#variable image patterns

[389]

Variable Image Patterns

[dearlenore]

THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID • PT2

SUMMARY: after revealing the shocking truth of Spencer Reid’s first, first love, the team does as the unsub instructs, retracing his steps all the way to Las Vegas.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i finally wrote part two please don’t hurt me

w/c: 4.8K

PT1

TAGLIST: @miyah-kaulitz @celestial-dome @lqu91s @ningeology @anthropsych @kore-of-the-underworld (sorry if I couldn’t tag u angels🥹💋)

The BAU’s jet touched down in New York just past noon, the sky a dull, unbroken sheet of grey. Heavy clouds clung to the tips of the city’s steel giants, muting the sunlight and casting a somber haze over the skyline. The low hum of the engines faded, but Spencer’s mind continued to race — fast and relentless — like a needle skipping on a broken record.

He sat rigid in his seat, shoulders tight and posture stiff. While the others moved with calm efficiency, gathering their bags and briefing one another quietly, Spencer remained frozen. His fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against his knee, each tap betraying the nervous energy buzzing beneath his skin.

She’s out there somewhere.

The thought looped through his mind like a mantra — or a curse. Every worst-case scenario unraveled in his head, each one more suffocating than the last. His last memory of you played over and over, taunting him. Your bright smile had been framed by golden sunlight, hair tousled by a lazy breeze as you lounged on a park bench with a book balanced in your lap. He remembered the way you’d tucked your hair behind your ear without looking up, too engrossed in the pages to notice him watching.

She’s safe like this, he had thought at the time. Happy. Warm. Free.

But now? Now you were somewhere in the heart of a city too vast, too unpredictable — a place that swallowed people whole. And Spencer had no idea where you were or what the unsub’s next move would be. That uncertainty clawed at him, tightening his chest until breathing felt like a conscious effort.

“Reid.”

Hotch’s voice cut through the spiral of thoughts — calm yet commanding. Spencer blinked, suddenly aware that the others were standing near the exit, waiting for him.

“JJ and I will handle this,” Hotch said firmly. “You stay here and go through the evidence again.”

“I should be there,” Spencer shot back, his voice too sharp, too fast. His breath hitched. “If he contacts her, if there’s a pattern I missed—”

“You’re too close to this,” Hotch interrupted, tone steady but unyielding. “We need her calm when we find her, not terrified because you’re pacing like you are now.”

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. Hotch was right — Spencer knew that — yet the logic did nothing to quiet the gnawing panic threatening to consume him. His mind refused to slow down, cycling through probabilities and variables, imagining scenarios he couldn’t control.

“We’ll bring her back safe,” JJ added softly. Her hand squeezed his arm — brief, warm, and grounding. “I promise.”

Spencer swallowed hard and nodded, but the tension coiling in his chest refused to loosen. As Hotch and JJ disembarked, Spencer stayed behind, staring blankly at the clutter of files spread across the table.

His gaze fell to the photograph at the top of the stack — your face, mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with warmth. The memory of that moment blurred with his anxiety, twisting the image in his mind. What if this unsub had already—

No.

Spencer inhaled deeply, shakily, and forced himself to refocus. He grabbed a pen, determined to find something — anything — that could lead them to you before it was too late.

The law firm’s reception area was sleek and imposing — marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, towering glass walls that seemed to stretch endlessly upward, and a front desk staffed by a sharp-looking receptionist whose tailored blazer was as precise as her clipped tone. She barely flicked her gaze up when Hotch and JJ approached.

“We’re here to see Y/N L/N,” Hotch said firmly, flashing his badge with practiced ease.

The receptionist’s eyes barely lifted from her computer screen. “She’s assisting Mr. Connelly in a meeting,” she replied flatly. “I can leave her a message.”

“It’s urgent,” JJ pressed, her voice calm yet underscored with quiet insistence. “It’s a matter of her safety.”

The receptionist’s cool façade faltered, her gaze flicking from JJ to Hotch and back again. For a moment, she hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back or comply. Finally, her professional demeanor gave way to uncertainty. “I… let me get her.”

Moments later, you appeared from the hallway — heels clicking crisply on the marble, posture sharp and poised. A sleek blazer framed your figure, lending you an air of effortless confidence. Yet despite your composed appearance, warmth still lingered in your eyes — a warmth that flickered brighter the moment you recognized JJ. She was Spencer’s co worker, the one you were convinced he would be with once you were gone.

“JJ?” you greeted, surprise softening your features. “What are you doing here?”

JJ’s smile was brief, weighed down by something heavier. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

The concern in her voice dimmed your initial excitement, and you nodded, gesturing for them to follow you into a quiet office down the hall. The room was simple — modern furnishings, a tidy desk, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. As soon as the door clicked shut, JJ’s warm expression shifted to something more serious.

“We believe someone’s been following you,” Hotch said, his voice low and firm. “We have reason to believe your life is in danger.”

Your smile faltered, confusion knitting your brows. “What? Why?”

“We think it’s connected to Spencer,” JJ added gently. “He didn’t want to scare you, but… we need to get you somewhere safe.”

“Spencer?” His name felt foreign on your tongue — distant yet familiar all at once. Your expression softened for a brief moment before unease crept in. “I haven’t seen him in… God, years.” You paused, your mind scrambling to piece things together. “Wait… is this about those weird letters I’ve been getting?”

JJ’s gaze sharpened. “Letters?”

You nodded, moving to your desk and retrieving your purse. “I thought they were just from some weird admirer, but… yeah. They’d show up in my mailbox — poems, quotes about angels and music. It was sweet at first, but then they started mentioning things about my past.” Your fingers drifted to the delicate chain around your neck, absently toying with the pendant — a nervous habit you hadn’t shaken. “I figured it was just someone from high school who remembered me.”

Hotch’s expression darkened. He exchanged a grim look with JJ, and the silent weight of their concern settled over you like a cold shadow.

“Those letters are likely from the person targeting you,” Hotch said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You blinked, the air suddenly feeling too thin. “This has something to do with Spencer?”

“We believe the unsub’s fixation started with him,” JJ explained carefully. “But somewhere along the way, they became obsessed with you.”

The weight of her words pressed heavily on your chest. Memories of Spencer stirred — late-night conversations whispered across shared coffees, the warmth of his hand on yours when he thought no one was looking, the way his gaze softened when you laughed. He had always been cautious with you — overly protective in a way you didn’t fully understand at the time.

Maybe now you did.

“I need to get my things,” you said quietly, your voice thinner than you intended. You reached for your purse, suddenly aware of how exposed you felt — the glass walls, the polished floors, the endless corridors all seemed too open, too vulnerable.

“We’ll walk you out,” Hotch said firmly, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for the worst.

JJ offered you a small smile — one meant to reassure — but there was no hiding the tension that hung in the air.

The moment you stepped back into the reception area, the city’s distant noise seemed louder — sirens wailing faintly in the background, muffled conversations humming just outside the glass walls. As you walked between Hotch and JJ, their presence was comforting yet unsettling — a constant reminder that someone, somewhere, was watching.

And you had no idea what they were planning next.

Spencer barely looked up when Hotch and JJ returned to the station with you. He was pacing near Garcia’s workstation, phone in hand, scrolling through messages for any missed calls. His fingers trembled slightly against the device, his mind spinning in frantic loops.

When he finally noticed you walking in, relief flooded his face — but the tension in his body didn’t ease. His anxiety kept him rooted in place, shoulders rigid and breath uneven.

“Spencer…” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet it broke through the buzzing noise in his head.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, his voice tight. “Thank God.”

You crossed the room quietly, your steps measured. Your hand found his arm — gentle, barely a touch — yet steady enough to pull him from his spiral.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” you said softly, your fingers curling slightly against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, his eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to memorize your face all over again. “I should’ve told you sooner — I should’ve kept in touch. I—”

“You’re here now,” you interrupted quietly, your voice steady but tender. “That’s enough.”

