#dreamer of improbable dreams

[gendertrickster]

i realized recently that vriska's left eye looking the way it is was what felt like an intentionally hidden detail throughout act 5 act 1, like it was a secret she kept deliberately. every appearance of her sans two in hivebent has her left eye obscured, by lack or otherwise

aside from times shown after she loses her eye, where she wears an eyepatch lens, she is ALWAYS shown wearing the augmented lens — a tool that specifically grants her more agency through letting her forcibly access information otherwise kept from her — and part of me can't help but wonder if it was an intentional mystery kept on hussie's part as to what vriska's eye actually looked like under there. there was never any indication that her left eye actually looked like the shape shown on the augmented lens, and it could easily be assumed, based on every troll aside from sollux, that her left eye looked the same as her right. this feels like a very, very defining thing for vriska in particular to hide. and it absolutely bears mentioning that the first time we ever see what her left eye looks like (one of TWO times in hivebent) is the same beat where it's revealed she was a PROSPIT dreamer

(the other time is [s] make her pay, which is the same idea)

and i feel like there's a couple different directions that hussie could've been wanting to take with this. one of them would be insane, because while it's basically entirely improbable in practice it would extend its way into fucking beyond canon if it were true:

it could, at one point in development, have been the case that vriska manifested her eye looking like that, given that we only see her dream self with this left eye in hivebent. at this point it was already established that dream selves can shape their forms manually to a degree (a la jade), and otherwise draw from the subconscious ideal one holds themself to (a la terezi). and given vriska's reliance on her vision eightfold (which to this point had been suggested as being solely possible through the vector of technological augment8ion) and everything that reliance represents in terms of her personal agency (and lack thereof), it would make sense if this were the reason her eye looked like that as her dream self but not her real self until later when she ascended to the god tiers and those two selves became one

this whole idea is already kind of dubious though, because we do see how vriska (allegedly) looked as a child, and she does also have the seven pupils, since there's also no reason to assume her eye didn't always look like that

but if that were true, why would it be kept such a secret in hivebent, especially by vriska herself?

(i can think of a couple reasons, actually.)

as i mentioned before, even now this "manifested vision eightfold" direction would still hold narrative weight, considering developments around vriska in beyond canon:

in chapter 2 of homestuck^2, vriska's new design is cemented, adding an eyepatch with an infinity drawn on it in her own cerulean swill blood over the wound she sustained just past the edge of canon

she wears this eyepatch, with its unique iconography, for eight years in the plot point, with one very notable exception:

chapter 4, where she is belittled into an episode of age regression, sporting again her glasses (which she had long stopped needing), her redoubled total lack of mental agency (which she really hoped would have been easier to leave behind than this), and her augmented lens (which, as established, she used as a crutch).

the parallel drawn all across here, then, is that her augmented lens is to her "vision eightfold"/seven-pupiled eye as her infinity eyepatch would be to her left eye once she could leave the point behind. and depending on how you interpret the existence of vriska's left eye — whether it was always there and caused her active dysphoria (as a mark associated with cerulean bloods, a textually-stated male-dominated caste) and dysmorphia (it made her look too alien, unlike almost all of her co-players), or whether she manifested it as something she had to have to maintain personal agency despite further alienating her appearance from that of her peers and of her preferred ideal for herself (thus also causing her the same dysphoria/dysmorphia) — that can mean different things.

the point as to whether vriska manifested it into existence is only sort of moot, though — homestuck is a story completely steeped in retroactive continuity, where once it's made clear that something is true, it was always true, and things like that can be manifested into truth by its own characters (a la jake). the state of vriska's left eye was a mystery until it was shown how it actually looked, and from then on it was always true, and was thus also true for aranea. but whether it was always true for aranea first banked on it being true for vriska, due to the trickle-down characterization homestuck is built on. this choice was made before aranea even existed as a character, after all.

and because of the nature of these manifestations, that truth had to come from various parts of vriska's arc in hivebent, like what the vision eightfold meant to her as the one thing she could use to get an edge in a world completely stacked against her. and who else would ever be able to metanarratively manifest such a relevant and contentious part of her own appearance (let alone that of an eye, the vector by which light is received) than vriska serket?

sure enough, after years of painful, traumatic work, she manifests it a second time.

vision infinityfold. unbounded freedom.

[michaela-o]

Hey guys !! Here's a little writing post for tonight since i once again suffer from art block and i couldn't really get my thoughts on canvas so at least i'll write them down for you🥹🫶🏻

I had a little poetic moment about Cybertronians and how each bot from the Lost Light might view humans in their own way. Here’s how i think a few of them might feel, translated into their own brand of poetic musing:

Rodimus

"They’re like embers scattered on a night’s breeze. Small, insistent, daring to claim a spark of the vast unknown. Fragile? Yes, but isn’t fragility the very flame that burns the brightest in the dark?"

I think Rodimus sees in humans a little bit of reflection of himself—bold and driven, yet so often skimming along the edges of destruction. I think he would admire their recklessness despite their short lives and finds in them a kinship, like stars burning out as they fall.

Drift

"With hands of flesh, they reach for the stars, tiny pilgrims, undeterred by dark. They are warriors bound in tender shells, yet their spirits are sharper than any blade."

I think Drift sees humanity’s journey as sacred, an unlikely pilgrimage. Despite their fragility, they pursue wonders that many would fear, displaying a purity of heart that resonates with his own search for purpose and redemption.

Brainstorm

"They are puzzles, equations, broken in ways no theorem can solve. I could build them stronger, make them last longer, stretch their days to years—yet it’s the ticking clock that drives them which we cannot touch, the glitch of life within the code. They’re impossible, improbable—beautifully, infuriatingly unsolvable."

For Brainstorm, i think humans are the ultimate enigma. So imperfect, so baffling, so limited by their biology—and yet, somehow, they thrive. Their existence nags at him, like a problem he can’t quite crack, but one that has woven its way into his circuits.

Ultra Magnus

"They obey no Prime, no order, no code, yet they find honor in dust and devotion in ruin. There is chaos within them, yet in their eyes—clarity. For all their flaws, perhaps they see the law of the universe far better than we."

Ultra Magnus finds himself both exasperated and quietly moved by humans’ defiance of logic. I think he might struggle with their disorder but recognizes the strange beauty in their conviction. They possess a kind of honor that is beyond his ability to define—a law unto themselves.

Chromedome

"Stories woven in short threads of skin and sinew, their lives stitched in seconds, minutes, hours—a blink of a shutter. Yet they carry tales, so rich and raw, that I cannot forget. They are memory incarnate, fragile as newborn spark, but so full of color."

I think Chromedome would treasure humans for their stories, for the vibrant, bittersweet memories they create within the boundaries of their lives. Every moment for them is fleeting, and so they seem to capture life with a vibrancy he longs to archive.

Swerve

"They bumble and fumble, awkward yet bold, finding joy in the smallest things. They laugh in the face of a world so vast—their clumsy courage, a song I want to know by my spark."

We all know Swerve loves humans and human things. I think he sees humans as charmingly imperfect, stumbling yet fearless in a universe that dwarfs them. Their humor and resilience bring a joy that he can’t resist, as if they were a song that lingers in his circuits, warming him in ways he would never expected.

Megatron

"They are the dreamers, the fools, the ones who hope, rebels in skin who believe in the impossible. I have seen it. They build kingdoms on bones and dreams, believing they can change the world."

Megatron is an amazing character in my opinion in the Lost Light universe. I think he looks upon humanity with a blend of scorn and admiration. They are so weak, yet so defiant—champions of hope despite their powerlessness. Their resilience reminds him of what he once fought for, and though he might deny it, he can’t help but see in them a reflection of his own self.

Ratchet

"Flawed and failing, breaking with each breath, they stitch themselves back with their tender hands. They fall, they fail, yet rise again reminding me why I mend the wounded steel."

I really like Ratchet. I like to think he regards humans with a mix of exasperation and reluctant respect even when he wouldn't directly word it. He sees them as frail and imperfect, breaking down as quickly as they heal. Yet, their resilience, their refusal to give up despite everything, is what keeps him caring deep in his spark. In their struggles, he finds purpose, and in their imperfection, he rediscovers his own reason to heal.

