#This is an equivalent level of nonsense

[saphronethaleph]

Extra Extra

“It’s like one of those logic puzzles,” Lando said, looking down at a Dejarik table that had been turned off an hour ago. “We know most of the ingredients we need, right?”

“We know most of the ingredients of one way to do it,” Leia amended. “Though I can’t use the Boussh disguise for both of them. I’d have enough trouble using it on one of them, though I think Jabba would be a bit easier to fool.”

“Relatively speaking,” the Socorran replied. “What do you think, Chewie? Jabba’s not kept on top of a crime ridden world like that for decades by being gullible.”

“That may be true, but he’s arrogant,” Chewbacca replied. “And, unlike with Luke, we at least know where Han is.”

“I get the point,” Lando admitted. “Problem is, none of us three are from Tatooine. Luke is, but… like I said, logic puzzle. The easiest way to rescue Han is to already have Luke – and the easiest way to rescue Luke is to already have Han.”

“Rescuing Luke, we could at least call on the resources of the Rebellion,” Leia offered. “Being able to actually kill Darth Vader would be an enormous blow to the Empire.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, sure, but – I hate to admit it, but Han’s better with the old girl than I ever was. If we were okay with Luke’s death, then an insane plan like attacking Darth Vader’s Super Star Destroyer would be a bit easier to stomach… if you want to get him out, Han’s touch with the Falcon can only help.”

Leia sighed.

“I have the feeling that doing Han is going to be easier,” she said. “I’ve got a few contacts I can call upon… and if we do manage to get Rebellion resources involved, then Jabba’s palace is a much softer target.”

“We’re going around in circles,” Chewbacca declared. “We need more information. Even knowing where Darth Vader was would help, because that way we’d be able to make better plans.”

He frowned. “Jabba’s strength comes from being a big fish in a small pond. But getting Han out means being inside the defences – and if he realizes what’s going on, he can use Han’s safety as a hostage.”

Lando nodded along.

“I actually wonder if we shouldn’t hope that Luke can rescue himself,” he said. “Or – if we are going to try and rescue Luke, we should abandon the idea of doing it with the Falcon directly. The YT-1300 might be common, but any light freighter of that class is going to stand out.”

Chewbacca looked curious.

“That sounds like you have a plan,” he said. “Care to share?”

“I most certainly do,” Lando answered. “That giant ship has to get supplies, right? Giant standard containers. I wonder how many old style battle droids we could fit in a giant container alongside the Falcon to provide a distraction – then jump out from inside the ship once we’ve retrieved Luke.”

“Now there’s a crazy idea,” Leia said, but she was looking contemplative. “That might work. Audacity can win the day when lesser plans simply don’t have a chance to-”

“Mistress Leia!” C-3P0 interrupted, hurrying down from the cockpit. “Mistress Leia! There’s something very strange on the holonews!”

Lando, Chewbacca and Leia exchanged curious glances, then Lando hit a switch and turned on a holoprojector.

“I didn’t know that was there,” the wookiee admitted, then they all stopped and stared at the news.

“Admiral Piett, this is most irregular!” Grand Admiral Tigellinus declared. “Your authority does not run to the Imperial Center Oversector – explain yourself at once!”

“My authority derives from Vader,” Piett replied, evenly, facing the viewscreen showing Tigellinus’s face.

The Grand Admiral was apparently not on board his capital ship, and the other displays around the Executor bridge were showing that the Empire’s Central Fleet was both out of position and unprepared for combat.

In the second part, at least, Piett fully knew how they felt.

“Vader’s authority also does not run here,” Tigellinus retorted. “Power down your weapons and shields immediately.”

“That request is out of order, Grand Admiral,” Piett replied. “I am under no obligation to stand down.”

Someone began speaking to Tigellinus, their voice a little too quiet for Piett to hear through the connection, and the Grand Admiral turned a rather entertaining shade.

“Admiral, you are violating my direct orders,” the Grand Admiral declared. “One of the ships of your fleet is making a full power burn for the surface of Imperial Center! They must stand down immediately or they will be destroyed!”

Piett’s gaze flicked to the displays, and it took all of a lifetime’s military politicking to avoid reacting visibly.

Tigellinus was very much telling the truth. One of the Star Destroyers of Battle Group Executor was burning for the surface at full power, and scattered fire from the defensive platforms was already striking home on it.

It wasn’t responding, though, and Piett had a sinking feeling that he was starting to understand what was going on.

It wasn’t that he necessarily disagreed with the idea of a coup d’etat, or at least that was what he would certainly say if Vader had asked him about the subject. Partly because denying Darth Vader was a good way of getting choked to death over a video call, but also partly because… something had changed in Vader in the last few months.

Since Bespin.

But he would very much have appreciated being told any of the details more than five minutes before the Executor had left hyperspace.

“The destroyer may have engine problems,” he said, instead. “It was undergoing refit and was mostly evacuated for that very reason.”

“That is not an engine problem!” the Grand Admiral snapped. “You are relieved of command and placed under arrest!”

Piett made a gesture, and the viewscreen deactivated.

“I suspect that conversation was going nowhere productive,” he said. “All batteries ready. I want a full ion cannon salvo on the first capital vessel of the Central Fleet to fire on our wayward destroyer.”

He folded his hands behind his back, and tried to seem like he knew what was going on.

Palpatine was not ready for the situation he had just found himself in.

In principle, assassination was always a risk for someone like him, and he had many means of protection.

He had a ferociously competent security service. He had his guards, armed and trained to a degree of furious perfection that was then hidden under ceremonial outfits. He had the mighty apparatus of Imperial power, grown for twenty-five years. He was the most powerful single individual in the galaxy, with the might of a thousand years of Sith learning and alchemy buttressing his own powerful hatred.

He also had flashbacks to the last time he had been utterly out of control of the situation, which was when he had been on board a crashing Confederacy capital ship.

And now there was a durasteel triangle sixteen hundred metres long, crashing down out of the Coruscant sky. Even as he watched it collided with the Imperial Palace shields, and the shields lost, collapsing with a CRAAACK like the sky splitting open, and the Emperor summoned the Force to himself – ready to do whatever it took to survive.

Whatever it took.

Then he noticed the bright red letters painted on the front of the Star Destroyer. Every single character a hundred and twenty metres high, spelling out a name.

AMIDALA.

Palpatine’s eye twitched, then the nose of the Star Destroyer made contact, and the next ten seconds was an incredible cacophony of rending metal and collapsing supports and energy as several reactors ruptured.

When the debris finally stopped and the smoke began to clear, the entire room was on a fifteen degree slant. The transparisteel windows had exploded inwards, and a horizontal rain of giant shrapnel had killed every one of the guards and functionaries in the room.

There were several fires going on, and it rather looked as though most of the palace complex was in the middle of collapsing.

Then two curved TIE/Advanced wings landed with a crash on the floor to his right, coming in through a hole in the roof, and Palpatine’s gaze snapped in that direction. He drew his lightsaber with a single quick motion, concealing it in his sleeve for now, and he saw two figures step off the pieces of curved metal.

One was entirely familiar. Darth Vader, his apprentice. His slave… but it was immediately clear that Vader was his slave no more.

Just from his posture, if it hadn’t also been apparent from the events of the last few minutes.

Vader was reminding him unpleasantly of Anakin, on the days when Palpatine had touched the wrong nerve.

But the other could only be Luke Skywalker. He looked different, now, to any time Palpatine had seen him before. Older, maybe. More touched by pain and loss, perhaps – but mawkishly certain of his convictions.

Like a teenaged queen he remembered. Or the same woman, as a twenty-something senator who had ruined far too many of his plans without even realizing whose plans they were.

“Ah, young Skywalker,” Palpatine said. “I see your father has brought you here to die.”

Vader ignited his lightsaber, and Luke drew his own as well – activating it with a flash of blue light.

It was Anakin’s old one, from Mustafar, and Palpatine could feel that the Force liked that.

He hated that, and that hate gave him strength.

Strength he was unpleasantly sure he was going to need.

For a moment, the Emperor dismissed Vader. He knew Vader, knew his weaknesses and his strengths.

A moment was all he could spare, but he needed to understand the younger Skywalker. The boy’s lightsaber was held in a form that looked almost like Soresu, or almost like Niman, but there was a touch of Djem So there as well.

Except that the weapon in Luke’s left hand was a blaster, with the flowing chrome lines of one from Palpatine’s own home world.

Luke glanced at Vader for a moment, then settled himself.

“I call for a vote of no confidence in Emperor Palpatine’s leadership,” the boy said, and Palpatine’s eye twitched violently.

Then everything was a blur of blue and red, of crackling lightning and the high pitched whine of a blaster.

“You know,” the Emperor said, most of a week later, as the latest bureaucrats left in a state of some confusion. “I expected that you’d be the one actually in charge, Father.”

Vader shook his head, implacably.

“I will upend the galaxy for you, my son,” he said. “Be your strong right arm. Your enforcer. Your teacher. I will place you on the throne of all eternity. But I will not do datawork.”

Luke smiled slightly.

“It’s not dramatic enough, is it?” he asked. “I looked up that quote, you know.”

Vader was silent for a long moment.

“It felt… appropriate,” he said.

“I’m sure it did, father,” Luke replied. “Now… I need to try writing my next letter to Mon Mothma. Somehow I am going to convince her to help me turn the position of Emperor into one with constitutional limitations.”

Anakin looked across at his son.

“I believe you might just do that,” he said.

“I must say, I didn’t expect this,” Obi-Wan mused, materializing in front of the throne.

“What didn’t you expect?” Luke asked.

“Well, take your pick,” Obi-Wan replied. “But if there’s one thing… it’s how you killed Palpatine. It seems that the Banite legacy of the Sith earths itself into the killer, meaning that the killer becomes the new leader of the Sith… a vessel for Palpatine, in other words.”

Vader gave Luke a concerned look.

“And?” Luke asked. “I don’t think I’m a vessel for Palpatine.”

“The connection requires a Khyber crystal,” Obi-Wan clarified. “And now I need to face that the galaxy was saved because you killed Palpatine with a blaster, of all things.”

Anakin started laughing, then coughing, then laughing again.

“Father?” Luke asked, concerned.

“Who’s uncivilized now, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked, holding on to the side of the throne so he wouldn’t collapse.

[wintermage]

i'm too sick to go to work and i need to do some research before i write the next part of my book or else the whole thing will just be like "and then they were in boat. on water." so i am currently on 24 BOAT LOCKDOWN. on the off chance that anyone reading this knows of good documentaries, articles, books, etc. about cargo ships and life at sea, i would looooooove ur recs

[h0neyfreak]

***

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[vivalabunbun]

As We Are, We Will Be

Summary: A nonsensical question is proposed in one singular moment between a stoic and stoic face in one singular universe.

Word Count: 9k (It was supposed to be short and sweet-)

Tags: Alhaitham X Fem! Reader, Smut, NSFW, Fluff, a lot of fluff, slight angst, soulmate au, slow fic, established relationship, married life, Soft! Alhaitham, attempts at comedy, mentions of aging, slightly jealous! Alhaitham, mutual pinning, soft sex, vanilla, safe sex (wrap it up), riding (cowgirl), fingering, slow sex, making love, really bad expatiations of scientific theories and math, just two nerds in love.

Authors Note: Happy belated birthday and Valentine's Day to my favorite dendro nerd. A continuation of this piece, one I hold dear. A thought experiment based on nothing more than the feverish delirium of love.

It was just for a moment. 

A mere pasting instance in the contentious momentum of time when a glimmer caught your eyes in the muddled chatter of a crowd, a silver shimmer like starlight.

Interrupting your contemplation as your eyes impulsively search for the source.

