All green – not solarpunk vs solarpunk
I just wanted to address some aesthetics which I guess separate solarpunk from generic green concepts. 

Something that always bothers be about ‘futuristic’ designs, whether green or not, is that the designs always seems to look sterile, smooth, textureless, cold, unwelcoming, and very very white

And the common concept cities! They are always so open and spread apart! And you know what that means? It is a city specifically designed with cars in mind. I think that doesn’t always register for a lot of people. Spread out cities = made for car culture, condensed cities = made for public transit, biking, walking, etc.

What I want for solarpunk – and for the future – is warmth! color! texture! craftsmanship!  And a very important feature is that I want it to be built first and foremost for streetcars and the like. Cars are useful and they can stick around, but in a condensed city people won’t need to rely on them as much. In modern American cities, many people need cars because of how cities are designed. 

I hope I am being clear on how solarpunk aesthetics differs from common concepts of a green future! 

Reasons Why Paris Is the Worst Place Ever

I got a lot of hassle after telling my friends that I wanted to move out of my parents’ place in central Paris. None of them, even the most rational, could fathom why I wanted to rent a cheap, spacious apartment in the suburbs over an expensive, poky shit hole in the middle of the city.

Perhaps I just don’t look for the same things in life as them. I’m aware that regularly stepping in dog crap and having to avoid fawning honeymooners is chic and sophisticated and all that other stuff that people write about Paris on novelty dish towels. But there are things I’d rather do than worry about not being cosmopolitan enough, like making sure I can afford some kind of sustenance after handing my landlord Bermuda’s national debt in rent, every single month.

Yes, there are some redeeming factors about the city; there’s slightly more to do than in the suburbs and I love those Haussmannian buildings along the Rue de Rivoli. But they’re buildings—who gives a fuck? I have Street View on my phone.

Paris is the worst place ever. Here’s why:

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When I was younger they were called “chachas.” Nowadays, they’re called “bobos” (which stands for bourgeois bohème). But the name-change really doesn’t matter; They’re still the same jerks who’ll actively bum out an entire house party by putting down a stranger’s wardrobe choices, despite the fact they all look like cognizant uncircumcised penises, their heads swaddled in layers of garish printed scarves. 

If you’re a tourist, here’s the most effective way of identifying a bobo: They are that unique breed of dickhead who, when you ask for directions, will smirk at you like you’ve just confused APC for YMC—or some equally embarrassing oversight—before ignoring you completely.

I wanted to avoid making generalizations about the city’s fairer sex, but the problem is that pretty much all of them—that they’re arrogant, sulky, boring, and hot—are true. Seriously, it’s like Kristen Stewart, standing in a Hall of Mirrors, lecturing you about her beauty regime.

Enjoy consciously risking your life every time you cross a road? Disappointed at the lack of peril involved in three-minute car journeys? Move to Paris! Drivers here don’t sweat the small stuff (traffic laws, the lives of pedestrians) whenever there’s a brief chance to shift into second gear. The rest of the time, however, be prepared to waste your entire day sat in traffic.


I want Genos making those painstaking bentos for Saitama, the ones with fucking characters made of seaweed and rice and those immaculate pictures
One day, Genos makes a Saitama’s face with rice and seaweed
Next day, he makes King’s face out of bread and cheese
After that, he makes Mumen Rider’s face in a fruit salad
And it keeps going like that to the point that Saitama always looks forward to being called out by the Association so he can get another bento
Gradually, they settle into a relationship and maybe Genos makes cute little hearts using fish cakes and shit
Then one day, Saitama’s out– he’s just cleared all of X City of some bullshit hoard– he sits down on the rooftop of some apartment complex, fishes out his precious daily bento, opens it up–
Genos made a dick out of rice.

