#and/or learning something loving you different from our understanding

[pinkpurplesunrises]

When the World Stops Running (Our Love Still Moves)

6000 words - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - can't promise you there won't be any tears - Angst & Fluff - Happy Ending - Mentions of leukemia - please read with care

Writer's note: took me a while to write this one. I hope you like it. Let me hold your hand while you read it, for comfort.

You arrive in Barcelona two weeks before preseason begins.

It’s hot in a way that clings to your skin. The city moves like it’s always mid-conversation. Horns in the distance. Chatter from balconies. Mopeds whirring down narrow streets. It feels like another world, like you’ve stepped into a painting you don’t quite belong in yet.

You’re used to new places. New teams. You’ve worn different jerseys, learned new locker room rules, adjusted to different coaching styles. But this feels different. Not just because it’s Barcelona. Not just because of the crest you now wear on your chest. It’s the weight of it. The history. The language. The unspoken standard.

And maybe, if you're being honest, it’s her.

You’ve seen her in interviews. On the pitch. Always calm. Always in control. Alexia Putellas doesn’t just play football. She becomes it. The idea of sharing a pitch with her makes something nervous and excited twist inside you, like a string being slowly pulled taut.

You meet her on the second day of preseason.

You’re lacing your boots on the far bench, alone, focused on the knot you’re trying to tie. You hear footsteps before you see her. Then the soft sound of someone clearing their throat.

You glance up.

“Hola,” she says, offering a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Warm, but a little rough from training.

You stand too quickly, almost tripping over your own bootlace. “Hi.”

Alexia nods, arms crossed loosely. She’s in her training kit. Hair still damp from the last drill. Cheeks flushed with heat. She looks so comfortable here. Like the pitch was made for her.

“You are... new?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

You nod, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. Uh, just got in last week.”

She seems to search for the next words. Her English isn’t fluent, you can tell, but she’s trying.

“From... Lyon?”

You smile, surprised she knows. “Yeah.”

Alexia points at you, eyes lighting up. “I remember. Goal... left foot. Outside the box, no?”

You blink. “You saw that?”

She shrugs, grinning now. “Claro. It was... muy buena. Beautiful goal.”

You laugh under your breath, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. “Thanks. Bit of luck.”

She tilts her head, playful. “No. Was not luck.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet. The kind that sits between two people still learning each other’s shape.

“I’m Alexia,” she says, reaching out.

You take her hand. Her grip is firm, but her fingers are warm, slightly calloused. You notice the way her thumb presses softly against yours for a split second too long before she lets go.

You introduce yourself, and she repeats your name slowly. Carefully, like she’s tasting it.

The rest of the day moves in a blur.

You run drills, learn names, miss cues because people speak to you in Spanish and you can only catch every fourth word. Still, when you glance over, Alexia is watching. Not in a critical way. Just... watching.

And when you mess up, because of course you do, she doesn’t roll her eyes or scoff like a few others. She jogs over, presses a hand lightly to your back and says something you don’t understand.

“I don’t... know what that means,” you admit. Breathless.

She pauses, then leans closer, lowering her voice like it’s a secret: “Don’t worry. You will... aprender.”

You smile. “Learn?”

She nods. “Sí. I teach you. If you want?”

You blink. “You’d do that?”

Alexia shrugs, brushing hair behind her ear. “Maybe. If you’re... nice to me.”

You laugh, and this time, so does she.

That night, in your tiny apartment on the edge of the city, you replay the day in your head. The way her voice softened when she said your name. How she slowed her words just enough when she was speaking to you. How her fingers lingered on your shoulder for a heartbeat too long when you passed her your water bottle.

And that final moment… in the locker room… just before you left. You’d grabbed your bag, turned to go and she had stopped you with a gentle touch on your shoulder.

“Tomorrow,” she said, eyes holding yours. “We pass together. Yes?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She smiled. This one slower. Real. Then her hand dropped, but her gaze stayed a second longer.

Now, in the dark of your apartment, the city still humming outside, your shoulder still feels warm.

Barcelona becomes quieter at night.

You learn this on your first away game. Sitting on the bus after a win. Watching the city lights blur past the window. The hum of tired conversations buzzes around you: boots tapping the floor, headphones hissing softly, someone snacking behind you. The players are still riding the high of the match, but you’ve already slipped into a calmer place.

Alexia slides into the empty seat beside you. Not without a word. She gives you a glance first, like she’s asking permission. But she doesn’t say anything out loud.

She just sits. Close enough for her shoulder to brush yours when the bus hits a bump.

She has one earbud in. The other dangles between you.

You eye it. She notices.

After a pause, she gently holds it out to you. Her fingertips graze yours as you take it.

The music is soft. Spanish. Female vocals. Low and aching.

You don’t understand the words, but something in the melody makes your chest ache anyway.

“What’s she singing about?” you ask, voice low.

Alexia smiles, eyes still on the window. “She misses someone.”

You glance at her.

“Someone who left?” you ask.

Alexia shakes her head. “No. Someone who is... still here. But not close anymore.”

Your heart pinches at that. You don’t ask more.

That night becomes the first of many.

Late-night rides. Shared silence. Sometimes she lets you pick the music. Sometimes you both just sit, letting the road lull the distance between you.

During training, your eyes find each other too easily now. She's always in your periphery. Turning to check your positioning. Offering a thumbs-up when your cross hits just right. Catching your gaze after a tough drill like she’s silently asking, You good?

You always nod. Even when you’re not.

Alexia starts giving you small Spanish lessons. Words here and there... "pasa," "mira," "bien." You write them down in a little notebook you keep in your locker, and she teases you for it until she sees your handwriting and goes quiet for a second.

“You write like a child,” she says with a grin. But her eyes soften. “Cute, though.”

It’s three weeks in when the deeper stuff begins.

You’re both staying late after training. Something about the floodlights and empty pitch makes it feel like a different world. Quieter. Honest.

You’re sitting on the grass, cleats off, drinking warm water from your bottle. Alexia lies back beside you, one arm under her head.

“Where’s home for you?” she asks suddenly.

You pick at the grass. “Doesn’t feel like anywhere, really.”

Alexia turns her head. Waits.

You sigh. “Moved a lot growing up. Different cities, different countries. Dad was in the military.”

“Ah,” she says. Not pity. Just understanding. “And your mamá?”

You smile, small and sad. “Gone. When I was twelve.”

Alexia doesn't respond right away. You like that about her. How she doesn’t rush to fix silence. She lets it be.

Then she reaches out and gently flicks a blade of grass at your knee. “You are strong.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You barely know me.”

She shrugs. “I know enough.”

You glance at her. “What about you? Your family?”

Alexia’s jaw tightens a little. “My papa died. When I was... young. Dieciocho años.”

You turn fully to face her. Her eyes are on the sky, but you can tell she’s not looking at stars.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

She swallows. “My mamá... is amazing. Strong. But she carries too much. Always.”

You nod. You know what that looks like.

“I try to win for him.” Alexia adds, so quiet it almost disappears in the wind. “Every time.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach out and gently place your hand next to hers, close enough that your pinkies touch.

She doesn’t pull away.

The kiss comes after a match. A brutal one. Tough opponents. Bad weather. A last-minute goal that secured the win.

You’re soaked in sweat and adrenaline. Your heartbeat still thudding in your ears. The locker room is alive with celebration. Music blasting. Shirts being tossed around. But you step outside, needing air.

She finds you leaning against a wall. Head tilted back toward the sky.

“You disappear a lot,” she says, joining you.

You smile without turning. “Yeah. Noise gets... too loud.”

“I like the quiet,” she says, “when it’s with you.”

You glance at her. She’s already looking at you.

Something flickers in her expression. Unspoken. Tense. Curious.

You speak before you can stop yourself. “Do you do this with everyone?”

Alexia tilts her head. “What?”

“This.” You gesture between you. “Stay late. Share music. Touch my hand like it means something.”

A pause. Her eyes don’t flinch.

“No,” she says simply. “Just you.”

The space between you stretches thin.

And then, slowly… carefully… she leans in.

Your breath catches. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

Her lips brush yours. Soft, unsure. Not asking for permission so much as offering it. A question written in warmth.

You kiss her back.

It’s not perfect. A little unpracticed. A little messy from the cold air and exhaustion. But it’s real. And slow. And full of something fragile that makes your chest tighten with both joy and fear.

When she pulls away, she exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days.

You rest your forehead against hers.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers, “we don’t run from this, si?”

You nod.

“No running.”

Mornings feel different now.

Not because the city has changed. Barcelona still wakes with the smell of warm bread and the rustle of open windows. But because she’s next to you.

Alexia’s breathing is soft and even. Her back curled toward you. Her shoulder just brushing yours beneath the blanket. Her hair is messy. Not the polished braid the world sees on match days. And a small line of drool threatens to escape the corner of her mouth. You smile into the pillow.

She stirs when you shift, eyes cracking open.

“Qué hora es?” she mumbles, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Too early,” you whisper, kissing the curve of her shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

She hums, stretching slightly before turning to bury her face in your chest. You feel her exhale against your collarbone.

“Warm,” she mutters.

“You’re clingy in the morning,” you tease.

“Liar. You like it.”

She’s right. You do.

It’s only been three weeks since that first kiss. Since the wall between you cracked open and something bright and terrifying stepped in. You weren’t expecting it. Neither of you were. But now, it’s real. It’s delicate and new, but real.

You haven’t told many people. A few teammates suspect. Kika’s knowing smirk whenever you two come back from lunch together. Or Jana’s raised eyebrows when Alexia leaves training with her hand on the small of your back. But you’re not hiding, either.

You’re just keeping it yours. For now.

Later that week, something changes.

You feel… off.

At first it’s small. A little more tired after training. A bruise on your thigh that doesn’t fade. A nosebleed in the shower that lasts longer than it should.

You chalk it up to stress. New club. New system. New relationship. Your body is just catching up. You push through.

But the fatigue lingers. Clings to you like fog.

In the middle of a drill one afternoon, you feel your vision blur. Your breath shortens. The ball slips beneath your foot and you go down hard, scraping your elbow.

Alexia is at your side in an instant.

“You okay?” she asks, crouching beside you, eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… stupid mistake.”

She eyes the scrape. Then your face.

“You look pale.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, trying to smile.

Alexia doesn’t smile back. She brushes your hair off your forehead and studies you.

“You’re sweating more than normal,” she says softly. “And this…” she gently lifts your arm, “this is sacudida.”

You pull away gently. “I’m fine. Probably didn’t eat enough this morning.”

You say it casually. Like it’s nothing. But something shifts in her eyes.

She doesn’t push. Just stands and offers you a hand.

The next day, you sleep through your alarm.

You never do that. You’re usually up before it. Moving through stretches. Checking your schedule twice. But this morning, your limbs feel like lead, and your throat aches.

Alexia calls you when you’re ten minutes late.

You answer, voice rough. “Hey.”

“Dónde estás?” Her tone is tight with concern. “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah, yeah. Just… overslept. Shit. I’m coming now.”

“Don’t rush,” she says quickly. “We have warm-up, but you need to take care of…”

You hang up before she finishes. You don’t want to hear the concern. You don’t want it to feel like something’s wrong.

But that night, you find a new bruise on your rib. One you don’t remember getting.

And when you blow your nose, there’s blood again.

