#actually Greek bodily

[troublemaker-sys]

Aphrodite art I made today :) really enjoying a TV show called Kaos. I recommend it, if anyone is interested in Greek mythology and retellings of the myths like me. - Nico🥀

[starrystevie]

eddie's just trying to be a good wingman, okay? he sees robin and steve and how they're attached at the hip, sees how they smile all soft and gooey at each other, sees how they pass light touches just to show that they're there without even subconsciously putting a hand on a shoulder.

so he meddles. he pushes them closer to one another when they sit on couches, shoving them bodily until they're on top of each other despite their groans of complaint. he goes overboard with the theatrics and declares from a table top that robin looks pretty, goading steve into doing the same and not noticing how her nose crinkles up in disgust. he purposefully gets out of the way when steve sidles up close next his side as they walk down the sidewalk so that steve can brush his hand against robin's instead of the back of his.

"i just don't get it," he exhales after steve gets up to use the bathroom as they sit around the pool one sticky july night. "this is the perfect time for steve to make his move on you and he just won't do it."

robin stares at him like he has three heads before bursting out into an uncontainable laughter.

"steve? make a move?" she breaks off, gasps for air, takes a sip of her now too warm beer and grimaces. "on me? but he's... i'm... we're-"

and now eddie's panicking because steve is coming back and the backyard house lights are illuminating him like a greek god, so he slaps robin's arm to get her to just look because, god, does steve look gorgeous. it's like he's the most perfect package that could ever be offered and robin is laughing instead of reveling in it.

"what'd i miss?" steve says as he sits back down, passing fresh ice cold beers around as robin catches her breath.

"hit on me," she says. eddie blanches and slaps her harder.

steve's face pinches, a frown overtaking his lips, eyebrows pulling together. "ew, no. why would i hit on you?"

eddie doesn't get it and his face must show it because steve is looking at him with confusion and robin is still cackling away like the witch that she is. he sighs, pushes his hair back as a way to ground himself back in the moment instead of letting his brain wander off into not so nice territory of telling him how stupid he is until steve's face softens and he hits robin's knee to get her to shut up.

they look at each other. and it's not a look that eddie gives to anyone, it's not a look he gets from anyone. they talk with their eyes and slight head nods and quirks of eyebrows and eddie doesn't get it. but then they turn back to him, robin's face set in determination, steve's set in.... something else.

"we're gay."

they say it at the same time, like fucking robots or clones or something else that eddie should probably know the name of but he's shocked to the core and can't think of anything more fitting. he feels his jaw drop, feels his heart squeeze in his chest until-

"i mean technically i'm bi-"

"-and technically i'm a lesbian."

and then they stare at eddie and wait. he gapes like a fish, or at least he feels like he does, his brain going a million miles a minute trying to catch up to the fact that he isn't alone and that he isn't wrong and that he actually has a chance with steve harrington, as far fetched as that might be.

but then he looks closer. catches the glimmer in steve's eye. sees the way his fingers are dancing over his exposed thighs where his swim shorts have ridden up to show the tan line underneath. sees the way he's biting almost nervously at his bottom lip and eddie's heart thumps painfully once more.

"me too," is all he can breath out, eyes locked on steve's, hoping his heart is beating out of his chest, too.

[greater-than-the-sword]

Seeing the trailer for Millie Bobby Brown's new movie makes me wonder if I've ever actually seen or heard of the "knight rescues damsel from dragon" trope played completely straight before, or if that's something of a dead unicorn trope.

I realize there's the classic "Saint George and the Dragon," but even in that case the princess was never bodily in any danger, it was the kingdom and the lands which were beset and the princess acted more as a diplomat hiring him on behalf of her country.

Perhaps the trope originator is the Greek myth of Perseus and Andromeda? You have the princess chained up to be offered to a (sea) dragon for the purpose of a ritual sacrifice, so it's not like the dragon really "kidnapped" her, and it's missing any mention of a tower, but it ticks more boxes than any I can think of

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

can you do a post about the forms of paranoia? Making up situations and anonymous online interactions, getting lost in your own head kinda of situation? 🥹😍

Writing Notes: Paranoia

PARANOIA

A paranoid state (i.e., a condition characterized by delusions of persecution or grandiosity that are not as systematized and elaborate as in a delusional disorder or as bizarre as in paranoid schizophrenia. Also called paranoid condition.)

A former diagnosis for a relatively rare disorder, distinct from paranoid schizophrenia, in which the person reasons rightly from a wrong premise and develops a persistent, well-systematized, and logically constructed set of persecutory delusions, such as being conspired against, poisoned, or maligned. It is equivalent to persecutory-type delusional disorder.

Historically, any psychiatric disorder characterized by persistent delusions. See also classical paranoia below.

In ancient times, any mental disorder or delirium.

An unfounded or exaggerated distrust of others, sometimes reaching delusional proportions. Paranoid individuals constantly suspect the motives of those around them, and believe that certain individuals, or people in general, are ‘‘out to get them.’’

The word paranoia comes from ancient Greek: nóos means ‘thought’; para- means ‘going beyond’.

In theory, the term denotes a mind that goes beyond the usual field of thought.

In practice, even in ancient Greek, it indicated a delusional manner of thinking.

But the concept was not as well known as it is today.

It was 19th century German psychiatry that brought it into modern discourse.

In politics, the word paranoia is often used to criticize an opponent, though probably few of the people who use it could actually explain what it means. Only rarely has the term been used self-critically.

Classical Paranoia

Conceptualized in the 19th century by German physician Karl Ludwig Kahlbaum (1828–1899) and later refined by Emil Kraepelin.

A rare disorder characterized by elaborate, fixed, and systematic delusions, usually of a persecutory, grandiose, or jealous character, that develop insidiously, cannot be accounted for by any psychiatric disorder, and exist in the context of preserved logical and orderly thinking.

Delusional Disorder

In DSM–IV–TR, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition, the diagnostic standard for mental health professionals in the United States) any one of a group of psychotic disorders with the essential feature of one or more nonbizarre delusions that persist for at least 1 month but are not due to schizophrenia.

The delusions are nonbizarre in that they feature situations that could conceivably occur in real life (e.g., being followed, poisoned, infected, deceived by one’s government).

Diagnosis also requires that the effects of substances (e.g., cocaine) or a medical condition be ruled out as causes of the delusions.

Formerly called paranoid disorder.

7 types of delusional disorder are specified, according to the theme of the delusion:

Erotomanic type: Central theme of the delusion is that another person is in love with the individual.

Grandiose type: Central theme of the delusion is the conviction of having some great (but unrecognized) talent or insight or having made some important discovery.

Jealous type: Central theme of the individual’s delusion is that his or her spouse or lover is unfaithful.

Persecutory type: Central theme of the delusion involves the individual’s belief that he or she is being conspired against, cheated, spied on, followed, poisoned or drugged, maliciously maligned, harassed, or obstructed in the pursuit of long-term goals.

Somatic type: Central theme of the delusion involves bodily functions or sensations.

Mixed type: This subtype applies when no one delusional theme predominates.

Unspecified type: The dominant delusional belief cannot be clearly determined or is not described in the specific types (e.g., referential delusions without a prominent persecutory or grandiose component).

Criteria for delusional disorder in DSM–5 and DSM-5-TR also include the following:

The delusions may be either nonbizarre or bizarre (i.e., implausible), and

their potential presence as a result of an ingested substance, a medical condition, or another mental disorder sometimes associated with firmly held delusional beliefs (e.g., obsessive-compulsive disorder, body dysmorphic disorder) must be ruled out.

Paranoid perceptions and behavior may appear as features of a number of mental illnesses, including depression and dementia, but are most prominent in 3 types of psychological disorders:

paranoid schizophrenia,

delusional disorder (persecutory type), and

paranoid personality disorder (PPD).

Individuals with paranoid schizophrenia and persecutory delusional disorder experience what is known as persecutory delusions: an irrational, yet unshakable, belief that someone is plotting against them.

Persecutory delusions in paranoid schizophrenia are bizarre, sometimes grandiose, and often accompanied by auditory hallucinations.

Delusions experienced by individuals with delusional disorder are more plausible than those experienced by paranoid schizophrenics; not bizarre, though still unjustified.

Individuals with delusional disorder may seem offbeat or quirky rather than mentally ill, and, as such, may never seek treatment.

Persons with paranoid personality disorder tend to be:

self-centered,

self-important,

defensive, and

emotionally distant.

Their paranoia manifests itself in constant suspicions rather than full-blown delusions. The disorder often impedes social and personal relationships and career advancement.

Some individuals with PPD are described as ‘‘litigious,’’ as they are constantly initiating frivolous law suits.

PPD is more common in men than in women.

Typically begins in early adulthood.

