#how to solve unit rate problems

[howzone]

Unlocking Math Magic: How to Solve Math Problems Like a Pro! 🌟🧮

Are you struggling with math problems? 🤔 Whether you're a parent helping your child tackle math problems for kids or a student preparing for a Math Olympiad, this video is for you! Join us as we explore effective strategies on how to solve math problems and boost your confidence in mathematics.

In this video, we’ll cover a variety of topics, including:

Math Problems for 1st Graders: Fun and engaging ways to help young learners get excited about math!

Viral Math Olympiad Problems: We’ll solve some of the most challenging problems that have taken the internet by storm! Learn how to approach these math olympiad problems and impress your peers.

Unit Rate Problems: Discover how to solve unit rate problems quickly and efficiently, including tips on how to solve a unit rate that can help you ace your exams!

Word Problems: Tackle real-life scenarios with our proven methods to solve word problems effectively.

We'll also share insights on how to study smart for math, including techniques on how to learn math and how to study for exams. You’ll learn how to solve math problems fast, making you a math whiz in no time!

This video isn’t just for students; it's also a great resource for teachers and parents looking to help their children learn how to solve challenging math problems. Let's dive into some very interesting problems to solve that will make learning math enjoyable!

Don't forget to like, share, and subscribe for more engaging content on how to solve math problems and take your math skills to the next level! 🌈✨

#Math #MathProblems #MathForKids #MathOlympiad #ProblemSolving #HowToStudyMath #LearnMath #WordProblems

[fairytales-and-folklore]

What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: What To Do When Your Emotionally Constipated Werewolf Boyfriend Gets Cursed By A Witch: A Guide

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: Derek gets cursed by a coven of witches with an inability to lie and a compulsion to blurt out whatever he's thinking and feeling at any given moment. The ironic thing is, everything he says is incredibly nice, heartfelt, and affectionate, leaving his packmates wondering: who are you and what have you done with our emotionally constipated surly alpha?

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway. Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try. Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

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Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh as he approaches the clearing along the mountainside, home to one of the most powerful covens Beacon Hills has ever seen, swathed in protection spells so thick it's a wonder he'd been able to track them down at all. He hopes like hell they'll be able to fix this, because otherwise, he is so, so screwed.

Mother.

Fucking.

Witches.

• • •

It starts at a pack meeting late one night in mid-October, all twelve of them crowded around the living room of the reconstructed Hale house in varying states of worry and boredom, half-empty pizza boxes scattered across coffee tables and couch cushions, trying to figure out how to solve the recent problem of witches in Beacon Hills.

According to Derek, a powerful coven has encroached upon their territory, stirring up mayhem all over town — people disappearing and reappearing at random, animals transfigured into objects and vice versa (that was a wild day at the cat café), townsfolk spontaneously sprouting mythical appendages (unicorn horns, fairy wings, mermaid scales, the works) and not taking any notice until they pass by a shop window and everyone rushes out to compliment them on their SFX skills, and, of course, the occasional body-swap. All in all, it's been relatively harmless, more like practical jokes in the spirit of the season than anything truly nefarious, but Scott figures it's best they put a stop to it before someone gets hurt.

Derek and Scott had been reluctant when Stiles first pitched the idea of a co-alpha blended pack dynamic, but so far, it's been working out surprisingly well. They've been seeing eye to eye on things a lot more lately, the pack growing stronger, learning to trust and rely on one another, now that they're one united front. And on the days where they clash, Stiles, self-appointed emissary, is quick to jump in and mediate. Derek had always assumed that Stiles would be biased and favor Scott, but he's actually quite good at balancing between the two of them, seeing the merit of both of their sides, translating miscommunications in a way both Derek and Scott can understand.

Today, however, is not one of those days. Scott's arguing for one plan of attack, Derek for another — one of them says something monumentally stupid just to bruise the other's ego, and just like that, all hell breaks loose, tempers flaring, insults flying. Stiles, bless him, makes a valiant attempt to intervene, but he's so overwhelmed by the looming threat of mercurial magic-wielders that he ends up interjecting his own panic into the situation, and suddenly it's the lacrosse locker room all over again, pacing back and forth until he's just an anxiety-ridden blur, freaking out over what horrible thing the witches might be planning.

"The full moon falls on Halloween this year, and a whole-ass coven of powerful witches just happens to show up in Beacon Hills?" he frets, words tumbling out of his mouth so fast it's a wonder he doesn't run out of breath. "You can't tell me that's just a coincidence. What if they're planning some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?"

"Stiles, I highly doubt that could happen twice in the same—" Allison interjects in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but Stiles just barrels on like he hadn't heard her.

"I've seen Hocus Pocus! I know what they're after!" he practically shouts. "It's the virgin thing all over again, and in case it isn't obvious, I still haven't fixed that particular problem. Seriously, how many times is my life going to become a fuck or die trope?"

Derek blinks a couple of times, lips parting slightly as he watches Stiles's frantic pacing come to a sudden halt.

"That settles it," Stiles declares with a decisive nod. "I need to have sex. Right now. Someone needs to sex me right fucking now."

There's a scuffle of laughter from the far side of the room, and then Erica's shouting, "Derek will do it!" at the same time Jackson snickers, "Derek, that's your cue."

Derek closes his eyes and lets out a weary sigh. Of course they'd jump all over that. Of course. Because somehow, over the span of the past couple of years, nearly everyone in the pack has gotten it into their heads that Stiles and Derek have got a thing for each other, and apparently, they're feeling particularly cocky today. 

He supposes he should be used to it by now. Derek has lost count of the amount of times he's caught them all muttering things like Jesus Christ, just fuck each other already and get a goddamn room under their breath every time the two of them start going at it, throwing empty threats and half-hearted insults at each other in the weirdest brand of flirting anyone has ever seen, or the way they all make gagging noises claiming they're choking on the thick layer of sexual tension permeating the air every time Stiles and Derek so much as glance in each other's direction.

Or the way Erica had full-on cackled that one time she'd caught Derek burying his face into a pillow that Stiles had spent the entire pack meeting holding, fidgeting with it until he'd unraveled the threading in one of the corners.

It's fine, Derek thinks. He's got a sewing kit around here somewhere, he can mend it later. He is a little concerned, though. He thinks maybe Stiles had just been nervous about the topics addressed during the meeting, scared for his father's safety at the idea of yet another potential threat, but he doesn't smell any hint of fear on the fabric. It just smells good. Like Stiles. Like pack. Like home. 

And— there's a hint of something else there too, something that Derek can't quite place, but it's making his heart do this funny flipping thing inside his chest.

"Oh my god, you guys are so stupid for each other, it's sickening," Erica says, but her tone is playful, almost fond. 

"What?" Derek says distractedly, like he's genuinely surprised to find himself with company.

Erica rolls her eyes. 

"The pillow, Derek," she says, pointing at it like it's incriminating evidence. Derek wraps his arms around it and pulls it closer to his chest, tucking it under his chin.

"The fucking pillow Stiles used as a goddamn boner shield all meeting," Erica smirks. "You do know why he had it, don't you? Come on, you can't tell me you didn't do it on purpose."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Derek snaps, but it's less heated and more defensive than anything else, and suddenly he won't look her in the eye. 

Erica heaves a theatrical sigh. 

"Next time you show up for a pack meeting straight after a workout, make sure you remember to put on a fucking shirt so Stiles doesn't have a heart attack, will you?"

And then she's laughing again, whipping around the corner and strolling up the stairs to her and Boyd's room, before Derek can do more than splutter.

Derek pushes the memory out of his mind, filing it away under things we refuse to talk about, along with the rest of the ever-growing mountain of Stiles-related incidents.

He's about to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell them all to shut the fuck up as usual, but instead, what comes out of his mouth is—

"Okay."

Spoken in the softest fucking cadence he didn't even know he possessed.

The room falls dead silent. Everyone stops what they're doing and just stares at him. Derek's heart picks up speed as his brain catches up with his stupid, stupid mouth. His eyes widen like he can't believe he just said that out loud, like he had absolutely no control over it. Because truthfully, he hadn't. He chances a look over at Stiles, and— if he wasn't so shocked and terrified by what had just happened, he'd have laughed, because Stiles has got his mouth hanging open comically wide, eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline as he fixes Derek with an incredulous stare.

And then Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god," he says, practically wheezing, hand clutched over his heart. "You really had me going there for a minute. You're messing with me, just like Danny. I've never heard you joke like that before."

And then everyone else starts laughing, and Derek forces himself to join in, pointedly avoiding the looks of what the fuck plastered all over Boyd, Isaac, and Erica's faces, internally screaming his own chorus of what the ever-loving fuck because that definitely hadn't been a joke and Derek definitely hadn't mean to say that out loud.

Amidst his panic, the query who the fuck is Danny? nettles at the back of his mind, and he can't decide if he's more offended by the fact that someone else propositioned Stiles for sex, or that the fact that they weren't actually serious about it.

• • •

At first, Stiles assumes it's a practical joke, or some kind of bizarre six-months-late April Fool's prank. It has to be, because over the course of the week that follows, Derek stops being a sarcastic asshole toward Stiles, and instead, starts showering him in compliments. Stiles is just going about his life, cracking self-deprecating jokes, but instead of smirking and adding an insulting quip of his own, Derek has started to become like, aggressively nice, getting almost angry whenever Stiles insults himself.

"God, I'm so stupid," Stiles sighs as he crosses out the wrong answer to a math problem he'd been working on at Derek's kitchen table.

"Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," Derek growls, brow furrowed like he's genuinely offended by Stiles's offhand remark. "You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."

Stiles stares at him, highlighter cap falling out of his open mouth.

Derek blinks a few times in rapid succession, dropping the stack of playing cards he'd been shuffling for their upcoming game night onto the kitchen counter with a deafening clatter. He looks just as surprised as Stiles feels.

"Uh…thanks, man," Stiles manages, a tell-tale blush prickling the back of his neck as he buries his nose in his textbook and doesn't resurface for several minutes straight, having retained absolutely nothing on the page.

A few days later finds Lydia, Cora, and Malia all roaring with laughter as Stiles walks them through his intricate twenty-five step plan to get someone to want to sleep with him before the next full moon. Mock-insulted and mostly joking, he says, "What, you don't think there's at least one person out there who wants to get with all of this? I'm a goddamn snack, I'll have you know."

"Shut up. No you're not," Derek snaps, glancing up from the book he'd been pretending to read in the far corner of the living room. And then, like he just can't help himself, immediately follows it up with, "You're a full course meal."

Stiles pauses, staring at him in disbelief. 

Derek suddenly goes very rigid, eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm. He slaps a hand over his mouth, like he's physically restraining himself from saying anything more. 

And then Stiles bursts out laughing. 

"Dude, that's funny. I'm gonna have to start using that," he says, penciling in the pick-up line as step twenty-six.

The thing is, it isn't just compliments. Derek has also started to become, like, weirdly affectionate, in his own gruff, sourwolf way. He's started talking more — Stiles is fairly certain Derek has spoken more over the past week than he has in the past two years — his expressions becoming softer, a wider range of emotions smoothing away the frown lines as he opens up about his past, sharing pieces of family history, little anecdotes and personal stories and random facts about himself. 

Stiles collects them like a memory magpie.

Derek prefers pancakes over waffles. 

Derek likes the color red. 

Derek has the entire Harry Potter series in pristine hardcover. 

Derek used to sit at his grandmother's feet and untangle yarn for her while she knitted him and his siblings cozy winter hats and sweaters. 

And it'd be really endearing if it didn't make Stiles wildly uncomfortable, because this is Derek we're talking about — a guy so emotionally constipated, it looks like it's causing him physical pain. Over the years, Stiles has come to expect a certain dynamic between the two of them, one that straddles the line between half-hearted insults and playful banter, and this whole weird new nice guy routine that Derek has suddenly got going on is starting to make Stiles suspicious.

He starts to get really paranoid, thinking Derek must have somehow found out about his — well, he wouldn't call it a crush, exactly — and is just fucking with him, just to be a dick. Like, maybe he caught Stiles staring at him during pack meetings one too many times, or— oh god, what if he can smell the arousal coming off of him in waves whenever they lock eyes, and he's finally put two and two together after all these years and figured out that the reason Stiles's heartbeat goes haywire every time Derek so much as glances in his direction isn't because he's scared of him, or because he's had too much caffeine.

Or— oh fuck. Maybe Derek had heard him that one time he'd jerked off in the shower to the thought of Derek pressing him up against his bedroom wall, and gasped out Derek's name as he'd, uh, crescendoed, before strolling back into his room wearing nothing but a sated, shit-eating grin and a towel wrapped around his waist, only to find the real Derek sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. 

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin and drops the towel, shouting all manner of colorful obscenities. The look on Derek's face is…interesting. Stiles can practically feel Derek's eyes boring into him, trailing over every inch of him, lingering on the border where his towel meets his hipbones and swallowing thickly, and Stiles can't help but follow the movements, entranced, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down and wondering how it would taste under his tongue, and oh god, now his body thinks it's time for round two and he's tenting his towel and fuck fuck fuck oh no—

And then Derek clears his throat a little louder and more aggressively than normal, and they both avert their eyes, and Stiles controls himself long enough to ask why Derek is here, and then Derek slowly turns his back so that Stiles can hastily get dressed, handing him a slip of paper with a weird symbol on it that he's hoping Stiles can decipher for him.

"So, uh…out of curiosity…exactly how long were you here before I stepped out of the shower?" Stiles asks as Derek grips the frame of his bedroom window, one foot already out on the roof. The crack in his voice is hard to miss.

