#scaffolding fitting

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Scaffolding Coupler Manufacture in Wellmade - Drop Forged Scaffold Tube ...

[raayllum]

spark notes edition but:

For Rayla, Runaan, and Soren, a job is a sacred calling. It is something (or was something, in Runaan's case) something you strive towards upholding even when it goes against your sense of self or personal desires ("part of me wishes I hadn't seen you," "all of us pledged a part of ourselves," "to carry out my dark work") , and it ripples down and effects all that you are. For Soren and Runaan, there seems to be less separation between job as a part of who they are vs all that they are; Soren in particular scaffolds his identity almost entirely, therefore, on who he is/has become in relation to Ezran as an internalized feedback loop ("I can't do that, I'm sworn to King Ezran" / "I am a crownguard, and he is the true king!"). Rayla, meanwhile, has a hard cognitive dissonance of your job (i.e. the actions you take while operating under parameters) being entirely separate from who you are ("assassins aren't evil, they're doing a job" which also loops around to not holding Runaan's against her against him when he was operating as an assassin) when they align with that specific calling, except when it comes to her being bad at it, which does get internalized as something that is fundamental to her as a person ("I'm not good enough and I never will be") rather than a bad fit for that particular occupation. All of their jobs, notably, also centre around fitting into a collective whole (assassins, crownguards) that serve — conceptually in their own minds — as protectors of Something Bigger Than Themselves (their monarchs/kingdom, their people, etc): "[Soren] told [Corvus] that the young king was not only Katolis’ hope, but all of Xadia’s" / "for all of Xadia" / "I had convinced myself I was a peacemaker".

For Viren, his job is intrinsically tied to his search for self-esteem and self-importance. Given that Viren wants to find external sources to prop up his internal sense of self ("I thought you were going to be something special, something important"), he pursues jobs/actions that will make him important, largely in proximity to power ("the Dragon King and Queen kept this closest to where they slept; it must be important"). It is unsurprising therefore that being High Mage was always going to make him at least a little deranged, being that close to power ("it is an honour to serve him") while still be constantly reminded that you matter less than the person at the very top, hence his desire to eventually be king when his loop of validation with Harrow is irreparably broken. Viren sees his job as high mage (and as king) as being a protector, but in a less genuine way than the prior 3 discussed above do: this may be what he tells himself, but there's still prickles of self-awareness, especially when he coins Kpp'Ar: "Without dark magic, you're just a frail old man. You're no one. I am the High Mage of Katolis. I have power, purpose—" (dying for Harrow would've given him purpose, proved that he'd mattered). His job doesn't justify his actions so much as give him wider reach in which to make 'uniquely good decisions for the greater good of everybody himself', and therefore makes himself somebody.

For Callum, your job is a restriction and/or entirely separate from who you are and what you/he wants. He finds his title as high mage stuffy, he's decently inconsistent in the post, it's something he does find some pride (5x07) in, but that's still mostly tied to being a primal mage at all ("I'm the first human to do primal magic") which is tied to his desire for agency and to have his agency recognized (power, external) > internalized pursuit of self worth the way it might've been in earlier seasons (s1, maybe s2). We see him emotionally toss the job away with very little fanfare (consistently leaving the castle without hesitation; trying to leave the meeting; being distracted at the meeting to the point of barely paying attention) even before he does so directly. While this could be a fit of "right guy wrong occupation," Callum is someone pretty defined by 1) not letting anyone put him in a box (so much of s2) and 2) not listening, by proxy, to anyone else around him. He consistently goes against people's expressed wishes — right or wrong — and only takes up Viren's staff (something passed down between high mages) after he's abandoned the job. Callum is a wild card who will not let anything restrain him, taking only mage as an identifier and leaving most other things (except "Ezran's brother" and "Rayla's partner") entirely out to dry if it gets in his way.

[perplexingluciddreams]

I love reading fanfiction to better understand characters I watched in a TV show or film. I can get to know them so much better from the words on a page, than watching them and hearing them speak.

I see patterns in facial movements, I see gait patterns, I see patterns in the shapes made by limbs and bodies. I hear intonation changes in voices like music. I notice patterns everywhere - it is making sense of these patterns and connecting things with their meanings that I struggle with, greatly.

