#theory is it's mid 2000s

[thrilling-oneway]

just over two weeks until school idol musical live action tv show :)

[williambeckettfan36]

intro post because why not

name: margot

pronouns: she/her however it really doesn’t matter call me whatever your heart desires

i am english and alternate between intense patriotism and a burning hatred for the country

likes: drawing, writing, mcr, musicals, emo/scene subculture and music, the 2000s, grishaverse, tbbt, 30rock, iasip (basically just most comedies/sitcoms), being chronically online

dislikes: the rain (probably my number one opp), all the obvious evil people.., erm idk but there’s probably more

this is me 🍎

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

Listen to me. galadriel is a prince of the noldor she is like the only one that survives to the time when there is any possibility of being forgiven and going home but she says No thank you. I do not need your charity handouts. and she is rival to feanaro and several thousand years later she would put some silmaril light in a jar for a little freak with ZERO consequences or curses or kinslaying or shipburning, this was literally just a skill issue feanor. it's literally just you. she is literally perfectly quil because tolkien's sexism and his noldo fetish canceled out exactly perfectly to create her. when hamlet says "in thy orisons be all my sins remembered" and i in high school thought he meant "be a living monument to my sins"? she kind of is.

and when she gets to doriath she falls in love with a character who, so far as i can recall, does not have a single speaking line. you tell me there's not something hideously erotically wrong with him that jirt was just too catholic to perceive

[abirdie]

The language of love

Article from The Guardian, 1 May 2005 (x)

[For anyone interested, here's a collection of photographs of Gael in Blood Wedding]

By Kate Kellaway

Mexican actor Gael García Bernal has the film world at his feet, so what made him come to London to perform Lorca in front of a small audience?

I spot García Bernal before being introduced and allow myself to stare at him for a moment: the Mexican star of films such as Y Tu Mamá También, Bad Education and The Motorcycle Diaries is wearing a knitted cap that only someone unoppressed by worry about his appearance would sport. It looks like a tea cosy with funny earflaps, in all the colours of a Peruvian rainbow. He is short and slender (usually described as 5ft 5in but which he has recently amended to 5ft 7in). In the absence of a tape measure, the main point is that, in this headgear, he looks like a sensationally handsome pixie. Gael is about to star in Federico Garcia Lorca's Blood Wedding at the Almeida. Director Rufus Norris, who made his name with Festen (an adaptation of Thomas Vinterberg's Dogme film) talked him into it. It's a coup by any standards because Gael has acquired almost mythical status as a film actor and could be forgiven for making his fortune with a new movie rather than hanging around Upper Street, Islington, earning peanuts.

I spent the morning before meeting him with a DVD of The Motorcycle Diaries. I watched Gael's young Che Guevara travel from Buenos Aries to Venezuela (7,800 miles) and repeatedly fall off a Norton motorbike into the dust. I observed him waiting at the edges of rooms until girls invited him to dance and he - ineptly - complied. In the film, he is self-contained, elsewhere. He is warm and aloof at the same time. His hair is short and smooth. It's the 1950s. His gaze is steady. His eyes are indeterminately green. Shyness, reserve and non-participation are part of the draw.

But in the Almeida's upstairs office, 26-year-old Gael does not qualify as wallflower material (he is a demon dancer, salsa a speciality). He bobs into the room: open, sweet, puppyish. Disarmingly, he kisses me on the cheek, sits down, plucks off the hat and lays it neatly on the table in front of him. He has long, unruly dark hair, a hippyish T-shirt and lumpy, scuffed black shoes. He sits down and looks at me with that gaze, applying himself to my questions with a concentration they cannot deserve. It is the same quality of attention he brings to his work. I say I've been watching him come off his bike all morning - did he get hurt? 'In some cases, yeah.' Serious acting? 'Serious reacting,' he jokes.

Gael's English is ambitious. When he can't find the right word, he swears but does not give up, garlanding his sentences with alternatives. He loves Lorca. He believes Lorca has the power to make English audiences thaw, to become aware of the emotions we have mislaid, passions we will now be able to name. 'The passions of people in this country, they are not aware of until they discover Lorca,' he maintains. And for himself: 'Lorca can be related to everything in my life.'

Gael plays Lorenzo, who is more an emotion than a character, driven by a sexual obsession that will - when he steals away with his former sweetheart on her wedding day to another man - prove fatal. Gael identifies with this: 'Passion is inflammable, it can spark out into impetuous actions that lead to disaster in most cases.' He adds a puzzling postscript: 'Unfortunately, I am born in a time and place and context in which I don't even allow myself to put the kettle on. I just let things happen.' I try to get him to elucidate (how does he make a cup of coffee?) in vain. My translation: his love life is out of his control (the kettle's metaphorical).

He is clearer on the subject of theatre itself, expressing gratitude at being on stage because 'theatre is present tense'. But he is scared: 'I ask myself: am I going to have that complexity? That intensity?' He is learning to trust the language, let it work for him. Acting, he finds, helps with whatever he is feeling in his own life. 'If I am in distress or in a crisis, I can surf that pain [he is a keen surfer and footballer]. As an actor, you exercise emotions, you play with them as a guitarist might use his fingers. It's a workout.'

Gael seems so ready to wear his heart on his sleeve that I ask him what it is like being described as a romantic idol ('doe-eyed soulfulness' … 'superbly handsome and charismatic') and gossiped about as Natalie Portman's ex-boyfriend, or speculated over as a potential partner for Keira Knightley. He smiles. Please tell me honestly, I say. 'Very honestly, it is hard for me to see an outside perspective on myself. It is hard - and I don't share it. I wake up every day, look at myself in the mirror and I am the same person who looked into the mirror every morning when I was scared shitless of going to school. But I suppose there must be a map of time passing somewhere.'

Gael's 'map of time' started in Guadalajara, where he was born. His father Jose Angel Garcia and his mother Patricia Bernal were actors and he grew up in an intellectual, left-wing household. Aged three, he played Jesus (starting at the top) in the middle of a lake. As a teenager, he moved to Mexico City and starred in local soap operas. In 1997, he trained at London's Central School (he has described London as 'staid and lonely') before getting a breakthrough role in Alejandro González Iñárritu's Amores Perros (Love's a Bitch). When last in London, he used to work in Cuba Libre, down the road from the Almeida, mixing cocktails. He modelled for a boutique in Hoxton. He worked on building sites. Has London improved? 'London leads to introspection. People go home every night to think, sleep and clean.' In Mexico City, he could be '20 different people leading 20 social lives'. In London, when he rings a friend and asks: 'Would you like to do something?', he has learnt to expect the reply: 'No, I am just chilling out…' He likes London's introspection, he says. He has such nice manners. But his ambition is to keep working in Mexico and Latin America and to travel. He loves 'the crazy feeling that your house is becoming bigger'. And travel preserves his freedom: 'I want to go on feeling incredibly innocent.'

Not that he is innocent, really. There is no mistaking his political conscience. Before he became an actor, he taught literacy to the Huicholes Indians. Later, he took part in the peaceful uprising of the state of Chiapas in support of Marcos Zapatista's rebels. And he did not think twice about speaking out at the Oscars, against the Iraq war. He has only made one Hollywood film so far: The King, with Daryl Hannah [this is an odd mistake for Kellaway to make, because Laura Harring replaced Hannah before filming started; also, it wasn't technically a 'Hollywood' film, although that error's more understandable]. It is easy to see why he might prefer work in Venezuela or Islington.

Five minutes left. I ask about the hat. 'It means so much to me. It was a gift from a woman in Peru when I was making Motorcycle Diaries. It has been with me for a while. We were staying in the houses of poor people who would give us everything they had.' Last question: His dream part? 'Harry Potter. I'd love to fly.' 'The Broomstick Diaries?' He laughs and says goodbye.

