#future point

[bixels]

As gen-AI becomes more normalized (Chappell Roan encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use gen-AI because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by tech companies. I draw not because I want a drawing but because I love the process of drawing. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

[lemongogo]

dont forget what happened to icarus

[pvtpunsart]

last smash bros screen!! he did it!!!

"Hah-hahaha!! VICTORIOUS BLUSTER!"

[futurepointindia-blog]

The Cosmic Calendar: Unraveling the Panchang's Astrological Wisdom

In the intricate tapestry of Vedic astrology, the panchang stands as a cornerstone of temporal and celestial knowledge. Far more than a mere calendar, this ancient tool serves as a cosmic roadmap, guiding practitioners through the complex interplay of time, space, and planetary influences.

The term "panchang" itself offers insight into its nature, derived from two Sanskrit words: "pancha" meaning five, and "anga" meaning limb or component. These five essential elements—tithi (lunar day), vara (day of the week), nakshatra (lunar mansion), yoga (auspicious period), and karana (half of a tithi)—form the backbone of this astrological almanac.

What sets the panchang apart from other calendrical systems is its dynamic nature. Unlike the static Gregorian calendar, the panchang breathes with the rhythm of the cosmos, adjusting its calculations based on the ever-changing positions of celestial bodies. This fluidity allows for a more nuanced understanding of auspicious times and potential challenges.

Astrologers and spiritual practitioners consult the panchang for a myriad of purposes. From determining the optimal moment to begin a new venture to selecting auspicious wedding dates, its influence permeates many aspects of daily life in cultures where Vedic astrology holds sway. Even in the modern era, many businesses and politicians in India consult the panchang before making important decisions.

One fascinating aspect of the panchang is its role in maintaining harmony between solar and lunar cycles. The ingenious system of intercalary months (adhik maas) ensures that festivals and important dates remain aligned with their intended seasons, bridging the gap between cosmic time and earthly experience.

The panchang also serves as a repository of ancient wisdom, often including information on eclipses, planetary transits, and even weather predictions based on stellar configurations. This multifaceted nature makes it not just an astrological tool, but a cultural touchstone that preserves knowledge across generations.

As we navigate an increasingly digital world, the panchang has adapted. Mobile apps and websites now offer instant access to this cosmic calendar, allowing users to carry centuries of astrological insight in their pockets. Yet, the core principles remain unchanged, a testament to the enduring relevance of this ancient system.

The panchang reminds us that, in the grand cosmic dance, every moment carries its own unique energy and potential. By attuning ourselves to these celestial rhythms, proponents believe we can live in greater harmony with the universe itself.

Free Panchang: https://www.futurepointindia.com/panchang

[sinkfood]

did you know there aren't any god-like powers of indigestion

[technically-human]

You've got so much to learn

[mangozic]

michael distortion what a goofy guy

[phaoi]

may i introduce..

THE phRATS

[zeropro]

[Click here to view all my Transformers stuff in the order in which I posted it, so you can experience me slowly lose my mind in chronological order.]

[iasandeep]

Get your dainik rashifal which includes the area of your love, business, career, marriage, and so on. Find out what the planets have predicted for your week.

[lurking-loaf]

It's essential to teach them color theory when they're young so they understand how to mix colors. How else will you get art that's good enough for the fridge?

Day 6 of DCA Promptober - hues plus bonus animation of Sun imitating the Mac's wait cursor aka the Spinning Beach Ball of Doom

[futurepointindia-blog]

Free Gemstone Reports: A New Trend in Astrological Guidance

In the ever-evolving world of astrology, a new trend is gaining traction: free gemstone reports. These personalized assessments aim to guide individuals toward the most beneficial gemstones based on their astrological profile.

Traditionally, gemstone recommendations in astrology were often costly and required in-person consultations. However, with the rise of digital platforms, many astrologers and websites now offer complimentary gemstone analyses.

These reports typically consider factors such as:

Proponents argue that these free reports democratize access to astrological insights, allowing more people to explore the potential benefits of gemstones in their lives. Skeptics, however, caution that generalized online reports may lack the nuance of personalized, expert consultations.

As with any astrological practice, it's important to approach free gemstone reports with an open but discerning mind. While they can offer interesting insights, they should not replace professional medical or psychological advice.

Get Your Free Gemstone Report: https://www.futurepointindia.com/gemstone-report.aspx

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

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

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[lilislegacy]

percy, walking in the door: what smells so good?

annabeth, beaming: i made you every type of blue dessert that i could think of!

percy: oh yeah? what’s the occasion? oh crap, did i forget an anniversary?

annabeth: can’t a wife just bake for her husband?

percy, staring at her:

annabeth, staring at him:

percy, firmly: wise girl, we are not having another baby.

annabeth, frustrated: oh come on percy! why not?

percy: we’ve talked about this. we agreed to be done years ago. we have three, and they’ve destroyed half of our belongings! i mean, sure it would be fun, and i love babies and having kids with you, but we can’t just—

annabeth: if you agree to another baby, i’ll agree to another dog.

percy:

annabeth:

percy: are you bribing me into having a child?

annabeth: of course not! …why? is it working?

percy: of course not! but… keep talking.

annabeth: we can get a brand new little puppy. and you can choose both the breed and the name. maybe you can finally get that shepherd mix you’ve always wanted.

percy, rubbing his beard and thinking:

percy: you know, i’ve heard the transition from 3 to 4 kids is super easy. the little one would probably just fit right in.

annabeth: exactly. and since we’re so busy, my pregnancy will fly by. and the labor will be super fast since it’s my 4th. it’ll all happen in the blink of an eye. we’ll hardly even notice.

percy: true. then the baby and the puppy can just entertain each other.

annabeth: they’ll practically cancel each other out. and this way we’ll have an even number of kids.

percy, pointing at her: good for roller roasters.

annabeth, pointing at him: and family game nights.

[gascreates]

a new star

[lucabyte]

monologue