I hope you liked this silly little post for tonight. I hope the art block goes away soon so i can draw more silly robots and their silly lil human friends together :3🧡🧡🧡

[storystartsanew]

Wybie is quick to wipe her eyes and shake her head. "No, no. I'm fine Just everything going on."

And yet she still pauses and turns back to Devora, the last of her resolve crumbling when she looks at her. "I'm your sister. I'm Wybie. And you don't remember me. And that's really scary."

Slowly waking up in the hospital after hours of being unconscious, she looked around terribly confused. Not only was she confused about where she was, but why she was in so much pain, “wh… what’s… what’s going on?…”

[ruumirmir]

"The hoper of far-flung hopes,

And the dreamer of improbable dreams."

Part 1 - The Devil

[prophecyhaunted]

Sands of life ( anderperry short fic)

The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

What will your verse be?"

And In the end they did exactly that. Reciting the only words that mattered. Reciting their verse. The night of December 15th, a warmth spread across the desolate grave of winter. The autumn leaves swept aside, dancing across the cemetery—were buried under the snow. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The hourglass was turned around. Winter had turned into summer for only one night. The sands of time, fragile—like life. Too fast, yet too slow. Trying to inhale the warmth and exhale the bitter all at the same time. The static wind now whispered the truth. But people were too busy trying to suck the marrow out of life to listen. Henley Hall, despite the chilly blues of winter, was shrouded in an orange-tinted glow. Time was ticking. An echo of a distant future could be heard if you listened closely. You could smell the smoke from the gun cradle your lungs. But people were too busy wallowing in the juxtaposition of this night. Winter had kept them warm. If only they could taste the bitter remains of winter—too bitter to spit, numbing the edges of the mouth. Time cascaded across the wind, mulled with the snow, as it settled on the window, wide open—well, not yet.

A boy with hopes higher than the moon stood on the stage. A play of life reached his feet like waves, washing over his toes. A glimpse of it all. Just the beginning. The waves were taking him, little by little. He was going to reach his dreams soon. It was just the beginning. He wanted to be swallowed by the waves of life.

Another boy stood facing him, opposite the stage. The dreamer and the poet. And so he observed—ever the poet. He observed from afar. Too scared of the waves, too scared to ever let them linger on his skin. Neil and Todd. One breathing in the world, the other holding his breath. Neil, who had always lived so freely, and Todd, who could only watch from the shore, feet sinking into the cold sand of hesitation. But the hourglass had already turned. The sands of time had started slipping.

In the end, it seemed like an improbable tragedy. But in the end, it was true. Two boys breathing the sands of life as they carved their present in the wind, waiting— as time stretched over them like a blanket that leaves your feet out cold, waiting— at the two ends of the hourglass of life. As it pumped its beating heart with every inhale and exhale. Everything was balanced—until the boy was chained to conformity. His heart, like a wild creature trapped in his own ribcage, he was trapped— in himself. His soul drained of color, a monochrome version of the boy he used to be. The walls of his life closing in, his father’s voice suffocating the last breath of him. He began exhaling, the sands of life slipping from his fingers. It cascaded down, filling the other boy with life as he let go—exhaling.

"And not, when I came to die, discover I had not lived " they had spoken these words. They would recite them every meeting and they would mean it every time too. But the interpretation of poetry changes with a changing perspective. As Neil stood ajar staring at the open window. A shadow grew on the wall engulfing him slowly. The shadow of death. He had an epiphany. He understood now. That he didn't want those words that they recited to become true. He did not want to spend his life merely existing. He wanted to live. So when death came he would not regret the life he had lived. And so he decided. And so he exhaled. And so he pulled the trigger. And so he died.

And then, the silence. The silence of a home without laughter, of a school without its brightest star. Neil’s father had taken him away. But not before the poets saw. Not before they felt the weight of his absence settle onto their shoulders like freshly fallen snow. So they went to the cave. The place where they had lived, where poetry had breathed something eternal into them. The juxtaposition of the night lingered like smoke across the December skies as Neil turned in a hollow version of himself, a brittle empty shell soon to be crushed by the weight of the falling snow. Todd felt the moonlight bounce off the snow casting a bluish shadow on his face. He felt it seep into his skin caressing his bones, an augury of something turning him into a mosaic as eternal as snow. Mosaic of snow— muddled with blood, with longing reeking of death, and most importantly the soul of the snow— Neil. As the last of the sands of life reached the bottom of the hourglass, a window was opened, an echo was heard and a wreath now sat on the window waiting for the time—when it will thaw again. And in homage to Neil, two shots rang through the night—one from Neil, now only an echo in memory, and one from Todd. But Todd did not hold a gun. His weapon was truth, just as sharp, just as final.

"We are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming," he said.

The winter had turned into summer for one day because tomorrow was never coming. It was never going to come.

And the hourglass flipped once more.

@glitteredbubbles @imfluffytrash @chameleon3 @dreaming-in-daylight @bylerfiles ( cuz u like dps) @neil-perrys-suicidal-tendencies thoughts?

[storystartsanew]

Perry barely breathes until they make it to the hospital. She slides off her sister's back after the other Kenna does and pulls out the dog tags from her pocket. She wraps them around the horse's neck to transform her back into her sister.

Wybie is the first person she runs into, and she immediately starts triage. "Okay, let's get her on a gurney. We need something to stabilize her wings and any of the miniature equipment we can spare. And does anyone know where the emergency pixie dust is?"

Kenna Campbell froze at the sight of the rubble. Holy...

Half of the small cottage had collapsed, the other half appearing to be hanging on by a thread. Tayen had just gotten finished moving in, too, after everything that had happened. Campbell had helped get her last few boxes off the moving van.

"Please be alive in there," she whispered, rushing towards the debris.

Kenna Janeway glanced at her sister before running after the other Kenna, trying to look under a fallen rafter to see if she could see anything. "This looks really bad, Per."

@storystartsanew

[goodnightmemes]

just MORE great Doctor Who quotes

❛ Please, just see me. ❜

❛ Fear makes companions of us all. ❜

❛ I was going to be with you. Forever. ❜

❛ Love is not an emotion. Love is a promise. ❜

❛ Not everything ends. Not love. Not always. ❜

❛ You’d go to hell if she asked. And she would. ❜

❛ How can a man so young have eyes so old? ❜

❛ Always try to be nice, but never fail to be kind. ❜

❛ An enemy is just a friend you don’t really know yet. ❜

❛ You don't get to decide when and how your debt is paid! ❜

❛ You know, when I was little like you, I dreamt of the stars. ❜

❛ You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies. ❜

❛ One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel. ❜

❛ There’s no point in being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes. ❜

❛ Mums. Even when they are gone, they're never really done saving us. ❜

❛ You are loved, by so many and so much, and by no one more than me. ❜

❛ Nobody grows up wrong. You are what you are, and that is magnificent. ❜

❛ Everything’s got to end sometime. Otherwise, nothing would ever get started. ❜

❛ There’s no such thing as monsters, they’re just creatures you haven’t met yet. ❜

❛ I'm so old now. I used to have so much mercy. You get one warning. That was it. ❜

❛ I'm not running away from things. I'm running to them before they flare and fade forever. ❜

❛ I am, and always will be, the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes, and dreamer of improbable dreams. ❜

❛ When you love them, it's like loving the stars themselves. You don't expect a sunset to admire you back. ❜

❛A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting. ❜

❛ Hardly anything is evil. But most things are hungry. Hunger looks very like evil from the wrong end of the cutlery. ❜

❛ Courage isn’t a matter of not being frightened, you know. It’s being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway. ❜

❛ I’m being very clever up here and there’s no one to stand around looking impressed. What’s the point in having you all? ❜

❛ You know what's dangerous about you? It's not that you make people take risks, it's that you make them want to impress you. ❜

❛ Love, in all its form, is the most powerful weapon we have. Because love is a form and like hope, love abides in the face of everything. ❜

❛ You are unique in the universe. There is only one you and there will never be another. Getting rid of that existence isn't a sacrifice, it's a waste! ❜

❛ I think it's fair to say in the language of your age, that I lived my dream, I owned the stage, gave it a hundred and ten percent. I hope you have as much fun as I did. ❜

❛ I carry them with me. What they would have thought and said and done. Make them a part of who I am. So even though they’re gone from the world, they’re never gone from me. ❜

❛ We all change, when you think about it. We’re all different people all through our lives. And that’s okay, that’s good, you gotta keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be. ❜

❛ We're all dead eventually. There's hardly any time that we're not dead. Which is a good thing, too. We've got to keep the pace up, otherwise nothing would get done. Dying defines us. Snow isn't snow until it falls. ❜

[quotent-potables]

I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes, and the dreamer of improbable dreams.

— Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who, 6x06: "The Almost People"

[ineffablepenguin]

Hoper of far-flung hopes

Dreamer of improbable dreams 💫

[vmygdvlv]

Stray Kids AU (italian boy version) ;

Seo Changbin as Cesare Amato

Cesare grew up in Quartieri Spagnoli, a neighborhood in Naples where life moved to the beat of its own pulse, and where shadows were cast longer than they should have been by the faded streetlights. It was a place of contrasts: a narrow labyrinth of alleyways where scooters zipped through like bullets and voices echoed off crumbling walls. It was a place filled with energy, but also tension, where the lines between right and wrong, legal and illegal, were often blurred, and where the stakes of everyday life sometimes felt impossibly high. From an early age, Cesare had a keen awareness of his surroundings. He knew that the neighborhood he called home had a reputation, and not always for the best reasons.

He saw how easy it was for people to slip into the wrong crowd, to be pulled by forces they couldn’t control. Some of the kids he grew up with began to disappear, swallowed up by the darker undercurrents of the city — drugs, theft, and gang affiliations. He watched as a few of his childhood friends took paths that led them further and further from the light, seduced by the allure of quick money, status, or simply an escape from the constraints of their lives.

Yet amid this, Cesare found an anchor: his best friend, Federico. Federico, another boy from the Quartieri Spagnoli, with a laugh that could light up even the darkest alleyway, was a constant in Cesare’s life. The two had known each other since they could walk, their families connected by the shared experience of raising children in a neighborhood where innocence often felt like a fragile thing. Federico was different, in his own way — a dreamer, with a love for fashion that seemed out of place among the grit and grime of the Quartieri, but which he carried with unshakable confidence.

Federico’s warmth, his unrelenting optimism, and his bright curiosity for the world beyond their immediate surroundings created a unique bond between the two boys. While Federico was lighter, his head filled with visions of colors and fabrics, Cesare was grounded, rooted in the physicality of his body and the immediacy of his experiences. Federico’s dream of becoming a fashion designer seemed improbable to many, but not to Cesare, who saw the determination in his friend’s eyes.

They were inseparable, each providing balance to the other — Federico with his creative spirit, Cesare with his unyielding focus. Both boys were determined to rise above their circumstances, but in different ways.

His mother, Antonia, was a teacher, a woman of formidable will who fought hard to keep her children on the right side of the line. His father, Giuseppe, worked at the port, often coming home late with stories that revealed a city behind the city — a Naples that wasn’t found in guidebooks or tourist brochures. Both parents were determined to give their children something better, something more stable than what lay just outside their front door.

But Cesare was not immune to the realities of his environment. He saw how some of the boys on his street would get caught up in small-time hustles or run errands for men with hard faces and watchful eyes. He felt the pressure — that slow, creeping pull to prove himself, to be tough, to survive. Yet there was something inside him that resisted, a voice that whispered he was meant for something different.

For Cesare, this resistance was an act of defiance. He threw himself into activities that felt like they had purpose, direction, and focus. Where some sought strength through intimidation or power over others, Cesare sought it in a different way — through his own body, his own discipline. He discovered early on that he had a talent for athletics, a natural aptitude for physical strength and agility.

He found solace in weightlifting and boxing, sports that demanded not just physical prowess but mental endurance. The small, gritty gym near his home became a second refuge, a place where he could channel his energy, his anger, and his frustration. He pushed himself hard, often beyond the limits of what his body seemed capable of, driven by the need to prove something — to himself more than anyone else. Each session was a battle, not against others, but against his own doubts and fears.

Boxing taught Cesare focus, control, and the value of restraint. It sharpened his instincts, and in the rhythm of footwork and the snap of a punch, he found a kind of peace. In the mirror of the gym, he didn’t just see a boy from a tough neighborhood; he saw a fighter, someone who could carve his own path through sheer willpower and grit. He admired the precision, the strategy, the way a match could turn in an instant from brute force to calculated elegance.

But it wasn’t just the gym where Cesare found his passions. Music became a significant part of his life — not just as a listener, but as a creator. The beats of hip-hop and rap, with their stories of struggle, ambition, and survival, spoke to him in a way that felt real and immediate. He began to write his own lyrics, finding a voice for the thoughts he couldn’t express otherwise — the frustration with his surroundings, the desire for something more, the constant pull between staying loyal to his roots and breaking free of them.

In those lyrics, he found the same catharsis he found in the gym. The words came in torrents, pouring out of him late at night when the city was quieter, his headphones plugged in as he scribbled furiously in a notebook. He started recording rough tracks with friends, experimenting with beats and rhythms, his deep voice finding a natural cadence that was both aggressive and introspective.

Music gave him an outlet to speak to his experiences, his environment, and his ambitions. He loved how a song could change moods, how it could transform a room, or a person’s mindset. It was a way to reach people, to make them feel what he felt — the heat of the Naples sun, the weight of expectations, the hunger for something better.

Yet even as he immersed himself in these pursuits, Cesare remained aware of the dangers around him. He saw the traps that others fell into — the allure of quick money, the false security of joining a group or a gang for protection, the seemingly easy path that always, inevitably, led somewhere dark. He was determined not to go down that road. But that determination often left him at odds with himself, wrestling with feelings of isolation, of not fitting in entirely with his peers.

He disliked the narrowness of certain expectations — that just because he came from where he did, he should act a certain way, dress a certain way, think a certain way. He grew frustrated with stereotypes, with the way others seemed to define him before they even knew him. He hated small talk, superficial conversations that lacked depth or sincerity, and he had little patience for people who couldn’t keep up with his energy.

As he grew older, Cesare’s interests began to evolve. While he still loved the raw physicality of boxing and the creative freedom of music, he became fascinated by the idea of business — the strategy, the decision-making, the art of negotiation. It was another form of battle, another arena where he could test himself, where he could see the results of his efforts play out in real time. He began to think about how he could combine his passions, how he could build something of his own, something that reflected both where he came from and where he wanted to go.

At 18, Cesare decided to study business administration so him and Federico decided both moved to Milan for university, it was like the pieces of their puzzle falling into place. The decision wasn’t easy; he was leaving behind everything he knew, stepping into a world that was colder, more calculated, more distant. Milan was nothing like Naples. Cesare, with his more reserved and pragmatic nature, found himself frustrated at times by the polished surfaces and hidden layers of Milanese society. He missed the raw honesty of Naples, the directness with which people spoke to each other, the sense that you always knew where you stood. But he was determined to seize them.

Still, their friendship remained a constant. They rented a small apartment together, where Federico’s sketches and fabric samples began to clutter every available surface, while Cesare’s weights and boxing gear took up whatever space was left. They often stayed up late, talking about their dreams and fears, navigating their new world together, each offering the other a sense of home in a city that often felt foreign.

He threw himself into his studies with the same intensity he had always brought to everything else in his life. But he didn’t abandon his other interests. He still spent hours at the gym, maintaining his fitness routine with a near-religious fervor. He continued to write and produce music, collaborating with new friends and artists he met in Milan, using the city’s more extensive resources to refine his craft.

He started to think bigger, to dream about how he could merge his love for music and his passion for business. Maybe he’d start his own record label, or a fitness brand that combined training and lifestyle with a musical edge. He began to see himself not just as a student, or a boy from Naples, but as someone who could bridge worlds — who could bring his unique perspective to whatever he chose to do.

But even in Milan, there were struggles. He missed the warmth of his hometown, the way the sea seemed to sing at night, the rough familiarity of his old neighborhood. Sometimes, the weight of expectation, the need to succeed, felt like a burden he couldn’t shake. He had to prove himself constantly, to prove that he belonged, that he wasn’t just another kid from a tough background trying to make it in the big city.

Yet Cesare was relentless. He remained true to the lessons his environment had taught him — the value of hard work, the strength of character, the importance of staying true to oneself. He learned to navigate Milan’s more polished social circles, but he never lost his Neapolitan roots, his accent still slipping through in moments of passion, his demeanor retaining a touch of the street-smart kid who had once navigated the dangers of the Quartieri.