You miss training two days later.

Not because you’re lazy. Not because you want to.

Because your legs genuinely won’t carry you.

You wake up dizzy. Drenched in sweat despite the cool air. Your head is pounding. You try to sit up and nearly fall off the bed.

You text your coach. Then you lie back down, curling in on yourself.

Alexia texts you.

A: Everything okay?

You stare at the screen. You want to lie. You want to say yes.

But your fingers don’t move.

Fifteen minutes later, your phone rings.

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You feel like your body is shutting down from the inside out, and you don’t know why. And the thought of telling her… of seeing that look in her eyes… is almost worse than the fear pressing on your chest.

You pull the blanket over your head and go still.

That evening, when Alexia knocks, you think about pretending to be asleep again.

But something in her voice… soft, careful… breaks your resistance.

“I know you’re in there,” she says, her knuckles tapping once more against the wood. “And I know you’re scared. Pero no me voy.”

You hesitate.

Your heart is thudding hard, not with affection this time, but panic. Shame.

Still, you get up. Slowly. Carefully.

You unlock the door.

Alexia stands there, her brows drawn tight, her arms crossed against the chill in the hallway. Her eyes scan your face immediately, and you see her expression soften.

“Hey,” she says, almost a whisper. Like she’s afraid to speak too loudly and scare you off.

You try to smile. It falters halfway.

She steps inside without waiting to be invited. She doesn’t touch you yet. Just hovers nearby, like you’re glass.

“You didn’t come to training,” she says softly, as you close the door behind her.

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You can’t look at her.

“I know,” you say again.

"I've been feeling off and I have a big bruise on my ribs", you say. Voice trembling. "I don't know how I got it."

Alexia gently reaches for your hand. You flinch.

“Can I see?” she asks.

Your throat tightens.

“It’s ugly,” you whisper.

“No me importa.”

Your hands tremble as you lift the hem of your shirt. Hesitating before pulling it over your head. The cool air brushes your skin, and for the first time, Alexia sees you without the usual layers. Your bare shoulders. Your collarbones. The soft curve where your shirt meets your chest.

She’s quiet as she takes it in.

Then you slowly, painfully, turn to the side.

There it is.

A sprawling bruise. Dark and deep. Stretches from the underside of your left breast. Delicate, tender skin that’s rarely seen by anyone. Curling down along your ribs, painting angry shades of purple, blue, and sickly yellow.

The sight stops her breath.

Her eyes trace the colors, the swelling, the sheer vulnerability of your body exposed like this.

You feel raw. Exposed. Ashamed.

But Alexia doesn’t look away.

Instead, she steps closer, reaching out without hesitation. Her fingers hover just above the bruised skin, careful not to touch where it might hurt but close enough to offer warmth.

“Has it hurt this whole time?” she asks softly.

You nod, biting your lip.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here now.”

Her hand finally brushes yours. Grounding you.

For the first time, she’s seen every piece of you. Not just the player. The teammate. Or the woman she’s falling for. But all the parts that ache and bleed beneath the surface.

And in that quiet room, with your skin bare and your fear laid bare alongside it, you know you don’t have to hide anymore.

You go alone.

You don’t tell Alexia. Not because you don’t trust her, but because you do. And that’s the problem.

You know what she’ll do: drop everything. Worry. Wrap her arms around you even when you don’t know how to be held.

And you can’t give her that. Not when you don’t even know what this is yet.

The hospital is cold in that too-clean way. Sterile walls. Pale light. Nurses who smile gently but don’t look you in the eyes too long. They draw your blood again. Ask you questions about fatigue. The bruises. The fevers.

You sit under the fluorescent lights, staring at a chipped spot on the floor tile, while the doctor reads your chart in silence.

He clears his throat, and in that instant, your world becomes very very quiet.

He says the words. Leukemia, early stage, treatment options, we’ll move quickly… but they feel far away.

Like they’re meant for someone else in another room, someone stronger, someone more ready.

You nod when you're supposed to. Ask no questions. You just keep thinking, She’s going to look at me differently.

That night, the city moves around you but you don’t feel any of it.

You walk home on autopilot. You pass people laughing on terraces. Scooters buzzing down narrow streets. A couple kissing at a crosswalk. Everything feels unreal. Like a movie you forgot you were in.

By the time you step into your apartment, your legs are shaking.

You barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea catches up to you. You drop to your knees, gripping the toilet, but nothing comes up. Just dry heaves and panic. Cold sweat down your back.

Eventually, you curl up on the tiles, forehead pressed to the cool floor.

You don’t cry.

You just go still.

Maybe if you’re quiet enough, your body will forget how to fall apart.

You don’t hear the knock.

You don’t hear her calling your name at first, muffled through the door.

You only realize she’s there when you hear the key turn. The spare you gave her, weeks ago, in a moment of pure trust.

“Hola?” Her voice is cautious. Worried. “It’s me.”

You try to lift your head, but it’s too heavy.

Footsteps.

Then a pause.

Then: “Mi amor...”

Her voice cracks.

She finds you there, curled on the cold bathroom floor, your body tucked in on itself like it’s trying to vanish.

“Hey… hey, what happened?” she whispers, already on her knees beside you. Her hands hover near your face, your arm, your back, unsure where to touch.

“Qué pasa? Are you… are you hurt?”

You blink up at her, but your mouth won’t form words.

She brushes your hair back, cradles the back of your head. “Talk to me, please. Por favor.”

“I...” Your throat is raw. “I went to the hospital.”

Her whole body stills. “When?”

“This morning.”

She exhales sharply, like the wind’s been knocked out of her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, eyes filling fast now. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

Alexia presses her forehead to yours. “Joder... You think I’m not scared now? Seeing you like this?”

A sob slips out before you can stop it.

“I didn’t want to be broken,” you whisper. “Not already. Not with you.”

“You’re not broken,” she says, instantly, fiercely. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away tears you didn’t know were falling. “No eres débil. No eres menos. You’re still you.”

“I have leukemia.”

The words drop like stones.

There’s a long silence.

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t let go. She just pulls you gently to her chest, holding your shaking body like it’s something holy.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Okay. Nosotras pelearemos.”

You don’t know what the next days will look like.

But right now, in her arms, on this cold tile floor, you feel something you didn’t expect to feel again.

Held. Known.

Not alone.

The days after your diagnosis move like waterlogged hours. Heavy. Slow. And impossible to carry.

You wake up in pieces. Not always physically. Not yet. But emotionally. Some mornings you can barely get out of bed. Some afternoons you stare at your phone for ten minutes before replying to anyone. The world keeps turning, but you stay still. Half-floating. Half-falling.

Alexia is always there.

She brings you tea in the mornings. Sits on the edge of your bed in her training gear. Kisses your temple even when you’re pale and quiet and still haven’t found the energy to speak. She brings soup when you can’t eat and warmth when you can’t feel. She doesn’t push.

She’s just there.

And that’s the problem.

You’re terrified of how much she’s giving. How easily she offers parts of herself you haven’t earned. Parts you’re not sure you’ll have time to return.

So one evenin… when the sky turns orange outside the living room window and your headache won’t leave and your chest feels tight in ways that have nothing to do with your lungs… you try to create distance.

You sit her down on the couch.

She looks up at you, cautious. She can feel it coming.

“I don’t think you should do this with me,” you say softly.

She blinks. Her brow furrows. “Do what?”

“This,” you gesture between you. “All of this.”

Alexia straightens, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

You try to keep your voice steady. You really try.

“Because it’s going to get worse. And I’m not... I’m not going to be who I was. I’ll lose my strength. My hair. My place in the squad. I’ll probably stop looking like me. I might stop feeling like me.”

She’s silent. You keep going. Because if you stop now, you’ll break.

“And I don’t want you to look at me one day and not recognize the person sitting across from you. I don’t want to see pity in your eyes. Or worse… guilt. Or exhaustion.”

She stares at you. Jaw clenched. Eyes glassy. But she says nothing.

“I’d rather you leave now,” you say, quietly. “While you can still walk away.”

The silence that follows feels endless.

And then she stands.

For a split second, you think she’s going to go.

But instead, she steps closer.

You brace for her to whisper something soft. Reassure you. Maybe promise too much.

But she doesn’t whisper.

She burns.

“I get to choose who I love,” she says, voice shaking, not with fear. But fury. Emotion. “And I choose you. Sick or not.”

You open your mouth, but she doesn’t let you speak.

“I don’t love you because you’re strong. Or healthy. Or perfect. I love you because you’re you. Even on your worst day. Even on the floor of a fucking bathroom.”

You suck in a breath. Your whole body locked still.

She steps closer again, chest nearly touching yours now.

“Do you think I don’t know what it means to lose?” she says, quieter now. “I lost my father. I’ve spent my whole life fighting to stay on top of something that keeps trying to pull me under.”

She pauses. Her voice cracks.

“And still… still, I would choose you. Every time.”

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. You don’t know how to hold what she’s just given you.

Tears brim in your eyes. Angry. Terrified. Overwhelmed.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper again, weakly, one last defense.

Alexia steps forward and wraps her arms around you.

She holds you like it’s the only thing she knows how to do.

And then, softly, into your shoulder:

“Demasiado tarde. I already love you.”

You freeze.

Then your breath shudders and everything inside you caves.

Your hands grip the back of her shirt. Your face finds the crook of her neck. And finally, finally, the dam breaks.

Tears fall freely now. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

“I love you too,” you whisper, over and over, like maybe if you say it enough, it will stitch the broken pieces back together.

And in that moment… no hair lost, no battles fought, no hospital rooms or chemo chairs yet. This love is already fierce.

Already enough.

Already yours.

Telling the team is harder than telling Alexia.

Not because they won’t care. But because once you say it out loud in front of everyone, it becomes real in a way you can’t take back.

The whole squad is seated in the film room after morning warm-ups. It’s unusually quiet. No jokes. No tapping cleats. Just a kind of thick silence, like everyone can feel something coming.

Coach had asked them to stay behind after training. No reason given. Just a look.

You sit near the back, hands locked in your lap. Alexia is next to you. Close, but not touching. Dhe knows if she reaches for you right now, you might not be able to speak at all.

Your throat is already dry.

Coach clears her throat. “Before we review anything today, there’s something more important. Something personal. And she’s asked to speak for herself.”

Every head in the room turns to you.

It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’ve been diagnosed with leukemia,” you say. No dramatic pause. No long explanation. Just the truth. Sharp and clean.

Mapi sits up straighter. Patri frowns, confused. A few younger players glance at one another, unsure if they heard you right.

You keep going, softly. “I’ll be starting treatment soon. I won’t be training or playing for a while. We don’t know how long.”

No one speaks.

Until Ingrid leans forward, elbows on knees, voice gentle.

“Are you going to be okay?”

You swallow. “I don’t know yet.”

That’s the hardest part to admit.

There are no answers here. Only maybes. Only waiting.

Then someone stands, and it’s Jana. She walks across the room without a word, wraps her arms around your shoulders, and presses her forehead to yours for just a second. It's not pity. It’s loyalty. It says, You don’t go through this alone.

Then they all follow.

One by one. Arms. Hands. Murmurs. Silent support. Even the ones you barely know.

Alexia stands off to the side. Ryes full and proud. Watching her world start to hold you like she does.