Exit Gael. Enter Rufus Norris, who tells me about travelling to Mexico with his wife hoping to hire Gael for Blood Wedding. Rufus predicted it would take 'at least a couple of days.' But as soon as they met, Gael said: 'I've said yes - d'you want a beer?' Rufus describes Gael as 'completely unpretentious. He remains a Mexican by which I mean he appears not to have a dollar sign tattooed on his bottom.' As an actor, what Rufus most values is that Gael is 'so open. He can be very masculine but there is a vulnerability there too, he has complete access to it.' (In Almodovar's Bad Education, he dazzled as a transvestite). But he knows Gael is a gamble: 'I have never seen him on stage so it might not work.'

Being conscious of what 'might not work' is Rufus Norris's thing. It is 'almost a rule' to take on work that frightens him: 'I need to be very scared.' He has been feted everywhere, winning the Evening Standard's Outstanding Newcomer theatre award in 2001, but at 40, he is no longer the new kid on the block. He is 'expected to deliver'. As a director, he is fastidious, a class act. Festen (shortly to transfer to Broadway) ran with Rolls Royce smoothness. But Blood Wedding is more of a horse-drawn vehicle - driven by poetry and symbolism.

What the plays have in common is extreme emotion. I wonder if it is difficult getting actors to go to the edge? 'Actors are always happy to go to extremes but for the audience that is not very interesting. What is more interesting is seeing the spark that causes the emotion.' A person in 'the extreme throes of passion' is often 'unbelievable' to an audience. He nips round the table and pulls up a chair a foot away from me. He instructs me to tell him to 'Fuck off'. I do as he asks, looking him in the eye. Then he tells me to act the emotion without words. I swivel round, turning away from him. An actions-speak-louder-than-words lesson. It gives me an inkling of what it might be like to be directed by him: fun - but not plain sailing.

Rufus loves working with his international cast (Icelandic, Irish, Dutch, Portuguese, Madagascan) and with his wife, Tanya Ronder, who has written a new adaptation of the play. 'She was an actress for years, she acted in Bernarda Alba, so has experience of what it is like to have those words in the mouth.' He is anxious not to be too tripped by cliche. Playwrights, he says, come with associations: Chekhov: 'Samovar, pale, depressed people in long coats, high ceilings. Ibsen: 'Similar - though coats are shorter, the people less suicidal and instead of a samovar, there is a fjord.' But with Lorca, all you get are peasants and heat. The lawyer for the Lorca estate told him: 'I've got one rule. Please… no castanets.'

There is no danger of anything naff from Norris. But he hasn't finished with me: 'How would you do heat?' he wants to know. 'Bright lights?' I suggest. 'Cicadas?' (more tentatively). 'Exactly,' he exclaims, 'that would be the cliche. Bring on the cicadas.' I have definitely not got the job of assistant director. But actually, I reflect later, he shouldn't worry too much about temperature. Even on a dark, cicada-free stage, Gael García Bernal is guaranteed to turn up the heat.

[galactic-rhea]

The Midi-chlorian essay only a few asked

(or, How Is Anakin Skywalker a walking biological horror)

So I made this post and a few were actually interested, also i needed to write down all of this or I wouldn't be able to sleep.

The way I went just from "hahaha they're just mitochondria before becoming forced symbionts and losing all autonomy" to the Medical Horror that would be Anakin Skywalker .

Let me explain, going from this theory, let me tell you that the average mammal cell can have between 800 to 2000 mitochondria. In Star Wars we're told that the average living being, has 2500 midi-chlorians per cell. The difference isn't that big, so we can assume that mid-chlorians are smaller than our real-life mitochondria, and it would make sense since the mitochondria have the best possible living conditions, whereas midi-chlorians, if they're free-life bacteria (as in, they aren't forced to live in the cells of another being) it would make sense if they're just smaller, let's say, sneaky, to increment their chances at living.

So Midi-chlroains don't just produce ATP, Force sensitives have a minimum of 4000-5000 midi-chlorians per cell. That's...a big number, but not very horrific. See, the amount of mitochondria is related to how much energy the organic tissue requires. The cells of muscular tissue and neurons are the ones with the highest mitochondria count. Also the mitochondria in the neurons are mobile and flexible, because just thinking burns ATP.

We can assume that using The Force burns insane amounts of ATP, so I assume it makes sense for Force Sensitives to have big amounts of Midi-chlorians. But! The problem with this is that we're told that the Midi-chlorians are attracted to the force, not born within it. But any multicelullar organism (with a few exceptions) need the mitochondria. Mitochondria have their own ADN, and they're always inherited from the mother, so we can assume that there's two different types of midi-chlorians: The ones any normal being borns with, and the ones that get attracted because of the baby's force potential. Either that, or both the mithocondria and the midi-chlorians exist simultaneously.

Which means that Jedi (or anyone who wants to know, really) would need to take several blood tests for midi-chlorians count. Because a newborns midi-chlorian count wouldn't be the same through a babie's infancy. UNLESS...The midi-chlorian infection (yes, i'm calling it that) ocurrs already since the pregnancy, if the force is strong enough for a fetus to be a possible force sensitive in the future, then I guess the midi-chlorians would get attracted to the parent during the pregnancy as well.

WHICH BTW, IT FITS WITH PADMÉ BECOMING FORCE SENSITIVE, at least for a while, like the discarded ROTS concepts. But also, would mean, that poor Shmi became a hella strong force-sensitive person as well, at least for a while.

And it would be a biological advantage if we take this route, because it would possibly make the pregnant being stronger and with a higher supply of energy.

It also explains why the jedi would only take a single blood test when the force sensitive is just a baby, because the infection is already settled. It can also be argued, that any baby born with a fairly high amount of midi-chlorians (like the 4000 per cell count minimum) would only increase, if only slightly, as the force sensitive grows because the midi-chlorians will get attracted regardless.

There must be a limit, or more like, a balance, that the midi-chlorian and the force potential of the individual met. As in, there's just enough force within the individual for a certain number of midi-chlorian, and all of this is probably decided already during the fetus formation or very early on the baby's life.

Now, Anakin...would be an abomination. Because his cells are so full of midi-chlorians, that it's scary to think how the cells aren't exploding or downright giving malfunctions to the rest of the cellular organelles.

If we go by the route of "midi-chlorians start infecting the force sensitive host mother during pregnancy" it means there were high chances of a misscarriage or an incompatibility between Shmi and Anakin, because holy cow, Anakin is just too much.

But you know what also, it could potentially mean? That Padmé's pregnancy was a risky one, fron the start -slowly nods-. Luke and Leia's force potential was lower than Anakin's, but there's still a lot to unpack there in terms of compatibility. We are never given the exact count of midichlorian count for the twins, but let's pretend it was low enough for Padmé to not inmediatly have a miscarriage. That, and also, maybe, Padmé isn't strong in the force to manipulate it, but maybe just close enough for the pregnancy to be carried to term, let's say, her midi-chlorian count is 3900, close enough.

Something similar with Shmi, I'm taking for granted that she also had a difficult and risky pregnancy (on top of it being a pregnancy she had no agency). It becomes worse because, unlike the twins, Anakin is just...50% human. The only possible genes Anakin has are from Shmi. So he's probably...genetically, almost a clone of Shmi but with a massive infection of Midi-chlorians (yes, this implies that Anakin has homogametic sex chromosomes, aka XX, there's no other possible explanation because he literally only has Shmi's genes to work with!).

But he's Space Jesus, though,so let's pretend that the "no father genes" helped with this and allowed Anakin to grow into a...normal-ish baby despite it all.

Midi-chlorians must be extremelly small, closer to the size of a virus in this case, viruses vary on size and the way they infect the cells is by hijacking the nucleus, which then can produce more viruses instead of its own proteins. This can vary anywhere between a production of 50.000 to 100.000 viruses produced by infected cells.

Which, btw, still fits somewhat with the mitochondria theory, because mitochondrias are believed to have been from a genus of bacteria called Rickettsia, which used to be believed to be the in-between of Viruses and Bacteria due their small size and extreme endosymbiotism.