When it comes to real people, if I watch long enough, I start to pin the meaning to these repeated movements and expressions and sounds. With fictional characters, I can't do that, as I can't ask them what their own behaviour means. I am unable to "read between the lines" at all.

When I read, the words hand me the meaning at the same time as explaining the visual or auditory that goes along with it. There is less necessary "reading between the lines", as those gaps are filled by words much more than on a TV show, where there is only dialogue.

I can tell when dialogue is cleverly written, I can find links and patterns, I can recognise when there is a reference to something - either that happened earlier in the show or timeline, or to something external that I am not aware of. My difficulty is that I simply don't understand it. I can't get all of that information from reading, either, but I certainly have a lot less gaps to fill.

Afterwards, I can rewatch and have a much deeper understanding of the characters. I start to be able to see them as fully-formed people, rather than just the words they say from the script.

I like to read different people's interpretations, also. Whilst it can be confusing, not knowing which interpretation I agree with more (as I can't much interpret behaviour or figurative language at all, on my own), it is also useful in giving me different perspectives to consider.

I might read several different fanfictions on a specific character or pairing, then rewatch relevant scenes several times; each time with one of those fanfiction's interpretations in mind.

Some of my favourite characters ever only became so strongly favoured because I read a fantastic fanfiction revolving around them, and started to understand them beyond the lines of a script.

[thecaffeinatedlich]

Asexual!Viktor Headcanons/Thoughts/Rambles

(Hi Jayvik nation. Yes, I know. But I'm ace and these are my headcanons (and my self-projecting on the blorbo). I'm not against the ship at all. I just want to ramble about my various ace shipping ideas.)

Also, i'll be upfront and say I don't want perfect "good representation." My fave romantic relationships in fiction tend to be ones where everybody has something wrong with them and is a little fucked up and things are sometimes messy and weird. Sometimes they are messy and weird on the way to everyone figuring their shit out. Sometimes they just stay messy and weird because that works, more or less, for these characters. So, jsyk, I am not looking for or trying to create Good Ace Rep here.

If any of this bothers you, please move on. I'm just chatting to find like-minded folks in fandom, not trying to convert anyone to my ways, yanno?

Asexual, not necessarily aromantic, but rather oblivious to it. I think he knows he's not really sexually attracted to anyone and finds this a relief because he'd much rather focus on science and has assumed that he also doesn't do romance. Compartmentalized other feelings or perhaps attributes them to admiration of a person. Romantic feelings steal in on the back of appreciation for competency.

I'd also say some internalized ableism is a part of it. It's hard to recognize and accept that other people may find you interesting or desirable when you resent your own body or are dealing with pain and other complications. (There's a whole side-talk to have about S2's "you don't need to fix yourself" bit but it's complex enough that it would derail this list.) Being ace can sometimes feel a little like another way to be a little broken.

Viktor seems a little touch-averse, which isn't necessarily an ace thing but sometimes goes hand in hand. Again, pain and disability can contribute to that. But even when he's fairly healthy he tends to have a little moment of like "what are- why are you doing that?" whenever he is touched. (Which. Relatable. As someone whose brain briefly turns to static when ppl touch me unexpectedly. Jayce is BIG on casual touch tho. Like, "Jayce reaches out to touch" should be on your drinking game lists.) There can be an interesting internal tug-of-war between not really desiring touch yet having some touch hunger. You might not be hungry for hugs and kisses or sexual acts and if that was the only menu you've ever been shown, you've never known how to get your touch hunger sated. The slow discovery that you would like to be touched by someone actually if they can cater to your tastes. The exploration and negotiation of how you'd like to be touched, in the hands of someone who cares enough to listen and follow your lead, and who you trust enough to stop when you need them to stop. I don't know if it's "sexy" really, but there can be a potent fantasy in bodily autonomy when you have a body where being touched at all is Complicated.

The man is oblivious to the idea that anyone would be attracted to him or interested in him. Pretty normal for aces. I've been on at least one date without realizing it was a date until someone pointed that out to me. Yes, I think this is great fanfic fodder and more people should write about aces being absolute dumbasses and failing their perception rolls when it comes to people trying to date them.