Now, in his early twenties, Cesare stands as a man of contrasts: both tough and introspective, a fighter and a thinker, driven by ambition but grounded by the lessons of his past. He dreams of a future where he can combine his many passions, where his business acumen can intersect with his love of music and fitness, where he can create something meaningful, something that reflects the complexity of who he is and where he’s from.

Family background

The family unit is tight-knit but strained at times. Antonia’s hopes for a different life for her boys weigh heavily on Cesare, who feels the pressure to set an example. Despite the tension, loyalty runs deep — they share meals, worries, and rare moments of laughter amid the chaos.

Antonia Amato, mother (teacher, 57) — a strict yet loving schoolteacher who’s the moral backbone of the family. She’s fiercely protective and relentless in her efforts to steer her children away from the neighborhood’s pitfalls. A woman of strong principles and sharp intellect, she often struggles to reconcile her hopes with the harsh realities her sons face.

Giuseppe Amato, father (dockworker, 60) — gruff and taciturn, Giuseppe embodies the gritty, hard-working spirit of Naples. He’s a man of few words but deep pride, imparting lessons about loyalty, resilience, and survival. His stories about the “real” Naples — the shadowy world behind the tourist façade — fascinated Cesare growing up.

Salvatore Amato, second oldest (student, 18) — still in high school, impressionable but with flashes of the same stubborn will as Cesare. Often caught between admiration and rebellion.

Raffaele Amato, youngest brother (student, 14) — quiet and thoughtful, with a surprising love for poetry and history, offering a gentle contrast to the rougher edges of the family.

Friends

Alessio — they grew up together. Played soccer in the alleyways. Got into their first street fights together. Stole cigarettes from Alessio’s uncle’s bar. They were the ones who stayed clean — barely. Blood without the bloodline. The kind of friend where no words are needed. They don’t talk every day. But when Cesare goes back to Naples, he always sees Alessio first. They’ve seen each other in their worst — bleeding, crying, broke, furious. If Cesare ever got locked up, Alessio would be the one to show up without asking why. Loyalty doesn’t need to be spoken with them — it’s bone-deep.

Vincenzo — another friend from Naples. Vincenzo was a legend in the neighborhood when Cesare was still a teen. Known for his charm, mopeds, and messy entanglements. They officially met when Vincenzo stepped in during a street fight to back Cesare up. After that, they kept in touch. Vincenzo eventually left Naples too — for Milan, after things got complicated. Like a wild older cousin. Vincenzo brings chaos with him — always a story, always half-lies. Cesare rolls his eyes but secretly likes having him around. Vincenzo doesn’t judge. He calls Cesare “Capo” with irony, but if shit hits the fan, he’s got his back. They drink together, argue, swap gossip from home — and Vincenzo reminds Cesare of who he was before Milan hardened him.

Patrizia — she was the first person in Milan who really got under his skin — in a good way. They met at a boxing gym Cesare trained at. She was there doing Muay Thai, absolutely fearless. She made fun of his form and called him “Mister Broody”. He thought she was annoying. A week later, they were sharing post-gym espresso and trauma dumping. Brother and sister energy. No flirting, no weird tension — just love and brutal honesty. She’ll roast him for his toxic masculinity one second and patch him up after a fight the next. He talks to her about things he tells no one else. She reminds him he doesn’t have to be a statue all the time. And when he messes up? She calls him out, hard — but never walks away.

Federico (Felix) — childhood best friend from Naples. They met before memory could even form. Federico lived across the alley, always the kid with paint on his fingers and holes in his jeans from climbing too much. While Cesare was already learning to survive the street’s tempo — fists, silence, and instinct — Federico was designing outfits out of paper and glue, humming while dodging scooters. Federico is Cesare’s sunlight. Always was. The only person who saw Cesare’s anger and never flinched — but also the only one who refused to romanticize it. Federico reminds Cesare that the world can be designed, shaped, colored. That survival isn’t the only goal — sometimes beauty is resistance. They laugh deeply together. Federico is the one person who hugs Cesare without asking, and Cesare lets him. He’s not just a best friend — he’s a piece of Cesare’s soul that stayed soft.

Vittorio (Seungmin) — they were both late to a morning class — hungover from different parties, showing up with espresso and zero patience. The professor paired them up for a project on “art in the digital economy.” They both rolled their eyes — but Vittorio had ideas. Big ones. Cesare respected that. Vittorio didn’t act superior, just sharp — the kind of guy who read spreadsheets like poetry and understood that selling art didn’t mean selling out. Brains and strategy. Vittorio is the one Cesare goes to when it’s time to make real moves — contracts, launches, events. But more than that, Vittorio respects Cesare’s instincts, and Cesare values Vittorio’s logic. They talk about art as legacy, not just survival. There’s a calm maturity to their friendship — built on nights spent arguing over market disruption and hip-hop lyrics. In another life, they’d be co-founders of an empire. Maybe they still will be.

Edoardo (Hyunjin) — it was a panel on fashion x entrepreneurship. Edoardo showed up in all-black avant-garde tailoring, unbothered and magnetic. Cesare was half-bored, arms crossed in the back — until Edoardo spoke up about aesthetics as resistance. Cesare turned. They locked eyes across the room like something ancient had just clicked. Later, Cesare said: “Nice boots.” Edoardo replied: “Yours could use polish.” It was the beginning of everything. Respect. Mirror. Fire. Where Federico is softness, Edoardo is sharpness — cut from a different cloth, but just as essential. He challenges Cesare in ways others are too afraid to. They push each other. Cesare calls Edoardo “Art Boy” with mockery, but secretly listens when he talks about theory. Edoardo sees Cesare’s chaos and doesn’t try to fix it — he frames it. Cesare, in turn, trusts him to turn vision into something real. Their bond is rare: it’s elegant, volatile, and real.

Leonardo (Lee Know) — They met in Milan through a mutual friend who instinctively knew they were two pieces of a larger puzzle. Their first meeting happened over coffee in Navigli, meant to be a quick conversation about a potential dance event. Leonardo was looking for someone who could help manage the logistics — budgeting, venues, partnerships — and the friend who introduced them said Cesare was “one of the few who actually gets both money and art.” Cesare wasn’t easily impressed, but there was something magnetic about Leonardo. Their bond is built on mutual respect — but also on balance. Where Cesare offers stability and foresight, Leonardo brings fire and spontaneity. They became sounding boards for each other’s dreams, and over time, their partnership blurred the line between work and friendship. Now, Leonardo is one of the few people who can call Cesare at 2 a.m. with a half-formed idea, and instead of brushing it off, Cesare will sit up, rub his eyes, and say, “Dimmi.” (“Tell me.”)

Riccardo (Bangchan) — They met at an underground music showcase in Milan. Riccardo had just moved for university and was networking at a local music collective where Cesare occasionally freestyled or worked beats with people from the hip-hop circuit. Riccardo clocked Cesare immediately — the brooding guy in the corner with headphones on, nodding to beats but not speaking. Riccardo approached him, asked what he thought of the mix. Cesare just looked up and said: “Troppo pulito. Manca il sudore.” (“Too clean. Needs sweat.”). It was the start of a creative rivalry, then an intense friendship. Like yin and yang. Riccardo’s warmth balances Cesare’s sharp edge. They often argue about rhythm, politics, authenticity — but there’s profound respect under it. Riccardo’s one of the few people Cesare trusts with his lyrics. Their arguments are explosive, but their loyalty is unshakable. Riccardo knows when to challenge Cesare — and when to just sit beside him in silence.

Giulio (Jisung) — Cesare met Giulio at a university party he wasn’t even invited to. He was dragged there by Patrizia. Giulio was drunk and ranting in a corner about Dante being overrated and Pavese being depressed but brilliant. Cesare listened, then casually quoted Pasolini to shut him up. Giulio, wide-eyed, asked, “Wait, you read?” — and Cesare just smirked. Endless banter. Street vs Academia. Giulio calls Cesare “l’intellettuale di strada” (the street intellectual). Cesare calls him “Professò”. They disagree on everything, especially books — but deep down, they’re on the same side. Giulio is one of the few who sees how intelligent Cesare actually is — and Cesare quietly protects Giulio when his soft heart gets too exposed.