The exact cause of paranoia is unknown. Potential causal factors may be:

genetics,

neurological abnormalities,

changes in brain chemistry, and

stress.

Paranoia is also a possible side effect of drug use and abuse (for example, alcohol, marijuana, amphetamines, cocaine, PCP).

Acute, or short term, paranoia may occur in some individuals overwhelmed by stress.

A summary of paranoid personality disorder (PPD) in the DSM-IV:

The principal defining features of paranoia are pervasive and unwarranted mistrust and suspiciousness of others.

People who are paranoid are locked into a rigid and maladaptive pattern of thought, feeling, and behavior based on the conviction that others are “out to get them.”

Their perception of the world as a threatening place drives them to be highly alert to any evidence suggesting that they are being victimized.

A constant search for proof of their victimization often leads them to misinterpret others’ comments and behaviors.

Hypersensitivity to slights, both imagined and real, combined with the tendency to have excessive confidence in their own knowledge and abilities, create tension in interpersonal relationships and leave social networks depleted.

If we want to assess where someone’s paranoia fits in the spectrum, we need to look at 4 key factors:

How much the person believes the paranoid thoughts.

How preoccupied the person is with the thoughts.

How distressing the thoughts are.

How much the thoughts interfere with everyday life.

Studies found that some people who respond in a paranoid way have 3 distinct emotional characteristics:

A greater tendency to worry.

Higher levels of anxiety.

Negative feelings about themselves and other people.

Some researchers have found that paranoia may be caused by the subtle interaction of 4 factors:

Anomalous experiences and ambiguous events

Our emotions

Our previous experiences

The way we reason

TREATMENT

Paranoia that is symptomatic of paranoid schizophrenia, delusional disorder, or paranoid personality disorder should be treated by a psychologist and/or psychiatrist.

Antipsychotic medication such as thioridazine (Mellaril), haloperidol (Haldol), chlorpromazine (Thorazine), clozapine (Clozaril), or risperidone (Risperdal) may be prescribed, and

cognitive therapy or psychotherapy may be employed to help the patient cope with their paranoia and/or persecutory delusions.

Antipsychotic medication, however, is of uncertain benefit to individuals with paranoid personality disorder and may pose long-term risks.

If an underlying condition, such as depression or drug abuse, is found to be triggering the paranoia, an appropriate course of medication and/or psychosocial therapy is employed to treat the primary disorder.

Don’t just accept your suspicious thoughts: question them.

Paranoid thoughts often seem really compelling and plausible—which is ironic since, by definition, they won’t stand up to careful scrutiny. Instead of taking them at face value, we need to challenge these thoughts, weighing up the evidence for and against, and seeking out alternative explanations for the way we’re feeling. Some questions people can ask themselves:

Is there anything that might suggest the paranoid thought could be wrong?

What would I say to a friend who came to me with a similar problem?

Are there any alternative explanations for what seems to have happened?

If I was feeling happier, would I still think of things in the same way? Are my past experiences getting in the way of me seeing the present situation clearly?

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing! Use these notes as a quick reference. More research may be needed to write your story. I recommend reading the sources included here, but there are also numerous others.

[max1461]

Jesus, I just. It's like, what happened in the last five years is like, the online culture shifted, I guess to match the current youth culture, into this really... bodily thing? Bodily is not quite the word. There are conservative and liberal expressions of it but vibes-wise I feel like it leans conservative (but that's not my problem with it). Conservatives in my day where up-tight, I disagree with them but they didn't wig me out. Except like Mormon guys who want to fuck teenagers. They had (obviously) a skeevy energy. And now that skeevy energy feels ascendant. Like... the tradwife shit, all the like fitness influencer shit where it's not "here's how you can get fit and sexy" it's like "become a classical greek manly powerful all natural testosterone man". It's like the youth culture, or what I see of it online, is dominated by this... naturalistic fallacy with a christian sensibility. Right? I mean in my day, in my day we had new age moms from the pacific north west, and shit, posting about crystals. and you ignored them. but now it's fucking, it's tradwives, it's all natural muscle diet man blah blah, it's fucking, natalistic, you know, "look at my kids" mommy vloggers like "look at my kids, I did the thing, I ~produced progeny~ like my biology is designed for". It's this skeevy fucking shit, everywhere.

I'm like, losing my goddamn mind. When did people my age give up on, fucking, young professionalism? Not "the grind", not lifestyle influencer stoic manism, no, like... trying to be, you know, a put together modern young person? Right. Not that that has to be everybody's goal, but like. Where is any representation of it, I mean, jesus.

I feel like the conservative here, where the thing I want to conserve is, yeah, a certain notion of "normieness", a certain notion of like, you're not flaunting you bronze age hormones and shit on the fucking public internet, you're fucking, you know, like. chasing your dreams in the big city, and shit. they had that in the fucking 80s and the fucking 90s, and shit? I'm going to the big city, ma! Well what happened to that shit? Now everyone is going to the fucking, mormon sex colony. I'm actually losing my mind.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Eros: Chapter Two

Eros: Married to Dream of the Endless, you find yourself sent back in time to Ancient Greece where you, unfortunately, meet Oneiros. Fresh off a divorce and drowning the sorrows of his son’s death by indulging in the Panathenaia, you find yourself trapped beneath the lustful gaze of your future husband. In your defense, he seduced you first…

Warnings: Language, Taunting.

To Note: Morpheus x Wife!Reader, Time Travel, Oneiros is used for AncientGreek!Morpheus.

Word Count: ~2.8k

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By dinner that night you had nearly drowned yourself in turbulent thoughts and discomfort. Your friends were gossiping while lounging at a table, they were gushing about all the men and woman that had arrived through out the day. Apparently in the celebrations, orgies were a common occurrence among the aristocrats and it was always a guessing game of who would be getting with who, or more importantly, who would get the golden invitations to the orgies with the most powerful people of Athens. You didn’t mind the open sexuality of Athens, it was actually a freeing thought… but you’d spent the afternoon and night in a state of hurt with a very agonized heart.

Why did it pain you so much to see Oneiros in pain? It was clear that he was hurting. Hurting and drowning himself in wine and debauchery to take his mind and being off the fact that his son had died and he’d gone through a divorce. You hated seeing him like that. You hated it so much. But you were well aware that Morpheus had gone through this phase in his life. He’d gruelingly explained it to you on a rainy afternoon after you had pestered him about his past relationships. He was your husband and you loved him so much, yet you still knew very little about his past.

He hadn’t wanted to tell you anything. Hadn’t wanted you to know about his failings in martial relations and love period. But the Endless loved you with every grain of sand he possessed and had explained the sorrows and troubles he’d gone through… minus the time proceeding his divorce. Watching the debauchery unfold in front of you, you fully understand why he hadn’t uttered a peep about his greek era. The greeks certainly knew their way around bodily delights.

“Elpis?” You blinked and glanced at Merope, she and the other girls were looking at you with concerned looks. They had noticed a change in you since earlier, had barely touched food or drink and spent an awful lot of time sitting with a faraway look within your eyes. “You’ve been rather demure since luncheon, is all well?” It wasn’t like you could just unload all your troubles on the three women, no matter how much you wanted to.

“Just a headache,” You informed her before unfolding yourself from your curled position and rising to your feet. You brushed out nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of your dress.  “I think I need some fresh air and to cool down.” Your fingers tugged at your clothes, undoing several pins that kept fabric folded against your body in a decorative way. The silken fabric loosened and draped until it was just barely held together on your body. Now you didn’t feel so smothered. “I’ll be out for a walk, don’t let me keep you up waiting.”

It was clear that they weren’t convinced by your words as you strode past them with your peplum fluttering behind you. It was a hot night in Athens, but the breeze from the Aegean Sea cooled you down as you took a garden path that led straight to the beautiful water. Standing at the waters edge, you crouched down and brushed your fingers through the slightly warm water. This wouldn’t last forever, surely, your Morpheus was probably ripping through realms and universes trying to find you… you just had to deal with his past self until you went home.

Which you didn’t know when that would happen.

And you didn’t like the idea of leaving this Morpheus in pain.

But could you actually do anything about that?

You didn’t exactly have a handbook on what to do when you time traveled.

Destiny will be up your ass if you screwed this up…

Then again maybe this was supposed to happen?

You growled and dropped your face into your hand with a more than exaggerated groan. You didn’t sign up for this time travel bull shit when you married Morpheus! All you had to be, according to Morpheus and just about everyone else in the realm, was his wife. Of course you wanted to be active in the realm and help out the denizens, dreams, and nightmares as their queen, but no one held you to duty.Just as you sighed and dragged your fingers down your face, pulling your eyelids as you went, you felt a tingle in your being and a shiver run up your spine. You rose to your feet and turned around.

Ah.