Before Spencer could say more, Penelope’s voice broke the moment.

“Spence… you need to see this.”

Her fingers hovered above her keyboard, her usual brightness dimmed beneath a layer of unease. The screen displayed a new email — subject line: “For My Angel.”

With shaky hands, Spencer clicked the message open.

The letter was written in the same looping script as the others:

She saved my life once, your angel did.

Her music was like light — soft and warm — and she never knew I was listening.

She’s everything pure in this world, and you’re tainting her.

I’ll take her away, away from you, and give her the peace she deserves.

She won’t need to suffer anymore.

Attached were two video files. Spencer clicked the first.The screen filled with a sunlit beach — the camera shaky and handheld. You stood near the water’s edge, the breeze teasing strands of your hair loose from their pins. The fabric of your bikini clung to you as you laughed, warm and carefree, before playfully splashing Spencer.

“I’m serious!” Spencer’s voice laughed from behind the camera. “You’re gonna get cold.”

“The water is nice, come on!,” you teased, your smile softer than your words. The sound of your voice — light and fond — was enough to hollow out Spencer’s chest.

The video cut off.

The second file played — a dimly lit restaurant this time. You sat across from Spencer, your fingers slowly tracing the rim of your cocktail glass. Your gaze flicked downward as you stirred the straw absentmindedly, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without lifting your eyes.“Like what?” Spencer’s voice countered.

“Like you’re profiling me,” you said quietly, finally glancing up.

“I can’t help it,” Spencer’s voice returned, quiet and certain. The look on his face — the love in his eyes — was undeniable.

The video ended.

“That’s enough,” Spencer muttered, stepping back from the screen. His chest felt painfully tight, like he couldn’t draw in a full breath.

“Why would they send this?” you asked softly. Your voice didn’t tremble — it barely rose above a whisper — but the unease was clear in your eyes.

“He’s fixated,” JJ said carefully. “Not just on Spencer — on you. He’s convinced that somehow… you saved him.”

“Saved him?” you repeated, your brows knitting together.

“In high school,” Spencer murmured, piecing it together. “The music, the kindness — you must’ve done something that he clung to.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers loosely fidgeting with the chain of your necklace. “I used to play my flute in the park,” you said quietly. “There was this boy… I didn’t know his name, but he was always sitting alone. I played because… I don’t know, I thought maybe it’d help.”

“That’s it,” Hotch said grimly. “You gave him something to hold onto.”

“And now,” JJ added, “he thinks he’s saving you in return.”

For a long moment, you were silent — your fingers still absently twisting the necklace chain.

“We need to find him before he gets that chance,” Spencer said firmly. His voice was low, but the urgency behind it was unmistakable.

You gave a small nod, your fingers tightening around the delicate chain. The air in the room felt heavier than before — thick with unspoken fear — but when Spencer’s hand found yours, you let him hold on.

Quietly, you let yourself believe that somehow, despite everything, you’d be safe.

The morning air was cold — the kind that clung to your skin and sank into your bones — and it carried with it a weight that pressed heavily on Spencer’s chest. He stood beside Hotch and JJ, his fingers twitching restlessly against his side, the unease winding tighter with every breath.

The plan had seemed secure — two officers stationed with you, experienced and reliable. Spencer had reviewed their backgrounds twice, grilling Hotch on their credentials as if he could force some kind of guarantee. But it hadn’t been enough to quiet the gnawing panic in his chest.

He’d argued. Begged, even.

“She should stay here,” Spencer had insisted, voice rising despite himself. “Or— or somewhere safer. A hotel, one with security, or maybe—”

“I just want to go home,” you’d interrupted, your voice quiet but unwavering. “I can’t breathe in here. I need to feel normal again.”

Spencer’s protests had faltered. He’d hated that he understood.

He knew that suffocating feeling — that desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control after fear had robbed you of it. He knew what it felt like to want your space back, to convince yourself that normalcy could be enough to keep you safe.

So he’d let you go — but not without hesitation.

He remembered standing by the station doors, fingers clenched at his sides, feeling like there was something more he should’ve said — something that might’ve changed your mind. When you turned back for him, your gaze softened, and suddenly he couldn’t hold himself back.

He’d closed the distance in an instant, arms wrapping tightly around you. His fingers curled into the fabric of your coat like he could anchor you there with him.

“Please be safe,” he whispered into your hair. His voice had wavered, barely audible even to himself.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” you promised, voice soft yet certain. “Bright and early.”

But Spencer had held on just a little longer, as if he knew that promise might be one you wouldn’t get the chance to keep.

The apartment felt foreign — like someone else’s home disguised in your own familiar comforts. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the air, and the pastel throw blankets you’d folded just the night before lay neatly across the armchair. Yet none of it felt real. It was like you were standing in a stage set, where everything looked familiar but nothing felt safe.

You’d brewed a cup of tea — something warm and calming — but your fingers barely touched the mug. It sat untouched on the counter, steam curling lazily upward.

Detective Alvarez and Officer Greene moved with quiet diligence, checking the locks for the fifth time that morning. Their presence should have been reassuring, but instead, it only deepened the unease gnawing at your chest.

“We’ve got this,” Alvarez said, flashing you a confident smile. “No one’s getting in.”

You tried to smile back, but it felt thin, forced. The words didn’t stick.

Your gaze kept drifting to the windows. Each shadow seemed to stretch too far, each silhouette in the corner of your eye felt like someone lurking just out of sight.

You turned on the TV, letting the dull hum of the morning news fill the silence. The voices blurred together — static, muffled — but you kept the volume high, hoping to drown out the noise in your head.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Miss L/N?” Greene’s voice called. “It’s me.”

You frowned, setting your tea down. “Didn’t you just check in?”

“Just want to update you,” he answered. “Everything’s clear outside.”

Something felt off — the words too casual, too light. You hesitated, fingers curling around the door handle. Still, you turned the lock and opened the door just a crack — enough to see Greene’s face.

He smiled, but something was wrong. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes — too tight, too forced.

And then you saw it — the smear of blood just beneath his collar.

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, he shoved the door open. The impact sent you sprawling backward, your shoulder striking the wall and your head slamming against the sharp corner of your bookshelf.

“W-What…?” Your voice barely broke the air, slurred and thin as dizziness clouded your vision. The room spun, shadows warping and shifting.

The man standing above you wasn’t Greene. His uniform hung loose on his frame, and the dark glint in his eyes twisted your stomach with dread.

“Im sorry it had to be this way,” he murmured, voice low and venomous.

The street was a blur of flashing lights and frantic voices when the BAU arrived. Spencer shoved past the officers crowding the sidewalk, ignoring the calls for him to slow down. His breath hitched when he reached the threshold of the building.

Two bodies.

Detective Alvarez lay crumpled in the stairwell, his chest dark with blood. Officer Greene’s body was slumped near the front door — his badge still clutched tightly in his hand. Blood smeared the floor like a cruel map of what had unfolded, but none of it mattered.

You weren’t there.

“She’s gone,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely holding together. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. “He took her…”

“We’ll find her,” Hotch said firmly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

“He has her right now!” Spencer snapped, his voice breaking as he turned sharply toward him. His breath stuttered again — this time more ragged, more desperate. “Right now…”

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer as she approached. “We found something inside.”

Spencer barely heard her. His gaze remained fixed on the bloodstains, the smeared footprints leading away from the doorway. His mind kept looping back to the last thing you’d said to him.

“You’ll see me tomorrow. Bright and early.”

But tomorrow had arrived — and you were nowhere to be found.

