#f: kepler

[kissingarthurclaus]

Kepler has had three previous masters before being assigned as Brea's padawan. He was starting to get used to the rejection, but something feels a little different about it this time around...

AKA OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY PULLED IT OFF 😭😭😭💖🫶💖🫶💖🫶💖 I've wanted to do this audio with them for SO long, I tried once before but it didn't meet my standards but now I've made my vision come to life! I feel so proud to finally start seeing my projects come together! (Taglist and some illustrations below)

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus

@changeling-selfship @crushes-georg @cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora

@rejaytionships @sunflawyer @in-true-blue-love @tropicalgothships @little-miss-selfships @hotrodharts

@cupiidzbow @frozenhi-chews @limey-self-inserts @candyheartedchy

[cosmicnovaflare]

a mix of Thai/Japanese/Chinese traditional clothing would look so cute in Cinder. The draped piece with sequins and embroidery from Thai dresses would look so pretty with Lunar details and moons and stars. actually all of these would look pretty on her with details of Luna

Yes, I love the concept! Thai/Cambodian clothing was the first thought I had when imagining non-aristocratic sectors of Luna before Wires and Nerve came out. Or even for some of the higher nobility that don’t participate in the aristocracy at all. I’d still imagine the palace with Nagara temple-style architecture (because Cypress Blackburn has a god complex and all) too if it weren’t for the beautiful art they had in Fairest (though Wires and Nerve ignored that too) but at least we can still speculate on the inner decorum. Hindu and Gaelic inspired interiors could still fit even if we include Wires and Nerve.

But yeah, now I want to focus a lot on what Lunar clothing could look like. Wouldn’t it be cool if tons of unique attire evolved over time throughout sectors outside of the capital? I won’t speculate on Artemisia too much since the nobles have and will take, appropriate, and throw away anything in the name of beauty, but what if there was a mining sector with traditions similar to Miao Silver? As Artemisia doesn’t seem to have a lack of anorthite, or compounds mixed with anorthite, perhaps this may be a tradition in one of the outer sectors.

If it takes place in a mining sector, imagine hair pieces, earrings, necklaces, pins, aglets, etc. made of Lunar Anorthosite that can be passed down throughout families. Not only would it look beautiful, but could you imagine the folklore behind it? Marissa didn’t drill in just how symbolic it is to have the royal crown be made of crystalline anorthosite. Anorthosite, the Genesis Rock. Rare on Earth, and likely the mineral that surrounds the outer walls of Artemisia Palace. The rock that was the final key to piecing together the formation of a celestial object 1/80th the size of the Earth, the rock that explained the evolution of the moon, and the first thing the majority of people think of when talking about the Apollo 15 mission!

If it is still unlikely that a mining sector would be allowed to keep any anorthosite, then maybe let’s speculate on regolith solidified by impact shockwaves. The dark grey/black would have a bold contrast with much of the building stone in the Capital. Maybe this could be a tradition in a sector that uses electrolysis to mine oxygen or water, a sector that uses fusion with helium 3, or even ra sector that explores the terrain outside of the domes that simply finds this regolith in areas with high meteor impacts.

[taniushka12]

Your fave (me) is problematic for taking a character either canonically or by fandom majority thought as gay/lesbian and made them bisexual bc your fave (me) is bisexual 💗��💙

[in-vyn-cible]

I’d like to remind everyone that a photo of a nestling Kaua’i ō’ō exist and should give a BIG thank you to John Sincock who also has an unpublished paper about the ō’ō and his trips to Alaka’i swamp. This is the only known photograph of a nestling ō’ō. You can find this photo on the birds of the world website (linked in citation)

Sykes Jr., P. W., A. K. Kepler, C. B. Kepler, and J. M. Scott (2020). Kauai Oo (Moho braccatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A. F. Poole, Editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://doi.org/10.2173/bow.kauoo.01

I hope the rest of his photos are out there somewhere. I was super lucky to be able to find his unpublished paper as well as some memos (shout out to Daniel Lewis who was able to send me the memos AND wrote about sincock and the ō’ō in his book Belonging on an Island : Birds, Extinction and Evolution in Hawai’i)

[flwoie]

FLASH FORWARD — YOON JEONGHAN

"Dancing isn't a sport," Jeonghan once said, which has made you hate his guts since that day. Everyone knows there isn't a day where Freesia's track athlete and dance team member are planning each other's downfall. Somehow your English teacher manages to silence the both of you when she pairs you up for an assignment, and like Jeonghan, he asks you to text him to remind him to finish it by the end of the week. However, that doesn't go according to plan when you accidentally text him on your stalking account, used to keep tabs on Seokmin, his friend. When you deny words about the account, he's smart enough to connect the dots as he strikes up a deal: he'll keep your secret if he can help you get with his friend.

STARRING ▸ athlete! jeonghan x f! dancer! reader (support cast : svt, twice's nayeon, kepler's yujin, loossemble's hyunjin, some of my moots as the dance team)

GENRE ▸ romcom, smau, highschool au, rivals to lovers

CONTAINS ▸ profanities, super mean jokes, kms/kys jokes, sex jokes, the jokes in here are not wholesome 😭, im not a dancer or an athlete so i dont know much sorry !!

ON HOLD | 03/20/24 - tbd

TAGLIST IS OPEN 🏅 SEND AN ASK OR COMMENT ♡

🗯️ when u go to the winner competition but your opponent ate chicken for dinner

PLEASE DO NOT SPAM LIKE ! PLEASE SUPPORT BY REBLOGGING !

❝ WHAT'S THE PLAN? ❞

ONE ▸ destroyer of worlds

TWO ▸ Look at my lawyer Dawgggggg

THREE ▸ delete this before i pull ur dingdong

FOUR ▸ shein_918273645

FIVE ▸ wtv u say freakydeak

SIX ▸ Tickle my brain

SEVEN ▸ just wing it and bring it 🤑

EIGHT ▸ show the bald spot

to be added !

seventeen masterlist

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Just Breathe: The Dinosaur Diaries✨

✨Part 1: Introductions✨

Series Masterlist

A/N: One of my favorite things is writing about the first time Joel and reader meet, so this is how their story starts off 💚

Chapter Summary: It’s your first day at Sauros Corporation as a research assistant, but what you don’t know is you’ll be working under one of the hottest paleontologists that you’ve ever laid eyes on. Can you keep your wits about yourself, or will you fall fast for your smooth talking boss?

Pairing: paleontologist! Joel x fem researcher! reader

Word Count: 3k

Rating: 18+

Chapter Tags: Reader starts her first day as a research assistant, feelings, Joel being a casual flirt, Joel in a lab coat and glasses, mentions of Jurassic Park, allusions to smut, eventual smut, Joel is so broad, Jurassic Park au, science terminology I had to look up

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Your palms sweat as you enter the intimidating glass building of Sauros Corporation. One of the biggest, most well known science businesses that specializes in paleontology. What you got your master’s in. You strive to continue on to get your PhD, but first you need to get a little work experience. So that’s why you’re here in this massive corporation that might just eat you alive. 

   Your black heels click against the polished white tile as fluorescent lights reflect off the cascading glass windows. You pull at your pressed pink dress and flex your fingers around the soft cotton as nerves rush down your body. Today was the most important day of your life. A gateway to your future, your dream job that you’ve wanted for your entire life. This was it. It was finally here. 

   When you walk up to the pearlescent marble front counter, a bubbly blonde girl smiles and stands from her office chair. “Hi there. How can I help you?”

   You show her your work ID badge that you had gotten in orientation and respond, “This is my first day here. I’m here for…”

   Her eyes brighten the moment she sees your name on the shiny badge. “Oh! You’re the new research assistant. Doctor Miller has been so eager to meet you! Your interviewer, Kylie, couldn’t stop talking about you to him. He’s already spoken so highly of you. He looked at your resume and everything,” she gushes as she comes around the bright desk and smoothes her pencil skirt down. 

   “He’s talked about me? Who is Doctor Miller?” you ask as you knit your eyebrows together and step back as she passes in front of you. You knew of Doctor Kepler, who you thought you’d be working under. But Doctor Miller? You never heard of him before, at least you don’t think.

   “He’s who you’ll be working under,” she smiles warmly as she nods her head and signals for you to follow behind as her blonde hair bounces down her shoulders. “He’s our best scientist in the department, I’m sure you’ll love him.”

   “How long has he been working here?” you ask as you pass through the lavish halls that are covered in glass framed pictures of dinosaur bones and biology cells. 

   “Over five years, he’s the best of the best. If you want to be a great scientist then he’s the perfect one to practice under. And you’re so lucky,” she beams as she looks back at you with big crimson lips.

   “Why’s that?” you laugh as the click of heels echo down the lit up halls.

   “Because,” she stops before entering the pad locked doors where only authorized personnel can get through, “he’s ridiculously good looking, but don’t tell him I said that.” She winks at you before turning to the glowing padlock.