High above on one of the balconies overseeing the Aegean Sea, lounged Oneiros in all his glory. His tunic was half on his body, revealing a great expanse of his star sculpted physique. His hair was ruffled since you had last seen him. Right. Lucienne reluctantly mentioned that Morpheus had a few hoe eras. This was one of them. Even though he wasn’t your Morpheus, you could still feel his inherent desire and lust. It was certainly directed at you since you had met eyes with him. That both scared and excited you.

“Elpis?” Kynna’s sweet voice broke your stare down with Oneiros. Jarred from holding the lustful gaze of Oneiros, you blinked rapidly. “What are you doing outside all alone? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Kynna!” You softly exclaimed, striding up to the girl and plucking her from the ground. What on earth was she doing out of be? There were half naked adults everywhere! “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“You’re not in bed,” The little girl pointed out like it would make a difference, making your eyebrow pop up. The utter cheek!

“That’s because I was out for a walk, come little one, back to bed, you have a great many activities to do tomorrow.” Continuing to carry Kynna, you entered the large stone building and walked towards her families wing. Your heart throbbed in your chest the entire way to her room.

You sat in your seat stiff as a bored. It was another extravagant luncheon hosted by one of the noble families. You hadn’t wanted to accept the invitation, you weren’t versed in the politics of Athens and certainly didn’t know anyone other than your three knew friends. The only plus side to attending was the delicious food served. You’d spent a lot of time snacking on olives while partaking in wine, and it was nice to eat a proper grecian meal.

Under normal circumstances, the men would eat separately from the woman, but since it was Panathenaia, an exception was made so everyone could mingle and celebrate in shared fashion. As uncomfortable as you were with the flirting and innuendos, you did find yourself laughing at a few crude jokes and well entertained by the conversations you found yourself drawn into.

The men and woman of Ancient Greece were beautiful, impossibly so, but they were also so easy to get along with and forget that you didn’t even belong in this era! Several times you found yourself falling into a place of comfort you should not entertain! So every time a conversation got a little too intimate you pulled back. But that being said, you carried small talk and day to day conversation quite well.

At least until a certain someone arrived.

Your attention was drawn to Oneiros like a moth to a flame. You couldn’t help it. Not when he was the love of your life and the very being you promised to spend the rest of eternity together. Not when you had allowed the anthropomorphic being to place a physical part of his Endless being within your own so that you may spend every moment he had left in time with him.

But he wasn’t yours. At least not yet. That didn’t stop the smoldering looks he sent your way and it certainly didn’t stop the fire that burned deep in your belly until you squirmed in your seat. Gods damn that being for being your kryptonite! Wanting payback for what he was causing you, you began eating grapes. One by one. Allowing your fingers to linger on your lips while you held his gaze.

 It was a rather torturous sight to see.

The purple peplum you had on, held in place by golden pins and a decorative belt that wrapped around your waist. The fabric was just as light as all the other peplums you’d ben dressed in, but at the moment you felt like it weighed a tonne. Feeling suffocated by your feelings, the heavy gaze of Oneiros that seemed to follow you everywhere, and the general sultry atmosphere that enveloped the commons, you had slipped to the gardens for an afternoon stroll. Even with the fresh air you were still struggling to control your emotions.

“I just want to go home,” You softly murmured to yourself, allowing your hand to brush over several hibiscus flowers. “But I can’t even have that. No, someone just wants to fuck with me and my heart by forcing me to live through one of my husbands darkest times.” Sighing, you continued running your fingers over flowers and leaves. Lifting your eyes to the skies, you willed time to go by faster, wishing for the relieving darkness that harkened a sleep that blocked out the visceral agony you felt.

Before you had married Morpheus, you used to be so excited about falling asleep at night. You practically lived two lives, one on earth during the day, and second, more meaningful one in the Dreaming at night. You knew almost all of the denizens of the Dreaming before you had become romantically involved with Morpheus, so your nights had literally been a second life. But then the Endless had finally decided to make his intentions clear with you.

You had been swept off your feet by a blanket of stars Morpheus had weaved himself and courted like a spoiled regency debutant. It had been so extravagant that you had nearly told Morpheus that he only needed to get you flowers and talk to you regularly… but you had quickly found that bestowing you with gifts and words of affection were his love language. He wanted to shower you with gifts. He wanted to bespoke words of adoration to you. You were his universe. He was the being you never knew you needed. Together you felt complete.

Sniffing while your eyes burned, you hastily wiped at your eyes and nose lest you start balling in the middle of the garden and cause an upset. Why were you doing this to yourself? You knew you were playing with fire. Finding yourself and stopping the threatening onslaught of burning hit tears, you cleared your throat and looked up at the flowering pink shrub you found yourself in front of.

Oleander.

Smelling the fragrant blooms, you reached up to take one of the pretty blooms. It was just out of reach, but if you stretched on your tippy toes, you could probably reach it. So you stretched upwards, pressing close to the plant. Your fingers brushed the soft petal, but you couldn’t get a good grasp that wouldn’t tear the delicate bloom apart. In your struggle, you hadn’t noticed his approach and jerked in place when fabric bushed against your back as a pale hand reached over your head and effortlessly plucked the bloom for you.

Freezing in place as your breath caught in your chest, you clutched your hands to your chest. It wasn’t like you could ignore him now. Slowly turning your head, your eye met vibrant blue and you had to force yourself to stay still. Gods all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around his body and never let go! Oneiros twirled the bloom between his lithe fingers, all the while maintaining his intense gaze with yours.

You fascinated him, hypnotized him with your eyes, demanded his heart and passion with but a glance. Yet you never drew close enough to indulge. It was maddening, for Oneiros wanted no other but you. You’d drown out the sharp sting of loss he felt. He was sure of it. But something kept pulling you away the moment he was sure you’d finally break. The Endless offered the plucked flower to you, waiting for you to either accept or refuse it. Given your rather flighty disposition, he half expected you to flee the garden.

But you didn’t.

No. Oneiros was surprised when one of your slightly trembling hands reached to accept the flower. Your eyes were trained on the bloom, and you made sure not to touch him… but your silence spoke a million things.

It was getting harder and harder to avoid interacting with Oneiros. You didn’t know if it was because you naturally gravitated towards him, or if it was because he clearly wanted you. Nothing you did rid you of the pain you felt from him. So you had gone to the baths to try and soak out the stress you felt. It was nearing midnight, so most of the nobles were either indulging in bodily delights, drinking, or sleeping off the alcohol. That meant you could enjoy the public bath house in privacy.

So you slowly made your way into the steamy room and carefully unwound the belt around your waist. Then your fingers plucked the pins from your shoulders and you carefully folded the silk cloth that hung around your body. The steaming water looked inviting as you stepped down into one of the pools, and you sighed at the nostalgia that filled your mind. The bath house pools were much like the large bath you had in the Dreaming, and made memories of relaxing in it cradled within Morpheus’ arms as he told you stories of past dreams, surface within your mind.

You wanted to go home so bad.

“Are tonights revelries not to your appetite?” You jerked in place at the sound of his voice, your head snapping around to see Oneiros lounging in a corner of the bath. Shit. Shit. Shit. It took everything you had not to stare at his naked body leisurely sprawled across the sitting ledge without care. His black messy curls made your fingers twitch for they ached to run through them. Oh, it wasn’t just those curls either, you wanted run your fingers along his skin, trace his muscles, adore the curves and planes upon his otherworldly body, kiss him until you were forced to take a breath… It took you a solid minute to find the courage to reply.

“I do not usually partake in such festivities, my lord,” You replied, a slight tremble in your words. A black eyebrow arched and you forced your gaze to the carved statues of spites mounted at the end of the room. “I am more reserved with my affections.”

“But not entirely opposed as your skin paints a different story,” Oneiros pointed out, his eyes lingering on the faded marks of someones apparent love. Oh yes, someone had the pleasure of indulging in your body. Someone worshipped you greatly and with complete devotion. The marks were subtle, but intentional. Territorial even. The Endless watched as you flushed beneath his scrutiny, and took great enjoyment in knowing that he did have an effect on you. “Who would leave a creature as lovely and delicate as you, by yourself during such festivities?”

“He’s away on business and I do not seek to control him,” You told him, carefully unfolding yourself from your tight ball. Instantly the Endless was drinking in the view of your gorgeous curves and faintly loved skin. He wanted to devour you. You wanted him to stop hurting. So you rose to your feet in the water and slowly sloshed over to him. “Why are you here, my lord?”

Clearly he didn’t expect you to ask him such a question, but nonetheless he humored you after taking a sip of his wine and eyeing your goddess like body. Soft and begging for worship. One he would surely get lost in should the chance arise.

“I am enjoying the festivities, the same as you,” You nearly snorted and rolled your eyes. He may not be your Morpheus, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t pick up when he was lying. You lifted your chin.

