#is a fascinating historical phenomenon

[whetstonefires]

Japan was convinced a fight across the Pacific with the US for Imperial Domination was inevitable destiny, and by Japan I mean the Japanese fascist party mostly, though, you know, they were in control of the government.

The US was...not taking Japan seriously enough to return that estimation.

We didn't place belated oil sanctions on them in 1940 because we'd been planning to fight them the whole time. We'd have stopped selling them fuel a lot sooner if we'd reciprocated the nemesis drama!

Crazy how like 90% of the United States' involvement in WW2 stemmed from our competition with Japan for colonial conquests in the Pacific which happened to lead us into our only anti-fascist alliance in our entire history which was de facto abandoned before the war was even over for the more important goal of containing communism and this has been reframed in the decades since as "the United States beat the Nazis"

[ourstaturestouchtheskies]

Aerial View of Suburban Levittown, PA, ca. 1959 – unknown photographer // The Sprawling Lights of Los Angeles and the Surrounding Area Seen from Inspiration Point, Mount Lowe, ca. 1950 – unknown photographer // Suburban Legends – Taylor Swift

[jeremiahthefroge]

yeah ok so I caved. Lit up another bowl, opened a new folder on my Obsidian vault, and I'm gonna rewatch the minecraft diaries and I'm going to take detailed notes on everything plot related I can, separated episode by episode, make observations, and then create a little personal wikipedia of my interpretations of the characters as they appear on the show.

I just did episode one to do what is essentially a "am I capable of watching this" test (I feared since it was 2016 youtube that I was into in the year 2016, a historically terrible year for me, that I would have some HEAVILY BIASED ideas on the quality of this show, and that if I rewatched I would ruin it for myself) and I honestly didn't have too hard of a time with the youtube of it all. Cringe is and has been dead, and I'm looking at this like a fun little excercise in studying how this piece of media tells the story it tells.

Speaking of, I find it so interesting how the machinima of Zenix and Garroth kicks us off and we then have Aphmau speaking as like... a comentary youtuber. The machinima sets up a plot that isn't even hinted more at in the episode, too, but I can see the first 10 or whatever episodes having all been recorded in 1 batch all at once and then cut up. I don't recall how characterized Aphmau gets in this whole thing.

And also I find Aphmau doing the voices for Garroth and Zenix so unironically fun and endears me to the series. Idk why but it made me smile!

I'll probably liveblog more of this experience bc I'm incapable of keeping my mouth shut.

[taliesinman]

ep 1 of the history of resistance miniseries of the preoccupation pod is the only thing that makes me want to remotely look into military schooling of empires. this is homework i'd need to do for contextual historical hetalia but it's more enjoyable when i think about specifically ottoman military schools

[ddarker-dreams]

A Deal's a Deal II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, descriptions of anxiety and emotional/mental manipulation. Word count: 4.1k.

Prev

You met Chrollo at an old hole-in-the-wall bookstore that housed archaic texts. 

There was little information on your condition, but what material did exist hid itself beneath allegory and ciphers. The best leads came from high strangeness circles. They expanded on Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, drawing parallels between historical records across cultures and periods that all implied some system that transcended physical limitations. Whether it came from alchemists like Paracelsus, mystics like Crowley, or authors like William Blake, hints of this system can be found sprinkled throughout history. 

Chrollo informed you that this system is commonly called ‘Nen.’

Before him, the nomenclature eluded you. You simply regarded it as a phenomenon best kept to yourself. The world’s a weird place, filled with inexplicable things that the human mind can’t always comprehend. This handheld device, which you nicknamed Instant Replay, is the foremost example.

You were always aware that you knew things you shouldn’t have. As a child, it perplexed you. Why do people sometimes sound weird? A few trips to the audiologist proved your hearing is perfectly fine. When this avenue didn’t provide answers, you ended up in counseling, where you reenacted the dilemma with dolls. For a while, you insisted that what you heard was real. It frustrated you to no end that the adults in your life either dismissed you or offered bromides. 

As an adult yourself in the present, you can’t blame them for being at a loss. 

You smartened up eventually. What you once blabbed about to anyone who would listen, you kept to yourself. This eased the tensions at home. Your parents seemed happy that the issue had ‘resolved’ itself and you maintained the illusion. Playing pretending could only do so much — the core problem remained. Your mind made the connection that when another was being dishonest, that’s when their voice would sound strange. After you realize that, there’s no going back. The epiphany changed how you interacted with others for better and for worse. 

“You want to get rid of your ability?” he sounded surprised when he asked. 

“How could I not?” you replied. “People lie… a lot. Friends, family, strangers. And, okay, that might not seem bad, but imagine always being aware of it. It— It eats away at you. Wears down your ability to trust. I have to act like I’m none the wiser, knowing full well someone just lied to my face. I don’t want to know! I’m tired of knowing!” 

“You’re unable to control when it’s active?” 

“Instant Replay lets me ‘review’ audio, both in real-time and after it’s been recorded. I have control over the latter, but that’s it.”

Your antagonistic relationship with Nen fascinated Chrollo. According to him, most people were intentional when it came to crafting their Hatsu. There are very few cases like yours where Hatsu is subconsciously given shape and form. You wish your subconscious had created something more useful, like a sword. That would’ve been cool. 

“Could I learn a new ability to oust Instant Replay?” you wondered. 

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Chrollo dismissed. “In theory, it is possible to learn different abilities, although your inexperience would make that difficult. There’s no way to erase an ability either. You can, however, lose access to it. For instance, there’s my predicament, or…” 

He leaned in close and whispered: 

“... Someone could steal it.” 

-

Chrollo looks out of place in your apartment.  

It’s a cozy, lived-in space, full of trinkets that he thoughtfully examines as if he were in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you prepare two cups of tea. Chamomile with honey for you and Earl Grey for him. After setting the timer for five minutes, you realize there’s not much else to do but wait. The silence is unusual and unnerving. Anticipation thrums through the air like an electric current. You feel it coursing through your blood; tingling along your skin. 

The barstool you’ve chosen as your perch groans against the wooden floor as you pull it out.

Chrollo picks up a picture for closer inspection. You crane your neck, curious about which snapshot captured his attention. It’s from a night out with friends. Empty plates and drinks littered the table and each of you crowded in close to fit into frame. Since the restaurant was high-end, you were dolled up, adorned in an outfit that rarely saw the light of day. 

“Swarovski?” He sounds amused. 

“I’ve been known to splurge on the occasion,” you huff. “The necklace was on sale and the earrings were—” 

You cut yourself off, although you’re unsure why. It shouldn’t be a taboo topic. Nonetheless, beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t get the word out. 

“—From an ex?” He offers. 

You nod. 

He returns the picture to its proper place, a cryptic smile on his lips. “So even you aren’t above materialistic impulses, hm?” 

“There’s a difference between rampant consumerism and buying yourself something nice on occasion,” you retaliate, disliking the edge of mockery in his voice. “I don��t need to hear this from the dude wearing a silver Rolex watch.” 

“It’s white gold.” 

You roll your eyes. “A camel through the eye of a needle.” 

“‘First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.’” 

“Do you seriously have the entire King James version of the Bible memorized?” 

“It was one of the most accessible texts in my youth,” he says, his smile softening into something pensive. “The missionaries were far more generous with those showing signs of ‘progress.’ I tried helping my companions memorize the more significant passages, but they weren’t what you’d call ideal pupils.” 

Missionaries? You purse your lips and consider the implications. Had Chrollo grown up in destitution? Come to think of it, you know very little about him or his background. Unlike you, he never volunteered the information. He skillfully maneuvered around any inquiry into his past. The most you’ve gleaned is that he’s a traveling antiquarian who, in pursuit of valuables, made some enemies along the way. 

The shrill shriek of the timer rips you from your thoughts. 

Chrollo accepts his mug with a “thank you” and sits on the rightmost side of your coach. After plopping two ice cubes into your concoction, you join him, leaving ample room between you. The nerves from earlier return. He’s an easy man to converse with, but when his mind is preoccupied — as it most certainly is now — you’re at a loss. Do you try reinitiating banter? Opt for a completely different topic? Or should you let him initiative, squirming around until he breaks the thickening tension? 

“Have I held you in suspense long enough?” Chrollo asks while holding his hand out. A book with a handprint on the cover appears, the pages flipping too fast for you to gauge their contents.

The quality of his aura temporarily stupefies you. This must be the difference between a novice like yourself and a genius. You can muster up enough aura to summon Instant Replay, but that takes considerable effort. To him, managing the flow of aura comes as easy as breathing. You scooch closer to study his technique. How long would it take you to match his expertise? Years? Decades? 

“I’ll get bashful if you keep staring at me like that.” 

“Liar,” you accuse without any real malice. 

He chuckles.

“Give me your hand.” 

Heat rushes to your face as you recall what happened when you last parted. “D-Do I have to?” 

“Yes.” 

Hesitantly, you do as he requests. He maneuvers your hand against the conjured book’s cover. You gnaw on your bottom lip, trepidation brewing inside your soul. You thought you’d feel relieved when this moment came. There’d be some butterflies, yes, but that would quickly give way to relief and exhilaration. The thorn that’s been in your side all these years is finally coming out. Your quid pro quo has reached its conclusion; this is your reward, your ticket to a normal life. 

“I like you too.” 

“I’ll be there whenever you need me.”

“It’s okay if you come.” 

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

“We’ll always be together.”

Yes, people lie a lot. Sometimes, you’re unsure if they’re even aware of it themselves. They lie to you, the people they love, the people they hate, and themselves. Fate decided you’d be made witness to their folly, sewing your lips shut and eyes wide open. The wounds it left behind are intangible and incurable. How do you heal what you can’t explain knowing to others? How do you explain your hesitation, shift in demeanor, and inadequate coverup? 

The sound of Instant Replay whirring reverberates throughout your skull. 

Chrollo speaks your name softly. You startle, realizing that you’re blinking back tears. 

“I—” 

“It’s alright,” he reassures. The words sound crisp — genuine — soothing your budding concern that you’re inconveniencing him somehow. In an instant, the hardcover dissipates, leaving your hand flat against nothing. Chrollo takes the opportunity to come closer. When you don’t protest, he completely closes the distance, until you’re thigh to thigh. 

He smells good. Intoxicatingly so. 

“Show me the ability you despise so much, dear.” 

Dear? You think to protest the emergence of this nickname, yet you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you follow his order, mechanically lifting your arm and summoning your ability much like he had. 

“Good. It’s almost over with,” he brushes the wetness away from your eyes with his knuckles. Your heart leaps at the contact. “Finally, I have to ask about your ability. There are so many possibilities… what to choose, what to choose… ah.” 

With the same hand that wiped away your nascent tears, he cups your cheek.

“Do you trust a man like me with such a dangerous ability?” 

“I have my reservations,” you respond. You don’t miss the amusement he derives from your candidness. “This sounds bad, but… at this point, I guess I just don’t care.” 

For a moment, all is still. There’s no odor of sulfur, maniacal cackling, or declaration that the ritual is complete. You didn’t have to sign a contract in blood or swear an oath to an infernal being. Your overactive imagination ran numerous scenarios through your head. The lack of flair over this life-defining moment is almost underwhelming. You frown, fearing that there was an error somewhere along the way. If there was, he’s given no indication, yet you’ll remain restless until the results are confirmed. 

“Chrollo?” 

“Hm?” 

“Did it work?” 

“It did, love.” 

“Could you, um,” you lick your lips, a motion that draws his attention. “Make something up so I can know for sure?” 

This request amuses him.

“How will you know if I’m being honest to mess around with you or not?” 

