—making sure that you understand the structure of the arguments (proofs), and attempting as many of the exercises as you can. The exercises are really the most important part. You cannot learn math without the exercises. You cannot learn math by reading it. The only way to learn is to try your hand at it yourself.

Expect your reading speed to be slow, and new concepts to be confusing. Expect to read things over and over, and fiddle with them in your head, before they make sense. Well, I mean, if you're anything like me or like most people. I think one of the biggest reasons people get turned off to math is that most of it just doesn't make any sense the first time you encounter it; it won't make sense until you've thought about it a lot.

One way or another, if you have a background in philosophy and are used to parsing and evaluating careful arguments, you will have a leg up on many people getting their introduction to proofs.

As for what topic to start with... you could always start with Euclid's elements, which is still a perfectly solid introduction to Euclidean geometry even after 2500 years. It does not quite meet modern standards of mathematical rigor (in other words, its proofs have gaps by modern standards), but realistically this is not a big deal: the basic thinking style is the same, and the gaps are somewhat subtle and technical IIRC, so I don't think it will really affect the beginner experience. On the other hand I believe at least a couple of Euclid's proofs are genuinely flawed (that is to say, they aren't just uncareful in their presentation, but are actually invalid in their structure), so maybe it's better to start with a modern work first.

Some books that I think are good for a beginner:

Graham, Knuth, & Patashnik, Concrete Mathematics — The focus of this book is on mathematical tools for computer science, but even if that is not your interest it's still a great book. It deals mostly with familiar concepts such as whole numbers and sequences (you might have encountered, e.g., the Fibonacci sequence), but is great for learning to problem solve and think mathematically.

Rudin, Principals of Mathematical Analysis, ("Baby Rudin") — If you want trial-by-fire. A lot of math undergrads have this as the textbook for their first proof-based math class, and it's notoriously challenging. Its topic is the field of real analysis, the rigorous foundations of calculus. I... wouldn't start here if I were you, honestly, but it's definitely a classic.

Some graph theory text. Some people seem to be recommending Wilson's, which has the convenient feature of being available online here. I haven't read it, but looking over it, it seems fairly gentle. There are a lot of pictures, and proofs don't enter the picture until a couple of sections in. Graph theory has the advantage of being very visual and having basically no prerequisites, so this might be a nice place to start.

Some abstract algebra book. If you're looking for a really clear presentation of the way mathematics is done today, starting with axioms and proving theorems deductively from them, etc., there is probably no place where it is more straightforwardly visible than in abstract algebra. The first math book I ever attempted was Herstein's Topics in Algebra; not the most beginner oriented, but certainly not inaccessible, and hey, it worked out for me! If this one is not to your liking there are a million books on e.g. introductory group theory you could look into, or the very canonical Dummit & Foote, or so on.

Uh yeah I think that's all I got. Anyone else feel free to put any more thoughts or recommendations in the reblogs!

[reasonsforhope]

"[There is] fantastic news for species conservation after new populations of the gorgeous ‘Skywalker’ gibbon, known to science for only 6 years, were recently found living in the politically chaotic nation of Myanmar.

Also called the hoolock gibbon, this dainty vocalist was first described in 2017 living in the extreme south of China on a mountain in Yunnan. Classified as Endangered by the IUCN, the population was estimated to number a paltry 150 individuals, but others were believed to live in Myanmar.

Even before the recent military junta usurped the president and plunged the country into civil war, Myanmar [was a difficult place to conduct field studies, especially extensive or ongoing ones, due to ongoing conflict.]

[Although they are] now in open revolt against the military junta, [the Myanmar states of Shan and Kachin] were nevertheless destinations for an intrepid team of scientists from the Nature Conservation Society Myanmar, Fauna & Flora International–Myanmar Programme, the IUCN’s ape specialist group, and field researchers from universities in England, China, and the US.

Together, they conducted acoustic surveys, collected non-invasive DNA sampling, and took photographs for morphological identification at six sites in Kachin State and three sites in Shan State. With the help of the Myanmar conservationists, the team also interviewed locals dwelling in rural forested areas, small conservation programs, and timber companies about the frequency of sightings and the hunting pressure.

Population estimates of unknown quality and scientific rigor conducted in 2013 suggested there might be 65,000 hoolock gibbons in Myanmar, but the matter became much more complicated after the classification of the Skywalker gibbon as a separate species from the eastern hoolock gibbon—where before they were confused as the same.

“We were able to genetically identify 44 new groups of Skywalker gibbons in Myanmar,” said senior author Tierra Smiley Evans, research faculty at the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine, and contributing author. “This is a huge resource and success story for Myanmar.”

These gibbons sing to each other at dawn for around 22 minutes, and consume 36 different plant species; choosing fruit first, and flowers later. They seldom sleep in the same tree two nights in a row to avoid predation, and can’t swim so are often confined to territories by river systems.

The team that discovered them in China in 2017 loved Star Wars, and called them tianxing which is Chinese pinyin for “heaven movement;” a nod not only to their favorite sci-fi franchise, but also to China’s ancient history. In the famous Book of Change [aka the I Ching] of the Zhou Dynasty [1046 BCE to 265 BCE], a divination poem refers to gibbons specifically, and uses tianxing as a verb to describe their movements.

The interviews were a source of great data for the scientists. For starters, nearly all individuals in both the Kachin and Shan states could identify a Skywalker gibbon by sight and by playback of its singing, lending the exercise a good degree of reliability...

“Biologists did not believe Skywalker gibbons could live in the small remaining patches in Southern Shan State before we started this project,” Pyae Phyo Aung, executive director of Nature Conservation Society Myanmar, told the UC Davis press.

“I am delighted with our field team members who have done an excellent job, within a short period of time, building community trust for further conservation actions. This area is degraded forest. It is really important for Myanmar and China to consider extending conservation approaches for the Skywalker gibbon to this new geographic area.”

Nearly 32,000 square kilometers, or around 8 million acres of forestland in Eastern Myanmar are suitable gibbon habitat, and while existing forest reserves like Paung Taung and Mae Nei Laung are quite large, they remain unprotected. For this reason, the survey team recommended they remain considered ‘Endangered’ on the IUCN Red List until habitat protections improve."

-via Good News Network, February 21, 2024

[mariacallous]

Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., declared chronic diseases an “existential threat.” Then his agency terminated one of the world’s longest-running diabetes trials.

