#schrodinger's lighting elemental

[thirdtimed]

unfortunately if i ever developed the lifeseries orv au in my head in earnest i would in no capacity whatsoever manage to be normal about it at all and like. i mean it

[irndad]

in every other life- s.r.

a/n: my soul is in this mf fic. there's a lil sexual tension lol! this is a behemoth of pining. so much fucking pining. this guy needs you like air wtf!! ALSO the poem is from a book, the lover's dictionary by david levithan. summary: the love of spencer's life is also his best friend, and she goes on a few dates. he does not handle it well, internally. ft. metaphysics by our dear genius boy. wc: 3.3k (holy shit)

While he recognizes that no direct injustice has actually been done to him, he can’t help but feel that it’s so unfair. 

Because Spencer had never actually wanted much of anyone, actually. He was too much of a child through his entire education, and he’d found anyone that he’d even consider had almost instantly had dismissed him. He’d grown used to a life where companionship wasn’t a desire that crossed his mind. 

But he wanted her. 

His lovely friend, his coworker, who was the kind of lovely that it feels unfair you’d ever have to take your eyes off of. She’s the best person he’s ever met, the sort of wonderful you read about but never convince yourself you’ll ever see. He knows the shape of her, has her form memorized from watching, waiting for her to step into the office every day.  

It was only a matter of time until he wasn’t the only one with his eye on her. 

She’s actually absurdly easy to want. There’s nights where they watch something, often what he picked, Doctor Who or some other science fiction which would be great if he could focus on anything but her. Her warm disposition ruminating his too-small apartment with a kind of light that follows his every movement. He’d adore her even if she wasn’t, but it’s impossible to ignore how beautiful she is- the kind of pretty that you hardly expect to see in real life. 

“Hey you,” her so-sweet voice is what breaks him out of his daydreaming, and he looks up at her lovely face smiling down at him. Fondness seeps through her tone, and it’s everything he can do not to preen that her first thought at seeing him is one of pleasure. 

“Hey back,” he says, greeting her with a warm grin of his own. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a calculated question. 

She had canceled their weekly movie night. He’d tried not to look too disappointed, like the idea of her next to him on his couch, of her nimble fingers raking through his unkempt hair while something nice, but far less wonderful than his company played in the background wasn’t all that was keeping him going. These days, and he knows it’s likely delusion, that she sometimes seems to gaze back at him with a similar sort of desperation, hooded eyes and tenderness. 

It’s a liminal space, those nights. How can people be two things at once? You cannot be both in love and not. In the low-light of his place, under his blanket- it’s like Schrodinger’s experiment. She can’t love him like a friend and more at the same time- it resists the laws of physics. She is his best friend, a fact he knows as sure as gravity and the elements, and believing anymore than that- it’s asserting an impossibility. 

When they’re alone together, though. It seems like the impossible exists. 

But she’d canceled it, something she hadn’t done for the months they’d been engaging in their little tradition. So there had to be a reason. She sits next to him, her desk next to his. 

She looks a little disheveled, only in an adorable way- but a little like she’s been busy, like her flow is disrupted.

“It was good! I finally went out with that guy Penelope’s been begging me to let her set me up with.”

It’s all that he can do not to freeze up. 

Penelope has been trying to get her to go out with her friend Ben, which Spencer thinks is a stupid name, by the way, and secretly he’d been so, so pleased when she had brushed off the invite. It’s a dangerous thing, hope. He tries not to have too much of it, tries to savor the thought of her, of more for moments of particular vulnerability. It’s treacherous, to want her the way he does. He knows he can’t let himself feel it all the way. 

And logistically- romance is not a reason for a valid reason for him to be panicking the way he is, but all he can think about is the physics. Two opposite things cannot be true at the same time. 

“You know, studies suggest that even now, the majority of couples are meeting in person or through friends over any other medium.” 

It hurts to say. She’s part of a couple, one half a whole that he doesn’t complete. 

“Seriously? I’d have thought it’d changed by now. I guess it’s safer to date someone you know.”

She’d date someone she knew? Is that what she prefers? 

“How did it go?” He hears Emily ask, and this conversation is already the bane of his existence.

“Guys, it really wasn’t a big deal! We got dinner, it was just a little thing.”

Spencer isn’t experienced in dating, but he does know that dinner is a serious date. Coffee is a smaller thing, but dinner-

Dinner means she got pretty for him. Probably picked out a dress for the evening, spent time on a carefully manicured look. Spent hours of her precious, rare, time on him. 

It’s not fair how much he fucking hates this guy. 

“Dinner is not nothing!” Penelope squeals, and he would love to share in her excitement, except it kind of feels like a piece of his heart is being shredded. 

“Dinner means coming up to my place, have coffee, oh look who doesn’t have her hair done-“

Please kill me, he thinks. Please. 

“Oh, that definitely did not happen.”

Thank god. 

Except he can’t miss her flush, how her expression shifts- and he has the sickening feeling he’d be hearing that guy’s name again. 

When they all settle around the table, her doe eyes focused on gruesome images that were the exact antithesis of her spirit, he couldn’t help but feel that even if it hurt, there was finality. 

The cat was out of the box. Two things cannot be true at once, and so only one is- she does not love him, at least not the way he does. 

Ben, is not in fact, going away. 

If he had more willpower or self-preservation, Spencer would keep his distance from her, but the truth of it is that as much as he wants to be the person she turns to, her smile is most of why he can stand his job anymore. 

It’s a Tuesday, and everyone is grumbling about being pulled in early in the morning, but he’s just happy to have a reason to leave the house.

“Spence!” He hears her excited voice carry, the pretty sound picking his ears up at once. “I got you coffee. It’s hazelnut, and it’s like, 90% sugar. You’re gonna love it.”

She beams at him, and he takes it in his hands. Their hands brush, and he tries so hard not to notice how soft her hands are. Her name is on the cup, and an unconsenting fantasy of her name meaning that he’s hers creeps into his mind before he can bat it away.  

But her cup says Ben. 

“Thanks,” he says her name, tries to sound measured and friendly. “Coffee date?”

She preens, and god, if this guy doesn’t get how lucky he is it might be thing thing that actually sends him over the edge after all these years.

“Just a quick thing, we were just in the same place and he bought me a coffee, I’d already gotten yours.”

If there’s two roles he can fill and he doesn’t get to pick, if he’s stuck with friends, he’s gonna be great at it, and he’s gonna be grateful. Because knowing her is a grace in itself, the kind of thing you should could yourself so lucky to have. 

“He sounds like a great guy,” he hears himself say, “I’m glad you’re doing this.”

It’s the right thing to say. He’s sure of it. The thing he’s not sure of is why the smile she offers him doesn’t reach her eyes. 

The next time he notices the cracks in their relationship, it’s when they’re out. She’d suggested this bookstore-cafe kind of thing, and he’d jumped at the thought, all of his favorite things in one afternoon. He’d felt foolish spending so much time picking out his outfit out, wearing the blazer she’d once complimented-he’d actually stuttered so hard in thanks that Morgan laughed for a full minute when she left the room- but she always looked beautiful, and he knows he sometimes pales in comparison. 

“Oh, I love this one!” She thumbs over the spine of a thin book of poetry. She’s wearing a forest green sweater that hugs her frame, and a bracelet hangs on her delicate wrist. He loves looking at her, though he tries to conceal it. His goal of being a supportive friend includes trying not to make it that known how gone for her he is. 

“I don’t read too much poetry,” he admits, “But I’m sure you have excellent taste.” 

Her keen eyes skim through the pages intently, clearly seeking out a specific passage before stopping, gaze alight with recognition. 

Her tone is molasses-sweet when she begins reading, and his heart skips a beat.

“When I say be my lover,” her voice hitches, reverent of the quote and he is reverent of her, “ I don’t mean ‘let’s have an affair. I don’t mean Sleep with me. I don’t mean Be my secret. I want us to go back to that root. I want you to be the one who loves me. I want to be the one who loves you.”

It feels impossible to look away from her, doe eyes practically sparkling in the low light of the shop, and there it is. His heart’s in his throat. Of all the things you could have told Spencer he’d experience, hearing her lovely voice wrap around the words be my lover in hushed tone, in sacred sweetness, would never ever be one he’d guess. 

He’s not sure how he feels about the multiverse theory, but right now, he can feel all the versions of himself pressing right up against him. Can see into lives he doesn’t get to live, lifetimes where his love isn’t a buried, worn-out tattered thing to keep his ever-frigid chest warm. Versions of himself that in this very moment can smile back at her, warm and open and kind, and kiss her perfect smile. 

