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stonedcoldfoxtarot · 1 year

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How you will step into your rich bitch era + advice

Pile 1 -> Pile 2 -> Pile 3

Pile 1:

3oS, 9oP, World, 5oW, Empress (AoW)

I see that some of you may have recently experienced a setback in your career or personal life that was mostly outside of your control. For many of you, this may have been in the form of an unexpected job loss or an expensive and contentious divorce or separation. However, I see this situation as a blessing in disguise because whatever you lost had already outgrown its usefulness in your life. For many of you, this misfortune has already led to an unexpected material gain and an increased feeling of self-confidence in your ability to stand on your own two feet. If not, I see this set back being short lived, as you are now well on your way to stepping into your winning season.

Deep down you know the world is yours, and from here on out I see you will be working to achieve a level of self-mastery that allows you to realize all of your goals. Some of you may decide to work in the field of Project Management or Marketing and PR, while others of you may be interested in careers that involve lots of international travel or relocating to a different country. I see that whatever path you choose Pile 1, you have the determination and fortitude to take on the competition and still come out on top.

For a few of you, I feel you could also be fighting with yourself or feeling divided about which direction to take next. You have a lot of different skills that could take you in completely opposite directions and you might be struggling to focus on or pick just one option. However, I see that once you figure out which path to choose you will move forward with determination until you reach a life that resembles the one you’ve always dreamed of. Whatever you decide to do, keep moving forward Pile 1 because it only gets better from here!

Advice: 9oP

Always remember that you have full control over your financial abundance and success. Start cultivating your dream life by building upon the work you have already done and you will be amazed at how quickly things begin to fall into place. If you’ve felt compelled to pursue a career that provides you with the freedom to set your own schedule, you are being advised to explore other options outside of a traditional 9 to 5.

Pile 2

AoW, Empress rev, Chariot, 10oP, Magician (9oP)

If you're not already self-employed, I see that many of you have a lot of creative ideas in your mind that are just waiting to be acted upon or brought to life. For some of you, I see that in the past you may have experienced periods of stagnation in your career which of course left you feeling frustrated and angry or even depressed. At some point, you may have felt rejected in your previous efforts or that others did not recognize all that you really have to offer. If that resonates, I see you are now focused on balancing your emotions surrounding past failures and regaining control over your circumstances as you dust yourself off and try your luck again. Pile 2, many of you are incredibly talented and hard working. I’m hearing that all that is needed to step into your rich bitch era is for you to confidently move forward towards the direction of your dreams, knowing that what is meant for you is already yours.

In fact, pile 2, once you find your niche or begin to put in work towards a new project or idea, I see you quickly becoming unstoppable! Many of you are visionaries and forward thinkers, possessing the strength and vitality necessary to bring your creative ideas or business ventures to fruition in a way that most others cannot. You have a natural talent for thinking outside the box, and this is what makes you so powerful. Regardless of any losses you may have faced in the past, you have all the resources and strength needed to pursue whatever you desire in this lifetime. For many of you, I see that success and abundance are right around the corner, if it’s not already here now. And if you are not self-employed or an independent contractor, I see that you will find success as an entrepreneur once you combine your creative ideas with your knack for selling, investing or bringing in money from multiple sources. I see that some of you may end up retiring early and living off of several streams of passive income or interest & residuals. Pile 2, your life has the potential to be the embodiment of the phrase “work smarter, not harder.”

Advice: Justice

Pile 2, if you have been feeling lost, confused or unbalanced in your career, you are being advised to seek out ways to bring fairness, clear-thinking and balance back into your life. Some of you may be a Libra sun, moon or rising, as represented by The Justice card, or you may feel naturally drawn towards a job or career in the legal field. Those of you who resonate with this card are powerful decision-makers who have reached perfect equilibrium between the intuitive and the intellectual mind. To step into your abundant era, focus on restoring balance in your life, especially emotional balance, so that you can allow the laws of karma to begin working in your favor once again.

Pile 3

10oP, 5oC, 9oC, 8oS, Magician (High Priestess)

Pile 3, I see that many of you have achieved financial abundance and prosperity in the past, but you may have also recently experienced financial losses or setbacks which have effected you quite deeply. Some of you may have been let go from a large company or corporation, or you feel stuck in a dead end job, trying to make ends meet as your costs rise and your savings continue to dwindle. Despite this, I see you haven’t lost hope for a new beginning, as you still really desire to live a life full of abundance and financial freedom like you did once before.

Pile 3, I see here that some of you are not recognizing your own power or that you give it away easily to those who may not have your best interest at heart. There could also be an issue with you simply wishing for things to get better instead of taking action to go after what it is you truly want. I feel this could be due to a fear of failure or of making a decision and being stuck with it. I also feel that some of you may feel stuck or trapped due to internal or external pressures, some of which might stem from your past, your childhood or the unealistic expectations set upon you by others.

However, I see that as you begin to harness the power of your mind to plan, direct and create your ideal life, things will slowly but surely begin to turn around for you. Many of you may be blessed with the ability to easily manifest your desires. Pile 3, your minds are incredibly powerful! In fact, you may be the type who has to stay mindful of your thoughts and words, as you have the power to easily speak things into existence. If you can see it in your mind’s eye, you can achieve it. (I’m hearing the lyrics to I Believe I Can Fly by R. K*lly, so maybe that song might resonate with some of you). The Magician is attributed to Mercury, and deals with communication, intellect and action, so some of you may find you are naturally drawn to careers that allow you to express your thoughts on paper or speak directly with others. You may be great at giving speeches or lectures, writing manuals and SOPs or anything that requires being good at both effective communication and teaching or motivating others. Many will see your success and look up to you in this lifetime, Pile 3. Just remember, what it meant for you will ever ever pass you by. You just have to be willing to go out there and get it.

Advice: High Priestess

Remember that all success and failure begins in the mind. You can manifest your conscious desires by harnessing the power of telepathy, clairvoyance, and intuitive communication to receive insight into your current situation. Here you are being advised to utilize your conscious mind to bring your creative ambitions to life and tap into your intuitive side to receive the answers you’re looking for, instead of manifesting from a place of fear or uncertainty.

Thanks for reading🔮✨

#pac reading #pick a card #pick a picture #pick a pile #intuitive readings #tarot #tarot reading #pac #stonedcoldfoxtarot

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tarotwithavi · 1 year

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Random things about your 2023 . Short reading

Masterlist ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ paid reading

✧༺♥༻✧

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

1 2 3

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 1

Hello pile 1 , I'm seeing that you're very closed off to new opportunities right now and might be addicted or obsessed with something that isn't good for you and life will make you get rid of your toxic habits by a tower moment in your life. You just have some toxic cycles going repeating constantly in your life and it is going to change in the year 2023 .

Pile 1 , I see you getting your spiritual awakening in the year 2023 . This is going to be a tough cycle for you but remember it's for the best of you. I see that sometimes you might feel like doing nothing and just letting things flow on their own pace.

You have a weird way of looking at people, I'm sorry but weird is not the right word for it but it's just that you see people as something you should stay away from and you see World as a dangerous place. And that's why you mostly stay indoors. That perspective of you is good to change soon after you have your awakening.

I get that you might suffer from seasonal depression and it might be in the months of may - june. These two months are going to be life changing for you. Something great with happen in these two months that'll make you love life again.

I don't know if you know about Krishna consciousness, but it's a great thing. I've heard that it works wonders for people and changes their life for the best.

If you're thinking of travelling abroad I see you travelling in different countries.

You might get financial help from someone or you're going to help someone financially.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 2

Alright pile 2 , 2023 is going to be your rich bitch era. Like money is going to be attracted to you. If you're family is having some financial problems they are going to be solved.

I see you connecting more with a female figure in your family. It could be your mother, grandmother , sister or even your best friend.

If are manifesting something right now , I see all of your manifestations coming true in the year 2023 .

If your into LGBTQ community I see coming out to your family and your family accepting you the way your are. This message is specifically for my lesbians, you're going to get a girlfriend.

My artists are going to get a lot of recognition for their artwork! And I see a lot of you getting in tune with your inner child.

If you live away from your family , I see you reuniting with them. And going out for a picnic with them. This year is very positive for this pile! It's so sweet!

A lot of you are going to meet your twinflame / soul mate soon. You'll most likely meet them through family or friends. I'm seeing a celebration, so you can meet them in a party, wedding etc.

I see you finding your soul purpose and destiny. I don't know it just came into my mind. I am seeing a boat reaching the coast idk take how it resonates.

If you've been manifesting your other half, I see you meeting your counterpart. A lot of you are going to experience true love.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Pile 3

Pile 3 I feel like you're not listening to your intuition and that might get you in a toxic Situationship. If your get odd feelings from someone like goosebumps , odd feeling in your guts stay away form that person. They're not good for you.

Alright so what I sense is that you might encounter a fake tarot reader or a scammer so stay alert. If someone tells you to do spells on your own , never do it. Because spells are very powerful and they can backfire.

Though it's okay if you do beauty rituals like having aura cleansing bath, a simple beauty spell . But love spells can back fire very easily. And never I mean NEVER involve yourself in black magic.

I see getting a lot of proposals from men who want to court you. Choose Carefully because one of them might be a obsessive lover.

If don't have good relations with your father, you might need to cut your relations with him. More like I see that your father is too controlling and you decide to go against him which will result in some arguments.

I See you reuniting with your old friends.

I see you getting victory and recognition for your work. But remember not to be over prideful ( lol is that even a word? )

If you're pregnant I see you giving birth to a healthy baby boy. And if you're thinking of having a baby I see you conceiving. '

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

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thisismeracing · 6 months

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MICK DATING A K-POP IDOL | MS47

― Warnings: mentions of family members; not proofread. ― A/n: Just a quick reminder that there are many shades, experiences, and backgrounds when it comes to Asian people and their culture, what I am writing does not resume everything, but rather brings a piece of it to the table. <;3 ― Based on this requested here

✷ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ✷ you can support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment(don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee

Everyone always took Mick as the country music type of guy, so when he started liking things about K-pop and added a few music from the genre to his official F1 playlist fans started to suspect something was up;

And as it happens, it was because a few weeks later you were walking on the paddock and getting to the Mercedes garage. Getting to Mick;

Your relationship was quick to become public, and Mick would attend concerts whenever he could;

It took him some time to get used to how famous you were. And how you would be giving him gits regularly, but everything you gave was always so thoughtful, especially when he got a song for his birthday - a whole song about how much he was your sunshine boy;

He loved watching your choreographies and would totally ask you to show them to him whenever you're home together.

You guys would share a bunch of stuff about your cultures. Constantly traveling between Asia and Europe between the holidays;

Mick was also the first boyfriend your fandom actively shipped. He would be all flush and happy about it, especially when he attended concerts, and some fans asked him for pics too;

He would put your songs to play in the garage, no questions asked;

Not only would Mick love watching you dance, but he would also try to learn some moves himself;

Would love it whenever you sang at home. Like truly love it;

The proudest boyfriend;

Would wear your merch around like one wears a wedding ring and proudly shows the world;

Mick would get into other K-pop groups too, and you would love to see him immerse in the culture;

Truly the sweetest and most comprehensive boyfriend you could've asked for.

― ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi, besties! I hope you guys like this piece! I don't know much about K-pop, so if anything is inaccurate or something please just let me know!🤍 make sure to let me know your thoughts by reblogging and leaving me an ask!