The living room was a wreck — papers strewn across the floor, cushions gutted and tossed aside, the coffee table shoved halfway across the room. The scent of overturned candles and stale air clung to the space. Yet none of it mattered — not the mess, not the chaos.

What stole Spencer’s breath was the envelope on the coffee table.

His name was scrawled across the front in jagged, uneven letters — the ink pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, dread coiling tightly in his chest.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was soft, but it barely registered.

With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open. The paper inside was rough beneath his fingertips — thin and cheap, like something torn from a notebook.

“I trusted you to keep her safe. How could you let her suffer like this?

She’s perfect — but she’s broken.

You never even noticed. While you smiled and held her hand, she was starving herself just to stay small enough for you to love her.

She’s an angel… my angel.

I’ll fix her now. I’ll save her from you.”

Spencer’s breath faltered, his fingers tightening around the paper until it crumpled in his grip. His vision blurred as the words seared themselves into his mind.

“What… what does he mean?” Spencer rasped, his voice thin and uneven.

JJ stepped closer, her expression carefully composed yet unmistakably concerned. “Spencer… did she ever mention struggling with food?”

“Yes.” His voice broke on the word. “She’s… she’s always smiling, always full of life…she got better…”

But even as the words left his mouth, memories began to surface — disjointed and sharp.

The quiet way you’d push food around your plate, always insisting you weren’t that hungry.

The faint tremor in your fingers when you were tired — or when you thought no one was looking.

The way your dresses sometimes seemed a little too loose, like they didn’t quite fit the way they once had.

Moments he’d brushed off as nothing — little things that felt insignificant at the time but now twisted painfully in his mind.

You were hurting… and he hadn’t seen it.

“Oh God…” Spencer’s breath hitched, and his knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the couch, the crumpled letter still clenched in his fist. “I didn’t see it.” His voice broke, raw and strained.

“It’s not your fault,” Hotch said firmly, stepping into his line of sight. “This unsub is projecting his own obsession — twisting it to blame you.”

“No,” Spencer choked out, shaking his head. His voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve known… I should’ve noticed.”

JJ knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Spence… you love her. That’s what matters right now.”

But Spencer barely heard her. His mind spiraled, looping back to the last time he’d seen you — the softness in your smile when you’d promised him “bright and early.”

He thought about the way you’d hugged him a little longer than usual — how fragile you’d felt in his arms.

You needed him… and he hadn’t seen it.

“I can’t lose her,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

“We’re going to find her,” Hotch said firmly. “But we need you with us — thinking clearly.”

Spencer forced a shaky breath and wiped a trembling hand across his face. He clung to the only thing that mattered now — the promise he silently made to himself as he stared at the crumpled letter in his hand.

He would find you.

He wouldn’t fail you again.

The room was silent except for the furious rhythm of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard. Spencer hovered beside her, too restless to sit. His breath came in shallow bursts, his mind cycling through worst-case scenarios on a relentless loop.

“Come on…” Garcia muttered. “Come on, you sick freak… give me something…”

The seconds dragged painfully on — each one tightening the coil of panic in Spencer’s chest.

Then — ping.

“Got him!” Garcia cried. “A security camera caught him heading toward an abandoned warehouse five miles outside the city.”

Hotch was already barking orders, agents scrambling for their gear. Spencer didn’t wait — he was out the door, heart racing.

The warehouse reeked of mold and rust, the air heavy with dust that clung to Spencer’s throat. The floorboards groaned beneath his steps, each creak splintering the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears — too loud, too fast.

Then he heard it.

A faint sound — soft, stifled sobs.

His chest tightened.

“Y/N…”

He followed the sound, moving faster now. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you — slumped against a metal pole, wrists raw and bruised from the rope that bit into your skin. Your hair clung to your face, damp with sweat, and your breathing was shallow.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice broke on your name.

Your head lifted weakly. “Spence…”

Before he could reach you, a figure emerged from the shadows.

The unsub.

He was wiry, face gaunt and eyes wild. The knife in his hand gleamed under the dim light.

“You didn’t deserve her,” the man spat, his voice shaking with rage. His glare locked onto Spencer, burning with venom. “You let her suffer, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Please…” Spencer raised his hands, voice tight but steady. “You don’t have to hurt her.”

“I would never! She’s not safe with you,” the man snapped. “She’s too kind — too good — and you didn’t even see how much she was hurting.” His voice wavered. “But I did.”

Spencer’s heart twisted painfully. “I know you believe that,” he said carefully. “But you’re not helping her this way.”

“I can fix her!” the man barked, his hand tightening around the blade.

“By starving her?” Spencer’s voice rose, breaking with emotion. “By scaring her like this?”

The unsub flinched as if Spencer’s words had struck him. His grip faltered, the knife dipping slightly.

“I wouldn’t starve her! I- I’m not like you.” The unsub held his head with his free hand, waving the knife about. It went quiet for a moment.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“Hey…”

Both men froze as you lifted your head. Your voice was soft — weak yet unwavering.

“Hey,” you tried again, a little stronger this time — gentle, soothing, like you were speaking to a frightened child.

The unsub’s gaze flicked to you. His face twisted with confusion. “You… you don’t have to be scared,” he stammered. “I’m saving you.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know you think you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught. He wanted to move — to reach you — but he knew better than to push.

“I remember you,” you said, your voice steady. “From high school… you used to sit on the far bench by the fountain.”

The unsub blinked rapidly. “You remember?”

“Of course I do,” you said with a faint smile. “I used to play my flute there… and you’d always listen.”

“You… you played beautifully,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what that meant to me. I was… I was going to kill myself that day. But then I heard you playing, and I thought… maybe there’s still something good in the world. You were that something.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I’m so glad you didn’t,” you said softly. “You deserved to find peace… to heal. But this isn’t the way.”

The knife wavered in his hand.

“I know you think I’m broken,” you continued gently. “But I promise… I’m okay now. I’m trying to be.”

The unsub shook his head fiercely. “No, no… you’re not okay. I saw you — barely eating, wasting away. He let you hurt yourself.” His eyes flicked back to Spencer, sharp with blame.

“I know,” you said carefully. “But that wasn’t his fault.”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I was sick,” you explained gently. “The weight loss… it wasn’t my eating disorder. It was my medication.” Your gaze shifted to Spencer, soft and unwavering. “He’s always been there for me. And right now… I need him.”

The unsub’s face crumbled. His fingers slackened around the knife.

“You’ve been carrying this pain for so long,” you said softly. “But you don’t have to anymore. Let me help you now, the way you once helped me.”

The blade clattered to the floor.

“I just wanted to protect you,” the man whispered brokenly.

“I know,” you murmured, eyes kind. “But it’s over now. You protected me.”

The team rushed in, Morgan and Hotch seizing the unsub before he could react. The man barely resisted — his gaze stayed locked on you, his expression crumpling as tears streaked down his face.

“You saved me,” he mumbled as they dragged him away. “You saved me back then… and you saved me now…”

“And you saved me,” you responded.

Later, after you’d been checked over by paramedics, you found Spencer sitting quietly outside the ambulance. His head hung low, wrists encircled by handcuffs — protocol after crossing into the scene without waiting for backup. His fingers twisted anxiously, his breathing uneven.

“Hey…”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he looked up and saw you standing there — bruised but smiling — his chest caved with relief.

“You’re okay…” His voice broke, and he blinked rapidly.

“I’m okay,” you promised. “Thanks to you.”

“I… I should’ve known,” Spencer stammered. “About the medication… about everything. He was right — I didn’t see it.”

“You couldn’t have,” you soothed. “But you’ve always been there when it mattered.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“You don’t have to think about that.” Gently, you reached for his hand, your fingers threading through his.

Spencer exhaled shakily, eyes flicking downward.

“Do you remember…” You paused, smiling softly. “When I used to play for you?”