Valerio (Jeongin) — they met through Riccardo. Valerio was helping set up a live gig for the student music society. Cesare saw him messing with wires under a stage, cursing in Venetian dialect, and said: “Sei sicuro di saper fare ‘sta roba o devo chiamare l’elettricista?” Valerio flipped him off. Respect was earned quickly. Like a younger brother Cesare didn’t want but now fiercely protects. Cesare sees himself in Valerio — the impulsiveness, the quiet need to be taken seriously, the rage bottled up under charm. He’s tough on him, always — but in moments where Valerio spirals, Cesare is there. No speeches, no drama. Just presence. He never says it, but he’d throw punches for him in a heartbeat.

Neighborhoods

Naples — Quartieri Spagnoli (Spanish Quarters), cesare’s home — narrow alleys, echoing footsteps, neon lights flickering on graffiti-covered walls, and the ever-present smell of fried street food mixed with sea salt and diesel fumes. It’s a place alive with stories, danger, and resilience.

Porta Venezia, Milan — known for its diversity, artistic flair, and progressive atmosphere. Located near the city center, Porta Venezia is a melting pot of cultures and styles, blending Milan’s historical elegance with a modern, cosmopolitan vibe. The area is famous for its Art Nouveau architecture, stylish cafes, and vibrant nightlife. He share the flat with Federico.

Favorite Italian artists

Marracash — his raw, introspective rap resonates with Cesare’s inner struggles and street wisdom. Fave track, “Crudelia (i nervi)” -> this one hurts. It’s about emotional abuse, pride, vulnerability — Cesare has never been able to listen to it without feeling like it’s written at him. Marracash is the one rapper he sees as a true poet. “Hai dato un volto all’inferno.” Yeah.

Caparezza — a unique, original and multifaceted artist, a musician among the pioneers of Italian rap, Caparezza has always stood out on the music scene for his profound literary skills, making puns his signature style, combining satire and social criticism. Fave track, “Avrai ragione tu (ritratto)” -> It hits like a journal entry Cesare never wrote. The contradictions, the self-doubt masked in rage, the feeling of being out of place in a world that wants you simplified. Caparezza’s chaos matches Cesare’s mind — layered, fast, brutally clever.

Fabri Fibra — as a rapper who often confronts harsh realities and social critique in Italy, Fabri Fibra matches Cesare’s desire for raw, honest expression. His flow and attitude inspire Cesare’s own lyricism. Fave track, “Idee stupide” -> he blasts this when he needs to punch a wall or drown out the noise. Cesare doesn’t always agree with Fibra, but he admires the rawness, the shamelessness. The song is a scream with a beat. Sometimes that’s all you need.

Pino Daniele — though primarily a musician, Daniele’s Neapolitan soul and blues-infused melodies deeply connect with Cesare’s roots. Fave track, “Quanno Chiove” -> because the city sleeps and Cesare is alone with a cigarette, this is what plays. He grew up with it. It smells like his mother’s kitchen. Pino is the soul of Naples, and Cesare’s heart still beats in dialect.

Franco126 – roman songwriter. One hundred and twenty-six like the steps of the Viale Glorioso staircase in Trastevere. His rap writing crosses over into songwriting with a lucid ability to focus on reality and emotions. The vaguely retro style is matched by a rough and truthful timbre, a perfect bitter-sweet contrast capable of enveloping the heart. Fave track, “Blue Jeans” (feat. Calcutta) -> for the quiet nights, the wrong memories, the ghosts of people he left behind. This one? This one stings beautifully.

Favorite Italian dishes

Pizza Margherita: the quintessential Neapolitan pride, simple but perfect.

Spaghetti alle Vongole (Clam Spaghetti): fresh, salty, and evocative of the sea — a reminder of Naples’ coastal heartbeat.

Frittura di Paranza: mixed fried seafood, eaten street-side with friends after late-night outings.

Sfogliatella: sweet, flaky pastry for rare treats, often shared during family breakfasts.

Favorite movies

Scarface (1983) by Brian De Palma — the immigrant’s dream turned nightmare. He watches this with critical admiration, aware of how toxic that path is

Her (2013) by Spike Jonze — loneliness in a hyper-connected world. He’s fascinated by the emotional intelligence, the color palette, the sadness that lingers quietly

Dogman (2018) — quiet man pushed too far. A disturbing, but oddly heartbreaking film for Cesare. He gets the slow erosion of decency under pressure

Pane e Tulipani (2000) by Silvio Soldini — a woman rediscovers herself. Cesare found this on a late-night re-run. He was surprised how much he liked it — the quiet poetry of second chances.

Favorite writers

Cesare’s favorite writers share common threads: they’re either brutally honest about the darker sides of society or imaginative dreamers who transform harsh realities into art.

Eduardo De Filippo — “Napoli Milionaria!”, this play captures the heart of Naples during the difficult post-war years—poverty, survival, and moral ambiguity. Eduardo’s sharp humor and biting social commentary mirror Cesare’s own mix of toughness and wit. De Filippo is playwright and actor from Naples, his works portray Neapolitan life with humor and tragedy

Chuck Palahniuk — “Choke”, The dark satire and complex, flawed characters in Choke appeal to Cesare’s cynicism and sense of humor. Its exploration of addiction, identity crises, and survival in a world that feels both absurd and hostile mirrors his own inner battles. The way Palahniuk explores the darker sides of human nature, alienation, and underground culture fits Cesare’s own experience with conflict and societal expectations.

Victor Hugo — “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame” (Notre-Dame de Paris), the tragic story of Quasimodo and Esmeralda, outcasts fighting against fate and society’s cruelty, strikes a chord with Cesare. It mirrors his feelings of being judged by appearance and origin but holding a fierce, often hidden, humanity. Despite his grand, classical style, Hugo’s themes of justice, social inequality, and redemption inspire Cesare on a more aspirational level.

Roberto Saviano — “Gomorra”, Saviano’s exposé of the Camorra is more than journalism to Cesare—it’s a mirror reflecting the dangers and contradictions of his neighborhood. The raw, unfiltered portrayal of organized crime, corruption, and the suffocating grip of power fuels Cesare’s determination to stay on his own path and avoid being swallowed by the same forces.

Favorite seaside spots

Marechiaro — a small, picturesque fishing village just outside Naples, it’s a place of calm and tradition. Cesare finds peace there, a break from the chaos of his neighborhood

Posillipo Hills — overlooking the sea, a place for reflection and fleeting dreams of freedom

Spiaggia di Marina di Camerota (Cilento Coast) — less touristy, more authentic, this spot aligns with Cesare’s appreciation for places off the beaten path, where nature’s rawness mirrors his own grit.

Most used slang words

Guagliò (pronounced gwah-LYOH) — means “boy,” “dude,” or “mate.”Commonly used among friends in Naples, it reflects Cesare’s casual, streetwise way of addressing peers

Sta’ ‘nguaiato”— means “He’s in trouble” or “stuck in a mess.” Used to describe someone caught in a bad situation, common in street talk

Jammo — means “Let’s go!” or “Come on!”, a quick, energetic call to action, often heard on the streets or among friends when it’s time to move or do something

Vati corca (pronounced roughly “VAH-tee KOR-kah”) — means “Go lie down” or “Go to bed”, a dismissive way to tell someone to shut up, stop talking nonsense, or just get lost. Like saying “Go take a nap” but with a strong undertone of irritation or dismissal

Most used slurs

Sfaccimma (pronounced roughly “sfa-CHIM-ma”) — derives from the Italian “faccia” (face) combined with the vulgar suffix and meaning related to excrement, so it roughly translates as “piece of shit” or “scumbag.” Can be playful among close friends (with a sarcastic or teasing tone), but usually harsh and meant to sting if used seriously

Vafammò — short for “Vaffanculo,” meaning go fuck yourself

Omm’ e merd’ — one of the most classic Neapolitan slurs. It literally means “man of shit” or “shitty man.” harsh and direct, it hits on both personal character and masculinity, used mostly among men in informal, often hostile contexts

Representatives phrases

A chi t’ ’o ddice, a chi t’ ’o ddice! [Who’s telling you?] — reason: used when denying or feigning ignorance, cause he despises those kind of things

Ammò, staje senza pensier’ [Come on, don’t worry] — used to reassure a friend or himself, shows his protective and grounded nature

Chi ha paura muore ogni giorno, chi non ha paura muore una volta sola [He who is afraid dies every day, he who is not afraid dies only once] — a tough, stoic motto reflecting Cesare’s approach to life and danger

Favorite idioms

Non è bello ciò che è bello, ma è bello ciò che piace [What is beautiful is not what’s beautiful, but what pleases.] meaning: beauty is subjective, reflects Cesare’s nuanced understanding of appearances versus reality — especially in his judgment of people

Chi la dura la vince [Who perseveres, wins] meaning: perseverance pays off — core to his boxing mentality and life philosophy

Meglio un uovo oggi che una gallina domani [Better an egg today than a hen tomorrow] meaning: sometimes you have to settle for what’s real now instead of chasing uncertain dreams — reflects the practical side of Cesare

[storystartsanew]

"Wybie!" She shakes her hand firmly and then moves to gather her things. Making friends isn't really her strong suit. Normally she's terrified of meeting new people, but her brain is so exhausted she doesn't think she can be scared right now. "Thank you for saving me from reading. Really. Where did you want to go get tea?"

storystartsanew​:

Wybie doesn’t hate school. She really, truly doesn’t. But sometimes it can be a little too stressful. There’s only so many medical terms she can memorize at once. Trying to read her textbook devolved into barely being able to make out the words on the page, so she’s taken to softly beating her head against the wall instead.

