#i cannot pinpoint when this happened but it certainly has

[technovillain]

my art has shifted from "not beating the psychonauts fan allegations" to "not beating the vbros fan allegations" how did this happen

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

I saw a couple of posts here and on ao3 where you talked about how TOA Apollo has a stilted view of romantic relationships. Would you be comfortable explaining that, it got me really interested!

OKAY

SO

gonna be putting this under a cut for length

Apollo and relationships. Specifically, ToA Apollo and relationships.

let's see if I can formulate the thoughts into words.

Right off the bat, Apollo does have a hard time avoiding those red flags (hello, Commodus), so much so that he can see them...he just ignores them.

This already tells us that he doesn't have the healthiest view on relationships, or what specifically a healthy partner would be like.

In RRverse canon, these are all of his confirmed, canon relationships/love interests;

Hyacinthus

Commodus

Naomi

Darren

Latricia

Cyrene

Daphne

Sibyl

(I probably missed some asdfhjk)

Anyway, I've noticed that in canon, Apollo's relationships tend to fall into two categories; Sweet or Sour, we'll call them.

Now the majority on the list are Sweet! They are fulfilling relationships with no indication of any bitter feelings- Apollo is not shy about telling us about his love life, and certainly doesn't keep it from us when a relationship went south.

What I find interesting is that all three of the Sours can help pinpoint Apollo's more jaded/stilted view on romance.

Let's kick off with Daphne.

First things first, Apollo is quite literally forced to fall in love with her. Like. That has GOT to screw with a guy. What's more, is that when Apollo explains to us how Eros's arrows work;

What people do not understand: Eros’s arrows can’t summon emotion from nothing. They can only cultivate potential that is already there. Daphne and I could have been a perfect pair. She was my true love. She could have loved me back. Yet thanks to Eros, my love-o-meter was cranked to one hundred percent, while Daphne’s feelings turned to pure hate (which is, of course, only the flip side of love). Nothing is more tragic than loving someone to the depths of your soul and knowing they cannot and will not ever love you back. The stories say I chased her on a whim, that she was just another pretty dress. The stories are wrong. - The Hidden Oracle

There's an implication that he and Daphne may have actually been...friends. Or at the very least acquaintances.

It's never stated in canon when Daphne happened, and the mythology itself is weird about the timeline, but it certainly happened earlier in Apollo's life.

Imagine being forced to fall madly in love with someone you know and they are made to despise you.

The self-confidence definitely took a blow here.

What's more...

When she begged Gaea to turn her into a laurel tree in order to escape me, part of my heart hardened into bark as well.

Apollo tells us plainly that what happened with Daphne shook his views on romantic endeavors. Though, it didn't keep him from engaging in romance, either.

Now, back to Commodus real quick. We already covered the No Red Flag Bell with him, and honestly, I won't spend too much time here because I got a whole meta list waiting to dissect these two XD

But Sibyl reveals something else about Apollo and romance- sometimes, he sees it as transactional.

The story of Apollo and Sibyl does differ from the mythology of them- in mythology, Sibyl tricks Apollo into granting her a long life, and he kinda just shrugs and says 'okay, but you didn't ask for eternal youth either so...whoops?'

In ToA, Rick switches it up a bit by having Apollo grant Sibyl a long life after she jokes about it, and when she further rebuffs him, he curses her with no eternal youth.

Alas, I knew what I’d been thinking—that she was a pretty young woman I wanted to get with, despite the fact that she was my Sibyl. Then she’d outsmarted me, and being the bad loser that I was, I had cursed her. - The Tyrant's Tomb

I promised you life, not youth. You can have your centuries of existence. You will remain my Sibyl. I cannot take those things away, once given. But you will grow old. You will wither. You will not be able to die.

Yeah, it sounds like Apollo more or less curses her with no eternal youth here.

(Daily disclaimer that mythology Apollo's love life is actually very good and you should read up on it :3)

Back to the transactional thing-

"You cannot refuse payment." “Payment?” She balled her hands into fists. “You dare think of me as a transaction?” “I didn’t mean—Obviously, I wasn’t—”

Now, do I think Apollo sees all relationships as transactional? No. But let's consider the Olympian influence for a moment here.

Olympus in the RRverse is rather fucked, no doubt about it. The gods do not help without first being given something, and that permeates through their whole lifestyles.

Apollo's not being transactional because ✨misogyny✨. He's being transactional because that's what he's been raised to believe. If he gives something, he gets something back. That goes for all the gods, male and female and everything in between.

Bacchus helps the demigods in Mark of Athena because they paid tribute to him. Whenever a god extends aid, burnt offerings are made in thanks- which is probably part of the reason why Hera got angry with Annabeth when she refused to give her burnt offerings in The Battle of the Labyrinth after she helped her on her quest.

Apollo doesn't seem to be as picky as some (ie, The Titan's Curse, where he helps out to help out. You can argue he got his sister back in exchange but that's not really typical godly exchange lol), but it's clear that mindset has somewhat transferred over into relationships.

Now, I also want to talk about how Hyacinthus affected him- because let's be real, he was the one that affected him the most without outside interference (looking at you, Eros).

Apollo has told us time and again that Hyacinthus was one of, if not his greatest, love. His death really left a mark on him, and I am of the firm belief that it's that mark that made him wary of forming too close of a relationship with others- even when he tries to convince them and himself they are his One True Love™️, it falls flat inside his own head.

Because let's face it- that spot is occupied by Hyacinthus, and the hole he left in Apollo's heart.

This isn't to say Apollo loves his other lovers less- heck no! Love is one of his defining qualities. He has much love in him!

It's just that Hyacinthus had a particular impact on him, and how he views relationships.

*vibrates in Hyapollo multific* I have...my own personal ideas...on what that entails...

And we see how touch-and-go Apollo is with other lovers! As soon as Commodus becomes emperor, he's gone. And only comes back in disguise, never revealing himself until he kills him.

Naomi, Darren, and Latricia are all obviously loving relationships from what we can gather, but it's clear it was never long-term.

Cyrene, really, is where I'd argue he got the closest to a long-term relationship with a mortal-ish person, but even so, they aren't in a permanent long-term relationship either.

Hyacinthus, however? I can see he and Apollo maintaining an everlasting romance.

...Also because that is exactly what happens according to the Spartans and who are we to deny what the Spartans declared about their national hero?

The only other exceptions to this I can see are his relationships with the Muses and (hello, fellow Apricity shippers) Boreas.

But even so...the Muses give off like, 'married co-workers' vibes, if that makes sense, and Boreas is more or less a winter fling (fandom forgive me, you know I am a shipper🫡)

Anyway. Hope this rambling makes sense or at least provides a platform for someone to put coherent thoughts together lmao

In conclusion: sometimes Apollo is transactional in relationships because of the culture he was raised in, and he has commit issues because of just how hard Hyacinthus's death hit him :)

have fun pondering :3

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Years later - TSH

Henry Marchbanks Winter x GN!Reader

Word count: 1666

TW: religious imagery

Out of guilt and dread you end up leaving Vermont and building a new life. Just as you thought you escaped your past, you once again find yourself in its grasp.

The past haunts me. It has been years—so many I cannot begin to count, and if I’m being completely honest, I was not counting to begin with. Everything I have done was to escape that wretched part of my life in which my naivety and perhaps self-consuming passion, managed to control me. I wanted—want—to forget it all. 

The first time I stepped foot into what would soon come to be one of the few select places in my nightmares was very awe-inducing. The university was large, larger than I’d imagined. The stone walls had arched indents that made it look as if it belonged in one of the novels I read as a teenager and that my family wholeheartedly despised. The hallways were a contorted maze of watchful ancient statues following every movement with their eyes, priceless antiques donated by rich parents and students with more money in their pockets than I could ever dream of having. A multitude of departments found their home in that twisted place, such as theater, arts, modern literature, architecture, history, music, philosophy, and more. I believe you can imagine my excitement when faced with the exact kind of university I dreamed of studying at, especially when I had little to no hope of ever getting anywhere close to it, much less belonging.

One thing, as you know, led to another, and I ended up as one of the infamous Greek pupils. I’m quite sure everyone thought we were some kind of cult, which, if you think about it, isn’t entirely wrong.

The first few years were everything I had ever hoped for. I felt that I had found my place and, most certainly, my kind. We used to do everything together. Being with them was the only time I truly felt alive. It doesn’t matter whether we went to the comforting country house engulfed in trees safely from the outside world, had delicious dinners debating the most obscure topics, or simply studied in the library, sleep-deprived and on immense amounts of caffeine, I always felt as if I was doing something more than just existing.

