#poem rocks though go read the whole thing

[sunsbleeding]

“I think I’ll just stay with her till I get my birthday presents”, she laughs, sounding more pig than human. I nod along as she continues, “she such a freak she just stares at the wall all day”, I bite my tongue, because saying the wrong thing would get her all despondent and quiet. Agree or be ignored, just like the shadow of my mother and her silent treatments.

But the thing is I used to just stare at the wall all day too, for whole weeks actually. I’d be so depressed that the heaviness in my stomach would anchor me to my bedspread; nothing to do but watch the sun change shape over the walls as it sank. I did this in high school a few months before the hazy night my life was supposed to end. The EMTs refused to let me choose though. Stuffed my soul back in my body and wiped vomit off my face and chest with those cheap paper towels you usually only find in gas station bathrooms.

When we talked ill of her girlfriend I should have said “well you’re using her, you’re manipulating her, you don’t respect her boundaries, you date a wizard created by a terf in your head, and to top it all off you’re in love with a man that lives in LA, for God sakes you write poetry about him for her to see (and laugh when it’s the only poem she doesn’t heart), you make out with me and tell me not to tell her, you can keep her on a leash if she doesn’t know you lie”

So you go, scurry on putrid rat and tell MY stories to your “friends” but boy do I have tales to tell about you, and none of them are even remotely funny or interesting or complex, because you are not any of those things. The stories are just snippets of a girl who was and always will be a boring beige wall of a person, spineless, dreamless, talentless and going nowhere bright. Couldn’t even sign up for university classes properly my ass, you’re just too lazy with a lack of comprehension or a knack for learning about anything that matters. I went through all of university without the money for therapy, without meds for my anxiety or depression, or a diagnosis for my ADHD. You have all the help in the world afforded to you and you still choose to do nothing with your life. Pathetic. You wouldn’t have enough time to read fan fiction anyways so it’s better you just study that, since it’s the only thing you’re remotely good at.

You tell them about your addict, child molested, depressed ex-best friend, who’s seen the world, experienced so much life, built a dream into something tangible, made money you took full advantage of, finished university (it’s not for everyone and that’s okay but let’s be honest you’d rather read smut some horny weirdo on the internet made up than learn about anything real, meaningful or socially relevant).

This all has taught me that I have real friends and supporters in my circle, I have people that’ll sit with me in the bathroom while I’m having a panic attacks. Celebrate being even five days clean. Ask me if I’m okay if I look spaced out (dissociating is something I deal with).

Because of this I remembered I have passions, and taste, and empathy (the word you skipped when you were reading the dictionary). I’ll tell them about you, a waste of space nobody who feeds off the energies of the pretty or cool or interesting girls around her because she hasn’t got a thing going for herself. I have pity for the things you went through but you can only use your trauma as an excuse to be a bad person for so long…. You are a mooch, a liar, a dull woman with the media literacy of an incel and the brainpower of a rock. (Maybe you did do too many whippets in LA smh)

Having a best friend is awesome, having any type of relationship with a delusional psycho narcissist is something I’m done with.

[simmyfrobby]

"The Terre Haute Planetarium Rejected My Proposal" by Paige Lewis

[finelythreadedsky]

6th century bce archaic greece dashboard simulator

📜 oracles-onomakritos Follow

guys you have GOT to stop sticking in extra aristeias for your faves, the iliad is getting TOO LONG

⚔️ argivehero1184 Follow

nope lmao check out my guy diomedes he stabbed aphrodite!!!

📜 oracles-onomakritos Follow

look do you want anyone to even be able to perform this whole thing bc i know rhapsodes are impressive but their memories can only go so far

#parahomerica #i spend so much time on this and is anyone remotely grateful?

76 notes

🌠 thalesmilesios Follow

it’s going to be so crazy next month when it gets dark in the middle of the day, the medes are going to have no idea what hit them

🏛️ anaxagoraintheagora Follow

lol like that would ever happen! you’d have to piss off apollo even more than agamemnon did

🏛️ anaxagoraintheagora Follow

i stand corrected.

#ok headed down to didyma to make some offerings now #ngl this has me pretty freaked out

7,264 notes

🌸 iokolpos Follow

poem for atthis 💔

like a hyacinth on the mountains the shepherds tread upon her underfoot and on the ground a purple flower

Keep reading

💐 poikilothronanaktoria Follow

sappho dm me please i won't leave you like she did

247,383 notes

💩 iambicpharmakos Follow

wealth is such a dick, he never comes to my place to go hey hipponax here’s thirty minas of silver, and some extra too! what, is he scared?

11 notes

🏺 exekias-epoiese Follow

sneak peek of my new work! process video will be up soon, and remember I am currently open for commissions!

#ajax 😭😭😭#wanted to challenge myself with the hands and i think they turned out ok #the armor was much more fun though #art tag

693,554 notes

👹 assemblerofchoruses Follow

when you think about it... maybe helen's right when she blames herself for the trojan war? she chose to run away with paris and then so many people died because of it, she even says herself that she was a shameless dog

👹 assemblerofchoruses Follow

helen if your reading this i didmt meanit im so sorry

#i cant see anythignwhat is going on

187 notes

🍃 nikostratethepythagorean Follow

that hippokleides guy is such an icon. siege of tyre? hippokleides don't care! persian invasion? hippokleides don't care! fall of babylon? hippokleides don't care! peisistratus back in athens? hippokleides don't care!

#trying to bring this energy to the new olympiad #niko speaks

326 notes

🫒 notthatmegacles Follow

and don't just automatically vote for your tribe!

💐 poikilothronanaktoria Follow

um who even are any of these guys

🫒 notthatmegacles Follow

dude they're the patron heroes for the ten new tribes, have you been living under a rock????

💐 poikilothronanaktoria Follow

believe it or not i’m one of the dozens of people worldwide that live in a polis that’s not athens

#smh #lesbian problems

28,724 notes

[tricktster]

how long have you been getting burritoed... i love the thought of you guys being together for five years and you still fall for it every time

Slightly NSFW warning but the full backstory for the burritoing is honestly very sweet and i can take absolutely no credit for it being so.

so it has not been five years, it’s only been five months, but given that my tolerance for being in relationships can usually be measured in weeks, five months with me harboring every single desire to keep this going is saying something. but rest assured the burrito thing has always been a threat in this relationship. lemme explain.

see, i met my boyfriend the most romantic way a person can, in that i hopped on tinder one friday when I was bored and he was the most interesting person that night to ask me to grab a drink with him the following week. I agreed, with every expectation that this was going to be a one night stand situation. This was because I had already concluded I would probably sleep with him since he was hot and funny over tinder/text but also, more importantly, because I had decided to plunge back into the dating world after several years of being resolutely single by having what my roommate described as “a wanton winter,” which is a nicer way of saying that I was here to sleep around without any strings remotely attached. I had every intention of this being followed by a slutty spring, sexually-available summer, and perhaps even a fuckboi fall.

All this to say, I was not looking for an actual relationship when I agreed to “grab a drink” with the man who is now my boyfriend. In fact, even though he was categorically hunky all-round? I was by this point in my wanton winter not even optimistically hoping for a good time. I had recently re-discovered that hunky meant absolutely nothing, and was still haunted by memories of sleeping with an extremely attractive massage therapist who was not only terrible in bed but also read me a very bad poem that he’d written afterwards and started crying about the state of his life at one point and also his mom called like 11 times while he was over. Like, my expectations were subterranean.

Now given this background, i presumed that this guy would follow the established pattern set by every other guy i’d hooked up with during wanton winter; we’d go back to my place, fool around, he’d leave, and i’d get occasional “u up” texts from him for the next few weeks until one of us ghosted etc. so like it was a surprise - but certainly not an unpleasant one! - when he asked (a little nervously) post-hookup if he could stay the night. he didn’t want to impose, he explained, but he had a day shift the next morning and it was really late and his house was 24 minutes away and while he didn’t want to be presumptuous he’d thrown what he needed in a backpack just in case and also he wanted to cuddle and be big spoon.

well. this was a deviation. this possibly suggested more interest than just a one night stand.

ideologically i was opposed to the threat this posed to my no commitments wanton winter lifestyle but given that he was significantly cuter and funnier in person than he’d been online and also that he had just absolutely rocked my entire world for several hours(!!!) i was just like “yeah homie you are more than welcome to stay,” and decided against issuing my standard warning whenever anyone proposes sharing a bed with me that “I do not tolerate people attempting to cuddle me in my sleep well so don’t be hurt when you find me as far from you as physically possible tomorrow, and also you may be kicked in the process of me rolling away, and my toenails are inexplicably sharp so you may bleed.”

and then, you know, suddenly the alarm was going off, and he was extracting himself, unwounded, from the big spoon position that I had not felt the unconscious need to escape from all night, and I was just internally like “haha! i might be in trouble!”

that mighta done it on its own, honestly, the whole bit about him being the sole exception i have ever encountered to my instinctual need for space when i’m sleeping. but he was not done. he quietly got ready while i was mulling this development over in a state of half consciousness, and then? instead of slinking out into the barely-morning, that motherfucker very gently rearranged the bedclothes to actually cover me, gave me a kiss, said he’d text me when he got to work, and then the bastard tucked me in.

he then left me, the victim of the cutest goddamn nonsense that has ever happened after a tinder hookup, to process this unexpected turn of events.

I concluded that I was, in fact, in trouble.

so like… needless to say, that act of tucking me in was the death knell for my wanton winter, as well as my adversarial relationship with the concept of developing feelings. I am an extremely crotchety housecat that doesn’t like to be crowded who has unprecedentedly fallen incredibly hard for a wildly enthusiastic golden retriever, and our relationship is foundationally based upon this man’s desire to make me all snug and cozy before he leaves.

the burrito aspect was merely an afterthought. it’s all about the tuck-in babey.

[nonsensicalramblings79]

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and parallels in OFMD

2.7k word meta

If you haven’t read my other post about why I’m talking about albatrosses in the first place, read the first part of this and come back! All of this will make the most sense if you read all of the parts I’ve written – I’ve split them up for ease of reading, because holy shit this is long.