A late morning on a Saturday, the markets and stalls were lively with families replenishing a week's worth of groceries. Bodies veering and easing through the bustle of the busty streets.

The wide breadth of life that moved all around you. Like a collection of small dots within the vastness of a universe. 

But amid the vast collection of blurry faces were the flicker of silvery locks refracting the late morning light. Originating from a pair, an elderly lady and an elderly man, their aged hands intertwined. 

Time had made her marks upon them, and gravity had pulled down on their wrinkled faces. Yet, the ends of their lips were pointed toward the sky. The corners of their eyes wrinkled as their gazes held each other's faces. 

From their view, do they not see the starlight hue of their hair? Instead, do they still see the vibrancy and youth of their locks which age had stolen from them? 

The image of each other reflected in their irises, was it from a time before the hands of gravity pulled on their creased skin and bowed bones? Would you ever be able to find out? 

“I wasn’t aware you had a hobby of people-watching.” A baritone voice ghosts over your ear. 

Jolting your head to your right, you come face to face with the interruption. Or perhaps, your mind finally registered Alhaitham’s presence just off to the side of you. His arms were weighted down with various bags. 

Oh, that’s right, the markets and stalls were lively on the weekend with families restocking groceries for the upcoming week. You and Alhaitham were no different. 

Glancing up at his ashen trestles and then scanning back at the starlight locks of the elderly couple, and then back to your husband. 

“Hmm, not quite. Just noting the fact your hair is the same color as an old man’s, Haitham.” You catch the subtle twitch of his brow. 

“Is that so? I hope you are aware you’re not immune to the inevitably of aging, wife,” Alhaitham returns your jest. 

“Well, with your hair color and grumpiness, I’d say you’re already halfway there.” 

“I needn’t expound on your equivalent levels of grumpiness, it won’t be long before your locks share the same ashen hue.” 

“I guess that’s why we get along then, dear husband.” 

“That’s one theory,” he huffs, a simple tone lacking any bite.

You pan your face back toward the crowd, partly because it’s getting harder to hold the neutral position of your lips, partly because your curiosity aches for an untold conclusion. 

However, when your gaze returned to the ever-bustling sea of people, the pair of starlight hues were nowhere to be found. It was regrettable, but expected, the elderly couple were nothing more than a pair of strangers in a crowd full of unfamiliar faces.

They were just a brief scene that disappeared into the moving tides of people. 

Leaving you with your unresolved musings. 

“Is there anything else we need for the week?” 

Alhaitham’s voice reels your consciousness back, swiftly you check the crinkled slip of parchment within your hand. Scanning down the list of written items, all with a neat little line crossed through their immaculately penned letters. 

“It looks like we got everything we need.” You tuck the list into your pocket. 

“Then it’s best we get home before our groceries are spoiled by the heat.” Alhaitham readjusts the bags in his hands. 

A hum takes its place as your response. Pivoting your body in the direction of your shared home. From the corner of your field of view, his strides were paced to coincide with your shorter steps. 

Studying the numerous bags occupying his hands, you can’t help but think it’s quite convenient to have someone as robust as your husband. Maybe it's these weekly grocery runs that are the secret behind his physique. 

Discreetly, your hand slowly slips between the gap of his arm and body, linking your elbows together. So that your frame and his could withstand the push and pull of the crowd’s contentious momentum. 

The neutrality of your lips had long slipped away, softened by the familiarity of his warmth. Even as your eyes were pointed on the path ahead, you had an inkling that a similar occurrence was mirrored on his lips as well. 

An inquiry your curiosity didn’t need to peek to resolve. 

 

That ache for an untold conclusion morphed into a new musing by the afternoon. 

The silver shimmer from that elderly couple’s hair truly was like starlight. Perhaps that’s the correlation that steered your thoughts down this winding path of pondering. 

Everyone, from those taking their first stumbling steps of youth to the slowed cane-assisted tramps in their golden years, is technically billions of years old. Or more accurately, the atoms and minerals in everyone are billions of years old. 

The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood were all forged in the hearts of bygone stars. When those bright beacons burned out they exploded in one last finale, expelling those materials across interstellar space. Stardust that found its way here. 

Here within you, and here within the slow breaths of the man in front of you. 

After being around for billions of years, does stardust ever get exhausted? 

That would be a sensible explanation for why Alhaitham had snuck away amidst hanging up freshly washed laundry. 

His tall frame stretched the expanse of the couch as his starlight lashes were shut, shamelessly relishing in a nap under the streams of sunlight trickled in from the window. 

Squatting down you observe the guiltless expression plastered over his resting face, still deep in the trenches of sleep, a small huff passes through your lips. Well, this morning you did have him carry all the groceries from the market back home.

Your husband does deserve this little nap.

Trailing your eyes down his neck you note the lack of a pillow, then as your gaze travels further you note the absence of a blanket as well. Internally, your mind tsks at this forgetful habit of his. 

Although his body and yours still have youth coursing through your veins, it doesn’t mean they’ll remain as impervious as they are now later down the line, especially if preventative measures aren’t taken.

Like having a pillow to support one’s neck, or a blanket to prevent chills from plaguing the body. 

Standing back to full height, you retrieved the missing artifacts, returning with a plush pillow and light comforter.  

Even when his head was momentarily lifted to make space for the pillow, and when the spare comforter was draped over him, Alhaitham didn’t stir one bit. At times you can’t determine if he’s a light sleeper or if his stubbornness refuses to leave the plain of dreams. 

It’s a true wonder of life how Alhaitham’s able to sleep so soundly at night given his extensive naps. 

The vivid sunlight illuminated patterns upon his cheeks and trestles, causing the ashen strands to dazzle in their refraction of the afternoon light. A sight your eyes just couldn’t help but be enraptured by. 

Maybe you could blame the warmth of the sunlight, or maybe the serenity of this quiet Saturday afternoon, or perhaps even these fickle inquiries about his naps for the yawn that left your lips. Now might be the prime time for some research. 

Lifting up the comforter just enough for an opportunity to slip through, your body settles in the space right against his. It’s crowded on the couch, the cushions unprepared for two bodies to occupy its entirety, the open edge looming against your back.

Even after all the shuffling and pressing against his dozing frame, your husband didn’t budge a bit. 

Leaden lashes still shut and lips set in that all too familiar line, chest rhythmically rising and falling in time with yours. The very image of unperturbedness under the blessing of sleep. 

“You really are like an old man.” 

At that mere jab, the corners of his lips tugged down while his eyes remained closed. A quick slip that confirmed your earlier suspicions. 

“Who knew you were so talented in acting, Haitham,” you snicker. 

A muscular arm soon enveloped your form, further pressing you against his chest as if to silence any more sardonic quips from entering his ears. 

It was quite the challenge to stifle those giggles before they could erupt from your lips. Peeking up, there’s an ever-so-subtle lift at the corners of his mouth. An express which yours mirrored. 

Studying the details of the lips just a breath away, a new musing worms its way into your thoughts:

 When the hands of gravity and time start to pull down on his skin and yours the same, leaving wrinkles and creases in their wake, will the edges of his lips still curl like this? 

Would yours mirror the same? 

A second yawn sneaks past your lips as your lashes grow heavier with each fluttering blink. Claiming a corner of the pillow to lay your head upon, the seconds between each subsequent blink grew longer and longer until your lids were too heavy to lift. 

Perhaps the stardust in your bones was exhausted, craving a short rest in his warmth. 

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

There’s something against your back and your legs are tangled in something, sensations which gradually alert your dozing sense back from the fog of slumber.

At first, you only had the strength to peek open one lid, then promptly shut it. But in the nothingness behind your eyelids, something was halting your limps from stretching the weariness out from themselves. 

You tried again, this time fluttering both sets of lashes apart ever so slightly. There’s a dry film coating your throat and mouth, feeling the impressions of the couch cushions and bundled comforter imprinted into your skin.  

What time was it?

Blinking away the haze of sleep just enough to notice how the golden rays of a star were missing. A gray overlay was plastered over the living room despite the ticking clock hands displaying that it was late afternoon.

Peering back through the window behind, observing the congregating insipid clouds blocking out the azure sky. 

A sure sign of rain despite the morning forecast. Rain… wasn’t there something left unfinished on the clotheslines outside? The groggy recollection of responsibilities creeps into the forefront of your mind. 

The reign of your weary limbs slowly returns, and your legs languidly attempt to stretch out from the reveal they were caught in. However, their movements only caused a pair of longer limbs to ensnarl them further.

Alhaitham’s legs promptly caught yours, stifling any prospect of escape. 

Your displeased whine was responded with a disgruntled groan by the man keeping your body locked against his. 

Wasn’t your back looming just about the edge of the couch when you fell asleep? So why are you in this position now?

Your body wedged between the plush backing of the couch and his solid frame, the comforter swaddling you also didn’t aid in your immobility. Brawny arm draped over your waist, halting your feeble squirms at freedom. 

“The laundry,” you mumble.

“Later.” A blunt interjection from a groggy voice. 

“It’s going to rain.” 

“Less than a 30% chance.” 

“Haitham…” 

Your husband simply burrows his head deeper into the leveled pillow, likely an attempt to leverage the cushy material to block out your grievances. His ashen lashes still stubbornly shut, much to your displeasure.

“Alhaitham.”

No fluctuations in your volume nor tone, but it was enough for one teal eye to peek out from under ashen lashes. Trailing up to a subtle frown to the furrow between your brow, then finally meeting your unamused stare.

“Laundry,” you try again. 

A silent stare down, one stone face gazing upon an equally stoic face, like an immovable object pressed against an equally immovable object.

Which one will defend their title of most stubborn today? 

His chest expands with a deep breath, grasp enclosing around your waist before his teal gaze shamelessly vanishes behind closed lashes. Robust frame pinning you further to the back of the couch as he continues to ignore your huffy floundering. 

“Release me, don’t you dare-” 

Your grievance was soon muffled by a gentle hand pressing your cheek into his palatial chest. A move that stupefies the irksomeness bubbling within until it falls defeated into placidness. 

“Whether it be now or later, they’ll be clean regardless, it’s quite comfortable right here.” The resonance of his voice vibrates in his chest. 

You respond with a humbled grunt. In terms of strength you’d always lose to your feeble husband, wouldn’t you? 

There’s no point in peering up, for the pleased satisfaction of his resting face would bring a sour taste to your tongue. Thus, you merely adjust your limbs, coiling your arms around to his back and pulling his form closer.

It’s crowded on the couch, it’ll be troublesome if Alhaitham were to slip off the edge if his back were to stray any further. 

At this distance, entangled so closely together, the soft beats of his heart in time with yours like a rhythmic lullaby beckons the heavy to return to your eyelids.

The gentle drumming of his heartbeat coaxes out a final sigh from you, lashes descending down as your vision dims back into the realm of slumber. 

Slow breaths and heartbeats homogenize into a tender duet, tranquil enough to distract from the sporadic pattering against the glass and gradually increase in consistency. 

A less than 30% chance of rain doesn’t mean that there’s a greater than 70% chance of no rain. It’s merely a statistical probability of 0.01 units of more precipitation at a given area in the given forecast area in the time period specified. 

Known as the precipitation probability, calculated based on two factors: 

The forecaster's certainty that precipitation will form or move into the area X The areal coverage of precipitation that is expected, then multiplied by 100. 

Thus, if the forecaster were 90% certain that 30% of the forecast area would receive rain, then the forecast displayed on screens would read as a 27% chance of rain.

A crucial bit of information that seemed to have slipped his mind midst a quiet afternoon. 

A troublesome miscalculation Alhaitham tsks at internally as he wrings out the pillowcase into a sink before tossing it back into the washing machine. Button-down shirts and blouses, wrinkled from the process of twisting out as much rainwater as possible, sat in damp piles awaiting their turn to be rewashed. 