Where did it all go wrong? I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I do not want to categorize Richard’s arrival as the initiator factor, for it was not his fault. Nor is it correct to say that the Bacchanal was the beginning of it all. It wouldn’t be Henry’s doing either, at least not the start of it. I have speculated on this over the years, and I have come to only one conclusion that seems right. My theory as to what the answer is and my attempt to pinpoint the exact place on the timeline are not as precise as I hoped they would be. It was not a single event that gave birth to our ruin, but rather multiple little moments, that are rather large in the big scheme. I also like to believe that Julian had as much of a role in all of this as the rest of us. Perhaps, even a considerably more sizeable one.

Everything that happened—I wish to leave behind. However, I recently came to realise, that, to my misery, it incorporated and formed my very being. My views, my ideas, my tastes, and my activities are all, to a certain extent, if not fully influenced and ruled over by it. I am my past.

My great, futile attempts to escape the life I once had, led me to London, a perfect setting for someone who wished to hide. A bustling place, where I had the chance to not be me, but a mere shadow lurking throughout the crowded streets, observing every passerby, while trying to guess their life stories, deepest desires, and strongest fears. I was no one, and I adored it. However, my presence became known among museum guides and librarians for its consistency. I have also earned a reputation among university students for being one of the few odd professors. This is probably due to the fact that I am very selective with my pupils, and I teach a couple that are quite brilliant in my office. I often have open discussions with them, for I consider it helps them engage with the topic better and understand the meaning and philosophy behind it in such a way that encourages them to analyze, observe, and critique. One such day, we were talking about the loss of self, Plato’s four divine madnesses:

‘Death is the mother of beauty,’ said Felix, one of my students.

I nodded in approval as I propped myself up on the desk.

‘And what is beauty?’ 

‘Terror,’ a voice answered from my office’s door.

My life up until this moment, along with all my darkest memories and the series of events that led me to where I am today, flash before my eyes, and it feels as if the universe has stopped specifically to play along with his sadistic trick. My jaw clenches involuntarily, my eyes threaten to betray my emotions, and I have to remind myself I’m not the same brainless kid chasing empty promises and impossible dreams, fully convinced that every existing land, no matter how vast it may be, is my playground and that fate will bend according to my petulant will. I have to get out of my head, the silence is stretching. My students, probably confused, are expecting some kind of sign from my disordered self. He is waiting for a reaction. The past has finally caught up to me. After all my futile attempts, it still managed to intrude on my present’s doorway. 

I take a deep breath. I look at my students, curiosity mixed with confusion clear in their expressions. I don’t need to look at him to know who he is.

‘I apologize,’ I start hoping that they cannot hear the tremble in my voice as accentuated as I seem to do, ‘class is dismissed.’

I need not say more before my students start gathering their belongings in complete silence so as to not further disturb the room completely filled with palpable animosity and perhaps something more vivid, cursed to lurk in the depths of our minds. I reach blindly toward my pack of cigarettes, lying somewhere on my desk between books and coffee-stained papers. Lucky Strikes, yet another sign of his hold on me. I light my cigarette, breathing in the curls of smoke spiraling down my throat. The sound of his leather shoes clicking against the wooden floorboards reverberates through my beating heart. I am well aware that even now, after years of attempting to escape from the rosary He entangled around my neck, I am still His most loyal devotee, respecting vigilantly every silent command. Deep and numbing smoke inside my lungs, like a relaxant, washes me with warm Indian summer waves of calmness.

He is fixating me with his cold blue eyes, watching for any sign of defiance. Over the years I’ve spent in his presence, I’ve learned to recognize his transitive facial expressions, his secretive ways, and his small habits, whether it is the way he holds a page between his fingers before turning it or his tendency to dive into long monologues about whatever interests him at that moment. It is a distinct ability that has grown its roots along my blood vessels, twisted and intertwined beyond differentiation. Understanding each other used to be our way of showing our affection. It is something so sacred that I cannot bring myself to weaponize against him and betray the bond we once had. You’d think that after so much time I’d be able to break free from the shackles His divinity holds me in and convert to a different faith. But He is nestled so deeply in me, that I cannot help but like the burns and the imprints upon my skin.

Henry Marchbanks Winter looks the same. But he now has a new pair of glasses and slight crow’s feet, along with faint smile lines framing his lips. He’s wearing one of his dark English suits, which have always fit him incredibly well. And if the wrinkles weren’t enough, the few grey hairs peeking from underneath the familiar dark colour of his hair are a brutal reminder of how much of him I missed. A cruel admonitum of the years that have passed and of all the times I wasn’t next to him, not by chance but by choice. It takes all I have in me to not fall to my knees, confess my sin, and beg for forgiveness. As if all the years I’ve been away from him turned into mere days I find myself falling back to my old habits and once again bowing down to his silent command.

Amor dominus terribilis est.

The cigarette burns, forgotten between my fingers, as I get wasted on his scent, for once, unbothered by the consequences.

‘I’ve finally found you, dilectus.’ Beloved.

‘I suppose you have.’ I cannot help but stare at him, hypnotized by the storm in his eyes.

‘I have been searching for you since the day you left.’ He reaches a gentle, steady hand to brush my cheek ‘London of all places-’

As much as I wish to let him hold me again I find myself interrupting him. ‘You have no business here.’ I walk to the open window and take my second drag from the almost fully burned cigarette.

He sighs, frustration slipping through the cracks of his perfection.

‘Like it or not,’ he emanates divine turmoil as he emphasizes every word  ‘you are my business.’

‘After so long we can’t be anything but strangers.’

‘You are wrong.’ He states immediately as I finish the sentence. ‘You cannot act as if you have forgotten everything we’ve been through.’ His hand once again finds its way to my face and caresses it with smooth, slow motions. This time I let him. ‘One more chance is all I ask for.’ He whispered.

‘One more chance.’ I agree, defeated.

[veganbutterchicken]

Traitor — Oct 31st — words: 628 — James’ POV — @wolfstarmicrofic

It’s 9 pm, James feels exhaustion seeping through every muscle in his body after the longest Quidditch practice of his life. He is not prepared to see what he is about to see.

At some point in his encounter, he’s sure he started screaming, although he cannot pinpoint the exact moment his voice stops being anything more than a curt stammer. “You traitor! You told me that you’re shagging with Emmeline.” Once he starts, it's impossible to stop, the revelation bigger than him and Sirius combined. This could mean the definitive end of the Marauders and a beginning of their separate lives — after all, what other thing can happen after you see your two best friends in the world kissing passionately on the bed in the dormitory? Sirius' hands are under Moony’s shirt, roaming and exploring and keeping him just there. Half of their buttons are undone, their hair styled in way more than a rakish way, and James doesn't miss the crimson red blush on Remus' cheeks.

“I did-didn’t mean… I—”

But Sirius doesn’t finish his sentence, interrupted by Moony instead. “You did what?”

James isn’t the best at reading other people, but he knows affliction when he sees it. It’s written in every crevice of Remus' face, from the way his eyebrows curled to the tenseness in his jaw.

He wishes he could hug him right now, but he knows Remus won’t let him. He never lets anyone get close to him — anyone who isn't Sirius.

“Let me explain,” Sirius pleads, sounding almost at the verge of tears.

Remus doesn’t relent, the hurt frozen deep inside him. “Get out. Get the fuck out of here!”

*

Remus' life was nebulous from the very start, after his mother had died shortly after his birth and then he got bit at the age of 5. James sometimes catches himself thinking that maybe, just maybe there is a tinge of possibility that Sirius can be the unbidden source of good for him, lifting him up and grounding him in reality.

Not anymore, it seems. James has no idea what Padfoot can do to make Moony look at him, let alone say a word to him.

“Don’t worry about him, Remus,” he says, the only thing he can offer. It’s way after midnight, the night sky starless despite the utter lack of clouds. James has another Quidditch in less than six hours from now, but he stopped caring a long time ago — Remus had suggested that they go on a walk and he couldn’t say no to him, not after what happened today.

Remus didn’t let him touch him, not even once, but James still has the need to put a steadying hand on his shoulder, pull him closer and whisper to him that it will be okay. This is what always works for Sirius, after all.

He doesn’t do any of those things. “We could skip the Halloween party tomorrow and get drunk in the dormitory instead. Just the two of us,” he offers instead.

Remus waves a hand. “Don’t worry about me. I know how much you want to impress Lily with your dance moves,” he says, and it’s the first time he chuckles. It’s certainly something, even if it’s a sad and spiritless sound. “Besides, I think I know who I’m going to dress up as.”

Now that makes James curious. Moony never wanted to dress up as anything on Halloween; in fact, they always had to drag him there. “Who?” he asks.

Remus smirks. “As Emmeline. I think she’ll love my idea when she hears what Sirius has been doing. I’ll dress up as her and she’ll dress up as me.”

“Oh, Moony,” James says with his head cocked. “I so badly want to see Pads’ reaction."