When someone walks up to her and starts to speak, she stares blankly for a moment. It takes a second for the words to really process, but once they do, she just smiles and nods. “Absolutely, I would love to.”

Anything is better than studying at the moment.

Phoebe blinks, not sure if she actually expected to make it this far but lighting up. “Nice! Okay, cool. Oh! I’m Phoebe,” she offers her hand a bit awkwardly, smiling.

[smallgodseries]

[image description: The peaceful face of a lovely Black woman is visible amid flowing water all around her. In the foreground we see her crossed wrists and the rose she holds. Text reads, “45, Ophelia Love ~ The Small God of Romantic Dreams”]

____________________________________________________________

She drifts, in the place between sleep and waking, borne up by the tide and cradled by the rocking of the river.  She drifts but never drowns, for that is not her place in this story, and the flowers tangled in her hair vary with the river, but are most often roses.  Red roses, for the bright flame of love; coral pink, for sweet desire; yellow, for new beginnings.  She can find the romance in any moment, the sweet fulfillment in any hesitation, and the stories she tells herself are finer than any in the waking world.

In the running river, Ophelia dreams.

Her faithful say she comes when love has already taken seed and blossomed, even if the root is but one-sided; she nurtures, she does not inspire, and who better than her faithful to know her rites and rituals, her requirements for dedication?  All she asks of them is adoration, and not even necessarily for her—she is not unique among the small gods, but she is rare, in that she would rather they be joyous than be hers.  If they move into the domain of the Small God of Love Fulfilled or the domain of the Small God of Improbable Mathematics, in whose embrace the whole is always greater than the sum of the parts its made of, she will be ecstatic.  If they stay with her forever, she may be overjoyed, but she may also be concerned, for her domain is meant to be a temporary one.  Dreamers dream of love, lovers fall in love, and Ophelia drifts on, safe in the arms of her river as she will never be safe in the arms of her love.

For her dreams to become reality would be to deny her nature and undo her purpose.  Ophelia can love forever.  Ophelia can be loved.  But she can never make her romantic notions real, and that, too, is fine with her; she has found her place and her peace and her passage, and she will dream as long as lovers do, as long as love is both longed for and lusted after.

She will never drown.

____________________________________________________________

Artist Lee Moyer (Trident of Aurelia, 13th Age) and author Seanan McGuire (Wayward Children, October Daye & InCryptid series) sincerely thank to each and every one of you shares the love. <3

[miabbh]

Very very long (it's not that long) and annoying and omg I'm so emotional and I just spoke my mind so it took me almost three hours to read this all but it's so worth it please-

I just read ── ❝ truth be told ❞ 🐰!! by @baekhyunsbestie and I wanna talk about it

cut for the sake of scrolling (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)

you often found yourself wondering if she was a gift straight from the universe, a little piece of heaven sent just for you. every smile she gave, every tight hug, every soft ‘i love you, mommy’ felt like proof that you were the luckiest soul alive.

My first tear fell here.

the thought of it—of him finding out, of him knowing you’d kept her from him, hidden this piece of him, this precious life from him—it twisted something deep inside you. it made your chest tighten, your thoughts spiral. the guilt, the shame—it felt like a constant ache, one that only grew the more you thought about it.

Here, I had to stop for five minutes.

he was a dreamer. he’d mapped it all out in his head—two girls, two boys. his perfect little quartet. the oldest, a girl, to set the tone, to be the leader of the pack. then a boy to balance things out, another boy to roughhouse and make the middle feel less lonely, and finally, the baby of the family, a girl to soften the edges of the chaos. he laughed at the improbability of it all, at how life doesn’t work like that, but he loved dreaming about it anyway.  

When I read this I thought about sending you a DM to ask if this is your plan to make me drink more water, and that this is not how you are going to convince me to do so.

you imagined his reaction: the sharp edge of his disappointment, the rawness of his hurt, the anger that would burn in his chest. he’d ask you why—why did you wait? why did you let so much time pass? and you’d have no answer, nothing that could make it right.  

And then that feeling of angst already And then that feeling of angst already leaves the heart numb. Love it love it love it!!!!!!!! But auch-

she was his.  

I'm a big fan of big sentences. I really love it because it’s a bundle of thoughts. But it's always these shorter, isolated ones that rip my heart out. This one, in this case, made me gasp. I'm in tears, Lisa! Why are you doing this to me????!!!!

you saw it then—the man he was before, the one you fell for, unchanged and yet altered by time and pain.  

his gaze didn’t leave you, like he was trying to unravel the walls you’d so carefully built around yourself. there was a quiet intensity in his eyes, as if he was searching for something buried deep within you. the space between you both thickened, heavy with unspoken words. it felt suffocating, like the air was being stolen from your lungs. this was it. the moment that would change everything.

Can someone hit me to see if I wake up? Lisa, I can picture the scenes so well and his look and his actions and Minji being so cute and still the hella elephant in the room who is keeping company with the giraffe! I was going to write this later but I had to go back and write it now and I'm not editing anything so you're going to get a raw and dramatic reaction from me. I wanna punch someone please if this was a book I would already want to tear off the pages and stick them on my forehead.

his voice was calm, but his eyes—those eyes—told a different story. they flickered with something raw, something desperate, like a storm fighting its way to the surface.

Up until now I thought I could hold on a little longer without crying because, hey, they've at least seen each other! But then you just ↓

you looked back up, and his gaze met yours—quiet, intense, full of unspoken things. without a word, he nodded toward the paper, his voice steady but laced with something fragile, something that didn’t quite fit with the man you knew. "that's my number, bun. just in case you're running late or something."

Don't dont dont dont bun me!!! Or her!!!! US!!!!!!!!! DON'T 😭😭😭😭 ah my heart pqp

“i’m engaged,” he blurted, the words sharp and sudden, like a slap to the face. 

Caramba Lisa, there was no need for that. What a puch in my heart—truly, it wasn't a metaphor. I know I asked for someone to hit me but it wasn't like that! Ah the angst I love it but I can barely breath. And I was so shocked that my mind projected something like "you saw the ring on his finger" and I was so lost as I could barely find this passage anywhere. I'm- you're tearing my heart apart, Lisa. Hope you know that.

his voice sliced through your words, thick with disbelief, tremoring as if he couldn’t comprehend what you were saying. "are you... are you serious right now? you’d leave? again? how is that supposed to fix anything? did you not think i wanted her? wanted you? we’ve talked about this, bun... you knew what it meant for me to be a dad."

No okay Baekhyun you're asking for it engaged and still 'bun bun' her? You explain yourself man!

he shook his head, a soft, bitter laugh escaping him before he quickly suppressed it. his voice faltered, the nickname slipping out before he even realized it. “don’t worry about that, bun—” he stopped mid-sentence, the word tasting strange and wrong on his tongue after your mention of his fiancée. it was as if, in that moment, he’d completely forgotten about her. he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “i mean… just let me handle that. but for now... please, promise me you won’t disappear again. promise me you won’t take her away from me. i’m begging you... let me in. i feel like you owe me that much.”

Ah 😀! Okay. Got it. Gotta punch you, Baek. The fuck you're doing man?