As he measures out the detergent he can hear the rattles and clanks of the pot and pans from the kitchen. A late dinner in preparation, a task which was supposed to be his this week.

When he woke up to the pattering of rain drumming against the window panes, the afternoon long gone, it stirred an ever-so-sinking pit of dread. Second only to the unamused stare of his wife as she replicated an overconfident statement:

“Less than a 30% chance, Alhaitham?”

How unfortunate it all was, that the area where this quaint house resides was part of that 30% of the forecasted area.

Teal eyes watch the bedsheets whirl and fumble as they spin in the wash, contemplating the circumstance and further action. 

There is only one spare bedding set in the closet, so it’d be wise to allow you to have it for tonight as all the sheets and covers get rewashed and dried.

Your bed is about the same size as his, so two bodies wouldn’t have an issue fitting. At this rate, the two of you just slept in whichever bed was the most convenient. 

However, given the current state of things, Alhaitham wonders if he should prepare himself to brave tonight on his bare mattress with a flimsy spare blanket and pillow.

He might as well return to the couch for tonight if that was the case. 

The accumulation of all the years of science, mathematics, and research, Alhaitham wonders if there was ever a bright mind who came up with a formula to calculate how displeased one’s wife is.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it be? 

More specifics needed to be gathered, something the man couldn’t do in the refugee of the laundry room. Thus, Alhaitham must brave a journey into the kitchen. His slipper-clad footsteps are slow and methodical as the kitchen appears from around the corner of the hallway.

Sights honed in on your back as you stood by the stove, a rich aroma wafting through the air. 

Sleep still dusted your hair, evident in the few unruly strands sticking up erratically on your head, you made no attempt at fixing it. One hand is too occupied with stirring the pot on the stove, and the other set upon your hip.

Your stance wasn’t exactly tipping the scales in his favor. 

Cautiously, Alhaitham made his way to you. Stopping just a few paces as your eyes peer over your shoulder, stoic gaze halting him in place just a few paces away. The faded imprint of the crumpled blankets and couch cushions on your cheek.

His hand twitches with the urge to run his thumb along the impressions, but rationally warns him of the consequences. 

“The laundry?” No discernable tone in your voice. 

“Everything has been collected and wrung out, I’ll rewash everything tomorrow.” It’s best to answer your questions this time. 

“Hmm, they were out in the rain for quite a while now. They were dripping out onto the floor when you brought them in.” 

“I’ve mopped away any rain and mud tracked between the back door and laundry room.” Teal eyes quickly checked the aforementioned area to ensure they were pristine before returning to you. 

“Hmm.” You turn back towards the stove. 

The soft ticks of the clock accompany the waning drums of raindrops against the glass, the kitchen hood whirring as a ladle continues to stir in a pot. A quiet lull engulfed the home. Treading on the side of caution, Alhaitham inhales deeply. 

Without opening the box, one will never be able to confirm to fate of Schrödinger's cat. 

“What’s for dinner?” 

“Hmm? Well, it’s raining tonight, what better to eat on a rainy night than some Sabz Meat Stew, no?” 

He’s careful to not sigh too audibly, lest he goes to bed with a stomach half-full of instant noodles and that miffed stare of yours.

Alhaitham decides to hold his tongue as teal eyes continue to watch you add more spices to the pot. Studying how nicely the apron is tied around your waist. 

But it wouldn’t be wise of him to stand so close when the fabric of his shirt was still damp with rainwater transferred to him by the soaked laundry and sky. 

His chain of thought was interrupted by the chimes of your phone on the countertop, catching your eyes as well as his to peek at the over. A certain name is displayed across the screen. It’s as if the hands of fate wanted to throw more salt into his face. 

Bahram (Manager)

It’s a Saturday night, for what reason would an employer need to contact an employee so late?

Alhaitham’s focus shifts to your gaze which is still honed in on the screen. A bitter tinge crawls up the tip of his tongue, threatening to spoil his appetite. Perhaps, he wouldn’t mind settling down in his bare bed with just a spare comforter without dinner tonight.

“Can you reject the call for me? He can wait until Monday to get me to resolve whatever he messed up,” you scoff before rolling your eyes back to the stove. 

Swiftly he swipes to decline the call, let your voicemail remind Bahram of the concept of ‘off time’. The phone whirs again right after the first rejection, but he simply swipes decline again.

Pushing the device away with a bit too much satisfaction in his veins. 

Glancing back at your frame, he lets out a sigh as he relents. Resting his head into the crook of your neck, careful to leave a bit of distance between your bodies and to not hamper your shoulder’s movement. 

“Hm?” You hum expectantly. 

“It was my oversight tonight.” A string of words a bit unfamiliar on his tongue, but stubbornness hasn’t been in his favor tonight. 

“And?”

“I’ll be more cautious regarding naps.” 

“Hmph.” 

The lull returns, him resting his head on your shoulder and you continuing to watch over the stew. Teal eyes on you and your eyes on the stove. Until your shoulders raise with a deep inhale. 

“Go get changed out of that wet shirt then set the table, this bastardized version of ‘soup’ will be ready in 20 minutes.” You reach for a skillet just off to the side. 

He hums this time, the liberation from treading in suffocating lull tugs at the end of his lips. He surmises that laying his head against you for a few moments more won’t be so consequential. 

The patter of raindrops still splattered against the glass panes of the window, drops which warped and blurred the scenery beyond the glass. Not that there’s any scenery to look at, not with the dreary clouds crowding the sky. 

A heavy sigh huffs through your nose, curling onto your side as you adjust your pillow. 

A filling dinner, a warm shower, and soft comforters. Factors that should contribute to a restful night’s sleep, or at the very least make your eyelids weary with the weight of lethargy.

Yes, perhaps those components should’ve granted you entry into the reprieve of a dream. 

If it wasn’t for the fact you’ve intruded into the domain of slumber twice already today. 

And the tempter who lured you to do so currently has his arm wrapped around your waist. 

Alhaitham’s chest rises and falls against your back, soundly asleep without an ounce of guilt over the predicament he’s partly responsible for. 

Lifting your head off the flattened pillow, your body twists around to fluff the stale stuffing back up before settling back to your position.

His body rested against yours just as it would any other night. But there’s a weight at the corners of your lips, one only grew heavier as your ears witnessed each content exhale resounding from the man who seemingly stole your sleep. 

If you were crueler, you would’ve exiled Alhaitham to the couch or his barren mattress. 

However, he’d probably sleep just fine regardless. 

Canting your head up, you flip your pillow to the other side once more. 

Your rolls and rhythm were abruptly interrupted by the clasp of two harsh hands pulling your hips into his, the contours of his rigor now digging into the plush of your ass. Forcing a stunned gasp up your throat.

“It seems like my wife has quite a bit of energy.” His timbre deeper from grogginess. 

Ah, all the twisting and turning you did just to adjust the troublesome pillow must've disturbed him. 

The softness of your ass cradled against his pelvis through the thin material of a button-down, an item borrowed from his closet that you’ve designated as sleepwear, and his sweatpants. 

‘Serves him right.’ 

Your attempts to twist out from his iron-clad hold only ground your ass more against the stiffness, earning a grumble from his lips. 

“Oh? And who’s fault is it?” You retort, still protesting in his hold. 

Snaking one hand downwards Alhaitham presses against your lower stomach to arch your ass further into him. Leaning his face closer to yours. 

“Do you want me to take responsibility?” His whisper ghosts over the shell of your ear.

You could feel the pads of his fingertips tracing under the loose button-down.

“Shouldn’t you resolve the issues you’ve caused?” A huff leaves you.

The outline of his shape pressed along your skin, the plushness of your bottom contrasting against the rigidity. 

“I can say the same to you.” 

The pads of his fingers trail up your heated skin, crawling along your torso, feathering touches alighting your senses like sparks. Massaging the tired yet restless muscles. You sigh in contentment.

The billowing button-down dragged up by his vascular hand, unveiling your skin to the cool sheets. Wandering touches slow as they rest in the valley of your breasts. His fingers enclose around one mount, gently twisting the defenseless nipple.

“H-hey! Hmph-“ Barely catching a moan before it fled past sealed lips. 

“Hm?” His lips are now right next to your ears. “Surely you foresaw this, I’m just helping my wife with all her excess energy.”

His forgotten hand made its presence known as it kneaded your hips, cunning touches breaching under the feeble defenses of your panties. Effortlessly brushing them to the side, long fingers encroaching closer to their destination. 

Your thighs react, squeezing together to prevent him from venturing further. Unfortunately, it was all in vain, for his fingertips already dipped into an all too familiar sap.

“See, you seem quite eager,” he taunts.

Stubbornly, your body attempts to buckle away from his influence. Face firmly pointed away from his lest he peeks at your heated cheeks. 

Alhaitham abandons the perch on your breast, two large hands attempting to tame the bucks and rolls of your hips. He releases a slow sigh into the crook of your neck. 

“Are you not feeling it tonight?” His hands remain where they were, but the strength missing.

At the lack of resistance, your hips seem to have lost interest in their writhing, staying within his yielding hold. Internally, you chiding your body for being so straightforward. The only thing blocking an answer from exiting your throat was that fickle ego of yours. 

“Won’t you allow me to make up for my blunders today, wife?” He soothes his hand along your leg.

With that stubborn ego of yours still biting down on your tongue, you simply nod your head. Feeling the heat of your cheeks reflected to you by the pillow. 

Permitting your thighs to give into the tow of his grasp. Allowing the grip of one large hand to pull your bent leg open, exposing your vulnerable cunt. Shielded from the view of the raindrops by a mere blanket. 

The hand snaked under your waist took swift advantage of the oppurtunity. Sliding one firm finger down to part the fold of your slit as his warm hand cups your greed. 

Alhaitham continued with the caresses of his fingers. Your lashes and lips pressed tightly shut, your leg still held in his tender hold. His slow breaths brush ghosting your skin. 

He spreads the slick along your slit, the tips of his fingers ever so often knocking against the bud at the very top. Teal eyes catch the sudden jolts of your body every time it happens. 

He moves his fingers downwards, slowly parting the now soft folds of your core. Feeling the subtle puckers of your entrance as his touch traced closer, more wetness dribbling out from the honeypot. 

The tip of his finger now encircles the fluttering hole. Your hip subtly bucked into his hand, as if to lure him in a soundless plea. 

Breaths getting deeper as your eyes follow his touch, the warm pad of his index finger twirling against your clit. Stoking a burgeoning fire with each slow circle. Your placid sighs fill the lull. 

His middle finger ventures past the entrance of your satin walls welcomed with a lewd squelch. Curling his finger against slick walls to test the give, he wonders if this hidden oasis is etched into his shape yet.

Diligently, his digit continues to sink in and out of your weeping hole, making your teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip. The squelches increased in volume as trickles of nectar began pooling on the sheets. Walls clamping around a lonely finger, it wasn’t enough to quell that mounting heat within. 

A second deft finger joined in, sliding past a hungry entrance. A tangled dance amongst gummy walls as they curled and stretched the space. The lewd squelches resounding in your ear, a whimper trapped in your throat. The heel of his warm palm now pressed flat against the soft mound of your cunt, every movement of his hand resulting in a grind against your clit. 

Each grind causes a hot flash to shock throughout your body, starting from your curled toes to the very top of your head. The jostling of your hips and legs gradually expels the blanket off the bed. 

“Mmph!” A whine from a sudden surge of bliss when his thick fingers curled against a spongy patch deep within. 

“T-there! More there!”

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. 

He gladly obliges. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls. Ensuring to grind against that spongey patch.

 Your body twitches and flails in reaction. Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. 

Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

Piqued by the sweet tune, Alhaitham watches the scrunch in your trembling brows. He repeats his actions, another mewl leaves your lips as your head leans further into his shoulder.