   Just what were you getting yourself into? Doctor Miller? Was he really all she talked him up to be? And was he really impressed by your resume and talks of your interview? Guess you’d find out. 

   She scans her badge and with a click of the door, they part open as she pushes herself through the strong metal doors. Your eyes scan over the expansive lab as your breath hitches in your throat. The lab is absolutely enormous. Colorful test tubes fill various racks on the metal shelves along the cream colored walls. Microscopes line the tables that fill the center of the room. Petri dishes with different organisms in them sit in glass refrigerators, sturdy dinosaur bones sit displayed in glass cases, and expensive scientific materials cover the room. It’s all intimidating as you step through your new work space. 

   “Right over here,” she smiles as she leads you to the middle of the room where two men stand around a fluorescence microscope. 

   Your eyes peel over the tall man that adjusts the lense while he talks confidently to his coworker. You listen as his deep voice carries through the room. “There we go. Think I got it just right this time. The edges are perfect, can actually see the cementum where those tiny black dots are. Fascinatin’,” he says in awe as he adjusts the microscope lense again to get a better look. 

   You study the man in front of you, watching the way his broad shoulders shift everytime he moves his arms. The white lab coat seems to cling to large muscles. He’s so very large and tall, very tall. Standing just above six feet. And his hands. Big, thick hands of a paleontologist for sure. 

   Just when you start to get lost in his words, the girl who had brought you back into the room interrupts their conversation. She clears her voice and steps forward as platinum blonde hair swishes behind her shoulders. “Doctor Miller? Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to meet you.”

   He turns quickly and adjusts his thick, rimmed glasses against his curved nose and smiles gently. You suck in a breath when you see his face, his smile, his eyes. He’s so gorgeous that you think you might fall over and knock a bunch of expensive lab equipment over. 

   He has the most beautiful chocolate brown eyes that you’ve ever seen before. His hair is tousled, curls spilling onto his forehead, dark brown with strings of grey twisting around each strand. His facial hair looks soft to the touch, salt-and-pepper scruff patching along his sharp jawline. And his smile. God, his smile. It’s so gentle and bright that it lights a fire inside your core. And he’s so broad. Strong muscles pulling against the white lab coat that clings to tanned skin. He’s the hottest scientist you’ve ever seen in your life, and you’re working under him?!

   “Oh, you must be my new research assistant, yeah?” he asks as he smiles gently and says your name, pushing himself off the metal table as he starts making his way over to you. You feel like you’re about to topple over at any moment. 

   “That’s me,” you say shyly as you push a lock of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you wish you wouldn’t do. 

   “Well, so nice to meet you,” he drawls, a Southern accent that rings through your ears like a sweet melody that was made just for you. He sticks his arm out and opens his palm for you to take. You automatically reach out to shake his hand, your own hand shaking as you’re completely intimidated by the hot scientist that stands in front of you. 

   When he clasps his fingers over yours and squeezes, you gulp as you look up into beautiful honey glazed eyes. Eyes that you could wade in and get lost in. His hands are so big, calloused fingers grazing against yours as you feel nerves pulling at every fiber in your body. He probably does a lot with those hands. Hands of an experienced, successful, gorgeous paleontologist. 

   “It’s nice to meet you, too, Doctor Miller,” you say in a daze.

   “Jus’ Joel is fine. You don’t have to call me Doctor Miller, unless you want to,” he mutters softly. 

   “Oh okay, Joel…” you answer barely above a whisper, your palm sweating from how close he is. 

   He lets his hand linger in yours for a few seconds too long, and you swear he’s staring deep into your eyes as you see the glint of a sparkle flash in the flecks of light brown. When he releases his grip, he runs a hand slowly through his tousled, thick curls and just for that moment you wonder what it’d be like to be underneath his large body, running your own fingers through messy, soft curls…

   “I took a look at your resume the other day. I was quite impressed by what I saw.”

   Your eyes go a little wide at what he just said. “Impressed? Of me?” you ask, floored by the obvious compliment. He was impressed with you? 

   “Mhm,” he smiles as he pulls at the sleeves of his pristine lab coat, “straight A student, top of your class? And you went to the dig site in Montana to do some research last summer? Very impressive.” 

   He stares at you a moment with one eyebrow cocked up, his eyes flicking over your figure as you swear he checks you out. Your cheeks burn red as he looks so intently at you, and it’s in that moment that you don’t know how you’ll ever work with this man. He’s so distracting, all you want to do is get lost in those syrupy brown eyes. 

   “I umm... I’m not that impressive,” you say shyly as you look nervously up at him. 

   “Oh, but you are. M’sorry if you were lookin’ forward to workin’ with Doctor Kepler, but I kinda convinced him to let me take you under my wing instead. Yours was the most impressive resume of them all, and trust me when I say I read them all.”

   “Oh.” Your eyes widen and every bone in your body stiffens as you take in what he just said. He thinks you’re smart? He wanted you to work under him. Oh, fuck. “No, I… I’m sure I’ll enjoy you just as much as I would him.” Your cheeks glow red as you turn your head when you hear him chuckling under his breath. Did you really just say that out loud? Christ. 

   “C’mere. Wanna show you somethin’.” He nods his head as a tousled curl bounces against the side of his forehead, and you follow him over to the table that has the microscope all set up with a tiny fossil underneath. 

   “Go ahead,” he says with a nod to his head, asking you to look through the ocular lense. 

   You nervously walk up and dip your head down as you close one eye and focus intently on the fossil that sits beneath the lense. You take in the yellow tint of the amber, examine each particle that makes up the masterpiece of what sits beneath you, study exactly what you think it is. 

   Joel’s honeydew voice comes out deep and raspy as it stirs you to jump in your skin. “Let me pick your brain a minute. I wanna know if you can figure out what fossil that right there is,” he says as he comes to stand right beside you. 

   His hand presses against the base of the microscope, and you feel his warm breath run down the side of your neck. You can feel his body heat reverberate against yours as you start to breathe faster. Your mind is a blur as his body weight shifts against the counter, his lab coat brushing against the side of your arm as you hold tight to the tube of the microscope. It’s so hard to focus on what’s in front of you when his large, all consuming presence is right next to you. He’s not even touching you, and you’re already all worked up, and you know your thighs are sticky from sweat. What the hell is wrong with you?

   “Hmm, let me think a minute,” you say as you try to depict what sits in front of you. You squint your eye as you try to register what sits underneath the glow of the fossil. There’s a small beak-like impression as you assess dark lines that almost looks like a hummingbird.

   “It almost looks like… wait, maybe if I can get a closer look I can see,” you murmur as you continue to assess the shiny fossil. 

   “Here, let me jus’ fix this.” His large hand comes to sit on your shoulder as he pushes you carefully away from the eyepiece. His patchy scruff brushes against the side of your cheek, and you gasp at how close he is to you. You feel tension in your shoulders as you watch him adjust the dials to the right on the lense as he carefully looks through with one eye closed. 

   You watch him with bated breath, your eyes lock on his broad figure, thick fingers brushing against the crevice of the lense. You wonder what it’d feel like to be pinned underneath those strong arms, his thick fingers exploring every inch of your sweltering skin as he consumes you with the entirety of his mouth. 

   Fuck. This man is your boss, you can’t be having wet fantasies about him. He’s off limits, it can’t happen. You need to be professional, but why is it so hard to clear your clouded mind? He’s good looking, smart, nice. That does not give you the right to fantasize about him. Get a fucking grip on yourself for Christ’s sake. Enough. 

   “Ahh there we go. Go on now, take another peek.” He places his hand gently over the small of your back and pushes you forward as your breath hitches at the hand that burns through your dress and goes straight down to your skin that’s tingling from him. 

   You shake your head and get yourself composed as you lower your head and focus back on the fossil that’s waiting for you to examine. Your eyes widen as you see so much more clearly, the bright light shining straight through the yellow glow of the fossil as you can see exactly what’s in front of you now. 

   You gasp as you realize what it is. “No way! Is that an Oculudentavis? The smallest dinosaur to ever walk the planet?” You hear him chuckle and look up to see him smiling down at you. 

   “Very good,” he smiles as he gives you another once over glance, making your heart thump loudly in your chest as his honey eyes slip over you. “Now, how did you know that?” he asks curiously as he ticks his jaw and cocks an eyebrow up.

   “I read a lot,” you shrug as you bite your lower lip. His eyes drop down to your glossy lips, and it makes you burn with need. Focus. 

   “Yeah, I’m sure ya do,” he chuckles as he leans against the table and crosses his arms over his broad chest. 

   “How old is this fossil?” you ask wondrously as your eyes flick back to the ancient fossil. 

   “Over fifty million years old,” he replies as his eyes weigh carefully on you. “Y’know, it’s not really a bird like everyone suspected it to be. It’s actually a genus of a lizard.”

   “Fascinating,” you say dreamily as you lean up against the table and bump the side of your hip as your eyes train solely on him. 