Side note: Thank you for the request, nonny! It's been a beat since I last heard K-pop music, and I did while writing this piece - it was so much fun!! <3

taglist: @sachaa-ff @ferrariloverr @mickslover @mishaandthebrits @iloveyou3000morgan @crimeshowjunkie @fdl305 @saintslewis @carojasmin2204 @chaoticevilbakugo @wondergirl101ks @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota @lunnnix @karmabyfernando @crashingwavesofeuphoria @schumacheer @leclercsluv @v1naco @callsign-scully @heelariously @dearxcherry @elliegrey2803 @he6rtshaker @peachiicherries @therealcap @mehrmonga @cixrosie @thatgibbsygirl @the-depressed-fellow @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart @nichmeddar @fastcarsandshit @goldenalbon @balekanemohafe @jamie2305 @skepvids @scopeiguess @nzygftoji @princewis @bbreezybitch @graciewrote

✷ check here my main masterlist | patreon guide my taglist if you wanna be tagged on my pieces

©thisismeracing ― Do not copy, steal, or translate my work. Do not repost on a different media platform.

#singer!reader #kpop idol!reader #ms47 #mick schumacher #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #mick schumacher headcanon #f1 fandom #mick schumacher x reader #f1 x asian!reader #asian!reader #op: headcanons #f1 x you #f1 fic #formula one imagine

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afictionaladventure16 · 1 year

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Heyyy!!! I absolutely loved your latest work “Taking it All In” I haven’t stopped crying since I read it. I was wondering if you could write something about the depression that the reader has in the story. Something along the lines where reader has been skipping school for some time due to depression and she hasn’t told Pedro about it. He finds out cuz eventually the school calls him and tells him whats going on with your absences and your bad grades. You two get into a fight about it because you refuse to tell him what’s going on as to not worry your dad. After days of not talking, cold shoulders and staying in your room/bed as much as possible Pedro finally cracks and tries to talk to you again. You’re in laying on your bed not wanting to move while Pedro is talking to you and he notices small cuts on your arm that your trying to hide, way to linear to be from your cat, and he finally puts the pieces together.

Taking It All In Pt. II (Pedro Pascal x Daughter!Reader)

Pt. 1

Word Count: 4.3 k

Warnings: Descriptions of Self-harm, mentions of depression, suicide, and some slight hinting of eating disorders.

A/N: Thank you! You're so sweet! I hope you like this part two of Taking it All in!! Also, thank you for the details in your requests! It helps to plan what to write!

It’s been months after that hike with your father. You had gotten help, but it only helped so much. You had this fear that if you told your therapist your actual thoughts, you’d end up somewhere where grippy socks were mandatory.

It didn’t help that you found your mother, you hadn’t told your father, but you searched and searched the internet until you found her. The woman who was so afraid of loving you, afraid of having a life with your dad, she was alive and well.

She was happy too. You would think it would make you feel happy to hear that she was happy, to see the photos of her and her family, her two kids and husband. But all it did was take you to a dark place. The images of her at her sons' soccer game, or her at her daughters' recital. It should be you in those photos with her.

This whole time you thought your mother was most likely dead or if she were alive, she was alone in some other country probably traveling. You didn’t ever imagine that she could have started another life. You hadn’t brought it up to your therapist, mostly because they’ve been trying to help you cope with other issues in your life. It was mostly how you felt about constantly having to travel from place to place or not having your father around as much, it meant a lot of journaling. Plus, if you told your therapist, it meant telling your father and you didn’t know how he’d react or if he already knew.

What if he already knew. You hadn’t thought of that, it was another scenario that could happen, another scenario you don’t know if you can handle.

You heard the front door open and then close, “I’m home!” You heard your dad call out.

You sighed to yourself, you had ditched another day of school, but luckily for you your dad left for meetings before you even got up. Meaning that it was easy to ditch. In fact, you hadn’t gone to school at all the past week.

Pedro was met with silence, he shrugged, “probably studying,” he muttered to himself. He made his way over to the kitchen to get dinner started. He wasn’t the best cook in the world, but he knew a thing or two.

You made your way down the hall, “There she is!” Pedro said as he heard your footsteps get closer, “Hey, I was thinking, how does spaghetti sound tonight?” You walked over to the fridge, grabbing the bottle of apple juice.

“Sure,” you said with a shrug. You poured yourself a cup of apple juice, putting away the bottle right after.

“Long day at school?” You gave him a nod. “Alright, well, go ahead and rest. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.” You felt horrible for lying to him. He had thought everything was getting better and that you were beginning to feel happier, but it was all just a lie. It was a mask.

** mentions of self-harm begin here **

You walked back to your bedroom, closing the door behind you. You felt tears begin to well up in your eyes. The lying, the feeling of abandonment, everything, it just felt like it was all tumbling down. You pulled up your sleeves, revealing the linear cuts that you had done to yourself. It started off with something small, hitting your hands against something when you were mad, but the pain felt kind of nice.

Not kind of, it did feel nice. It took away the pain of everything in your mind for a moment and you liked it. You liked your mind being peaceful for just a moment. But those moments only lasted a few seconds and you needed something that would last longer. You had saw some girls with some cuts on their wrists at school, it wasn’t till one day you aksed one of the girls what they were while you both were in the bathroom. The girl seemed a bit embarrassed but you were genuinely curious. She explained what they were, but she didn’t explain it further.

For weeks you couldn’t help but think about it, but the thought of hurting yourself in that way seemed scary. What if you went too deep or if you got caught? But a week ago, when your dad had to work late, you felt yourself drowning in your thoughts. Hitting yourself against your bedframe wasn’t working. That was the night you first self-harmed, you felt lucky that the weather was getting cold again so hiding your scars was easy.

Your dad played some music while he began to boil the pasta. Your cat watched from the other side of the counter, he knew his boundaries and Pedro seemed to like the company. Pedro began to slowly dance to the rhythm of the song playing until it was cut off by the sound of ringtone, “That’s not part of the song,” he grumbled as he grabbed his phone.

The number looked familiar, he hesitated on answering, “Could be important or a scam,” he muttered. He shrugged to himself before answering the phone, “hello?”

“Hi! This is Linda from the JFK High School, may I speak to Y/N Pascal’s father?”

“This is he speaking,” Pedro responded. He had no clue why your school would be calling.

“Hi, Mr. Pascal! We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past few days, it wasn’t until we looked through our files that we realized we had an old phone number.”

“Ah, yes, I changed my number. Probably should’ve updated you guys on that,” is that it? He thought.

“It’s quite alright, but the real reason why we’ve been trying to get ahold you is because we’ve noticed that Y/N hasn’t been attending her classes for the past week.”

Pedro stopped what he was doing, placing the wooden spoon he had in his hand down on the counter, “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken.”

“I’m afraid not. Her teachers are beginning to worry now that her grades have been slipping and she hasn’t been showing up. We were wondering if maybe the family went on vacation and someone forgot to notify the school?”

“N-No, we’re not on vacation,” Pedro looked towards the hall.

“Well, is there any reason why she hasn’t been in school?”

“I-I don’t know, I thought she had been going to clases this whole time.”

“Will she be there on Monday?”

“She’ll be there Monday,” he stated.

“It is my obligation to let you know that if the student doesn’t show up for school for another full week that the school will revoke certain privileges for Y/N.” Pedro knew the consequences of you missing school, it could also mean jail time on his case.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this. Thank you, Linda.”

“Of course,” Linda said before hanging up.

Pedro placed his phone back on the counter, he then shut off the burners on the stove. “What do I do, gatito?” he asked as he leaned against the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew what he had to do, he just didn’t know what to say or ask even. He let out a deep sigh before making his way down the hall.

He knocked on your door, “Mija, puedo entrar?” (Can I enter?)

You opened the door, “dinner is ready already?” you asked with a confused expression on your face.

Pedro felt his heart break, there you stood, his little girl, in front of him. He never expect you to miss school and not tell him, it only meant one thing. You were lying to him about everything. “No,” he said softly. He was trying so hard to remain calm, but there was a part of him that wanted to yell and ask why the hell you werent going to schoo. Then there was that nurturing side of him that just wanted to ask you why you weren’t going to school. Both had the same question, just a different way of approaching it. “Can I come in?”

You shrugged, stepping aside to let him in. You watched as he sat on the edge of your bed, “I’m gonna ask you something and I want you to be one hundred percent truthful with me, okay?” He asked

You chuckled slightly, expecting some dumb question, “okay.”

“Mija, no estoy bromeando horita, necesito que me escuches.” (I’m not joking right now, I need you to listen).

Oh fuck, he knows, you thought. You gave him a nod, “did you miss school this past week?” You nod again. Pedro took in a deep breath, “Why?”

You shrugged, “papi, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal!?” He yelled as he stood up. “Mija, do you know I can go to jail because you haven’t gone to school!? Do you have any idea how stupid that is? Que te estabas pensando, huh!?” (What were you thinking?)

You felt tears well up in your eyes, “I’m sorry! I just didn’t feel like going!”

“If you don’t feel like going then you tell me! How come you didn’t tell me?” You remained silent, Pedro let out a deep sigh, trying to calm down again. “What’s going on, Y/N??”

“Nothing,” you whispered.

“No me dices que nada esta pasando, por que tu no te comportas como asi. Tu eres mi hija, y yo queiro saber que esta pasando.” (Don’t tell me that nothing is happening because you don’t behave like this, You’re my daughter and I want to know what is going on.)

“Nada esta pasando!” You yelled, “Deja me en paz!” You walked out of your room. (Nothing is happening, leave me alone)

“Dejarte en paz?!” He followed you out. “What is going on with you?!”

“Would you just leave it alone? I didn’t go to school this week and I’m sorry, okay? I’ll go to school on monday, just leave it alone!”

“I’m not just gonna brush this off, this is serious, Y/N! Missing school for a week? You can’t just do that! So, what is going on?”

“Ugh! I don’t have to tell you every fucking thing okay?!” You yelled. You believe that this was probably the first time you ever yelled at your dad. The first time you had ever gotten in such a big argument. Didn’t mean that you two didn’t argue, you argued but it never led to a screaming match. Not like this.

Pedro stood there in disbelief, “Y/N M/N Pascal, I am your father and I demand to know what the hell is going on with you.”

You couldn’t tell him, you couldn’t just blurt out that you found your mother; but not only did you find her, you also found her new family. You couldn’t tell him that you felt replaceable, that even he was replaceable, at least to your mother. You just couldn’t. “Nothing is going on,” you said.

“You’re grounded,” he said in defeat.

“Fine,” you said as you began to make your way back to your room.

“For two months,” he added. “I’ll need your phone and your game consoles.”

You stopped in the middle of the hall. You were doing this for him, you wanted to keep his happiness even at the cost of your own, “Fine.” You walked into your room, slamming the door behind you.

“Slam the door and I’m taking your T.V.”

You groaned in annoyance, “Fuck you,” you spat. You had instantly regretted saying it. Pedro stood there for a second, in shock mostly. He felt the tears begin to well up in his eyes, he wasn’t going to take your T.V. as a matter of fact, he didn’t want to take any of it away. He partially said it in hopes that you’d crack and tell him what was going on.

He heard the cat meow at his feet, he looked down, “I think I’m loosing her, gatito,” he whispered before turning around and making his way down the hall and back to the kitchen.

Days went by, you didn’t speak to your dad all weekend. Spending most of your time in your bedroom, your mind was all over the place and you had self harmed some more. It felt like the more you did, the more you craved it or the more your mind raced, the more you felt the need to have that feeling.

You didn’t eat much either, for some reason you just couldn’t think about eating. Your stomach didn’t feel hungry either so you snacked on small things. When you came home from school on Monday, your dad was in the kitchen prepping for dinner. You walked past him, not saying a word. The tension was thick, someone could cut a knife through it.

Pedro didn’t say anything to you when you walked past him to grab something to drink, even though he wanted to say a million things. He had so much to talk to you about, so many exciting things, but he was stubborn and you were too.