TWs: animal death, blood, eating animals, starvation, emotional abuse, physical abuse, gunshot injuries, suicidal ideation, canon-typical mental health problems

MAJOR OFMD SPOILERS THROUGH S2E03

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

Let me start out by saying that yes, this is anachronistic – this poem wasn’t written until 1798. I also don’t care: Oluwande is wearing crocs, Stede’s “corpse” is crushed by a piano whose maker won’t exist until 1863, Blackbeard’s got his whole leather-daddy getup, Zheng Yi Sao won’t be born until 1775 – OFMD plays fast and loose with historical accuracy, and I am never going to dismiss an OFMD theory because the timeline doesn’t match up :P

Now that that’s out of the way, a little bit of background information. Long summary incoming.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a poem written by English poet Samuel Coleridge. The story is told through the words of the mariner, who has recently survived some horrifying ordeals, soon to be told to a poor unsuspecting stranger who just wants to attend a wedding. As the story goes, the mariner set out with his crew of 200-some-odd men, and everything’s going just peachy until some storms pick up and drive them toward the South Pole. Stranded and lost, the crew fear for their lives, until an albatross appears. At the same time that the albatross appears, the storms clear, the helmsman is able to make their way through the ice of the South Pole, and a southern wind picks up, pushing them back north. The albatross follows the ship, but the mariner believes that it is somehow responsible for the mists and fog that now surround the ship, so he shoots the bird with his crossbow. At that point, the fog and mists actually do clear up (by coincidence or otherwise) – and the crew praise the captain for taking down the bird.

But it’s a fickle crowd – soon the wind stops blowing, and the ship is becalmed; the crew blame the Mariner for killing the bird that had been their good luck. They sit in the middle of the ocean for days or weeks, dying of thirst. They cannot even speak, they’re so thirsty – but they make sure that the Mariner knows that he is to blame for this by tying the albatross’s body around his neck and forcing him to wear it like a grotesque necklace. Eventually, everyone on the ship except the Mariner dies (there’s a bit here about Death and Life-in-Death rolling dice to see who lives and who dies – the important part is that none of the crew survives).

Finally, the Mariner is left alone on his ship of corpses, which strangely do not smell or rot. He wishes he could die, but he doesn’t. During this time, he begins to appreciate what there is left to appreciate – the life around him in the ocean, in the air, “all things both great and small” – and the curse is lifted from him. The albatross detaches from around his neck and sinks into the ocean.

From this point on, the story goes about as you’d expect – the curse being lifted, the wind picks up again, setting the Mariner speeding back home (though, perhaps unexpectedly, his crew gets to come back as zombies for a short while to man the ship until it reaches land again, at which point they die again. RIP). As the ship is coming upon the Mariner’s homeland, it sinks like a rock to the bottom of the ocean – a hermit happens to see the Mariner floating out there and comes to pick him up, thinking he’s dead. When the Mariner opens his eyes, the hermit believes him to be the Devil himself (I mention this only because I think the wording of “Demon? I’m the fuckin’ Devil” lines up perfectly with this).

As penance for shooting the albatross (as if all of this so far wasn’t enough), the Mariner spends the rest of his days wandering the earth, telling his story and making random wedding-goers sad.

HOO BOY, that was a lot. (A whopper, one might say.) Thanks for sticking with me so far.

Now, some of the parallels between this poem and the events of OFMD are more neat and tidy than others are. The biggest parallel, obviously, is the link between the albatross and the “impossible birds” that Ed references in S2E01 – the entire reason I started reading this poem to begin with. The links between the show and the poem are not ones that I think the characters in the show (Ed) are consciously making. I think these allusions more reflect the themes and symbols that the writers and directors want us as the audience to pick up on. Therefore, the “impossible birds” conversation in canon is not talking about albatrosses in the sense that they are commonly referenced in literature, as the proverbial weight around one’s neck that represents guilt – but we can still talk about that symbolism outside of canon.

And talk about it I will.

For those of us who have watched the show, it probably goes without saying that Ed’s got a fair amount of guilt, shame, psychological trauma, etc. that he carries around with him. So if we’re going to invoke the albatross metaphor following S2E3, what specifically can we say is Ed’s “albatross?” There are a few candidates that immediately come to mind. It could be his guilt surrounding a) his father’s murder; b) Lucius’s attempted murder; c) the abusive, toxic relationship that he carried on with Izzy; or maybe even d) himself.

That last one is a little esoteric, so let me explain. Ed hates himself – aside from all the self-destructive tendencies as evidence, he admits it out loud in his dream with Hornigold in S2E03. I wonder if the albatross that is hanging around Blackbeard’s neck is Edward – the real Edward, the one that is more than just his fame, his terrifying persona, his violence-as-a-form-of-love tendencies – the Edward that Stede fell in love with. I wonder whether Ed’s guilt surrounds more than just how he’s hurt others, but how he feels he has killed a truer, better version of himself, and that he can never regain it. In line with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, killing this “albatross” of a better Edward didn’t just kill him – it killed everyone around him as well. And now, after he has borne the blame of others for having gotten them into this situation, he is forced to wear…himself. The guilt that weighs him down is the knowledge that there is a version of him that was loved, that Stede loved, and in his eyes, he has killed that version of himself.

I want to take a moment to acknowledge a post (or several posts) that I saw several months back in relation to season 1. In these posts [Link1, Link2], smarter people than me drew a connection between a metaphorical albatross and the black cravat that Stede gives to Ed – and that Ed continues to wear until he and Stede change into their privateering academy garb. Something both of those posts touch on is how the cravat represents Stede, and I think that is completely true; however, I posit that the cravat represents the fact that Ed is lovable.

Something that’s been pointed out in the past 48 hours since these episodes dropped is that Ed is not wearing the cravat during the first parts of season 2. Only when he essentially decides to kill himself via storm do we see him once again wearing the cravat (the cravat is also noticeably absent from the purgatory dream sequence).

What exactly this means is still shaky to me – in my mind, Ed does canonically see the cravat as a reminder of his “real” self, and he puts it away and tries to hide it while he’s still…well, functioning is far too strong of a word, but at least not actively suicidal like we see at the end of episode 2. I think hearing Izzy supposedly shoot himself is what pushes Ed over the edge into being actively suicidal; perhaps at this point, some part of Ed is still hoping against hope that he can convince himself not to do it, to wait for Stede. Alternatively, it may be that if he dies here, he wants to take the idea of a “better him” with him.

In the sense of the cravat representing the albatross (meaning the cravat presence is not a choice of the characters, but of costume design), the cravat being missing during the batshit-insane-high-on-rhino-horn Kraken era may represent him not actually feeling the guilt of losing himself during this time. He may have actually convinced himself that a lovable version of himself never existed, and he’s living guilt-free. The guilt comes back when he hears Izzy shoot himself – he’s reminded that he caused this by killing a version of himself that Izzy trusted and even loved, in his own fucked-up way. From then on, the cravat is back on – the guilt is back, and it’s strong enough to induce the kamikaze-type rage we see in the storm.

(Important to note here that while I stand by this interpretation, I’m not sure how it fits with the fact that Ed is wearing the cravat just after the Krakening – the moment when he’s looking back on the island that he just abandoned the Revenge crew on in S1E10.)

I’m leaving this one for myself to come back to later on the off-chance I have some sort of epiphany.

Oh wow, you’re still here?? Probably time for a water break. Go on, the rest will be here when you get back. And there’s unfortunately quite a lot more that still needs to move from my brain to this Word doc.

Ready? Ok.

So that’s one possible interpretation of what Ed’s “albatross” is – I won’t spend time on other possibilities because what I’ve laid out here is the interpretation that I most strongly subscribe to. But all that is only really addressing one part of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Granted, it’s the most important part, symbolically, but there are some other parallels that I want to address that together convince me that the writers of OFMD are actually, specifically referencing this poem.

Obviously, there’s a parallel in that both the happenings of the poem and OFMD occur on actual, physical ships, captained by the man who ends up “shooting the albatross” and being rightfully blamed for it. Both of these ships suffer because of the dead albatross – physically, both ships are taken through devastating storms, and both ships are falling apart. The ship in the poem stops moving indefinitely because of a becalming (all wind and ocean currents stopped); the Revenge stops moving indefinitely because Ed removes the wheel. Both ships suffer casualties – in the poem, everyone dies, and on the Revenge, those crew members may be physically alive, but they are haunted by it. The poem makes note of the fact that the crew died of thirst – while this doesn’t seem to be a main concern on the Revenge, the show does show us, rather graphically, that they were beginning to starve, having to catch and eat raw seagulls to survive (note that dead birds are also a recurring theme in OFMD, leading me to believe even more that albatross references are intentional).

There’s an interesting pattern in the poem concerning dead people – specifically, how they don’t seem to be entirely dead at first. Firstly, the crew that die of thirst drop dead, one by one, on the deck of the Mariner’s ship. However, the poet notes that the bodies did not decompose or smell. Later, these bodies are resurrected by whatever sea spirit chooses to spare the Mariner’s life, using the bodies to man the ship and sail it back to shore. When they are done with this, they drop dead once more, staying on the ship as it sinks to the bottom of the ocean. When the hermit finds the Mariner floating in the ocean, he thinks him dead, before the Mariner’s eyes shoot open (similar to a certain someone at the end of S2E03).

In season 1, I can’t think of any instances wherein someone was presumed to be dead, but actually wasn’t, aside from Stede’s fuckery. However, this theme has come up at least 3 times in season 2 so far: Lucius being the obvious one, then Izzy, and finally Ed himself (and if I’m understanding correctly, Ed was actually, literally, cold-in-the-ground physically dead, not just “presumed dead.” This might be clarified in a future episode). That seems…intentional.

Side note: how long was Ed supposed to have been dead? Days? Didn’t anyone notice that he wasn’t, like, rotting? Especially when “the smell of rot” has been something that very consistently shows up in the show when it’s relevant (see: Lucius’s finger infection, Ed being able to smell Izzy through the walls of the ship).

One more thing: the last thing that the Mariner sees when leaving the shore, and the first thing he sees when he gets back? A lighthouse. Now, could that just be a coincidence, with lighthouses being a very common image in sea-based stories? Sure. But I’m choosing to believe that this poem was chosen (and yes, I say chosen – as in the writers took inspiration from this poem) specifically because it has so much imagery in common with OFMD.

These are admittedly tenuous links between the poem and the show, but they are links, so I’m including them.

The last thing I want to mention about this poem is how its “moral,” if it can be said to have one, is to treat living things with respect – you as a person do not live in a vacuum, and your actions have consequences for others, not just yourself. And I think this sentiment lines up incredibly well with a line that Jim has in S2E02:

…

There was a time when life meant something on this ship. When we lived for each other.