At this, you give him a light shove. Given his apparent playfulness, you expected him to move back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. It felt like trying to move a concrete building. 

“Make it an obvious lie, then.” 

“An obvious lie, hm?” He mulls over your suggestion. “Very well. How about this: I don’t want you beneath me.” 

You gape at him, dumbstruck. 

“I find it easy to control my urges around you.” 

He keeps going. 

“I’m unmoved by your beauty…” 

He gently pushes your shoulders until you’re lying down. 

“... Your wit…” 

He hovers above you, tracing the outline of your lips with his pointer finger. 

“... And boundless charm.” 

Chrollo tilts your head up by your chin. “Well? Do you believe me now?” 

Slowly, as if in a daze, you nod. Your heart lurches, the organ beating loud enough to hear in your ears. You feel uncomfortably warm, like your heater’s been cranked to the highest setting. Gradually, the violent joy you expected to accompany your liberation abounds, starting at your chest and overflowing outward. You’re smiling, breathless, your corporeal form barely able to contain the glee. You see your reflection in Chrollo’s eyes. There’s a manic quality to your countenance; you barely recognize yourself. 

You’re free, you’re free, you’re free— 

His lips find yours. Your cognition short circuits, leaving you in a reverie where you can barely understand what’s happening. He handles you so carefully that it’s easy to forget you’re physically trapped. He carries on, either failing to notice your apprehension or disregarding it. 

On some level, you’ve always sensed this underlying attraction. You remained purposefully obtuse. There was too much at stake — jeopardizing your aims for a fling felt counterintuitive. On paper, he’d make for the ideal partner. He’s devilishly handsome, charismatic, and intelligent to a fault. Aside from some dubious morality, you couldn’t ask for a better suitor. 

And still, hesitation prevailed. 

Every now and then, there’d be glimpses of some great, existential threat, beneath the fissures of his porcelain mask. These glimpses gave you pause. You think he could’ve tried harder to hide these damning qualities, yet chose not to. Where’s the fun — the thrill — in always playing nice? You needed his help more than he needed yours. His connections spanned continents, whereas yours were shallow and easy to uproot. 

How many of your convictions would you compromise? 

How far would you let the poison spread to cure another affliction? 

How can you look down on him if you’ve fallen to the same level? 

When he pulls away, you avert your gaze, fearing what stares back. 

“... So you are afraid of me, then.” 

Chrollo lets you wriggle out from underneath him. When your eyes make brief contact, it feels like he’s inspecting you, as if you were a specimen in a petri dish. It isn’t the reaction you’d expect from a rejected man. Nonetheless, you’re on edge and longing for a menial task to occupy yourself with. Recalling the state of the kitchen, you decide that will suffice. 

He remains seated as you wash and dry the implements used to make your tea. 

This uncharacteristic silence unsettles you further. The only audible sound in your apartment is your faucet, the water running over silverware that’s plenty clean. You scrub at it harder, wondering what you should do next. Originally, you intended to thank him for his pivotal role in removing your burden. You never would have made it this far without his assistance. Even with this strange atmosphere, your gratitude remains unwavering. 

You’ll be able to live life like anyone else now. It’s an accomplishment worthy of celebration, regardless of the twists and turns along the way. Maybe he misinterpreted your body language or acted on an impulse. These mistakes can happen when emotions run high. 

Okay, you think, psyching yourself up. This doesn’t have to be weird. I can—

“Have you given much thought over last week’s unpleasantness?” 

Your heart skips a beat and your shoulders droop. 

“I assume you haven’t,” he says. “That’s fair. It must’ve been frightening… I wish I could have spared you such an experience.” 

The appreciation he previously instilled in you desiccates, drop by drop. 

“Will you please get to the point?” 

Under different circumstances, you would’ve been more patient with his preamble, but this is a sore subject. A buried corpse like that shouldn’t be exhumed. His reasoning, though elusive to you now, doesn’t inspire warm sentiments. 

“That incident won’t be the last of its kind.”

You turn around as he approaches, sipping his tea. He leans against the counter and eyes you over the cup’s rim. 

“In truth, we should’ve left hours ago, but I was feeling sentimental.” 

“‘We?’ Chrollo, what are you talking about?” 

“Had it not been for your role in getting my Nen back, Hisoka would’ve killed you,” Chrollo says this so casually that you question if you’re hearing him right. “Now that you’ve done your part, he has a vested interest in doing so.” 

You no longer have a way to verify if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s so stupid, so unfair, that you almost laugh. Instant Replay no longer heeds your call. You surrendered it to a new master, who, before taking it from your willing hands, all but told you he was the worst person you could’ve picked. 

Chrollo continues, “He’s a peculiar case. All he cares about is fighting formidable opponents, and, with my Nen returned, I am one.”

You take a step back.

“That business is between you two. I fail to see how this involves me.” 

“I have preparations to finish before I face him,” Chrollo explains. “He doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Harming you is an excellent way to speed things along. Even I don’t know what I’d do if you were fatally injured.” 

You shake your head. “I— you’re not serious. There’s just no way. I’m moving past all of this bullshit. Nen, Hatsu, whatever; that has nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done.” 

“I’m sorry, dear.” 

“No, you aren’t!” Your voice raises in pitch, pulled as taut as a bowstring. “You knew, didn’t you? That this would be a problem? Oh, oh, you had to, why else would you have acted all weird when you saw him? Stop looking at me like you care, like you’re sorry, 'cause this is the best-case scenario for you!” 

You pace back and forth, your mind racing. This was a mistake. Walking up to him because you recognized the book in his hands was a mistake. Is he bluffing? And if he is, does it matter? You can’t put up a fight. You don’t think you could even make it to the door. If he was a regular man, you’d have options. You could yell for help, call the cops, and inflict some damage, minor as it may be. All those tactics turn to ash before an oppressive, incomprehensible force like this. 

You snap your head in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say something?” 

“I don’t see how that will help.” 

You prepare to spew vitriol his way, when a dreadful thought shoots through you like a bullet. 

“My family. What about them? Won’t they be in danger too?” 

“They aren’t on his radar.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Chrollo sets the cup down. “The suffering of your loved ones wouldn’t elicit a reaction from me, so he won’t bother. Targeting you is the wisest option.” 

Words fail you. Is this it? The depravity he kept subdued finally let loose, so dense in its quality that it threatens to suffocate you? All you wanted was a semblance of normalcy. Normal relationships, interactions, and problems. Has the path you’ve treaded brought you further away from this humble aspiration? Or is there still a way, some faint silver lining that you must find and latch onto? 

“What about after?” 

“Hm?” 

“After Hisoka is dealt with,” you clarify, tapping your foot repeatedly. “You’re not going to let him live, are you?” 

“That’s rather dark.” 

“Chrollo,” you implore. 

“No, I won’t,” he confirms. “As for what comes next — I intend to persuade you.” 

You regard him with suspicion. His tone and the implications sink into you like a venomous bite. He exudes quiet confidence, indicating that nothing you’ve said will influence him in any meaningful way. Dread sticks to your stomach, making your body feel heavy. You hug yourself, clenching your upper arms with shaky fingers. Any lingering excitement from earlier has vaporized, leaving behind a profound hollowness. 

“I suppose this can go a few ways,” you murmur. “I could cause as many headaches for you as possible, or, I could be decent enough.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“I’d like to have Instant Replay back,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow. “Just for a bit. What? I’m assuming if you can steal something, you can give it back, right?” 

“You’d be correct. Still, that begs the question; what are you intending to accomplish with this little scheme?” 

“Nothing that’ll inconvenience you in any major way.” 

Chrollo falls silent. You dig your nails into your flesh as the seconds drag on, awaiting his verdict. If he had your ability activated, he should’ve been able to discern your honesty. Then again, he’s aware of the workarounds. To ensure your words wouldn’t register as untrue, you had to remain vague and subjective. What you consider an inconvenience could differ drastically from him. 

“I’m sure I won’t regret this.” 

Your eyes widen. That dissonant timbre is unmistakable, he returned your ability! Filled with newfound resolve, you stride toward him, your eyes blazing. This is your chance. You need to make the most of this opening before it’s gone forever. He could choose not to answer any of your questions, but something tells you he won’t, like it’d injure his pride. You issued him a challenge and he’s intent on meeting it. 

“Did you have anything to do with what happened last week?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Did Hisoka?” 

“No, he just happened to be observing you from afar.” 

“Why?” 

“For his personal amusement, I’d wager.” 

“He’d really kill me just to… agitate you?”

“It’s in line with his character.” 

You swallow thickly and press on. 

“And if you’re wrong?” 

“Then I’m wrong. Regardless, you’ll be alive and well.” 

“Can you win against him in a fight?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if you somehow lose, what happens next?” 

“My companions will hunt him down and kill him.” 

Now that you’ve gotten your most pressing inquiries out of the way, you decide to wade through dangerous waters. Chrollo likely saw the benefit in assuaging your doubt, these next questions provide him nothing substantial. His willingness to humor you is undoubtedly finite. Keeping this in mind, you consider the possibilities. You may never have a chance like this again. Is there anything that can give you an advantage? You’ll take anything, no matter how small, even if all it offers is an illusion of control. 

Chrollo glances at his watch in a not-so-subtle motion. 

“Who sealed your Nen?” 

“Now this is more what I expected,” he hums. His eyes take on a bright, unsettling shade. “An individual with a longstanding grudge. Your paths will not cross, I suggest adopting another plan of attack.” 

He saw right through you. You knew it was a long shot, but collaborating with this mysterious figure would have proven advantageous. They must be powerful in their own right to have bested Chrollo. Should you try pressing for more information? Then again, Chrollo doesn’t seem keen on sharing more, much to your chagrin. 

What does that leave you with…?

“How do you plan on ‘persuading’ me?” 

“You’re better off not knowing until we get to that point.” 

You frown. If that didn’t register as a lie, it must be what he genuinely believes. Curiosity plagues you, dredging up anxiety. You have but a few grains of sand left in the hourglass remaining. It’s suspended midair, poised to drop at the most ill-timed moment. The approach of the end is worse than its inevitable arrival. You now have the chance to hasten its onset, at the risk of being debilitated by the impact. What lows would he resort to? Are you actually better off remaining ignorant?

“Alright, let’s—” 

“Does it hurt to know I’ll never love you?” 

Up until this point, he’s fired back with a near instant response. This time, however, he hesitates, the invasive nature of the inquiry necessitating careful thought. You finally found an effective ‘attack.’ It’s too late to do you any lasting good, but you greedily devour it nonetheless. When dealing with a person of Chrollo’s caliber, it’s easy to forget he possesses the same human qualities you do. You might be unable to stop his heart from beating, but you can make the organ ache. 

“I can live with it, dear.” 

You pinch your eyebrows together, thrown off by his voice’s clarity. Is the knowledge that inconsequential to him? Have you misjudged his attachment? While considering this, you flex your fingers, concentrating your aura there. You can’t repeat his words back since Instant Replay wasn’t recording, but you still decide to conjure it. You’ll record what remains of this conversation to ensure you don’t miss anything else. 

The flow of your aura halts at your wrist, refusing to take form. Frowning, you try again, only to realize he must have reclaimed your ability. 

When did that happen? Was it before or after his response? 

Chrollo says your name, regaining your attention. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Will you do the same?” 

After playing the role of the interrogator, you’re back to being an inmate. You meant what you said — when you said it, that is. This is yet another loophole to subvert Instant Replay. What’s true to you in one instant can change in the next. It’s frightening how fast he’s learned these nuances that took you years to test and discover. He’s already making the most of your ability, turning what was a thorn in your side into a full-fledged dagger. 