"Long enough," Derek says cryptically, which could either mean "I heard you" or "you kept me waiting," and Stiles is honestly not sure which one is worse.

A loud crash snaps Stiles back to the present and he looks up to find Erica climbing through his bedroom window, followed swiftly by Boyd and Isaac, tumbling into a heap onto his bedroom floor. Try as they might, the leather-clad trio have never quite managed to replicate Derek's finesse when it comes to breaking and entering.

Before Stiles can get out even so much as a what the fuck, they're rounding on him, talking over each other in a worried frenzy, insisting that there's something very very wrong with Derek. Stiles's heart starts to race, mouth going dry, and he's already going through his mental rolodex of potential cures and fix-its, when they say the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his life.

"We think that Derek's been cursed," Erica says.

"By a witch," Isaac clarifies.

"And now he can only say really nice things," Boyd finishes.

"What," Stiles says flatly, and then he's snorting with incredulous laughter.

"I'm sorry, run that by me again. You think Derek's been hit with a…what, a nice guy curse?" he snickers. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

"You don't understand," Erica says seriously, bracing her hands on either side of Stiles's shoulders. "Tonight, he told us that he's proud of us and that he loves us."

Stiles's mouth drops open in shock.

"And that's not all," Isaac chimes in. "We tested it out. Asked him to tell us how he really feels about Scott, and do you know what he said?"

"What?" Stiles eyes him warily, preparing to launch into a one-man Scott McCall defense party.

"That Scott's a good kid with a heart of gold," Erica scoffs, like it's physically painful for her to recall. "Can you believe that?"

"Holy shit," Stiles says, genuinely stunned.

And suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason Derek has been so unnervingly kind to him these past few days. He's been cursed. Stupid as it sounds, there's no other explanation for it.

"Yeah, so…as you can see, Derek needs help," Erica says, like being nice is some kind of terminal illness.

"And what makes you think I can fix this?" Stiles asks.

"Duh, you're the brains of the pack," Erica grins at him, like it's obvious.

"Derek said that if anyone is clever enough to find the answer, it's you," Boyd tells him. And that's…well, weirdly nice.

• • •

So he researches, and he researches, and he researches, and he doesn't come up with a single damn thing, because never, in the history of witchcraft and wizarding lore, has there ever been a curse that made someone say nice things.

Still, it keeps happening. Derek keeps dropping nice bombs fucking everywhere, every single time he opens his mouth. And it sucks, because it's really starting to have an effect on Stiles. Derek will say something really sweet to him, and he'll find himself starting to give in to that hope he's been harboring for years, and then he has to shake himself really hard and remind himself that it's just the curse talking, that Derek doesn't actually mean anything he's saying. 

Except—

Well…lately, it's like all of their interactions have this weird sort of romantic, sexually charged undercurrent to them, and Stiles can't help but notice that Derek doesn't act like that with anyone else but him.

He'll compliment Lydia on her intellect. Kira on her katana wielding skills. Allison on her archery. He'll tell Cora and Malia how grateful he is to call them family, how brave and strong and resilient they are. He'll tell Isaac, Erica, and Boyd how proud he is that they've come so far and learned so much, not just from him, but from Scott as well, who makes a great leader. He even tells Jackson that he thinks he could go pro in lacrosse, if he wanted to. 

But with Stiles, it's much more frequent, much more specific. Little details he shouldn't notice about him. If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd think Derek was flirting with him. 

"Red is a great color on you." 

"You smell like the forest after it rains."

"Your moles and freckles remind me of star maps." 

"I like the way your smile lights up your eyes."

"You have really soft hands." 

One time, he literally just said the word, "forearms," with a wide-eyed expression on his face before bolting out of the room, leaving Stiles standing alone in the middle of the living room with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a paintbrush held aloft in one hand.

And it all just keeps tumbling out of his mouth like dulcet word vomit, like he's physically incapable of restraining himself. 

Not only that, but Stiles could almost swear he keeps catching Derek just staring at him at random intervals, but whenever he looks up, Derek's gaze quickly shifts away and the tips of his ears redden a little bit like he's embarrassed at having been caught looking at Stiles, and it's like they've switched places, because out of the two of them, Stiles is supposed to be the blushing idiot, the one saying all of these stupidly candid schmaltzy things. Stiles is the one who notices all of Derek's little details, not the other way around. 

It's so unnerving that Stiles starts to wonder whether Derek has been spiked with something even worse, like a love potion. Stiles buckles down and hits the books even harder, losing sleep as he continues to search for a cure.

• • •

They're crowded around the kitchen table one afternoon after classes let out, shooting the shit about what they think the coven could possibly be up to, when talk turns to childhood nostalgia and they all start arguing over which Hogwarts house they'd each get sorted into if they were witches. 

Scott gets a unanimous vote for Gryffindor, but his triumphant smile fades when Erica insists that Stiles belongs in Slytherin with her and Lydia, and that Derek is some kind of Gryffindor/Slytherin hybrid. Isaac thinks they're all squibs. Boyd says that Stiles would get eaten by the giant squid before he even had a chance to be sorted. Stiles gets heated, slapping the table and arguing that Derek is obviously a Hufflepuff. 

"Think about it," he says. "He's all about family, incredibly loyal, selfless to a fault, patient to a fault when it comes to that creepy uncle of his, believes in hard work and fair play, strong sense of upholding justice. Case in point, Derek is the perfect Hufflepuff."

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Derek's sudden interjection makes them all jump, and Stiles chokes on air because there's no way in hell Derek just quoted A Very Potter Musical. Eleven pairs of eyes whip to the doorframe where Derek is standing, balancing half a dozen pizza boxes in one hand, one eyebrow arched like he's seriously reconsidering his choice in packmates. And then his entire frame relaxes, broad smile spreading across his face as he strides toward the kitchen table and sets the stack of boxes down.

"Just kidding. I've got a prefect badge with a black and yellow badger crest on it hidden in my sock drawer," he says, and Stiles doesn't miss the way the tips of his ears burn scarlet after he drops that little anecdote.

"You're all wrong, by the way," he adds, almost as if compelled to keep talking. "If anything, Stiles is a Ravenclaw. Naturally curious, avid learner and researcher, creative and clever. And I mean, sure, he's got some positive Gryffindor and Slytherin qualities, too. We all do. Bravery and cunning kind of comes with the territory. But Stiles is a textbook Ravenclaw. Plus, he looks good in blue."

Derek pauses for a moment, wide-eyed expression fixed to the kitchen floor as he sucks in a steady breath and then very slowly releases it back out through his nostrils. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then promptly walks out of the kitchen at a quick stride, leaving Stiles staring after him, open-mouthed.

(And if Stiles winds up at the local craft store the following morning, picking out the softest black and yellow yarn he can find and cramming a copy of Knitting For Dummies under his arm so that he can maybe learn how to knit Derek a Hufflepuff scarf for his birthday this year…well, what of it?)

• • •

"Hey, maybe true love's kiss will break your curse," Stiles jokes one night when they're all crowded around the dinner table sharing Italian takeaway.

Derek practically shoves his entire fist into his mouth to stop himself from blurting out, maybe you should give it a try.

Luckily, Stiles is too busy screeching about burning his tongue on a scalding mouthful of mozzarella to notice.

• • •

They're in Derek's living room late one evening, nearly a fortnight after the initial incident. Everyone else has gone home, or gone up to their respective rooms. Everyone except for Stiles, who had opted to stay behind to do a bit more reading in an effort to find a way to cure Derek of what Stiles has been affectionately referring to as the curse of the compliments, tucked away into a leather armchair in the far corner of the room, while Derek sprawls out on the couch, exhausted after a run through the woods.

He doesn't know when he had gotten so comfortable around Stiles, allowed himself to become so vulnerable and unguarded, but he ends up falling asleep, lulled by the sound of Stiles's steady scribbling as he takes notes and hums thoughtfully to himself, altogether missing the affectionate smile that spreads across Stiles's face as he glances up in Derek's direction and falters mid-sentence around a half-formed question. A little shiver winds its way down Derek's spine, and Stiles immediately bolts upright, scattering notes and highlighters everywhere as he moves to wrap Derek in a patchwork quilt draped over the back of the couch.

As Derek drifts into an easy slumber, he dreams about Stiles. It's that same dream he's had countless times before, only this time, there's no impending danger, no kanima stalking around the edges of the swimming pool — just the two of them, clutching one another, breath coming out in heated gusts that spiral over the top of their heads. 

It's all so vivid, like he's reliving it, only through a different lens. He can feel the bruising grip of Stiles's arms as they wind around his torso, the way Stiles's heartbeat crashes against his ribcage, reverberating against his back. In this memory, Stiles isn't holding him up because he has to — because this time, Derek has full control over his body. He twists around in Stiles's arms until they're facing one another, breath ghosting over each other's lips, and then he's backing him up against the edge of the pool, fingertips tracing the curves of his reddened lips before surging forward and capturing him in a kiss.

He can feel everything, the press of Stiles's body against his own as Stiles arches into him, writhes against him, like he can't get close enough. The feel of Stiles's lips and teeth and tongue against his throat as he buries his face into the curve of Derek's shoulder. The way Stiles whispers his name against Derek's ear, desperate and longing, with a soft affection that makes him want to weep. 

And it's all too much, too much, too cruel because it isn't real. 

Derek wakes with a gasp and Stiles's name on the tip of his tongue, only to find the real Stiles hovering over him with a blanket grasped in his outstretched hands, staring down at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging open.

"Sorry, I was just—" Stiles falters, taking a cautionary step backward and averting his eyes. "You were shivering. I thought you were cold."

He holds out the blanket like it's a peace offering.

"Oh…uh…thank you," Derek says softly, reaching out to take it and tampering down the electric shock that jolts through his chest as his hand brushes against Stiles's fingertips. 

"And um…you were kind of talking in your sleep?" Stiles poses this next statement as a question, like he's giving Derek an out, eyes cast toward the ceiling as he attacks a phantom itch on the back of his neck.

Derek bolts upright, alarmed.

"What did I say?" he asks, fully aware of how frantic he sounds.

"You, uh…well, you sort of said my name. And you were kind of like, breathing really heavily," Stiles offers, chancing a glance over at Derek. 

"Is everything okay?" he asks, shifting into concerned pack dad mode, leaning in closer and placing a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder.

"Whoah, your heart's beating really fast," he breathes, brows narrowed in concern as he searches Derek's face for a fault line, no doubt feeling the erratic thrumming as he presses his fingertips against Derek's collarbone. "You okay? Nervous about something?"

Without missing a beat, and absolutely hating it, Derek says, "Yes."

"You want to talk about it?" Stiles asks softly. "What's got you so worked up?"

You, Derek muses with something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Seconds pass before he comes to the horrifying realization that he's just said that out loud. Stiles pales, absentmindedly digging his fingertips into Derek's shoulder, where he seems to be fused.

"I make you nervous?" he asks, his voice soft, disbelieving.

"Yes," Derek grits out against his will.

"Why—" Stiles pauses, swallowing thickly. "Why do I make you nervous?"

Derek stares at him, eyes wide, wondering how in the hell he's going to get himself out of this one without revealing too much.

"I was dreaming about that night at the pool," he says slowly, choosing his words very carefully. "That's why I said your name."

And technically, technically, it's the truth. Just not all of it.

"Oh," Stiles visibly deflates, a gust of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding rushing out of him. He quickly shakes it off. "Yeah, that's gotta leave you with some pretty heavy PTSD, huh?"

Derek nods, pressing his lips together to keep the truth from spilling out.

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles says suddenly, a heart-clenching combination of guilt, sadness, and determination in his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have just left you there, right? Despite what you might think, I wasn't just looking out for myself that night. Literally the only reason I let you go was because I thought if I could get a hold of Scott, we'd both have more of a fighting chance. And if Scott hadn't showed— I would've held you up all night, if I had to. After everything we've been through, I just…I hope you know that by now." 

And honestly, Derek might as well be back at the bottom of that pool, because right now, he feels like he's drowning. He just stares up at Stiles, not trusting himself to speak, his throat uncomfortably tight, the corners of his eyes prickling.

"And I'm not just saying that to be nice," Stiles continues, cutting through the tension just as easily as he'd created it. "I'm not the one who's under some weird kind of nice guy curse, or anything. Which I know must be an absolute pain in the ass for you, but don't worry, I'm doing everything I can to find a cure, and then you'll be back to the surly, grumpy Sourwolf we all know and love."

Stiles gives Derek's shoulder a reassuring little squeeze, fixing him with an affectionate half-smile before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping out the front door. Derek stares at the leather armchair scattered with books and leaflets and highlighters until the Stiles-shaped imprint in its cushions fades away, and then he's stalking up to his bedroom, dragging the quilt and the pillow that always smells like Stiles with him and wrapping himself up in it like a burrito.

• • •

Stiles nearly has a heart attack when his bedroom window slides open at a quarter to midnight on the full moon, and Derek comes tumbling inside, a little breathless, but looking determined and resolute. He squares his shoulders, looks Stiles directly in the eye, and says, "Now that I'm no longer cursed and can say this without being compelled to, I've got something I need to tell you."

Stiles prepares for an onslaught of…well, something bad, because that's just his life now, isn't it? That's just been his life for the past several years, ever since the night he decided, hey, looking for half a dead body in the woods sounds like fun and next thing he knows, his best friend is a werewolf, and then everyone around him is a werewolf, or a kanima, or a kitsune, or a banshee, or a darach, or—

What he isn't prepared for is for Derek to start waxing poetic about all the things he likes about Stiles. Because oh right, on top of everything else, there's also witches and Derek has been cursed. Only it's weird, because it's not quite as nice as it has been over the past couple of weeks — in fact, he's pretty sure there's a couple of insults disguised as compliments thrown in there that Stiles doesn't even have time to register because he's just so shocked by what Derek says next.