…

According to Jim (and according to literally everything the show has been telling us), the ship was a safe place when the people onboard cared about each other. Fang mentions that Blackbeard didn’t even react when Ivan died; Blackbeard callously shoots his first mate, with the intent of having him killed; he doesn’t even care about his own life and whether he lives or dies. Just like in the poem, this is the issue that needs to be resolved in order for the curse to be lifted – the Mariner (Ed) needs to rekindle an appreciation for life. In the poem, this is a simple “every living thing is special” kind of epiphany – I get the feeling it’s going to be a much more complicated journey in OFMD, especially since the show as a whole is somewhat irreverent concerning the deaths of non-recurring characters. For Ed, I imagine it’s going to be more of an appreciation for his own life – not the value of life on the whole, but the value that his life holds.

So. That’s a lot of words that I just typed – I’m hoping at least some of them made sense. Huge thank you to anyone who made it this far! This is all I’ve got on this particular poem, but I’ve still got more things I want to say about another poem called L’albatros (Charles Baudelaire) and how it relates to Ed and his perception of himself. It’s a huge stretch to say that this poem exists in-universe and Ed has read it, but it makes sense to me and I want to get my thoughts down on (virtual) paper – I’ll link to it in the original introductory post (link to that at the top of this post!).

Let me know what you think!! This silly, stupid pirate show will be consuming my thoughts for at least the next several months, and I’m dying for some reciprocal opinion/info-dumping. Inbox is open!

[brynnterpretations]

Helloo! Thank you for writing all these, I see you’re taking The Boys ship requests so I’d like to request one with my oc if you’re up to it? Sorry if you got this ask before I don’t think it sent.

His name is Barry Bixio, bisexual, cis male, 5ft6, 30, his alias to The Boys is Guy. Hes a supe who has the power to have and not have a corporeal body at will, but when hes disappeared, he can still talk, touch and make things move, he usually still ‘wears’ clothes like a controlling a puppet. He’s usually dressed business casual with a teardrop fedora, jacket, gloves and such. His human form has brown hair, tan skin, and a baby face. He ages slower due to his power usage, so he’s physically about 20 (my faceclaim for him is ralph macchio in naked in New York). He’s got a heavy Boston accent as well. Barry’s personality is pretty irritating, he’s cautious of being close to anyone but he’s a prankster, loves to joke, and his sense of humor is offensive. He’s says he’s not a bigot, but he really doesn’t like superheroes and seems to be a bit of a misogynist. He’s either casual or making light of everything, he’s rarely serious, but when he gets angry he can’t handle it and will lash out by getting too personal with his insults. He doesn’t care about what he says, he’s never had a real friend before so he’s new to the whole ‘making friends and keeping them’. He has big trust issues, so if he reveals his human form to you and his real name, it’s a huge deal and it means he really values and likes you, he’s constantly invisible due to deep down fear of others. Barry loves action and heartwarming movies, his favorite is Rocky. He also loves classic rock, opera and classical music. Barrys favorite food is nyc style pizza. Barry’s love language is touch, so if he were to have a partner, he’d reluctantly always initiate cuddling (like a cat) or cling to them, he’s embarrassed by it. He can actually cry easier than expected in his human form when it comes to cheesy movies about love/family and traumatic flashbacks, he hates letting anyone see, but if he lets his partner see, then it’s a huge sign of trust. Barrys favorite color is blue. He claims to be a dog guy but is actually a cat person. His toxic masculinity gets in the way of him enjoying a lot of things. Barry’s hobbies outside of trying to take down Vought is birdwatching, sketching, and writing poems, though he hates people knowing since he thinks those are “sissy”. Barry’s pet peeves are righteous people, stupid people, naive people, he doesn’t like humans or supes in general.

Barrys past is that he was sold by his parents and tested on by Vought, but didn’t like that and left at 13, just leaving by his own will after going ghost and phasing through the walls. Hes been on the run and alone from Vought since and has changed identities multiple times, he could just easily evade them by literally disappearing, but he sticks around and keeps trying to expose the hero industry and Vought for the frauds they are. Whereas other supes have been radicalized to hate humans due to their treatment, he blames Vought more and he says he recognizes how they create monsters. Barry can use his powers to get all the dirt he wants and he makes it his life mission to play with all heroes and Vought like a cat and mouse, he could burn everything to the ground, but he strings everyone along for the fun of it, he kinda just wants to watch the world burn. Barry has no experience with love and sexual pleasure, and he has sooo many foods he hasn’t tried due to not having a stomach most the time, a lot of things are foreign to him.

I originally shipped him with homelander butttt I wanna see who you ship him with, it can be with whoever, I’m curious 👀, thank you

I think your ask got eaten, so thank you for sending it again! This is such a thoughtful, well-written OC and I would love to read or see anything you make of him.

I ship Barry with...

John (Homelander) ♡

GIF Source: @amazingmaeve ★ (link)

So, I was dead-set on only doing ships for the coup... until you brought me Barry. Realistically, I do not think the boys would fuck with Barry — they'd be able to co-exist with him, sure, but romantically, none of them would match up with the dude.

Homelander, however, is made of damage, and Barry is, too, which would provide for a very tumultuous, love-hate, delightfully fucked-up relationship.

So, for starters, which is probably the most obvious: the two would not get along with each other. I could see Guy being on a mission separate of the coup to disempower Vought, and despite being the strongest Supe, Homelander would not be able to catch him — as Homelander is someone who brute-forces his way through everything, Guy's abilities would put a block in that route.

Quickly, that turns into a game of cat-and-mouse between the two of them. As shown in his relationship with Butcher (and as opposed to in his relationship with wee Hughie) Homelander does find a lot of fun in back-and-forth battles between "worthy" opponents... akin to playing with his food.

Despite his public persona and need to both appear and be invulnerable, Homelander would be rather enthralled by the challenge — while he knows that Guy is capable, he doesn't think he's that capable, instead just something to fill the time with. And, too, an attractive one, at that. Bro's good-looking, what can he say?

After consistently crossing paths, whether it be Guy going against Vought or the coup, they'd likely have a lot of conversations, with one including an intimate — I mean, as intimate as there can be with Homes — where Guy lets his guard down a smidgen after his corporeal body got absolutely fucked during a mission.

Homelander doesn't feel empathy for him, but he certainly feels... something. The guy is used to just assuming everyone — yes, even Supes — are one-dimensional, and seeing that rare moment of vulnerability does something for the guy (the guy Homelander, I mean, not the guy-Guy). As much as he wants to be the one protected, he wants people to feel somewhat protected by him, even if he only ever ends up using it against them later.

There would end up being a lot of violent sexual tension — like, spitting blood into face, bandaging wounds, if you catch my drift — that I wouldn't see being resolved very quickly due to Homelander being... Homelander. When it does get resolved, though, imagine Stormfront-level fucking. Everywhere. And it would be bloody, too.

And that brings us to Guy's lack of experience; quite honestly, Homelander is thrilled (he's a possessive guy), but he does not respect it, at all. He constantly teases him about his lack of experience, calling him a pussy, making derogatory comments... so, you know, not in the cute way, but in the outright mean Homie way. The guy's a dick.

He's not a stereotypical homophobe — he doesn't openly oppose gay marriage, doesn't go out on the streets screaming slurs, doesn't really care that all — but he certainly is one, I'd say. Homes is someone who deeply cares about his image, and as America's golden boy, him being openly gay would decimate a large chunk of his demographic's love and admiration for him.

You know that André Gide quote that goes something like, "it's better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not"? That is not Homelander. That is the opposite of Homelander. That is everything Homelander is not.

So, because of that, it would take a while for Homelander to really process that he held any sort of fondness towards Barry (no matter how miniscule, because, let's be real, it's Homelander), plus... there would be a ton of threatening for Barry to keep their relationship a secret, even if he was able to pass as an ally to Vought.

Additionally, Homelander never thought of himself as someone who was "gay", and would remind Barry of that constantly, especially to disparage and put down Barry. To Homes, gay is Rupaul, sweater vests, baking, and Beyoncé. Yeah, he may stick his dick in an ass, or get a dick stuck in his ass (#switchhomelandertruther), but that doesn't mean anything. Nope. Not at all.

When it breaks through to Homelander that, shit, he actually does like Barry, he wouldn't call him his boyfriend or anything cute — he'd probably just stick to something formal, like partner, or... um... interesting pet names, like "champ", "sport", and "buddy".

He's very weird.

Homelander being very much in-the-closet wouldn't mean he wouldn't want to show him off, because he still wants to mark Barry as his property. As far as Homelander's concerned, he owns the guy, even if he puts up a fight and challenges him. Whether it's in photos of Homelander fighting him, or a rare moment where Vought puts a "teaming up against evil!" spin on whatever's happening, there's always a very possessive lean to it.

Arguments between the two would often happen, and by God, they would get nasty. Barry's an intuitive guy, and I doubt it would take very long for him to pick up on his insecurities and overall issues. In turn, Homelander would threaten the dude's life, pull out the laser eyes, everything... but, honestly, I still see Barry having the upper hand in all of these arguments. Even if Homelander's the most powerful man alive physically, he's a mentally fragile man, and the fact that Barry is A) someone he cares about and B) says things that are undeniable truths would be extremely disarming.

Does that mean Homelander would be totally incapable of killing him? No, we know what happened to Stillwell. However, it would be very, very difficult, and a lot would have to happen to push Homelander to that point.

I will say, it isn't all bad, though.

The dates range from very fancy (like five-star Michelin meals and vintage Italian wine delivered to his penthouse) to casual (just movies, delivery pizza, and him in his very, very rare hoodie-and-hat combo) but they're still... nice. Honestly, they're even pleasant, and probably the nicest that Homes has ever been.

There are some fucked up, borderline threatening dates in there when Barry doesn't "know his place" though, too. Once, when Barry had messed with Vought in a way, there had been a room-service date that seemed like it was going to end in a bloodbath.

Homes would very, very reluctantly engage in physical affection outside wild sex as he felt more secure in the relationship, and — despite being a dick about Barry's height — would cuddle up as the little spoon.

Also would definitely share his sense of humor, but be a two-faced little shit and scold him in public if he told crass jokes. However, in private? As long as they're both in a good mood, they're a comedic duo.

And, on a kind-of (???) sweet end note: Guy is the only one Homelander has openly introduced himself as John to (although that was far into their relationship), and the only one who would allow him.

So... they're together... but at what cost for humanity? Only time will tell.

[ajconstantine]

AJ Constantine's Good Omens Fic Recommendations. Human AU 10-20k word length.

In an effort to organize the stories that I particularly enjoy, I’m compiling them into categories and posting them. I’ll add stories to the lists periodically as I come across more that I like. 

