#It's been IMPOSSIBLE finding most of the other illustrations anywhere...

[solradguy]

Being an Order Sol fan is like "Wow! Look at this awesome illustration you get at the end of this arcade mission! WOW... It's in.... 250x125px resolution... Maybe someone will have posted it online in a higher size somewhere...!" *15 minutes of fruitless reverse image searching later*

[mayhemchicken-artblog]

I'm curious, in which decade of the 18th century does the part of the story in Varney the Vampire with the Bannerworth Family take place? do you have a estimation?

oh, what a fantastic question. the short answer: time in varney the vampire is so convoluted that it is impossible to give an estimation, so i said "fuck it" and put them, arbitrarily, in the 1740s.

but hey, let's try to estimate it anyway!

first off, wikipedia says the story is "ostensibly set in the early 18th century." i have no idea where they're getting this claim. this story is not "ostensibly" set anywhere. it has 0 ostensibility. it doesn't ostense anything. the details i am about to dig up in order to sleuth together the timeframe are the type of nitpicky specifics only likely to be picked up by a Category 5 Autism Moment, or possibly someone putting together their phd thesis. without further ado!

our first clue as to the timeframe of varney the vampire comes in the introduction, with the following line:

Nothing has been omitted in the life of the unhappy Varney, which could tend to throw a light upon his most extraordinary career, and the fact of his death just as it is here related, made a great noise at the time through Europe and is to be found in the public prints for the year 1713.

this is, as we'll see, complete bullshit.

now let's have a look at the illustrations! they are also complete bullshit. judging from the clothing the characters are wearing, they could be anywhere from the mid-17th century...

...to the early 18th century...

...to the late 18th century (pictured: admiral bell. those turned-back lapels weren't added to the british naval uniform until 1767)...

...to the 1840s...

...to...the 1940s??? (i'm not the only one who thinks this looks like a trench coat and a fedora, right?)

so, clearly those aren't an indicator of anything. surely there must be clues in the story itself though, right?

haha. well. about that.

our first clue comes early in the story, when the bannerworths are investigating their family crypt, on the hunch that the vampire (not yet identified as varney) is one of their ancestors. specifically, they suspect a guy named either runnagate or marmaduke (his name changes halfway through) who died 100 years ago. so find out when he died, add 100 years, and we have the time of the story, easy!

"What says it?" "Ye mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God reste his soule. A.D. 1540." "It is the plate belonging to his coffin," said Henry,

okay, so it sounds like the story takes place around 1640! good work team, let's--

By the combined light of the candles they saw the words,— "Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640." "Yes, there can be no mistake here," said Henry. "This is the coffin, and it shall be opened."

...ah.

so, with no way to know which it is, let's try a different approach. perhaps there are clues within the story that will let us place it in a historical context, such as references to historical figures.

As the chaise drove up to the door of the inn, this man made an observation to the other to the following effect,— "A-hoy!" "Well, you lubber, what now?" cried the other. "They call this the Nelson's Arms; and you know, shiver me, that for the best half of his life he had but one."

admiral nelson died in 1805, so...the story is now set in the regency period or later. this timeframe is supported by the prevalence of pistol duels within the story, which according to wikipedia did not catch on until the late 18th century, swords being the preferred dueling weapon before then. additionally, admiral bell is described as wearing "the undress naval uniform of an officer of high rank some fifty or sixty years ago", which for rymer would have meant the 1780s-90s. so, mounting evidence that the story is set in the late 18th or early 19th century.

one last thing we can try: let's see if the later parts of the story offer any hints as to the timeframe of the earlier parts. here's a quote from chapter 179, a point after which the rest of the story happens all in the same period of time, barring flashbacks:

"One stormy, inclement evening in November, a travelling carriage, draggled with mud, and dripping with moisture, was driven up to the door of the London Hotel, which was an establishment not of the very first fashion, but of great respectability, situated then in Burlington-street, close to Old Bond-street, then the parade of fashion, and, as some thought, elegance; although we of the present day would look with risibility upon the costumes that were the vogue, although the period were but fifty years ago; but fifty years effect strange mutations and revolutions in dress, manners, and even in modes of thought."

(yes, that was one sentence. someday rymer will answer for his crimes against the comma)

anyway. so this part of the story, which encompasses the Peak Scooby-Doo Segment, the vampire council, and the entire episode with the croftons, is supposedly set long after all the bannerworths have died:

"Did you not once know some people named Bannerworth." "I did. You came to see me, I think, at an inn. They are all dead."

"Well, gentlemen," added the doctor, "I will tell you what I suggest, and that is contained in a letter, written a long while ago by a distant relation of mine, likewise a surgeon [Chillingworth]. Mind, I do not of course pledge myself at the present time, for the truth and accuracy of a man who was dead long before I was born; he might too have been a very superstitious man."

(speakers are an unnamed vampire and varney in the first quote, and the croftons' family doctor, dr. north, in the second)

fifty years ago, as i said earlier, would be the 1790s from rymer's perspective. charles holland is 21, and i assume the bannerworth siblings are all close to his age, so i would expect anywhere from 30-60 years to have passed for them all to have died. it seems fair to me to assume both chillingworth and dr. north are in their 30s at least, with 40s seeming a bit more likely. "long before I was born" is very vague but we'll say that's at least 10 years, probably more. so the minimum length of time between the two sections of the story is dr. north's lifespan + however long chillingworth lived after the bannerworth section + at least 10 years in between. so we're looking at probably 60 years at a minimum. all that would set the story in the 1730s at the latest, and probably earlier.

unless you believe the introduction to the story, which asserts that varney hurling himself into the volcano (the last thing that happens in the book) happened in 1713, which would, according to all the math i just did, set the bannerworth portion in the 1650s. this is INCREDIBLY problematic for the story's timeline, as that was the Oliver Cromwell period. according to the backstory varney gives to mr. bevan, he didn't even BECOME a vampire until two years after cromwell was dead (even though he also tells him he was terrorizing london during the reign of henry iv which was in the early 15th century...never mind).

you can see why i just gave up and decided to set the bannerworths part in the 1740s and the croftons part in the 1840s and ignore anything rymer has to say about the timeline that contradicts this. i didn't even get into the Time Knot.

[acilykos]

Hi. I see you're aroace and I'm too so I was wondering if I could ask you a question? Idk if this is something you do I found you through aroace senkuu post so absolutely feel free to ignore if you don't want to talk about it.

So basically I'm trying to figure out what exactly loveless means. BC a lot of people both arospec and not have told me that label might fit (as in I want 0 romance etc. But also no platonic equivalent). However. I am a very passionate person about my chosen career, music, art, my cat. Those are all things I feel so strongly about, I wouldn't know what to call it but "love". Similarly there are people I care about, just not in a way where I want romance with them or a platonic version of that kind of relationship.

(I've seen you call senkuu loveless too, and I'm a little confused BC he clearly does care deeply about some people and possibly even more so science. Why not call that love? Is it a terminology thing?)

I'm not trying to pick a fight, I really like your analysis of senkuu.

I'm genuinely trying to understand.

It's possible to reject the societal notion of what love is. I do so myself.

But there's no denying that the chemicals involved are something everyone experiences. Like. Everyone gets dopamine, vasopressin, oxytocin etc. It's just the context that's different. Much like oxytocin is experienced both in mother-infant bonding and in sexual contact, I get a dopamine rush listening to music but not making out with someone.

(granted romantic love hasn't been that well examined but there does seem to be a consensus on the general chemistry involved)

Same chemicals but different result/feeling, you know?

Not getting these chemicals at all is impossible I think, so that can't be what loveless means.

So what does it mean??? Is it just about society's perception of love??

I personally approached my lack of romantic attraction by Googling the brain chemistry BC clearly I wasn't getting anywhere with the emotional side. I'm not an expert. But the definitions of different aro orientations I see commonly, don't actually address this at all. It's like everyone decided on a different definition of "love" and nobody told me any of them.

Again, I know this sounds very passionate, but I always sound like that. I'm not trying to pick a fight, nor am I expecting you to solve my identity crisis. So really no need to reply if you don't want to. I can see how this would be. A lot to try and answer.

Hi, hi!!

First of all, I'm happy to meet a fellow AroAce!! I'm also calling myself loveless because it fits the most, I did research before and found it was the closest to describe myself.

Second of all, I think it depends on the definition of what loveless means for oneself because as always, sexuality at the end of the day is a fluid and personal thing.

Apologies if some of the thoughts seem jumbled or contradicting. I just woke up, was very happy about getting to ramble and I just don't know how to properly describe my "emotional thought processes" because I decided to illustrate my points with examples.

It's a long read too, I hope you don't mind.

Personally, I define it as a "lack of attraction" because oriented and angled AroAces experience other types of attraction (like platonic, aesthetic, etc.), but don't ask me to explain the difference between either, I really have no idea what it is (no offense to any angled or oriented AroAces). Personally, I find it ironic that the two most known "orientations" of AroAce people are still based on experiencing attraction despite AroAces being known for not experiencing it. So we had to create another word to say "Yeah, we actually don't experience any type of attraction”. It's also ironic to me that we call it "loveless" because it's not that we don't love, we just aren't attracted to people.

I'm an artist, I love art and drawing myself, as well as writing.

I'm also a scientist, I love chemistry, astronomy, pharmacology, psychology, really, I'm just always happy to talk about any subject. In fact, that's my current career, I'm a pharmaceutical technician.

I have favourite songs, favourite subjects, favourite seasons. Favourite shows, favourite characters, hell, I also have favourite ships.

I care about my family and friends too.

It's just that I'm not attracted to people. I don't want a romantic relationship because I don't experience romantic attraction. Same as I don't want a sexual one. I just don't see the need or appeal for another person if the goal is to just have a dinner date or a climax. Sure romance and sex can come hand in hand, but that depends on whether or not you experience either or if you're committed in a relationship. Anyways, I digress.

These two are the typical ones people talk about when it comes to attraction, but then there are the illusive platonic and aesthetic attractions, and many more I believe. One of them is explained later which causes AroAces in the first place to also use the labels oriented and angled.

Platonic attraction, or at least as I come to understand it, is seeing a person and just wanting to be their friend. You see someone and you think "wow, I really want to be their friend!!" also apparently called having a "squish".

I don't do that. I don't really feel something compelling me to talk to this person to become their friend.

Same as I don't feel attraction towards aesthetically pleasing people (which is also a highly individual definition). Or well, for a lack of a better term, the only "Wow, I really like how they look" I experience is in terms of gender envy. I don't want to be with them, I don't want to be them either. I just think "I'd like to express my gender like that". If that makes any sense.

I see people talk about "they're hot" and "they're so cute looking" and how they have this attraction towards them because of the way they look, but I just don't? I may appreciate the beauty by acknowledging that someone has nice features or a cool style, but it's the same as me looking at the weather and going "Ah, the sun is shining, isn't that nice." before continuing to do whatever I did, not spending more time on thinking about the weather.

For a real life example: My sister and I are going to a driving school. She has an aesthetic (and I call it on purpose an aesthetic attraction. She has not spoken once with the guy and she also said it's not exactly a crush) on one of the other people there, which to me makes no sense given his general character he revealed at least at the driving school. She even took his pen he forgot at school (just some company gifted pen from when we got a visit that day) in hopes of giving it back to him and struck up a conversation (She failed to. She was too embarrassed, in case you're curious).

I only acknowledge he has a nice jawline. That's it.

I don't feel any type of attraction towards people. I don't want or need to be their romantic partner. I don't want or need a sexual relationship. Just because someone has a personality that clicks with mine, I don't automatically feel the need to become their friend. If we become friends, great. If we don't it is what it is.

Obviously when I'm friends with someone, I care about them, but it's just... not the way friendships are usually portrayed. I don't feel the need to have many friends, or meet up with them constantly or go on trips or anything of the like. I like them a lot, I want them to be well. I just... don't really feel an attraction? I don't know how to properly explain it.

An attraction for me is either the need to be constantly with them, one way or another, because you physically and/or mentally/psychologically feel the need to be in their presence, whenever an opportunity arises OR that you spent a lot of time just thinking about them (daydreaming, fantasies, you get it). I just don't feel like that. I'm fine with not talking or seeing friends for multiple months or years. I'm also fine if we don't talk constantly too. If the friendship ended because we couldn't maintain it, it wouldn't destroy me.

It actually happened multiple times, I'm fine with it. Do I miss them or feel nostalgic when I think about past experiences with them? Of course, I care about them as people.

But I'd feel the same about it even if we had stayed friends, because I obviously feel nostalgic with things I did with my current friends.

I just really don't have the ""need"" to have friends in my life. I'm not "attracted" towards them, I care about them and I like them, but it's just not the type of attraction or even love that society usually attributes to what (best) friends are supposed to be or behave like.

(Same for my family. I haven't seen some of them in years, I don't need to. I like them, I care about their wellbeing.)

You may be wondering, if that's my attitude towards friendships, how do I even have friendships.

They talked to me one day and we happened to keep talking because we liked what each other had to say. It's been years later, so it's safe to say that we still like each other, but not once have I ever initiated a friendship, funnily enough. All I did was just... reply or talk once and we kept talking and meeting up, and eventually we became friends, and because they know a lot about me and I about them, I care about them.

And this is what I think Senkū is like too.

He cares about his friends deeply and he obviously cares about his family too. But he doesn't feel any attraction to people. He never once had an "I need to be their friend" moment. He accidentally sort of becomes friends with them because of the situation they're in and then develops a friendship with them because they've been through a lot of things for multiple years.

How did he meet Taiju? Because Taiju saved his machinery. Senkū didn't have any friends prior to that. But then they talked and spent their childhood together and became friends.

Taiju introduced him to Yuzuriha, they talked, she helped with his experiments as well, and they too became friends.

Senkū not once initiated a friendship.

He may have approached some of them first, but not because he wanted to be their friend/felt platonic attraction, he just needed them for a plan, then he used them for his plans, but they stuck around and they talked and time passed.

If it comes to his plans or science, he talks first. If it comes to any "emotional" conversational topic, someone else initiates it.

Senkū just doesn't feel the need to have emotional connections, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't care about his friends or won't develop friendships, if that makes sense. He doesn't seek them, but if friendships happen to develop, he accepts it. He doesn't portray it outwardly, but deep within his heart he still cares.

Everyone in his life started out as an ally, it eventually became friendship. Senkū didn't recruit people because he wanted friends, he recruited them because he had a need for allies to wage war against Tsukasa, then Ibara, then Whyman.

You can even apply it to Senkū's relationship with Xeno, who is according to the fanbook one of Senkū's "closest relationships" (the other one being Byakuya). Senkū respects Xeno as a scientist and as the only NASA employee who actually helped him build a rocket, but even then it's because Xeno talked first and their relationship was strictly mentor and mentee, it was hardly a friendship in what society defines it as anyway. I guess the closest equivalent would be Marty McFly and Doc Brown from Back to the Future (I know, Marty isn't Doc's mentee, but it's about the assisting in science projects part), if it comes to media, but even then Senkū's and Xeno's mentorship would not fit the definition of friendship the way Marty's and Doc's does.

I also call Senkū loveless, because he would never enter a queer platonic relationship (qpr). Entering one would mean you experience a type of connection that is more than friendship, but not romantic or sexual. Or at least that's how I came to understand it. Personally, I'm still confused on what they're actually like aside from them developing from a "tertiary form of attraction". This is where angled and oriented AroAces come in, and why some people call themselves "AroAce lesbians" for example. They experience a different type of attraction towards women that's not just friendship, but it's also not romantic or sexual (at least that's how I understand it, any tertiary attraction feeling AroAces correct or explain it to me, because it's been confusing me for years).

Now look at Senkū and tell me that he'd ever enter such a relationship, when he barely feels the need to make friends on his own. He says it himself "love causes only problems" because of the emotions involved in it. He also, as we established, doesn't feel the need to make friends. If that's already too much and Senkū doesn't have the need for friends, and a QPR is similar, except it lacks the romantic and sexual part and is supposedly "more than a mere friendship", then Senkū definitely wouldn't have that.

I think it's important to mention that, but I think at this point it is obvious, I don't define attraction and caring as the same things.

Why would I? It isn't the same thing, otherwise we wouldn't have different words for it.

Attraction means I myself feel the need to be close to whatever attracts me, maybe that I can't stop thinking about it because I need it in my life, but it can also be superficial.

Care is that it doesn't cross my mind every day, but maybe I happen to think about it once because it crossed my mind, or if I'm with friends or family who tell me about something that happened to them, I care about their wellbeing.

You may also have noticed that I barely even used the word "love" despite talking about being "loveless". As I mentioned in the beginning, I really don't think it's the right term. We love. We care. But it's just not the love people think of first (aka romantic). I love my hobbies, I love my friends and family, I love my favourite characters. But none of this is what society tells me that love is supposed to be or feel like. But it's the most direct way of saying "I don't experience any type of attraction", as misleading as it is, sadly.

And that's it, basically.

Again, it's just my own definition and experience, so how true it is for the majority of AroAces or how much you agree with me, is totally up to you and anyone else. Emotional matters are confusing, and a lot of the time don't make sense and are hard to put into words, but I gave it my best shot with all I know right now. If you're curious or think that loveless may not be the right term after all, you're welcome to do more research on the terms angled and oriented, I bet there are a lot of AroAces who identify with those labels ready to help you out, and who know much more about it than me.

I hope I was able to help you in any way to find some clarity! Thanks again for stopping by, feel free to do that again any time!!