Speaking of dumbass asexual moments. The "bedroom door" line. This is 100% the sort of thing that would come out of my mouth without a thought regularly when I was in my twenties. (and sometimes now....). Like "night + door = bedroom" clearly that is the most natural explanation with zero thought about the implications that he is ostensibly taking an attractive man to his room in the middle of the night because that is not a thought at the forefront of his mind. (certainly not when he's thinking about science!). Please imagine someone having to explain the impression he may have made on Mel if she read a sexual implication he did not mean into that. (or Jayce)

Asexual-romantic yearning. Sometimes, when you're ace but not entirely aromantic, you still get crushes on people. Sometimes you don't entirely figure that out until you find yourself resenting your best friend's new romantic partner for taking up all their time (away from you.) TBH, I don't think Viktor would mind Mel that much if she wasn't dragging Jayce into politics that are interfering with the sciencebro goals. But it's fun to add a soupçon of romantic jealousy to that. A "hey how dare you get between me and my Best Friend and our special something I haven't examined too closely but oops it's load-bearing!"

Also, like, after being the focus of someone who you Admire, with your life entwined with theirs, your goals aligned, feeling like a partner in more ways than just work....and then they go off and fall in love with someone else? Someone who can satisfy their sexual needs? Well. He knows he can't do that. Time to double down on science time! Not just because of the, yanno, rapidly imminent death thing. That's a big part of it, of course. But also, there are feelings here that make no logical sense. What better way to tune them than delving into work! The work you SHOULD be doing with your PARTNER! It's fine! (It is not fine.)

(That said. I'm totally here for some sort of Viktor-Jayce-Mel poly thing. Mostly for fluff and fun reasons, but I think it's just barely workable in more canonical works too, fwiw)

Pining. Imagine. Viktor is asexual and full of complicated feelings about his own self-worth and desirability, but he's got this Partner situation pretty locked down and that's great and then in comes this gorgeous, intelligent, powerful woman who seems to effortlessly entice his partner away and can offer him so many things he can't or doesn't want to offer Jayce. Imagine belatedly figuring out that some of his feelings are romantic but not being sure that matters if Jayce has found someone who can fulfill him, mentally, emotionally and sexually. And Jayce is his friend and, as annoying as the politics are, he knows bringing these raw untested emotions into the light isn't going to help anyone and anyway Jayce is happy. Right? But he has to sit there. With those feelings. Pining for an idea of the future that slipped out of his grasp even before he realized he wanted it.

Again, the "you didn't need to fix yourself" bit at the end of S2 has problems, but boy howdy, if you're ace there's definitely a fear that an allosexual partner would always choose someone they can have sex with over you. That scene hit like a truck for me. Seeing an allosexual character choose a partner I had categorized as ace over his allosexual lover? BAM! And it looked like it hit Viktor that way too. Being SEEN. On so many levels!

[chemeytechsolutions-blog]

Chemey is preferred Global Supplier of safety railing systems, Hard yet portable Barricades, fall protection solutions and safe access equipment for working at height.

[screambirdscreaming]

One time on the bus I sat next to a visibly very stressed and exhausted middle-aged woman and, upon offering basic social niceties, recieved an absolute deluge of information about everything that had gone wrong with her day

During the course of which I was gradually able to put together that she worked in middle-management / marketing (?) for a candy corporation (?) and had spent the day at a fair in which candy was marketed *to be marketed* (???)

Like. The attendees of this fair were candy corporations, presenting new candy-brand ideas, and grocery corporations, deciding which of these new candy types they would stock at their stores. Which she did not tell me, exactly, so much as rattled off a bunch of incomprehensible things about trends in candy marketing which I was somewhat able to put together were not about *customer* marketing, but about marketing to other corporations about what you thought their customers wanted - or rather, would want, once you'd made other entirely different marketing campaigns to convince them they wanted it.

There was however a person-sized standee of an m&m. Not an insignificant portion of rant time was devoted to logistical problems involving the standee.

She had with her a grocery bag full of candy which she ate pieces of, semi-compulsively, between sections of the rant. She did not offer me any.

I guess it's not that hard of a job to describe, but, it tops my personal charts for "job I would not ever have been able to predict existed," and also "job for which I cannot begin to imagine the day to day work experience". And also for that matter, "job which I can't really see the point of having exist", although that last one is a pretty hotly contested category.

[conceptuma]

and I do think the characters I take a mysterious and/or obsessive interest in have always been indications of my own personal unfulfilled needs or deficiencies.