My first category is Human AU of a medium-short word length of 10-20k. This length is a satisfying one; enough to feel like it’s a complete story without feeling like it’s a huge commitment to start reading. Interestingly, it doesn’t seem to be a fairly common word length, so I only have six stories to start with. 

If you enjoy any of these stories, please comment on the fic and let the writer know! It brightens their day immensely and encourages them to keep writing these wonderful stories for all of us to delight in. 

Click on the link below to see the list of stories. 

Where We Will Love by TawnyOwl95/ @tawnyontumblr. Rating: E, Chapters: 5. Words: 17,795 Summary: Crowley busks in Piccadilly Circus. Just down the road in Haymarket, Azra Eastgate performs at Her Majesty’s Theatre. One duet is going to change both their lives. MUSIC AU. AJ’s notes: Sweet meet cute, no angst. 

Cock Tales by TawnyOwl95. Bartender AU. Rating: E, Chapters: 4. Words: 12, 269 Summary: Crowley’s love life is on the rocks so he finally swears off men. Typical that his new job places him with a co-worker who's so straight up sexy. Or in which, Aziraphale tries to mix things up, Crowley is shaken and Anathema is a right stirrer. But could a relationship be worth a shot? 

I'm All Yours by FeralTuxedo/ @feraltuxedo. Rating: E, 11,479 words. Chapters: 4. Summary: Crowley has been rescuing his friend Aziraphale over and over again for a decade. Hopelessly in love, ready to jump at a moment’s notice when he was needed. When Aziraphale finally breaks up with his partner, Crowley is there to help him through what’s looking to be one hell of a mid-life crisis. Things could finally change. If he manages not to mess it up again. A human AU with a whole forest’s worth of pining squeezed into a single day. 

Strong Enough For Love by TawnyOwl95. Rockstar AU. Rating: E. Chapters: 5. Words: 14,577 Summary: Music journalist A.Z. Fell has been given the biggest break of his career. A chance encounter has opened up an opportunity to interview elusive rock star Anthony J. Crowley at his Oxfordshire mansion. What exactly is the secret hidden in Tadfield Abbey? And will Azi ever pin down Crowley long enough to get his interview?  

Tidewrack by TawnyOwl95. Pirate AU. Rating: E. Chapters: 2. Words: 6,706 Summary: Crowley never wanted to be a pirate captain. He likes giving orders though, and the clothes. And when pretty rich boys are brought to his cabin for questioning. Although this prisoner is making Crowley feel rather out of his depth.   

What Hath God Wrought by Saretton/ @saretton. Telegraph AU Rating: E Chapters: 1. Words: 10,310 Summary: Do you remember, my darling, the early days when there were just fingers and air and sounds – a rhythmic beeping in the day, a frantic answer in the night? The orange glow of lamps. Coding and decoding. Choosing the words carefully, never too many, but always enough. AJ’s notes: well done use of first person perspective, reads like a poem, lyrical and lovely. One of my favorites. 

[blueshistorysims]

1906-1908

The next two years of the Walshes’ lives went by quickly. Giselle, turning six, started school that autumn. It felt odd that none of her siblings were there with her. If Byron had not skipped three years of school, they could have walked together to and from the schoolhouse. Instead, because Rebecca was so terrified she’d get sick, she’d walk her daughter every day to school. After a while, it was almost embarrassing. It was a ten minute walk. Giselle didn’t think she’d fall over and die in those very short ten minutes.

Her least favorite of school when she first started was recess. Everyone else got to go outside and play. Giselle couldn’t. Giselle wasn’t allowed. The first few months of school were spent staring out the classroom window, watching her classmates play outside, both upset and envious of being able to play. It was lonely, and even though she’d been there for months, she still didn’t have friends. 

Miss Wilson realized how lonely she was, and during lunch and recess, she’d bring cards and books so Giselle would have something to do. The little girl was grateful for her teacher, and she realized that she had to make something out of it, and what wasn’t a better way to practice her embroidery while at school?

Even when she wasn’t at school, Giselle spent most of her time in her room which had once been the nursery, sitting in the little rocking chair, stitching foral patterns on pieces of fabric. 

Edeline found friendship like no other at finishing school. Her roommate Lillie Hayward quickly became her best friend, and when they befriended Clare Hamilton, who roomed across from them, the trio was destined to be best friends, doing everything together, much to the annoyance of their teachers. 

But Edeline had a goal in the back of her mind. She was going to be a doctor, and she would do anything to achieve it, meaning when she wasn’t in the classroom or with her friends, Edeline spent her free time in the library studying any biology or medical book they had. Lillie and Clare teased her, but they were excited that their friend be would a doctor. It was always good to have a doctor friend.

Byron still read as much as he could and just to see if he could, he managed to teach himself Latin, exclusively from the book kept at Willow Creek College library. Needless to say, when he began Latin the next year, the Latin teacher was shocked by his fluency, transferring him to the Greek class instead. 

And such as time does, Byron finally turned 13, meaning that fall, he would stop rooming with his brother Alexander and have someone his age, even if they weren’t in the same year. He felt the same at first, other than a major growth spurt and a newfound passion for taking afternoon naps.

Becoming a teenager opened his eyes to a lot of things he didn’t notice before, the most important thing being his and Reggie’s friendship. 

Being at a boarding school all year meant they only saw each other at Christmas time and during the summer. Since Reggie had always struggled with his spelling and handwriting, he rarely sent letters, so normally it was just Byron with updates on their life. Both were now spending more time with those who were in the same social class as them. He hated the idea of class causing the end of their friendship, but he knew deep down that it wasn’t something to be ignored, especially while he was off getting an education and Reggie working on his family’s farm, no longer in school now that he was over 13. 

That fall of 1908, Byron met his new roommate, Joel Mungrove, and the pair instantly became friends. They liked the same books and music and talked for hours about poems, stories, and other things that had usually annoyed Alexander whenever Byron had tried to bring it up. Joel was handsome and had an infectious smile that always brightened Byron’s day when he saw him, and soon it was like the duo had known each other for their whole life, not just the school year.

Alexander found Willow Creek difficult at times, but he probably should have spent more time studying than slacking off with friends or writing letters to Edith. Edith was such a kind, funny, and beautiful girl, and the more he wrote to her, the more he envisioned a future: him and Edith taking care of his parents while he was a very successful lawyer. Well… he still had to tell her that he was in love with her. 

So summer of 1908, two days after Alexander returned from school, he asked Edith to meet him by the pond where they had first spoken to one another.

“Alexander?” Edith called.

Alexander turned and smiled. “Hello.”

She grinned back. “When did you arrive home?”

“Two days ago. I wrote to you the moment I arrived, but Mama insisted we spend family time before I see friends.”

“Friends?” She mused, walking over and holding his hand. “Are we just friends?”

His heart fluttered, and he tried not to blush. “No, of course not.” He swallowed. “Do you remember what I said in my letter before last?”

Edith nodded. “You said you more than fancied me. You said you loved me. Did you truly mean it?”

“I did. I do. I do love you. I love you very much.”

She blushed and turned to face him, clutching the sides of his arms. Her grip was firm but soft, and Alexander thought he’d die on the spot, her touching him. “I love you too,” she whispered.

His heart leaped with joy, and never before had he been so happy to hear such words. He looked into her bright eyes, shining like the sun, and he thought he’d never seen something more beautiful. Involuntarily, he leaned forward until his breath was upon hers. He didn’t know what he was doing, only a flurry of such strong emotions running through like a river, and he let his body do what his heart desired. 

Edith stroked his cheek gently before craning her neck and pressing her lips against his. 

Alexander nearly moaned at the touch of her lips against his. They parted briefly before he kissed her passionately, hugging her sides as she wrapped her arms around his neck. This was heaven, he thought. This was pure joy. 

Finally, after what seemed like only seconds and hours at the same time, Edith broke their kiss and giggled, resting her head against his cheek, still clutching his arms. Alexander gathered her into his arms, and they both closed their eyes, staying still for quite some time. 

[aidensteddybear]

Hi!! Can you do little Axel HCs? She’s my favourite reboot character and I can’t find any little Axel

Regressor! Axel Headcanons

•She’s super tiny. She’ll regress anywhere from 0-4.

•Very calm and quiet, mostly. She can still be short tempered, but that’s really if something or someone is upsetting her.

•She has a book filled with poems for children that she enjoys reading/having them be read to her.

•She’s a sleepy baby. Most of the time when she regresses, she’ll just nap.

•She has a gray baby blanket that she carries around everywhere.

•She doesn’t get scared easily, unless someone mentions zombies around her. That’s really one of the only things that freaks her out.

•She has a huge collection of stuffed animals.

•Always has a pacifier in her mouth. It’s her main comfort item.

•She’s super affectionate, but she’s too shy to ask for any hugs/cuddles. Though, it’s pretty easy to tell when she wants them.

•Enjoys having her hair brushed out/played with.

•Very messy eater. She refuses to use any sort of silverware, she’ll only use her hands to eat.

•She doesn’t like any sort of loud noises. They don’t scare her or anything, they just really annoy her.

•She’ll only wear clothes like pajamas or long sweatshirts with sweatpants. She can’t stand normal daytime clothes and will more than likely cry if she has to wear them.

•If she can’t sleep, cradling and rocking her always helps. Whenever her caregiver rocks her, she’ll be fast asleep in minutes.

•She’s not very talkative, she’ll only talk if she absolutely has to. Though she does sometimes like to babble and coo, but that really only happens when she’s at her youngest.

•It’s extremely easy to tell when she’s getting tired. She’ll start rubbing her eyes and/or rubbing her face against her blanket while whining and mumbling.

•She loves grabbing random objects. If she can get her hands on it, she will take it and either carry it around with her or hide it somewhere.

•When she gets nervous or anxious, she’ll start to chew on things. She mainly chews on her fingers though.

•She prefers bottles over sippy cups.

•If she regresses after a bad day, then she’s going to very cranky. All she’ll do the whole time is pout, whine, and cry. The only thing that makes her feel better is just a bunch of cuddles from her caregiver.

[iviarellereads]

Nona the Ninth, Epilogue

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(First House icon) In which some things never change.

(Before I continue, go back to the Guest List, the poem that follows it. "You held aloft the sword. / I still love y")

When the rock that had been made meat awoke in a body, it cried aloud, saying—You.