   “It came from the domain Eukaryota, and the phylum it belongs to is Chordata. Funny how the Latin words revolve around a bird when really it’s a reptile. Some scientists even argue whether it was really a dinosaur or just a large lizard. But if you wanna hear my voice on the matter, I say it was a dinosaur.” He winks at you, and you feel your cheeks flush crimson again as you slip another lock of hair behind your ear and clear your throat before you decide to be a complete puddle on the floor. 

   “Think you’re right, Doctor Miller,” you respond shakily. 

   “Jus’ Joel, darlin’.”

   Darlin’? Christ, a pet name? Or maybe it was just his Southern hospitality. But whatever it was made you weak at the knees. 

   “Joel…” you repeat, letting the name slip against your tongue as you swallow all feelings of want and desire down your throat. You are not falling for your boss. 

   “Attagirl,” he smirks. 

   Fuck. 

   “So, you want to be a real paleontologist?” he asks as his eyes flicker down to yours.

   “Mhm,” you nod as you shift your weight in your heels.

   “So tell me, how do you feel about real dinosaurs?” he asks as he shifts his weight to stand in front of you, his arms still crossed tight against the fabric of the button-up green flannel underneath his lab coat. 

   “Real dinosaurs?” you question as you knit your eyebrows together and try to decipher his question. 

   “That’s right. Real dinosaurs.” He smirks and the glisten in his chocolate coated eyes are pressing into yours like he knows something you don’t, and he’s chuckling about it in front of your face. 

   “Ummm I mean, I’m in the field trying to study them. I’d say I love them?” Your answer is hesitant as you still question him. What does he mean real dinosaurs?

   “Well, guess it’s your lucky day cause your first assignment is about Stegosauruses.”

   Your eyes shift to his as yours widen just a smidge. “What’s the assignment about?” 

   “Guess you’ll find out when we get there,” he chuckles as he adjusts his glasses and moves just enough to brush his arm against yours. You step out of the danger zone and pull yourself together instead of staring down into forearms that are filled with thick, twisting veins against tanned skin. 

   “Get where?” you ask carefully as you slide your tongue against the bottom of your teeth. 

   “To Jurassic Park. Home of the dinosaurs. Real dinosaurs,” he smirks as you see trouble brewing in those dark eyes of his. He’s going to get you into trouble with those honey eyes and sly smirk, you just know it. 

   “Real dinosaurs? But they’re… they’re extinct,” you whisper as you raise your eyebrows in question.

   “Not at Jurassic Park they’re not,” he teases as he crosses his arms again. You just stare speechless at him as you get the feeling this man would never lie to you. 

   “So, how ‘bout it? My new research partner wanna go on a little adventure with me? Promise I’ll make it worth your while,” he smirks as you taste trouble on just his words alone.

   And that’s where the adventure started, right there in his gigantic lab. Right when you saw those gorgeous brown eyes. You knew. This is where it’d all begin. 

Tags: @amyispxnk @sawymredfox @burntheedges @mountainsandmayhem @littlevenicebitch69 @vivian-pascal @pedrostories @survivingandenduring @msjarvis @syd-djarin @mothandpidgeon @eugenedream @cozylittlepigeon @marvlstark @rav3n-pascal22

Please consider reblogging or leaving me a comment if you enjoyed. Reblogging is the only way for our work to reach others 🩷

[max1461]

@triviallytrue asked "what's Chomsky's deal?"

Put briefly, the initial thing that made Chomsky famous is that he argued, and managed to convince everyone, that B. F. Skinner was wrong about language acquisition. B. F. Skinner believed that kids acquired language because when they made grammatically well-formed sentences they got positive feedback and when they made grammatically ill-formed sentences they got negative feedback, and by operant conditioning they learned how to speak. Chomsky was basically like "wait. That's not fucking true", and he was right, it isn't. His argument is usually called the Poverty of Stimulus argument, which has been used to justify many dubious conclusions since then, but which basically says that kids are not getting nearly enough actual input of the appropriate types for them to learn language this way.

Chomsky was also interested in modeling the computational properties of language, and that's where the Chomsky hierarchy comes from. The idea is to find a formalism (for syntax, for phonology, whatever) capable of generating all and only those sentences in fact found in natural language. So this formalism would have various parameters that you could set to specify the syntax of an individual language, and then it would have an input lexicon (the vocabulary of that language), and then it would spit out exactly the set of grammatically valid sentences in that language. This approach is generally called (lowercase-g) generative linguistics. It has been a very productive good idea which runs into certain empirical hurdles that Chomsky was not prepared to solve.

Chomsky is interested in this generative approach not because he really wants to model natural language as an observed phenomenon, but because he believes, more or less, that when an appropriate formalism is found it will be reflective of the innate cognitive processes which give rise to natural language in the first place. These processes are generally called Universal Grammar or UG, or sometimes "the language organ". Chomsky's beliefs here are technically more nuanced than this but not in a useful way. His claim about this is basically a deepity, which he and his acolytes try to pass off as actual science with a bunch of philosophical mumbo-jumbo. Every Chomsky paper starts with like fifteen pages on the history of science and Newton and Kepler and blah blah before he makes his various unfalsifiable claims.

The overall upshot, in my view, is that Chomsky had a lot of really important ideas about human language that he simply was ultimately not prepared to follow up on. His work, especially his early work, has reshaped the entire field of linguistics and lead to a series of extremely productive research programs. On the other hand you should not take most of what he's said in the last 40 years too seriously.

[glowofpurple]

ALSO

Jacobi/Midland is trying so hard to find that structure and predictability he had with Kepler as his boss but he WILL NOT be getting it.

Kepler followed the rules and does things like the whiskey speach with everyone. He was his own brand of crazy but repetitive.

Teller doesn't whatever the f*ck he wants. He should be fired but he's too good at his job. Very different people.

[anemo-hypostasis]

The Idiot | Alhaitham/Reader

Pairing: Alhaitham/F!Reader

Summary: Three gifts have been given to Alhaitham. Each is regretted. None can be taken back. By the docks of Port Ormos, the recipient himself comes knocking. TLDR: you and Alhaitham grow up together. 

“I am a fool with a heart but no brains, and you are a fool with brains but no heart; and we’re both unhappy, and we both suffer.” - Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

Forewarnings: slight nsfw, angst, hurt no comfort, childhood friends. 18+ only.

Note: This is the most convoluted and choppy piece I have ever written, so advanced apologies and sincerest regrets! 

WC: 5.3K

-

In this world, giving and receiving are referred to as a couplet. Like the concluding lines in a Shakespearian sonnet, fresh cream and cut peaches, or the blazing sun and the gentle moon. Many items, ideas, and actions are destined to pair in the same way giving and receiving are. It is a shame that you have given everything, yet received nothing. Like death harvesting life, an endless bonfire gobbling up surrounding air, or soldiers losing lives to fight soldiers losing lives. Sometimes, it is hard to define it as an equilibrium, because it never evens out. It is Newton’s cradle, never existing in the same state yet existing together. Like Kepler’s elliptical orbits. Like an oil spill in the harbor.

The anchorage of Port Ormos brings sound to a once-silent ocean. Merchants advertise Inazuman lacquerware, the newest Sumeru City fashion fads, and bottled fragrances. Rose custard is sold instead of padisarah pudding. Intricate rugs of cobalt blue and sanded beige are sold on the street corner. I remember you. The smell of adhigama leaves. I remember everything about you. 

“I didn’t expect you to be one for seafaring.” He smells like Port Ormos, even though he’s a city boy. He’s been here for too long, and the stench has clung to him. 

“It’s nice to escape for a little bit. Sumeru City is suffocating sometimes. I’m sure you know how it is,” He doesn’t respond or settle down. Just does what he always does - looms. The wind tussles his cloak as you continue, “I heard you got a promotion.”

“Not for long, I hope. Being the Grand Sage doesn’t have any appeal to me. I much prefer the mediocrity and flexibility of my last position.” He never has been one for material gains or a boost in reputation. He told me as much. Did he change his hairstyle? I wish you would’ve just lied.

Perhaps that is why you have always given. The man who is uncaring about how he is perceived disregards the people around him. How delusional were you?

First, you gave him your word. It was five years short of a score ago, by the banks of the Sumeru River. People always scold children not to play in it because of the spinocrocodiles and its pollution, but at the time, it appeared magical. The ghost of the moon floated on the rushing current, and the two of you sat on a purple beach towel in hopes of seeing the soon-to-come eclipse. It had taken days of begging, but at the end of it all, you had gained both permission and a basket of packaged baklava.

“Did you know that one pistachio tree consumes forty gallons of water?” Plucking a stray pistachio in his mouth, the boy began devouring the preserved dessert. Honey and oil coated both of your hands, catching in your hair and smudging your face.

“Then how come they’re dry?” You responded, still chewing. 

“Ew, don’t talk with your mouth full. But, that’s a foolish question. The tree is not the same as the nut.” The boy’s eyes, cut in ornate lozenges, are blocked by sun visors handed out by the Rtawahist Darshan; his focus is transfixed on the moon’s iron-blood hue as if looking away could scare the celestial bodies back to normalcy and dissipate the scene. There is an identifiable tenacity in that gaze. It’s something you know, but that you never speak into existence. Like basic arithmetic. Like the burn of a red stove. Like adult secrets.