In 1999, Peggy Bryant, a fifty-year-old oncology nurse in Boston, received a postcard asking whether she’d like to take part in a clinical trial aimed at preventing diabetes. Well, this is fitting, she thought. How many patients have I asked to enroll in trials? Bryant, who’d long struggled with her weight, told me that she had cared for people dealing with grave complications of diabetes—vision loss, kidney failure, limb amputations—and had worried that “full-blown diabetes might be in my future.” She decided to sign up. Some of the trial’s participants were given a medication called metformin; others were given a placebo. Bryant was assigned to a third group, in which volunteers didn’t receive a pill but instead worked with trial staff to meet their health goals, exercise more, and lose weight. About once a month, she gave blood and urine samples. “It changed the way I approached my health,” she told me. “The staff were so committed that it made you more committed.” The study found that, in people with prediabetes, metformin lowered the risk of diabetes by roughly a third; the life-style intervention cut the risk by more than half. Both components were so successful that the trial was stopped early. (All participants got the life-style intervention for a year; since then, the study has mostly been observational.) The Secretary of Health and Human Services held a press conference to announce the findings. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never heard of a study’s results being announced by the head of H.H.S.,” David M. Nathan, a Harvard professor who chaired the study, told me. “It was a big fucking deal.”

Diabetes is a lifelong condition whose consequences can be varied: nerve damage, heart disease, digestive problems, foot ulcers. It affects nearly forty million Americans and kills more than a hundred thousand each year. “Studying it for three or five years seemed shortsighted,” Nathan said. His team applied for funding to extend their project and consider follow-up questions. How long do the health benefits last? How do blood-sugar levels affect the body and the brain over time? For more than a quarter of a century, Nathan and his colleagues tracked thousands of patients—which was itself a feat of logistical and scientific endurance. (Many doctors struggle to get their patients to attend annual physicals, let alone engage them for a study of this duration.)

The Diabetes Prevention Program Outcomes Study, as the project is known, has led to more than two hundred scientific publications. Simply by continuing to exist, it has overcome one of the central difficulties of chronic-disease research: time. Most studies enroll patients for months or for years. But, if you want to prove that a drug or a life style can extend a person’s life—not in theory but in fact—you have to follow them for, well, much of their life. And to study a condition with wide-ranging effects, such as diabetes, you tend to gather wide-ranging data: genetic information, dietary habits, imaging, metabolic markers. The study collected hundreds of thousands of samples, which serve as a sort of time capsule of America’s health. Such troves of medical information can often lead to unexpected breakthroughs. This month, a study found that the people who’d participated in a rigorous diet-and-exercise program in the late nineteen-nineties, as Bryant did, were substantially less likely to develop diabetes decades later. Midlife investments in health compound into older age. As the study’s participants have aged, researchers have turned their focus to a link between diabetes and dementia.

The study’s funding comes from the National Institutes of Health, which in 2022 committed some eighty million dollars to cover five years of further research, one of its largest grants. The N.I.H. sends the money to a coördinating center—in this case, Columbia University—which then distributes the funds to dozens of participating trial sites around the country. But, in early March, the Trump Administration froze hundreds of millions of dollars in funding to Columbia, and the diabetes study was abruptly terminated. Columbia informed collaborators at other institutions that trial-related work needed to stop immediately. “We had to call some participants that night and tell them not to come in the next day,” Nathan said. Bryant, who now lives in New York City, got a call from a study coördinator at Montefiore Einstein Medical Center informing her of the cancellation. “I was shocked,” she said. “It just seemed so pointless.” A few days later, she joined other Montefiore study participants on a Zoom call with the site’s lead researcher and a member of the study’s executive committee, an endocrinologist named Jill Crandall. Even the N.I.H. team overseeing the grant had been blindsided, Crandall told me. They learned of the termination not from the government for which they work but from the study’s leaders. “They were completely in the dark,” she said.

When Bryant joined the trial, her daughter was a child; her daughter now has two children of her own. On the Montefiore video call, Bryant noticed an older man who looked ill—a fellow-participant who appeared to be sleeping or unconscious. The man’s wife was there with him. She held his hand as she explained that he had dementia, and that it had progressed. She wanted everyone to understand the stakes of the research they’d been engaged in. Perhaps hidden somewhere in the time capsule was a key to prevent, or at least delay, such an outcome. “I thought, Wow, that could be any of us one day,” Bryant told me. “We should be doing more—a lot more. Instead, here we are, moving in the wrong direction.”

Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., the Trump Administration’s Secretary of Health and Human Services, has called chronic diseases such as diabetes an “existential threat.” He has railed against the food industry, calling sugar a “poison” and labelling high-fructose corn syrup “a formula for making you obese and diabetic.” Strangely—perhaps incoherently—his agency is also responsible for ending a diabetes study that has been running for longer than almost any other. In recent months, H.H.S., which oversees the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, and nearly a dozen other entities, has cut some twenty thousand jobs, or about a quarter of its workforce. (Kennedy has acknowledged that the mass layoffs could result in many mistakes.) A C.D.C. unit that works to prevent childhood lead poisoning was purged. Another unit dedicated to helping people stop smoking, the country’s leading cause of preventable death, was also eliminated. At the F.D.A., veterinarians focussed on curtailing the risks of the ongoing bird-flu outbreak were let go; some fired employees at C.M.S. were told to direct their complaints to an administrator who died last year. “I have no argument with the need for government to do things better and more efficiently,” Richard Besser, a former C.D.C. director, told me. “But this is not about that. This is about tearing down institutions they don’t like. I doubt that rebuilding them will be possible in my lifetime.”

Patients are already feeling the effects. It’s estimated that at least a hundred clinical trials are at risk of stopping or have already halted, including some dedicated to preventing sexually transmitted infections, reducing rates of postpartum depression, and keeping organ-transplant recipients safe from infectious threats. More may soon follow. Bryant told me that she’s been working at a contract research organization that helps enroll patients in trials. Even studies sponsored by the pharmaceutical industry are being affected: many rely partially on federal funding, or are run by staff who do, and who have consequently been laid off. An oncologist told me about a patient with Stage IV cancer who, until recently, had three options for experimental trials. She now has none. Meanwhile, people who have never participated in a trial will suffer the costs of unrealized discoveries—potential treatments and insights that never materialize.

The lapse in funding means that the Diabetes Prevention Program Outcomes Study can no longer continue to collect patient data as planned; it can no longer pay staff to do blood work, collect urine samples, scan brains, or conduct neurocognitive tests. Even worse, the study’s existing data are at risk. Scientists need funds to properly store and retrieve samples; they need money to pay for computer servers and to hire statisticians and analysts, who clean and curate the data. (Although the N.I.H. stores some study samples, the agency has told researchers that it doesn’t have the capacity to accept the entire collection.) “The absence of funding could prevent us from continuing to maintain the integrity of the database,” Nathan, the Harvard professor, told me. “It’s a tremendous waste of resources.” The contents of the time capsule may become irrecoverable.

In recent weeks, Nathan, Crandall, and others involved with the study have worked furiously to try to have the N.I.H. funding restored. They’ve spoken with agency representatives and members of Congress. They’ve gone to the media and lobbied professional societies. In March, the bipartisan chairs of the Congressional Diabetes Caucus sent a letter to Kennedy and the N.I.H. acting director, urging them to “take necessary action” to insure that the diabetes study continues. (The N.I.H. and H.H.S. did not respond to my requests for comment.)