[delta-pavonis]

Dreaming Week 2024 Day 3

Dreamling Week 2024 Day 3 Prompts (from @mr-sadman): solarpunk, painting, meet cute, massage

Dreamling || Rated T || 1093 words

tags (other than the prompts above): fantasy, urban fantasy, solarpunk, drow druid/sorcerer Dream, half wood elf bard/gunsmith Hob, investigator partners with a history, they get captured and held for days as torture, passing mention of biological consequences of being tied to chairs for days on end, confessions

Read Part 1 here. Part 2 here.

(In chronological order, Part 2 comes before Part 1 and this comes after Part 1. Mentions events of Part 1 and events discussed in Part 2.)

“When we get out of this the first thing I am doing is getting a three hour massage, bloody fuck these chains are tight.” Dream tries to twist his wrist to get some wiggle room and can't even manage that; all the movement does is jostle their chairs. His partner whines. “You alright there, Hob?”

They are chained to a pair of chairs, back to back, with heavy steel links. The chains aren't spelled, but they don't need to be when they are this tight: there is no way Dream will pull off even the smallest somatic component restrained like this and Hob certainly can’t play an instrument or draw a gun. Even worse, the room is unnaturally dark.

Dream hadn’t realized how used he had gotten to the sunlight and the greenery of the surfacelands until they were taken from him. For a moment he takes comfort in thoughts of twirling tree branches forming the beams of great towers, arched windows carefully grown in between, columns of elevators going so high they meet the top of the building in the clouds. He thinks of winding streets made of sandstone and brass and overflowing with greenery, the whirring music of solar panels as they track the sunlight along with their flower-kin. 

The thought of the movement of the sun reminds Dream that time has been passing, that they have been in here long enough that he is starting to have trouble tracking time–the only clock he has to go by is his heartbeat and that is only reliable for so long. Hunger has long since passed into a dull ache, which tells him it must be more than a couple days. Both of them have vacated all the remaining volume of foodstuffs left in their digestive tracts, removing another marker of time. 

They have not seen another soul since they awoke here. There is a dim illumination that comes from… somewhere, but Dream cannot pinpoint it. It is only enough to see his own knees by, make out the faintest outline of the large stone blocks of the ceiling that is a mere few feet above their heads. It is not enough for Hob to see anything, dull as his half-human senses are. 

Cruelly enough, water drips from the seams in the stone structure in a few places, landing on the top of their heads, on Hob’s shoulder and chest, on Dream’s cheek. It is the bare minimum to keep them alive and Dream suspects that is very much on purpose.

Dream leans his head back with a sigh and it presses against Hob's. 

“You ever wonder what would have happened if we met under different circumstances?” Hob's speech is slurred enough that it makes Dream reconsider if those arrows they got hit with were a poison targeted for those of the surface. It adds a new layer to the puzzle of who has captured them. “Like, if I wasn't working that night in the tavern, wasn't being the biggest distraction possible?” He is silent for a beat. “I would've asked to join you at your table. Start back up properly, like old friends might. But we’re not friends, are we?” His chuckle is hollow. “No, most definitely not. Perhaps I would’ve tried to woo you with song… paint you a picture with music. Gods, you were so beautiful. Are. So beautiful.”

“Hob…” He doesn't sound like himself, can't possibly be meaning to say any of this. 

“Do you have any idea how badly I want you? Fuck, like all the time. From the very first moment I saw you, when you walked into the Guildhall while I was trying to convince them to hire me. I can even still hear the swissh-click of your airwalker boots on the wooden floor.” Dream can hear him swallow. “It never goes away, you know? This yearning for you. It lives inside me now.”

He closes his eyes and tries to ignore it. Hob cannot be meaning to say this right now and Dream certainly does not want to hear it without Hob’s consent; he is relieved when they lapse into silence once again. 

But it doesn't last.

“If you get a chance to escape, you have to promise me to take it, even if you can't get me out.” Hob’s voice is a threadbare whisper.

No. They can't talk like this. He won't have it. “Hob, you’re-”

“I am not delirious and I am not talking nonsense!” He is panting now and Dream swears he can hear Hob's racing heartbeat. It is another piece of evidence that he is not himself. “Promise me, Dream. Promise me you will save yourself if you have the chance, even at my expense.”

“No.” Absolutely not. Dream's answer is immediate and brooks no argument; he won't even consider it. The idea is anathema, like teaching the Druidic language outside of a Circle or attempting to unbalance Nature itself. “I will not leave without you.” 

Hob’s breath rate is increasing, pushing into hyperventilating, and his voice is unsteady as a newborn foal’s legs. He sounds almost on the verge of tears and it makes something in Dream’s heart crack. “Please, Dream! I need you to promise me.”

He grits his teeth hard enough to make them squeak. “I will make no such vow.” Dream growls. It is harsh, he knows, but he will also not lie to Hob. Not after everything they’ve been through. 

They never got a chance to talk about it, what lay implied between them from their adventure with that soul-swapping curse. Not properly. Not before this case, which pretty much immediately went tits up. Fuck, they should have spoken about it. 

Dream adds this to his long ledger of regrets.

When Hob speaks again the words are clearly forced through a rising tide of panic. “I need to know you’ll be safe, that y-” 

“Breathe Hob. We don’t need to plan-”

“Promise me!” he sobs. “I need to know you wi-”

That something in Dream breaks.

“I will not leave without my Mate!”

For a moment the only sound in the small room is Hob’s panting, then Dream lets his head fall back; this time it lands on Hob’s shoulder with a dull whump.

“You were right. What you felt during the curse.” Dream closes his eyes. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you. I just… we were… we’ve been…”

Hob turns his head, twists his shoulders, as much as possible, until his nose nudges the point of Dream’s ear. “Stupid. We’ve been truly. Amazingly. Stupid.”

[kradogsrats]

If Soren seems to have gotten sick when he was a toddler, do you think Lissa left shortly after Claudia was born…? Maybe that doesn’t quite line up, actually…

Okay so I saw someone ask Aaron Ehasz a similar question about the timeline of Soren's illness re: Viren's dream vs. the events presented in Puzzle House, and I cannot remember where it was but his response was something like "hm... well you should probably believe the show."

Which immediately made me go "oh my god was Soren actually dead for like three to five years and Kpp'Ar was looking for a unicorn horn to resurrect him in a manner similar to the Star magic spell that 'restores bodies to separated spirits' and then instead Viren stole Ziard's staff from him and used that??????" which is a) insane, and b) has several reasons it probably isn't the case. But it's a thought I had.

Anyway, let's look at our contrasting sources:

Puzzle House

Puzzle House establishes the following sequence of events:

Soren is ill to the point of dying

Kpp'Ar disappears

Soren gets better

Lissa leaves

It's also implied that this was all pretty recent, between King Atticus's concern for Viren and Soren's for Claudia:

So, how old are all these extremely precocious young children in Puzzle House?

Well, Sarai is... quite pregnant. She's got a pretty small frame, but I'd still put her at like 30 weeks, minimum. Ezran is pinned at 10 in the official character lineup. (In s4 he says he was "nine years old" when Harrow was killed. Given his March birthday, he is probably fudging that a bit since s1 starts mid-May so he was pretty recently 10 at the time.) Viren also puts Harrow's coronation and Sarai's death at nine years earlier, at which point I would estimate Ezran at roughly 6-8 months, given how he is portrayed.

Also given the mid-May start to s1, we also have Claudia at almost 17, and Soren at about 18 and a half. Soren is about 18 months older than Claudia. So between all of that, we can probably ballpark Puzzle House at about one year before Harrow's coronation. This puts Soren at about 8 and a half, and Claudia at almost 7. (And Callum at about to turn 5, if anyone's keeping track.)

Given the way it's spoken about, I would not put Soren's recovery at earlier than 6 months prior, and probably more like 3 or so. This roughly lines up with the estimates I had for everything before, so idk go me or whatever.

Strangers

We do also have a third source for details on Soren's illness, which is the Strangers short from Reflections. This establishes that Soren was old enough to remember details about that time:

If Soren was the age he appears in Viren's dream, then a) he probably wouldn't remember any of it, and b) Claudia would have been an infant. Now, an infant can definitely cry in their room until morning, but I do think the implication here is supposed to be that she was old enough to understand what was happening and have emotions about it.

Additionally, Soren thinks of the slow breaths practice as something he did therapeutically for a long time:

Basically, I think it's pretty clear between this and the info in Puzzle House that the Puzzle House timeline is accurate, but Soren initially developed what was actually a chronic illness much earlier.

Viren's Dream

Now, what about Viren's dream?

It's incredibly difficult to pinpoint ages of children in animation purely visually, so I'm mostly basing an estimate of 2-3 years old for Soren during Viren's dream off of his demonstrated stage of linguistic development and the fact that he's able to run. He could be delayed in one or both areas, though.