The mellow pace of his fingers suddenly amps up, retreating out only to clap back in as his palm presses into the twitching bud. 

“Ah! Haitham.”

A pressure mounting up, a sirens call beckoning you closer and closer to a hazardous cliff’s edge. The only foundation for your sanity is thousand-count fabric, thus you twist the silk fibers as tremors overtake your body.

Walls clamping down to trap his thick digits inside as it spasms. Muscles tensing and quivering as your back arches away from his chest, parted lips with nothing choking past them. 

Three thick fingers sink deeper into your pussy without a hint of resistance, as a reward he makes sure to roll your overstimulated clit in firm circles with his palms. Judging from the violent tremors in your legs, it seemed you were almost there. 

Just at the cusp of rapture when your hand tangles into his ashen-locks, canting your head back so that your panting lips could capture his. Alhaitham returns to gesture with just as much fervor in his kiss, swallowing down your sweet mewls for himself. 

With a singular gasp, the siren’s call had beckoned your sanity to drown in the murky depths. It’s as if you lost control of your body to the possession of pleasure.

Eyes rolled back and lips broke away as breathy moans escaped the prison of your throat, a haze heavy over your thoughts, pride long lost amongst the gale of an orgasm. 

The beckoning depths of euphoria welcome your descent. 

Your limp frame rests against him. A light layer of sweat coating your panting chest, blurred vision merging and blending the details of the ceiling above the bed.

Alhaitham coaxes the contractions of your core, riding out the waves of their squeezes and sucks against his fingers. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Entranced by the glimmering string of nectar stretching between his fingers and your oasis. 

Trailing back up to your face, he notes the return of your hazy irises from their ogle of the bedroom ceiling. 

“Better?” Teal gaze watching the pants of your chest as they steady. 

‘No, not at all’, a statement just at the tip of your tongue, but your lips were busy attempting to grasp deep breaths. The surplus of vigor festering into unquenchable desire. To be closer, deeper, more. You needed more. 

Where words fail, action must take its place. Even before your mind finishes up the scheme brewing within, your lips catch him off guard, plush lips embracing his in a tender waltz.

Your body rolls back so that your breast can press against his chest through the thin fabric of his stolen shirt.

At the tender caress of your kiss, teal eyes disappear behind ashen lashes, the clasp of his grip loosening. Allowing you the mobility to finally pull your body on top of his, lips never once parting until you were finally settled atop his broad body.

A certain stiffness makes its reintroduction against your roused clit.

Breaking the seal of the kiss as a line of salvia stretches between your tongues, arms pushing against his firm chest to prop your body up as you gaze down at him.

“Still have too much energy?” Haughty eyes peer into yours, yet you can see the ardor oh so thinly concealed behind the brilliant teal. 

“What do you mean? Aren’t you the eager one?” You hum, rolling your hips against the rigidness trapped behind the prison of sweatpants.

“Hmm.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

Large hands feel down along the plumpness of your ass as they drag a flimsy bit of fabric down your thighs. Daintier hands pull down the hem of sweatpants and briefs. 

A fair exchange. Him helping you out of those ruined panties, and you freeing him from a compressed prison of cloth. Discarded and forgotten along the floorboards as the fog of passion obscured them from further consideration.

His vascular hands slide down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs plant themselves on either side of his body. Alhaitham coaxes the hem of his stolen button-down just above your midriff. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your clit, glistening with temptation. 

Lowering your hips a breathy sigh leaves his lips and yours as the ridges of his cock drag against your slick folds. A few slow rolls starting from his leaking tip sliding down, thick veins skimming against your swollen clit. Precum mixing with arousal in a sinful concoction along his length. 

Perhaps he should convince you to participate in more naps if he knew it’d make you this excitable. 

“Oh,” you hum aloud, pausing your hips as you reach over to the bedside table.

Pulling open the drawer and rustling about a box followed by the crinkling of foil. Holding up the corner of the packet to your lip, tearing the foil while your gaze held his. Taking your time in dragging the condom out from its package. Easing it down his length while your fingers traced along, feeling each twitch and shudder. 

“You sure do know how to test my patience.” 

“Hmm?” You feign innocence. 

A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Alhaitham helps position his engorged tip at your dripping entrance. Your hand guides him while raising your hips.

Other hand pressing his chest down for support as your thighs sink back down, a shameful squelch accompanying heavy breaths as your walls welcome his cock’s fat head.

Weeping pussy engulfing his girth in bit by bit until you clit kisses his pelvis. Sending jolts of searing pleasure that caused your satin walls to twitch and tighten. 

Releasing a breathy sigh as you gather your senses.

Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge before dropping back down. Earning low grunts and sighs each time your satin walls swallowed his girth. The rhythm of your hips is paced and controlled despite how Alhaitham’s fingers dug into your skin. 

A whine living your drooling lips with each slap of his skin against your clit. Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. The bedframe creaks with each calculated movement, back and forth, back and forth the wood sings along. 

Your head was light, intoxicated by a feverish potion of lust and desire. Feeling him reach the deepest depths, fat tip grinding against those spots which made your legs falter momentarily each time.

Utilizing the strength of both your arms now to support yourself. However, the jolts of pleasure that shot up your spine with each roll of your hips were too maddening to stop. 

His calloused fingers massage circles into your hips. Squeezing the plush flesh to ground his sanity, watching your lewd face as you shamelessly bounced on him for your pleasure. Observing the subtle ripples with each slap of your hips and the jumps of your perky breast. 

The ghostly touches of your fingers skim across his lips, prompting his eyes to connect with yours. Lush and glossy lips parted with your deep pants as your lust-hazed eyes peer down at him, unspoken plea inscribed within them. Who is he to not fulfill your desires?

Lurching his upper body up, he answers your plea, capturing your lips with his. Swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, deepening the kiss. A messy and feverish tangle as if to replace the air in your lungs with his. 

Mewls and whimpers muffled by his skin, your hands moving to perch themselves on his broad shoulders. Your quivering legs grew limp as the strength of his hands took over. Barely processing the sweet nothings whispered as your core relishes in the fullness. Like an ache that’s been finally satisfied. 

He wondered if tonight’s excessive vigor was fraying his control, or if your body was just this addictive. 

By now any notion of decency and integrity has long left you, your hand clawing into his shoulders, marking him with the scars of rapture. A harsh thrust of his hips recoils through you, a wanton moan reverbing off the walls as it forces your tangled lips to part. 

Tongue unable to produce anything other than strained moans, your head nods into his broad shoulder as your hips ground against his. The wet squelch announces the reciprocation of your walls. 

The intervals of those unrelenting rams increasing between the tender thrusts, half-lidded eyes trained on the shivers of your body. Cock sliding against satin ridges of your wall. Grunts and pants reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open. 

“Is this not enough?” You could feel the mirth in his whisper. 

Closer, deeper, more. You want more. Walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming heat within you. Hips floundering in harmony with breathy mewls. 

Pressing libidinous kisses along his throat feeling the vibrations of his grunts and pants, a deep chuckle was soon felt against your lips.

“Good grief you are a greedy little thing aren’t you.” 

A deafening slam of skin resounds through the heavy air, swiftly followed by another and another. A new tempo in this waltz of passion takes over like a wave sweeping both of you out to a sea of indulgence.

Possessed by the desperation of chasing a white light, your hand rakes deeper into his toned arms. Seizing anything to prevent your mind from abandoning your sinful body as his girth twitches within your velvety folds. 

Sanity like a foolish sailor who’s beckoned by the lure of a siren’s voice, uncaring of the rocks which will sink them to the very bottom of the bemused tides. Keening against your husband shamelessly, a shameless wife on the cusp of her second fall into ecstasy. 

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into the spark that lit your nerves alight. Toes arched into the air and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent babbles resounding through the room. 

Your devious walls clamped around his dick with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling against his girth eager to quell your aching greed. It was too much. 

His fingers claw into your soft hips, pressing your cunt flush against his hips with a sloppy slap of skin. The bulbous tip prodding against that weakness deep within you. Bruising grip holding your body in place as his lips crash back into yours.

Swallowing down his breathless groans with your sweet mewls and praddles.

A heat is spilled into the rubber, making your greedy walls quiver amidst the aftershocks of ecstasy. Alhaitham’s hips twitch with each subsequent rip of his orgasm, thrusting his length further into your crowded cavity with each one. The filthiness of it all prolongs your sinful depravity. 

Chest expanding with pants, your lopsided shirt falling further down your shoulder. Your eyes return from seeing blinding white, exhaustion drenching each fiber of your body.

Limp figure crumbling against your husband as his back lays back on the creaking headboard. Even before your worn mind could conjure a coherent thought, your hands caress his starlight tresses. 

As his own breath evades him Alhaitham releases one hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your smoldering skin, guiding your lips back to his. 

Basking in the warmth forged between your bodies, between drumming heartbeats and breathless lungs. 

Two bodies lay under silken sheets, skin freshly wiped clean of sweat as the crisp breeze brushed against the curtains gradually erasing the sinful haze. The cool air aids your rising and falling chest to pace itself. 

Muscles and bones heavy with fatigue, yet your eyes couldn’t bring themselves to retire behind shut lids. Not when those dreary clouds have finally retreated. 

The moon hangs high in the sky, finally free from the shroud of rain clouds, she sits among the twinkling dots. Twinkling dots were in actuality brilliant stars, some even larger and brighter than the beloved sun. 

Glimmering lustrously as they traverse through the contentious vacuum of space and past other nameless stars. A scene from a late-morning market trip wanders its way back from the depths of your memory, bringing its musings with it.

“Something on your mind?” A timbre voice beckons your conscious mind back from its trek.

Teal eyes set upon yours as your heads rest on plush pillows, just a breath away from one another.

“Hm, just senseless musings.” Your gaze shifts away from the window. 

In a changed world with millions of hands will your hands and his find each other to make two pairs of hands?

In a different time with a million pairs of legs, will your steps and his steps still coincide in time with each other 

In a new life with a sea of new faces, will a stoic face and another stoic face spot each other in the crowd? 

What is the likelihood of those odds? 

“If you keep letting your thoughts fester, it’ll only bring trouble upon yourself in the morning from sleep deprivation.” He shifts his position, supporting his cheek on his fist as he stares down at your face. 

You sigh because he spoke exactly what those whispers of rationale were urging you, but the scoffs of pride had deemed these rampant inquiries ‘childish’. However, it’s a bit hard to avoid his eyes now. 

“I was just musing about the soulmates concept again,” you confess. 

Alhaitham hums in curiosity. 

“Do you…” You take a deep breath, forcing the hard-to-vocalize question from your tongue. “Do you think we’ll only be together in this life?” 

He’s silent. Just the muted chorus of Summer crickets rejoicing over the conclusion of a rainstorm resounding through the space.

“In a different time, a different universe, or the next life, do you think we’ll be soulmates again?” You muster together the courage to peer up at his face. 

“I don’t recall ever reading an article or paper related to this topic, so it’ll be convoluted to get an answer.” He brings his other hand to his face, signifying his musings. 

Right, there isn’t even a definitive answer for what happens after life passes, an afterlife, a cycle, or nothing, no one knows. Was this the only universe where life exists or are there infinitely many far out there in the stars? Does anyone know?

Your hand pulls your blanket up to your face, partially to cover the growing shame creeping up your face. That haughty voice within was right, these baseless questions are silly and childish. Perhaps even too morbid to bring up so unprompted on this weekend night. 

What were you expecting Alhaitham to even do? Did you want him to give you an answer? What can he even do? A question you can’t even begin to understand, why would you even expect him to have some solution prepared? 

