Tumblr Already Has A Personalization Algorithm It's Called My Beloved Mutuals Who Have Great Taste And

Tumblr already has a personalization algorithm it's called my beloved mutuals who have great taste and only wish to psychologically damage me sometimes

i just saw a video on tiktok of someone complaining about fanfic writers who have the ✨audacity✨ not to complete a fic. that it’s rude, it’s inconsiderate, it’s disrespectful of the readers emotional investment. and then a whole bunch of commenters saying underneath that this is why they won’t read incomplete fics, that they’ve seen authors go from updating every week to horror of horrors only every month. and because i am a wise and mature individual i’m not going to stitch the video dragging them to hell but instead i’m coming here to you beloved tumblr dot com to bitch behind their back

because i know we’ve said this before but the emerging culture of fanfic writers as content creators and readers as consumers is fucking disgusting. it breeds attitudes exactly like this and turns something that is fundamentally anti-capitalist into another cycle of produce compete exploit where your worth is based on how quickly you can meet consumers needs

it’s called archive of our own for a reason. its about repurposing these stories for ourselves, for our own enjoyment and interest whether thats i want to right the wrongs of this author or i want to see what happens if this one tiny plot point changed or i want to make these characters tie each other up and fuck until they cry. its about sharing as a community, leaving these stories in a communal toy box so people who come along in a few months or few years can enjoy them too

tl;dr keep your fucking capitalist little mittens away from our stories

A lot of people think you have to read these physical copies of giant, expensive, non-fiction tomes for reading to be beneficial. And you don’t!!! This idea that you must read whatever dry historical text (as someone who reads a lot of dry historical accounts and analyses for academia) is rooted in the intersection between misogyny, racism, classism, ableism, and access to education.

don’t let stuffy people mock you for how you chose to engage in reading. Read for pleasure. Read fanfiction! Read ebooks. Read used books (it’s better Read the Ice Planet Barbarians, Heartstopper, City of Brass, Beach Read, Bridgerton, Six of Crows, Legendborn, Yellowface, etc. Listen to the audiobooks (that counts as reading!). If you don’t like the modality in which you read , try a new one! And don’t feel bad if you’re having a hard time with it!!

the idea that reading is 'supposed to be' some kind of unenjoyable gruelling intellectual penance is also so goofy because like, good fucking luck disciplining yrself into cultivating a habit you hate and that makes you miserable i guess! it's like if you insisted people's food should be bland or unpalatable in the name of Health and anyone who ate something tasty was morally inferior and a societal danger. oh wait

They pop back up throughout the continent as the Ouachitas in Oklahoma and Arkansas (although how this connection occurs isn’t particularly well understood). The Ouachitas are also connected to the Marathon Uplift in Texas.

This part of the range is also different in that it somehow curves around underground (this isn’t particularly well understood), meaning that the Ouachitas run east-west, not north-south.

Look. Am I thrilled with the heartbreak I am feeling right now? Yes. Am I looking forward to them making up? Also yes.

But I'm Only Looking At You: Part Three

A/N: And we're back for part three of Regency Cassian! And this time, we're switching up POVs because nothing says the theme of Illyrian for @cassianappreciationweek quite like... gestures vaguely... ya know? Also, we're getting angsty, but I hope everyone still enjoys :)

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Nesta hates Cassian MacLeod.

She hates him with every fiber of her being. Hates him until her blood boils and blazes, and she can grasp onto that feeling and hold tight to it.

She hates his idiocy and the entire mess that he’s caused over the last week. She hates the looks that were on her sisters’ faces when they finally got home after Cassian had burst in, the way that Elain had cried. She hates the damning, shunning words her mother had berated her with before the wedding, and that those words are his fault.

She hates the forlorn and pleading expression he’s been wearing for days now, staring at her from across the carriage. She hates the way his hand keeps reaching out between them, fingers curling in the skirts of her dress like he’s worried she’ll disappear on him if he doesn’t hold tight enough. She hates the relief that flooded through her when he came striding through those church doors.

She hates that she doesn’t think she could ever hate Cassian a day in her life.

After their argument at the first coaching inn, the rest of the journey to Glasgow is tense and awkward. Each day they ride in the carriage, barely speaking to one another, and each evening they stop at a coaching inn, Cassian opting to sleep on the floor and allowing her the bed.

Nesta never thought there would be a day where she missed his teasing. Missed his Scottish drawl calling her sweetheart. Missed the warm, deep rumble of his laughter. But each night she lies in the bed staring at the wall through the dark, her arms curled tightly around herself to fight off the chill. His name stays lodged firmly in the back of her throat, desperate to escape, but then she’ll think of her sisters back in London, think of how they must be struggling with the consequences of the Archeron name being thoroughly ruined, and she grasps back onto that anger all over again.