“No, you are not,” Now that was a bold statement to say directly to his face, and you could see his eyes darken.

“You dare think to know my intentions better than I?” He questioned back, eyes searching yours to see how far you would push his patience. Your lips were distracting, after your grape stunt he had wanted nothing but to devour them to see if they were indeed as soft and inviting as they looked… as was the rest of your glorious body. Tender curves begging to be caressed, clear skin aching be marked once more, lips that called to be tamed…

“I know enough to wonder why you are here, rather than with the men and women desperately throwing themselves at you.” You informed him before turning to the side and moving back towards your folded dress. You left the bathhouse and a ravenous Endless behind, your heart beating fast in your chest.

Date Published: 1/22/24

Last Edit: 1/22/24

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[sempersirens]

the fig tree | rotten

pairing: therapist!joel x f!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. discussion of heavy and potentially triggering topics such as sa, self-harm, infertility, various mental illnesses, self-hatred and drug use. these topics are only mentioned and do not occur in real-time.

chapter summary: a twenty-something, seemingly lost cause, meets her match in the form of psychotherapist: dr. joel miller.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

updates: @sempersirenswrites

series masterlist

Maybe it was time to accept you were never as good as you'd always thought you'd been.

For four long years, you had spent most of your waking hours dissecting epic poetry and papyrology.

Still, the most your degree had done for you was rouse a satisfying disappointment from your mother’s side of the family when they realised you weren’t actually going to be that kind of doctor.

Not to say such in a self-deprecation; you hardly suffered from any semblance of an imposter syndrome. Your mother used to frequently remind you that you were far too vain to not believe in yourself.

It was more of a philosophical framework. Platonic realism. Knowing your muted beauty could earn you a free drink from below-average men who felt their trousers tighten when you addressed them through your eyelashes.

But it wasn't an obvious enough beauty for the attention of the men you imagined exchanging bodily fluids with between stops on the underground.

Besides, you had been a student of Classical Studies; a degree that doesn’t require the intellectual strain of learning Latin or Ancient Greek. The inclusive way for people like you, having attended a run-down state-funded school, to get a glimpse into the Bullingdon boys' and grammar schoolgirls’ fallback plans.

It wasn't even that you disliked Classics; you'd borderline gotten off on reading plays written by men about wicked women; but that was because the brilliant women were always the wicked ones.

You particularly enjoyed the assumptions men made about the female condition – how women were too wet, too porous; couldn’t keep their wombs from wandering. And assumptions they were. No Greek physician ever sliced a woman from chin to cunt to confirm their hypotheses. Although, ancient men hadn't been all too familiar with the insides of a woman anyway.

Sometimes, you thought you would quite simply die if you were reduced to only understanding people through your assumptions of them.

It was just that you could never stop thinking about what people thought. It was all you could ever think about. You wanted to peel people's skulls apart and scream at their horribly grey frontal lobe:

Are you ok? Have I done something to upset you? Do you still love me? Do I look like someone that has been raped? Do you think that girl we just walked past has a firmer ass than me? Do you like my new bangs?

For a short period of time, you'd been desperate to know how your therapist felt and thought of you. There is a sick irony in baring your bones to a stranger in the reclined chair opposite you who never even takes off their cardigan.

You needed to know if your traumas made him sad, or if he saw things that made him think of you outside of your sessions. You supposed he both pitied and admired you in a twisted, surrogate-daughter kind of way.

Then again, he probably wouldn’t have been a very good therapist did he not pity his clients.

At one point you thought you might be in love with him.

You'd met weekly in his high-ceiling office on a busy street. It was a romantic setting to unload twenty-four years of trauma to a kind man wearing a knitted cardigan. The sun would peak through clouds and shine onto the both of you through two large windows, between which sat a Japanese peace lily.

You soon realised he was just the first man to let you speak uninterrupted.

You spoke at him mostly, finishing observations that had been years in the making with “Does that make sense?” Even though you knew it made sense. You were certain, actually, that everything you had articulated came from somewhere deeper inside of you than any man could reach. You just couldn't leave it hanging there like an exposed nerve.

Maybe it was because he didn't speak much that you liked him. Sometimes he would offer anecdotes or remedies for PTSD-induced panic attacks that you both knew you would never use.

In most sessions, you had simply basked in the divinity of being listened to. You wondered if this was how devout Catholics like your grandmother felt at confession, or perhaps it was how all of your ex-boyfriends had felt.

You weren't even particularly attracted to him. He had been ten years older than you, and when your sessions first began, you'd been casually fucking someone a year older than him – but he didn't need to know that.

There were a lot of things you'd decided he didn't need to know. Like the fact you snorted cocaine until your nose bled, sliced into your thighs a couple of evenings a week, and let men use your body to masturbate as a feeble attempt to reclaim your sexuality - as if it had ever been anyone's for the taking.

Had he known the dirtier parts of your life, you feared he would have crossed out the word victim in his black Moleskin notebook and replaced it with bystander.

Maybe he would think you were a pathological liar and diagnose you with a personality disorder. This was something you'd been warned about by the first friend you had made at university.

“My mother is a therapist, you know. Don’t tell them you cut yourself or that you’ve told anyone you cut yourself – they’ll diagnose you with BPD.”

“But I’ve told you.”

“Trust me. They’ll put you on an SSRI and you’ll never be able to orgasm again.”

You were freshly eighteen and had never had a real orgasm anyway, but this terrified you enough to reel in your catalogue of symptoms for the GP appointment you had scheduled later that day.

In the end, you'd buckled and sobbed as the doctor sat adjacent to you. You didn’t mention the self-harming or the suicidal thoughts, but did tell her that you didn’t know where to go from here.

She'd slid a leaflet from the university's self-help website across the table before pushing her chair back and motioning toward the door.

“Call 999 if things get worse," she had said. "But let’s just hope it doesn’t get to that point. A&E is very overwhelmed at the moment.”

So you got on with it. Boats against the current, or whatever. You made the hurt so small and buried it so deep within you and swore you'd never let anyone get close enough to pick at the stray thread to your undoing.

And for a little while it worked. You became what you knew you should be; you presented your face for fucking and never let the door slam on your way out.

These days, you'd felt as though you were slowly becoming rotten.

It started on the surface; a bizarre case of adult acne that no dermatologist could diagnose for love nor money. Blood tests, topical steroids, antibiotics, potentially-baby-deforming drugs. You tried them all to little avail. In the end, it was simply the passing of time that had rid you of the rot.

Next, it had been your womb. Decomposing from the inside out. Your body had made the decision for you that goodness couldn't form in your guts.

The final straw had, embarrassingly, been your heart.

You hated to say it aloud. So much so that you hadn't. But it had been a quiet promise of yours; one you'd kept quietly close to your chest - that your suffering would never turn you ugly.

But here you were, alone and swearing at the wind, the rage beneath your skin growing like a tumour.

You hated it.

You hated yourself.

You hated that you were angry but had never been taught how to be angry, because anger wasn't a pretty emotion; it was one that should be starved and kept in the corner of your wardrobe to rot like black mould.

So here you stood: before a Victorian townhouse with your scarf furiously fighting the wind, droplets of rain threatening your freshly straightened hair, scanning various names scrawled on the building's buzzer.

S. PHYSIOTHERAPY

A & R SOLICITORS

J. MILLER PSYCHOTHERAPY

You bit the inside of your cheek and ducked further into the doorway, pressing the buzzer for the last option.

A voice had answered quicker than you'd anticipated, soon followed by a harsh buzz of the intercom.

"Come on up."

Dr. Miller's office was on the third floor.

You huffed, struggling with the combination of the stairs and attempting to wrangle your wet coat from your back. Amidst your struggle, you hear a door open somewhere above you, followed by a couple of soft and slow footsteps.

Your chin instinctively lifted toward the source of the noise, feet carrying you round and round the spiral staircase.

Light poured around his silhouette from the window behind him. It was ridiculous, actually. The sight was almost holy.

Neither of you spoke as you made your way up toward him. You felt as though you were on your knees beneath him, transfixed in supplication.

The sleeves of his blue cotton shirt were haphazardly pushed up just before his elbows, arms outstretched and fingers wrapped around the wooden bannister.

You were supposed to be actually trying with this one, not fantasising about the ways the veins in his arms probably bulged with his hand around your throat.

After being politely let go by your previous therapist, you'd promised yourself that the colleague he'd recommended to you, Dr. Miller, would be the one to fix you for good.

"Hello." He nodded, not quite managing a smile.

He reached a hand toward you, which you shook with the little strength left in your body.

"Hello." You tried your best to imitate his stoic cadence, your hand still tightly in his.

You let him break the handshake first, playing a petulant, one-sided game to see how quick he would be to scare.

"After you." He gestured to the room behind him. "Take a seat wherever you feel most comfortable."

