#shed be MUCH RICHER THAN ME

[charlieisacastle]

my dad is a famous lawyer and therefore rich. but we are from the middle east so compared to a person in europe for example, we wouldn't actually be rich because of currency exchange rates and racism.

so when i was around 18, i had a friend on this very website who was from germany. she was from a small village and her family had a farm they ran themselves. she herself called her family poor. and this was in 2019, when everyone (especially chronically online kids which we were a part of) believed that "eat the rich" meant "hate anyone who has even a little bit of money" so anytime id talk about struggling with money or not having access to healthcare, she'd shut me down and tell me i need to stop "cosplaying as poor"

my father never gave me any money. i didnt have any money to my name. he actually gave me a debit card connected to his bank account with his name on it that contained a very limited amount of money....barely enough to survive even. and he would call and ask me what i bought if i made any purchases on it, because it was connected to his bank and he tracked all my expenses. he wouldn't take me to doctors and i almost went paralyzed because of 15 cysts in my back at some point because of his negligence. whenever i did something he didnt like he'd take away my money and medication. once, during the pandamic and while i was still talking to said german friend, my dad got mad at me for not picking up his call once and drained all the money from the debit card that was there for food and groceries and refused to give me my adhd medication he had picked up from the pharmacy in my name. for a whole week, i was quite literally starving and without any medication. and still even then that "friend" made me feel horrible for just talking about the abuse i was facing at home because "my dad had money and that meant i had money"...it really didnt.

i grew up poor. i never had any money. if i wanted to go to a cafe with friends then i had to spare buying groceries for a few days and basically starve so i could afford some coffee. i went shopping maybe once or twice a year at the most. i had one pair of shoes for most of my teen life.

rich parents can be abusive as fuck. and also, eat the rich doesn't mean hate on the children of mildly rich people especially when those kids have no access to said money. eat the rich means go after the 1 percent. not some 18 year old in fucking middle east getting abused by their parents.

As a kid, when your parents are poor, you're poor. If they don't have money, that means none of you have money. But if someone's parents are rich, that doesn't necessarily mean the kid is. Sometimes rich peoples' kids aren't rich kids, they're just some rich freak's exotic pets that can talk but aren't allowed to.

[writing-the-stars]

Echoes of Love

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!Reader, Unnamed OC x Fem!Reader

Summary: It had been years since you last heard from Klaus Mikaelson, and just as you were finally ready to move on, he decided to remind you of the love you once shared.

Warnings: Angst (As Always) and Emotional Cheating. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hey guys! I'm baaaaaaaaaaack. Did you miss me? It's been far too long. I'm alive and I have been slowly ramping up to my return. Starting with this story! The title, to be frank, is not greatest, but I think this is a nice little story to raise me from the dead. I hope you enjoy and thank you all so much for reading!!! Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

You perfect the practiced smile you’ve been working on for weeks. It should be easy for you by now– it should come naturally. Everything about this day shouldn’t feel as forced as it does, and yet, on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, you could only feel the apprehensive dread pooling in your gut. 

The heirloom gown from your soon to be mother-in-law feels heavier than it should, almost suffocating, magnifying the doubts consuming your mind. This was supposed to be the genesis of your new life, the start of your would-be happily ever after. Yet, that menacing fear of regret whittles away at any persuasion you used to get yourself to this moment. You were so sure this is what you wanted. The venue, the menu, the flowers, the seating– all meticulously chosen for this day. But with the weight of vows looming in the horizon, the word “mistake” seems to have made a home in your mind. Were you really prepared to commit yourself to a lifetime with this man?

He was good and pure-hearted– kind, caring, and devoted. He treasured you, loving you in a way that you could never fully reciprocate. You do have an affinity for the man waiting for you at the end of the aisle and you know he could give you a stable and contented life. Yet, the allure of the security his last name would bring pales when you reflect on the life you are now trying to shed. 

Memories intricately woven with passion and adventure. Each day an unpredictable surprise filled with experiences that reshaped the person you once were. The encompassing romance that breathed new meaning to your life, sparking a deeper fulfillment as you were pushed beyond your familiar boundaries. A chapter of your life where your heart had found its rhythm. And despite the inevitable challenges, especially given his past, you were unwavering in facing them with him, and your life was richer for it. 

That danger of living on the edge wasn’t something you realized you craved until it was suddenly taken away. But that was not a sustainable life, you remind yourself as you latch on to a new flaw in your appearance to occupy your mind. 

Your groom is safe— a predictable and reliable anchor in life. A mundane routine you can easily fall into. He promises stability and security, granting you a solid foundation for your future. Which is why you convinced yourself to marry him. It wouldn’t be the life of fantasy that you longed for, but you would be content. 

“Hello, love.”  

Everything within you stills at the sound of the ghost of your past. Your eyes travel the expanse of the mirror, landing on the reflection of his figure propped against the doorframe of your bridal suite– emulating the way he used to watch you get ready. 

“Your beauty is nothing short of breathtaking.” 

“What are you doing here?” the words a mere whisper as they are pushed through your constricted throat. You force yourself to stare fixedly through the mirror, resisting the urge to turn around. Because if you do, if you physically lay your eyes on him, it would shatter all the progress you have made the past three years. And you're determined not to grant him the satisfaction and reward of rejoicing his return as if his actions did not hurt you.

“I’ve heard about your impending nuptials. I couldn’t possibly miss your big day.” 

You laugh, a hollow sound. After all this time, the man you spent years waiting by the door for has finally returned, just as you've made the decision to move on. Bitterness saturates you at the audacity of this man to appear today of all days, wearing that brazen grin. Did he truly believe he could waltz back into your life after everything?

“Why? So you can stop me from ridding myself of you. Starting over and actually having a shot at happiness.” 

Your voice is sharp– venom drips from every word, aiming to puncture another layer deeper into his calloused over heart. His jaw ticks, the only indication you hit your target. 

“I like to think you were quite happy with me, love.”

You scoff, a pathetic attempt to dismiss the validity of his words. Your gaze returns to your own reflection, beginning to readjust the lacey veil pinned to your head, needing a distraction from the man who has an incomprehensible hold on you. 

“Why are you really here, Klaus?” his name falling from your lips as if your tongue had been molded to say it, “You didn’t come back to town just to watch me get married.” 

He steps into the room– reflection growing as he steps closer to you. 

“I’ve come to wish you luck,” you watch as his turquoise eyes trail your frame before returning to your gaze in the mirror, “Though I can’t help but wish you were wearing that dress for me.” 

Something inside you breaks, setting free a torrent of long-suppressed emotions that had been brewing beneath the surface.

“You threw that away 7 years ago when you left me. I waited for you. For 4 years, I waited for you to come back like an idiot because you promised your heart to me and I was dumb enough to fall for it. And now, once I’ve finally picked up the pieces and I’m ready to start again, you want to come back and take that away from me!”

“I left to protect you!”

“No, Klaus! You left because you were afraid. Because for once somebody actually meant something to you and you couldn’t handle the responsibility of that reality. Because, in spite of all my best efforts, you have it solidified in that warped brain of yours that you are incapable of being loved. That no one could ever truly want to be with you. So what do you do? You run. You push people away to avoid your biggest fear and end up becoming your own self-fulfilling prophecy. Well guess what, Klaus? It worked. You’re alone now.”

You turn your back on the Mikaelson, finally ready to give yourself over to your groom. You open your mouth to dismiss the hybrid, but the words die on your tongue as your eyes meet his. His reflection reveals the glistening of tears brimming in his eyes, on the verge of spilling over, but you know Klaus Mikaelson is too prideful to ever let you see him cry. Yet, the thought of it stills you. You take in the sight of him—his clenched fists, his labored breathing—and for the first time, you truly see him. You see the vulnerability beneath the facade, the depth of his struggle, and it stops you in your tracks. 

The wounded boy who only sought his father's approval and his mother's affection. The scars etched deep into his soul, born from the torment of being a bastard cruelly shunned. The millennia of isolating loneliness that followed—an inhumane punishment for another's sin. Beyond that, you witness the fresh wounds your words have inflicted, reopening the scars you had fought so hard to help him heal. Your vengeful words have confirmed his lifelong fear. Here stands a man who has finally gained everything he ever desired, only to realize he is on the brink of losing it all. It moves you, the sight of his insecurities laid bare just for you

"Say it. Tell me you no longer love me, and I will walk away. I will leave you to marry this man, and you will never hear from me again. I will do that for you. But if there is any part of you that still cares, leave with me. Give me another chance."

You stare at the hybrid, conflict brewing within you. You desperately want to believe him—God knows you do—but if he walks away from you again, your heart couldn't endure another shattering. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, adorned in the gown of a woman whose son you could only truly tolerate.  

Is that really the life you want to live? 

You return your gaze to the Mikaelson, stunned by the single tear rolling down his cheek—his ultimate vulnerability. This simple, profound act compels you to accept what you've always known deep down. You can never truly walk away from this man. You love him too much.

Taglist: @catmikaelson20, @gamarancianne, @hazgold, @devotedlycrookeddonut

If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know!

[allwormdiet]

Shell 4.1

As much as I wish Taylor could ride this high forever, unfortunately looks like it's back to school

Taylor. Honey. Dearheart. You keep being really complimentary about your bullies' physical looks, and this does not in any way undermine the hurt they've done to you or your resentment thereof, but it does muddy the waters a little bit as to whether resentment is the only thing you're feeling

The back-and-forth actually feels so refreshing compared to every previous interaction with the bullies, like. My god. Did Taylor just have to rob a bank to get the confidence she needs to not worry about these fuckers? I never thought that John Dillinger therapy would take off but maybe there's a future in that

Better the devil in plain sight than the devil you can't see at all.