... like why do I take a mysterious interest in Green Tea Mousse Cookie (albeit not completely obsessive) ??? I should love black pearl and eternal sugar more right now, because they're more appealing to me.

But it's actually kind of like I want GTMC's self-assured confidence despite her very selfish greed. She seems so healthy and secure and has a functional relationship with her sisters, and yet she's greedy as hell?! She even says cringe shit like "Yessir-ree-bob!" in the English translation... I want to be this secure.

After all, if I like her, then it must mean that being like this doesn't inherently mean everyone will despise or antagonize you... (disregarding the fact that she's fictional- she's more flanderized than I, a nuanced human, would be, anyways)

Not being held down by others' perceptions of you is security / self-love, as I've been talking a lot about lately. But growing that (and uprooting obstacles) is an effort everyday, since it's working on improving the relationship between you and yourself.

[marveltraininguk]

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Scaffold Split Bay (SB) Coupler to Germany - Wellmade China - Allround R...

[excelsior9173]

omfg my family

my grandpa has always been an “i’ll do it myself” kind of guy, there’s literally nothing he doesn’t know how to do at this point

he just dropped a few INSANE photos in the family group chat…. just about died using a grinder today because the disk broke and launched the machine at him 🤦‍♀️ shredded his shirt and yet somehow he is miraculously unscathed…

i am going to die of heart failure because of my family dear god

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[theskywithin]

Profection Years: The Year Your Soul Turns the Page ( all houses )

Every birthday, your chart shifts without announcement. Like a chapter turning behind your back. You wake up the next morning and something feels different, not louder, not clearer, just undeniable. A new lesson, humming beneath the skin. A new part of you asking to be heard. This is the language of profection years. Twelve-year cycles. One house activated each year. One ruling planet holding the light. Not as fate, but as focus. A lens you start to see your whole life through, whether you mean to or not.

1st House Profection Year

This is the year you become the ground you stand on. Everything begins at the body. Not your image, not your reputation, your pulse. Your breath. The primal instinct underneath the performance. This year, the mask slips. The old names don't fit. You’re not becoming someone new, you’re being emptied of who you were never meant to be. This is the year you remember that identity is not a fixed state but a skin that sheds itself as you grow. You’re rebuilding your reflection from the inside out. The soul reclaims the steering wheel. It’s raw. It’s personal. It’s you before the world asked you to be anything else.

2nd House Profection Year

This is the year you learn what can’t be stolen. Your sense of worth gets stripped to the roots. Not in punishment, in purification. The external scaffolding you’ve leaned on, money, possessions, praise, begins to wobble, not because you're losing, but because your soul is asking: what remains when the performance ends? This year teaches you how to hold value the way the Earth holds water: quietly, unshakably, beneath the surface. You become your own source. You learn to eat from your own garden. To own what no one can take. Not status. Not salary. But presence. Breath. Trust. This is the year you stop renting your worth from the world.

3rd House Profection Year

This is the year your mind becomes a labyrinth and a lantern. You start hearing yourself differently. Not just what you say, but what you repeat. The questions that loop. The beliefs that follow you like shadows. This year doesn’t just sharpen your thoughts, it exposes the architecture of your perception. The stories you've inherited. The phrases you use to keep things safe. You may pick up a pen, speak something out loud, or realize your voice is not what you thought it was. This isn’t the year to silence yourself. It’s the year to trace every thought back to its origin and rewrite the script. Let your language become your liberation.

4th House Profection Year

This is the year your bones begin to speak. You are returning to the memory underneath everything. The quiet ache you’ve carried without knowing. This year opens a door inside your bloodline. A hallway of dreams and ghosts, inherited fears and forgotten promises. It is not always visible. This is underground work. The soul is excavating. You may feel the need to nest, to disappear, to go soft and silent. Trust it. Your roots are being rewritten. You are learning how to be your own home, not in theory, but in texture. In silence. In surrender. In the stories you’re finally willing to unlearn.

5th House Profection Year

This is the year your joy stops asking for permission. There’s a kind of freedom that can only be accessed through the body, through laughter, through mess, through art that makes no sense and needs no explanation. This is the year you stop explaining. The year your soul kicks the door down and demands to feel. Not to perform pleasure, but to practice it. To remember what desire feels like without shame hanging from its neck. Creation becomes instinct. Romance becomes ritual. The world wants to see you bloom and you finally let it, without trimming the petals. This is the year you take up space just because it feels good.