Please, please, please let me get what I want

After the war, Steve says he’s packing up his things and leaving the fight. There’s a tired spark in his eye that once belonged to a boy with fractured ribs and bloody noses. He says he’s missing home and the lilt in his voice gives him away. Everyone knows, they always have; home is standing at his left with rings under his eyes. Two days after receiving numerous medals of honor each, Brooklyn opens her arms wide for them. The mayor offers up the fanciest damn apartment Steve has ever seen. But in the end, he chooses a smaller cozier place with a view of the busy city streets. It’s within walking distance of the park and he can see many days spent stretched out on the grass with Bucky. “Look at that cloud,” he’d say. “it’s just like that carousel we rode with Becca once” and Bucky would smile, easy and soft. The war would return what it had taken from him. Peggy calls two weeks after the war’s end and Steve takes her out dancing. Two hours into the date, he can’t ignore the tug in his chest that says this is not where he belongs. He kisses her cheek and apologizes profusely for being a thousand miles away even as they danced. He’d love to give as good as he gets but… “I had a lovely time, darling. Don’t fret about it. Give Sgt Barnes my regards, will you.” She’d been gracious about the ordeal and promised to visit next time she was in the states. It hadn’t gone as bad or as well as he would’ve thought. After the war, things are different. Bucky takes up teaching Steve how to dance, they spend more evenings listening to the radio than going out and Steve moans about sleeping issues until Bucky surrenders and crawls under the covers next to him. Their fingers brush often and purposely, Bucky begins to keep a journal and Steve sketches him as he sleeps; they revolve around one another in a way that they hadn’t before. There is something Steve wants to say. The serum fixed everything but the clumsy nature of his tongue when Bucky is around and isn’t that unfortunate. So he begins to write. And write. Each letter becomes a crumpled paper ball and he feels cursed. At last, he pens the final draft. It reads: Bucky, I’m in love with you, I’m sorry. If you need to go, please do it when I’m not home. If you want me to leave, just say the word and I will. All my love, Steve It’s a Tuesday and Bucky’s hair is messy. He has foregone glossy pomade and Steve wants to bury his hands in it. The note is shaking slightly in Bucky’s hand as he reads it for the first time and Steve’s chest feels tight. He thanks his lucky stars for Dr Erskine and his formula. Without it he’d be an absolute wreck right about now. Somehow he keeps forgetting to breathe. “Steve?” The paper slides to the floor as he stands, brows raised and blue eyes wide. The last time Steve saw him look this scared, they were 12 and getting a stern talking to from Mrs Lewis about stealing bites from the pie she had cooling. It was to go to Sarah Rogers who was feeling under the weather and Mrs Lewis had a stern way about her.

Steve grips the back of their kitchen counter, hard. If he lets go, Bucky will leave. He’s sure of it. “Did you…I’m sorry Buck.” An arm that he’d recognize a hundred years from now wraps around his waist an fingertips trace his cheekbones with the lightest touch and love. Words are pressed against his lips again and again. He wants to wake up tomorrow with the taste of them on his skin. War makes ghosts of us all, Bucky thinks, the trick is to find something worth living for. Steve makes him feel alive. “Every word, Steve. Every word for as long as I can remember,” Bucky murmurs. There has never been anyone else for him. In the 1950’s, Peggy gets married and Steve walks her down the aisle. In 2015, Steve and Bucky marry. They repeat the small ceremony in Peggy’s hospital room at her insistence and she cries. “Oh darling, don’t look at me like that. I’m an old woman, I’m supposed to be sentimental. They’re happy tears.” Bucky kisses her hand and they talk about the past until she’s tired. Before she goes, she gestures for Steve to come to her. “Take care of him, Steve. He cares for you, he really does. Congratulations, my love.” Steve promises he won’t tear up but it happens anyway. He has the two greatest loves and a heart can only hold so much. Peggy tenderly presses a kiss to his forehead and tells him to take his husband to a nice bar. Leave an old lady to her rest, she says. The war has ended and they cannot go back but some things were meant to happen as they did. They walk away, hand in hand.
Sunset Love - Part 2 (2) Sebastian's POV

Part 1 | Part 2 (1) 

Sebastian Stan x reader

Summary: Sebastian decides that the best for you two is to break up.

Tags: @soulful-ofevans​ (thank you for your interest in my writings. I really apprecciate it.)  