Viren dreams of Soren turning to stone, similar to how Thunder did (and how Viren does in the opening). This is interesting in that the implication is certainly death, but it also has heavy ties to dark magic and the other themes of Viren's dreaming, which I would say put it as more related to something along the lines of a "sealed fate" rather than literal death. Dreaming Viren knows what he didn't know when Soren was that age, and probably developed his first recognizable symptoms—that this illness would come close to killing him, and Viren would give up everything to save him.

There's also a possible implication there that dark magic was actually what caused Soren's illness in the first place, which could be something interesting to explore. (And I've definitely seen people explore it, before.)

Anyway, like most of Viren's dream, it's accurate but not literal.

TL;DR: Dreams are fucking weird, and Claudia was still probably between six and seven years old when Lissa left the family.

[fukashiin]

i saw your tags on the ace drabble i wrote and OH MY GOD, i actually think I'm going insane and i need your thoughts on deuce and how he feels abt yuu

YES OMG IM SO GLAD YOU LIKED THE TAGS I WAS SPASMING OUUT IN MY BED THE WHOLE TIME WHILEI WAS WRITING THOSE. AND OHMYGPD OFC DEUYUU????? DEUYUU MY BELOVED IM SO CRAZY ABOUT THEM TOO WHERE DO I EVEN START

think about how deuce's ambition to turn over a new leaf before joining nrc was just a wispy little torch, prone to going out at literally any time because of how much he doubted himself and his abilities to prove himself to the world . He's shown some moments of fiery determination—but a man is not without his insecurities right???

and then you stumble into his life without any regard for the future. Like Yeah you may just be some uninteresting tumbleweed passing by to others at first (and maybe even to Him) , but GOD when you told both him and ace off to cut it out with their quarrelling??? When the flame in your eyes to face off against the blot monster burns brighter than a million suns goes unwavered???? Which contrasts the gentle, heartfelt smile you got on your face when your opponent has been finally laid to pieces???/ Holy Shit

i cannot exactly pinpoint where Deuce would start falling for yuu for the life of me but he's got it so achingly bad. you're such an important and precious figure in his life, you've showed him how to be him without acting so rigid 24/7, and you've showed him that there's so much more to a person than their gnarly Past. he feels like he can be normal around you without having to constantly prove a point, and your steady belief in him and his goals has him Running Laps in a frenzy (like literally). He treasures you—this befallen gift from another world that states upfront that brooding over the past is gonna get him nowhere, and promising that you'll both work on your ways to become the best versions of yourselves together. And he feels like he doesn't deserve you because youre wayy too out of his League.

AND THEN ofcourse we cant forget like literally the rest of the School population. or if we're being more specific - ace. He's gifted, uncannily talented, and is somewhat less of a trouble to the teachers when it comes to academics. and Oh!!! Hes one of your closest friends as well (and to Deuce's unquiet distress, possibly even the Closer One)!!! he attracts attention effortlessly and is a fast learner, both of which can be sore spots for deuce if mentioned. and he's thinking. thinking so heavily about what that could possibly entail-

but he won't let ace steal his thunder.

Because he's going to work and commit his time towards the things he loves

and one of those things is You.

youre everything he's ever aspired to be, and he'll waste every drop of blood, sweat, and tears if it means that he'll get a moment's long glimpse of that pretty smile you flash so shamelessly whenever something wonderful happens to you—no matter how weakened his body may get—

because the rings down the street certainly aren't cheap.

[cloutchaserkineme]

Hi! I hope you are doing great. Can you please do a detailed reading about Charles Leclerc future spouse? Who is she? Her character, job, look etc. How they going to meet and their first impressions about each other? What charles' friends (especially close ones) and his family (especially his brothers and mother) will think about her? How they will confess their feelings to each other? What are fans and society going to think about their relationship? Will the relationship be successful? Thank you :)

Hello to you too! As much as I appreciate this ask, I have to say that I'm not that well-versed in astrology. I don't think anyone is, to be fair, because in order to predict/divine it to be as exact as to pinpoint a bit of shell as a particle of sand on a beach, one would have to study and be immersed in so many esoteric texts, to put it into practice as well as continue having life experiences, that they would be beyond caring to use their advanced astrology knowledge to see what would happen in a random person's life, simply because they're several PhD's worth of jargon deep into the tradition they are practicing and researching.

As much fun as I have making my silly little posts about F1 racers and being delighted at the outcomes of every race depending on who is affected by the transits that day, free will still exists! The stars guide, they do not decide. At least, I am one of those astrologers/astrology enthusiasts who believe it that way. It does not matter what I interpret about these people's charts, because seeing what they actually do trumps me guessing what they're about to do every time.

People smarter and wiser than me have debated, dissected, sauteed, and deglazed the ethics of reading someone's chart that deeply without their knowledge or consent as well. I only do the ship/partner/teammate ones because 1) they're all somewhat public figures with somewhat public facing lives; 2) I cannot add to the spread of misinformation and cause harm to these real people on my end, because being a random blogger with few followers on a weird, hard-to-navigate website that has the third-party search off removes most of the authority or gravity that I have with my words. I am basically surrounded with neon-lit signs that point to me and say "UNRELIABLE DO NOT TRUST". The only way I can make this blog- which doubles as my online diary too, btw- more private is if I password-locked it like the LiveJournal girlies did in the old days. Unfortunately, I can't do that on this one because I find typing another password on this particular website tedious.

Now, lengthy disclaimer aside, the astrology knowledge I do have I can cobble together to piece what Charles' type could be- but again, his real mileage might vary. There is probably another grown man out there in the world who was born in Monaco the same day, hour, and minute that Charles was and they're most likely not an F1 driver with the same life experiences. They could share charts but not lives, and certainly not tastes.

When we look at romance/crush on a man's chart, typically we look at Venus- but it's not as simple as delineating that planet and calling it a day.

To look at someone's type, or best possible spouse (which some astrology practices still do to careful detail to this day), we look at the conditions of Venus or Jupiter, we look at connections to their personal planets, and we look to the 5H, 7H, and 9H.

Assuming that Charles Leclerc the F1 driver is Kinsey-zero straight, we can use Venus in Sagittarius 2H as indicator of spouse/partner/girlfriend/whathaveyou, ruled by Jupiter in Aquarius in the 4H. This Venus is conjunct his chart ruler, and makes harmonious aspects to the rest of the traditional planets on his chart.

Venus in Sag = This could represent his spouse, as Venus is traditionally a woman in a man's chart, but if you subscribe to the same way they view women in the ancient times we'll never get anywhere in a conversation now. Venus in one's own chart represents how one connects with others- and the most complex and advanced form of interpersonal connection is typically consummated in a union or civil contract, whether it be through sex or marriage or business deals or peace agreements or childhood swears of being best friends forever on a childhood playground.

Sagittarius is a sign traditionally ruled by Jupiter. Zeus. That guy. It is loud, proud, soul-searching, fun, and incredibly wise if a bit wonky with it. Sagittarius can be seen both through that nerdy, activist professor of yours who shares the most outrageous but poignant life stories during class and inspires you to learn, as it does the wild and cannot-be-tied-down crusader whose life is dedicated to the road and the wind in his hair.

This particular Venus has to be fierce and able to fight and/or fend for herself, or at least open to new experiences with just a little bit of fire for life, because this is conjunct the ruler of Charles' chart. Whatever the public perception of Libra is, they will always look to the other person, whether that is the enemy or the partner or the best friend- Libras do not have the luxury of identifying as a "self", at least not without something to bounce off of. The fact that Charles' Venus is conjunct the planet that represents himself best in his chart, means doubly that whatever the public thinks of him, they also need to think the same of his girlfriend in order for the union to be seen as socially acceptable.

Hence, Charles having beautiful girlfriends. The more beautiful the girlfriend, the more they will forgive him the sin of being taken (and her, the sin of being!)- it adds to his fairytale syndrome, a bit. "It is okay for the Prince to be taken if he has a Princess" type of thing. Never forget, as a public figure in one of the most financially-driven sports* in the world, that Charles is a marketable commodity too. He could be so much more useful to the FIA and Ferrari if he was single and they could make a business out of that, but he isn't, and therefore his girlfriend also needs to be marketable and goes with the brand. This is also owing to the fact that Venus is the Lord of his 7H of partners/open enemies/contracts. As much as the halo effect works for him, the other person also needs to have the halo effect work for them. It's just non-negotiable.

Charles has 5H in Pisces, ruled by Jupiter in Aquarius in the 4H = He would likely be attracted to someone he shared a history with, like someone from his hometown, or someone he knew from childhood, or shared ancestry etc. They have to be incredibly sociable and open-minded, and like Charles they could also bond about feeling like outcasts or temporary people in their share past/history/hometown. Nostalgia, as well as learning from the past, is another important thing for him.

Charles has 7H in Taurus, ruled by the above-mentioned Venus in the 2H = Must be beautiful, must match him (and his freak, if you take the natal Venus-Mars connection literally), and must be equally invested in keeping things comfortable and pleasant- which could mean a lot of things. "Comfortable" and "pleasant" could mean differently for a rich, famous, white, heterosexual, and able-bodied man who has been adored and supported in his endeavors all his life. The demand for that needs to be high too.