John Dillinger therapy! This is what I'm talking about! Let's go Taylor, show that inner strength! Shed the burden!

I mean hell, maybe, or maybe this is an upturn where she finally gets sure enough in herself to get these jerks off her back forever. We'll see how it plays out, right?

The idle speculation on Mr. Quinlan is a little wild but well in keeping with my own experiences. Sometimes teachers just passively generate rumors around them.

This one stupid bit about John Dillinger therapy keeps paying off, this is great, real joke investment opportunity

Honestly Taylor I think you can feel bad about it while also living with it, I'm not gonna pretend to be some expert on morality or philosophy or whatever but I feel like you're allowed a certain number of felonies after enough suffering in your life

Technically not a career boost for the Undersiders, at least not as far as public renown, but making your enemies look like clowns is just as good if not better. Like yeah, those tools on the other side are getting their pay docked because of that bigass hole in the roof of the bank, and you're way richer from the same event

Expanding our understanding of the city a bit more, and honestly this sounds dope as fuck. I'd love to visit every once in a while and just soak in the culture, although not if it meant living in Brockton Bay. That seems. Bad.

Ugh, these kids

Honestly I'm not quite this hardcore but damn if it isn't a mood. I've yet to see proof of Rachel being wrong

Yeah I know she had her dogs attack Taylor, Taylor's an aspiring snitch, it's okay to maul a snitch

I think I knew this part already but honestly I'm more excited to have Rachel lore than anything

I wonder how much leniency can be provided for crimes that happen in the immediate aftermath or because of a trigger event. Maybe not a ton, or maybe enough to get away with murder. I'd be curious to learn more about that, if it ever comes up.

And uhh, yeah, that'd fucking get you dead bodies alright. Wonder if that's why she's so hardcore about the training, making sure that never happens again. Entirely for the dogs' benefit, or only mostly and then there's some part of her that thrives with that kind of control?

Alec you cheeky little shit, you're endearing yourself to me

Honestly Taylor, just try and breathe easy for a little bit, I don't think you've been able to do that in over a year. Take your time, enjoy your walk on the wild side.

Maybe I'm biased but I love these two interacting on their own, so I'm fully in favor of this plan Lisa

Well I'm sure if Lisa ever killed anybody they deserved it, or if nothing else she arranged circumstances so that they ended up deserving it after some mild provocation

it's fiiiiiiiiine

Current Thoughts

This story has such good slice of life, I want more of it every time and every time I get cut off before I'm satisfied. Is that on purpose? If that's on purpose Wildbow might be a more sinister intelligence than I'd thought.

School segment was so blissfully short and Taylor managed to fight Emma to a standstill so this is a huge improvement over every other second she's spent at school

If Rachel ever kills anyone on purpose they deserved it, and if Rachel ever kills anyone on accident it's okay bc everyone makes mistakes

Honestly I'd be willing to accept any of these kids as having a good reason to render someone cadaverrific. Brian and Lisa have good heads on their shoulders and at this point I'm starting to suspect that the lazy gamer thing Alec has going on is like, at least partially a front for a deeper personality, and he's trying to be shallow on purpose, so idk what that means for him being a killer but I somehow doubt he's a fucking Hannibal Lecter type when we're not looking

...Actually come to think on it the only two members the Protectorate has info on is Grue and Bitch, right? Tattletale is an unknown and Regent has almost nothing about him. I'd suspect Grue to be the second killer but I'm not sure if that's a red herring.

Find out eventually, I guess.

...I might have another chapter in me before sacking out for the night. We'll see.

[tathrin]

A Bit of Mirkwood World Building:

The amethyst deceiver mushroom, Middle-earth style.

Commonly called Violet Despair, Violet Deceiver, False Delight, Purple Liar, and Shadow Deceiver in Westron.

*elvish name pending someone better at Sindarin than me devising one.

They grow in the southern part of Mirkwood, near Dol Guldur, and in the poisoned lands around Minas Morgul, where instead of arsenic they absorb the Shadows of the place, becoming darker and richer in color, and capable of swamping you with despair and paranoia if you eat them.

They predate the Shadow, but without a source of evil and corruption to feed upon they were nearly harmless: used often for dyes and decorations, although rarely for eating, for even then the Violet Deceiver was known for feeding on the rot and echo of darker feelings, and thus their flesh often became tainted with these sensations and capable of inducing fear, sorrow, and dismay in those who ate them.

Those fungi which found Evil on which to feed were, of course, much worse.

They are not quite bioluminescent, but their coloring is vibrant enough that in the black shadows of Mirkwood's trees and Mordor's gloom, they can trick the eye into thinking that they glow; but it is a glow that sheds no light to drive back the surrounding dark.

The Rangers of Ithilien encounter them much more rarely than do the elves of Mirkwood, for the Rangers do not brave the lands close to Minas Morgul; but they have come across them often enough to know to be wary of them also. (Among the Rangers, the mushrooms are sometimes referred to as "Violet Joys," as a form of bitter irony.)

Their spores exude a mild compulsory effect, tempting those who smell them to eat them, even when they know better.

The initial taste of the mushroom is sweet, almost too sweet, thick and cloying; this is followed quickly by a sharp sensation of peppery heat, and then a heavy nauseating muskiness (although few people are paying much attention to the taste at that point; mostly the latter is noted as a foul, rotten aftertaste lingering for a while in the mouths of the survivors).

Their scent is distinctive: alluring and floral, like lilies or lilacs, but with a hint of the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flesh lurking beneath that floral fragrance. By the time you notice the latter, you are already close enough to be imperiled.

Consuming even a single mushroom is enough to trigger the effects, engendering overwhelming sensations of despair and paranoia. Most victims report simultaneous symptoms of both, but some experience primarily hopelessness, while some suffer predominantly from the fear, and others vacillate between the two extremes.

Eating more than three or four will leave one in a fraught emotional and even hallucinatory state for several hours, or even days.

here have been no known cases of fatal poisonings from consuming the mushrooms, but many folk—elves and mortals—have died while under the effects, whether as a result of blundering into some peril they could not properly comprehend, being too absorbed or apathetic to defend themselves against another threat, or from breaking under the despair and terror and taking their own lives before their senses clear.

The Unhoused Shades that haunt Southern Mirkwood are prone to lingering near the mushrooms as well—or perhaps it is the other way around, and it is the rot of those trapped souls upon which the mushrooms feed.

Either way, the sight of them is a sign of peril.

These mushrooms were devised for @tathrin's fic And In The Darkness to Unmake Them and @babybat98's fic The Last War of the North, but are offered free for use of anyone writing in the Tolkien fandom who wishes to add them to their stories.

Ideally we ask you to link back to this post so that other readers can likewise make use of this bit of shared world building, but that's not a hard requirement for inclusion in your works.

All you have to do it not claim the idea for your own, and continue to freely share it with anyone else who wants to play too. Thank you!

[cypanache]

I have to ask about Unintended because it lives continually in my brain. 💚

Any particular thoughts about how our fashionable Padme dresses in this universe? Or Obi-Wan? Does he accompany her when she goes dress shopping with and she’s surprised to discover that he has Opinions on clothing that are surprisingly good?

Are there any plans for Padme’s handmaidens to appear?

Thank you for the ask!

So she's definitely still got the exquisite taste and sense of 'dressing for the occasion' that she did in Star Wars. In my head her style sort of 'evolves' as she begins to more fully inhabit the role of being 'Lady of Stewjon' both because as the wife of an Earl she can afford to indulge that taste than she did as Padme Naberrie. But also for the sort visual symbolism that it adds to the movie playing in my brain.

So while I haven't quite found her true 'Bridgerton' equal, I tend to think of her early 'Anakin era' costuming as being lighter and simpler. Ala Daphne Bridgerton but with a flair of that balcony dress from AotC. Then as she moves into her 'countess' era I tend to visualize richer colors and more elaborate and structured styling, (think a cross between Kate's country weekend attire, and Lady Danbury).

I tend to think of Obi-Wan in this story as having taste, but not necessarily strong opinions. He knows how to dress. But he knows it in the way he's learned every other skill expected of someone of his social stature. Because he's determined to fulfill his role well. At his heart, he's a simple, practical man. But he is also in many ways still the 'nephew', the one who inherited the title due to a lack of a better option more than a birthright. None of it is really his, and I think that shows in the way he dresses, which is to say well but not showily or with much sense of individuality. Which I think is why Padme really only sees glimpses of his personality in those moments when he's either distracted or relaxed enough to start to shed some of that conscious artifice.

I've referenced some of Padme's handmaidens at various points already. For the moment they are all still in Coruscant and doing the marriage market thing, but I will of course never say never.

--

Anyone else? Please get me talking and help me cure my writers block.

[jijivishaaaaa]

I imagine you, half-drunk, in our apartment,

You've let your guard low, sharing worries that burden your soul, while your mind is dizzy with overdose

Shoulders heavy with secrets I've yet to know,

The noise of the world that hides the melody of the daylight, the world has yet overthrown the

last hopes of a lovely evening with you

I imagine you drinking tea while you eat the cookies I baked and reminisce our old days,

and tell me where it hurts tell me how much you were exhausted But your favorite matcha tea has gone cold

The books you bought to read that you've barely touched

You're busy with work even after you return home I wake up to find you gone, the dim light is turned on it casts a warm shadow in our living room.

You're working late, yet, again, hiding and sneaking.

limagine us sitting in our car, Midnight drives, music we've never heard, You lean on me, just a little.

As little as the time between a flinch and relief

A fleeting glance, a gentle touch, A language only we understand.

But our distances grow, the world wears us down.

You conceal your struggles, hiding behind

Forced smiles and weary eyes.