“It’s nice that you just, like, know everything. I wish I were like that… my governess always yells at me ‘cause I never remember anything.” The words are laced with the naivety of a child, but the boy, never adhering to the norm, musters a sardonic scoff. 

“That’s why I don’t have a governess or attend school. It’s much better for self-study, and there’s no one to hold you back in the name of collectivism,” There is a slight humor in the way the boy, no older than twelve, conducts his speech. It is an ironic contrast, the sweet tone of a child pronouncing diction used in seminar recounts, research essays, and upperclassman-level textbooks. He adds, “But I understand this is a situation unique to me. Most individuals my age are not as advanced in intellect, so this method may not benefit them. People think me odd or uneducated because of it.” 

“I’d never think that of you. I mean, so many boys are so cruel and mean, but you’re so smart and never act like that on purpose. Like how you knew about everything the Rtawahist presenter was sharing. I don’t like everyone else.” The moon augments into a shade reminiscent of curdled blood as you dote, and the boy does not stray from its view. He sighs.

“It will be hard for you to make other friends that way. Isolated friendships are unhealthy. Time should be evenly distributed across numerous interests.” How cold. Chilled gales connect themselves to pale strands of hair. Like dew on a frosted morning. Like streams of snowmelt.

“But you don’t hang out with other people, and you’re fine.” You refute.

“I’m different from other people. Even though you might not realize it yet, you’re not like me. Limiting yourself to me is rash and will cause you suffering.” The cicadas descend from a choir to a solo. The moon, basking in Tevyat’s figure, converts to full crimson. The Sumeru River is alight with God’s plague as if you and the boy had struck a staff into its icy peaks and converted it to blood yourselves.

“I’ll always be with you,” Like faith and doubt. Like bread and wine. Like iron and coal. He stills, and you continue, “I won’t ever hate you, so let’s stay together, Haitham.”

The Port is privy to action at hours subsequent to midnight. Legality is blind in the encompassing darkness of dusk, and the harbor reveals its covert treasures: women, contraband, and manpower. The Sab Al Bahr, your method of transport, had docked for the customary enterprises of nightlife in Port Ormos. Three women from Liyue - Lihua, Qingyi, and Tao - had made for excellent yet bittersweet company among the crew. By now, they will have been escorted to their new residence among the harrowing back alleys of Ormos, confined to a destitute bed in a room of a dozen similar women. The aura of liveliness comes at a cost of livelihood. Giving and receiving. Ebb and flow.

“It’s been years, hasn’t it? Since we’ve talked.” Unfamiliar awkwardness permeates the air. The estrangement of the familiar always leaves unease of a horrendous nature. I remember when I knew you. I remember when you knew me.

“I’d estimate around four. Our correspondence leaves much to be desired,” He sits on the garden curb behind you. There is disfavor in his voice as he asks, “Did you come from Sab Al Bahr?” 

“It was convenient from Liyue to Magador to Ormos. They’re not so bad.” Shame crawls up your cheeks, invisible to the naked eye but prominent to your senses. 

“Liyue… Prostitutes and finery, I presume? I can’t say I judged you as the type. The lifestyle of a pirate is quite different from that of a scholar. Even living amongst them must be quite the culture shock.” 

“I never was quite the scholar. Not like you. The passion left after I had my thesis rejected four times in a row, I think.” There is humor in your tone, poking fun at the detriment that appeared so intense once upon a time. The scuffle of decal boots approaching the dock’s ledge made you look back. The man sat down, a grimace tugging at groomed eyebrows and thin lips.

“Naeem Farhat was your chosen advisor. That was your first mistake - he was known for nitpicking any details that he found tedious or against his personal bias. It takes a student with a near-identical mindset to succeed under his tutelage. Personally, I thought Kifaya Hakim was the best choice for you; she provides critical yet honest feedback and focuses on celestial movement patterns in conjunction with various geological points.” There it is. That all-knowing attitude, removed from pleasantries and ample in diluted self-righteousness. I loved all of you. Some people never change. I admired every part of you.

“Had you told me that, I would have chosen her, but you were gone for research in Devantaka. I went with my instinct.” It is a bit bitter, now that the statement has been dispersed into the salty air. Like the white flesh of pomegranates mixed with red seeds. Like raw and unaged pu-erh. 

“Sometimes,” he pauses, “It is important to make choices without outside influence.”

The second coffer offered to him was a pearl to a clam; it was your heart, faithful and unadulterated. It shined with iridescence in his monochromatic grasp, esteemed and coveted. To this day, it is your penultimate regret. Gifting love to the wrong individual is a most punishing mistake.

The boy, now eighteen, sits in his grandmother’s abundant library when you give him your gift. He has never pursued public education, but the flurry of excitement in the neighborhood as families convene to photograph daughters and sons in graduation gowns is a contagion; unavoidable. The pleated mint fabric is embroidered with the braids and twists of vines, as homage to Greater Lord Rukkhadevata. One cord with twists of navy and beige rests on your shoulders, akin to ancient Roman laurels of olive and blossom.

“Do you think you’ll come to the ceremony?” You ask, watching as he flips to the next page of Metaphysics. He doesn’t meet your eyes, opting to scribble a note in the margins of the aged paper.

“I had planned to finish reading this, but… I suppose I could attend. Just for your section. Since your class is around two-hundred people, I’ll come about twenty-five minutes in. Is that agreeable?” Part of you wonders if he is writing a reminder to himself. Nodding, your lips turn up and you ruffle the boy’s silken hair.

“Thanks! I would’ve been very upset. God, this gown is so frumpy… Oh, by the way, I had, uh, something to ask. It’s kind of important, so would you mind looking at me?” Eyes like cut jade diced with topaz flicker up, and he closes the book with slowness. He raises an eyebrow as if to say, what’s so important? Hands, nimble and uncalloused, motion for you to speak.

“So, we’ve been friends for a while, and I enjoy being friends with you, so I want to preface this by saying that no matter what, you are a friend first and foremost..” you gulp, hesitant, before sighing, “I really like you, Haitham. Romantically. Even though it’s selfish of me, I can’t help but hope you feel the same way. If you don’t, that’s fine - I would never hold it against you.” Distant cheers erupt from the parallel side of the library’s window, emphasizing the blankness of noise collapsing in on you. The boy sighs.

“I had my suspicions,” He stands from the algae-toned couch, extending with, “But I didn’t think you’d confess before graduation. Isn’t that a bit risky? Standing between fine lines seems to be a hobby of yours.” It’s zaytun peach season in Sumeru City. Bushes grow plump with heavy bodices of sugared flesh and skin, and the city becomes alight with scent. The delicate fragrance tangos around your nostrils, and you use it as a distraction. Later, when this humiliation is foregone, you’ll sink your canines into the flesh of a fresh peach, and the affliction of rejection will slide down your throat as if it had never been birthed.

“That being said, I thought it was obvious enough that I shared your sentiment. Have you really been worrying over such a trivial detail as to whether I share your affections? Relationships are of little importance to me. People in this world often cause their own problems and make life harder for themselves; pleasure seekers land themselves in debt, self-important authorities expose themselves to dangers, and lovesick partners spend their lives attempting to appease another. Having a relationship is just another engagement filled with more trifles than necessary. Do you understand?” Ice purges itself down your spine. His gaze is hot and immovable as if delving into the mush of the human psyche in an attempt to draw an answer. Like a hook caught in the flank. Like the milliseconds before an earthquake. Like a judge at the podium.

“I won’t pressure you, but I want you to know that I would accommodate you. Love is not a one-size fits all. Haven’t we known each other since toddlerhood? I think if there are any two people that are capable of adjusting to the other’s needs, it’s us. So please, don’t say yes, but don’t say no, either.” Desperation bleeds from a trifecta of the human body - tone, expression, pose - and scurries to the ground. It curdles and coalesces by the boy’s feet, a single evolutionary leap short of being able to climb up his legs, chest, and mouth. It is almost able to devour him, but not quite. He runs pale hands through sleek hair, a sparse yet meaningful action that communicates a genuine dilemma. 

“Okay. I’ll consider it. But if your expectations remain unsatisfied, and a chasm develops between us, don’t be surprised,” the boy caresses the spine of Metaphysics and excuses it to the daystand, saying, “Don’t let me ruin a good day. Graduation is meant to be celebratory. Come on, let’s go together. It’ll be faster.” 

By the windowsill, the boy’s grandmother has set out a lustreware bowl filled with zaytun peaches. Their skin is exquisite, glinting in the light as if waxed, and a pink-to-magenta gradient paints them in the image of a summer Sumerian sky. The boy grabs one as he leaves the archway. 

He grabs your hand in the same archway two weeks later, warning you of all its hazards and rough edges. But the young are naive, concerned with the future, and dismissive of the present, and two hands come to reciprocate his. 