Still, we aren't even told how many midi-chlorians Anakin had, just that it was over 20.000 and thus the chart couldn't even register it. Even if we're just counting 21.000 midi-chlorians per cell, that's...a lot. Even if the relationship is symbiotic and positive in nature, that's excessive, an infected cell will usually die faster. So Anakin's cellular death must be on record time.

The life span of a cell varies highly depending of the type of cells, white cells can live about 2 days, others about 5, and then there's others that live about 6 years in average.

Forget all of that, Anakin's cells die anywhere between a few hours and a week. Which also means a super fast regeneration and healing (Hey! that tracks, that's how he didn't die even though he should have, on several ocassions).

But that's not the only problem here, the production of energy is strong with this one, too strong. Again this should make the cells burst due too much ATP because of an increase on osmotic pressure. Anakin is producing so much damn ATP (which we can assume it becomes glycogen stored in muscles and fat tissue) his need to be active and just doing something skyrockets, he might as well be the equivalent of being high on meth since birth.

The accelerated cellular formation and death, gives me the horrific idea that Anakin was probably one of these babies that are born premature, but also that he probably was bron with, idk, teeth and already lots of hair. Maybe that's also why he got so tall of all sudden, lots of cellular grow, huh.

Anakin seems to age normally by what are we given by canon. So despite it all, his life-span or aging doesn't seem to be compromised, this is probably because of how strong he is with the Force. In the sense that...he needs the midi-chlorians to handle this much power, but he also needs the force to handle with that many midi-chlorians, otherwise he would have been already born dead.

See, ageing has a lot to do with stem cells. Anakin's stem cells need to be highly prolific and potent to keep cellular division happening at such a high rate, we can infer that any force sensitive has potent stem cells, so the force must inherently affect stem cells. So Anakin's stem cells must be monstruosities in efficiency. If Anakin donated stem cells to someone else, that person would either have a strong inhumne reaction against them or they would get some of the worst cancer ever seen. Again I'm no expert, but the fact Anakin doesn't develop cancer at all as soon as he was born is already impressive. The rate in which Anakin's cells die must be ridiculous, even has a baby, he must have required tons of energy and endure lots of stress which...tracks. The fact he gets electroshocked, burned, gravely wounded or whatever every week or so, must help him to no develop some cancer, which is a bit funny.

But it would also mean he can go long periods of time without eating or resting like...a normal human. Not saying that he doesn't need it, though, but his neural activity and use of the force must be high at all times to burn out that much energy. Theoretically, the production of glycose and glycogen helps him through long periods without sleep or food so he doesn't get long-term damage, or at the very least the ability to keep going, like I said, maybe is like being on drugs all the time; there's still the need to sleep and eat, but he can push his body to keep surviving beyond what's considered normal without having long-term damage. (Don't get happy, this isn't taking into account all of the stuff that happens to him, lol)

The balance between burning too much energy and not burning enough must be insane as well. As Vader, a lot of this probably watered down because all of his energy must be saved for...you know, surviving all the torture. But as a young teen/man amist war? Oh boy.

I'm not an expert, but I'm theorizing that putting Anakin in an induced sleeep must be...fricking hard. Painkillers that work on him? fricking hard. Anesthesia? Probably the same used for big animals, he must be insane and awful for a doctor to work with! Just imagine it, he probably gets injured in such a way that would have anyone else fall unconscious, but Anakin remains awake and with tremendous amounts of adrenaline triggered by a stress response sustented by the extreme amounts of energy that the midichlorians produce.

When it happens in the central nervious system, excess of ATP can produce neuronal dysfunction. In fact, many degenerative mental illnesses have a lot to do with a malfunction of the mitochondrias. There's a corelation also with neurodivergency sometimes, like autism or ADHD. I will leave it there.

And with all of this...I also conclude that Anakin, on general basis, doesn't like sugary things and doesn't even rationalize why, but is because he has already enough glycose. Having something sugary probably gives him a headache.

God what has Star Wars done to me.

[seospicybin]

EVERMORE.

PROLOGUE

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (16k words)

Author's note: You guys asked for Hyunchan so here you go. As always, hope you enjoy it and don't forget to share your thoughts after ♡

Rock Royalty Welcomes a New Heir: Chris Bang Becomes a Father October 13, 2000 — by Robert Yang. Move over, guitars and groupies—Bang Theory’s wild-hearted frontman Chris Bang is now a dad. The 23-year-old rockstar and his longtime partner, beloved 90s "It Girl", welcomed their first child into the world early this morning at a private hospital in Seoul. A healthy baby girl named Tigerlily was born at 5:47 AM, weighing in at 3.1 kg, just hours after Chris wrapped his set at the Soundscape festival. “He cried. Both of them did,” a nurse from the delivery room said. “He looked more nervous than on stage.” Despite being known for his stage dives, pyrotechnics, and tabloid-worthy antics, insiders say the famously untamed musician turned into “a complete marshmallow” the moment he held his daughter for the first time. “She's got his nose and her mother’s everything else,” a source close to the couple shared. The pair has yet to release an official photo, but fans are already flooding forums with love and name guesses—though Tigerlily, a bold and whimsical choice, feels perfectly on brand for the iconic couple. No word yet on whether this new chapter means a break for Bang Theory, but one thing’s certain: Chris Bang just had his loudest, most life-altering debut yet. Rockstar? Yes. But now… Dad.

-

Tigerlily came into the world on a rainy Tuesday in October. The sky cracked open like a dramatic cue, thunder shaking the windows of the hospital room while you clutched the sides of the bed, barely old enough to drink but old enough to know your life was about to change forever.

You were twenty-two. The industry's darling, all soft glam and sharp edges, gracing every magazine cover and walking every red carpet with a gaze that dared people to look twice. Chris had just come off a whirlwind tour with The Bang Theory the rock band that had somehow become the voice of a generation overnight—gritty, golden, and chaotic in a way only the 90s could pull off.

He didn’t make it in time. Missed the delivery by two hours, stuck in a storm somewhere between the airport and the hospital. But when he burst through the hospital doors, hair damp and chest heaving, the world slowed down for just a second.

And then—Tigerlily.

Born screaming, like she already knew how loud the world could be and wasn’t afraid of it. She had your mouth and his eyes and the softest tuft of dark hair, like velvet. She stared at you both like she’d been waiting lifetimes to meet you.

She was born with the kind of name that sounded like she came from a song. And maybe she did. Bang Chan insisted on it—“She’s going to be a force,” he said. “She needs a name that doesn’t sit quietly.”

And she never did.

For the first five years of her life, her world was a tour bus. Not playgrounds or preschool, but green rooms and stadium seats. You learned how to swaddle her with one hand and fix your eyeliner with the other. She’d nap through soundchecks and dance barefoot on stage during rehearsals, curls bouncing as she clutched her little stuffed bunny.

She loved the hum of the road, the neon-lit nights, the way her dad would scoop her up mid-song and let her press her tiny hands over his guitar strings. She called every band member “uncle,” and by the time she was four, she could identify a Fender Strat by sight.

Sometimes, you worried she was missing out on normal things. But then you'd see her curled up in Chan’s lap as he strummed lullabies that weren’t written for the charts, or the way her eyes lit up when the crowd sang back to him.

She was safe. She was loved. And she was extraordinary.

And now, she stands under the golden light of a university auditorium, dressed in a powder blue gown, clutching her art degree in hands that once clung to your hair as you sang her to sleep.

You sit in the front row, surrounded by strangers, with pride ballooning so hard in your chest you think you might float right off the seat. Chris isn’t here—touring again, or producing, or lost in some other corner of the world. You’re used to it by now. So is Tigerlily.

Still, you clap until your hands sting, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

She didn’t just survive the whirlwind you brought her into—she bloomed in it. And in that moment, you realized—you didn’t just raise a daughter. You raised a woman who knew exactly who she was.