6th House Profection Year

This is the year your healing becomes a rhythm, not a rescue. Forget transcendence. This is the year you meet your healing on the ground. In the dishes. In the breath before you say yes. In how you talk to yourself when no one’s around to listen. This isn’t glamorous. It’s intimate. You begin to notice how much you’ve abandoned your own body in the name of being "productive." You start to listen. To tend. To show up for yourself not as a performance, but as a promise. Every act of care becomes a rebellion. Every pause, a prayer. You’re not being fixed, you’re being fortified. This is devotion, not duty. This is the rebuild.

7th House Profection Year

This is the year you meet yourself in the eyes of another and flinch. Relationships stop being theory. They become threshold. The mirror gets too clear to avoid. Suddenly, the way you give, the way you vanish, the way you perform being “easy to love”, it all surfaces. You may fall for someone. You may fall out of a version of yourself. But either way, you see. This isn’t just about connection, it’s about reflection. You’re meeting parts of you you left behind in other people’s hands. This year asks: Can you be held without disappearing inside it? This is the reckoning. And the repair.

8th House Profection Year

This is the year you lose what you thought you needed, and find what you were born to carry. There is no easy way to write this year. Only truth. Something ends. Something breaks. Something is stripped from your grip not because you did something wrong, but because you’re not supposed to carry it anymore. This is the year of thresholds. Of intimacy so deep it undoes you. Of power reclaimed from the ruins of performance. You learn to trust again, not blindly, but fully. You may grieve. You may tremble. You may finally understand what surrender actually means. This is the year the soul gets honest. And the body learns how to survive without the armor.

9th House Profection Year

This is the year your soul packs a bag and leaves before you understand why. Restlessness isn’t a problem, it’s a message. Something in you wants out. Out of the story, out of the pattern, out of the room where you’ve been pretending to believe what no longer fits. This is a year of search. A year of seeking the language for what you’ve felt your whole life but couldn’t name. You may leave the country. Or just your comfort zone. But you go. Not to escape, but to expand. The soul wants the sky now, not for distance, but for perspective. You don’t need to be right. You just need to be open. And brave enough to follow the ache.

10th House Profection Year

This is the year you rise and decide what it’s for. Visibility comes. But so does the weight. The pressure. The temptation to let the world define your success. But this isn’t about applause. It’s about alignment. You are being asked to claim your voice in public. To live your purpose out loud. Not just in theory, but in action. What you build now will echo. This is legacy energy. It doesn’t have to be big. But it does have to be real. Let your ambition come from your integrity. Let your impact be rooted in truth. You’re not here to perform success. You’re here to redefine it.

11th House Profection Year

This is the year you remember: you’re allowed to be seen and still belong. The crowd becomes the mirror. This year, community comes into focus, not just for connection, but for reckoning. You begin to see where you’ve outgrown the rooms that once felt like home. You also start to imagine futures bigger than yourself. Dreams too heavy to carry alone. This is the year your vision expands. The year your people shift. The year you realize your soul doesn’t want to climb the mountai, it wants to build the village. What you imagine now can take root in the world. You’re not alone. You never were. Now you get to believe it.

12th House Profection Year

This is the year of disappearing to find what’s been buried beneath your name. Let it come undone. Let the noise go silent. This is not a year of rising, it’s a year of dissolving. You are being pulled inward now, not in weakness, but in necessity. You cannot carry this next chapter with your old patterns intact. This is the cocoon. The unraveling. The slow, sacred death before the new self takes form. You may need to retreat. To sleep. To cry for no reason. Let yourself. The soul is doing work the mind cannot name. Trust the quiet. Let the world forget you for a moment. So you can remember who you were before all the performance began.

Want to get to know your birth chart in a real, human way? My book unpacks it step by step, no fluff, just truth. Available here, and all digital platforms!!