Djafar Tavern hosts a diverse audience. Ayn Al-Ahmar Eremites sit in isolated pluckings. Street dancers weave themselves into the edges of sidewalks and patios, hoping to glean gold and mercy from tavern patrons. Researchers admit fatigue and failure in research and seek comfort in the dulling buzz of oncoming pints. The man sits across from you, one ankle crossed at the knee and knuckles flush against his cheek. Copper liquid sits idle in his mug.

“I happen to remember a certain scribe getting so wasted, he wretched into the bushes for ten minutes straight.” The tendrils of alcohol have tickled your cheeks. Each word comes out more vivacious than planned, and the man across from you observes in amusement.

“Is that so? If my memory serves me, I happen to recall a young academic begging the aforementioned scribe to cook her a full-sized portion of biryani after a rough night out in Ormos.” Merriment is an exclusive color on the man, and it oozes from each syllable. Teasing, when done right, can be a rambunctious affair. Sweat beads on the wrinkles of his forehead and at the rear of your neck as a product of Sumeru heat and the excitement of reunion. The flax of alcohol seeps down and down, until the past and future evade your thought, leaving the remains of a sweltering fuzz.

“It’s so odd. I’ve been upset with you for so long, but now, I can’t even remember why. Tell me, Alhaitham, what did you do? I can’t recall the details, but I’m sure you’ve done something…” Hiccups bubble up and out between strung-out utterances. The man, sober as he seems, is overrun by prominent reds and pinks on the apple of his cheeks. The tab for tonight is bound to be hefty - it requires an absurd amount of alcohol to inebriate him with low-quality beer. Sitting back, the trinkets on his belt create a quiet symphony of noise.

“I think we’ve both had too much to drink. This is sure to be a headache in the morning. It’s best I get you home now.” The sky is pigmented in hues of navy and onyx. It stands out amongst the depraved prostitutes, screeching merchants, and tainted light. Like an abyss beneath the sand. Like dancers in the rain. Like a whale beneath the ship. It is so unfaltering, unknown, and expansive. Droplets dew in the corners of your eyes. Stationed in the middle of the street, eyes never blinking, you watch the sky.

“Come now. There will always be another sky to watch. I need to get you home.” He needs to get me home. The cosmos moves in synchronization. Since when have you wanted me home? The stars, gaseous and alight, provide entertainment as two strangers walk the boulevard. Since when have we been strangers?

Like the Three Wise Men, you adorn the boy with gold, frankincense, and myrrh of your own. Gold appeals to all, but its merit does not hold up to true testaments of need; it is fragile, and the teeth of the mouth can damage its delicateness with ease. Frankincense is a traditional offering to God himself, representing love and devotion. It designates its recipient as divine and deserving of worship. Myrrh anoints the corpses of the bygone, and its role as a gift symbolizes the sacrifice of death. It is giving without receiving. For the offering of myrrh, you relinquish flesh.

Rtawahist textbooks cast a shadow over the blank canvas of an assigned paper labeled “On the Relation Between Starshrooms and Celestial Objects.” Dozens of researchers and undergraduates sit in identical positions, hunched above a pile of papers adjacent to an impressive tower of established sources. Studies on the Biological Evolution of Starshrooms. Phases of Constellations and Celestial Movement. Changes in Biodiversity in Relation to Month. It sent rivulets of vexation down your limbs, increasing in intensity the longer the pen in your hand remained motionless.

“I just don’t get it. People have submitted far less appealing work to him, and he accepts it with no issue! I mean, one person was missing an entire body paragraph, and he took it!” The skin of your palms grants reprieve to the ache of your pupils, rubbing up and down in hopes of relieving a fraction of the tension flitting across your expression. 

“Currying favor is a common practice in smaller classes. If your work isn’t revolutionary and the professor has a bad impression, bias can play an important factor in whether or not you pass.” The man, now twenty-two, is enchanted by the booklet in his grasp. Homological Mirror Symmetry. Even so, he spares a glance at the disappointing lack of substance positioned on the opposite side of the adhigama desk. One blue and white lampshade illuminates the space, creating an intimate and closed-off aura.

“Do you think I haven’t tried that? I have. I gave him baklava, zaytun peaches from the Bazaar, and a coupon to Puspa. I think he’s biased against women - did I ever tell you how there are no other women in my class? Tell me that’s not the craziest coincidence!” In your petulance, the disengagement of the man across from you remains unseen. So, when he proposes a heinous question in the public ambiance of the House of Daena, it comes out rash.

“Do you dislike that we haven’t had sex?” He does not coat bitter apples in sugar or insist on that which is roundabout. It aids in the directness of communication within the relationship, but in moments such as these, it can be overwhelming. Spit sputters from your throat as you regain composure.

“I’m-I’m sorry? Haitham, you can’t just say those things in public! Jeez, imagine if someone heard you… can’t we talk about it later?” Each affricate is squeezed between teeth, hissing and aggravated. The man is unphased, eyes locked onto yours.

“It’s just a simple question. People our age engage in hook-up culture and sex, and our bodies are biologically the most receptive to desire at this life stage. Despite this, we’ve only gone as far as kissing. I want to know if this upsets you, or if it seems like I’ve neglected your needs.” It is hard not to desire the man he has transformed into. Cultivated abs peek up from beneath his augmented uniform, his hair is lush and coated in grains of moondust, and there is a unique charm to his extensive intelligence. That being said, Sumeru City has a centuries-old culture of sexual shame and repression. It is to be consumed with caution, and in appropriate amounts, so as to avoid the dissipation of rationale and pragmatism. In some ways, his ability to overlook social norms in favor of reasonable logic is alluring. In others, it is humiliating. Like crime and punishment. Like a kiss upon the altar. Like a veil raised in love and lowered in grief.

“I mean, I’m not upset! I know physical affection doesn’t appeal to you, and I would never want to force you into something you don’t enjoy. That would upset me more than not… y’know…” Galesh heels hitting stark tile reverberate in the House of Daena - the environment is anything but private.

“Having sex? I see. In that case, let’s discuss this further at my apartment after lectures.” He heralds the book under his arm and marches off, as indifferent as a rock amidst a gouging river. Meanwhile, embarrassment has yet to settle into the bottom sediment of your nerves. Praying to Lesser Lord Kusanali that no Rtwahist peers overheard the conversation, you return back to “On the Relation Between Starshrooms and Celestial Objects” with novel zeal. 

The evening of Sumeru City is lit to the firmament, artistic street lamps lining the pavement home. The man’s apartment is a short walk from the Rtwahist offices, and it has become an unofficial meeting spot between the both of you. The light emanating from inside is dim - it could be no more than a few candles lit - and a gnawing sensation comes to violate your senses. The pleasantry of knocking has long since been disposed of, and you step in.

The man sits on the ornate sofa in the center of the living room. On the coffee table sits a new book to conquer. Vita Sexualis. The corner of a navy bookmark peeks from its battered pages. It must have been too difficult to find a new copy; he preferred to have well-kept covers, if possible, so a cracked and yellowing title was a sign of uncharacteristic “settling.” 

“Do you make a habit of reading state-banned erotica?” You joke, placing your rucksack on the floorboards and taking a seat next to him. He shrugs.

“If something is banned, doesn’t that make it all the more intriguing? Looking at what society deems ‘beyond the pale’ can say more about cultural norms than an entire course at the Akademiya,” Like clockwork, he repositions himself to face you. The physical closeness is off-putting after four years of sparse affection. The man continues, “Sexuality, in all forms, is looked down upon by the youth and elders alike. However, it is hardly something worth devoting fear to. Do you agree?” 

“Sure, but that was never- I just didn’t think you’d want that from me.” His palms lift your chin. It is awkward. He has resented romance and insisted on the idiocy of its frivolities since childhood, but he knows the logistics of what is appealing and what is not. He knows you like it, and so he does it. Like covering ears and reading lips. Like fruit on the cutting board. Like an antidote to poison.

“I will admit that sex, alongside other typical gestures, is not a focus or concern of mine. That being said, I am far from opposed to it. I would like to experiment with it if you are consenting.” Silver tickles your cheek and he leans over. Excitement pulses through your bloodstream, sending tremors down your hands. 

“I think I’d like that too, Haitham.” Lips meet lips in a delicate kiss as the skin of your hand merges with his neck. Those eyes, emboldened, roll down in sync with his palms. They caress the fullness of your cheek, the tips of your fingers, the curve of your waistline, the ridges of your trachea, the divots of your collarbones. Fire perches itself as a phantom of touch, burning into the skin. The musculature of his back flexes beneath your left hand as he covers your body. Leaning back on his heels, thighs flexing on the sides of your legs, he pulls the hem of his shirt up.

You savor him. Skin glows like moonlight under the approaching moon, and your fingers slide along the expanse of his stomach. Pushing yourself up, you catch his lips another time, and another, hands roaming across his pectorals and neck.