He has Cancer in the 9H, ruled by Moon in Aries conjunct fallen Saturn in the 6H = The partner needs to be as devoted to her own goals in life as he is to his work, even if that goal changes, the devotion and passion must not sway. He cannot understand someone who is wishy washy about which goals they have in life, but he cannot stand a half-assed attempt at anything. The ruler of the house of God in his chart is found in the house of service and daily routine; Charles is religious to his work, in a way, he has rituals and devotions and yes, personal sacrifices, in order to be racing. Also- he moves around a lot (Lunar influence in the house of long-distance travel means frequent trips) so that is a make or break factor for him. The 9H is the house of purpose in life- if this and his future spouse 9H is in conflict, the relationship will... probably not be total trash, but it wouldn't be as fulfilling otherwise, for a "couple" kind of view. Two people who decide to be each other but never known as a "unit" can probably live with clashing 9H, especially since if one or the other travels a lot for work. But still.

Anyway this is all it. Other people could come and affect different parts and places in Charles' natal chart and it would still be up to him to react to it. Alexandra Saint Mleux, his current girlfriend, for example, has her natal Venus in Charles' 7H, her Mars conjunct his Venus (and Mars) which is usually good to see for romantic partnerships, her Gemini stellium (and possible Aquarius moon) trine and sextile his heavy Fire-and-Air placements. She is a very good girlfriend and partner to him on paper- but whatever they have going on between them is their business, and will be so much more better than interpretations, because it is a lived experience.

*I will keep repeating it, F1 The Event is a Venusian sport because the races don't earn the companies any money by making new carbon-fiber shells each year that get destroyed every other race weekend. Automobile racing might have started as a friendly competition, but ever since the first Formula One race in Silverstone, with the monarchy present and people from all over the world watching, F1 is basically a big marketing event that also doubles as a high-speed, high-risk science experiment. The cost for it all breaks even, except for the FIA, whose financial reports I still have to actually research on because those fines are in fact excessive, but these racers earn more than that anyway.

[carissimipaixao]

— RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

published on: june 27, 2023 pairing: miguel o'hara & reader word count: 700+ note: so, i watched the across the spiderverse movie recently and... i think you know the rest. tags: @mylovelyreblogs

Dreams haunt you at night.

It's weird because, truly, you never cared about them. You always forgot them by the time you woke up, your guardians say. It's never real, they reassure you. You cannot dream of something you have never seen before.

Those words allowed you to grow out of your curiosity, pushing it aside — for that everything is temporary and utterly pointless. Dreams became foggy reminders of the creative and mysterious ways of the mind manifesting its wishes, fears and everything, all at once, until it all became irrelevant.

Indeed, you never remembered them once you realized how insignificant dreaming is to your living experience. You discarded them by the moment your eyes opened to the blinding lights around you.

Yet, here you are.

Haunted.

It is hard to pinpoint the exact moment they began. Perhaps, much like a little spider, they slowly crawled their way back to you, when you least expected it, when you were the most vulnerable. It began with little flashes as you woke up, recalling what had transpired in your mind. Then, thoughtful moments as you tried to process it, tried to understand whatever was going on with you.

How can it be possible for someone like you to feel—

They aren’t real.

Yet, whenever you close your eyes, they are. Everything blooms to life. Everything is so real behind your closed eyelids, in your head, that you become unsure if your living reality is the false reality, if your dreaming reality is truly this magical. You come to life, like a real human being.

There is a child in your dreams. You don't know her name, but it is when you close your eyes into that deep slumber that you do and you know her dreams, her hopes and all that goes behind those childish eyes, filled with innocence. They are so beautiful, and it reminds you of the wonders of humanity, of what it is to be human and to be young and to be free.

You want to be free — a particular wish you have never had, a dream you have never cared about that now follows you back to your reality, now outside the dreaming reality that continues to chase you. It is poison.

Even so, you want it.

You have been convinced that you need no one besides your guardians, and, perhaps, with reason. They have created you — this version of you, stripped of everything but your memories, your now twisted consciousness. They are the only ones who can guarantee your safety and survival. If something were to happen to you, you would be gone forever. No trace to be found, for that they had already been erased off the face of the very Earth you walked.

Yet, there is a man in your dreams. He is often with the same girl that calls you by your name and grabs your hand — gripping the flesh in your hand — as she speaks happily about what she has done at school and how much she loves to play some iteration of American football with her father. Just like her, you don’t know this man and you certainly don’t recognize him from anywhere.

Your mind deceives you. It tells you that this man is familiar to you, it tells you to lend him your trust. Indeed, in these dreams, he reminds you of the warmth that you once knew, back when you were normal, before everything changed. Perhaps, because you feel so incredibly different and real in these dreams, it makes you believe that you can trust him, that you are as human as he is. You are an outsider to the family in your dreams — that much you know — but he treats you like you are a part of it all.

Why don’t you stay? His whisper reminds you that all is temporary and everything is purely constructed by the power of your mind. It is intriguing, to say the least, that those words seem to ground you, allowing you to remain in this confusing reality for a little longer before you are abruptly awakened.

You have had enough.

You want to disable the feature. You have stopped being human a long time ago, and you cannot understand the futile attempt, nor the reasons behind all of this. You will never be alive like you are in your dreams, and that is a dream that is completely impossible to achieve — even for scientists as smart and as incredible as your guardians.

You aren’t their daughter anymore.

You aren’t you anymore.

If you cannot be human as you are in your sleep, then you will be free. At the very least, that is what you want.

[greenteaandtattoos]

I feel like.... we've had a bit of a switch-a-roo with Imogen and Laudna.

I love their relationship, I do, but there's something to be said about Laudna being so protective of and needing Imogen so severely that she assumes that Ashton, one of her closest friends, would kidnap her.

I think what needs to be said is that Laudna is, understandably, extremely attached to Imogen after all that's happened, but I feel that it's crossed into something that they need to talk about.

Because it's not something healthy. It's codependency. And maybe that tropes does it for some people, but it's not for me. And I hope that it's a plot line, because this paranoia of not being by Imogen's side as much as possible, of not knowing where Imogen is even for a moment, could end up as something worse.

This time she only accused Ashton. What about next time? Will this become a constant fear, that she cannot even trust her own friends, who fought tooth and nail, to bring her back? Will she take action next time something like this happens?

It has to be addressed. And it is a great parallel to Imogen struggling to resist Ruidus' call; but the reason I called it a switch-a-roo is because Imogen used to be, again, understandably, the codependent one.

Think back to the beginning of the campaign; hell, even 30 episodes ago. Imogen's past caused her to latch onto Laudna for comfort and safety and Laudna was her confidence.

Laudna wasn't just weird like her, she was also ostracized and abused for it, too. And they saved each other. They are each other's savior, salvation, home, and tether. Weirdos stick together, after all. That's why Bell's Hells became their home, too.

And I think we can pinpoint this shift down to their separation after the Apogee Solstice and Ludinus' ritual. While their separation after Bell's Hells got thrown to different sides of the world really helped Imogen become more independent, more confident, the reverse happened with Laudna.

And you know, I can see why! Anyone could could, really. Their experiences were vastly different; one was more positive than the other, and it changed them accordingly. Changed them all.

And now, while Imogen becams more independent during the separation, she also hit home that dealing with her Ruidus issues by herself was detrimental to everyone. She was helped by the others, helped to not just resist by to control it, even when they were wary of her (FCG) or was prepared to kill her if she gave in (Fearne).

But Laudna? She didn't get that lesson, that help. She got beaten down and battered until she didn't just tap into the powers she had spent so long resisting; she was encouraged to by the people who previously helped her fight against it.

Of course, Delilah's influence most certainly does not help; in fact, I could pretty confidently say that Delilah is contributing to Laudna's paranoia.

While Imogen successfully summoned the Reilora, confident that she was backed by the others, Laudna tried to contact Delilah alone, deliberately stepping away from the others.

And this is probably because she wants to protect them! She doesn't want them tangled in that mess again; but she needs Delilah, or rather, she needs Delilah's power and confidence, and she's confident that she could handle her on her own. After all, things have been going great since Bell's Hells reunited, more or less.

Laudna and Imogen admitted their feelings for each other and kissed; they saved Keyleth, they saved a bunch of Keyleth's people; they got time to relax and have fun, even just for one day after what seems like endless panic and struggle up until then. And until they must return to the fight and confront the inevitable before them.

But Delilah's response to Laudna's summons, it was when Imogen had returned to the others, leaving Laudna to herself. It was after they had contemplated Laudna perhaps speaking to the Moonweaver (Big moon, little moon). And it was possessive.