[giddlygoat]

i hear a lot of people talk about how ford really beefed up and became this fit hunk over time, and like, i get where that’s coming from - he spent 30 years surviving dimension hopping and all kinds of other physically demanding stuff.

but i think it’s unfair to look at his trim waist and assume he’s healthy. i’ll level with y’all; ford just… isn’t. he doesn’t eat right [if he remembers to eat at all], he barely sleeps, and he’s always pushing his body to its limits in all the worst ways. sure, you look at stan’s beer gut and flabby arms and assume he’s the unhealthy one, but it’s not a matter of either-or here. neither of them take very good care of themselves.

and hey, regardless of whatever crap stan eats, at least he’s not notorious for skipping meals. i think it’s safe to say stan’s got his priorities straight when it comes to keeping food in the kitchen. also… did no one else see the episode where he climbed a mountain of scaffolding [while also punching literal eagles] and saved the kids from gideon’s trap? or that time he wrangled a pterodactyl? or fought off a hoard of zombies??

i’m throwing out these extreme instances to put things into perspective, but let it be said that even if he hadn’t done all that, even the ‘normal’ events in stan’s life keep him reasonably active. i guess what i’m saying is i’m tired of people insinuating that stan is the unhealthy or careless twin while ford is some kind of hunky specimen.

they both got issues, and they could both use some good, home-cooked meals. being thin doesn’t necessarily = healthy just as being fat doesn’t necessarily = unhealthy. you know the drill

[sneaky-tank]

Working on building a cutie a new body.

Walking them through the configuration process of their new skeleton, taking measurements like a tailor, fine tuning offsets and sizes via VR motion tests.

Either ship of theseus conversion of their brain or taking a scan while holding their hand.

Helping them build the skills to control peripherals from limbs to sensors.

Starting the print for their brand new skeleton, nerves, and the tooling for molding their soft features.

Watching their body slowly coalesce from different lentil-like plastic pellets used artfully and intentionally.

Installing and sealing their brain into their skeleton, so they can feel and enjoy the process of being freed from their soluble support structure.

Manually washing them down with solvents to melt away all the support scaffolding, freeing up their joints for the very first time and testing their range of motion before they even have their motors installed.

Taking them out of the spray down station and dutifully bolting each of their motors in place, crimping ferrules onto the leads, and connecting their motors and encoders for the very first time.

Giving them a few moments to amble around on their own, doing the pre-overmolding checklist to ensure they can hold the right position as their soft features are molded on.

Finally, you lead them gently by the hand to the molding machine, they stand in place, and a suit of armor specifically tailored to them assembles around them to have the spaces filled with their soft artificial skin.

Indecent for the first time in their new life, you kiss them on the cheek and dress them in the standard hospital gown and guide them to the auto-tailor that has already sewn their new outfits of choice to perfectly match their new form.

For the first time in their life, everything fits. Perfectly. Not a single hitch or tear, everything just as tight or loose as they want it. They fill out their outfit perfectly and you stand there in awe even though this is your 6,735th time. It really never gets old.

This time is special though, because you'll be spending the rest of your unnatural lives together. This is the last hour of your last day, and you walk out for the last time. For the first time hand in hand with your gorgeous handsome beautiful cute adorable pretty breathtaking perfect partner.

It's time to enjoy eternity, together, no need to worry about 'in sickness or in health', and death will never do us part.

[legendaryvermin]

So my home ttrpg group is between longform games right now, and I have been planning to bring a bunch of games to them this weekend as options for what we might play next. However, I have been trying to figure out how to talk about the games in a way that doesn't rely as much on me explaining the vibes to them.

I know that people have a bunch of qualitative categories for how they explain games, but I find the idea of saying things like Dark Fantasy OSR, or Lesbian Goofball PBTA less helpful when talking about how games actually play, especially when two games in the same category are like, wildly different in the way they use their frameworks.

So I invented a 6 axis, 1 to 5 star rating scale for TTRPGs that you are free to borrow when talking to groups, or whatever.

TTRPG 5 Star Rating Matrix

Width

What is the scope of this game? Is it narrowly about one thing or does it encompass many types of play? (Credit to friend of the blog @ostermad-blog for this one, they came up with it from my draft)

Weight

How much cognitive load does the player need to bear? Do rules often need to be referenced verbatim? Can those rules fit on a handout?

Wargame

Is the player expected to apply tactical acumen? Is movement tracked tightly or loosely? Does a bad build punish a player?