“Can I take your shirt off?” He asks between kisses, arms supporting the circumflex of your back. His wish is granted, and as he departs from your face, he pinches the Liyuean silk between his thumb, index, and middle fingers, pulling it up to reveal your chest. There is a technique behind each audacious caress; the subtle liberation of your bra, his built arms pressing you chest-to-chest, the chaste trail he paints down your abdomen. He pauses.

“Is something wrong?” You mutter, splayed out on the couch cushions. The nakedness is frightening, and now that the action has stopped, a shiver begins to tease your skin.

“I think we’ve reached the part where we strip. I don’t want to alarm you, so I’ll ask: is it alright if I fully undress you and myself?” His constant confirmation is reassuring, but a small section of your consciousness dwindles on the robotic nature of it all. Each action reeks of formulation and plagiarism - like a schoolboy gleaning answers from a neighbor, or an essay using sections of Akasha terminal outputs. I don’t care. I don’t care at all.

“Be my guest.” Then, you are bare against his chest. Everything is warm, and the man dons a charming flush across his cheeks and chest. His fingers are akin to a honey wand in a pot, covered in the fruits of his labor as he clenches your fingers with his free hand. Small groans and intakes of breath permeate the room, creating a sickly sweet humidity. When he unbuckles his slacks, you turn to the side, shock and shame intermingling into one. Noticing, his thumb catches your cheek.

“I promise to be gentle. Tell me everything that comes to your mind. Your input is important to me.” The moonlight has enveloped the entire room. Few corners are hidden under its judgment, and the man above you is a beauty. Like sparkles at sea. Like pearls clutched between strings. Like a golden girdle lost on the battlefield. 

“I love you, Alhaitham.”

Port Ormos has one notable inn. The remaining options are either on the outskirts of town or surrounded by the “undesirables” of society. It is Najjar Palace, a one-star inn, that has the misfortune of hosting you. Outside of the dim entrance, Alhaitham holds your robes as you vomit into the bushes. It has been a few hours, and after an extended walk and a pitcher of ice water, soberness begins to creep in. Tears dot your face, and smudges of kohl mark your under eye. 

“I’m sorry. Our first meeting in years, and I get shitfaced.” Regret blossoms in your countenance. He shrugs, handing the fine robes back to you.

“I can’t act holier than thou after becoming inebriated myself. Do you feel well enough to carry on?” The moon is a picturesque reflection of Lesser Lord Kusanali tonight. Its pale expanse is large and smooth, dust catching in its earth-bound light. Sitting down, you gaze at its fullness. How is it that the moon is always there for your more humbling moments?

“I feel good now.” He nods, then connects your focus to the brightness in the sky. He stares at it, too. Sighing, you state, “It's always here when we’re together. The moon.”

“It was a full moon that night as well, wasn’t it?” Alhaitham adds, cape draped against the cement floor. 

“I didn’t even realize. I was so upset,” a breeze disrupts the branches above and you laugh, “I think there’s a journal somewhere where I compared you to about thirty different things. Some good, some bad, but the pages were filled with edgy similes. Like Kepler’s orbits, like Newton’s cradle…” You recount, snorting.

“I’m sorry,” Alhaitham says, a softness lining the clouds of his words. He stiffens, “I broke things off in a way that ignored your feelings. That was unusually inefficient of me.” 

“...I tried to forget your name. It’s been so long since I’ve said it without scolding myself afterward. I tried very hard to forget you, Alhaitham.” One leaf falls onto your scalp, and you pluck it off and throw it to the brush. The atmosphere is refreshing. Genuine, yet understood. 

“It is unbecoming to my personal morals to stay in a relationship forever tainted by inequality. For everything I gave, you gave much more. It never evened out, and it didn’t sit well with me.” He reveals, crossing his ankle over his knee yet again. You remember feeling that way - like he didn’t care. Just like he predicted. You remembered the betrayal when you found his belongings moved out and his contact changed. You remember when he left you, and you were forced to leave him. You remember thinking about him for the next year, jotting down notes in the leatherbound journal he had gifted you on your twelfth birthday.

Like the concluding lines in a Shakespearian sonnet, fresh cream and cut peaches, or the blazing sun and the gentle moon. Like death harvesting life, an endless bonfire gobbling up surrounding air, or soldiers losing lives to fight soldiers losing lives. Like Kepler’s elliptical orbits. Like an oil spill in the harbor. Like basic arithmetic. Like the burn of a red stove. Like adult secrets. Like dew on a frosted morning. Like streams of snowmelt.  Like faith and doubt. Like bread and wine. Like iron and coal.  Like the white flesh of pomegranates mixed with red seeds. Like raw and unaged pu-erh.  Like a hook caught in the flank. Like the milliseconds before an earthquake. Like a judge at the podium.Like an abyss beneath the sand. Like dancers in the rain. Like a whale beneath the ship. Like crime and punishment. Like a kiss upon the altar. Like a veil raised in love and lowered in grief.  Like covering ears and reading lips. Like fruit on the cutting board. Like an antidote to poison. Like sparkles at sea. Like pearls clutched between strings. Like a golden girdle lost on the battlefield. 

You were everything that has ever been to me, you want to say. It beats true in your heart and veins, knocking at the bars like an aggravated prisoner, but nothing spews from your lips. Nothing but this. 

“It’s late. Thank you for taking care of me, Alhaitham. Goodnight.” You don’t turn around to see his wave or nod or whatever nonchalant gesture he’s resorted to. The inn is 10,000 per night. You hand the receptionist 50,000. You unlock the room, rampant with musk and stains. You sit down on the sheets. Your eyes close.

In the morning, Alhaitham is nowhere to be seen. Everything feels a bit clearer. I think I am okay with remembering you now, you think. I am okay with forgetting, too. Remembrance and forgetfulness. Giving and receiving. What an idiot. 

[la-femme-au-collier-vert]

From the Library of Anne Rice (Part 2)

Cherubs Angels of Love.  Boston: Little, Brown, & Company, 1994. Inscribed. 

Horst His Work and His World.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984. With a note. 

Arroyo, Raymond. The Spider Who Saved Christmas.  Sophia Institute Press, 2020. Inscribed. 

Chester, Laura. Free Rein. Providence: Burning Deck, 1988. Ownership Signature. Inscribed. 

Frankel, Ellen. The Illustrated Hebrew Bible. New York: Steward, Tabori, & Chang. 

Hendrick, Susan & Vilma Machette. World Colors Dolls & Dress.  Grantville, Maryland: Hobby House Press, 1997. Inscribed.

Kepler, Lars.  The Sandman.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2018. With a note. 

Laughlin, Clarence John. Ghost Along the Mississippi. New York: Bonanza Books, 1961.  

Link, Luther. The Devil Mask without a Face.  Reaktion Books, 1995. With a note. 

Lopez, George R. and Perron Andrea. In a Flicker.  AuthorHouse, 2015. Inscribed. 

Nelson, Robert S. and Kristen M. Collins.  Holy Image and Hallowed Ground Icons from Sinai.  Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, 2007. Inscribed. 

Pearson, Dave. Byzantium and Beyond. The Dave Pearson Trust, 2012. With a note. 

Riesem, Richard O.  Mount Hope.  Landmark Society of Western New York, 1995. Inscribed.

Penny, Louise. The Nature of the Beast. New York: Minotaur Books, 2015. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise. A Great Reckoning. New York: Minotaur Books, 2016. With Anne Rice ownership signature and inscription.

Penny, Louise. Glass Houses. New York: Minotaur Books, 2017. Advance reading copy. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise, Kingdom of the Blind. New York: Minotaur Books, 2018. First edition, signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Penny, Louise.  A Better Man. New York: Minotaur Books, 2019. Signed and inscribed by Penny to Anne Rice.

Cazeau, Jean-Louis and Rick Knowlton. A World of Chess. Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2017. Inscribed by Knowlton to Anne Rice on the half-title: "You have given me many hours of pleasure with your vampire series! May you enjoy this peculiar corner of world culture I have been exploring...."

Brown, Nancy Marie. Ivory Vikings: The Mystery of the Most Famous Chessmen in the World and the Woman Who Made them. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2015. With Anne Rice ownership signature and annotations in red ink throughout.

Chernev, Irving and Kenneth Harkness. An Invitation to Chess. New York: Fireside Book, 1985. Minor annotations in red ink by Anne Rice throughout.

Ackroyd, Peter. Dickens. [New York]: HarperCollins Publisher, 1990.

Ackroyd, Peter. Dickens. [New York]: HarperCollins Publisher, 1990.

Bloom, Harold, editor. Charles Dickens. New York, Philadelphia: Chelsea House Publishers, 1987.

Cotsell, Michael. Critical Essays on Charles Dickens's 'Great Expectations'. Boston, Massachusetts: G.K. Hall & Co., 1990.

Dickens, Charles. A Christmas Carol. New York, London: W.W. Norton & Company, 2017. Gift inscription on the flyleaf. 

Dickens, Charles. American Notes. Mineola, New York: Dover Publication Inc., 2017.