Because he would be her lover. He would come home to her, spend the rest of his life building a home that she could fit  into. It’d be easy, actually. She’s easy to imagine- nights of laughing in a shared kitchen, evenings where her company is a fine wine, sipped at leisure with the comfort of knowing it’s never going to slip from your grasp. 

“I like that,” he says, voice too vulnerable for his own good, eyes unable to tear from the eye contact. “I really like that.” 

In the root of it, he already is her lover. He is the one who loves her. She’s just not his. 

It comes to a head on a Friday. It’s a few weeks from he book shop, and the air feels heavier between them now. The last handful of Fridays he’s sat with the ghost of what used to be their plans, empty time lingering where in its’ place used to be her company. 

He doesn’t know if she’s been with Ben. He tries not to think about it. 

The sound of her voice lingers in his mind, sweet and bitter in his mind like old lemon candy, the kind his mother would save for special occasions. He’d spend any amount of money he had to hear her lovely voice say those words to him out of the context of a poem. 

At work, they seem almost normal. Like one of them wasn’t desperately in love with the other; like a genius and his lovely, incredibly empathetic, kind best friend. In the field, their actions flow together seamlessly. She is always the first to listen and to understand (and god, isn’t it intoxicating to have someone meet you in understanding) and there is nothing to suspect is off.

But there’s still a cloud lingering. The poem- the soft melody of her voice curling around the words, the request of it all, the way she had sounded so wanting- and then, there’s Ben. 

She doesn’t mention Ben to him, of course, but Penelope does. Penelope, all bows and bright colors and cheeriness keeps bringing the absolute worst news to Spencer with a smile on her face. 

He’s taking her out for drinks! Oh, he’s reading her favorite book, do you know what it is?

This anger isn’t an emotion that he’s familiar with. A roar of possessiveness, the bite of it not tempered at all by rationality. Has he touched her?

It seems almost a tradition at this point when she shakes him out of his jealous storm of thought.

“Spence?” she muses, “You alright?” They’re alone at his desk, everyone having fled for their own evening and weekend plans. This was one of the Fridays that she had agreed to spend with him, and he wonders if he’ll be able to handle the scent of her shampoo so close after such a lapse of the sensation. Will all of his judgement go where he can’t follow?

“Yeah,” he says, tucking his papers into his bag, “I’m excited for tonight.”

His place is actually a short walk from the office. He’d been embarrassed to show her the place at first. It’s all function over fashion, and a bit cramped, but she’d looked at as though it was made of something more, something good. She didn’t even tease him. It had actually been her idea, to start these movie nights. 

Ironic, really. 

The walk was pleasant, the weather a little frigid but still nice, and she looks beautiful under the setting sun. It’s incredible to him, how her lashes catch the light and make her irises look like polished stained glass. His favorite color. Through the looking glass of another life, he sees a version of himself that gathers her up in his arms. In this daydream, she grants him one of her smiles that seems to carry its’ own light, and leans into his body like it’s the only thing that keeps her steady. It’s so clear. On the other side of the veil, he kisses her reddening nose, and keeps her warm himself. 

In the here and now, Her coat is long, and hangs low by her ankles. It’s an elegant thing, like the woman who wears it, and Spencer would be grateful for a lifetime of just looking.They stop in front of his door, some invisible force stopping him from entering. 

She sheds the coat inside his home. It smells like the candle she got him for his birthday, a reminder of her grace. He’s saved a bottle of wine for them, a sweet thing for the sweetest thing he’s known. 

“I’m sorry,” she speaks the warmth of the beverage on her tongue, and it should feel abrupt but it doesn’t.

“What for?” He can’t imagine what she would have to apologize for. 

“I know things have been…off between us,” she says carefully, considering the phrasing of each word. He watches her with a reverence, his hazel eye brimming with affection with nowhere to go. “You’ve been so great through it.”

Her legs are thrown across his own, and she’s dangerously close to sitting in his lap, but not exactly. He’s missed having her this close, the last time she’d been in his orbit was before she’d had reason to be gone. She smells floral. He fights With limited filtering through his already treacherous mind he thinks, He can’t take this from me. I still get her like this. 

“I’m not entirely sure what it is.” 

She slowly shuts her eyes, go for a moment to somewhere he can’t follow. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold. 

“This whole Ben thing.”

“Oh.”

Logically, it always had to come back to this. Someone else had the good fortune to know her like this, to be the person she reads poetry to in deep meaning to. 

He’s been stealing moments from someone who’s not his to take them from. 

“I don’t even know how I wanted you to react.” she murmurs, staring at the rim of her glass. 

“I just want you to be happy” His voice is something low, grit in the sound of it. His hand rests on her thigh. There’s warmth blanketing the room and he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her all the time. 

She laughs, but it’s not her normal laugh. It’s tinny and a little bitter. He pushes his luck, and reaches out to brush the side of her face, moving the hair but still holding her face. Her breath smells like strawberry wine and temptation. 

It feels different tonight. Low light and tension that could be sliced with wire. Every part of her is in reach, and something in the air makes all of this talk of relativity, of physics, moot. 

Like maybe he’s not in the only world they don’t end up together. 

Her face is warm and soft under his touch and he loves the sight of her. He’s never touched her like this. Every point of contact feels electric, addicting. 

“What is it? The Ben thing?” He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to hear. What he wants, is for her to tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore, that she picks him-

“I only went out with him the once.”

“What?”

“I told Penelope I was still going because it made her happy and she said I couldn’t keep going to your apartment and reading you poetry and call that romance.”

Romance? 

Wasn’t it romance, though? 

Her eyes widen in something akin to horror. 

“Shit, Spence- I’m sorry, that is so fucked of me to say-“

“You,” he tries to say calmly, “aren’t going out with Ben.”

She blinks. 

“No?”

He has spent so much time living in other lives, existing in the minds of versions of himself he wasn’t lucky enough to be. Drinking coffee imagine a life colored in her presence, falling asleep yearning for the presence of something lighter than what he has to carry. 

He can’t exist in two places. That was the entire basis of the experiment. 

He moves his other hand to hold hers, and somehow she’s shifted to being on top of him, and he looks up at her with unwavering desire. 

Spencer isn’t good at wanting people, but it comes naturally with her. Less of an action and more an urge, a course of motion to which he is at the mercy of. This is what leads him to close the gap between them, and kiss her. It’s 

Her delicate fingers run through his hair, and she can’t be close enough, please, and he could spend the rest of his life kissing her, actually. He probably will spend the rest of his life thinking about the soft sigh he pulls out of her. 

“I want it to be me,” he manages to say through shallow breath, still so close that his lips brush hers every other word, “I want to be the one you pick. I want it to be me.” His hazel eyes seem to shift in the moment, swirling with emotion. 

She brushes a lock of his overgrown hair out of his face. He normally shaves when he sees her, but he’d been so busy that he’d forgotten, and felt embarrassed of it now. That is, until she runs her index finger along the edge of his jawline.

It’s then she leans down and kisses him again, pliant and good, his hands around her waist. He breathes a prayer into her mouth, one that hopes that she never ever comes to her senses about him. 

“Spence,” she says, her voice golden silk, a kindness.  “There was never anyone else to pick.” 

[shootybangbang]

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns. 

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

[sweetie-peaches]

lore dump about those nutter buttersplease im so confused

Oh ho hi ho, careful for what you ask for

Descent to madness starts with a Miku audio and “no don’t turn me into a hat” but hat replaced with nut. Nutter butter is turned into a peanut, me too bestie.

Then just some, unusual ones, I won’t say these are like. Meaningful in anyway (pouring a coffee pot of peanut butter into a mug of nutterbutters, “thank you for 1 mil” ((they don’t have 1 mil, idk what this is about) I dream about, (two hyper realistic eyes, peanut pngs)

Then we get to the ones where it’s implied the nutter butters are alive?? And need to breathe through their bag( Warning for the rest of this post there’s themes of unreality, horror, and other dark elements) and you must clean yourself with their peanut butter

Then we’re introduced to nutter butter man

His intentions are unclear.

We get the banger quote “neither dead or alive but I am here” from schrodingers nutter butter

And we get our first Aiden mention, Aiden is the victim in this story, I believe.

Another warning if you go down this rabbit hole, a lot of the videos have extreme flashing lights and colors, and eyestrain, there isn’t warnings for these vids, keep yourself safe!

It turns more incomprehensible from here, with a few actual seemingly normal marketing posts! Kinda…. It’s weird. We get another mention of Aiden in a video where nutter butters are being drowned in water and screaming? Another nutter man mention

Next is what I believe is a massacred nutter butter, and “I sometimes get myself scared in my dream and think scary thoughts u?” With the caption “do not tell” we kill some nutter butters. A song! (Are the nutter butters singing. God what.) a reversed audio with two clown like people (idk how to decipher that shit) wearing white masks

The CRUCIFICATION OF A NUTTER BUTTER????