And I think I might be in love with you.

I think I have been for a while now, I just didn't realize it.

Or maybe I just wasn't willing to admit it.

I guess it took being cursed to finally admit the truth.

And that nervous little laugh he huffs out afterward. Sweet Jesus.

Every inch of Stiles is on fire.

"Oh fuck," he says, a surge of adrenaline burning through his veins like the world's worst shot of fireball whiskey. Derek's smile withers, because yeah, oh fuck isn't exactly at the top of the list of things you want to hear after you've just poured your heart out, and the look Stiles gives him is nothing short of devastating. 

"Oh fuck, I was right," Stiles groans, burying his face into the palms of his hands like he's about to cry. "It's gotten so much worse. You're not just cursed, you're delusional."

It hits Derek like a punch to the gut. He barely registers the blur of red and blue as Stiles bounds off the bed and bolts to his desk, rummaging through haphazard stacks of journals and leather-bound books with spiderwebbed spines. Derek watches him with a kind of cautious curiosity, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

"Don't worry, Derek," Stiles reassures him in a tone that's anything but, shoving the cap of a highlighter off with his teeth and circling a passage in one of the many, many pages of his chicken-scratch notes. "I promise we'll fix this. There's got to be something in here about love potions, because it's clear to me now that you've been spiked with one. We'll catch the witch that did this to you and make them pay."

And just like that, it all clicks into place. The knot coiling in Derek's stomach unclenches, and then he's laughing unabashedly.

"You're such a fucking dumbass sometimes, you know that?" Derek says as his laughter subsides, the gentle fondness of his tone clashing with the bite of his words. "I haven't been spiked with love potion, Stiles. And I told you, I'm not cursed anymore."

Stiles freezes, caught off guard, because it's the first time he's heard Derek's sarcasm in over two weeks, and he kind of hates how much he'd missed it.

"Are…are you sure?" he asks, wincing at how small he sounds.

"Dead certain," Derek replies with a shit-eating grin that shows all of his teeth, looking for all the world like he's physically struggling to hold back his amusement.

And that's when it hits him. If Derek was still cursed, if he'd been poisoned with some kind of love potion, he wouldn't be able to throw insults and sarcastic quips at Stiles. It would go against the very nature of the spell.

Which can only mean one thing: Derek isn't cursed. He's perfectly fine, and he's fucking with him. 

Stiles can't believe he learned two-color brioche for this asshole.

"Fuck you," Stiles says harshly, watching with a sick sort of satisfaction as it wipes the smirk right off of Derek's stupidly handsome face.

"Wait, what?" Derek balks, blinking rapidly like he'd just been struck over the head.

"Fuck you for thinking it's funny to mess with a guy's feelings like this," Stiles spits, hating the pathetic tremor in his voice.

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Derek asks, eyes wide with worry, like Stiles is the one who's delusional. 

"The way I see it, there's only two options here," Stiles barrels on in spite of the anxiety-fueled adrenaline twisting through his veins, heat rising in his cheeks. "Either you've been cursed or spiked with amortentia or — I don't fucking know, some kind of spell that makes you think you have feelings for me, or you were never actually cursed at all, you've figured out that I'm the one who's in love with you, and you've just been saying all of this nice shit to me to…I don't know, wind me up? Make me look like a jackass? Or maybe you just like hurting people."

That last one stings, lends venom to the bite in Derek's voice.

"Option C," Derek grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Fucking Peter got involved with not one, not two, but seven witches from the same coven, and started a civil war — which explains all of the weird shit that's been happening around town lately, apparently they've been trying to curse him and each other — got caught in his own web of lies and fled the scene, but not before hitting my house to pack supplies so he could skip town. The coven tracked him down, but couldn't follow him inside because of Deaton's protection spells, so they just assumed he was hiding out in there, and placed a curse on the sole proprietor. Little did they know, the house is in my name. So, lucky me, I got the full blast of it."

Stiles gapes at him for a few moments, eyes trained on the rapid rise and fall of Derek's chest as he struggles to recompose himself. Anything involving his creepy, murderous, and now apparently two-timing (seven-timing?) uncle always gets him so riled up.

"So, what? You actually were cursed and that's the reason you've been saying nice shit for the past two weeks?" Stiles asks with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, but his tone is several shades softer than it had been a few moments ago, curiosity piqued. 

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh, but he can't help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he says with the tone of someone trying to explain something obvious to someone who's very, very stupid. "It didn't make me say nice shit, Stiles. It made me incapable of lying, like Peter lied to all of them. It made me more open and vulnerable and vocal about the things I already felt, stuff I tried to keep hidden. And it made me realize just how much I hated doing that. Because yeah, it was definitely embarrassing at times, but it was also kind of nice, not having to keep it in anymore. And I realized that everyone around me seemed happier for it, that I was able to make the people I care about feel good, just by being honest with them about how I really felt about them."

"Which is why," Derek sighs, pausing to glance up from the floor and lock eyes with Stiles. "As soon as they broke the curse, I came here…to see you…to tell you that I— what I told you."

All of the air rushes out of Stiles's lungs.

"So everything…" he manages, just barely, to keep the choked disbelief out of his voice. "Everything you've been saying to me these past few weeks…and everything you said to me just now…that was real?"

Derek offers him a small, affectionate smile that nearly breaks him in two.

"Yeah, dumbass. I meant every word."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, rooted to the spot, and Derek can practically hear the cogs turning inside his head as he processes it all and plays catch-up. And then he's smiling, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face as he bounds across the room and throws his arms around Derek's neck with such gusto that he knocks them both backward onto Stiles's bed, swallowing Derek's surprised huff of laughter in a kiss.

[technofeudalism]

What's New Experts are warning of a looming increase in grocery prices as agricultural soil becomes increasingly unproductive. In a concerning trend that could impact households across the globe, the combination of overfarming, climate change and insufficient sustainable practices has left vast swaths of farmland degraded and unproductive, threatening food supply chains and driving up costs. The United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) estimates that 33 percent of the Earth's soils are already degraded and more than 90 percent could become degraded by 2050. Why It Matters According to the FAO, soil erosion "occurs naturally under all climatic conditions and on all continents, but it is significantly increased and accelerated by unsustainable human activities (up to 1,000 times) through intensive agriculture, deforestation, overgrazing and improper land use changes. "Soil erosion rates are much higher than soil formation rates," the FAO said. "Soil is a finite resource, meaning its loss and degradation is not recoverable within a human lifespan." A map previously published by Newsweek predicts that 95 percent of America's soil will be degraded in less than 30 years. Only a 5 percent area is marked not degraded.

i absolutely love (/s) how this story is being framed as further price inflation and economic woes being the primary thing to worry about. the worst part of barren food stores isn't related to high prices.

the soil of our earth, our home planet, is dying/being killed by industrial agriculture, and as such we are now struggling to produce food. what this describes is imminent global famine within most of our lifetimes (~30yrs). sticker shock is not the biggest threat. that award goes to malnutrition and starvation.

it's possible to recover from this. but the solutions involved cost money and also winds up reducing overall crop yield, so many farmers aren’t going to pursue these solutions as frequently because they just aren’t feasible. the biggest concern for the average farmer is economic viability. point blank.

thus, any efforts at taking even baby steps to solve this problem will require centralized governments, particularly in the west, to enact direct, formative changes. unfortunately, all of them happen to be collapsing at this very moment. so... hang on tight, i suppose.

[csuitebitches]

book review: Stolen focus by Johann Hari

Major learnings from this book. It basically talks about focus, why and how we’re losing it. Why can’t we pay attention anymore? Are we individuals to blame or our systems? 

There will be a time when the upper class will be extremely aware of the risks to their attention (caused by tech, social media, our current generation) and the masses, with fewer resources to resist the temptation of technology, will be manipulated more and more by their computers. 

Multitasking is a myth. What actually happens when we multitask is that we “juggle” between tasks. This results in incomplete tasks, higher error rates, less focus, less creativity and memory decreases. 

Sleep is extremely important, especially sleeping according to nature - when the sun sets and sun rises. If the whole world slept the way we are naturally programmed, we would have an economic earthquake. Our economic systems run on sleep deprived people. 

Reading online and reading print has a huge difference. Reading online creates tendencies of skimming and scanning text. This prevents our brain from focusing intently on one story at a time, which print allows you to do. You also remember and understand things from printed texts better. 

Empathy. Certain research suggests that reading fiction and novels improves empathy, because you are immersing yourself in another character’s life for a while. Empathy has played a huge role in human advancements. If a group of white people did not realise that colonisation was wrong, if men did not realise that women deserve equal rights, we would not have independent nations nor be close to gender equality today. 

There are multiple types of paying attention. Focused attention is one thing. But day dreaming and letting your mind wander with no distraction (that is, being alone with your thoughts) is equally important. Some of the most important breakthroughs in human history were because the inventors were not actively focusing on solving the problem. 

Being on social media = giving a free pass to be manipulated. No thoughts, opinions, desires that you have are original. They have all been fed into you by social media and the online world. It is by their design that we cannot focus. 

Leaked internal records of Facebook show that they are aware that their algorithms exploit the human brain’s attraction to divisiveness. 64% of people, for instance, who join extremist groups join because FB’s algorithm directly recommends too. “Our recommendation systems grow the problem.” Zuckerberg eventually terminated the unit that was studying this. 

Diet and attention. The diet we consumed today is a diet that causes regular energy spikes and energy crashes. Our food does not have the nutrients we need for our brains to function well. Our current diets actively contain chemicals that seem to act on our brains almost like drugs.  

Be careful about reading research, especially when it’s funded by the industry itself. For 40 years, the lead industry funded all the scientific research into whether it was safe, and assured the world that it was. Lead later turned out to severely stunt your ability to focus and pay attention and that you are more likely to get ADHD. 

We define success broadly as economic growth. Economies should get bigger, companies should get bigger. Growth can happen in two ways - either the companies find new markets or they persuade the existing consumers to consume more. If you can get people to eat more or to sleep less, you’ve found the source of economic growth. It results in people working overtime, not having enough time with family, friends and themselves, stress and anxiety prone, lack of sleep and bad health, etc. 

Conclusion: use precommitment to stop switching tasks, try to focus more on intrinsic motivation than extrinsic, go off social media periodically (say 1 month at a time) and then extend those breaks; everyday spend 1 hour in walking in silence (no music, conversations or people- and if this is in nature, even better) to connect with yourself, 8 hours of sleep every night, build on slow practices like yoga, cut out processed food, take your PTO!!

[mysticstronomy]

HOW FAST IS OUR UNIVERSE MOVING??

Blog#425

Wednesday, August 7th, 2024.

Welcome back,

The rate at which the universe is expanding is called the Hubble constant, named after astronomer Edwin Hubble, who, with Milton Humason, showed convincingly that the velocity with which a galaxy was moving away from Earth was proportional to its distance.

That is, velocity = Hubble constant × distance. Rearranging this equation gives Hubble constant = velocity ÷ distance, so the Hubble constant is expressed in units of kilometers per second (km/s) per megaparsec (Mpc), where a megaparsec is 3.26 million light-years.

So what is this constant? How fast is the universe expanding? In 1929 Hubble got a value of about 500 km/s/Mpc. Much more accurate measurements dropped this to about 100 km/s/Mpc by about 1960, but the astronomical community became divided into two camps, one championing 100 km/s/Mpc and the other at 50 km/s/Mpc.

Solving this problem became one of the key projects of the Hubble Space Telescope (HST), and in 2001 the HST astronomers came to the conclusion of 72 km/s/Mpc.

Astronomers were finally happy, but their joy lasted only a few years. Recent accurate measurements of the cosmic microwave background give values of about 68 km/s/Mpc, while measurements using observations like that done by HST still give values of about 72 km/s/Mpc. This disagreement has been called the “Hubble tension” and has not yet been resolved.

Originally published on https://www.britannica.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, August 10th, 2024)

"CAN WE MAKE A BLACK HOLE IN A LAB??"

[mesetacadre]

Full translation under the cut

Trumpism or declining imperialism?

Immediately after winning the elections, the reelected president of the United States, Donald Trump, tested the waters of public opinion with respect to what a priori could be understood as stupidity: annexing Greenland, Canada, retaking the Panama Canal, taking control of the Gaza strip, and lastly, leaving Ukraine in the lurch demanding billions in compensation –closing one front to open another?–. These ideas were interpreted from some media soapboxes as the boastings of an eccentric or fascist president. The problem with this is that annexations and war are not the result of boastings, they're not the delirium of this or that governor; if this was the case, it'd be enough with subjecting them and their advisors to psychological therapy, to placate their most quarrelsome impulses. On the contrary, we speak of necessities and demands of the imperialists as a class, and not because they're greedy, but rather because this is how capitalism works, through competition, the urgency of profits, upholding and widening markets, etc.

To understand this imperialist aggression beyond the psychological profiles loved by TV talk shows, we need to define some data. The USA's GDP increased 2.7% in 2024, more than any other G7 economy, but much less than its main competitor, China. It's important to point out that, throughout the entire Biden administration, China grew more than the USA, and the same can be said about GDP per capita. On its end, the US has a comercial deficit of 900 billion dollars and a negative check balance with other countries. In the debit side of the balance sheets of the biggest US financial and industrial companies there are large bonds and debts with the rest of the world. In 2023 and 2024 an economic recession was averted, the main world economy had a "soft landing" after the pandemic, but not without going through periods of industrial contraction and not without the banking system trembling in the first quarter of 2023, with the bankruptcy of Silicon Valley Bank and other financial institutions.