“What choice do I have?” 

“There’s always a choice,” Chrollo asserts. “You just have a habit of making the wrong ones.” 

A delirious laugh leaves your lips. 

"... I suppose you're right."

[reiding-writing]

I know it’s against her nature but I NEED cold! reader giving Spencer a real genuine smile without even realizing it bc of how happy/safe/ loved he makes her feel😩😔

STEADY WARMTH. /spencer reid/

spencer radiates warmth like something you’ve never seen. almost enough to melt ice.

s10!cold!reader 1.6k fluff series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | live laugh love the oxford comma.

You’ve never been one for warmth.

It isn’t some calculated decision, nor is it a deliberate performance of aloofness—it’s simply who you are. You’re sharp edges and cool tones, eyes that linger a fraction too long, and a voice that lands just a bit too flat when you say thank you. You’ve been told it makes you hard to read. Distant. You don’t mind. It’s easier that way.

Or at least, it used to be.

Now, your fingers are loosely threaded with Spencer Reid’s as you walk down the street, and you think that maybe, somehow, your edges have been a little dulled. You should mind more than you do.

It should bother you that your armour—the thin, unyielding layer that separates you from everyone else—is a little less impenetrable when he’s around. You should feel exposed. But you don’t.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His scarf is twisted loosely around his neck, the navy wool tucked into his coat haphazardly, and his hair is a little unruly, messy from the wind. His free hand gestures mid-air as he explains some obscure historical fact he read in a book last night—a book he probably devoured in one sitting after you fell asleep beside him. His voice is animated but not loud. He doesn’t need volume to be captivating. His eyes do that all on their own.

You don’t realise you’re smiling at him until he stops talking, blinking at you like he’s caught you doing something rare. Something delicate. His hand tightens around yours, just slightly, a near-imperceptible squeeze, and you’re suddenly aware of your expression. The slight upward tilt of your lips, the way your eyes have softened.

You pull it back immediately, your face smoothing into its familiar, composed mask. You try not to feel too exposed when Spencer’s gaze lingers, full of wonder, like he’s just seen some rare phenomenon.

And you know what he’s thinking.

—

You’re not cold to him. Not exactly. But you’re careful. You’re measured. You still default to deadpan and dispassion, even when you’re teasing him, even when you’re quietly amused by how quickly he falls into his rambling, or how passionately he defends the Oxford comma. But there’s no edge behind it when you look at him. No distance. Just a kind of gentle steadiness.

Still, you keep your walls half-raised, even with him. It’s not because you don’t trust him—it’s because you do. You trust him in a way you don’t trust anyone else, and that level of vulnerability makes you careful, even with him. Maybe especially with him

But Spencer is not afraid of your reserve. He never has been. He’s not deterred by your sharpness, nor by the way you hold yourself apart from most people. In fact, he seems fascinated by it. There’s a reverence in the way he watches you sometimes, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to map every corner of you—the cool, quiet parts and the hidden, tender ones.

And the frustrating thing—the terrifying thing—is that he’s good at it. He notices the slightest change in your voice. The fraction of a second where you hesitate. The moment your fingers curl just a little tighter around his when you’re feeling anxious. And he never pushes. He only waits. Waits for you to trust him with more.

—

You’re sitting on his couch, legs curled under you, a book open in your lap but long forgotten. It’s one of his books—you hadn’t even brought your own over tonight. Somewhere along the way, you’d stopped needing to. His shelves are yours now. His apartment is starting to feel like yours too.

He’s sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, leaning over a case file he brought home. His glasses are slipping down his nose as he jots something in the margin with a black pen. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth. You like the way he gets lost in his thoughts like that. The world falls away entirely.

You let your gaze linger on him, just for a moment too long, and when he glances up at you—those perceptive, astute eyes locking with yours—you don’t look away quickly enough. He catches you.

Of course he does.

There’s a small smile tugging at his lips, and you narrow your eyes slightly as if to say Don’t make a thing of it. He doesn’t. Not with words. But his eyes are warm, a little smug, and his mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to say something.

You roll your eyes, closing the book in your lap with an exaggerated sigh and tossing it onto the couch. He watches you. Always watching. But not in the way most people do. Not with curiosity. Not with scrutiny. No, Spencer watches you like he already knows you. Like he can already see all the things you don’t say out loud.

He pats the floor next to him. You raise an eyebrow.

“Floor is uncomfortable,” you say, but you’re already sliding off the couch, sinking down next to him anyway. He’s so pleased with himself that you almost want to shove him for it. You don’t. Instead, you lean against him, your shoulder pressed to his, your head resting against his arm. His body relaxes instantly, as though you’ve anchored him to the ground.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. You just listen to the scratch of his pen against the paper, the faint rustle of the case file. His scent—the faint trace of soap and books—settles around you, and you feel the tension in your chest loosen.

He shifts slightly, his hand slipping into your hair. It’s such a small thing. Barely a gesture. But the feel of his fingers scratching absently at your scalp is enough to make you close your eyes.

Without thinking, without guarding yourself, you smile. Soft. Unbidden. The kind of smile that stretches through your whole body, not just your lips. You’re not even aware of it—of the way it shifts your features into something open and unguarded.

But Spencer notices.

You feel the stillness of him before you even open your eyes. His hand stills, his breathing slows, and you realise too late that he’s looking at you. Really looking. You lift your head slightly, squinting at him.

“What?” you murmur.

His eyes are unbearably gentle. His lips are parted slightly, like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. You feel the heat creep up your neck before he even speaks.

“You smiled,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid to scare it away.

You frown slightly in confusion. “I smile all the time.”

“No you don’t,” he says softly, shaking his head. “Not like that,”

There’s no teasing in his voice, no smugness, no mischief. Just quiet reverence. You can tell he means it. You can tell he’s already replaying it in his head, tucking it away somewhere safe. A moment just for him.

You feel the instinctual need to pull away, to retreat behind the familiar curtain of indifference. But before you can, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek.

The touch is feather-light, almost hesitant, but so steady. So sure. His eyes search yours, but not for permission. Not for reassurance. No, he’s just looking. Taking in everything you’re offering him in this moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You blink, startled by the sincerity in his voice.

He lets his hand drop, but the warmth of his touch lingers, and you feel something stir uncomfortably in your chest—something heavy and familiar. The part of you that wants to run when someone holds you too gently. The part of you that mistrusts tenderness.

But when you look at him—at Spencer, with his eyes soft and unwavering—you know you’re not afraid. Not of him.

So you let the smile tug at your lips again. This time, you feel it. And you don’t pull it back.

—

Later, you’re lying in bed with him, limbs tangled under the sheets. His hand traces lazy, absentminded patterns against your skin, and you think about how easy this has become. How easy he has made it.

You stare at the ceiling, your head against his chest, and your voice comes out quieter than you intend when you say, “You’re dangerous, you know,”

You feel his lips press lightly against the top of your head. His voice is a hum, low and sleepy. “Dangerous?”

You tilt your head, just slightly, meeting his eyes. There’s no sharpness in your voice when you say it. No edge. Just something fragile and honest.

“You make me forget to be careful,”

Spencer’s eyes soften in the dark. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and he presses his lips to your forehead with infinite gentleness. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because he already knows.

He knows that you don’t even notice it anymore—the way you smile at him. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you trust him so easily now, even though you never thought you could.

And he knows that you’ll keep doing it. Without realising. Without even trying. Because it’s him.

[h-sleepingirl]

You Are A Wizard, So Pour Over The Tomes

Hypnosis is magic. It is not just “the closest we can get to magic.” Trance practices in all kinds of forms have served as the basis for mysticism across cultures and human history -- thousands of years. It is not new. It is not western. It did not start with Franz Mesmer or James Braid or Milton Erickson or Wiseguy.

Modern hypnosis stems from a rich human history of fascination and spiritual veneration of the mind’s power. We are practitioners of a comparably new discipline where we can literally change the way that other people experience the world. Their innermost selves are as leverage to us -- putty to us, when we know what we are doing. We can transform others freely. We can give pleasure or pain. We can facilitate experiences that seem to defy reality.

People talk a big game about respecting that power. What they usually mean by that is respecting EACH OTHER. That’s crucial, obviously -- not manipulating, not harming, being a good person.

But what about respecting the discipline itself?

It’s tempting to see what we do as disconnected from the “historical” and “outdated” methods of hypnosis. But we are a part of that history. We are likely hilariously wrong about a lot of things related to trance, hypnosis, the human mind -- what will hypnosis and psychology look like in 100 years? And even as we innovate, we are always building on the techniques and ideas that came before us -- in ways we are often not even aware of. We reinvent; we use ideas from the past unknowingly.

We have a right -- and a responsibility -- to OWN our magic. I am not here to gatekeep and say that this magic is not yours. It IS yours; it’s unequivocally yours. But as a whole we could do more to respect it.

“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” And hypnosis is not even a technology that we UNDERSTAND. The only real reason we DON’T see ourselves as wizards is because there is a huge motivation to legitimize hypnosis as a scientific discipline -- and non-rationalist perspectives are looked down upon in our culture. I’m not anti-science (maybe a little -- tongue in cheek) but I do think that labeling hypnosis as “just psychology” is dishonest about how much we actually objectively know about it -- and does a disservice to the phenomenon itself.

I’m not saying hypnosis is literally metaphysical. But I am saying we practice something very powerful without knowing its nature. There are secrets we have tried to suss out about this magic through history that we have written down -- past and present. We actually have tomes of knowledge, records of past experiments and modern inventors.

In the last couple of years, I’ve started teaching/facilitating “text studies” -- classes where we sit down with an excerpt from a hypnosis book and parse through it as a collaborative group. I desperately want to show people that there is value in just critically reading the resources available to us. The clinical texts -- especially older ones -- are hard to read, like they are almost in a different language. But it is amazing the insights we have come to by tackling them together.

These old texts are not pure truths -- there is a lot we’ve improved on over time. But we can learn a lot by learning what hypnosis was like historically. The entire discipline of hypnosis is extremely susceptible to change -- it is defined SO MUCH by how we view it culturally. I just recently was amazed at re-reading some Erickson where he talks about making his subjects daydream autonomously -- as a primary mode and result of inducing hypnosis. Contrast that with today, where if someone’s mind wanders for even a moment, they feel like they’ve failed. There’s something really important here -- a technique from 50 years ago that tells us something we’ve lost in modern practice.

And there are countless examples of this, of people losing and reinventing methods over and over. As I’ve watched our kinky niche grow over just the past 13 years, I’ve watched ideas phase in, out, and in again -- there is both growth and regression of our collective body of knowledge. That’s the nature of things, especially when we operate partially disconnected from the resources that are available to us.

We CAN be connected to the rich human history of trying to unravel the secrets about our minds, and about this thing that gives us enormous transformative powers -- powers that we take for granted.

You are a wizard -- so pour over the tomes.

Read a book. Read an article. Set aside some time and view yourself with the respect of being someone who can study and suss out a magical text. Take notes, look up words and concepts you don’t know. Or just absorb what you can on a first pass and go back later. Read a chapter or just master a single page. Romanticize the aesthetic of sitting with the scent of paper, or as the technomancer with words appearing on a screen.

Read. Own this art. And bring that respect of this art to the people you share it with. I promise you can do things with hypnosis that you have never thought possible.

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

This is a little motivational piece (for you and me!) as I gear up to teach "Analyzing Erickson" at Charmed. It's something I feel really passionately about, and I wanted to share it.

Permanently linked/free on Patreon.