The nutter butter account begins messaging people, wonderful? We get a prompt in the caption of the next vid, “click yes to advance” to the question on screen, “do you vibe with me?”

Another message from presumably Aiden “I have ascended” great, good to know. Then a ask from help in the caption as the nutter butter man stands, ominously

Then another sighting of the nut man, in “this is just a dream” with the caption “go to sleep”

We have a book with “do not read” that’s full of symbols. That spells out Aiden. Then Aiden once again but with a Christmas gift. (Christmas 2023)

More unusual TikTok’s, we then get Aiden’s journal. There is a picture of nut man, with the caption “something nutty is going to happen soon but you have to find it yourself” then the code “2024 jt csjbot zfbs 1” (sounds like a YouTube link to me, but I’m not deciphering here)

Then we get our physical form of nut man, he seems to be tormenting someone outside their house, chasing them around. Some more incomprehensible stuff. Aiden is mentioned again.

By this point the Aiden mentions are in every video, there’s something about him in every one, I can’t find a meaning in them, but every single one.

We get a date in one video, written on a nutterbutter (align 10/21)

Another mention of ascencion, in which a nutter butter is on a drill; and then is thrown to the heavens to ascend??

We then get the “game” “find Aiden” in which whoever the player is must look around Aiden’s house to find him. The first place the player goes is Aiden’s son, Brian’s room (represented by a nutter butter mini) in which the player chooses to “destroy” Brian. The game continues once Brian is destroyed (killed??) and the player must dress a nutter butter. After getting dressed they make it to “Aiden st” where there’s a celebration with the words “almost here! One last step” Flashing on the screen. Once the player clicks a prompt however the game suddenly ends. With the caption “almost free”

There’s a TikTok of a nutterbutter being put to bed, in which it dreams of being viciously torn apart by the hand that put it to bed, (at this point I start to feel that nutterbutters are stand ins for people) we get the nutter butters celebrating national cookie day, where they eat a cake made of the blood from their brothern, use a baby nutter butter as a piñata, and burn down a house

We get a call audio, well a voice mail, “hello is anyone there (mumbling I can’t make out, sounds like are you? Help me out?) “well that was strange” then a song from the Barbie movie

Some stuff that at first I thought was a code but believe is just a genuine keyboard smash

[futurefind]

//A concept I both rlly love + epitomize how very much I run off of, like, passion? Attention?? Interaction??? being able to turn an inch into a mile inspo wise: when my friends had an urban fantasy spn group for like a month and this is what I went with for Sa's SpnTM stuff :3<

Ice puppy sa beloved

The Kerberos, or Cerberus, date back to antiquity with the guardian of the Grecian Underworld. Kerberi have long served as minor psychopomps due to the intersection of their chthonic and protective natures, helping restless ghosts pass on and protecting the slumber of those that already have.

Regardless of how they choose to wield (or not wield) their powers, Kerberi have a heightened attunement to the spiritual. They’re most aware of ghosts (that is, once-living beings that have passed on to noncorporeal forms), in particularly, followed by spirits (living entities who have always been noncorporeal), with elementals and then magical energies being those they have the least-heightened awareness of. They also have increased physical senses, though the exacts vary depending on the type of Kerberos.

While ancient records can only agree upon the Kerberos being multi-headed and having been defeated by Heracles for his Trials, its descendants have catalyzed into two primary variants: lupine and serpentine. Shared physical traits include: a hardy constitution and endurance; slit pupils; often (but not always) yellow-to-gold irises when channeling their powers; sharpened teeth.

The only cited ‘magical’ traits of Kerberos in myth are eyes of fire and a nebulous ability to spew the poison aconitine (namely, the growing of wolfsbane). Kerberi, thus, have a nebulous affinity for fire, and either a resistance to poisons or an extreme weakness to wolfsbane.

Kerberi are a ‘schrodinger’ existence, being neither physical nor noncorporeal. Instead it is a state rooted in the ‘soul’, completely variable from person to person, with mixed blood in the traditional sense being impossible for them: They may reproduce freely, and all their descendants will technically be Kerberi, but even a child born to two powerful Kerberi is not guaranteed to display strong Kerberi traits. One may have limited physical traits, another unable to hide theirs at all, and so on.

Overall, Kerberi’s ‘active’ powers are rooted in elemental energies, ranging from the classical elements (Western or Eastern) to ones such as light or time or even vitae itself. This goes hand in hand with the standard of ‘fire’, but ‘monoelement’ Kerberi— whether they wield only fire or are unable to use it at all— have exponentially more powerful and volatile, dangerous powers. Often, their elemental powers effect one’s appearance and are always effected by their emotions.

Kerberi are social but territorial creatures. They thrive in consistent group environments, and suffer in solitude, with inclinations towards protectiveness— both towards their peers and loved ones, and the areas in which they reside. If two Kerberi intersect in ‘territory’ this can lead to conflict: not because they cannot coexist, but because each feels the need to be both ‘the’ guardian/protector, including of the other Kerberus, while refusing to be the ‘protectee’ in any manner themselves.

For Sasume: Large, sleek-fluffy canid ears and tail (replaceable with human equivalents/lack of) and, when channeling her abilities, typical gold eyes (and slit pupils) alongside further-sharpened and hardened teeth and nails. Wounds & skin irritations, small scars & scar edges have a propensity towards sharp angles and paleness, like fractured ice, while larger ones’ internal discolorations are patterned like ice fractals. Moreover, actively channeling her elemental powers leads to creeping patterns of frost along her skin. 

Powers wise: Sasume wields the relatively common abilities to actively enhance her physicality (stamina, strength, pain-resistance, hardiness), including a less-common amplification of healing rate. She also has the ability to generate and/or control water, preferring to wield it in the form of ice, to a powerful degree. As it runs counter to the Kerberi standard of fire, she has difficulty using any sort of flame manipulation, but retains an immunity to mundane flames. When angered or on edge or the like, her immediate vicinity will chill, and the worse it is the broader and colder the reach. Caution is advised, as she’s not immune to the cold. Though, her own powers are only high risk to herself if their induced ‘chill’ becomes internalized. 

In the day to day: Sasume is reserved, and literally buttoned up due to her aversion to anyone seeing the physical signs of her abilities. Outside of this, she keeps an ear out for ghostly unrest, and can get distracted by spiritual activity if there’s no appointments/set times she needs to meet.

[sukimas]

You commented "we use relativistic effects to understand how Mercury is liquid", could you please explain how so? (Apologies, I don't know quite so much about chemistry in particular beyond Gen Chem)

Okay, so, all of the elements with full d orbitals experience relativistic effects to an extent. Because a full set of d orbitals is fairly small for the number of electrons in it, the electrons that go close to the nucleus experience very, very high speeds when repelling each other- close to the speed of light. Due to these high speeds, the Schrodinger equation breaks down and we have to pull out the Dirac equation. Dirac equation sez that because the electrons are moving too quickly, they'll not be able to interact with other electrons as much, and will have less solid-like behavior at the same temperature as other comparable metals. (Solids are solids because of relatively stable bonds between atoms; if the electrons can't interact for long, they can't form those stable bonds as well, or sometimes at all.)

These effects are present in all of mercury's group- zinc has a melting point of ~420 degrees C, compared to its neighbor copper, which bears one of 1085 degrees, and nickel, with one of 1455 degrees. (Scandium, furthest to the left in the d-block, has a melting point of 1541 degrees, so it's not necessarily like it's going up infinitely).

Mercury, though, because it's got the heaviest nucleus and the most electrons of the gang, accelerates its particles closest to the speed of light, and therefore has the fewest chances to interact with other atoms of mercury. Thus, melts at -40 C. Most of "why is this solid/liquid at X temperature" has to do with how strong its interactions are with other atoms; various things control this, but in metals, electron speed is a pretty notable one.