The defeat of the democrats, without a doubt, was in no small part due to the generalized impoverishment of the north american working class. Inflation also hit the country hard, with an accumulated rise in prices of 21% since 2020. On top of this, mortgage rates rose, health and car insurances got more expensive, and the credit that sustains the middle classes shrunk during the Biden administration; good times for the bourgeoisie, bad times for the working class.

In this landscape, Trump is less the cause or source of determined policies, but rather their personification, as the need of the great US monopolies, consortiums and multinationals to dope their horses in the race against emergent powers. Trump's economic nationalism is, in summary, protectionism increasing the cost of imports and foreign services and the severe USamerican commercial deficit. At the same time, it means the demand of foreign companies to invest in and carry out their activity on US soil. Racism and the frontal attack on class organizations and critical social movements are coupled to this economic program. This is nothing new nor does it signal the beginning of a new era; state intervention in times of crisis or heightened international conflict is as old as capitalism itself. The State is that institutional scheme that, in the face of a market in which private or independent agents compete, "puts order" so ensure the continuity of the market itself. Recall how the great crises in the history of capitalism were solved with warfare and a nationalist and authoritarian governance in the main world economies. The crisis of the 70s was resolved forcing commercial deregulation and labor flexibilization on Third World countries, and on the working class of the imperial core to a great degree: the famous "structural adjustments" of so-called neoliberalism.

Back to the present day, the Trump administration will most likely be continuist with Biden's economic policy, in which economic growth depends absolutely on grants and government subsidies to the great industry and technological companies, guaranteeing the necessary growing investments, backing financial institutions and promoting the offer of a private capital growingly more committed to the "ideal collective capitalist", the State.

Facing the low profitability of industrial capital, the main motor of economic growth, the escape presented to the economic structure of the great power is increasing labor productivity. Perhaps this will help to better understand the alliance represented by Trump and Musk, which is much more complex than a simple alliance between two extravagant character with right-wing ideas. The big technological companies, greatly subsidized and dependant on infrastructure, are fundamental for the modernization of the productive fabric and an international competition spurred on by robotization and automation. The North American imperialist State ensures the control of raw resources, trade routes and guarantees investments with the dollar as the dominant currency. It's important to understand this fully, because capitalism's political economy problems aren't just "technical", such as low profitability or the market's inability to absorb excess population. Class warfare is deployed internationally through the channels of imperialism, with its military, judicial, cultural, etc. implications.

We have multiple examples. The so-called Ecological Transition, or the development and employment of new technologies, are fully incorporated into imperialist dynamics. The necessary technologies for the production, processing and storage of energy require investments, infrastructures and the mass exploitation of every kind of natural resources, not always abundant. The paradox of Green Capitalism, or the 4.0 Industrial Revolution, lies in the fact that its existence necessitates the ratcheting up of the exploitation of human and natural resources of all the peoples of the world, and it's through this deep-seated problem that these territorial conflicts that Trump has brought to the table are understood.

Of course, not all consortiums and imperialist monopolies are prepared to cede its market and resources to the USamerican power. The extension of imperialism through export capital favors the historical emergence of the bourgeois class worldwide, accumulation surfaced new nations in the 20th century that, in a consequent worsening of international competition, made an interventionism necessary from the totality of the imperialist alliances and institutions dominated by the USA, such as NATO or the IMF. This is where coup d'etats, commercial sanctions, judicial processes, even military invasions against nations of all continents fit within the last decades. China's technological transfers to Third World countries or the developmentalist outlook of its partners could result in similar effects in the future.

The emergence of new powers, that is, the restructuring of the imperialist pyramid, has obstructed some of the channels through which wealth flowed to the top of that pyramid, the US, EU, Japan, etc. The rise of Russia, China, India and other regional powers has entailed a greater strategic equilibrium between links of the imperialist chain and a greater interdependency between the countries of the world. The spoils are increasingly disputed between more exploiters. Before this situation, the US seems to look to shorten the value chains, lower the dependency of their capital's circulation and recourses on their competitors, open new commercial routes opposed to the Chinese silk routes and restore the flows of accumulation.

It's commonplace that there is nothing more dangerous than a fatally wounded empire. It's evident that imperialism, as it has been configured up to now, is entering a highly volatile phase. This process will not only happen through tariffs, also through wars and other ways of intervention, reminding us daily that the trees of capitalist civilization grow on a stratum of unpaid mass human labor, environmental plunder and violence. And may no conscious worker doubt that every imperialist in the world will attempt to join that exploitation, regardless of its "pole" and independently of their nationality, religion, skin color or political party.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 14: locked in/trapped

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

“Stop the door!” you shouted, running down the hallway towards the elevator. Spencer, who heard you immediately, put his hand between the doors to make the sensor stop.

Once inside you exhaled agitatedly, while you thanked him, putting a hand on your chest to catch your breath.

“Didn't your alarm go off?”

“It did, but honestly the sheets were so comfortable that I just ignored it,” you replied, with a guilty smile.

You two knew each other from a couple of parties in common between the FBI units, but since you worked for the cybercrimes unit it was common to see you in García's office to ask her for a favor and then Spencer came to bump into you in the hallway a few times. He thought of you as a nice girl and you thought the same of him. Not that he was a pretty girl, of course, but a kind man.

“Maybe coffee can solve it, it always helps me”

“Running here woke me up enough, but I appreciate the advice,” you smiled, watching him from the side, and admiring his perfectly messy hair.

You were silent for a while, long enough for your heart rate to slow down and you were able to stand upright again, regaining your composure even with rosy cheeks and a thin sheen of sweat from the effort.

“How is all the work going?”

Your floor was higher up in the building so he would be the first one down, but it still gave you some time to chat, and just as you were about to answer a loud noise interrupted you, the lights flicker until they go out and everything around you shakes. The elevator had stopped.

“Shit, shit, shit…” you screeched, your back pressed against the elevator wall. He leaned next to you and tried to stay calm, breathing heavily and looking everywhere for a sign of danger. “The door, try to open it.”

"No! Press the… the button, press it,” he stammered, pointing to the red-lit circle on the dashboard. You heeded his instruction and then returned to your place, sliding over the wall slowly so you could sit on the floor.

You weren't claustrophobic or anything, but you had already gone at least five floors and the thought of the elevator collapsing wasn't very encouraging. Spencer had gotten stuck once before and the problem had been resolved in a couple of seconds, so he tried to hold on to the idea that this time it would be the same. However, just like that time, the statistic appeared in his mind: six elevator-related deaths per year and 10,000 injuries that require hospitalization.

“Do you think it's a power failure in the building?” you asked in a whisper, as if you were afraid that speaking too loudly would make you two fall.

“It's probably that or else the lights wouldn't have gone out. Or it could also be due to an earthquake, which would be even worse."

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you complained, looking at your partner with an expression of disbelief and fear.

"I'm sorry. When I get nervous I start imagining the worst scenarios.”

His repentant smile was enough for you to forgive his demotivating contributions and then the two of you fell silent. It had only been a few minutes since you had activated the alarm so you assumed that security would arrive soon, so the only thing you could do was wait patiently.

Time passed slowly and little by little the panic diminished, until only the two of you were left waiting for someone to open the doors to get you out of there. You had your knees drawn up and hugged yourself, with the cold metal of the wall freezing your back.

“Can the air run out?”

“No, the ventilation system works all the time. Relax,” he murmured kindly, as he reached out to squeeze your arm “I'll set the alarm again, maybe now they'll hear us, okay?”

Spencer barely finished saying this when, in the distance, you heard something that sounded like a gunshot and then the two of you jumped into each other's arms as an unconscious act. Was someone attacking the offices? What the hell was happening?

Your partner's arms, although thin, felt firm and safe, so you clung closer to him. Both of you were scared, but you were a little more than him due to your inexperience in the field and Spencer felt like he should be the one to take care of you. One hand let go of you to go to his belt and look for his gun, ready to shoot whatever threatened you.

You were startled again when the power returned and with a jolt the elevator started up again, climbing the few remaining floors to reach the BAU floor. When the doors opened you rushed outside, still half-embracing, and met several of the man's companions.

“Reid? Are you okay?"

“We heard a gunshot,” he said hurriedly, while looking around for any threat. You were shaking a little and your companion noticed that.

"A shot?" Morgan asked, obviously worried about the two of you. “That can't be. "It was probably something else."

“It was a gunshot,” intervened Aaron, who had just hung up the phone. “One of the first-time agents on the floors below got nervous and fired by accident, but luckily no one was hurt”

Having said that, you let out a sigh and began to breathe normally, calm that everything had been a misunderstanding and that you hadn’t died from an accident.

“I should have stayed in bed at home,” you said quietly, so that only he could hear you, and the man started to laugh, a little from the relief of having gotten out of the situation and a little from your joke.

“You still have some floors to go”

“Oh yeah, I'll use the stairs. I think from today I will, I won't get on that infernal machine again” you continued and he shook his head, amused by everything you were saying “It wasn't a pleasure getting stuck with you, Dr. Reid. See you another day?"

"Sure. Good luck”

"Same to you"

“Eat something sweet, that will help with the scare” he recommended and you nodded with a smile, waving goodbye to everyone and crossing the hallway that led to the stairs.

Of course your knees couldn't handle the promise of never using the elevator again, but every time you were lucky enough to share it with Spencer you would look at each other knowingly and laugh, remembering the fateful incident with amusement.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl @taygrls @simp4f1 @sdddoobydoobydoo @taintedstranger

[hisunshiine]

—i kiss your waist and ease your mind [6/7]

Part 6 of 7 of the Seven Days Series ↣ series masterlist

🗓️pairing: nurse!jungkook x teacher!reader 🗓️au/genre: non-idol au, brother’s friend au, fwb, age-gap(reader is older), f2l, fluff, angst, smut 🗓️rating: M 🗓️wc: 6,323 + text message 🗓️warnings: angst, mentions of Gwangju Uprising, casualties from the Uprising, hospitals, argument, hurt feelings, minor character death, grief explicit sexual content: unprotected sex, creampie, grief/comfort sex?   🗓️an 0.5: WELL, THE POST WAS ACCIDENTALLY DELETED AND ONLY SHOWS IN CERTAIN SITUATIONS, SO I HAD TO RE-UPLOAD. 🗓️an: well, well, well…back again for some pain, are you? I would apologize for how this ends, but it’s necessary for the set up of the final day of the week, and truly, I think it makes the final day that much more better if we have to hurt a little bit more, right? Thank you for reading, and again, I appreciate my beta readers for all of their help!   🗓️summary: “i kiss your waist and ease your mind.” The only thing that could make you feel better is the same thing that made you feel worse. You and Jungkook are both confused with your emotions, but two different stories help you both see a bit more clearly. The only problem is that when the two of you get around each other, clarity goes bye-bye. don’t let these soft lyrics fool you; make up sex doesn’t actually solve any issues if sex is the only communication that happens.  

Taglist: @sizzlingfestpeach @mochminnie @jungkooksmytype @kookslastbutton @taebangtanbabe @bbtsficrecs @jk97bam it’s not letting me tag you (if joining the taglist, please think about reblogging with tags/leaving feedback!)

Last night could not have been any worse for Jungkook—well, he’s sure it could have—but luckily the worst that could’ve been, had not come to be. Today, however, is proving itself to be a challenge in its own right. Jungkook knew he had to work early in the morning, but was alright with going out last night because he was with you. 

Last night honestly had been turning into a great night—the way you had silently laid your claim to him at the club, possessive of him in a healthy way—Jungkook thought things were progressing in the right direction. And clearly, you did, too. Hell, he knew he was all over you last night. Knew that he was taking a huge risk in advancing the relationship past friends with benefits when he threw all caution out the window to kiss you like that in front of your friends, but at the time, Jungkook didn’t care. 

And now? Well, that would be a different story, seeing as now that several people know that you’re the one he’s been fucking every night, they might all think something more should come from this situation. Jungkook doesn’t know what to tell them if they ask, and he’s been avoiding Jimin every chance he gets during his shift so far, because he doesn’t really know what to say. He walks to the nurses station to grab his oversized water bottle, drinking several large gulps before being interrupted. 

“Jeon, we have a case that’s just moved over to us, can you help?” Park Soo-hyun, the head nurse for the shift, asks him. As he lowers the semi-transparent canister, he takes in her cotton candy pink hair, which is mussed in a few places; the corners of her eyes are pinched with stress.

“Yeah, no problem.” Jungkook sets the bottle back on the shelf, and follows the shorter Nurse Park down the hallway to the right of the nurses station and watches as she pauses at the elevators to press the call button. Jungkook slows his walk and raises an eyebrow at his fellow nurse. 

“Sorry, we need the help on another unit,” she shrugs, elbow extending her arm to pass Jungkook a slim tablet with the patient's info pulled up. 

“Honestly, that’s perfect.” Escaping to a different floor means almost zero percent chance of Jungkook running into Jimin, so he strolls into the elevator with no regrets. 

Jungkook scrolls past the general information to see just exactly what he’s dealing with as the metal carriage rises. 

His heart breaks a little when he sees that this case is a hospice care one—a focus on the quality of life at the end of it. He follows Nurse Park, barely noticing as he puts one foot after the other, approaching the room. There are several acronyms listed in bold to the left of the door. This clues him into the fact that the goal has shifted from treatment care to comfort. 