[tanadrin]

Sorry about the long ask, but what do you think about this claim: i often see marxists (and adjacent groups, blah blah) say that the united states (empire) is about to collapse or is gradually declining, something along those lines, and specifically with regard to its economy, military and ideology. For example, i was watching a video hosting Richard Wolff, and he claimed that the united states is being replaced by china as the global superpower; he compares the situation to the historical rise of the united states relative to the british empire that slowly took place in the 19th and 20th centuries. I think his comparison is slightly flawed (imo hes comparing apples to oranges here), but in the broad strokes he might be right? I also remember seeing a pretty respectable maoist on here claim the us military is failing. Idk, i would like to hear your take

This answer got real long, so I added a cut. The short version is "people who say things like this are living in a fantasy land, and you can safely ignore their opinions on anything else as a result."

The United States is not the USSR in 1990 or Somalia in 1994 or Rome in the fifth century, or anything similar. Failed states are absolutely a thing, and they're fascinating (and often quite depressing!) historical case studies, and the United States looks nothing like a failed state. It's not even about to collapse in the sense of "suffer a prolonged period of sharp economic decline that forces it to drastically reduce its presence in the wider world and curtails its power in influence." It's not even about to collapse in the sense of "experience significant regime change." The U.S. economy is, overall, doing quite well. There is no significant popular unrest. There is no elite appetite for revolution. There are not competing centers of power that would rather see the status quo burned to the ground than their rivals get power. You might want the U.S. to collapse, and you might not, but the idea it is about to is pure fantasy.

I think before we get to any other specific claims about the United States' position relative to other countries, it's important to note that claims of impending American collapse are, like claims of impending civilizational collapse or Paul Ehrlich's claim of worldwide hunger or breathless claims that the war in Ukraine is going to escalate into WW3 any day now, IMO affective claims about how the speaker feels about the world: there is a certain class of person who, whether out of nihilistic glee, hope of revolutionary change, or simply untrammeled anxiety sees the signs of collapse all around them, Doom-Is-Nigh streetcorner prophets who are emotionally invested in the idea of collapse, for whom the idea of collapse would often justify some pillar of their politics. If, after all, the US is a failed state about to be toppled by its own decadence, this would justify their inordinate degree of contempt for the US.

On another recent post someone phrased claims like this as often being more about "what would be necessary for someone's politics to be justified," and I think that's an important part of it! In fact I think "affective claims about the world being distorted into factual claims about the world bc they are what would be necessary to justify someone's politics" is a fully general phenomenon, regardless of political orientation. There are much milder forms of it than out-and-out doomerism, though of course the absurdity of doomerist claims to this degree make it really hard to take someone's claims about the state of the world seriously.

About the specific claims here:

Re: China: China has experienced terrific growth since the end of WW2, and that's great! A country of over a billion people should by any reasonable metric be one of the largest economies on Earth, and China is, it seems, taking its inevitable place internationally as an economic powerhouse. It's a big country with a ton of people, and it's terrific that it has been able to lift so many people out of the grinding poverty that prevailed throughout much of the country in the 20th century. But like a lot of middle-income countries it seems to be having a ton of trouble, for significant institutional reasons, transitioning from an industrialization-focused economy to one driven by consumer demand and consumer spending. AIUI (and I am so, so far from an expert; mostly I just read what folks like @argumate post from other sources), China has a lot of debt dragging down its economy, and weak consumer demand. China is still much poorer than the United States on a per capita basis, and though it has a large military, is much less capable of projecting its power beyond its borders. It has aspired to increase its economic and diplomatic influence through the Belt and Road initiative, but returns on this project have been decidedly mixed, and China's military and strategic focus remains decidedly confined to its neighborhood. It wants to absorb Taiwan and protect its interests in the South China Sea, and prop up North Korea and such, but it's not able to or interested in, like, fielding large carrier groups that routinely sail up and down the world's oceans or conduct invasions of distant countries like the U.S. is able to. N.B., I'm not saying those invasions are good, just that the U.S. can historically, if it wants, invade and occupy basically any small-to-medium sized country on the planet in a few weeks, and that's not the kind of capability China has, or--AFAICT--is interested in developing.

The British Empire comparison is also, I think, very misleading, and gets at something I find frustrating about a lot of modern Marxists: they want to fit everything into the model of 19th century capitalist imperialism, when the modern global system doesn't look too much like that anymore. Mostly countries like the United States, if they have economic interests in a country, don't invade and reduce the country to a status of colony to extract raw resources from. The Cold War supported a fair bit of regime change in the service of commercial interests, even in the aftermath of post-WW2 decolonization, but nowadays the tools used to develop and enforce the international order preferred by the Status Quo Coalition (which is led, but not commanded by the United States) are much more indirect. They don't involve directly administering colonies, which is significant because colonialism is, for the states that run it, expensive as hell. Sure, it's great for commercial interests--but it's often more a drain on state finances than anything else. I have come around to the view that colonialism was as much an expression of wealth as it was a means to acquire more. Britain was always a small-but-wealthy island country whose empire was much, much larger than its metropole. The vast majority of the population and wealth controlled by the United States is within the fifty states which comprise the core territory of the United States. This isn't Britain with a far-flung overseas empire which is expensive to administer and a minority of Britons on the island itself--this is a country whose wealth and industry is built on a population of 350 million or so which identifies as American first, which speaks English and votes for President and congress. Most of the United States' actual imperial possessions are tiny archipelagoes these days that are economically marginal, or else military bases overseas--these do not generate American wealth and power, they are expressions of it. For the United States to collapse like the British Empire did, it would have to lose control of California and Texas and the Midwest or something like that--which is a goofy-ass fantasy, because if the United States federal government disappeared tomorrow, I think the vast majority of the 350 million or so people living in the present borders of the United States would support re-establishing the United States federal government. Americans like and support the country they live in! This is very different from the subjects of the British Raj, or even the people of Australia and Canada, who had begun to develop their own identity (and thanks to distance from the metropole, completely divergent economic and political interests).

"The U.S. is an empire analogous Britain" is only true if you squint from very far away and don't care about the specifics of history, economics, or politics. But I think again the way to understand this claim is partly affective. If the U.S. really is the second incarnation of the British Empire, then you can cast a lot of disparate conflicts that otherwise don't fit the mold under the aegis of a broad anti-colonial struggle. It also facilitates a certain sort of base campism that some people love to indulge in--the NATO-is-always-evil-so-anything-NATO-doesn't-like-is-good angle, which has a lot of self-described leftists backing in to saying that Putin's Russia is somehow an antifascist or anticolonial force for good in the world.

"The U.S. military is failing" is pure cope. There's no country or active coalition of countries that's even remotely close to the U.S. military in capabilities. Though there is always going to be a stream of waste and corruption and medium-sized bureaucratic fuckups streaming out of the U.S. military, it remains without peer simply by virtue of one of the largest economies on the planet being willing to spend like 4% of its GDP on military stuff. The EU or China might in some counterfactual world be able to field a similar military if they spent a comparable amount, and had similar strategic aims, but they won't and they don't, so unless U.S. foreign policy drastically changes and military spending is slashed as a result, I don't see that changing at any time in the near future.

[screamofdespair]

池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda Interview About Oniisama E... (2016)

池田理代子 Riyoko Ikeda

Mangaka and Vocal artist, she began drawing mangas during her university studies, and her work The Rose of Versailles, serialized in 1972, became a huge success, even turning into a social phenomenon. She became highly appreciated internationally. She received the Excellence Award from the Japanese Cartoonists Association for Orpheus no Mado in 1980. The French government decorated her with the Légion d’Honneur for her contributions to spreading French history and culture in Japan.

What led to the creation of Oniisama E... ?

When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I had already decided that my next work would be a historical epic : Orpheus no Mado. But since it would take time to prepare for the historical research and start drawing it, I thought I could write something in the meantime (laughs). I feel a bit apologetic calling it just a filler, though, but actually, "Oniisama E..." was born from my own personal experiences. It’s a very important and cherished memory for me, and it just came rushing out all at once.

So, was your correspondence with the "Oniisama" also based on your own experience ?

When I was in my third year of middle school, just like Nanako, there was a preparatory course offered by university students from the University of Tokyo. I asked the graduate student who was in charge of social studies (the model for Takehiko Henmi) the same thing Nanako did: "Could you be my 'Oniisama'?" (laughs). I was deeply fascinated by the concept of an 'Oniisama" It's different from the idea of love, though. Through our letters, I learned a lot about history, religion, and various things. When I mentioned my interest in Christianity, he wrote me, "Christianity, as it is called, not only « participated » in the WW2 but was also one of its central protagonists : This is a historical truth.." I learned so much from those letters and grew a lot. I even went to the University of Tokyo’s May Festival. Actually, the "Oniisama" always had someone with him, like the omiki sake bottle. That person was the model for Takashi Ichinomiya. He was a person with a thin and delicate appearance, giving the impression of a young master from a wealthy family.

What were you like back then (during your school years) ?

I was really bad at sports, but for some reason, I was quite popular with the girls during my middle and high school years. In middle school, which was co-ed, I had good grades, had a very tanned skin, was tall, and completely lacked femininity, maybe that’s why (laughs). Even in high school, younger students would write me letters. After graduating, I found out that knowing someone like 'Ikeda-san' was really a source of pride for them.

Did you have the storyline planned out from the beginning of the serialization to the ending ?

It was more like ideas came to me as I was drawing. I don’t clearly remember if I had planned everything out until the end, but let’s say I had set certain elements in advance. For example, the idea that Kaoru and Henmi would be a couple came to me along the way (laughs). Even for The Rose of Versailles, I hadn’t decided from the start that Oscar and André would end up together. Of course, there are aspects I plan carefully, but in the end, the characters started acting on their own. And when that happens, I feel like the story is "successful."

Nanako is a very emotional girl, but also extremely determined. As for Mariko, she seems to embody the 'tsundere' archetype to some extent.

Nanako is very similar to Rosalie, isn’t she? Devoted, but in the end, she’s the strongest (laughs). For Mariko, there was a real-life model: a friend whose father wrote erotic novels. I gradually incorporated various elements from the people around me. I think many aspects are direct projections. Even the way Kaoru speaks, that’s really how we used to talk back then. We would say things like “Omae-san” (laughs). Oniisama E... reflects a lot of memories and episodes from my student life.

Oniisama E... is a short story, so its general recognition is low, but it has quite a passionate fanbase.

There are many men who tell me, "I'm a fan!". Recently, it's no longer embarrassing for men to enjoy shoujo manga. During autograph sessions, quite a few people enthusiastically tell me, "I love this work!" Some even say, "Oniisama E... is really my favorite!" When I hear that, I can't help but think, "Well, here's a true connoisseur!" (laughs). Of course, there are also many women among the fans. In that regard, I think Oniisama E... has nothing to envy from The Rose of Versailles.

And then, in 1991, it was adapted into an anime.

Actually, I was very busy at the time, so I wasn’t able to watch it properly… What left a strong impression on me, though, was how they carefully portrayed Fukiko’s feelings for Takehiko, which I hadn’t depicted in the original. I thought, "Oh, that’s so wonderful." It really fit perfectly, and there was no sense of discomfort at all.

It's a remarkable aspect of the anime adaptation. I wish I could have read it in your manga as well.

If I had a little more time, I would have liked to draw it myself. Originally, due to the planning period for Orpheus no Mado, I was rushed. Even though I still had many ideas in mind, it felt like I was forced to wrap it up (laughs).

Given what you’ve just mentioned, have you ever thought about remaking or creating a sequel to your own works?