His gaze lifted, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’d still play for you someday,” you offered. “If you want.”

Spencer let out a breath — a faint, tired laugh — and nodded.

“I’d like that.”

[chadobi]

Baby Fever and Tech Support

Bayverse Donatello x Fem!Reader

i have a fucking baby fever rn 😭

You weren’t planning on falling in love with a baby today.

But the moment your cousin handed you her newborn — tiny, soft, and swaddled in a blanket with little ducks — it hit you like a freight train of hormones and hope.

His little fingers curled around yours. His eyes blinked open for half a second before fluttering shut again, face scrunching in a yawn so adorable it could melt concrete.

You were done for.

Totally and completely done for.

By the time you got home, your brain was already somewhere in fantasy land. A fantasy land that, unfortunately, involved a big soft turtle in purple goggles and your shared hypothetical future.

You collapsed onto your couch with a sigh, heart still aching from the cuteness.

The window slid open fifteen minutes later, and Donnie poked his head in.

“You texted me four crying emojis, one baby bottle, and a duck,” he said, climbing in. “So either you’re extremely sleep-deprived or emotionally compromised.”

“I met my cousin’s baby today,” you said dreamily.

Donnie blinked. “Ah. So… emotionally compromised.”

You reached into your pocket and showed him a photo. It was blurry, sure, but the little bundle was clearly sleeping on your chest.

“He’s so soft, Don. He made this squeaky noise when he yawned. And he smelled like baby lotion and fresh blankets and literal joy—”

You stopped.

Because Donnie had the face. The processing-too-many-variables-and-also-mildly-panicking face.

You softened, patting the spot next to you. “Relax, genius. I’m not saying I’m ready to pop one out tomorrow.”

He hesitated, then slowly sat beside you. “Okay. Good. Because biologically, I’m not sure how that would even—wait. That came out wrong.”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “It’s not about the logistics, Don. I just… I guess I got hit with a little baby fever. That’s all.”

He tilted his head. “Like… a temporary hormonal longing for nurturing and offspring prompted by exposure to an infant?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. And leave it to you to make it sound like a science project.”

He adjusted his glasses with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Coping mechanism.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your voice a little softer now. “I just didn’t expect to feel it so hard, you know? Seeing him so tiny… made me think about the future. Our future.”

Donnie went very still.

You felt it — the tension in his frame, the inhale he held a beat too long. But then, instead of pulling away, he slowly wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“I think about it too,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked. “You do?”

He nodded. “I mean… I don’t exactly know what it would look like. But I know it includes you. That much is clear.”

Your heart squeezed.

“And yeah,” he continued, now fidgeting with the edge of your throw blanket. “The idea of tiny, squishy… half-you people running around kind of fries my brain a little. But also? It doesn’t scare me as much as it used to. Not with you.”

You smiled into his shoulder, tears pricking your eyes. “You’d be a great dad, you know.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “I’d be a paranoid, overly-researched, baby-monitor-hacking, formula-analyzing wreck.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And perfect.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, your head tucked under his chin, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm.

“…How small was his hand?” Donnie asked suddenly.

You held up your pinky finger. “Like, this small. Maybe smaller.”

He blinked, amazed. “Incredible. I could probably 3D print a baby bottle one-handed, y’know.”

You chuckled. “Oh, I know. You’d make a baby carrier with built-in UV sensors and bottle warmers.”

Donnie looked pleased with that mental image. “And a nightlight with adjustable circadian rhythm settings.”

“…And goggles that play lullabies.”

“Bluetooth-enabled.”

You laughed again, this time full-bellied, imagining a baby wearing techy purple Donatello goggles.

But then something shifted in the silence. Something warm and real.

Donnie looked down at you with a soft expression. “If you… ever want to talk seriously about it. Someday. I mean, long down the road. I’d like that.”

Your breath caught.

You turned to face him fully, your eyes searching his. “You really mean that?”

“I do.” His voice was steady now. “Whatever the future brings — as long as it includes you — I want to be ready for it.”

You leaned forward and kissed him. It was slow, deep, a little shaky from how full your chest felt.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied, a little breathless.

Then, with a small smirk: “Although if we do eventually have kids, I’m installing motion sensors in the nursery.”

“And I’m naming the baby,” you countered.

“Deal,” he grinned.

[sparrowsgarden]

cat data call!

I run a website mainly devoted to cat genetics and make graphics about cat colors and patterns. I really want some more data (pictures of cats) to work with, but I do not have a cat or easy access to cats (I am allergic to cats).

I put a call out once before looking for hair shaft pics, of which there are very few available for cats! You can get these by parting the fur, holding a piece of paper of behind it, and/or photographing individual hairs on a light or dark background. This is the number one thing I would really, really like so I can make more and better illustrations of them. I will also accept just normal nice cat photos and/or nice photos of your cat's eyes without the saturation cranked up.

I made a form that explains exactly what I'm looking for and how images will be used (with options to give me variable permissions). Please share it with anyone who may be able to help!

[luv4arinn]

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.

[mammoth-clangen]

Behold! Big Kitties!

I wanted to make one of these for fun mostly, also because I wanted to slightly update how I draw the Fleets to fit the Homotherium mummy; mostly in the lack of carpal pads and that brown is the wildtype colour uvu

Notes that didn't fit:

- Eye colours can be anything natural-looking except in Ice Fangs, which are always blue (that's actually where their name comes from)

- None of the colour variants are sexually dimorphic (though some may be sex linked)

- All species can be fluffier than shown here (especially in winter), I just shaved them here to show the varied anatomy

- All the cats probably have a melanistic and albino variant but there aren't any in Kindred so I didn't include them

- I'm never gonna draw the characters in Kindred with detailed patterns as shown here, that would take 554637 hours per page cx

Don't @ me about paleo inaccuracies bc there's a lot of intentional exaggerations e.g. how variable they can be, for the sake of making characters actually fun to work with + the Tuft Tails are basically just lions because their skeletal anatomy is sooooo similar but bigger (and lions are pretty)

Image ID

"Kindred of the Mammoth- Pleistocene big cats"

Fleet Fang- Homotherium serum.

Tireless hunters of the steppe.

Male: Tom

Female: Molly

Nonbinary: Motte

Young: Cub

Grouping: Kindred

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a brown Fleet Fang with green eyes and extensive barring running down her sides. There is a headshot of a tom with shaggy grey and white fur, who has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

"Inverted neck hackle

Patterns run laterally.

Tufted ears

Heart-shaped nose.

All teeth are serrated

No carpal pad

Claws don't retract fully

Skin usually dull pink

Paler under-tail

No sexual dimorphism

Huge incisors, tiny lower canines

Tundra morphs shaggy and pale grey"

There are a few natural variants shown as well: dilute few spots, joined-barring (lateral stripes instead of broken spots), Open-saddle ginger, melanistic with paler grey markings.

Ice Fang- Smilodon fatalis ssp.

Powerful hunters of the north.

Male: Boar

Female: Sow

Nonbinary: Urs

Young: Cub

Grouping: Sounder

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a white, grey striped Ice Fang with blue eyes . There is a headshot of a boar with pale golden fur and a darker beard under his neck. He has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

False eyes on small ears

Powerful neck/shoulders

Vertical stripes

Very short tail

Bear-like lower lip

Only sabers are serrated

Very large dewclaws

Skin usually dull pink/brown

Boars have a goat-like 'beard'.

Wide nose, sideways nostrils.

Huge incisors, tiny lower canines.

There are a few natural variants shown as well: Faded stripes with a pale warm grey coat, Few stripes only on the shoulders and rump, Tawny morph with broken stripes (they form vertical bars), Abundism- heavy stripes that are interlocking and covering the whole body.

Tuft Tail- Panthera leo atrox

Coordinated hunters of the plains.