The longer that the trial is paused, the harder it will be to resume. Trial staff at the various clinical sites, with whom some participants have decades-long relationships, are already being laid off. “People think trials are just about collecting data, but there’s an art to keeping participants invested and engaged,” Crandall said. “That personal connection will fade.” She told me about an older participant who’d recently passed away. The woman didn’t have much family; a friend organized her memorial service and wound up inviting the study team. At the service, the friend spoke about how much the study had meant to the woman—how, through it, she felt that she was contributing to something larger than herself, something that might help others. “That’s what a trial like this can be,” Crandall said. “If we let this study fade, it will never be duplicated. No one else is going to do it.”

[chicago-geniza]

All right, made a bunch of medical admin calls. PT will charge me $200 upfront tomorrow but the scheduling guy put me in touch with the hospital's charity care program and we're stepping down to weekly or every other week sessions with a more rigorous home exercise plan to make it more affordable in the long term. CVS says ADHD meds will still be $0 since they were filled two days ago, before the federal freeze, but all future prescriptions will be out of pocket until the Medicaid payment processing shut-out is sorted. I called my mom and we worked out the cost of my most necessary meds for the next month with GoodRx (anticonvulsants, heart meds, inhalers, gastric motility meds, etc.) and she's going to front me the money. Confirmed a freelance gig that should pay a couple months' worth of bills when it's done. Still sober. Go go gadget energy drink shower EDITING

[windvexer]

I'm chewing on it and you're absolutely right. I think I'm just not sure how to really study and figure out what "school" is right for me, so I've been floating around and trying this and that hoping the path will fall into my lap. Thank you, I'm probably going to take a break but then use your post as my launching off point.

If it's not too much trouble, would you be able to elaborate on the being chosen / not being chosen thing? I feel like every practitioner I've talked to online talks about being chosen and led by a dairy in their path, but I understand if you don't want to speak to much on the subject. I appreciate it nonetheless.

(Tried to think of a funny cow pun but came up short).

I can't elaborate too much on the chosen/not chosen thing. It just doesn't make that much sense to me.

I very much understand the desire for a spirit guide or guardian. Such tutelary spirits are not limited to the realm of the top 25 very popular gods. A wide variety of spirits, including the famed witch's familiar, can provide such services.

If you want my advice re. the school thing, I recommend thinking a lot about what you want to be doing.

Like I'm really into spirits and otherworlds, right. Traditional Witchcraft provides a very solid framework for working with spirits and hedgecraft. It's very cool to me to think about how objects extend into other dimensions, and how to travel back and forth between worlds.

What part of magic is really cool to you? Is it the idea of enchanting magical objects, like an artificer? Are you a bit of a nerd for programming and logistics? Then maybe chaos magic and/or pure energy work is for you.

What, here in this physical realm, do you want to be doing? Do you want to be going on hikes to talk to trees? Do you want to hang out in a gently lit room visualizing complex matrices on the wall?

But also, just dabble if you like. I mean make it somewhat structured, and make the structure realistically based around how much you're going to be able to get done.

Like if you know that genuinely you won't have more than 90 minutes a week to read about witchcraft, and maybe 30 minutes a day for exercises, then there's no point acting like you can (sustainably) dive into a system and cover a lot in a month.

Just choose something that seems neat, make a little calendar to make sure you're being reasonable about how much time you spend on it, and give it a go!

Despite that huge post I made about practice and rigor and study hours, I really think that a lot of witchcraft, especially the exploratory stuff, should be really fun. It should be play.

Do you not really care about what school you get into, as long as you end up being an absolute wizard at divination? That's fine too! Let tarot or charm-casting or rune-reading be your guide.

What are you passionate about? What thrills you?

Just do stuff. It's super neat to just do stuff.

But at the end of the day, really - some amount of structure and note-taking can really beat back the dreary goblin that tries to convince you you'll never be good at it.

"You've been doing this forever and you still suckkkkkk," the dreary goblin will say, but then you can just look at the calendar and say, "no, I intended to start last month and even though I've been excited for a month, I've actually only had time to do 45 minutes of practice between 3 spreads. So."

[altocat]

Do you have any mundane/simple Sephcanons you’ve never had the chance to talk about before that you’d like to talk about now?

Sephiroth typically skips breakfast every day, unless it's during a mission where he needs the energy. Poor sleep quality coupled with general restlessness always leaves his appetite a mess in the morning, to the point where he feels nausea after waking up.

Seph obv dabbles in eye makeup. No particular reason--he just enjoys accentuating his eyes. Sephiroth isn't particularly vain about his appearance, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about it.

Sephiroth has a special exercise program installed during his off time, which he follows rigorously.

Sephiroth is well-versed in sign language, like many soldiers. This is useful because he typically goes nonverbal in the aftermath of lab visits. Thus, sign is a good way to help describe his needs to Angeal and Genesis.

If Sephiroth were to ever have children, he would have either named them after his mother or Glenn.

Sephiroth's apartment is rather sparse in terms of decorations. He does appear to have a lowkey fascination with abstract art, especially those with rather disturbing or morbid imagery. Thus, he has an entire unhanged collection of what Genesis calls "ugly" paintings.

The one area in which Sephiroth and Hojo can easily come together is hating on Hollander. Man, FUCK Hollander.

Angeal and Genesis don't actually know about Sephiroth's early mission on Rhadore, or about Glenn and friends. Sephiroth never tells them, or even speaks of it out loud.

Another soldier got cheeky and openly tried to flirt with Sephiroth once. It didn't end well.

Sephiroth does not like snakes. He associates them with the various tubes and wires Hojo often shoved into him throughout his lab days.

Sephiroth has a large bookshelf and tries to spend at least an hour every night reading something. Books are a good escape for him.

Sephiroth is rarely ever frightened. But he CAN be startled. This usually results in lethal consequences.

There are at least forty empty udon noodle cups in his trash at any given moment.

[callsign-phoenix]

I wrote this for @attapullman’s ‘international Bob Floyd fucks! month’, and also happy birthday Lewis!

It is, of course, a Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x female!reader imagine.

Warnings: this is kinda an AU in terms of that it’s wildly inspired by Saltburn, alcohol, alcoholised sex, smut (18+), only proofread by me

You were the most popular girl at Princeton, and you loved your life.

Starting your time at university had come naturally to you and everyone admired you, the popular as well as the unpopular.

You were beautiful, smart, kind and caring, and had a way of mesmerizing your peers and professors.

There were a few admirers you had gathered over time, but none were really ever of interest to you more than a few days.

Yes, there had been pretty ones as well as smart ones but each and every one bore you after the first or second night.

None were ever a threat to you and you rather enjoyed everyone’s attention, especially the pretty ones’.

One of said pretty ones was a young computer science major with a passion for aviation.

Bob Floyd was a shy study-obsessed bespectacled young man that was just finishing to fill out his form.

He was rather slim, but he remedied that by all the exercise he did outside of class.

You had noticed him before, even if just barely, because against all odds he was pretty enough to catch your attention.