When they finally reach Glasgow, Nesta feels particularly exhausted, but as the carriage pulls around a bend, she finds herself perking up. She had known that Cassian had money, that despite what her mother and the other mothers of London whispered and gossiped, the MacLeods had made a name for themselves with their factories in the north. It was why Cassian had attended the boarding school with the other boys in the first place, but actually seeing the manor that he calls home almost has Nesta gaping.

The beige stonework of the exterior is gorgeous, lines of windows spaced amongst the patterned stone and bay windows protruding from both wings of the manor. Five wide steps lead up to a large, white front door, a crest seemingly carved into the stone just above it. With the line of trees and what promises to be a sprawling garden just behind, it paints a picture perfect backdrop.

The carriage pulls to a stop, and one of the footmen pulls open the door, Cassian climbing out first before he turns back and offers Nesta a hand. She’s still staring up at the manor as she settles her hand in his and steps down from the carriage.

“Do you like it?” Cassian asks, his eyes pinned on Nesta and her reaction, his tone almost nervous.

“I’m beginning to think you undersold your manor in your letters,” Nesta comments, her eyes still flitting around. “You always described it as being so miserable here.”

“It was.”

Something in Cassian’s tone, in the unspoken words hanging in the breeze between them, has Nesta turning her head. There’s a longing swimming amongst the golds and greens of his hazel eyes, enough that Nesta’s breath hitches in her lungs and she has to look away again. She swallows hard and continues forward toward the front steps of the manor, desperate for a distraction from everything left unsaid between them, from the electricity that sparks in that space, from the way her traitorous heart skipped over itself.

The front door is pulled open as soon as Nesta gets close to it, so she steps inside, taking a moment to admire the high ceilings of the hall. A large, central staircase takes up the majority of the space, but Nesta notes the fresh flowers that have been arranged on the tables lining the walls.

“Mrs Reynolds,” Cassian greets the woman standing just inside the hall, stepping inside behind Nesta and settling a gentle hand on the small of her back. “I trust all has been well while I was away.”

“Of course, sir,” Mrs Reynolds responds, dipping into a polite curtsy before her eyes glance toward Nesta quickly. “The staff has ensured that everything is prepared to welcome the new mistress of the house.”

“Perfect. Please inform Michael to begin preparing dinner while I give Nesta the tour.”

With another curtsy to them both, Mrs Reynolds vanishes deeper into the manor. Cassian clears his throat and steps away from Nesta, drifting over toward the left side of the hall. He pushes a hand up and through his hair, the gesture almost nervous.

“You can change anything you’d like,” Cassian explains. “I’ll admit I’ve just sort of left things how my father had them, but if anything isn’t to your taste or…” He clears his throat again, and swings open the doors in front of him. “But this is the drawing room, and through that door there is my study. And just through there leads to the conservatory that overlooks the gardens.”

Nesta nods in understanding and steps closer, her gaze sweeping over the different furnishings, the piano tucked in the corner by the windows, the sofas arranged around the large fireplace. She sidesteps around Cassian to peer into his study next, taking in the desk and books stacked neatly into the shelves just behind it. When she turns back toward Cassian, looking at him expectantly, he crosses to the other side of the hall, opening the other set of doors.

“And this is the dining room, which connects back to the breakfast room, and the conservatory too actually. Since the hall just wraps around.” When Nesta doesn’t say anything and merely nods her head again, Cassian makes his way up the stairs, pausing at the top and gesturing to his left. “The west wing has three bedrooms, mostly used for guests, but this way…”

A few steps down the hallway leading to the east wing and Cassian pauses, pushing open a set of double doors. There’s no stopping the gasp that tears free from Nesta’s chest, her feet moving of their own accord as she steps inside. A sofa and two comfortable looking armchairs are arranged around a tea table near the fireplace, and she realizes that one of the bay windows she had seen from outside is in fact a window seat. But every other spare inch of space along the walls is lined with dark colored oak shelves, climbing all the way up to the ceiling, and each one of them is filled with books.

“I had a feeling this would be your favorite room,” Cassian chuckles quietly behind her.

Nesta walks over to the closest shelf, running her fingers along the different spines. She can already hear the whispers of the stories and characters waiting just beneath, and she takes a moment to close her eyes and breathe deeply, the scent of parchment and dried ink filling her senses in the most comforting way. When she opens her eyes again, she examines Cassian’s collection, tiling her head so she can read the different titles displayed.