What to do now? Can you just take back your previous words from his memory, so he’ll just forget what you said? Maybe just ask him to quell any more mindless musings from plaguing you tonight by placing his lips on your forehead? So that you could finally drift into the realm of slumber. 

However, is that temporary solution enough? Enough to stifle the contentions and riddles clattering together into a clamorous ruckus in your head? Could sleep even spare you from their tumult? 

“The Membrane Multiverse Theory or reincarnation, hm, do you have any personal theories you’d like to share?” The sensation of his fingers grasping yours brings you back to reality. 

Glancing at him with a quirk in your brow, you wait for him to continue. 

“Who knows, maybe we’ll be the first to publish something for this topic.” His thumb runs along your knuckles. 

“So, is there a speculation or possible rationale you feel particular to?” Teal eyes reconnect with yours. 

“Well…” You sigh, relishing in the warmth of his hand as you concoct a half-baked theory. 

“There’s stardust from stars that had burst billions of years ago, that have somehow ended up on this planet. Subsequently, every being on earth has the atoms of stars in them. So, naturally by the law of conservation, the earth is where the atoms of the human body will return.”

“Based on the law that atoms cannot be created or destroyed?” He drones. 

“Yes, they all had to come from something before them. The carbon in muscles, the calcium in bones, and the iron in blood. The atoms that make up you and I might become part of something else, or even of different people too.” 

“Hm, that sounds probable.”

“But, then this brings up a whole new host of questions, such as, if the new people our atoms become a part of are even ‘us’? Will they ever meet? What if you become a tree and I a rock? What if the atoms of you end up on one side of Teyvat and I on the other end?”

You peer into his irises, but you were just searching for an answer that isn’t there. 

For his beryl irises were impassive. But it was the impassive foundation you needed to ground your rambling thoughts and nonsensical musings into the desolate truth of it all.

The warmth of his hand slips away.

“Never mind, I suppose it’s the most logical to conclude that we’re just soulmates in this instance of time, in this universe, and only here.” Your hand closes over the empty space he left. 

Maybe it’s wise to dismiss it as silly rambling and then withdraw from his indecipherable eyes. Is it too late to put this plan into motion now?

The weight of a muscular arm is draped over your waist, hand pulling you closer unlike your ploy to escape. 

“But I have a few theories I haven’t shared yet.” He glances out toward the bedroom window. 

“While the theory of reincarnation currently doesn’t have any solid scientific backing, in some way, the law of conservation of mass does give a bit of merit to that notion.” Alhaitham draws circles into the small of your back. 

You hum in response. 

“The atoms that created us will return to the earth after us and become a part of something or someone else’s molecular structure. A tree or a rock, a human or a beast, it’s all probable. However…” Beryl eyes return to meet yours. 

“What’s stopping them from repeating the same molecular structures as right now?” He asks. 

Maybe it was his turn to peer into your eyes to search for an answer, an answer currently brewing and forging between your united gazes. 

“What’s stopping these atoms from returning to these exact molecular structures in the future? In a different time, the atoms of us now could one day in the far future come together again and make ‘us’ once more. Maybe just you, maybe just me, or maybe both at the same time.” 

He frees his other hand from the duty of supporting his head, broad body settling down into the bed and blankets, allowing his face to move closer to your level upon his pillow. 

“What’s the likelihood of those odds? Me and you again?” You ask. 

Alhaitham pauses. All the bright minds of science, mathematics, and physics, have yet to come up with a formula to calculate such a thing.

What would be the factors plugged into the equation? And how accurate would it even be?

The ashen-haired man wasn’t sure, but there was at least a statistical observation that would provide some basis. 

“A true 0% chance is an absolute impossibility, just as nothing can be proven absolutely 100%. Since we don't know the absolutes of time, existence, or physics. So, there’ll always be a non-zero chance.” Feeling the drums of your heartbeat against his chest. 

“Then, when they do, I think I’ll spend my life pondering what could fit into the spaces between my fingers like this.” He slips his hand into the gaps of yours, intertwining them. 

Then finally, he saw the smile he’d been yearning for rising on your lush lips. The ends of your eyes crinkle as it make its way to your irises as well. Your grip mirrors his as you nestle your face closer to his. 

“You won’t get tired of this stoic face?” You taunt.

“Will you get tired of mine?” He counters. 

Your shoulders quiver with stifled giggles. 

“No, no I won’t,” you promise him. 

“Then I won’t,” he promises back. 

His larger hand brings yours closer to himself, all the while your attentive eyes watch failing to keep the curl of your lips under control. 

“Any thoughts on the Membrane Multiverse Theory? How will your astute mind surmise the possibility of us laying like this somewhere else in the stars?” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe as your face inches closer.

“I believe I’ve shared enough, I’d much rather hear what your brilliant postulate is.” His tone casted with mirth, but the bite missing from teal eyes. 

Letting a soft hum, your mind rifling through all the paragraphs and journals your hands had ever thumbed through.

The soft rhythm of his breaths kept time. Stringing the words together on your tongue, you hope this monologue of yours will provide some amusement for him. 

“If universes are randomly put into 2 boxes of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, then on average the number of universes in each box would be the same. For every universe I’m not with you, there’ll be equally as many where I am with you.” 

A coin toss, perhaps it was all just a coin toss after all. Whether or not the Akasha paired a stoic face with another stoic face, for the gaps of your fingers to fit his so perfectly.

It could have all been a coin toss, for one half to stumble upon the other half cruelly parted from them by the hands of unseen gods. 

“Something akin to a bijection existing between both sets of universes?” He cross-examines. 

“Maybe… If we were to assign one type ‘yes’ to a positive integer, and the other type ‘no’ to a negative integer, then perhaps we can construct a bijection from the positive and negative integers.” Your brow furrows in contemplation. 

“If we submit this theory do you think the Akademiya would publish it?” 

“Not likely, bijections are usually made between sets of elements like numbers, not sure if bijections can be applied to something like whole universes. I’m just hypothesising nonsense,” you sigh.

“But they did publish the nonsense known as The Lifespan of Love,” he interjects. 

“Hm, then maybe there’s a non-zero chance they’ll publish our nonsense too.” You stifle a scoff. 

“Hm,” Alhaitham hums in amused agreement. 

His free hand pulls the covers further up over your frame then smoothing out the wrinkles. Observing the growing delays between your slowing blinks.

“Only you and I would turn pillow talk into an academic deliberation.” You couldn’t hold back the giggle any longer. 

He sighs in agreement, nestling his head closer to yours on the plush pillows, teal gaze never once leaving yours. 

“It’ll make any romantic keel over and die from how dry it is, wouldn’t it, Haitham?”

“I say let them.” 

Scoffing and shaking your head at his crude declaration as a yawn slips past your lips, a conclusion to this nonsensical academic deliberation.

With one hand still intertwined in the tender grasp of another you pull Alhaitham closer. So that the spaces of your body could lay against the spaces of his. 

The warmth of his skin mingling with the warmth of yours, pressed against one another. You drawing mindless shapes into his back, his hand tracing senseless ruins into yours.

Perhaps, an illogical attempt to echt memories into the stardust in your bodies. 

So he and you could imprint the memory of each other into the very fibers of your beings. Then maybe someday when these atoms return to these exact molecular structures, they’ll remember this too. 

The law of conservation of mass, the probabilities upon probabilities, and bijections used in an inconsequential pseudo-academic ramblings to no one but an audience of silent stars.

Alhaitham’s certain no academic publisher would spare a glance at them. 

But this nonsensical instance in the continuum of time, feeling the rhythm of your heart on the other side of his chest next to his own, is his most precious epiphany. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[psychotrenny]

The Individualist tendencies that Liberals hold make it very annoying when a critical mass of them learn about some form of structural social analysis. It doesn't matter how often you emphasise that you're talking about systems and classes or what have you; they'll always take it personally. Critique of systems is perceived as a metric by which we weed out the "good people" from the "bad people", like the way opposition to Capitalism gets talked about as though it was nothing more than a desire to kill everyone above a certain income bracket. Meanwhile the social context that any particular structure occupies is completely ignored, its current status treated as an ontological characteristic and anything with a sufficient degree superficial similarities is considered to be practically equivalent. It's why you have people that talk about "misandry" and "reverse racism" as though these were every bit as real and important as misogyny and racism; they completely ignore the material reality of bigotry and treat is as nothing more than a matter of interpersonal hostility that varies only in its targets.

Like there's nothing especially esoteric about analysing society on a structural level, as it's something that even better educated Liberals are capable of doing regularly (if inconsistently). But the Idealist and Individualist nature of Liberal ideology means that they'll tend towards this sort of useless worldview unless directly forced to view an issue otherwise; so they may accept specific talking points around structural analysis but won't engage with it on a coherent basis. It's why plenty of liberals with some level of education recognise that androphobia is obvious nonsense but become much more credulous the second you add "trans" to the front. If you want to understand the structures that comprise society, you need to analyse them in a structural way and you need to do so consistently. Any structure is more than a sum of its parts, and so a social structure is more than a sum of the individuals within it. If you can't understand this then it's probably best to shut up and listen. Otherwise you're just embarrassing yourself

[theskit]

Sticker AU

Important!!!

Direct linking gets rid of the readmore cuts!

If you came here via direct link, or wish to use the direct links to another part of the story, and DO NOT want to spoil the surprise stickers, please click on my blog name to go to the actual post after using the link.

Part 8

《Prev Next》

Once Tim, Bruce, and Damian had returned from patrol Saturday night, it hadn't taken long to catch on that they'd all had an encounter with a mysterious, sticker wielding stranger.

It still sent a small wave of humor through Tim to recall how Bruce had looked, walking through the cave with a sticker proclaiming how many 'goodies' his utility belt had before he'd used an anti-adhesive spray to remove it and the rest of the 'evidence' without risking its destruction.

Damian was still quite adamant that the sticker placed on his katana sheath belonged to him, regardless of if it went with the rest of them into an evidence folder or not.

Pooling their information hadn't resulted in much of a physical description. Tim himself hadn't seen them at all while 'young with blue eyes and dark, possibly-black hair' and 'a sensed presence approximately equivalent to a 12 year old Dick or 14 year old Tim' was not exactly a unique description. Also, he did not need yet another reminder that he was shorter than any other Robin of the same age, thank you, Bruce.

Bruce *had* managed to bring back two blood samples that, while proving a match to each other, were stubbornly refusing to match with much *else*. Including normal human DNA.

The samples somehow had an incredibly mangled DNA strand. Some of it seemed to be *missing* or appeared to be merged with something that the batcomputer outright refused to identify on the first scan. Or the second. The third spit out a partial match to *Lazarus Pit water*. At which point the samples, which had degraded at an exponentially fast rate, were no longer considered by the computer to be a viable DNA sample to analyze.

They couldn't even definitively say the person in question *had* a meta gene, regardless of the odds being in favor of it, (or extremely good stealth tech no one had ever even heard of before) what with the, the, swiss cheese *nonsense* of a DNA strand the analysis had spit out! If the sample on the sticker didn't pull the same results as the ground-collected sample, Tim would have bet money on it being corrupted with something to prevent identification on purpose.

As it was, if the person those blood samples belonged to was not an incredibly sick individual, given the DNA irregularities and the sheer speed of degradation, Tim would be very surprised.

Or they possibly had ties to the League of Assassins, with the partial Lazarus Pit match, though admittedly, the light-heartedness of the stickers made that an incredibly low chance.

This discovery had not proven helpful in getting Bruce to calm down about a young, possibly ill, possibly LoA-adjacent, probably-meta child running around Gotham in the middle of the night, stealing from and pranking every vigilante they came across. The fact that Damian was almost as fixated on finding the child as Bruce came as somewhat more of a surprise, considering. All he would say on the matter was that the level of stealth displayed was quite admirable and worth investing in. Like they needed *more* assassin-trained children running around.