"If there is any cowboy paraphernalia in that room I am not paying for this session."

"Excuse me?" His eyebrows knitted together, no sign of humour registering on his face.

"Your accent - it was a joke. I mean, I paid already anyway." You fumbled your words awkwardly. "Jokes are always much funnier when you explain them."

He cocked his head slightly. Hesitant to embarrass yourself further, you saw yourself into his office.

The room was dim for a space endowed with Victorian-style floor-to-ceiling windows. It felt like you could get lost in it, hide away, tuck yourself into a corner and be lost for days.

"I have your notes from Dr. Hughes." He said.

"Anything juicy?" You asked, still surveying the room.

You couldn't put your finger on the specifics of his scent, but it was familiar; like passing a man in the street wearing the same aftershave as your father, or a boyfriend you hadn't seen for years.

"I'd like to figure that out myself."

You'd eventually settled on the armchair positioned opposite his own.

You had briefly wondered if this was a test, that he would be psychoanalysing whether you chose the armchair or the adjacent sofa.

Maybe you'd failed already.

For the majority of the session, you'd gone through the necessary motions of admin, confidentiality, and what you eventually wanted to get out of therapy.

"I don't have the ability to fix you, y'know that right?" His question had caught you off guard.

"I know that." You'd replied meekly.

"It's just, I don't know what kind of promises Dr. Hughes made you. We trained together, you see. He had always been more, how do I put this, hopeful than I am."

"Oh wow. Forty minutes into our first session and you're already hopeless?" You were only partly joking.

"I'm a big believer in transparency, and I can see you were meeting on and off for a few years. I'm just intrigued as to what your end goal here is."

You bit down on your cheek, swallowing the ember of rage that was burning in your throat.

"Do you think I do this for fun? Carve out an hour a week to relive my deepest, darkest traumas?"

"Not at all. I just find it interesting that after almost three years of therapy, you still can't use the word rape. You've referred to it as the thing that happened four times already."

The rot crept up your throat, threatening to pour out of your mouth and fill the room with the ugliness that grew inside of you.

"What is this, some kind of tough love therapy?" You scoffed. Was he trying to get a rise out of you?

"It can be whatever you want it to be."

He was kind of annoying, actually.

The two of you sat in silence, defiantly holding eye contact with one another to see who would be the first to break. And when he finally spoke, it was more of a statement than a question.

"That's time. I'll see you at the same time next week."

"How are you so sure I'll come back?"

He smiled for the first time that afternoon.

"I'm not."

[aqlstar]

hey, I have a genuine question for you and other Jewish people, from a non Jewish person. it's about circumcision.

I first just wanna preface this with saying I know circumcision is done for medical purposes, I actually know someone who was circumcised as a toddler for a medical reason. my question is not about a medical procedure, but more about the religious/cultural aspect. Im also not American, i understand its pretty common in America for both Jews and non Jews, its pretty rare over here.

I also apologise in advance if I come across as insensitive or cruel, im asking genuinely, I don't want my thoughts and beliefs to be antisemitic so im coming to jumblr.

so my question is: why is circumcision so important? I believe in bodily autonomy, completely and entirely. it is my belief that this kind of procedure on someone so young violates that. I also can't quite get past the metzitzah b'peh (I hope I spelled that right), it bothers me, what is the reason for it? is it something that is widely practiced? I understand that last bit especially is really sensitive, considering the libels, but I truly do want to learn. why is circumcision important, why is it practiced, does it violate principles of bodily autonomy, and how common is the metzitzah b'peh, why must it be done in that specific way, has it been largely phased out, is there a way to do it thats different but still follows jewish law?

thank you for your time, I really do just want to learn and understand and I want to deconstruct my biases

Thanks for the ask. Circumcision is so important to Jews because it is something that ties us to each other and to our ancestors going back thousands of years.

In the Tanach (Jewish foundational holy text), God says to Abraham-

And as for thee, thou shalt keep My covenant, thou, and thy seed after thee throughout their generations. This is My covenant ... every male among you shall be circumcised. And ye shall be circumcised in the flesh of your foreskin; and it shall be a token of a covenant betwixt Me and you. And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every male throughout your generations ... And the uncircumcised male who is not circumcised in the flesh of his foreskin, that should shall be cut off from his people; he hath broken My covenant.

Circumcision has been a distinctive practice of the Hebrew people throughout history, so that Empires that have sought to erase Jewish identity have attempted to ban it.

Here’s actually an article on surgical reconstruction of the foreskin to avoid antisemitism under Greek Rule-

You can also see that non-surgical and minimally invasive options now exist to reconstruct a foreskin if for some reason a Jewish man grows up and really wishes he hadn’t been circumcised.

For Jewish men (and boys), the cultural and religious norm is that they be circumcised at 8 days. Since the practice is medically harmless and the baby is too young to make any decisions, I don’t see it as a violation of bodily autonomy. Especially since circumcising an adult is a much more invasive and complicated procedure.

Like- if I were a Jewish boy who’s parents opted not circumcise me, I’d be pissed.

It’s easier to reconstruct a foreskin than it is to fully circumcise someone who isn’t a baby.

As for metzitzah b'peh, it is now standard practice to use a sterile pipette to fulfill the mitzvot without exposing the baby to health risks.

[autisticrosewilson]

You have any Wilson family headcanons to spare? Especially on Rose & Grant?

DO I EVER!!! Gosh where do I even start

I mentioned to a friend of mine the other day that I think Slade was a leash kid, and I stand by that whole heartedly. He wanted to raise Grant as a leash kid too, simply because he thought you were supposed to, but Adeline threatened his life so it never happened. This was the first of many times he was confronted with the concept that maybe his home life wasn't great.

He would not even begin reflecting on this until almost a decade later. He still doesn't really consider himself a victim and honestly most of his shitty parenting comes from him just having no clue what he's doing. He's aware that he's bad at it, but instead of trying to improve he just tries to avoid his kids in hopes that they'll be better off without him.

Also he grew up in 1950's-60's Appalachia, I think he's more superstitious than he lets on. I imagine he grew up hearing about family curses and old wives tales, and while on some level he recognizes that Fran likely just used those stories to cope with the situation there's also a part of him that believes it for the same reasons she did. He's not a victim, he can't be, so it must not have been abuse. Which eventually turned into him just kind of accepting that he was always going to be a bad father, that there was never a chance for him to have a family and any attempt he makes will just end up worse than the last.

It makes it easier to maintain his self imposed isolation that way.

Adeline is a lot more interesting than people give her credit for. I like to think she was born and raised in a big city like New York or maybe Gotham if I wanted to be funny. She was definitely a wild child, and that was something that didn't change during her first marriage.

I truly do believe that Count whats-his-face (I don't care enough to look him up) tried exactly once to hit her and he ended up with three bullet wounds that all knicked arteries. It was his only warning and he was smart enough to know that.

Addie is loyal to the end, she's the kind of person that steadfastly refuses to let go of people she cares about. In basically ever version of her story she tries, she tries so hard to make things work. I once compared her to the Greek myth of Medea and I think about the comparison often.

I also think that Adeline was always her father's daughter, whether she liked it or not. I don't remember if it was canon that she was raised primarily by her dad but I only remember her dad being mentioned so I think she grew up in a single parent household and was mostly left to her own devices as a kid. She probably grew up really close with her cousin, most people probably thought they were sisters.

Mayflower fucking HATES Slade, she was advocating for the divorce before they were even married. I know in my heart she was Slade's biggest hater. Her and Slade talked mad shit about each other but they were also gossip buddies for the longest and it was the only thing that stopped her from beating his ass all the time.

SladeAddie is so toxic Bi4Bi coded. Really funny to me that Addie was probably older than Slade, do you know the kind of rizz you have to possess to bag a milf that could kill you in 20 different ways before you could blink? One who's already been divorced? What charm was this freshly 18 year old drop out exuding to be pulling like this?

When do you think he told her that he lied to the recruiter about his age and he wasn't actually 23 or whatever? Did he ever tell her? Did she figure it out herself? It was literally never addressed but I think about it all the time.

Slade is definitely still mildly in love with her and falls a little all over again every time she deals him grievous bodily harm. I don't know his thing for people who hate him is probably a self conscious way to punish himself for sucking all the time.

Billy and Alfred being friends is a headcanon that I literally never stop thinking about. Why wouldn't they be old friends or whatever? They have tea the 4th Tuesday of every other month. They complain about their respective morons and brag about the kids they have to take care of because their morons won't.

Billy is definitely a British rock fan and he fucking HATES country music. Slade starts playing it in the car and Billy threatens to crash the whole car just to make a point.

He's like maybe 5 years older than Slade if I'm being generous about it, he just looks older next to Slade because he's not hopped up on super serum.