“You have quite the Sellyn Drake collection.”

“You told me he was your favorite writer, so I made sure I had every book of his that’s been published.”

Nesta nearly jumps out of her skin at how close his voice is. She hadn’t heard him walk closer to her. She chances a glance to where he’s now leaning against the shelves beside her, where he’s watching her intently. Of course, her heart once again decides to betray her, thundering between her ribs at his closeness, at that damned look in his eyes, at his explanation. Her bottom lip finds home between her teeth, and she looks away again, focusing instead on tracing the letters of a title with her index finger.

“I don’t recall telling you that,” Nesta says, pulling one of the books out and flipping through the pages just to give her hands something to do.

“You were in the market square, and I followed you into the bookshop.”

“I suppose that does sound right. You always like to bother me.”

“I asked you who your favorite writer was, so I might purchase a book for you, and you told me that you didn’t need a gentleman to buy you your books.”

“Clearly you didn’t listen.”

“And when I insisted, you finally informed me that Sellyn Drake was your favorite.”

“How do you know I didn’t just say that to see the shop owner’s face when you purchased a Sellyn Drake novel? It was quite priceless as I recall.”

“Then who is your favorite writer? Tell me, and I’ll have the books in this library remedied immediately.”

He says the words with such ease, such conviction, that Nesta finds herself frowning in confusion. “Why?”

That look takes over his face again, that soft pleading look. “You already know the answer to that question, Nes.”

“Because I’m the lady of the house now?”

“If that’s the lie you want us to tell ourselves…”

Nesta closes the book in her hands with a clap that echoes in the otherwise quiet library, hugging the book tight to her chest. “Do you intend to finish your tour?”

Cassian sighs softly but he nods, leading Nesta out of the library and continuing down the hall of the east wing. He stops in front of another set of doors, pulling them open and gesturing for Nesta to step inside. The room is spacious, a large, canopy bed taking up the majority of the space and windows that overlook the gardens lining the far wall.

“The dressing room is through the door on the left, the bathing chamber the one on the right,” Cassian explains, still hovering by the door. “You’ll have this room, and I’ll have one of the guest rooms made up for me.”

Nesta whips around at that. “We won’t be sharing?”

“Have you forgiven me yet?”

“No,” Nesta snaps automatically, earning a look from Cassian that clearly says she answered her own question. “And what happens when word reaches London that we are already sleeping separately? Barely a week into the honeymoon?”

“You don’t have to worry about that. My staff are good people. They won’t talk or spread gossip.”

“All servants talk.”

That infuriating, teasing smirk of his tugs across his lips, the first time Nesta’s seen that look in days. “If you want me in your bed, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask.”

“I want nothing from you,” Nesta corrects, tossing her book onto the bed and crossing her arms across her chest, matching his stance. “But you have already ruined me and the Archeron name enough. I will not allow you to drive it further into the mud.”

Cassian’s smile drops away, a flicker of regret crossing his expression as he turns his face away from her. “You know that wasn’t my intention.”

“Yes,” Nesta drawls dryly, rolling her eyes. “We all know your intentions with your stupid, selfish act.”

“Selfish…” Cassian scoffs, shaking his head. “Because what more could I possibly want than you hating me.”

The conversation is teetering dangerously toward things they’ve yet to discuss, and though Nesta already knows, has already seen the truth that Cassian has worn so plainly on his sleeve since the House Party, since the wedding, it’s waters Nesta is not quite ready to dip her toe into. It’s secrets she’s not quite ready to share. So she drops her gaze away from Cassian, fiddling with the sleeve of her dress and a loose thread there instead.

“I’m tired. We’ve been traveling for days. Can you send some lady’s maids to tend to me?”

Cassian sighs, but he thankfully doesn’t comment on the change in subject. “You haven’t had any dinner yet.”

“I’m fine,” Nesta dismisses easily with a shrug.

“You’ve barely eaten the past few days.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“We’re married now, remember? Is that not what husbands do? Is that not my right now?”

Nesta storms across the room to him, her rage practically palpable the way it thrums through her veins, the way it thunders in her ears. She doesn’t stop until she’s right in front of him, scowling up at him with narrowed eyes as she seethes, “do it, then. I dare you.”

She expects Cassian to step away from her, perhaps even to match her anger, but she doesn’t expect him to smile down at her. “There she is. You want to play, Nes?”

“Gods, you are insufferable!”