I pretend to sleep, while you sneak out, Leaving soft kisses on my cheek.

Your affections, once vibrant, now wither Like autumn leaves that shed their final pity.

Your touch, a caress of regret, Eyes that betray yourself That tell you out Like playing hide and seek

But I always seek you and never find

"Don't worry about the bills," you say, But worrying's all I can do.

The world's cruel ways won't cease, Yet we weren't always this indifferent.

Young lovers, who had lived their lives to the best passionately slipping into an abyss

I envision you, hands wrapped around my waist, Head resting on my chest, shedding a silent tear.

In that moment, no words are needed;

Understanding flows like a gentle stream.

You know of me, and I know of you We ease into our embrace

No worry weighs us down to its depth

There is duty there is company

But nothing seperates

In a universe where I am no longer sick

I tell you confidently For better for worse, for richer for poorer in sickness and in health,

And I imagine you crying at the vows I picture your face crying at all, At the end, even at this very last breath I still couldn't see, you; vulnerable on your knees the autumn leaves shed, but not a tear from you till death do us part...

Death that is closer to me than you are.

You've tried your best You can finally rest...

[sosuigeneris]

you’re right with not being obsessive with hypergamy/looksmaxxing blogs. irl, not a lot of people aim to achieve grandiose lives or marry rich or look like a vs bombshell. the internet ≠ real life. we can still be happy even if we have just a normal, menial job and earn an okay salary for us to live comfortably and get by. i went through a deep hypergamy and looksmaxxing rabbit hole and it gave me so much insecurities and identity crisis until i thought about how 90% of the earth’s population dgaf about some of the stuff that is reiterated in these spaces. i hope you don’t mind me expressing this in your inbox because i want others like me to know there is so much more to life than just levelling up to be richer or prettier. now it’s time for me to log off from tumblr and actually live my life according to how i want to without being heavily influenced with the things i’ve seen online. love your blog xx ty for shedding light that hypergamy shouldn’t be taken too seriously!

absolutely. I strongly believe that if you’ve decided to looksmax, you NEED to practice affirmations. You need to chant “I’m confident, I’m amazing, I love myself, I’m strong, I’m powerful, I’m beautiful” no matter how cringe it sounds. If you don’t get your mental state right, no matter how good you look, you’ll always feel shallow.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Runaway - A Manny (Mayans MC)/Hannah Gray (OC) Story.

I said I would wait to begin posting this, but I’m just starting chapter eleven and I absolutely cannot wait! It isn’t going to be epically long, and I have also made the chapters much more bitesized (2k or less on the word count) so you guys aren’t bombarded by my usual long reads and blathering on (lol!) 

Since I know that Manny is very popular, I’m going to set the unlock at 50 notes to get the first chapter (which will begin being posted after BTBT is done) this just the prequel, so you have plenty of time to make that happen. Now, I don’t mind a bit of system cheating, but I would like to see how much this can happen organically, with everyone participating in the likes, comments and reblogs. So, with that being said, on with the show!

Taglist - In the comments

Words - 1,104

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Prologue

“Do you, Hannah, take Michael, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, ‘till death do you part, according to god’s holy law?”

Did she?

Hannah felt as if she were going deaf to all around, other than the ringing in her ears, a wave of heat rising through her as her heart hammered. The minister sounded like he was speaking to her through water, his voice distorted, the weight of the stare from the entire congregation upon her as she opened her mouth, swallowing when she began to salivate excessively.  

Did she?

Because this was for the rest of her life. Of course, if it didn’t work then there was always divorce, but should she, the bride herself, really go through with such a commitment if the word divorce was coming to her as she stood there at the altar, unable to speak? Her eyes flitted over to the stable forces that were her dad and stepmom, both of them staring back at her with concern, Jackie mouthing ‘are you alright?’, Hannah still stood there, gaping like a fish out of water, her legs tingling.  

“Babe?” Michael spoke, nudging her. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging here.”  

She turned again, looking out to her side of the church, so sparse compared to the small army that was Michael’s friends and family, with it dawning on her as every second stretched out.  

‘I’m sorry, pumpkin. I can’t do it. I can’t go ahead and watch you make a mistake, and I think it is, you marrying him.’ Shonda. Her ride or die, and she wasn’t there looking beautiful in jade green satin as a bridesmaid, because she couldn’t stand Michael.  

‘Grampy and I won’t be attending, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’ Her grandmother. Ethel Gray was much too polite and mild-mannered to come out in as many words and say it, but she and her husband Bill had never liked him either. Hell, her parents were only there because she’d pleaded with them. Rob and Jackie Gray were also upon the side that said Michael Hansen was a completely unsuitable choice for their beloved daughter.  

‘Sorry, Han. Ain’t coming. I don’t like that dude, never have, never will.’ Steve, her elder brother hadn’t been so discreet. Neither had her younger, Jack.  

Standing there, it was the moment it hit her, how wrong it was. Her best friend, her brothers, her grandparents, most of her cousins, everyone who had refused, they should have been there. This was her wedding day, and they weren’t there, all because they saw what she refused to, or rather did and instead, stuffed down, excused away, tried to convince herself she could live with. It was her last shot at happiness, she’d convinced herself it was. But was it? Really?  

“Hannah, would you like me to repeat the vows again?” the minister asked quietly, breaking the deathly silence that had fallen over the church.  

She shook her head. “No.” Her bouquet slipped from her hand before she’d even turned to look up at her fiancé, roses and lilies shedding their petals upon the parquet floor. “I can’t, I’m so sorry.” Turning, she gathered her dress, reaching to take the small, oyster lace clutch from her now-never-would-be sister-in-law before running back down the aisle, a chorus of gasps echoing through the sacred space, Hannah praying that her ankles didn’t buckle, having to run in five-inch heeled Manolo Blahnik’s. She’d chosen the very same Hangisi royal blue stilettoes that her heroine Carrie Bradshaw had worn to marry Mr Big. Except she was the one doing the jilting in this instance.  

“Hannah! Wait!”  

Michael’s voice propelled her faster down the steps, people all around stopping and pointing as they witnessed it, a real-life runaway bride situation. Her heart hammered hard with every step, her armpits beading with sweat as she felt her stomach lurching, swallowing hard, knowing she had to escape him.  

“Hey lady! Fucking watch it!” the man behind the wheel of the car she ran out in front of through the traffic yelled, Hannah swerving, realising how stupid and perilous her decision to cross the highway was, her head spinning as her eyes darted around, looking for a cab, turning back to see Michael hurtling down the grass bank that flanked the church.  

“Hannah! Get back here, now!”  

“Fuck!” Panic flooded her, dodging between the cars, horns blaring even though the traffic was slow moving that morning, looking for her escape when suddenly, it called out to her.  

“Hey darlin’, you need a ride?” Turning her head in the direction she’d heard the smooth, husky voice call, she saw a tall man aboard a massive black Harley. The trepidation she felt when noticing the Mayan kutte lasted all of five seconds, hearing Michael yelling at her again. It wasn’t the cab she’d been looking for, but an outlaw on an iron horse was perhaps the better option for making a speedy getaway.  

“Yes! Thank you!” she cried, moving around the front of the white Lincoln Navigator that had kindly stopped to let her cross into the next lane, hoiking up her dress a little further as she straddled the back of the motorcycle.  

“Where you wanna go, mamas?” the man asked.

“As far away from here as possible.”

He pulled back the throttle, the bike sounding like thunder in her ears. “I gotchu.” Over eighteen hundred cc’s roared ferociously as he pulled out and cut through the traffic, the all-black Street Bob thundering away down the highway, Hannah yanking her veil off before wrapping her arms around his slender waist, her heart still going ten to the dozen as she left a shocked, angry looking former fiancé in her wake, her veil fluttering down at his feet as he watched her ride away.  

“You okay there?” he asked as they took a right at the intersection, feeling that she held onto him with a shaky grip.  

“Yes... no... erm...” she floundered. “I’m Hannah, by the way.”

He chuckled a little. “I’m Manny. Sounds like you need me to take you to the nearest bar, Hannah.”

“Immediately, if not sooner!”

He was planning on going home, lighting up a joint and maybe calling his regular no strings attached girl for some afternoon fun, with little else to do with his day. Rescuing a bride who’d obviously had some very last minute second thoughts was certainly a very random derailing of that initial plan, but one he wasn’t mad about.  

[watching-pictures-move]

Viddying the Nasties | Deep Red (Argento, 1975)

I always like to throw on some Argento every Spooky Season, and as the only one I'd watched so far these last few weeks was Giallo with Adrian Brody, and as I was listening to this one's soundtrack on the way to work this morning, I figured it was time for another viewing. Now, I've been turning into the type of person who will eventually shed tears after I watch a horror movie enough times, but I must report that I did no such thing with this viewing. Who knows, maybe next time I watch it I'll cry during the arm wrestling scene. Not tears of sadness because I'm lamenting David Hemmings' defeat to Daria Nicolodi, but tears of joy as this is the first step in him overcoming his male chauvinism and becoming a better man. We could all learn a little something from this scene.

I'd previously only seen the uncensored American version from the Blue Underground DVD, which I understand has all the violence intact but loses over twenty minutes of character scenes. To be honest, I didn't think the shorter version is the most tightly paced thing in the world, so naturally the longer version isn't either, especially as it runs more than two hours long. All that being said, this is definitely Argento moving away from the rhythms of the hero's investigation and letting the movement of the camera and the shot sequencing take over in propelling the movie forward, so maybe wonky pacing is more of a feature than a bug. I always like hanging out in his classics, so more runtime isn't necessarily a problem for me.