When you didn’t come out for dinner, he left a plate at the foot of your door, knocking to let you know, just like he did for past two days and just like you did, you’d wait a few minutes before grabbing your plate. You would leave it on your desk, hoping that maybe you’d feel some sensation of hunger. Yet, just like the other full plates of food beside it, you’d never touch it.

“Just give her some time,” Javiera said into the phone. Pedro had called her Monday afternoon while he was out for a drive.

“How much time?” he asked, his voice strained from crying. He had called her up crying about twenty minutes ago, and like the big sister she was, she tried her best to console him through the phone.

“A few more days, she’ll crack soon enough,” she said hopeful. “You’re a good dad, Pedro.”

“I sure as hell don’t feel like it right now.”

“I know,” she began, “all parents feel that way one day or another.”

“I just… I wish I knew what happened you know? Why did she all of a sudden just become this totally different person?”

“Teenagers,” she expressed. “Don’t you remember how you were?”

“Don’t get me started,” he chuckled.

“You were the worst!” Pedro knew she was right. He had given his parents a hard time when he was a teenager. “It’ll get better, I promise.”

Tuesday comes and goes and so does Wednesday. By Wednesday night you ate some of your dinner, but you still couldn’t stomach to eat all of it. You only ate because of how dizzy you felt all day. Thursday comes and goes, you caved into your cravings more as each day passed, your arm was full of scars, it felt raw to the touch.

You cried yourself to sleep most nights. Friday night Pedro went to knock on your door, only to hear you crying. He knocked softly, but was only met with “Go away.” He felt so defeated, he wanted this silent treatment to be over with. He wanted his baby girl back and he wanted to help you with whatever you were going through. He knocked again, “Go away!” He shook his head, opening the door, you were laying in bed, your arms covering your face.

“Mija,” he said softly.

“Please, just go away!” you yelled.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it anymore,” he began to say, he noticed the uneaten food on your desk. His heart sunk, looking back over at you, taking in how you looked. He walked over to the desk, some of the food began to develop mold. He let out a shaky breath, walking over to the bed, “Baby girl,” he said. Pedro noticed that you weren’t wearing your usual long sleeve, for a while he was beginning to worry that you had begun to harm yourself because you were always wearing long sleeves.

It relieved him to see you in a short sleeve for once, he inched closer, you still hard your arms covering your face. You were too focused on what was on your mind to realize that your father was near you and that you weren’t wearing a long sleeve. Even if you had realized it, it would be too late.

Pedro spotted something red near your wrists, but your arms were in a position where he couldn’t see your whole wrists. Yet, the small amount he did see was enough to send him in a panic. Pedro was soft with his touch, he grabbed your hand gently, pulling it towards him so he could see your wrists.

You quickly pulled away your arm, holding it close to your chest as you sat up in the bed, “get out,” you said through clenched teeth.

“How long have you been doing that?” Your dad asks, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Get out!” you yelled.

“How long!?” tears fell from his eyes, he stood up from the bed. “How long, Y/N?” he asked again.

“Dad, I don’t want you to cry,” You said as you looked at the ground, “Just please get out.”

“No! I’m not gonna-” he inhaled, “you’re not shutting me out.”

“Please,” you begged as you looked up at him with tears in your eyes. You got up from the bed, walking over to the door and opening it. “Get out,” you begged.

He shook his head, “Why?” he cried, “Why would you do that to yourself?” You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off, “And don’t say it’s the cat, because that’s too many for the cat. It’s too clean. I thought you were getting better.”

You looked at your dad, you could see the pain you were trying avoid. The heartache you hated to see, “I’m not better,” you confessed. “I’ve never gotten better.”

“What?” He asked in disbelief.

“I didn’t get better, okay?” You said loudly, holding back the sob that was scratching at the walls of your throat, begging to be let out. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“You think I want to hear that my baby girl never got better?” You remained silent. He walked over to you, taking your had to look at the marks again. He sniffled, “My beautiful baby girl,” he sobbed, “why would you do this?”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. You let out a deep shaky breath, letting the sob take over you. “I couldn’t handle it anymore, it’s all too much, okay? It’s so loud in here,” you gestured towards your head.

Pedro couldn’t handle seeing you cry, he pulled you in, feeling you tightly wrap your arms around his body. “Why?” he kept asking.

“I was trying to protect you,” your dad let go of the embrace.

He placed his hands on your face, “Mija, I should be the one protecting you, Okay? Whatever it is that you’ve been holding in, I can handle it. You never have to worry about me.”

You wanted to spill everything, it was like the dam inside was breaking and this was just the little drop of water to break it. “I found her,” you confessed.

He looked at you with a confused expression, “who?”

“My mom,” you inhaled, “I found her,” you couldn’t help but chuckle. Pedro was in disbelief, she was alive, for the longest he just kind of accepted that she passed away.

“That’s what you were trying to protect me from?” He questioned.

You shook her head, “That’s not the best part,” you began. “You know what the best part is?” You began to walk back over to your bed. You let out a small sob, “The best part is that I also found out that we’re replaceable.” Pedro watched as you sat on your bed, it pained him to see you in such dismay. It also pained him to hear the news that your mother was alive, she was alive and had another family. “The woman we both thought was trying to protect us from herself, is out there with a family of her own-”

“Cariño,” your dad tried to interrupt.

“I have a brother and sister that I don’t even know! And she’s in these pictures laughing with them, she’s at birthday parties and soccer games,” you took in a shaky breathe.

“Y/N,” He took a couple steps towards you.

“That should be me, dad,” There was the drop of water to break the dam. “It should be us,” you sobbed. Pedro quickly pulled you into an embrace, letting you cry into his shoulder, “It should be us,” you sobbed.

“I know, Mija,” he whispered as tears fell from his eyes, “I know.” He let you cry it out for a few minutes, mostly because at that moment he didn’t know what to say exactly. How he should console you after finding out something no one should ever experience. His mind wandered, how could someone create another family when they left one behind? He thought if it were him, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He knew it would always be in the back of his mind that he had abandoned another family.

Did it wander in the back of her head? Or did she just not care?

Pedro felt so angry just thinking about it. He wanted to track her down and just yell into the void. She was the love of his life or so he thought. He had considered her the love of his life, hopeful that one day she’d realize what she left behind and come back. She wasn’t coming back, though and now he knew that. Now he had to console you and find a way to show her what she missed out on.

Pedro let go of the embrace, taking your face in his hands once again. His thumb gently wiped away the tears that were streaming down your face, he placed a soft kiss on your forehead before looking at you again. “We don’t need her,” he started to say.

“But-”

“I know, Mijita. It hurts,” you nod, “She has no idea what she’s missing out on, Mijita. Her kids have no idea what a horrible person she truly is as fucked up as that sounds, it’s true.” He gave you a smile through the tears, “The only thing that matters is that she gave me you, my beautiful baby girl. That’s all I know of her, she gave me you and she was nothing else.”

“You don’t regret being with her?”

Pedro could never regret it, “No, because then I wouldn’t have you. I can’t imagine my life without my little girl. I’m sorry you don’t have a mom in your life, but not every girl has multiple mom figures in their lives.” It was true, you had your tia and some of your dads close friends. Your dad let go of your face, he took a hold of your wrist. “But this,” he started to say, tears welled up in his eyes again, “Oh, baby girl,” he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” you cried.

“No, no, no,” he pulled you in for a quick embrace, before letting go, “we’re going to work on this together okay?” You nod, “I can help, we’ll make more appointments with your therapists, we’ll find healthy alternatives, and we’ll overcome this.” He choked back a sob, “but I never want to see you harming yourself again, please promise me that?” You remained silent.

You weren’t sure if you could promise it, mostly because you were addicted to the way it made you feel. “Prometeme, Y/N.” (Promise me)

“I-I’ll try,” you finally said. Pedro didn’t want to push it, if trying was what he could get, then it was enough for him. He could work with trying. Trying meant putting the effort and it meant to him that you still wanted to live.

“Trying is all I need,” he said. “I can’t lose you. Know that you have people that love you.”

You looked up at your dad in realization, you never realized how much it could impact your dad. How self harm was always correlated with darker actions. Darker actions that your father had a past with. This time, you pulled him into an embrace, “you won’t lose me,” you said. “I can promise you that.”

He let out a relieved sigh, “we’ll have to talk about the food on your desk too.”

“I’m sorry,” you began. “I just-”

“No, I know.” You didn’t have to say more, he knew what it was like. To be too much in your mind to even eat. He understood, “let’s get you something to eat, hmm?”

You nod, watching as he got up from the bed, “I love you, papi.”

“I love you too, Mija,” he gave you a small smile. You got up from the bed, following him into the kitchen. He ordered you your favorite take out, once the food had arrived you both took the food to the living room.

Pedro glanced over at your wrist from time to time, his heart sank every time, but he was going to get you better help. Over time, the cuts will heal and they’ll just be white little memories of the battles you’ve dealt with, but Pedro knew he never wanted you to feel like you’ve hit rock bottom. From here on out, he was going to try his hardest to make sure you were your healthiest, physically and mentally.

He placed a small kiss on your temple, “love you,” he said softly.

You gave him a smile, “Love you too, dad,” you said, focusing your attention back on the television. You both knew the journey from here on out wasn’t going to be easy, it wasn’t said aloud, but it was like a silent acknowledgment. But eventually, it’ll be okay because pain was just temporary.

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 5 months

Text

Persephone's Devotee (Hello, Mr. Monster AU, I)

Master List

Summary: In the age of Spiritualists and magicians, wyrds winds in different ways to link Dream of the Endless and Aisling Hunt. AU of Hello, Mr. Monster beginning in the 1920s. (Alternatively titled 'We All Hate Roderick Burgess')

Warnings: Implied child abuse/neglect, child left to travel solo, manipulating children for profit (non-sexual trafficking)

A/N: Your bird just got diagnosed with a life changing chronic condition (in addition to being put back on depression meds). We'll see how this post does. Have four chapters planned. The last scene is based on personal experiences with heat exhaustion/borderline heat stroke.

Dream’s tools brought many things to Fawney Rig. Wealth and prestige. Admiration, gifts, and influence. Nearly everything the magus wanted and only a fraction of what he thought he deserved. Roderick’s dreams of power and riches drew another tool to his hand, or perhaps Destiny drew the magus to her. The girl who saw strange things in the dark and found answers to strange riddles in her cards. But her wyrd would always draw her to old house and its shrouded dungeon, in any world or time. All because of what the Burgesses kept there.

In the eight years since the fateful evening he summoned and caught one of the Endless, Roderick had become a man much desired. He found himself with an invitation to Lord and Lady Werthrope’s party, a guest of honor at a soiree at their country estate. They promised a night of occult mysteries and foreign prizes. Bits of people and places from across the empire and beyond. Mummies from Egypt and fragments of Greek antiquities to gasp and shriek over with glasses of champagne and brandy.

Roderick carried himself as Lord Werthrope’s equal, and at least for that night, surrounded by ancient mysteries of all kinds, he was seen as such. He was an expert, a guide, someone to hold in reverence rather than an oddity to gawk over. He told them with his bearing, his dignity, and the ruby he wore on a golden chain around his neck. His wishes became dreams and so became real. He stood like a stronger god beside the broken figure of Apollo and scoffed at the mistranslations of texts he’d only ever read secondhand.

Beside the wonders kept under guard at home, what were these paltry things? He could have any of them he desired, and he’d already claimed better.

His sense of superiority carried him through the party’s early hours, moving from acrobats in elaborate costumes, to fire eaters, to ghost stories and flights of fancy spun by swindlers far below his consideration. He had an answer or alternative for everything. And then he met the girl.

