#perturbation theory

[geyfrog]

[ookwrd]

What does extremely high bandwidth communication look like for arbitrarily/diversely intelligent agents?

[treeflesh]

if u see me supporting croco-dad no u don't

yes u do

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

Listen to me. galadriel is a prince of the noldor she is like the only one that survives to the time when there is any possibility of being forgiven and going home but she says No thank you. I do not need your charity handouts. and she is rival to feanaro and several thousand years later she would put some silmaril light in a jar for a little freak with ZERO consequences or curses or kinslaying or shipburning, this was literally just a skill issue feanor. it's literally just you. she is literally perfectly quil because tolkien's sexism and his noldo fetish canceled out exactly perfectly to create her. when hamlet says "in thy orisons be all my sins remembered" and i in high school thought he meant "be a living monument to my sins"? she kind of is.

and when she gets to doriath she falls in love with a character who, so far as i can recall, does not have a single speaking line. you tell me there's not something hideously erotically wrong with him that jirt was just too catholic to perceive

[riverwithoutbanks]

Me, through gritted teeth, crying, covered in blood, eating highlighters: I hadn’t noticed thank you so much for bringing this to my attention

[natscbi]

28.10.23 - 46/100 dop

i have spent over 6 hours today on quantum chem questions (7 of the bastards) (i was with friends so not constantly working but on god the work took so long) it’s not even difficult algebra / maths but working out what to DO humbled me

i’m honestly not even gonna do anything else. with another decent night’s sleep i should be able to do a good amount tomorrow to catch up (namely, two lectures + shopping + laundry, at least)

🎵 WOOF - FKA Rayne

[hitchell-mope]

I hate Bernadette.

[deadsetobsessions]

“Did this place pick up a ghost when I was dead or something?”

Tim whipped his head towards Jason, who looked mildly perturbed.

“You too?!” Tim demanded.

“What?”

“The ghost! I kept thinking it was a hallucination, you know? But even when I laid off of the caffeine, there’d be a fucking shadow at the edge of my vision! At night! You saw it too, right?” Tim rambled, increasingly agitated. “It even moves the fucking coffee mugs! I know where I left my favorite mug, and it sure as hell wasn’t in the sink!”

Jason blinked at him, face morphing into concern.

“Replacement, when was the last time you got some sleep?”

Tim inhaled. “Jason, I swear to god I will replace all of the shampoo in your twenty six safe houses with glitter glue if you don’t tell me whether you saw it or not.”

Jason nodded immediately. In his defense, Tim grew up to be a scary motherfucker. Diabolical little shit would have been a fucking terrifying villain.

“I knew it.”

——

Danny hummed. Tim was going to freak when he found his cowl three inches to the left.

He merrily avoided all of the set up cameras by simply going invisible and intangible, save for his arms that he uses to sweep the cowl to the side.

He could hear the static on the cameras. Danny grinned. Operation Gaslight, Ghostkeep, Girlboss is on.

——

“Tim-” Dick started, only to be cut short by Tim whirling around and jabbing a painful finger into his chest.

“You owe me this, for that Arkham comment when B went missing.”

Dick raised his hands in surrender, guilt flaring.

“Drake, what kind of pointless scheme are you getting us in, now?”

“Not now, demon brat.” Jason elbows the kid. “Just go along with it.”

“Look.”

“Well. I guess we were right, yeah, Tim?” Duke muttered, eyeing the moved cowl. “My ghost-sight isn’t seeing anything. Not even wind movement.”

“What’s going on, boys?”

“B, there’s a ghost in the manor.”

“He’s freaking out because it moved his coffee mug like three times.” Steph chimed in.

——

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen anything weird, lately?”

Danny tilted his head. “No…?”

“Not even in the house?” Jason asked.

“Shadows? Anything?” Dick asked, eye bags prominent on the normally exuberant man. Danny snickered inwardly. They’ve been up for three days trying to “catch” the ghost.

“Uh. I mean the floorboards creak sometimes? But in terms of shadows… I think I saw them outside? Kind of looked like Batman, actually. But my eyesight gets bad at night. Why?”

Danny could see in the dark just fine.

“Nothing! Let me know if you see anything, okay?”

“Uh. Sure? Maybe you guys should… get some sleep?”

“Uh-huh.”

The bats file out of his room.

——

Danny locked glowing green eyes with Tim and Dick. He did some quick thinking and contorted his ectoplasm into something more grotesque.

“Kkkhggggghkkkkeeee!!!” He screeched.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” The two of them screamed, both bolting and throwing things at him. It was impressive how fast they backpedaled.

“That was close,” Danny muttered. He quickly scribbled on Damian’s whiteboard with conspiracy theories and dipped before the rest of the bats came thundering.

He fell into a light sleep just as Stephanie checked up on him, work done.

[formulaforza]

— caught in a blue summ. but to love her is to need her everywhere (a gentle kind of love) charles x fem reader, wc 4.1k ish, no warnings, no y/n! fueled by one single praise from @silverstonesainz

You’re three paragraphs into an all-too-lengthy work email when he sits down in the chair next to you silently, one elbow on the sage green tablecloth. He sits in the chair sideways, something you can both see and feel, even without looking away from your phone screen. His presence is accompanied by the gentle thud of two heavy glasses. 

You look over briefly—long enough to suggest to him that his presence is mildly perturbing—and then return your attention to the email. You can hardly concentrate over the jazz band in the corner of the hall, rotating through their collection of love songs sung in different romance languages, and now a strange man has set up camp next to you, only further reminding you why you shouldn’t be responding to emails when you’re out of office. 

“Hi,” he says, after more seconds of silence. 

You finish your email before you give him the time of day. “Hi,” you smile, soft but forced. “Who are you?”

“Charles,” He smiles, holding his hand out to shake yours. You stare at his waiting hand until he takes it away. “Nice to meet you,” he laughs, moving one of the drinks closer to you. “For you. White Negroni. Céline told me it’s your drink.”