What you hadn’t realized was that you had captured his attention by storm, even to the point of obsession.

Bob was inconspicuous to most and certainly not dangerous, but his heart and body were aching for you.

While you lived your life without much caring for Bob, he saw and took notice of you every day, as often as he could find the time between his rigorous program.

He was determined to become a WSO for the US Navy, but the moment he first laid eyes on you he knew there was another goal in his life.

Every party he went to his eyes were fixed on you, as you went on with your day.

The alcohol and sheer amount of attractive people kept you distracted, until you found yourself at the bar one night, standing next to your quiet admirer.

“Another round of shots, please,” you asked the bartender as you leaned over the bar, smiling broadly as you settled some cash onto the counter.

As you waited for the bartender to serve you your gaze wandered, your eyes finally settling on Bob.

You let your gaze shift over him before it returned to his face, and you saw that Bob had seen you check him out.

“You’re one of the quiet ones! I have seen you around!” You exclaimed, and a smile you couldn’t quite place appeared on his face.

You moved towards him further, fueled by the alcohol in your system, invading his personal space without yet touching him.

When he introduced himself a smile appeared on your face, and Bob found pleasure in the way all your attention was on him.

He leaned in as well and settled his arm on the bar, which put his hand near your waistline.

“You’re pretty,” you exclaimed and set your hand on his upper arm to steady yourself, feeling the muscles that were hidden by the sweatshirt he was wearing.

Bob chuckled and wrapped his arm around your waist to help you keep your balance, which also brought you closer to him.

You staggered slightly before your body connected with his, holding you up straight and bringing you close enough so you could smell and feel his body.

He seemed strangely strong for the nerd you had made him out to be but you didn’t know about his intention to become a part of the Navy, which didn’t matter to you at the moment.

When the tray of shots was settled next to you on the bar you didn’t notice any of it, as you leaned in to connect your lips to his.

He tasted like beer and leaned in further when you deepened the kiss, pulling you as close as physically possible.

You could have been eating each other, which would have been a similarly passionate act.

When you pulled away your lips were swollen and your lipstick smeared on both your faces.

It only fueled your arousal to see the mark you had left on him and you were excited to leave even more over the course of the night.

“Where’s your dorm?” You asked him and he sent you a cocky grin that seemed atypical for someone like him.

He was quick to reach for your hand, pulling you with him out of the bar and towards his bedroom.

The door wasn’t even fully open when you reconnected your lips, noses knocking against each other and teeth grazing teeth in pure haste.

Bob shut the door with a kick but his entire attention was on you, his hands roaming over your body, trying to take in as much of your form as possible.

He had your skirt open and your shirt pulled up before you knew it, his hands moving to your breasts.

Bob pulled away from your lips to move his to your cleavage while unhooking your bra and pulling it and your shirt over your head.

He made quick work of your clothes and you had to admire his efficiency, even though your head was slightly buzzing with the alcohol you had had earlier in the night.

You chose to ignore it and instead focus on the sensations Bob was eliciting, which only added to your daze.

Bob navigated you so that you sat down on his bed, staring up at him through your lashes as he pulled his shirt over his head.

You were surprised by the way his body was sculpted like that of a greek god and you instinctively leaned in to kiss his skin, trailing kisses down his happy trail as you expertly opened his belt and jeans.

This time you were the fast one as you pulled his jeans and boxers down his legs.

You were only able to press a single kiss to the tip of his cock before he pushed you backwards so you were lying on your back on his bed, with him climbing on top of you.

He pressed a kiss to your sternum as he pulled your skirt up to your waist, exposing what he was most interested in at the moment.

There wasn’t much moaning until he was inside you, both of you rutting against each other.

Your foreheads lay against each other and your breaths mixed, both panting, moaning and occasionally leaning in to share a sloppy kiss with each other.

Bob held onto your hips and had his other arm propped up by your head, creating a closeness between you two.

Neither of you was quite there for the romance and it showed by the way you both chased your orgasms.

The moment you reached your highs Bob lifted himself up, giving you space to breathe again as he made himself comfortable beside you on the bed.

Neither of you said a word until you moved to stand back up, collecting your shirt and shoes from Bob’s bedroom floor.

“Thanks, Ben, that was nice,” you said as you shrugged your clothes back on, putting your shirt on and pulling your skirt down your legs.

Bob didn’t even mind that you used a wrong name as he watched you closely from his position on the bed.

You were sure that you’d never speak a word with him again, but Bob knew otherwise.

tagging: @starkleila @mayhem24-7forever @green-socks @letsfvckingdance @iangiemae @klmpun @yespolkadotkitty @whateverbagman @neptunes-curse @sweetheartlizzie07 @top-gun-rooster @iloveprettyboysblog @ateliefloresdaprimavera @imjess-themess @littlebadariell @angstyjellybean @marchingicenotes7 @midget713 @supernaturaldawning @gspenc @adorephina @gigisimsonmars @tipsykeen @bespinnn @airedale17 @malindacath @aerangi @luckyladycreator2 @kwanimations @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @luckyladycreator2 @mavericksicybabe @kendra-rose @desert-fern @mavrellover91 @allivingstone01 @rhettabbotts @withakindheartx @trikigirl271 @cherrycola27 @atarmychick007 @bonitanightmxres @ratcatcher2world @glowingtree @wingmanvenus @jewels98 @oliviah-25 @natasharomanoffisbaebby @tipsykeen

(please tell me if you want to be added to the taglist, or use this link)

[ronsstickyhands]

Chapter Two: Promise of Tomorrow

~3294 words~

The envelope felt heavy in her hands, more than the paper inside should have made it. Her fingers trembled slightly, the paper slipping between them as if it carried the weight of a thousand unanswered questions. The insignia in the corner was a stark reminder of the world outside her small, quiet kitchen. The world she was trying so hard to escape.

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The steady rhythm of her heart, the pulse of life beneath the pain, felt like a reminder, she was still here. Still standing. Still breathing.

She walked to the plush sofa and sat down, tearing open the smaller envelope. Her hands shook despite her best efforts to steady them. 

Dr Taylor Willock December 9th 1941 Dear Taylor, I still remember the day I met you, how eager you are to save lives, and how determined you were to save mine; so now I feel I should do the same, save you, give you a way out. 

I want to start by saying how proud I am of everything you’ve accomplished, both with your work in medicine and with those incredible shooting scores your father showed me in the hospital. Honestly, you’ve impressed more people than I can count, and I think you’re more capable than you even realize. I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for the Specialized Service Training Programme (SSTP), which I know might come as a surprise. But after seeing what you’re capable of, I felt it was something worth suggesting. I have no doubt you’ll do just fine, and I think it’ll be a good fit for you. More than that, I believe you’ve got the ability to do some real good, and I want to see you use your skills for something greater than us all. I hope this doesn’t come across too forward, but I care about you, and since I’ve met you, you’ve felt like family to me, just as much as your father does.  I expect greatness from you Doctor. Take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to reach out. With all my best, Your friend Oscar O’Hara

Taylor sat back on the sofa, her eyes scanning the letter again and again, as her mind tried to process the weight of its contents. The room around her seemed to fade into a haze, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall growing louder in the silence that followed. Oscar O’Hara’s words swirled in her mind: I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for the SSTP…

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected anything like this, an escape, a way out.