Originally posted by music-is-love-4ever

(Credits to the owner of the gif)

I don’t want you to be with someone like me who is more abroad than in home, in the city, my city. I love you Y/N and this is really painful but…’

‘No, no, don’t say anything.’ Y/N stands up from the couch and grabs her purse and her coat. 'I don’t know what is happening to you Sebastian. This is not the first time we talk about this, but if you want me to leave, I will leave. Just remember that I love you.’ Without looking back, she starts walking towards the door of my apartment.

'Y/N, wait!’

But she leaves. She closes the door and I feel terrible. I want to run towards her and hug her and tell her that everything will be alright, but I just told her that it is better for us to break up so, I think it is not the best idea.

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Favourite buildings

Been caught up with things this week so apologies to my follower, a second generation Scot from Yorkshire, who asked what my favourite buildings are in Edinburgh and Glasgow are. this post covers Edinburgh as I know the city better. I don’t want to go into the history I will make it more personal as to why I like them, they are in no particular order….well apart from the first one! 

Edinburgh Castle

Just look at it, it’s there it has always  been there, well not always but they do reckon a Castle of sorts has been on the volcanic rock for nigh on  a millennium. Back when I was a bairn ma Mum used to take us places that didn’t cost a lot of money and back in the  early 70′s it was free to get in, the only part that had an entrance fee was if you wanted to see the Honours, our crown jewels.  I love walking around Edinburgh and just looking up, not just to see some interesting piece of architecture or statue but just to see if I can see the Castle, it gives me a feeling of feeling at home, I used to post a lot of pics of it on here and just type in “My Castle”  It is the heart of Edinburgh. 

St Giles 

So much history in one beautiful building and a great place to nip in to shelter from the rain if you cant afford a pint! Well I hate paying tourist prices. It’s not the building as such I love, but the Crown Steeple, another focal point to me when looking at the skyline of the city. the original was added to the Kirk in 1495 but was rebuilt 150 years later. I’ve not been yet , but they recently started tours I will hopefully get round to it  this year in better weather, it costs £6. The entrance to the Kirk is free but they have a charge if you want to take photies, there is also the Thistle Chapel which has a couple of quid “donation” There’s a statue of Robert Louis Stevenson which I like but the man himself will have turned in his grave, he was no fan of the building, like me though he liked the spire. 

Whitehorse Close

Aye ah ken it’s no a building, but cum oan it’s a bonnie place tae huv a wee daunder in and hae a look at. Surprisingly for such a nice setting you can usually get this place to yourself . It used be an Inn which no doubt served as the departure lounge for the stagecoach which would take you to London 

Paisley Close

It’s the story behind the carving you see here, when showing friends around town I always tell them about  14-year-old Joseph McIver and his shout of Heave Awa that has gone down in history, to those in the know it is  “Heave Awa Hoose” google it or search my blog I just checked and have posted about a few times!

Canongate Tolbooth 

Another one with multiple pics and posts on my Tumblr.  The Tolbooth was built in 1591, it was here that the tolls or public dues were collected.It also served as the council house, courtroom and prison for the Canongate, it is now a museum. 

Olicity Wasted Shag Opportunities – Is it Hot in Here or is it Just the Coffee?

Let’s face it, when Oliver and Felicity engage in a staring contest, we all win.  The sexual heat blazes, our televisions start to melt, and our toes begin to curl in anticipation.  The intensity, the desire, the unresolved sexual tension…these two are going to implode when they finally shag and dear God, please let it be a two hour special. 

What Happens in Central City Can Happen Again and Again and Again in Starling City….Just Sayin’

Apparently these two failed to receive the memo from the writers that said while you two are perfect for each other, we are going to torment our viewers for many moons and keep you apart.  This exchange was beyond deliciously dirty.  It was so filled with sexual tension and heat that I’m surprised Jitters didn’t catch on fire.

Oliver: When you look at me like that, all I want to do is strip you naked….

Felicity: It’s why I keep looking at you….