He's the one Rose gives her father's day gifts to <3

SladeBilly is canon to me, no way Slade is capable of spending that much time with someone without sleeping with them at least once. It might be the healthiest relationship he's ever had with anyone and Billy barely tolerates him.

Lilian Worth my beloved,,,,,,they gave her such a white ass name. I choose to believe that she changed it later on for anonymity. Chea Nath is a name she hasn't used in a while, but it's still one she holds dear.

She seems like someone who was really into ballet, and probably someone who was really good at it too.

She's one of those characters that we don't really have any information on, which leaves a lot of wiggle room backstory wise. I probably write too much about characters with poor backgrounds (surprise your bitch grew up impoverished) so I guess I'll let Lili have this one.

Diplomats daughter, her and her mom were really close growing up, and she seems like she grew up with sisters. She's got that middle sister energy to her, growing up everyday was a fight and let's just say she didn't lose often.

If Adeline is Medea, Lili is definitely Circe. Versatile, powerful, a man hater, and she'll do anything to protect her girls.

Honors student, her grades never dropped below an A- and she has degrees in everything from fine art to communications. Rose went to college purely because her mom made it clear that not going was not an option.

Grant is one of my favorite characters. Ever. He's definitely an old school country enjoyer, much to Billy's chagrin and Slades secret delight.

He was the boy who climbed up the tallest trees to prove he could and then came home with a thousand little scrapes on him.

He has a bee allergy.

He's the least enhanced of his siblings but he still has a meta gene, I think the reason the H.I.V.E. serum didn't activate it like it should have is because his power was the mental kind and not the physical kind so his body couldn't hold up against it even while his psychic powers were getting stronger.

Painted his nails one(1) time, it was a dried up iridescent blue that Addie dug up and was going to throw away but Grant wanted to try it. He didn't know what nail polish remover was though so he scraped his teeth on his nails to get it all off but he couldn't get all of it and he almost cried so hard he threw up at dinner that night because he was scared of Slade noticing (Slade didn't notice and wouldn't have cared if he did).

Thought he was SO stealthy when he snuck out but literally everyone knew because he always came home smelling like weed, hungover, and he went to school in the same clothes he wore to go out. Most of the time Addie didn't care (See above: "former wild child") but Slade "Biggest loser in his hometown" Wilson always had an issue with it.

Officially his tomb is located in the Kane family plot but he's actually buried in Slades hometown next to his grandmother. (Adeline is not aware of this)

Joey was actually the one who pulled most of the pranks when they were kids, but Grant always took the fall. Mostly because literally no one would believe it even if Joey said he did it. Which he tried to do, many times.

Grant taught Joey to make flower crowns but he never admitted it because he thought it made him look weak. He still keeps the few that Joey made for him though, they're basically turning to dust in the drawer he hid them in to this day. They're one of the few things that weren't torn down and shoved in the attic after his death.

Joey still celebrates Grant's birthday every year, him and mom play The Last Man by Clint Mansell on the piano because it was his favorite piece to play before he stopped because it wasn't "cool".

Grant tried to get Joey to come with him when he ran away but Joey didn't want to leave Addie. Joey ended up moving into Grant's old apartment, he often thinks of what life would be like if he'd taken up the offer.

Grant is THE ass hole big brother from the late 90's/early 2000's. Down to the mullet and the shirt with the sleeves cut off. He used to steal Addie's eyeliner and she would get so mad because that stuff is EXPENSIVE and he's just smearing however. She teaches him how to do it properly but he says it makes him look "too girly".

Grant's picture is the only one in Slades wallet because he doesn't have to worry about putting him in danger anymore.

DON'T let Joey's "natural" pretty boy look fool you he has a 20 step skin routine and a 15 step hair routine and he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn to start on his makeup.

He used to get the worst acne as a pre-teen and he has physically burned all the evidence except for one picture of him and Slade on a fishing trip when he was like thirteen, he doesn't know it exists and it's the only picture Slade consistently travels with.

He doesn't want to be the favorite but he would get mad if someone else was the favorite because what work were YOU even putting in for it.

He has 12 year old boy humor I fear. Giggles at dick jokes and has used his name to make "Joe Mama" jokes on various occasions.

Number one Mama's boy of all time, there's not a single time they've gone out in public together where they haven't had coordinated outfits. Him and Addie call biweekly to shit talk people and exchange recipes and the like.

Joey is THE biggest gossiper. He'll talk shit about people right in front of them if he's sure they don't know ASL and whoever is around just has to try not to laugh while they "translate" him.

He's so good at convincing people to do things for him just by looking at them with his big ol' eyes. And he's a theater kid so his expressions are really exaggerated.

Rose, my muse. I know canonically she's a smoker but I'm changing that to her being a vaper. I don't know she just looks like she'd beat the shit out of you for a cherry lemon cancer stick.

Energy drinks don't work on her in normal amounts so to rectify that she constantly walks around with horrific concoctions in a water bottle the size of her head.

She street races as R4V4G3R and she's pretty good at it. She learned a lot about cars doing it which is how Slade justified being an anonymous benefactor for her.

The few weeks Slade had her she ran that shit like the navy. Up at 6 AM on the dot, tight ass ponytail swaying as she got ready for school. She was out that door by 7:25 everyday and she would MAKE Slade violate traffic laws to get to school by 7:35.

Has bitten people before and will do it again.

Had the BIGGEST crush on Donna Troy when she was on the Teen Titans. She didn't know it then but she did. Her taste in women really hasn't changed at all.

Only has her grunge thing going on when she's planning on meeting people, average day outfit is all pastels and florals that her mom used to pick out for her.

Got pretty much all of Lili's stuff, her main apartment is always Immaculately decorated. She also lives in L.A. because literally fuck New York. She's trying to get her engineering degree in PEACE.

She looks up to Grant a lot, she really only has Joey's account of things and he only tells her the good stuff. How he was brave, and strong, and funny. When she was younger she really wanted to be like him, but that was the last thing Slade wanted. So obviously she named herself Ravager out of spite.

Rose is the shortest one in the family but she's buff as hell, my girl is built like a fridge and she knows it. Joey tried to rest his arm on her head one and she stabbed him. It didn't go through his armor obviously but it did leave a mildly annoying bruise that he pouted about for a week.

She low-key really likes Addie but she tends to stay away because of the whole "child of infidelity" thing. She HAS threatened to call Addie on Slade multiple times.

Grew up with a bunch of other kids so she never really wanted siblings, but she would kill for Joey. She'd like a sister though. Really misses her cousins and aunts from the brothel but doesn't want to put them in danger by talking to them.

She's fond of kids but wouldn't want her own because she doesn't want to bring a kid into the kinda life she has, or their family in general.

Routinely takes jobs from Slade because she knows full well he won't do shit. And she's right every time he makes it into a team up that usually ends with them fighting but sometimes, every once in a while, they do something nice together and it makes her remember why she wanted to find him so bad when she was 13.

I don't like her carving her eye out for Slade I thought the whole concept of her idolizing Slade was fucking stupid. She tolerates him at best. So I like to attribute it to her visions, I think the blind prophet symbolism is really fun. Especially because then we can have a Prometheus type situation where her eye patch keeps switching sides/sometimes she's not blind because she keeps carving them out in fits of Seer Madness™️ but they keep regenerating.

SHE HAS BROWN EYES HER EYES ARE BROWN I KNOW HER PERSONALLY PLEASE LET HER KEEP EVEN ONE OF HER ETHNIC FEATURES I BEG!!!

[littlemoonastrology]

All About : Juno ⚵

According to Roman Mythology,

Juno was the wife to Jupiter (also known as Hera and Zeus in Greek Mythology) - but the marriage wasn't too happy. Juno actually developed quite a reputation for being jealous and vengeful (and I don't blame her!) as Jupiter was unfaithful all throughout their marriage. There are many stories of Juno getting revenge on Jupiter's mistresses (poets such as Ovid and Homer express this) and whilst she was quite hot-tempered - the way she got revenge was always sneaky.

However, that's not just what she is known for!

Juno is the most powerful Goddess in Roman Mythology, ruling: marriage, childbirth and fertility. She was also known as the Protector of Women and Children. Her personal qualities too - very compassionate, nurturing, strong-willed and was depicted as very beautiful in artworks.

~

So, how is Juno relevant in Astrology?

The Juno Asteroid (3) explores: what we need to be fulfilled in relationships, how we react in unhealthy relationships, how we and our partner nurture a relationship and to another extent she protects our emotional space, feminine energies (such as expression of love) and children.

Juno helps us feel empowered and helps us with our personal growth when we are fulfilled in a relationship - but when this is an unhealthy relationship (or just general unfulfillment or some kind of threat) she will send signals through: gut feelings, bodily changes (with women this may be through your menstrual cycle) and you will generally just feel drained, stressed out or resentful (maybe even angry or vengeful).