Dickens, Charles. Bleak House. New York: Everyman's Library, 1991.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. New York: Barnes & Nobles Classics, 2004.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Great Expectations. Norwalk, Connecticut: The Easton Press, 1979.

Dickens, Charles. Hard Times. [New York]: Penguin Classics, 2011.

Dickens, Charles. Little Dorrit. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Nicholas Nickleby. New York: George Routledge and Sons, [1880].

Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist. New York: Everyman's Library, 1992.

Dickens, Charles. Our Mutual Friend. New York: Everyman's Library, 1994.

Dickens, Charles. The Mystery of Edwin Drood. New York: Modern Library, 2009.

Dickens, Charles. The Old Curiosity Shop. Mineola, New York: Dover Publication Inc., 2003.

Dickens, Charles. The Uncommercial Traveller and Reprinted Pieces. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press, 1989.

Forster, John. The Life of Charles Dickens, Volume 3: 1852-1870. [Cambridge, England]: Cambridge University Press, 2011.

Goodheart, Eugene, editor. Critical Insights: Charles Dickens. Pasadena, California and Hackensack, New Jersey: Salem Press, 2011.

Hammond, Mary. Charles Dickens's 'Great Expectations.' [London]: Ashgate, 2015.

Ingham , Patricia. Dickens, Women & Language. Toronto, Buffalo: University of Toronto Press, 1992.

Jordan, Joseph P. Dickens Novels as Verse. Madison, Teaneck: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2014.

Jordan, John O. The Cambridge Companion to Charles Dickens. [Cambridge, England]: Cambridge University Press, 2001.

Nelson, A.N. The Mystery of Charles Dickens. [New York]: Harper, 2020.

Pykett, Lyn. Critical Issues: Charles Dickens. [New York]: Palgrave, 2002.

Slater, Michael. Dickens and Women. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1983.

Slater, Michael. The Great Charles Dickens Scandal. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2012.

Tomalin, Claire. Charles Dickens: A Life. [New York]: Penguin Books, 2011.

Tomalin, Claire. The Invisible Woman. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

Wilson, Angus. The World of Charles Dickens. New York: The Viking Press, 1970.

[alexriesart]

is the birrin home world kepler 186 f it has red plats it hotter and dyder it this case it will be 557.7 light years away form earth it this true

I have not chosen a star for the birrin world, but it must be relatively close to Sol.

[kissingarthurclaus]

This time I'm really gonna do it!!!! (finish my fucking animatic)

[ao3feed-twiyor]

The Counting Clock

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/YqQlS2p by JunoDawn What if Anya did enlist her mother's help to stop her father’s death, catch the terrorist and save peace? --- Children cry. A lot. In frustration, from disappointment, over minor scares... Eventually you get a sense for the difference between a cry over something they'd call "no big deal" when they grow up, and a cry over something serious. The latter sends a jolt right to the chest. Summons a primal fear felt in every nerve and fibre of the body. "M-Mama, I’m scared." Words: 1823, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: SPY x FAMILY (Manga), SPY x FAMILY (Anime) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Loid Forger | Twilight, Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Anya Forger, Bond (SPY x FAMILY), Keith Kepler, Sylvia Sherwood | Handler, WISE Agents (SPY x FAMILY), Shopkeeper (SPY x FAMILY), Franky Franklin Relationships: Loid Forger | Twilight/Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess, Anya Forger & Loid Forger | Twilight & Yor Briar Forger | Thorn Princess Additional Tags: doggy crisis arc, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Honesty, Protective Parents, Identity Reveal, Swearing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Project Apple (SPY x FAMILY), Garden (SPY x FAMILY), WISE (SPY x FAMILY) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/YqQlS2p

[choicesficwriterscreations]

CFWC LGBTQIA Masterlist - Jan 2024

✒️ = Fanfic | 📱= Text Fics/Edits | 🎨= Fanart Ⓜ️ = Mature Content 18+ | 🔥 = Explicit/NSFW 18+ 🏳️‍🌈 = LGBTQIA | 🌟Choices Holidays 2023

ACROSS THE VOID

Captain Pandrosion Elara 🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹 | Sol, Meridian, Kepler, Pedrosian by @/artbyainna (IG) (C: @lilyoffandoms)

Sol x MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd

BLADES OF LIGHT AND SHADOW

Aerin Valleros x M!elf!MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd

Aerin Valleros x OC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd

Blades Fanfic ✒️🏳️‍🌈| Tyril x elf!mc x Mal x f!human!mc - @storyofmychoices

Healing Herbs 🎨🏳️‍🌈 🔹| f!Aerin Valleros x MC by @gaiuskamilah

Springs Eternal 🎨🏳️‍🌈 🔹| Mal Volari x MC - @gaiuskamilah

Tyril Starfury x MC 🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹by @gaiuskamilah

BLOODBOUND

Bloodbound MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹by @vampirkit

CRIMES OF PASSION

Gabriel Rose 🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹by @lilyoffandoms

THE CURSED HEART

Kieran x MC Fanart 🎨Ⓜ️🏳️‍🌈 by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd (C: @lilyoffandoms)

ENDLESS SUMMER

Grandchildren: Leonel 🎨🏳️‍🌈| Estela Montoya x MC - @marmolady

HIGH SCHOOL STORY

Aiden Zhou x MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @hydn-jpg for @cadybear420

IMMORTAL DESIRES

Breakfast Roast ✒️🏳️‍🌈| m!Cas x m!Gabriel x NB!MC - @aria-ashryver

Cas Harlow Fanart 2🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹by @aallotarenunelma

Immortal Desires Fanart ✒️🏳️‍🌈 | m!Cas x m!Gabriel x NB!MC - @aria-ashryver

Immortal Desires MC Fanart 🎨 🏳️‍🌈 by @lilyoffandoms for @aria-ashryver

Immortal Desires NB!MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @lilyoffandoms for @aallotarenunelma

Snow in Crimson, Starlight in Gold (Series) ✒️Ⓜ️🏳️‍🌈| m!cas x m!gabe x m!mc - @aria-ashryver Chapter 38: Heaven is Not Fit to House a Love Like You and I

IT LIVES SERIES

Abel Flint Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈🔹by @aallotarenunelma

Lincoln McQuoid x M!MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @somewillwin (C: @linkysmommy)

No Second Chances ✒️🏳️‍🌈🟣| Lincoln Aquino (McQuoid) x M!MC - @linkysmommy

Noah Marshall x M!MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈by @errajay

Snowed in at the Cabin ✒️🏳️‍🌈🌟| Lincoln McQuoid x NB!MC - @aallotarenunelma

Spirit, Stay Gentle (1/2) ✒️Ⓜ️🏳️‍🌈| Lincoln McQuoid x M!MC - @abelflints

The Rainbow Recipe Book ✒️🏳️‍🌈🔹 by @aallotarenunelma

LAWS OF ATTRACTION

Hold Me Close ✒️🏳️‍🌈🔹| Gabe Ricci x M!MC - @choicesmc

Serving Cunt and Justice 🎨🏳️‍🌈| Multiple Characters by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd

OPEN HEART

Countdown to 2024 🎨🏳️‍🌈🌟| OH F!MC, OH F!OC, OH F!MC2 art by @/artbyainna (IG) (C: @lilyoffandoms for @storyofmychoices @jerzwriter)

Halloween (Series) ✒️🏳️‍🌈| OH M!MC - @mydemonsdrivealimo Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

"I'll pour... Now tell me more!" ✒️🏳️‍🌈🔹| Bryce Lahela, F!MC - @jerzwriter

THE ROYAL ROMANCE

Anything But Common (Series) ✒️🏳️‍🌈| Hana Lee & MC - @silvermillenniumqueenneptune Magical Misadventures in Miscellany

Unexpected (Series) ✒️Ⓜ️🏳️‍🌈🔹| Liam x Maxwell x Riley - @angelasscribbles Chapter 12: The Beginning

VEIL OF SECRETS

Jeff Duffy x MC Fanart 🎨🏳️‍🌈 by @oh-so-youre-a-nerd

[xarrixii]

F/B Chapter_48 : "Daffodils"

CW: mention of child abuse, small quarrel between friends

TL;DR: Harlow and Alph meet up, revealing some of the unusual tension in Alph's head. Their conversation is interrupted by Gabriel calling.

previous chapter | beginning | masterlist | next chapter

/ / / / / | ---

The instruction manual flapped beneath his thigh, and Harlow sniffled in the cold air along with the snap of two pieces fitting together. He held the incomplete flower in one hand, grabbing his lighter and coaxing the flame toward where he’d fit the pieces together, having to snap open the lid a few times for a flame to actually spark.

The difference was that Harlow wanted to melt the plastic for the flowers.

He repeated the process several times to finish the daffodil, but the lighter seemed to finally click out at the last piece of the stem.

“Really?” Harlow vocalized and let out a sigh.

He jumped when someone spoke behind him, “Better than it giving out in the middle of a fight, yeah?”

Harlow made a low note and relaxed, letting Raiden plop down next to him and kick their legs far more excitedly over the edge. Raiden laughed, lightly, and leaned forward while snapping their thumb alight and holding it out.