[random2908]

I seem to have gained a ton of new followers, due to a physics post (!). So I guess I should put together a master-post of all my physics posts and maybe pin it. A couple things are listed in multiple categories. I’m sure I missed some posts, especially in the “physics news” category, but I think I got most of my big explanatory and philosophical posts. [NB: This is not primarily a physics blog, although I’m nearly always happy to talk about physics. This is an everything blog, but I just happen to be a physicist.]

physics news

black hole polarization

LIGO detection of gravitational waves

changing the definition of mass

atom laser announcement and list of related topics (short post)

what is fusion? and the 2022 NIF fusion energy result 

debunking of classical pilot waves

physics explanations

entropy 

entropy followup

entropy the short version

Bose-Einstein condensation

kitchen experiment! Rayleigh scattering to simulate daytime, sunset, and eclipses using milk and flashlights

states of matter

Emmy Noether’s law of symmetry (explanation not by me) 

sources of elements (explanation not by me)

how different types of medical imaging work

quantum mechanics in sci-fi, coherence, and Schrodinger’s cat

atom laser

what is fusion? and the 2022 NIF fusion energy result

double pendulum (comment on another post)

equivalence principle

a darkness flashlight

philosophy of science

second quantization (is light REALLY a particle?)

quantum interpretation as religion

many worlds (flippant)

skepticism

quantum interpretation and superdeterminism

conflicting definitions of “weight”

nothing, my first love

cautionary tale about extraordinary results

Planck constant

luminiferous ether is back on the table!

equivalence principle

blackbody radition and second quantization (silly convo with my brother)

skepticism 2, and string theory

quantum mechanics isn't causal and that's ok

brief musing on energy as topography

compatibility between science and religion

brief discussion of the paradox of verifying precision measurement

the full Planck length rant

if you pick the wrong approach for the type of physics you're asking about, you get the wrong answer to even seemingly dumb-simple questions like "where are you"

social stuff

worst lab safety anecdote

random anecdote of benevolent sexism at work

the social poison of being a physicist

the tolls of getting a PhD

musings on science funding vis-a-vis the military-industrial complex

rant about how science and math ARE part of the liberal arts 

tumblr search for the word “safety officer” on my blog to get mad science stories

overselling your work to get funding

artisanal science

[randomoranges]

have time, will post lamao

more ancient decade old fic. wow. [no im NOT over how OLD these ARE okAY lamao]

IAMP

Welcome Home

328

 Another one inspired by a drawing Lomitzz made.

Oliver fumbled with his keys, for a moment, exhausted and looking forward to being on the other side of the door. He had spent the last seven days hopping around the continent, going from one meeting to the next, with dignitaries and ministers alike, changing time zones too frequently, and now, he wanted to be home.

 The flight had been long, he hadn’t been able to sleep much, despite how tired he was, and he had a pounding migraine. On top of that, he was also hungry and the thought of either preparing something, or ordering in and having to wait for the delivery, put him off from the thought of food.

 He finally managed to get the door open and the first thing he noticed, other than the lights that were already on, was the smell of something baking. For a moment, he was convinced he was hallucinating, but then he heard the sound of the television, followed by a very distinct French curse.

 Oliver’s heart leapt, for a moment. He closed the door behind him, and walked in. The television went off and a moment, or so later, he was greeted by his two cats and his lover. Schrodinger leapt at him and Oliver had to take a step back under his weight. He scratched him behind his ears and his cat gave a content purr, before jumping on top of his suitcase.

 Fred decided his leg would make a good place to hang on to and Oliver had to pry her off gently, before she made holes in his pants. She mewled happily in greeting, and Oliver let her rest on his shoulder, which only left him with one person to greet.

 “I… hello.” He finally settled for.

 “Salut.”/ “Hey.” Jean told him, nonchalantly, arms crossed over his chest as he tried to casually lean back against the wall. Oliver made no comment as to the apron he had over his jumper and tried hard to figure out why Jean was here.

 “How did you get in?” He asked instead, hoping he didn’t sound too irritated. He wasn’t, for starters, but he was exhausted and knew he could sound tetchy without wanting to.

 Jean took out the spare key he had given him, what felt like a lifetime ago. In actuality, it had been after the second week he had moved into this place, but that wasn’t the point.

 “Comment était ton voyage?”/ “How was your trip?”

 Oliver wanted to tell him it had been fine and that he could leave now, but something stopped him from doing so.

 “Horrible. Absolutely horrible.”

 Jean nodded and stepped towards the kitchen and Oliver had no choice but to follow him, the cats in tow.

 “Pourquoi tu m’en parles pas, pendant qu’on mange? Ch’t’ai fait à souper. J’ai fait une quiche. Végétarienne, comme t’aimes.”/ “Why don’t you tell me about it while we eat? I made you supper. I made a quiche. Vegetarian, like you like it.”

 Oliver was surprised and took a seat at his table. He found it strange how his kitchen only ever looked, or felt homey, when Jean was in it and when he cooked in it. He brought that certain extra element to it he could never manage to. Even before, in their old house… He shook his head. He was too tired to reminisce. He did enough of that already.  

 Jean shooed Fred from the chair and set the table, before he retrieved the quiche from the oven. He cut up two pieces and brought them back, before taking a seat himself to Oliver’s right. Oliver thanked him and then took a bite of the quiche. It was exquisite and just what he needed. There was always something that hit differently about the first meal back home. Already, he felt a smidge better.

 Once he had made a fair dent in his piece, he told Jean about his trip and the other listened, attentive as always when he wanted to be. Oliver knew, deep down, that Jean didn’t particularly care about what it was that Oliver had done throughout the week, but the fact that he listened was enough.

 The quiche consumed, Jean went to do the dishes, Fred following close behind, while Oliver took care of his suitcase, Schrodinger enjoying the brief reprieve from the other two.

 By the time his suitcase was empty, Jean was putting the last of the dishes away. Oliver stepped behind him and hugged him from behind, resting his chin on Jean’s shoulder. He gave a small content sigh, kissing Jean’s cheek.

 “Thank you.” He murmured. Jean gave him a sideways look and smiled softly.

 “Ça m’fait plaisir.”/ “My pleasure.”

 “If you want… you don’t have to leave right away… you can stay a little longer.” His cheeks coloured slightly and he hoped Jean wouldn’t see.

 “Ça m’dérangerais pas.”/ “That would be nice.”

 They headed to the living room and Oliver curled up by Jean’s side. Jean caressed his shoulder and played with his curls, slowly easing the horrible week from his mind. When he fell asleep, sometime later, Jean easily carried him off to the bedroom and tucked him in. Oliver hugged the pillow close and mumbled something incomprehensible that had Jean still for a moment, afraid Oliver would wake.

 He debated long enough, whether to stay or head back to his own place, and finally decided it would be nice to feel Oliver’s smaller body pressed close to his. He lifted the covers and crawled into his usual place, moments before Oliver sought him in his sleep, snuggling up to him. Schrodinger claimed the foot of the bed by Oliver’s side and Fred perched herself, somewhere close to Jean’s head. For once, Jean didn’t mind and simply held Oliver, closing his eyes and welcoming sleep as well.

 FIN 2

 Started writing: October 6th 2013, 8:02pm

Finished writing: October 6th 2013, 8:37pm

Started typing: December 18th 2013, 11:11am

Finished typing: December 18th 2013, 11:30am

[freaks-and-facades-ravenloft]

Freaks & Facades: Session 0 - Cast of Characters

Welcome to all you wonderful readers!  

Here is an introduction to the wonderful character cast for the Freaks & Facades campaign!  This is meant to be a brief overview on the characters’ starting personalities and goals (with some insights gleaned after feeling them out between sessions 1 and 3). 

We hope you love them all as much as we do!   Check them out below the cut!

-- Aboleth Eye!

Pryrrish Norfaer - ( @moonstruck-vixen )

Pryrrish of House Norfaer was once one of the serene and mysterious star elf race; now exiled from their cloistered and dying realm of Sildeyuir.   

She is a forsworn scholar, hunting for the most hidden secrets of the otherworldly.  In her hands she clutches a tome of spiraling script, the cause and salvation to her quest for knowledge.  Only she can truly understand what the maddening, spiraling script deigns to tell her.  For her eyes and souls both hold that same spiral of unreadable darkness within them…  

Her youth was cut short after witnessing devastation on the Material Plane.  The dreaded Day of Mourning.  And when she endeavored to uncover how it had come to pass, that foolish quest brought her no answers.  Only terrible personal disaster.  Paying a price she never anticipated, Pryrrish was branded a heretic.  Forced to embrace the darkness of her new accursed patron--the Elemental Dark itself--to save and begin her life.  The dark book’s secrets both doomed and saved her; perhaps it will now guide her to what it all means?  There must have been a reason behind her misfortune.  A reason for why she was offered the brand of the Elemental Dark upon her soul…  

Will she find what she seeks through her determination to reclaim knowledge thought lost?  Or will the Elemental Dark, forever whispering in her ear, consume her in this foolish quest’s end?

Star Elf Warlock 6

Ludwig Hossler Schrödinger - ( @atlysium )

Ludwig Hossler Schrodinger is a young man fascinated by the world around him; and people fascinate him more than anything, for reasons we all take for granted...