“Better to have you yelling at me than the gods-damned silence you’ve been putting me through! Fight with me. Throw something at me. I don’t care. I can take it.”

They both stand there, toe to toe, their chests heaving and twin flames blazing in their gazes. Nesta swears she can hear both their hearts thundering to the same beat. Swears some thread goes taut between them as the air crackles and sparks. It squeezes and tightens around her heart, threatening to burst it, threatening to tug it clean out of her chest.

She tries to grapple for her anger again, for her hatred, before it slips through her fingers like wisps of smoke. Damn this man and the way he’s never backed down from her. The way he’s always relished in her fire rather than trying to douse it. The way he’s torn down her every wall, her every defense, from the moment she met him.

It has Nesta breaking first, turning away from him and hugging her arms around herself like that will hold in the ache that’s started to throb between her ribs. “Are you calling some lady’s maids or not?”

“Fine,” Cassian mutters, his voice almost defeated.

Nesta waits until his retreating footsteps finally fade before letting out a soft sigh. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before two lady’s maids step inside the room. They help her to bathe, to wash away all of the grime that comes from days of traveling before helping her prepare for bed. When they leave again with a polite curtsy, the bedroom doors closing behind them with a soft snick, Nesta slips beneath the cool, silk sheets and the soft blankets of the bed.

She lays there against the pillows, eyes glued on the windows and the gardens beyond. She watches the sky as it shifts from golden hues to deep purples, watches until the inky darkness of night swallows everything whole and plunges the bedroom around her into shadows too. Despite the exhaustion still weighing heavy in her limbs, sleep stays firmly out of Nesta’s reach. It doesn’t help that her mind can’t seem to stop racing, churning like the sea waves during a storm.

All she can think about is Cassian, practically seeing his face every time she tries to close her eyes. She can’t help but think back to her eighteenth birthday, one of the last times she saw him before he finished school and returned to Glasgow. Her mother had thrown her an extravagant party in the ballroom of their home to celebrate. Mama had claimed it was strictly to honor her, but Nesta had known better. It was a way to show off to the other society ladies. It was a way for Mama to begin her grand plan of securing Nesta a suitable match.

It had all been so much, the music, the people, all the conversations Mama had roped her into. And yet somehow Cassian had seen right through her plastered smiles, had known exactly what she needed. He’d grabbed her hand and whisked her away before anyone could see. Nesta doesn’t think she’ll ever forget those few blissful moments of peace they’d stolen away, hidden out of sight in the pantry, Nesta sitting on an overturned crate so as to not get dirt on her dress.

He had given her her birthday gift then, a first edition book she loved, the writer’s script penned on the first page. It was so thoughtful. The whole night had been so thoughtful that Nesta had realized it then. In that small space with Cassian smiling softly at her, with his hazel eyes still glinting even in the low light, Nesta had realized that she had feelings for him.

That she loved him.

Nesta can feel the hot sting of tears beginning to prickle the back of her eyes, so she turns and presses her face into her pillow, trying to stifle them. Her whole chest feels raw and exposed, as though dark claws have carved into the space until it’s hollow, until nothing remains but bloodied ribbons and her bruised heart. She presses a trembling hand to her mouth, the cool metal of her wedding band catching on her lips. It just makes the emotions raging through her worse, and Nesta pulls the blankets up higher over her shoulders, curls in tighter to herself.

She’s not sure how much time passes, how long she lays there, before she hears the soft sound of the door opening, the shuffle of feet around the room. She doesn’t move from her spot, stays perfectly still as she listens to Cassian unwind and prepare to sleep. She can feel the blankets shift as he tugs them down on the other end of the bed, but then he pauses. He hesitates. And Nesta has to squeeze her eyes shut, that ache in her chest giving a stuttering throb.

Finally, the mattress dips behind her, Cassian slipping into the bed and shifting until he’s comfortable. It takes everything within Nesta to keep breathing steady, not to release the sigh of relief clogging her throat.

“Nes,” Cassian whispers, his fingertips feather light as they skate along her spine. “Are you awake?”

The seconds of silence tick by, Nesta keeping her lips firmly pressed together. She expects Cassian to pull his hand back, but instead, his fingers curl into the fabric of her shift, the same way they’d curled into her skirts in the carriage. She wants to hate how much she finds the gesture grounding, comforting.

“I just wish you’d understand that I did it for you.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta wakes to an empty bed.

Gray, muddled light pours into the room through the windows, the heavy overcast clouds clinging to the sky outside promising a whole day of rain. Nesta takes a moment to just lay there, to watch the droplets of water that splatter onto the window pane before sliding against the glass in racing streaks.