Right now, I’m drawing a chapter for The Rose of Versailles, but... the art from that time was really bad, and I even hate re-reading it. I realize there were things I could only draw back then. When the serialization of The Rose of Versailles ended, I realized that in order to depict Europe, I would have needed much more knowledge of Christianity. That’s why, before starting Orpheus no Mado, I spent a lot of time studying Christianity. I don’t think I could have drawn the story without that knowledge. A work is the product of its time, of its era, the sensitivities, and the knowledge of the author, so remaking something seems difficult to me.

In 2017, you'll be celebrating your 50th anniversary as a writer.

I can't believe it's already been so long, and at the same time, I realize that some parts of my body are starting to hurt, which reminds me of my age (laughs). I've also been very active in music, but lately, progress has been slower. However, I truly want to cherish each passing year. For me, true happiness is living in a way that I would never regret anything, even if I were to die tomorrow. There's no reason to look back on the past. After all, it’s impossible to rewrite it. I don’t reread my works much either (laughs). I’ve lived my way, sometimes causing trouble to others, but doing what I wanted (laughs).

For this Blu-ray release, new illustrations were specially drawn.

I wasn’t satisfied with the drawings of The Rose of Versailles because I think they were awkwardly executed. Personally, I think Oniisama E... is the work where I drew the best. At that time, I was able to draw very precisely, even the lines were very clean. Over time, some works become hard to rediscover, but Oniisama E... is the one I drew almost effortlessly, simply letting the ideas flow. That’s why, even today, I can dive back into it without effort (laughs).

To those who have brought this product.

Oniisama E... is a work that originates from my own experiences, and it’s the work that I’ve let mature the longest, so I have a strong emotional connection to it. The idea for The Rose of Versailles came to me when I was in my second year of high school, which is quite early, but Oniisama E... came even before that. I would like as many people as possible to see and read it.

About Osamu Tezuka :

He wasn’t my lover, nor a relative, and calling him a friend would be too presumptuous. When I heard the news of his death, I really hit the desk and cried uncontrollably. That feeling was something I’d never experienced before, and it was the first time I felt that way about Tezuka-sensei. I truly respected him. Recently, it’s been the same with Muhammad Ali. Tezuka-sensei's Wellspring of the Crane was the first work that deeply moved me when I read it. It really squeezed my heart. I read it at a friend's house, and after returning home, I couldn’t eat, and my mother wondered if I had picked up some food off the ground. Ah, no one could understand! I remember thinking, as a child, that my sensitivity was different from others! (laughs).

Source: Oniisama E... Blu-Ray BOX SET Booklet.

Note : The translation might not be the most accurate word-for-word, but i did my best to make it coherent.

[charlesoberonn]

I hate how much modern political baggage and loaded narratives there are about the Crusades because I honestly think they're a fascinating period and historical phenomenon but I can't say I'm interested in the Crusades without people thinking I'm a white supremacist or christian nationalist.

[morbidology]

The Cottingley Fairies story is one of the most fascinating tales of deception in the 20th century, capturing the imagination of the public and even fooling some of the greatest minds of the time. What began as an innocent prank by two young girls in Yorkshire, England, grew into a phenomenon that blurred the lines between fantasy and reality, challenging people's willingness to believe in the extraordinary.

In the summer of 1917, 16-year-old Elsie Wright and her 9-year-old cousin Frances Griffiths lived in the village of Cottingley, near Bradford. Like many children, they were enchanted by the idea of fairies, inspired by the lush surroundings of the Cottingley Beck, a small stream near their home. Using Elsie's father's camera, the girls took a series of photographs that appeared to show them interacting with delicate, winged fairies. The first photograph depicted Frances with several small fairies dancing in front of her, while another showed Elsie sitting with a gnome.

The photographs were meant to be a playful trick, a way to amuse themselves and their families. Elsie had drawn the fairies on paper, cut them out, and used hatpins to secure them in the ground before posing with them. To the girls' surprise, the images turned out convincingly lifelike, and their parents, especially Elsie's father, were skeptical but intrigued.

The Cottingley Fairies might have remained a private family joke if not for the involvement of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the famous author of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Conan Doyle was a devout Spiritualist, deeply interested in the supernatural and the possibility of life beyond the physical world. In 1920, when the photographs came to his attention through a mutual friend of the Wright family, he was immediately captivated.

Conan Doyle saw the photographs as possible evidence of the existence of fairies, which aligned with his belief in the spiritual world. He wrote an article for The Strand Magazine, enthusiastically presenting the photos as proof of supernatural beings. The article, published in December 1920, included two of the fairy photographs and generated widespread interest and debate. Many people were fascinated by the idea that fairies might be real, while others remained skeptical, questioning the authenticity of the images.

The public's reaction to the Cottingley Fairies was mixed. Some embraced the photographs as genuine evidence of a hidden world, taking comfort in the idea of magical beings inhabiting the natural environment. Others were more critical, pointing out the suspiciously paper-like appearance of the fairies and the potential for trickery. Despite the skepticism, the fairies captivated the popular imagination, particularly in a post-World War I society that yearned for wonder and escapism.

The controversy over the photographs persisted for decades, with many debates centered on whether the images were authentic or a clever hoax. Despite advances in photographic analysis, the fairies' true nature remained elusive, partly because of the credibility that figures like Conan Doyle lent to the story.

It wasn't until the 1980s, more than 60 years after the photographs were taken, that Elsie and Frances finally admitted the truth. In interviews with The Unexplained magazine and in a book titled The Secret of the Cottingley Fairies, the elderly women confessed that the fairies were indeed cardboard cutouts, inspired by illustrations from a children's book. However, they maintained that they really had seen fairies in Cottingley Beck and claimed that one of the five photographs, the final one, was genuine.

Even with this admission, the allure of the Cottingley Fairies story persisted. The photographs had become iconic, not just as a historical curiosity but as a testament to the power of belief and the human desire for magic in the mundane.

[anon-e-has-a-tmblr]

I read your critiques on Tel Aviv and Jerusalem... Ok, let's say I manage to get the $ to visit Israel for a few weeks. What cities/towns do you recommend to visit?

If you wanna go to the sandy coastline - ashdod. If you wanna get to a more rocky coast - hadera and haifa are great places, achziv(? Not sure how to spell אכזיב here lol) beach is a great location, and relatively quiet as well since you do need to buy a ticket in order to enter (as a general rule all beaches here are free).

If you wanna see the historical sites inside covilization - safed is very fascinating, as well as tiberias and ashkelon. If you wanna see desert fortreses - beer sheva and arad are your best locations.

If geology is what finds you fancy - the golan hights have many villages and communes, as well as very pretty rivers with water all year round like the banias (panias in greek). I even have a picture from 2012-2013 that I took and is now displayed on my shoe rack lol. A geological wonder in the deserd are the machtesh phenomenon, so unique i dont think they ever came up with an english name to it. The bigrst one is located just outside the town of mitzpeh ramon (named after our first (and only) astronaut, ilan ramon!).

You can also visit eilat at the southern most point of the country, it's also the hottest town in the country (no beit shean during a heatwave doesnt count). And you can always visit the dead sea with its different resorts and hotels (be careful of sinkholes though, so dont get off the beaten path!). The dead sea factories inc. has recently opened a very nice and cozy visitors center, so you could also jump there hwilst at it to learn how it all started from baiscally a fertilizer manufacturer!

And lastly - we also got woods to tour, most of which are easily accesible via bus or a dirt parking lot at the entrence. Just make sure you're out by dusk, you dont wanna remain with the wild boars and foxes in the woods at night. Or the occasional drug dealer lol

And this is all from the top of my head lol and very far away from tel aviv and jerusalem, 2 metropolises i personally hate, for different reasons. And i live near one of them! (And dread the thought of going there on monday to replace my broken mirror lol)

[pmamtraveller]

LEOPOLD SCHMUTZLER - DANCE OF PRINCESS SALOMÉ, 1905

Leopold Schmutzler's artwork "Dance of Salomé" depicts the biblical and historical character Salomé, famous for her dance of the seven veils. The artwork shows Salomé in a dynamic dance position, wearing vibrant clothing and a dramatic facial expression, typical of Schmutzler's pieces exploring femininity and sensuality.

The background features loose brushwork, while the details become more intricate and polished as they near the figure, emphasizing the dancer's face and body. The figure stands out due to the dark background, making her the main focal point of the artwork.

Salomé, the focus of the painting, is commonly linked to the dance that resulted in the decapitation of John the Baptist, a tale that has been portrayed in different art mediums throughout history. Schmutzler depicts Salomé wearing an exotic outfit with peacock feathers, highlighting her dramatic and seductive qualities.

The fascination with exoticism among burlesque audiences also stemmed from the cultural trend surrounding the Biblical figure of Salome. This phenomenon, called "Salomania," spread throughout popular culture at the turn of the century. The tale of Salome was transformed into theatrical productions and musical works, portrayed in artwork, incorporated into women's clothing, and served as the basis for numerous imitative Dances of the Seven Veils, in burlesque shows and other places.

[elbiotipo]

Going back in time to introduce pastoralism and horses to ancient America. Imagine what the alternate Pampas and Great Plains would look like

I feel horrible because I really should have more sources than this, but in one of Bret Devereaux's articles about the historical inspirations for the Dothraki in ASOIAF (which prove not to be based in anything historical) he remarks on how incredibly fast North American natives adapted to life in horseback.

I'm quoting the relevant here:

A skilled Native American hunter on a horse, armed with a bow, could hunt bison wildly more effectively than on foot. They could be found more rapidly, followed at speed and shot in relative safety. It is striking that while pedestrian bison hunting was clearly a team effort, a hunter on a horse could potentially hunt effectively alone or in much smaller groups. In turn, that massively increased effectiveness in hunting allowed the Native Americans of the region, once they got enough horses, to go ‘full nomad’ and build a subsistence system focused entirely on hunting bison, supplemented by trading the hides and other products of the bison with the (increasingly sedentary and agrarian) peoples around the edges of the Plains. Many of the common visual markers of Plains Native Americans – the tipi, the travois, the short bow for use from horseback – had existed before among the hunter-gathering peoples, but now spread wore widely as tribes took to horse nomadism and hunting bison full time. At the same time, Isenberg (op. cit. 50-52) has some fascinating paragraphs on all sorts of little material culture changes in terms of clothing, home-wares, tools and so on that changed to accommodate this new lifestyle. The speed of the shift is quite frankly stunning.

And to me something that is more interesting; the fact that this was a very, very new lifestyle for them (based on hunting rather than herding), and historically we didn't see its full development because of colonization:

At the same time, as Isenberg (op. cit. 70ff) makes clear that this pure-hunting nomadism still existed in a narrow edge of subsistence. From his description, it is hard not to conclude that the margin or survival was quite a bit narrower than the Eurasian Steppe subsistence system and it is also clear that group-size and population density were quite a bit lower. It’s also not clear that this system was fully sustainable in the long run; Pekka Hämäläinen argues in The Comanche Empire (2008) that Comanche bison hunting was potentially already unsustainable in the very long term by the 1830s. It worked well enough in wet years, but an extended drought (which the Plains are subjected to every so often) could cause catastrophic decline in bison numbers, as seems to have happened the 1840s and 1850s. A sequence of such events might have created a receding wave phenomenon among bison numbers – recovering after each dry spell, but a little less each time. Isenberg (op. cit., 83ff) also hints at this, pointing out that once one factors for things like natural predators, illness and so on, estimates of Native American bison hunting look to come dangerously close to tipping over sustainability, although Isenberg does not offer an opinion as to if they did tip over that line. Remember: complete reliance on bison hunting was new, not a centuries tested form of subsistence – if there was an equilibrium to be reached, it had not yet been reached. In any event, the arrival of commercial bison hunting along with increasing markets for bison goods drove the entire system into a tailspin much faster than the Plains population would have alone. Bison numbers begin to collapse in the 1860s, wrecking the entire system about a century and a half after it had started. I find myself wondering if, given a longer time frame to experiment and adapt the new horses to the Great Plains if Native American society on the plains would have increasingly resembled the pastoral societies of the Eurasian Steppe, perhaps even domesticating and herding bison (as is now sometimes done!) or other animals. In any event, the westward expansion of the United States did not leave time for that system to emerge.