Back home, the hospital bag is finished.

Alexia helps you fold the last shirt. Her touch gentle, almost reverent.

You look around your small apartment.

Your own family feels distant. Memories faded. Connections lost.

“I want to meet your family,” you say quietly.

Alexia looks surprised, then smiles softly.

“You want to meet my mother and sister?” she asks.

“Yes,” you say. “I don’t have much of a family. I want to know them before this starts.”

Later that day, you sit with Eli and Alba. Alexia’s mother and sister. In a cozy Barcelona café.

Eli’s warmth is immediate, her hands wrapping around your own like a shield.

Alba laughs easily, her eyes bright with kindness.

You share stories. Hesitations. Hopes.

For the first time in a long time, you feel the fragile beginnings of something solid. A family beyond blood.

Alexia watches you, her smile quiet but full of relief.

As the sun sets, you return home, hospital bag by the door.

The fight hasn’t started yet.

But you’re not alone.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

The first day of chemotherapy arrives with a weight that settles in your chest like a stone.

You sit on the hospital bed. Arms trembling slightly as the nurse hooks up the IV. The coldness of the plastic tubes a sharp contrast to the warmth of Alexia’s hand in yours. The room smells sterile. A mix of antiseptic and something faintly floral, and outside the window, the Barcelona sky is impossibly blue. A cruel contrast to everything inside you.

Alexia squeezes your hand gently, her eyes never leaving yours. “Estamos juntas,” she says softly, a phrase she’s been practicing.  We’re together. It’s a small comfort, but in this moment, it feels like the strongest promise you could hear.

The first infusion takes hours. You watch the fluid drip slowly into your veins, feeling the dread settle deeper with every drop. The nausea hits before you even leave the hospital.

Back at the apartment, you barely make it to the bathroom before you collapse. The world spinning and your stomach rebelling. Alexia is there instantly. Her arms wrapped around you as you retch. Whispering soothing words in a mix of Spanish and English. Her imperfect language somehow a balm. “No pasa nada, amor. Estoy aquí.”

Days blur into one another. The chemo leaves you weak, trembling, a shadow of yourself. The bruises deepen, your skin more fragile than ever. Nausea comes in waves, and the exhaustion is relentless, a heaviness that pulls at your bones.

Alexia stays close, reading to you in the quiet hours when sleep won’t come. Her voice steady and soothing. She reads poetry, novels, even the sports news sometimes… anything to distract you, To remind you that life still exists beyond these hospital walls.

One evening, she sits beside you. A book open but forgotten in her lap. “Tell me what you’re feeling,” she says quietly.

You swallow hard. “Scared,” you admit. “Tired. Like I’m losing myself.”

Alexia takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not alone,” she says simply. “We fight this together. Every day.”

Your teammates begin to rally too, quietly. Messages, visits when they can, small gestures that remind you you belong to something bigger than this sickness. They bring meals, share stories, laughter. the team becomes a thread of strength weaving through the dark.

But the hardest moment comes a few weeks in, when your hair starts to fall out. You wake to find strands clinging to your pillow, your brush. You try to ignore it at first, but the mirror betrays you. You sit on the edge of the bathroom sink, trembling as you reach for the clumps that spill like grief from your scalp.

Tears spill down your face, the first time you truly see yourself altered. Vulnerable and raw in a way you never imagined. The reflection stares back at you, unfamiliar and aching.

Alexia finds you there, and without a word, she kneels beside you. Slowly, gently, she pulls out the clippers she’s brought from home. “No estás sola,” she whispers as she presses the cold metal to her own hair.

Piece by piece, she shaves her head beside you. The sound of the clippers filling the room like a quiet battle cry. When her hair falls away, revealing her strong, unyielding face, she smiles through tears.

“Somos iguales,” she says. “We’re the same. Always.”

You reach out, trembling, and take her hand. The warmth of her skin grounding you in a moment that could have broken you but instead binds you closer.

Through the pain, the nausea, the weakness, the loss, you find a fierce kind of hope. Not because the road is easy. But because you don’t have to walk it alone.

The doctor had said remission was possible.

She said hope was real. But those words felt distant. Fragile. Like glass ready to shatter.

You begin to write. Slowly at first. Then with more urgency. The letter growing beneath your hand. Words you never wanted to say, but needed to. To free your heart from the darkness that lurks beneath the surface.

If I don’t make it… you write.

Know that I loved you with every part of me. That you saved me every day we were together. That this wasn’t your fault.

The pen slips from your fingers, and tears come unbidden. You’re not ready to let go. You don’t want to say goodbye.

Later, Alexia returns from training. The usual bright smile dimmed by exhaustion. She finds the letter on the bedside table. Edges curled. Waiting like a secret.

Her eyes scan the words, each line a dagger. She stumbles back, disbelief washing over her. Then the tears fall. Raw. Uncontrollable. The fierce woman you know crumbles into someone broken and vulnerable.

You wake to the sound of her quiet sobs. You reach for her, voice soft and shaky. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

She turns to you. Her hands clutching your face. Her eyes wild with pain. “Don’t ever apologize for loving me,” she says fiercely.

“Don’t ever think you have to carry this alone.”

You hold each other then, bodies pressed close as if the world could shatter apart and you would still be the only two things left standing.

In some ways, it is ending. The life you knew before this disease. Before this fight. But in others, it’s beginning.

A love so fierce it could outlast anything.

A year has passed, and the sky over Barcelona is a clear, brilliant blue. The kind of blue that feels like a promise.

You stand at the edge of the pitch. The grass beneath your cleats still foreign after so long away. But today, you aren’t here to play.

The crowd roars in the stands. The familiar rush of cheers and chants filling the air. But you breathe it in quietly. Letting the energy wash over you like a warm tide.

Alexia is out there, running, fierce and brilliant as ever. From the bench, she steals glances at the crowd, searching. Always searching. Until her eyes find you. She smiles, a small, fierce curve of her lips that says everything: you’re here. You’re still here.

You catch her gaze and hold it. Your heart full. Around you, Eli and Alba sit close, their hands folded in their laps. Faces lit with proud smiles and quiet tears. They have become your family, your chosen roots. In their presence, you feel whole again.

You can no longer chase the ball across the field; your body is different now. The fight took more than you expected. But standing here, watching Alexia play, knowing she finds you in every game. That is your victory.

When she scores, her arms rise, eyes wide and bright. She looks at you again, and the world narrows to that moment.

You may not wear the jersey anymore, but you wear something stronger. Peace.

The roar of the crowd becomes a gentle hum as you close your eyes. Feeling the warmth of the sun. The strength of love. And the quiet, unshakable hope that still grows.

Even after the storm.

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

Writer's note: what are your thoughts about this one?

[veryoccasionalwriting]

It's a Viltrumite thing, you wouldn't understand.

Mark Grayson has a plan! It involves genetics, his legacy, and best of all, you! Unfortunately for Mark, you're still in high school and not remotely ready to discuss intergalactic breeding charts. [Omni-Mark in mind, but can work for any Viltrumite-loving variant]

You’d learned early on that when Mark got quiet, it meant he was thinking and when he stayed quiet for more than five minutes, hovering a few inches above the ground, arms crossed, jaw clenched, you knew something was coming. Something deeply Mark. Something you.. certainly didn't want to hear most the time.

He finally spoke. “You’re aware of what I am.” It wasn’t a question.

You glanced up from your sketchbook. “Yeah? Kind of hard to miss. You flew me to Italy in like 2 minutes last week because I said I liked their bread.”

“I don’t mean my powers,” he said. “I mean my origin. My… role.”

You closed the book slowly. “Okay. Go on.”

Mark landed with a soft thud, the gravel crunching under his boots. He didn’t sit, just stood there, stiff and serious, like this conversation had already happened in his head a hundred times.

“Viltrumites are conquerors. We don’t just fight, we seed. We pass on strength and if we can’t evolve our kind, we fall behind. That’s how the Empire sees it.”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

“I’m different,” he added, more to himself than to you. “I’ve seen what that kind of logic turns people into. I don’t want to become that.”

You watched the tension in his shoulders, the way he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

“I want something different. But I can’t ignore what I am. What’s expected of me.”

There was a small pause for a moment. “You’re… ideal. For someone like me.”

Your mouth opened, shut then you finally spit something out. “Mark.”

He pushed forward before you could shut it down. “Not just physically. You know who I am, what I could become and you haven’t run from it. You push back, you ask questions. You make me think about the parts of myself I’m not proud of.”

“That’s… a weird way of saying you like me,” you said, cautiously.

“I do,” he said, steady. “But this isn’t just about feelings. It’s about survival, continuation. The Empire will come. Maybe not now but eventually. And if I don’t act first on my terms, someone else will do it for me.” His tone turned.. almost nervous. “I’ve calculated the probabilities. You’re a strong candidate, our genetics would align. The child would be-”

“Mark.”

He stopped.

You stood, staring at him like he just told you that he would go conquer the planet. “You’re talking about making a child, like a tactical maneuver. We’re not even eighteen. I still live with my mom. I barely passed algebra.”

His brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t force you-”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you said quickly, before he spiraled. “But you’re talking about this like it’s a mission objective. And I get that’s how you were raised but I’m not a checklist. I’m not part of some breeding plan.”

Mark’s expression didn’t change much but you could see the way he shifted from foot to foot.

You softened a little. “Look. I know you mean well. I do. And I know this is hardwired into you. That you're trying to... make sense of everything, but if we’re going to talk about future stuff, we need to start with us, not hypotheticals. Not kids. Not legacies. Just... whatever this is. Right now.”

For a long moment, he was quiet. Then he nodded. “Understood.”

You stepped forward, nudging his arm. “We can still date like normal people, you know.”

Mark gave you a look.  “Define ‘normal.’”

“Movies, Milkshakes, maybe getting awkwardly sweaty when we almost kiss. That sort of thing.”

“…Sweating sounds inefficient.”

“Mark.”

“…But I’ll try.”

You smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

[glowettee]

✧・゜: siren syllabus part IV: wearing seafoam on your skin and secrets on your lips :・゜✧

post 1 post 2 post 3

hey lovelies!

i've been surrounded all week by books about ocean mythology. there's something about siren lore that i can't stop thinking about lately. not the disney-fied version, but the real ancient stories where these creatures weren't just pretty singing girls with fish tails but actually powerful, mysterious beings who knew things other people didn't.

i keep thinking about how we've lost that kind of mystery in our lives. like, when was the last time you felt truly unknowable? when did you last hold something close that was just for you? we're all so busy documenting every thought and feeling and meal online that we've forgotten the power of keeping parts of ourselves hidden away.

so for part four of my siren syllabus series, i want to talk about cultivating that sense of depth and mystery that makes people wonder what's beneath your surface. not in a fake, playing-games way, but in a way that honors the parts of yourself that aren't for public consumption.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ keeping parts of yourself underwater ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

i had this moment last week at a party where this girl i barely know asked me what i'd been up to lately, clearly just making small talk. and instead of giving her my usual rundown of school preparation stress and netflix binges, i just smiled and said "i've been studying the cultural differences in siren mythology across mediterranean islands." her face literally changed. she wasn't expecting a real answer, and definitely not something specific like that.

it made me realize how rarely we give genuine but unexpected answers to casual questions. we're so used to the script of "busy with work, you know how it is" that anything else feels almost transgressive.

try this next time someone asks what you've been up to:

share one specific, slightly unusual thing you've been thinking about

mention something you're learning that most people wouldn't expect

describe a tiny detail you noticed that day that stayed with you

the goal isn't to sound pretentious or weird, just to break out of autopilot and actually share something real but carefully chosen.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the seafoam effect: appearing and dissolving ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

the thing about seafoam is that it appears suddenly when waves crash, exists in this beautiful, ephemeral state, and then dissolves back into the ocean. it doesn't apologize for coming or going. it just is, and then isn't.

i've been trying to embody this in my own life lately. not in a flaky way, but in a way that honors my own rhythms rather than forcing myself to always be available.

like last saturday, i was at this all-girls party that started out fun but was getting kind of draining. instead of doing my usual thing where i awkwardly hang around for hours waiting for a "good" moment to leave, i just slipped out when i felt my energy dipping. didn't make a big announcement, didn't do the long goodbye tour. just gathered my things and left when it felt right.

the next day i had three texts from people saying they missed me when i left and asking where i went. there's something powerful about not feeling the need to explain your comings and goings, about trusting your own timing.

some ways to practice the seafoam effect:

leave one social media platform entirely for a week with no announcement

arrive somewhere unexpectedly (show up at a friend's favorite cafe with their favorite drink)

exit gatherings when your energy peaks, not when it's depleted

take a full day away from your phone without warning anyone beforehand

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ secrets on your lips: the knowing ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

i've been thinking a lot about knowledge as power. not in a withholding, manipulative way, but in understanding that what you know shapes how you move through the world.

sirens knew things other creatures didn't, the location of shipwrecks, the language of whales, the patterns of currents. their knowledge gave them power, and they were selective about sharing it.

i've been trying to deepen my knowledge in unexpected areas lately. not for showing off, but because there's something powerful about carrying knowledge that isn't immediately visible to others.

last month i spent three weeks learning about the history of perfume making. not because it's useful for school or work, but because something about it fascinated me. now when i catch a scent of something familiar, i understand its components, its history, what makes it linger or fade quickly. it's changed how i experience the world in this tiny but significant way.

knowledge worth cultivating:

the folklore specific to where you live (every place has its ghosts and legends)

a craft that requires your hands (pottery, knitting, bookbinding)

the language of a specific art form (how to read music, understand film techniques)

the names of local plants, birds, or stars

a language no one would expect you to know

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ siren magic for everyday life ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

so how do we actually bring this energy into our normal, landlocked lives? here are some small practices i've been experimenting with:

the seafoam skincare ritual i've been mixing a tiny drop of shimmer oil into my moisturizer before going out. not enough to look glittery or obvious, just enough to catch the light in certain moments. i love watching people try to figure out why my skin looks different in different lights. it's like carrying a tiny secret on your face.

the selective silence in conversations, i've been practicing not filling every silence, not offering information unless directly asked, not explaining myself when it isn't necessary. it's amazing how much people will project onto your silence, how much more carefully they listen when you speak less frequently.

the private ritual develop something you do regularly that's just for you. i have this thing where i write down one beautiful thing i saw each day on tiny slips of paper and keep them in a jar. no one sees these notes, i don't post about them, they're just for me. having practices that aren't for documentation or sharing helps you remember who you are when no one's watching.

the thing is, we're all so exhausted from performing our lives online, from trying to seem interesting and happy and productive all the time. it's revolutionary reclaiming parts of yourself that aren't for public consumption, remembering that the most interesting things about you might be the things no one knows.

i'm not suggesting becoming cold or distant or playing mind games. this post isn't about being unavailable or mysterious in a calculated way. it's for remembering that you don't owe everyone access to every part of you. it's creating space around yourself where you can breathe and exist without explanation or documentation.

who are you when no one's watching? what do you know that would surprise people? what parts of yourself have you been giving away too freely?

maybe it's time we all remembered the power of wearing our secrets on our lips rather than spilling them at the first opportunity. maybe it's time to let the seafoam cling to our skin, to appear and dissolve according to our own tides.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[winters-on-the-wing]

op is absolutely correct.

it’s insane how these ppl treat non-white heritages like a costume that can just be put on and taken off at will for the sake of a raceplay-esque sexual/romantic fantasy.

notice how these headcanons and fics never get into the deeper cores of racism, or covert racism, or racism from seemingly progressive spaces. because that makes the white authors feel bad.

it’s not about representation. it’s about the gratification of white people. because writing poc who don’t go through systemic oppression, who aren’t impacted by generational trauma that stems from severe racism and crimes against humanity done by white people, that makes white people feel good about themselves.

it makes them feel like activists without them actually needing to do any work.

and i’m really sick and tired of it.

i’m not saying that writing about poc trauma is necessary. but i am saying that ignoring racism as a whole while writing brown characters and directly perpetuating stereotypes that brown ppl irl are endlessly trying to disprove? that’s ignorant and bigoted. you’re being bigoted.

in your fics and headcanons, james is brown, but he’s also dumb? a snake charmer type? predatory towards women and younger men? big and burly and overpoweringly strong? messy and dirty? basically illiterate compared to his clean and neat and intelligent WHITE partner?

yeah. doesn’t look so “pc” now, does it?

doesn’t look so much like “diverse representation” now. cuz it never was about us. it was about YOU.

if you’re going to write about a race that isn’t yours, think about the why. why do you want to do this? is it because you genuinely find it interesting and want to put in time and energy and learn more about a culture and the experiences of an ethnicity that isn’t your own? or do you just think regulus’ tiny little white hand would look so cute in james’ big strong brown latinindiasimexican hand? or are you excited to write a latina “mami” stereotype out of effie who calls james mija and spanks him with the chancla when he’s bad? if you guys think that we poc can’t tell, then that’s a real insult to our intelligence. most of us can tell what your whys are and we can tell that they’re not for our sakes.

also, when writing about a race different from your own, use the slightest shred of empathy. “if i was a person of this ethnicity, would i want careful research to be done about my culture and experiences? or would i want the author to do a stupid quick little google search and use whatever surface level bullshit shows up on the gemini ai screen?”.

maybe consider finding JOY in the research portion of things. because i didn’t realize that it was a CHORE for white people to learn things about different cultures. when i write about different ethnicities, i adore the research aspect. i love finding different perspectives, falling down rabbit holes of food and music and traditions and history and victories and defeats and stories and all of these things. it’s fascinating. i don’t understand how so many white ppl are satisfied with “tikka masala” and “chai” and google translating what “i love you” is in spanish. how is that enough for them when we have so much knowledge at our fingertips?

i am a brown person who loves the idea of brown james but hates the general fandom execution. james is constantly reduced to the most mainstream poc stereotype that’s trending on tiktok. his race is put on and taken off like a costume. his struggles are never addressed, and neither are his joys in his culture and traditions beyond the barest of basics.

and i can’t stand the excuses white people have. “oh i would have done more research but im scared of getting it wrong and getting cancelled!”. first of all, poc aren’t waiting at your doorstep with pitchforks and torches, excited for you to fuck up. we want you to succeed. if you’re scared of getting gently but firmly called out for writing something bigoted or ignorant, then don’t even bother calling yourself an activist or even a progressive in general, since clearly, you don’t care about anything but preserving your own precious ego.

The posts in the “Latino James Potter” tag keep talking about Indian/ Latino James and not in a mixed race way.

Do y’all know that Indian and Latino are not the same thing and there’s huge variation or religion, class, culture language etc. within those groups? And that homogenising people or characters based on race/ethnicity is actually how racism works.

Also it seems to be a combined in order to talk about his brown/ Tanned skin when in actuality there’s huge heterogeneity in skin/hair colour phenotype in these groups. And it’s super weird to hyper focus on someone’s skin tone (especially when that skin tone is subject to discrimination under systemically racist structures).

Once again, this self congratulatory ‘progressive’ fanon that is actually super regressive and uncomfortable.

[ickysmelly]

work has my brain going insane i think, its been painfully slow lately

which is nice yes but absolutely nothing is unbearable

[5dtetris-revisited]

my soapbox stance of the day is that STEM and ASsH* are two parts of a universal whole in thought and analysis and any scientist who devalues art is an idiot and any artist who vilifies science is also an idiot.

*Arts, Social Sciences, & Humanities. idk of an actual widely-accepted acronym

[lizardho]

I came out to my dad as bisexual at 14 and I was PANICKED because I had a crush on a guy in my Boy Scout troop and thought I was Going To Hell Forever and he was so kind and understanding of my distress, but he had NO idea what bisexuality was. He just said “yeah but you like girls too? This is normal. Everyone is like this.” And I love my dad and trust him with my life to this day and the idea that the concept of bisexuality had not occurred to him had not occurred to me so I put it off.

By 16 though I had a crush on like THREE boys. Three entire boys in my Boy Scout troop. I felt like my sin was slowly advancing, until like an untreated cancer it had become metastatic. I remember bawling my L’il limp-wristed sissy eyes out in his big rumbly truck on the way home from a scout meeting and him telling me that it was OK, that he still loved me if I was gay, but that he knew I wasn’t gay because I still had crushes on women and that meant I was straight. I didn’t quite know how to explain that those felt *~*different*~* and that I felt like I was losing a fight to evil inside me but I again felt comforted by his reassurances and his genuine fatherly love.

At 18 I was like “hey I’m realizing all my friends are going on missions. I don’t wanna do that. Idk how to say that and I don’t have a ‘good enough’ reason to not wanna go.” So I just put it off. Again, my parents were extremely supportive of the information I gave them (I blamed it on perpetually forgetting to start the paperwork.) and one day my mom texted me that she had done the paperwork for me! And that all I needed was to get a physical! So I did that (it was awkward af tbh, my hernia check was done by a trainee doctor and she spent like 3 minutes fishing around my inguinal canals before her attending rescued me) and was sent to Mexico City where I learned that in addition to dipshit himbos with strong hands and scruffy guys with artistic hearts I was REALLY into chubby Latin men with strong personalities who bullied me a little when I lived in Mexico.

I remember my first companion got annoyed with me during an argument and said we were just gonna wrestle and whoever won the wrestling match won the argument (I stg I am dead serious this happened.) I was like…SWEATING when he tore off his tie and threw his white button-down shirt onto the ground (I won btw, don’t ask me how).

I remember one of my companions with this really intense, almost manic energy telling me that he was gonna make sure I was safe in a new area I didn’t know very well. He cooked breakfast for me and we’d go shopping together on P-Days and in the mornings before breakfast he’d jog around and do pull-ups with his shirt off and I’d do anything but look at him because my face would break out in a sweat so intense he’d think I was crying and come over to see if I was OK and somehow make it worse. He let me play D&D with myself in the evenings even though it was against mission rules because he knew how lonely and stressed I was.

I remember one of my companions was a big chubby man with a loud voice and a great sense of humor. He was kind and direct when addressing conflicts with me, and always bragged about how he knew the secrets of women’s minds and it felt like he really did since it almost always boiled down to “Treat Them Like People and Love Them a Lot. Don’t Stop Being A Person For Them. Also Eat Them Out Sloppy Style.” Our P-Day activities sometimes felt like dates, and it seemed like he was more attentive to my emotional state than I was since he was always the first to suggest we slow down our Divinely Mandated, God-Ordained, Super Sacred Work and Wonder to get a snack or check out a Pawn Shop (I love Pawn Shops).