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Hey idk if this counts but i just need someone to listen to me for a bit, maybe give some advice? I know this isnt much compared to other people's struggles, i just would appreciate an outsider's perspective as it is greatly affecting me, slowly but greatly nonetheless.

So i live with my mother and share a room with her because of reasons that arent fully relevant here. I also listen to long youtube essay videos to help me sleep because of some trauma from getting covid so bad I was afraid to sleep. Plus she and her dog snores.

I have some favorites from playlist, and play them often especially since they are at the top anyways. I make sure to turn them down alt so my mother can sleep without the videos disturbing her, however some of then can get a bit loud at a few key points. Not by much but enough to be heard a bit on her side of the room

In response to that i believe, she has been a variety of negative comments relating to said videos. Going so far to 'jokely' insult the creator of my favorite ones for making hour longs essays about old kid shows and being so into something like that and more.

I've brought this up to her multiple times as her making less then kind comments about things i enjoy is unfortunately nothing new. She says she's just joking but even if she is, i am autistic and very much not able to understand or pick up on most jokes, also either way i act similar to those creators with the only difference is i dont make/post my hours worth of essays as 5+ hour long videos.

I've been trying to explain to her how i feel but she often talks over me, i dont know how to approach this situation without seeming too aggressive or anything as my typical way of handling conflict is to be very direct and logical to a fault.

And while there are other rooms within this house i could sleep in, they both have their issues that make it extremely difficult to outright impossible with sacrificing my physical or mental health along with other risks that could be a whole separate ask.

Currently I've been listening to other videos to try and keep the peace but i know it probably wont last long. I am willing to make changes like I've already had but i believe the way i approach her about this comes off too strong for us to get anywhere with a discussion.

Basically, i wish to know any better ways to approach this situation as i know i tend to come off a bit cold and rude without meaning it in these types of situations. We both have alot of conflict related trauma and i would like to be respectful of it but given my difficulty with feelings and such makes it challenging.

Hi anon,

I'm so sorry about what's been going on. Firstly I just want to say that this absolutely does count and you don't have to compare your struggles to that of others here, every struggle is equally valid and deserving of a response.

I wish that your mother respected you and your interests more, even if she doesn't personally like them. There are more effective and healthy ways for her to communicate. Your mom may not be receptive to an open conversation, but it may be worth a try.

As for recommendations on approaching a conversation with her, it might help to first choose a time when both you and your mother are calm and not tired. This will allow for a more constructive conversation and less chance of misunderstandings. Start the conversation by acknowledging your mother's concerns and expressing your gratitude for her allowing you to share a room with her. This will help to establish a positive tone and show that you are not trying to be confrontational.

Explain to your mother how important these videos are to you and how they help you sleep. Let her know that you understand that they may be a bit loud at times and that you are willing to adjust the volume or find other ways to make sure they don't disturb her sleep. Try to be as clear and concise as possible in your explanations. Use concrete examples to illustrate your points, and avoid using overly technical language or jargon that might confuse your mother.

If your mother interrupts or talks over you, calmly ask her to let you finish before responding. It's important that both of you have the opportunity to express your thoughts and feelings. Be willing to listen to your mother's concerns and try to see things from her perspective. This can help to defuse the situation and make it easier to find a solution that works for both of you.

If the conversation becomes too emotional or unproductive, it's okay to take a break and come back to it later. Sometimes it's necessary to give both parties some time to cool off before continuing the discussion. You can try saying something like, "I need a moment to process what we've talked about and collect my thoughts. Can we take a break from this conversation for a little bit and come back to it later when I'm feeling more clear-headed?" This communicates your need for a break in a respectful and clear way, and also lets your mom know that you're not trying to avoid the conversation entirely. It's important to take care of yourself and your emotional needs, especially in difficult conversations.

Remember, the goal of the conversation should be to find a solution that works for both you and your mother. By approaching the situation with an open mind and a willingness to listen and compromise, you can increase the chances of a positive outcome.

If anyone else has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Otherwise, I hope I could help, and please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[finnmrew321]

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[maxwell-grant]

Excuse Me what is pulp and why is it importan?

Good question! And probably one I should have answered sooner. Time to put on the historian hat for this one.

"Pulp" is a term used mainly to describe forms of storytelling that sprang out or were dominant in 20th century cheap all-fiction American magazines from the 1900s to the 1950s. The pulp magazine began in 1896, when Frank Munsey's Argosy magazine, in order to cut costs, dropped the non-fiction articles and photographs and switched from glossy paper to the much less expensive wood pulp paper, hence the name. The pulp magazines would mainly take off as a distinct market and format in 1904, when Street & Smith learned that Popular Magazine, despite being marketed towards boys, was being consumed by men of all ages, so they increased page count and started putting popular authors on the issues.

It was specifically the 1905 reprint of H.Rider Haggard's Ayesha that not only put Street & Smith on the map as rivals to Argosy, but also inspired other companies to start publishing in the pulp format. Pulps encompassed literally everything that the authors felt like publishing. Westerns, romance, horror, sci-fi, railroad stories, war stories, war aviation stories. Zeppelins had a short-lived subgenre. Celebrities got their own magazines, it was really any genre or format they could pull off, anything they could get away with.

Nowadays, although they came quite late in it's history, the American pulps are most famous for it's "hero pulps", characters like The Shadow and Doc Savage that are viewed as a formative influence on comic book superheroes. The pulp magazines in America lasted until the 1950s, when cumulative factors such as paper shortages, diminishing audience returns and the closing of it's biggest publishers led to it dying off, although in the decades since there's always been publishers calling their magazines pulp. That's the American pulp history.

But pulps are a phenomenon that spans the entire world and has a much bigger history to it, because pulps have become synonymous with cheap fiction magazines and those have a much bigger history. In America, before the pulps, you had the dime novels, the direct predecessors of the pulps, as well as the novelettes. England had it's penny dreadfuls and story papers, and continued publishing pulp-format magazines past the American 1950s, and that's how we got Elric of Melniboné. France and Russia arguably got to it first with it's 1800s coulporters, chapbooks and particularly the feuilletons which lasted all the way to the 20th century and created characters such as Arsene Lupin, Fantomas and The Phantom of the Opera. The Germans published pulp under the name hefteromane. Japan also published pulp magazines both original as well as imported, and the current "light-novel" phenomenon started off as an equivalent of pulp magazines (it's even on the Wikipedia page). China has wuxia, Brazil has cordel, Italy has gialli. There were Indian, Persian, Ethiopian, Canadian, Australian pulps and much more. Look anywhere in the world and you'll find examples of "pulp" happening again and again, under different circumstances and time periods.

Even if we stick to American fiction, it's impossible to state that all pulp heroes must come from the 1900s-1950s pulp magazines, because that forces us to exclude some of the most popular pulp heroes like Indiana Jones, Green Hornet, Rocketeer and The Phantom. Pulp may have once been a term meant to refer to pulp magazines exclusively, but it's morphed and lost structure and it's become the closest thing we have to a general umbrella term that allows us to try and consolidate these under a shared history. It's a lot, as you can see, and it's why several pulp historians that broaden their scope outside of 1930s American fiction have adopted Roland Barthes's definition of pulp as "A Metaphor With No Brakes In It", which is still the closest thing to a true working definition we have.

Why is it important? You tell me. I don't like to stake claims about stuff being "important", everyone's got their own priorities in life. Surely a lot of people would scoff at the idea of old populist fiction published in what was functionally equivalent to toilet paper having any sort of "importance". On the other hand, some people definitely want to talk big about the pulps as a cultural bedrock of fiction, something that's baked into the lifeblood of all fiction as we currently know it. Which it is, mind you, but I don't like to talk about pulp fiction's value being derived mainly from merely the things it inspired.

There is definitely a historical importance to be had in cataloguing them. According to the US's foremost pulp researcher Jess Nevins, 38% of all American pulps no longer exist, and 14% of all American pulps survive in less than five copies. Many libraries have very scant, if any, records on them, many collectors are hard to locate and are uncooperative when it comes to sharing information and letting outsiders view their collections. A lot of them are bound up in legal complications that prevents them from taking off in the public domain, and a lot of them ARE public domain but are completely inacessible as research material. And that's the American pulps, foreign pulps have fared far worse in posterity, with records inaccessible to people unfamiliar with the language or locations, many existing merely in mentions on decades-old records, and hundreds if not thousands of them being completely gone beyond recovery or recall.

Gone, dead, wasted, destroyed. They can't be found in barbershops or warehouse or bookstores, not even in antique stores. Hundreds, thousands of characters, stories and creators, gone. Time and posterity have crushed them to dust, forgotten and ignored by their successors. Unfettered by pretenses of respectability that repressed their glossier counterparts, in packages meant to be destroyed after reading, proudly announcing itself as trash. Things that should have never even lasted as long as they did have died many times now. It's heroes peripherical shapeshifters, nearly all of whom seem dead, quite dead, as dead as fictional characters can possibly be.

But they do not die forever. Many of them have, maybe most of them have, but many of them linger on.

"The strange red flickering of 1930’s fiction seems distant now.  You hold in your hand the product of a time too remote to recall, and feel a slow stir of wonder.  The smell of pulp pages, an illustration, an advertisement, these fragile things mark the slow hammering of time and display what it has done.  About you are today’s machines, today’s shadows.

Outside the window, leaves hang against the sky, as did leaves during the 1930’s.  The sound of voices are no different then than now.  You hold the magazine and feel something quite delicate slipping past. These solid forms surrounding you are all insubstantial. Time’s hammer will also pass across them, leaving little enough behind." - Spider, by Robert Sampson

Many of the things people call dead are just things that have been sleeping for a while or haven't had the chance to be born. Pulp fiction is dead on the page, inert, unless your imagination breathes live to it, and every now and then, one way or another, these characters dig themselves out of dustbins. Maybe it's a brief revival, maybe it's a successful reboot. Maybe they find publishers, or maybe the public domain allows them to find new life. Maybe new creators do interesting things with them, and maybe, just maybe, they live again because some won't shut up about them online. Some curious impulse led you to me, did it not? 

We all have our Frankensteins to obsess over, and these are some of mine. As someone who's lived a life perpetually restless over pursuit of knowledge, pulp has lured me like a moth to flame, because I literally never run out of things to discover within it, I never run out of possibilities. As the years pass and the public domain starts being more and more open to the public, more and more narrative real state is brought forth for writers and artists and creators to play around.

Pulp is the dark matter of fiction, the uncatalogued depths of the ocean, the darkest recesses of space. It's the box of your grandfather's belongings, the treasure you find in an attic, a body part sticking out from an old playground. It's the things that don't work, don't succeed, the things that don't fit, that are out of place. That shouldn't live and succeed, and did so anyway. The things that slither in the cracks, the shadows behind the curtain.

Aren't you interested in peering on what's behind the curtain?

The exquisite workmanship of the head, of a pre-pyramidal age, and the hieroglyphics, symbols of a language that was forgotten when Rome was young–these, Kane sensed, were additions as modern to the antiquity of the staff itself as would be English words carved on the stone monoliths of Stonehenge.

As for the cat-head–looking at it sometimes Kane had a peculiar feeling of alteration; a faint sensing that once the pommel of the staff was carved with a different design. The dust-ancient Egyptian who had carved the head of Bast had merely altered the original figure, and what that figure had been, Kane had never tried to guess.

A close scrutiny of the staff always aroused a disquieting and almost dizzy suggestion of abysses of eons, unprovocative to further speculation. - The Footfalls Within, by Robert E Howard, quoted by Stuart Hopen’s The Mythic American Culture

[heliads]

If I Can’t Have You

Based on this request: “one shot of Wanda and the reader are married and Agatha likes the reader and creates problem in their relationship. one day the reader and Wanda were fighting, the reader leaves to find Agatha who controls the reader to fall in love with her. Wanda finds the reader and removes the mind control.”

masterlist

Agnes walks down the sun-bleached sidewalk, arms full of a stack of hardbacks that most certainly were not transformed spellbooks. Of course they weren’t- she is Agnes now, not Agatha, and even nosy neighbours would never be caught dead studying incantations. She has to keep up the illusion of innocence, and that is final.

Agnes’ cheerful grin slips when her eye catches on something in the bushes. They should be drab shades of gray (they’re still stuck in the 50s, no matter how much Agnes wishes they would just change decades already), but there’s a flash of color inside them. Agnes groans. Is Wanda’s control disintegrating so quickly? Agnes gestures towards the bush ever so slightly, and the color fades back to black and white in a second, with only a flash of purple dancing around Agnes’ fingertips to show that anything had changed.

However, in the split second that Agnes’ focus had been diverted away, her tall stack of books had begun to slide out of her arms. Agnes reaches out to steady the pile once more, but it’s too late- the books cascade to the ground, spilling out over the pale concrete. Agnes kneels, ignoring the spike of heat slicing up her knees from the sunburned sidewalk, and begins to gather up the books. To her surprise, a second figure leans down beside her, picking up the scattered hardbacks as well.

When Agnes looks up, her breath catches slightly in her throat. There’s someone standing over them, sun shining out in a halo over their head. A smile flashes across their face as they hold out the remaining books. “I’m Y/N. I don’t think we’ve been able to meet before.” Agnes shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. I would have remembered you, hon. The name’s Agnes.” Y/N grins, teeth flashing in the sun. “It’s nice to meet you, Agnes. I think we’re neighbours- I live down the block with my wife, Wanda. Great to make some new friends.”

Agnes clears her throat. “Well, thank you for your help.” Y/N tilts their head in acknowledgement. “Well, I figured I might as well do something quickly. Wanda’s right down the block, and I don’t think you would have wanted her to see you summon up some purple sparks to retrieve the books.” Agnes stares. “You-” Y/N waves a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to say anything. I saw you fix that hedge, so clearly you’re here to help. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep a secret for a friend. See you around, Agnes.”

With that, Y/N heads back down the sidewalk, footsteps echoing down the concrete path. Agnes is left staring. Y/N knew about the magic and Y/N is married to Wanda, yet they aren’t going to say anything? As Agnes walks back to her house, she realizes there’s a new feeling of rage bubbling up in her stomach against the red-haired witch. It’s not just envy of Wanda’s chaos magic. No, this is something different. It takes Agatha a while to realize what it is, and then it occurs to her. She’s jealous that Wanda has Y/N in her life every day.

Agatha can’t take this feeling of envy for much longer. She begins small spells targeting Wanda and Y/N’s marriage, ones that will sow seeds of discontent that will draw Y/N to Agatha instead. At first, they’re barely noticeable- traffic is bad so Y/N arrives home later and later each day, Wanda keeps forgetting to keep a space out for Y/N at the dinner table. Then, it’s time for Agatha’s magnum opus- one thunderous rain storm that forces Y/N to dash into Agatha’s house to escape the torrential showers.

Y/N only has to knock a couple of times before Agatha opens her door, quickly ushering the drenched neighbour into her house. Y/N apologizes profusely, but Agatha just shakes her head. “It’s fine, trust me. I’d rather you stay in here for a while and dry up than have to run home in this sort of weather.” She hands Y/N a blanket, which they accept gratefully, wrapping around their shoulders.

Y/N gets distracted by a bookcase in the corner of the room, a deep mahogany number with intricate carvings detailing the sides. “You have a good collection of books here. Rivals even my own.” A faint smile slips across their face as they examine the titles, a warmth in their eyes as if greeting dozens of old friends. At last, Y/N’s finger stops over one book in particular, and they carefully draw it out from amongst the others.

Agatha leans over to Y/N, curious. “Which book is that?” Y/N delicately opens the cover, poring over the detailed illustrations and long swoops of text. “Greek mythology. I’ve always been a fan.” Y/N flips through the pages, stopping before one particularly beautiful depiction of a myth. In the drawing, a goddess lies desolate over the body of a lover, roses beginning to form where blood pools from their body.

“Aphrodite and Adonis. That’s a classic. The goddess of love and the queen of the underworld both fell in love with this one mortal hero, Adonis, and they fought over him for a long time.” Agatha furrows her brow. “What happened?” Y/N shakes their head sadly. “Adonis ended up dead, killed by a boar. The stories differ over the killing- some versions say it was Ares, Aphrodite’s husband, or it could have been Persephone herself, jealous that Adonis was falling in love with her rival. Either way, he ended up dead and they both ended up unhappy.”

Y/N sighs. “There are a lot of myths like that, actually. Two gods fall for one lover and in the resulting fight, the world seems to be torn apart. Something similar happened with Hercules and the river god Achelous over Deianeira, actually. Every time, two fall in love with one, and every time, violence always follows. If one god couldn’t have their lover, then nobody could. It never made sense to me. Why tear apart the world over love? Besides, it always hurt the lover, who never had any choice in the matter. A waste, honestly.”

Y/N closes the book and glances outside the window. “Look, it stopped raining. I will stop intruding on your hospitality with my sad Greek myths and leave you to your afternoon.” Agatha starts to raise her voice to protest, to say that Y/N could never be a waste of time, but Y/N is already donning her coat and slipping out the door with a raised hand and a final declaration of gratitude.

Wanda waits for Y/N when they get home. She stands in the middle of the living room, just waiting for when her spouse walks through the door. Y/N has barely closed the door behind them when they see their wife, and their smile fades. “What’s wrong, Wanda? You look upset.” Wanda’s gaze remains steady, bordering on harsh. “I wonder why that would be. I wonder why my spouse would show up late again, especially when I asked them to be here early for dinner.”