You wait just outside the auditorium, clutching a bouquet of Tiger Lilies—just like her name. The kind she used to doodle in the margins of her notebooks as a kid once she knew she is named after the flowers. The crowd spills out around you in waves: parents with cameras, graduates in gowns, professors in velvet hoods, all buzzing with joy and relief. But you only have eyes for her.

And then—there she is.

Tigerlily spots you instantly, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace she must’ve inherited from someone else entirely. Her gown flows behind her like a cape, and when she reaches you, she throws her arms around your neck without a word.

You breathe her in. She still smells like vanilla and that earthy perfume she never leaves the house without. You hold her a little tighter than you mean to.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper into her hair, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes.

She pulls back with a bright, tear-glossed smile. “Tulips,” she says, beaming. “You remembered.”

“I always remember.”

You hand her the bouquet, watching as she presses her nose into them with a soft sigh. For a second, you think you’ve made it through without a cloud. But then—

“Did Dad text you?”

The question comes gently, not accusing—just hopeful. You hesitate.

You shake your head. “No. He couldn’t make it.”

Tigerlily’s smile falters for the briefest second, but she nods like she was already bracing for it. She always was good at bracing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

You reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear the way you used to when she was five and nervous about her first ballet recital. “He’d be here if he could. You know that, right?”

She shrugs, looking down at the tulips. “I guess.”

You give her a soft nudge with your elbow. “He’s probably somewhere feeling miserable about it. You know how dramatic he gets. I’m sure he’s got his face buried in his hands, whispering lyrics about lost time into a notebook.”

That earns you a smile—small, but real.

“Anyway,” you continue, linking your arm through hers. “We have a reservation at Monarch. I even bribed them for extra truffle fries.”

“You never bribe restaurants,” she says, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Well,” you say, leading her toward the sidewalk, “you only graduate from college once. And we’re celebrating you. No distractions, no missed moments.”

Tigerlily squeezes your arm, resting her head on your shoulder as you walk.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You smile softly. “Always, my little cub.”

-

The restaurant is glowing, lit with soft amber lights that reflect off the polished windows and make everything feel a little more golden than real life. You guide Tigerlily through the front doors, her gown bunched in one hand, bouquet in the other, cheeks still rosy from all the congratulations.

“You really booked Monarch?” she whispers, wide-eyed. “You never let me eat here growing up.”

“You never had a degree before,” you murmur with a small smile. “Besides, I figured you deserved something special tonight.”

The host greets you with a polite nod and gestures toward the back corner booth, the one with the plush velvet seats and the view of the city through the tall windows. Tigerlily starts forward, then pauses.

Someone’s already there.

He’s sitting casually, fingers tapping against a water glass, hair pushed back like he just walked off a photo shoot—still effortlessly cool after all these years, even with the faint silver near his temples that he’s stopped trying to hide.

Chris.

Tigerlily stops in her tracks, staring for a beat too long.

“Dad?”

Chris stands up slowly, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Hey, little cub.”

Her bouquet hits the table with a soft thud as she launches toward him.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning as you watch her collide into his chest with all the force of a girl who may have been preparing herself for disappointment, but never quite stopped hoping.

“You told me he wasn’t coming!” she shouts over her shoulder, arms still around her dad’s neck.

You shrug, stepping further into the room. “Well, it’s called a surprise for a reason.”

Chris laughs as he holds her tighter, eyes closing for a second like he’s breathing her in. Like the years he’s missed are pressing against him all at once.

You stand quietly by the table, taking them in—the way her arms wrap around him like she did when she was small and sleepy, always reaching out for one more hug, one more story, one more night tucked between the two of you on a too-small tour bus mattress.

She always was a daddy’s girl. You murmur it to yourself, too soft for anyone to hear. “She still is.”

And for a moment, you forget all the complications. Forget the past, the missed birthdays, the growing distance. All you see is your daughter, glowing with joy, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Dinner arrives in warm, fragrant waves—plates of truffle fries, roasted duck, handmade pasta that glistens under the golden lights. The booth feels like its own little world, wrapped in velvet and candlelight and the soft murmur of clinking glasses in the background.

Chris sits across from you, Tigerlily nestled between you both like she’s still your little girl, even if she’s outgrown everything but her stubbornness. She’s glowing with the kind of joy that makes her look younger and older all at once.

“So,” Chris says, setting down his fork and looking at her with that proud, slightly overwhelmed expression he wears every time he sees her after too long. “What’s next, cub?”

Tigerlily leans back, reaching for her water glass. “I’ve got a few freelance gigs lined up. Illustration work. Book covers, a couple zines.”

Chris lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. Graduating and conquering the world.”

“I learned from the best,” she says, her eyes darting between the two of you.

You smile but stay quiet, sipping your wine and letting them talk. Chris starts telling her about the band—how The Bang Theory is planning a small reunion tour, something acoustic and intimate, “just for the old fans,” he says, though you know he still lives for the stage.

“How about you?” he asks, his eyes landing on you. “Are you working on something right now?”

You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the way his attention shifts so effortlessly from Tigerlily to you—gentle, but direct. Like he hasn’t asked in years, but he’s always been curious.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. A new book,” you add quickly, chuckling. “It's the same old thing with me.”

Chris grins, eyes crinkling in that way that used to undo you. “Of course,” he murmurs. “You’d make it sing, no matter what.”

Before you can respond, he reaches out—just casually—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, something he’s done a thousand times, but it feels different now. Familiar, yes. But also fragile. Like it belongs to another version of yourselves.

You glance down, and Tigerlily watches it all with a knowing little smile curling at the edge of her lips. She doesn’t say anything. She just picks up another fry, pops it into her mouth, and mutters around her grin, “You two are so obvious.”

You both look at her—startled, defensive, amused.

“What?” Chris says, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t say anything,” she sings, tossing you a wink. “Just... observing.”

You and Chris exchange a glance—brief but loaded.

And for a flicker of a moment, something shifts. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just... there. Still alive. Still quietly beating.

Not wanting to let it carry you on, you shift the attention back on him as curiosity taps at your shoulder.

“So,” you say, tilting your head and setting your glass down gently, “how’s Rowan?”

“Busy,” Chris answers a little too quickly and you didn't expect less since you're asking about his wife but you notice his expression shifts—just slightly. “She’s working on a TV series right now.”

“That’s wonderful,” You say as you nod, reaching for your glass of wine. “How about Riley?”

“She’s good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fourteen now. Which is… a whole thing.”

You smile softly. “Puberty, huh?”

“Puberty. Mood swings. Existential dread. She’s got this journal she guards like it's the nuclear codes. One second she’s hugging me and the next I’m the reason for global warming.”

You laugh, leaning back into the velvet booth. “Sounds like a riot.”

Chris sighs, but there’s affection beneath it. “She’s just at that age where everything feels like the end of the world, you know? I’m trying, but… I don’t think she knows where to put me right now.”

You nod gently, your fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass. “At least you didn’t have to go through that phase with Tigerlily,” you say with a teasing smile. “She skipped all the angst and went straight to being perfect.”

Tigerlily’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Chris laughs, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Mom,” Tigerlily says with a warning tone, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare bring up—”

“—the blue eyeliner phase?” you interrupt sweetly. “Or the time you tried to cut your own bangs and cried for three hours?”

Chris nearly chokes on his water, face lighting up. “Oh my god, yes!” he laughs. “I remember that! She came with a hoodie on and wouldn’t take it off for two days!”

Tigerlily groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is actual betrayal.”

You’re laughing now, shoulders shaking as you reach over to pat her hand. “You were still cute. Even when your bangs were... slanted.”

Chris grins across the table, eyes sparkling. “She’s always been cute.”

Tigerlily lifts her head, glaring at you both. “You two ganging up on me is a hate crime.”

You share a look with Chris—soft and easy and full of old inside jokes—and for just a second, the world feels like it used to: three of you on the road, laughing about eyeliner and heartache, living out of suitcases and old songs.

Tigerlily’s still grinning though, even through her mock-offense. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I forgot what it’s like when you two are in the same room.”