She sat at a bare table with no long cloth to hide rolling ankles, clever fishing lines, or knocking accomplices. Only a candle and a deck of cards separated her from the guests, and she’d drawn quite a queue. Her feet didn’t even reach the floor, swinging idly between the legs of the chair as she read the cards of a distraught-looking dandy.

Taking his arm, Lady Werthrope said, “This one you really must see, Magus. She’s made quite the splash in New York and London.”

The Magus offered a tolerant smile. “And what is the trick? Does she blow out the candle? Bend spoons?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” The lady practically vibrated, eager to impress as she led them to the table, scattering the line. “She sees things, and she reads fortunes like no one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve had more than a few pet psychics in my time. This one’s a bit of a sad story.”

The magus clenched his jaw until the muscle in his cheek twitched. He could make whatever sob story the girl shilled much worse. Of all the frauds and liars who feigned knowledge of the occult, Roderick Burgess hated mediums and ghost whisperers the most. The tantalizing promise of connection with Randal – always waved in his face, always ultimately denied – it clawed open the rotting wound in his heart, and he let the poison drip back on any fools who tried his patience.

Let this one try to pull the wool over his eyes, and he’d unmask her in front of this glittering audience. She’d be a penniless sad story when he was through.

“Those people,” the lady said, nodding to a couple flanking the child, “are just the adoptive parents. Saw her family murdered, poor thing. They say that’s what cracked her open to the other world.”

“Do they indeed.” He kept his smile, showing his teeth as his grip flexed over the cane in his free hand. “Then I look forward to her performance.”

The Magus and the lady sat across from the faux family, and the girl looked at them. The people who weren’t her parents did not manage her well, Burgess couldn’t help noting. They’d painted her up with rogue and kohl that made her look even more like a child playing grownup games, and the feather in her headband hung limp and lifeless. She barely managed to grimace through a smile, and she spoke with all the enthusiasm of a student reporting on Ovid to the class.

“What are you asking?” A child’s voice really shouldn’t be so dull. Now that he was nearer, the Magus couldn’t help wondering if she was even younger than he’d first assumed. Not even ten, he thought, and already so exhausted.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He kept his guard, but curiosity stirred beneath. She was no great performer.

Lady Werthrope leaned forward, eager to take the first reading as the girl shuffled her cards. They were nearly too big for her to manage, but in this at least she clearly had much practice. Her handling of the tarot was the most natural element of her demeanor he’d yet to see.

The lady talked about her dog Moxy, a cocker spaniel much loved and terribly spoiled. It was getting on in years, and, well, ought she prepare for anything dreadful? Only, her friend had just lost her terrier, and she couldn’t chase it from her thoughts…

The cards appeared on the table. One by one. The Six of Cups. The Two of Swords. And, lastly, the Nine of Swords reversed.

“Moxy is well-loved.” The child pointed to the first card. “That’s the foundation. But she’s getting older, and she may go blind eventually. She’s accepted it, though, and you will, too.” She smiled a little, hesitantly, like a pet used to getting kicked when she barked at company. The Magus noted how her gaze flicked to her pseudo-father.

Lady Werthrope clucked and reached over to squeeze the child’s hand. “You’re very honest. And very sweet. Now, won’t you show the Magus what you can do?”

Obediently, she gathered the cards and folded the deck, shuffling them with the fresh energy of her next customer. “What do you want to know?”

Roderick considered. It was a little below him to ask anything specific of a child spiritualist, and he still meant to test her. Hate stirred the old thorn in his heart, and although she didn’t speak with ghosts to earn her bread, he didn’t need to justify himself.

“I’ll leave the question to you.” He squinted in a way that may seem affectionate, but it was only sharp, a predator focusing on little fawn to see how quickly it might run. “What do you see?”

She flinched, lifting her eyes from the cards to meet his in a fleeting, startled glance. Like he’d come near to guessing something she didn’t say out loud. But then she bent over the deck, back to her work as the woman behind her set a hand on her shoulder.

“Be good, Aisling,” the adoptive mother said. “Show the Magus your skills. Don’t embarrass us.”

The child rolled her lip between her teeth, sorting the task quickly. One card. Two cards. Three cards. Tap, tap, tap on the bare table. The Magician’s face glowed in the candle light, and Roderick blinked. A good tarot reader must have good luck in order to draw the appropriate cards – or a marked deck. But he’d watched those little hands like a hawk, and he’d seen nothing. It wasn’t definitive proof by any means, but Roderick Burgess knew himself to be cleverer than a child.

Pointing to the first card, the Magician, the girl said, “You’re the Magus. The Magician is your creation of yourself.” The second card was the Nine of Cups. “Your cups all overflow, and you enjoy the plenty you already have.” And then there was the Ace of Pentacles. Roderick wondered for a moment if she’d laid the cards out of the intended order, but she simply said, “There is new wealth coming. You’ve just found something that will bring you more good fortune. The benefits will grow in the months and years to come.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” He looked for cracks, and there were many. Fatigue clouded her eyes and weighted the end of every sentence. Not a sign of a lie, though. She couldn’t even pretend to be happy for the audience.

He turned the interaction over in his mind through the rest of the night, wearing away the questions and presumptions like the rough edges of a stone, and by the later hours, he thought he might hold a jewel.

The adoptive parents made themselves easy to find. They hadn’t left the table. Neither had the girl. The lord and lady hired them to entertain, and they stayed at their posts. They’d gathered refreshments, but no cup or plate sat on the table, and he wondered if they had any idea children needed things like water after a long night of speaking with strangers.

Really. The scheme was too transparent. The only lies hid in any manner of affection the parents pretended for the child they claimed.

The Magus marched up to the table, rapping the top with his cane to seize the drowsy girl’s attention. She blinked, started licking her dry lips, caught herself, and pinched her mouth closed with her teeth.

“Aisling, wasn’t it?” He nodded to her, encouraging her to echo the motion. “I would like a word with you. No cards. No reading. Just a conversation. Alone.”

The father stepped forward, ready to defend his meal ticket. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t just –”

“The girl and I will sit here, at this table,” he tapped it again to make his point, “and you will both stand over there.” The cane swung to point towards the bar, which was well within sight but well out of earshot.

When the man moved to protest again, Roderick pulled out his wallet, and the father’s mouth snapped shut. A few pounds bought the adults’ willing compliance, and they went off in search of drinks with barely a backwards glance. Roderick settled into the seat he claimed earlier, watching the girl squirm. Her hands fluttered restlessly between her lap and the table, clearly used to the cards, uneasy without the form and ritual of a reading to guide the conversation.

That was well enough. Roderick had his own plans.

He signaled one of the roving staff, and as the waiter approached, he ordered, “A lemonade for the young lady.”

With a bow, the server hurried off, and the Magus smiled, lips closed, tilting his head as his legs crossed under the table. He was not a client. He was an adult who noticed, who might be moved to care, and in the few hours of their acquaintance, he was already offering more than anyone else.

“So, you see things?”

Her eyes snapped from him to the people who managed her. Then back again, and down to her lap.

“I’m not supposed to upset people.” She picked at the fringe on the garish frock she wore – entirely unsuited to her age and clearly uncomfortable. “It upsets Mr. and Mrs. Foster when I see things. Or when I talk about them.”

The Magus nodded, unsurprised. He wondered if the people who adopted her even realized her talents were genuine when they snatched her up. They had too many connections and too much showmanship to be anything other than experienced con artists. This little Aisling must be very sensitive, and the truly sensitive didn’t see strictly good, kind, or encouraging things. How she must terrify the fools.

The server returned with a cut crystal glass rattling with ice. The girl thanked the server, then thanked her benefactor, and wrapped her hands around the condensation-slicked sides. She sipped carefully, and Roderick could see the tension ease from her posture as she drank. Desperate as she was, she didn’t gulp, and with clear regret, she set the drink on the table still two-thirds full. But she kept her hands on the glass, lest some waiter assume she was finished and spirit it away.

“I won’t be upset, and I’d like to believe you.” Angling his head down to peer at her meaningfully, employing a look he’d once used when his son misbehaved, he asked, “What have you seen tonight that would upset people?”

The girl looked around, shifting so her chair creaked. This time, it wasn’t her adoptive parents she feared. Any ears may be a threat. When she leaned in, the Magus copied her, silently assuring her the secret would be safe with him.

“There’s a guest who’s not a guest, and he isn’t a man, either.”

The Magus hummed. “Say I believe you. Could you prove it?”

Seduced into the invitation of an adult confidant, and revived by the lemonade, she rushed to answer. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be believed and heard. The Magus was listening, and he was beginning to believe as well.

“The man paid the footman with holly leaves,” she hissed in a loud whisper. “The footman folded them like bank notes, and the spines stabbed his palms, but he didn’t notice. Look for the one with blood on his gloves.”

“And the man who isn’t a man?”

Shrinking back, the girl shook her head until the headband went crooked. Her hand pressed over her heart, rubbing hard circles as her face creased.

“He’d know I saw him,” she said. “I don’t let them know I see them anymore.”

Now there was a tale and no mistake. A child with enough power to annoy things beyond the veil – one that survived an encounter – was rare indeed.

“What happened?” He lent his tone a shade of concern. Facts, he found, traveled swiftest to a sympathetic ear, and he needed to know everything. Curiosity was growing into practical fervor as the first dreams of a plan grew into place. “Are you ill?”

She crumbled just a little bit more, folding into herself to protect the place she rubbed from some invisible threat. “Sometimes I see things that don’t want to be seen. One of them – hurt me. There’s no scar, but it hurt me, and now it aches.”

The Magus donned a solemn expression, though he felt a thrill at the prospect sitting before him. The little girl had unusual skills, and though she wasn’t handled well by the adults governing her, they must still turn a pretty penny showing her in salons and private homes. He’d confirm what she’d said, of course, validate her little proof, but she was either a better liar than he’d ever met or she was childishly honest. He knew where he’d put his money.

Where he might very well invest it, actually.

He didn’t say goodbye, only nodding as he rose and went in search of the servant with bloody gloves.

Of course, he found him. When he demanded to see what the footman had in his pockets, the boy paled, stammering excuses, only to pull out a handful of forest detritus. As the young man fell into a whirl of confusion and disappointment, the Magus truly smiled. The first real smile since Lady Werthrope brought him to the child’s table.

He must have a proper conversation with the girl’s current guardians.

Aisling clung to her bag, drowning in the heat as the train pulled away from the Wych Cross platform. Men and women fanned themselves with hats and newspapers, desperate for a breeze in the dead summer stillness. Ladies shed their gloves. Men loosened their ties. Propriety mattered less when the air was trying to suffocate them, a crushing, inescapable oven scalding the usually damp countryside.

A miserable day to travel.

Sweat dripped down her back, soaking the neck of her dress, gluing her hair to her skin. But she didn’t have a free hand to stir a breeze. Her bag was too heavy, full of everything she would need in her new home, or at least everything the Fosters thought they couldn’t sell for a profit. Mrs. Foster took her to the train station and dropped her at the door.

“Here’s your ticket. You’re heading to Wych Cross, and then to Fawney Rig. Don’t forget, and don’t miss your train,” she’d said. Then she climbed back into the cab beside Mr. Foster and disappeared into the flow of London traffic.

They’d sold her on to someone else, and now they were free of her.

She peered around the station, but it was really just a platform. In London, there were helpful adults in uniforms and suits who pointed out the right train and the right stairs to reach it. Nothing here told her how to find Fawney Rig, though, and the only adult in a uniform seemed to be the man in the ticket booth.

She’d find her way. She wasn’t a baby after all. She was eight. And she could read very well, and no one was coming to help her, so she better figure it out.