Y/N gestures loosely at the door behind them. “I couldn’t go anywhere! It was raining so hard I could barely see two feet in front of me. Here, you can see my jacket, my hair, they’re wet-” Y/N’s voice breaks off as they reach for their coat and find it perfectly dry. They rush to the window, but there is no sign of rain. No puddles, no clouds, nothing. Y/N turns back to Wanda, a look of bewilderment fogging up their eyes.

“I have no idea what happened. I swear, it was raining, but now there’s nothing there at all.” Wanda raises an eyebrow. “Yes, that’s very convincing, isn’t it? A magically disappearing rainstorm apparent only to you.” Y/N tilts their head, irritation beginning to show. “Don’t use that tone. I would never lie to you. This is just strange. Something is happening and I can’t understand it.” They throw their arms up in frustration, but just as they raise their hands, Wanda flinches. It’s a small movement, barely there at all, but it’s enough for Y/N to notice. Instantly, all annoyance fades from their face, replaced by swift betrayal.

“You flinched- you thought I would-” Y/N’s voice is quiet, barely there at all. Wanda shakes her head fervently. “I didn’t mean that. It was an accident.” Y/N looks back at their wife, expression bleak. “It wasn’t an accident, though. You thought I would hit you? You truly think so little of me?” Y/N turns around, grabbing their coat from the door once more. “I think I should go. I think that would be best for both of us.”

Wanda reaches out to stop Y/N from leaving, but her spouse has already disappeared through the front door. A quiet gasp comes from the stairs behind Wanda, and she turns to see Billy and Tommy clustered together on the stairs, twin looks of horror on their faces. Billy is the first to speak. “Are they leaving us?” Wanda rushes over to them, hurrying in her apologies. “Of course not. Everyone has disagreements, you know? It’s impossible to be perfectly happy forever. Y/N is going to come back very soon, and we’re going to talk things out again. That’s what makes us love each other, you know. We always come back to each other in the end.”

Wanda’s voice is light and untroubled, but her children still don’t look entirely convinced. In fact, Wanda doesn’t even look convinced herself. After Billy and Tommy retreat back upstairs to their rooms, Wanda walks slowly to the kitchen and sits down at the table, placing her head in her hands. What has she done? What if Y/N really doesn’t come back?

Y/N regrets storming out of the house as soon as the front door closes behind them. They want nothing more than to go back inside and apologize, but they’ve always had too much pride to swallow. So, they walk out of their house, heading out into the street. Maybe they’ll go into town for a while, shoot the breeze and cool down, and then come back home and make things right. Y/N has never been able to stay away from Wanda for too long, especially during an argument. That’s what made them work so well together- they always returned to each other.

However, Y/N hasn’t gone more than a couple of feet down the road when someone walks up to them. Y/N glances over, recognizing Agnes. “Look, I’m sorry but I don’t really want to talk right now. I’ve already messed things up with Wanda, I think it’s best that I stay by myself for a while.” Agatha’s smile doesn’t falter for a second. “Of course you want to come with me, hon. You love me.” 

Y/N frowns, but with a wave of Agatha’s hand a violet streak flashes across Y/N’s eyes and a relaxed smile spreads across their face. “I do love you.” Agatha holds out her hand, and Y/N takes it without a second’s hesitation. Agatha glances over at Y/N, considering them. “Actually, I think we need one more spell. I can’t have Wanda recognizing you, after all.” Agatha murmurs a spell under her breath, and Y/N’s features ripple and change into an entirely different face. Even if Wanda happened to see Y/N walking with Agatha, she would have no idea who they were.

Wanda is growing more uneasy as the hours pass by. Y/N should have returned by now, they should have made up by now. The fact that they aren’t here tells Wanda that something is wrong. Wanda knows it must be the aftereffects of the argument, but yet there’s something in the back of her head telling Wanda that there might be some foul play. After a while, Tommy slips into the room, pausing as he walks by Wanda.

“Are you still looking for Y/N?” Wanda nods, then frowns at Tommy’s tone. “What do you mean, still? Do you know where she is?” Tommy shakes his head, but he hesitates slightly. Wanda jumps on this uncertainty like a lion. “Tommy, love, I need you to tell me where Y/N is. We both know something isn’t right, don’t we? This is really important.”

Tommy still deliberates, but after frantic glances from Wanda he finally relents. “I was running past Agnes’ house and I saw someone in there. I had never seen them before, and Billy says that nobody new has come into town. It didn’t look like Y/N, but it was still strange.” Wanda swoops forward, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s forehead. “Thank you so much for telling me. I’ll go look into that right away. Stay here with Billy, alright? I’ll be back in a second.”

The methodical rhythm of Wanda’s boots echoes down the street as she heads purposefully to Agnes’ house. She knocks a couple of times before the door opens, and Wanda is face to face with an utterly unfamiliar person. Wanda blinks in confusion. “Hi, I’m Wanda. I was looking for someone.” The stranger in Agnes’ house smiles. “Well, come on inside. Maybe you’ll find them here.”

Wanda nods, following the stranger inside. “What’s your name, by the way?” Wanda asks, and the stranger just looks at her. “I wasn’t given a name.” There’s a moment of tension, like the stranger is almost begging Wanda to realize something, but then their face smooths over and everything returns to normal. Wanda is shown to a seat in the living room, and she stares around Agnes’ house. She reaches out with her mind, searching for Y/N, but nothing happens.

The stranger bustles back into the room. “Agnes is out, but she’ll be back in a little bit. Is there anything I can do for you right now?” Wanda shakes her head, standing up. “Actually, I don’t think so. I’m sorry to waste your time.” Wanda starts to head to the door, but the stranger quickly walks in front of her, blocking her path. “Are you sure? I thought you were looking for someone.” The stranger is staring at them with a look so full of pain and hope that Wanda almost has to look away. What would the stranger want Wanda to know? What would they know, except-

Then Wanda realizes, and she reaches out a tentative hand to the stranger’s temples. Wanda concentrates for a second, searching, and then she feels the spell masking the stranger’s thoughts and pulls it away like she’s removing a blindfold. Instantly, the stranger straightens up, and they shudder for a second as their face changes into a more familiar countenance. Wanda cries out in relief, wrapping her arms around Y/N, for of course it is they who stand before her. 

“I thought you were missing- I thought you hated me-” Y/N holds tight to Wanda. “No. No, I could never. I tried to go back, but then the spell hit and I couldn’t do anything.” Y/N leans back, cupping Wanda’s face gently in her palm. “I’m so glad you found me. I was so scared that you wouldn’t know it was me.” Wanda smiles bittersweetly. “I will always come back to you. Every single time.”

Wanda and Y/N leave Agatha’s house, heading quickly back to their own home, back to their twin boys who look up excitedly when they see Y/N return. Wanda and Y/N do not notice Agatha, who just arrives at her house in time to see the married couple disappear back through their own front door. Agatha glares, storming into her house to see the hated truth- Y/N is indeed gone, the spell broken. In a moment of utter rage, Agatha lets her power flow through her, murky indigo smoke pouring over the room as walls crack and glasses break.

When Agatha is at last able to control herself, she stands panting in the middle of the room. Her eyes catch on a book that had been yanked from its shelf, a book that now lies open on the ground. Agatha’s eyes widen as she takes in that familiar drawing of the goddess and the lover, from the story Y/N had been talking about earlier. Aphrodite and Adonis, forced to repeat their pain once more.

But Agatha understands it now, understands it as Y/N had never been able to fully comprehend. Why shouldn’t the gods tear apart the world? This feeling in Agatha’s chest, this empty broken rage, will never be able to subside. Y/N loves Wanda, and Wanda loves Y/N. There is no room for Agatha in that story. 

A twisted, fractured smile begins to wend its way across Agatha’s lips. Before, she had been hesitant about messing too much with Wanda’s reality, but now, all rules are gone with Y/N. If Agatha can’t have Y/N, no one else will. Wanda doesn’t stand a chance.

wanda maximoff tag list: @mycosmicparadise​ @mionemymind​ @xxxtwilightaxelxxx​    

[mollymauk-teafleak]

I can't believe what I've found (chapter two)

Me: aw this is going to be a very short chapter compared to the last one

Also me, two days later: well, here's a chapter even longer than the first!

Huge huge thanks to the most wonderful beta readers anyone could possibly want @nb-fearne and @minky-for-short!

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

Horror author Caleb Widogast wakes up and remembers he invited his new illustrator Mollymauk Tealeaf over to his apartment for their first meeting.

He really hates his past self sometimes.

Find chapter one and please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3!

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Veth had been expecting a flurry of stress texts from Caleb.

Of course, she always was. Like a meteorologist, there were some hurricanes you saw coming and could carefully plot and plan for but squalls could come from anywhere. And this morning she saw a category five meltdown on the horizon, to break whenever her best friend woke up and remembered he’d agreed to meet this prospective illustrator today.

So she’d woken up early with her son, Luc, who seemed to consider any moment of daylight not spent tearing around at a hundred miles an hour to be wasted. While he sat under the kitchen table with a breakfast pastry in one hand and his toy truck in the other, Veth sat with her phone and a cup of coffee that looked and tasted stronger than some of the chemicals her husband used at work. Hatches firmly battened down, she waited for the storm to hit.

And, around seven, Veth’s phone lit up and loudly buzzed. Though, instead of continuing, instead of thrashing around so hard it almost slid off the kitchen table, assaulted by one test after another, it fell immediately silent. Veth frowned, as confused as a meteorologist would be if the hurricane they’d been watching with trepidation had spat one raindrop out and then dissipated.

She picked up her phone, idly petting Luc’s hair with the other hand as he’d drifted close enough. Sure enough, just one message from Caleb and, when Veth read it, she was no less confused.

Do you know how to get pizza sauce stains off floorboards?

Caleb hadn’t actually woken up at seven. He’d been up since five that morning.

And the only reason he hadn’t swamped Veth with messages was because his hands had been full the entire time.

He set down the immense armload of dirty clothes, trying to get at least most of it inside the hamper that didn’t have a hope in hell of containing all of it. Frumpkin only just managed to drive out of the way in time before getting crushed under it all.

“Sorry,” Caleb panted, “I know that’s been more your bed than anything else lately but we’ve got a situation here and I’d appreciate it if you lent a hand.”

Frumpkin only arched his back unhappily and flicked his tail in what had to be the cat equivalent of a middle finger.

“Well, you’re magic, you could do something,” Caleb muttered, turning back to stepping on the pile of musty clothes to try and force them down and look less damning.

Caleb had never once cared about the state of his tiny apartment, apart from the occasional motherly guilt from Veth. But he’d woken up, sharp as broken glass, with a sudden awareness that he was about to invite someone who didn’t already know him, whose opinion he cared very much about, into his home. And that home looked like a pig sty.

And he had to do something about it.

So with a lot of determination and very little practical knowledge, Caleb had been cleaning since his eyes had snapped open. Quite how he’d managed to generate this much clutter and mess in such a small space, with just one man and one fae cat, was beyond him but undoing it all was proving impossible even in his hyperfocus mode. He’d resorted to forcing himself to down tools long enough to text Veth and google tidying spells, painful as time slipped through his fingers.

Frumpkin watched from the arm of the cracked leather couch as Caleb worked a mix of detergent and water into the floor, following Veth’s instructions. He gave a rough, rangy miaow, blinking his amber eyes curiously.

Caleb shot him a look in return, “No. No, I don’t know why I care so much what Mr Tealeaf thinks of my apartment. And we’re not thinking about it. Okay?”

Frumpkin grunted and turned his back to Caleb.

“Exactly,” he muttered, checking the time to see how long he had left, glancing at the clock on the wall.

The answer was not very long at all. He and Mr Tealeaf had agreed he’d come over at ten, just before the tiefling had given him that ten kilowatt smile he was still thinking about and Caleb had left the party, feeling lighter than he ever had walking away from a social engagement.

He vehemently cursed that slightly younger version of himself for setting him up like this.

Frumpkin lashed his tail so it slapped against the sagging couch.

“What?” Caleb scrubbed harder, frowning though seeing that the stain was at least starting to blur, “I just thought meeting him here would be easier than at the office. I mean…I’m going to have to let him read the whole thing, take notes, pull it apart…no, I don’t feel good about it. Thanks. For pointing that out. I feel great.”

Frumpkin leapt down smartly, prodding the balled up wads of paper towel surrounding his master, trilling as he batted one in his direction.

Caleb sighed, sitting back, feeling deep twinges in his legs as he did.

“I don’t know why I trust him,” he finally admitted, after a moment's pause, “I just do. So I guess we have to run with it.”

Frumpkin sniffed at that and darted away. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was approval or not but he had to follow his own advice. Run with it.

Eventually he decided to drag the footstool over the stain and have done with it. There wasn’t time, he had to learn how to get cat claw marks off walls and there was still a mountain of dishes to do and piles of worn clothes he had to either wash or kick under the bed. He needed to take his little writer’s cave and make it look presentable, like someone perfectly normal lived in this perfectly normal apartment. Someone who had written a perfectly normal children’s picture book that absolutely had nothing behind it’s perfectly normal words.

Caleb jumped when the bell rang, it’s buzz out of tune. He crawled out from under the kitchen table, leaving the dustpan and brush where it lay. His hoover had given up the ghost, that must be one of his friends responding to his panicked call to borrow someone else’s. A relief too, this method wasn’t getting him very far and he’d just found a deep vein of old toast crumbs.

Frumpkin joined him on his walk to the door, pink nose high and interested in the air, tail stuck up like a stiff wire.

Caleb gave him a smile, neatly stepping around him, “Must be Jester, eh? She’s your favourite.”

Frumpkin just trilled, taking a halfhearted swipe at the bottom of his ratty sweatpants as he dodged him.

Caleb made it to the door without trodding on his magical familiar, smiling down at him as he opened it, “If you’re lucky, she’ll have brought us some more of those cupcakes you-”

The words froze in his throat as he looked up into the very red, very wide eyes of someone who was not Jester. And who was, in fact, Mollymauk.

Standing on his porch with a bemused smile on his face, wrapped in a heavy coat and scarf was the artist who’d caught his attention last night and stayed there somehow. His nose was dark purple from the cold, his eyes bright, mouth turned up in an apologetic smile. He looked like he’d been hurrying.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” his voice was rough from the flights of stairs, the elevator hadn’t worked in the apartment block since Caleb had moved in, “Yasha told me over and over again to set off really early so I would be on time and make a good first impression but I fell asleep on the subway and I got lost so…oh.”

Molly finally noticed the fact that Caleb was dressed in what was unmistakably pyjamas, filthy from his cleaning panic, completely unprepared for him and bright red in the face.

“Did I…get the wrong day?” Molly blinked after a moment’s pause.

“No,” Caleb’s voice was shrunken, “I’m just the biggest idiot on the face of the planet.”

Molly’s mouth twitched into a smile he was trying and failing to fight off, “Nah, that’s clearly me. I could have gotten away with being late.”

Caleb scrubbed at his face, feeling the burn of embarrassment in his cheeks, “Gods, I am so, so sorry. I was cleaning and I just lost track of time and forgot to, uh…clean…myself. Fuck.”

Molly glanced over Caleb’s hunched shoulders, eyeing the rest of the apartment, “Oh wow. You have been cleaning. Wait…you’ve not been doing all that for my benefit?”

From down by his ankles, Frumpkin mewed.

“Traitor,” Caleb hissed down at him, making Mollymauk blink though he didn’t say anything, “Um…I…it was pretty uninhabitable…”

“Oh, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble for me,” the tiefling said, though his smile softened in a charmed kind of way, “You should see my place, it’s a shitheap. My roommate threatens to kick me out about six times a day. And you’re not technically my official boss yet so, yes, I am allowed to say ‘shit’ in front of you.”

Despite the embarrassment, Caleb felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth.

“I won’t be your boss. It’ll be an equal partnership, we both work for the publishing company,” he explained, cautiously bringing his hands back down, “So you can swear if you want.”

Something about that amused Molly and he nodded, “Gotcha. Um…so I can come back in a bit if you need some time to get ready? Promise I won’t get lost again.”

“No, no, you came all the way here,” Caleb stood to one side, letting Molly walk past, “I’ll be really quick, I just need to change…and do my teeth…and brush my hair…um, I won’t be long.”

“Don’t worry about it man,” Molly had open interest on his face as he stepped into the tiny apartment.

It looked as chaotic as it had at five am, frustratingly. There were still overstuffed bookcases dominating most of the walls, even if they had to be cut into to accommodate things like an ancient, semi functional television, the headboard of Caleb’s rickety single bed or even a fridge. There were still bare floorboards, the handmade rag rugs Veth gifted him bravely covering as much as they could. There was still the very clearly broken couch and no other place to sit, the tiny kitchen with its wonky table. There was still the old fashioned writing desk pushed up against one wall, laptop and piled up notebooks sitting on it, holding court to more notebook stacks, piles of haphazardly organised research and dirty, festering coffee mugs that Caleb had missed because he was so used to seeing them there they’d become part of the scenery. There were still haphazardly placed and organised trinkets on every surface that were undeniably odd to display, things that appealed to no one but Caleb- a box of buttons in different shades of green, little cat figurines, cups too chipped to be of any use, random stones and bits of sea glass, an old hospital wristband. It still looked like the home of someone who had a contentious relationship with their own mind.

At least there was less dust. And you couldn’t see the stain on the floor.

Caleb swallowed hard, “Um…there’s coffee in the pot if you want, you’d need to heat it up…”

But Molly looked over his shoulder and his smile was bright, “I love your place! Have you had breakfast yet?”