The plates are nearly empty now, forks slowing down as conversation takes over. Tigerlily is laughing at something Chris said about a funny episode happened at a show, and you're quietly sipping what’s left of your wine, content to just watch them exist like this—bright and close and connected.

Then Chris checks his watch with a sigh, the familiar shift in energy settling over the table. The end of the night.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says gently, looking toward Tigerlily with a reluctant smile. “Early flight to Tokyo. I'm helping this band with producing.”

Tigerlily pouts, her bottom lip pushing out the way she used to when she was five and didn’t want him to leave for tour. “Already?”

He opens his arms, and she rises without hesitation, burying herself in his chest like she’s still that little girl on the road, climbing into his bunk after shows. “Come here, little cub,” he murmurs into her hair, voice muffled but warm.

His arms wrap tight around her, his hands moving gently up and down her back in slow, comforting strokes. You watch from your seat, quiet and still, as he leans down to whisper something in her ear—something only for her. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks, and she nods without speaking.

He presses a kiss to her temple before pulling back. “I’m proud of you,” he says, with a smile that breaks a little at the edges. “Always.”

Tigerlily wipes quickly at her eyes. “Text me when you land.”

“Promise.”

Chris turns to you next, his expression softening even further. He steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. For putting this together. I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

You wave a hand, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

But when your eyes meet, there’s something there—unspoken but tangible. Like a thread still connecting you, stretching quietly between what you were and what you still might be. You’re the one to look away first, afraid if you don’t, you’ll forget yourself. Again.

He opens his arms, and this time it’s you stepping into them. The hug is brief, practiced, safe—but the warmth is real. His scent is still the same, something familiar and distant that tugs at the back of your throat.

“Take care,” you say softly, pulling back.

“You too,” he murmurs, before walking away.

You and Tigerlily step outside together just in time to see his car pull away from the curb, red taillights fading into the evening traffic. The moment stretches in silence until Tigerlily leans her head on your shoulder.

You wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s moments like this,” you murmur, “that make me wish I could’ve given you the kind of family you deserved. One that stayed whole.”

Tigerlily doesn’t move for a second. Then she lifts her head, frowning a little. “But I did get a family,” she says. “Just a different kind. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

You hold her a little tighter, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze to ground you and in that moment—standing in the glow of the city lights, hearts full of love and loss—you let yourself believe that maybe different wasn’t always a bad thing.

-

The cursor blinks accusingly at the top of your blank document, waiting for you to stop procrastinating and start delivering something brilliant. You rub at your temples and glance at the email from your agent again—third reminder this month.

Hey, just checking in again on that chapter draft. Hope everything's alright. Deadline's creeping up—let me know if you need anything!

You sigh, reply with a vague promise of "soon" and click out of the inbox. But right as you're about to close your browser, something catches your eye.

A headline.

The Bang Theory Frontman Chris Bang and Wife Rowan Announce Divorce After 15 Years of Marriage

There’s a photo of them beneath the headline—Rowan in oversized sunglasses, Chris beside her, jaw tight. They look distant. You don't even need to read the article to know that smile on his face is the one he wears when he’s pretending everything’s fine. Still, you click.

The article is full of vague statements from publicists and “sources close to the couple.” Nothing scandalous. Just the usual—“growing apart,” “amicable,” “focused on co-parenting their daughter, Riley.”

You’re halfway through skimming the quotes when your phone suddenly rings, the sharp sound startling you so much your mouse skitters across the desk.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom!” Tigerlily’s voice is bright, a little rushed, like she’s walking fast somewhere. “Hey, is it okay if I bring someone over for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” you say instinctively. “Anyone I know?”

There’s a pause. “Not yet. But you will.”

Your brow lifts. “Should I be nervous?”

Tigerlily laughs. “No. Maybe. A little. But mostly no. Love you!”

Before you can ask anything else, she hangs up. You stare at your phone for a second, then set it down beside your laptop.

The article’s still open. You look at the photo of Chris again. His expression is guarded, tired. You haven’t spoken in months—maybe longer. There’s a number in your contacts that hasn’t been used in too long. Just his name. Just “Chris,” like that’s all he’s ever needed to be.

You scroll down and hover your thumb over it. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at his name, thumb resting above “Call.” You wonder if he’s okay. If Riley’s okay. If he needs someone to talk to. If he even wants to hear your voice again.

But then your hand drops and you press the power button on your phone, letting the screen go dark. Some things are easier left in silence. You push the article aside, shut the laptop, and head for the kitchen.

There’s dinner to cook—and someone new to meet.

-

You’re just setting down the last of the cutlery when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and head for the front door, already guessing it’s Tigerlily. She never remembers to text when she’s close.

When you open the door, there she is—wearing a grin that says be cool, Mom—and beside her, a tall man with floppy brown hair, a shy smile, and arms full of flowers and wine.

“Hi, Mom,” she says sweetly. “This is Julian.”

“Hi,” he says quickly, stepping forward and offering the flowers. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I mean, you’re—I know who you are. I’ve seen your old interviews. Your film stuff. You’re even more beautiful in person.”

You blink, pleasantly amused, and take the flowers with a smile. “Oh, is that so?”

He nods, a little too eagerly.

With a small smirk, you take a step closer to him, lowering your voice just slightly. “You know… I’m not nearly as beautiful up close.”

Julian lets out a breathy little laugh, shoulders going stiff as his cheeks flush. “I—I mean, I think you definitely are. I mean, it’s not just your face. I mean, not just—” He throws a helpless glance at Tigerlily, who’s already rolling her eyes.

“Julian,” she cuts in dryly, “stop flirting with my mom.”

“I’m not—! I wasn’t—” He stammers, then finally gives up and laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Maybe just a little.”

You chuckle, stepping aside to let them in. “Well, come in, both of you. The food’s warm, the wine’s breathing, and apparently, I still have some star power.”

Tigerlily snorts as she kicks off her shoes. “You love it.”

You wink at her. “Of course I do.”

The dining table is cozy, the food still steaming in its dishes as the three of you settle in. Conversation flows easily at first—small talk, compliments about the meal, and the occasional sarcastic nudge from Tigerlily when Julian tries too hard to impress.

“So,” you begin, picking up your wine glass, eyes darting between the two of them. “Tell me—how did you two meet?”

Tigerlily doesn’t miss a beat. “At an art exhibition. He was standing in front of a piece I hated and we started arguing about it.”

Julian grins. “I maintain that it was a brilliant statement on digital isolation.”

“It was a pile of tangled wires and a single desk lamp,” she counters. “But apparently, that’s all it takes to find love.”

You laugh and tilt your head. “And how long have you been dating this tortured art soul?”

“Four months,” Tigerlily answers, her voice dipping into something soft, almost shy.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn to Julian with a gentle smile. “How old are you, Julian?”

Before he can even open his mouth, Tigerlily pipes up again, “He’s only a few years older than me, mom.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not his spokesperson, sweetheart?”

She flushes, biting her bottom lip as Julian chuckles beside her.

You nod, still looking at Julian. “And may I know what do you do?”

Again, Tigerlily jumps in, “He’s a data analyst.”

You slowly blink at her, lips curling into a knowing smile as you turn your attention fully on Julian. “Well, with a job like that, I’m sure Julian can answer my questions himself.”

Tigerlily lets out a sheepish laugh, covering her face with one hand. “Sorry. I just—habit, I guess. Go ahead, interrogate him. Just… please be nice.”

You laugh softly, giving her hand a quick pat. “Don’t worry, honey. I only interrogate the ones I like.”

Then you look back at Julian, folding your hands on the table like a queen giving audience.

“So, Mr. Data Analyst,” you say, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. Start with your worst trait and work your way up.”

Julian gulps dramatically, already smiling, and the table bursts into gentle laughter.

-

You’re scooping sorbet into little bowls when you feel Tigerlily’s presence beside you, her hand already reaching for the berry compote you made earlier.