And I think this is a beautiful plot line for them to explore. While I don't like the codependency trope, I do enjoy when couples suddenly realize that their relationship has cracked, that things aren't as perfect as they thought, and they need to fix it - or else.

[iguessitsjustme]

Love Sea Ep 10 Thoughts

We have finally made it to the end of the show. I still have not watched episode 8 and I doubt I ever will. From what I have heard, the show and the story actually makes more sense to me than it does to people who have seen episode 8. That’s crazy. Anyway, I just made lunch and I got my juice so it’s time to watch. As always, here’s the disclaimer that I pretty harshly critique this show. If you think that will make you angry, don’t click the read more. Disclaimer done, let’s goooo:

Okay before I even start, how the hell do I have zits on the back of my neck. Where did these bad boys come from? One is right on my hairline. Hello? Go away.

Okay okay okay. I am going to go into this with an open mind actually. I am too tired and exhausted and sick to not at least try to enjoy this show. Also I was way too verbose for episode 9 and all of my thoughts were actually too long for tumblr. I ran out of characters. So gonna have to try to reign that in a bit today.

I beg your finest pardon but why the fuck is this episode one hour and twenty minutes long? Yeah this post is probably gonna end up too long too. Maybe I’ll just do two parts if needed. (it did not end up too long yay!)

Not gonna lie to you guys. I do love back hugs like this. As many problems as I have with this show and these characters…this? This is cute. See? I’m not always bitter! Just..most of the time.

Why mention the video clips that Rak’s dad apparently has just to say “oh it’s been taken care of. It’s not a problem.” That’s not how stories work. If you introduce a potential problem, you gotta let it be a problem or let the characters work to resolve it before it becomes a problem. Not just say “yep here’s a thing that should have been a main conflict but don’t worry. A character that only exists off screen and has only really had any sort of role for the past 2 episodes took care of it already!” Like…what?

Every day I am forced to be overstimulated by the nature of living in a city. Why do I live here I ask myself constantly? The answer is always because I can walk everywhere I need to go including to work and also because I love it. Just not…the idling trucks. The big engines. There is nowhere for the sound to go because it’s trapped by all of the tall buildings and I am on the bottom floor literally on the street. I walk out my apartment and boom. One of the busiest roads in my city. Anyway I digress. I have been overstimulated since June. The fall cannot get here fast enough.

You know I never fully understood how or when Mut fell in love with Rak. I still don’t know. I mean he was flirty on the island and they fucked but when did Mut actually fall so hard? I cannot pinpoint when his lust turned to love. It must have been a specific moment because it certainly wasn’t a slow build into love. Nope. One day Mut loves his island more than anything in the world and then he leaves it for Rak. Without a second thought. I just would like to understand when that happened. Sure, he liked Rak, but to love someone enough to give up your home? And I know he’s about to dip and go back home (without telling Rak) but I cannot figure out why he left in the first place. I know the answer is because he loves Rak but I did not see that until he actually fucking left the island. I did not see that until episode 6 when he finally maybe started respecting the barest minimum of boundaries.

Oh how this show looooooves its flashbacks. At least this one kind of makes sense. Though I wish it trusted its audience enough to know what Mut is calling back to.

Ew Vi. Mook run away girl. You deserve better.

Noisy neighbors go AWAY.

*eats my veggies* *considers blasting kpop*

*blasts Stray Kids* Congrats. Since you want to involve me in your conversation right outside my door, I get to involve you in my music taste. Just be lucky this isn’t an nc scene in Love Sea cause I’d blast that too. Make everyone uncomfortable.

Rak does not need Mut’s love to become a better person. Rak does not need love to be a better person. People are allowed to not want love for any reason. No one gets to make judgment calls on them for not wanting it. Full stop.

Surely the next words you’re gonna say are “Respect his boundaries and let him come to you when he’s ready, right? …RIGHT?

God damn it Mut.

Is Rak a dog that Mut is leaving behind? Why is he giving instructions on how to care for Rak? Rak is a grown ass adult and was fine before Mut entered his life. Like what the fuck is this?

Mut goes and says goodbye to everyone but Rak? What is with this farewell tour? Just fucking tell Rak that you respect his decision, but you can’t live like that anymore so you have to go. Don’t just…disappear from him while seeking out everyone else? What in the immaturity…

I am a bad person for laughing at Mut’s tears. But c’mon. This is just…too much. Just talk to him man. Just talk to him without trying to force your feelings on him or make him share what he’s feeling. My god. The DRAMA.

???? Boy you got a tattoo on your neck to remind you of him??? Which is it????

MAME really thought she did something with this drama. She really thought some message is landing here. It’s not. I’m bored. Just let them get together again so this can be over with my god.

A flashback to when Mut literally broke into Rak’s room…wait those aren’t the right words. He didn’t need to break in because HE HAD THE KEY when he should NOT have had the key.

Why the fuck did that get a romanticized flashback? Invading someone’s privacy is not romantic y’all what the fuck.

Well. That was a show. That I watched. Honestly, out of all of MAME’s offerings it was simultaneously the best and the worst. There was no sexual assault (that I am aware of, again I skipped episode 8). So that’s a plus. It is, however, the laziest writing I have seen from a BL in a long time. Is it a good show? No. Is it a good BL? No. Is it a good MAME show? Eh. Depends on the metrics. The story had structural issues as well as pacing issues. The cinematography needed work and that’s not something I am typically capable of noticing. The sound mixing was some of the worst I’ve heard in a BL. At least lately. The acting was fine. Actually, can someone give these actors some better roles for the love of god???? All of this to say. I am glad ViMook isn’t officially canon and I hope that Mook is able to get away from Vi cause that girl is awful. The end.

[1hellofacookie]

this has nothing to do with my art but bare with me

[ This is a ramble about my mental health and how much better it has recently gotten. ]

so, I think I've finally made it through my depression? Like. The past two months were the the happiest of my life, I've never felt better. And it made me realise a lot of things.

What makes me think that I've put my depression behind me is the fact that I'm no longer seeing the world filtered though that cloud of... sad. The cloud of sad that while you're depressed you don't even know doesn't exist for others. At least that's what's the case for me. I thought everyone is able to feel this shit and others just feel a little less shit.

While talking to my friend about this I came up with an analogy; it feels like you've been wearing a backpack all your life thats filled to the brim with the heaviest of rocks and you go about life believing that others just have less rocks in their backpacks and your challenge is to find a way to carry it better or get rid of some rocks. Only for you to find out that the others don't even carry a backpack at all.

I'm only 18 and I've been struggling with depression for the past few years. I can't pinpoint since when exactly, but I just know that it's incredibly hard to remember a time without it. Which makes sense, I barely remember anything about my childhood, especially not my feelings, and my teenage years were consumed by the big sad. So I have absolutely no frame of reference what life without that numbness feels like.

Meaning, everything I experience right now is so new. I did not know life could feel like this. It makes sense now that people say all those clichés to people who struggle with depression. They can't imagine what it's like. It's not the same scale you're on.

I finally get to hope. I wake up and am excited for the day, I experience bad things and get to just shrug them off, knowing that it'll get better. Things will happen in my future and I'm not happy about them but I get to go "huh yeah that will suck. It'll be fine tho. Let's see how I get through that" , and my brain thinks that automatically.

I was so weirded out when I caught myself thinking that way. It's entirely unfamiliar to me.

I get to be so. damn. happy. I'm so new to all of this. I've never felt this way before.

I get to experience negative emotions entirely different as well. They don't hit nearly the same way they did before. It's not that they don't cut deep, it's not that I don't feel them because I certainly do. But they feel different. Easier to touch, easier to handle, not as devastating, as crushing. I'm looking at everything from a very different perspective.

Looking at everything like this it makes so much sense that people, like, live. Of course you get up every day because yes, it's so worth it. I see that now too. I'm so sorry that I didn't before.

My final year of school has just started and I've been so scared of everything that comes with it the past few years. But I feel ready to take on the challenge, and it's a feeling I cannot even describe. I cannot yet grasp that I'm even feeling that. But I'm so grateful that I get to experience it. All of this.

Everything still feels a little like I've been thrown into cold water every now and then because of the novelty, because for the first time I actually get to be human, get to live. And that right when life is supposed to start with all the other new firsts. I do mourn the fact that I didn't get to live all my life like this a little but I also find a surprising amount of compassion within myself for past little me.

I still haven't found the words to describe all this properly but that won't stop me from trying, so prepare for maybe a couple more posts like this one (though hopefully not that long).

I really, really hope that the big sad does actually leave me alone for now. It's not entirely gone, it's still flaring up every now and then, but not nearly as severely as before, and I'm more than fine if it stays this way.

This post got so much longer than I expected it to, I am so sorry. But there were some anons a long time ago (I think is actually been two years already) that told me they wish for a time where I'm not hurting anymore. And if they're still here and following me, I just want them to know that that time's here now. I've stopped hurting. I'm finally healing, properly.