He appears a proud scientific noble of Lamordia, tastefully austere and rational to a fault.  Except when it comes to human osteology, the study of bones.  His parents (who love him very very much) helped him acquire a taste for this little-understood branch of science.   But they never truly introduced to the world beyond their cryptic household.  How odd, considering their influence as Markgrafs of the mountain village of Schwartzsteinburg…

It was a great surprise when Schrodinger’s idea to travel beyond the town was embraced wholeheartedly by his parents.  For their darling son hoped to meet with the Society of the Enlightened Mind in Ludendorf!  Lady and Lord Schrodinger thought it would be a life-changing opportunity for their son to share the fruits of his labor in the field of osteology (and osteomancy).   And so, departing from the safety net of his protective and equally gifted parents, he has proudly shared his life’s work to the Society! But the Society, unfortunately, quite misunderstood his enthusiasm for this strange new science.  

Is he a victim of academia tirelessly struggling to be understood?  Or, perhaps, the Society saw his endeavors in self-experimentation as the unnatural obsession it truly is?  

Human Boneblade 6

Fenri Sunwillow - (Redbrown [not on socials])

Fenri Sunwillow is an exceptional, strong-willed halfling priestess; her smile lights up a room even in the darkest of times.  

She is tirelessly devoted to the teachings of the Dawnfather Pelor–God of the Sun, Healing and Mercy.  With her unshakeable faith, Fenri has gone on many adventures beyond the Free City of Greyhawk.  She has faced monsters, scoundrels and failure, all alongside friends who welcomed her gifts and her optimism.  She treasured them wholeheartedly and offered them the grace and healing of her god!  

But now Fenri the halfling is no longer among friends.  She is a light with no one to shine upon.  She continues what the tenets of Pelor ask of her, seeking to find those most in need of her gifts.  And her friendship.  Everyone is a friend Fenri hasn’t met yet!  But life is hard on such a small bundle of joy, and the Sun does not shine all day without rest.  And yet Fenri shines and shines–through true faith, inner strength or misguided delusion, who could say?  

Will she push through what awaits her, through the darkest time in her life?  Or shall the Sun inside her heart not be enough to sustain her once its out of reach?

Halfling Cleric 6 (Patron Deity: Pelor)

Channa Devir - ( @aureliagaming )

Channa Devir knows much about sacrifice; and she is willing to risk much in order to reclaim what is hers.  

An aspiring prodigy in the arts of elemental theory and magic, Channa was lifted up and taught by some of Khorvaire’s greatest conjurers.  They taught her about the laws of reality, and how to make a life with the gifts she was given.  She followed their guidance and friendship, becoming attuned to the  principles of elemental earth in the process.  Earth is steadfast and patient while the world seems in flux.  And she felt through her mentors she had sacrificed enough of her body and soul to have real achievement in this crazy world.

But then her foundation for living was suddenly lost.  Her best friend; gone without a trace; not even a note...  She went to their mentor, supposedly the greatest conjurer in the realm for answers.  Together Channa learned more and more, hoping to unravel the elemental ritual left behind by her friend...  But then her mentor, her only support and teacher, vanished as well.  The ritual remnants in their laboratory...   Channa had lost everything to this mystery, so she decided to follow in her friend and mentor’s footsteps.  To make them answer why they had abandoned her.  The sacrifices needed to for such a ritual would be great, but Channa would follow it to the end.  To be with them again!

Will those she searches for weep that she was drawn onto their same path of mistakenly pursuing knowledge?  Or has Channa offered herself before a hungering evil that has fed upon greater mages than she and her friends?

Human Duskblade 6

Solange Therese Charron -( @owldork1998 )

Solange Therese Charron has long embraced her lot in life, forever on the outskirts.  

She had a rough start of it: a strange foundling raised by a pair of poor gravediggers, just beyond the walls of decadent and lively Port-a-Lucine.  She was born touched by the grave in more ways than one, however; for Solange is a caliban, a creation of humanity’s aspirations twisted by the darkness of taboo and unforgiveable sin.  She is forever forced to hide her  deathly beauty behind the veil of the mourner; which suits her fine.  No one asks a  gravedigger why they hide their face...  But those that linger beyond death have taken notice of her, a being trapped between worlds.  And to hone this connection and defend the living, she was invited to watch over the crypts of the city’s oldest bloodlines.

She became a gravekeeper of St. Leonburg’s Cemetery by night, hoping to earn the experience to see what the Order of the Moonlit Vigil protects within the uncharted catacombs below.  The dark of those bone-decorated labyrinths calls to Solange, but she instead pushes towards her duties of protecting the noble dead (and tolerating the living nobles who visit the cemetery to socialize and scheme).  But she cannot truly escape the call, literally and metaphorically...

Can one seemingly born to serve death find peace in her duties among them?  Or must Solange dare to walk among the living to find answers about her spectral-afflicted existence?  

Caliban Gravedigger 6

Read the next part, Session One - Vignettes (Part One) here!

Thanks for reading!  We hope these characters fascinate you with their tales!

Parts: Zero/Cast, One P1, One P2, Two, Three [tbd]

-- Aboleth Eye @aboleth-eye

[swamp-world]

Crucial to point out that it seems that both of these athletes have an intersex condition and not only is it racist but also intersexist. These women have been targeted with the language and ideas of transphobia on a broad scale, but the other crucial element of it is that despite having identified, lived, and competed as women their entire lives, based on an intersex condition, they are not accepted as women by conservatives, liberals, etc. The reason they were disqualified from competing previously is because they are, according to the IBA, intersex.

TERFs like JKR see it as abysmal that someone they perceive as a "legitimate" cis woman is being "assaulted" by someone they perceive as not a "legitimate" cis woman; but if TERFs were to have their way, then what? Would they have the same issue of an intersex woman competing against perisex cis men? Would they see that situation as "a cis man assaulting a defenceless woman"? (Maybe. It's Schrodinger's intersexism. Will they parade an intersex individual about as the villain of women's sports or the victim of men's sports? Depends on which is most convenient at the time. The message becomes the same in the end: you are not welcome where you cannot be easily categorized in a binary.)

JKR is being criticised because she went after two people who are capable of being defended as cis women, but who are also capable of being systematically discriminated against (and have been!!) for being intersex (or for being perceived as intersex), and people do not seem to be defending them as intersex athletes. It is largely in the specific light of them being seen as perisex cis women that even transphobic people are willing to defend them, while the egregious intersexism continues to be dismissed and swept under the rug.

*The IBA has not officially released the results of the "gender tests" that the athletes "failed"; the head of the association has said that both had XY chromosomes, while the IOC has also cast doubt onto the legitimacy of the tests conducted by the IBA. It's my understanding that neither officially identify as intersex and this is not me claiming to make statements about how they do or should identify, or whether or not they are intersex. They are being discriminated against using structural intersexism regardless. Additionally I am a perisex individual and should not be taken as an authority on intersex lives and discrimination, criticism and feedback welcome.

Something is different this time with JK Rowling’s ugly comments regarding Imane Khelif and Lin Yu Ting. Both of whom are women and have identified as women since their birth.

It’s the first time I’m seeing more of the general public reacting with “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop being so weird and obsessive.”

Reaction to this has been particularly strong in Taiwan.

‘Gender Critics’ aren’t even being gender critical now. They are being gender enforcers for women they perceive to be outside the norm.

And it’s good to see people recognising this creepiness for what it actually is. Frothing at the mouth at every little thing will turn the public away from you.

[orangesandmoranges]

Favorite Quotes from Physics and Philosophy by Werner Heisenberg ...so far

-"The idea that energy could be emitted or absorbed only in discrete energy quanta was so new that it could not be fitted into the traditional framework of physics." pg.6

-"Bohr was well aware of the fact that the quantum conditions spoil in some way the consistency of Newtonian Mechanics. In the simple case of the hydrogen atom, one could calculate from. Bohr's theory the frequencies of the light emitted by the atom, and the agreement with the observations were perfect. Yet these frequencies were different from the orbital frequencies and their harmonics of the electrons circling around the nucleus, and this fact showed at once that the theory was still full of contradictions." Pg.8

"How could it be that the same radiation that produces interference patterns, and therefore must consist of waves, also produces the photoelectric effect, and therefore must consist of moving particles." pg 9

"The probability wave of Bohr, Kramers, Slater, however, meant more than that; it meant a tendency for something. It was a quantitative version of the old concept of "potentia" in Aristotelian philosophy. It introduced something standing in the middle between the idea of an event and the actual event, a strange kind of physical reality just in the middle between possibility and reality." Pg. 15

"Schrodinger had described the atom as a system not of a nucleus and electrons but of a nucleus and matter waves." Pg. 17

"Bohr considered the two pictures - particle picture and wave picture-as two complimentary descriptions of the same reality." Pg. 17