The weight of the second letter almost felt like a confirmation. Taylor looked down at the envelope, its stark official look contrasting sharply with the warmth of the one she had already read. It was larger, the government seal was a reminder that this wasn’t just a personal matter it was a call to something larger than herself.

December 9th 1941 Dear Doctor Willock, We are pleased to inform you that, following a thorough review of your qualifications, you have been selected to participate in the upcoming Specialized Service Training Programme for the United States Army. Based on the outstanding marks you have achieved in medical practice and your exceptional proficiency in marksmanship, it is clear that you possess the skills and dedication we are looking for.

It is not common for women to be accepted into this program, but in light of the current war effort, the Army is in need of strong and capable individuals. Your unique combination of medical expertise and combat readiness has made you a prime candidate for the program, and we are confident that you will rise to the challenge. This program will run for six months and take you to Army Bases all across the country, beginning on the 15th of December, at Camp Upton, New York. During this period, you will undergo rigorous physical training, intensive medical and combat readiness courses, tactical exercises and more. Upon successful completion of this training, you will be assigned to the Airborne Division, where you will continue your training at Camp Toccoa in Georgia, where further specialized airborne and combat medical training will take place. We believe that you will find this experience invaluable, both for your personal development and for the contributions you will make to the United States Army. Your training will prepare you to serve on the front lines, where your skills will be put to vital use. We look forward to your arrival and are confident that you will make a remarkable addition to the United States Army. Sincerely, The United States Army Recruitment Division

Taylor sat in silence for several moments after reading the letter, the weight of the words sinking in like a heavy stone. Her heart raced, but it wasn’t fear. It was a mixture of disbelief and a sense of freedom from this life.

She stood up from the sofa, the letter still gripped tightly in her hand, she gazed outside for a moment, the grey sky reflecting the weight of the decision she was facing. The clock caught her attention ten past eight.

John’ll be home in five hours. 

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

The phone rang for a couple of seconds before it was picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” Came a familiar, warm female voice.

“Hey, Kat,” Taylor said, a small smile spreading across her face. Just hearing Katherine’s voice felt like a lifeline. “It’s Taylor. I know, we talked a couple of days ago, but it’s urgent. Is this a good time?”

Kat’s laugh was light, full of that easy charm Taylor had come to cherish over the years. “Yeah, Taylor I have time, for you, always. So how’s everything, you and John alright?” Her tone shifted now more serious than before.

Taylor hesitated. “Uh… John’s at work, and I’ve got the day off. How are things with you guys? How’s Michael?” she asked, quickly steering the conversation to safer ground.

“We’re good. Lewis is out on the balcony, probably with a drink in hand.” Katherine’s voice softened as she added, “And Michael started school this year, so it’s been... hectic. He’s here if you want to talk to him.”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Taylor said, her smile growing wider. A moment later, a small, giddy voice came through the receiver.

“Hey buddy, how are you?” Talking to the boy had always been easy; kids they’re simpler than most adults.

“I’m good Auntie Tay, I started school and I’m learning numbers and letters, and I have lots of friends.” They chatted for fifteen minutes, his bubbly energy reminding her of simpler times. Eventually, Michael handed the phone back to Katherine, and her friend’s familiar voice returned.

“So, you said it’s urgent, how can we help?” Katherine asked. She knew Taylor all too well; the news was practically written on her face, even through the phone.

“Yeah,” Taylor admitted, her stomach tightening. “Do you remember my dad’s friend, the one whose life I saved, well he gave me a letter yesterday.”

“Mhm, Oscar something, Irish I think,” Katherine hummed. “What about him?”

“He um… signed me up for an Army Specialized Service Training Programme in New York, it doesn’t start till the 15th, but I was wondering if I could just stay with you till then .” The words flew right out of her mouth and now everything was out in the open.

“Oh,” Katherine said, her voice faltering slightly. There was a beat of silence before she continued. “Well, as much as I don’t love the idea of losing someone who’s like a sister to me, I know I won't be able to change your mind, just I wasn’t able to change his. And of course, you can come stay for a bit, we’d love to have you here.” 

Taylor’s grip on the phone tightened as Katherine’s tone turned quieter, more serious. “What happens after training?”

“It says I’ll be transferred to the Airborne Division,” Taylor replied, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. “I’ll be sent to Toccoa for more training.”

“Toccoa…” Katherine murmured. “That’s where Lewis is going. Though I’ll never understand what possessed that man to jump out of planes.” A small chuckle broke the tension.

Taylor managed a laugh. “Could I talk to him? Just for a minute?”

“Of course.” A moment later, Lewis Nixon’s unmistakable voice came through the line.

“What’s up, Tay; everything alright?” There was no tip-toeing around it with him that much she knew.

Taylor laughed softly. “Yeah, Nix, I am all things considered. And I got a letter, asking me to join up… Umm- my training starts on the 15th in Upton, so Kat said it’s alright that I come stay for a bit.”

“Of course,” Lewis replied with a chuckle, “And Kat said you’ll be transferred to Toccoa after the training, that’s where the paratroopers are, you know? Maybe we’ll end up in the same company so I can keep an eye on you.”

Taylor laughed for real this time, the sound light and genuine. “More like I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” She hesitated for a moment before her voice turned softer. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Anything,” he said immediately.

Taylor laughed, grateful to be able to call someone like him a friend. But his tone turned serious again. “What about your parents? And I’m guessing your bastard of a husband doesn’t know yet.”

Taylor winced slightly at his bluntness. He’d never liked John, and had been warning her from the start, but she didn’t listen. “I’ll stop by my parents’ house on the way to the train station,” she said quietly. “And I’ll write John a letter. Yesterday was… bad. I have to get out before he comes home.”

“That’s a plan,” Lewis said, his voice warm with encouragement. “Call us if you need anything, Tay. And I’ll come get you from the station.”

“Thanks,” Taylor said, her voice steady.

“Goodbye. See you tonight.”

As the line went quiet, Taylor stood still for a moment, the weight of everything settling over her. But for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was moving forward like she was finally taking control of her life.

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

Walking into their shared room, Taylor struggled to reach the bag on top of the wardrobe, placing a chair near it and steadily rising toward it. Removing the chair, she took a look into the closet, pulling out a pair of slacks, a mid-length skirt, and a couple of blouses for off-duty, underwear, socks, bras, sweaters, and a pair of pyjamas. She walked into the bathroom and picked up more items, like her toothbrush, a hairbrush, some hairpins, a comb, and anything she thought might come in handy. Before leaving the tiny bathroom she applied some powder to her black eye and some lipstick to her busted lip, she looked almost normal now, not so broken. The bag was quickly filled up, and the last thing in it, was her journal, a pen, and her grandmother's copy of  Le Voyage au bout de la Nuit.