I remember another companion who asked me to bully him every time he did something against his goal of losing weight. It was like he gave me Carte Blanche to take out my crush on him by being a nuisance and I LOVED that. I remember having a breakdown one day after we’d spent the afternoon frantically cleaning our disgusting-barely-habitable mission house to make it look less vile that it was (not our fault imo?) and I started bawling and he pulled me into a hug and he smelled good and he told me he knew it wasn’t just the house and that I was mad at him for being a Huge Dickhead for about a week (true) and that he would work on it. (He’s also a huge chaser but that’s a separate thing.)

I remember one of my companions waking up early (and our schedule is already built for sleep deprivation) to make me a “birthday cake” from knock-off Nutella and bread. He used matches for candles and woke me up, lit the ‘candles,’ pulled them out, then smashed it in my face and took a bunch of pictures while I was still madrugada and disoriented as fuck. He had the same sense of humor as one of my HS crushes and I could push his buttons pretty easily which was so fun.

I came home from my mission and started back at BYU where I became actively and aggressively suicidal. I had a stalker the year I moved up there and my dad’s solution to that was to get me a gun. I know he wouldn’t have bought me a gun if he could have read my mind, but I had a loaded pistol under my bed during a trifecta faith/sexuality/gender crisis and that was not helpful. I remember that the day I decided to kill myself I figured I’d call the BYU CAPS and see if I could get into therapy because it felt like what I was “supposed to do” so I could check my suicide boxes. My therapist was the guy who’d helped me pick a major the year before and was this drop-dead gorgeous Hawaiian man who cried when I told him how I’d been feeling.

A few weeks into therapy I met another stunning man with soft eyes and a scruffy illegal-at-BYU beard he kept pushing his luck with. He was funny, kind, patient, married, and wouldn’t give me the time of day if he knew I was crushing on him. We were in my history of psych class, which was inarguably the worst psych class I have ever had, and we studied together for every assignment and test and I realized that my feelings for him and for all the men I’d already mentioned were in direct conflict with my faith and relationship with God. My already agonizing spiritual conflict became even more wretched and as a result of this plus some other tightly-packed experiences with Mormonisms bullshit, I left the church.

After leaving the church I decided to move back to AZ and transfer to ASU. My mom helped me get a dog since I think it had started to dawn on my family that my mental health was barely getting me through the day, and she knew that we both loved dogs. Madi made my last year at BYU livable while I got my shit together and transferred. In that last year, I went on a date with quite possibly the only semi-openly-out trans person on BYU campus. It was not a great date imo, I was not doing well, but the person I spoke with was fun and fascinating and talked to me about Gender Dysphoria and it really cemented my need to go. To leave and never come back to that fucking school.

I started at ASU a month after my last semester at BYU and within a very short time frame it felt like I was coming back together, like a puzzle magically putting itself together in an environment that wasn’t slowly draining that puzzle’s will to live.

On the 4th of July, the year I started at ASU, I saw a transition timeline photo of a gorgeous happy beautiful happy radiant happy woman and her former Mormon missionary self and I realized the light that was on in her eyes was the light that was off in mine. I looked into transitioning for 3 days, sleeping about 10 hours total during that time. I started talking to other trans people on Reddit (one of whom is now my beautiful fiancée @cintailed) and after about a month of making preparations to be disowned and kicked out, something I was not sure would happen but was ready to go through to Turn On The Lights, I came out to my family and it was amazing. I started HRT a month after that. I secretly dated some dorky guys for about a year while I applied to grad schools. I got into a great grad school for me and my needs. I got FFS. I did my trainings and classes. Me and my fiancée moved in together after some LDR shenanigans. We’ve lived together now for 4 years of basically marital bliss. We have a cat named Grandmother Esmeralda Weatherwax who bites the hell out of my feet about three times a day. My bi-cycle continues to be part of my life but now it’s not as scary. Baby gays in my life have started to look to me for advice. Idk how this all happened so fast. When the years, months, weeks, days, and hours seems to crawl by so slowly now they are rushing past me so fast it’s almost bewildering. Whereas before I felt like I was living on borrowed time, past my ‘expiration date,’ now it feels like I can Fucking Breathe. I’m training myself to slow down now and it feels worth it to Live In The Moment.

Idk why I wrote this. Idk why these thoughts only seem to come up on Sundays when I’m supposed to be writing my dissertation. Idk why I’m crying rn or why I feel so happy. I’m gonna post this shit then get on with my dissertation I guess. Read more Terry Pratchett and give yourselves the time you need. Get a pet. Talk to someone. Re-examine the events that brought you here. Be gayer. Love y’all 💕

[thewillowdriadwitch]

I'm rather non-theistic pagan, babyish to the realms of paganism. I always adored Earth, kind of thought of it as my mother, so worshipping Mother Earth and following a more eco-friendly path seemed obvious as I faced in this summer that I am no longer a full-on Calvinist Christian witch. I'm still having trouble defining in what do I exactly believe religious/faithwise, but nature is a groudning point forever for me. Its real, I can raps it, interact with it immediately as I am a part of it. Thank you for the interesting question, I appreciate you for posting your own experiences with your deities. :) Wish a blessed week for everyone pasing by this post or the replies. :) Ways to connect to Mother Earth: 🌱Touch the soil 🌱Breath in - the very breath of one is a proof you're a miracle - a child of mother Earth existing, experiencing the planet's wonders 🌱Gardening - For me in- and outdoor gardening is such a nice activity to dose off from the burdens of the mind

🌱 Low Waste/Sustainable methods to preserve the Earth and cause less impact via landfill and give more meaning to my life and be more mindful in what I let into my environment

🌱 Researching scientific fun facts of Earth, and commonplace journaling these little nuggets I have collected so far 🌱 Handmade upcycle belongings - I crocheted a cute not that perfect, but feels so mine phonecase that I can just wear around my neck like a necklace. 🌱 Side hustle: I do daycare and walks to pets, to have some savings and live out my passio for pets. This is a great flexible job that beside authorship gives me excitement and doesn't interfiere with my disabilities like a normal corporate job would. I am an experienced pet owner myself, and it is astonishing how animals can be adaptive to their peers. Really. They don't judge, they understand without words. THough I can speak, my tone regulation without hearing aid can get other people around me annoyed. Try to learn this from the pets how to read the room by body langauge if someone is not brave enough to tell me in my face if I am too loud or too calm in my speech. 🌱 Sharing my experience in faith and self-improvement to help others find their own ways - sometimes readig abotu someone's thoughts and struggles and victories can help us be motivated enough to be nicer to ourselves and do it for ourselves too. Maybe your path to success and your definition of success differs, but we all have other opportunities just not seeing it yet. You're never alone with Mother Earth, she will take good care of you.

🌱 Tarot Readings: If I am ut of ideas for journaling prompts, I do pull a one-two-the card spread and ask my questions to her. She is quite chatty most of the times, loves to share her wisdom. Don't be scared of her. 🌱 Watching documentaries with substitles - just in case if voice quality is ot that high 🌱 Spending time in nature outdoors - the best experiences of my life come from hiking events wether solitary or with a group

🌱 Waste Reducing Swap Groups - sometimes we just do not click with belongings anymore yet they're in perfect condition. This is again a way to communicate with others, and share our necessities and nick-nackes without demanding to create something new entirely. These are my recent ways Mother Earth is showing herself to me, I hope you'll try some of these so mundane yet so magical aspects of connecting. :) 🌱

Silly question, but how do your deities represent themselves to you? How do they make themselves known? I’ll go first!!

Athena: she sits there. She gives me her presence, and she sits there, watching very aggressively. Sometimes she speaks to me, gives me small words of wisdom, but normally she just lets me speak, or sit with her

Zeus: STORMS. I am NOT joking, when I’m getting upset, or in MAJOR need of comfort/having a depression episode, I have noticed the rate of storms picking up(thunder calms me down, like a lot)

Hermes: He makes himself known by messing with my things, or sitting with me, he makes me extremely excitable

Aphrodite: She sits with me a lot too, she grants me moments of self love (something I MAJORLY struggle with!) and she tells me how pretty I am

Apollo: MUSIC. When he wasn’t to make himself known he’ll get music that reminds me of him stuck in my head, or he’ll just mess with my Spotify enough to play it.

Anyways, I’m getting a new candle tomorrow, so YOPPEEEE!!

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ STILL OURS

dad!hwangjunho x mom!reader

based on this request

words: 980

warnings: post season 3 squid game. hurt/comfort. found family. healing. sudden parenthood.

enjoy! :)

at first, it was overwhelming—more than you ever imagined. you never really expected to be a parent, especially not like this, with a tiny baby suddenly in your life, completely unplanned. maybe you had talked about having kids once, maybe far in the future, but this? this was different. raw and unprepared.

fear wrapped itself around your chest like a tight band, and sometimes, anger flickered beneath it. you and junho argued quietly, a few sharp words here and there, mostly because neither of you knew what you were doing. changing diapers was a mystery, decoding those tiny cries a frustrating puzzle. “i don’t know what to do!” you’d cried out one night, voice breaking in the silence of the bathroom, tears welling, ready to spill. it was nearly 3am, exhaustion creeping in like a shadow. “she’s not even… she’s not my baby. i can’t—i don’t—”

junho’s hands found your face, gentle but steady, wiping away the tears as he searched your eyes. “hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured softly. his own eyes were a bit red—lack of sleep, maybe, or perhaps his heart breaking a little too. he pulled you close, resting your head against his chest. “i know it’s hard. i’m scared too.” he kissed your temple, quiet and reassuring. “you’re doing better than you realize,” he whispered, rocking you both slowly, his voice barely more than a breath. it was a small comfort, but enough to keep you going. neither of you had a manual, but somehow you managed—you bought diapers and cribs, filled the nursery with tiny clothes and toys. all the money you had on that card went to her, never to yourselves.

months passed. you learned. between youtube tutorials and parenting classes, you found your rhythm. you figured out how to hold her without flinching, what her cries meant—hunger, tiredness, discomfort. you recognized her smiles, the way she calmed when you hummed.

she fell asleep on junho’s chest more times than you could count, and he never dared to move. just kept his hand on her back, breathing slow and steady. you, on the other hand, ended up with milk stains all over your shirt at odd hours, rocking her gently until she drifted off. junho would watch from the doorway, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “you’re doing great,” he’d whisper, stepping closer to wrap his arms around your waist, his chest against your back as you rocked yoo-ri. “and looking good doing it.” his voice was rough, tired but affectionate, lips brushing your temple. you laughed softly. “seriously? milk stains and messy hair? junho, i haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months.”

“so what?” he grinned, his lips warm against your skin. “can i call you hot mom now?”

you elbowed him playfully. “ow! that hurts.” he chuckled, “okay, okay. you’re a little menace, just like her.” and the baby smiled, as if understanding every word. she grew slowly, steadily. when she started crawling, junho baby-proofed the whole apartment, eyes never leaving her for a second.

“she’s not going anywhere, love. sit down for a minute,” you told him more than once, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“what if she gets into something dangerous?”