I'm not okay.

“look,” baekhyun began, his voice softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t place. “i never thought i’d hear from you again. and now you just—pop back into my life, on a random friday, with a daughter i had no idea about. i’m sorry if you’re upset that there’s someone else in my life. but please... don’t punish me for finding myself again after you completely destroyed me.”

I'm not okay part. 2 because I'm trying again. Lisa why are you so right with the words, huh? Can you like- no keep doing as it is but ah my heart is in pieces and need a break (I'll keep going).

"drink up," he said, flicking a finger gently under your chin to tilt your head up, a playful glint in his eyes. "don’t need you passing out on me from dehydration."  

I'll take this as an advice for myself after all this part.

before you could say another word, he turned, walking briskly toward his car. his steps were measured, his pride refusing to let him break into a full-on sprint, even as his heart hammered like a war drum. every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his lie and your confusion pressing down on him like a vice.

This, this is a masterpiece. I'll print this and place it on my wardrobe. I'm telling you. This and some other inflated ego and pride/anger/self-destructive examples that make me hold my breath as I read. You know when you get an adrenaline rush when you see/read things like that? What a thrill I felt. Kinda shaky as we speak, btw.

after a few more park playdates, you invited baekhyun over for dinner. when he arrived, he held two bouquets—one vibrant and blooming for you, and a smaller, delicate arrangement for minji.  

Receiving flowers is a weakness of mine. Give me flowers and I'll do anything. I'll probably cry too, non-ironically. Where is the habit of giving flowers? No one gives bouquets anymore. My father also used to bring a bouquet for my mother and a smaller floral arrangement for me on special ocasions or just because, as he works with that. Maybe that's why it has such a special place in my heart. It's been at least ten years since this last happened... And then see Baek doing that... Man, your daughter won't accept less than that and you're so right. Omg I'm so emotional

“hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you out of your spiral. “what matters is now. and the future. i trust you, and i know you won’t keep her from me again. i’ve forgiven you... but maybe it’s time you forgave yourself.”  

he settles into the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the faint warmth radiating from him. you sip your wine, trying to steady yourself, before speaking. “so... have you and soo talked about setting up a time to meet her?”  

'close enough that you can feel the faint warmth radiating from him'. I never really believed in this until I felt it. Lord, someone save me from this mental image of a broad-shouldered Baekhyun sitting next to me with his body heat being emanated to me please??? I'm not okay now because this man is all good in real life but in this scenario I'm slightly more... surrendered....

Lisa what kind of magic are you doing making me hear his voice everytime he speaks because I'm telling you I'm shocked myself I can see it as a movie right in front of my eyes almost literally.

his eyes searched yours, hesitant but resolute, as if willing you to see the truth in his gaze. when he spoke again, his voice softened, carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. “and the more time i spent with you both... the more i realized you’re what i want. you and minji. you’re what i really want in my life.”  

See? This is what I mean when I say english is tricky. You as her or you as them? Yeah yeah, english, you know why you have the bestest slow burns??? Because you are so deceiving it's Impossible not to misunderstand!!!!!!! Ah someone help me I'm losing my mind please kiss each other I can't 😭😭

his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to touch, to hold, to pull you close enough to feel the warmth of your body against his. the temptation was staggering, nearly unbearable. his mind flickered with flashes of all the ways he wanted you—how it would feel to bury his face in your neck, to whisper promises against your skin, to hear you say his name like you used to.

baekhyun’s lips curved into a playful smirk. “spoiled?” he echoed, leaning in just slightly, enough for his voice to drop a fraction, rich and smooth. “c’mon, bun, i’m sure you remember what me spoiling you really looks like.”

I was silent the whole time because it took me a while to process that first you made me cry and now I'm the one who's blushing, but wow. I mean- please kiss each other please. Slow burn but it's catching fire to the intire room so please I- Lisaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and then, he kissed you.

rip Mia.exe stopped working. Report: possible case of 'slow burn reader's rapturous condition when the couple finally kisses'. methods of correcting the error are being sought.

"i love you, bun," he whispered, his voice soft yet heavy with meaning, a tremor of raw emotion in every word. his gaze, unwavering and intense, locked onto yours, as if he could reach inside you with just a look. his lips brushed yours, so lightly it almost felt like a delicate promise. "i... i don’t think i ever stopped."

Critical error. Mia.exe file does not respond. Mia.exe file does not respond. Mia.exe file does not respond. Mia.exe file does not respond. Mia.exe file does not respon-

“fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with hunger. “ya sure about this, bun?” each syllable a desperate plea as his restraint teetered dangerously close to breaking.

DON'T "YA" AND "BUN" ME ON THE SAME SENTENSE MAN! WHAT????!!!!!!

Lisa let's talk. You have to be more careful with the words because the way you put them together makes me want to eat the letters you put together. This doesn't work. It's just that you writing like that and Baekhyun being Baekhyun so beautiful and perfect and hot as fuck in my mind is not good for my heart. Lisa.

his lips curled into that signature, boyish grin that had always undone you, a glint of mischief dancing in his darkened eyes. 

I can picture him I wanna cry and I can't this is too much for me please someone get me a Baekhyun too please I need it please Lisa how do you write do envolving after midnight after bedtime sceneeeeeeeeeeees????!!!!!!!!!!

“hah—baek,” you whine, your voice trembling as you fully surrender to him. your body rocks helplessly in rhythm with his relentless thrusts, his cock plunging so deep it leaves you gasping. “s-so deep—hngh… can feel you here—” your hand snakes down, guiding his to press against your stomach, right where the swollen head of his cock is relentlessly hitting that devastatingly sweet spot.

HELLO????!!!! For illustrative purposes, I have the shocked face of a conservative lady who has just discovered what is good in life. I'm- wow Lisa that detail. Omg I have no words almost literally. That was super sensual lemme tell you my ace self is asking if we can make a deal and read this everytime we come to think there's no way sex cant be pretty.

your heart clenches painfully, his vulnerability cutting straight through you like a blade. his body trembles against yours, every inch of him straining to keep you close, to pour everything he feels into the spaces between you. your fingers find their way into his hair, threading through the damp strands as you tug gently, coaxing him to meet your gaze.

And then emotional, deep into sad/angstie emotions???? This is a masterpiece Lisa, this moment is just so right in place and the moment and the tension and the moment again and the timing and them 😩😭 Omg this is perfection

And, innocent and intoxicated that I was with all this, I thought I would feel my heart tight again. But you said 'no no' ↓

he nods, his gaze falling to his hands, which rest loosely in his lap. “yeah,” he says, the word heavy with a weight he’s carried for longer than you probably realize. “i always knew your heart was still with him. filled with him. i thought that maybe, over time, with me… and nari… we—i—would fill it instead.” his voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, forcing himself to go on. “but then he came along. and even then, i was still foolish enough to believe i had a chance.”

Omg Channie 😭😭 Noooo Channie please someone I- he was so kind all the time but now he's so straight to the point I feel proud of him but at the same time it hurts like hell because he's still soo sweet and not showing if he's upset nor anything I'm- Auch

a beat passed, and then her face lit up with a smile that could rival the sun. “so... does this mean i can call you daddy?”  

baekhyun laughed, his voice shaky but filled with relief. “only if you want to, bunny.”  

There's an eye in my tears.

So, dear Lisa...

Is it necessary to say that I loved it? Never feel scared about the fact that it will take longer and be longer and different from your usual writing. This is soooooo good really I wanna print it 😭😭

The angst, but they meet quick so it's not dull; reconciliation, but it is quite balanced so it's not forced or weird; the slow burn that is slow yeah but it's burninggggggggggggg AHHHHHHHHHHH

And then all about Chanyeol and the kids and I loved Minji with all of my heart and I'm still surprised about what I told you like- wow. Not that it's a unsual name but the coincidence!!!!!!!

You're one of my fave writers and now I just love you a a (big huge enormous) bit more 🩷

Lisa, you did amazing!