Caleb winced, apparently Mollymauk was one of those people like Percy, Veth and Beau who had some kind of preternatural sense of when he’d been neglecting basic bodily functions. Although he supposed he could just have read the basic clues of him standing there in pyjamas in the eye of a frantic cleaning storm, with shadows under his own eyes. Not exactly the impression he’d wanted to make on his illustrator.

“Um…”

“You take your time getting ready,” Molly shrugged out of his enormous coat, folding it politely over the arm of the couch, wearing just a simple though eye wateringly colourful jumper and jeans underneath, “I’ll get that sorted. No rush, it’s not like we need to get started straight away. Get yourself in the right headspace, yeah?”

He was using the same kind of voice he’d used to coax Caleb out of his panic attack the night before. A soft but not condescending kind of tone, one that immediately understood. One that stood halfway to meet you and didn’t ask for any more.

And Caleb nodded, somehow finding it easy. He left Molly scratching the top of Frumpkin’s head with his long nails, abandoned his pyjamas in the now empty hamper and showered, losing track of time a little under the warm, comforting spray but somehow not feeling guilty about it. Picking clothes almost threw him, standing in a towel, water dripping down his shoulders from his hair and realising that he didn’t own much that didn’t look exactly like his pyjamas- an oversized promotional t-shirt from the publishing company and sweatpants decorated with cat faces. But he told himself firmly that Molly clearly didn’t care how casually he dressed, pulling out a pair of jeans and a soft flannel shirt he’d always found comforting to wear. Quickly scrubbing his hair dry and wrestling it into less of a bird’s nest, he felt a little more human and in control of his reflection when he glanced in the mirror.

As soon as he came out of the bedroom, Caleb could smell warm bread and meat and coffee coming from the kitchen, his stomach growling loudly as if to inform him that he’d been hungry for a good long while now and really should have noticed. Mollymauk was pulling foil wrapped parcels out of a paper bag, politely fending off Frumpkin with an elbow at the same time, takeaway cups steaming.

“Now, now, I got you your own, that’s Caleb’s!” Molly was saying, laughing and the enormous ginger cat’s rumbly complaints.

“Sorry,” Caleb interjected, partly to announce himself, “He’s greedy.”

Molly looked up, his face brightening when he saw Caleb, “Welcome back to the land of the living. Hope you don’t mind, that mushroom guy from last night, Caduceus? He runs a little cafe in the city, he told me, so I thought I’d order breakfast from there. It was partly in solidarity but honestly it smells fucking amazing. I didn’t know what you’d want to I ordered a bit of everything…”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Caleb’s eyes widened at the sight of all the food.

“And you didn’t need to wake up at the ass crack of dawn and clean your whole apartment just cos I was coming over,” Molly gave him a crooked look, “Call it evening the scales?”

Caleb felt his cheeks redden again, more gently this time, “Fair…:

Besides, as he sat down and pulled one of the pleasantly warm foil wrapped sandwiches, he felt the yawning hunger purr contentedly. He was starving and the food was genuinely delicious and the coffee some of the best he’d tasted, though he thought it could be a little stronger. Granted, he thought that about any coffee he hadn’t made himself.

He was feeding Frumpkin his own little sides of bacon when it struck Caleb that he hadn’t said anything to Mollymauk in a while. The tiefling didn’t seem to mind at all, chewing contentedly and still eyeing the apartment curiously, occasionally glancing down to his phone to check a text.

Suddenly scrambling for something to say, Caleb swallowed hard and said, “Thank you for the food.”

Molly blinked, clearly coming out of his own little world too, “Great, isn’t it? That Caduceus guy should write a cookbook next.”

Caleb chuckled and privately wished he’d taken more time to talk to Caduceus too, “Um…so did you have fun last night?”

Molly grinned, “Yeah! Book people are weird. I’ve never illustrated before, you see, I’ve not run in your kind of circles until now but you’re all fun as hell.”

Caleb felt a small spark of relief that in Molly’s mind, weird equaled fun. “What is it you do, then? If you weren’t an illustrator until recently, I mean.”

Molly suddenly looked a little awkward, pulling the crust of his sandwich apart in nervous fingers, “Well…I, uh, run a kid’s art class at the community centre? And I paint sets and do general roadie stuff for a theatre. To be perfectly honest, the publishing people found my stuff online. I’ve been posting it there as a hobby, really. Not super seriously.”

“Oh really?” Caleb’s obvious interest and complete lack of disdain clearly made Molly relax a little.

“Yeah,” he admitted, “It was my best friend Yasha who even convinced me to do that much. Art’s been more of a therapy for me than a job, really.”

At the last second, Caleb managed to not laugh, knowing it would come off as inappropriate, that Molly wouldn’t understand that it was just the ridiculous similarities between the two of them, that it was more amused relief than anything.

“That’s lovely,” was all he said, “Can, I…if you’re done eating I mean, can I see it?”

Molly tilted his head, “You haven’t seen the sketches yet? Mr de Rolo didn’t show you?”

Caleb’s mouth hung open as it sunk in that he really should have done that before this point.

Bereft of something to say, he eventually just mumbled, “Well you haven’t read any of my books.”

For a second he was terrified he’d done the thing he always did, when what was intended as a joke came out sounding harsh and just mean, pushing people away rather than trying to integrate himself with them. But then Mollymauk threw his head back and laughed. A croaky, rattling laugh, rough and cackling, that Caleb immediately found endearing. Before too long, he was laughing as well.

“Okay, okay, you got me there,” the tiefling snorted, shoulders still shaking, “But yeah, fuck, of course you can see what I’ve done.”

He dived into the bag he’d brought with him, bringing out a sketchbook that was ragged around the edges from bouncing around in there as he walked around. He spread it on the table, moving aside discarded balls of foil and napkins, casually flipping it open. Caleb’s eyes widened at his brazenness, the way he just opened up that part of himself like it was on spiral binding too. Like Caleb could just be trusted with that, without question.

And it was so beautiful. There were pages of sketches, sheets that were clearly studies of the performers at the theatre in different poses and elaborate costumes, dancing faceless across the pages, there were drawings of a bird on Molly’s windowsill, sketches of the view from his bedroom window, sheafs of his technical practising. But then Caleb turned the page and he stepped into another world. Suddenly there were riots of colour, familiar shapes bending and twisting, dreamlike, watercolours bleeding and blending into new things. There was a strong, pale woman whose dark hair came alive and twisted into a sunset sky. There was a self portrait, his skin dripping down into a sea of violet. There were pages of images that now lived on Mollymauk’s skin, he’d clearly designed most of his tattoos himself. It was all so beautiful.

“So…you like it?” Molly’s smile had softened and Caleb realised that he had been a little nervous, realising it only now it had left.

Caleb felt woefully unprepared to describe it, “Yes. Yes, Molly, it’s…it’s so beautiful.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Molly chuckled, “It doesn’t match your book, does it? At least not the sample page I was given.”

Caleb had actually completely forgotten about his own work, lost in the magic of Molly’s art work. But the tiefling leaned over, turning the next page for him, “...so this is actually what I did based on what Mr de Rolo sent.”

There was an entire spread given over to it. Whereas everything else was colour and form, this was darkness and flowing shape. But a darkness that wasn’t just dark. It was thick violet, it was the green of the deepest sea, it was a blue so dark it must have come from the night sky, it was a raven’s wing kind of darkness. It was the kind of darkness that could hold any kind of nightmare, a mirror to whatever you were most scared of. A lot of the other illustrators Caleb had seen focused on that, though no other had managed to do it quite so captivatingly.

But in the corner, there was a single point of light. A tiny orange cat stood on its hind legs and held up a lantern, it’s face frightened but still facing the darkness, a small bravery but one that wrapped it in light. And the light actually moved, it breathed, the same as the darkness. Not just one yellow but several, so many colours pushing back the nightmares that surrounded them. Small but enough.

For a long time, Caleb couldn’t speak. He just reverently touched the wrinkled edges of the pages, mapping the hills and valleys wash after wash of paint and water had carved into them to keep himself grounded while his mind grew to be able to take this in.

He knew the sample lines the illustrators had been given. Of course he did, he’d written them. But looking at this page, they came to Caleb like they were brand new.

And the Katzenprinz was so scared and so alone. He realised now that he’d been lied to, that the people who had promised to take care of him had lied and left him in the dark.

They’d been given that line for obvious reasons. It was the nadir of the story, the low point, to see if they could properly capture the tone of the book without scaring the children too badly. And of course the artists had done amazingly, creating beautiful art from Caleb’s words. It had all been very dark, very cold, a parade of small cats of all colours and shapes alone in the shadows.

But only this cat had hope. Frightened, abandoned, alone. But still brave, in his own little way. And when he looked at that painted lantern, Caleb understood why no other art had worked but this one. This was what he wanted. He wanted that tiny light. He wanted hope.

Why else was he writing this book if not for that?

“I get the sense that this story is really important to you, Caleb,” Molly’s voice reached him, “I want it to be exactly right, if this isn’t what you were thinking, I completely understand.”

“It’s not what I was thinking,” Caleb rasped, “It’s better.”

Molly made a surprised but happy little noise, sitting up and smiling, “Oh…well, I don’t know about that…”

“Seriously,” Caleb managed to tear his eyes away from the work long enough to look at him, “How…how did you do this?”

Molly seemed caught off guard by that question, thinking for a moment before he answered, fingers anxious again as they began to pull his coffee cup apart, “The same way you wrote it, I suppose? I mean…I just connected with it. Not to get too, y’know, into it but I get the feeling we’re going to have to put a lot of trust in each other as we do this whole thing. But I’m actually really severely dyslexic? That’s why I’ve never read any of your other work, which I’m sure is great, by the way. The only books I really like reading are picture books like the one you’ve written. And honestly, Caleb, from just that line alone? I can tell this is going to be really important to a lot of people.”

Molly had thought before he answered so Caleb made sure he did the same, even if the words came easier than usual. He made sure he got up first, going over to his work desk and taking a thin stack of paper out of the top drawer. His hands only trembled a little as he handed it to Mollymauk.

“With you, I think it will be,” he said gently.

Molly’s grin was electric, lighting up his whole face.

“Just two things,” Caleb hummed, sliding back into his seat, he still had half a hash brown left and he fully intended to finish it.

“Yeah?” Molly politely set the pages down though it was clear he was dying to read them.

“One, please don’t read them in front of me,” Caleb asked with a self conscious chuckle, “At least for the first time, you can take them away with you and we can work on them together tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” Molly held his hands up, “Completely understand. I will resist the urge to call you at two in the morning to tell you how much I love it.”

“Thanks,” Caleb smiled, “Two…” he reached over and turned the pages back to the psychedelic splashes of colour and light, “Can we include some of this kind of thing? Maybe towards the end? I just love looking at it.”

Mollymauk brightened, seeming to take it as a compliment and a challenge all at once, “You got it!”

He jumped to his feet, tucking the pages safely inside his sketchbook, gathering his stuff with a rush of sudden energy, grabbing his coat and scarf, buzzing with some kind of electricity, “Okay! I’ll give it a read, I'll poke around for some references, maybe make a moodboard. I’m going to need so much paint…”

“And you can come here same time tomorrow and we’ll get started,” Caleb finished for him, standing to show him out, “I promise I’ll be wearing underwear this time.”

Molly gave him a wink, just before he dashed out into the hallway, “Hey. Don’t feel like you have to on my account. I’m not complaining.”

The blush was still burning Caleb’s face long after the door had clicked shut. But the smile hadn’t faded either.

Hours later and they still hadn’t gone down.

“Caleb? Caleb, are you even listening to me?” A hard knuckle rapped gently on his forehead, the attempted gentleness rather ruined by the many rings it was wearing.

He blinked, bringing himself back to the noisy restaurant around them and the noisy person sitting across from him, leaning over to knock on his head.

“I always listen to you, Jester,” he deadpanned, knowing it would make her laugh, taking a sip of his sugar free soda and wishing refined sugar didn’t give him a stomach ache.

He was right, she did laugh, showing her pointed teeth as she bounced back down into her seat, “Answer me then!”

Caleb frowned, trying to think. He remembered coming here, to the diner where he and Jester always had what could only tentatively be called their business meetings. He remembered sitting down in the same booth, ordering the same plate of fries and chicken tenders he always did, politely declining a taste of the cotton candy freakshake Jester always ordered and knew he couldn’t taste without a gastrointestinal armageddon but offered anyway, every time so he didn’t feel left out. And then…he didn’t remember anything else.

“Uh…”

Jester didn’t look mad though, like she usually did when he’d completely blanked all through one of her ten minute monologues on his social media presence and engagement. Instead the smile grew on her face, even if it turned up cunningly at one edge in a way that was very little sister-like. In a way that made him slightly nervous.

“I asked you how your meeting with your illustrator went today.”

“Oh!” Caleb remembered now. He’d been formulating a reply but then he’d started thinking about Mollymauk, about his art, about his smile and the way he’d winked on his way out of the door, “It was really good, his art’s perfect for my book. I think he’s the one.”

That smile turned more dangerous and Jester propped her chin up on her hands, “I bet you do.”

Caleb tapped his fingernails on his glass warily, “What do you mean?”

Jester batted her eyelashes at him before counting on her fingers, “You agreed to meet with him after rejecting every other illustrator Percy sent your way, after only knowing him for ten minutes. You invited him to your house rather than meet him at the office-”

“We have our PR meetings in a diner!”

“And you stress clean for hours just because he was on his way, Veth told us all about that. He buys you breakfast. You gush about his art. You willingly hand him your manuscript which you’ve only ever let anyone else read on contractual obligation. And now we’re here hours later, I ask you how it went with him and you have an actual fairytale princess moment daydreaming about him instead of answering him.”

Jester had run out of fingers some time ago and she took a sip of her milkshake, radiating perfect innocence and perfect understanding that she’d just decimated Caleb entirely.

And all he could do was scowl at her and stuff his mouth with fries so he had an excuse not to answer. He had plenty, he ordered off the kids menu but got extra fries to compensate.

“So yeah,” Caleb eventually mumbled, “It went good.”

Jester chuckled and stretched her arms across the gap to take his hands in hers, apparently not caring that the pillowy sleeves of her blouse were dragging in the spilled salt and greasy mug rings on the formica table.

“Look. I’m going to put my PR specialist hat on for a second,” she said, bright eyes fixed on his own, the way his friends knew to do when they needed him to really listen to something.

“Should I be worried that you don’t come to these meetings wearing that?” Caleb joked, though he made sure he looked attentive.

“Come on, you know I schedule so many of these just to get you out of the house. You do three appearances a year and your only Twitter is your cat’s,” Jester snorted, squeezing his fingers gently, “But seriously. If you’re going to ask this Molly guy out- and I totally think you should- could you guys maybe wait?”

Caleb didn’t splutter and burn and try to argue that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, like he probably should have done.

He was too busy blinking and asking, “Wait?”

Jester pulled an apologetic face, though she paused to lean over and take a sip of her milkshake without letting go of his hands, “It’s dumb PR stuff, sweetie, I’m sorry. Just with you doing this shift from your horror work into children’s books, it’s probably best if you hold off on any other major life changes that might look…y’know, more grown up books than kids books? Like jumping into bed with your new illustrator.”

That got him going, spluttering indignantly, “I’m not going to do that!”

“I think you should!” Jester insisted, perfectly unconcerned, “Just after the book comes out.”

Caleb swallowed, colouring, “I…we’re getting kind of ahead of ourselves here…”

Jester seemed to realise she was putting him under some pressure and let his hands go, sitting back and taking a breath. She’d been working hard on not getting carried away. Caleb had seen her girlfriend Beau googling coping strategies for ADHD in the back of the car on the way to signings, ones he would then see Jester use when they’d have dinner.

“But I trust you,” he said quickly and he meant it. Jester might be young but, the daughter of a famous romance author, she knew the publishing world inside and out and still put so much effort into managing her friend Caleb’s image when she could have much bigger and more profitable clients, “If you say it’s best to wait then…well, I’m not saying anything will happen because there’s obviously no way he’d be into me but in a parallel universe where he might? I’d wait. No problem.”

Jester smiled brightly and he felt the light, rhythmic thumping of her tail against his leg as it wagged, “Thanks…though I still think you’ll be asking him out the day after the book launches. In fact I bet you will.”

Caleb arched an eyebrow at that, “Oh? Are you willing to put something on it?”

Instantly that mischievous, dangerous smile was back and she sunk into thought, looking about as conniving as a person could with a pink milkshake taller than her head beside her.

Eventually she held up a finger, “If you are correct and this arty guy is in fact not completely and totally into you, in spite of all evidence…I will let you put one of those ancient cat memes you love for some reason on your official Twitter.”

“Those are funny!” Caleb protested vehemently, eating a chicken tender as indignantly as one could, “And…if we do end up…courting. Which won’t happen. What do you get?”

“Well, you are never going to use the word courting again,” Jester stuck her tongue out at him, as covered with cotton candy crystals as it was, “But…if you guys end up getting married, I get to be your Best Lady!”

Caleb threw back his head and cackled, “Okay, you really are nuts. Sure, why not? May as well ask for the moon so sure.”

Jester just shrugged demurely, “Well. We’ll see, won’t we? I think I’ll enjoy owning the moon.”

She held out her hand and Caleb took it, shaking firmly. He already knew exactly what picture he wanted to put up. They were funny. They were.

This was going to be the easiest bet he’d ever won.

[sapphos-darlings]

Is it true that lesbian couples are the most likely to get divorced? If yes, then why?