Male: Lion

Female: Lioness

Nonbinary: Leo

Young: Cub

Grouping: Pride

A drawing in a slightly more realistic style than Kindred of a golden tawny Tuft tail (lioness) with amber eyes. There is a headshot of a lion with greyish fur and a tawny underbelly. He also has a darker mane around his neck. He has his mouth open in a slight pant to show dental anatomy.

Notes read:

Larger ears

Long, flexible spine

Nose darkens with age

Robust non-serrated teeth

Dark pawpads

Patternless or faintly spotted

Long, tufted tail

Lions have a mane (but less full than African Lions)

Lions much heavier than lionesses.

There are a few natural variants shown as well: Completely spottless warm grey with a tawny underbelly, orxy type dark markings that outline the paler underbelly, retained juvenile spots and a reddish tint, fully grey morph that is entirely desaturated.

A note at the bottom reads: Kindred of the Mammoth, art, and these speculative depictions belong to PencilPavlova [END ID]

[r4spberry-vinaigrette]

WAS LITERALLY THINKING ABT BPD TENNA EARLIER PLS SPILL UR THOUGHTS

deltarune chap 3 spoilers!! i also have them tagged but just in case here's a warning

THE PEOPLE YEARN FOR BPD TENNA!!!!

genuinely the more i started playing the more and more i was like. oh this guy so has borderline personality disorder. like he's PEAK bpd representation to me. im gonna whip out the DSM-5 requirements just to list it to the letter but i also might talk about more variable things / not necessarily "standard" symptoms too because im just. auauuugh he checks so many boxes

Frantic efforts to avoid real or perceived abandonment - this is like a huge one. i probably don't need to elaborate on this but i will anyway. a huge thing with his entire character is that consistently, he believes he will be abandoned, even when it realistically isn't happening and in fact even if he was gonna be left behind kris and susie TOTALLY would've brought him back to castle town regardless (in a standard "recruit everyone" route anyway). he lumps on more and more rounds of TV time in hopes that he won't be thrown aside. he keeps toriel asleep and as a grand prize because he believes even before everyone shows up that it's the only way to really get them to stay. he doesn't intend genuine harm and isn't malicious, he just earnestly DESPERATELY thinks that if he doesn't have attention always then it means he's going to go back to collecting dust. he literally traps kris, susie, and ralsei in gachapon spheres and makes sure they won't leave him all while rapidly switching between depression and hyped-up frenzied behavior over it. like. come on. it even extends to his employees, who he threatens to fire or actually fires and then frequently goes back on because he doesn't want to be left alone. he can't handle it. why does everyone leave?

A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation - i think we mostly see this with how tenna views kris and susie. he clearly values kris a lot and speaks highly of them, but while he does think well of them, he thinks they like. hate him. because of how they stopped paying any attention to the TV. this is shown in his convo with susie, where he says he loves kris but doesn't know if they love TV. but he's pretty flippant on this, honestly? he cares about them throughout the whole chapter, yes, but he clearly goes back and forth on thinking of himself as someone they hate and who is clearly obsolete tech to then accusing them of abandonment and begging to know why they won't just pay mind to him. similar case with susie, where he very obviously idolizes her and thinks super well of her for using the TV after so long - he themes an entire minigame after what he thinks she likes! - but then harshly pivots to accusing her of wanting to leave and thinking she doesn't care at all about him. plus the entire "I LOVE TV" saga during his huge breakdown? like... come on. you cannot look at his downward spiral from being content with it to believing the three are lying to him and don't really mean it and say that isn't such a BPD "do you hate me?" spiral. I Get It

Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self - this can mostly be tied in with his kind of fickle personality methinks. he presents himself as larger than life, even literally changing his size and such depending on his mood and how he perceives himself in the moment. but again during his breakdown while the team is in the gacha capsules or even just in general we see how swiftly he pivots from beating down on himself or apologizing to viewing himself as a tv host who just needs to keep performing. he is so volatile with how much he views himself as like... a living entity. he sees himself as an object, as junk, something to be thrown away, but he's also THE ant tenna and he's worthy of so much stardom and everyone should be honored to be here! both ideas coexist but also don't. he doesn't know how to see himself ever

Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging - this is the one i don't really see him having much canonically so we can skim over it. i def have some headcanons but as it is in canon he's not impulsive in the regards this point addresses. however,

Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour - THIS i think we have some legs to stand on. it isn't precisely the same thing but we see how willing he is to guilttrip and overall shrink himself down (literally and metaphorically) just in hopes of not being thrown aside. i think he even insinuates he'll basically just rot there and he talks about having mike tear everything tenna loves (albeit it's likely made up stuff but tbh that contributes to the point im) down just because the show might be ending. like it isn't exactly in line with this qualifier, sure, but i don't think it's much of a stretch to say his overexaggerated behaviors and guilt tripping to make sure he's not abandoned are pretty close without obviously making the game cross into some higher ESRB rating numbers lmao.

Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood - this is another huge one. again, we see how volatile tenna's moods are and how quickly he flips between being really hostile and angry (for both justified and very much unjustified / irrational reasons) to being sweet and doting and sympathetic. i keep citing his big breakdown but it's just a really good example -- he goes from being hyped up and angry and all but scheming just to keep the three around, but in between he starts feeling guilty and ashamed and apologizing for arbitrary things or feeling shame about fighting before swinging right back into his irritable state. during his final fight he goes back and forth on things constantly too, asking for things to be cut from the final recording or simply just warbling between being angry and being really upset and then being his normal showtime-y self again. his moods never seem to last for very long which is another part of this criteria. he goes super quickly between these emotions and there's not much good reason for it oftentimes

Chronic feelings of emptiness - again i think this loops in with his feelings of being junk or obsolete tech. its mentioned that (who is implied to be) spamton was going to teach him about newer technology to help him make it big but never did, and tenna seems Really Terrified deep down that without it he's basically nothing. he clings to people in hopes they'll give him purpose, something to fill himself with -- if he just finds the right place then he won't feel so empty and alone and without anything inside him. but it never gets better and the audience isn't enough. if he distracts himself with the show then he doesn't need to think about it, but when the show starts dying down he just kind of becomes despondent. he begs to be loved but when it stops filling his heart up he lashes out again. he just doesn't feel like there's anything in there if someone else isn't making a hole and burrowing inside him and making it all better

Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger - i went over this in some earlier bullets but yeah. he gets very arbitrarily angry over various things, like enemies using ACTs without his permission or perceived wrongdoing / abandonment even when it isn't there. and he clearly does Bad at hiding it given how his employees seem to gauge him along with just what we see in general of him interacting with employees. ily tenna but you are NOT a good manager during chap 3

Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms - this can be tied into his other stuff about abandonment and feeling empty / without an identity. his constant phone calls about toriel and paranoia about her waking up is one thing but even outside of that specific instance he's clearly like. constantly on edge and scared of Something. if anyone indicates he might not be genuinely entertaining he freezes and freaks out - see his reaction to ralsei calling his show "old news," for instance. he clearly has some real bad and volatile triggers for his paranoia and any indication he may not be as relevant as he posits himself to be makes him fucking LOSE IT

in general . idfk man i love tenna. he's so clearly distressed and doesnt believe theres a place for him even though post-chapter 3 hes Trying to think it. im sure king making a joke of him in that one scene didnt make it any better either considering how much he fawns when the king laughs at him getting hurt. i need him to know he is wanted :(

[felassan]

Harding narrative sketches and captions by Nick Thornborrow, under a cut due to spoilers and length:

Nick Thornborrow: "Let's do a thread of Harding sketches and talk about the crazy Twine file I made. There was a visual novel style version of Veilguard's earliest story outline that was written by Trick and the writers and assembled in Twine by me. These black and white sketches are what populated the Twine file."