She stood in line for the ticket man’s attention. Surely, he could give her directions. The Magus was rich, and a little famous, she thought, so his neighbors must know where he lived. If the man in the booth didn’t know, she’d keep asking until she found someone who did. While she waited her turn, she set down her suitcase and sat on it, taking deep breaths that tasted like salt. It could be worse. What if it rained instead? Well. Actually. Rain sounded very nice.

Soon enough, she took her place in front of the booth, and the man frowned under his mustache like she’d arrived with a bill or a letter from someone nasty. She smiled prettily, the way the Fosters told her to, and tried to make herself look like less of a problem as she clutched her case again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but do you know the way to Fawney Rig?”

He physically recoiled, and his frown hooked deeper with glowering doubt as he scanned her. “Fawney Rig? That devil worshiper’s house? Why do you want to know?”

“I’ve been sent to live there, sir. I’m expected, but I don’t think they’ve sent anyone for me.” Manners made things easier with adults. Good manners and clear words – the fewer the better.

But the man wasn’t swayed. He looked thunderous. Like she’d broken something valuable and ought to pay for it with a lashing.

“Do you have money for a cab?”

The Fosters didn’t own her anymore, and they’d given her nothing but cards, and costumes, and a hairbrush. All the cash stayed warm and safe in their pockets.

“No, sir.”

“Then walk down the main road. Go east from the village, and keep going until there are no more houses you can see from the street. There’ll be a path on the left with a big iron gate. Follow that and you’ll find your devil worshipers.” He waved her off like he’d slap her if not for the glass. “Next!”

Manners got her what she needed, at least. “Thank you.”

The other adults all moved aside as she trundled through with her case. It made it easier to avoid clipping ankles and shins with her luggage, but she wondered if they hated her the way the ticket man hated her – because of Fawney Rig – or if she simply smelled after the long, stuffy ride in third class. Not that adults needed an excuse to dislike her. The nice ones called her uncanny and gifted. The mean ones called her a witch, and a bastard devil-spawn, and other names a mother should wash out of their mouths with soap.

She wasn’t sure which ones were telling the truth.

She knew the way forward, though. To Fawney Rig. That was good, even if the other adults didn’t think so. The Magus may not be a nice person, she hadn’t known him long enough for the usual adult lies to wear thin enough to see through, but he was smarter than the Fosters, and he’d given her a lemonade, so maybe she wouldn’t be as hungry or thirsty under his guardianship. She’d still have to work. Adults only wanted her if they thought she could give them something. But everything was more bearable with a good dinner and cold drinks.

She hoped he’d give her another cold drink, even water with some ice, when she reached his home. The train ride left her terribly thirsty.

Leaving the shaded platform, she bowed away from the sun’s violent touch and started on her journey. The village only kept a cobbled road in the center of town. It led up to the train station, linking it to a clutch of shops and offices. A parish church sat a little way back from the road, separated from the secular world by a field of tidy tombstones in heat-bleached grass. People noticed her. They looked. They whispered to each other. But no one waved or offered a hand. Gossip didn’t move fast enough to beat her here from the train, and she wondered how people could tell she was odd. Society had so many rules beyond manners, but no one would tell her what they were, and she never guessed right.

By the time the cobblestones ended, she was struggling to hold onto her suitcase. The handle kept trying to slip from her fingers, even when she held it with both hands, and she had to work harder and harder to keep it out of the dirt. If she knew anything about the world, it was that good children didn’t drag their luggage, and bad things happened to those that did. She’d travelled enough to learn, and she wanted to make a good impression on her new keeper and his household.

The road outside of town went a very, very long way. The ticket seller’s instructions made each step sound the same length: go through town, pass the houses, go down the long drive past the gates. Her imagination had lied to her, though. Every time she thought she’d passed the last house, there came another. Each handed her down the chain of cottage gardens and small homes full of families who pretended not to see. They all knew she’d done something, like she had a brand on her forehead, and she wasn’t allowed to stop. She didn’t try to.

Everything looked sickly yellow in the midday glare. Dust hung in the air, stirred by passing cars, lingering without a breath of wind to dispel the choking clouds. Everything looked flat and dead, so much so she almost missed the gate. Another leg of her trek done. Still too far to go, and the private road leading to the Magus’ home was longer than it had any right to be.

She didn’t feel well. The trees gave her a little protection, but her stomach and lungs felt hard, strained, the way her arms ached with carrying her suitcase. Only they were parts that shouldn’t feel that way, and she thought maybe she should sit down.

But she was almost there.

Even if she walked slowly, and her feet didn’t land quite where she told them to.

She just wouldn’t think about those things. Complaining was just making excuses, and she was expected.

The house appeared out of nowhere, or she was too dizzy to see it through the leaves before the last turn in the drive. It loomed, a very final-looking destination, and her suitcase escaped her grasp. The case was slippery, and her fingers didn’t curl the way they should. She bent to pick it up, and when she straightened, the whole world spun.

She stood very still until it stopped, and she found herself shivering as she approached the front door. Very strange. Was she afraid? No. That didn’t sound right. She felt terrible, too terrible to worry, and none of it made sense.

But she’d nearly made it. She had made it. Almost.

Knocking summoned a young man, and the door creaked open as he glanced down with a quizzical expression. “Hello? Can I help you?”

She tried holding her suitcase with just one hand, but it slipped away again, barely missing her foot. Maybe a handshake was a bad idea. The stranger hadn’t held his hand out for a shake, after all. She was just confused. He might not want to touch her. And she must look a picture after her walk.

She should’ve done something differently. If she were smarter, or taller, or…

“I’m Aisling Hunt, sir. The Magus sent for me.”

“Oh.” The young man’s eyes popped wider, and she wondered if he was younger than she thought at first. Stepping back, he pulled open the door to usher her inside. “I’m sorry. I’d heard someone was coming, but I’d thought you’d be… well, older. And I’m just Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex. I’m Aisling.”

He nodded and plucked her bag from where she’d dropped it. “Yes. You said. Are you feeling alright?”

She didn’t know. And grownups didn’t really like it when she was unwell anyway. Before she could come up with a suitable lie that would get her what she needed without stepping on any toes, a familiar face appeared at the end of the hall.

“Ah! You made it.” Out of formal dress, the Magus still brimmed with authority. Aisling had met many adults who wore costumes and pretended to be something they weren’t, but the Magus seemed like he’d somehow stitched his chosen persona into his skin. “Welcome to Fawney Rig.”

She wobbled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Magus,” he corrected.

“Thank you, Magus, sir.”

At last, what he was seeing overshadowed his enthusiasm, and the old man frowned. “Did you walk here? From the station?”

“Yes, Magus.”

“The Fosters didn’t even give you money for a fucking cab?”

“Just the train ticket, sir. Magus.”

She blinked, and the whole room turned blue, like peering at the world through stained glass. It looked so pretty she didn’t realize the Magus was asking her another question until his hand settled on her shoulder.

His voice came from far away. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, Magus, I walked, and I found Fawney Rig all on my own, and I’m not useless, please don’t throw me away yet.

But everything looked cool, and blue, and lovely. She was floating in it. Floating and so awfully heavy at the same time. The color slipped in with her breath, eroding her control until it slipped from her grasp like the suitcase had.

The world went dark, and she didn’t see, hear, or say anything more.

And deep below, in the belly of the house, Dream of the Endless waited in his cage, as senseless to the world above as she.

#morpheus x reader #fic: persephone's devotee #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc #dream of the endless x oc #fic: hello mr. monster

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iridescentpull · 3 months

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Gatos e Rosas will be on hold for a week or so since I have a VERY busy week ahead of me and won't have time to write the new chapters.

As an apology, I did a thing on twitter that for every like the tweet received, I would post one fact about a character of the GeR universe (mainly fitpac ofc).

So here's part one of those facts, hope you enjoy :) lmk if you want more!

Ramón was adopted by Fit and Spreen when he was barely 3 years old

Pac lost his leg in an accident (will be explained in the story) when he was 19

Fit went to the army straight when he was fresh outta highschool, thinking he knew everything (he didn't)

Pac's amputation is an above knee one, also known as a transfemoral one

Phil and Missa are in a queerplatonic marriage

Tina works in the fashion industry and has dreams of owning her own boutique and line in the future

Quesadilla City is a small city in a fictional island located in the Northern Hemisphere

Ramón is autistic, and he goes nonverbal whenever he's extremely stressed or overstimulated. He and Fit communicate through sign language when that happens

Pac has diagnosed depression and anxiety and takes meds for it

Cellbit and Roier met when they were called to the school because Richas and Bobby had a fight

Fit figured out he was gay when he was in his teens, but didn't accept it until he was in his late twenties/early thirties

Roier does drag, aka Melissa

Quackity HATES Chayanne, and the feeling is mutual with Chayanne. Their hate-relationship started since Chayanne was a toddler

Missa works in a really famous orchestra, which means he often has to travel around for concerts, leaving his family behind for long periods of time

The first few weeks after Pac was alone in his new apartment for the first time, he fell into a rough depressive episode. He slowly got better after adopting Xereta

Ramón's special interest is the Krebs Cycle. Fit has no idea when, what, or how his son even learned what the krebs cycle is, but he's happy to listen Ramóns infodumps

After Pac and Mike immigrated from Brazil, Mike searched high and low for somewhere they could stay that would be cheap until they could get back on their feet. He met Bagi, who was searching for more roommates at the time. They moved in, and the Favela Five apartment was born

Death Family live in the more country side of the city, around the same area as Mike and Mine

Fit lost his arm up until the shoulder, also known as shoulder disarticulation

Pac and Mike met in the orphanage at Brazil when they were both seven and five, respectively

Fit and Phil met just when Fit was discharged and lived together as roommates until Phil met Missa

Quesadilla City is a VERY diverse city, with immigrants from all over the world having their little communities spread around. The Favela is one of the most popular communities, though!

Cellbit works at Ordo Theorita’s Publishing House, and he dreams of publishing his own thriller book in the future

Pac is transmasc, and had his top surgery in his midtwenties after the Favela Five managed to scrap enough money to pay for it

Ramón's biggest fear is his dad being lonely. His second biggest fear are heights

#GeR AU #qsmp au #fitpac #pactw #fitmc #qsmp ramon #aynee writes

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1dcommunityficrecs · 3 months

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New Category: Historical AUs!

This list will be going live on March 15th, aka the Ides of March (do not get me started on my rant about how terrible Roman calendars are -- some if it is Julius Caesar's fault, but not the things people usually blame him for), so I thought it would be fun to take a step back in time and look at some historical stories!

Are the characters knights in shining armour, or peasants in a medieval village? Are they soldiers in the Great War, or waiting at home for someone they love to return? Are they pirates roaming the seven seas, or sailors on a merchant ship? Are they Roman generals or Greek philosophers or French artists? Are they '60s hippies on a cross-country road trip, or sweethearts in the Great Depression building a life together despite the challenges? Submit them all here!

I'm not putting a specific year limit on what qualifies as "history" -- I expect most submissions will likely be pre-2000s, but if a fic set in say 2002 really engages with that setting and the events and technology of the time, I could definitely see an argument for calling it a historical fic. Fics also do not have to be set in a specific time or place, or even in our real-life world; general "medieval vibes" in a made-up country still counts. I am separating out time travel as a separate theme (coming soon!), so only characters who are born and raised in that historical time please!

Can't wait to see everyone's faves!