And the citation itself is here: A.C. Isenberg, The Destruction of the Bison: An Environmental History, 1750-1920 (2020). Though I believe that Deveraux here underestimate the effect of bison hunting by settlers; then again, I am no expert.

I WISH I HAD THE SAME FOR THE PAMPAS, AND ALSO FOR THE GREAT CHACO, those two places are the other ones where this kind of nomadic culture arose incredibly quickly after the adoption of the horse and the introduction of European cattle. Needless to say the culture that arose in the Pampas is completely unique, and you can get a sense of this by reading contemporary literature like Don Segundo Sombra, it is a whole life at horseback that the Mongols would be probably be proud of.

I hope I can do a better post to do this justice with regards to South America, but here's ACOUP's take on nomadic Native (North) Americans and Steppe peoples. The premise might be to debunk the worldbuilding (or lack of it) of ASOIAF, but don't be fooled, the historical information here about the nomadic way of life is amazing:

[fumifooms]

I should have touched on dark elves in my beauty standards post... Let me just slap this on here real quick. So as we went into there, beauty standards can show political dynamics and sort of reflects the politics of who get to be seen as human, who get to be seen as desirable and promoted within a society. So like, beauty is power right, in the sense that beauty standards are highly influenced by the ones in power, the ones who have the time & resources to look a certain way and the power to present that look as desirable to large groups. It’s complex and diverse but generally beauty standards are upheld by the elite, the influential.

By the former 'time & resources' thing I mean stuff like clothes, health, makeup or even cosmetic surgeries, or even simply the freedom to only go out in public when you look your best— Meanwhile the latter, the power to present that look as desirable to large groups, usually applies more to situations where it’s about a whole category of people like an ethnicity that was uplifted as the ideal. Not just in a political or economic dynamic, but discrimination on a systematic level without regard for individual appearance or action.

For example in the former, not all people who wear makeup are rich, and while makeup did historically help signal status, if you’re poor and wear nice makeup you can still touch some of that beneficial association with the beauty standards that makeup helps you attain. In the latter……. Well you get, "no, all elves are good! So the elves who do bad things must be something else!". Where, in trying to have uniform standards for a whole group, you kinda just get erased or othered if you don’t conform to expectations. The elves especially put effort into giving off this air of perfection, which they've successfully made tallmen populations believe. So, for those people, the answer that "But elves are inherently good and beautiful and perfect?" asks, isn't "well elves mustn't be inherently perfect", but instead is "there must be bad ones too, innately too." A similar phenomenon happens with the reverse too, where people will say there are "the good ones" within a group that's seen negatively.

"But Fumi, in this case the difference is purely linguistic and perceived, there’s no visual difference!" Yeah, and there being little visual distinction between two groups has never stopped people from being discriminated tbh. Different types of christians seeing each other as heathwbs for example, or the deep british vs irish hatred that has existed. A tidbit of history I find fascinating was the infamous use of "speak white" from english-speaking canadians against french-speaking canadians especially, because complicated history aside, last century as the business owners the anglophones had the power over the majoritarily francophone working class and a lot of political sway even though they were the minority in the Québec region. There’s a different cultural and ethnic identity there, and language was the most important difference between the two groups- and I suppose the most noticeable one.

The way we as social creatures and social groups categorize people and the groups they form is complex, interesting and very important to our society and the way we approach both the world and social interactions, and that's what leads to discrimination. We decide what’s important and then we decide it’s what people should be judged and distinguished by. Belonging to a group is a show of status, and can be a weaponized both ways, for and against. If you’re not worthy to be an elf, a "good" elf, then you’re not.

Interesting especially because looking at the elf portraits page there seems to be many different cultures within the elf race, so yes "good elf" vs "dark elf" is considered something like a race rather than an ethnicity or culture presumably. There's definitely a "main" elven culture since it seems pretty uniform whenever it's brought up in the adventurer's bible and the story, though, wether the differenr cultures form different communities in different places or live together as one nation. But maybe more treated like a mental illness since it’s acquired, or sometimes slang? It's not completely clear wether it's thought of as fully innate or something learned, a chosen moral failure like sin is, but with how they speak about it they do sound very essentialists, even Chilchuck seems to get a chill considering Marcille could be one. Quoting Kui's lore comic, "There are two kinds of elves, nice holy elves and evil elves bewitched by darkness". It’s just considered like an innate thing that separates them from the concept of elves... 🤔 But this sort of category being vague is often a feature and not a bug, because then they can be a boogeyman to bring up just whenever is convenient, that can fit whoever, like calling a kid a "fairy's child" for whatever behavior in the olden days, because if you don't precise a lot what a dark elf is then it can apply to whoever you see fit, and it doesn't need to be coherent or consistent. The sort of discrimination headspace that leads to the classic fascist "the enemy is both strong and weak" type rethoric.

"Dark elves" is interesting within Dunmeshi because it's about people trying to fully separate elves from the concept of bad and untrustworthy people, even though they look the same. "Elf" isn’t just a beauty standard, it is The ultimate ideal of perfection both in appearance and morality, and if something threatens that perception and reputation it has to get rationalized and compartmentalized. Those are coping mechanisms to avoid having your whole world view challenged or shattered. To tallmen who practically worship elves, it’s a huge deal!! To them that makes it make sense! Some elves are born good and some elves are born evil, simple as! No world view re-examination needed!

So for Marcille for example... It’s interesting because she has an outside view of elven society despite being elven herself. She was raised amongst tallmen, aka the people who idolize elves to this intense degree. It had to have affected her dynamics with others— not unlike the academy students, mostly gnomes and tallmen, who looked up to her as some natural-born genius, even though she did do research and study to get her skills and grades. It also had to affect her relationship with having a role model growing up (having none around except for her mother who pretty much renounced her elven culture, a novel series that sensationalizes and glamorizes elves), her dynamic with being elven itself, because even though she doesn't feel like she fully fits into it she's interested in elven culture, and she herself enforces the beauty standards around elves and acts elitist about it- as seen when tallmen actors playing Daltian Clan opera, when men are very masculine rather than very androgynous like with Laios, having long hair, having no facial or body hair. With this angle, all of this behavior of hers is very "internalized high standards that were my bible to follow growing up and so others must follow them too and these high standards must be worth upholding".

Considering everything, elves being looked up to as a role model in appearance and behavior, plus them having the reputation of being great at magic, and Marcille having grown up amongst mostly tallmen, we start understanding that there was IMMENSE pressure on Marcille to conform to that idea of an elf. She has a lot of pressure and a very high beauty & behavior compass to conform to. She also has an idealist and rigid sense of justice and morals, like how Namari is a heartless traitor for leaving instead of coming along to save Falin, and she needs people to believe she has noooo facial or body hair. She probably WAS afraid of being seen as a dark elf, aka fundamentally evil, for her dark magic research. You don't want to be a letdown, do you? You don't want to be the ugliest elf, do you? You don't want to be a dark elf, do you? You don't want to be one of the bad ones.

Shave your facial hair and deny you have any body hair. Take care of elven traditions like hair-braiding and have pride. Be the kind, smartest model student. Do magic by the book. Never do dark magic. Ah shit-

And so she hid the domain of her research, and so she hid being a half-elf.

[cabinetofquriosities]

Nothing Matters

Agatha x Rio || Warnings: Violence and Smut

Just a note: These are based on actual historical events that happened, which is why I aged Nicky down to 5 when he died in order to fit the dates. They are pretty fascinating events. I encourage anyone reading to fall down the same rabbit holes I did while researching them!

(Listen along while reading)

——————————————————

1755 - Lisbon

Classical music filled the stuffy air of a palace in Lisbon as nobles danced with one another. The rich were flirting, feeding, and forgetting the world beyond their gilded walls. Outside, families were celebrating All Saint’s Day on the first of November. Children ran from door to door, collecting treats from their neighbors. Little did they know, the shadow of death was amongst them.

Agatha Harkness was still marked by grief only six months after losing Nicholas. She had killed and drained enough witches to fill a town, but Death still hid from her. After the hell she had been plunged into, Agatha yearned to pull her former love down with her. So, she had something planned that Rio would not be able to ignore.

1872 - Boston

Summer Street was packed with people who were going through the motions of a frigid November day. Men walked arm in arm with their wives. Teenagers blushed as they wooed one another. Merchants had their doors open to the cold in hopes of welcoming passerby’s.

In the thick of the crowd was Agatha Harkness. She wore a scarlet two piece silk dress with a lace lined jacket and bustle at the back of the skirt. Her hair was pinned up with banana curls spilling down the back of her neck. Her hands were snug in a fur hand muff.

Her power felt completely renewed. She went on a bit of a bender with killing witches. She had been betrayed by her own emotions as Rio showed up in every dream for the last few years. She was used to one here and there, but not every night. She needed to get that beast out of her system. So, she killed and stole power in hopes of summoning her. The two were still diametrically opposed to one another, still “separated” or estranged spouses for lack of a better term, but could never stay away for too long. Every so often, Agatha would find a way to see her and the two would reunite for a night at most in a tangle of bodies and limbs. It had been over a decade this time around.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The gentle sway of the ocean rocked the passengers to sleep as their destroyer treaded the boards overhead. Her heels clicked as she walked over the deck.

“Ma’am?” the captain called.

Agatha turned, her curls falling loose around her shoulders and still wearing a long, sheer bejeweled dress from dinner. After all, she had to dress for her Lady.

“Yes?”

“It’s too cold to be taking a walk out here.”

“It is,” she said with a smirk.

1755 - Lisbon

Death always had a sense of when a seismic event was coming. Whenever a wave of death was about to strike, she would feel the pull of it. Rio had tried to avoid revealing herself by waiting longer after a witch would die to claim her soul. This, though, this was so far away from Massachusetts. She incorrectly assumed that Agatha wouldn’t be traveling overseas.

She couldn’t show up late to an event of this size. With how massive the event promised to be, she figured it was a natural phenomenon rather than anything that could be caused by Agatha. So, she donned an elegant dress, her hair pinned in curls, and appeared at the epicenter.

Agatha heard the music shift to a Minuet. Couples made their way to the ballroom floor to dance. She stood and saw the woman who had been just out of reach for the past several months. She strode over and swiftly took her by the hand before Rio even had a chance to register it was her. Agatha whirled her into a spin before stepping back, giving a deep bow with the rest of the ladies in the dance.

Rio looked like a trapped animal, her eyes betraying the panic she felt at being so thoroughly tricked. She went along with the dance, one that was playful in nature and felt so inappropriate for their situation. Agatha straightened up and raised her hand, pressing her forearm against Rio’s as they walked around one another, their gazes locked.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” Agatha hissed.

1872 - Boston

Rio knew there was a likelihood of Agatha being close to this given its location, but knew she had to arrive for this. While it wasn’t the same bodycount as a natural disaster, the violence and discord she could sense coming required her presence.