~

Example:

Someone with their Juno in Taurus may need: stability, someone to depend on, reliability and someone who is either quite mentally/emotionally/physically strong (with a soft sensual side). They need to feel supported no matter what they do which will help them feel a deeper sense of belonging - feeling like they can continue moving up the ranks to reach their goals. Taurus Juno wants to be able to build something that lasts with someone and enjoy the luxuries that come with it (and with that comes a need for similar values and long-term goals!).

Taurus Juno puts a lot of effort in the relationship (as does their partner) but still both enjoy relaxing and enjoying the fun things in life to increase their bond. There may be similar tastes in food, music, movies etc (or mutual enjoyment). They may not be the kind of person to go out clubbing every night with their partner or going to a new amusement park (unless both are feeling comfortable and stable), but may instead stay inside watching Netflix (or go get some nice food!).

This placement also has a relatively calm temperament too (and appreciates those who aren't too aggressive, being uncomfortable around people with anxious attachments who tend to have a lot of emotional outbursts), feeling grounded in the relationship and may not have a lot of anxiety at all. The relationship feels comfortable (which is what Taurus Juno deeply needs!) and may find they can express whatever they want with this person without fear.

When Taurus Juno feels threatened, is in an unhealthy relationship or just isn't fulfilled, a lack of communication takes place (bodily and vocally) which creates a rift. They may not even want to communicate at all, shutting themselves off completely (perhaps there may be a lot of changes to their tone of voice too). Maybe to some extent they will become congested too or develop a runny nose - their neck or ears might ache (or some kind of lockjaw) or it just feels like there is too much (or too little) sensory information going on. This may come off as like a "test" to see if Taurus Juno can be comfortable, so then it is up to their partner to help ease the stress (or sadly in some cases abuse/neglect it).

Pushiness and control is a no-go!

Taurus Juno may also blow up at little things (even though it's not little at all!) and become quite angry and resentful towards their partner - closing off any kind of appreciation or affection. Maybe even a habit of becoming quite avoidant and avoiding situations which aren't pleasurable to them!

~

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[gabessquishytum]

Water spirit au from the bath attendant dream anon gave me the idea of dream making sure hob comes back and STAYS by cursing him so the only water hob can drink is his. He will live forever, dream will provide him essentially a fountain of youth, but hob will remain thirsty and dehydrated unless he drinks from dreams water SPECIFICALLY. Dream thinks this is a perfectly reasonable thing to do bc hes a essentially a fae creature from greek mythology and after hob burns out his initial anger and comes crawling back (quite literally because he hasnt had a real drink in nearly three days) he finds dream will provide for him and with such a beautiful creature always throwing himself at this lowly mercenary to rough him up and wreck him good hes actually pretty okay with it!!

-🔪

Akskdjfjf I feel so mean but I'm laughing at the idea of deranged, dehydrated Hob crawling/stomping back to Dream and calling him a bitch to his face. I love it.

(Also Hob’s initial thought is "fuck, ive got rabies" since he can't seem to drink anything. Then he realises that it's more like the water is running away from him??? And he starts connecting the dots.)

Dream just smiles sweetly and welcomes his beloved home with a kiss (which Hob accepts because he's thirsty and Dream’s lips are gloriously wet). And Hob does kind of melt - how can he be angry when he has such a beautiful creature in his arms? Dream has gone to such lengths to make Hob his own, it seems rude not to at least try and see his side.

Hob can still wander off and have adventures, as long as he comes back to Dream in the end. Its a blissful life. He wakes each morning with Dream in his arms, and they move against each other like the water itself. Dream is always loose and ready for Hob to take him and he truly is the most exquisite sight as he writhes and bounces, begging for more. Hob’s cock seems to be the only thing that satisfies him and even then he begs for more, harder, deeper.

Afterwards they bathe together in the water, and Dream imperiously allows himself to be thoroughly cleaned by Hob’s tongue, too. Fortunately Dream’s bodily fluids count as being part of his waters, so Hob can freely swallow them down.

They're both extremely satisfied, and both feel like they won the lottery. Dream got his big strong mercenary and Hob got an eternity of life and the most beautiful water spirit in the land. As long as they return to each other at the end of each day, they'll be very happy indeed.

[juliakristeva]

does mary being a virgin actually matter?

i will talk about rape in this response.

it does and it doesn't. it depends on who you talk to and what they believe. on a social level an immaculate conception is important if you think that sexual activity is an unnecessary addition to an existence that was intended to never involve the need to procreate and thus symbolizes human fallibility and sinfulness. i think a more generous reading of the need for a virgin birth is that it simply means mary was unmarried. theologically mary's virginity also symbolizes (in mary as it does in the later celibacy of nuns) fidelity, total consecration, single-minded devotion, and submission to his will. i think that perhaps, and this is also me being generous, the assumption that many people, both christian and secular, make to the idea that virginity = purity is not really implicit to mariology or to the gospels. it wasn't that mary was pure because she hadn't had sex. the implication is that mary was pure because she loved God that much: she loved God as a lover, as a friend.

there's no doubt that mary would have been a virgin at the the point in her life when the events of the lucan narrative are said to have taken place. on the immaculate conception narraiteve makes it much too easy for mary to weaponized against abortion rights and women's bodily autonomy, which is inherently antithetical to scripture. i've read a lot of literature lately arguing that the lucan narrative is one of coercion, making the conception of christ inherently a rape: but my inclination is to read luke 1:38 (let it be with me according to your word) as mary giving her explicit consent. (an interesting point that i encourage people to internalize: "let it be", in koine greek, is γένοιτό, may it become, come into being, or (of a person) be born: in short mary explicitly consents to her pregnancy in the original text, meaning that the weaponization of mary as pro-life does not hold water and absolutely goes against scripture.)

but i also think that there is something extremely worthwhile in the idea that mary was a rape victim. this is a much more literalist, historicist reading of the gospels, which i do absolutely think can coexist alongside the theological. mary can be an eternal virgin and a rape victim. christ can be the son of God and a victim of rape. i'm not sure which theorist it was (its definitely elisabeth schussler fiorenza or elizabeth johnson but im too lazy to check and im sorry) but feminist theologians in the 90s proposed that mary may have been raped by a roman soldier (not a preposterous notion given that mary was a young, unmarried child living in an area that was being violently colonized). s much as i read that narrative as a consenting and mystical one, i think there is something very powerful in the idea that mary could have been raped.

(i've lifted the following two paragraphs from a paper i wrote on this topic last semester)

in considering mary as a rape victim, mary’s experience offers the opportunity for victims of religious and sexual abuse to gain a sense of empowerment and a defined place in christianity. it locates trauma as central to christian narratives and strips back the shadow of obscenity that clouds conversations of sexuality, even in instances of force or coercion. it shakes the exploitative patriarchal underpinnings of christianity. still, there is danger here. such analysis can and does reinforce narratives of the place of and necessity for women’s sexual and reproductive exploitation within christian dogmas. this danger is so pervasive that it maybe impossible to fully rehabilitate the image of mary as rape victim effectively within theology. it is a submissive, exploited woman that is useful for patriarchal epistemologies because a traumatised woman more properly embodies the “void” which femininity is said to be: a traumatised woman may be stripped of her sense of self and identity, her spirit, and her own body, reduced down solely to the violence which she has experienced, either in terms of what freud terms neuroses or hysteria. in this instance, a woman’s response to the trauma of her exploitation within dogmatic institution invariably becomes hysterical because it is a response to an exploitation which is perpetrated but also demands to be disguised, since the institution is unable to particularise women’s sexuality as meaningfully existing and instead as an absence demanding penetration. thus in the conceptualization of mary as a rape victim– and in the experience of all rape victims seeking a defined place within theology– both their bodies and their experiences are constantly under scrutiny and susceptible to outside patriarchal validation as orthodox or heterodox. 

the foil to Mary as rape victim, the concept of Mary as empowered, also harbours danger for theological analysis in that it may be appropriated as a means of validating rape and other forms of denial within patriarchal religious dogmas. it may be construed as meaning that when a woman is denied choice, it is for the “greater good” of humankind and she finds joy and fulfilment through being denied her divine Yes and No capacity. this renders her as one “victimized into a state of living death.”

either Mary is the victim of rape by coercion, or she partakes willingly and joyfully of an act of union that is unfaithful to human institutions of female domination and sexual ownership. to be more precise, either mary is disempowered by a masculine and penetrative god-man, or she is endowed with her own authority as a woman, an authority which transcends human dogmatic formulations and gender divisions. both of these are dangerous to the patriarchal underpinnings of theology, and both need to be taken seriously. so the answer to your question is, essentially: it stops mattering when women have full rights over their sexuality, regardless of how patriarchy identifies them, under repressive cultural authority.