#category announcement #category 5 #historical AU #one direction #louis tomlinson #harry styles #niall horan #liam payne #zayn malik #tracksintheam #trackinghome #hlficlibrary #hlcreators #1dficvillage #alwaysxlarrie #allwaswell16 #ficsfor4am #1d rare pairs #1dsource

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dayangaytransman · 2 months

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Warnings: mention of Transphobia, Homophobia, Self harm, Suicide, Gender Dysphoria and depression

I translated this with the help of AI so I don't know how much of it is correct. Sorry for bad english

I just want to share this; otherwise, I might do something that makes everyone upset

I am a Trans man/Transmasc/Genderfluid person. I use any pronouns except She/Her.

In my country, they won't let me transition, but they also don't want me near them pre- transition

I tell doctors and people who say they can help me that I need testosterone.

But they tell me if they give that to me, I will have a beard and I will regret it! I want a beard! WTF!

A doctor said to me that he cannot give me testosterone, but I can buy it and inject it myself! They don’t sell medicines like that without a doctor’s permission.

I look like a woman, or a 12-year-old cis boy.

I am 19 years old

And when people meet me, a grown man, they see a child and act accordingly. They call me little and short, and I can’t tell people in public how old I am, but they always ask.

I hate myself because I don’t look like the grown man I am. I am 153 cm and 42 kg. I am short, skinny, and have a baby face.

I sometimes present as feminine, and when I do, people in public say unkind things to me. They even try to harm me.

I live in a place where the government executes gay men and I am afraid when they see me as a gay boy.

I live in a Muslim country, so they expect me to wear a hijab, even though I am not Muslim.

I can’t transition here, even if they allow it. The doctors don’t know what they’re doing. I don’t want to be a laboratory mouse. Once, the most famous doctor was accused of killing a person just from a mastectomy! I want a healthy, beautiful, normal body.

I can’t travel for transition because I am very poor, and in my country, even $10,000 is a lot. Even with 100 years of working, I couldn’t accumulate that much money.

But they won’t even let me work or study! Many LGBTQIA+ people here have been expelled from school.

In my country, a trans person is a psychopath. Many of us don’t have an ID ( of our true gender) , and we can’t live like this.

I can’t attend classes, such as an art class, or visit any doctor. They require an ID, and even when they don’t, I don’t want to out myself or have them touch and examine my body.

I experience all forms of dysphoria that exist. I am dealing with depression, childhood trauma, ADHD, social anxiety, among other issues.

I tried to kill myself twice. I have left school. I don’t want to leave the house, but I am trying to change these things, and I can’t seem to do so.

And you know what? Nobody cares!

Do you think all transgender individuals speak English and reside in countries that are friendly to the queer community?

I cannot create a GoFundMe here; there is no supportive organization or similar entity available. Everyone here hates me and can easily kill me.

I am gay, and my relationships have always been toxic.

Men do not perceive me as a man.

My father left me; my mother just doesn’t care about me, and my brother is my biggest enemy.

I cry every day, and I don’t know if I want to be alive anymore. When I tell all my friends and family, even those who can see my tears, they don’t care.

I don't know what to do.

I see people on the internet who just need to turn 18 to transition, try a little bit harder, or travel to another city.

I do not have these privileges. I have wanted testosterone for four years and have tried to obtain it in the way the government indicated, but they have not provided it to me.

I hate my chest, My high, My face, My... My everything

I feel inadequate because I am unable to study, work, or even travel to see my boyfriend and best friend.

I remain alive because if I were to die, there would be no one to feed my cat. He/it is all I have in this world.

People often ask whether I am a girl or a boy. They always tell me that I am short and small, and insist that I can’t be older than they are.

I AM A GROWN ASS MAN!

Imagine calling Tom Ellis or Henry Cavill cute, little, and girlish.

And when my gender changes because I am genderfluid, it gets worse. And I don't feel like a woman.

Nobody here understands what ‘non-binary’ means.

They don’t understand the meaning of ‘trans’ either.

They refer to us by a term that I cannot repeat because it is an offensive word. A bad word that means: a person who is a prostitute has two genitals and is mentally insane. And they want transgender individuals to fully transition. Otherwise, they won’t give them an ID. And who do you think are the ones who say who is trans and who is not? The government! Actually, it’s the psychologists, but mostly the government. You need to prove yourself to them, and I tried hard, but I failed.

Even my family doesn’t see me as an adult—a man who is 19 years old.

Most of the day, I talk to AI because it is kind and knows what it is doing.

Here people think we are sex workers. That Trans people are always horny!

I have dysphoria, so I am not horny, even when I want to be. I can't even masturbate. I can't even look at it.

Here if they find out, they can send me to jail because I am an AFAB person without Hijab. All the people here are transphobic and I can't do shit about it.

And... Nobody in the world cares... I have no doubt that you do not even know the geographical location of my country.

Queer people in my country are the most miserable people on the planet. And they are against each other more than anywhere else. Gay men don't want me around them here ,same as Trans men. And they all hate non-binary people, Polyamorus people and people like me who have more than 10 labels.

I want to grow one day and become an artist, a writer, and an LGBTQIA+ activist. But also I want to kill myself. I want to become manly, sexy, hairy, and big But on the other hand, I want to hurt myself. I want to study philosophy, literature, and languages, but I also hate them because they don’t include someone like me.

I want to write LGBTQIA+ stories in my native language to contribute to my community. But this is illegal here.

I want to do anything and everything, but I know all of this is a dream, and just a dream

All I can do is cry and wonder if I should kill myself

I am sorry if this makes you upset, but I need to say these things to the world.

I wish I were AMAB, or if not, a wealthy person so I could transition. And if not that, then Canadian, European, or even American, so the transition would not be just a dream. Or if I am none of these, at least to not have all the dysphoria in the world, from top to bottom, from voice to face, to height to hips to…

Why? Just... Why?

#gender dysphoria #transgender #trans man #genderfluid #lgbtqia+#sorry for being depressing #nonbinary #transmasc #ai translation #this is my first post #this is my life #i am scared #i don't know how to tag this

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dycefic · 2 years

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Ocean Burial: A History!

Howdy! My name is Olivine! I’ve been a big fan for a hot minute now, but I just wanted to let you know how much I loved your newest story about Bone Beach. Now, I am an aspiring ethnomusicologist, and imagine my surprise when I first saw one of my favorite songs in the story! I just wanted to share some information about its deep and storied history.

Our story tonight begins many, many years ago, with a young man from New York. Edwin Hubbell Chapin was a teenager when he wrote his poem Ocean Burial, also known as Bury Me Not, while training to become a priest. Shortly after its publication (by Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry journal!), a popular sheet music writer named George N. Allen set it to music, and thusly, one of the most tragic songs of the age was born.

But its growth did not halt there. But first, I have to take a step back and give y'all a tad bit of context. I am a Southern gal, born and raised (Southern US, that is), and I never did know any “Ocean Burial”. However, when I was just a young child, I fell in love with the mysterious, haunting ballad that my father sung to us all as a lullaby. It told the tale of a young cowpoke who laid in the prairie brush at sunset, breathing his final prayer to his companions.

“Bury me not, on the lone prairie."

You see, Chapin’s song had grown wings and took flight far over the lands, took the leather and the iron of the cowpokes. Through the oral tradition and the ancient magic of stories among travelers, this sailing song had become a tragedy of the American cowboy.

First published by John Lomax, sources at the time claimed that it came from the Uvalde region. Some believe that it was originally the Lohn Prairie, the name for the vast grasslands around the region. It was first recorded in the most popular version (most similar to the original, too) by Charles Sprauge, a boy hailing from Manvel, Texas, not too far from Houston. He grew up as a ranch-hand on his family’s farm, learning songs from his uncles, as well as the transient cowboys and ranch-hands who made their way on through.

After his service in the first World War, he came home and recorded ”The Dyin’ Cowboy“ in 1925, and would go on to produce a few albums with Victor records. Tragically, his career was cut short but the Great Depression. But ultimately, he shaped American music, especially country, into what we see today. He was the original "Singin’ Cowboy”, giving rise to most every country star from Willie Nelson to Johnny Cash himself. He also had a massive influence on the rise of rock, being one of those oft-touted folk singers who “paved the road for rock n’ roll”.

Now-a-days, it still lives on. Covered by popular artists such as Colter Wall, it still lies in the heart of American folk music. However, it lives on in the spiritual sense. You see, it holds a poignance and timelessness that forever holds the grief of a life cut short. Truth be told, I do believe that Chapin, Lomax, and Sprauge would be glad that their songs have lived on in the minds of so many others, that their dying youth may forever be remembered.

Thanks for your time! I know I have a tendency to ramble, so I apologize if I went on for too long, or ended up getting too philosophical. But my words have been spoken and my tongue’s all sore, so this is it for me tonight. Have a good day, and thank you for your patience!

Check out this amazing little glimpse into the history of ‘The Ocean Burial’! I am delighted to know that I accidentally chose a song for my story with such a rich history!

#submission

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bijouxcarys · 2 months

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Queen's Hot Space Era: A Deep Dive

Masterlist

I’ve been thinking over this album and era more than usual lately, and decided that I’d write this up. Perhaps as a way to extricate all the Queen knowledge from my head, and the era in question takes up quite a lot of RAM.

The Hot Space album, and era, is very controversial and to this day garners a polarising set of opinions amongst fans and critics alike. So I just thought what the hell, let’s let everyone know what the hell was going on with Queen in the early 80s.

The Hot Space album was the 10th studio album by Queen and was released on the 21st May 1982. It had elements of disco, funk, R&B, dance, and pop, which was very different to what Queen had been doing throughout previous albums. The dance elements of this album was supposedly inspired by the success of Another One Bites The Dust, released in 1980.

Another One Bites The Dust was extremely successful in the US and the UK, the two largest marketing countries in the Western world, at least at the time—and Queen aimed to prolong that success.

The band started recording for Hot Space in June of 1981, and spent a gruelling 10 months on the project before wrapping up the production element in March of 1982. Upon its release, fans and critics found it disappointing. Stephen Thomas Erlewine of Allmusic said “the band that once proudly proclaimed not to use synthesisers on their albums now dramatically reversed course, dedicating the entire first side of the album to robotic, new wave dance pop, all driven by drum machines and coloured by keyboards with Brian May’s guitar coming in as flavour only on occasion.”

The fourth track on Hot Space, Body Language, has been dubbed the worst song in Queen’s discography by fans, and the whole album received no more than a 3-star rating overall.

Rolling Stone gave them a 3-star, whilst the Encyclopedia of Popular Music gave a 1-star… Yikes.

Hot Space is one of the more obscure Queen albums to those who are not currently, or have ever been, active within the fandom. So we’re going to break it down a little bit, and let’s just talk about the background and context of what the hell was going on with them.

So in 1981, Queen recorded Under Pressure with David Bowie, and it’s still considered one of Queen’s staple and most popular songs. It was recorded in Montreux, and was a completely separate project to Hot Space. The band had met up with Bowie and jammed together for a while, just to see if they could come up with something to lay down and master. Of course, as most people know, bassist John Deacon came up with the iconic Under Pressure bass riff, just before they all went out to get some pizza. And by the time they’d returned to the studio, he’d forgotten it! But luckily drummer Roger Taylor remembered it.

Now, this was the first time Queen weren’t working alone; they were used to working only with their producers, never having had anyone else’s input. The two artists merged as one for the song and it pointed in the direction of a potential new road for Queen—it was looking like an exciting one.

But what went wrong during the recording of Hot Space?

Brian May recalls that there was a total change of life for all of them. They travelled to Munich and according to Brian, that’s when things started to go downhill.

Let’s talk a little bit about the studio in which they recorded the album in Munich. It was situated in the basement of a hotel, and it was called Musicland Studios. It closed in the 90s due to some road issues, so it’s no longer open. But Brian remembers this place being grim and depressing.