She was all packed up the only thing left was to write her darling husband a goodbye note. 

Before she left the bedroom she got dressed into a pink blouse, a pair of dark brown slacks and some pumps. Opening the nightstand drawer she pulled out a stack of papers, divorce papers she had already signed, slung the bag over her shoulder and walked to the kitchen where she quickly found a piece of blank paper.

Dear John,

By the time you read this, I’ll already be gone.

An opportunity came up for me to join the Army, a specialized training programme for people with backgrounds that could help the war effort.

I don’t expect you to understand, but this is bigger than me, bigger than the both of us. And I cannot stay with you anymore, it’s as if I am drowning and you are the one holding me under water. I hope that you’ll come to realise we were never going to work out.

Under this letter you’ll find the divorce papers, and maybe you can find it in yourself to sign them and free us both.

Goodbye, and good luck,

Dr. Taylor Willock

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

Taylor’s hands were steady as she walked up the familiar path to her parent’s house, the cold December air biting at her skin. The house stood in front of her, an imposing reminder of the life she was leaving behind. She had never imagined this moment, but here she was, about to face her parents, the ones who had shaped her into the woman she was today. She was about to tell them she was leaving.

She knocked on the door, and it swung open almost immediately. Her father, Garry Willock, stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The sharp lines of his face softened slightly when he saw her, though his eyes still carried the weight of years of expectations.

“Taylor,” he said gruffly, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s cold out there. Come in.” It came out sharply almost like an order.

Her mother, Marie, was in the kitchen, humming softly as she worked. Her gaze flickered up as the door closed behind Taylor, her face lighting up when she saw her daughter. “What are you doing here darling?” She set down the knife in her hand and crossed the room to hug her daughter. The scent of comfort filled the air, but Taylor felt no comfort in it today. It felt suffocating, heavy.

Her father took a seat at the table, his gaze piercing through her. He was silent, waiting for her to speak, and Taylor could feel the weight of his stare. The words that had been swirling in her mind felt like lead in her throat. But she had to say it. She couldn’t run away from this conversation anymore.

“Father, Mother, I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I uhh… I'm leaving.”

Marie froze, her hand trembling slightly as she placed it on the counter. Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “Leaving? Leaving where, sweetheart? What do you mean? Are you and John moving?” Her voice was soft, but there was a growing tension in it that Taylor hadn’t expected.

Taylor took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. “I was asked to join the Army. I’m leaving for training soon, it’s already set in motion. I’ll be going to Camp Upton on the 15th.”

Garry Willock leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable at first. Then his jaw tightened, and a deep crease formed between his brows. “You did what?”

His fists clenched against the table. “After everything we’ve built for you? After all the last war took from us?” His voice was low and dangerous, the way it had always been when he was truly, deeply disappointed. “You had a future. A good life. And you’re throwing it away?”

She stood there and took it, she had to. “I thought of all people you would understand, sir.”

“Taylor, I joined the Navy because your grandfather and I didn’t have anything to eat, it was out of necessity, you have a job, and a husband needs you.”

Her mom spoke up next, “Taylor you cannot possibly think this is a good idea, war is cruel and you sweetheart, you are not tough enough to survive it.”

“Mother-” She started.

“Don’t look at her,” Garry cut in, voice hard. “Look at me.” His dark eyes bore into hers, searching, questioning. “Why? Tell me why, Taylor.”

Taylor exhaled sharply, forcing herself to meet his stare. “Because I can’t stay here. Because my country needs me because I can’t stay with John, sir,”

A heavy silence hung between them.

Finally, his voice dropped lower, quieter, but no less intense. “Promise me one thing.”

Taylor blinked, taken aback. “Yes, sir.”

Her father’s gaze bore into hers. “Promise me that you will still be who I raised you to be; promise me that you will be a good man in the storm.”

Her breath caught. The words were familiar, ones he’d spoken to her since she was young. When she had cried as a child, afraid of the dark, he had whispered them. When she had scraped her knees learning to ride a bike, he had muttered them. When she had faced obstacles when she had failed, when she had succeeded. Always the same question.

Are you still a good man in the storm?

Taylor lifted her chin, steadying her voice. “Yes, sir.”

Her father studied her, and for the first time that night, some of the fire in his eyes dimmed. “Just tell me one thing, who put you up to this, because if it was Lewis I swear to God Taylor.”

“Actually father, it was Oscar O’Hara who signed me up.” 

Her mother’s face turned red with fury as she cut in. “Garry you were the one that showed him her scores, you are the reason my daughter is joining the goddamn army!”

“I’ll be okay, Mama,” Taylor whispered, walking over to her and gently cupping her face in her hands. “I’ll be okay. I promise.” But even she wasn’t sure if that was true.

She walked back to her place in the room. “Could I make a call before I go?”

Her mother looked up, eyes still teary “Of course sweetheart.”

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

The rotary phone felt heavy in Taylor’s hands, the weight of it far greater than it had ever been before. She sat at the small desk in the hallway of her parents’ house, staring at the numbers as if they might offer her some kind of answer.

The line rang twice before a crisp, professional voice answered. “Boston General Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

She clenched her jaw, gripping the receiver tighter. “Dr. Willock. I need to speak to Dr. Morrison.”

A brief pause. “One moment.”

A click, then a familiar voice. “Taylor?” Dr. Morrison sounded surprised. “What are you doing calling on your day off?”

Taylor closed her eyes. She had practised what she would say and had told herself it wouldn’t be hard. But now, with the words sitting on her tongue, it felt impossible to let them go.

“I’m leaving,” she said finally.

A beat of silence. “Leaving?”

“I’m joining up.” The words came out quickly, as if saying them faster would make them easier. “I’m going into the Army. I-I won’t be coming back, I don’t think so.”

Dr. Morrison exhaled sharply. “You’re quitting.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

Another long silence. Then, his voice softened. “Taylor, you’re one of the best surgeons we have. Are you sure this is what you want?”

She let out a slow breath. “I’m sure.”

“I won’t pretend to understand,” he admitted. “But I won’t stop you.” A pause. “Do you want me to keep your position open? In case you…”

“No,” she interrupted gently. “I need to do this.”

Another silence.

Finally, Dr. Morrison sighed. “Then I wish you luck, Willock. But for what it’s worth… the hospital will be worse off without you.”

A lump formed in her throat. “Thank you.”

She hung up before she could second-guess herself.

╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸╸

Walking back into the kitchen, her parents sitting just the same as when she left. “I’ll get going now before the train leaves without me.”

“You best go, my love.” Her mother stood up and cupped her cheeks. 

“I will, and I’ll write if I can.”