If you did actually read the whole post, thank you, I love you <3

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Years - TSH

The past haunts me. It has been years—so many I cannot begin to count, and if I’m being completely honest, I was not counting to begin with. Everything I have done was to escape that wretched part of my life in which my naivety and perhaps self-consuming passion, managed to control me. I wanted—want—to forget it all. 

The first time I stepped foot into what would soon come to be one of the few select places in my nightmares was very awe-inducing. The university was large, larger than I’d imagined. The stone walls had arched indents that made it look as if it belonged in one of the novels I read as a teenager and that my family wholeheartedly despised. The hallways were a contorted maze of watchful ancient statues following every movement with their eyes, priceless antiques donated by rich parents and students with more money in their pockets than I could ever dream of having. A multitude of departments found their home in that twisted place, such as theater, arts, modern literature, architecture, history, music, philosophy, and many more. I believe you can imagine my excitement when faced with the exact kind of university I dreamed of studying at, especially when I had little to no hope of ever getting anywhere close to it, much less belonging. 

One thing, as you know, led to another, and I ended up as one of the infamous Greek pupils. I’m quite sure everyone thought we were some kind of cult, which, if you think about it, isn’t entirely wrong.

The first few years were everything I had ever hoped for. I felt that I had found my place and, most certainly, my kind. We used to do everything together. Being with them was the only time I truly felt alive. Doesn’t matter whether we went to the comforting country house engulfed in trees safely from the outside world, had delicious dinners debating the most obscure topics, or simply studied in the library, sleep-deprived and on immense amounts of caffeine and nicotine, I always felt as if I was doing something more than just existing.

Where did it all go wrong? I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I do not want to categorize Richard’s arrival as the initiator factor, for it was not his fault. Nor is it correct to say that the Bacchanal was the beginning of it all. It wouldn’t be Henry’s doing either, at least not the start of it. I have speculated on this over the years, and I have come to only one conclusion that seems right. My theory as to what the answer is and my attempt to pinpoint the exact place on the timeline are not as precise as I hoped they would be. It was not a single event that gave birth to our ruin, but rather multiple little moments, that are rather large in the big scheme. I also like to believe that Julian had as much of a role in all of this as the rest of us. Even a considerably more sizeable one, perhaps.

Everything that happened—I wish to leave behind. However, I recently came to realise, that, to my misery, it incorporated and formed my very being. My views, my ideas, my taste, and my activities are all, to a certain extent, if not fully influenced and ruled over by it. I am my past.

My great, futile attempts to escape the life I once had, led me to London, a perfect setting for someone who wished to hide. A bustling place, where I had the chance to not be me, but a mere shadow lurking throughout the crowded streets, observing every passerby, while trying to guess their life stories, deepest desires, and strongest fears. I was no one, and I adored it. However, I had earned a peculiar reputation among museum guides and librarians for my constant presence and among university students for being a great classics professor. Or at least I’d like to believe so.

I am very selective with my pupils, and I teach a couple that are quite brilliant in my office. I often have open discussions with them, for I consider it helps them engage with the topic better and understand the meaning and philosophy behind it in such a way that encourages them to analyze, observe, and critique. One such day, we were talking about the loss of self, Plato’s four divine madnesses:

‘Death is the mother of beauty,’ said Felix, one of my students.

I nodded in approval as I propped myself up on the desk.

‘And what is beauty?’ 

‘Terror,’ a voice answered from my office’s door.

[tyler-r-jou]

Blog Post On Building Trust

The unfortunate truth about journalism as a field is that it covers a lot of topics that are tough to examine. The unfortunate truth of the world is that bad things happen to people. When one of these negative events happens to us, we like to try and move past it. Dwelling on it is not something we would be willing to do under normal circumstances. So when a journalist comes up to someone who is trying to forget and asks them to remember, it can be jarring. I think the best thing that we as journalists can do when approaching someone who recently faced a tragedy is to firstly treat them as a human and not as a textbook. You can’t pester them for questions or expect a clear answer every time. You can ask for clarification, but you don’t want to push it and make the person uncomfortable. You have to recognize that it may be taking them a lot of willpower to communicate these thoughts. If they refuse to answer you could try to rephrase the question, but oftentimes, it would be better to move on and try to stay away from the topic. After you have made them as comfortable as possible, you also want to make sure they know they have final say over what can and cannot be included and what it may be presented like. This is their story, not yours, so you want to make sure it suits their desires. If all else fails and they don’t want to answer questions or want to see their story told in your publication, then you need to thank them for their time and look for another potential interview.

As journalists, we are getting a 2nd hand exposure to these stories, which can often be distressing. Roles that regularly deal with tragedies like crime scene cleaners suffer a heavy emotional toll, and journalists are not free from this problem. It’s important to contextualize these stories for yourself. Therapy is the biggest thing you can do for yourself if this toll is affecting you. Everyone has their own way to cope with tragedies, so outside of therapy, it’s hard to pinpoint what can be done to avoid these feelings. It’s important for individuals to approach these feelings anyway they see fit, so long as it doesn’t further hurt their mental or physical health. No matter how people cope with these issues, it’s important to try to not let these overwhelmingly show in an interview. You certainly want to be sympathetic, but you don’t want to potentially make your interview subject feel uncomfortable or patronized. This again goes to treating them as human beings and making sure that they feel comfortable.

[datguytv]

Son of Wilma on Creaturous Organized Mafias-Styled Mobs Handled on The Hill of Willows!

By Terry Dwayne Ashford, Son of Wilma, reporting December 6, 2022 from the Hill House of Wilma Tuesday Morning

You held Hate of ME in your heart, you lingered in revenge of yourself, and you set out to destroy lives and now your discretions floats in the air that all people breathes in a State, an area, a place or even a soil that may be designed only for walking deaths.

You have made my life so miserable there can never be respect, love or even appreciation for such who has done this to any one.

There could never be genuine like or likeness for such a person who has even tried to do this to even One Person Ever in their own lives.

There can never be sincere respect for a person who has even beliefs aligned with this behavior that aimed at taking a life.

You are surely a murderer. You are surely murderers to have such beliefs. You are certainly liars to have notion to lie about your beliefs. You are nothing but low class pimp wannabes to have set up the premises to have done such as this to anyone at the pinpoint of anyone's life.

Recalling the Thanksgiving 2022 point in travel when breathing in air felt emotional, even brought tears, particles of the air there may represent hidden paste and encompass the deaths of secret crimes against innocent lives floating that segwared into the free-unhampered flow of tears that came from nowhere upon reaching the physical lines of the tragic behaviors.

There is no comparison to creaturous behavior such as you have implored upon me that can never get love from such as me that has translated to the people.

The hidden fact may have daunted your entire airspace.

Not knowing which one of you is the one who did it and who is currently doing it, looking at all of you can be disgusting in my own heart that I feel, whether true in your eyes or not, that you have attempted to take Life.

You even contacted friends as a whole to have tried to make DEATH ☠️ happen. You did that. You can't even look in the mirror ar yourselves and see anything better than THAT which now is TRUE all ABOUT One who looks at You!

When anyone looks at Such As You - that is what They See! They may even as me, feel it in the air they breathe. They may even cry in their own hearts.

You have made lives, that ceased living, that is not just mine, or hers, the creaturous laughable taking of a person's life that one of your smiled even once about the mobbing power to have deceived a person is YOU being so miserable there can never be respect, love or even appreciation for such who has done this to any one.

When you as the one disguises who you really are in hiding the crimes and lying about your discretios thus cannot be identified, the creaturous laughable deaths taking of lives becomes the entire airspace around throbbing cemetery of the walking dead that exists in you.

Most all appear as walking crimes. And you are scary and breeds disasters of the earth - no one would want to come near this place.

No one would come near your State, your nation, your people, your soil on the soul of the deaths you have hidden even underground.

The smell of your air brings tears in the particles of molded deaths streaming up nasals of travelling unsuspecting humans.

And you are mocking your brother trying to beat me!

By Terry Dwayne Ashford, Son of Wilma, reporting December 6, 2022 from the Hill House of Wilma Tuesday Morning.

[xiaoluclair]

lestappen - i don’t need your pity (for the prompts thingy)

it’s been a while anonsie and for that i can only say i hope you’ve stuck around long enough to see this (or maybe not because i had no idea WHAT i was doing). its been off and on in my mind but i only figured something out recently so thank you for unknowingly challenging me, it was certainly Something to write and i’m glad it was! i hope you enjoy if you find it hidden somewhere in the dash &lt;3

warnings: waffle | severe lack of coherent thought from author (that is grotesquely obvious in the story mess(tm)) | not exactly the fluffiest thing i've ever written | parallel-universes-esque storymessline | post monza 2022 | not exactly a happy ending ... oopsie??

word count: 1926 (aka so much longer than i thought it would be wtf)

- ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ -

Question: What Happens When Two Stars Collide?