“Need help?” she asks.

You nod. “You read my mind.”

The two of you move in sync, falling into an easy rhythm as she spoons sauce and you add mint leaves for garnish. After a moment, you glance toward the dining room where Julian is sipping his wine, politely waiting.

“He’s a little serious, your Julian,” you say lightly, nudging her with your elbow. “He always seems… nervous. A bit rigid.”

Tigerlily rolls her eyes. “He’s just shy, Mom.”

You smile knowingly. “He’s the complete opposite of your usual type.”

“Okay, ouch,” she retorts, though she’s clearly amused. “Maybe I’m growing up.”

You chuckle, bumping her hip playfully. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I can tell you fancy him. You’ve got that stupid little twinkle in your eyes.”

“Oh my God—” she groans, face turning red as you slide a bowl toward her and bump your hip against her again.

The soft music playing from the living room hums a dreamy melody, and without warning, you start dancing along to it, swaying your hips as you plate the last dessert.

Tigerlily watches in horror. “Please stop.”

You throw her a wink. “What? I’m not trying to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are!”

You let out a cackle, spinning once with your spoon in the air like a microphone. “You didn’t say I couldn’t entertain him.”

Tigerlily practically begs, “Mom, please, I’m trying to keep some mystery in this relationship!”

“Fine, fine,” you say, finally setting down the spoon. “I’ll stop torturing you—for now.”

You hand her the last plate, then glance at her gently. “Did you know about your dad and Rowan?”

Tigerlily nods, not surprised. “I'm honestly surprised that their marriage lasted that long.”

You hiss. “Tigerlily Bang.”

She nonchalantly shrugs in response. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You give her a look. “Have you called him?”

She hesitates. “I’m going to visit him next weekend. I’m… introducing Julian.”

You pause for a moment, then soften. “Be nice to him, okay? It probably wasn’t easy to him. Maybe just give him a call before that—ask if he’s okay.”

Tigerlily stays quiet, pressing her lips together. Then she nods, her voice soft. “Okay.”

You slide an arm around her shoulder and pull her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

Tigerlily leans into you for a moment. The kind of lean that says she’s still your little girl—even now. And then you’re back at it, nudging her with your hip again. “Now come on, sing with me. You know this part!”

“No, no, no—Mom!”

But she’s laughing as you start twirling, and eventually, she gives in, half-singing the chorus while the two of you finish plating desserts, moving in sync like the good old days.

Just as you’re setting the final plate down with a flourish, you hear someone clear their throat. You both turn.

Julian is standing at the kitchen doorway, blinking. “I—uh. Should I come back later?”

You and Tigerlily look at each other. Then you beam.

“She made me do it,” Tigerlily says instantly.

“Sure she did,” Julian grins.

-

At the end of the night, you walk them to the front door, the last of the dishes soaking in the sink and the music now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The night air is cool when you step outside, a gentle breeze brushing past as you follow Tigerlily and Julian to the car parked along the curb.

Tigerlily turns to you first, her eyes soft and glassy in the porch light. “Thanks for the lovely dinner, Mom.”

“Of course,” you say, pulling her in for a long, grounding hug. You squeeze her tighter than usual, feeling the familiar comfort of her arms wrapped around you—still your little girl, even with the grown-up job and the boyfriend waiting by the car. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You step back, brushing her hair from her face like you always do, and she gives you that shy smile she used to have when she was caught sneaking snacks before dinner. Then she walks over to the passenger side, leaving Julian standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

“Thank you again, ma’am,” he says, wringing his hands slightly.

You give him a look, amused. “Ma’am makes me feel ancient.”

He swallows. “Right. Sorry. I mean—thank you for having me.”

You step forward, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re welcome, Julian. And for what it’s worth…” You pause, smiling. “You’ve made quite an impression tonight.”

He exhales a laugh, relieved. “That’s good to hear.”

“Drive safe, okay?”

“I will,” he says, nodding a little too eagerly.

You step back as he gets into the car. Tigerlily waves at you through the window, and you wave back, your arms folding over your chest as you watch the headlights blink on. They pull away slowly, the car disappearing down the quiet street.

You stay there for a moment on the porch, your fingers brushing your elbows, listening to the stillness of the night settling in around you and even though it’s quiet, your heart feels full.

You close the door behind you and lean your back against it for a second, letting the silence of your home settle over your shoulders. You walk into the living room and glance at your phone on the coffee table. You hesitate, then reach for it.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s name in your contacts.

You check the time—too early to be asleep, too late to know what he’s up to. Probably pacing around his house with his guitar strapped to his chest, or lying on his couch with the TV on and his mind elsewhere.

Still, before you can talk yourself out of it, you press call. The line rings once. Twice. A third time. You shift your weight, ready to hit “end” when—

Click.

“Hello?”

You blink at the sound of his voice, low and familiar through the speaker. “Guess what?” you say, your tone light, almost teasing.

“What?” he asks, curious.

“Your daughter just brought her boyfriend over for dinner.”

There’s a beat of silence. “She what?”

You laugh. “His name’s Julian. Very polite. Very nervous. He looks like he’d rather face a firing squad than meet me.”

Chris groans. “Great. That’s exactly the kind of guy who’d try to steal my daughter from me.”

“She’s not being stolen, she’s dating.”

“Same thing.”

You smile to yourself, curling your legs under you on the couch. “They’re going to visit you next weekend. Be nice.”

“Define nice.”

“Chris.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “I’ll give him a chance. But I’m not promising I won’t make him sweat a little.”

You chuckle. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

A silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable—just weighted with history. You take a breath before saying, “So I uh... I saw the news.”

Another pause.

“I was going to call earlier,” you continue, gently. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to talk. Are you okay?”

Chris lets out a quiet breath. “I’m… getting through it.”

“How’s Riley handling it?”

“She’s…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “She looks okay, but I don't know.”

You hum in agreement. “Check on her once in a while to let her know you're there if she wants to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I will,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“You know,” you say with a small, lopsided smile, “at least your second marriage lasted longer than ours.”

Chris chuckles, the sound softer this time. “Low bar.”

“You set it, not me.”

There’s a quiet moment again. Then your voice softens. “I mean it, Chris. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or scream into the phone—I’m here, okay? As much as I hate it… you’re still my daughter’s father.”

He exhales slowly, and you can hear it through the phone, like something he’s been holding in is finally slipping out.

“I miss it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Miss what?”

“This,” he says simply. “Talking to you.”

You swallow. The lump in your throat arrives fast, uninvited. “I should let you rest,” you say quietly, clearing your throat before your voice can crack. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime.”

You hang up before the silence turns into something else. Something too close. Too familiar. You set the phone down and lean your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

And for a while, you just sit there bcause sometimes, missing someone is quieter than you expect.

-

Summer sunlight spills through your kitchen windows, casting warm, golden streaks on the hardwood floor as you pack the last of your sunscreen and sunglasses into a tote bag. The hum of cicadas fills the air from outside, and you can already hear Tigerlily’s voice carrying from the living room—teasing, excited, just a little chaotic, as always.

Julian stands nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He’s always been a little stiff around you, still nervous after all this time, but today… it feels different. Extra twitchy.

“Hey,” he says quietly, catching your attention just as Tigerlily calls out that she’s running to the bathroom to reapply her sunscreen.

You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

“Can I—” he clears his throat, gestures toward the back door. “Can I talk to you for a second? Just… out there?”

You eye him for a beat, curious, then nod and follow him onto the back porch. The breeze is warm, but there's a nervous chill rolling off of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flitting toward the floorboards. “I, um. I wanted to ask you something.”

You fold your arms loosely, head tilting. “Okay…”

“I know this might seem fast,” he begins, eyes finally meeting yours, “but I’m going to propose to Tigerlily today. On the boat. I’ve been planning it for a while.”

You blink. The words hang in the summer air like a firework frozen mid-explosion. Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come right away. You stare at him, heart swelling and squeezing all at once.