"The probability function represents a mixture of two things, partly a fact and partly our knowledge of a fact. It represents a fact in so far as it assigns at the initial time the probability unity (I.E complete certainty) to the initial situation: the electron moving with the observed velocity at the observed position; "observed" means observed within the accuracy of the experiment. It represents our knowledge in so far as another observer could perhaps know the position of the electron more accurately. The error in the experiment does-at least to some extent- not represent a property of the electron but a deficiency in our knowledge of the electron. Also, this deficiency of knowledge is expressed in the probability function." Pg.19

"The probability function obeys an equation of motion as the co-ordinates did in Newtonian mechanics; its change in the course of time is completely determined by the quantum mechanical equation, but it does not allow a description in space and time. The observation on the other hand, enforces the description in space and time but breaks the determined continuity of the probability function by changing our knowledge of the system." Pg 23

"These uncertainties may be called objective in so far as they are simply a consequence of the description in the terms of classical physics and do not depend on any observer. This may be called subjective in so far as they refer to our incomplete knowledge of the world" Pg 27

"Plato constructs the regular solids from two basic triangles, the equilateral and the isosceles triangles, which are put together to form the surface of the solids. Therefore, the elements can (at least partly) be transformed into each other. The regular solids can be taken apart into their triangles and new regular solids can be formed of them. For instance, one tetrahedron and two octahedra can be taken apart into twenty equilateral triangles, which can be recombined to give one icosahedron.... but the fundamental triangles cannot be considered matter, since they have no extension in space. It is only when triangles are put together to form a regular solid that a unit of matter is created." pg. 42----->Reminds me of S Matrix Theory

"The doctrine of Anaxagoras allows for the first time a geometrical interpretation of the term "mixture" Pg. 39

" He says, 'All things will be in everything; nor is it possible for them to be apart, but all things have a portion of everything.' The universe of Anaxagoras is set in motion not by Love and Strife, like that of Empedocles, but by "Nous," which we may translate as "Mind." Pg. 39

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

req’d by @drdrone

when is a lightning elemental not a lightning elemental

[scorpia-is-babey]

Schrodinger’s Scorpion Kingdom

ALT Title: 

An Essay Detailing Why I Don’t Believe in Either Theory of Hordak Wiping out the Scorpioni, or that the Former Scorpioni Gave Up the Kingdom Willingly 

I often jokingly say that Scorpia’s backstory has to be the most convoluted, jumbled mess of a character I have ever had the misfortune of simping... Uh, I mean, analyzing for. I’m not the type of nerd to get spoon fed information without chewing on it first. Whenever I try to chew on the idea that Hordak miraculously brought the Scorpioni to their knees, or if he was simply given the Runestone and kingdom, I can’t really come to any agreement. Both are equally ridiculous if we sit down and dissect them. 

Firstly, we are shown very clear evidence that the Horde (and by extension Hordak) had overthrown the kingdom (that popular screenshot of a few Scorpioni laying face down on the ground, the Black Garnet looming in the center). But there’s never any further explanation about that. How he might have rallied these brand new troops and given them armor; the early bits of technology he used; how he could have possibly discovered that the Black Garnet was a noteworthy piece of power; what the previous relationship between the Horde and Scorpioni was... 

Scorpia’s takes or explanations on any of this doesn’t and will never count. She is not only a heavily biased party, but she isn’t a primary source of information. Force Captain Orientation, and therefore, Hordak, is the easiest answer to look towards regarding how she knows the things she knows. Scorpia is always a secondary source of information and it is impossible to take her word for whatever happened before she was born. 

The main, primary source we do have is Light Spinner.

Light Spinner was watching the attack in real time and showed young King Micah. Her actions in “Light Spinner” (S2, E6) are desperate and urgent for that reason; there’s no time to be wasted. Through her and the narrative, we have a little bit of information on the Scorpioni, and we can conclude a few things about them: 

1) They were doing well for themselves at some point. The entirety of the Fright Zone belonged to them, and there are even larger areas that the audience only gets to see once (Horror Hall) that would suggest opulence. Runestones are the deciding factor of a Princess of Power as well (these being the Elemental Princesses, the fact that there’s canonically only a handful of them). All of the Princesses of Power have very large kingdoms (i.e. Kingdom of Snows, Salineas, Bright Moon, and Plumeria). 

2) Nobody gave up anything. If the aforementioned screenshot of the Scorpioni people laying face down on the ground and the looming Black Garnet being tied up wasn’t enough incentive to not believe that this was a peaceful treaty, I bring your attention to the fact that Light Spinner was keen on joining the Horde. She was accepted on the basis that she would be able to use the Black Garnet. 

This random Mystacor sorceress, and not, say, the Black Garnet’s actual Princess. 

3) They were not an obscure kingdom. Hordak’s arrival was common knowledge. Narrative wise, we don’t get to know this until Catra knows this. Just because Catra doesn’t know it, doesn’t mean that it isn’t a general fact. If there are only six elemental princesses in their entire known world, it would be jarring if the Black Garnet’s Princess was forgotten only after a few years since Hordak’s arrival. 

We also don’t have extra confirmation from Light Spinner this time, but from the fact that Scorpia gets a Princess Prom invitation in the Fright Zone. They know where to mail it. They know where Princess Scorpia resides. 

Who is “they”?  

Canon doesn’t give us an answer to that. For the sake of continuing this point, we’re going to put a pin in it. Leave it for another day. 

With all of these inferences of the former Scorpioni Kingdom, this leaves us with the idea that Hordak’s rule over them was, unsurprisingly forceful... 

Somehow. 

This character spends the majority of his time pursuing his own personal goals. He wants to rejoin Horde Prime by opening a portal and taking the entire Horde army into Etheria to conquer it. When he does end up doing this, it’s with the help of Catra, Entrapta, and indirectly, Scorpia. 

He needs repairs to his armor eventually, which Entrapta helps him with; he needs Shadow Weaver to keep the soldiers in line as his second in command; he needs Catra after Shadow Weaver to take that second in command position which she absolutely succeeds in more than either of them could ever have... 

How does Hordak overtake the Black Garnet without these characters and resources all of those years ago? Where does he get these soldiers from? Why are these soldiers strong enough to conquer a fully capable, thriving kingdom? 

One idea floating around in the fandom space is that the Scorpioni were as non-confrontational, jovial and charismatic as Scorpia is shown to be, therefore allowing themselves to be conquered. That idea is not only unlikely, but it is admitting that somehow Scorpia would have met her people and known them well enough to pick up those traits. If not anything else, that claim is entirely ridiculous. 

Although we see Scorpia in a picture with her mothers as an infant, it’s unlikely that she got to know them either and pick up on their traits. There is never any mention of them verbally and no confirmation if they are dead or alive. Scorpia’s mothers not making an appearance or even being mentioned implies that they are dead, but, again, that’s never confirmed... Instead we can conclude that the mother with the Black Garnet connection is, at the very least, disconnected from it. When Glimmer is crowned as Queen and she no longer has to share the Moonstone with Angella, she gets all of its power. When Scorpia connects with the Black Garnet, she gets all of its power. She is not sharing any of its power with anyone at that point. 

...

This leaves me, annoyingly, left with more questions than answers. With Scorpia being my favorite character, I am constantly writing, drawing, and discussing her. This makes me acutely aware that she’s got one of the most plot hole-inclined, nonsensical backstories of the entire cast. It spills over into Hordak and the Scorpioni plotline, too. 

Fortunately, since I don’t believe in either “Hordak conquered the Scorpioni”, or “the Scorpioni gave up the Black Garnet willingly”, this does nothing to affect how I perceive canon, Hordak, or the Scorpioni. 

After thinking about and writing it all down, I genuinely do not care about Scorpia’s background anymore. I will make decisions based on her background when the opportunities arise in discussion or fanfiction writing. Both Scorpion Kingdom theories are ridiculous, leaving us with this paradoxical theory: 

“Schrodinger’s Scorpion Kingdom Theory”, is realizing that this plotline doesn’t make sense, and then deciding to fill in your own spaces where it best suits your own understanding of the narrative —because the original explanations are both plausible and implausible, given what we know from the canonical facts. 

[shuuenmei]

about romance in “black or white”

Hi, I’m alive, just very busy with real life after I’m done with Uni graduation things and taking up Japanese classes again among others (Not included: Going back to playing Arknights) so I’m back to posting “Behind the Fic” and “future scenario” talks again for “black or white”.

This is something that I had in mind for a long while about romance elements and after I posted a small prologue of Yuu (Rei)’s future in AO3 in “schrodinger case files”.

When I first wrote the outlines for the story, romance wasn’t really in my mind.