Ugh.

Alfred had eventually been forced to banish both of them upstairs to rest, giving Tim a look that he was choosing not to interpret at the moment. Tim was fine, it hadn't even been *that* long since he'd last slept.

Besides, disregarding the dead-end of the blood samples, there was more than enough information yet to be sorted through.

On top of trying to comb through any possible camera footage in the areas around the incidents, the hotel the sample was found at provided marginally more information. If you counted finding out that a large ghost hunting convention had been scheduled for the long weekend and most of the hotels around the area were booked with *hundreds* of non-local participants to then check up on as a positive information gain. They couldn't even say the hotel the blood samples were found at was the hotel the person in question was staying in. They only knew for certain that it was where the communicator had stopped working.

Plus, the strange way the signal had wavered before cutting out, and the way some of the cameras he had been checking showed nothing but static, pointed to a possibly quite sophisticated piece of jammer technology. Which brought back up the stealth tech option and *more* investigations into where it could have been obtained and who could be producing advanced tech like that.

At least that made the stickers make marginally more sense if they were bought at or created for the convention, though he had already tried to do an online search for the stickers and come up empty handed.

Batman and Robin would be heading out later that evening to see if they could find any new leads or possibly encounter the sticker kid again while Tim continued to track and filter information in the cave.

Stretching a bit and taking a large swig from the not-exactly-Alfred-approved cup of coffee he'd smuggled in, Tim cracked his knuckles and got back to work.

Danny was perfecting his thousand-yard stare off into the distance as his parents corralled yet another poor sap into debating ghosts with them when Jazz swung by the booth to check in. "Hey, Danny. How's it going?"

Danny slowly turned his head to look at her with an expression of immense suffering as he slid a sticker over to her.

Taking a peek at what she'd been handed, Jazz snorted a laugh. "Fair's fair, little brother. Yesterday was my day at the booth, today's yours. Chin up! At least we'll be taking it down and packing it up tonight and tomorrow we can just wander around for the last bit of the convention before we leave."

Danny sighed, "Yeah, at least there's that," he responded glumly. Hopefully, tonight's vigilante adventure would make up for this...

@mygood-bitch99 @stargazer-luna @easily-broken-by-emotion @dolfay @britcision @cyber-geist @is-this-even-relatable @alcorbearson @fisticuffsatapplebees @thegatorsgoose @my-mom-calls-me-rat @some-rotten-nest @crystalqueertea @meira-3919 @wandererofthestars @seraphinedemort @bjurnberg @blep-23 @stargirl1331 @bianca-hooks123 @addie-lover-of-stories @pickleking8 @iconicanemone @sarina-elais @mur-ururu @sailor-goddess @dragonfirefeather @nutcase8691 @ravenpainter @liandrin @jaguarthecat @russetfur1128 @purefrickingspite @oakskull @idfk-man10 @vythika96 @molasses-being-slow @satisfactionbroughtmeback @serasvictoria02 @tkiesai @breesperez139 @dhampir-princess @redhoneysugarorange @gildedphoenix @iglowinggemma28 @f4nd0m-fun @therandomartmaker @mandyne-1001

[lakesbian]

💝 for Rachel (for the ask meme)

💝 A headcanon about their love language

yeah these are def just shaping up to be analysis of canon vs. headcanons for most of 'em because we already have interesting canon answers for a lot of these questions but that's ok because that's fun too. this is gonna be a bit messy bc i'm real tired but anyway:

the long and short of it is that she's a dog. she loves like a dog. and i love how that behavior interacts w/ the specific way taylor is fucked up. it is So meaningful and compelling. taylor is for the most part absolutely incapable of admitting or even noticing when something has hurt her, let alone reaching out for support. she's very similar to brian in the sense that people verbally acknowledging that she's upset (generally synonymous with 'weak' in her mind) is intolerable to her, because ignoring and repressing that emotion is critical to her ability to force herself to stay standing & push herself thru the agony to achieve what she wants to achieve. there's this moment during the echidna fight where she sees wards verbally checking in w/ each other and she thinks that she's glad that her team would never ask if she's okay because she wouldn't be able to stop from breaking down if they did.

and the thing abt rachel's love language is that she's Direct About Everything All Of The Time Forever because she doesn't know how not to be. but it's not in a "asking if someone is okay" way, because even that is a level of indirectness, of giving someone the option to say "yes" and reject comfort! she instead directly notices when taylor isn't okay, and moves straight to offering comfort without forcing taylor to experience the weakness of admitting that she needs it. she's not great with words--she frequently feels frustrated by not knowing how to communicate what she wants to communicate--so instead she shows love through simple, blatant acts of physical affection, devotion, and trust. she's the equivalent of a big ole dog that just silently huffs and climbs into your lap when you're sad, and you can't do a damn thing about it because you're getting cuddled now and that's just how it is. she doesn't force taylor to acknowledge the situation to her, she simply notices when taylor needs a hand to hold and very firmly grabs taylor's hand. she's silently, unobtrusively understanding. she sees things as they are, and responds not with social niceties, but with firm and direct kindness. if you start crying while she's sitting next to you, she won't make a big deal out of it, she'll just keep sitting next to you. and that's exactly what taylor needs--affection and comfort sans expectations for her to have any sort of coherent explanation or conduct.

the devotion & trust is also Sooo. auugh. ough. when taylor turns herself into the PRT and she's unquestionably faithful that taylor has a plan, regards everyone else like they're idiots for having even the slightest sliver of doubt in her. during gold morning, when she willingly steps into taylor's field of control, saying that taylor is smart & to let her do what she needs to do. there's this moment during the behemoth fight that i think a lot about where rachel says "you have a plan" in response to taylor, y'know, having a plan, and taylor sort of confusedly reads it as smug & then satisfied without really grasping why. and the reason why is that rachel has put up with so much social bullshit she doesn't understand--the way the undersiders interact w/ her, coil, the prt--and taylor, without fail, has made things make sense. she's the only undersider to successfully speak to rachel on terms she fully understands, the one to kill coil, the one who soundly trounces the heroes every time. whenever things are confusing or scary or nonsensical, taylor, smart and strong taylor, fixes them with her plans. the earth is cracking and coming apart around them, because There's A Fucking Kaiju, but it's okay, because taylor is there, and rachel knows taylor will always make sure things turn out alright. genuinely doglike levels of unquestionable devotion, where there are ways she understands taylor more intimately than anyone else on the planet, and there are ways she can never understand taylor, but she still unquestionably trusts her enough to place her life in her hands. taylor even remarks that rachel trusts her too much when she steps into her radius during gold morning--and the reason that rachel trusts her too much is because she trusts like a dog trusts their person. i've seen ppl say that taylor is rachel's dog, but no, rachel is 100% taylor's dog. she loves that girl like a dog would. it rocks. autism forever.

[bringthekaos]

Jayce accidentally taking Viktor's pain meds and 47 minutes later he is zoned out to the next plane of existence like ( °__°)

I can definitely see this happening, in the early days before they’ve really cemented each other’s routines and patterns. Jayce keeps some mild painkillers in the lab for his headaches (you know, the ones he gets because he stays up until 3am and drinks exclusively coffee). They’ve got a big deadline coming up, so they’ve been going going going, pretty much nonstop for several days—switching off dozing on the cot in the corner for an hour or two here and there, and then getting right back to work.

Jayce gets one of his headaches late one afternoon, and in his sleep-deprived delirium, he just blindly reaches for the bottle on the desk and pops one dry. If he were more alert, he might have noticed the unfamiliar shape, the texture which is much grainier than it should be. But as it is, he just gets back to work…

For about half an hour, when the words on the chalkboard start to double up, and his hand is so tingly he keeps dropping the chalk. He takes a step back, thinking maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation finally catching up to him, but this feels… different. He feels drunk and disoriented, and he’s definitely not going to get any work done like this. So he slurs a quick “m’gunna take a break,” and slinks over to his chair, plopping down in it with not an ounce of grace.

And within ten minutes, he’s in the fucking stratosphere.

Viktor doesn’t immediately notice, as he just kept working when Jayce said he was taking a break. But when he posits a question and receives a suspiciously cat-like sound in return, he spins around and finds Jayce poured over his chair like a being of far fewer bones.

And it hits him—his eyes dart to Jayce’s desk, where Viktor realizes he accidentally set down his bottle of painkillers when last he took them.

First he lets loose the equivalent of George Carlin’s seven dirty words you can’t say on television in his native tongue, then he gets to work—he fetches Jayce a glass of water and forces him to sit up and drink at least half of it. He wets a washrag and runs it over Jayce’s forehead and the back of his neck. And after an astronomical amount of struggle, he gets Jayce onto his feet and guides him, uncoordinated and stumbling over to the cot, apologizing profusely the whole way, even though he knows Jayce is tripping balls and likely won’t remember a thing Viktor is saying. But he still apologizes, because he feels awful—this is his fault, he set his bottle down on the wrong desk in his exhaustion.

Viktor ends up having to finish a majority of the presentation on his own, while Jayce recovers. He sleeps a little of it off, but he also spends a decent amount of time talking absolute gibberish and writing several pages of nonsense in his journal. But eventually it starts to wear off, and Jayce slowly gets back to work.

They both learn a lot from the experience—namely to be more vigilant with where they set things, and what they’re picking up. But Jayce also learns a lot about his partner—he now understands why Viktor has to take a small break about an hour after he takes his medication, why he gets sluggish and lethargic. He also realizes why Viktor typically gets a little quiet and unresponsive in that time—his brain is fighting the fog, but it can only fight one battle at a time.

So he vows to make a routine of it—taking breaks when Viktor does, giving him some peace and quiet for a few minutes as he levels out. And eventually, it’s a story they can laugh at—reminiscing on those early days when that practiced waltz around each other in the lab was more like a toddler dancing on their father’s feet. It’s also when Viktor starts teasing him about being a lightweight, and that’s a joke that survives well into their divorce era.

[warsofasoiaf]

What's the tea on Sheila Fitzpatrick? Haven't gotten around to any of her work yet

Sheila Fitzpatrick is one of the prominent historians of the "revisionist" school of the Soviet Union, which emerged as a response to the "totalitarian" or "traditionalist" school that was prominent earlier, such as Robert Conquest. Fitzpatrick's most notable contributions to history come from the perspective of the lower classes of the Soviet Union, that the Soviet Union was not a singular ideological monolith driven from the top-down and that it had to respond to social forces within its own nation. In many ways, it's actually a welcome revision from the 1950's era of Soviet historiography, and the scholarship produced has increased the overall level of historical understanding.

For herself, Sheila Fitzpatrick is perhaps most notable for her "people's history" of the Soviet Union, one divorced from ideology and focused mostly on social mobility and the experiences of the peasantry and line workers. Perhaps most controversially (and what I was referencing in the earlier post), is that Fitzpatrick contends that the Great Purge and Stalinism was an albeit brutal form of democratic revolution, due to the people that were able to move into the places of those purged and experience social advancement. Stalin secured a way of public buy-in through a newly-empowered cadre of middle-class individuals to achieve legitimacy for his government and secure popular buy-in.

Now, of course, to outside observers, this is nonsense. Murdering people and distributing their stuff to other people is not a viable method of securing popular buy-in or achieving democracy. But because the purged were "class enemies," Fitzpatrick identifies them as "bourgeoise" and "executives," somehow this confers the action a form of legitimacy not seen in other historical or scholarly analysis - it was okay to exterminate them because others were able to benefit, conferring the idea that the people being purged were inherently less worthy than the people who benefitted. Similarly, Fitzpatrick, who took great pains to minimize the effect of ideology within the Soviet Union, is singularly unable to answer the question of why these targets were deemed acceptable in the first place - though ideology provides a very clear outline as to why such "class enemies" would be exterminated. Since such scholarship would be seen as antithetical to the revisionist school, however, it had to be discarded, which undermines the authenticity and accuracy of historical scholarship.