[atthecenterofeverything]

read Psyche on the Skin and Empire of Normality recently and like, they for sure make good points about emphasizing that the DSM-based conception of psychiatric diagnoses is recent, a product of capitalistic medical insurance models, and does not form objective, transhistorical categories. but to demonstrate that other conceptions have existed, they fall into the trap of flattening whole periods and societies into singular "opinions" that 1. are not and cannot be representative of entire decades across entire empires and 2. in the way they are explained, actually differ from modern conceptions essentially in name only. see Empire of Normality:

"For today, disability and disorder are understood in relation to concepts of statistical or medical normality. Yet in fact, there was no such conception in the ancient world. (...) Thus, the idea of ‘normal’ functioning – or more concretely, of the normal heart rate, normal lung capacity, normal height, normal cognitive ability, and so forth – would have been wholly alien to the medics of antiquity. (...) And so it was that across the ancient world, to be ill was not to have a mechanical abnormality, but to be out of balance with aspects of self, others, or environment."

this extract makes no attempt to define what exactly the difference is between supposed ancient concepts of "imbalance" and modern concepts of "abnormality" - surely an imbalance signifies that there is a "balance" that can be reached and must be aspired to? the only difference he underlines is regarding specific bodily functions (heart rate, lung capacity, etc.) - which would make it a difference of technical knowledge and not of interpretation of that knowledge.

and the reason this matters is because as they attempt to emphasize the recent (and subjective) character of conceptions of normality, they end up reifying it; is the issue with medicine and conceptions of neurodivergence that it is used as part of capitalism, or is it its place as a means of social control?

trying to draw attention to alternate understandings of health, the bodymind, and medicine in the (European) past, as alternatives to moderns capitalist systems is a reactionary impulse. the issue is not with the concept or the term of ab/normality, and saying that "the underlying equation between health and harmony, illness and imbalance, was to remain dominant until colonialism, the Enlightenment and, most of all, the rise of capitalism" is a completely nonsensical statement - the book doesn't explicitly place the fault at the beginning of capitalism, but it implies it. it is an idealistic fallacy to take at their word Ancient Greek medicine (or rather our 21st century interpretation of their word) regarding what they "believed", instead of analyzing the material forces between doctors, the idea of medicine and the general population, a relationship no less dominating and exploitative than the modern one

[diana-thyme]

Greek Gods 101: Bia

Bia is a goddess or daimona of force, power, might, bodily strength, and compulsion. Excluding the universal offerings, some common offerings include:

Boxing Gloves

Defensive Items

Weights

Depictions of Shields

Depictions of or Actual Weapons

Figurines or Depictions of Dogs

Blood (or fake blood)

For devotional acts, some activities that can be done for her include:

Learning How to Fight

Weightlifting

Exercising

Pushing Through Things You Don’t Want to Do

Learning How to Practice Martial Arts

Standing Up for Yourself

She is not celebrated in any Athenian holidays.

[brain-stuck]

what up welcome to brainstuck

were called that because we . Because we are Stuck in th

were a massively introject heavy system of like 27 or some shit and we made this blog to. idk reblog system shit and maybe you guys can interact with us or smth . this blog was the result of a democratic vote so here it is 💯

COLLECTIVE INFO

bodily 23

trans dude, default to he / him

overall aroace. headmate identities heavily impact the Flavoring so were loveless, lovequeer, nonamorous and partnering all at the same time

refer to us as a whole as brainstuck or perhaps bingus. i am serious we will respond to bingus

not endogenic or traumagenic but a secret third thing (nunyagenic) (nunya business)

DISCLAIMER some of us arent white in brain but we are bodily white . we dont claim those identities but we do like learning about those cultures so if you got any cool facts hit us up

the resident shawties

COHOSTS: kyle (irl), xingqiu (discord), dave (tungle)

FREQUENT FRONTERS: tao, shinobu, yoimiya, layla / samira, lynette, kaveh

OTHER SHAWTIES: bo, john, rose, jade, jane, dirk, jake, lark, aradia, sollux, karkat, feferi, lumine, barbara, keqing, xinyan, kokomi, bronya

LITTLE BITCHES: dimple (<- what we named our intrusive thoughts demon)

click the read more for more info on us individually OK EPIC BYEEEE

KYLE 💤 - Our core Guy. The OG. He / him, trans, aroace. Handles IRL stuff. Professional Sleeper. We are all facets of this guy including This Guy

DAVE 🎧 - @aroacedavestrider and @incorrect-hs-quotes (mod dave). he / him aroace homestuck gang. yallready know whats goin on. cohost

QIU ���� - @alegendofsword and @blueboy-mlm. He / him, gay ace, trans. Genshin Gang. Cohost. Name is pronounced “CHYO”. Writer and reader.

KAVEH 🏛️ - @kavehshahrewar. He / him Genshin gang uh. Horrendously gay. I am suddenly the tallest bitch in this house and I don’t know how this happened. Slay

BO 📺 - @nosignal-standby. he / it. aroace. nonhuman static entity. voidsona. shoutout to deltaverse. probably a trauma holder.

JADE 🌱 - @gardeniagnostic. she / they demigirl! polyam pan, homestuck gang :) talk to me about hawai’ian culture and green magic!!!

LAYLA / SAMIRA 🌟 - @fantastical-eveningstar. she / her for both of us, two-person subsystem. demiaroace and maybe bi about it ?? genshin gang. astrology nerd

JOHN 👻 - he / him, biro ace, homestuck gang. resident Dissociator™. i’m learning spanish and greek! june egberts can interact if comfortable. :)

ROSE 🐙 - She / It. Demi, sapphic. Bi lesbian, don’t care to figure out which I am specifically. Homestuck gang. Talk to me about crystal magic.

JANE 🎂 - She / He? Bi, some kind of gender going on. Homestuck gang. Not frequently near pilot. Sorry :B

DIRK 🔥 - He / him. Gay, aro, left arm amputee in headspace. Rewatching MLP. Rarity is funnier than I remember. Homestuck Gang.

JAKE 💀 - He / they demiboy quoi-aro and bi! Homestuck gang. Absolutely talk to me about crazy ancient relics and sites. Australian not british!

LARK 🐦‍⬛ - he / him and bi. kind of a fucked up human bird davesprite thing. not crow strider. used to go by luke. part time protector

ARADIA ♈️ - she / they n0nbinary thang. ar0ace. autistic 0n the beat ab0ut cryptids and urban legends 0u0. h0mestuck gang. name is pr0n0unced “uh-RAY-dee-uh”

SOLLUX ♊️ - he / hiim, biiro ace. iidk much el2e ii ju2t work here. ii play a lot of miinecraft. home2tuck gang

KARKAT ♋️ - HE / HIM, GREY-ARO, PAN AND ACE. VITILIGO NATION RISE UP. FREQUENT FRONTER. HOMESTUCK GANG.

FEFERI ♓️ - S)(e / )(er and pan! Name is pronounced “F-EF-furry”. )(omestuck Gang 38) !! I’m a trauma )(older, actually!

LUMINE ✨ - She / her, lesbian. Genshin Gang, kind of a… splice between Traveler and Abyss Lumine? I was both. I am both. Where is Aether

BARBARA 🎶 - she / her and bi ^^ genshin gang. i love to sing and make playlists for my headmates! kind of a… religious trauma processor??

XINYAN 🎸 - she / they ace lesbian and im the proud token punk rock headmate WOOO!!! genshin gang. send me cool music!! names pronounced “SHIN-yan”

TAO ⚰️ - she / they aroace :) genshin gang ! i collect books full of ghost stories so tell me some if you dare~

KEQING 💫 - She / her, lesbian. Genshin gang. Name is pronounced “KUH-ching”, but I also go by Kit. Let’s call me the… “manifestation of productivity”.

SHINOBU 🗡️ - she / he. not picky. aroace, genshin gang. i also go by “shoby”. protector.

KOKOMI 🐟 - She / her lesbian and Genshin Gang! Qiu and I read a lot of books together and I would be very happy to hear recommendations :)

YOIMIYA 🎆 - she / her demi lesbian genshin gaaaang nice to meet you!!! i’m a… motivator?? lmao?? yeah!!

LYNETTE 🎩 - She / her aroace. Genshin Gang. Call me Nette please. Not much of a talker

BRONYA 🐰 - She / her unsure of what the Bronya is. Bronya likes Seele. The Bronya is a newer member of system and does not know what she likes yet. Only Honkai subject as far as the Bronya knows.

DIMPLE - this is our resident “and a half”. hes like our intrusive thoughts brain demon and we all hate him so we made him look like dimple mp100 and we call him shit like “scringle” and “bunkle” and “grinkle”. hes not allowed to talk cause he sucks but if he was wed make him use this 👹 ok epic

THANKS FOR READING THAT WAS MAD LONG ok. 👍