“oh, she will,” you said, and he just stared at her all the more carefully. her first steps were magic. you were playing games in the living room, laughter spilling from her lips, when junho came in, keys in hand, slipping off his shoes. crouching near the door, arms open wide, he called softly, “hi, sweet girl.”

and she stood—wobbly and unsteady, feet barely cooperating. “oh my god, junho!” you breathed, excitement shining in your eyes. “come here, yoori, come to appa.” her little legs carried her to him, and when she reached his arms, he lifted her high, planting kisses on her cheeks, never letting go for a full ten seconds. “you did it.”

she didn’t look like either of you—at least, not exactly. but there was something unmistakably hers in her character, a blend of the two of you. maybe a nose like yours, some soft features that could only be from her mom, but her own little spark that made her unique. you loved her fiercely, fiercely enough to call her your own from the moment she was placed in this room. maybe one day she’d understand, maybe she wouldn’t. but when she turned four, playing with junho, building a little fort in the living room, you walked in holding a positive test.

a new beginning.

you knelt down in front of your toddler, showing her the tiny lines on the stick. her eyes lit up, a huge smile spreading across her face. “i’m gonna be the best big sister!” she declared proudly. and she was—your first child, your heart, the one you chose to raise with every ounce of love you had.

masterlist

requests are open!

[teaboot]

I've never had a cat before and I'm hoping to get one soon. Do you have any advice?

Treat a new cat as you would a new roommate. Give them space and time to settle, establish a pattern and a rhythm, and in time they may choose to become friends and spend time with you. Dont force a friendship.

Use simple words and repetition to establish communication. Words like breakfast, treat, snack, lunch, supper, dinner, food, and eat all basically mean, "I am feeding you; expect to be fed", but it's a lot for a little guy to remember. I just say "Dinner" when I mean "cat food is coming", and so my boy knows exactly what I mean when I say it. As a plus, using only one word for snack time means he has no idea what the other words mean, so I can talk about food in front of him without ruling him up.

Pay attention to body language. Cats all have different personalities, and you'll learn their likes, dislikes, and messages over time this way. Son boy here loves anything with plumbing but dislikes getting wet- his favourite blanket to chew and snuggle goes on his favourite chair, and he gives me a specific gesture when he wants me to kneel down so he can jump onto my shoulder.

Read into problematic behaviour. Cats pee in weird places when they're hurting, in distress, or have insufficient of unclean litter box space. Biting, attacking feet , and knocking things off tables often means they're understimulated and need you to play with them, or at least need some kind of enrichment or puzzle to tackle. Tail flicking can be frustration or irritation. Purring is usually good, but may also be self-soothing behaviour to alleviate pain, encourage healing, and relieve anxiety, like over-grooming.

Like children, "bad" behaviour isn't malicious- it usually means there's something you aren't seeing.

Learn how your cat expresses love. Loads of people think cats are uncaring, cruel, and indifferent, but the truth is, they're just not dogs. Spending time near you, showing an interest in tools you're using or projects you're working on, sitting the way you sit, laying on their back, rubbing on your legs, wiping their face on your shoes when you get home- these are signs that your cat is enamored with you. You're their family, they feel safe and protected around you, they're curious about things you enjoy and want everyone to know you're family.

Set reasonable expectations. Again, cats are not dogs.We bred dogs to desire our approval- cats walked into our lives themselves. They have no human-programmed need to fulfill a duty or perform a task to your standards.

Training cats to do tricks isn't as hard as people say, but the willingness or interest in doing the trick is more heavily reliant on personality and mood. Some cats will refuse all but the most basic requests- I'm lucky in that Ollie understands and is willing to do several, provided I don't abuse his trust and he's not crowded or overwhelmed or just bored of doing it over and over in a short period.

Ollie, for example, knows Up to stand on his back legs and hold my hand, Down to get to a surface I indicate, Out to emerge from a closed space, Come to find me where I am, Help? when I'm offering to let him use me as an elevator, Dinner when I understand he's hungry and am getting food, and when I put on his collar he knows to climb into his carrier 'cause we're going somewhere. And he'll do any of these about 90% of the time, either ignoring me or phoning it in when there's something interesting somewhere else, or if he's feeling anxious.

Lead by example. If you dread taking them to the vet, they'll see the anxiety in your body language and behaviour and likely learn to hate it, too. Again using my guy an example, I starred taking him on walks long before his first vet appointment, just to get used to his carrier and leash. Then his first checkup was relaxed and informal, with plenty of treats, and I let him explore the examination room with permission from the tech. Now he loves going, so I'm not stressed about taking him, so I don't stress him out in turn, and the vest doesn't have to deal with a stressed out cat slowing things down and fighting with them.

Make sure your sources are good ones, and also good ones for you. I will recommend Jackson Galaxy's YouTube channel for cat advice because a lot of what he does matches up with what I've learned and know to be true. I don't personally recommend Ceasar Milan because I personally find his methods distressing to recreate regardless of efficacy, so even if that advice was useful, *I'd* be miserable, and it'd just be trading one issue for another.

Have a person who can help. You never know when you might end up out of town overnight unexpectedly, or when your place may need serviced or fumigated, or if you may be called out of town. Before getting a cat, research reliable pet sitters, house sitters, pet daycares, whatever, just in case.

Consider pet insurance. No long spiel here, just think about it. Especially if you don't know your cats ancestry or potenyial health risks. An on top of that, fucking vaccinate them.

Dont let them free roam. At all.

I grew up on a farm with free-roaming barn cats. Do you know how many times child-me cried over having to bury them? Illness, disease, pregnancy, vehicles, other territorial cats, ticks, fleas, litter, poisoned prey, malicious humans, local wildlife, predatory birds, scrap metal, extreme heat, freezing temperatures, tainted water sources, poisonous or venomous critters, getting stuck in small or high places, tapeworms, loose nails, old equipment, falling branches...

I've seen some truly body-horror slasher-movie shit- just truly nauseating visual fuckery- and I'm telling you not to let your cat free-roam.

Leash training isn't hard. Supervised walks aren't hard. Even keeping your cat physically fit and entertained indoors isn't an impossible feat. Don't let your fucking cat fucking free-roam. Fuck

Also read up on foods and plants cats can't do, like every houseplant in existence is toxic it's insane

Anyhow yeah that's like. A couple things I guess

Here, have an Ollie Pic

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Dating in a Dream - Rook Hunt

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Rook Hunt x Reader 🏹🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda)

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Rook’s dream (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 2.270 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I hope you enjoy 🏹

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / (Rook) / Vil / Kalim / Jamil / Floyd / Jade / Azul / Jack / Ruggie / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho says when you land in the new dream, along with Grim, Silver, Sebek and Epel. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

After Silver checks if Epel is feeling okay after the trip from one dream to another, you all realize that you are in the Savanaclaw dorm. Which makes you wonder if you are in a Savanaclaw student's dream.

“AH! Mon amour!” You hear a familiar voice say.

You look and see Rook already by your side. One of his hands holds your waist to bring you closer to him, while the other holds your hand to kiss the back of it. But that wasn't the Rook you knew, he was wearing the Savanaclaw uniform, had freckles and messy hair tied in a ponytail under what looked like a cowboy style hat. You see the dreamer's bird flying over him.

“Any vision of you is a merveilleuse one! To what do I owe your and your friends' visit today?”

“ROOK?!” Epel says in disbelief, but then focuses on something else. “Wait... Doesn't ‘mon amour’ mean ‘my love’?”

“I have a bad and cringy feeling about this.” Idia's voice comments through the tablet.

“You're Epel Felmier, a Pomefiore freshman, I believe?” Rook says without taking his hands off you. “And you're in the Spelldrive Club, if I recall... Are you here to visit our housewarden Leona?”

“Can’t you have a conversation without clingin’ to my hench-human?” Grim complains and jumps into your arms to separate Rook from you.

“Hehehehe. I see I haven't been approved by you yet, Grim.” Rook says amusedly. “Very well, it seems that the journey to prove myself to you and have your blessing continues. Until then, a forbidden love this shall be. He he. Comme c'est excitant!”

“LO- Ugh! Why're you in Savanaclaw Dorm uniform anyway?!” Grim asks. “Your hair's all scraggly, and you've got stray leaves on your clothes... Vil would throw a fit if he saw you like that!”

“Vil?” Rook asks in astonishment. “You mean Vil Schoenheit, the actor?”

You all discover that, in this dream of Rook's, Vil does not study at Night Raven College, but instead at Royal Sword Academy. And he and Neige are like best friends. Rook, extremely excited, starts telling a lot of things about Vil and Neige to the point of quoting an interview with the two of them in full. Until he suddenly says something much louder than usual.

“Would you stop yelling?” Sebek says. “You startled me!”

“Oh, pardon me. I got rather carried away there... I just have so few people in Savanaclaw I can discuss Vil, Neige, and film in general with. Which also makes it a blessing to have someone like (Y/N) by my side.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Oh mon cher, you are as big a fan of Vil and Neige as I am. No one can match my adoration like you.”

“Thank you, Rook Hunt, this was fascinating.” Ortho says. “I'd actually like to learn more about them...”

“Truly?! Why, I would be delighted!”

The others show their discontent to Ortho, but he explains that the more they understand the differences between this dream world and the real one, the easier it will be for them to find a way to wake Rook.

Excited to tell them more about Vil and Neige, Rook suddenly runs into the Savanaclaw building. You and the others run after him because you can't get too far away from the dreamer. You run to the closed door of his room where you hear a commotion inside.

“How is it taking so long to fetch one magazine?” Sebek questions.

“D-don't worry, I'll be right out!” Rook responds trying to hide his concern. “Don't open that door, whatever you do!”

“Mrr! I'm hearin' weird noises comin' from inside.” Grim says.

“Apologies for the wait! I found more things I positively need to show you... Whoa!”

Fearing that Rook might be under attack by the darkness and ignoring his pleas for them not to enter, they break down the door and enter Rook's room. To find a room completely filled with Neige merch on one half of the room and Vil merch on the other half.

Rook laughs in a strange, almost threatening way and says that since they had seen his room they could no longer leave... without joining him in reverently watching DVDs of his favorite actors! So he forces everyone to sit with him to do it. And of course he makes you sit right next to him.

He made you all watch those DVDs for FIVE HOURS!

“The fact that they played arch-enemies just made those final smiles so... so... beauté!”

“Mrah... After marathoning all those movies and stage plays, I'm exhausted.” Grim says in a sigh.

Ortho thanks Rook for all that information and says that it is already very late and that everyone should go back to their respective dorms and get some sleep. Before they leave, Epel asks Rook about the SDC and he replies that Vil and Neige sang together and he just watched.

“We can have another watch party whenever you like. Perhaps we can put that show on next time. Bon nuit, everyone!”

As you all left Rook’s room one by one, you stayed behind to be the last to leave. Maybe you even did it on purpose to see if Rook would do something. And he did.

As soon as Epel leaves and you are about to leave next, Rook suddenly appears in front of you to casually close the door behind Epel.

“I wonder what I did wrong to receive such cold treatment from you, mon cher.” He tells you with a theatrically brokenhearted look. “I understand not getting a bisou de bonjour with so many people around you. But not even a small, discreet bisou d'adieu?”

He gets closer to you and caresses your cheek, looking you sadly in the eyes. Seeing that you don't back away from his touch, he continues.