You give him a sideways glance before looking past him, scanning the reception hall for your friend. She should stand out in her bridesmaid dress. The wedding invite had specifically requested guests to follow a color code, and nobody was wearing that shade besides the bridesmaids. Your eyes finally land on her, glass of champagne in her hand, long blonde hair falling over her shoulders, leaning over to whisper something to the groom—her brother. No doubt the two of them conspiring, a theory only proved when Mathéo’s eyes land on yours from across the room. You roll your eyes. 

“How do you know Céline?” you ask, as if half the guests here tonight aren’t related to her. 

“I went to school with Mathéo,” he says, and you nod slowly, confusion growing, curiosity peaked. “I suppose technically I went to school with Céline as well.”

“I went to school with Céline,” you say, and Charles furrows his brows. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you laugh softly, picking up the drink he’d offered, pulling the garnish off the lip of the glass and dropping it on top of the ice. “I’m serious!” He says, matching your laugh, taking a sip of his drink. “Because I would remember you. And I do not remember you.”

“I’m sure,” you shake your head, bringing the glass to your lips. “Lycée. Première.”

Charles nods. “That is why. I was graduated by then.”

Someone laughs so loud at the next table over that it steals both of your attention. It’s the mother-of-the-bride, and she's visibly drunk in a way that only a divorced French socialite can manage. The sudden attention tones her down, and the room is once again filled with wealthy laughter and crisp clinking crystal glasses. 

You love weddings. You love this wedding; the delicate scent of blooming lavender, the smoked salmon canapés and delicate foie gras pâté that sit half-eaten at most of the tables, the perfectly chilled glasses of champagne waiting to be toasted, and the sun. The golden sun that casts itself across the terraces and into the tall windows, painting the dancing figures in golden hues. 

And then he’s speaking again, and you look back at him, and the sun casts a warm shadow through his brown hair that you're noticing for the first time. “Parles-tu français?” he asks. 

You wince, tilting your head to the side, holding up two fingers pinched together. “Un petit peu. Je suis grec,” you explain, pulling your hair around to drape over one shoulder. 

“Ah,” he says. “How do you say, ‘Would you like to dance?’ in Greek?”

You smile gently, taking another sip of your drink. It’s important to keep yourself paced. Especially when you’re staring at someone who looks like that. “Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?” You finally say, and he stares at you blankly. The expression forces a laugh from you, which in turn pulls one from him. 

“Again?”

“Θα χορέψεις μαζί μου?”

Charles nods for what feels like a very extended period, before downing the remainder of his drink. “Tha horeps…” he winces at his pronunciation so you don’t have to, “mazi-moo?”

You smile at his hopeful expression, and wonder if he’s more hopeful for a correct pronunciation or an agreement to dance. You shrug, swirling your drink around the glass, looking past him to your friend again. 

She’s watching you this time and wears a grin the size of the wedding. She holds up both her thumbs, and then makes a heart with her hands, pretends to have it beating out of her chest. You shake your head, smiling softly, eyes moving back to Charles. 

“One dance.”

— — — 

Your feet drag across the stone pathway like maybe you’ll slow yourself down and get to spend a half-second longer on the phone with him. You hear it over the voices of drunken uncles pouring from open windows and the radio sat on one of the sills playing a Christiana classic. The air is warm, but dry, and the elastic at the end of your braid tickles the skin on your back while you walk. 

Ahead of your scraping shoes, a cat cleans their paw in the yellow of a porch light. You’re in Paros, and life is so sweet you’re finding porch lights and the smell of your yia-yia’s karidopita to be the most romantic thing in the world. 

“I’m nearly home,” you hum into your phone’s receiver. He laughs on the other end, and you wish all the aunts with the drunken, ballad-performing husbands could hear it so they’d stop asking when you’re going to settle down. It would make sense to them, then, the way you behave about Charles. It would all make sense if they heard him laugh, if they could imagine his dimples. 

“Well, you should probably hang up, then,” he says. You roll your eyes. Your cheeks ache from smiling all evening. Your cousin joked before dinner that your face was going to freeze like that if you weren’t careful. 

“I should,” you agree, but you don’t hang up. You stay on the line, quiet, and stop in front of the resident street cat—he’s small and sweet and purrs against your skin when you run your hand over its sleek black fur, scratch your nails under its chin. You’d bring him home if you knew he didn’t belong to someone, to everyone. “Or you could.”

He laughs again. It’s like honey. You’d swan dive into it if you could, drown all slow and blissfully. “I’m not the one nearly home,” he retorts. I could get far from home again, you think. You could do another lap around the neighborhood. You’d already done it thrice, and then two more times after that. What’s another in the grand scheme of things? “I’ll call you again in the morning,” he says, like it’s routine. You suppose it’s sort of becoming that. 

You take a seat on your porch steps. Voices pour out louder, now. They’ve gotten rowdier with every lap you’ve done. A cousin pulls the old squeaky door open behind you, and you jump in your seat, turning around to see who’s busted you. They hold their hands up defensively, mouth a quick sorry like they’d walked in on you changing, and disappear back into the house. You pull your braid over your shoulder, twirl it around your finger carefully. Nervously, you ask:“Do you think we speak too often?”

“Why do you say that?”

You shrug like he can see it. “We talk too much to be friends.”

“Do we?” You imagine him quirking a brow goofily, based solely on his tone of voice. 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, dropping your braid. “Yeah, I think we do.”

Charles sighs. All you can smell is cinnamon and walnuts. You wonder which one of your cousins ate the heel of the bread while you were out walking. “Well, good thing I would never be just friends with you, then.”

The apples of your cheeks burn like they’d been pinched. You flatten your dress over your legs and a careful giggle tumbles from your lips, teeth biting down on the stupid smile there. “Good thing.”

“Goodnight?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Goodnight.”

— — —

It’s raining in Milan when you pinky promise your best friends that you and Charles aren’t dating. 

The sky has been threatening all afternoon, dull and gray and humidity that was anything but friendly to your hair. It poured through the window like your own personal heatwave every time you walked past the open kitchen window,coated the tiled countertop in an irritable condensation. 