The band’s mental health started to deteriorate after learning some unsettling details about the place. In Brian’s words:

“A lot of people used to jump off the top of the building and kill themselves off that particular building. We didn’t know that until we got there.”

The urge to finish recording grew, and they spent months at the hotel.

The aim was to create an album that focused more on the dance elements of music due to the success of Another One Bites The Dust, as I mentioned before. They seemed to be in luck, as Freddie Mercury’s entourage at the time was concentrated with dance influences in the form of Paul Prenter.

Now, who was Paul Prenter, you ask? If you’ve seen the film, you’ll kind of already know, but here’s a bit more of an in-depth look at him.

Paul Prenter was Freddie Mercury’s personal manager from 1977 to 1986. Despite their professional relationship, the two also engaged in intimate relations, and Prenter had a huge influence over Freddie’s life during the time he worked for him. He held partial responsibility for Freddie’s excessive involvement in drugs, alcohol, and his growing promiscuity.

Freddie was known to have fired Prenter in 1986, and shortly after it was plastered all over the news. It turns out Paul Prenter had sold personal stories to the press about Freddie… What a dick.

After receiving money from multiple press outlets, he moved back to his hometown of Belfast and spent it all—smart. He then asked Freddie for more money! After all that, he went back and asked him for money! But it’s okay, he did succumb to complications from AIDS a few months before Freddie. So… Freddie got the last laugh, it seemed.

You’re probably wondering what Paul Prenter had to do with Hot Space. After all, he wasn’t part of the band, right?

Well, Freddie’s life was ruled by the New York-inspired gay lifestyle of the 80s, particularly engaging in extreme partying and extreme promiscuity. And at the time, Freddie had suggested to the band that the music on their new album should sound like that of which they’d play in a gay bar, but those words had initially come from Paul Prenter.

It’s said that Prenter despised guitars and relentlessly referred to Brian May as old-fashioned. Roger Taylor recalled that Prenter was a “very bad influence” on the band:

“He was a very, very bad influence upon Freddie, and hence on the band. He very much wanted our music to sound like you just walked in a gay club, and I didn’t.”

The strain and tension became inevitable with the four personalities—and we all know that John, Freddie, Brian, and Roger have massive personalities. Whilst they had always experienced bickering, as most bands do, they now with the added tension, the production of the album isn’t going to go as smoothly.

“Arguments would start off as creative, but slowly became personal.”

Brian recalls that less and less time was spent in the studio and more time was spent arguing.

To put it into perspective about what life was like for the 10 months they spent recording Hot Space in Munich…A regular day recording this album went a little bit like the following:

The entourage recall waking up at 3am, working for hours, having dinner, and then roadies would mix up cocktails and other things would pursue. The band got mixed up in cocaine and various other drugs. Random women, and relentless drinking, and as any sane person will tell you, that is not a good thing.

Roger described it as an exhausting cycle day after day. Imagine doing that for 9 whole months.

Brian remembers them getting into “deep trouble emotionally” in Munich, which possibly explains why their mental states deteriorated.

Now, the Hot Space era didn’t just end when the album came out. Obviously, when an album comes out, you have to do interviews to promote your album and after months and months of bad influences and arguments, the band’s relationship had kind of broken down. Things continued in quite a tense fashion.

In fact, Freddie was left very unhappy and depressed after Hot Space wrapped up—it lasted a while, and he was completely immersed in places and habits that remained detrimental to his fate. Freddie became passive during interviews and defensive on certain questions concerning anything but current projects.

His attitude during the 1982 press conference in Europe was already standoffish and it was extremely obvious that he didn’t want to be there. The body language of the others, especially Brian, speaks volumes. The mood is low and they all seem exhausted.

Another nationwide interview the band gave in promotion for the album presented the group separated; Freddie was notably disinterested as the others spoke. There was even a moment where Freddie responds to the interviewer’s question with “let’s break up tomorrow” as a joke. But, watching it, you can’t help but feel there’s some truth to his words. Nobody laughed, even Roger looked uncomfortable by it!

One of the more well-known interviews from this era was with Brian and Roger, which displayed multiple moments of awkwardness with them both trying to make jokes and seem like they’re happy with what they’d produced, making up amateur excuses as to why they created something with a different sound. In my opinion, they just didn’t seem very happy. Do we even need to mention the “shut up” from Roger, and then the succeeding comment from Brian about Mack having the best drum sound?

Then, we have the iconic 1984 Freddie interview, where he left viewers stunned with his answers:

“I love my job, but I hate talking to people like you,” “I’m not an artist, I’m just a musical prostitute, my dear.”

The long-term effects of what happened behind the scenes of Hot Space were everlasting and turned the group into four completely different people than they were prior to 1982.

As I’ve already mentioned, Hot Space wasn’t received well upon its release, and there are still very strong opinions about it today. Brian stated in 2014 that it isn’t the band’s worst album, but the timing of its release was just wrong. As time goes on, more people begin to accept the Hot Space album as just another reason why Queen is one of the most versatile groups of all time, with them branching out into very different styles to what they’d done earlier in their career, like Sheer Heart Attack, News Of The World, etc…

80s culture looked down upon disco and funk, so reception for Hot Space was bound to be less than amazing. However, today, all styles of music are simultaneously celebrated, and people enjoy the album more now than they did 40 years ago.

So in conclusion, recording Hot Space was a difficult period for Queen. It’s horrible to think about your idols going through the kind of thing they did in the early-mid 80s, influenced by not very nice people. But focusing on the album itself, it’s truly not a bad album at all. Granted, the timing of the release wasn’t the best for Queen, but it holds up as a fan favourite today.

If you haven’t heard any of the songs from Hot Space, besides Under Pressure, I highly recommend you check it out. It’s very different to what Queen usually did and I think it’s worth a listen.

Anyway, I’ll leave it at that. Let me know if you liked this little… post, whatever the hell it is, and if I should do more posts like this. I enjoy throwing all my useless knowledge onto a page lol.

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handeaux · 4 months

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When Horseshoers Convened In Cincinnati, Few Foresaw Their Looming Doom

With all the talk these days about artificial intelligence and its anticipated devastation of employment as we know it, let’s peer into some balmier times and the technological disruptions inflicted on past trades, specifically horseshoeing.

Up until about World War I, unless you traveled by railroad or electric streetcar, you needed a horse to get around, and horses needed regular horseshoeing. Especially in urban environments with cobblestone or crushed-gravel pavement, horses might need new shoes every 10 days or so.

Horseshoeing was a lucrative trade, and it was unionized. In fact, there were two horseshoeing unions, one for the journeymen and one for their bosses. The Master Horseshoers’ Protective Association met in Cincinnati for a national convention in 1898. They were very concerned about a new mode of transportation that threatened their livelihoods – the bicycle. It is impossible to exaggerate the bicycle’s explosion in popularity during 1896. Two years later, the horseshoers were still feeling the pinch and hoping bicycles were nothing but a passing trend. The Cincinnati Post [18 October 1898] reported the view of one convention delegate:

“H.E. Richards, representing the Ausable Horse-Nail Company, New York, gives it as his opinion that the bicycle is only a fad, that is dying out. He declares that in the midst of the craze the business of his company fell off. Now, he says, it is picking up. The wheel, he says, is passing, and the horse is the thing again.”

Mr. Richards was not alone in his over-optimistic prognostications. As late as 1920, when automobiles had all but monopolized the city’s streets, the Cincinnati Enquirer [6 April 1920] saw hope for the horse.

“The horse is coming back in a last struggle to hold his place against the progress of the automobile, tractor, truck and airplane. The Department of Agriculture estimates that horses on United States farms increased from 19,833,000 in 1910 to 21,109,000 on January 1, 1920. Mules increased, too, according to the estimates.”

That year, the Journeyman Horseshoes held their national conference in Cincinnati and desperation seethed through the delegates. According to one, quoted in the Post [19 July 1920] automobilists and their ilk were antagonizing The Almighty himself:

“Bernard Flatley, president, said horseshoers had made little progress until the war showed them their importance in industry. He urged more publicity for the horse. ‘Man is flying in the face of God,’ he said. ‘The horse is a creation of God and should not be relegated to the side of the road to make place for the inventions of man.’”

A person today, looking at old photographs and rare antique films might be forgiven for thinking the automobile had completely obliterated the horse by the early 1920s. Not so. At the beginning of the Great Depression, the Cincinnati Post [5 April 1932] profiled two Cincinnati businesses still dependent on horseshoes. J.D. Antill ran a livery at 1118 Clay Street in Over-the-Rhine. His stable boarded 12 horses at that time, but many of his stalls were vacant and cobwebbed. Most of his customers were peddlers. Although Antill recalled bygone days when every Sunday was busy with young men renting buggies to take their ladies for country drives, his lone remaining rig sat dusty and unused. Henry Imholt pounded out iron horseshoes at 1108 Broadway in Pendleton. When there weren’t enough horses to shoe, the Imholt smithy got by forging ice tongs – just as electric refrigerators were beginning to spell the end of the iceman’s visits.

That year, Cincinnati membership in the Journeyman Horseshoers dropped to fewer than two dozen from a peak of more than 160 card-carrying members in decades previous. The Master Horseshoers’ Protective Association had long since disbanded. Still, diehards insisted automobiles were on the way out. Charles Selzer was chief horseshoer at the French Bauer dairy. He told the Cincinnati Post [3 April 1929] that the day of reckoning approached when mankind would abandon the frivolous automobile.

“‘It will come a time,’ he explains, ‘when big business will not have so much money. They will have to save. Auto trucks cost money. So big business will go back to drays which don’t cost so much. Then it will happen, also, that the workingman will get smaller pay, and he will be glad to own a horse and rig instead of an auto. He will like it, too – you will see. There is no sport in driving a car.’”

In 1929, all the milkmen employed by French Bauer delivered their dairy products by horse-drawn cart. Charles Selzer managed the in-house smithy for the firm at Seventh and Smith streets out in the West End.

Alas, Mr. Selzer never lived to see the automobile get its comeuppance. In fact (forgive the spoiler), quite the opposite occurred. In 1956, the Cincinnati Post returned to French Bauer to talk with the last remaining horseshoer on the payroll. His name was Henry Luehrmann. He was 64 years old and he no longer shoed horses. French Bauer had abandoned horse-drawn carts in 1946 and Mr. Luehrmann was transferred to the refrigeration department. Even though he hadn’t shoed a horse in a decade, Mr. Luehrmann remained secretary of Local 12 of the Horseshoers’ Union, a group that had not met in a decade and existed only as a listing in Cincinnati’s AFL Union Directory.

When the horseshoers’ union disbanded in 1946, there were only 10 members. In 1956, Mr. Luehrmann could think of only two remaining card-carriers, John McGinnis in Maderia and N.C. Jackson in Highland Heights, Kentucky. Both still shoed actual horses. Mr. Luehrmann had long since transferred to the Milk and Ice Cream Drivers and Dairy Employees Union, which generously allowed him to keep his seniority.

“Cabinets are easier to work with than horses,” he told the Post. “They don’t kick. But horses are more interesting. As a trade, horseshoeing was one of the best. Most of us worked steady and the pay was good.”

Back in 1898, the Master Horseshoers took the trolley out to Chester Park and posed for pictures on the steps of St. Peter Cathedral. They also argued about whether their standard fees for shoeing city horses were just good business practice or a monopolistic restraint of trade. Times were good, even though the handwriting was on the wall.