[artist's caption] Portrait sketch of Harding.

Harding examining an artifact in the ruins of the disrupted ritual.

Harding being struck by arcane powers.

Harding exhibiting magical abilities dispatching a demonic monster.

Nick Thornborrow: "Let's just pause and enjoy these two drawings side by side."

1 of 2. Harding deep in concentration, hands flexed trying to levitate a pebble on the ground. Rook stands by patiently in the background, hands in pockets, eyes locked on the pebble.

2 of 2. The camera has pulled way back. Harding is small in the frame, and not merely moving a pebble, but causing the entire ground to convulse in a radial pattern around her. Rook is being tossed like a ragdoll into the air.

Nick Thornborrow: "Back to the Twine file. It was meant to emulate the flow of the narrative and broadcast that narrative out to the wider team. "Here's what we're trying to make." The challenge I put on myself was to reflect the narrative branching we intended to build."

Harding carrying a torch entering a dark dwarven threshold deep underground.

Harding meeting the Oracle. The Oracle is smaller in this rendering than how she appears in game.

Harding and the Oracle communing through the stone in a strange dark and infinite sublime psychological space.

Harding briefly being overcome with rage. Her eyes gleam red, and red glowing veins glow below her skin a la video game corruption.

Nick Thornborrow: "So I did what no one asked for. You couldn't simply plow through the story. Side missions would become available on a cadence and would be assigned to numbers on a dice roll (a certain amount of variability in side content was planned in the early days of Veilguard)."

Harding being blown back by angry earth based boss monster. This was the boss fight after meeting the Oracle in game.

Rook spends a quiet moment with Harding who is becoming accustomed to her powers, elegantly floating three stones in the air in front of her. A beautiful eroded gorge vista in the background with a narrow waterfall.

A down shot of Rook and Harding. Harding and Rook hold hands.

Rook withdrawing her hand from Harding in pain. Harding's hand glows with lyrium power.

Nick Thornborrow: "You would need to accumulate enough trust with a certain number of factions, and/or progress enough of a companion's story line in order to advance the twine version of the game simulating the rough gating envisioned by designers and writers at the time. (This was a hugely collaborative effort)."

Kal Sharok dwarf trapped in a stone column being rescued by Harding who is exploding the wall of the column with her powers.

Harding bow and arrow action pose surrounded by rocky golem monsters.

Harding confronting a red glowing mirror version of herself.

Harding grim faced, pressing her forehead to that of the red glowing version of herself who is screaming in rage. Symmetrical composition.

Nick Thornborrow: "Finally the twine file was sent out to the team. I was frustrated while working on DA2 and DA:I where team members had no idea what the narrative of the narrative-based game we were making was. It would lead to disjointed decisions being made completely divorced from the efforts of other teams."

Rook in the foreground fighting rock golems. Harding and mirror Harding in hte background floating ominously in a miasma of red lyrium energy.

Harding standing on a precipice overlooking a crowd of Kal Sharok dwarves. Harding is glowing and heroic.

Harding and the Oracle in a dark inifinite void pressing their palms together. They are surrounded by ghostly images of dwarven ancestors representing unbroken lineages.

Harding smiling among a crowd of Kal Sharok dwarves.

Nick Thornborrow: "Like bright and cheery level art being constructed where a world ending apocalyptic magical event was occurring. With Veilguard, it was the earliest into a project where the narrative team could be like "Hey team, it'll change along the way, but this is the story we're going to be iterating on." END"

Rook and Harding enjoying an intimate cozy domestic moment. Harding resting her head in her palm propped up on her elbow, Rook smiling hands behind head on pillow.

Environment shot of Harding's childhood home in a field in the background. In the foreground Rook and Harding are cresting a hill in their walk towards the home.

Rook and Harding sharing a kiss, both figures glowing subtly with lyrium energy.

Art by Nick Thornborrow. [source thread]

[apod]

2025 April 27

IC 418: The Spirograph Nebula Image Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA); Acknowledgement: R. Sahai (JPL) et al.

Explanation: What is creating the strange texture of IC 418? Dubbed the Spirograph Nebula for its resemblance to drawings from a cyclical drawing tool, planetary nebula IC 418 shows patterns that are not well understood. Perhaps they are related to chaotic winds from the variable central star, which changes brightness unpredictably in just a few hours. By contrast, evidence indicates that only a few million years ago, IC 418 was probably a well-understood star similar to our Sun. Only a few thousand years ago, IC 418 was probably a common red giant star. Since running out of nuclear fuel, though, the outer envelope has begun expanding outward leaving a hot remnant core destined to become a white-dwarf star, visible in the image center. The light from the central core excites surrounding atoms in the nebula causing them to glow. IC 418 lies about 2000 light-years away and spans 0.3 light-years across. This false-color image taken from the Hubble Space Telescope reveals the unusual details.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap250427.html

[northerlyy]

Red-banded Leafhopper (Graphocephala coccinea), taken May 21, 2025, in Georgia, US

I've begun seeing G. coccinea about! This leafhopper's patterning is quite variable, often overlapping with the patterning of G. fennahi, the Rhododendron Leafhopper, and making it hard to ID. If the leafhopper has any hint of an isolated stripe on the wing (seen very clearly in this image), it is G. coccinea, as G. fennahi's stripe connects fully to the edge of the wing. It can also be helpful to check if the leafhopper is feeding on the plant it sits on and documenting what the plant is, as G. fennahi is only known to feed on rhododendron species while G. coccinea is far less picky and feeds from a wide variety of herbaceous plants!

[ipso-faculty]

Infinity symbols: a guide to their variations

Infinity symbols are popular in graphic design for good reason. In this post, I'm gonna describe ways to vary up the designs of infinity symbols. My goal is to educate fellow neurodivergent people on how to make infinity symbols that don't look like the Métis flag.

The neurodiversity community has been using rainbow infinity symbols since 2005. Here are neurodiversity flags from 2013, 2016, and 2019:

However, there's a problem with some of the new flag designs for a flag that is autism-specific. Here are some of the contenders:

These use a solid white infinity symbol. The solid white infinity curve is a symbol of Métis.

The Métis flag, created in 1815, has a white lemniscate on red background. Nowadays the Métis use the blue version more often. And to the right is the Métis queer pride flag:

For those unfamiliar, the Métis are one of the major Indigenous groups in what is now Canada, with most of their >600,000 population in the western and central parts of the country. The word métis means half-breed in French; lower-case m métis refers to those with mixed Indigenous and European ancestry. Capital-M Métis refers to the specific culture of métis that emerged, distinct from both Indigenous and settler cultures, and speaking hybrid languages such as Michif.

The issue of likeness has been brought up many times. While I can believe the autistic flag makers didn't know about the issue when making their designs, I know at least one of them was promptly informed of the issue and dismissed it.

The autistic community writ large has been pretty dismissive about this issue. I wonder if some of the defensiveness comes from not seeing an alternative - thinking that infinity symbol design is all or nothing.

I have some good news: it's possible to make infinity symbols that don't look Métis!

HOW INFINITY SYMBOLS VARY (PART ONE)

ASPECT A: TOPOLOGY

The first way we can categorize infinity symbols is their topology. These four varieties are most common

Topology 1: Open infinity symbol - this is the oldest style of using a figure-8 shape to represent the mathematical concept of infinity. On the left is the version Euler used.

-

Topology 2: Lemniscate - a closed curve. On the left is the Metis flag. The curve is one solid entity: notice how the rainbow gradient on the right fills the whole thing.

-

Topology 3: Infinity *loop* -  imagine you take a hair tie or rubber band and twist it. One part of the infinity loop is clearly in front, with another part clearly behind it. Loops are well established for neurodiversity and I think we should stick to using these.