There is friendship but romance is more of a foot note in the end.

Because of this, I eventually narrowed down Yuu (Rei)’s potential romance candidates to 3 people and decided that only one (Ruggie) will be Yuu (Rei)’s end-game.

Nearly dying from OB Riddle made Yuu (Rei) more aware of the dangers she’d face as a magicless human and she just can’t depend on the first year gang or Grim for protection forever.

The fact that NRC is filled with asshole magicians made Yuu (Rei) even more closed off and guarded from people.

Because of this, ALL the third years are off limits because they could see how closed off Yuu (Rei) was through Yuu (Rei)’s body language and their relationship remains a respectful senior and junior relationship. Malleus included.

This also applies to the majority of the second years and first years.

So the romance candidates for Yuu (Rei) went down to just these 3 along with a look to how their relationship will eventually develop:

1: Ace:

To sum it up, romance with Ace for Yuu (Rei) is the friends to lovers trope. Except that Ace is heavily friend zoned and bro-zoned by Yuu (Rei).

Yuu (Rei) see’s too much of her youngest little brother, Seiran, in Ace to seriously consider him in a romantic light.

Ace is in denial that he may have developed feelings for her because he already knows that he is a horrible boyfriend from his first dating experience in middle school alone and he said it himself in his Ghost Groom Personal Story that he isn’t ready to experience romance anytime soon after that.

By the time Ace might have come to terms about it in the future, it might have been too late for him.

As to how Ace eventually would fall for Yuu (Rei), it’s because he’s seen her growth as a person from the start of the story to finish and thus, he knows what kind of person Yuu (Rei) actually was and fell in love with her for it, even if unconsciously.

2: Riddle:

Yes, Riddle would eventually see Yuu (Rei) in a romantic light.

He’s similar to Ace in that he’s seen Yuu (Rei)’s growth from the start (Starting from Post OB Riddle) and eventually fell for her.

The problem with him is that he’s already feeling too guilty for causing her near death. Even if Yuu (Rei) eventually accepted his apology, that doesn’t mean that it’ll be forgotten.

The trauma of her near death against OB Riddle still stays in Yuu (Rei) and Riddle also feels that he didn’t deserve her, especially since he nearly killed her.

So yeah, this is... complicated.

3: Ruggie:

The thing with Ruggie is that he doesn’t really know her beyond recognizing Yuu (Rei) as “The kid who dared hose Leona” and they only start interacting from Savanaclaw chapter onwards.

But among everyone in NRC and the named Twisted Wonderland cast, Ruggie would be the one to empathize and completely understand Yuu (Rei)’s stance from post OB Riddle onwards to a zealous degree.

That said, his empathy doesn’t mean that he’d fall head over heels for Yuu (Rei) right on the bat, they just start out as people who bond over their common goal of surviving.

Their relationship development is a lot more gradual and on Yuu (Rei)’s part, Ruggie was the first person outside of the first years and the Heartslabyul seniors that she started to warm up to because he understood her goal in a degree.

As for the other first year gang OC’s, I haven’t actually thought about it because, again, romance was NOT in mind when I wrote the story outlines and scenarios.

The ghost OC’s are not going to have romance in any form since, well, they’re already dead.

Irene and her butler slash childhood friend Nicholas had something with them, admittedly, but it was completely unresolved since Irene died.

That’s all I got for now!

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Season Two Episode Two

Following a typically chaotic opener, Episode Two of Season Two strikes a far more sombre tone. The arrival of Henry Lang as Robert’s valet brings the first of this episode’s three plot points that address the impact of WW1 on the mental health of its soldiers. There is nothing funny to say about either shell-shock or suicidal ideation both of which are vast, complex issues that, for my money, Downton Abbey isn’t the vehicle explore in (because they require more time and depth than the pace of the plot in Season Two affords) and it certainly isn’t my place to make light of them in this rather irreverent corner of the internet. So I’m going to have a go at treading a fine line here. Forgive me if I stumble. 

Lang is clearly in the grips of something awful and yet in an attempt to avoid the indignity of having maids in the dining room, he is bumped up to footman duty. He struggles throughout, culminating in him depositing his cargo on Edith’s dress. Mrs O’Brein has firmly taken Lang under her wing, recognising that he is struggling and offers him assurance and comfort that she has never gifted to Thomas. 

Across the Village, Lieutenant Edward Courtenay is in the hospital having been blinded by gas. The use of gas (both chlorine and mustard) had a devastating impact on soldiers in WW1 but was also the root of the development of Zyklon B. Frtiz Haber, a German Jewish chemist, enabled chlorine gas to be used a weapon in WW1 and his research was later developed into the Zyklon process which was used by the Nazis to murder millions, including his own family. This is only one of a dizzying number of appalling ironies to be found in the World Wars but as I said last episode, I’m not a military historian so I’m going to leave it there. Edward had plans to return to the country after his graduation from Oxford to pursue the simple life (although one gets the feeling that his idea of the pursuit of a simple life will still be one that is very well upholstered). Thomas has taken it upon himself to read Edward’s letters to him and  together with Sybil is helping him to adjust to living life with a different set of parameters. But growing pressure on the hospital’s limited capacity means that he is to be transferred elsewhere. All three voice their dissent at varying volumes to Major Clarkson who falls back on the very real backlog of wounded men. After Edward has died, Major Clarkson, Isobel and Sybil talk about a renewed need for the Abbey to become a convalescent home, an idea that has been bubbling under the surface for a while now. Meanwhile, Thomas has been left on his own to process both Edward’s death and the implications of witnessing a lack of support given by his own physician to those with depression.  

The usually reliably jovial Mrs Patmore also has a more somber episode with her pursuit for the truth about the death of her nephew Archie. Robert finds that he has been shot for cowardice. Not only does this mean that her family is in mourning but they will now have to navigate the stigma and undue shame that came with having a relative die in this way. So entrenched in British life was the derision levelled at those who were shot for cowardice or desertion that it was only in 2006 that pardons were offered by Britain for 309 of those that were executed by firing squad during WW1. I know I said I’d leave it there with the military history, but that felt like an important bit of context. 

We are now in 1917 and Matthew is still in the same trench that he was in 1916 (a detail I hadn’t actually noticed until I got the screen cap for this) so it looks like his strategy of downing tools mid-fight and continuously popping back to Blighty for important plot developments isn’t really paying dividends. Perhaps the addition of William to the ranks will help him? William certainly seems to think so and if the speed at which he moves through the various stages of his ‘relationship’ with Daisy is any indication of his tactical prowess, the British Front will not only be well within Germany’s borders but will be breathing down Russia’s neck in a fortnight. In any other episode, this would certainly get the award for oddest relationship dynamic but Sir Richard Carlisle exists. 

Sir Richard makes his debut at Downton, having been introduced in name only in the previous episode. He and Mary met at Cliveden which is a regular haunt of mine, giving me hope that one day I too will from a strategic alliance with a newspaper magnate. He may know how to talk his way around a boardroom but he is lacking in the sartorial department. Whilst Sir Richard manages to avoid catching fire in his tweed, Lavinia is not free from the heat as he threatens her with his connection to her uncle. He may not know much about navigating the niceties of Downton, but at least he has cottoned on to the fact that any major disagreement should occur under a specific tree. Whilst Mary’s signature move is weeping into her gloves, Sir Richard’s is grabbing women by the forearm. A female friend of mine told me that one of her favourite things about the pandemic and the compulsion to keep 2m away from anyone (and not just emotionally) is that she has not been ’steered’ by a male hand on her lower back since 2019. It turns out that she can enter and exit rooms just fine on her own and I get the impression that Lavinia could get the gist of Sir Richard’s rage without the vice like grip of a man probably about twice her age. 

Twinned with the ’tree of emotional conflict’, the ‘platform of romantic uncertainty’ provides the backdrop for Sir Richard’s proposal of marriage to Mary which is a declaration that really feels like it should come with a series of well-formatted charts. Mary’s heart, however, is still very much with Cousin Matthew. After being counselled by Carson in a type of conversation I cannot imagine her ever having with her father, she is on the verge of coming clean with Matthew. But in the second round of Lavinia vs. Mary, Lavinia declares that she ‘could not go on living’ without Matthew and Mary winds her neck in. 

Also having a romantic entanglement this episode is Edith. Drake, previously of dropsy fame, has lost his farm hands and Edith turns up to offer her help in a wildly unsuitable trouser and heeled boot combo. But she soon gets down to it by pulling up a tree stump and flirting in a barn whilst a rather lovely border collie looks on (I’m currently trying to talk myself out of getting a border collie and this incident has done nothing to help things). After showing Drake that she can drink from a bottle like literally every single other human on the planet, the two share a kiss and some highly awkward dialogue that only slightly resembles ‘Carry on Downton’. 