What bothers me about Fitzpatrick is that this is not considered a fringe belief of an otherwise respectable historian, but that this is considered a valid interpretation of a period of history with implications delivered further into the present. To Fitzpatrick's scholarship, it's *okay* to murder undesirables provided that they're the correct undesirables (a big problem given the rise in the justification of violence toward groups deemed to be subhuman - just look at the Russian invasion of Ukraine). Now, this is hardly unusual from a Marxist perspective - Orthodox Marxism depends on the categorical extermination of undesirables to achieve its desired societal utopia, but Fitzpatrick is no tankie and is in fact, quite critical of Stalin, otherwise, but has to find ways to mitigate his atrocities so he's not relegated as a monster.

This has been the case for a lot of contemporary historical scholarship with the Soviet Union. There's a significant number of false equivalencies in Soviet scholarship, such as the Great Purges or Khrushchev's forcible medication of dissidents with McCarthyism, in order to mute criticism of the Soviet Union and reject the notion of it as a censorious and ideologically-driven state. Contextually speaking, a lot of history scholars came to prominence as members of the New Left, whose anti-Vietnam War activism sought to portray the Soviet Union as a defensive, anti-imperialist, and progressive power despite all evidence to the contrary, and has similarly translated into hostility against new scholarship that brings sharper criticism of the Soviet Union into the fore. This was the case with Haynes and Klehr, whose translations of the VENONA cipher decrypts and exposure of the CPUSA's role in Soviet espionage was met with abject vituperation from the leaders of history departments - specifically and explicitly because it serves to provide evidence that undermines their core, tribal thesis. Such hostility to new scholarship, particularly that which is based in evidence instead of interpretation, is nothing short of a failure in history departments in their core mission.

Thanks for the question, Hex.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Matt Bors’s “Justice Warriors: Vote Harder”

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

There's no political satirist working today quite like Matt "Mr Gotcha" Bors, whose 2023 masterpiece Justice Warriors just got a timely – and brutally funny – sequel, Justice Warriors: Vote Harder:

https://www.mattbors.com/store/p/justice-warriors-ffzgn

You've doubtless seen Matt Bors's work, which has repeatedly attained viral liftoff, most notably with his Mr Gotcha strips, easily one of the most useful additions to online political debate in internet history:

https://thenib.com/mister-gotcha/

Last year, Bors, along with Ben Clarkson and Felipe Sobreiro, published Justice Warriors, a postapocalyptic cyberpunk graphic novel in the vein of Warren Ellis's classic Transmetropolitan:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/22/libras-assemble/#the-uz

Justice Warriors is the tale of Bubble City, a domed enclave walled off from the teeming masses of the UZ (which stands for "Uninhabited Zone" – see what they did there?). Bubble City runs on vibes, therapy-speak, social media nonsense, memes and garbage hot-takes. And while there's a lot of broad satire here, the thing that makes Justice Warriors stand out is how its creators do the relatively straightforward futuristic exercise of asking themselves, "What if deeply unserious nonsense was taken seriously?"

Others have done this before – Mike Judge's Idiocracy, say – but Bors, Clarkson and Sobreiro attain a density of sight gags, trenchant wordplay, and outrageous cyberpunk imagery that is just next level. Think Al Jaffee meets William Gibson, with art direction by Vaughn Bode, who's had one too many at the Mos Eisley Cantina. To that, mix in all kinds of MAD Magazine style fake ads and social media postings, layering joke on gag, all of it walking the fine line between "you gotta cry" and "you gotta laugh."

Justice Warriors did big numbers, selling out three printings, and now the gang is back together for the sequel, Vote Harder, which drops just in time for the final, all consuming election-season media apocalypse.

Vote Harder sees Bubble City facing its first election in living memory, as the mayor – who inherited his position from his "powerful, strapping Papa" – loses a confidence vote by the city's trustees. They're upset with his plan to bankrupt the city in order to buy a laser powerful enough to carve his likeness into the sun as a viral stunt for the launch of his comeback album. The trustees are in no way mollified by the fact that he expects to make a lot of money selling special branded sunglasses that allow Bubble City (and the mutant hordes of the Uninhabited Zone) to safely look into the sun and see what their tax dollars bought.

So it's time for an election, and the two candidates are going hard: there's the incumbent Mayor Prince; there's his half-sister and ex-girlfriend, Stufina Vipix XII, and there's a dark-horse candidate Flauf Tanko, a mutant-tank cyborg that went rogue after a militant Home Owners Association disabled it and its owners abandoned it. Flauf-Tanko is determined to give the masses of the Uninhabited Zone the representation they've been denied for so long, despite the structural impediments to this (UZers need to complete a questionnaire, sub-forms, have three forms of ID, and present a rental contract, drivers license, work permit and breeding license. They also need to get their paperwork signed in person at a VERI-VOTE location, then wait 14 days to get their voter IDs by mail. Also, districts of 2 million or more mutants are allocated the equivalent of only 250,000 votes, but only if 51% of eligible voters show up to the polls; otherwise, their votes are parceled out to other candidates per the terms of the Undervoting and Apathy Allotment Act).

Despite the structural advantages afforded to Mayor Prince – like the fact that residents of District 12 on floors 120-145 of the Bubble each get 2048 votes, while District 1 (floors 1-7) only get a single vote – he's not taking any chances. Officer Schitt (a humanoid poop emoji) and the lovelorn Officer Swamp (an anthropomorphic catfish) are each prowling the Uz . Swamp – suffering from a head injury and gripped by a delusion that a TV cowboy has sent him to infiltrate the Flauf Tanko campaign – is playing spy/provocateur, while Schitt hunts dangerous subversives.

What unfolds is a funny, bitter, superb piece of political satire that could not be better timed.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/11/uninhabited-zone/#eremption-season

[commsroom]

how would the characters do working in a public service job, such as retail? I'm particularly curious about hilbert, kepler, and minkowski.

you know, you can really tell that nobody in wolf 359 other than eiffel has ever worked retail. it explains a lot about them.

it's impossible to imagine hilbert working retail in any context that isn't just. a joke for how out of place he would be. everything hilbert does is for his research, and he considers anything else a pointless distraction. he thinks that "bedside manner is like anesthetic: it just gets in the way of what needs to be done." honestly, i wish i could make hilbert work customer service. it would be torture for him, and he would say the kinds of things to customers that most people can only fantasize about. if you put him in a retail job, somehow, he would still just disappear into a dark storage room to do god knows what. i think hilbert would let people shoplift. he doesn't care.

kepler... could thrive in retail, actually. that's really scary. not that he would like it, but that he's got that kind of personality type and work ethic. the version of kepler who hollowed himself to become the manager of a dick's sporting goods might be worse than regular kepler, for the limited power it would offer him. but stagnation would drive him crazy. kepler really values progress - always working harder, doing more. he doesn't mind being a cog in the corporate machine, but that would be a much less. complex machine, compared to his real ambitions. he would still tell the exact same stories.

minkowski would be very, very frustrated by a job like that, but she would take it very seriously. she would enforce every nonsensical, nit-picky little policy to the letter. she would want to run that place like the navy, for sure, but people wouldn't be scared of her the way they'd be scared of someone like kepler. she's a tryhard people pleaser, and she tries to come across as strict and no-nonsense, but i think minkowski really takes people at their word and it wouldn't be hard for both customers & her employees to walk all over her once they figured out how she operates, and which of her threats are empty. that's what eiffel did. if she wasn't in a management position, it would be even worse for her. she would grit her teeth, and try very, very hard, and she would hate every moment of it.

characters you didn't ask about, but i have to talk about anyway:

i think lovelace would be a relatively cool manager who would take your side if a customer was a jerk to you, and she wouldn't really care about the rules as long as things got done. but it would be difficult for her to hold a lower-level position, unless she had a cool manager.

eiffel is the only one of them who's canonically worked food service (and a whole assortment of dead-end jobs he got fired from within a few months) and he approaches his current job pretty much the same as i imagine he approached his job at pizza hut. he complains about his boss, zones out, maybe even falls asleep. if he could wander outside and smoke, he would. eiffel and hera are really the only two people here who don't have career ambitions. almost everyone else wants something more, in their own ways, but eiffel just wants to clock out, go home, and relax. doesn't really matter what the job is, he just doesn't want to be at work. respectable.

and hera is already doing the equivalent of putting on a customer service voice, seething with contempt, and then going to cry in the bathroom, like, every day of her life. so...

[triassictriserratops]

Since Peeta is Bi (in fanon for most people) how do you think people react to it, like I assume especially since Panem isn't really a accepting place that there would definitely be some false rumours, but what I personally think would be a popular rumour would be calling Peeta promiscuous (I think thats the word? Idk I'm dumb) mainly because I see that as a popular thought that Bi people can't be monogamous or faithful, just because they like both means they can't stay with one person, which is a weird idea. Tbh idk where I'm going with this ask I kinda just wanted to share my idea of Peeta being labelled as unfaithful for his bisexuality and him just gasping like how dare they assume that

Hokay, so, everything I'm about to say is just my opinions/theories since there isn't really enough information in the text to have a definitive answer. I'd definitely LOVE to hear other people's thoughts on this, tho! As for how queer identity is likely accepted in Panem - I think it depends on what side of the divide you live on.

THE CAPITOL

i think that The Capitol is likely pretty queer friendly. So much of the "fashion" and "artistry" of the Capitol is so reminiscent of 1950s ball culture that it's difficult not to see some sort of cultural inspiration.

I think that likely an aspect of the "panem et circenses" we see at play in the Capitol would hinge on excessive freedoms of expression. You have the freedom (obligation) to be anything and everything you want. You have to spend to excess, have sex to excess, follow fashion trends to excess - otherwise are you any more elite than any of the barbarians in the districts? (This level of pressure and expectation is what I think leads us to the credit/debtors prisons/avox pipeline that is hinted at in the books) If the above is true then I could very much see the Capitol encouraging the exploration of sex and sexuality - maybe even more as a "trend" or a fetishization of sexuality than natural identity

THE DISTRICTS

I believe that the districts are subjected to the levels of forced breeding that we see in the underserved communities in the United States today. It is to the Capitol's benefit to keep the masses poor, hungry, and constantly supplying new generations of children to act as a continuation of the entertainment fodder and the work force. Ergo, little to no medical facilities, little to no access to birth control, little to no sex ed, and little to no social services or resources. This leads me to believe that the Capitol would likely force restrictions on same sex couples. I don't think it would be outright banning or criminalization - but I do see them passing ordinances that same sex married couples do not receive government assigned housing. (Especially under the pretense of the houses being meant for "family and child stability" or some nonsense. Something that would, on it's face, look good to the average Capitolite. "Look how wonderful we are to them! We provide homes so people can build families!" I could also see them say that same sex couples aren't allowed to adopt children as that can be a potential "abuse of the tessera system". This would be spun as "preventing children from being taken advantage of for extra food portions." So, basically, it would be an undue hardship to be a queer person within the districts of Panem. Going further down the hole, i think it would be a HUGE no-no within the Merchant (or equivalent in other districts) classes. Life in the districts as a Merchant is heavily reliant on succession. These business have existed for generations and are passed down within the family. The merchants also maintain ownership by, as much as possible, marrying within other businesses versus marrying into the Seam.

A young, queer adult in the Merchant class would likely be as heavily ostracized as Katniss' mother was for marrying into the Seam.

DISTRICT 13

I theorize that, especially after the illness that wiped out a majority of the population - especially the children - of District 13, that this District is likely the HARSHEST on same sex attraction.