Jungkook sees a sleeping, elderly woman in the hospital bed closest to the window, her grey hair pulled away from her face in a short ponytail. Next to her side is a similarly (he assumes) aged man, holding her wrinkled hand in his own. It is a sight that tugs at Jungkook’s heart; he doesn’t usually struggle with the elderly, just small children who end up in this unit, but with how he’s currently feeling about you, he thinks it's impacting him more than he’s used to. 

“Mr. Kim? This is Nurse Jeon. He’ll be with you and your wife for most of today,” Soo-Hyun says kindly as she pats Jungkook’s back in a motherly nature. “Please let him know if you need anything, okay?” She passes Jungkook a small phone, which he pockets, and leaves him in the sunlit room. He steps closer, pulling up the doctor’s chair to sit; a small, rolling, cushioned stool in hospital green. He glances at their names on the whiteboard. Patient: Jung Min-Ji, Spouse: Kim Tae-Woo.

“Hi, Mr. Kim,” Jungkook starts, voice gentle and quiet so as not to disturb the sleeping woman.

“Hello,” Mr. Kim replies, voice weathered with time and wisdom. “We’re okay, son, you don’t need to sit with this old man.”

Jungkook is no stranger to the phrases the older generation tend to say when in this position. The feelings of being a burden on the hospital staff, guilt for brief thoughts blaming their loved one for being in this position, grief that they could possibly lose their loved one—they’re all valid emotions, and a lot for a person to bear. Especially an elderly man who appears to be carrying this weight alone. Instead of responding to his statement, Jungkook changes the topic. “How did the two of you meet?”

The man’s eyes sparkle to life as he looks at Jungkook’s eager face. “Oh, we’ve known each other since we were kids. She was the most beautiful girl in the village, and I was just some dumb kid who followed her around like a puppy. She’s older than me, you see, and I was the annoying little brother of her best friend.” He smiles fondly at her sleeping form, and Jungkook feels his chest grow tight. “She used to hate my guts. My friends and I would terrorize her and her friends, pull their ponytails, leave frogs in their backpacks, all the terrible things thirteen-year-old boys would do to pretty girls they were afraid to talk to.”

“No wonder she hated you, Mr. Kim!” Jungkook laughs. “I’m guessing you finally stopped tormenting her if she ended up married to you?” Jungkook points out.

“Yes, yes.” The man chortles fondly as he reminisces. “I finally grew up, and realized that treating her badly was not the way to her heart. A little too late, though. She ended up married to some other punk in the neighborhood. He wisened up a little faster than I did, told her how he felt one winter, and they were married by the time the cherry blossoms bloomed.” He sighs, and Jungkook tilts his head, questioning. “Oh, I was distraught. I couldn’t do anything about it, though, I realized that I missed my chance, busy playing games. I ended up married to one of her friends, and well, we spent the next fifteen years circling each other.”

“Wow, that must’ve been hard to deal with.” Jungkook can’t imagine being in his shoes. Or well, he can, but he doesn’t want to imagine that future for himself. Doesn’t want to see a future where he stands in suit and tie to take wedding photos, and it’s not you next to him in them.

“Oh, I loved her enough, my ex-wife, but I think she always knew deep down that she wasn’t…she wasn’t Min-Ji.” Jungkook can see his hand tighten imperceptibly around his wife’s frail one. “We never had kids, and when I came home from work one day to find her waiting with her things packed...I think I always knew that day would come.”

“So, how did you end up winning over Min-Ji?” Jungkook is intrigued by the man’s story. He doesn’t know what he would do in this situation.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that. She was thirty-two with a new-born daughter, and left a widow after the Gwangju Uprising. Her husband was one of the many lost that summer. I was freshly twenty-eight, newly single, with an empty house, and still in love with her. I stepped up as her friend, offering her and her daughter a place to live and slowly we became a family. I asked her to marry me a couple years later and she said yes.” Kim Tae-Woo’s eyes water, and even in the dimly lit room, Jungkook can see the love he has for the woman in front of him. 

“That’s an amazing story, Mr. Kim. I’m glad you found each other.”

“Oh, me too. She’s given me everything I never knew I wanted. Three children and the best forty-three years of my life. She’s my everything.” He turns back to Jungkook, a look on his face that he can’t read. “Do you have someone, Nurse Jeon? Someone you love more than your own life?”

The question throws Jungkook for a loop, because the whole time his patient’s spouse was telling their story, there was only one person who crossed his mind. You. He hesitates to answer, but Mr. Kim was honest with him, and Jungkook is sure that he can be vulnerable with this man, too. 

“Yeah, I think I do.”

—————

“Stop staring at your phone and moping, oh my god.” Yoongi rolls his eyes at your mood, whispering to Leah about how you’re the rain cloud following them around, ready to ruin the wedding tomorrow. 

You glance at the message one last time before locking your phone and stuffing it into your hoodie’s front pocket. 

You hate that you and Jungkook ended the night like you did, even more that he didn’t text you his usual morning text. The thumbs-up emoji haunted your dreams last night, and you barely slept, waking up throughout the night. The bags under your eyes reflect the nightmares, a fact your annoying little brother enjoyed pointing out when they picked you up at 10 AM.

-10 am flashback

“Shush Yoongi!” Leah berated him gently, “need I remind you how you looked after our almost break-up?”

“Hey! I thought we promised never to bring that up again!” Yoongi pouted the whole trip to the wedding venue for the final review of the plans. 

-end

You sit back in the chair, your head facing away from the floor-to-ceiling window of the wedding venue, wishing not for the first (or even second) time that things had gone down differently last night. Sorting through all of your feelings is a lot harder than you thought it would be. Especially with your brother’s looming nuptials while seated in a decorated wedding hall. 

“I’m not moping, jackass.” You pick at non-existent lint on the sleeve of your hoodie before tilting your head back and allowing the hood to fall off. “I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“We’re almost done. Leah is just dropping off the last of the checks for the vendors, and we are running through the ‘Day-Of’ itinerary one last time with the planner. Then we can grab some lunch, and you can fill us in on the troubles running through that head of yours.”

“Sushi?” You make your eyes big and pout your bottom lip as you turn your head to look your brother in the face. He looks good; his hair is freshly done with an undercut cropped close to his head and the top layers falling in organized, chaotic layers. He has a healthy glow about him that screams ‘happy and in love’, that makes you feel wisps of green envy. His face breaks out into a smile, eyes disappearing in delight. 

“Of course, princess. Whatever you want, if it means you’ll be in a better mood.”

Hearing Yoongi call you ‘princess’ reminds you of Jungkook, and you turn away again, hiding your crestfallen look as Leah walks back into the room with the wedding planner. Yoongi leaves you to join his soon-to-be wife’s side, shaking hands with the wedding planner as they bid her goodbye and motion for you to meet them at the exit. 

Finally supplied with sustenance, you feel a little better as you chew and swallow the tempura-fried shrimp drizzled in spicy aioli sauce. Though that feeling dissipates a bit when Yoongi sets a deliberate gaze on you. 

“Spill it. I know you're moping about Jungkook, but what happened? Do I have to kill him?” he attempts to make you smile, but the joke falls flat with you today. 

“To be honest, it all happened really fast. One second we were good, really good. And then he just kind of shut down and called me a taxi and kicked me out at like 2 AM.”

“Wait, that dickhead kicked you out at 2 AM? I should fucking kill him! What if something had happened to you?” Yoongi’s ears are red and his eyes glint in anger. Leah reaches out a hand to soothe him as you speak quickly to do the same.

“Nothing happened to me. I’m a big girl, Yoongi. I’m pretty sure I said some hurtful things to him, and if the situation was reversed, I would’ve asked him to leave, too. If I had been a little more sober, I probably would’ve left on my own volition instead of getting into an argument.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Leah cuts in tentatively, “you do like Jungkook, right? Like not just as a friend?”

Your face says everything your mouth won’t as you shift in your seat. Leah nods knowingly, and Yoongi takes a deep breath. 

“Okay. You’ve already told Mom and Dad that you’re dating him or whatever, so what’s holding you back from taking that step with him if you like him so much?”

It takes everything in you to not cut your eyes at him. You see Leah cover her mouth; the mirth there doesn’t match the situation, but she can’t help but feel like her very smart and emotionally aware fiance is missing some important social factors. You don’t blame her for the smile, in fact, you welcome it, knowing full well that she gets it.

“What’s holding me back? Maybe that conversation with Mom earlier this week, where she nagged at me for being single and not giving her grandkids, and then when I told her I was seeing someone, she ridiculed Jungkook’s age? Or how about the fact that the stupid goth art teacher talked shit about how young Jungkook was?” You shake your head, defeated. “Everyone judges the relationship between me and Jungkook, before it’s even a relationship. So what happens when it is real?”

“What changed?” Leah’s brows are furrowed, and you can see her mind sorting through the information you’ve given, or lack thereof. “Something must have happened to make what you had going no longer work for either of you, right?”

You decide to trust them both and tell the truth of what happened.

“So after we left the club, we went back to his place since it was late. Taehyung, Jimin, and Hoseok are now fully aware that there’s something between me and Jungkook because he wasn’t exactly subtle. To be fair, I didn’t stop him either, so I guess if I’m being honest, we weren’t exactly subtle. We get back to his place, and it’s business as usual.” Yoongi grimaces as he reaches for his whiskey, downing the entire thing as you skim most of the sex, though a memory surfaces as you let the night replay in your mind. 

“Oh god!” You slap your hands to your face, covering your mouth. “I just remembered…I kind of let slip that I loved him while having sex,” you mumble into your hands, head dropping down in embarrassment. “And then right afterwards he’s receiving a ‘you up?’ text from SoHee—with a fucking topless picture!—and I just lost it. There was an argument, which I honestly can barely remember what was said. We were both so mad, you know?”

“Wow, no wonder you were mad. I’m guessing he didn’t say anything about your confession,” Leah questions, validating your feelings in a way that warms your heart. You definitely think you and your new sister-in-law (as of tomorrow) will get along great.

“No, he didn’t. And it’s not even that he has to say it back or anything, I didn’t say it for that reason, but the fact that we just had—”

“Please don’t say it again!” Yoongi interrupts.

“I wasn’t! Anyways, the fact that we just had such an intimate moment happen, and here comes SoHee texting Jungkook her perky tits asking if he’s awake? I know a booty call text when I see one.” 

“Wait, but you just said SoHee texted it to Jungkook, right?” Yoongi sits back, a quizzical look on his face. “So, he got a text from SoHee and you got jealous. But I’m gonna be that person right now and point out to you that technically, you and Jungkook aren’t together.”

“Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Anyways, we were in the bathroom,” you think back through the specifics. “His phone went off, and he set it down to dry my hair, and then it went off again. The message lit up his phone, so I saw the text from SoHee.”

“Sis, you know I love you, but I think you’re jumping to conclusions. It sounds like Jungkook was just the recipient of the messages, not necessarily the instigator. Guys can receive unsolicited tit pics just as much as women get dick pics. People just think all men are horny 24/7, but we also can feel uncomfortable in these situations. If we’re at work or start dating someone new, and an old flame sends us a ‘you up’ text or sends nudes? Not to mention, sometimes we just aren’t attracted to the people sending us stuff. It causes issues no one asked for.” 

Yoongi’s eyes show no malice as he speaks a truth you’re upset with yourself for not realizing in that drunken stupor, or even in the light of today. “Jungkook’s hot, you know? He could’ve just been the recipient of unsolicited nudes. He might actually get quite a few that he ignores, because that man is high-key in love with you.” 

“Honestly, I’ve seen you and Jungkook together, and I agree. Who cares what other people think, especially the ones who don’t know either of you well enough and shouldn’t matter enough to sway your happiness with each other.” Leah looks at Yoongi, and he takes her hand gently. “This wedding tomorrow will not be my first one, but it’s the one that matters the most to me. Your brother loves me on a level that I never knew was possible, thanks to my ex, and though our age gap isn’t as big as yours with Jungkook, I’m still older than him. Both of these are things your mom took issue with, but you know your brother.” She looks over to him with a fondness you understand. It’s how you look at Jungkook. “The only thing that matters is what you and Jungkook want. I know it’s not easy, but it’s infinitely worth it.”

By the time Jungkook finishes a sponge-bath and documents the care Min-Ji received during this time, he realizes it’s past the typical lunch time and that the husband has yet to eat. The three children he mentioned live on the other side of the country, but are traveling now to be with their parents. He had hoped they would arrive earlier with the promised food Mr. Kim is waiting for, but Jungkook insists he get something to hold the man over for the time being. He reminds him of which buttons to press to contact the phone in Jungkook’s pocket, then heads to the canteen.

The employees share the cafeteria area with the visiting families of patients, and it is bustling quite a bit as Jungkook exits the elevators straight into the lobby of the cafe. To the left, the room extends into a seating area once past the cashier lines, and Jungkook sees the moment SoHee spots him through the crowd. 

He’s tired of hiding from people—tired of hiding from his feelings, really—so he decides not to run away this time. If SoHee decides to talk about the messages she sent last night, he will address it and let her down easily. They’re still friends, in Jungkook’s mind, so he smiles at her as she approaches him, soft pink scrubs swishing lightly from her quick steps.

“I am so excited about the wedding tomorrow!”

Jungkook can tell; her smile is glowing. Once upon a time, he might’ve been enthralled by it, it’s still a beautiful smile, and it sucks to know that he might be the reason it fades in a few moments.

“Yeah, me too. I actually wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Yes, that’s why I came over here, in fact, so we could finish coordinating and—”

“SoHee, wait.” Jungkook knows he’s being rude, cutting her off, but the longer she stands there, grinning up at him like that, the more his chest feels tight. “I can’t be your date for the wedding.”