Julian continues quickly, hands half-raised in panic. “I know we’ve only been together for a little over a year, but I love her. She’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, and I want to build a life with her. And I—I wanted to ask your permission, before anything else.”

It is fast. But you’ve seen the way she looks at him, how he looks at her. The way they orbit each other like two stars pulled by gravity stronger than reason. You’ve watched them fall in sync like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he’s never once made you doubt his intentions.

You smile softly, eyes going a little glassy. “Well,” you begin gently, “you’ve been nothing but a wonderful boyfriend to my daughter. And you clearly adore her.” You pause, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “So yes. You have my blessing, Julian.”

His shoulders drop in visible relief and he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. Really. That means the world to me.”

Just then, the door opens behind you, and Tigerlily’s voice cuts through the moment. “What are you two doing out here?”

Julian spins on his heel a little too fast, and you clear your throat quickly, your brain scrambling for the first believable thing. “Julian was helping me, uh… figure out the sprinkler. It’s acting weird.”

She narrows her eyes. “The sprinkler?”

“Yep,” you nod, way too quickly. “Super weird. Total mystery.”

Julian gives a stiff little smile, playing along. “We, uh, think it’s the pressure valve.”

“Okay…” she says slowly, clearly not that interested. “Well, come on. Let’s go. The boat’s not going to wait for us.”

You grab your bag and follow her out the door, heart still racing a little from the moment you just shared. Julian gives you a grateful glance as he opens the car door for Tigerlily.

And as you sit in the passenger seat, watching the two of them exchange playful banter and knowing glances on the way to the dock, something in your chest softens.

Tigerlily is happy. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

-

The dock stretches out before you like a ribbon of sun-bleached wood, groaning faintly beneath your steps. The sea sparkles under the sun, dazzling and blue, dotted with boats and the occasional flash of seagulls flying over the sunny sky. Julian walks ahead, a few steps in front of you, leading the way to his family's boat.

He turns around as you reach the boat, climbing down to the edge and holding out a hand. “Here, let me help you guys on.”

Tigerlily climbs on first, holding onto the railing before turning back to you with a grin. You pause, just for a second, taking in the image of her—sunlight in her hair, smile wide and easy, laugh lines already forming around her eyes—and something about it makes your throat tighten.

Julian offers his hand to you next. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, pressing your lips together as you take his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping onto the boat. “More than okay.”

Tigerlily helps you with your bag, the two of you settling in as Julian introduces you to the rest of the guests on board. He offers his hand again as he helps you up a narrow stair to the upper deck, guiding you through the boat with gentle ease. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

You follow him with a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face as the wind picks up. The boat is beautiful—sleek, well-kept, definitely not the kind of thing you expected to find yourself on this summer.

He leads you into a cozy lounge area, where his parents are seated on a cushioned bench, sipping drinks and chatting quietly. They both rise when Julian gestures toward them.

“Mom, Dad—this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

His mother greets you first with a warm smile, her hand extended. “We’re so happy to finally meet you. Thank you for joining us today.”

You take her hand and return the smile, nodding. “Thank you for having me. It’s a beautiful boat.”

Julian’s dad nods along. “Julian’s told us a lot about you,” he says kindly. “You raised a wonderful daughter.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “She pretty much raised herself, honestly.”

You move on to another corner of the deck where a younger girl sits with headphones half off her ears.

“This is my little sister, Maude,” Julian taps her shoulder, and she pulls them off, blinking up at you with instant recognition.

“Oh my God,” she says before she even stands. “You’re her. I knew you looked familiar.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Her?”

“Her, as in you,” she insists with a grin. “You’re—wow—you’re even more beautiful in person. My girlfriend, Alexa, is going to freak.”

Before you can respond, she’s already pulling her phone out. “Lex!” she calls. “Come here—come meet Tigerlily’s mom!”

A second later, a tall girl with red curls appears from below deck, raising a brow. “What—”

“She’s right here,” Maude says, practically bouncing. “Isn’t she stunning?”

You press a hand to your chest, laughing shyly as you look away. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough of that,” you say. “You’re all going to make me too self-conscious to stay on this boat.”

Fortunately, Julian swoops in, hand landing lightly on your shoulder. “Alright, you two, quit scaring my girlfriend's mom,” he teases before turning to you. “Come on—front deck’s clearing up. Let’s relax a little.”

You nod gratefully, and he guides you to the front of the boat where cushioned seats curve around the bow. Tigerlily’s already lounging there, hair whipping in the breeze, sunglasses perched on her nose.

Julian hands her a kiss on the lips—quick, sweet—and tells her, “I’m getting us drinks. Be right back.”

He disappears down into the cabin again, and the sound of the water takes over.

Tigerlily turns to you, pulling her sunglasses up into her hair. “See?” she says. “Everyone loves having you here.”

You roll your eyes playfully, folding your legs beneath you as you settle into the cushions. “They’re being polite.”

“They’re being real,” she insists. “Especially Maude. I think she’s about to print out your Wikipedia page and frame it.”

You laugh, and she grins wide.

“And especially me,” she adds with a meaningful look. “I love having you here.”

You reach over and brush her cheek with your knuckles, your heart tugging at the corners. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The boat rocks gently as the three of you lounge on the front deck, sun cascading over everything in a golden glaze. You’re tucked in one corner with a book in hand and sunglasses shading your eyes, only half-focused on the page. From your peripheral vision, you catch glimpses of Tigerlily curled up against Julian, their conversation floating around like soft background music—something about a movie he promised to watch, something else about her weird dream last night. You smile faintly at their easy affection, eyes dropping back to your book—until a shadow lengthens beside you.

Someone joins the group. You can feel it immediately, like a ripple in the calm. Not just the presence, but the weight of a gaze on you—curious, unwavering. You glance up briefly, eyes peeking over the rim of your sunglasses.

It’s someone you haven’t seen before. A tall, lithe man with buzzcut hair and delicate, striking features that contrast sharply with the sharpness of his frame. His eyes linger on you in a way that feels oddly direct, and it’s only when he finally speaks that the spell breaks.

“Hey, who’s this?” he asks, his voice smooth, amused.

Julian blinks, glancing between you and the man. “Oh—right. Hyunjin, this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he steps closer and extends his hand. You slip your bookmark in place and close the book, slipping off your sunglasses. His hand is warm in yours, long fingers wrapping around gently—but his eyes, they hold your gaze like they’re reading something in you.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice low, and then adds with absolutely no hesitation, “You’re really beautiful.”

Tigerlily bursts into sudden laughter, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Hyunjin!” she gasps. “Are you trying to hit on my mom?”

“So what if I am?” he says, totally unbothered, still looking at you.

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks—not the sun, this time.

Julian groans good-naturedly. “Hyunjin, why did you think I’m dating the daughter, not the mom? She’s the it girl of the ’90s, man.”

Tigerlily gives Julian a glare before elbows him on the side.

“I had no idea,” Hyunjin says, his gaze not leaving yours. “I just know she’s beautiful.”

You’re not used to compliments like this anymore—not said so earnestly and with such ease. You laugh lightly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as you give a polite, slightly flustered smile. “Well, thank you.”

Tigerlily, still grinning, leans over to nudge Julian. “He missed the part where you say in the ‘90s, right? Like… a while ago.”

Hyunjin just shrugs, his tone almost challenging. “Like I care about that.”

Tigerlily blinks at him. Then turns to you. You raise your brows, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. You try to return to your book, but the page blurs a little. Not from the sun, not from the wind—but because there’s something about the way Hyunjin is still watching you like there’s more to read in you than the pages you’re holding.

The boat stops once it's far enough from the shore and the splashing sound coming from the side of the boat startles you. You fumble to check only to find Julian’s sister, Maude, has jumped into the sea.

You decide to sit at the edge of the boat, legs curled beneath you, a cold drink in one hand and the sun warming your shoulders as Tigerlily, Julian and Alexa are also jumping into the water, splashing around like kids, their laughter echoing over the waves. You watch them with a fond smile, chin resting on your palm, feeling oddly full just witnessing your daughter so happy. Then, you hear it.