It breaks the chains on its wrists and ankles, the wrists and ankles breaking with the chains. The chains around its neck collapse when it lifts its head and cries, so reminiscent of our dear and only just departed, "Ah, ah, ah."(1)

One of the children(2) seems to offer violence, raising her weapon, but "the black-eyed infant"(3) chides her, and they banter.(4) Alecto rises from the altar, and hits Ianthe with her empty broken hand, forgetting the sword in the other. Ianthe isn't dead, but thrown into the water "like a detestable thing."(5)

And many skeletons emerged from the bones of the bier, and from the walls of the tomb, but when the sword was raised, they fled. When the broken feet touched the stone around the tomb, they were mended, and when the broken hands raised the sword they were mended also, but the body itself was not fully awake, and stumbled on the steps at the bier, crying, John, John; but did not fall.

Some dead children on the shore are "striving loudly" with the living children, and Alecto doesn't know what happened when she hears a voice call her name, and she remembers, and wakes fully.

And Alecto said, Pyrrha, he laid me down as an appeasement to them; he fed you to them as an appeasement to them; but he has never appeased me, and now all he has done was teach me how to die.(6) But Pyrrha did not hear above the noise.

Alecto remembers a vow, and turns back to the other child next to her, raising her sword… but her black eyes awaken another memory, one she had once dreamed, and she stays her sword.

Harrow says she's loved Alecto her whole life, with her whole soul and her whole strength, and she is ready to be destroyed, for she loves still.(7)

Alecto was angry, and raised her up, and kissed her. The child did not cry out, though blood fell from her lips and tongue, and she was wounded sore. For Alecto knew not how to kiss, except such as it involved the mouth and teeth. And Alecto said to her, Why are you not appeased? That is how meat loves meat.(8)

But the blood makes Alecto understand, and she confirms with Harrow that she is the tomb-keeper's line, unbroken. Alecto says she's "very sorry about Samael"(9) and when Harrow doesn't answer, Alecto continues that she swore a vow of service to Anastasia, a favour,(10) which now passes to Harrow as her heir. Harrow protests that she is tainted and lowly, but Alecto kneels and offers her sword, placing Harrow's hand on the blade to seal the vow again in blood, which makes Harrow weak but she doesn't swoon.

Which strength pleased Alecto, who said: Notwithstanding, I offer you my service. To which a voice on the opposite side of the shore was raised, exceeding wroth, and Alecto heard it shout in a very great shout: Get in line, thou big slut.(11) * * * Afterward Alecto went down to the ship(12) and stood before John, purposing to travel through the River, and was grieved to find it yet dead.(13) John was asleep, and not in his garments, unshaved and still drunken. The child who accepted the blade and thereupon fainted with hunger and thirst was thrown over one of Alecto’s arms,(14) a deep sleep like death upon her, and in Alecto’s other hand was the iron sword. And so Alecto took that iron sword, and with one hand pierced John’s chest with it, even to the heart. At which John awakened and said, Annabel, good morning.(15)

=====

(1) It has been brought to my attention that this, coming from Alecto (and previously from Nona, but this is the first time it becomes truly referential) could very well be part of the bridge from Barbie Girl, by Aqua, the so-controversial song. "Come on barbie, let's go party" "Ah-ah-ah-yeah." (2) For they are all children, all her children in a way, but none can hold an inch's length of life to her. (3) Harrow, awake and returned. (4) I'm not just pasting all of this as direct quotes, but referenced memes I see: two-halves dead is hard to source but it feels familiar and not just from my prior read of this book; "then perish" is a classic ye olde Tumblr meme. (5) I love to see Ianthe succeed but I also love to see her treated this way? I just love to see her. I love all the messy women Muir included in her story. So much. (6) The resonance with Nona and the way her last week was spent learning to die. I just. (7) I find this absolutely fascinating as the fulcrum of the scene. John's love is possessive, dominant, commanding, and Alecto grows more and more angry with him and his way. Harrow's love is open, an offering of everything she has and is, and Alecto stays her blade. There's a thesis in here, once AtN is released, I just know it. (8) This book is so quotable, I swear. (9) Here come the theories about Samael being one of Anastasia's children. We now have confirmation that Harrow is of her genetic line, so, the baby room from two chapters ago, that Pyrrha painted mint green. But, some people out there have assembled very compelling evidence that Samael may also have been Anastasia's child, hence the sorrowful apology… and possibly the vow of service. (10) And so we come to how Alecto the First becomes… Alecto the Ninth, coming hopefully in 2024. (11) Kiriona-Gideon, never ever change. <3<3 (12) Down to what ship? How did she travel? (13) The River is DEAD? How and why and what--- THE RIVER IS DEAD?! Long live the Tower, it seems. (14) So Alecto brought Harrow along just to… hang out in her spare arm. Right. Sure. (15) And that beginning poem again. Only, did he really send Kiriona to wake her? ALECTO THE NINTH WHEN?!

But really. That's all.

Hell Will Break Loose In ALECTO THE NINTH

[hekateinhell]

♡ + Armand/Lestat

I didn't realize you'd reblogged this meme and now you gotta feed me in return 😾 (and if someone else has asked for them in VC then I wanna know about them in your high school au)

babe you get my entire kitchen, apartment, whatever you want 🥹 LOL you already know the whole arc I have planned for them in the sequel but I'll stay in context of where we saw them last on ao3 -- their mutual boyfriend's name freshly tattooed on both their asses and Armand struggling to admit to Lestat that he loves him as well, before Lestat (for once), did the hard part for him.

• Who is the most affectionate?

Lestat.

Armand is incredibly insecure about just how much he's 'allowed' to touch him in public and in private so he doesn't readily initiate -- he doesn't want to rock the boat now that Louis's other boyfriend seems to have finally accepted him (he doesn't entirely trust Lestat's drunken and endorphin-fueled love confession).

Lestat's trying to navigate the awkward 'undefined' stage as well, but in the meantime, he'd like everyone else to know in no uncertain terms that this one also belongs to him. He's living his dream with one arm around Louis's waist and the other draped over Armand's neck. Everyone knows Lestat and Louis have been an on/off item, everyone knows Armand and Louis have also been an item for a while now, Lestat would like the world to know that he and Armand are also... something.

He just doesn't know what yet but if he could mark Armand like a dog in public, he would. It means the world to him that Armand never gave him back his leather jacket after that night and wears it to school every day even though it's much too baggy on him and reaches precisely down to his thighs. To Lestat's eighteen-year-old brain, they're practically engaged as long as Armand holds on to that jacket.

• Who initiates the handholding?

See above.

Poor Lestat has to instigate literally everything right now. Oh no, it's not going to cause any problems down the line, why would it? 😔

• Who worries more for the other?

Armand worries about Lestat living on his own since his mother bailed and left him alone with an empty house. Lestat doesn't... do well alone. He'll invite anyone over to hang out and party if Armand and Louis just can't be there; bad things happen.

• Who is more likely to ask for help?

Directly? Neither of them. But Lestat's much more prone to purposely and consciously acting out in the hope someone will notice and help him. Armand will just pretend Bad Things Aren't Happening.

• Who is the one always losing the keys?

Lestat loses everything that isn't physically attached to his person. Sometimes he forgets where he parked his car and that's his baby.

• Who leaves little love notes for the other?

They're in the same grade (even though Lestat's older, Armand skipped a year and Lestat got held back a year) so Armand and Louis typically share their notes with Lestat who has a terrible fucking time focusing during class (it's the ADHD and dyslexia). He'd much rather and much more easily fill a notebook with lyrics and random doodles for his dream album covers.

When Armand knows Lestat will actually be reading over his notes later (only under threat of a quiz or an exam -- he would like to graduate this year, thank you very much), he works in little quotes from his favorite love poems or songs.

He hopes Lestat knows it's intentional that Armand penned out the entire [love is more thicker than forget] in the margins, that Armand was thinking of him when he wrote it and not just scribbling because he's bored. Don't judge him; we all went through our E.E. Cummings phase.

• Who can't sleep unless the other is there?

Armand is an anxious sleeper and his home life in foster care isn't... great, so he spends at least half of his day at school catching up on sleep. He gets his best sleep in the library on someone's lap; out on the field using Lestat's stomach as a pillow while they lay out on the grass away from everyone else; in the backseat of Lestat's car with Louis's crumpled-up sweater as a pillow and Lestat's jacket as a blanket.

Armand would never sleep in front of other people, but on a mostly subconscious level, he feels safest just knowing Lestat's around -- a 6ft, 175-pound German Shepard that for some reason is personally interested in him right now.

(Though I have to say, Lestat loves when Armand can sleep over at his house, for many reasons aside from the obvious.)

• Who is more likely to propose to the other?

Considering how Armand drunkenly and brazenly asked Lestat to fuck him before they've ever done it, I'm going to say Armand. Whoops...

Let's hope when Armand proposes it goes better than the 'fuck me' conversation did.

• Who introduced the other to their family first?

Neither of their family is in the picture at the moment, so we're going to thrust this onto Louis.

Technically, Lestat and Armand knew of each other and had seen each other around the school before, but the day Louis formally introduced them to each other as his boyfriends was interesting -- in fact, it went something like...

Armand: [spit, hissss] 😾😾😾

Lestat: the fuck.

• Who is more likely to play with the other's hair?

Lestat loves playing with Armand's hair while Armand's napping. He has a shit ton of nervous energy that needs an outlet and he always has to have his hands busy with something, plus he'll make up literally any and every excuse to touch Armand.

• Who makes sure the other has meals/stays hydrated?

Lestat knows about Armand's home life and that he can't always afford to buy lunch at school, so he usually grabs him something from the deli when he goes for himself. He buys something for Louis too so Armand doesn't feel awkward and singled out; it makes Lestat feel good to be in any sort of big manly provider role and it doesn't hurt that Armand flutters his lashes at him and playfully licks his lips as he whispers 'thank you.'

• Who is more likely to stand up to anyone for the other?

Lestat has a much more reactive and implosive temper, so it would probably be him if someone even so much as looked at Armand the wrong way.

He's lost plenty of sleep trying to find out what exactly Armand meant by the virginity comment (they're not in the place yet where he can outright ask and he doesn't want to bring it up to Louis in case Armand hasn't and it'll become A Thing). But he fantasizes about getting to the bottom of it one day so he can figure out who to kill.

Most people leave Lestat alone because he's generally pretty popular and well-liked (and also an older senior who's had his share of fights), but if Armand ever overhears some snarky asshole insulting Lestat's intelligence because he's repeating a grade, he will cut them down to size with the most bitingly vicious words in the calmest possible tone. He might even smile as he does it, just to be extra creepy.

• Who is the most likely to prepare a surprise for the other?

Armand did spring the tattoos thing on Lestat, so I'd have to say Armand.