It came wafting through the air with the smell of the impending storm when you opened the door to your friends. Finally, after hours of building up, heavy raindrops patter against the porcelain of your kitchen sink, forcing you to hastily close the window while giggles pour from your friends’ mouths. 

Between your two hands, you can count the number of times the lot of you have been in the same time zone since graduation, let alone the same city. You’d spent the entire humid day wiping condensation off the counters and cutting cheese into perfect cubes and gathering the nicest bundles of grapes you could from the three grocery shops within walking distance. 

The sound of the storm against the glass is drowned out by red-wine laughter and tales of big cities and big dreams, all so vastly different. You sit with your legs crossed underneath you, phone face-up on your thigh, the stem of an empty wine glass pinched between two fingers, twisting the glass around mindlessly.  

Your phone buzzes, for the fourth time in eight minutes. And for the fourth time in eight minutes, you pick it up, abandoning glass on the cluttered coffee table next to the week-old vase of pink anemones. 

Stop texting me, he’s messaged. Enjoy your time with your friends.

You smile softly, your incriminating grin illuminated bright OLED white in contrast to the soft yellow lamp lighting the dim room. You stop texting me, you replied, because you’re a pig-tailed girl on the schoolyard when you talk to him, your normally composed, carefully developed persona melting into a puddle of mush at the mere thought of him. 

Can’t, he responds. I am bored. 

Why? You’re never bored.

“Oh, my God!” your best friend, Roma, teases in broken English, her Italian accent not nearly as light as the cube of ​​Gorgonzola she’d tossed at your head from the other end of the sofa. “Who are you speaking to?” She questions. 

“Just a friend,” you say too quickly, too defensive for anyone in the room to believe. 

Roma quirks her brow at you, curious grin painted on her face. “Yeah? Just a friend?”

“I’m serious,” you insist, turning your phone off. You set it face down on the table, and it vibrates there almost immediately, all of your friends’ eyes watching for your reaction. The corners of your lips tremble, fighting a soft smile, and you shrug, bringing your empty wine glass to your lips, turning your head up to the ceiling, the last few drops of red falling through your lips. And then it vibrates again, the bright colors of your background pouring out in a soft ring of light around your phone. You still don’t flinch, but Roma does, lurching forward and snatching it up before you have time to react. 

“‘Because,” she reads. “‘I’m normally speaking with you at this time,’” she looks over to another friend, grinning,“From Charles. With the emoji that does like this,” she says, mimicking the blushing emoji you have next to his name.“But with the pink on the cheek, yes?” She continues explaining. 

You sink into the sofa, popping that cube of cheese into your mouth before gathering up the baby hairs and bangs that had fallen loose from your ponytail, carefully twisting the hair into a tiny, thin braid coming out from the middle of your hairline. 

“Just your friend?” Roma questions, and you don’t have to look up from your distraction braid to know she’s raising her brows and grinning at you. 

— — — 

You sit next to him in the fourth row of church pews, one leg crossed over the other, desperately wishing the wedding mass program that sat on your lap was a paper fan, not yet having resorted to the lengths some of your fellow guests had gone to and actually using the cardstock to cool down. 

One leg is crossed over the other, the tip of your heel-clad foot threatening to tap the back of the pew in front of you with every awkward, uncomfortable roll of your ankle you attempt. At least your dress is sleeveless, you think. Charles is not as lucky, a formal suit perfectly fitted to his frame, one arm draped behind you over the back of the pew, his fingers mindlessly twirling one of the tiny braids that riddle your ponytail. Neither of you speak nearly enough Spanish or know nearly enough people for this to be any sort of enjoyable. 

“Do you understand them at all?” You whisper, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Because I do not.”

“Absolutely not,” he whispers back, kissing the top of your head, his hand finding yours, interlocking in your lap. “And I am about to die from heatstroke.”

You nod. “You, me, and the rest of the church,” you sigh, pretending not to hear the crying baby or the stressed mother in the back of the church. You figure she has the eyes of enough judgy relatives to drown out any soft sentiments from a stranger.  “Can they just kiss and wrap it up?” You ask, and as is on cue, the newlyweds are locking lips under the cathedral candlelight. 

“Oh shit,” Charles giggles, the two of you hurrying to stand with everyone else in the room who understood what's been happening for the last hour and a half. You hastily adjust the skirt of your dress, feeling quickly to make sure you hadn’t sweat-stained the fabric, or worse, the bench you’d been all but stuck to. “Thank God,” he says, just above a whisper, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The church quickly funnels out of the church behind the couple, filing into the cars that were driving to the reception location. Police officers line the road on either side, cameras and strangers gathered at their barriers. You walk out with your hand interlaced in his, watching every step you take down the steep concrete stairs. 

“Is it like this every time one of you gets married?” You ask, staring at the uniformed officers. They’re a stark contrast to the summer air, to the leaves of the trees drenched in sunlight, and to the flowers buzzing with bees. It feels like you’re at a royal wedding—the ones with professional watchers and ceremonies that get broadcast to millions of people around the world. But it’s not that. It’s just your boyfriend’s teammate. 

“Um,” Charles shrugs. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” he admits. “I don’t think so,” he continues, letting you duck into the black sedan first. “I think it’s just his family.”

“Gosh,” you breathe out, relaxing in the calm of the air-conditioned car. “It’s like a whole production.”

“I know,” he shakes his head, uncapping a water bottle that was waiting in the car door cup holder and passing it to you first. “It’s like they’re Spanish royalty or something,” he laughs. 

You nod animatedly, drinking down the water before passing the now half-full bottle to him. “Exactly like that!” you laugh. 

— — — 

“Three wishes,” you grin, spinning around to face him, antique Arabian oil lamp in your hand. 

The second-hand shop smells like vintage leather and dusty velvet. La Dolce Vita plays from the store radio, and it sounds like it’s on vinyl even though it isn’t. The store is full of gaudy outfits and gaudier decor, and there in the middle of it is you and Charles, the ladder laughing every time the former makes the same joke about twenty different items, each uglier than the one before, being ‘just what I was looking for.’

“I wish for unlimited wishes, obviously,” He says, and you shake your head.