#horseshoers #blacksmiths #farriers #Cincinnati trades #Cincinnati unions

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irelandseyeonmythology · 10 months

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Ok so I’m getting into the Fenian cycle and just read the palace/hostel of the quicken/Rowan trees, and I love it but there are a couple things that i’ve been trying to research to better understand it and I’m just not getting results. Who is the King of the World? The Lochlanns are the Fomorians, right? And where is the isle of the torrent?

Thank you for the ask! It's coming at a very opportune time as I've been diving into the world of the Fianna myself. (If you sent this to me a couple of years ago, I'd have been a little stumped even if I'd have done my best.)

So you sent this to me...ages ago, and I was at the Gaeltacht at the time, so I was typing up my response in Irish to be translated and. I. Went out of the window. And it hadn't been saved. And I was so depressed that I didn't want to go back to it until I had sufficiently mourned.

...but you can breathe a sigh of relief since, now that I'm no longer in the Gaeltacht, we are not bound by the custom of "when I'm there, I write only in Irish."

So, first off...let's go with Lochlann: What is Lochlann, who are the men of Lochlann? In Cath Maige Tuired, you're right, they're absolutely associated with the Fomoire, BUT! The reason why they're associated with the Fomoire is because there were real-life invaders from Lochlann, that is to say, Scandinavian or Scandinavian occupied territory (in CMT, the Fomoire are actually in what is today Scotland, Balor being situated on the Hebrides, which means that....yes....it is entirely possible to do a How to Train Your Dragon/CMT crossover if you desired. And yes, I have put too much thought into the logistics of that crossover, including the dangers of giving Bres access to a dragon.) The decision to situate the Fomoire on Lochlann was a political move, as a way of highlighting Ireland's political situation at the time it was composed. ("Lochlann" is still the modern name for Norway.)

In other texts, especially later texts, we see Lochlann often associated with far away, exotic, supernatural, and/or dangerous places, in the same way that Greece is often used to indicate someplace far away or exotic. (It makes sense -- how many Irish people living in, say, the 14th-15th century would have imagined traveling to Norway in the time before Aer Lingus?)

You can see this in, for example, the little known Late Middle/Early Modern Irish-ish (the dating is weird on this one) prosymetric text, "Aithed Emere (le Tuir nGlesta mac Rig Lochlann)", where Emer elopes with...Tuir Glesta, son of the King of "Lochlann". (Translated as "Norway" most of the time in descriptions, but I prefer keeping the term "Lochlann", because it's always the question of...is this the Real World Country, Lochlann, or is this the Cool Folklore Lochlann where Zany Adventures Happen, you know? I don't feel like "Norway" captures all of the different possibilities that the word implies.)

Now, since this, according to Thurneysen at least, didn't go back to before the 12th century, it was created well after CMT, well after the Battle of Clontarf and the final assimilation/ousting of the Vikings from Ireland. The Vikings are...chill by now. They aren't an active threat. So we have to ask ourselves: Why is Emer eloping with Tuir Glesta? It could be the result of an earlier tradition, sure, but I think it's more likely that we're not meant to think of Lochlann as "Fomoire land" or "Viking land", but "exotic, far away place for Cú Chulainn to voyage to in order to get his wife back." In Cath Muighe Tuireadh Cunga, there's a figure called "Aengaba of Lochlann", and there's no sign that he's a Fomoire, rather it seems that we're meant to view him as a sort of foreign champion. (It's interesting that in the Early Modern CMT, meanwhile, the Fomoire don't come from Lochlann, but from Africa. White supremacists have obviously gone ham with this but I've had at least one prominent person in the field suggest to me that it could be a means of drawing a Carthage-Rome dichotomy between the TDD and the Fomoire. And, of course, as I love to point out, if the Fomoire come from Africa = the Fomoire are black, then by that logic, Bres, Lugh, Fionn mac Cumhaill, the Dagda, Ogma, Bríg, Lír, Manannán, Emer, Cú Chulainn, Cairbre, Óengus, Bodb Dearg, etc. etc. etc. are all mixed race, which is a change I for one would be happy with but I suspect they would not be. Not that logic matters all that much to that crowd, especially since the only figures to routinely be presented as brown are Balor, Bres, Cethlenn, and the Fir Bolg, funny how that works.) And of course, when I was talking to a local on Tory Island, he said that the old people "confused the English for the Fomorians" (paraphrased) -- I don't believe the old people were confused at all, though, I believe that it only made sense for the Fomoire to become English, since they're always the people Over There, and Over There can be Lochlann, it can be Africa, and it can be England. Balor goes from being a Viking warlord to an English landlord, because why wouldn't he?

NOW, off of my soap box about the racist clusterfuck that is most adaptations of the Fir Bolg/Tuatha Dé/Fomoire rivalry and back to your question, Bruidhean (an) chaorthainn, "Hostel of the Rowan Trees", is about 15th/16th century in date, so we're looking well after the time the Vikings were a threat, so "Lochlann" here is very much Fun Zany Lochlann, not Actual Country Norway.

And we see this in a lot of Fionn Cycle tales, men from Lochlann opposing the Fianna, Fionn courting women in Lochlann and facing a series of trials, men from Lochlann imprisoning the Fianna in bruidhean tales. It's very much a trope, and it has next to nothing to do with the historical location. It's a place Over There, it's a place that has something our heroes need to get, or it's a place that is threatening what they already have. The people who live there are invariable dangerous, often supernatural, and more than a match for our heroes, even though they are, inevitably, overcome, though sometimes at great cost. The Men of Lochlann in these tales and the Fomoire have a lot in common, you could even argue that the Fomoire of CMT are even the Men of Lochlanns' literary great grandfathers, in the sense that it is, at least partially, a 9th century anxiety over Scandinavia that's been fossilized into the folklore up to the present, but they aren't the same, except for the fact that they both often represent the dark side of the supernatural, which the Tuatha Dé can often represent as well. (And indeed, as John Carey's argued, the difference between the TDD and the Fomoire is often minimal.) The Tuatha Dé and the Fomoire in and of themselves appear little in modern folkloric stories, at least....how they appear in the Mythological Cycle (indeed, Óengus is often relegated to being a wizard instead of a member of the TDD in folkloric variants of Tóruigheacht Dhiarmada and Ghráinne.) Manannán survives better than most, as does Bodb Dearg, but the truth is that there was a certain...anxiety about it that you can detect in the folklore. The term "Fomor" develops three meanings from the Early Modern Irish period -- the guys that we know and love, a generic ogre or giant (which is how it's often used now), and a churl or servant, which further complicates things.

Besides Bruíon Chaorthainn, you can also see examples of Zany Folklore Lochlann showing up in Fenian folklore in Soraidh Fhinn go Tír Lochlainn ("Fionn's Wooing in Lochlann"), Laoi an Airghinn Mhóir ("The Lay of Airgheann the Great") (which, besides being very alive in the folklore, also goes back at least as far as Duanaire Finn, which was compiled in the 15th century), Laoi Chath Gabhra ("The Lay of the Battle of Gabhair") (which is interesting for having the son of the king of Lochlann on the Fianna's side for once), Duan na Cloinne ("The Lay of the Children"), Comhrag Fhinn agus Mhanuis ("The Combat Between Fionn and Magnus") (our boy Magnus, son of the King of Lochlann, also appears in Soraidh Fhinn go Tír Lochlainn), Laoidh Maodh-Chabir agus Chamagich ("The Lay of Maodh-Chabir and Camagich") (for SEXY Zany Folkloric Lochlann), An Cú Glas ("The Grey Dog"), which the Fionn Folklore Database actually did a reel about on their Facebook/Instagram if I'm not mistaken, Bratach Fhinn (Fionn’s Banner), and Duan nan Naonar (The Lay of the Nine). I'm *sure* there are other legends out there, these are just the ones I was able to immediately track down.

So, that's covered. Now, who is the King of the World? And the answer is that, like Magnus, he's a recurring antagonist we sometimes see pop up. In Bruíon Chaorthainn, he's the king of Lochlann who tries to invade Ireland. Meanwhile, in Cath Fionntrá, which has a lay form of it in the Book of the Dean of Lismore (a Scottish compilation, incidentally, from the 16th century, showing how bound up all these traditions are from an early date) and, besides that, has Irish manuscript attestations going back to at least the 15th century, the "King of the World" is a full-fledged antagonist named Dáire Donn, who forms an alliance with kings across Europe to invade Ireland. (Here's the older text here, and the info on it here.) We see a sort of sequel to it in the modern Irish tale “The romance of Mis and Dubh Ruis” where Dáire has a daughter, Mis, who becomes a madwoman in the woods after his death and is sexed back to sanity by Dubh Rois. (It is...surprisingly funny, honestly.) Which is in Celtic Heroic Age. But what you can gather by him being King of Lochlann is also that he's...the Guy Over There (Who Wants To Come Here.) Even beyond personalities, that's it. You can compare him to the King of Greece in Duan Gharbh Mhic Stairn ("The Lay of Garbh son of Stairn"). The difference between a king of Greece and a king of Lochlann isn't that great, what matters is that he's Over There and that he's trying to invade us.

The Isle of the Torrent (Inse Tuile) is another one of those otherworldly, supernatural places where Things Are Weird. You can compare it, for early examples, to the islands you see in the Immrama genre, but you can also compare it to the various weird islands you come across in other stories, like in Nighean Righ fo Thuinn ("The Daughter of the King Under the Waves"), which has "Magh an Iongnaidh" (the Plain of Wonder). And obviously, you could tie this into the world of the Otherworld being located beyond the sea (which is a later idea; the early material seems to indicate, firmly, that the Otherworld was *below*, not *beyond*), but I think it just goes from the idea that you need your heroes to travel on a quest to get something -- you can trace it as far back as the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Odyssey, Jason and the Golden Fleece, etc. People like a good adventure yarn. People like to have their heroes go to exotic lands filled with supernatural danger (where things There don't work the way they do Here), they like to face off against dangerous villains and arrive home just in time to save the day, you know? I will note that Goethe's "Der König in Thule" was translated, into Irish, as "Rí Inse Tuile" -- Thule was a magical island in classical times, it was well known to Irish monks as early as the ninth century; it appears in Beatha Bréandain, the Life of St. Brendan, so it's not inconceivable it could have been worked into the Irish tradition, especially since the variant of it that was translated is a literary composition, not necessarily the story 100% as it appears in oral literature. I'd like to explore that possible connection more down the line, but all I can say right now is that it's an interesting coincidence -- my suspicion for it being literary is further increased by the fact that this is not a name you generally see in the oral literature, but I won't go further than that. "Tuile" in Irish does mean "flood" or "flow", so it could just be a strange coincidence, of course, but...it's odd. It's odd.

Anyway, all that, and where are we?

A lot of Irish folklore and Irish lit are dealing with Us VS Them, the idea of the People Over There VS the People Over Here (which makes sense because of...centuries of People Over There sailing over, first the Vikings, then the Normans, then the Tudors, then Cromwell, etc. etc. etc. etc. Not to reduce an entire complex literary tradition that spans multiple continents to a Just So story, and there are a lot of stories that obviously DON'T feature this theme, but I don't think it hurts.) (And Scottish lit, of course, also gets into it, partially due to transmission, partially because of their own history of Guys Over There coming to take things from Guys Over Here, which also got transmitted to Canada via the diaspora.)

Who are the Lochlannaigh? The Guys Over There.

Who are the Fomoire? Also the Guys Over There, but not always overlapping. (Not all Fomoire at all stages of the literature are Lochlannaigh, not all Lochlannaigh are Fomoire.)

Who is Rí an Domhain? The Ruler Over There Who Wants To Come Over Here.

And where is Inse Tuile? Over There, but the name itself is strange.

I hope this makes sense in some way!

#irish mythology #irish folklore #béaloideas #fionn mac cumhaill #Fenian Cycle

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