People expect Lestat to be capricious; Armand not so much, so it's extra surprising. But he loves to plan little 'not quite dates' and excursions that often rely on the premise of 'just trust me, Lestat! 🥺'

• Who makes the other pinky promise not to do certain things?

Armand makes Lestat pinky promise that he's not going do anything reckless like drink and drive if he's going to a house party Armand and Louis can't attend. It's not that Lestat means to be reckless, he just thinks he's invincible.

Lestat's pinky promise requests are much more innocuous, usually after they've made up following a petty adolescent squabble: 'Promise you're not still mad at me? Swear on it.'

• Who puts a blanket over the other when they fall asleep on the couch?

Lestat covers Armand up when he's fallen asleep at school, Armand covers Lestat when he falls asleep on his couch or in his bed. Usually Lestat's on top of him already, between his legs and resting his head on his chest, and so it takes a bit of gymnastics practice to maneuver a blanket over them both. It's worth it for some of the best sleep either of them will get anytime soon. 💖

[theshehulkproject]

18, 21, 25!

Yessssss!

18: A memorable meal this year?

The first one! On New Year’s morning, my friend pulled out all the stops and had a fully gluten free crepe party/brunch for my friends who had come to town for New Year's. She served one round of savory crepes. Oh wait, I found a picture of the menu she made.

it’s not so much the crepes as it is… just the love that’s stored in that meal. The wonder of setting the table and then sitting in the coziest kitchen with my friend who is 6 watching my best friends bustle about the kitchen. Reading bits of a literary nonfiction book aloud whenever something catches my fancy. Truly the Wendy Cope Orange poem of meals.

21: What’s something new about your place of residence (room, home, or general location) now vs the start of the year?

I moved! Once upon a time I lived in a low-ceilinged basement apartment, but then I found a newt in it (!!!) and found that the floorboards were full on molding. I freaked out and moved out to a second story apartment that’s my favorite place I’ve ever lived alone—just enough space for me and my cat, more sunlight, and a covered patio!!! That my dad and I converted to a catio!!!

25: Did you create any characters (in games, art, or writing) this year? Describe one

@starlit-mansion you are the only one who knows about them!!! But I’ll tell everyone else as well.

Sometimes before bed I'll look at exchange Original Works writing prompts to full-contact juggle in my brain while I'm drifting off. I found a prompt for The Goddess of Telepathy/The God of Jewelry/The God of Time and I got so excited I couldn't sleep for HOURS. Before too long I had three solid characters and a whole pantheon set up, it was a beautiful thing. I still think of them constantly, but this is the most I've written down about them for a long time:

The Goddess of Telepathy is basically the goddess of deep knowing; the goddess of mountains and whalesong and the feeling that rocks get when rivers run over them for a hundred years... and also like 15 actually telepathic humans but they all try not to make too big a deal out of it. She's big in every dimension: tall and fat with the confidence of an opera singer but the serenity of someone who meditates every day. Her skin is the light brown of willow bark and she wears exclusively drapey, toga-like clothing.

The God of Jewelry is a real gremlin of a man, who was once the Goddess of Jewelry but then he made a golden phallus one time and decided it was his. Where his wife is still and serene, his hands are always in motion, always fiddling with the incredible amount of jewelry he has on at any time. He wears sort of a punk-rock military-style jacket and has dark skin with locs that have all kinds of beads in them. Very important: He always has a small living golden frog that spends most of its time as an ear cuff and might be his familiar? possibly a help in the jewelry forge?

The God of Time is just a mess.

I love these three but I might love them too much to commit them to an OW story? Someone did request them again for Holly Poly, though, so I might try to make it work for that? We'll see.

(I have other OCs that I haven't told anyone about, also based on OW ship tags, and I could share if you want but also it's late and I might have to go to bed.)

[mokkemusic]

I am just gonna express here complete gibberish but you don’t understand how much I love Chihayafuru I have so many scenes running through my mind after the spin off chapter. It’s not just progression in goals ! It’s progressions In how characters view things and THAT THAT TO ME IS THE MOST IMPORTANT. Everybody has said this and I agree with them you can’t describe this series to anyone you just can’t, you won’t do it any justice no matter how skilled you are. Cause it’s genius that can only be told through experience DEAR GOD GIVE ME A SEASON 4 !!!!!

Let me be clear I am not preaching to any of you this post is just for me

Hell I saw such character growth in Arata today ARATA ! Im not gonna take 5 mins to say THAT WAS A JOKE IM NOT PUTTING DOWN ARATA I’m just not. But goddammit I was so proud of him and his connections with people and the POEMS! The God of the Karuta world everyone said up on a frekin pedestal yea?! Well where’s his connection with the poems huh? You might have had everyone convinced but not me! But today I saw the translation I read about Arata talking to Sumire about the poems and how he finally felt connected to them and I FULL ON SOBBED! - no one has any idea what I’m talking about Idc this is for me 😂

I saw this family come to together again Hiro was a bright and eccentric as ever. My precious boy! Chihaya was the sun that came down working so hard behind the scenes this whole time even though Sumire though she just dumped all this on her and she had no one to turn to

I SAW TAICHI HAPPY DAMMIT! HE WAS HAPPY with this little daddy bear phone pop socket and every little sentimental thing that is second nature to his relationship with Chihaya IF I HAVENT MENTIONED IT THERE DATING YOU KNOW IN CASE I DIDNT MENTION IT!

I saw lonely people connect and support each other, I saw old friends. I saw how much this story has impacted characters you wouldn’t think to give this kinda thought too!

I saw genuine emotions from Arata when Mizuzawa won (yea yea I know I know) but like you could see it on his face!

There’s so much that these characters had to go through to get to all this! And even do nothing is “amazing” it’s just trying. If there’s anything Chihayafuru doesn’t do it’s plateau success. The characters could be on cloud nine one day then rock bottom the next SUCH AS LIFE ! but it’s their ways of thinking that change and progress which is wow … that is also growth right? Seems like such a simple concept but it makes me so emotional! As do all the call backs and memories that are PACKED into this ch! I will be making an edit when I’ve rested my thumbs cause I haven’t stopped typing all damn day! (Dana then why are you typing now?) CAUSE I AM FILLED WITH TOO MUCH EMOTION IM GONNA EXPLODE THATS WHY

Anyway I didn’t have a point to any of this and if I did I lost it except the ones that I already said I JUST LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS DAMN SERIES I JUST LOVE EVERYONE! THEY ARE SO BURNED INTO MY HEART!

Hell I made a 17 sec reaction of me screaming cause I saw Hiroshi HIROSHI like. I love you Hiroshi I love you everyone

Ok thank you for coming to my ramble

[crater-lake]

168

10/21/24

I am going to decide to trust what exhaustion is saying about everything and still want to exist by the end of this entry. I am going to change the reason why I live. I will try to disappear to save myself (I bet Sebastian from choir, and Murod have never needed to get as low as this, but even this assessment is a farce of my ego.)

Platon said he was not interested in me but I understood that this was going to happen from his lack of interest over DMs. I wanted to give that a neutral assessment to be righteous but I was wrong about that. I should have judged it, and did. I defended myself well and forgive myself for being boring, ugly, and not artistic enough, even though being artistic was once everything. He did not want to capture me with his photography eyes. Maybe he could tell I was a fraud that I can only ever half tell when a poem is good, and that my small, stupid books, my self deprecating talk about shame and lack of conviction (how he has survived his life and I have lived mine) and that I am just ugly. My hairline is receding and my face is fat and my clothes are average. I had this thought tonight: 2024 is the year I really see myself. My dreams are bullshit because I am a failing artist, like Miles and Jana. I don't know about the kernel of breath and the decay of language. Don't ask me questions that go any deeper than that. I will obviously become confused. I am a bad poet to the bone, and isn't that everything? And I am ashamed to be so fixated on my badness. Better people would just go and live but I am in a nothing room complaining about not living.

Platon needs men more interesting than me. I am frequently bored by myself and don't think I want a whole life at all. I don't dream of anything because I know I am not who I am. I am not. I am not even worth love by my best friend who I know will just think I am boring one day too. And Matt will also see through my fraudulence and decide on how I am just some stupid fucking guy. Platon said I was smarter than him and it's not true at all. I just don't know when I shut up. I just don't know how else to love myself besides to find myself interesting. And whenever I can move on to the next thought, imagine what will come of my precious life.

I see Josh walking into the cafe, I see Josh sitting on the bus in 2018. I see my journal listening. Today I read how the old Austrian people are looking for love and cried, thank god for that cry. I see my journal listening. To the third person stories. In my dream, Frankie is on a trampoline hitting someone in the nose. Molly is having an awkward kiss in a kitchen that smells a little wrong. I can hear those voices too when I really listen. I don't mind that I am bad at telling stories. I just say that action parts. I just cannot stand anticipation and don't care for it. I imagine how much more lovable I'd be if I could tell a story well.

What does my head mean lying on Platon's shoulder? I'm sitting at a table and we are drinking and playing truth or truth. They say they are afraid to die and I feel so bored. I said I am afraid that I am not the main actor in my own story. I do not say my actual deep fear of loneliness. I like how business does not include love usually. Emily says talk to me if you need as I wish I didn't exist. The problem is if I stopped existing it might be a slippery slope and that love subtraction would build up and up and up. I have nothing to say about how dragon flies breathe by letting wind pass through them. I don't care or understand how that connects to grief. I am a boy who wants a rock thrown at him. Platon was wrong about the right things and right about the wrong things. Leaves do not speak by trees by wind. I make very boring and stupid comments about instrument. I make boring and stupid comments about Left and Right and Passion as Patior in Latin. Imagine if I were still in my season.

It was nice today how Alexandra didn't let me get any deeper in the self deprecating and didn't ask probing questions about my bad week. I didn't want to say it and didn't know how to. She also didn't want to hear it which I liked. She might find me callous at times, but I have trouble understanding what she likes about me at the moment. Forgiveness is acceptance that hurts you to do it (I can feel Charlie qualify everything with a sly metaphor). Forgiveness is acceptance that you don't want to do in the first place. Does forgiveness get tied to your reaction (choice) or the self (no choice). My aunt is dead and I stop being interesting after that. Ananya experiences unimaginable horrors and I conjure a 4 year old nothing ego death. I was snow globe important. I was night rolled sweetly into mint gum into the Walgreens I don't know how to get back into. I am a night I stay up too late for. And I must be alright since I am writing so much and whatever the words are talking to moves something.