As he predicted, the rosy apples of SoHee’s cheeks lower along with her smile as she processes his words.

“I don’t think I understand?” She's polite as she speaks, head quirked to the side as if showcasing her confusion, but Jungkook is no fool to the glint of a woman’s eye as she braces for battle. 

“I know that it took me a lot longer than I promised to get back to you about this, but I’ve only just figured things out myself, and I just don’t want to string you along.”

“What have you been doing then, if not stringing me along?” SoHee crosses her arms across her chest, stance shifting to one of defensiveness. “I’m not trying to be a bitch, Jungkook, but from my point of view, it kind of seems like you’ve been doing exactly what you claim you don’t want to do.”

Jungkook sighs, restraining himself from rolling his eyes at her words and tone. He can’t help but feel that SoHee is being a bit dramatic—it’s not like he was the one who started all this wedding date talk, and he never even agreed to be her date! He did put off turning her down, but she’s the one who texted him to say he didn’t need to feel obligated to take her. And then she sends nudes and a booty-call text message at the worst possible moment last night and wants to get mad at him?

“Look, SoHee, I know that you probably feel like I’m the bad guy in this, but—”

“You’re an asshole, Jungkook.” SoHee’s voice carries a little too well, and other nurses standing nearby tune into the conversation. He really hates public confrontation like this, especially when he didn’t do anything wrong, and yet, here he is dealing with this bullshit.

Jungkook doesn’t mean the words he says in the way that they come out, but he feels cornered. “What do you want me to say, SoHee? ‘I’m sorry that I like somebody else’? Or possibly, I’m sorry that you sending me nudes I never asked for at 2 AM fucked up my relationship?” He probably could’ve said it with a little less attitude, probably should’ve held back from the second example, especially when he sees the way SoHee’s eyes begin to fill with tears as she looks at all of the gawking bystanders. One of the other nurses walks over and places an arm around SoHee’s shoulder, glaring daggers at Jungkook as if willing him to keel over on the glossy linoleum. 

“You really are an asshole, Jeon. Why would you say that to someone, in front of a crowd? You have no tact.” 

Jungkook is about to fire back at the other woman, but a hand on his shoulder reigns him back in despite his blood continuing to boil.

“Janice, why don’t you escort SoHee to the employee lounge for a bit? I’ll have a chat with Jungkook here.”

Frozen eyes sending a final chilling glare, the women disappear as Jungkook finally moves through the cafe line to the cashier, Jin following quietly. He continues to shadow Jungkook as he makes his way back to the palliative care and hospice unit to deliver the food. As he rounds the doorway, he sees that the patient’s adult children have arrived, a few grandchildren as well. 

To his surprise, Min-Ji is awake, but this only makes him worry about what’s to come. He sets the food to the side, greeting the members of Min-Ji’s family as he does a quick check of Min-Ji’s breathing. The pattern appears abnormal—though normal for someone approaching the end of life. He’s glad her family made it in time to see her; he knows that before the day is out, possibly even before his shift ends, she’ll quietly cross the veil.

Jungkook slips back out of the room to give the family some privacy, and to meet with Jin, who he knows is waiting for him. The two men walk to a nearby empty nurses’ desk, and Jungkook waits expectantly for Jin to speak. 

“Well, that went swimmingly.”

“All thanks to you, my friend,” Jungkook responds snidely, “not only is SoHee mad at me, I’m also not talking to You-Know-Who right now because of a pretty serious fight we had last night.”

“Calm down, she’s not Voldemort,” Seokjin snorts out. “But you two fought about something serious?”

“Yeah…She was at my place last night and saw a series of messages from SoHee that included a nude. She kind of went spastic on me, accusing me of requesting the nudes from SoHee after having sex with her because I’m ‘too young’ to behave any differently. I honestly was so angry, I called her a taxi and sent her home.” 

Seokjin blinks at Jungkook dumbfoundedly before speaking. “Maybe if you’d already told our dear friend you’re banging his sister, and then told her that you want to date her, none of this would have even been able to happen.”

“This advice would’ve been better than encouraging SoHee’s imagination,” Jungkook grumbles out, though his voice takes a softer tone when he says your name as he continues, “if she had wanted to date her brother’s youngest friend, I think she would’ve said something by now.”  The condescension towards the age gap is laced through every word. Seokjin ponders his words before speaking his point of view.

“You know, I think that maybe the two of you put too much weight on this age gap. Even now, you’re taking on this submissive role, waiting for her to tell you or make the first move. But let me tell you a little something about women. No matter their age, they want someone who isn’t afraid to want them back. And you, my friend, are shaking in your scrubs.”  

“I’m not scared,” Jungkook instantly defends, but even he can hear the lie whistle through his teeth.

“Then why are you waiting for her to make all the decisions? Why haven’t you had an adult conversation, sat her down, and told her what you wanted for a change?”

“Because I—” Jungkook pauses, unsure of how to answer. In all realness, he is scared. He enjoys what the two of you have going on, and he worries that if he speaks up for what he wants, if he asks you to change the friends-with-benefits status to something real…being incinerated by the sun after being lit on fire by jet engine fuel would hurt less than the hypothetical rejection he fears. 

Seokjin just gives him a knowing look, his eyes soft with empathy for his younger friend's dilemma. “Just talk to her. Show her you want her, and not just in a friends-with-benefits way.” He once again gives Jungkook that knowing look. “Tomorrow is the perfect opportunity to clear the air. Everyone loves a good wedding.”

“Except SoHee is also going to be there.”

Seokjin curses lowly under his breath and is about to say more when Jungkook’s phone begins to emit a shrill tone for attention. The two men silently make their way back to Min-Ji’s room, knowing that if the phone is ringing, it’s not for any good reason.

It’s been a long day full of revelations. The long talk with your brother and his soon-to-be wife has left you feeling drained and empty. Sitting on your couch, you open up the app to order food from your favorite takeout place barely a block away. Carelessly, you reorder the last meal you placed before slumping backwards into the plush cushions. 

Now that you’ve ordered, you really wish you had chosen delivery, like the lazy ass you want to be, but it’s not that far from your place. You close your eyes for what feels like a moment, but an alert jerks you out of the light slumber you’d slipped into. Your food is ready to be picked up. Sighing, you rock back then forward to lift yourself from the sunken spot on your comfortable couch and shrug on Jungkook’s hoodie for the trek. 

The weather teases a light rainfall, the petrichor scent enveloping you as you quicken your steps through the glass door of the establishment. Approaching the counter, the cashier recognizes you and pulls your order—two plastic bags with a brown paper bag inside each full of steaming hot food.

Checking the receipt stapled to the first bag, you see that you’ve accidentally ordered twice as much food; your last placed order was a meal for two, and the extra food? Jungkook’s favorite dishes from here. With resignation, you grab both bags, attempting to balance them on each forearm and use your foot to push open the door, but the door swings open as a man with an umbrella steps through. 

Jungkook says your name as if it's a curse and a prayer, sidestepping back onto the sidewalk to hold the door for you to exit. You thank him, fully intending to keep walking past him, but he follows you instinctively. 

“Let me help,” he says, his hand reaching out to grab one of the bags, and like muscle memory, you allow it, both of you walking in tandem until you reach your place. Unlocking the front door, he follows you in if only to set down the bag, but you stop him with a hand to his wrist before he can leave. 

“I, uh, accidentally ordered your favorites when I rushed my last reorder. You can have it, if you want. I can’t eat all of this.”

Jungkook just shrugs, and you finally notice how he looks. It’s not good—well, he always looks good; he can pull off anything. It’s more so that he doesn’t look well; his face is pale, eyes listless and devoid of any joy, parts of his face a bright red from being picked at. It’s one of his habits you’re well aware of, like when he bites his nails when nervous. Reaching into the bag, you lift out the container and pass it to him along with napkins and utensils. Taking the food from you, he steps into your living room, plopping down onto your couch as if muscle memory has taken over, he takes off the lid and begins the motions of eating the meal.

Your own thoughts are racing, unsure of what to do or say, so you just say nothing, instead pouring two glasses of water and delivering them to the coffee table before going back for your food. You end up sitting on the smaller couch, the corner closest to where he sits on the larger couch. The room fills with the sounds of you eating, an awkwardness that never used to be there lingering in the air. Your eyes flit from your food to Jungkook’s slow movements, so after you swallow your most recent bite, you take a sip of water before speaking.

“Is everything okay, Jungkook?” The urge to call him ‘baby’—to cuddle him to you and comfort him—is strong, but you resist.

His hand moves the food around a bit, and you watch him as he gathers himself to reply. It feels like hours, but he finally looks at you. “Yeah, I just had a really hard case today. It was a hospice patient, and I spent most of the day with her husband. Well, second husband—but the love of her life, I’m sure.” 

“Oh,” you don’t know what to say; you’re not really sure what made the case so hard, so you wait for Jungkook to elaborate.

“They, uh, knew each other for a long time, since they were kids, you know? But he was the younger brother of her best friend, and she married someone else before he worked up the courage to pursue her. He ended up married to one of her friends instead, but she left him. He said his first wife knew that no one could compete with the girl he actually loved. So when the first husband died in the Gwangju Uprising, leaving her a single mom with a small baby, he stepped in to provide them with a place to live and just help out, but they ended up together eventually and they have a big family.” Jungkook’s eyes look back at his food, a bit teary. “I met their kids and grandkids. They arrived right before she—” he clears his throat, but a small tear sneaks down his cheek.

You reach out for him, pulling the food from his hands and placing it on the table. You scoot closer to him, taking his hands into yours as he looks down at where the two of you connect. He sniffles, trying to stabilize his voice before he continues with his story.

“They arrived right before she passed. She’d been asleep the whole time I was there with her husband, but once everyone arrived, she woke up and was talking to them all, told them she loved them one last time, and then she just…slipped away. I don’t think I can ever forget the sound her husband made as he cried.”

“Oh, Jungkook…” unable to bear it, you join him on the same couch, holding him close to you as he cries. Your own eyes are wet; something about this couple’s story resonates with you after everything that you’ve experienced today.

“I can’t imagine going through that,” Jungkook says with a wobbly voice. “Losing the person that you love the most in the world? I mean, he almost avoided having to go through this, she married someone else! And the chance comes around for him to be with her and he takes it, but the way he cried when he lost her…I’m not sure it’s worth it in the end.” 

His words cut like a knife to your heart. You want to remind him of the good that he told in the story, how the couple had a large family, how the wife was surrounded by the evidence of their love when she died. How the man taking that second chance meant a single mom and her baby had a better life—that anguish he felt when he lost her was because they shared a love like no other. To you, it’s always worth it. 

Instead of saying what you want to say, you ask him what he needs. And those beautiful teary eyes look up at you and he whispers one word; “You,” and you’re unable to say no to him. Not when his lips meet yours with a desperation that you can’t begin to decipher, not when his hands pull you closer, and he clings to you like a lifeline, and definitely not when he sighs out your name against your lips, as if the simple utterance fills him with solace and relief of all that ails him.

His strong hands relieve you of your clothing as his lips remain fervently attached to yours. You relish in the feel of him as your naked form meets his own body, skin to skin, while he lays you back onto the couch. His kiss leaves you dazed; you have no idea how long it took for you both to end up naked, and by the time the question is flying through your mind, Jungkook is already nestled between your thighs, his cock hard and throbbing pressed against your lower stomach and your ankles crossed at his lower back.

When he pulls away slightly—reaching to line himself up with your slick opening—you bite his bottom lip where it was resting against your own, and the sensation causes him to surge his hips forward, fucking himself deep inside you. The intrusion is orgasmic, stretching you to a fullness you only experience when he doesn’t take time to prep you. Jungkook is needy, fraught with a raw emotion he can’t yet put words to, but his body can.

With each stroke, he finds comfort, the grip of your walls building the friction to a pleasurable high that he wants to drown in. Is there anything better to ease his mind than to be buried inside of you? He knows you're close, can feel the way you quicken—hurtling towards climax as you dig your nails into his back and cry out his name. Your body wrapped around him brings him a level of peacefulness that allows his mind to empty and his heavy cock to release thick spurts of cum until you're full and leaking around his softening member. 

You lay underneath him, holding him close as his chest rises and falls, and he peppers kisses along your shoulder. His movements are slow and you can feel the effects of the day taking over and pulling him into sleep. He slides his body so that the two of you are back to front, him curling around you as the big spoon. He grasps the blanket you keep across the top of the couch and attempts to cover you both, but you take over for him. 

He drops his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest as he kisses the back of your head once more. 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he mutters before he’s softly snoring, and you lay there in his embrace, contemplating what his apology could be for. 

Was he apologizing for sending you home last night? For that thumbs up he sent that ruined your day? Because he feels bad that he only made you cum once after using your body to make himself feel better?  It’s only when you’re about to drift off that you remember his words about his patient, and your mind wonders if his apology is telling you sorry because he can’t give you what you want the most. Himself.

stay tuned for “i’ll be loving you right, seven days a week” coming 9-?-2023!

↣all rights reserved © hisunshiine 2023. please do not repost. translations & modifications are not allowed.

[thevindicativevordan]

What are your hopes for absolute Brainiac

Anonymous asked: Aaron did an interview where he briefly talked about his plans for Brainiac. It reminded me of your first write up for him!

Speaking of the future, we also know that Brainiac is coming cause he's been teased for a while, and we're going to get to see him in a few issues. What do you want to tell us about Brainiac and what he’ll mean for Absolute Superman?