When her stomach starts to twinge and groan, she finally heaves herself up and out of bed. She takes the time to braid and pin her hair back, opting for one of her more simple dresses. She heads down the stairs and to the breakfast room, Cassian already dressed and sitting inside at the table. He has a stack of papers he seems to be reviewing in his hands, but he looks up at the sound of Nesta’s footsteps, his gaze following her the whole way as she takes the seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Good morning,” Cassian offers quietly, setting down his papers. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Nesta assures him, accepting the tea that’s placed in front of her with a quiet thanks.

Silence settles in the room and between them, so Nesta focuses on buttering a piece of toast. She can feel Cassian’s gaze on her, watching her, analyzing her in that way he always does, but she keeps her own eyes down, intent on tearing her toast into small pieces aimlessly. With each passing second, Nesta can feel her frustration beginning to grow, small fires beginning to spark and simmer. She can feel the cool, snapped words poised and ready on the tip of her tongue, but before she can release them, Cassian clears his throat, drawing her attention back to him.

“I have to go check on the factories today,” Cassian begins, pushing a hand up and through his hair almost nervously. “Would you like to join me?”

“Hardly the place for a lady, don’t you think?” Nesta comments, picking up her tea and taking a sip.

“Maybe so, but they’re just as much yours as they are mine now.”

“It’s not proper.”

Cassian sighs, but thankfully he doesn’t push her. “Will you be alright then? On your own for the day?”

“I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’ll always worry about you.”

He says the words so seriously, not a hint of that teasing tone of his. Says them so matter-of-factly. Says them with that soft pleading look burning amongst the greens and golds of his eyes. It has the vines twisting tighter around Nesta’s heart, has her swallowing hard around the lump threatening to press into her throat.

Nesta straightens her spine and raises her chin, meeting Cassian’s gaze head on. “I want to write to my sisters.”

The smallest hint of a frown starts to tug down the corner of his lips, but Cassian nods. “You’ll find everything you should need in my study. Just give the letter to Mrs Reynolds. She’ll make sure it’s delivered.”

As though speaking her name has brought her into existence, Mrs Reynolds steps into the room, dipping into a polite curtsy. “The carriage is ready, sir.”

With another nod, Cassian stands up from his seat. He takes a step closer to Nesta, his lips parting as though he wants to say more, hand reaching out like he wants to do more, but once again, he hesitates, his hand outstretched awkwardly between them. He purses his lips, giving the smallest shake of his head and drops his hand back to his side, turning and heading for the door.

Nesta tries not to let it sting when he doesn’t offer any sort of goodbye, tries to remind herself that she’s just as much to blame for this tension roaring between them, but it leaves her feeling cold all the same. She turns back to her breakfast, but suddenly, she doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.

With a sigh, she pushes up from her seat, striding out of the breakfast room. She crosses the front hall and opens the door to Cassian’s study, stepping inside. It’s surprisingly neat. A large, oak desk takes up most of the space, two chairs set before it and another chair and small bookcase set behind it. The leather bound books and ledgers on the shelves are all arranged in ordered rows, papers and more books organized in stacks on the desk.

She settles into the chair behind the desk, finding a pen already waiting for her. She turns her attention to the drawers next, in search of paper, leaning over and trying the largest bottom drawer first. She’s surprised to find the drawer stuffed full with paper, but they’re not blank. It’s letters.

It’s her letters.

Three years worth of letters, all folded and gathered together in this drawer. She can’t believe he kept all of them. She still remembers writing all those letters, telling him about her family, about her days, all her thoughts and opinions that she knew Cassian would never balk from. She still remembers lying in her bed, the candle light burning low, reading over the words he wrote back to her over and over again.

Nesta closes the drawer quickly, unable to look at those letters anymore. Blessedly, the next drawer she tries has the blank paper she’s looking for. She gets to work writing out a letter to Elain and Feyre, informing them that she’s settled in Glasgow, asking for updates from them. She keeps her requests simple and polite in case her mother decides to open and read the letter first, keeps everything optimistic so as to not worry Elain or Feyre. When she’s satisfied, she signs her name and reaches for the wax, pausing once she picks up the seal. Her fingers trace over the raised metal, the MacLeod crest.

She supposes it’s her crest now too.

Her gaze dances back down to the ink of her signature on the page. She’d simply signed Nesta and nothing more. She chews at her bottom lip for a moment before huffing in frustration at herself, at her swirling thoughts. With a shake of her head, she quickly folds her letter and pours the wax, pressing the seal down with a newfound determination.

—

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