Jay said You're chewing loud and Jay said something about .... and I didn't understand. Nate is annoying nearby. I don't want to exist but manage that like every girl has done since she was 14. I am new to not wanting a body or a name for a few minutes. I am so many dominoes waiting and never not once pummeling down. I am the nothing difference between have and be. I am a concept that makes someone important. I am a poem that I don't get. I tried to hide my self hatred but he scented it. You salt the Earth with your wanting.

The summer bugs stop at one point. I mistook the inhaling through my nostrils for the bugs I haven't heard since I left. What strange magic.

[jefferyryanlong]

Fresh Listen - Billy Paul, Let 'Em In (Philadelphia International Records, 1976)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a periodic review of recently and not so recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

Over the course of a winter afternoon, slightly stoned from my father's weed vape and some Brazilian beer I had with lunch, I went hunting for vinyl records in Little Rock, Arkansas. I'd driven from my parents' house in a township called Central, which was really just a stretch of country highway outside of a bigger town named Malvern. Walmart, Popeyes, car dealerships and a main drag with mostly empty storefronts and secondhand stores.

There was a dearth of commercial/cultural spaces in Malvern: no bookstores nor record shops, no movie theaters. Even Hot Springs, a heavily trafficked tourist spot to the north, had only a modest selection of joints in which to dig for tunes. In the basement of the historic Arlington Hotel, I'd found a used, overpriced copy of Lalo Schifrin's Rock Requiem. Desire far from fulfilled, I sped to the state capitol after googling a short list of places that might be able to satisfy my jones: Control Records, Been Around Records and CD's, and Ugly Mike's. Since Control Records didn't seem like it would be open between Christmas and New Year's, I wended my way to Ugly Mike's for some digging.

The only other customers in Ugly Mike's were a younger couple, college students, maybe, and I was immediately impressed by their commitment to wade through what was essentially a late-90's music store in the middle of conversion to a hoarder's purgatory. It brought to mind John Ashberry's poem "The Bungalows": "You who were directionless, and thought it would solve everything if you found one, / What do you make of this? Just because a thing is immortal / Is that any reason to worship it? Death, after all, is immortal. "

I simply couldn't reconcile Ugly Mike's as a shop, a place of business. At some point, it had been a bonafide music store, maybe a popular one, but the product that that it sold, neglected with a carelessness that bordered on hostility to the most basic elements of trade, mouldered away in direct sunlight. In the central area, compact discs were arranged (I hesitate to use the term "organized") in those specially made press wood shelving units that were ubiquitous in both specialty shops and department stores in the late 90's, early 2000's, lined with squared-packaged discs under placards that read Rock, Pop, Jazz, and Soul. A layer of dust blanketed each row of CD's, still stickered with late 90's prices; $18.99, the going rate for an album back then, which seems inconceivable in today's streaming reality. The whole works was a monument to a time long past, far from missed.

To the side of the CD shelves were rows and rows of tattered cardboard boxes, LP's in worse shape than the boxes themselves, dirty and scratched with torn covers, obviously intended for the garbage. Ugly Mike seemed to have little interest in making them presentable. Though most of the records seemed to consist of the same stuff found on the floor of a Salvation Army (Andy Williams Christmas songs, pop tunes covered by easy-listening instrumental bands), I was able to pull from the rubbish a Quincy Jones, an MFSB, and Billy Paul's Let 'Em In to my breast. Flashes of genuine taste.

Unfortunately, I couldn't dig as deep as I'd wanted. For in addition to the D.L. Hughley radio show (soul/disco hits from the 70's) Ugly Mike played on the store's overhead speakers, Ugly Mike simultaneously ran a podcast about some islands off the coast of Africa loudly at another set of bluetooth speakers at a table, which served as his counter. The dual signals were getting to me. When I approached him, fight-or-flight response coursing through my body, Ugly Mike glanced at the records under my arm without taking his attention away from the podcast, charged me twenty dollars, and sent me on my way.

Paul's Let 'Em In starts off with great joy and not a little defiance. A clip from a Malcolm X speech, criticizing the American Dream as a boondoggle for the marginalized people of this country, rides along a jaunty groove courtesy of Philadelphia International Records. Malcolm questions the aspiration that prescribes complicity at the cost of one's soul. Whereas Paul McCartney's original seemed an open-ended invitation to any odd assortment of characters, Billy Paul's references to Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm, and even Louis Armstrong presents itself more as an argument, without rancor, for the inclusion of these great men into the historical record, as well as the popular consciousness. The implicit critique is that the United States has been resistant to having its story be told from the perspective of Black folks; Paul posits that a widening of the lens and acknowledge a lesser told (and lesser heard) story would result in a more happening party all around.

A slight criticism is that producers Gamble and Huff miss an opportunity in disposing of McCartney's most memorable motif from the song, a little marching melody he weaves between the verse and bridge. Not that it's essential to the story Billy Paul is telling; I would have just liked to hear that groove manifested through some of those hot Philly players.

Overall, though, the PIR factory has the tendency to smooth out the rough edges of their musicians, to a fault. PIR did not buy into the Stax or Fame Studios aesthetic, where the grit and grime is almost the point. Here the drums are perfectly balanced, guitars subtle and rhythmic, and strings tie everything together, almost muzakally. The result is sonic sophistication, expertly calibrated, to an extent that the soul and message of the artist are buried deep in the mix.

The next two tracks from Let 'Em In, both Gamble and Huff compositions, situate Paul as a counter-voice to 1970's looseness and depravity, moralistic stances that erode Paul's hipness. "We All Got a Mission," almost danceable, loses power in the obviousness of its lyrics about social responsibility. "How Good Is Your Game," a little smokier with its Latin-tinged guitars, is not exactly the song one wants to hear on the dance floor either, especially when one is trying to desperately to get said game on. Rather, the song is a chilling reminder that we're all powered by tightly controlled illusions about ourselves; the self-awareness Paul offers is unwelcome when we're out in the world trying to make some love.

The sanctimoniousness eases up on "Love Don't Come Easy," though the singer can't resist the the persistent helpfulness that borders on the self-righteous. For a moment, though, Steve Urkel becomes Stefan Urquelle, dropping G-rated love-making pointers to Carl.

A cover of Badfinger-by-way-of-Harry-Nilsson's "Without You" kicks off the ballad side of the record: music for candlelit anniversaries and bubble baths. This latter half cool-down is listenable, although it has the tendency, in its Philadelphia International Records way, to become so smooth as to be colorless, chrome. Like the musical arrangements, Paul's voice slides rather than hits; he seeks to caress, not to provoke. In that sense, he surely accomplishes what he's set out to do, and in the process forsakes memorableness for polish. Side Two doesn't grip the listener. It floats away like the scent of rose hips.

There is undoubtedly a space for this style of music. It's that space inhabited by Al Jarreau, Christopher Cross; that space where you can hear yourself breathe, when stillness of being takes precedence over the primitive violence of acting out or upon. The songs expend time, yet they give off a sense of stasis. But one must love to live with this feeling, when one invests a few hours getting to know a used record bought in a busted down Arkansas shop. As the great John Ashberry wrote, "Who cares what was there before? There is no going back; / For standing still means death, and life is moving on, / Moving on toward death. But sometimes standing still is also life."

[simmetrycal]

good morning ༉‧₊

synopsis:

ash being a man in an unusual but valid sense of the word.

word count: 3k

a/n: enjoy. chapter three of the mystery girl series coming soon, bear with me.

˚ · .

you might expect someone who’s as popular as ash to have a verbosely full phone with tons of messages always flooding through and people constantly hitting up his line. but as truth would have it, ash’s phone was as barren as a wasteland.

granted, his storage was still full on a daily basis. he takes hundreds of photos of rocky, especially when the two go on morning runs or hikes. he’s proud of the way they look; aesthetically outdoorsy and he’s always matching his outfit with a new dog leash or harness. he’s quick to get home and lay on his bed before changing into his work clothes, scrolling and picking out his favorite picture and posting it to his instagram story.

other images in his camera roll include scroll after scroll of memes and dumb tweets, accompanied by 0.5 forehead pictures of his caught-off-gaurd unsuspecting assistant.

ash rolled over on his bed at the country house utterly groggy, struggling to wake up. he slid up his pink nighttime eye mask and rubbed his tired face. rocky was peacefully sleeping on the lower half by his legs, curled up into a big ball.

ash felt around the sea of white duvet covers, looking for his phone to take a picture of rocky. why does everything disappear in this bed? he thinks, realizing he could’ve made a silly joke if he had a late night friend with him. perhaps he’d add “like clothing” with an eyebrow wiggle or maybe a wink.

after several long moments of him searching around, getting more and more frustrated by the second, he found his phone on the floor, face down on the rug. ash grabs it and immediately swipes from right to left to open his camera. but before he could do that, he noticed a single email.

˚ · .

“really? that’s it? how rude.” ash’s mom, grace, says as she sips her london fog, eyes peering to reread the email ash got this morning.

grace loves weekends almost as much as she loves her son. what’s more perfect is that the two often join each other at their usual coffee shop almost every saturday morning. ash had just shown her his unfortunately devastating email from a magazine he attempted to submit a poem to.

Dear Asher,

Thank you so much for submitting your work for consideration. We have decided against publishing your submission, but we wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.

Regards.

it stung, he couldn’t lie. he had to force himself to get out of bed and put some clothes on after reading it for the first time, act like he wasn’t upset about getting put down from his new hobby. act like he could stop thinking of it as he drove himself and rock back to their place in the city.

he was supposed to stay out here at the country house for the whole weekend but the septic tank is getting fixed. he’d rather peacefully shit in his apartment than out there.

anyhow, ash has recently taken up poetry. specifically lifestyle poetry.

the problem is, he sucks. he knows it, everyone else knows it, his mom knows it, and apparently so does Ranger Magazine.

“i mean, they could have at least worded it nicer,” he says curtly to his mom as his drink gets brought over. he ordered a caramel vanilla frappuccino like the total sugar boy he is.

he takes a sip and settles a bit better in his chair. happy to have something in his system other than two cherry tomatoes and a cheese stick.

“mm, i agree.” grace says, but thinks for a moment. “though, maybe this is a good thing.”