You know - when I first ran into this claim, I was 17. Gay marriage wasn’t a thing back then, yet a girl close to me had just entered a relationship with another girl, and they were both despairing over the way they felt their relationship was doomed from the beginning because of this rumour that lesbian relationships don’t last. They were trying their hardest to find older lesbians in long-term relationships to convince them that they, too, could last. I don’t know if they ever found any.

Now, for the question itself. Before we go into it any deeper, let’s face up with two facts: firstly, and most importantly, depending on your location two women have been able to marry anywhere from never to a couple years at best. The very first country to allow marriage between same-sex partners was the Netherlands in 2001. Here’s a timeline to illustrate:

This is a remarkably minimal timeline to be working analytics from. Especially universally. This is not every country in the world. In fact, it is at best a tiny fraction of all countries of the world. Which leads us to the next point we must observe,

we don’t have this kind of statistics. There is no way to compare homosexual divorce rate with heterosexual divorce rates objectively, because heterosexual marriage has existed pretty much throughout the history of civilization, whereas homosexual marriage started 19 years ago. Similarly, it is impossible to objectively compare divorce and marriage length between gay, lesbian and straight couples simply due to the effect of cultural factors, especially in terms of homophobia and oppression faced by gay and lesbian couples in comparison to straight couples, and the differences in the kinds of struggles and pressures that gay and lesbian couples face in comparison with each other.

So, it might be impossible to answer your question with the data we have, due to the nonexistent history from which to measure from, and because in order to examine divorce in same-sex relationships in general, I feel that we absolutely should take into account the environments and conditions these marriages happened, and only compare them amongst marriages in similar environments and conditions, especially culturally speaking. This just isn’t possible.

Now, for the actual answer?

Shortly put, the studies we have right now say yes. Same-sex marriages between two women have about twice the divorce rate from marriages between two men, and range from about the same divorce rate as heterosexual marriages to having a higher divorce rate than heterosexual marriages depending on the study and country in question.

In a study conducted in Denmark, the divorce rate for lesbian couples over a decade was 30%, against 18% for opposite-sex couples and 15% for gay couples. This is the longest term study I can find.

Let’s look into the why.

First, it’s important to once more remember that same-sex marriage is a novelty. In every country that has so far legalized gay marriage, it has been a major victory and a huge milestone in the struggle for our rights. To celebrate it, a lot of couples got married. A lot of couples. That involves couples who perhaps shouldn’t have gotten married, and so, you have divorces happening at a faster rate than they normally would if there had been nothing to celebrate. Some evidence points to the very first wave of gay marriages trending towards a longer survival rate than the waves following them, but this first wave would similarly include the couples who had already been together for decades, and for whom marrying was just making official what had already been their lives for years and years before - nothing changed for them. For the following couples, there may well have been some hurry to marry, both out of the sheer joy of being able to do so, and for the fear that it would be taken away.

Secondly, there are multiple other factors straining same-sex couples. Oppression is a very harsh reality in our lives, and oppression leads to difficult life situations, and difficult life situations do not favour marriages and commitment. It is extremely difficult to stay in a stable relationship when nothing else in your life is stable - it’s like building a house on an earthquake.

Some of the cited reasons for divorce by homosexual couples, gay and lesbian, include societal attitudes and family pressures. We don’t need a reminder of how difficult it is to be gay in this world, but it is absolutely crucial to remember when speaking of gay divorce. Marriage may provide the legal status of equality to a gay couple, but it is also just about the equivalent of a visible stamp on your forehead. A lifetime of homophobia, internalized and external, clashes with a homosexual couple marrying. It’s like coming out over and over again, or hiding the biggest of secrets from everyone around you. It’s the realisation you still aren’t equal, you still can’t proudly call your wife your wife without the fear of what’ll follow. It’s the shame and the doubt that has always followed you turning to diamonds under the pressure you feel under scrutiny. It’s the knowledge that now you and your relationship are examples set to everyone who is watching, and they are watching - if you don’t succeed, you will be judged for it. What if your family disowns you for it? What if your relatives don’t even attend your wedding? It is so easy to be ashamed and afraid even of the best thing in your life under the prejudiced observation of everyone and everything around you.

Woman couples suffer both these difficulties together with the added unique oppression of misogyny, and a higher overall rate of trauma, mental illness and addiction. Is it any wonder we have a harder time keeping our marriages stable? Look at it from an objective perspective and it’s impossible to miss that many of us live in a cesspool of horrors.

But it’s not all bad. See that the highest divorce percentage over a ten year period was 30%? That means that 70% of all same-sex marriages between two women survived that decade. 70% of those couples are still together. That’s not just half of them, that’s well over a half. Seven out of ten couples stayed together. Furthermore, homosexual couples overall report higher satisfaction, happiness and intimacy in their relationships than heterosexual couples do. This includes female couples! If you look at those reports and match them with the success rate of marriages over the period of a decade... you could just about read between the lines that the majority of our long-term relationships are stable, happy and committed.

The world may be dealing us its worst, but it hasn’t broken us, and it can’t separate us all, or even the majority of us. Our relationships are strong. The fact that we often hurt and that this hurt and pressure may prove to be too much for some doesn’t mean that we’re doomed to an eternity of loneliness. The very fact that most of our marriages do survive means that we are fighters and we are winning, and that our love is well worth the struggle, and that our fears are conquerable.

Oh, and that couple I knew when I was 17, who were scared that they’d never make it? It’s been 12 years, and they’re still together.

So that’s something, isn’t it?

[thiswasinevitableid]

13 fury and 29 leviathan, Ot4, nsfw, please!

I decided to split these up, so here’s Leviathan, and fury will be a separate fill! Indrid’s design is based on an oarfish, Duck on a grouper, Barclay on a whale shark, and Stern is a black and white snapper.

There are times Joseph wishes he was just a brain floating in seashell, not a mer with a body that needs things like food, sleep, and sex. The migration of the Leviathans is one such time.

Every five years, the larger creatures of the Marianas Trench travel upwards, for reasons that remain mysterious to even the deep sea mers. Five years ago, Joseph was ill. Five years before, his job was such that he was unable to take the few days needed to visit the migration sight and record his findings. Now that his chance has come, he’s not letting anything, be it the possibility of losing a limb if he gets too close to the giants or the sparse fishing near his camp stop him.

And he’s certainly not letting his heat stop him.

 He’s chosen the optimal observation point, so when another mer swims into the view, he prays they won’t chase him off or make noise.

“Oh, apologies, I was not anticipating this timeline.” The merman is angular around the face, his tan body bookended with silver; his moonlight colored hair occasionally falls across glowing, red eyes, and his tail is longer than average, elegantly metallic and fanned with red. He strikes Joseph as formidable, so it’s a good thing that he seems friendly.

The new mer cocks his head, “You’re here to observe the migration.”

“I am. Um, are you?” It could be fun to have a fellow rare creature’s enthusiast to keep him company.

“No. I come here to draw, but I’m happy to share the space with you.”

“Thank you.”

They make small talk, during which the other mer introduces himself as Indrid, a seer for hire, and informs Joseph that the migration will start in the next ten minutes.

While his brain focuses on the task ahead, his heat creeps through his body. It’s not too bad, but he knows it will only get more intense as the day moves one. It’s mostly agitation right now, not the aches and tunnel vision that will come for him over the next three days. He’s not sure if he’s releasing any sort of scent signals, because the last thing he needs while trying to record the leviathans is someone pestering him.

Indrid looks up from his drawing, sets it carefully on a stone and swims a circle around Joseph, “Ah, I was not imagining things. You are giving off heat pheromones. And I thought I was prone to unlucky timing.”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” Joseph grumbles.

“Of course not. I, ah, do not mean to worry you, but there are many futures where your research is interrupted by hopeful suitors.”

“Damn it.”

“If it would help, I could stay close and pretend to be your mate. You, ah, you would not need to actually be such, though I am not opposed to such things once you are done with your day.” His ears flick once, “the point is, my help is not contingent on sex.”

“That…that would be very helpful, thank you.” Indrid seems genuinely eager to help him, which set fondness squirming up his spine.

Indrid retrieves his supplies, curls the end of his tail around the black and white of Joseph’s own, and murmurs, “The first one should appear in under twenty-seconds.”

He’s right on the money, Joseph stifling a gasp of delight as the massive, bone-white body of a Ningen emerges. It’s pace is alarming fast for something so large.

Next is a creature he’s never so much as read of; serpentine and bioluminescent, with light lures fanned out across it’s forehead.

Movement to his left, another mer emerging from the nearby rocks with their eyes on him. Indrid waits a beat, then whips his head around to hiss at the newcomer, frilling his ears out as he does. They turn tail instantly.

“They didn’t even argue.” He’s impressed.

“I have a bit of a, ah, a reputation. It’s unearned, mind you, but sometimes it comes in handy.”

Joseph nods, turns his attention back to the trench just in time to see a Kraken fleeing from a pair of massive sharks.

He continues his observation with no interruptions, Indrid’s presence enough to deter the few mers who come to investigate him. His new acquaintance offers additional benefits; the physical contact soothes his heat to a degree, especially when pretends that this is all a prelude to that lovely tail wrapping around him while Indrid sinks his teeth into his shoulders.

Better still, during a lull in conversation he glances over to find Indrid has captured the leviathans on paper.

“It seemed to me your notes could use illustrations.” He says a moment before Joseph can ask.

“That’s, Indrid those are incredible, you didn’t need to set your own projects aside-“

“This is more fun than drawing the futures. And more rewarding.” He smiles at Joseph’s excitement.

It’s going on hour seven of observation that his body betrays him; his heat seeps into every nerve, his body twitching and squirming in it’s desire to swim off and get off as soon as possible.

“I foresee the migration lasting three more days. If you need to be done for the day, I do not think it will damage your research.”

“I…”

“However” Indrid says casually, “if you want to stay longer but are struggling to, I can always tell you that good mates can last a few hours more.”

“Shit” The part of his tail concealing his dick pulses, “Indrid, how did you know-“

“Foresight.” Indrid taps his temple, grinning wider.

“I, I think I can call it a night.” He repacks his observation kit, Indrid’s tail holding his all the while. Then he whirls, kissing him as the other mer lets out a muffled laugh.

“My, it must have gotten intense.” Indrid strokes his cheek, roving his eyes up and down his body.

“Very. I, I’m sorry, I’m not very good at spontaneity during my heats, so this might be awkward.” He tries to pet Indrid’s tail, only for his wrists to be caught in a strong hold.

“What do you usually do?”

“I, um, I pick out potential partners ahead of time. And if there aren’t any I’m interested in, I just hole up on my own until it’s over. Besides, it’s not just about who I want; what I want can be a bit of a surprise for most mers.”

Indrid leans close, purrs in his ear, “Am I right that you would call yourself, ah, needy pet?”

“Hollllyshit”

“Answer me.” There’s an edge to his lilt.

“Yes, I would, Indrid please-“

“Hush.” The mer begins swimming them towards the houses on the cliffs, “I have just the thing. You need all the attention you can get, more than I can give without passing out, but there is an easy solution.” He turns the conversation away from sex, asking Joseph about his work until they reach the entrance to a home in the rocks, the front of it sporting an impressive garden.

“’Drid, that you?” A voice calls as they swim down the hallway.

“Yes, my love. And I brought a guest.” They round the corner into a large kitchen. Seated at the table is a merman with short, dark hair, and a mottled green and brown fin. He sets the model ship he’s working on into a carved box, then propels himself with obvious, easy strength to capture Indrid in a kiss. It’s only when Indrid nudges him to turn his head that he sees Joseph.

“Oh, uh, name’s Duck, welcome to our place.” He holds out a hand, smile crooked and soft, the evening light falling around the curves of his body in a way that makes it impossible for Joseph to look anywhere else.

“It’s lovely.” He takes Duck’s hand, shaking it as Indrid explains how they met. Duck takes a polite interest in it, adding that he’s done restoration work on the scant plant life near the edge of the trench.

“Now, what I wanna know is if you invited him for the reason I think you did.” Duck sends a pointed look at Josephs tail, where silver and blue are starting to pulse in place of his usual colors.

“Yes. Assuming everyone is amenable to the idea. Speaking of which, where is, ah, nevermind, here he comes.”

“Hey Indrid, should I start dinner? Heard you say something about a guest—oh holy fuck.”

Joseph clamps his hands over his mouth to stifle the excited moan that tries to leap out.

“You two know each other?” Duck looks between them, then smirks, “hold on. Barclay, is this fella mr. tall, dark, and handsome you keep swoonin over?”

“I, uh, I” Barclay seems to be trying to hide behind his grey and black-speckled tail, “I didn’t know this is where you were going. When you said vacation I assumed, like, you’d go somewhere fancy. Not just a few miles out from the city.”

“If the guy behind me hadn’t been in such a rush to get his lunch, I could have told you more.” He swims forward, heat ebbing in the face of discovering where the mer he’s had a crush on for months lives (and that Indrid has managed to secure two of the most attractive mermen in the world as partners).

Before he can reach Barclay, he jerks to a stop. Duck has hold of the end of his tail, though from the sharp-toothed grin this tableau was Indrid’s idea.

“Am I correct” Indrid swims lazy circles around the other three, “that we are all in agreement that the best way for Joseph to manage his heat is for us to take turns helping him relieve the tension?”

“Yep”

“Uh huh.”

“Yes, now for gods sake let’s get to it.” He tries swimming forward, discovers Duck is even stronger than he looks, and lets out a frustrated, horny whine. Duck makes a sympathetic noise, rubbing his tail soothingly. Barclay decides to close the distance himself, only to freeze at Indrid’s voice.

“I believe you said something about dinner, dear one.”

“But-“ Barclay’s brown eyes send a pleading look at between Joseph and Indrid.

“You’ll get your turn, or several if the timelines are correct, but it won’t do for all of us to get caught up in the heat of the moment and forget to eat. Or for Joseph to burn through a great deal of energy and not replenish it. Besides, he clearly likes your cooking. You have a chance to show off.”

Barclay chuckles, “You’re a menace, sir.”

“You love me for it.”

“I do.” Barclay kisses Indrid as he drifts by, gives one more appreciative, longing look at Joseph, and turns back to the counter. Joseph’s back hits the table a split-second later, Indrid’s face and frilled-out ears filling his vision.

“Now, be a good little pet and let me fuck you.” Ink-smudged fingers expertly stroke his scales as his tail curves around him, trapping them together. The pressure of his touch and the sting of his teeth as they graze his collarbone make Joseph buck in his hold.

“IndridpleaseOHshit, shit” a cock slides into him, “that, that was fast.”

“I have been swimming in your desire for hours. It was only because you were so very engrossed in your work that I ohnnnn, I did not ask to do this sooner.” Indrid nibbles his ear, his tail rippling with effort as he fucks deeper, “you just seemed so happy.”

Joseph moans, wrapping his arms around Indrids shoulders, “That’s one of the most considerate things anyone’s done for me in months.”

“You deserve it, pet, just as much as you deserve to be fucked so much you’re too full to swim.”

“No, ahnnfuck, no wonder Barclay looks so content on Monday mornings, if this is how you treat your mates.”

Indrid trills, blushes, and then hides the fact by sinking his teeth into Joseph’s shoulder. The pain lights him up from tail-tip to the top of his head and he buries a kiss in Indrid’s neck. The tendrils of his cock, already wound around Indrid’s shaft, tighten as the other mer kisses along the bite mark.

“That’s it pet, go ahead and cum, you’ve been so patient, held out so long, you’ll feel so much better if you do.”

The fact that it’s the act of receiving permission that tips him over the edge is probably something to bring up with his therapist, but he’s not thinking about that now. Right now, his world is nothing more than blinding pleasure and his body screaming with relief that he’s finally getting off.

Indrid stays still as he rides it out, trilling softly as he kisses his cheeks. He waits until Joseph meets his eyes and nods before he begins rolling his hips, tail coiling and relaxing in time with his efforts.

“There we are, you can take a break pet, lay here and let me-AHhhnn” His measured thrusts morph into sharp jerks. Joseph’s cock perks up as knuckles graze it, and Duck’s chin rests on Indrid’s shoulder.

“Sorry, you know watchin you play all high and mighty turns me on. Especially when you’re fuckin such a handsome piece of tail.” Duck fingers open the lower part of the slit from which Indrid’s cock emerged.

“No complaAAIInts here” Indrid’s movements turn wilder by the moment and he cranes his neck backwards in search of kisses. Joseph would sit up so he and Duck could lavish him with them from both sides, but his muscles aren’t quite up to that yet.

There are two, high trills, one after the other as Duck bites the tip of Indrid’s ear and then the base of his neck. Indrid thrusts as deep as he can, cumming with satisfied chirps and moans as Duck sucks a bruise into his neck.

As Indrid pulls out, he rubs at the scales around Joseph’s cock in a way he’s never seen before, one that makes everything close up the instant his cock is all the way free. He raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“It’s courteous to hold onto what a mate gives you” Indrid leans closer, adding, “I also suspect Barclay will enjoy it.”

Indrid helps Joseph sit up, clearly intending to guide him over to service Duck, but Joseph is miles ahead of him, darting out to wrap his arms around his middle and kiss his way from his chest to his belly.

“Y;know, Barclay made it sound like you were real reserved, shy even. Know heats can make folks a little wild, but this seems like a stretch.”

“It’s, it’s not the heat. It’s you. It’s this” He presses another kiss to his belly slides his hands down to grope his upper tail, “you’re, well, let’s just say I think Indrid has incredible taste. Your whole body is divine, Duck” he nips the sensitive band where scales give way to skin, “if someone told me you swam straight out of Poseidon’s Court, I’d believe them.”