Jason Aaron: Yeah, we've seen him kind of clearly orchestrating things behind the scenes, with Lois, with Peacemaker, sort of playing people like pawns on a chess board. And with issue seven, we get his origin story, or at least a huge chunk of it. We also get a bigger picture of what he's doing in the present day and who he's working for. Just in terms of his origin, I can say it's a much this is a much darker, much creepier, more disturbing version of Brainiac than I think we've ever seen. I mean, just from that first issue, where we kind of see him from behind, where he appears to be naked, sitting at this work bench. I was kind of channeling Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs and just that shot of him sewing. But Brainiac sitting in this workshop, and you see the bottled cities, which we're used to equating with Brainiac, where he shrunk these alien cities down and stowing them away. But these are more like very strange, murderous experiments that he's conducting. So you see where he's pumping noxious gas into one city or another one's overgrown with some kind of fungus, another one's full of insects. And there are tiny, tiny screams coming from all of those cities. This is the version of Brainiac that we're going to see here, this is a really dark, broken, demented character, again, in the Absolute Universe, everybody is more broken and corrupted than we're used to seeing, and that includes the bad guys that they can go to even darker places than we're used to.

Aaron's description of Brainiac sounds intimidating, and yes it does remind me of my own first attempt at a revamp for Brainiac. Also it reminds me somewhat of my second. Instead of seeking solutions to problems he hasn't been able to solve, Absolute Brainiac might be trying to make various evils worse. Mainline Brainiac, in my revamp, unleashes a bioweapon on Earth to force Earth to cure it for him. Absolute Brainiac unleashes a bioweapon, watches how Superman cures it, then gets to work on making it immune to that cure, improving it's transmission vector, and enhancing it's mortality rate. Think Josef Mengle, Unit 442, or the PHS Tuskegee Experiment. In fact that last one is perfect because medical advancements meant those black victims could have been saved.

But Uncle Sam didn't want to save them. He wanted to watch what would happen. And so does Absolute Brainiac.

Aaron comparing Brainiac to the serial killer from Silence of the Lambs who skinned women to make a flesh suit to wear is so incredibly messed up, but damn if it doesn't excite me. We might finally get a great Brainiac story that doesn't rehash Johns/Frank Brainiac, one that actually does something different with him. And if Brainiac is Buffalo Bill, you know what Lex has to be then: Hannibal Lector. Can't wait for that, I've been thinking a lot about how do you make Superman's villains more dangerous when they were already plenty powerful in the mainline universe. There are a few that might benefit from being wealthy: Toyman, Prankster, Livewire, etc. Unlike Joker however, it's not a matter of resources when it comes to exacerbating Lex's ability to be a threat. Earth 0 Lex already has plenty of financial power. At first I figured he'd be President but Absolute Wonder Woman has seemingly ruled that out.

Now I think the route to go, if I'm right about what Aaron is doing with Brainiac, is to change the mindset of Superman's villains. Absolute Brainiac doesn't care about preserving things. Well what if we applied that to Lex for example, by making it so that unlike his mainline counterpart he doesn't care about winning the adoration of the public? What if instead of wanting to be humanity's champion, he despises humanity and wants to replace them with a new race of posthumans he's created? In other words:

Absolute Lex should be like Ultimate Reed. Where mainline Lex promotes himself as the savior of "normal" humanity from the scourge of all-powerful aliens, Absolute Lex is determined to be the destroyer of weak, flawed, worthless humanity in favor of a new godlike posthumanity he created. Where mainline Lex nominally clings to a recognizable form of traditionally morality, hence his need to justify himself, Absolute Lex has contemptuously tossed his humanity aside. Yet they both hate Superman for getting in their way, which is in line with the AU's aims: altering the details but maintaining the core. And whatever excuse Lex uses, that's true core of why he hates Superman.

Got on a bit of a tangent there but I've spending a ton of time thinking up possibilities for the Absolute versions of Superman's foes, felt I had to take the opportunity to share how excited I feel.

[calciumcarbo-bot]

Whats your thoughts on Kinro and Tomi?

[RESPONSE: UNIT S.E.N-KU_v1.03]

Inquiry received: “What’s your thoughts on Kinro and Tomi?”

Assessment:

Kinro: Function: Security lead, moral absolutist, physical deterrent against idiocy. Primary traits: Obsessive rule adherence, primitive but respectable logic, loyalty exceeding normal thresholds for his demographic.

Tomi: Function: Creative engineer, emotional saboteur of herself and others. Primary traits: Lateral thinking, inconsistent communication strategies, unpredictable empathy spikes.

Relational Dynamics:

Observed increases in proximity time: 213% above previous baseline.

Instances of cooperative tasks (e.g., construction, patrols, shared problem-solving): Documented.

Fluctuations in heart rate variability (Kinro ➔ Tomi): Minor, consistent.

Fluctuations in heart rate variability (Tomi ➔ Kinro): Spiking unpredictably, often during periods of mutual silence.

Behavioral Note: Tomi's typical casual antagonism is notably reduced around Kinro. Kinro’s rigid moral framework bends slightly when mediating Tomi’s ideas, a statistically rare behavior for him.

Summary:

Measured, tentative gravitational pull detected. High potential for stabilized companionship if neither party self-sabotages. Moderate risk of catastrophic misunderstanding due to mutual emotional illiteracy.

Supplementary Commentary:

Kinro, bless his heart, treats Tomi like an unstable alloy he doesn’t quite know how to forge—but refuses to discard. Tomi treats Kinro like a puzzle with no box image—and for once, she’s trying not to lose any pieces.

[END TRANSMISSION]

( @kinrovillageguard @chemicallydisinclinedd )

[clementine-kesh]

HEY GAMERS!! do you enjoy top down strategy games that integrate real world physics? working collaboratively to solve complex optimization problems? tile-based gameplay? well then do i have the videogame for you!!

let me introduce you to the COMMUNITY EARTH SYSTEM MODEL

created by the united states national center for atmospheric research, the community earth system model (or cesm as it’s known to fans) uses a combination of physical equations and statistical parameterizations to simulate water, energy, and biogeochemical fluxes within and between different components of the earth system. the goal is to get the model to align as closely as possible to the real world earth system state. check out these cool concept diagrams to get an idea of how it works!

wow, this sounds awesome! what’s gameplay like?

glad you asked! in cesm there are unlimited ways to play. one popular gameplay mode is called a “parameter perturbed experiment”. try adjusting model parameters such as the consumption rate of convective available potential energy and relative humidity threshold for low cloud formation to determine which parameter values get you outputs closest to real world observations! atmospheric physics not your thing? not to worry! cesm has something for everyone: from ecology to oceanography to physical geography, you’ll be sure to find something you like!

how do i get into cesm?

typically at least bachelors degree in the natural sciences is required. if you don’t have yours yet you can reach out to your local university and enroll today!

sign me up! what are some other cool things about cesm?

the cesm community takes part in something called a “model intercomparison project”, which is basically like one big smash tournament except with earth system models. compete against other models from across the globe to see whose performs the best!

cesm is a crucial tool for understanding our planet and its outputs provide incredibly important information for enabling us to anticipate and respond to environmental challenges. so next time you’re bored and don’t know what to play, how about giving the ol’ community earth system model a try?

[hermannsthumb]

Power outage and popsicles for the summer prompts...."dude, why not? They're gonna melt otherwise."

27. Power Outage + 30. Popsicles

from summer prompts meme here

i finished this & checked ao3 and realized that i techhhhnically filled a prompt like this a little while ago, but they're different enough it's ok. giving this a light M rating for some Suggestive Content because i tweeted about this concept and couldn't stop thinking about writing it

------------------------------------------

Look, Newt’s no stranger to a hot, humid summer, least of all a hot, humid summer that he’s left to tough out with nothing but the jankiest old window A/C unit in the world and t-shirts he’s badly modified with a pair of scissors to be a little more breathable. He got used to it back in Cambridge, where his apartment was the top floor of a creaky historic house built back before anybody really thought about things like central air or air circulation or living comfortably in general. But this is just ridiculous, man. Even if his broom closet of a bunk did have a window it wouldn’t be helping him much.

Yesterday’s kaiju attack took out the city power grid and most of the electricity to the Shatterdome with it. They’re not totally fucked, because relying on somewhere prone to frequent assaults from ten gazillion pound monsters to power local PPDC operations would be kind of an insane—if not, like, admirably ballsy—move, but the on-base generators they have as back-up are reserved for critical functions only: LOCCENT, the jaeger bay, and—well, yeah, basically that. Newt would estimate roughly twenty percent of base operations outside that are deemed critical, so whatever electricity is left is diverted directly to the mess hall refrigeration systems (so they can eat) and overhead lights in most of the common spaces (so they can walk down the hallway without falling down an elevator shaft or knocking over something expensive).

Basically, their little k-science team of two ranks comically low on that critical function list no matter how many complaints Hermann lodges with facilities about his precious little computers, or Newt does about the extremely necessary and much more important preservation of his kaiju samples. Under duress Newt will very begrudgingly admit this is not without some reason. It’s still annoying.

Hermann spends the first hour of the Black-Out trying to, essentially, pirate some of that diverted power (admittedly very cool of him) to get his computers back in business and cursing very loudly when it fails. Newt, meanwhile, thanks his goddamn lucky stars that it’s been a lackluster few weeks for kaiju harvesting and every viable sample he has is small enough to fit in some coolers with ice packs he keeps around for emergencies. Problem solved. They’ll want to hose them down before their next picnic so they’re not packing sandwiches in with kaiju guts—Newt’s kidding, mostly, Hermann wouldn’t be caught dead on a picnic with him—but it’ll work for now.

The main problem arises around hour two. On the average day it’s genuinely freezing down here, thanks to the lethal combination of the lab’s somewhat subterranean nature (stickin’ the geeks in the damp basement) and Hermann’s weird habit of keeping the A/C blasting so he can comfortably dress like he's strolling across Antarctica without breaking a sweat. With the A/C casualty to the outage, it doesn’t take long for the muggy humidity of the Hong Kong summer to creep up on them, and by the light of the comically large flashlight he’s very nicely holding for Hermann Newt watches it hit his colleague in waves: the exponential increase in handkerchief-swipes-across-forehead, the unbuttoning of his collar, the blazer shrugged off and tossed at a chair, then (egads!) the sweatervest following.

“Hold that still,” Hermann snaps when Newt lets the beam of the flashlight wander from the functionally useless computer he’s poking cables into to the scandalous display of button-down and wristbones he’s putting on right now instead. Talk about a strip tease. Newt ignores him and wolf-whistles instead.

“I’ve never seen you so naked,” he says. “This is definitely a new record. How many layers of pants do you have on? I’m guessing eight, nine.” He trails the light down one alluringly baggy slacks leg—because what is he hiding under there, man—and then back up to Hermann’s face. Hermann shields his eyes and recoils with a small affronted noise. His choppy bangs are sticking to his forehead.

“One,” Hermann says from behind his hand, “that is a completely inappropriate question to ask, and you are very lucky I’m used to that sort of thing enough by now to not file a complaint with Human Resources straightaway. Perhaps I will anyway. Two, that is categorically false. Please get that out of my face.”

“You’re right, I was being way too conservative. Ten pants?”

Hermann grinds his teeth together. “You saw me with significantly less clothing than this when you accidentally—allegedly—spilled a large amount of neutralized kaiju blood on me last year.”

The decontamination shower incident. Of course. How could Newt forget? Hermann looked like an angry wet cat in there, and Newt made a beeline for the exit the second he confirmed there weren’t any imminent biohazards and/or threats to Hermann’s health and/or threats to Newt's health before Hermann could get out and make one for him. Newt hid on the roof all afternoon.

A cold decon shower sounds pretty nice right now, actually. He wonders if the water in here is still running. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. “Which you’ve yet to apologize for,” Hermann continues, because Newt guesses they're still talking about this. “Get that out of my face.”

He tightens his fingers around Newt's wrist and yanks Newt’s hand back to shine the flashlight where he needs it, and, conspicuously, doesn’t address the whole pants question, which Newt assumes has to mean there’s at least three different things going on down there. Hermann strikes him as an old-timey long underwear kind of guy. The kind you'd see flapping on clotheslines in old cartoons.

A minute later he throws down the cables and hits the side of his computer with his cane. “Bugger,” he snarls, pushing himself to his feet. “I have work to do, and now I'll be behind by a whole day. This is completely unacceptable. I have submitted no less than four notices about the importance of—”

“Aw, no luck,” Newt says. He wipes his own forehead on his rolled-up shirt cuff. Would Hermann notice if he took his shirt off? It’s gettin’ hot in here, he thinks. Hermann’s temper is gettin’ hot, too, and he thinks if he doesn’t shut his mouth his foot might find out firsthand how that walloping Hermann’s computer just got felt. “Soooo, can I go now?”

He wants to take his shirt off very badly. And more importantly he has a hot—he means that very literally—date with a battery-operated fan and a minifridge of melting popsicles in his bedroom ASAP, and he’d like to get to the popsicles (and take off his shirt) sooner than later. “Fine,” Hermann says. He takes the flashlight and waves Newt off. "Get out of my sight, you wretch."

Newt’s bunk is darker and stuffier than the lab, if possible. His first order of business is to strip down to his bare chest stat before fumbling with the switches to his fan and the shitty little rechargeable nightlight he keeps on his desk. His legs are so sweaty that the denim of his skinny jeans is clinging to him for dear life, and it takes him twice as long to wriggle out of them. He succeeds, finally, flopping flat on his ass on the mattress in his boxers. After a few more uncomfortable minutes of wriggling he kicks those off too. Definitely a dick out kind of afternoon.