That being said, let me weigh one concrete point in each version's favour. The American version has the English dub, so we get David Hemmings' real voice, which has a lovely texture, more finely aged than his voice in Blow Up, and maybe the age and wear suggests he's a bit old fashioned, but it also suggests that he's accumulated or is capable of accumulating some wisdom. He's not perfect, but he's willing to learn, and his voice is maybe not silky smooth, but it's got its charms. The Italian version has more scenes with Daria Nicolodi, including one where she and Hemmings drink coolers in her crappy car while his seat is at a noticeably lower altitude, and another where she does a weird dance on the way to the door after dumping a picture of his super sexy ex in the garbage. I always loved the screwball repartee of these characters, and there's more of that here.

The copy on the Criterion Channel opens with a disclaimer about its restoration, and while there have been more than a few restoration jobs that leave a movie's colours looking substantially different than previous versions, I can safely report that this felt true to the visual character of the version I'd previously seen. The colours are certainly richer, but they're still true to their chocolatey character, white chocolate for the lighter colours, dark chocolate for the darker scenes, milk chocolate for a bunch of shades in between, the ones with cherries in them that nobody likes for the blood. This movie is like a box of chocolates. You never know when you're gonna get STABBED! Hah! Bet you didn't see that coming. No, I'm not eating a box of chocolates right now, but I did nibble on a bar of some Hungarian chocolate brand that I picked up at the European grocery near my local multiplex. Pretty good, but I'd recommend grabbing a Milka bar as a priority if you ever drop by such a place.

Anyway, apologies if my ramblings have been even more inane than usual, but the point is, the movie rocks, and I got out any remotely non-stupid thoughts I had about this time in my last review. I will add that I appreciated this time around how much detail Argento is able to sketch out about the Macha Meril character despite her limited screentime. I know dullards like to characterize him as a misogynist or misanthrope, but I have a hard time agreeing when he can treat them with such warmth. Also, the violence in his movies is usually too stylish and elaborately orchestrated to disturb me, but the bit with the bearded guy's teeth had me wincing pretty hard this time around.

[confrontthefamiliar]

New moon in Taurus: the return to the west

By the new moon in Taurus I was still waiting on myself to go back to finish the last two posts for the full moon in Scorpio and the eclipse in Aries.

The day of the new moon I was hungover but with friends, each one of them heartbroken, each one of them dumped the previous week or so.

I told them I felt better than ever, having been single so long, nearly three years solidly, except for the last three or four flings, that were definitely real relationships but also not.

So maybe it hasn’t really been a year even. I guess technically it has been a winter and a spring. But I was also single last winter and spring. Just had someone close to me. I haven’t had anyone that close to me for a winter and a spring.

There was a fall, a winter, and a spring I was alone before. Singlehood fascinates me. Something I never aspired towards exactly. But something that feels really good right now. I feel better than ever.

But the day of the new moon I felt sick from drinking and boating and boarding the afternoon and night before. All that coors and tequila and whiskey. I saw Truth before I left the west side and told him I was boating. He said, “well that’s because you’re local!”

I spent the eve of the new moon fingering my friend’s old map of California before the 80 got built. He showed me the pieces of his airbnb which were pieces of Nevada City in animals and photography and books and art.

I went down to the west side this time knowing I was looking at what would happen to me that would tell me more about how I was going to get back down there. How I was going to get back to the place I was pulled out of, that I fled, that I left.

When we went to the grocery store to get provisions for the boat I felt the culture of Nevada County, the west side of it in that moment and the east side of it in spirit and thought how you really never need to travel anywhere to see the culture. This was lake people red neck hippie culture and I sang Tyler Childer’s, “Lord it’s a mighty hard livin’ But a damn good feeling to run these roads,” on the drive home.

I got pulled along on the boat because I ran into an old friend who suggested we live together who brought me to look at a house then out to lunch with friends. And then we were all out there on the water and wake boarding and swimming, things I need to get by and feel alive. I live in an adventure place. I have my climbing and boarding.

And then we were talking about our heritage and I remembered that I wanted to know why exactly they built the 80 and what every crevice of our land was and meant and how these towns got built up and who was who and what was what about a community.

The east side of Nevada County is richer, and Easter. The west side is more red neck and agricultural.

Something new for the new moon. I had this thought last night, the night after the new moon. Why do I keep imagining this couple as suffering? Why not visualize them in the best light possible?

I struggled with romantic relationships badly last year and I wondered why it always went downhill. At 31 my solar return was libran! The air sign of Venus! But that was just the main theme. It didn’t determine the outcome. Astrology never determines the outcome. It is up to us, always. It helps to shed light on what is happening in terms of the narrative… this new moon showed a mars conjuncting my natal moon, a lot happening in my second house, opposite my natal pluto.. A year ago I was so worse off. Now I am doing really well. I am in the right place. I just have to find a new place. A return to the west.

And for my transformation now, now that the sun is opposite my Pluto, I ask to shed the jealousy I suppose I am feeling for the relationship he chose over ours. I am good at transmuting jealousy, I’ve already called in so much of what she had into my own life. I suppose I am confounded that she would even choose him. And this is a pattern of mine, of feeling more fascinated by the previous woman or the post woman than the man himself. As a year has now passed since I first walked away, let this be a crescendo of release, of transformation, of healing.

As romantic options continue to blossom up in my path may I find good lasting friendships along the way. May I attract a man one day who will bring me pleasure, wisdom, and strength so that together, we can help to lift up this world into an era of peace and love.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Pygmalion (V)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: The devil has been “putting me through the fucking ringer” as white people say. Been going through it recently lol February has already been such a shit month so I tried not to let my absolute mental spiral into ceaseless despair affect my writing as much hahaaaaa

Short but dense chapter

Anyways enjoy the fluff and angst (*´∀`)♪

CW: Mentions of grooming

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Here) // Part 6

Masterlist.

——————————————————

Your friendship with him flooded into your life after that day. The two of you began to spend your weekends in the atelier from mild afternoons, until the moon rose high in the sky. Truth is‒ neither of you meant to stay for too long in the company of one another, but the bright laughter that carried throughout that small shed had made you both blind to the crimson brilliance of the setting sun and the bellow of the moonlight‒ only just noticing the darkness of the world when you aught the flickers of the candlelight lick his carefully carved features, glowing against his golden hair. You thought of grand baroque sculptures‒ the way he swayed and glided his arms in sweeping movements, tipping his head back into jubilant laughter‒ catching yourself posing him in your mind, committing every crease rippling from his fair smile, every which way his fingers fluttered against one another, sometimes against your own, carefully chiseling his flowering delight in your mind. 

The two of you began to whisper clever lines to each other during critiques, tossing amused looks during rehearsals at Film studies club, shared each other’s warmth in your atelier. He urged you to talk with Idia after what you had said, and you nodded, following the march of his heart as part of your own. Idia was surprised when you showed at his door, lifting your heels off the ground to reach your arms around his neck. Even with his slouch, you felt joy in how much he had grown. Rook also followed you in this manner, listening intently when you showed him techniques and effects on his camera‒ racing your brilliant sensibilities as quickly as you revealed them to him, with a dancing heart. 

“You seem different. Happier.” Idia says with a smirk. Ortho agrees, quietly catching the lingering glances each of you gave during rehearsals, your snickers and banter when you thought no one saw. Time had slowly receded back into the beat of a human heart once more‒ something you realized when you could remember each day, each sweet moment of which you and Rook slowly unraveled yourselves to one another. The two of you discussed all matters of things‒ ancient carving techniques dead to the world, the taste of his food, your friendship with foregone artists, his extravagant experiments in the science lab. You taught him attitudes of love, art, creation‒ trading thoughts which bloomed from your heart. 

“How does your food taste?”

“Like buttered clouds‒ honeyed with the sun.” 

“What are you carving?

“Guess.” 

The stories of your six hundred years of existence felt no richer than his own years. When he reminisced about his childhood, you could catch fragments of your youth with it‒ revelations of long forgotten memories surfacing by the enchantment of his voice. You remembered Lutetia, the name before the City of Flowers, your time you spent in the sun, skipping rocks by yourself by the pond. Rook recounts similar stories‒ perhaps you would have been friends as children. The centuries that had weighed upon you felt impossibly lighter when you faced his excited laugher.

The scarcity of time and distance mattered less to Rook when you divulge him in your secret smiles‒ too much to enjoy here, now, at the base of the ripening fruit tree that he had not thought much of the decay of his harvest, but the sweetening morsel in front of him. The game‒ the hunt never ended, however he no longer hopped from one carcass to another, instead following this animal with narrow, childish joy and curiosity. That picture of clarity in his mind felt brighter than ever when he allowed the fresh fragments of himself that he gave to you to be a part of it, which you returned with your own growing roots in that painting‒ creating, hand in hand, a magnum opus of beauty. There was truly no way to spend the days between the two of you without coloring it with each other’s warmth. 

You knew, soon, you were going to begin to find shapes of him everywhere you went‒ and in his absence, you would glance over at the imprint he left, and ache. The way his face stained pink with electrified blood when his touch lingered on yours made this longing worse, the rebellion inside of you nearly crumbling at his fingertips. The only thing which fortified that revolt was your knowledge of how it ended, the sculptures that surrounded the two of you which descended their decaying image upon you were evidence to that relentless tale, that curse. 

Sometimes, you indulge yourself in such sweetened moments, your backs against each other resonating each other’s heart beat while you sat carving splendidly insignificant sculptures into ivory, he, fiddling with the camera in his hands, raising the screen when he remembered one of your exhibitions he had gone to, showing a picture of his adoration. But at times like this, it all felt too close‒ the ache much too acute for your swelling chest‒ suddenly aware of the closeness between you two strung together by your neighboring hands. Dread tightened your brows, you shrunk away from the warmth. This cruelty was a curse of your own making, but it was spun into your long, long life in such a way that it was almost unavoidable if you wanted to prevent your heart from breaking. 