She walked down the cobblestone road. A little boy accidentally ran into her. She grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from falling. He looked up at her with wide eyes, feeling the aura of decay around her. Those eyes looked too familiar to ones she had seen before. This one wasn’t meant to be lost today. There was no need for him to witness it at all. She led him into an alleyway before the child knew what was happening and swirled her fingers. A small door appeared on the side of the building. She opened it, motioning for the five year old to walk through. He did, not noticing he was on a street in a nearby town until the door shut behind him.

“Special treatment, I see,” a voice said behind Rio.

“He wasn’t meant to die today,” Rio said.

She turned around.

“Agatha.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Do you need an escort back to your cabin?” the captain asked the wandering passenger.

“Oh, no need,” Agatha said, redirecting her gaze to the stars above, “My love will be here soon.”

“Okay, well, please be careful,” he said, “And stay away from the edge of the ship. The ocean is deadly at night.”

“That it is,” she said, nodding at him.

A dapper young man wearing a suit crossed his path before making his way to the Agatha. The captain noticed how feminine the man’s features were. He felt unnerved by the interaction, feeling something of a chill down his spine as if Death had brushed past him.

“Your love?” Rio asked, Adjusting her top hat.

She turned around to face Rio with a cruel smile.

“It would have sounded suspicious if I said my enemy.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I wasn’t running,” Rio said as they danced.

“You were hiding,” Agatha said.

“I don’t always show myself to others every time I collect.”

“You used to with me,” Agatha said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me after-“

“DON’T… say his name. You do not get to ever say it again,” Agatha snapped before resuming their dance.

“I just thought you needed time.”

“Time…” Agatha said with a bitter laugh, “Well, you never give much of that, now do you?”

Rio stopped in her tracks, ignoring the music filling the room. Her eyes darkened. Could she really be that willfully ignorant of the situation? Human emotions always twisted the reality of things into absurd shapes.

“I gave everything I could,” she said, her voice dropped low.

“Then you fall far short of expectations. You are the original Green Witch. Lady Death. And all you could manage was five years.”

“You have no idea how much those years shifted the balance of the universe. I would have given him all the time that existed if I could.”

“But you didn’t,” Agatha seethed.

“I couldn’t,” Rio said with a defeated sigh.

She looked around, feeling an electricity in the air around them. Whatever was about to happen was coming closer.

“I cannot have this conversation right now. Something terrible is about to happen. You should leave while you can,” Rio said with an edge of urgency.

“Oh, I am very aware.”

Rio tried to resolve the enormity of the event with being caused by a single person. This event would affect a third of the Earth. She looked at her with genuine shock and amazement.

“Agatha… what did you do?”

1872 - Boston

“Rio,” Agatha said with a sly smile, “Long time, no see.”

“Well, our meeting in New York didn’t exactly make me want to come running back.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha said, stalking towards her with a pout, “You love it when I’m cruel.”

Rio arched a brow before shaking her head with a bemused smile. She hated how right she was. It was a rare treat for Death to have someone who did not fear or revere her. Agatha gave her the gift of the unexpected in the endless cycle of nature.

“You are the one behind what is about to happen, then?”

Agatha looked downright giddy as she said, “It’s already begun.”

Agatha took Rio’s hand, running her up the stairs of the nearest building they could find to the roof. Agatha beamed at the view like a kid showing an adult the drawing they had made. Rio looked at the skyline of Boston, not noticing anything out of place at first. A few moments passed and then, she saw the smoke.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Your enemy,” Rio echoed, “Is that where we still are?”

Agatha looked at her with a flash of vulnerability before throwing her mask back on.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” she said, lifting her chin.

“For someone who hates me, it seems like you’re pretty determined to see me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was bored.”

“Really?” she said, nodding, “Sure. Let’s just say that if it makes you feel better.”

Agatha scowled before walking to the edge of the deck, hanging onto the railing. Rio followed behind, never allowing Agatha to be too far away in a deadly situation. She knew it wasn’t her time, but it was usually because Rio was there to protect her. If Agatha had gotten sick or killed by another witch, then she couldn’t do anything but take her to the other side. She couldn’t cure illness. She couldn’t interfere in an attack that she was not present for. However, if she was a source of protection while present, it would not upset the sacred balance. People were taken before their time far too often and she could do things to prevent that. If it actually was their time due to something fated and intrinsic like an illness, it was not preventable. It was how she saved Agatha time and time again, but also why she couldn’t save Nicky.

“What are we looking at?” Rio asked.

“That,” Agatha said as an iceberg appeared in the distance.

1755 - Lisbon

“It is not what I did. It is what I am about to do,” Agatha said.

She took Rio’s hand, pulling her outside to the courtyard where couples strolled with one another beneath the moonlight. She knelt down, putting her hand on the ground. She closed her eyes and began to whisper an incantation.

Purple light pulsed under her palm. The ground started to shake. The earth broke apart at her hand, cracks emerging and spreading with purple glowing from them. People screamed and fled. Buildings collapsed and the cracks opened up. Men and women sprinted blindly in a panic, falling in and being swallowed up whole. Agatha’s smile widened as she felt the energy of every witch in Lisbon reverberating back to her. Rio simply took it all in with a sense of awe at Agatha’s power of destruction.

She stood and turned to face her. The destruction was unfolding around them as Agatha’s eyes burned into Rio’s. Her gaze reflected rage, sadness, and misdirected hatred. Intertwined throughout those elements was a strong desire that had always bonded them together. Both of them suddenly took three long strides and met in a wild kiss.

1872 - Boston

“One fire?” Rio said with an arched brow, “A bit sophomoric for you.”

“Oh, hush,” Agatha sniped, “Keep watching.”

A minute passed before the building was engulfed, the flames climbing and building with every inch of wood and dried goods. There were no people in the storage house, but that didn’t matter as Agatha worked her magic. She swirled her hand flicked it out in the fire’s direction. A gust of wind whipped from her fingers over the city. The flames jumped to neighboring roofs, burning them quickly with how close and flammable they were. The city was architecturally tight and created with wood as the primary material.

Rio’s eyes went wide and she smiled at the sight of the growing inferno. She reached over, threading her fingers through Agatha’s. Agatha reached up and cupped her cheek with her free hand. She knew their dynamic was too fraught to work in the long term, but these pauses in their rivalry were something she needed. Or, rather, the transformation of their rivalry into something more primal and intimate.

Rio leaned into her touch with a soft look. Agatha moved in, catching her lips with hers. The kiss was tender for all of forty seconds before Rio’s teeth sank into Agatha’s lip, drawing blood. Agatha sucked in a shocked gasp. She pulled back, her look indignant.

Agatha gripped Rio by the throat, shoving her down onto the floor of the flat roof. She looked down and found that Rio had rid them both of their clothing with a wave of her hand. She crawled over her, grabbing her neck again. Rio laughed between coughs as she was choked.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Oh. Interesting,” Rio said with a curious tilt of her head.

Agatha looked at her, peeking out of the corner of her eye. Rio looked beautiful and handsome all at once in the fancy tuxedo and top hat.

“You look good,” Agatha said quietly.

The corner of Rio’s lip turned upwards at the compliment. Any crumb of kindness from Agatha felt like the gifting of a rose.

“Thank you. You look breathtaking,” Rio said, turning her head to look at her directly.

Agatha unwillingly blushed in a way that reminded Rio of when they were a new couple. Agatha had never been in love before, nor did she know any affection from loved ones. The young witch would melt at any kind words given to her. Moments like this reminded Rio that every stage in Agatha’s development as a person was nested within her like Russian dolls. It was such a strange thing about humans that Rio never noticed until she was devoted to one over a matter of centuries.

Agatha raised her hands up, beams of purple shooting from both palms. They wrapped around the massive iceberg. The ropes of energy held onto the ship. Agatha used the ship’s momentum to drag it into a collision. Rio threw her arms around her from behind, holding her to keep her steady as the impact spread across the Titanic.

1755 - Lisbon

The estranged, grieving couple found themselves in a tangle of dangerous emotions. Agatha backed her against an oversized cedar tree. She pinned Rio by the wrists, making a point to dig the back of her hands into the jagged surface. She sucked and bit at her lips, letting her wrists go to start yanking at her bustier, doing everything she could to strip her from the ridiculous layers of clothing that were used to lock the female form in.

Rio reached down to tangle her fingers in Agatha’s hair, but was met with the sting of a slap. Then another. Although Death could shut down sensations to the body, she chose not to. She wanted to feel whatever contact Agatha would give, no matter the type.

Agatha slapped her two more times, leaning in to bite painfully into her shoulder, pulling back with a few drops of blood decorating her snarl. She raked her nails down her arms, leaving angry red marks. Rio let out grunts and gasps with every hit. Tears welled in Agatha’s eyes, her jaw clenched in anger. Rio wanted her to take it all out on her.

Agatha pulled back enough to look at the marks she left behind. Maroon handprints on her cheeks, a bleeding imprint of teeth on her shoulder, and scarlet trails blazing down to her wrists.

Agatha looked shocked at her own violence toward a woman who she never cared to hurt this way before. Just as she was about to pull away and leave, Rio spoke with a shaking voice.

“Keep going. Do everything you have wanted,” she breathed.

Agatha wanted to punish.

Rio wanted to hurt.

“Everything I have wanted?” She hissed.

Agatha shoved her back against the tree, pressing her hips against her. She used her magic to tear Rio’s layers down, leaving her nude. She pinched and twisted her nipples. Rio hissed through her teeth, arching her back. The roots of the tree, sliding up Agatha’s body. They ripped her dress apart, leaving her in scraps of fabric, her body revealed.

Agatha’s violent affection grew as she slapped her cunt and pulled her head back by the hair with her other hand. Rio’s gaze held Agatha’s, refusing to look away.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s grip around her throat loosened just enough to turn it from aggressive to playful. She smiled down at her, able to look at her with more affection than hatred. She hadn’t forgiven her, but she at least intellectually knew that Rio had no choice but to take Nicky, even if she couldn’t emotionally accept it. Rio felt the lightness in Agatha. As long as she didn’t call attention to it, it would continue.

Rio knew that the moment she acknowledged the connection between them, Agatha would throw her walls back up the way they did in New York years ago. Back then, Rio slipped up and said she loved her. Agatha’s expression hardened. Her eyes went dead and she abruptly left her, waiting far too long to summon her again. Rio wouldn’t make that mistake again. She would keep it light and safe.

Rio smirked and rolled them over, grabbing and pinning her wrists. Agatha leaned up, trying to struggle against her hold. Rio bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. She worked her leg between Agatha’s and pressed her thigh against her sex. Agatha gasped and rolled her hips at the contact. Rio smiled devilishly down at her.

“Such a greedy girl. Fuck yourself on me.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The ship had cracked in two. The lights turned off throughout, plunging the vessel into darkness. Shrieks emanated from the cabins.

Agatha turned in Rio’s arms, holding onto the railing behind her while the two halves of the ship tilted toward the middle. Rio pressed her fingers under her chin and guided her up into a kiss under the stars.

Agatha let go of the railing, wrapping her arms around Rio’s neck as they tipped and slid towards the wall of the pilothouse. Agatha cushioned the impact of their bodies crashing against it with a shield of purple mist.

People emptied out of the cabins, running in a panic to find an exit. Men tried to push past mothers and children to save their own hides while the rich locked the poor passengers under the deck when they realized there were barely any lifeboats.

This level of cruelty towards one another was the very reason that Agatha used to justify her murderous acts. If this is who they were at their cores, what would they possibly have to give to the world? The rich especially angered her. Regardless of having every advantage, they were the most selfish beings on earth. If she hadn’t been completely wrapped up in Rio, she would have saved the lower class passengers while dispatching the richest. However, she was locked into an embrace with her love and the water had already rushed into those cabins.