“Fuck, are you always like this?” Duck looks at Barclay, who’s holding a spoon so tight it’s cracking.

“Nope.” The cooks voice is creeping higher as he watches Joseph lick and kiss at Duck’s tail.

Duck stills him with a hand in his hair, keeping his eyes on Barclay, “Do you, uh wanna switch? I can keep an eye on whatever you’re makin so you don’t gotta wait longer.”

“No, I, I wanna be good. I can be patient. But, uh, thanks.”

“Suit yourself. Alright handsome, you can keep goinnnnfuck, ohfuckyeah that’s good.” Duck cups the back of his head, urging him on. Joseph understands why Indrid wasn’t thrown by his unconventional cock; Duck’s is the same, multiple short, hyper-sensitive tendrils emerging from a slit instead of a shaft.

To his delight Duck is vocal, moaning and groaning as he tells him how well he’s doing, how perfect he looks with a cock in his mouth.

“Oughta, oughta make you suck ‘Drid and Barclay at the same time, be so fuckin hot, think I could cum without even touchin myself ohfuck, yeah, do that again.”

The tendrils tickle when they glide over his tongue, harden when he curls his lips around a few and sucks.

“Enjoying yourself my love?”

“You know it, darling. Fuck, Joe, where the fuck did you learn to suck dick like this?”

He pulls back, winks, “Maybe if you take me out to dinner, I’ll tell you the whole sordid tale.”

“You got a date” Duck dips down to kiss him, then shoves him back into place, grinding his hips harder before cumming with a half-laugh, half-moan. He’s still shaking when he guides Joseph so they’re face to face and kisses him, whispering, “Thanks for that, handsome.”

He doesn’t have time to note that no one’s ever thanked him for blowing them before there’s a thunk of bowls on the nearby table.

“Dinner’s ready.” Barclays cock is visibly throbbing under his scales, but he lets Indrid lead him to a chair, set a bowl next to him, and whisper in his ear with a mischievous grin. The cook nods, and then Indrid is waving Joseph over.

“You really should eat, you barely had any lunch, but Barclay’s been patient. I recommend multitasking.” Indrid pecks their cheeks one after the other, then goes to sit in Duck’s lap.

Joseph lowers himself and rubs their tails together, “Dinner smells delicious.”

“It’s not the only thing.” Barclay rumbles, then shakes his head, “sorry, I’m super-responsive to other mers heats, we, we can just have dinner if you want, you don’t have to-“

“Barclay, you’ve been on my mind for months. I want to.” His tendrils don’t coax so much as demand Barclay’s cock enter him and they moan in tandem as Joseph settles into place.

“Here” Barclay holds up a piece of fresh crab and Joseph eats it from between his fingers. It’s perfect, just like every meal Barclay’s ever made him. He “mmmms” and opens his mouth for another, this time biting Barclays finger before taking it.

“Tall, dark, and handsome, huh?”

The cook blushes, “Yeah. You, gods you’re always so put-together, I’d say this was a dream come true by my brain can only fantasize about you, like, calling me up to your office and sucking you off. Never thought I’d see you heat-crazed and getting fucked by my boyfriend and one of my best friends. Also, it’s so fucking hot” he gives his first sharp thrust up, “to fuck Indrid’s cum back into you.”

“I told you so.” Indrid murmurs from behind them.

Joseph rocks his hips, kissing Barclay’s cheeks and stroking his beard, “Seeing you is the best part of my day; I, um, I even redid my budget so I could come get lunch more often. I almost asked if you wanted to help me with my heat but I, I was worried it’d be overstepping.”

“Nah. Not for my favorite customer.” Barclay kisses his nose.

“Does AHnnnshit,” Barclay’s cock is thick enough to catch all the tendrils, “does this mean I get a discount now?”

“Of course, ten percent off for every blowjob.”

“I’ll be eating for free in no time. Possibly the end, ohfuckyes, of this heat.” He stops, tries to correct, “that’s, um, that’s if you want to see me again after tonight.”

Barclay nuzzles his neck, “I do. Gonna take a wild guess and say those two do too. And in case you think I’m kidding…”

Joseph cums as Barclay bites the opposite shoulder from where Indrid’s mark is still red, the other mer growling as he pumps his hips up into him again and again, refusing to let go until his cum mixes with Indrid’s and Joseph’s shoulder sports a deep purple bruise.

“Holy shit.” Joseph collapses against his chest.

“Better, babe?” Barclay kisses the top of his head.

He looks over his shoulder at where Duck and Indrid are trading increasingly heated kisses.

“Yes, but I’m just getting started…”

Joseph wakes up in an empty bed, his last memory of Duck fucking him while he jacked Indrid and Barclay off, one in each hand.

Maybe they all have work? Maybe they’re hoping he’ll take a hint and leave…

“Mornin Joe” Duck floats in the bedroom doorway, “Barclay asked me to come get you. He’s almost finished packin breakfast up.”

“Oh,for, um, for me to take on the road?”

Duck shakes his head, “for all four of us; ‘Drid showed us drawins from yesterday and we decided we’d like to join you. If, uh, if that’s okay?”

Joseph swims over to take his hand, “it’s perfect.”

[inkandpen22]

Somewhere (3/?)

Pairing: Sirius Black x Female!Reader  

Warnings: None

Part Summary: After the dramatics at the disco, Y/N is left gloomy. Then, she receives a miraculous visit with a gift.

Masterlist

Reader 

Not soon after Sirius and his friends got kicked out, we left. I pleaded to stay, considering it’s still my birthday. Brady, Jay, and the rest of the boys were in a bad mood, they still are. We all came back to the house and they gathered around the kitchen table discussing the evening. I excused myself upstairs, tired, and gloomy from the whole experience. I’ve never dealt with the conflict between us and the wizards like my brother. He and Jay deal with it daily in politics, especially lately with the tensions growing. 

As I remove my makeup, I see Brady appear in the doorway of the bathroom out of my peripheral vision. He knocks on the frame, “can I come in?” 

“I suppose,” I mumble while I remove my makeup from the evening. He moves to sit on the edge of my counter. “Is everyone alright?” I ask, genuinely worried. He hums, nodding his head slowly. 

“You know, I didn’t want to ruin your evening and I’m sorry if that’s what I did,” Brady apologizes. “And I’m saying this now so that you understand. I just… I just couldn’t stand seeing that wizard-freak near you! They’re not good people, Y/N. They can’t even keep their own sort in line, despite having all the magic in the world! Now, they wish to live amongst us and spread their problems to us!” 

Despite Brady’s educated opinion, I can’t imagine Sirius doing any of that. He didn’t appear threatening or anything else Brady can describe his kind as being. He looked like any other boy, who just happens to be a wizard. He just so happens to be more remarkable than anyone I’ve ever met. 

Brady hops down from the counter and plants a kiss on my temple. “Good night, you should get some rest.” 

“How long will everyone be here?” I question, knowing how loud they can get. 

“Lauren is staying over,” he informs me casually. Lauren is over here half the time anyway. “Everyone else should be heading out soon.” 

That really means they’ll still be here when I go down for breakfast. They’ll all be crashing in the living room. I suppose that’s a benefit of not having parents and being the legal guardian, no rules.

“Good night,” Brady nods, turning to leave my room. 

“Night,” I mumble absentmindedly. 

I hear my door click behind Brady and I relax, no longer being under his watchful eye. Looking into my eyes in the mirror, I find myself wondering where Sirius is at this moment. What is doing right now? Will I ever see him again? I can’t begin to imagine how riveting it must be to be a wizard. I mean, the limits are nonexistent!  All the world is at his feet, all he has to do is reach out and touch it. Maybe I am a little crazy to be so interested in it. I just don’t understand how a world that is so remarkable could possibly be as dangerous as the others claim. I should be content with what I have and what I am, but I’m certain I’m destined for more. The human way of things is so boring and lacks luster. Wizards and witches, they can do anything, be anything! What I would give for one day, just one day experiencing their world. I would ask them a million questions and learn as much as I could. They look like us, speak like us, other than magic, what makes us different? 

Deep inside my own thoughts, I prepare for bed, changing into shorts and an old concert t-shirt. I hope I dream of Sirius and the wizarding world tonight, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for hours. I hear my floor creak as I shut my closet door and I’m guessing it’s Brady checking on me again. It could also be Lauren peeking in to say ‘good night.’ Suddenly, I feel a warm hand glide over my shoulder and down my arm. Hot breath brushes against my neck. I jump, spinning around swiftly in a panic. My sight lands on jet black eyes, Sirius. 

I gleam, “Siri-” 

He covers my mouth, holding a finger over his lips as he listens for any movement downstairs. When there’s no sign of anyone hearing me, he releases me with a sigh of relief. 

“What are you doing here?” I whisper, practically bursting. “How did you find me?” 

“I used a tracking spell,” he explains simply, leaving me in awe. 

“How did you get in?” I ask next. 

“Apparated,” he shrugs, as though I know exactly what that is. 

Taking my hand, he guides me over to sit on the bed. “So, you’re happy to see me?” 

Look at him as if he has three heads. Why wouldn’t I be excited? He’s here, that’s all I wanted! “Of course!” I gush, giving his hands a comforting squeeze. 

“I wasn’t sure after what happened if… if you hated me now,” he stammers, a gloomy expression plaguing his features. He glancing away from my eyes at the floor, clearly, a thought troubling him. 

Slowly, I reach up and caress his cheek. Subtly, he leans into my touch as his eyes fall shut. He’s so beautiful, the sight of him nearly makes my eyes well with tears. In my chest, a strong urge to protect and comfort him swallows me up. Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against his shoulder. Sirius’s hand rests against my knee, his thumb rubbing across my skin softly. 

“I saw you and everything else became irrelevant somehow,” I describe quietly, remembering the moment as if I were experiencing it now. 

His touch makes me feel so safe and warm. I can’t help but yearn for us to be closer if that’s even possible. I’ve never felt this way for anyone. I can’t imagine a life without him now. 

“I knew the moment my eyes landed on you that we were meant to meet tonight,” Sirius mutters. His hand tucks under my chin, leading me to look him in the eye. His gazes pour into me, reaching every depth of my soul. “You are my world now, Y/N,” he confesses, making my heart stop. 

A breathless laugh escapes me, I can’t believe it. Everything is too good to be true. “And you’re mine. From now on, I’m yours, always.” 

“Forever,” he nods, taking my hands in his longing. “Y/N, I wish to never be parted from you.” 

“But, my brother, your friends-” 

“None of them matter,” he claims, pretending to wave them away. “All that matters is you and me.” 

“If only there were a way we could get out of here, run away, even for a little while!” I wish, wanting nothing more than there to be just us. There would be no outside forces trying to keep us apart. 

“Let’s do it!” Sirius declares as enthused than me, if not more. He leaps up from the bed beside me. Taking my hands, he brings me along with him. “We can go anywhere! We can see the world!” 

I giggle, he sounds like a child. These sorts of things don’t just happen, especially for an ordinary human like me. 

“There’s a whole world out there, Y/N! It’s just waiting for us!” He illustrates the most incredible visions for me with a bright smile. 

“It’s a lovely dream,” I express, not fully convinced we could do it. There are so many factors we have to consider. “But it’s impossible…” 

He narrows his eyes with a mischievous smirk, “you forget a very important point.” 

I snicker, “And what is that?” 

“You’re talking to a wizard,” he reminds ever so confidently. His hand gestures up to my bedroom ceiling with a subtle wave of the wrist. “Look,” he instructs, flicking his attention to my ceiling. 

When I peer up toward my ceiling, I’m met with a clear starry sky. My jaw drops, how is this possible? It’s as though there’s no ceiling at all! 

Sirius leans over my shoulder, “it’s an enchantment. It’ll appear every night, so when you go to sleep you’ll be sleeping under the stars.” Amazed, I can’t pry my eyes away from it. 

“Let me give you anything you desire, everything and anything,” Sirius whispers in my ear, wrapping his arms around me as I feel his chest against my back. I rest my head back against his chest, admiring the stars. “I can take you far from here, far beyond anywhere you could ever imagine, to the heavens! Everything you would ever wish for I could give to you. Every day will be filled with extraordinary things and each day will better than the last!” 

I turn in his arms, resting my arms around his neck. “I want to see the universe with you, Sirius! Spend every minute from now on in your arms.” 

The edge of his lips rises to a smirk as his hand cups my face. His eyes flicker between my eyes and my lips. He leans down and I reach up to kiss him. Then, there’s a sudden knock at my door before we have the chance.  Sirius and I jump apart, staring at the door anxiously

“Y/N?” I hear Lauren in the hallway. “Are you awake?” 

I look to Sirius worriedly, “you have to go!” 

He takes my hands in his, “but when will I see you again?!” 

I press my lips together. I hardly have any alone time. Brady will be suspicious if I disappear for a while. “Brady and the others are spending the day at the park tomorrow. Come by here around one o’clock!” 

“Okay,” he grins, caressing my cheek softly as he towers over me. “I’ll be counting down the hours. 

“And appear or whatever you call it like you did tonight!” I instruct urgently. “In case they don’t leave on time!” 

He snickers at me, “yes, alright. I will apparate.” There’s a pause for a moment and his face falls. “I don’t want to leave you…” 

“I don’t want you to leave,” I confess sorrowfully. 

“Y/N?” Lauren knocks again. 

“But you have to!” I urge Sirius along swiftly. 

“Yes right,” he peers at the door, his eyes wide with anxiety.

Meeting my gaze, he starts backing away from me. Sirius holds onto my hands for as long as possible until I’m too far out of reach. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he assures me. Then, in a blink, he whips away into thin air. Flashes of colors weaving through air, I’ve never seen anything like it. 

The door to my bedroom creaks open slowly and I whip my head in its direction. Lauren appears in the doorway, the lights from the hall pour into my otherwise dark room. My attention briefly flickers up to my ceiling, the stars lingering above us. Oh dear, I pray to God she doesn’t notice. Lauren leans against the doorframe, wrapping herself with her sweater, having changed into her pajamas. 

“I just wanted to say goodnight and a happy birthday one last time,” she explains with a soft smile. 

“Oh uh… thank you!” I stammer nervously. 

“I know your brother can be… well, a hard-ass sometimes,” she laughs at Brady’s expense. “But he means well. He absolutely adores you, I hope you know that.” 

I nod, hoping I don’t appear frantic. “I do! Yes, I know!” 

She hums, nodding her head slowly. Visibly, she doesn’t appear suspicious and I start to think I’ll get away with this without a problem. “Are you joining us tomorrow at the park?” 

I shake my head, “No uh, no I don’t so.” I struggle to come up with an excuse, then one pops into my head. “I have to return the dress from tonight. Yeah, Brady won’t let me keep it so…” 

She sighs in understanding, pushing off the doorframe, “oh well, alright. I’ll see you at breakfast. Goodnight, sleep well,” she waves before reaching for the door handle. 

“Goodnight!” I rush outright as the door clicks. 

Once I’m in the safe zone, I fall back onto my bed with a sigh of relief. My heart pounds in my chest as though I just ran a mile. I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. Then again, if I dream I may dream of Sirius and the hours will go by faster. I stare up at the starry sky Sirius conjured for me. My heart gleams at the sight. Then, I notice it, the Sirius star placed ever so perfectly right above my bed. I giggle lightly, he certainly did that on purpose. It’s utterly perfect, just like Sirius himself. The two best birthday presents in my life.

____________________________

Masterlist

[starring-movies]

Killing Eve: Episode Analysis

*SPOILERS*

Season 3, Episode 5 - Are You from Pinner? [Part 1]

This episode, like S3E4, follows a comletely different format to all the other episodes, as it focuses solely on Villanelle’s time with her family in Grizmet and doesn’t include any other storylines from any of the other characters in the series.

We begin with Villanelle’s arrival at Grizmet, where we get a scene of a huge logging truck beeping it’s horn at a completely oblivious Villanelle, as she’s walking along listening to music. This lack of awareness in her surroundings is highly unusual for Villanelle, who’s success in her profession hinges on her being constantly alert and highly astute. Previously the only other instance where we have seen Villanelle not being on top form; is in S2E4, when she takes drugs and almost kills a girl for no reason, after she thought Eve had lost interest in her. Making the point of showing us how she’s not as alert as usual, displays how Villanelle is distracted and not able to focus at the thought (and pressure) of being reunited with her family.

Villanelle also has her hair out, illustrating how she’s willing to open, and immerse herself, into her family that she’s going to be reunited with.

On arriving at the family home, Villanelle enters the house and examines the kitchen. She looks at all the little mundane objects like the sugar bowl, the food cooking on the stove and some knitting supplies. As Villanelle’s looking at these things, we can see that she’s considering what her life could have looked like, and how different it would have looked, if she hadn’t been left at the orphanage.

After Villanelle has met most of the members of her family (she’s yet to meet her mother, Tatiana), we see her sitting in Bor’ka’s bedroom as she talks to him about the best foods to eat in the various countries that Elton John has visited. When asked about Vienna, Villanelle tells Bor’ka that there is “great ice cream in Vienna”, which is a nice little reference to the very first scene of the whole series, when we first meet Villanelle eating ice cream in Vienna after a kill.

During her conversation with Bor’ka, Villanelle puts on some red heart glasses with pink-ish coloured lenses in them, an accessory that Elton John is famous for wearing. We get a shot of her looking at her family with the glasses on, as well as a shot of her view of her family through the pink lenses of the glasses. In the first shot of Villanelle as she looks at her family with the glasses on; through the imagery of this shot we are shown how Villanelle is watching her family with literal ‘heart eyes’ - just like the apron she wears at the end of the episode, she is putting her whole heart out and offering it to her family to try and find the place of belonging she has been looking for.