“Ah‒ sorry‒“

“Désolé, I did not mean to after‒”

“No. It’s alright.” Your smile reached the corners of your eyes, lifting them like the climbing in your chest. “I just try not to, because of my magic. My body is unpredictable‒ I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“Does your magic affect living things as well?”

“No, but‒“

“Then I trust you not to hurt me.” 

You would let him do whatever he wanted with you when he said things like that, cradling your hand with such tenderness. Anything‒ just don’t let go, don't leave. Don't leave me.

 He asks you many questions, your thoughts. You don’t mind his curiosity. 

"What did you intend with this piece?"

"What did I intend with it?"

"Yes. What did you intend when you created her?" He pointed towards the wax covered figure they glowed delicately in the dusty sunlight. 

"My…" you lingered a bit at his words. "Like I said before. My hands move on their own. I am a sculptor who carves not with the mind or heart." Ignoring the tug in your chest at your own words, you continued. "I possess stone with life that has departed, and fossilize its demise into marble. That is all I know…I…" You were suddenly aware of the slight jitter in your movements, caused by your cybernetics. Opening and closing your fists, you could see the inhuman tick through the glass lens, connected to the enhanced retinal scanners of your eye. You knew of the cold, black blood which ran through your plastic veins. "Why…" Those words felt heavy on your lips. 

Rook pressed a finger against your chest, feeling the rhythmic drumming of your still very human heart melting into his skin, into his hand, traveling to the thundering of his ears. He hoped to fish it out so you could hear it for yourself too. "Here. What did this one here have in mind when you created?" He noticed his height made it perfect to gaze right into where the flesh over which your heart beat. "When gods create, they make their creations in their own image." The green tucked behind the slits of his eyes flickered towards you. "What sort of god are you?" 

You clenched the nausea in your abdomen. “…I am no god. These hands that create do not belong to me. I am merely a vessel to humanity’s life and death‒ its sorrows, pains, happiness. I merely observe it.” Your words came out in short bursts as you struggled to string together words that reflected your splintering heart. “ I cannot feel it. “

“What about your pain? Your sorrow? What about your happiness?”

You were silent. “My,” Rook took your old hands into the softness of his own. “My sorrow. My pain. My happiness.” The swirling in your chest felt muddled, a fine slurry of colors‒ you couldn’t identify what was what and where if you wanted to. You heaved out shallow breaths. 

“Your sorrow. Your pain. Your happiness.” His cheeks raised to a slivered smile. “Treasure it, like you treasure others’.” Rook hadn’t meant to say the last part, but as always spoke with as much conviction as he could. He meant to keep it deep within himself, melting into the chasmic depths of his heart so you could not trace the entrails to his soul, where he hid in the forested depth of his viridian eyes‒ but when he found himself lingering, deepening his gaze towards you, he couldn’t help but to cleave those words from himself, so openly offering a part of his heart. No wound had felt fresher, more incandescent, more real. You press your hand on top of his, resonating the fluttering of his pulse at your sensors with your own elating heartbeat, as if to answer‒ yes, yes, yes . It tickled. 

“Then show me yours, so I may know what to treasure.” 

 It had been centuries since you let go of your inhibitions to let the world eat you raw. You devoured each other in that tenderness, carving open your chests and watching them beat in each other's hands. Even in the face of blazing firelight against the darkness of night, your grotesque flesh burns the brightest, kindled with unparalleled vigor‒ the most soft, the most lucid, the most real thing in your hands. 

So it was inevitable that he would bear witness to the sudden stutter of your movements. 

It was during one of those temperate weekends, the two of you delightfully blind to the scorching sun setting on the horizon. You had been able to acquire a particularly fine specimen of ivory, carving it hollow into a small casket, sizing it to the dimensions of his hunter’s arrows. You chiseled diligently, with a murmuring chest, a low relief depicting scenes of affection, adoration, devotion. You remembered crowns of daisies, buttercups, and pansies merrily laced in wind tossed hair; scenes of lovers tending to a beast of love, the unicorn; secret meetings between sweethearts in the rose gardens‒ sculpting them prettily onto the creamy material, engraving the features as soft and tender as the feeling in your chest. There was a slight jitter in your arms, sure, but the swelling feeling in your chest carried you to an ignorant bliss. You place the casket on the drafting table, and go to lift a large slab of marble to access materials to polish the box. A tick sounds in your arms, you try to ignore it, but you're unable to when the full weight of the marble is slammed onto the ground, carrying your arms with it. Oily strands of black bead from your chest to the ruptured arms at your feet. You bend down‒ expecting it to pull together like threads, but it doesn't. It simply lies like cold flesh on the wood floor. 

"Maître d’Ivoire?"

When you don't respond, looking blankly at your fallen limbs, he tries again‒ closer, soft touch tickling your neck. 

"(Name)?" 

"It's not…" Fright seized your throat. "It's not mending. My Orpheus system. It's not working." There’s a slight tremble in your voice, Rook catches it with ease, steading your shoulders as you rise. 

"Let us search for Roi de Ta Chambre." 

You nodded dumbly. A worn cloth is wrapped around the arms, Rook searches for another cleaner one, before he shrugs off his own coat, wrapping it tightly around you. His smell‒ deep earthen oak and warmed amber on skin‒ is the only thing you take note of until you find yourselves in the hallways of the Ignihyde dorm, which feels stretched with your soaring anxiety, your knees wobbling as that lift each heavy foot to catch up with Rook’s hasty pace. You find yourself stumbling, staggering to the cold wall with your head leaned against it, the floor spinning from under your feet. Rook scent rushes closer as he catches your body, letting you slowly fall to the ground to rest. 

“Let’s rest a minute‒ before you’re falling into my arms again.” He makes you chuckle, you're glad he does as it distracts you from the gravitational feeling of something heaving from your chest, energy‒ or something more primordial from it‒ pouring from that thread of tension drawing from your lungs. You close your eyes for a moment, only lifting its weight and the slight one at the corner of your lips when you feel him pulling the jacket closer to your chest. Normally you would have detested such a fussy action, but you had little energy to thwart his movements or the smile mirroring your own, nor minded the warmth that came with his florid hands, enveloping you in his golden sanctuary. 

A darkened shade sharply colors your vision. You shift your eyes from Rook to the towering figures, your entire body clenching into itself at the sight. 

"Hello my little ram." He says with a crescent smile, arms open like a covetous falcon. Pointed teeth slashed across his face, glimmering sharp sliver in the inky overcast of his face. 

The words dry in your strangled throat. The shimmery, twisting horns archaic and unforgiving as the river Styx, the hair dark as burning coal sticking sharply in the air; the staff coiling around his veiny hands, commanding every movement of his body. Krios. 

“We were looking for you everywhere, young Jupiter.” He retracts his smoothed arms‒ just then, you notice he does not have the same weariness he did when you last saw him. It frightens you. “I can’t say I’m pleased with where you ran off to.” The creases at his nose bridge, and twitch of his eye were almost negligible, but the exact shapes were blackened in your memories as a sign of great vexation despite the hissing lightness of his voice. 

Somehow, you force words out, staccato breaths. “They brought me here. They chose me. I belong here.” 

“More than your family? More than I?” 

“I don’t believe strangers are welcome here on Night Raven’s campus. I would be glad to retrieve an escort to see you out, monsieur.” You see Rook's jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth through a thin smile, raising his cheeks just enough to reach that strain from his lips to his eyes. You shudder as you haul your body off of the floor, aided by Rook’s rushed hands, steadying your legs, your chest, your heart momentarily with his touch. Krios follows your movements carefully, crimson eyes slender and slow through the narrowed slits of his face. You turn to Rook. 

“Do you mind getting Idia for me? I’ll be alright here.” 

“Are you certain? I‒” 

“I am certain.” You curve your lips into a reassuring smile, quelling for a moment, the shaking in your body with all of the energy you could muster. Relief floods you when he nods, his hands stick Ike honey before he speeds off for Idia's room. 

"Why have you come to get me? S.T.Y.X has not come to collect me since Night Raven College called for me, not ever, since your…” you chose your words carefully, remembering the coldness of fallen flesh of the man standing, sprightly, in front of you. “... sabbatical. Why now?” 

"Who was that boy just now?" He trails his gaze to the endless hallways of the dorm, as if to pierce his precise location.

"Won't you answer my question?" 

"Oh sweet child." He curled his taloned hand under your chin, then curving it to your cheek. You thought to pull away, but didn't, instead wrinkling that disgust in your brows. "Look what they've done to you here. So defiant, so soft ." 

"My softness does not negate my abilities." You would treasure it dearly, harbor far from all of this . 

"With what arms, my child? The whole reason I'm here is to fix you. Don't you have some gratitude for the family who took you in and gave you everything ? You have it all‒ fame, immortality, youth‒ you could have power too, you know." 

No , you knew. You knew now. You were ablaze, enlightened by the brilliance of your own life, spun in the heavenly refuge of others. "I was so young. Conflicted. You took advantage of me. All of you. Every single one." The words were spat from your tightening throat. You knew what his presence heralded‒ your body would be brought back to that lab, subject to Krios’ dissections. Though you felt yourself being ensnared by Krios’ gaze, you felt that if you did not cry out this poison in your body, you would turn back‒ resist against the inevitable. You would spare that bitterness from yourself, from Rook. You glowered, a searing violence in your eyes. 

“I don’t want any of it‒ and you rob me of everything in return. My humanity, my memories, my youth- gone. What more must you take from me ? ” You bare your teeth, clenching an animal violence in the blood of your mouth. There’s your humanity. In the brutality, the lament of your eyes. It’s all still here, now. You want to tear him apart. 