“Oh, where did I go wrong? What mistake could I have made to receive such a cruel sentence as deprivation of your touch? Is it my bail conquer your love all over again?” He brings his face closer to yours with a seductive smile, and he sees that you don't move away, quite the opposite. “Or should I continue to claim innocence?”

“(Y/N)!” Grim shouts from the other side of the door. “What are you still doing in there?”

“Did something happen?” Silver asked.

“Stop wasting time human!” Sebek complains. “We all must go for now.”

Rook moves away from you.

“Ah... My diligent jailers. You must go with them so that their worries will cease. But I see that you are in good and capable hands.” He takes one of your hands and kisses the back of it before opening the door for you like a gentleman.

And if you thought about taking advantage of that moment to kiss him, you realized that he seemed to be... enjoying his... “punishment”. So you decided to save that possible kiss for later.

Outside Savanaclaw's dorm it was already night and you and the others talked about Rook's dream and how you could wake him up. Epel has the idea of recreating SDC's performance because it was the crucial moment that the darkness was trying to make him forget. Make him remember that Vil actually despises Neige to the point of doing what he did and Rook's betrayal. You, Epel and Grim taught Silver, Sebek and Ortho the dance steps of the choreography of Absolutely Beautiful so you could take the places of the remaining members of the original group.

The next day, you were the one tasked with getting Rook to go to the Coliseum. You sent him a message to meet you in front of it.

The time you had set was approaching, but you couldn't see Rook. He must have been getting ready to surprise you. You looked around as if you really believed you would be able to see him in time. Suddenly you feel a kiss on your cheek. You look, but you don't see anyone. You look back to the other side where he is right there next to you with a smile.

“Greetings and bonjour, mon cher. I'm here as you requested. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to show you something.” you say.

“Show me something?” Rook smiles. “Coming from you, I wonder with excitement what that might be.”

You take him inside the Coliseum so he can see the replica of the SDC stage up close. You go up on stage to dance with the others and Rook starts to get emotional because a part of him starts to remember that day. The dream begins to distort as if Rook were to wake up, but at that moment two darkness figures appear: Vil and Neige, both in RSA uniforms.

As if it were a real performance, the two of them take the stage after your group and start singing together, which moves Rook again, but in a way that makes him go back into his dream world.

Epel is angered by this and gives Rook a speech about what really happened that day and who they both know Vil really is. His Roi du Poison, their queen is way, way, WAY more poisonous and beautiful! And if he really believes that cheap copy comes even close to the real Vil, and he choosing him over the real one, that makes him more of a traitor right now that he was when he cast that vote for Royal Sword Academy!

And this is what makes the dreams shatter and Rook wake up.

Darkness Vil and Neige try to convince him to back down and accept singing with them, but Rook responds by preparing his bow and pointing an arrow in the direction of the two fake figures. Darkness Vil stands in front of Darkness Neige to protect him.

“What noble friendship you share...” Rook says with tears in his eyes. “And yet that very harmony is proof of my terrible betrayal!”

Rook and the others fight the fake figures and make them melt into darkness.

“Oh, dear pommette! To think I would be woken from my slumber by one bearing a poison that can put anyone to sleep.” Rook hugs Epel so tightly that he gasps for air. “Apologies...” he sobs “Oh, pommette, I can only beg you to forgive my betrayal.”

Epel tells him that he doesn't need to cry, but when he offers him a handkerchief, he realizes that he doesn't have one with him and the two comment on how Vil was right in telling him to carry one. The others talk about their own struggles in their respective dreams so that Rook knows that he wasn't the only one who forgot important things, that this was how those dreams worked to trap them.

“Merci! Oh, merci beaucoup! I cannot thank all of you enough. But there is one of you to whom I owe more than thanks, I owe an apology.” He walks up to you with an embarrassed and regretful face, and he kneels in front of you. “(Y/N), I'm so sorry for causing you so much discomfort. I never hid my love for you, so this part shouldn't have come as a surprise to you, but I can only hope that my behavior has not crossed any boundaries of yours. Please, forgive my shameless audacity. Whatever I can do to be worthy of your forgiveness, please tell me. I will do anything to redeem myself and have a fraction of your trust again.”

He was being so dramatic and still had tears in his eyes that it looked like he was trying to save himself from a death sentence for a horrible and unforgivable offense. The thing is... you like him too... and this was your chance to reciprocate the feeling.

Luckily for you, a simple, almost imperceptible smile from the corner of your mouth is enough for Rook to understand everything.

“Unless...” He stands up and looks you in the eyes with a smirk. “In truth, you enjoyed the experience of having me as your lover.”

You don't need to say anything. Your smile, whatever kind it is, is more than enough for him to understand perfectly. He holds one of your hands. That's how he saw, from the glove he was wearing, that he was still wearing Savanaclaw's uniform.

“In that case,” In the snap of a finger, Rook was back in his Pomefiore uniform and signature bob-cut. “Should we make it real?” he kisses the back of your hand. “Would you be so generous as to make my dream come true, my dear trickster?”

If you try to kiss him, he will stop you with a finger on your lips.

“Non, not yet.” he says despite the pity in his voice. The finger that interrupted your kiss slides to caress your cheek. “As much as I long to discover the wonderful feeling of your lips on mine, this must be something to be discovered in reality, not in a dream. I will wait impatiently for that moment. But sometimes it is this agony of waiting that makes everything so much more special... and intense.”

“ARE YOU DONE OR NOT?!” Grim complained. “Hurry up, we have another dream to go to!”

.

When you return to the real world, no matter what the state of Twisted Wonderland, Rook will find a way to lure you to a secluded place to finally taste your kiss.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[homunculus-argument]

Considering that it all boils down to different quantities of the same hormones and brain chemicals, arguing that humans are the only animals with thoughts and feelings is about as absurd as arguing that humans are the only ones who have hair. Sure, the human scale and range of emotion is distinctive and unique, different from all others, but so is that of a camel. Are we less than migratory birds, for never being able to know how it feels, to yearn to fly to the south? Is our emotional life any less rich than that of a salmon, for not experiencing the urge to return to their breeding waters, yearning it so badly that dying on the way does not even matter?

Getting a glimpse of the thoughts of a completely different kind of creature is one of the reasons why I'm so fascinated with parrots. They learn to communicate with humans, in their own way. Sure, we don't know what any of the words they mimic mean to them, but it's hard to deny that they mean something to them. I've seen enough examples of parrots asking people and even other parrots "what'cha doing?" as a greeting of some sort, not to mention that many of them apparently understand the concept of questions. Not only the idea that another being might know something that they don't, but that they can inquire about it, and that humans do this by saying things with a specific intonation.

We can't know for any true, scientific certainty what a bird who says human words really thinks, means or feels when saying the english words "I love you" to their human, their bird mate, or their little hatchlings. Or the one anecdotal parrot couple, whose male had a habit of alternating between making loud wolf whistles and repeating "PRETTY BIRD, PRETTY BIRD" to the female every time they mated. There's no knowing what, exactly, did he mean by this, but it's very difficult to insist that it's nothing.

[bedupolker]

How are you so good at art and comics and characters but it's not even a professional profession of yours? (can it be that hobbies and skills don't necessarily need to be monitized?)

Thank you! I still feel like I have a lot to learn, haha. I did study animation in college but that's not really my calling, I can't spend 40 (or more!!!) hours a week in front of a computer. As I get older I don't regret it. I'm a little guilty of overworking in certain contexts, but I'm not sacrificing my health or social life for a tiny shot at storyboarding for The Minions 6. (And if I did dedicate myself to that, I almost definitely wouldn't be spending my free time drawing.)

I remember I had some kind of portfolio development class and the professor made a comment telling us to like, stop going to parties and playing video games and just to dedicate ourselves to our art. Maybe that kind of advice to just lock in is helpful for a certain kind of person, but if you're an artist/writer, especially someone who might be young, if you're able, maybe also consider:

Engage with eclectic interests outside of the type of art you want to make. If you want to make an action-adventure comic and your only source of inspiration is Fullmetal Alchemist and Spiderverse, yes those are very good stories and it's understandable they could be a source of inspiration to you, but honestly, most people would probably just go and read/watch Fullmetal Alchemist or Spiderverse. Now if someone wanted to make an action-adventure comic and they had a weird amount of knowledge about technical canyoneering or Korean horror movies or vintage cars or emo-rap music or cubist art or endangered birds endemic to new zealand, now I kind of want to see what that's all about.

Researching the sources of inspiration of art you love is a good jumping off point too. A lot of great stories are more grounded than you'd think, and going out and looking for new things that interest you keeps it from feeling too "incestuous" for lack of a better term.

Try and connect with different kinds of people you wouldn't meet otherwise. Most people are nicer than you think, most people like talking about themselves, and everyone you'll ever meet knows something you don't.

Frankly between social media and living through the covid years, I just think it'd be good for a lot of peoples' mental health to realize there's a world outside of whatever hyperspecific fandom or internet mirocosm or whatever you find yourself falling into.

Try to have a new experience every week. You don't have to blow tons of money and free time to throw into climbing Everest or partying in Barcelona or whatever, just walk home a different way, try volunteering for an organization that you care about, listen to a weird genre of music, hop onto youtube and try some yoga or calisthenics or something. You don't even have to like it, just give it a shot.

Find beauty in the mundane... birds, bugs, alleyways, the light fixture section at Home Depot, it's all there.

Done is better than Perfect

Maybe it's easy for me to say as an artist who has a pretty decent sized following but FR FR don't do just things because you think they'll get popular online!!!!! You don't have to broadcast every single thing that you do. Some art/writing is just for experimentation or self indulgence, that's all good too.

[harmoonix]

The Angel

'My angel you're what haunts me now that

you're away'

Jupiter - Ascendant aspects in a chart can represent a native who might be lucky in terms of their appeal, something beautiful

Moon - Pluto aspects can indicate the native has a powerful inner personality, their feelings can be intense

Venus in the 3rd house can give the native a beautiful voice!! They can good at everything that contains communication

Pluto in the 8th house natives can live intense lives. There will be a time when the native will have to go through an evolution state

Venus - Pluto aspects natives will love you and desire you so deep but goes the same way, they also loved to be desired by others

Your 12th house sign can show your fears and malefics in this house like Mars, Saturn, and Pluto. will have fears related to controlling, failing/disappointing others, and trust issues

People with Mercury/Venus in social houses like 7th/10th/11th houses can become big influencers. These natives tend to attract people and lots of attention

Jupiter in the 6th/10th houses has so much like career/job talking. Maybe not overnight but can help you to see your career life with different eyes

7th house ruler in the 12th house natives can be another indicator of karmic/fated relationships. Fated relationships do not always mean healthy relationships because 12th hosue is a malefic

Mercury at 3° 15° 27° degrees can indicate the native likes to speak their mind and can improve their knowledge over the years

Saturn in Capricorn/10° 22° degrees can be late boomers!! Not all 100%, but it is definitely an indicator

Moon in Capricorn is actually one of the most popular moon signs to have among people. The native with this moon sign can understand the view of society in different ways than others

Sagittarius Placements can often write about their life, Sag can be sooo philosophical and like to go into details. That's why journaling is recommended

People with Capricorn or Saturn in the 4th house can be raised by their grandparents and can also indicate more old/wise family members

Libra Moon/Venus can often seek attention from others due to their open personality and the desire to connect with others.