“Absolutely not. That goes against Genie rule number three.”

It’s chilly, the early morning dew still crisp in the air. A gentle breeze pours in from the propped open door, and with it comes the smell of fresh pastries and espresso from the bakery next door. It smells gentle and warm and makes the vintage store feel like your yia-yia’s house on the last morning of your last visit to her house. 

You’re wearing your favorite pair of jeans, a pair of pink sneakers, and a sweater that was your favorite before you shrunk it a size in the dryer the day before. You cover up the fashion faux pas with a tan wool coat and long, hardly managed hair. He’s dressed like you, but elevated. Always more elevated than you, even if the only brand he seems to bring into his closet anymore is his friend’s. 

“Ah,” he nods, pulling you closer by the opening of your coat.  “Of course,” he smiles, speaking softly. “And what are the other rules?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, dimples digging into your cheeks at the mere sight of his. “No bringing people back from the dead, no making someone fall in love,” you hum, “and no wishing for more wishes.” 

Charles quirks a brow, dropping his head to the side. “Those are stupid rules,” he protests, pouting. “What if those were all three of my wishes?”

You shrug, holding up the lamp to his eye level. “Got to get educated on Genie’s, man,” you tease, cheeks aching. “I don’t know what to tell you,” you giggle, stepping even closer. “Them’s the rules.”

“Them’s the rules,” he repeats. “How about…” he says, leaning in, still grinning. “Wish one,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your lips. “Wish two,” he says, repeating the action. “And,” he grins, pulling away momentarily to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You think you could die on the spot, melt right into a puddle on the shop floor. Your face is so hot. “Wish three?” he says, and as a surprise to nobody, leans in to kiss you again. 

“Nope,” you shake your head, desperate for another breeze to blow through the shop, to cool you down, to keep you standing. “I expected better wishes. Very… μη πρωτότυπο.”

“Mi protótypo?” he repeats, and your grin grows.

“Not original.”

— — —

Charles’ apartment couldn’t be more different than yours, and not even solely on a decoration level. Fundamentally, you two come from two different spaces, and trying to merge those spaces has been nothing short of a treat. 

Not that your decor styles are the same either, because you think his are one-of-kind. So one of a kind, that the two of you had gone through each other’s apartment with yard-sale stickers from the corner store, tagging everything you refused to mesh with in red, and everything you refused to part with in green.  Who else can say they have three dozen racing helmets and trophies in the living room, a blown-up shot of a homeless American man on their dining room wall, and a piano that costs more than your net worth in the foyer? That is some perfectly Charles Leclerc decor, and if you had told yourself once that you would be endeared by all of it, you’d have laughed in your face. 

But you do. You adore it, the way it perfectly encapsulates her personality. And you adore him, and the way he put a green sticker on a total of seven things in his whole apartment because he wanted to make sure it felt like your space too. 

“Why did you not label any of these boxes?” He asks, the two of you stood in his dining room. In your dining room. In the dining room. 

“Um…” you hesitate. “You know, I was going to. I really was,” you nod, staring at at least twenty cardboard boxes, each of them completely indistinguishable from the others, not a single identifying marker on any of them. 

“And then?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, the herringbone hardwood creaking under his feet with the shifting of his weight. 

“And then I realized I packed my Sharpie,” you nod.

“Mmm,” he hums, scratching his beard, his fingers moving over his face and into his hair, combing through it stressfully. He’s so patient with you. Hopelessly patient with you, and would never admit it. “But you could not find the box it was in?” You shake your head, agreeing with his statement. “Because you forgot to label any of the boxes?”

“Because I didn’t label any of the boxes,” you confirm, an apologetic look painted across your face, eyes soft and sweet, attempting to remind him just how much he loves you. “And suddenly the movers were there. And now I’m here.”

“Oh,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around your chest from behind, kissing the top of your head. “I love you so much,” he says. “I love you so much,” he repeats, voice blank, unconvincing. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I was thinking we start in the dining room,” you joke, smiling softly, pulling a chuckle from his lips. You can always count on him to laugh at your stupid jokes. Even when he’s pretending not to be annoyed with you.“I’m sorry,” you say softly, kissing the forearm crossed over your chest. 

“I know,” he hums. “It’s okay. It won’t be too bad.”

— — — 

A soft summer breeze floats through the air, blows through the linen pinned to clotheslines in the neighborhood. It brings with it salt air and the careful wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg and eggplants and tomatoes. You sip a glass of Retsina, ignoring the bitter and accepting the sweet. 

The olive trees are draped in endless strings of lights, and gentle, traditional music plays from the live band and the wooden stage your uncles had built with your dad. Your Yia-yia moves around from table to table pinching the cheeks of your cousins, reminding the single girls to check their shoes for their prince charmings. 

The sun is setting on the water, golden shadows cutting around the soft cement architecture. The air is light. Charles wears a tan linen suit with an evil-eye boutonniere. You wear a white dress and a cold coin in your left shoe. 

“You told them no to the money, right?” He asks softly, sipping a glass of white. 

“I did,” you nod. “Well. I told my parents,” You shrug. “Whether or not they convey the message to the four hundred other people here, I guess we’ll find out.”

“It’s weird, no? A first dance and a last dance?”

You smile softly, watching a stray cat hurry down an alleyway. “My family keeps coming up to us and pretending to spit,” you giggle, “But the second dance is where you draw the line in the weird sand?”

“None of it’s weird” he shakes his head, reaching to tuck a curly piece of hair behind your ear, adjusting your veil accordingly. “It’s all you,” he says, leaning in to kiss you softly. His lips are soft, and he tastes like apples and melon and citrus, as easy to kiss as ever. “And I love you.”

“Ah,” you nod, a teasingly soft smile parting your lips. “He loves me,” you say, pretending to wipe sweat from your brow. “I was worried.”

“You act very worried,” he grins. “Wedding dress and all.”

“Oh,” you feign surprise as if you've noticed the setting for the first time. “This old thing? The one that costs a quarter of my salary?”

Charles nods, humming. “That’s the one. Keeps taking my damn breath away.”