His smile never falters, plucking your dismembered arms from the ground. With a lithe hand, he waves his staff, levitating your limbs in the air, before the blot swirls to your shoulders, threading together your body in curdles of jerky ink. You quickly shrug off Rook’s jacket so as not to soil it, allowing Krios to place a hand on your newly mended shoulder, bare to his sharp touch, cold as a cadaver. You lurch yourself from it, reaching down to grab the jacket, warming your shoulders inside of it. 

"Are you done with this tantrum of yours, my dear little ram?" He chided, slinking his hand onto your neck to turn your body towards his. The grief, the fury is slowly dying inside your chilling body, you clutch onto it in your thundering chest to conserve any of its fleeting warmth. You think of the fluttering pulse of Rook's hand, bright and balmy as the sun. "Feels good, does it not? Blaming others for your own shortcomings. Come back to your family now, you won’t survive without us. I'm giving you the change to go quietly before‒ "

"(Name)!"

You inhale sharply, and do not meet Idia's eyes. It would break you. 

"Master Idia, Master Ortho. How good it is to see you two again." A tightened smile.

“Rook is getting the headmage as we speak. You have no jurisdiction here Krios. I don’t know how- ” 

The doctor titters a piping whistle that cuts through Idia’s words. “Doctor’s orders, Master Idia. Right, (Name)?”

You wish you had the organs to vomit, the way he pulled your body close to his side while your name sat on his tongue like a blight‒ the smell of bleach and decay overpowering the warming amber of Rook’s scent. He turns to you, expectantly, a sly tip of his head which says, “ you know what to do .” You want the world to collapse‒ cindering fires, cataclysmic tornados, roaring thunderstorms‒ anything that holds all your rage and grief. But the youth, the heart Rook has resurrected with his careful hands knows the ruthless wrath pooling in Krios’ eyes that adds, try me, do it. Not a threat, a declaration of your power against his. 

“Idia. Ortho. Hear me.” You know the expression on his face without having to turn. Crumpled at the center of his nose bridge, head down. It was like this, always, back at the lab when you would tease him and his brother. 

“ Anything .” Idia answers for the two of them. 

"Watch over him. Over yourselves too."

"(Name)-" His voice breaks. 

“Idia.” You’re able to turn to him now, holding the last drop of humanity in the warmth of your smile. “Take care. It’ll pass.” Then, like blood, you drain it all from your body.

Still, it returns‒ breaking into your veins like a flood. You wanted to clobber yourself from weeks ago, begging Rook not to let go. It was always you, always . You swallow that lump of humanity down your esophagus, deep deep into the belly of the darkness. 

Krios rubs a thumb of your neck, guiding your movements towards the carriage you suddenly find yourself staggering towards. You twist out of his grasp like a feral animal‒ letting the coat fall from your shoulders and snatching the collar of his neck. Your breaths come out in white, steamy gasps, as you think, your gaze gritting against his never ending smile. No words, not even in all of the arcane, ancient languages you knew, were big enough for the hollowness in your heart, and the anger at the one who twisted it open. Hunger, starvation, famine‒ these words were not enough for the cosmic emptiness. You heave, silent, crumbling to the ground, pathetically grasping at the ground near Krios’ feet. The jacket is seized in your hands, rushing to a fragrance of humanity‒ of warmth, of life, of love. it will never be like this again. The frost you feel rising now is especially fracturing, knowing what the warmth from the rapture of the sun felt like on your flesh. It splitters you. This is not a wound your body can mend.

——————————————————

Notes:

Gina Lorenzo Bernini was a famous Italian baroque sculptor, you’ve probably seen some of his works in the past without realizing it‒ his work has been featured in a lot of mythological and Roman Catholic contexts. If you look up his pieces like David, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and Blessed Ludovia Albertoni‒ you’ll see what I mean when I was comparing it with Rook’s over dramatic movements lol. Baroque sculptures are typically very dynamic and have a melodramatic flare‒ but still retain a sense of sturdiness and realism‒ perfect for Rook I think. Very sensual, beautiful‒ and kind of scandalous for its time period. But some art historians argue that he’s even better than Michelangelo so sometimes you gotta be horny in the wrong time to get that sweet sweet fame after your demise ya know. You’d be surprised how many artists fit that statement

Also fun fact about Baroque painting‒ the guy who is most well known for it, Caravaggio (you might have heard the term “Caravaggesque” and chiaroscuro which are attributed to him and the overall baroque movement), killed a guy. Like literally just stabbed a guy to death. And NO ONE talks about it

Magnum opus: Basically the most important piece of artwork an artist produces (most renowned, most popular, etc)

Lutetia (called Lutèce in French) is actually the old name of Paris, meaning mud or swamp in Latin.

I feel like I spoke in riddles with all the analogies I’m using with Rook lol. But I feel like fits the flare of his character while it also grounds itself in reality a bit with its very visceral experiences. Like the whole fruit tree analogy is like Tantalus' thing‒ except the catch is that you’re the thing that holds yourself hostage from claiming the fruit, which I think is a very relatable experience for people who’re are in that young adult stage. 

Ivory chests, or coffret in French (meaning “coffin”- however no connection to death or burial rituals) were used as dowry pieces, or tokens of affection during courtship, as they often depicted scenes of love‒ especially through hunting imagery that was growing in popularity during the medieval period when these were made. Since they were much smaller because of the limited shape and size of ivory, they often held small things like trinkets, jewelry, locks of hair, etc. There’s a pretty famous version of these caskets (“Casket with Scenes of Romances”) that were reproduced multiple times in Paris, the center to ivory carving in the fourteenth century (unfortunately because of the plundering of Africa during the period). There’s a strong intersection between secular and nonsecular imagery during the period because Christianity was growing as a huge patron of the art world‒ so I changed some of the imagery up a little bit. Also, because of the unfortunate sexist and colonialism bit (keep in mind Crusades had just ended like a couple centuries ago too, and contributed significantly to national French identity)- like images of love being equated to the take over of a castle, images of combat, and the hunt and slay of a unicorn. Yes, heteronormative courting rituals have been convoluted with a slight air of violence for centuries folks. Anyways wanted to add more gentle imagery since A) don’t love the sexism and colonialism bit and B) it better fits the overall theme of acceptance and gentleness.

Yeah can you tell I like consumption imagery in my writing? Not at all right 

In “Flowers of Manhood” by Christopher Looby he describes daisies, buttercups, and in particular pansies as terms for "flamboyant gay men", which in the mid 20th century had become a symbol of queerness and queer love. As a queer myself, it's difficult to completely separate my own life from my writings‒ and with a GN MC, I thought I would add that in as a little homage to any of the queer people reading this, since we are so rarely represented in media. 

[askinkiskarma]

i love sending asks for ask games but SOME QUESTIONS ARE WAY TOO FUNNY IN THIS ONE AHAHAHA

i choose 9 and 15 and 35 ✨

9. my best first date?

i'm gonna say w my current bf, we didn't even really plan for it, but we went for lunch, and it kinda turned into a first date, and it was amazing, we went for pasta at this place he had been before and loved, and we laughed so hard, and we haven't stopped laughing since pretty much

15. favourite quote

you know, if i knew anyone would ask me that, i knew it would be you and it's the question i most wanted hahaahha that's why you're mi amor. i honestly love quotes, i live for quotes, whenever i find a new good quote it's like my life becomes a bit richer, and i have like 600 quotes saved on my phone, but i'll give you one of my favourite ones that i think about all the time.

"everything i've ever let go of has claw marks on it." - i think that's basically how i live my life. i've never let go of something without first clinging on to it for dear life and trying my absolute hardest to make it work. i'll actually also share a poem with you that i remembered about recently that i love so so much, that i relate to too much sometimes, that i think you'll love x (under the cut)

35. favourite holiday

i love american autumn holidays that we don't even celebrate over here but it gives me an excuse to celebrate something in autumn, which is my favourite season, so probably halloween and thanksgiving. me and my bf always make cakepops and cinnamon rolls and watch haunting of hill house or gilmore girls cuddled in a blanket, and it's just a good time :(( i love autumn sm

"5am

again,

drunk on someone else’s love,

or couch,

and I’ve never felt more at home. 

I fled myself,

from the life I’ve built

because I’ve been inhabiting routines I don’t want to stand for. Inhabiting skin I’d rather shed

but still took on

like a soldier serving his country,

for that’s what they told me to do.

But I was not

strong

or wise,

but young and foolish,

for what is this thing? Trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance, and I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls

with clean blood

and organised drawers.

I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests

at night when no one else is alive,

or awake,

however you choose to see it,

and I live in my own flames.

Sometimes burning too bright and too wild

to make things last 

or handle

myself or anyone else

and so I run.

Run run run,

far and wide

until my bones ache and lungs split

and it feels good.

Hear that, people? It feels good,

because I am the slave and ruler of my own body

and I wish to do with it exactly as I please,

and living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times, because I never volunteered to take this on. The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,

the forever on going task of explaining this and that,

and why I don’t want to look like this and

be like that

but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.

If this is the place I’ve been given, I’m sure as hell gonna make this work.

So I fled the me that was never really me and I’m on my way. To newer lands and uncleaned streets

for I’ve had enough of childish safety in comfort.

Enough of all telling me to look and do, like this and that, and I never meant to please anyone but myself

and you can call me selfish,

throw words like knives in the dark but I will not listen,

for not listening to sharp words brought me to where I am today

and I believe in the path I’ve been given. If my only task in this life is to walk it,

I surely will walk it

prouder than anyone else.

If this is the path I’ve been given, I will walk it

prouder than anyone else,

for no one else can."