[st0rmyskies]

Alone, Fear, Future, Guilt, and Secret for my main blorbo Wars

If you’re only in the mood for a couple I’ve highlighted my biggest asks 👀💕

Mwah mwah mwah 🐹

alone

Warriors does NOT deal well with being alone. He's thrilled to live in a house full of eight other people where the potential for him being truly alone at any given time is incredibly low. He can only last two, maybe three hours before needing to seek out some sort of outside influence, be that bothering a roommate or heading out to buy something and interact with a salesperson.

When there's no one around to see him and vice versa, Warriors sort of goes into low-power mode. He doesn't emote very much, he languishes on furniture and stares at the television or his phone, and sighs a lot. Being alone is also when he's at his most dangerous, likely cooking up something to surprise or annoy a friend or loved one as soon as he sees them again.

fear

Externally, War's biggest fear is aging. Getting old. Getting wrinkles, gray hairs, bags under his eyes, those lines around his mouth. Liver spots. When confronted with signs of aging he's the first to buy 3 to 5 new products and spend a day or two in the bathroom panicking.

Internally, this is rooted in a fear of becoming irrelevant in the lives of those he loves, or of being forgotten.

future

As much as he would never admit it to himself or to anyone else, Warriors is very much a product of his relationship with his family. He enjoyed being a cherished son up until a certain point in his life at which he had a major falling-out with his parents--mostly his father--that resulted in him being unwelcome in his own home for a long period of time. Because of this, he tends to form strong relationships, even if they are one-sided, and to assign a lot of his self-worth to those relationships.

The worse possible future for him would be partnering with someone who doesn't really care about him, or who sees him as a means to an end. Wars has a hard time pulling himself out of toxic relationships. That's a situation he could wallow in for years or even decades before realizing how sick it makes him. He is not consciously aware that this is a possible trap for him to fall into, as we all really hope for the best for ourselves in such situations, don't we?

Did he take steps to avoid such an outcome? No, Wars really just got lucky.

guilt

Warriors carries a LOT of guilt, believe it or not, when it comes to Champion. Is this a spoiler? It might be a spoiler.

In the Guard, Warriors was selected from among the recruits in his class for a leadership training program. His commanding officers saw the potential in him for being a great strategist. They all went through the same grueling physical training, but just like Sky taking a specialized route to become a pilot, Warriors was pulled from their coursework to undergo more rigorous mental exercises.

The Guardian Project may have been Flora's pet project to get more into Sheikah tech, but the concept was something that Warriors had drawn up early on in his own training.

There was initially some animosity there between him and Champion, especially when Champion was selected to be more intimately involved in the project, but why should Warriors feel jealous? His role was to invent and to command, or so he was told by his superiors.

Too bad for Warriors, he also had a strong personal work ethic of feeling responsible for those he was meant to oversee. So when Champion got hurt, Warriors actually got pretty torn up about it.

secret

Warriors has a lot of things that we don't know about him just yet, a few of which are outlined above. Here's another, just for fun: he has a sister with whom he had a very strong relationship growing up, although current life circumstances have really gotten in the way of their relationship.

It's probably for the best, though, because when the two of them get together, they can be downright treacherous.

[eponymous-rose]

This is basically journaling at this point, right? Monday!

I'm trying a new exercise program that meets remotely and just seems to be full of cheerful and kind people - today was strength training for arms, shoulders, and upper back, and it was a really fun hour! Actually worth waking up an hour early for, which is a good sign... so I decide to sign up for the next five weeks or so. Class is an hour long and five days a week, which is a huge commitment, but it's easier to find time in the morning and they have three separate class times to choose from each day, so it doesn't keep me from sleeping in a bit when I don't have to be on campus. The focus really seems to be on strength, flexibility, and just moving a lot, and the class size is small enough that I feel like my form will be corrected if I ever get myself in trouble. Should be fun!

Then, e-mail! My potential postdoc found an error in our application that has a deadline two days from now, and another project needs some paperwork from me... I get a little overwhelmed, so I close my laptop and enjoy my coffee. Better just to go in to work and figure this out there. I do a little schedule-swapping when I realize I've double-booked myself over the Thursday lunch hour and opt to take the faculty candidate that day out for dinner instead of lunch (which I thought I was doing anyway? I got real confused).

Class time goes really well - I noticed students glazing over on Friday when going through my lecture (it's an entire lecture dedicated to deriving a single equation - it's very, very dry but necessary to understand the entire second half of the course), so I pivoted to something a little more fun and left the tough stuff for today. I spent a lot of time letting them work in small groups on chunks of the equation and gain a little ownership of the derivation that way, which seems to have been the way to go - we're a little behind schedule, but students are doing great. I also had a student point out that I had class scheduled for Monday, but it's a long weekend holiday. Whoops! There's luckily a lot of leeway baked into this course, so it'll be an easy fix, but I'm not used to running this far behind! I'll extend the deadline for the next homework as well.

Lunch and e-mail and grading, oh my! There is a very dramatic battle going on in this highly specialized work listserv I follow (a very cruel and unlikable person in the field has finally drawn enough ire that it's become a pile-on of dozens of people telling him exactly what they think of him), which makes for entertaining lunchtime reading. The stressful e-mails kind of resolve themselves: the missing document for my postdoc is one that I actually have the authority to write, and only takes about 20 minutes once I sit down to do it. The other paperwork doesn't even apply to me, as it turns out! Phew. I grade my students' next assignment, which is great as always.

Awesome meeting with my MSc student - for the first time, he tells me he's actively planning on staying for the PhD unless an absolute dream job pops up in the next three months or so. I rejoice, tell him he'll do great, and suggest he chat with my nearly-finished PhD student, who did three separate paid internships over his PhD to get a sampling of academic, private-sector, and public-sector jobs. He's really excited at that best-of-both-worlds prospect. He's also stunned when I tell him that his first paper draft is sufficiently rigorous to get him credit for a Master's en route to his PhD - I think he was expecting to have to write a full separate thesis, but our department recently switched so that students continuing on to the PhD just have to do a brief check-in and showcase one publication-quality work as a qualifying exam (alongside a 2-hr exam/conversation with their committee). He's getting his account set up for the supercomputer and I put him on to a textbook (basically a Jupyter notebook collection) about some advanced stats methods that'll serve him well - I need to go through the textbook myself!

Next up: my PhD student's weekly meeting! As I type this, he's fifteen minutes late (not super unusual - he's very hard to get out of a flow state when coding or writing, so he's not always great about letting me know when he's running late or can't make a meeting, and honestly I don't mind much since it just means I have a free hour to work on stuff; after almost six years working with this student, I know he will get the work done even if it means rescheduling the odd meeting), but I really want him to come in today so I can ask about his postdoc interview last week. I ping him on Slack. He reminds me that he told me he'd be out of town today. Whoops. It's me, I'm the problem. I ask him about the interview anyway. He says it went great and to let him know if they check his references, since that will probably mean a yes. I would be SO excited for him for all sorts of reasons related to his future career... and also because he'd get to move to Hawaii for a couple years!