Oliver: …..and run my hands up your smooth legs….

Felicity: …so I can feel your hands on my skin….

Oliver: …..lick the skin at the hollow of your throat….

Felicity: …..feel your lips pressed to my throat….

Oliver: ….as you wrap your legs around me….

Felicity:….as you thrust inside me….

Oliver:  Let’s get the fuck out of here.

I need a drink.

Back in New York for the second time in the past month, considering just buying an apartment in this anxiety-filled city, the food alone would be worth the investment. All that aside, someone mentioned an underground rave in Brooklyn and I feel like there’s no better way to kick off fashion week, right? How’s your weekend looking? If the answer is boring, NY is calling your name (as is this rave). 


More Topp Dogg Stupid AUs: Roommates - Lions & Knights/Apt. 95

An artistic aura lingers around the bizarre door to apartment 95, with splashes of colours and patterns that would normally look horrendous together but they are so overflowing on one tiny door that they are almost endearing. Like their door, the tenants are very unique with different experiences in life and are always there to lend a voice of wisdom to their neighbours. On dark city nights, when the rest of the building has already gone to sleep, the light shines strongest from their windows.

“Who let Yooncheol decorate!? The place looks ridiculous”

“Tough luck Sanggyun, I asked you if wanted to do it but look who ignored me”

“Wow Taeyang, you should just trademark the word mom and get it over with. And Yooncheol should trademark the term dad while he’s at it”

“Why do I get ‘dad’, Sanggyun?”

“I’ve known you for years, you make lamer dad jokes than an actual dad! And just look at your taste in furniture!”

“Morning Sangwon”

“Hey, mornin’. Hey Yooncheol do you know why Taeyang was spraying water in my face this morning. I didn’t wake up fast enough to ask him”

“Apparently that was holy water. I asked him why holy water and all he said was, and I quote ‘that boy needs Jesus that’s why’ before he walked away. I didn’t ask anymore after that. I think he was mad that you knocked all that paint over while you were drunk last night”

“But he’s the one who drinks the most!”

“But he’s also got a better tolerance than you, who gets wasted on Alcopops”

I remember walking across the bridge to my apartment, very late at night (or early in the morning), when the only thing to listen to was the sound of the street sweepers and the water lapping against the quays. I had taken the long way again without realizing it, and I stopped about halfway across the bridge to look out onto the water.

It felt like I could see everything, like the whole city was just for me and no one else could ever really know what it felt like. My cheeks were flushed with wine and I knew that I could sleep all morning, and all I wanted was to stay in the middle of the river, between the two sides of the city, watching the last of the night owls click their lights off in their windows.

The city was so small and quiet at night, with low buildings and narrow streets and old statues that stood at nearly every corner. Sometimes I would climb the (mostly superfluous) gates around my favorite park and sit between the rows of tall, immaculately shaped trees. I would bring a bottle of cheap champagne and call my friends and tell them to meet me for a late-night drink. 

But not that night. That night, I was alone on the bridge, watching the boats bob up and down, seeing the windows go black. And there were no friends to call, because it was too late. It was always moments like that which made me so sad, because even with a camera I could never capture what it felt like. I could never take it with me. I could never hear the sound of the street sweepers, or feel the way the air nipped at me even in summer, or watch the streetlights twinkle off the water. With my friends in the park, at least I could ask them later, “Wasn’t that great?” and they could tell me that it was.

Being all alone with beauty might be the hardest thing in the world. 

124. Cold

Dan: “Fucking electric company!” Dan exclaimed as he walked into the room. “Still no luck?” you asked. He shook his head. London was currently having the worst snow storm it has seen in decades. Over a foot of snow and layers of ice were forecasted. As a result of this, part of the city had lost power, and unfortunately, it was your part of the city. The power had been out for two days now and the temperature inside the apartment was dropping towards freezing. Both of you probably looks ridiculous wearing winter coats inside, but it was what had to be done. You pulled a blanket closer to your body as you curled up on the couch. “I hope it comes on soon. I’d really like not having to trek to Starbucks to go to the bathroom.” “You and me both,” Dan replied. He sat on the sofa next to you and you gave him some of the blanket. “I just want my wifi back,” Dan pouted. “Not heat, or water, or a working fridge? Just wifi?” He nodded.