Similarly in the shot of Villanelle’s point of view through the tinted lenses, we are shown how Villanelle is watching her family through literal ‘rose-coloured glasses’, the definition of this idiom is “a happy or positive attitude that fails to notice negative things”). In this way, through the chosen imagery in both of these shots, we are being shown how Villanelle is letting herself be carried away by her heart, now she thinks she’s found her family and finally found a place where she feels that she belongs - she is looking at her family unrealistically and putting an impossible optimism them for what she hopes to gain from her visit home.

As soon as Villanelle finds out that her mother, Tatiana, has arrived home, we see one of the only times Villanelle has been in pure terror and distress. Villanelle fully panics when she finds out Tatiana is back and she frantically runs around the living room, trying to find a way out. The only other time we have seen Villanelle display this level of anxiety was in S1E2 when she being held prisoner by Julian and was incredibly weak after being stabbed by Eve.

As Villanelle is running around trying to escape, ‘Bumble Bee’ by LaVern Baker is played over the scene. The lyrics that can be heard are:

“I'm gonna have to put you down,

You been treating me like a clown,

You know you've hurt me once before,

You'll never hurt me anymore,

Shoo-ee, you hurt me like a bee,

A bumble bee, a evil bumble bee”

Although we haven’t been told yet what happened between Villanelle and her mother, the lyrics of the song accurately reflect what is soon revealed to us. The lyrics of the song, together with the information that we are later given - that Tatiana was a terrible mother to Villanelle, who she thought had “a darkness” - is the reason for the frantic panic that Villanelle reacts with, when she realises that she has to confront her mother again after all this time. When Bor’ka says that “mum” is home, Villanelle suddenly remembers how her mother “hurt [her] once before”, and most likely how she doesn’t want her to “hurt [her] anymore”.

When Tatiana enters the house she drops her shopping bags, she walks over to Villanelle to hug her and then starts crying, calling Villanelle “my Oksana”. It’s left fairly ambiguously as to whether this emotional reaction from Tatiana was genuine. However, the three separate close-up shots that follow the hug, suggest that Tatiana was not being genuine.

We are shown two shots of Knick-Knacks on bookcases and one shot of some family pictures on the wall. Interestingly, within these three shots, there are a total of four framed photos of Tatiana on her own, with no-one else in the pictures with her. The choice to show shots of the Knick-Knacks suggest that Tatiana is not being sincere, as we are being shown how she attempts to hide her “darkness” by putting on this facade of being a good wife and mother, which we (and Villanelle) later see starts to slip.

The individual photos of Tatiana also suggest that she is not reacting genuinely to seeing Villanelle, as we can see that she’s clearly a narcissist and so makes as effort to put out a particular image of herself - in this case she’s putting on a show for the other members of her family, so that she can maintain the image that she’s spent so long building up: the loving mother who was forced to give up her child and is finally being reunited with her, after thinking she was dead for all thee years.

It’s further shown how Tatiana tried to bury her old life and start a fresh one (she started again by getting a new husband, a new house and new children), when Pyotr brings the photo album with the childhood pictures of Villanelle. He brings out the album and says that he found it “in back of loft”. Tatiana has plenty of family photos in the house, and a great number of them are of herself; so to not have any pictures up of Villanelle, and the fact that the album was found pushed away in the back of the loft, shows how she tried to hide away any remnants of Villanelle after she left her at the orphanage.

Even more notable is that there is no pictures of Tatiana’s husband, Villanelle’s father, anywhere. As Villanelle is looking through the photo album she says “where is Dad? There has to be one of him before he died”. Again it’s been heavily emphasised that there’s a lot of photos in the house, and there’s even quite a few pictures of Villanelle even though they were hidden away. So for there so be absolutely no pictures at all of the father, it’s insinuated that Tatiana and the father’s relationship wasn’t good before he died, or it wouldn’t be out of the realms of possibility to assume she’s lying and the father left her - or perhaps even, given that Tatiana has a darkness akin to Villanelle’s own darkness, that she killed her husband.

Following Tatiana’s arrival back home and her reunion with Villanelle, she says to Villanelle, “I used to like dressing up and you always wanted my clothes, so I would make costume from old curtains for you”. By Tatiana saying this, it is implying that this is where Villanelle began her love of clothes and dressing up in different disguises.

The next scene we get, is of the whole family playing a card came, called Mafia/Werewolf, together. Fyodor accuses Villanelle of being Bor’ka’s ‘killer’ in the game, but he gets it wrong and Tatiana reveals that she was in fact the ‘killer’. Villanelle is the literal ‘killer’, however in the game it’s Tatiana, which signifies how Tatiana actually has more darkness than Villanelle, but she tries to conceal it.

The card Tatiana holds up is also the Queen of clubs, which further emphasises how she is the queen/matriarch of the household.

In this scene, we also get our first glimpse at Tatiana’s cruelty. Bor’ka says “mum you murdered me”, and Tatiana replied that “I had no choice Bor’ka” and he says that “you could have murdered the others”. He’s right, why would she choose to ‘murder’ Bor’ka when he’s the youngest one playing and is still only a child; she picks on him unnecessarily, just like how she picks on him at the Harvest Festival by telling him that he was “stupid and embarrassed her”.

We are also shown the complete control and power that Tatiana, being a narcissist and as the matriarch, has over the family - she only needs to say “eh” and tap on the table while Pyotr and Fyodor are arguing, to get them to stop.

Tatiana’s narcissism is additionally shown, when she makes her speech to the rest of the family. She says “I like to make speech. This night is very, very special for me. My girl, my little girl”. Tatiana’s repeated use of the personal pronouns “I” and “me”, demonstrate how her focus is all on herself, not on Villanelle or the rest of the family, but on how important and special this is for herself.

The scene continues to give us another instance of dancing, which Villanelle is uncomfortable with, just like in S3E1 with Maria. However unlike with Maria, where Villanelle just sort of stands and looks at Maria, while she’s trying to dance with her, Villanelle actually makes an attempt to partake in the dancing with her family.

She gets up with them and bobs up and down a bit, and we even see her start to sing the chorus of ‘Crocodile Rock’ by Elton John, with them before the scene cuts. Although she’s clearly uncomfortable, the fact that Villanelle makes a conscious effort to dance with her family, shows us how much effort and how desperately she wants to belong in the family. However, the fact that she’s still uncomfortable and it’s still not coming naturally foretells how although she is trying, this still isn’t the right fit for her or what she’s looking for.

Going onto the next scene, we see Pyotr taking his anger out on an old sofa and Villanelle comes to visit him. She’s wearing a mostly black outfit and has her hair up now, unlike the day before when she arrived; her appearance is reflecting how she’s closed herself off more now, and to show that she’s focused (like when she’s on a job). Villanelle is focused because she uses the day to speak to each of the members of the family, to find more information about what happened in the time while she wasn’t there and also to find out more information about her mother.

While Villanelle is speaking to Pyotr she says “you always wanted to be a firefighter, right?” and Pyotr says to her “you remember”. As Tatiana said earlier, that “the orphanage phone me and say you burn place down”, it’s most likely that Villanelle burned down the orphanage in the hope that her brother (who she knew wanted to be a firefighter) would come with the fire brigade to the orphanage to put out the fire; and in turn, come and find her there as well and rescue her.

The description that Villanelle’s gives to Pyotr of her father, that he was “funny, strong, taught me how to fight”; just like Tatiana and the clothes, we can see that Villanelle has taken these characteristics from her father: Villanelle tells Gabriel in S2E1 “yes, I am funny”, later on in this episode Yula’s friend says “she’s funny” and it’s clear that she’s strong and can fight.

Pyotr goes on to ask Villanelle “how they say we die”, and she replies only by saying “car crash” - another foreshadowing for the end of the episode. Villanelle’s family may not have died from an actual “car crash” when the orphanage told her they did, but they do end up dying at the end of the episode because her visit to her family was a metaphorical “car crash”.

In the next scene, when Pyotr and Villanelle are eating golubtsy, Pyotr says that “she’s [Tatiana] not a bad woman, people here say she is saint” and Villanelle says that “people here don’t know her”. This confirms what had up until this point just been alluded to, that Tatiana got a new husband, a new family and a new house (presumably in a different town) to try and hide her previous life and create a new image for herself.

*TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2 OF ‘ARE YOU FROM PINNER? Episode Analysis’*

You can read my previous Killing Eve posts here:-

First Introduction to Villanelle

First Introduction to Eve

S1, E1 - Nice Face

S1, E2 - I’ll Deal With Him Later

S1, E3 - Don’t I Know You?

S1, E4 - Sorry Baby

S1, E5 - I Have a Thing about Bathrooms

S1, E6 - Take Me to the Hole!

S1, E7 - I Don’t Want to Be Free

S1, E8 - God, I’m Tired

S2, E1 - Do You Know How to Dispose of a Body?

S2, E2 - Nice and Neat

S2, E3 - The Hungry Caterpillar

S2, E4 - Desperate Times

S2, E5 - Smell Ya Later

S2, E6 - I Hope You Like Missionary!

S2, E7 - Wide Awake

S2, E8 - You’re Mine

S3, E1 - Slowly Slowly Catchy Monkey

S3, E2 - Management Sucks

S3, E3 - Meetings Have Biscuits

S3, E4 - Still Got It

S3, E5 - Are You From Pinner? [Part 2]

S3, E6 - End of Game

S3, E7 - Beautiful Monster

S3, E8 - Are You Leading or Am I? [Part 1]

——————————————————————————

[setsfiretohistory]

ORIGINAL → EDITED

gif making process

thank you so so much to the lovely and talented @pridesobright and @supportivehusbands for tagging me :’) reading about your processes was so interesting!!

LEFT: cropped, resized (height 300px; width 540px), unedited, unsharpened, frame delay set to 0.05

RIGHT: cropped, resized (height 300px; width 540px), edited, sharpened, frame delay set to 0.05

ideally, 1080p is what i’d use for everything, but sometimes you just have to settle for what you can get (and if you’re cursed…………. you have to battle with less than 480p……….. im looking at you, miss ‘now kiss me you fool’ footage). for this post, i made gifs from ten separate videos to illustrate how even though your source materials are wildly different from each other, the resulting gifs can still be stylistically similar. this is why it’s so upsetting to see people steal gifs like it’s nothing. we put so much thought and care and time into our posts and i can’t even put into words how discouraging it is to see people act like crediting gif makers is a hardship.

i have a note filled with ideas for lyric sets, parallels, etc etc that i work from, but sometimes i’ll just sit down and pick a random video and play around with whatever idea i have in the moment. (that’s how this set came to be!)

after i’ve imported the footage to photoshop (i use cc 2019, although i first started out using cs5 and it’ll always have a soft spot in my heart), removed any redundant frames, and cropped it, i’ll resize it (to 540px more often than not), and set the frame delay to 0.05. when all that’s done, i can colour.

i colour every gifset from scratch — i’ve never had much success with using the same psd on other gifs. it totally works for gifs from the same source, but when you’re using like six different videos for the one gifset, you have to take much more care in making them all correspond to the aesthetic you’re planning for the post. i tend to choose a dominant theme or colour to work from, like blue, green, magenta, pastels, rainbow, etc.

i usually begin with curves and levels until im happy with the brightness. then i’ll move on to either selective colour or colour balance or vibrance, depending on the original colours of the footage. i almost always skew my gifs towards blues and cyans and magentas rather than yellows and greens (i lean more towards coolness or neutrals rather than warmth). and im just really fond of blue, which is apparent if you’ve ever seen anything i’ve made lmao especially if louis’ eyes are involved. this is definitely where i spend the most time messing around with different settings (like increasing cyans and blues and blacks in general / increasing cyans in whites if i want the sky to look more blue / decreasing the blacks in whites for contrast / decreasing the cyans in reds to make them really red / decreasing the yellows across the board, but most definitely in blues and cyans / decreasing magentas in greens if i want Very Bright greens). sometimes i lose my mind a little and i end up with like twelve selective colour layers and im like This Is Fine . skdjfskjf anyways, when everything looks as vibrant and colourful as i want it, i’ll go back to curves or levels or add a contrast layer to make everything look stronger. i also might go back to selective colour or vibrance with incremental changes at the end, just as a final touch. [tl;dr: curves > levels > colour balance > vibrance > selective colour > contrast > go back for any little amendments] for black and white gifs, i’ll start with a gradient map and then continue with curves, levels, etc. after all that’s done, i’ll convert to video timeline > select all layers > filter for smart objects > either sharpen with this action or use these smart sharpen settings > add text if the post calls for it (if it’s a concept/lyric gifset, i like to play around with the settings — although century gothic is my favourite font for this — and if it’s a captioned gifset my standard is arial bold italic / drop shadow to 140 degrees / grey stroke / adjust font pt according to the size of the gif) > export > save for web. et voilà!! one gif down, probably nine to go sdkfksjdfhsjdf

the double edged sword of making gifs for one direction fandom is the sheer volume of footage available to you: on the one hand, you have a whole decade’s worth of moments to gif (and that’s incredible!!!), and on the other, it’s so difficult and time consuming to colour all of these separate moments in a cohesive way that hopefully expresses your own unique creative style. so sometimes it’s frankly impossible to make certain things look the way you want them to. maybe you can’t find high quality footage (the absolute BANES of my existence are the rtl footage where they reacted to themselves playing football at boston common and the louis is loud……loud……….and……..loud footage where you can see harry’s face close up. it’s a TRAVESTY that they don’t exist in 1080p and i WILL scream it from the rooftops), or the moments you want to gif simply refuse to look good next to each other because they’re so wildly dissimilar in hue that no matter what you do, they look strange and disjointed when juxtaposed (in those moments i do tend to either give up or choose to make them black and white). but honestly? the obstacles i’ve come across while making gifs for this fandom have been amazing learning opportunities for me. i’ve grown into and experimented with my style way more than i ever did anywhere else, and i continue to feel inspired by this fandom every day, so thank you to every single creator for your ingenuity and hard work!! 💖💖💖💖

i think y’all have been tagged or done this already, so im just going to tag everyone i admire to say you’re legends and i love your content very much a lot!! @caparius @sunflowrsix @jimmytfallon @stylex @tmlnsn @cuddlerlouis @2tiedships2 @moonshinelouis @ltpolari @itsastorm @finelinee @ltwalls2020 @half-lightl @fallenwalls @tomlinsun @louisbravado @tattooedlovers@lordtomlinson @livehabit @halosboat @thepeacering @alinok

[krisrix]

So... I wanted to send Simon's proposal speech from I Choose You. But the speech alone is <1K. So I'm sending the beginning and implying the entire speech. Please? And since 500 characters is just ridiculously short, I'm slapping the beginning bit in a second ask.

Ahhh you picked one of my soppiest, most self-indulgent bits of fic, haha~ 🖤

This fic kind of wrote itself after I drew this piece for the Carry On Countdown. I couldn’t stop thinking about how that illustration might actually have played out, so after wandering around my apartment in a daze for a few days, I finally sat down to write it in one sitting. (That’s how a lot of my writing tends to go.)

‘DVD Commentary’ for Simon’s speech in I Choose You

“We’ve had a lot of ups and downs,” I begin reading. “The first seven years of knowing each other were almost entirely downs, really. Then, even once we were together, things were still rough for a while. We had so much to work through.” I squeeze his hand. “But now, these past few years, things have been good—“ I glance up at him, needing to see him, needing to show him how much I mean it. “They’ve been so good, Baz.”

I wanted to write something really lovey-dovey without ignoring the long road they’ve travelled to get to this point. So this whole fic was my attempt at reaching that balance, both in Simon’s internal (eternal) monologuing and in how he begins his speech.

Baz’s eyes are shining. He nods vigorously and turns his hand over, releasing the box so that he can press his fingers between mine. He holds on tight. I’d love to keep staring into Baz’s glassy eyes, but I have to look back at my paper to get through this. It’s fluttering in my shaky hands. “No ... no matter how rough things were,” I read, “I never stopped loving you. In America, in the back of Shepard’s truck that night,”—Baz grips me tighter—“I didn’t know where we were, or where we were going. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know how to be happy. Or how to make you happy. But I did know one thing. I knew—” My voice catches. I clear my throat and try again. “I knew I loved you completely, with every breath and every beat of my heart. I knew I wanted to tie myself to you. All of me. Vein by vein. Chamber by chamber.”

I know so many of us went absolutely buckwild for the ‘chamber by chamber’ bit in Wayward Son. It’s perhaps a bit forced to have him refer to it here, but I think that’s the sort of relationship-defining thought that would really stick with him. So, I leaned into the idea and let Simon just finally tell Baz a summary of what he’s been thinking all these years. 

Baz releases a shuddering breath—one flutters out of me as well. It felt unreal to put those thoughts on paper, but that’s nothing compared to saying them out loud. To Baz. Words that have been aching to get out ever since I felt them bloom inside me that night.

It took me a long time to accept those feelings, no matter how much they consumed me. I mean, yeah, I could admit all of it to myself—admitting it to Baz was unthinkable. How could I tie him to me like that, when I already felt like such a burden to him?

We all know that Simon is terrified of abusing Baz’s loyalty in WS. He feels like he’s an anchor dragging Baz to the bottom of the ocean, instead of keeping him safe at a home port.