Notice in the left example how the pattern flips between left and right. Also compare the rainbow gradient on the right to the lemniscate rainbow gradient above it. -

Topology 4: Infinity *ribbon* -  instead of a hair tie, use a ribbon. Ribbons have sides, producing an infinity loop that shows two sides.

-

ASPECT B: THICKNESS

Line width can vary, which also helps to convey a loop! Again, I think we should be sticking to infinity loops when it comes to autistic/ND designs.

Option 1: Constant Thickness The lemniscate on the Metis flag has a constant line width, as does this neurodiversity rainbow gradient from 2016. I think we should avoid constant thickness.

-

Option 2: Variable Thickness A variable thickness can help to reinforce that an infinity symbol is a loop rather than a solid lemniscate. There are a lot of ways to play with line thickness!

Many neurodiversity infinities are variable thickness and I think we should opt for this to steer clear of Metis territory.

THIS WILL BE CONTINUED IN A SECOND POST (tumblr has a limit of 30 images per post)

But just in case the second post gets lost in reblogs: I think variable thickness, combined with a loop topology, is what we should be using for neurodiversity & autism. E.g.

CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

[catnipster69]

Quilt Portrait Process

This may be of no interest to most of you, but with all the comments I got on my Impala portraits, I thought this would be of interest to some of you.

Original Photo

This is the original photo I used--it's of a fan car ("Night Moves") that was at Denver con 2022. What a great photo!

Posterize

In Photoshop, I posterize the photo to get chunkier blocks of color. I just play with the number of levels until I get a good representation.

Draw Lines

I place the posterized image in Illustrator (reversed) and then go to town drawing lines. The rule for pieced quilting is that every line you draw must go all the way until it hits another line. So for the first couple of lines, they go all the way from one end of the photo to the other.

I just keep drawing until I get something like this.

Paint the Pieces with Color

I bring the outlines into Photoshop so I can paint each individual piece with a solid color that will match the (future) fabric. Sometimes posterizing can result in dark colors, so you have some creative liberty to make changes. Note that these are still just screen colors; the actual fabric will differ again.

Outlines:

Colored:

Number the Sewing Order

Paper piecing means that you sew through the paper and fabric. That way, you can be sure to place your seam perfectly.

Generally, in quilting, you want to sew a seam from one end to the other without running into any already sewn seams. For a traditional patchwork, this means you would sew 10 blocks, then sew a row of 5 blocks, and then sew another row of 5 blocks onto the first row.

Paper piecing is the same, but because no "block" is repeated, it's an exercise to determine the sewing order of each block, and then the sewing order of the blocks to each other.

A quilt like the Impala has a few hundred blocks of 1-15 pieces of fabric each. Within each block, the sewn size is near perfect. But sewing the blocks to each other introduces a lot of variability: the seams can be wider or narrower, or the alignment can be off. That's why the actual quilt looks "wonky" compared to the pattern. It's just not possible--for me--to get it perfect. If I didn't work so small, it would be easier.

Back in Illustrator:

You can see that the black lines are pieces within a block. The red lines are blocks. And the green lines are sections of blocks. It all needs to be sewn in order. I will make small changes to the sewing lines at this stage to "make it sewable."

Printing

Because printers aren't the best at replicating onscreen colors exactly (good luck telling the difference between black and dark purple), I have to recolor it to "printable" colors and then do a swatch concordance.

The bright green on the left actually represents lavender.

I print the pattern out on vellum, which is more durable than paper. Since this is 17" x 17", I will print out overlapping 8 1/2" x 11" sheets. Illustrator has a good printing function, so you can print the exact area you want.

Pick Fabric

I have collected a ridiculous amount of fabric. These want solids for the most part. Sometimes it's a challenge getting 5 shades of blue, or 6 beiges for their faces, so sometimes, I make color errors that I don't discover until later. Painful mistake. The above pattern uses 25 colors, but some of the faces use around 40.

Sew

This is a really challenging project. It would be easier if it were bigger! The pieces are so small, and when you start sewing blocks together, the layers get to be ridiculously thick with all the seam allowances. It's a true challenge to feed through the machine. Use a small stitch length; use a good machine with dual feed (Bernina!!! or maybe Pfaff).

Check out the back side of the previous Impala quilt.

I pull out the paper as I go, otherwise it will get accidentally sewn in.

Finishing

I don't do complicated quilting here. The piecing is what's on show! I embroidered the Chevrolet and the license plate lettering. Some things are really too small to piece.

Original Photo Again:

Conclusion

I think anyone could do this, in theory. It takes a lot of patience. And your sewing machine needs to be quality. And it helps to know how to use Photoshop and Illustrator. And you need to "get it" when numbering the pattern, in a mathematical way. And it's helpful owning all the fabric.

If you do try it, make a larger quilt; this size with this level of detail is crazy making.

Check out all my supernatural quilts on Instagram! https://www.instagram.com/catnipster69/

[neopronouns]

flag id: the top left image is of a square flag with 4 stripes, which are blue, light silver, golden brown, and dark red. in the center of the flag is a smaller square made to look like a 4x4 chessboard, which has a thick outline. the top half of the chessboard has alternating near-black and off-white squares and is outlined in silver-white, while the bottom half has alternating soft brown and light sandy brown squares and a cream outline.

the top middle image is blank and the same size as the top left and right images, making the other two images take up less space on the screen. the top right image is the schakaen symbol, a 2x2 checkerboard pattern with a thick outline. the top left square is near-black. the top right is off-white, the bottom left is light sandy brown, and the bottom right is soft brown. the top half of the outline is silver-white and the bottom half is cream. the whole thing is tilted 20 degrees to the left.

the bottom left flag is similar to the top left image, but is a rectangular flag instead of square. the outlined 4x4 chessboard is as tall as the flag itself in this version, with the four stripes extending out to each side. the bottom right flag has 10 stripes, with the third and eighth being much smaller than the rest. the top two and bottom two stripes are divided in half, forming a 2x2 checkerboard pattern out of the top two and bottom two stripes. the stripes are a near-black and off-white checkerboard, silver-white, blue, light silver, golden brown, dark red, cream, and a soft brown and light sandy brown checkerboard. end id.

banner id: a 1600x200 teal banner with the words ‘please read my dni before interacting. those on my / dni may still use my terms, so do not recoin them.’ in large white text in the center. the text takes up two lines, split at the slash. end id.

schakaen: a neogender umbrella for terms directly and conceptually related to chess

[pt: schakaen: a neogender umbrella for terms directly and conceptually related to chess. end pt]

concepts potentially included under schakaen:

chess (see chessaic)

pairings of dark and light colors (black and white, brown, and cream, dark blue and light blue, etc.)

squares, grids, checkerboard patterns, etc.

strategy, particularly abstract strategy

competitions, wins, losses, and draws

ancient warfare

numbers relevant in chess, such as 2 (2 players), 8 (number of piece types), 16 (number of pieces on the board), 64 (number of squares), piece values (1, 3, 5, 9), etc.

pattern recognition, puzzle-solving, analysis, algorithms, near-infinite variability, etc.

competition between humans and computers, advancement of computer programming/intelligence, etc.

flag symbolism:

blue: mental aspects (strategy, puzzles, etc.)

silver: modernity (computers, algorithms, etc.)

gold: history (history of chess, ancient warfare, etc.)

red: warfare and competition

black, white, and browns: physical chess boards, dark/light color pairings, grids/checkerboard patterns

derived terms:

chessan: a schakaen person (derived from 'chessman')

piech: an older schakaen person (derived from 'piece' and 'schak'; intended to be pronounced as 'peak')

paen: a younger schakaen person (derived from 'pawn' and 'aen'; can be pronounced as 'pay-en' or 'pane')

schakade: a schakaen gender (derived from 'schakaen' and 'blockade')

schin: schakaen-in-nature

schakine: having schakaen qualities (equivalent of masculine/feminine). noun form is schakinity

schakaic: schakaen gender alignment

transchakine, transschakine: transitioning towards schakinity

'schak' is inspired by several other languages' words for chess (such as dutch 'schaak', german 'schach', and medieval lating 'scaccus'), plus a suffix similar to 'aic' in 'chessaic', 'aen'. it's pronounced 'skah-kay-en'!

i actually coined this in early january 2023, but decided against posting it at the time (there were a Lot fewer neogender umbrellas then and i felt like it wasn't really 'necessary'). i finally decided to rework the flag and post it!

tags: @radiomogai, @liom-archive, @macchiane, @genderstarbucks

tags cont: @p-rtyboy, @dragonpride17

dni link

[covid-safer-hotties]

Old news (From Fall 2021, updated Spring 2022), but still important and a great explainer for those interested in learning.