[phoebehalliwell]

I was going through your dark future tag (obsessed!!!!) and I was wondering what your vision is for Tamora being on Wyatt's side? I'm really curious! <3

yes okay so i'm realizing i don't think i've ever talked about this! so basically in the light timeline tamora mainly has her two defining traits in that she is a bit of a scaredy cat (especially in regards to her own powers) and she is a dreamer (but she really doesn't let herself dream, like, ever. literally haha now that i think of it at the point in TWW that we're in she's basically downing potion for a dreamless sleep like every night. but i think this is best exemplified by her being a business/econ major while kat is off on a gap year bc kat like i want to find myself and explore new things and tamora, while she has these dreams, simply doesn't find it realistic. that's why she picked such a practical major, something you could definitely get a job with, because - and this is also rooted in her anxiety - she doesn't want tot go out on a limb have it break underneath her and have it all come crashing to the ground. if you asked her "what is your dream major" or "what is your dream job" i don't know if she'd have an answer. like, there definitely is an answer and it's definitely not "business major" but she is kind of so severed / embarrassed by that dreamer part of herself that she doesn't know what the answer is.)

so anyway. a major difference we find in the dark future would a) be it's dark as hell in here lol. you know wyatt's kind of crazy and magic isn't doing well and the charmed ones are all in pretty bad emotional places. and then b) tamora and kat were raised with their powers. in canon as defined in the comics which i did elect to continue in my writings, the twins powers were bound bc tamora like lit the nursery on fire. because, even as a baby, she packed a punch, and those powers were dangerous, and this grants them the ability to live a normal life. however, in the dark future, okay, they were maybe bound for a couple years til the girls were like 5ish bc by then they can kind of comprehend stuff and things and then Also it's obvious they're not getting a normal life. so you might as well start training them bc there is a darkness brewing on the horizon.

so this is where we circle back to Tamora, Anxiety, & Dreams. TAD, if you will. she is still scared, and she is afraid of her powers and herself and the world and you know what her family lowkey isn't helping because they're basically saying yeah there's a lot to be scared of. so probably around a middle school age for her, she meets her cousin. her cousin everyone's warned her about. and she knows she should fight him but she can't bc quite frankly she is frazzled and scared and lord knows powers don't work super well when you're in that headspace. but wyatt is actually super nice, and he protects tamora, and he watches out for her. maybe he saved her from some school bullies or demons in a way where he did most of the damage but lets tamora commit the final blow (probably demons it would be excessive to kill middle school bullies but like. i mean not improbable? if we wanted to get really dark with it we could say it was actually some older person attempting to sexually assault tamora at age 12 or whatever and she does kill that person. i just think that that's um. very heavy and needs to be done with respect i kind of hate when media sprinkles in assault against women but never fully understands the ramifications that continue throughout life when that shit happens to you. like we could go with that it would be interesting i would just really want to put proper emphasis and more research towards that trauma. if we wanted to go a little lighter it could be because magic is already relatively exposed by this point? a witch hunter trying to kill tamora). Point Is. tamora does it. she (probably) kills that guy, using her power, with wyatt's guidance. and just for a moment, it's a taste of what she dreams of -- a world where she's not the one who's scared, she's the one who's powerful, she's the one who's in control

so i think that is was ultimately pulls her to wyatt's side, this promise of being someone who is not scared but who is fierce, who is confident, who is in control. and it feels good. it feels so good to be powerful and to be feared and not be such a shrinking violet not be the awkward kid who feels like she doesn't fit in but to take the knife and carve out the place yourself. this, obvi, fucks up her relationship to kat. the twin telepathy thing is definitely complicated and not great to have when you're on opposite sides of a war. i honestly wouldn't be surprised if kat tried to psychically argue tam back to their side and tam in fury did try to kill kat. and the thing with the twin telepathy (as i have established it) is when your brain chemistry is altered, you can't reach each other. this happens when one is over caffeinated, drunk, high, under the affects of a potion, etc. if it's modified in the same way (e.g. both took the same potion) then they can still communicate but maybe it's a little hazier. if someone is to say go on antidepressants or something, their brain chemistry is being altered, so they wouldn't be able to communicate. however, the way it works is they are always kind of spiritually reaching out to find each other, so, assuming they were to stay on the same dose and meds and keep this as their new "base chemistry", within a couple months the connection would reinstate itself.

This Is Why tamora, (who, on wyatt's side, renames herself paloma halliwell, taking both a "p" name and the established magical last name of the family (mitchell is not a respected magical last name, hell neither is matthews. but halliwell has been around for generations, so she takes it, separating herself from her mother's legacy and aligning herself with wyatt's concept of the warren line being the ultimate power)) is always taking some kind of potion or pill. she'll usually switch it up about every month of so, to keep her mind augmented and sealed off from kat. actually, on the rebellion side, i think whenever they have a psychic or anything of that nature, they do try to replicate whatever tam is on in order to gain access to her mind and maybe what the dark side is up to

[sanders1665]

Quiet Rules I Live By.

I don’t care for your titles, your affiliations, your place in the grand taxonomy of belief. Those are constructs—flags we plant to feel safe, to feel known. What matters to me is something quieter, more human: how you behave in the in-between moments, the spaces where no one is applauding, where nothing is expected. That’s where your essence lives. If you move through this world with grace and decency toward others, then we already understand something important about each other.

We’re all just flickers in the vastness—temporary gatherings of atoms given names and memories. Whatever truths we claim are filtered through our particular senses, our personal wounds, our cultural myths. I’ve got mine, you’ve got yours. Truth, as we experience it, is always partial—angled like light through stained glass. But behavior? Kindness? That’s real. That’s observable.

I suppose I’m a dreamer, or maybe just someone still asking the big questions. What are we doing here? Why is anything here at all? I don’t have answers, but I’ve noticed that those who chase power, certainty, or control rarely have peace. I don’t want to conquer this life—I want to understand it, even if that understanding always slips just out of reach.

So I’ve made a few rules for myself. I don’t lie to manipulate. I don’t cheat people out of trust or time. I don’t steal—not just objects, but dignity, credit, truth. I don’t betray those who show me loyalty. These aren’t laws handed down from on high; they’re decisions I’ve made in the quiet of my own becoming. Break them with me, and I won’t retaliate—I’ll just disappear. Not out of anger, but from a sense of self-preservation. My time is finite. My energy, limited. I will not invest it in dishonesty.

We are, all of us, passing through. One moment laughing with someone we love, the next gone without warning. How absurd, and how sacred. This fragile condition of being. We argue over meaning while orbiting a star that doesn’t know we exist. And yet—we feel. We create. We reach out across the void.

In my corner of the world, people are a wild mosaic. Loud, quiet, strange, kind, wounded. I get along with most of them, because I’m curious about them. Beneath the noise, every one of us carries a secret constellation—our joys, regrets, absurd dreams, late-night doubts. I find that beautiful. Not in some romanticized way, but in a raw, honest, soul-level way.

So if I meet you, I’ll pay attention. I’ll listen for the contradictions, the awkward pauses, the things you don’t say. I’ll laugh at the absurdities and, when the time is right, maybe share some of mine.

This life is strange. Mysterious. Infinitely complex and terrifyingly short. I’m not here to win anything. I’m here to witness, to feel deeply, to seek out the kind of connections that make this improbable journey worth it.

If you’re the same—if you carry questions heavier than answers—then we’ll probably understand each other just fine.

[blackvahana]

Lines of code are abstract. Lines of suggestion less so, arbitrary natures unwound and unfolded to be folded again, reality as a system not of matrices but folding furniture, easy to collapse under the stress equivalent to weight. Dots in themselves are actually Void.

Substance is lines drawn between nothing, pathways between unreachable destinations. That is to say that the sleeping god poses a question and so long as that remains unanswered it remains asleep, so long as it is asleep the question remains unanswered. It is a logical improbability, not impossible, but teetering the line between 0 and something that is more sure and more stable than a whole number. There are only whole numbers in reality; true numbers are to whole numbers what whole numbers are to wavering guestimated decimels.

Portions, if you could call it that, of absolute nothingness are true information. Spheres of nothing, gateways, marked by lines. Lines are the true nothing, arbitrary and only existent in a dreamt world. They are the dream, to which 0 is the dreamer. Isolation, repetition, repeat.

True information is Void. True information is absorbed by the sleeping god, true information is Void. It is removed from reality by right of it being incompatible with our reality, the sleeping god is vacuous and void of all intelligence as we know it since all information in our reality is pregnant dreaming, falsity, manifestations and simulations of true information.

The nature of the Gateway is thus: navigation through true information. There is a truth, there is a Sun, a central black hole around which somethingness is sustained.