Writers Room

How much are players expected to make narrative choices and drive the story without the rules scaffolding them? Does this game fall apart without excellent improvisational storytellers?

(Prep)Work

Does this game require a lot of pre-planning by the facilitator? Are there intricate systems to attend to outside of table play? Can I put in the same amount of time as other players and still have everyone leave happy? 

Whimsy

Expected tone of the game. Does this game have difficult thematic elements baked in? Is the core subject or role in the game high or low risk?

Here are some games I know well and how I calibrated them:

I have breakdowns of what each star rating means below the cut if you're curious. Happy Gaming!

Width

⭐ - As written, the game has basically one mode of play, or one thematic core that it meditates on. May have phases, but textural difference is minimal.

⭐⭐ - As written, there are at least two modes of play, but the scope of that play is highly thematically focused or highly dependent on using the game’s own lore. Might have only one kind of character (e.g. Mech Pilot) that it supports. Has limited tools outside of the primary mode of play.

⭐⭐⭐ - Has a variety of modes of play, but may be rigid in their execution. Might encompass multiple kinds of characters (e.g. Doctor, Lawyer, fighter) or character options. The narratives that this game tells within its setting are narrowed, a three word description tells you what kind of stories it can tell with consistency.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - Loose framework, but with some kind of thematic grounding. Describing the framework in 3 words doesn’t tell you the kind of stories that the game tells (e.g. Dark Fantasy, Star Wars Romp). 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- As written, this game is designed in such a way that it doesn’t put specific limits on what sorts of stories that it is meant to tell. It might ask players to define abilities or stats for themselves. The Facilitator is going to pitch a thematic grounding on top of the rules set.

One Star Examples: For the Queen, Dialect, Honey Heist Five Star Examples: Fate Core, Savage Worlds, GURPS

Weight

⭐ - It is reasonable for a player to be able to recite the rules from memory. The game may be prompt based, or driven by a flow of rules that are read aloud as played.

⭐⭐ - Players can hold most of the most important information about the game in their heads, with a page or less of rules reference needed to play smoothly. This reference could all fit neatly on the character sheet if one is present.

⭐⭐⭐ - Everything a player needs to know about the game is visible on less than 3 sheets of reference. Players are more or less expected to know exactly how their own abilities work in precise detail, and are unlikely to make a mistake in executing them.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - Players make extensive use of multiple reference sheets to keep rules moving smoothly. No external tools are needed, but players memorizing the details of all of their abilities is taxing. 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- Players and facilitators will prefer to make extensive use of external tools or reference to keep play moving smoothly. Expecting a player to have the exact details of their abilities memorized is not reasonable.

One Star Examples: For the Queen, Stewpot, Mobile Frame Zero: Firebrands Five Star Examples: Dungeons and Dragons 3-5e, Lancer, Edge of the Empire

Wargame

⭐ - As written, this game does not treat combat as mechanically different from any other aspect of play, or does not include narrative violence at all.

⭐⭐ - While players may engage in combat, it is minimally different from regular play. There may be tools or abilities for players to use to conduct a fight, but the texture of those fights is thematic, not mechanical. Narrative and consequence drive the action, not hit points.

⭐⭐⭐ - As written, combat has its own set of rules. This game may have some elements of buildcrafting, but either it is difficult to build something that doesn’t work, or the player may meaningfully invest in other modes of play and still find a commensurate level of satisfaction. If combat occurs, spacing is kept in mind, but is tracked in relative terms (range bands) or highly simplified (zone based combat).

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - This game has buildcrafting that is somewhat mandatory if players wish to survive a fight, but there is still a meaningful choice in choosing a non-combat role. It may use a grid or a spacing system to help players visualize the combat. Fights are driven by mechanics, not by narrative.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- To enjoy this game, players must spend time buildcrafting. If a player’s build is suboptimal, there may be significant parts of the intended experience that will either feel tedious, or that the player will not have meaningful access to. This game is played on a grid.

One Star Examples: Wanderhome, Dialect, Belonging Outside Belonging Five Star Examples: Lancer, Dungeons and Dragons 3-5e, Valor

Writers Room

⭐ - Players in this game are not expected to provide much in the way of narrative substance. Story is something that is driven by external input or tools, and players are there to imagine and react. The player need not separate the self from the character they play in any meaningful way.