I’m not a burden. That’s something I have to repeat to myself a lot. Some days more than others. Some days, I can’t even manage that, and Baz tells it to me instead. (“Simon, you’re not a burden.”) It took a lot of therapy. And humility. And a whole bunch of other messy things. Eventually, I came to tolerate the idea, then welcome it, then internalize it. (I’m not a burden. I’m just a man.)

I wanted to highlight that Simon has gone back to therapy and is actually addressing his problems—and that’s why he’s improved this much, able to be this vulnerable. And feel capable of accepting Baz’s vulnerability, as well. And I also wanted to play off of Simon’s CO thoughts, “he’s not a villain, he’s just a boy.”

Loving Baz has always been completely out of my control. It’s as subconscious and inevitable as following up one breath with another. In the beginning, it felt like breathing air that was slightly laced with poison—something that crept into me slowly, ruining me, always leaving me feeling off. Once we were together, it felt like breathing while struggling not to drown—like each time my head surfaced to gulp a breath, I worried it might be my last, before the waves sucked me back under. Now … now it just feels clean. Natural. Effortless. Loving Baz is easy when I stop trying to fight it. (My love isn’t a burden.)

When you’re so traumatized and have had so few loving relationships, finally experiencing love and comfort is terrifying. It feels deeply unnatural and like something will undoubtedly go wrong any moment. This is surely one of several reasons why Simon repressed his feelings for Baz as long as he did. So, the depths of Simon’s love for Baz was a burden to himself, too… But not any more.

I can tie myself to Baz without it feeling like I’m also slipping a noose around his neck. I can braid us together into something new and beautiful, if he lets me. (“You’re not a burden, Simon. You’re a choice.”) I think he’ll let me. I think he wants that also, but is too afraid to ask.

And so, now that Simon has spent these past few years fostering the acceptance of his love for Baz and Baz’s love of him, he’s able to revisit these thoughts about tying Baz to him. Not as a noose or poorly-timed dropped anchor, but as a beautiful plaited work of art that intertwines them and reinforces them. And despite what Simon says about loving Baz being out of his control, he is still consciously making the choice to stay and to work at it and to propose~

I look into Baz’s eyes. They’re brimming with tears. His jaw is clenched tight, and his bottom lip is quivering with the effort of holding back. He’s afraid to interrupt me or urge me to go on—or maybe just afraid, full stop. No more fear—for either one of us. Not with this. I collect myself despite my tears welling up to match his. (We match, we match, we match—) I stare at my paper, find my place, and press on. “I’ve never stopped feeling that way, Baz. I need you to know that. Even when things seemed impossible, even when I thought I could never make you happy. I never once questioned my devotion to you.” It’s getting hard to read, the words are all wobbly. “I’ve learnt so much since then. How to love you better. How to be there for you. How to make you smile. How you like your eggs. How to wake you on your days off without you hitting me.” Baz laughs—it’s a watery, stuttering thing that makes his tears finally spill from his eyes.

This is Simon’s way of really hitting the whole point home, so that Baz can’t have reason to doubt how deeply Simon cares. That’s his real motivation with all of this: making sure Baz knows. To make up for all the messes they’ve left behind them, and to make the future lined with fewer eggshells.

“You make me ridiculously happy, and I want to keep working hard to make you happy. I want … I want the start of every day to be a new chance to make you happy, Baz. For ... for as long as I live.” I breathe … it feels right.

Acceptance~!

“I think I can do it, can give you that. So ... if you think so, also ... then ... Baz.” I quickly set my paper down—I don’t need it for this part. I adjust our hands, pressing my sweaty ones over his, holding the ring box with him as I stare up into his eyes. They’re shining like crystals. He’s magnificent. Lovely. And, hopefully, in a minute … all mine. “It doesn’t have to be now—or soon—because I’m not going anywhere—but—well—so...” I gulp. While it feels harder to say than “I love you”, I’m confident that I’ve finally found the right words: “Baz … will you marry me?”

💛💙

Thank you so much for asking, @foolofabookwyrm!!!!

DVD Commentary Ask

[sciencespies]

Physicists just found 4 new subatomic particles that may test the laws of nature

https://sciencespies.com/physics/physicists-just-found-4-new-subatomic-particles-that-may-test-the-laws-of-nature/

Physicists just found 4 new subatomic particles that may test the laws of nature

This month is a time to celebrate. CERN has just announced the discovery of four brand new particles at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in Geneva.

This means that the LHC has now found a total of 59 new particles, in addition to the Nobel prize-winning Higgs boson, since it started colliding protons – particles that make up the atomic nucleus along with neutrons – in 2009.

Excitingly, while some of these new particles were expected based on our established theories, some were altogether more surprising.

The LHC’s goal is to explore the structure of matter at the shortest distances and highest energies ever probed in the lab – testing our current best theory of nature: the Standard Model of Particle Physics. And the LHC has delivered the goods – it enabled scientists to discover the Higgs boson, the last missing piece of the model. That said, the theory is still far from being fully understood.

One of its most troublesome features is its description of the strong force which holds the atomic nucleus together. The nucleus is made up of protons and neutrons, which are in turn each composed of three tiny particles called quarks (there are six different kinds of quarks: up, down, charm, strange, top and bottom).

If we switched the strong force off for a second, all matter would immediately disintegrate into a soup of loose quarks – a state that existed for a fleeting instant at the beginning of the universe.

Don’t get us wrong: the theory of the strong interaction, pretentiously called “quantum chromodynamics“, is on very solid footing. It describes how quarks interact through the strong force by exchanging particles called gluons. You can think of gluons as analogues of the more familiar photon, the particle of light and carrier of the electromagnetic force.

However, the way gluons interact with quarks makes the strong force behave very differently from electromagnetism. While the electromagnetic force gets weaker as you pull two charged particles apart, the strong force actually gets stronger as you pull two quarks apart.

As a result, quarks are forever locked up inside particles called hadrons – particles made of two or more quarks – which includes protons and neutrons. Unless, of course, you smash them open at incredible speeds, as we are doing at Cern.

To complicate matters further, all the particles in the standard model have antiparticles which are nearly identical to themselves but with the opposite charge (or other quantum property). If you pull a quark out of a proton, the force will eventually be strong enough to create a quark-antiquark pair, with the newly created quark going into the proton.

You end up with a proton and a brand new “meson”, a particle made of a quark and an antiquark. This may sound weird but according to quantum mechanics, which rules the universe on the smallest of scales, particles can pop out of empty space.

This has been shown repeatedly by experiments – we have never seen a lone quark. An unpleasant feature of the theory of the strong force is that calculations of what would be a simple process in electromagnetism can end up being impossibly complicated. We therefore cannot (yet) prove theoretically that quarks can’t exist on their own.

Worse still, we can’t even calculate which combinations of quarks would be viable in nature and which would not.

Illustration of a tetraquark. (CERN)

When quarks were first discovered, scientists realized that several combinations should be possible in theory. This included pairs of quarks and antiquarks (mesons); three quarks (baryons); three antiquarks (antibaryons); two quarks and two antiquarks (tetraquarks); and four quarks and one antiquark (pentaquarks) – as long as the number of quarks minus antiquarks in each combination was a multiple of three.

For a long time, only baryons and mesons were seen in experiments. But in 2003, the Belle experiment in Japan discovered a particle that didn’t fit in anywhere. It turned out to be the first of a long series of tetraquarks.

In 2015, the LHCb experiment at the LHC discovered two pentaquarks.

The four new particles we’ve discovered recently are all tetraquarks with a charm quark pair and two other quarks. All these objects are particles in the same way as the proton and the neutron are particles. But they are not fundamental particles: quarks and electrons are the true building blocks of matter.

Is a pentaquark tightly (above) or weakly bound (see image below)? (CERN)

Charming new particles

The LHC has now discovered 59 new hadrons. These include the tetraquarks most recently discovered, but also new mesons and baryons. All these new particles contain heavy quarks such as “charm” and “bottom”.

These hadrons are interesting to study. They tell us what nature considers acceptable as a bound combination of quarks, even if only for very short times.

They also tell us what nature does not like. For example, why do all tetra- and pentaquarks contain a charm-quark pair (with just one exception)? And why are there no corresponding particles with strange-quark pairs? There is currently no explanation.

Is a pentaquark a molecule? A meson (left) interacting with a proton (right). (CERN)

Another mystery is how these particles are bound together by the strong force. One school of theorists considers them to be compact objects, like the proton or the neutron.

Others claim they are akin to “molecules” formed by two loosely bound hadrons. Each newly found hadron allows experiments to measure its mass and other properties, which tell us something about how the strong force behaves. This helps bridge the gap between experiment and theory. The more hadrons we can find, the better we can tune the models to the experimental facts.

These models are crucial to achieve the ultimate goal of the LHC: find physics beyond the standard model. Despite its successes, the standard model is certainly not the last word in the understanding of particles. It is for instance inconsistent with cosmological models describing the formation of the universe.

The LHC is searching for new fundamental particles that could explain these discrepancies. These particles could be visible at the LHC, but hidden in the background of particle interactions. Or they could show up as small quantum mechanical effects in known processes.

In either case, a better understanding of the strong force is needed to find them. With each new hadron, we improve our knowledge of nature’s laws, leading us to a better description of the most fundamental properties of matter.

Patrick Koppenburg, Research Fellow in Particle Physics, Dutch National Institute for Subatomic Physics and Harry Cliff, Particle physicist, University of Cambridge.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

#Physics

[uniqueshoebakeryweasel]

This is my @jedijune fanfiction. This is totally late and I have absolutely no excuse for it so I apologize! I had fun trying to figure out how Anakin’s brain works for this fic, because he’s such a chaotic force and I don’t really understand him at all! Constructive criticism is very welcome! Thanks and I hope you enjoy!💙

Prompt 2: Lightsaber

It was official. Anakin was about to die. He had only been a Padawan for about a year and now he would never fulfill any of his hopes or dreams. He would never become a Jedi Knight or Master, he would never get to see his mother again, never get a chance to free her and tell her how much progress he had made. He wouldn’t be able to free all of the slaves on Tatooine. And he would never get to explore the whole wide galaxy!

After all his thoughts of how he would go out if he ever did, this wasn’t what Anakin expected. He thought that if he ever died it would be in the midst of a large battle - he would die heroically saving countless people, Jedi included. Obi-Wan would finally see how good he really was, and in Anakin’s last moments Obi-Wan would apologize for holding him back and teaching him useless things like breathing exercises and boring meditation techniques. Even in his head, however, Anakin usually assumed he would survive whatever wound had led Obi-Wan to apologize to him, so that he could go on to become the grand master of the Jedi, as well as a most loved hero of the galaxy!

Now Anakin knew that that wouldn’t come to pass. Instead, he was doomed to die as a Jedi Padawan, here on a small planet where he and Obi-Wan had been sent as peacekeepers.

Obi-Wan and Anakin had chased an assassin who had attempted to kill one of the leaders within the negotiations at the time. Somewhere along the way they had gotten separated, which led to Anakin stumbling into the bind that he was currently in. He had almost caught the assassin on his own, but he got cocky and the assassin took advantage of that. He had caught Anakin on top of one of the buildings, and after a few minutes he had managed to push Anakin off the edge. Anakin had fallen onto a balcony a ways down, and discovered that the building wasn’t finished being built and there was no exit from the level he was on. He wasn’t yet skilled or experienced enough to find a way out, although he had tried, and nearly fallen off of the balcony in an attempt to climb down. So there he was - stuck, mildly injured, and waiting for his terrible fate to come to pass.

Anakin knew he was being dramatic, however - death would be too quick a punishment to be suitable for such a mistake. Maybe Obi-Wan would realize that he was indeed too young to be a Padawan and would demote him to be a youngling for a few years. Maybe he would be sent away! Anakin overheard a few Padawans talking about some type of agricorp that their friend had been sent to? Apparently if a youngling wasn’t chosen by their thirteenth birthday they were sent away… who knew?

Just then Anakin heard the sound of engines outside of the building and looked up in time to see a quaint ship carefully lining up by the balcony that he had fallen onto earlier. He panicked as he saw it, his imagination going into overdrive as he thought of the probable consequences of his actions. What if Obi-Wan simply kicked him out of the temple and left him to try and survive! What if he decided to just leave him on this foreign planet where the people spoke a dialect that he didn’t understand? What if they decided he was better suited to Tatooine and dropped him off back at Watto’s shop??

His mother would be so disappointed! Obi-Wan would glare at him in that way that would look rather neutral to outsiders, but if you were on the receiving end of it you would just Know that you were about to regret whatever you just did. The other Padawans would laugh at him for his idiocy and tell him it proved that he was never worthy, just like they always said. What if…

Anakin’s thoughts and wild imagination were cut off by his name being called out from the direction of the ship. Looking up from the ground - when had he started looking at the ground instead of the ship? - he saw the ship's ramp had lowered and suddenly Obi-Wan was safely on the balcony, looking at him with… was that worry in his eyes? No, that couldn’t be right, and it would quickly change when he realized the magnitude of what Anakin had done.

“Are you alright, Anakin? It’s unlike you to be this quiet,” Obi-Wan questioned as he swiftly paced forward to stand in front of his young Padawan. For once in his life, Anakin was unable to come up with any response, sarcastic or not. So he simply looked back at the ground, hoping wistfully that it could just swallow him up and end his suffering.

He glanced up briefly when he heard Obi-Wan stepping closer. His brow was creased and he was scanning Anakin over for, presumably, injuries. However, Anakin knew that he would only find some cuts and bruises from the fall, and maybe from the brief scuffle he had had with the assassin.

After what seemed like ages but was probably only a few seconds, Obi-Wan seemed satisfied that he wasn’t terribly hurt, and gestured for Anakin to follow him into their ship.

Once inside, Anakin swiftly strapped himself into the copilot's seat, and promptly smashed his face against the window as he stubbornly stared outside to avoid Obi-Wan concerned glances as he began to pilot the ship back to the room they were staying at. Anakin assumed that meant that the assassin got away, which certainly didn’t help his mood.

For some reason, Obi-Wan allowed him to stay silent the whole trip back, which admittedly wasn’t that long, only a few minutes, but still… Anakin grudgingly appreciated it, not that Obi-Wan ever needed to know that, and as soon as the ship landed on the roof of their building, Anakin hopped out scarcely before the ramp was even lowered, and scurried inside to clean up. Before he made it up the stairs to the refresher, however, he was stopped by Obi-Wan, who placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder just as he was about to skulk off to the refresher.

“Stay here for now, Anakin,” Obi-Wan instructed before swiftly moving to the kitchen to prepare both of them some tea.

Their accommodations were small and simple so the kitchen was little more than a few cabinets and appliances in the corner of the room. Anakin huffed and moodily sat down on the steps that he had been about to climb. Obi-Wan put on the teapot and as he waited for the water to heat up, he glanced at Anakin over his shoulder.

“What happened?”

It was a simple question, and yet it was what Anakin had been dreading since he had fallen onto the balcony. Obi-Wan had turned back to face the teapot so Anakin had a chance to gather the courage to speak.

He finally decided it would be better to get it over with, so glaring (pouting) at the floor, he shot out, “I lost my lightsaber!”

Once he realized that he had actually admitted to such a crime his head shot up to look at Obi-Wan, his eyes going impossibly wide, and he started rambling, “it was an accident I promise, the assassin pushed me off of a building and I landed on that balcony and I didn’t even notice at first but it must’ve fallen off or something because I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I’m really sorry! Please don’t be mad, don’t send me back to Tatooine..”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan cut him off when it was clear that he wouldn't stop. “Calm yourself, my young Padawan. Why do you think I would ever send you back to Tatooine?” Obi-Wan pinned Anakin with an incredulous gaze as he turned around to fully face him.

Anakin squirmed uncomfortably and grimaced as he replied. “Well, you’ve told me before that my lightsaber is my life, and that I have to be mindful of it at all times, and you’ve told me specifically not to misplace it, because I would be in trouble if I did…”

Obi-Wan sighed, and started working on brewing their tea as the teapot had just started whistling. “Please listen to me, Anakin. Nothing you do could change the fact that you are my family and I love you - I would never send you away for any reason. You’re my Padawan - it’s my duty and my honor to train, protect, and guide you into the life of a Jedi. I care about you and I just want to help you build the skills and habits that will help you be safe with or without me there to help you. That doesn’t mean that you will never make mistakes, but it is my job to help you lessen the chances of those mistakes happening.”

Anakin hadn’t looked up from the floor the entire time Obi-Wan was talking, but he looked up when he heard the clinking of two mugs being placed on a table. Obi-Wan strode to the steps he was sitting (most definitely not skulking) on and took a seat next to him. He waited a moment for Anakin to look up at him and gave him a small smile, before pulling something out of his robes. It was… Anakin's lightsaber!! Anakin's eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, shooting his head up to gape at Obi-Wan in awe.

Obi-Wan chuckled at his reaction. “You have much potential - however, you are still a new Padawan, and your Force shielding isn’t as thorough as it someday will be. You panicked when you lost your lightsaber and I felt you try to block me from our training bond, but you only managed to dull what you were feeling, so it was fairly easy to deduce what had happened. When I came to get you, I stopped by the base of the building and found it before I picked you up.“ Obi-Wan gave him a stern look, “I tell you not to lose your lightsaber because it is your life. I just want you to be safe. We will discuss this later, and meditate on it together.”

He ignored Anakin’s groan of annoyance and continued, “Tomorrow. I think you’ve had enough excitement for tonight, so for now, enjoy your tea. You did well, Anakin.”

Much love to the wonderful and talented muffin @imaginaryrobin for being my ever patient beta reader and illustrator!!

Your art looks as spectacular as always!💙