Last meeting of the day! My undergrad senior research assistant is back at it with some really cool events for our high-latitude lightning project. We spend most of the time geeking out over storms in Iceland last week, then move on to talking about the project she's going to present at the undergraduate research symposium!

All day I've had a terrible feeling I forgot to write a letter for someone last week, but searches of my inbox turn up nothing except letters successfully written last month. ???? AND THEN IT HITS: my first-year Master's student wants to attend a summer school learning about new data coming in that she'll likely be using for her project. I offered to write her a letter of recommendation and completely forgot about it! Luckily it turns out not to be due until this Friday. I quickly write that up so I don't forget again, then send it to her co-advisor to get his sign-off on it (I'm the one who offered to write this letter because he's the one paying for the summer school out of his grants!).

Up later this week: TWO faculty interviews, two days each. Phew. Luckily, I'm not the one hosting this time around, and hopefully the weather will cooperate (last week was rough - I was in charge of the candidate's schedule and the university closed due to weather both mornings... and then the public schools all closed for the full day, effectively trapping all the parents in the department at home). I'm honestly most excited about going for lunch with tomorrow's faculty candidate... because we're going to my favorite hole-in-the-wall bahn mi spot near campus. And also for the science and stuff. I guess.

Stuff I gotta do this week: write comments on my MSc student's paper draft and finish my grant proposal!

Time to head home and do a different kind of prep! I'm vending at a two-day card show this weekend and I am SO EXCITED. I've nearly got all my cards into a spreadsheet, including the 1,000+ freebies I have to give out (the best thing is asking a kid their favorite Pokemon and pulling out three or four extremely pretty cards of that Pokemon for them to take home, but it's tough to do if stuff isn't organized properly). Also excited to look like a wizard the next time someone tells me they're looking for cards by a particular artist (fairly common!) - I've cataloged by artist as well. Finally I have found a hobby that sates my love of collecting silly things, my love of puns, and my love of spreadsheets.

[theglowsociety]

3 Reasons Why Strength Training Won’t Automatically Make You Bulky

While exercise can do wonders for your mind, body, immune system, mood, and longevity, we’d be remiss to ignore that many people turn to exercise as a way to achieve a certain physique too. And while we’re on the subject, one of the top myths we want to bust — that lifting heavy weights will make you “bulky.”

For starters, it’s important to point out that adding muscle mass isn’t a bad thing. All bodies are beautiful, and a body that shows signs of strength and hard work should very much be celebrated. That said, everyone has different goals, and it’s SO important to feel comfortable in your own skin.

So why do so many people believe lifting heavy weights makes us bulky? While yes, bodybuilders lift weights, lifting weights doesn’t make you a bodybuilder. We all have friends who can eat pints of ice cream seemingly every day and still be extremely fit and never gain a pound. Does that mean we need to inhale pints of Ben & Jerry’s to achieve the same physique? Of course not (if only!).

This myth has been perpetuated for a number of reasons, particularly among women (that’s another story to unpack on another day), but here’s the deal: weight training is for everyone, regardless of body type and goals. It’s a powerful tool to help you get fit, lean, and healthy — the “bulk” that some people are concerned about is much more about what you eat rather than how you exercise.

Let’s get into what weight training will actually do (including improve your skin — yes, we’re serious!).

Bulky Muscles Don’t Happen Overnight

Let’s clear this up first, in case you weren’t totally convinced — myth-busting time!

“Bulking up” is actually a pretty significant task requiring a substantial commitment and rigorous program — people work hard to gain that extra muscle mass. The program typically comprises a heavy weight lifting routine (several days per week, with targeted recovery) and a specific “bulking diet” (we’ll touch on that momentarily) — so simply adding a handful of strength workouts to your schedule doesn’t equate to an instant-bulk.

You Would Need to Ramp up Your Calories A LOT

If you actually wanted to bulk up, you would work with a coach who’d have you start pairing a heavy weight lifting routine (like we said: a specific, targeted program) with a radical diet shift, ramping up your caloric intake and protein. This is often referred to as a bulking diet (the opposite of “cutting”), and the goal is to feed your body with extra building blocks to create more cells (hence, more mass). Every person’s body is different, but if you keep your caloric intake roughly the same while you’re adding in some resistance training, chances are you will actually lose some inches.

Hormones Play a Role Too

Perhaps the clincher of all clinchers, this one’s for you ladies: hormones account for the most important factor when it comes to building muscle and “bulking.” Specifically, testosterone.

Male bodies have higher levels of testosterone, which essentially “codes” their bodies to create more muscle mass. Because of the hormonal differences between biologically male and female bodies and hormone levels, women’s bodies respond very differently to the same routine. Women who want to body-build and bulk have to make extreme changes in their exercise and diet program in order to achieve those kinds of effects

What Strength Training Will Do

Strength training won't make you bulky

Now that we’ve cleared that up, here’s what strength training actually does — and why you’ll want to add some new workouts to your own regime.

You’ll Burn Calories

For starters, it’s a killer calorie burner. If physique changes are on your list of goals, look no further.

You’ll Shape & Tone

Your body will change, but more so in terms of composition — think: burning fat while toning muscle. Lean strength without adding inches. Again, this comes down to what your physical goals are, what makes you feel comfortable, and what program you’re on.

You’ll Strengthen Bones

One of the best reasons to add strength training to your workouts is its impact on your bone density (specifically for women who inherently struggle with this in later years). So while you’re building strength and healthier muscles, you’ll also be building strong bones. It also helps that many strength training programs are low-impact, meaning you’ll be extra kind to your joints and prevent bone and cartilage injuries.

You’ll Age Well and Live Longer

If you’re investing in anti-aging creams (hello, retinol) and eating a Blue Zone diet in hopes of aging well and living a long life, you should be strength training, too. Studies have shown that adding in some weight work can add years to your life.

You’ll Improve Heart Health

Another miraculous benefit of adding in some strength training? You’ll protect your heart. Studies have also shown that strength training and weightlifting are cardioprotective, meaning you can reduce the risk of heart disease, heart attack, and stroke!

You May Sleep Better

Struggling to get some sleep? Hit the deck! It’s time for push-ups. A 2017 medical review found that “resistance exercise may be an effective intervention to improve sleep quality,” and that’s not the only study that showed improved Zzzs after a little bit of muscle training.

You’ll Support Your Cognitive Function

While you’re building strong, lean muscles (not bulk!), you’ll also be building a healthier brain! Improved cognitive function and mental health is yet another benefit of lifting heavy weights (and may even help with dementia and neurodegeneration).

Your Skin Will Be Glowing

We know we just talked about retinol a second ago, but seriously — if you’re looking for a glow, look no further. When you exercise and work your muscles, they create a special protein (called IL-15, or interleukin-15, if you’re down to get nerdy with us); that activate the mitochondria of your skin cells — this keeps your skin looking youthful. According to researchers at McMaster University, at a microscopic level, the result can be skin cells that look 25 years younger (!!).