Charlotte Erikson

hope you enjoyed xoxo

[o5-the-daughter]

[Media: a live video feed.]

The feed flickers on to show Eight seated behind his desk, with a window showing a small section of Site-01's garden serving as a backdrop; the light coming from right behind him gives the impression of a halo surrounding his head, undeniably an intentional effect.

Eight himself is leaning back a bit in his chair, his hands folded infront of him on the desk the recording device has been placed on. He is dressed in a striking, emerald green suit, a color much darker and richer than the sage he usually wears, with his hair having been braided back in a beautiful half-up-half-down style. He wears much the same regality and pride Iva had a week prior, with every last bit of power he holds put on display for the watcher to see.

He pauses as the activity of the feed is announced and shifts slightly before beginning to speak; it quickly becomes clear that he isn't primarily addressing the anons, if he is intending to speak to them at all.

"Some of you know me, some don't, most of you likely don't care, which is an understandable opinion to have", he begins. His voice is surprisingly even, considering the events of the past few days, with his usually harsh accent having softened a little.

"I am the eighth Overseer of the current O5 Council, commonly known as Dogwood or Green these days, the one namely in charge of our Task Forces. And I will be pretty dead in less than twenty-four hours."

Another pause, a brief shift in his overall calm demeanor. Even Eight himself seems a little uneasy with saying these words out loud.

"I have been with the Foundation since I was a teenager in the 1910s, for over a century, a time during which I, mostly unknowingly, was part of a group of trainees nicknamed as O5-10's nine prodigies. With the exception of myself and O5-9, all of them are dead now", he explains, his voice dropping back into its previous calm, almost warm tone.

"All of their deaths were deliberate. All of their deaths were planned."

His glance briefly moves away from the camera, somewhere off-screen, though he doesn't comment on this when his attention returns.

"I don't know much about the others. I wish I did."

Something changes in his tone now. He sounds.. expectant.

"What I do know, however, is that they were sacrificed, one after the other, to slowly create a god out of O5-10 - and now, soon, I will follow them, more blood shed on his command."

He glances away once more; the tension that had previously, almost unnoticeably, slipped into his expression disappears, replaced by a vague, but satisfied smile.

"I have accepted this fate, and I have accepted that I will go to hell for everything I have done in my life", he goes on. He seems strangely at ease now. "That doesn't mean I can't do something good with the little bit of life I have left, however, which is why I have decided to address you, the employees of this organization, today."

Somewhere in the background, quick, heavy steps become audible. They seem to approach Eight's office, even if he can't hear them for obvious reasons. Still, as if he knows, he leans back in his seat.

"Due to some happenings in a neighboring reality of ours, some members of our Council have decided to, aggressively, increase our surveillance of some of our allied Groups of Interest - this is yet to be properly implemented, as they are waiting for me to die first, which has given me the chance to send a message to said GoI to warn them ahead of time."

The steps are almost at his office now. He looks away from the camera, above it, likely towards the door. He is expecting whatever is about to happen.

"That won't stop them from trying to send my agents there anyway, of course, though - and that's why I'm speaking to you directly - I want to encourage you to decide for yourself whether this is a battle you wish to fight for the Foundation. Provoking passive Groups of Interest will result in needless violence, violence that they will now be able to prepare ahead of time; and it will be you who will face the consequences. Not anyone up here, who won't care for the blood on their hands."

The door is pushed open now, with such force that it slams against the wall behind it. Eight's vague smile turns into a grin at the sight of whoever has entered and is storming towards him now.

With a brief look back at the camera, he says,

"Keep this in mind. It's all I ask for my legacy to be",

then familiar, giant hands grab his collar and roughly pull him up from his seat, while another person pushes the recording device - a laptop, apparently - close. The last thing heard is an ugly noise of flesh getting thrown against a hard surface, and a harsh curse in Russian.

[CONNECTION INTERRUPTED. END OF FEED.]

[gormfullray]

This is a question I've posed to myself a lot of times over the years. If there was ever a time my first answer would be yes, it would have been before I started asking myself, before I was old enough to really consider the notion. At twenty-four, I still feel like I'm not old enough to answer the question, like I don't yet understand the premise enough to answer in good faith, like my frame of reference on happiness is malnourished and atrophied.

I've spent a very long time very alone. Sometimes I think that is the main problem, the long quiet of the dark nights rolling over into the echoing of lonely years. When I was more naive I had hoped this status quo to be temporary, but here I am beyond the birthday I had arbitrarily chosen as the day I'd find my way out when I was younger and more foolish, only just now coming to realise fully that in the bottomless pit, I can only continue to fall, and the longer I fall the farther from the world I am.

There are other times I blame other things. There are times I blame my parents. I think there is a lot I would be right to blame them for. It hardly matters now though, I no longer have a meaningful relationship with either of them.

I think that I could convince myself that those were the only reasons I felt like I do, like I always have, if I tried. If I tried, I could convince myself that as a child I did not understand how it was the bosses and the banks that owned my mother and father body and mind. If I tried, I could convince myself that it was my kin who isolated me from the world, an isolation I cannot escape even after escaping them, and not the world which was built to isolate and alienate us all. If I tried, I could convince myself that it was not the heel of power that crushed the back of our necks, that it was not tyrants and monarchs who master over our people. If I had the heart left in me for it, I could try to pretend that my problems were ever only my own. I do not think I have the heart to lie.

I do not deserve to shed tears for my pains. For every shift my father laboured to make rich men richer, a slave whose name has never been put to paper was worked to death on a meat farm or a in a mine. For every night I spent drowning in the sorrow of my own solitude, more folks than I could ever know mourned much worse, and without a ceiling and a bed to do so between. For every day I spend wishing to do or be anything beyond the four corners of this room, beyond the front door of my home, a thousand people have buzzed about the world outside my window, leaving those they love in the morning to work the long and hard hours of those whose labour is disposable, and returning so late and so drained that there is no room in their heart for love, only room in their beds and couches to dream dreams of the cycle not repeating the next day.

There is nothing in our world but power. This is not a matter I couch in the language of thinking, for I have had all the time in the world to think. There has never been good or evil, even if there has been charity and greed. It is not the good which give and the evil which take; it is the powerful for whom the capacity and incentive to take is created, and it is the downtrodden for whom the understanding of place is found, or enforced. There is only oppression, only force, only violence, it is how the world has operated since time immemorial, since the first human ground flour from grain. There are wars between states, wars between people, but in the end there is only one war which does not end, one war who grinds the flesh and bones of the weak and the meek between it's continental gears, forever, and that war is class war.

There is no revolution. There was before, once or twice. There was once an October, so they say, when the people swelled with hope, surging forth like the light of the morning sun onto the detritus mud and snow on the curb of the longest and bloodiest of roads. And just as the choir of hope reached it's crescendo, as the first became last and the last became first, it was cut down. The people could not hold the power, in truth they could neither have amassed it. All of the hope in the world swelled and burst forth, and on it's victory it was slaughtered and skinned, and it's killers donned its skin and paraded around in it until it rotted and stank, and all the hope of the world forevermore was wrapped in the stench of its betrayal.

There can be no revolution. The world revolution was taken in its infancy, and was slaughtered like a pig, and it's pieces were valued only for the labour of their slaves, or the violence of their strong. It became exactly as the whole world always was. Today, the old experiments are complete, ran to their natural conclusion, Napoleon and the pigs sat alongside the farmers. The people can never muster such power as to free themselves now. It is simply materially impossible; the violence of the state is absolute, in both it's arms and it's law.

My age is the age of the 21st century, and in my age and in my land, my people are not free. The luckiest of my people are serfs and slaves, disposable and nameless tools, owned by those born to owning. The weak of my people are of no use to those who own, they are the sick of body or mind, and they are left by our society to wither and then to rot, in whatever hiding places they are lucky enough to find. And of those who own, those who are born to owning? They become slaves to the crowns they wear, and their hearts are carved hollow by the evils they are rewarded for inflicting.

What hope is there in the world? On what dark horizon might light ever rise over my people from? Am I the fool for believing that the hope our people once had, one so-called October, is an ember which yet smoulders in the heart of the brave? Or am I the fool for believing that such optimism is a deception I use to drown my own anguish; that we, us, will yet live to see millions of the least valued left to die, left to writhe and bleed and scream on the barbed wire of the borders of the wealthiest nations, as the cradles of humanity begin to boil and the poor are cooked inside their own skin as the air becomes so hot that their sweat can no longer evaporate?

There were times I thought that the dignity, the honour, is to reject hope and dread in equal measure, and to instead see only the fire in my heart. That all there was to do, all that could quiet the soul, was to surrender to mortality, and to sing the anguish of slaves in the medium of meaningless, unproductive, indiscriminate destruction. I think now this is the cry of a child, the droning echo of a hatred left long to fester, of a child left long to fester.

I do not know if there is hope to be found. I couch my language, my own perception, in the ambiguity which lets me hope even when I try to pretend that I know I cannot. If there is no hope, if it is that the pit is bottomless and there is only to tumble forever into the darkness, then there is only to wait, and if there is only to wait then I think, in a way immaterial to power, we may be made free. If we can never break the chains held by those who know not what they do, then can we forgive those who we hate, and love them as our own? If to comply is to abett, and to resist is to be crushed, then are we free to turn the other cheek, and declare freely that we shall endure our death and our destruction with the honour of peace in our hearts, and feel no longer the burning agony of hatred? I don't know.

No nuance poll!! Yes or no!! You can define all terms in the poll however you want to get to one of the binary answers!!!