Also preserved in our archive

By:

Jessica Bernard Associate Professor, Texas A&M University

A new brain-imaging study finds that participants who had even mild COVID-19 showed an average reduction in whole brain sizes.

Researchers have been steadily gathering important insights into the effects of COVID-19 on the body and brain. Two years into the pandemic, these findings are raising concerns about the long-term impacts the coronavirus might have on biological processes such as aging.

As a cognitive neuroscientist, I have focused in my past research on understanding how normal brain changes related to aging affect people’s ability to think and move – particularly in middle age and beyond.

But as evidence came in showing that COVID-19 could affect the body and brain for months following infection, my research team shifted some of its focus to better understanding how the illness might influence the natural process of aging. This was motivated in large part by compelling new work from the United Kingdom investigating the impact of COVID-19 on the human brain.

Peering in at the brain’s response to COVID-19 In a large study published in the journal Nature on March 7, 2022, a team of researchers in the UK investigated brain changes in people ages 51 to 81 who had experienced COVID-19. This work provides important new insights about the impact of COVID-19 on the human brain.

In the study, researchers relied on a database called the UK Biobank, which contains brain imaging data from over 45,000 people in the U.K. going back to 2014. This means that there was baseline data and brain imaging of all of those people from before the pandemic.

The research team compared people who had experienced COVID-19 with participants who had not, carefully matching the groups based on age, sex, baseline test date and study location, as well as common risk factors for disease, such as health variables and socioeconomic status.

The team found marked differences in gray matter – or the neurons that process information in the brain – between those who had been infected with COVID-19 and those who had not. Specifically, the thickness of the gray matter tissue in brain regions known as the frontal and temporal lobes was reduced in the COVID-19 group, differing from the typical patterns seen in the people who hadn’t had a COVID-19 infection.

In the general population, it is normal to see some change in gray matter volume or thickness over time as people age. But the changes were more extensive than normal in those who had been infected with COVID-19.

Interestingly, when the researchers separated the individuals who had severe enough illness to require hospitalization, the results were the same as for those who had experienced milder COVID-19. That is, people who had been infected with COVID-19 showed a loss of brain volume even when the disease was not severe enough to require hospitalization.

Finally, researchers also investigated changes in performance on cognitive tasks and found that those who had contracted COVID-19 were slower in processing information than those who had not. This processing ability was correlated with volume in a region of the brain known as the cerebellum, indicating a link between brain tissue volume and cognitive performance in those with COVID-19.

This study is particularly valuable and insightful because of its large sample sizes both before and after illness in the same people, as well as its careful matching with people who had not had COVID-19.

What do these changes in brain volume mean? Early on in the pandemic, one of the most common reports from those infected with COVID-19 was the loss of sense of taste and smell.

Strikingly, the brain regions that the U.K. researchers found to be affected by COVID-19 are all linked to the olfactory bulb, a structure near the front of the brain that passes signals about smells from the nose to other brain regions. The olfactory bulb has connections to regions of the temporal lobe. Researchers often talk about the temporal lobe in the context of aging and Alzheimer’s disease, because it is where the hippocampus is located. The hippocampus is likely to play a key role in aging, given its involvement in memory and cognitive processes.

The sense of smell is also important to Alzheimer’s research, as some data has suggested that those at risk for the disease have a reduced sense of smell. While it is too early to draw any conclusions about the long-term impacts of COVID-related effects on the sense of smell, investigating possible connections between COVID-19-related brain changes and memory is of great interest – particularly given the regions implicated and their importance in memory and Alzheimer’s disease.

The study also highlights a potentially important role for the cerebellum, an area of the brain that is involved in cognitive and motor processes; importantly, it too is affected in aging. There is also an emerging line of work implicating the cerebellum in Alzheimer’s disease.

Looking ahead These new findings bring about important yet unanswered questions: What do these brain changes following COVID-19 mean for the process and pace of aging? Also, does the brain recover from viral infection over time, and to what extent?

These are active and open areas of research we are beginning to tackle in my laboratory in conjunction with our ongoing work investigating brain aging.

Our lab’s work demonstrates that as people age, the brain thinks and processes information differently. In addition, we’ve observed changes over time in how people’s bodies move and how people learn new motor skills. Several decades of work have demonstrated that older adults have a harder time processing and manipulating information – such as updating a mental grocery list – but they typically maintain their knowledge of facts and vocabulary. With respect to motor skills, we know that older adults still learn, but they do so more slowly then young adults.

When it comes to brain structure, we typically see a decrease in the size of the brain in adults over age 65. This decrease is not just localized to one area. Differences can be seen across many regions of the brain. There is also typically an increase in cerebrospinal fluid that fills space due to the loss of brain tissue. In addition, white matter, the insulation on axons – long cables that carry electrical impulses between nerve cells – is also less intact in older adults.

Life expectancy has increased in the past decades. The goal is for all to live long and healthy lives, but even in the best-case scenario where one ages without disease or disability, older adulthood brings on changes in how we think and move.

Learning how all of these puzzle pieces fit together will help us unravel the mysteries of aging so that we can help improve quality of life and function for aging individuals. And now, in the context of COVID-19, it will help us understand the degree to which the brain may recover after illness as well.

This is an updated version of an article originally published on Sept. 24, 2021.

Study link: www.nature.com/articles/s41586-022-04569-5

[neptunesenceladus]

for the @renegadeguild fanfiction writers appreciation day event I did a bind of hope has bloody knuckles by the amazing @independent-variables. This event is a way to say thank you to the amazing writers in our community.

Because of the length of the fic I also added in the three other works that are apart of in our bedroom after the war. The entire bind is 324 pages, and the typeset can be found here if you want to bind your own copy.

I used bookcloth for the case, and a foil quill for the gold detailing (which I am definitely improving with I think). At the start of each work is a title page with different images, my favorite being the tundra tea plant (specifically the species Rhododendron tomentosum) at the very start of hope has bloody knuckles. I made two copies, one which I sent to the author and one for myself, with the main difference being a slightly different pattern on the endpapers in my own copy.

more photos of the inside below:

[crazysodomite]

do u like this noise texture? u can overlay a noise texture or any other texture over your divs and still retain any color or gradient/background image you want

create an image with the lightness of 50 and put noise (or any texture/pattern etc as long as the lightness is not too dark or light) the lightness of 50 ensures that the texture is added but the color value of the container stays mostly the same.

then add this to any container you want to add texture to:

from what i can tell it has to be background: and not background-image/background-color etc.

obviously the variable would be this

this works with gradients too

one catch is that the texture doesn't show up really well on very bright/very dark colors. almost not visible on pure black/white. as far as compatibility with older browsers i really dont know but it works on an old version of chrome.

The way it looks on mobile is also... questionable... but im extremely picky and obsessed and i start going crazy when something doesn't look like i want to 😌

u can add a media querie to remove the noise at certain sizes. you can also use something like this + javascript to disable/enable the texture at will