Answer: They Merge Into A Single Star.

On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. In his hands is a little bag. His name is Max. He raises a hand and knocks. 

On the other side of the door is a space of silence. Into it moves another man - a different man (how different, this is unclear). His name is Charles. He tilts his head back and stares at the moon touches on the ceiling and exhales. 

Max knocks again after a few seconds. His fingers are flush to the base of the bag, collecting the warmth that remains. What the bag is, this is not yet known.

When Charles opens the door, this is the second thing he considers. The first, is that the man on the other side is soft and smiling and tantalizingly alive. Then, we get to the bag.

“What is this?” he asks. A thing the room missed: the hollows under his eyes. They are easier to see in sick yellow light, stark with cowering shadows. They glitter slightly too - Max does not notice this. 

He holds up his arms like an offering. Fitting, because what else could this be. “Dinner for us?”

Pity, perhaps. After all, what is more pitying than someone sad for no pinpointable reason of their own other than someone with an exact pinpointable reason. Charles thinks about this too much. He does not want to think about it now but. 

“What do you want, Max?”

“I want to be with you." Max's answer is simple. It is how he feels, after all. And what is the truth other than simple.

Charles considers it for a bare amount of time. He says bitterly, "I do not want pity."

Max only says, again, "I want to be with you."

It takes a moment. A few moments. But then he steps to the wall and gestures the offering inside. Max comes with it.

It is not something so much worked out as simply occurring: Charles sits on the bed, close to the wall and curled around himself. Max sets the bag upon the sheets, between both of their bodies. He is stretched over the other side, his legs doused in moonlight.

They share two little tupperwares of tomato soup between them.

Max's chest is warm and beating. Charles listens to it until sleep weighs his eyelids, stomach filled, and lost at the edge of peace.

Answer: The Smaller (If There Is A Smaller) Is Swallowed.

"What do you want?"

This is, objectively, a simple question. Simpler when you regard the context:

Sex.

Something like it, anyway.

There are two men. One - blue - is flush to the wall. The other one - red - is flush to the blue. Hands are gripping, teeth clashing, and the tyres beside them are not the only things that are hard.

Perhaps a silly observation: there is no purple between them.

"I do not- I do not know." Red is breathless. He is also lying. The truth is, he wants it all. He wants to place himself against the wall without a care, he wants to be asking What Do You Want because he already has everything he wants. He does not want pity. He wants pride.

Surrounded by red, he wants to be Blue.

It does not matter. He is only kissed harder, crushed closer. Blue takes his face with reverence. Red cannot afford this. But he tries anyway, because the last thing he wants right now is to crumble. He lets himself be held together and touched and tries his best to do so in return. To give back the emotion he is being pressed with. For whatever reason, he thinks he fails.

The air twitches.

Blue pulls away, happy and hazy and blinking away the dilation from his pupils. He and Red share a stark look. His body moves, forceful nod of his head.

Panic pushes Red right behind the tall tyre trolleys, his breath held and lungs screaming. There are few gaps between the blankets. He looks through these as best as he can and listens for all the rest.

"Max?" Surprise - his teammate. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," says Blue as they share a shake of hands. "Are you free for dinner?"

"Sure, man. You have something in mind?"

Blue does actually. Tomato Soup, Blue is thinking, but he cannot say this. Only, he cannot think of anything else to say. So he says, "I really want tomato soup."

A laugh, "That is very specific. I will take it."

"Excellent!"

Conversation continues to ebb between them as they leave. Blue feels bad, but only a little. He will leave tomorrow and Red will stay but they can always Facetime. Besides, he has Italy to explore tonight, a win to remember, and a friend to share it with along with some soup.

Left in shadows, Red crouches in his own garage. He hides until the pain does not trail down his face and his eyes feel less itchy. He wipes his mouth, still sticky with saliva that is not his own. It comes away on his hand, reflective. He licks his lips.

A bitter taste lingers.

Answer: A Neutron Star Is Born That Dissolves Into A Black Hole.

If you stood on the ground, among the fairy-lit treeline and quartz potted gerberas, and tilted your view up to the sky, you would see stars, fresh with memories of red seas and Dutch anthems.

If you tilted your view just a little but lower, you would see a man.

He lifts a hand, hollowed with shadow, and itches the skin on his cheeks. Again, and again, and again; one side, then the other. This might have continued forever. It does not. 

His hand moves, instead to the dust beside him. And then his entire self moves, swallowed into the darkness breathing behind him. But wait, for a few seconds. You see him, spat out with his elbow bent. Squint and there is the movement of his mouth, voice sucked into the base of the phone. 

Lip-reading from so far down - impossible, probably. 

This does not matter. We simply go a little closer.

If you sat with your spine curled flush to the glass - cold, freezing - you would hear a voice, see it being spoken. "I am fine."

If you inched a little closer, until his skin - freezing, cold - pressed to yours, you would hear the reply. "So you are not crying in your room?"

"No," laughs this man in front of you. "Of course not."

"Tell me, what are you doing?"

Teeth worry over lips for a moment. A flash of red is left behind, swept up by the smooth motion of a tongue. "Just watching TV, writing a little bit. Might take another shower but I do not know if I should take a warm one or cold."

Static sounds, a moment. "Sounds like a simple evening."

The man makes a noise. Something like happiness if happiness were a Wikipedia article. "Very."

They breathe together, for a long long time. You might breathe with them if you were more than an apparition, a ghost. But even bodiless, the quiet flush of thermia set on this man's cheeks is clear, slight tremor in the phone as the surface refracts the moon.

"Hey."

He stays silent.

The line continues. "I love you."

Finally, a smile. It brightens as few things do: small, flickering, absent. Joyous and pained.

"I have to go but. You did really really good today. And I am sure next weekend will be better."

The inevitable beep sounds then, of a line hung up. Warmth still lingers though from the explicable words, comfort in every syllable.

To you.

The man - Charles, it would reason - his eyes are drawing up, tight. Much like the corners of his mouth. Where something light once rested, darkness is swallowing, stamping its hooves.

If you were to swim between the neurones in his brain, you would be dead. So would he.

His thoughts are his own only. All that is there is the twist of his lips, as though closed around something bitter.

Answer: Supernova.

On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. His hands are pressed together in his hoodie pocket. He is thinking something about tomato soup, but it is difficult to remember with a mind so addled by gin. His knuckles rap. He calls, "Charles?"

Louder: "Charles!"

On the other side of the door, another man is rushing. It swings open in bare seconds. "Max?"

"Charles," says Max. He is happy. He is squinting.

"What the fuck?" says Charles. He is not.

The smell of alcohol is filling the air, of champagne. Like a taunt.

“What do you want?”

Max shrugs, smiling dripping a little less. “To be with you.”

Because Max does not think like this. After all, he has no need to taunt anyone, he has no threat. Especially not from Charles. And if he does not come to taunt, then there is only one other thing.

Charles starts the inch shut the door, hinges giving way freely. “I think I should be alone.”

Max steps forward, a hand flashing out. "What?" He holds the wood still, presses against Charles's weight and his eyes are searching. He is drunk; he focuses on small, insignificant details. "Why? Are you- you have been crying."

Charles shakes his head and the undersides of his eyes glimmer again. "Go away."

Patience is something racing will often inevitably drag with itself. There are ways to place a car and ways to keep it placed and ways to change its place, all perfectly times, all learned and being learned by the two men in this hallway and this room.

It is too bad, then, that being human comes with hiccups even in something akin to heartbeat.

"What is wrong?" asks Max. The door has stopped shoving into his palm; he does not stop shoving his palm into the door. It cracks open, loud into the plaster. A dent - neither of them care or notice.

“Nothing!” says Charles, only now he sounds hysterical. Case in point: his arms are up, like crackers shooting to the clouds, pupils dilating even under the drench of gutted yellow. Only he does not stop: "I hate you, I hate you."

The reply is factual. "You do not."

What once glittered only, now flows. "I love you." It breaks. "I love you."

"So tell me," says Max as though waving a wad of cash against a bag of groceries: tomatoes, onions, herbs, a stick of butter. "What is wrong."

There is this thing in competition. It is well-known and well-played and when rested on a tongue, makes it curl in unpleasant ways.

Charles takes Max by the plastic-ended strings of his hoodie then. It hurts, the crack of their teeth together. The door crashes shut behind them, and mattresses are not hard but perhaps this one is. It nearly breaks Max's back.

There is nothing lovely about this. It burns with ache and pain and, aloud in every touch Charles feels, something unspoken. It makes him pull away, skin flush and sliding thickly against the man below him, stretched out and pliant. An invitation - Do what you wish. I can afford it.

It rises a hiss, a far cry from prideful Ferrari: "I do not need your pity."

Who knew the bitterest thing of all could be a smile.