Whilst Edith is more than happy to crack on in a barn, Mr Molesley is much more backwards about coming forwards. Apparently having predicted the creation of ‘The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society’, he figures that a book is the perfect kindling for romance when you exist in a glossy depiction of the past. Sadly neither Elizabeth nor her German garden can lure Anna from Bates who is fast shaping up to be schrodinger’s boyfriend. Anna proceeds to make some odd analogy where she compares Mr Bates to her moon-based child, revealing a rather unhealthy amount of codependency in that particular relationship. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

Again, it feels like anyone but Sybil and Branson should get this but I am an agent of chaos and here we are. Branson defends Sybil’s will to work and has ample opportunity to see her shine in her chosen field. The admission that she will not be returning to her old life is a little chink of light that Branson basks in. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

I nominate Carson’s entire face when he realises that he has taken on too much and goes an impressive shade of red. As Carson frets about spoons, sauce, and something I can’t quite fathom, he starts to resemble a man who is re-arranging the deckchairs on the Titanic. Carson’s battle to get a cork out of a bottle and knocking into chairs is a warm up to his rather dramatic collapse which is accompanied by a pretty disturbing groan. Sybil springs to action and he is soon efficiently ensconced in his own quarters. 

Wait, what? 

“I got a lot done on the train” Clearly Richard was on a train that was unencumbered with the wifi issues that plague the Pendolino.  

“It takes a good deal more than that to shock me.” Mary’s shock-o-meter is a pretty odd instrument. It is unresponsive to corpses of diplomats but goes into absolute meltdown at the notion that she might have to live in a cottage. 

“Let's hope my reputation will survive it.” I’ve not checked (and I categorically never will) but I would put money on the fact that someone has created a rarepair out of this. 

“How can Matthew have chosen that little blonde piece?” Is Lavinia blonde? Women’s hair is not really my forte but I would have thought she was more akin to Tim Minchin than 1998 Justin Timberlake. 

“I believe in this war. I believe in what we are fighting for.” William seems to have a better grip on what all of this is about than I ever did in high school history. The ‘A’ that eluded me is heading his way. 

“I thought he might've died for love of you.” How I love snipey Thomas. It’s good to have him back. To borrow a quote from Bottas (another man who is currently living a life in which his destiny is his own demise) ‘traditions’. 

“Fold it in, don’t slap it” The more season two goes on, the more I think that Moira is just an amalgamation of some choice elements of Julian’s kingdom. 

[drsilverfish]

https://twitter.com/mishacollins/status/1331800202252931073

Hi All,

Pressing record for posterity. 

Reminding folks to take a moment for a self welfare-check. If you’re feeling overwhelmed; eat, drink, rest, turn off social media for a bit. Take care of yourselves. This too shall pass (into queer television history). 

Read on for more on PR and Schrodinger’s Destiel.

Cock-up or conspiracy, ”rogue translator” or censorship, we can’t know, for certain. I highly doubt one person alone was responsible, either for inclusion or excision, in the chain which leads to approval for broadcast.

The sequence of events that resulted in Universe 1 N. America and Universe 2 Latin America may be obscure, but it’s still amazing that we have them. 

It’s amazing because Supernatural has always included metanarrative elements (elements which comment on the narrative structure itself). And this development is like The French Mistake writ large.   

Warner Channel broadcasts across Latin America; that version of the 15x18 narrative is out there. It was seen, it was witnessed. It cannot be spun as a “fan conspiracy”. 

It’s, sadly, likely, of course, that Dean’s, “Yo, a ti, Cas,” in the Latin American Warner Channel broadcast version will now be “fixed” in the DVD versions, to align with this narrative of a “rogue translator”. Who knows, it may appear as an extra “cut scene” - i.e. as SPN para-text (text adjacent, but excised from official canon) in those markets. 

What is happening now, is crisis management PR. Those four words, and their presence/ absence, are significantly impacting CW corporate image, as well as SPN public narrative reception, in a way which is causing backlash for the commerical property. So the Empty is sucking the Latin American version into black goo, in order to frame the North American version as The Truth.

“Dean was always too stunned in the moment to reply,” is, as a narrative beat, comprehensible, but as a narrative conclusion, queer-phobic. Whatever “The Truth” is, of how the Latin American dub version came to be, Dean’s “And I you, Cas,” makes sense in the story, which is why it’s there. Withholding it, maintains a desperate shred of ambiguity; heteronormativity clutched like a torn shirt against the storm water of previous narrative crescendo.    

We’ve mused that Chuck can be read as a stand-in for Corporate in S15. We should muse that The Empty can also be read that way. It was angry because things “got loud”, remember? In other words, because the queer subtext “got loud”.  

It’s deeply unfair that Misha gets pushed to the front to defend this, when he has been the most vocal LGBTQ+ ally amongst the cast. But, that’s why he’s being asked (obligated) to do it. The poor guy has over two thousand replies to his last tweet in this chain, as I write (Nov 26 2020). 

His offer to listen is, I believe, both genuine, from him, AND corporate using him as a PR human shield. Same as, I’ve no doubt, Berens fought to write 15x18, but the fact that he’s an out, gay, writer, also functions as a PR human shield, in terms of mitigating criticisms of the treatment of queer narrative elements at SPN’s end.

A satisfactory response isn’t going to be forthcoming on this, from TPTB.  

Because this is a tale about a queer subtext, and a requited queer love story, between Dean and Cas, which almost, almost, broke cover, spooked the corporate horses, and got shoved back in its box. 

Except it can’t be. 

It is not, at the end of the day, up to Warner, the CW, or the creatives who work on a story, to define the meaning of their work, from outside the text. And it never has been (which why I, very rarely, post about cast interpretations). 

It’s up to us. That’s why Becky was the hero to Chuck’s villain.  

A text only fully comes into being because it has meaning for its audience(s).

And, gods love Misha (and the PR folks breathing down his neck) but whether his Empty-suckage hits as “Bury Your Gays” or not, isn’t up to him to determine either, it’s up to queer audiences. Who, of course, don’t all speak with one voice, or experience.  

I know it’s painful for LGBTQ+ audiences to know we are (still) treated differently. 

I know it’s painful for LGBTQ+ audiences to receive, another (on-screen) tragic ending. 

I know it’s infuriating to be soothed with, “But there is a happy ending, really. It’s just off screen, for you to imagine.”      

The CW’s “Dare to Defy” is a marketing slogan. It sounds radical, because it’s designed to sound radical, for a youthful audience which believes in LGBTQ+ rights and diversity (for the most part). But, if there’s one thing television, as a medium, very, very, rarely is, it’s actually radical (particularly advertising-funded television). 

Allowing the Dean/ Cas love story to fully emerge (blinking into the light) from the subtext of a show steeped in On-the-Road, American, rebel-hero masculine mythology, free of Chuck, free of the Empty, undeniably queer to the GA (general audience) would have been actually radical. 

Which is why I never expected it.

15x20 is an attempt at hetero-normative foreclosure, with a side helping of tragic hero. 

Perhaps the most useful reading of Castiel’s Empty-suckage, given that S15 has been all about who controls the narrative, is a metanarrative one. 

Yes, it fits the, “Bury Your Gays” trope, but it’s also a metanarrative comment on the “Bury Your Gays”, trope. 

Those on the creative team who fought for it, like Berens, who wrote the 15x18 speech at the start of the season, knew that the cost of Castiel speaking his queer truth would, likely, be Empty-suckage. They knew the speech would be both moving and meaningful for many in SPN’s queer and ally audience, and that its subsequent erasure (note it was NOT promoted as a “coming out” speech in CW PR) would be equally hurtful. 

But in the fall-out, miraculously intensified by the existence of Universe 1 and Universe 2; a universe in which Dean is not allowed to reciprocate openly, and one in which he does, SPN’s queer subtext has achieved escape velocity into public discourse, inviting a broader audience to view the text “queerly”.

If you can stomach it, behold the PR fuckery, be kind to cast and crew online, tell your truth, and hold onto what you love about the story.  

Because, there is something radical inside Supernatural, roiling and coiling beneath, emerging from within a much more conventional narrative, finished off with a tasteless corporate bow; Castiel, queer angel of the Lord, who rebelled to remake Heaven and earth, inspired by the power of M/ M romantic love. And Dean Winchester, rebel, road-trip, suffering masculine romantic hero, who loved that celestial dork, truly, madly, deeply. 

This imperfect, often misogynist, gothic, masculinist road-trip melodrama, dared to dream of becoming an Epic of Gilgamesh for our times. 

PR BS be damned.