You look down at yourself, an innocent, girlish smile draped over your lips, the pink shades of the sunset painting themselves warm over your cheeks. A gust of wind blows through the space, the breeze gently blowing through your veil, through the fabric of your dress. 

“Are you ready?” You ask, watching the sun creep closer to the horizon, be swallowed up inch by inch into the sea, using your hand as a shade-visor. “No time like the present, right?” You add, downing what’s left in your glass. “Our second dance as newlyweds.”

“Our second dance,” Charles nods, holding out his hand, waiting for your fingers to interlock with his. “Let’s go.”

[illusioncanthurtme--art]

im curious, why do you like fiddlestan?

i like them in theory (all the pain potential, jeez!) but i feel like i'm missing something very obvious

Oh boy, you’re about to open pandoras box with this one -

I’ve liked fiddlestan for a LONG time, almost a decade now, (EXHIBIT A!!!), and honestly, I’ll admit that the ship is mostly based on speculation. So maybe you’re not missing something obvious, maybe I’m just delusional. I can’t speak for everyone, all I can do is explain why I like it: because it’s deeply rooted in several layers of irony. 

It’s ironic because fiddleford spent the better part of a YEAR dealing with fords nonsense. (And I KNOW, it’s not all bad, but really, especially if you read journal 3, that poor man was put through a LOT. He was definitely taken advantage of, at LEAST a little.) And after grappling with the acceptance that your longtime friend and unrequited love will never return your feelings, having lost the man to some crazy otherworldly nightmare machine, who shows up?? But his TWIN BROTHER who’s HUMBLE and KIND and TEN TIMES MORE DOWN TO EARTH?? It’s ironic, because they don’t know each other, yet they both have years of history with the same person who’s wronged them, and, they can make out about it!! THEY CAN FUCK TO SPITE HIM!! Stan stole his brothers name (and committed multiple crimes under said name), stole his house, and stole his research partner!! And… it's ironic because it’s Grunkle Stan and old man Mcgucket. That needs no elaboration.

(these are all my personal takes/headcanons! Like I said, this ship is based solely on interpretation, so I’m sure a lot of fiddlestanners like fiddauthor too. There’s like a billion different ways to interpret this ship.)

Also -

Their personalities are surprisingly similar when you stop and think about it!! You put those two in the same room, and they’d come up with some highly devilish scams together. They both have moral codes that are a little… ambiguous. And… I can’t believe I’m gonna pull this out as *canon fiddlestan documentation* but these are the kind of crumbs we’re working with here: MABELS DREAM IN THE SOCK OPERA CREDITS!!!! Although it’s not something that actually happened, and it’s just a reference to statler and waldorf, they are IN CHARACTER!! I think this is how they would actually act together if they were friends!! Just two old dudes, hanging out together watching tv, making fun of whatever they’re watching. If you’re in the room, you might get roasted too. Just a couple of old farts. It makes me so happy to think about. 

No fiddlestan rundown post would be complete without the fandoms EXTREME STRAW GRASP at Old Goldie and the Flame Retardant Raccoon. Soos calls mcgucket a “prospector guy,” amongst the other obvious comparisons you can make between fiddleford and goldie. Goldie is something stan used to like a long time ago, but he’s all old and fucked up now, best to throw him away and forget about it. BUT, as it turns out, there’s still good in that old thing after all. SO LETS GET MARRIED IN VEGAS!!!! It’s an extreme stretch, but… It’s a fiddlestan trope that they, at some point, have a crazy night of fun+romance in vegas together.  And I personally like to think that they return when they’re older+happy and tie the knot for reals. The raccoon speaks for itself - it’s one of the ways you can compare stan to a raccoon. And of course, mcgucket's raccoon wife. 

This is where it starts to get a little angsty, and if you “get all the pain potential” then you may have already given this some thought - but why does stan treat fiddleford the way he does if they used to love each other? The whole “UGH, this guy” comment in land before swine, looking all uncomfortable around him in fight fighters, choosing the spot furthest from where mcgucket lotions himself at the pool, and the “possum breath” comment in the last episode (and fiddleford actually has the mental clarity to look perturbed after he says it). Stan is hurt!!! He’s upset!! If they used to be a Thing after the portal incident, something must have happened between them for fiddlefords mental illness to get the better of him, and for him to choose to erase both stan and ford from his memories. I, personally, think that it was deep rooted internal homophobia (being raised in the south, that runs deep), and being scared for getting too close to stan. They were getting too comfortable, and that scared him. What about his family? And tate? His son can never meet stan. He can never let his wife know. And all the paranormal fuckery incidents leading up to this that already weakened his mental state, the portal incident, already having zapped his brain a few times, would have sent him over the edge. So I’m thinking they would have gotten into a fight of some kind, and fiddleford would have stormed off. Thus leaving stan having to live in a town with the person he USED to love, who doesn’t remember him at all!!! What!!!!! That sucks!!!! Only upside to fiddlefords memory erasure is that it makes it easier for stan to pretend nothing ever happened. But it’s still not easy. Also, if word ever got out that old man mcgucket used to be his boyfriend, he would never be able to live it down. So he compensates by being an ass towards him. Fuck. 

But then!! If fiddleford has the chance to heal!!! (say… maybe… when the twins are on the stan o war II) then stan would come back to gravity falls and see fiddleford looking like the person he knew thirty years ago!!!! WHAT!?!?! CAN’T RUN FROM YOUR PAST FOREVER, CAN YOU!?!?! And you KNOW fiddleford would remember what happened with stan. How long can stan keep himself in denial?? And now we’re opening up the can of worms: how the FUCK does this information reach ford?? That your brother used to canoodle with your research partner and might STILL BE?? That has so much potential too. 

Ok I wasn’t expecting to write those last two paragraphs but it’s A BIG PART OF WHY I LOVE FIDDLESTAN!!! It’s a crazy fucking rollercoaster ride!!! This thing has so many angles!!! And that’s just MY fiddlestan interpretation - I’ve seen a lot of different takes on the sort of story that would transpire between these two. But no matter what you’re cooking, It’s always a LOT. 