“Need a light?”

Harlow only hummed, but ended up taking it. He pushed his glasses back up with the back of one hand before continuing to graze the fire around the plastic. Raiden laughed—again, and looked at Harlow as if that would magically give them something to talk about.

“What happened to your nose?” Raiden asked.

His immediate reaction was to touch his nose, and he breathed out the stupidity of it. “I got punched yesterday, square in the face. Could have died, actually, extremely tragic.”

“Ah,” Raiden related, tapping their fingers along the edge of the roof and looking back out at the city. “That’s from your turf war.”

“Child trafficking bust,” Harlow corrected with a sniffle. “Kepler was up my ass. Surprised it’s all I got away with.”

“The chief punched you?”

“No,” Harlow snickered, snapping some more of the daffodils together. “Got jumped entering a room.” Raiden nodded. “Liam and everyone else on the job couldn’t get to me, so halfway to unconsciousness, death, whatever, point is there was a hand on my throat, I had to manipulate fire I couldn’t even see. In the spur of the moment I didn’t really care, but⸺ That’s, significant, isn’t it?”

Harlow would’ve needed to be blind not to notice Raiden tense up drastically.

He set the flower he was working on down to free up a hand, grasping the one where Raiden had a flame poking out of the thumb. “Hey I’m, fine. I walked out of a gunfight with all my blood and guts. I’d call that an achievement.”

Raiden squeezed Harlow’s hand, hard. Their voice came out surprisingly angry, “That’s not fine, Urb, Cinder left you to fend for yourself. Again.”

Harlow’s face dropped. “This isn’t like leaving me in an armored truck. It literally wasn’t safe to get to me.”

“You still could’ve—died, and they would’ve just kept moving.” Raiden’s eyes met Harlow’s, and there was something in there that made Harlow want to hurl. Some kind of amplified hatred. “How are you not angry about that? I know for one fact Storm wouldn’t just abandon⸺”

“Ainsley spawned a fire for me to use, Raiden. I wasn’t left to rot.”

“What if you were too delirious to use it?”

“The point is that someone tried.” Harlow spat and instantly regret, swiping his hand away. “Just like I tried to get to you. At least Ainsley didn’t trip and fall at the final hurdle like I did.”

“Don’t⸺” Raiden cut themself off and sighed, running their hand through their hair and ruffling it. “Sorry. I didn’t want to start arguing. That’s my bad.”

Harlow stayed silent, an exasperated breath coming out of him through white air. He felt numb and got up from hanging his legs off the side of the roof, taking the instruction manual under him and stuffing it back into the box along with all the daffodils and plastic petals he’d taken out.

“I’m starting to freeze up here,” Harlow said instead with a police siren humming in the streets below. “Come on. We’ll go chill in the truck. You drive.”

Raiden huffed, but got up. “What if I get pulled over?”

“A shame you think so lowly of your ability to follow the law,” Harlow jested. “Didn’t stop you from driving up here from wherever your Storm nonsense is.”

“Carlson,” Raiden answered without hesitation, grin spilling over their face. “I do miss my truck.”

A staircase descent and heaving a motorcycle into a truckbed later, Harlow rested his head against the truck’s fans blowing warm air at him. Raiden started chuckling as they pulled it out of the space Harlow had parked it in. The traffic was surprisingly pretty good for the afternoon.

Harlow hummed and raised his head. “So what did you want to talk about when you gave me like eighteen notifications this morning?”

“Chief Kepler.” When Harlow raised an eyebrow, Raiden laughed. “You’re probably his new obsession.”

“That’s an interesting way to view the situation,” Harlow says while cracking a smile.

“Not in the⸺ Remember, when we robbed that bank last June?”

“Right.”

Raiden started to talk with their hands, even while they were securely against the wheel. “Yeah. Kep got interested, ‘cause leaving behind one of your guys is a pretty unique situation. I found him doing research on telepathy, viewing security cameras from the stores along the street, he even went up to me and asked about car anatomy.”

They paused to crane their head at the vehicle in front, tapping the horn three short times. “He gave up when he stopped getting leads, but one guy I know put it together, so I know Kepler’s going to. Reoccurring characters are like a kink for that guy.”

“I feel like that would have fit into eighteen text messages,” Harlow noted lightheartedly.

“Maybe I just wanted to hang out. Like before” —Raiden made a wild hand motion— “you know. My mum, and Liam, and this fight to uphold standards of justice. Storm’s fight.”

Harlow scrunched up, a little, and then sat up straighter in the passenger.

What the hell happened to you?

He managed to find a way to redirect the conversation onto something else entirely, and when they stopped at a gas station to fill up the truck, Harlow’s phone started ringing from his bag. He fished it out and didn’t hesitate to pick up when he saw the name, putting it on speaker.

“Gabe, what’s up?”

His eyes were staring intently at the text messages that had ended maybe two months ago abruptly and completely without warning, and then the words popped up.

Mom and Dad know about my telepathy.

Mom’s blaming you in the kitchen.

I stood up for you.

Harlow cringed, so visibly that Raiden turned and opened the door from where they were waiting for the tank to fill up. “Urb?”

I got hit.

Help. I don’t know what to do.

“Gabe, you need, you have to call the police, okay?” Harlow could let it slide against himself. He knew nothing would ever turn in his favor, and he’d learned to live with that. “I know it’s gonna suck, to hang up with me, but you have to call them. Can you please do that for me?”

Harlow shimmied out of the passenger and started to haul the motorcycle off the truckbed when Raiden finished up the gas purchase and helped.

“Urban, what’s going on?”

“Raiden, I have to go,” was all Harlow said while latching the truckbed up again. “We can talk another time, this is, important. It’s Gabe.”

“What happened to Gabe?” Raiden asked, and at Harlow’s expression backed off to let him hop into the driver’s seat and start kicking the truck out of the lot. Harlow heard something crash through the other side of the phone and pulled it away from him as if it would help while on speaker.

I can’t. I can’t hang up.

“Okay. I⸺” Harlow sucked in a breath. “I will call the cops. I need you to stay put, alright? I—I’ll get off the call with them and I’ll call you again.”

Please don’t hang up.

Please.

Please.

“Can you get into Pierre’s room? Mine should be open, there’s a key under my desk. You can enter it through the balcony, there.”

Okay.

Harlow hated this, switching on a blinker at an intersection giving him a red light fuck-yourself. “Gabe, I’m going to call the cops, but I will call you right back, alright? I will be right back.”

Gabriel’s next text came through when Harlow hung up, dialing in the three numbers and praying district four’s officers weren’t busy with something else. He forced himself not to cry through the call, the address, the reason, hanging up and calling Gabriel back.

He forced himself to hit the gas pedal.

To park in the lot.

To go up the elevator.

To walk down the hall.

“Gabe,” Harlow said hoarsely. “I’m gonna need you to put on the headphones, around the lamp. Can you please do that for me?”

Damn it, Harlow thought absently. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I put them on.

Harlow hung up and slammed open the apartment door.

next chapter | masterlist

/ / / / / | --- missing a content warning? let me know

monday updates! i'm doing it! woo!

taglist (ask to go on or off): @lychhiker-writes, @madeoforgansandtissues, @fins0up

[magnetic-red-giants]

Magnetic activity of F stars observed by Kepler

The first measure of magnetic activity I will be looking into is known as Sph. This paper introduces this concept in a very understandable way, however the measure itself is limited in its capabilities due to a number of factors which I will talk about in another post.

Context. The study of stellar activity is important because it can provide new constraints for dynamo models when combined with surface rotation rates and the depth of the convection zone. We know that the dynamo mechanism, which is believed to be the main process that rules the magnetic cycle of solar-like stars, results from the interaction between (differential) rotation, convection, and magnetic field. The Kepler mission has already been collecting data for a large number of stars during four years allowing us to investigate magnetic stellar cycles.

Aims. We investigated the Kepler light curves to look for magnetic activity or even hints of magnetic activity cycles. Based on the photometric data we also looked for new magnetic indexes to characterise the magnetic activity of the stars. Methods. We selected a sample of 22 solar-like F stars that have a rotation period shorter than 12 days. We performed a time-frequency analysis using the Morlet wavelet yielding a magnetic proxy for our sample of stars. We computed the magnetic index Sph as the standard deviation of the whole time series and the index ⟨ Sph ⟩, which is the mean of standard deviations measured in subseries of length five times the rotation period of the star. We defined new indicators, such as the contrast between high and low activity, to take into account the fact that complete magnetic cycles are not observed for all the stars. We also inferred the Rossby number of the stars and studied their stellar background. Results. This analysis shows different types of behaviour in the 22 F stars. Two stars show behaviour very similar to magnetic activity cycles. Five stars show long-lived spots or active regions suggesting the existence of active longitudes. Two stars in our sample seem to have a decreasing or increasing trend in the temporal variation of the magnetic proxies. Finally, the last group of stars shows magnetic activity (with the presence of spots) but no sign of cycle.