Agatha kissed along Rio’s neck, running her hands over her suit. She took care to leave as many clothes on as possible. It was not only cold, but Rio also looked amazing in a tuxedo. She slid her hand into the suit pants. Rio gasped and smiled. She rocked her hips over her hand, feeling Agatha’s hand wandering. Agatha’s fingers parted her folds and pushed up the hood of her clit, using a fingertip to lightly play with it. The pleasure shot through her in short spurts that felt like being electrocuted. She gripped Agatha’s upper arms to steady herself, already trembling. The rush of death surrounding them was as intoxicating to her as Agatha was. It didn’t feel like euphoria the way draining magic felt to Agatha. It was more of a flood of adrenaline that activated her instincts as the reaper. It made every sensation that much more extreme.

Agatha, meanwhile, felt the energy of a handful of witches aboard. It spiked her arousal and made her hungrier for her love. She sped her finger, purposely overwhelming Rio with shocks of pleasure. Rio cried out, her hands tightening on her biceps. Agatha watched her closely, taking in every detail, every twitch of her lip, the fluttering of her lashes.

Before Agatha could continue, Rio abruptly turned the tables. She spun Agatha onto her back, shoving her dress up to her waist. She looked down at her bare cunt, tilting her head.

“No undergarments? Looks like you had a plan,” Rio said.

“You know me,” Agatha purred, “Always prepared.”

Rio dove down between her thighs, plunging her tongue into her. Agatha arched her back off of the wall that had tilted with the boat, effectively becoming more of a floor.

People panicked and scrambled around them, not even noticing what was unfolding between the two women. It was always the most delicious thing about the disasters Agatha created. The chaos around them allowed them to have the most depraved experiences in public.

Rio’s dark eyes were fixed on Agatha’s face. She fucked her slowly at first, grinding her tongue against the most sensitive spot inside of her. Agatha’s eyes shot open, her hips flying up. Rio pinned them back down as she moved faster, nudging at her clit with her nose.

Agatha’s hand shot down and tangled her hand in her hair, knocking her hat off. She rolled her hips, trying to fuck her back before Rio laid an arm across them to keep her still. Agatha whined in a rare show of weakness, one that only her wife could draw from her.

“Fuck… Rio!” She moaned as Rio pulled her in closer by her waist.

Rio groaned in reply, the vibration shivering against Agatha. Agatha’s jaw fell as her pleasure crested, crashing over her like a heavy wave. Rio coaxed aftershocks from her while cleaning her arousal. Whimpers left her lips, making Rio look up at her again, taking in the breathtaking sight of her wife gasping against the back of her hand. She turned her head and sucked on the skin, leaving a dark welt on her inner thigh.

Rio emerged from between her legs. She crawled over Agatha, looking down into her blue eyes. She gently moved her hand from her lips and captured them herself.

“Mi amor,” Rio whispered.

“Mi corazón,” Agatha replied, “I love you.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I hate you…” Agatha hissed.

Her fingers were inside of Rio. Two, then three, then four. Rio let out a sharp scream as Agatha stretched her to her limit, tucking her thumb inside. Rio’s face was a portrait of pain, but her arousal only grew. Agatha smiled sadistically as she made a fist inside of her. Rio’s breath caught, her walls strangling her hand. Her arousal squirted from her, the agony burning into pleasure.

Agatha roughly yanked her hand from her, leaving Rio empty. She screamed out from the violent move, clinging to the trunk of the tree behind her in an attempt to keep herself upright.

Agatha gripped her shoulder and pushed down until the weak-kneed woman was on the ground. She swung her leg over, straddling Rio’s face. She lowered herself, using her like a toy. Rio worked with a desperation, needing to give Agatha everything she could while still knowing it would never be enough.

Agatha panted as she fucked her face. Rio thrusted her tongue inside of her, tasting the flavor she craved more than anything. She watched Agatha move like a woman possessed. Her hair was wild and her expression feral. In the distance, the shore was attacked by a massive tidal wave powered by Agatha’s fury.

The churches filled with people celebrating All Saints’ Day collapsed, taking thousands with it. The city of Lisbon was crumbling around them. The impact of the earthquake reverberated as far as the Caribbean from Portugal. Even North Africa was hit. Tsunamis were birthed from the epicenter. From Agatha.

The sheer volume of death left Rio’s head spinning. Nearly one hundred thousand dead. Of that body count, thousands of witches perished, their magic moving in flashes, traveling over several countries, endowing Agatha with power.

The violet glow surrounding her was blinding, the magic of the dying witches proving to be almost too much for Agatha. She shook violently as she kept moving over Rio. She leaned forward on her knees and pressed her palms against the tree. She screamed as her overpowered body unraveled for the very woman she was trying to dominate. She crawled back so that she was eye to eye with Rio, glaring down at her with irises swimming in a deep purple as magic pulsed through every cell of her body.

The dark eyes looking back at her welled with tears that were all too human for an entity like Death. Rio had witnessed the pure rage of grief when she had taken others. She knew it was only born from pain. However, that didn’t take the pain of being loathed by the love of her life.

“He was my son too,” she whispered out, unable to stop the words.

Agatha’s eyes ignited before she shoved her to the ground. Her hands gripped her throat, squeezing as hard as she could. Rio struggled. Her vision blurred, but they both knew that Death could never die. Her windpipe would never collapse. She still wanted her to struggle for breath.

“Some mother you were,” Agatha growled through clenched teeth, “You killed your own son…”

Rio wheezed as she whispered, “He was already gone.”

Agatha strangled her another minute before letting go. Rio gasped and coughed violently. Agatha looked at her with nothing short of pure disgust.

“You could have saved him.”

“I did. Every day for five years. You don’t know how difficult it was to squeeze time from nothing.”

“And you don’t know how it was to wake up to him that morning.”

“You’re right,” Rio admitted, “I don’t.”

Agatha looked down at her, momentarily allowing her to look at her the way she used to. As the ancient witch who only showed true humanity for her.

“I wish I could have done more,” Rio sobbed out, looking stunned by her own display of emotion, “I am so sorry…”

Agatha had no words that were enough, nothing that would solve the grief between two parents. She only had a question.

“Do you see him when you bring others over?”

“Not fully,” she said, “Only shadows. Only whispers… For me to be too close would disturb the balance. His mothers are not fated to be with him yet. I cannot force when that reunion will be. But… He leaves me flowers. He leaves us flowers.”

Agatha simply cried then, unable to contain it any longer. The fact that Rio had glimpses of him while she had nothing should have angered her more, but it only led to another question that was more important than her rage.

“Is h… Is he happy?” The

“Yes,” Rio said without a second thought, “Someone with earth magic… Nicky can only make roses when he is happy. He leaves roses everywhere he goes.”

Agatha’s tears fell directly from her eyelashes to Rio’s cheeks. When Rio tried to cup Agatha’s cheek, the other woman wrenched her face away. She closed her eyes, trying to force her mask to hide her from someone who knew her completely. She opened them, but still revealed her own adoration and passion for the woman in front of her, despite her anger. That look would fuel Rio in the centuries to come. They would remind her that their bond had withstood the worst tragedy possible. Emotion would crash against it like the water crashing against the sand miles away, but that bond would always hold.

Agatha came to the same conclusion internally, beneath the storm of trauma and misery. She was cursed and blessed to be forever bonded to Death. Her lips collided with hers with a painful impact. Purple flowed from her to Rio, tying them together in that moment. She was there one second and pulling away the next. Rio sat up as Agatha left, walking into the clouds of destruction left in her wake.

For years and centuries later, Rio would leave Nicky’s roses by Agatha’s bed as she slept to give her comfort. She would keep half for her and give half of the blooms to his other mother.

Agatha, for her part, would pretend to be asleep when she would hear the familiar footsteps. Death could come like a thief in the night, but Agatha occasionally felt it just before. She would savor the kiss laid upon her forehead, the light touch of her fingers as they brushed stray hairs from her face. She savored Rio in a way she could handle during those first few decades following Lisbon before calling upon her time and time again with unprecedented disasters throughout time.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s back bent like a bow as pleasure wound itself tightly in the pit of her. She rutted herself against Rio’s thigh as the other woman wolfishly grinned down at her. She sucked in a gasp as her hips stuttered. Rio suddenly moved down her form in a flash, grabbing her thighs and bending her in half. She leaned down and ran her tongue along her soaking cunt. She drank her in as the air around them heated up as the crowds below them ran from the flames.

Agatha wanted to watch the destruction, but Rio was far more captivating. She tangled her hands in her own hair, her body quaking with pleasure. Rio sucked on the little bundle of nerves that made her scream while thrusting two fingers into her.

Agatha’s brows bunched together as her walls strangled them, already overstimulated. As she came again, she pulled Rio out from between her legs and into a kiss. She hummed against her lips with her arms wrapped around her. Agatha slid her hand down between them, teasing Rio. Rio shook her head and took her hand.

“But…” Agatha started.

“This is about you,” Rio replied, bringing her hand to her lips, kissing it with a, “Milady.”

Half the city was reduced to ashes as the flames licked up the building below them. Fire surrounded them as they shared one last kiss. Rio pulled back and smiled as frenzied cries came from the adjoining buildings.

“That’s my cue,” Rio said.

As Agatha pushed the fire away from her with tendrils of purple magic. Vines grew from Rio’s feet, crawling up her body and forming into a tight, form fitting outfit. She stood on the ledge, turning to face Agatha. She waved at her with a smile before jumping off of the roof.

Agatha waited until she was out of earshot to say, “Always a pleasure, My love.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

People plummeted from the ship, trampled one another, froze in the water. As the sounds of pain and anguish surrounded them, the band continued to play. In the middle of the mayhem were a small collection of those who chose to meet death with grace. Being around them was a comfort to Rio. Unlike the fear and terror she was typically shown, these people were more focused on finding peace in remaining moments.

The ship began to sink further in. Jewelry, furs, and other meaningless things that lost all worth in the larger picture of life plunged into the depths of the Atlantic, disappearing into the places where sunlight refused to follow. The lifeboats were full and floating away. Some were filled with vulnerable people who were rightfully saved while others were filled by the ruthless people who pushed their way to the front of the crowds. Their morality didn’t matter to their fates on Earth. That would catch up to them years later when Rio came for them. The people left behind held each other and sobbed in the realization that there was no way to escape their demise.

The musicians played to calm the passengers, the transcendent sound of strings flowing through the screams. Agatha held a hand out to Rio, who took it in hers. She pulled her in, pressing her cheek to Agatha’s as they danced. Rio hummed their song into her ear. The stars shone down on them with a beauty that stood in opposition to the tragedy unfolding beneath.

Next to them sat an elderly married couple who chose to stay. The wife had refused to leave him behind when offered a seat on the lifeboat. She wouldn’t take someone else’s place when hers was with her love. He tried to convince her to leave, but she shook her head. They held hands, listening to the music while gazing at the moon.

Agatha looked at them over Rio’s shoulder and saw the devotion that she and her own wife shared. The words the woman spoke to him earlier were some of the most romantic she had heard. “Isidor we have been together for all these years. Where you go, I go.”

She realized that the same applied to her and the woman in her embrace. Regardless of what happened, of what they did, of how they tried to resist, they were each other’s home. Although she wasn’t yet ready to fully welcome Rio back into her life, she knew that she would be sooner rather than later. Like the couple beside them, they would walk through life together.

The old man kissed the back of his wife’s hand, earning a youthful blush from her. Rio could feel their acceptance. The two would greet Death as they would an old friend.

This story was based on the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, the Great Boston Fire of 1872, and the sinking of the Titanic in 1912.

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