There’s probably so so much I didn’t touch on here. If anyone else wants to throw in their two cents as to why they like fiddlestan, please, add something!!!

[wrongbodies]

The Teacher Becomes the Student

A "Last to Drink" spin-off

Toby Laskey had never thought he'd return to high school twice. It was an altogether different experience from when he graduated college some 20 years or so ago, and took a job teaching at the local high school. Even then he was unhappy about the arrangement. Sure, he had studied secondary education in college, but if he was honest he only did it because it was safe - and his parents were teachers. It seemed like the least risky and most familiar path to take.

Now, in his late forties, Toby resented his life. He was always a nerdy guy, thin and unable to keep up athletically. But he also wasn't the brightest. Sure, he could pass a test or write a decent essay, but nothing that truly would set him apart from the rest of the herd.

And then he was transformed into a kid. Well, he swapped bodies with a kid. A senior at the very high school he himself taught at. He had no idea what the other 7 victims involved may believe, but in his heart Toby was certain this was a gift. He may be a new generation of nerd in Cole's body, but there was something to be said about wiping away 20+ years of aging and all the baggage that came with it. He also knew Cole was certain to be off to college, so if the swap was not resolved, he was going to get a brand new start to another chance at college!

So, despite the prospect of returning to high school - this time as a student. Somehow - a second time - mind you... he was going to make the most of it. Even though he felt he should be uncomfortable with piloting a 17 year old boys body, through the routines that he had to for obvious reasons, he wasn't actually perturbed. It was strange, changing clothes, using the bathroom, showering, and all that. But in his mind he was remarkably adaptive to the situation. He could clutch his imaginary pearls and blush at it all, or he could embrace it.

After all, for all he knew this might be permanent.

Elsewhere in town, Cole was having the reverse experience. He stood before the mirror in his, or rather, Mr. Laskey's bedroom and stared at his unfortunate new vessel. He was still in pajamas, a white tee shirt and plaid bottoms. He felt his bones creaking in a way he shouldn't understand for at least twenty years in his own body. Probably closer to his fifties.

He was constantly patting and rubbing his bald head. Flicking his tongue across his teeth and trying to stifle the aches in his back. Was this what it was like to be an adult? Or is this just the miserable life that Mr. Laskey led? Cole admitted to himself he had absolutely no frame of reference, but the whole ordeal was unsettling.

Luckily, he was comforted by one thought - the potion was safe with him in Mr. Laskey's house. He indeed did live alone, no wife or children to be found. It made his life seem ever more lonely. He did have one cat, a fluffy thing named Dotty. She was very affectionate and seemed to perceive no difference. She admittedly seemed a little dopey, but it was a welcome respite from waking up alone in Laskey's bed and body. The house was silent, which was different than Cole's home, where his parents were often talking or the TV was left on for the background noise.

He contented himself with knowing if he really started to panic or need an out, he had full control over the potion and it's usage. He could in theory undo the swap between him and Laskey immediately. But he was intent on not ruining this for his friends. There was some fun to be had. Even if he'd have to be a school teacher for at least a week.

At school Cole and Mr. Laskey found each other, as planned. To aid in their deception, Mr. Laskey had whisked up some pre-planned classwork that would be simple for Cole to distribute and oversee without having to task himself too heavily with teaching. Mr. Laskey in turn received Cole's full schedule and some helpful ideas on how to blend in. Unfortunately the parts concerning pop culture went well over Mr. Laskey's head.

"That's my favorite vest. You did a good job with putting together an outfit, Cole." Mr. Laskey said. Cole had worn a dark red vest over a light yellow button down and brown slacks. He looked incredibly dorky in combination with his bald head.

"Somehow you managed an outfit I'd actually wear too..." Cole said, a little more dour than Laskey was coming off. Mr. Laskey had opted for a Green Lantern tee shirt, under an unbuttoned plaid button down and jeans. The only thing out of place was a decidedly more combed and tamed hairstyle. "What did you do to my hair, though?"

"I apologize. I admit I got excited at the prospect of having enough hair to brush again, that I set about cleaning your wild hair a bit." Laskey shrugged.

"Ugh, well don't look too clean. I don't know if people will buy it from me for too long." Cole said, rolling his eyes.

"I won't make the mistake again." Laskey said, thinking to himself he'd actually be experimenting with all sorts of looks when he had more time. "Anyways, I see 'Brent' so I should go."

"Oh, Jasper... ok then. Good luck." Cole said. He disappeared into the classroom that Mr. Laskey had for all his math classes.

Toby Laskey strutted down the hall towards the Brent that he knew was actually Jasper on the inside. They had all decided that the four friends would continue to meet up and hang out, even if each of those friends were in possession of completely random and unrelated souls. So Fake Brent, Fake Kyle, Fake Lance, and Fake Cole (Laskey), were set the task of associating and keeping up appearances.

As Toby approached his "friend" he noticed a tiny form zipping around a corner further down the hall. It was Jasper's body. It seems those two had just wrapped up their own pep talk before starting the school day. "Hey!"

The fake Brent looked up and smiled.

TBC - The next spin-off will follow Brent and Jasper. Each piece will contain pieces that move the overall plot forward.

[chazza-studies-mphys]

Tuesday, 15th April 2025

I almost gave up for the day earlier, having had a rough morning reviewing perturbation theory for spin-orbit coupling, but my next chapter is the more manageable topic of identical particles so I’m giving it a gentle go after a walk to clear my head 🌿

🎵Normal – Porcupine Tree

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Emotions

“Emotion” is a term that came into use in the English language in the 17th and 18th centuries as a translation of the French term “émotion” but did not designate “a category of mental states that might be systematically studied” until the mid-19th century (Dixon 2012: 338; see also Dixon 2003; Solomon 2008).

Many of the things we call emotions today have been the object of theoretical analysis since Ancient Greece, under a variety of language-specific labels such as passion, sentiment, affection, affect, disturbance, movement, perturbation, upheaval, or appetite.