⭐⭐ - The mechanics of this game drive most of the narrative, or else the narrative is set for the players by an external source or player. Players are encouraged to play optimally rather than dramatically, but do have room for expressing the identity of their character within the game’s mechanical frameworks.

⭐⭐⭐ - While the game does provide strong scaffolding to tell a story, the players present are expected to drive the story within those frameworks. The game’s systems create and resolve conflict on their own, but works best when the players are willing to choose the dramatically interesting option even if it mechanically non-optimal.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - The game provides some mechanical tools that create and resolve drama, but there is a significant expectation that the players are buying into and driving the game’s thematic concepts. Players are the ones deciding what the scenes should be and when to end them, but mechanics still help determine outcomes.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- The players are expected to drive the narrative at all times. Tools for deciding what scenes to do and when to end them are limited, optional, or vague. There is no meaningful scaffolding that creates conflict or resolution, it is incumbent on those present to manifest those things.

One Star Examples: Alice is Missing, Ribbon Drive, For the Queen Five Star Examples: Wanderhome, Systemless RP

(Prep)Work

⭐ - Facilitators are not expected to do work outside the time at the table. All rules can be read while the game is played. No memorization is needed.

⭐⭐ - This game expects the facilitator to have read the rules in advance, but the rules are so few that they can be run from a single reference sheet. At times, the facilitator must think about and potentially advance and adjust the narrative of the game behind the scenes. Prep is qualitative; answering questions about where the narrative is going to go, who will be there etc. The game can be run smoothly predominantly as improv.

⭐⭐⭐ - This game expects the facilitator to not only know the rules, but to imagine scenarios where the group must play. However, the scope of the scenario design is limited and qualitative. It takes a bit of pondering and perhaps a sketch and a few words of notes. Alternatively, the facilitator must design simple foes or track a simple background system. The work is trivial, and can be done with a bit of time before session.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - The facilitator of this game is expected to have run systems between games, or created usable maps or scenarios. Generally, games at this level have some reduced wargaming component. The facilitator might need to engage in enemy design, but the work is limited or imminently reusable. The work is non-trivial, and failing to do it will somewhat impact the quality of play.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- The facilitator of this game puts in significant time between sessions engaging in game design activities. They are expected to plan narratives, write NPCs, draw maps, run significant background systems, and design enemies and combat encounters. The work is significant outside of play, and failing to do it beforehand will result in a worse table experience.

One Star Examples: For the Queen, Alley-Oop, Lasers and Feelings Five Star Examples: Lancer, D&D 3-5e, Stars Without Number, Edge of the Empire

Whimsy

⭐ - This game’s thematic core is considered dark, taboo, or difficult, and separating the game’s mechanical features from this subject matter is next to impossible. Games with horror elements almost certainly fit within this category. These games encourage extensive pre-play safety talks.

⭐⭐ - This game is designed to look at dark subject matter, but doesn’t expect the player to spend all of their time there. Players explore difficult topics, but may get to choose what topics to explore, or when to explore them. Games with political messaging/commentary tend to fit this category. These games encourage pre-play safety talks.

⭐⭐⭐ - This game may have dark aesthetics, but doesn’t enforce them mechanically. Alternatively, there are mechanics that address difficult topics in broad strokes, but players are given leeway in the rules with how any difficult topics are approached. These games may encourage safety talks. 

⭐⭐⭐⭐ - This game may have the option to explore dark topics, but none of the mechanics are tied to such topics. This game may have violence in its aesthetics, but players may choose to adjust the aesthetics at the table to suit their comfort. These games tend not to talk about safety in their text.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐- This game is designed to focus on thematic material that is considered to be relatively safe. The game is unlikely to tread into violence or trauma without effort.

One Star Examples: Trophy Dark, Dungeon Bitches, Vampire the Masquerade Five Star Examples: Honey Heist, Princess World, Beach Episode

The system here isn't about what's good or bad, to be clear. I think there are good and bad games at every level of these categories, but when I think about what my game group is good at and comfy with, I don't think we go in for things at like the 5 end of the Writers Room scale. It's too much work, and most of them aren't pro improvisers.

Similarly, if we play another game that is a 4 or 5 on the PrepWork category, I don't have time to run it these days. So this helps me make practical choices about our next game.