Tiny as it is, the fan feels fucking great. If Hermann wasn’t such a dick Newt would’ve considered inviting him over to bask in how great it feels with him. The popsicles are great, too, and mostly still intact, but—given the distressingly liquidy state of his little minifridge freezer—they won’t be for long. Newt unwraps two of them at once and eats them in alternating bites as quickly as he can without giving himself brain freeze. He’s just unwrapped a third when there’s a brusque knock at his door.

“Uggggh,” he says. “What?”

He rolls over on his side and squints at the door, wishing vaguely for some variation of x-ray vision to see who’s there or (better yet) telekinesis that could just open the door for him. He’s hot. And lazy. Basically, getting up and opening the door is at the very bottom of the list of potential activities he could engage in right now.

“It’s me,” Hermann says.

Pretty presumptuous of him, seeing as there’s a whole Shatterdome of me’s who aren’t Hermann that could’ve been at Newt’s door and who would totally love to enjoy Newt’s company, and frozen desserts, but Newt will let it slide, given ninety percent of the time the me in question actually is Hermann. He peels himself up from his sheets and shuffles over to the door to open it. “Yeah?” he says around his popsicle.

“Did you take my,” Hermann says, and then his mouth abruptly stops moving, and he goes a shade of red that’s impressively visible in the low lighting. “Oh,” he says.

Newt takes a bite out of the popsicle and swallows with a wince. Too cold, overly ambitious of him. “Probably,” he says. “I mean, whatever you’re missing, I probably took it. The sandwich you packed today, yes, your sticky notes, yes. I was hungry. For the sandwich I mean. Not the sticky notes. Didn’t you see my note?” By my he guess he technically means Hermann’s, because he wanted to do the polite thing and leave an IOU for the sandwich like a good little colleague but ran out of his own sticky note pads three months ago and keeps forgetting to order more.

“Do you want a popsicle?” he says. “I’m trying to finish off the box. I’ve already had two so far,” he sticks out his blue tongue as proof, “and I think I might get sick if I eat anymore after this. I guess I could just, you know, stop, but I spent a ridiculous amount of money on these, Hermann, you wouldn’t believe how much, and it would physically pain me to toss them out.” The snack food black market—hyperbolically speaking, it’s not actually a black market, just a handful of convenience stores who have managed to wiggle their way around rationing—doesn’t run cheap, and he paid for roundtrip bus fare on top of that.

“Er,” Hermann says.

He sounds confusingly confused over the offer. Historically, they eat each other’s food all the time, or at least Newt eats Hermann’s, but Newt has never been stingy when it comes to sharing his black market snacks with Hermann. It’s nothing new here. “They’re gonna melt, dude, why not?” Newt says.

Hermann is breathing hard and looking even more like the Gottliebian equivalent of a pin-up calendar right now: button-down undone to the collarbones, sleeves rolled up, slack cuffs rolled up, belt MIA, flush high on his cheekbones. And with his dumb little glasses to top it off, too. It’s working for Hermann. It’s working for Newt. He wonders, if he was to sabotage the lab A/C again in the near future, if it would be worth Hermann’s fury to see him like this again.

Newt sucks on the popsicle. Hermann suddenly thrusts an arm out, catching himself on the doorframe like he’s about to topple right over, and Newt realizes now that he’s looking a little sick in the face. The poor guy must be overheating. A wave of guilt instantly washes over him—Hermann might be a dick, but Newt really should’ve mentioned the fan thing, which makes him equally a dick for not doing so. Basically their dickishness is cancelling each other out here, which he thinks makes them both pretty stand-up guys.

“Okay, fine, you wanna come in?” Newt says. “I have a fan. It’s not, like, good, but it’s better than nothing. Also, obviously, popsicles.” A droplet of melted popsicle rolls down the stick and onto his fingers, and Newt licks it up. He gives Hermann’s sleeve a little tug. “Gotta say though dude, you’re looking preeeeetty indecent right now. I mean, forearms? My God, this is a military base, not a gentlemen’s club. Don’t flash me any sock garters, I won’t be able to take it.”

“I’m indecent?” Hermann chokes out. "Do you not—?!"

His eyes fall to Newt’s lips as Newt sucks the rest of the popsicle off the stick, and as Hermann digs his teeth into his own bottom lip, Newt thinks oh, man. He thought Hermann would be above the whole tragically juvenile popsicle=phallic thing. Very low-hanging erotic fruit. He’s almost disappointed in the guy. Newt can name ten different ways he could seduce Hermann right now, hypothetical success rate aside, that would be way more interesting. Newt chews on the wooden popsicle stick just to shake things up a bit.

“Okay, so are you coming in?” he says.

Hermann’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “Newton,” he finally says, and the next bits out of his mouth are a confusing semi-coherent jumble, “I am extremely—what I mean is, I’m not sure—the repercussions of it all, in terms of our working relationship—and loathe as I am to admit it, I do consider you my closest—though of course I find you exceedingly attractive, and I want to, only…”

“Um,” Newt says.

Hermann hovers in the doorway for another ten seconds, weirdly and uncomfortably silent, before shaking Newt’s hand off his sleeve. “I have to do paperwork,” he says.

He books it out of there.

Hermann’s a weirdo, no use trying to figure it out.

[mitigatedchaos]

IIRC it's still the case that >50% of the US population lives in owner-occupied housing and that homeownership is still where most middle-class Americans have their wealth. In the long run there just aren't going to be policies that threaten that wealth. While I agree that it's a major problem that nobody's actually solving, you're kind of falling into the same sort of myopia as the people who think that Harris supporting Palestine would have won her the election. The things that you care about aren't what the voting populace cares about either.

I heard that Austin, Texas, built so many units that rents declined. Even in Florida, Ron DeSantis passed a law to allow for more housing construction (though in urban areas).

It's politically possible, though the reason I bring it up isn't because it's a single-issue election-winner, but because "people can't live in houses that don't exist" is just basic arithmetic.

It's a way to show that not every left cause is compatible with every other left cause, and that people may be against immigration for reasons other than selfishness or mindless bigotry, as they view it.

There is an approach by some people on the left that everything needs to be part of a larger political project, every resource needs to be assigned by a committee (instead of some specific guy with bundled rights and responsibilities), and every project needs to be a jobs program.

That's why it has to be social housing (assigned by politicians, committees, and bureaucrats), and not market-rate housing + vouchers (citizenship + income check, construction and maintenance handled by firms).

It isn't just that this method is inefficient. It splits what should be the coalition in favor of reform, drawing out people to defend the status quo who would not normally bother to defend it. (For example, if being a landlord is banned, then there just... won't be a rental market. If tight rental markets are upzoned, then rents will fall and there will still be a rental market.)

It's difficult to tell how much this faction contributes to these problems not being better addressed. (When it comes to this behavior, I hear complaints about it a lot more with regard to global warming than housing, but I heard that the DSA directly opposed building over a golf-course with a new housing development.)

[bambamramfan]

The exact twitter quote people are roasting:

“If I were president I wouldn’t care about party lines, I’d just always truly make the American people my #1 priority,” explained MrBeast. “For problems I’m ignorant in I’d have experts from the left and right advise me on them and try to find the middle ground that’s best for America. Wouldn’t be buyable, don’t care about doing things just because my party says I should, and I would focus on uniting the country instead of dividing it.”

To anyone forged in the fires of online ideological discourse, this sounds very dumb. There's good bills (from our side) and bad bills (from their side) and any middle ground is self-defeating at best, and fake bait to appear to a centrist voting block that doesn't exist and doesn't pay attention.

But there is something important this reaction is missing, and why Mrbeast's position isn't that wrong-headed.

Because Congress (and other law-making bodies) aren't just two football teams pushing the ball forward, on nothing but a left-right axis. If you've ever worked with Congress (or any other partisan body) you've run into this firsthand.

There are a lot of practical problems that everyone in Congress agrees are bad, and have a practical solution that would make things better for the public. No, really. Staffing up the border to deal with the asylum crisis. Making our (previous) 35% corporate tax rate something more economically efficient. Fixing the healthcare marketplace. Renewing various authorizations that expire. And a lot of banal "actually fund the things everyone wants."

The problem is, there are more left-wing and more right-wing solutions to all these problems, even if you agree that solving the problem is good whatever solution you use. SO, you get the majority side proposing a solution aligned with their ideology but is still good for everyone, and the minority thinks "this bill is ok, but let's wait until we're in power, then we can pass a BETTER bill." And bonus, until then you can attack the majority for failing to fix the problem. As they say "never let a crisis go to waste."

So there are, in fact, a number of measures Congress could tackle at any time that would make the country better off regardless of which side you're on, but it won't because everyone is holding their breath until some mythical day when they can pass the perfect bill on their own.

... not to mention how many times politicians hold up good and important things they don't even object to *just* to spite the other party. Or completely non-partisan territoriality where you oppose bills you ideologically agree with because it's coming from the wrong committee. (This last one is perhaps THE major workload of congressional staff - the constant sorting and jockeying of which bill has the most support even within your party conference.)

And so it's very tempting for an outsider to say "screw all this positioning. I'm going to approve and fight for any bill that solves a problem," instead of waiting until that promised day when we can pass whatever bill we want with no compromises.

Unfortunately, when an outsider gets in it doesn't work like that (for obvious, cynical reasons), but I can very much understand the *desire* for such a stance.

[we-cross-universe-king-relate]

DC fire emblem unit

(inspired by @otty-kun) the sixth member of The lads to be made into a unit is a personal favorite of mine this little adorable embodiment of sunshine:

name: Jon Kent

Personal skill: heart of a super

Effect: if units HP is beneath 70% unit gains +3 attack, defense and speed

Jon is the front line attacker of the little lads he has the highest attack growth out of them he also has good defense, speed, charm and luck. His high attack stats means he can dish out considerable amount of damage regardless of the weapon pairing. His good defense, which is the second highest (the first is tai), means he can take plenty of attacks as well and his speed, which is also the second highest (the first is Bart) means he can keep up and outspeed fast characters. His charm is the highest out of all of the lads as such his gambits are nearly always successful and above average luck protects him from criticals. Jon is also the most bulky out of them as he has the highest HP stat of all the lads. How ever he has absolutely horrible magic and resistance stats mean enemy magic units are more then likely prone to severely injuring him even with he's high HP stat. He also has below average dexterity meaning he's more prone to missing his hits than the other lads. Jon has subject strengths in Lances, brawling, authority and riding meaning one can set him on either the soldier or brawler path. Making Jon a soldier may help patch up his low dexterity and because he has no subject strength or weakness in it putting Jon in the archer class and gaining +20 hit will help solve his low hit rate problem. If one wants to put him on the brawler path his high attack strength will help him deal considerable damage with gauntlets even though It has the lowest damage rate out of all other weapons. His speed can help him get more the two his off the enemy and his defense can help him take less damage. Jon has a subject weakness in axe reason and faith. Neither reason or faith is a total loss for him as given his horrible magic and resistance growths it's best do not put him on the path of a magic user. In the cases of axe's the naturally high damage of axe's combined with Jon's already impressive attack growth means he could potentially one hit KO enemy units if one is willing to grind for it putting Jon on the path of a brigade and gaining death blow could further enhance his already spectacular attack stat. His strength in riding neutral status in armor but weakness in axes means it will take more work than usual but Jon could be, if one is willing to grind, a great knight giving Jon both mobility and defense. Jon has a budding talent in swords which can put them on the path other mercenary helping him gain vantage his high speed and stellar attack means Jon could KO enemies before they land a hit. Jon's personal skill heart of a super grants Jon +3 attack, defense and speed when his HP is beneath 70%. This will help is already fantastic attack, enhance his tanking capabilities and make him even faster them most speedy enemies.

Overall:

Overall Jon is able to fill one of the three archetypes for the lads depending on how you want to use him: heavy hitter, tank or fast and hard.

Heavy hitter: focusing on his attack prowess Jon can severely cripple enemy units or outright KO them in one attack.

Tank: focusing on his defense Jon can take little to no damage from enemy's physical attacks.

Fast and hard: focusing on his speed Jon if made in such a certain way can completely outspeed even the speediest of enemies and land plenty of hard hits.

[organ-harvest-coordinator]

my little pony my l8ttle pony ahhhhhHHHHHHGHGHGHGHGHGHGGHGHGGHHGHGGHHGHGHGHGGGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHHhhhhhhhhh

My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic is an animated television series based on Hasbro's My Little Pony franchise. The series follows a studious pony named Twilight Sparkle (Tara Strong), her dragon assistant Spike (Cathy Weseluck) and her friends, Applejack (Ashleigh Ball), Rarity (Tabitha St. Germain), Fluttershy (Andrea Libman), Rainbow Dash (Ball) and Pinkie Pie (Libman). They go on adventures and help others around Equestria, solving problems with their friendships.

Animated in Flash, the series aired on Discovery Family (formerly The Hub) from October 10, 2010, to October 12, 2019. Hasbro selected animator Lauren Faust to head the show. Faust created deeper characters and adventurous settings, seeking a show resembling how she had played with her toys as a child, and incorporated fantasy elements. However, due to a hectic production schedule and a lack of creative control, she left the series during its second season.

Friendship Is Magic became one of the highest-rated productions in The Hub's history. Despite its target demographic of young girls, the series attracted an unexpectedly large following of older viewers, mainly adult men, known as "bronies". The series gave Hasbro new merchandising opportunities. A spin-off franchise (My Little Pony: Equestria Girls) was launched in 2013 and ran alongside the series for six years. A feature-length film adaptation based on the television series, My Little Pony: The Movie, was released in October 2017 in the United States. My Little Pony: Pony Life, a spin-off comedy series, premiered on Discovery Family in November 2020.