Virgo/Gemini Moons are most severe when overthinking- because they are ruled by mercury and combined with the moon who tells about feelings.. they often have episodes of overthinking

Sagittarius and Pisces Mercury can sometimes have a hard time being creative due to Mercury being in the enemy signs (which is not bad)

Virgo often seeks perfection because they are afraid to show their mistakes and be judged for it. Is okay to be imperfect

Saturn in the 1st house can be found in charts whose natives need some self-improvement. Step by step

Uranus aspecting Mercury natives can have a fear for the future. This is due to Uranus and Mercury being often associated with innovation and creation for our world

Leo and Libra Saturn are all about learning how to love yourself, even with all the difficulties you have. Loving yourself is the key

Ascendant ruler in the 6th/8th/12th houses natives can get exhausted more easily than others because these houses require a lot of attention

If you have Jupiter in the 3rd or 9th house and you have siblings, be sure you'll have to teach them a lot of things

Neptune in the 4th/9th house can be blessed with spiritual gifts and can be more intuitive than others

🩶🤍🩶🤍🩶🤍

[drchucktingle]

my masks

hey there buckaroos. due to all of the attention the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION situation has gotten i am going to take a minute to talk about my personal way as an autistic buckaroo. im going to tell you about my masks.

im doing this for a few reasons, some are good FUN reasons full of love and some are not so great. 

lets start with the GOOD STUFF. first of all, i am talking about this because speaking on my way can help other buckaroo feel more comfortable speaking on there own way, ESPECIALLY if they are good at ‘passing’ for neurotypical like chuck is. 

unfortunately the NOT SO GREAT reasons im talking about all this dang stuff are two fold. reason one: i have been put into a position of having to explain and justify my needs and boundaries by the TXLA. this is not something that i WANT to be taking up all of my time, but when large organizations do not make space for those who they have pledged to support, it puts us smaller buckaroos into position where were have to defend our existence. it is not plesent but it is necessary.

the second NOT SO GREAT reason is that ‘passing’ bisexual and autistic people like myself are ALWAYS just seconds from being gatekept from folks both outside and inside these communities. there will probably be a day on chucks deathbed where i take off my mask and say hello to this timeline (mostly so you can all see how handsome i am under here but I DIGRESS). i KNOW with absolute certainty (the same way other bi and autistic buckaroos are probably nodding along right now) that when that day comes i will STILL be accused of ‘not being real’ and ‘faking’ because i ‘dont look autistic’ and i have a beautiful ladybuck partner in sweet barbara.

ALL THAT IS TO SAY, i am taking a moment today to talk FOR THE RECORD about my neurodigence and my particular needs. hopefully i will not have to keep diving this deep every time an organization takes a discrimantory action against me, but i will also say this: at least it is a good fight on an important battlefield

anyway buds, here is the story of my way on the spectrum

when i was a young buckaroo i knew that my thought process was different. i could socialize easily, which is unique in contrast to many autistic buds (it is a spectrum after all), but my social ease was for an interesting reason. I ALWAYS KNEW WHAT OTHERS WERE ABOUT TO SAY. it was like a strange ‘human game’ where someone would say one thing and i would think ‘well you actually mean something else’ in a sort of logical way (this is why i later related to DATA from star trek so dang much). at first i remember thinking ‘well i am just NOT going to play along with this human game’. i quickly learned neurotypical buckaroos do not like this, that there is a BOB AND WEAVE to social interactions that must be learned. 

later i realized ‘actually if i WANT to make friends and prove love is real then i can do this like an expert because i can SEE the game where most cant’. this got chuck many buds and took me on many adventures. please understand, i am not saying these connections are not important to me, they are just different. they are full of love, but i express this in my own unique way.

HOWEVER, while growing up i felt disconnected from this timeline in other ways, like an alien or a reverse twin trotting along in a world that is not quite my own. i did not feel emotions the same way my buds did. they would get upset over the ‘human game’ interactions and i would not be moved at all, HOWEVER i could see the way sunlight hit a window and start crying my dang eyes out over the beauty. so my emotion was still there and VERY STRONG, i just felt it in more existential ways (like hearing the call of the lonesome train). these days that feeling has progressed to where i am pretty much in a constant blissed out state of cosmic emotional connection (make of that last sentence what you will, but it is the truth). when i make existential posts online i am not just FIRING OFF SOME CONTENT, i really mean every word. this is really my trot.

anyway as a young buckaroo these feelings made me worry sometimes. i thought about various mental health dianosises and marked the parts and pieces that matched with myself. am i this? am i that? sometimes, instead of just being’ different’ i worried i might actually be ‘wrong’. 

when i saw david byrne on letterman in my younger days i immediately recognized something connected to myself. i thought ‘wow this is the mystery being solved before my very eyes.’ i could hear it in the music of talking heads too. i started doing research and realized that i might be on autism spectrum, something that was later confirmed by a therapist (back then the diagnosis was called asperger's). it was a glorious and fulfilling moment. i was SO EXCITED TO BE AUTISTIC LIKE MY HERO. i felt very cool because of it, and i still feel very cool because of it.

one of the big reasons i talk so much about being autistic these days is because i want to make sure OTHER buckaroos can have that same moment that i did. they can see chuck and think ‘wow i really like this autistic artist, maybe being autistic is cool’

so what does an average day WITHOUT wearing the pink bag look like for me?

my thought process is exactly like ROSE from CAMP DAMASCUS, which is part of why i wrote the book. we have the same stim (complex order of finger taps), we prepare for social interactions the same way, we analyze things in the same logical trot that neurotypical people might think feels ‘detached’ but for me feels natural (certain reviews of camp damascus are very funny to me in this way. you can tell when a reader is just very confused by existing in an autistic brain for 250 pages.)

from the outside you would not be able to tell that i am on the spectrum. in fact you would probably find me very socially adept. 

the problem is, all of that masking can take its toll. i spent years trotting in and out the emergency room, talking to confused doctors who could not figure out the chronic phantom tension and pain that radiated through my body. i eventually accepted the fact that i would either live a life constantly on heavy painkillers or just stop living altogether.

eventually, however, i started noticing a correlation between the way that i felt, and the space that i allowed for chuck and the pink mask. i was exercising that tension, allowing my mental mask of neurotypical existence to take a rest. i started practicing physical therapy and this time THE RESULTS STUCK because i was approaching from two sides, MIND AND BODY. after a while, i got my pain down to about 5 percent of what it once was. i still have flare ups in times of stress, but the healing has been very real and life changing.

lets get VERY specific now. if i attended the TXLA confrence without a mask and gave my talk i can tell you this: i would do a dang good job. i can work the heck out of a crowd and (not to reveal too much about my secret way) I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO DO THIS ON OCCASION VERY WELL. however, going home from this event i would very likely be in pain. i would likely need to do physical therapy. i would likely need to stim for a while. i would NOT be emotionally fullfilled in the same way. in other words, without my pink mask i can charm the heck out of buckaroos, but THE SPACE OF CHUCK TINGLE IS NOT THE SPACE FOR THAT. the pink bag is a place for me to not have to put up with that tension. it is a place for me to unmask mentally by masking physically.

this pink bag space SAVED MY LIFE and i am not going to risk blurring these lines. if and when that ever happens it will be MY decision, not someone elses. that is my boundary. the part of me that neurotypically masks could handle a library conference in a purely technical sense, but the part of me that chuck represents absolutely cannot and should not be asked to do that without the pink bag. unfortunately, the complexity of this point makes it even MORE difficult for me to think about and takes up even more of my time, because it forces me to START QUESTIONING MYSELF and my own needs. to be honest, that is the most insidious part of other people questioning your identify and refusing to accept your accommodation needs without ‘proof’.

the thing is, while all of this discussion of disability and accessibility is important, i have a much larger point to make by writing these words.

a conference should not uninvite someone with an unusual physical presentation or a strange way of speaking REGARDLESS of it being classified as a disability. it does not matter WHY i look the way that i look and wear what i wear. i should not have to spend all day writing this post instead of writing my next book, just because my sensibilities are unique and my presentation is unusual. 

fortunately the solution is very simple: let other people be themselves. its not hurting you to simply accept and nod at the buckaroos you think look strange. let us exist

[mac-tirs]

the usage of different types of english in elden ring

most human/tarnished NPCs we meet, like rogier, ansbach, and nepheli, use late modern english:

"a sorcerer, as you might have guessed. i'm looking for a little something, here in the castle. when i'm not hotfooting it from the troops, that is." - rogier, first meeting "general radahn. a pleasure to see you, after all this time. but those remains do not belong to you." - ansbach, upon summon for PCR

but older demigods like messmer, ranni, and morgott use early modern english:

"thou'rt tarnished, it seemeth. mother, wouldst thou truly lordship sanction, in one so bereft of light? yet… my purpose standeth unchanged." - messmer, pre-battle cutscene "thou needst not indulge them unduly, but they too wish to appraise thy worth. it hath been a passing long time since a newcomer entered my service, after all." - ranni, after agreeing to serve her

then there are the younger demigods, like miquella, malenia, and potentially melina, who use a later variant of modern english, similar to the tarnished NPCs we speak to:

"if we honour our part of the vow, promise me you'll be my consort. i'll make the world a gentler place." - miquella, post-PCR cutscene "the scarlet bloom flowers once more. you will witness true horror. now, rot!" - malenia, phase 2 transition cutscene

finally, the hornsent NPCs like the hornsent, hornsent grandam, and the hornsent spirits such as the one outside the whipping hut, who use late middle english similar to the english found in shakespeare's sonnets:

"fie, another? ... then, as that woman would surely say, we are in our purposes well aligned. but understand. your kind are not forgiven. the erdtree is my people's enemy. by marika long betray'd, set aflame." - hornsent, first meeting "all your resentment lingers yet... the raw stuff from which i shall surely forge a curse. upon the dastard messmer's head. upon marika's children each and all." - scorched ruins hornsent spirit

i find it interesting how different the usage of english is in the game, and i feel that it can be a hint on how to properly date an individual's occupation in the lands between/land of shadow. the hornsent, being a people much older than many in the lands between, use the most archaic version of english, while the tarnished and younger demigods use a form of english more closely related to our own in the current period. older demigods (and marika herself, as heard from melina's recounts of marika's spoken echoes) use a form of english more closely related to the period of transition from middle english to early modern english.

additionally, another interesting thing to me: mohg is almost certainly nearly the same age as morgott (since they're referred to as twins), yet he speaks a little differently compared to morgott:

"tarnished, thou'rt but a fool." - morgott, post-battle dialogue "dearest miquella. you must abide alone a while." - mohg, pre-battle cutscene

this makes me wonder if it's possible that, assuming that miquella's verbiage is indicative of his younger age in comparison to the older demigods (aka the demigods born before the marika/radagon union), miquella's charm altered mohg's perception enough to also alter his manner of speaking and carrying himself in some way. if his pursuit of finery (dressing in embroidered robes and handling himself with poise, juxtaposing his bestial growls and strength) was mainly done in an effort to fit into miquella's ideal of a consort. of course, mohg could just be as vain as he seems to be all on his own accord, but i find that it's interesting to entertain the idea that even his current state of being was due to miquella's charm.

i'd love to hear what others think about this. i'm not very learned when it comes to english (it's not really my first language), but i find this all very cool to think about.