[bloggingastronaut]

Hello, Love Again: A Story of New Beginnings and Finding Home

Hello, Love, Again (2024) - A Movie Review

I recently watched Hello, Love Again, the much-talked-about movie starring Alden Richards and Kathryn Bernardo. With all the global hype surrounding it, I was curious to see what made this film such a hit. After watching it, I can say that while the story itself wasn’t extraordinary, the performances—especially Kathryn’s—made it worth the buzz.

Let me be honest: if you’re not familiar with Kathryn Bernardo and Alden Richards, this movie might not leave as strong of an impact. The plot is straightforward and something we’ve seen in real life countless times—a story of heartbreak, finding new love, and starting fresh. What made it special, however, was the deeper layer added by Kathryn’s real-life experiences.

What really stood out to me was Kathryn’s portrayal of her character. For years, Kathryn seemed boxed into a specific mold—a persona shaped by a relationship that appeared to limit her growth. But in Hello, Love Again, she shed that image completely. She was bold, free, and unapologetically herself. It was like watching someone break free from chains, It was refreshing to see her explore a role that mirrored her personal growth, proving she’s ready to soar on her own terms. It was empowering not just for her but for anyone watching.

Another smart move was pairing her with Alden Richards, someone whose clean and admirable public image made him the perfect contrast to Kathryn’s real-life past relationship. The chemistry between them wasn’t just about their characters—it was symbolic. It wasn’t just their acting; it was the story their collaboration told.

This movie became a reflection of something many of us dream of—breaking away from a stifling past and stepping into a future where we are free to be ourselves, where we found someone who treats you with love and respect, who gave us so much grace to fail but still accepted. Kathryn’s character shows that moving on isn’t just about leaving behind the old. It’s about opening yourself up to the possibility of something better, and that struck a chord with me.

But perhaps the most touching part of the movie was its deeper message: that home isn’t always a place—it can be a person. A person who makes you feel safe, loved, and understood. Someone you can turn to when life feels heavy. That thought stayed with me long after the credits rolled because it’s something so many of us long for—a love that feels like home.

For me, Hello, Love Again wasn’t just a movie—it was a lesson in letting go. Sometimes, God removes things—or people—that hurt us so He can make room for better things. Letting go of a toxic relationship is hard, but it’s also one of the most loving things we can do for ourselves.

This film reminded me that when we finally release what no longer serves us, we open our hearts to the blessings waiting ahead. It’s not just about finding love again—it’s about rediscovering yourself and creating a life where you can thrive.

So, if you’re holding onto something—or someone—that’s keeping you from being happy, let this be your sign. Let go. Trust the process, because better things are coming. And who knows? Your person—your true home—might just be waiting for you, ready to show you a love that feels like freedom.

Hello, Love Again is more than just a love story. It’s a story of hope, courage, and the belief that no matter how hard things get, new beginnings are always possible.

Movie Rating: 8/10

*Mas naaliw talaga ako kay Kathryn here as a person. It’s satisfying to watch her bloom and soar—free and wild—while having someone new, better, richer, and more handsome. IKAW NA TALAGA MARENG KATHRYN! HAHAHA

[mariacallous]

TBILISI — Am I delusional?

Reporting on Georgian politics ahead of Saturday’s decisive parliamentary elections, I find myself struggling with this question over and over again.

Turn on the TV here, and the vote is portrayed as an existential binary. Pro-government channels parrot the ruling party, framing it as a choice between “war and peace,” while opposition channels call it a choice between the European Union and Russia. No grey areas.

But is this really the decision Georgians are making? Is the binary that clear cut? I’m not so sure.

To understand the political situation in any country, Georgia included, ask a cab driver, the old adage goes. Maybe the average Joe — or in this case, Giorgi — could shed some light.

As he steered his cab through Tbilisi’s winding roads, driving me home from the airport at 5 a.m., Giorgi gladly shared his disappointment with the country’s political elites. For him, the choice isn’t quite so simple.

“Europe and the United States won’t save us — and neither will any government, old or new. For people like myself, nothing will change. [The politicians] will keep getting richer, and I’ll have to spend night after night driving around to put food on the table that’s never enough.”

Disenchantment with the political establishment is nothing new, of course. Whether it’s former President Mikheil Saakashvili who rose to power during the 2003 Rose Revolution, or billionaire Bidzina Ivanishvili and his ruling Georgian Dream party that followed, leaders often come in as heroes and leave (or stay) as villains. 

“No one should stay in power for longer than a year if they don’t deliver something in that period,” Giorgi said. And while Saakashvili and Ivanishvili may be archenemies, they have one thing in common: for many, they held power for far too long. Saakashvili was at the helm for nine years; Ivanishvili’s Georgian Dream has been in post for 12 now.

Emerging as a pro-Western leader in a post-Soviet country, Saakashvili got off to a good start. Internationally, he was the West’s darling, and at home he was big on infrastructure — a sparkling new fountain would pop up in town, and he’d attend the opening with a gaggle of press, cameras rolling as he cut the ribbon.

But by the end of his tenure, the story didn’t sell so well. Every outlet would report the same story, show the same footage, sometimes even in the same order. His grip on the media was too obvious — the authoritarian behind the democratic façade starting to show.

Shocking footage of human rights abusesby prison guards, dropped in the days before the 2012 parliamentary election, sealed Saakashvili’s fate and tolled the bell for his United National Movement (UNM). Its a shadow the party hasn’t been able to shake.

With Georgia now on the hunt for its new hero, Ivanishvili knew the moment was ripe.His brand? A mysterious benefactor, who could have lived the rest of his life carefree — but out of duty and passion for the country, chose to take up the burden of Georgia’s leadership instead.

Having spent generously on Georgian infrastructure and cultural projects, Ivanishvili — much like the early days of Saakashvili— styled himself as having a genuine ambition to transform the country.

Little did he know that a decade later, critics would want to oust him for the same authoritarian tendencies.

No to war

Today, on the evening of the election, large — and somewhat brutal — election banners loom over Tbilisi’s streets.

“No to war, choose freedom,” one of them reads, contrasting the enlarged image of a war-torn church in Ukraine with one of Tbilisi’s landmark Holy Trinity Cathedral. Such banners are everywhere, all depicting scenes of devastation.

Many Ukrainians sought refuge in Georgia after Russia’s full-scale invasion, and I can’t help but wonder how they must feel seeing these images in the streets. But the ruling party designed this campaign for Georgians, who also had a taste of Russian aggression under Saakashvili’s rule. 

And the message is clear: The opposition are warmongers wishing to “drag Georgia into the war,” so if you want peace, vote for Georgian Dream.

The party also came up with a collective term for everyone challenging them — the radical opposition. Anyone who falls into this category can become a target; many civil activists, journalists and opposition figures have and face varying degrees of intimidation.

“I’m always looking over my shoulder,” a fellow journalist told me.

And while EU officials have warned that such an authoritarian pivot will cost Georgia its EU membership, I wonder if Georgian Dream supporters believe that. Does such a warning even make a difference? And what holds more weight: the dream of a European future or the familiar fear of war?

Plagued by these questions, I headed to Wednesday’s Georgian Dream rally.

Tens of thousands were gathered in Tbilisi’s central Liberty Square for the pro-government event, with loudspeakers blasting, drums banging and energetic young men carrying a large blue flag depicting a hybrid between the Georgian Dream and EU logos. The party’s MPs and candidates marched toward the square amid chants of “Glory to Georgian Dream.”

Many had come to the rally because they support the party, but many others were instructed — or even threatened — to attend, transported to Tbilisi from regions in tightly packed minibuses. Anyone with a friend or family member employed in a state-funded sector can attest that when the ruling party wants to gather masses, ultimatums are made. And refusing to comply could cost them their jobs.

 “I want to thank the person who, in 2012, restored our dignity and delivered us from the bloody regime,” said Prime Minister Irakli Kobakhidze, to the crowd’s rapturous applause.

Among them was Nika, a war veteran from Bershueti village, near the de facto border of occupied South Ossetia. He was wounded during the five-day war in 2008, when Russia invaded Georgia.

“We know the value of peace — peace is everything to me. Georgian Dream promises peace,” he said, eager to emphasize he wasn’t a state servant forced to attend the rally but a genuine supporter.

His wife Lia also stressed that, as a mother of four, peace is what she values most: “Because I know what war is. It happened because of poor politics,” she said. “One shouldn’t poke the bear at the expense of others’ children’s lives.”

The European choice

While they see the ruling party as peacekeepers, 48-year-old Nino said she likes the Georgian Dream because of their anti-LGBTQ+ policies. “The EU is forcing us to accept LGBT. I don’t want to see a man with another man,” she said.

However, like many others, she also harbors personal anger toward the previous government, as three of her family members were imprisoned, forcing her, as a single mother, to migrate to the U.S. And the main reason she supports Georgian Dream is that she feels safer and freer in modern Georgia.

“They won’t arrest you today unless you do something extreme. During Misha’s time, I prayed my [family] would come out alive,” she said, recalling Saakashvili’s “zero tolerance” crime policies.

Those on the other side of the political spectrum, however, see a very different picture.

A few days prior to Georgian Dream’s rally, thousands filled the same street to express their unwavering support for the “European choice.” What’s at stake for them is a future in the EU and democracy itself.

“Today I see free Georgia standing in front of me. Nobody has been forced to come here, nobody has come because they were told they’d lose their jobs if they didn’t show up,” said President Salome Zourabichvili, who had joined the rally.

So, maybe the delusion is thinking that there’s a stark difference in what the opposing sides want.

All anyone in Georgia wants is peace, prosperity and a European future. Only, for one side, the guarantee of peace is EU membership, which they believe Georgian Dream will deprive them of, while the other is afraid peace will end if the ruling party loses control.

All of them will head to polling stations on Saturday, confident they’ll win. And with sharing power off the table, today feels like the calm before the storm.