I definitely see this district as having heavy restrictions on sex in order to control and prioritize insemination and fertilization. Hence why someone like Dalton was given the field of work that he was given, coming from the cattle farms of District 10. As for the second part of your ask, Peeta Mellark Everdeen would LAUGH at anyone who would dare suggest he would cheat on his wife. He's been married since he was 5, thank you very much.

[transparencyboo]

Alright kids, today I am once more gonna tell you about a real game for true gamers, so buckle in and get ready for a swimmingly wonderful time. This is Aquanaut's Holiday, a 1995 Playstation game developed by Artdink and directed by Kazutoshi Iida (who would go on to direct Tail of the Sun and Doshin the Giant). It is essentially an underwater exploration simulator, where you control a submarine and venture into the wild marine yonder. This game is so good I bought it twice!

Savvy game players might look at this premise and assume elaborate systems and mechanics tied to it. What is the mission? What is the goal? What am I supposed to do? How do I score points and earn extra lives? Well, you don't, the game isn't about any of that. In defiance of medium conventions, particularly for the time, Aquanaut's Holiday presents a scaled back game experience with little more features than what's needed to fulfil its noble goal: To be relaxing.

With no further elaboration, we are let loose into the ocean and encouraged to find our own way, discover our own adventure, create our own fun. And this place is massive, you can swim around in the murky haze and just observe the barren sea bottom pass by for minutes on end without seeing much of anything, your long journey only registering as a feeble spagetti string on the blank map. Impatient players, or those simply testing it out for a quick spurt, will likely be discouraged and disregard the game as primitive nonsense of a bygone era. At surface level, there simply does not seem to be much of anything to this one. I've heard people describe Aquanaut's Holiday as "a game where you only swim around and look at fish", not necessarily derogatory, but not in praise either, just a neutral "huh, I guess that's a thing" – the game equivalent to those tacky aquarium VHS tapes.

I've had a half-distant relationship to this game. I've long understood its philosophical richness purely in relationship to its brethren Tail of the Sun and Doshin the Giant, two of my all-time favorite games, which also appear unassuming and scaled down at face value. Yet, somehow I've never fully sat down with this one to unravel all it has to offer. "Some other time", I told myself. Well, some other time came and went, so now I will tell you what you need to know about Aquanaut's Holiday!

Starting out on my journey of properly playing the game, I actually read the manual for once. Can you believe there's actually little tips and tricks together with crucial information in there? Huh! Turns out reading manuals is a good way of parsing any game made in the last century, highly recommended activity. Always check the manual! Reading this, I learned the peculiarities of the submarine's controls, I learned what all the little cryptic HUD symbols meant, I learned about setting up buoys and building reefs, I learned that the weird effects that appear when pressing the shoulder buttons is for singing to the fish, I even learned that the submarine is called Holiday. In particular, I learned that the game itself acknowledges the individual user experience with the succinct words: "Each player will experience AQUANAUT'S HOLIDAY differently."

So is that all there is to Aquanaut's Holiday? You float around in bliss and marvel at the ocean life? Well, yes, kinda. You certainly need to vibe with that angle if you're gonna get anything out of the experience, in practice Aquanaut's Holiday will indeed just be about drifting for long periods looking at nothing, helplessly fumbling in its massive barren world. Watching sea mile after sea mile pass by as the vast nothingness makes your mind wanders. But every now and again you wake up from your soft daydreams with a start, staring at some unknown structure that has appeared before you.

This is where Aquanaut's Holiday shows its true brilliance. Through sheer simplicity it has made you fascinated by the smallest things. Be it the ghastly inexplicable monuments or the sighting of a rare animal, you will feel rewarded for the very discovery itself. There is no logbook, no special cutscenes, no acknowledgment of what you've seen. That is for you to create yourself. I always dispatched a buoy for my own reference and marked it yellow, which in my book meant "notable discovery". These were by far the highlights of the game for me, and motivated me to slowly but surely criss-cross around the ocean, charting more of the map as I narrowed the world down and made the unknown known. Yet so much of the map remained blank, my path never made any great dents into the untraveled waters, there was so much yet to see.

With this established as my main takeaway from the game, you might feel increasingly compelled to give it a go yourself. Heck, you might even want to reach the elusive and mysterious goal. Because despite its simplistic structure, Aquanaut's Holiday indeed has an ending like so many other games. It is nothing special, mostly a pat on the head and the end credits, but it felt special to reach such a surreal point after years of assuming the game had nothing of the sorts. That's why I will now give my quick guide for how to master Aquanaut's Holiday like a real pro gamer, since there is very little information online and no definitive guide. I can't exactly say this is one either, but I think it will provide you with more help than I ever had.

Starting off, the metric for reaching the goal is the biodiversity of your artificial coral reef. This is a spot of ocean immediately west of your dock where you can place blue, yellow and red blocks to create a habitat for fish and other marine life. The reef builder is accessed by pressing Select twice, which toggles the RETURN prompt, to which you press Start and enter the port menu, where you can pick BUILD REEF. Here you see a simplified grid of your reef garden, a material meter and a fish meter, press X to select a slot and then X, Square or Triangle to pick a color block to place. To fill your fish meter, you need to place more blocks and then literally hang out in the area and watch the fish appear. I've found conflicting takes on how to build reefs for efficient growth, with people stating certain formations like circles and tunnels as better. My takeaway is that it's not about shape, but the sheer amount of blocks. The manual states that different fish are attracted to different colors, so make good use of blue, yellow and red equally. Apart from that, go off and build anything you want!

However, you will need sufficient building material. Starting out you do not have what you need to build a bustling habitat. That's where exploration comes in. Navigating the ocean fills out grids on the map, this in turn earns you more reef blocks. I don't know what the conversion rate is between uncovered map grids and reef blocks, but you'll need quite a bit, so expect this to be majority of what you do. To make your exploration easier, you will want to set out lots of buoys. This is done by pressing Select once to toggle the BUOY prompt, to which you press Start and dispatch a buoy. This puts a marker on the map which you can conveniently fast travel back to. Since the pause menu always returns you to the port, buoys are crucial for finding your way back to where you were. You can have 256 buoys, so don't be afraid to use them for quick access around the ocean.

In other words: Set out, try to see as much as possible and return to the base to build. That's the essential strategy for reaching the goal. Be ready to do this for hours on end, get acquainted with this world, have fun with it. I listened to several episodes of our friend @hotcyder's excellent podcast Bullet Time while just floating around the ocean uncovering remarkable and unremarkable sights. I had some splendidly relaxing evenings over a week or so. All in all it took me 16 hours, if you're being efficient it'll probably be faster, but maybe if you're even more chill than me you'll take even longer. In my opinion, the longer it takes you to beat Aquanaut's Holiday, the cooler you are!

Eventually I hit a point of my exploration where the game showed me a funky little cinematic of the entire world map being filled out, presumably as a reward for having uncovered a certain high percentage of it. At this point I knew I was ready for the ending, so I went to the reef builder and started throwing blocks absolutely everywhere until I had run all out. After that I just sat and gazed at my monstrous creation for a few minutes, hopped back into the reef builder and watched the end credits.

The final reward was a funky experimental fish mode where I can travel around the ocean super fast and rotate models of the sea life in front of the screen. A most excellent prize and a dignified conclusion to this masterpiece.

/Kiki

[darklinaforever]

Not fans of Aegon II having the nerve to come and explain to me that he is not a rapist in the book (he is), and that even so, he simply behaves like a prince of his time who should not be judged if harshly in the historical context because otherwise I'm hypocritical to be pro Daemon who is also a rapist and a pedophile apparently on top of that, to simply have a fetish on virgins when he was in his 20s... Yes, it It is certain that the fans of the Greens team are completely objective there. Not really sick at all! Not them either having the nerve to tell me that Aemond is just fighting in a war and that it's nonsense to call him a war criminal. Even if he is the one who definitively started the war by killing Lucerys on purpose, massacred villages, exterminated the entire Strong house ; men, women, children, babies, etc. Took a woman as a prize of war, therefore involving rape. I'm going through some of the best ! Of course not ! He only does things a normal prince does in wartime you see ! The whole Greens team only does what a classic royal family would do in such a war! Funny then that Daemon and the black team in general have not committed the equivalent of the crimes of Aemond and the green team ! But nice try nonetheless ! We literally have a table now to record war crimes because you're so annoying with your stupid "blacks are as bad as greens" rhetoric. So continuing to spout this kind of bullshit is becoming embarrassing for you !

[kazarinn]

I'm finishing up the retranslation for Saint Tail's anime right now, so I'm at the stage where I'm thinking about my next few projects, and I've currently at least decided that I want to do something for Megumi Tachikawa's other works as well. Tachikawa is an incredibly amazing writer, and it's such a shame that her work has been so poorly represented in translation; even beyond the fact that a good chunk of her work hasn't even been translated at all, the ones that were translated seem to have been run through the translation equivalent of a meat grinder.

I prioritized Saint Tail both because it's her most famous work and because it's the one that took the most damage (it's definitely pretty disturbing to find out that around half of the plot was translated to suggest the opposite of what it was actually supposed to mean!), but I do want to call attention to Cyber Idol ☆ Mink (localized by Tokyopop as Mink), generally considered to be Saint Tail's spiritual sequel. Unlike with Saint Tail, the Tokyopop release of Mink didn't flip it horizontally, and it doesn't have incomprehensible nonsense lines like "Great Big Deal!!" that Saint Tail's release did, but...well, I think some examples would demonstrate it better.

Here's Tokyopop's version of a spread from chapter 6:

And here's the proof of concept I sent to my group when pitching this series (done very quickly, so definitely not my best work, but probably enough to get the point across), which was translated directly from the Japanese text:

...Huh? That's not even remotely similar! The original scene is meant to draw a clear parallel between Mink's view of the chocolate and her view of herself, and the progression of the scene plays on the ambiguity of whether "あたしじゃなくて" means "this isn't from me" or "this isn't me". The reason Mink is considered to be Saint Tail's spiritual sequel is that it explores similar concepts of self-identity and the feeling of inadequacy compared to an idealized, sanitized self, something Mink is even less subtle about than Saint Tail was at times, but the nuance here seems to have been lost in translation. (In fact, I'm not entirely sure what must have led to the Tokyopop version's interpretation; the Japanese text doesn't resemble what's there at all.)

Which also means that when you get to later parts of the series like this...

(Tokyopop version)

(Our proof of concept retranslation)

In this case, the Tokyopop version roughly corresponds to the Japanese text but interprets it in ways that really don't get the point of this scene very well, ranging from not catching the specific use of "small and tiny" (ちっぽけな) invoking the earlier scene with the chocolate to making too many specific assumptions about Mink and Kyo's feelings that are actually out of character. (Let alone the fact that the way they phrase Mink's lines here really just doesn't convey the sheer level of desperation and emotion at all...)

For instance, it's a very important part of Mink's character that she doesn't have self-awareness about wanting to feel needed; she says 必要としてくれるなら because she legitimately feels like she's useless or has nothing to offer without the help of the WANNA-BE program. This kind of thing is a common trait of Tachikawa protagonists, and while I know many people might think it's not that big of a deal, I think the difference between "wanting attention and thinking your alter ego is cooler" and "having insecurity from believing you'll never be good enough unless you blot out all the undesirable parts of yourself" is big enough to mean something to a lot of people who would be reading this!

In any case, once I'm done with Saint Tail, I do have some other projects I want to prioritize first, since Mink's official translation is at least somewhat readable (kind of a low bar, but...). But I did want to call attention to this for now in case anyone was interested, because while Saint Tail and Mink are far from the only shoujo or magical girl manga from this era to have such poor treatment in localization, I don't think this issue has been well-documented when it comes to Tachikawa's work, and it really does break my heart.