Phil: “Why did you want to go camping in the beginning of October again?” Phil groaned as he tried to pull the sleeping bag closer to his face. “I didn’t think it would be this cold,” you explained. Fifty degrees didn’t sound very cold, but it was when you were sleeping outside. You currently had on sweat pants, a long sleeved shirt, and a hoodie. You also had a blanket on top of the sleeping bag. Phil was dressed similarly. All of the sudden, you noticed that Phil was unzipping his sleeping bag. “What are you doing?” you asked. “Get in here,” he ordered as he lifted it up slightly. “There’s no way both of us are going to fit in there.” He rolled his eyes. “We’ll make it work. Now hurry up. I’m freezing.” You squeezed in and you both barely fit if you laid on your sides. “I’m sorry that this trip sucks,” you said quietly into his shirt. “Don’t be sorry. I’m having fun. The temperature’s just a little inconvenient.”

More Than Just a Sandwich

From /trash/

“It’s just a sandwich, Nick.”

“I know.” And what it meant - what she had wanted to do - just made him fall hard for Judy, all over again. “But there are rules.”

“Rich, coming from you,” she snapped.

“It’s always been like this, sweetheart.” Nick pushed the door to his apartment closed behind them. The offending sandwich, wrapped in its clingy shrinkwrap - the one Judy had bought out of her own pocket, for the hungry-looking raccoon on fourth and cherry - went on the table. “That’s how the city works.”

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“Are you moving? Hopefully not too far.” Her voice rang through the room as she looked around. Her eyes were taking in the sight of the countless boxes stacked across the floor.

I was finally making enough money from gigs to move out of this shitty apartment. I felt like celebrating it. I wanted to do something big and spontaneous. But I was too horny and thirsty to think of any good ideas. All my mind could focus on was calling one of the various numbers in my phone. It just so happened she was the number I landed on.

“Across the city.”

A smirk slid on her lips as she turned towards me finally.“So what did you call me for? One last hurrah in your place? Like old times?” She began to walk closer, her hips swaying as she walked.

 “I guess you could say that.” The disinterest in what she was saying was beginning to show in my voice. I never cared about the words she spoke. All that mattered to me tonight was her ass and that sweet smell pulsing through her veins. It was intoxicating.

Her arms wrapped around me like they usually did–or at least, I think they normally did. I could be thinking of someone else. At this point they all sort of blend together. 

“Well aren’t I lucky.”

“I don’t know if I’d call you lucky.”

Chapter One

Wade Wilson aka Deadpool aka the merc with a mouth. Well, he wasn’t to chatty at the moment. Though that might have something to do with vodka bottle pouring spicy goodness down his throat. It wasn’t something he did often. After all it was very hard to get someone with a healing factor drunk. To do so costs big bucks. Good thing he just got paid. Which explained why he was in New York City and not in Canada.

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“Don’t you kids ever knock?” - fragile banshee

fragilebanshee you all should know we’ve been plotting this for a week. 

So of course, she texts him saying they need more condoms and of course she had a specific kind in mind. Which, of course, were in a sex shop all the way in the Bronx. The most awkward encounter in his 25 year old life. Driving back to his apartment in the heart of New York city, he was face palming the whole back. It was cringe worthy. Walked up the stairs to the third floor, where the large, two story apartment lay. 

Unlocked the door and walked in. Placed the bag in the kitchen and went to the living room, texting somebody back. “Hey Lyds I got those cond- condo registration papers, you wanted,” he stuttered as he looked up to see a group of her students sitting with her, working on quadratics or something stupid like that. It was just like her to forget to tell him that she was having a study group, in their apartment, on the one night he got home early. 