This makes for a long and complicated history, which has progressively led to the development of a variety of shared insights about the nature and function of emotions, but no consensual definition of what emotions are, either in philosophy or in affective science.

3 Traditions in the Study of Emotions

Emotions as: Feelings, Evaluations, and Motivations

Although emotion theories differ on multiple dimensions, they can be usefully sorted into three broad traditions:

The Feeling Tradition - takes the way emotions feel to be their most essential characteristic, and defines emotions as distinctive conscious experiences.

The Evaluative Tradition - regards the way emotions construe the world as primary, and defines emotions as being (or involving) distinctive evaluations of the eliciting circumstances.

The Motivational Tradition - defines emotions as distinctive motivational states.

(Scarantino, 2016)

Each tradition faces the task of articulating a prescriptive definition of emotions that is theoretically fruitful and compatible at least to some degree with ordinary linguistic usage.

And although there are discipline-specific theoretical objectives, there also is a core set of explanatory challenges that tends to be shared across disciplines:

Differentiation: How are emotions different from one another, and from things that are not emotions?

Motivation: Do emotions motivate behavior, and if so, how?

Intentionality: Do emotions have object-directedness, and if so, can they be appropriate or inappropriate to their objects?

Phenomenology: Do emotions always involve subjective experiences, and if so of what kind?

Emotions as Constructions

Constructionists are convinced that emotions are put together on the fly and in flexible ways using building blocks that are not specific to emotions, roughly in the way cooked foods are constructed from ingredients that are not specific to them and could be used according to alternative recipes.

One of the ingredients out of which emotions are built is said to be core affect, which is a:

neurophysiological state that is consciously accessible as a simple, nonreflective feeling that is an integral blend of hedonic (pleasure–displeasure) and arousal (sleepy–activated) values. (Russell 2003: 147)

Psychological constructionists emphasize that we are always in some state of core affect, which is a sort of barometer that informs us of our “relationship” to the flow of events.

The readings of the barometer are feelings, understood as blends of pleasure-displeasure and activation-deactivation.

These readings can be represented as points along a “circumplex structure”, with the vertical axis representing the degree of activation-deactivation and the horizontal axis representing the degree of pleasure-displeasure (Russell 1980).

Despite the great diversity of views on the nature and function of emotions, a broad consensus has emerged on a number of topics. Here is a tentative list of what a plurality of emotion theorists agree about, with brief mention of where the disagreements begin:

ONE. Emotion episodes involve, at least in prototypical cases, a set of evaluative, physiological, phenomenological, expressive, behavioral, and mental components that are diagnostic of emotions and are to some degree correlated with one another.

The degree to which these correlations are instantiated continues to be a central topic of theoretical debate: latent variable models assume that emotions cause the changes in components and expect to find strong correlations, whereas emergent variable models assume that emotions emerge from changes in components caused by something other than emotions and expect to find weak correlations.

TWO. Token episodes of the same folk emotion type (e.g., anger, fear, shame) manifest a great deal of variability with respect to expressive, behavioral, physiological and phenomenological features, as well as intensity, duration, valence, arousal, type and range of intentional objects.

Researchers disagree on whether underlying all this variability there exist measurable bodily patterns of some kind that are still distinctive of different emotions.

THREE. Emotions have intentionality or the ability to represent.

Researchers disagree on whether emotions represent descriptively or imperatively or both, on what exact contents they represent, and on what grounds the emotion-world representation relation. A small minority of researchers, hailing mostly from the enactivist movement, have argued that emotions lack representational qualities.

FOUR. The physical seat of emotions is the brain, but there are no neural circuits that correspond one-to-one with any folk emotion type, and brains are embodied and embedded in environments that are essential to their proper functioning.

Researchers disagree on how exactly the brain implements tokens of different emotion types, and whether emotional phenomena are best understood in terms of emotion-specific or emotion-unspecific neural mechanisms.

FIVE. Emotions typically involve conscious experiences, but such experiences are not strictly necessary for an emotion to be instantiated, in part because some emotion terms refer to dispositions and in part because most theorists consider feelings conceptually distinct from non-dispositional emotions.

A handful of influential researchers such as LeDoux (2017) and Barrett (2017) continue to identify emotions with conscious experiences.

SIX. Evolutionary and socio-cultural considerations must both contribute to our understanding of a great many emotions’ functions. These are both intra-personal functions —e.g., helping organisms coordinate organismic resources to deal with urgent demands—and interpersonal functions —e.g., communicating information useful for the negotiation of social transactions.

Researchers continue to debate whether there is sufficient empirical evidence for basic emotions and other special-purpose emotion mechanisms. Some see the role of evolution as limited to the shaping of general-purpose adaptations, such as core affect and the ability to categorize, which jointly lead to the emergence of emotions.

SEVEN. Emotions are no longer considered structurally opposed to reason.

Researchers continue to debate the circumstances in which emotions manifest various kinds of cognitive and strategic irrationality.

EIGHT. Emotions can be appropriate or inappropriate with respect to their intentional objects.

Researchers debate the grounds of, and distinctions between, different forms of appropriateness (e.g., fittingness, moral appropriateness).

NINE. Emotions typically involve appraisals of the significance of the stimulus situation, ranging between primitive and sophisticated forms of information processing.

Researchers debate what the structure of appraisals is, and whether appraisals cause or constitute emotions or both.

TEN. Emotions typically correlate with changes in motivation to do things.

Some researchers think emotions cause or consist in such changes in motivation, whereas others think that changes in motivation have other causes, or are too unspecific to ground a theory of what emotions are.

The exploration of these insights and the resolution of the disagreements around them is a thriving interdisciplinary project in contemporary emotion theory.

Philosophers and affective scientists will continue to engage in it for years to come, putting their distinctive theoretical skills at the service of projects of common interest.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References Word Lists: Uncommon Emotions ⚜ Other Words to Use ⚜ Positive Feelings

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hello hello!! I was not expecting requests to be open again so fast, but i am DEVOURING your writing, so i shan't complain!