“are you about to tell me rejection is a blessing?”

grace smiled and seemed to see past her sons annoyance about the situation. “this is a perfect opportunity for you to grow and learn, ash. don’t quit now, keep writing, and you’ll surely improve.”

her words are kind and they touch ash’s heart- but he knows following her advice will be a bit harder than she realizes. ash is quick to give up a hobby he isn’t immediately good at, especially when he’s already naturally talented in many other aspects of life.

though, ash wouldn’t even be picking up a new hobby in the first place if he wasn’t heartbroken and finding new ways to distract himself.

grace doesn’t know this, though. and ash plans to keep it that way. she’s seen him go through quite a few situations where he simply leaves his heart out on a butcher block thinking it’ll be best taken care of there. of course, it’s never the case for him and he’s gotten quite good at picking himself back up. she doesn’t need to know he still has the habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“so much for being celibate”, chantelle’s voice pings around in his mind.

“no worries mom, i’ll keep at it.” ash lies as he starts getting up, pushing in his chair. he knew he had to lie otherwise they’d be there forever, talking about blessings and god and never giving up.

ash wasn’t giving up in the way that others would think. he’s simply focusing his energy elsewhere..

but where is elsewhere? what’s he going to do with the rest of his saturday?

after loving goodbyes with his mom, ash makes his way his audi, folding into it and immediately dialing up his closest buddies to hang out.

his coworker raymond and his seventeen year old half sister eva being his only options at the moment seemed pathetic. he knew for sure raymond would say no to a hang out, but hope still coursed through him when ray accepted the facetime.

ash barely even looked at the screen as he started talking, too focused on pulling out of the annoyingly packed parking lot. this place screams hit and run.

“i’m free all day is what im say-“ ash stops when he looks down at the phone for the first time. raymond is half asleep listening to him and he’s got a certain pink haired goddess leaning on his shoulder. oh.

“is this a bad time..?”

“yeah.”

“nahh,” vanessa says, trying to play innocent but by the way raymond looks, he knows they’re up to no good.

“you know, just because i’m your boss doesn’t mean you’re obligated to pick up.” ash backtracks, nervous about vanessa seeing how lonely ash truly is. he wants outsiders to not see through his facade.

“you literally once told me the exact opposite of that.”

ash rolled his eyes and chuckled. “see ya,” he says before pressing the red button to end it. he was happy at the very least to get to say hi to raymond, even if he was busy for the day.

next, he finds eva’s contact and calls her twice. no pick up. she sleeps until noon on the weekends like a typical teenager. perhaps ash’ll bring her some ice cream later.

“hmm..” he sits in his car at a red light, trying to compartmentalize his messy thoughts. he can’t stop thinking about the premature death of the “situation” he was recently in. but he knew it was normal to be sad, and to want to hang onto it. it was part of the process— he had to let himself linger on the emotions for a few days, accepting thoughts as they come and letting them go.

too many thoughts, though, could lead to him getting overly stressed. so he hits a play button on his steering wheel to continue whatever music was on his phone.

good morning by kanye begins and his body vibrates with the accidental boom of his subwoofers he left turned way up from last night. he quiets them as he cruises, appreciating the sunshine coming up over the horizon.

ash absolutely loves the sun, the heat, the light. it’d been raining for eight days and now with the sun in his presence again, he felt more at peace. happier than his usual amount of happiness.

his big, cute sunglasses hid the way his eyes crinkled with a smile. maybe he would keep up the poetry. maybe he could write about the sun, or his mom, or his feelings. feelings he allowed himself to not fear. or a blend of all three.

˚ · .

later, ash finds himself at a bookstore, perusing the many shelves and tables filled with romance novels with dumb covers.

ash knows he shouldn’t but he does judge actual books by their covers. but hey! it wasn’t his fault that most of them nowadays look like an ugly collage of bright clip art.

and what business did those books have by putting the absolute smuttiest scenes not even halfway through? he rolled his eyes, tired of this trend. but why was he even tired? he thought, it’s not like he’s an avid reader anyway.

maybe he could become one. maybe one of these books will come home with the lucky asher solace and who knows? maybe he might even finish it.

first, he had to pick one out- the hardest part some may say. ash didn’t allow himself to open any of them, he simply let himself judge the cover art of all of them and he chose the least corny one. a photo finish, by elsie silver.

least corny cover didn’t mean least corny story, he found out soon enough. he chose a place by the too hot fireplace to read some to see if he liked it.

a few minutes turned into a fly-by hour all of a sudden and he didn’t even realize until the heat of the fire was practically melting him- urging him to get up and buy the book. he liked it more than he thought he would, loving how stupidly corny it was whilst at the same time, hot and sexy.

ash was so distracted that he ended up accidentally leaving without paying. realizing halfway through his walk in the parking lot before running back to go do that.

he continued his read in his car but it wasn’t the same, his mind couldn’t get quiet again like how it was in the bookstore by the fireplace. the vibe was off and for some reason, all he could think about was this manly urge to build or put something together.

he needed a new shelf anyway for his bearbricks, so he placed his new wonderful book on his passenger seat and opened up the lowes website on his phone.

is an eight dollar shelf suspicious..? it looked great and seemed to be a very sturdy, supportive shelf. but, cmon, only eight?

“maybe that’s actually a great deal. i’m trippin,” he grins as he orders it online, happily paying with his apple id— unaware of the dumbness of this plan.

in mere minutes he found himself standing in the light section at lowe’s waiting for his order to be ready for pickup with a bag of half eaten gummy bears in his hand. he puts one in his mouth after staring at a light bulb for too long, blinking away rapidly and deciding maybe this isn’t the best use of his time.

he wanders around, touching all the carpet samples and finding the softest one, acting like he’s a house renovator.

the display kitchenettes always catch his eye and he excitedly walks up into them, like he always does with room displays. (don’t let this man get lost in an ikea.)

he stuffs his pockets with paint color samples, ugly shades of bright pink and neon green, just because he likes looking at them. right as he collected his next handful, his phone buzzed, alerting him that his order was ready.

ash skipped to the pickup counter, past all the beer belly, blue collar, ford f150 dads looking at him funny.

what he didnt expect was the shelf to be so thin.. like, $8 thin. and there were no brackets to attach them to a wall, so he did another lap around the store to find some.

back at his apartment he changed his outfit. getting out of his usual white button up into a fitted t shirt, some blue carhartt overalls, and a yellow bandana, ready to build his new shelf! he looked like a minion, which made him happy. ash loves minions.

he knocked around the wall aimlessly with the knuckle of his index finger, looking for a “stud”. did he know what a stud was? no. did he know how to find one? also no. he just saw one of his handymen do it in the past.

ash liked to watch them in a way that may have made him seem like he wanted to get some, but he was only curious about what they were doing. he loves when people are doing something— especially for a living and doing something he doesn’t quite understand. so he always observed closely.

maybe not too close it seemed because now as he’s trying to do it himself, he has no clue where to actually start.

“fuck it,” he says as he drills in a screw haphazardly into the wall with no rhyme or reason. the screw gun wiggles out of his hand from the force and whirs and spins around on the screw at the speed of light. ash couldn’t help but to laugh even when it flew off and went airborne, landing on his warhol bearbrick. he only quit laughing when it made it topple over and the head came off with a big thump and crack. it slid across the hardwood a few feet away.

he stood there for probably a whole minute just staring at what a complete mess he’s made of his apartment living room. there are screws and tools all over his table, the shelf is about to be lopsided on the wall, his favorite bearbrick is broken, and he’s wearing a ridiculous outfit.

he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels a hot tear rolls down his cheek. how come he was just laughing, but now he’s sad again?

ash rips off his bandana and storms into his room, falling on his bed. he just wants the day to be over already.

he lets the tears flow freely, and his brain cruelly reminds him of all the other things he could be crying about.

he sobs harder as he unwillingly remembers all his rejections this week. the people who’ve recently walked out of his life, how he will always let them because there’s no point in begging, how the magazine didn’t like his poem, shitty as it may have been. how he couldn’t hang out with raymond and the looming known fact that he thinks they’re better friends than they really are.

ash lays there. letting his thoughts come, and excusing them to leave. his chest, once heaving with the sobs, has now settled as he calms down. the tears made his ears wet and some bits of his hair. it stuck onto his face and he rubbed his eyes, sipping in a tense but needed deep breath.

rationale began to come back with each breath he took. he couldn’t get so caught up in what isn’t working out for him. rather, he should focus on how incredible he actually is. even if it’s hard to see sometimes.

˚ · .

no matter what, always, without fail, an activity that makes ash feel better is yoga. especially guided yoga with a group.

he typically does it alone at home or at the gym, following along with his self appointed instructor charlie follows on youtube. letting her guide the 30 to 60 minute session through his headphones. he finds her voice more calming than any other instructor, but here, in the park where he currently is, he finds that this one is alright too.

she must be in her thirties, ash thinks. her face is covered in freckles and the rest of her seems to be the same. though he can’t tell very well with her being so far away.

he wishes she wore a microphone or something because each of her instructions felt like they were getting to his ears seconds after everyone moved. he was the only man there. in fact, he was the only one with a pink mat as well.

it wasn’t entirely flat on the ground as they were outdoors in a lovely park surrounded by evergreens. a river was nearby and some speedboats would go by obnoxiously, taking him out of his zen at times.

the grass was such a vibrant dark shade of green and it made him happier than he realized. ash appreciates good grass.

“now bring your belly down slowly, lowering into chaturanga, then coming up for cobra.” the instructor says, walking around gingerly on quiet feet to get around to every person in the park participating with her. she comes up by ash and softly tells him good job.

his heart melts. he feels giddy and proud of himself, confident that she sees how good at yoga ash has made himself.

when he first started, it was awful. he couldn’t turn his brain off, his hands always sweat, and he wobbled a lot. fell a lot. laid there a lot.

nowadays he doesn’t feel sweaty. he feels at peace. he found balance and stability with his body and he’s able to do more than he ever thought he could, especially as a 6’2 man.

the other ladies in the park look him, they watch him in warrior one or low lunge, noticing his soft skin and his muscles. his little pigtails he does with his hair. his powder pink lululemon mat and matching waterbottle.

he gets the same reaction from the ladies in his pilates class. but they’ve all since become his friend.

the yoga instructor speaks again as she directs them into savasana. “i’d like you now to think of your intentions for how you’d like to feel in this moment. or feel all throughout this evening.” her voice is calm, lulling ash into a meditative state. the sun has disappeared behind the trees, giving the park a much needed, relaxing coolness.

he thinks of his intention.

he has the intention of feeling.. good. the intention of leaving things just the way they are. not bothering to force things that don’t fit. not worrying about rejections. not caring about anything, at least, in this moment.

he also had the intention to write one last poem.

ash slept good that night, even though the state of his apartment’s living room could be considered a hazard.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

this is entirely based off my own weekend. bye, thank you for reading. i’ll be back soon w chap 3.