And now he had 15/16 year old girls gawking at his slightly undone state (tie loose and hair slightly done up from his nervous fingers viciously raking through them.) The boys were glaring and he knew it was because they had some weird thing for his gorgeous wife. He could see that they weren’t all originally friends, probably hated each other or at least avoided each other when they were with their cliques. Stiles couldn’t help but remember how much he hated highschool past its traumatizing force of supernatural drama. 

Michael walks home mechanically. One foots slaps down on pavement after another, eyes point straight forward and fingers dangle to bump against his thighs. Lucifer usually tells him he looks like a robot when he walks like this, but Michael couldn’t care less. Right now he just wants to get home and sleep for days and days. After taking a coworker’s shift and working late at his second job, his brain is deep fried and his muscles complain with every tiny movement.

You know, one day he’ll get a promotion and quit that second job. But for now he has to put money in the bank. Lucifer can barely stand to leave the house some days; much less keep a job without ripping anybody’s head off. So it comes to Michael, ever the mature, responsible one, to bring home the bacon.

He reaches their apartment building, right on the corner of Construction-Workers-At-Three-AM Street and Prostitutes-Giving-Blowjobs-Outside-The-Window Lane. Michael’s saving for a house outside the city. The grubby guy who stands in as doorman looks up from his magazine when Michael pushes open the double doors and tsks, flips a page noisily. When Michael turns to see what that was about, the doorman sighs and tells him, like it pains him greatly to waste energy speaking, “Your brother’s screamin’ again.”

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23rd Birthday Self Portrait

April 29, 2015

For seven years I have been taking a self portrait on my birthday, it’s a tradition I plan on carrying out for the rest of my life. Much like last year, I am in another big transition in my life. This time last year I was about to move to Boston, and in my self portrait I was in my new apartment in Jamaica Plain. Today I am sitting at my desk in my new home in Jacksonville, FL. I spent an amazing year in Boston, but I had to follow my instincts and my heart and come back to my city in the south. I can happily say that although I feel so far away from my 17-22 year old self in many ways, I can look back on each version of Lex like a little sister who I love and care for and understand and just want to protect. Today, at 23, I feel so much older, and I feel like I am being more true to myself than I have been in years. I am in a really happy place right now, on the edge of so much fun and creativity and love.

every year since 17

To mooneyedandglowing: Sorry, I read this and just had to record it. I hope you like it!

I want to take a road-trip in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. 
I want someone to look at me and tell me that they’d never
have the bravery to do something so stupid and so amazing without me. 
I want to sit on the floor and eat ramen noodles with my favorite person.
I want to get a small apartment in a big city and fill it up
with weird trinkets I bought in even weirder places. 
I want to learn how to write poetry in silence, scrape
your skin with my teeth, leave this feeling behind us. 
I want to fall asleep in the crook of your spine, make a home
out of your words, tell you that you always have a place
to stay in my heart whenever you are tired and lost
and all the hotels you come across are booked full. 
I want to have a best friend, I want a dusty corner
to store all the collected traumas of a lifetime. 
I want to stop playing cat and mouse. I’m not
very good at being afraid of you anymore,
but I can pretend better than anyone, if that’s really
what you want, but I want to be knocked out
by the double swing of intensity and feel it
until we both learn how to love someone,
no, I mean, really love someone, someone
we could love more than ourselves, I want to
learn how to do that well and I want to learn 
to the sound of the bassline that thumps in our chests
whenever you look at me straight on, like a deer
caught in headlights, like a little boy who thinks
the sun is beautiful enough to risk the burn.

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Woozi Fic 16

oh my god 16…we’re approaching guys XD i hope you like this one! i think im gonna continue this story line in the next fic but we’ll see XD

“Wah! That was so good!” you exclaim at the end of the movie. “I’ve been wanting to watch this for a while, but woah! Baby, what was your favorite par-” you start to say, but stop yourself when you see Woozi’s face.

Your boyfriend’s completely asleep, his head tilted back against your couch and his arm still draped around you. Smiling, you take a second to just stare at his adorable, sleeping self, his chest gently rising every time he takes a breath. You shake your head and say to yourself, “No wonder you were so quiet.”

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