What about Dogday getting saved by a teenager who’s desensitized to the horrors of the factory? Like of course, they’re perturbed, but aside from initially seeing Dogday(because holy shit), the biggest reaction they’ll give is a cringe and a “eugh” or some other mild exclamation of “that’s fucked up.” Essentially just Dogday interacting with a kid who’s weirdly chill with the circumstances and tries to be silly sometimes despite the persisting horrors.

Thank you so much and have a wonderful day/night!!!

Awe thanks! Have a good day/night too!

.......

"You..you're Poppy's angel..come to save us-"

"Eugh..what the hell happened to you?"

While back in the day, Dogday would've scolded you for using profane language...he finds it understandable considering you discovered him in his....erm..current condition.

The initial shock of seeing him would have anybody from outside the factory deeply disturbed.

But he's surprised that you're not fully freaked out and didn't run away.

Instead you manage to get him out of the Playhouse (while curbstomping a few little critters who tried crawling into his body along the way) and found a safe spot to rest.

Despite his insistence that you should leave him, you point out that he mentioned you saving him earlier.

"When you said "us", I thought that included you, too."

"I-I meant the others. The ones who can still walk..and still have a fighting chance. Look at me, kid. All I'm gonna do is weigh you down."

"....I mean, you are kinda heavy. But I've lifted worse with this grabpack. I got you."

He's confused by how oddly calm you are about everything.

If you were able to get down this far in the facility, you would've had to cross paths with Huggy, Mommy, Catnap, and Miss Delight at some point.

By all accounts, you definitely should've been traumatized at least from seeing all the bloody toys laying around.

Yet you're cool as a cucumber as you try your best to fix him (with assistance from Kissy, Ollie, and Poppy, of course, who are stunned you came out of the Playhouse alive)

Dogday remembers how scared the children were during the Hour of Joy, comforting them as he helped them flee the terror...so to be comforted by a kid now felt strange.

Yet your calm demeanor helps ground him whenever he starts to have a panic attack over Catnap finding him or if he feels like a critter or two is already inside of him, trying to take hold and eat whatever organs he had remaining (but it's just a sensation he feels from time to time).

You snap him out of it by asking rather silly questions.

"What if I stuck a flare in your mouth? Would that deter them?"

"...what? Um...I-I suppose that could work, but hopefully it's not a theory we have to test anytime soon.."

Even if Poppy decided to show you the Hour of Joy tape (which he had to look away from and tried persuading you to do the same), your only reaction is a slight grimace and a simple "damn wtf....you guys think any of those workers were running late or didn't go in that day?"

Dogday is shocked you'd joke at a time like this...but she knows you better and tells him you're just like That(tm).

You do care about them. You do wanna destroy the Prototype and save whoever you can along the way--including him.

It just may take some time for him to get used to your personality.

[mourningsbane]

regarding the newest comic post, a lot of ppl are saying honeyspring would never harm a kit and that her "gift" isn't meant to be malicious. but, i mean, if it IS mourningsbane, she might be giving it to sweetkit in hopes she will eat it, pass away, and thus be able to join her in her weird limbo afterlife so she doesn't have to be alone anymore. that's a recurring theme that seems to be honeyspring's biggest issue: she doesnt want to be alone.

yes sweetkit talks to her now, but there is still the disconnect that sweetkit is alive and honeyspring is not. honeyspring also cant communicate easily anymore; nowhere near the way that sweetkit and other living cats can. honeyspring is limited in terms of communication with most of it seeming to rely on symbolism or physically visible things.

sweetkit has other clanmates to interact with and a life she has to live filled with responsibilities, events, etc. as she grows up in the clan. she can't give honeyspring her undivided attention and whenever she is away living her own life, honeyspring is left alone, waiting and hoping that sweetkit will come back (which is never a 100% certain thing.)

on the topic of sweetkit growing up, that's the thing: she's going to grow up. while kits may be less judgmental and indifferent to honeyspring's appearance, as sweetkit gets older, she may get more perturbed by honeysprings appearance and/or discover honeyspring's story and make the connection that shes been talking to a dead cat all this time. that being said, she might not want to even be around honeyspring anymore and might even fear her. if she fears her or doesnt want to see her anymore, honeyspring will have lost their only friend, rendering them completely and utterly alone (which, again, seems to be her biggest source of distress.)

on top of this, honeyspring lost her kits (whether u take that to mean they died or they became... Not Kits) so if sweetkit joins them, they can finally be the mother/parent they were meant to be but was denied so cruely. in this case, sweetkit won't get older. she will remain a kit forever, so honeyspring can be a mother/parent to sweetkit and cherish the joys of mother/parenthood forever, making her miserable afterlife a lot more bearable.

dont get me wrong! i adore honeyspring and hold her very dear to my heart (is it weird to say shes a bit of a comfort character to me at this point...?) but they're in a very heartbreaking, complex, and unstable state of being right now and who knows how in control of her emotions, actions, and thought processes she is.

cats make mistakes (obviously 💀) and dont always think abt/realize the big picture or the consequences of their actions all the time. and honestly, it's understandable for honeyspring to be acting "selfish" abt sweetkit; honeyspring did nothing wrong in life (as far as i know) and had all of what was meant to be a love-filled, family-oriented future stripped away from them in a gruesome and downright horrific way caused by such a simple mistake no less. why cant they have this one semblance of control over their existence now that their future is gone.

it wouldnt be the first time a cat gave their clanmate mourningsbane after all.

(sorry if a lot of this doesn't make sense or is confusing! i have a lot of trouble putting my thoughts into words...)

-warriorwhiskers (warrior cat sideblog)

Oh, this is a VERY interesting theory! I like the way your brain works! <3

I cannot say for sure how accurate this theory is due to potential spoilers, BUT I think you have a very valid read on Honeyspring's personality!

If it helps, know that Honeyspring has always been resourceful! LutumClan has no official nursery? That's fine, Honeyspring will make one! Does the clan need more prey for the fresh-kill pile? Worry not, Honeyspring's on the case!

Can't enter paradise? That's okay, Honeyspring will make her own.

[hitchell-mope]

Thank you Howard for defiling a beloved children’s classic v