Click. Click.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, and there he is—Hyunjin—standing a few feet away with a camera in hand, lowering it with a guilty smile when he notices you’ve caught him.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “I just… couldn’t help it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, half-amused, half-incredulous. “Were you just taking pictures of me?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was. You're beautiful—it’s hard not to.”

That makes you let out a breathy, surprised laugh, half-shy, half-entertained. You shake your head, glancing back out to the sea like it’ll cool your blush. “You’re something else.”

“Hyunjin,” he says, finally coming closer and offering his hand again, this time more properly. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier.”

You take his hand again, noting how warm and familiar it already feels in yours. “Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I take it you and Julian go way back?”

He leans casually against the rail beside you, his sunglasses hanging off the collar of his shirt. “High school. He was exactly the same back then. Sweet. Smart. Terrible at talking to girls.”

You grin. “So you’re saying he’s always been this… nervous?”

“Like a scared puppy,” Hyunjin confirms, laughing. “But the kind that would take a bullet for the people he loves. You don’t have to worry about Tigerlily. He worships her.”

You nod softly at that, touched. “That’s very reassuring. Thank you.”

Hyunjin looks at you for a beat, then tilts his head. “Aren’t you curious to know about me?”

You laugh. “Are you offering up a full character profile?”

“Only the interesting parts,” he says with a wink. “Let’s see… I’m a pottery artist. I throw clay for a living. Julian actually met Tigerlily at one of my exhibits, so I’ll take partial credit for their love story.”

“Wow,” you smile. “Multitalented and a matchmaker.”

“And single,” he adds, eyes sparkling. “Also, apparently… recently discovering I might have a thing for older women.”

You laugh—a real one this time, unfiltered and light—and toss your head back slightly. “Oh, is that so?”

Hyunjin leans a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of making it hard not to.”

Your gaze flickers to his—those sharp eyes softened by sunlight and mischief—and you find yourself laughing again, caught completely off guard by how amused, how seen you feel in that moment.

It’s been a long time since someone made you feel this way. Curious. Flattered. Just a little bit reckless. And the fact that it’s someone like him only makes it worse—and better.

-

The sun is hanging low over the horizon, spilling its golden light across the calm sea, and you’re in the kitchen galley, shoulder to shoulder with Julian’s mother as you help prepare dinner for everyone. The boat gently sways beneath your feet, and the sounds of laughter and soft music drift in from the deck. There’s something peaceful about it—this simple, domestic moment, so different from the chaos your life once knew.

Fresh from her shower, Tigerlily joins you, her cheeks still flushed from the sun and her hair damp around her shoulders. “Smells good in here,” she says, bumping her hip against yours as she grabs a stack of plates and starts setting the table on the back deck.

You're watching her, quietly smiling, when Julian appears beside her, freshly changed into dry clothes. He takes her hand gently and calls, “Hyunjin, hey—would you mind taking a few photos of us with the sunset?”

You glance over, your heart skipping a beat. So this is it.

Hyunjin, camera in hand, gives a playful salute and positions them with their backs to the sunset. “Alright, stand right there. A little closer. Julian, put your hand around her waist… yeah, perfect. Lils, look out at the ocean.”

Tigerlily does as she’s told, oblivious and relaxed.

Julian’s other hand slips into the pocket of his pants. You freeze where you stand, breath catching in your throat. Julian slowly pulls out a small velvet box.

“Okay, now, Lils,” Hyunjin calls gently, “turn around and look at Julian.”

She spins playfully, half-laughing—until her eyes land on him. She goes still. Her breath stutters.

Everyone else falls quiet.

Julian is on one knee, holding the box open, his face awash in the soft, fading sunlight. You grip the edge of the table, your heart racing in your chest.

“I knew from the moment I saw you at that gallery that I wanted to know everything about you,” Julian begins, voice a little shaky but clear. “I love how your laugh comes out before your jokes do. I love that you always steal fries off my plate even though you say you’re not hungry. I love that when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I need to be anyone else.”

Tigerlily blinks, tears welling fast in her eyes.

“You make everything feel like home,” Julian continues, his own eyes glassy. “And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. Will you marry me?”

It hits you like a wave—pride, joy, a strange ache in your chest like you were the one being asked, you were the girl in love with the sea glowing behind her.

Tigerlily gasps, a hand over her mouth, and then—she nods. “Yes,” she chokes out. “Yes, Julian.”

Cheers erupt around the boat. Julian slips the ring onto her finger, his hands trembling, and then stands to kiss her, slow and reverent, with the ocean breeze dancing through their hair.

You blink back tears, feeling them slip down anyway—and then a gentle arm wraps around your shoulders. Julian’s mother. She gives you a knowing squeeze, her own eyes shiny with emotion. “It’s something else, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying harder. “It really is.”

And as Tigerlily and Julian hold each other beneath the peach-streaked sky, their silhouettes backlit by the fading sun, you can’t help but whisper under your breath, “My little girl’s getting married.”

You’re still trying to collect yourself, when you hear the hurried footsteps—barefoot and light—and then suddenly, she’s there.

Tigerlily throws herself into your arms, nearly knocking the wind out of you. She’s laughing, breathless, trembling with joy as she hugs you tight.

“Mom!” she exclaims, pulling away just enough to hold her hand out in front of you. “Look!”

The ring glints under the fading sunlight, elegant and simple, but it might as well be the crown jewel by the way she’s staring at it, eyes wide, still dazed. “I’m getting married,” she says in a whisper, like she doesn’t believe the words even as she speaks them. “I’m actually getting married.”

You nod, slow and soft, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat. “You are,” you manage, voice thick with emotion. “You really are.”

And then you pull her back into your arms, wrapping her up like you did when she was small, when she’d scrape her knee or have a bad dream or just need her mom.

“Are you happy, little cub?” you murmur against her hair.

She pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, cheeks still wet from tears but her smile—oh, her smile is luminous. “Yes,” she says, with a kind of certainty that steadies your heartbeat. “I’m so, so happy.”

You nod again, brushing her hair gently back from her face, your fingers lingering at her temple.

“If you’re happy,” you whisper, “then I’m happy.”

You lean in, kiss her softly on the temple, and for a moment, the world falls still. It’s just the two of you—mother and daughter, hearts full, tears barely held back, connected by something deeper than words.

Then Julian approaches, his steps quiet but purposeful, and you break the hug to turn to him. His face is still flushed from the proposal, his eyes a little watery, but he smiles at you—nervous again, like always. You step into his arms and hug him too, firm and warm.

“Congratulations,” you whisper. “Take good care of her, will you?”

“I will,” he says, voice a little shaky. “I promise.”

When you pull back, Tigerlily is beaming at both of you, and then she takes Julian’s hand, and just like that—the celebration continues.

Dinner is served on the upper deck under a string of fairy lights. Music plays, laughter rings out across the boat, and champagne glasses clink in celebration. Everyone is radiant—Maude and Alexa dancing barefoot, Julian’s parents looking proud, Hyunjin snapping candids in the golden hour light, and you—

You sit back for a moment, just watching. Watching your daughter. Your daughter, laughing with her fiancé, cheeks flushed with happiness, her whole future ahead of her.

A mix of emotions rolls through you—pride, awe, disbelief, joy, and that familiar ache that comes with letting go. You think of all the versions of Tigerlily you’ve loved: the little girl with scraped knees and messy braids, the teen who rolled her eyes but still hugged you goodnight, the woman now, who wears engagement rings and about to be someone's wife.

And something blooms in your chest, wide and full. Not just joy—but peace. Profound, bone-deep peace. In this moment, you feel it completely. You are happy.

-

The house feels impossibly still after a day so full of life. You move through the quiet halls, still smelling faintly of salt and sunblock, your bag abandoned by the front door. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to guide your way to the bedroom. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chris.

You hesitate before picking up. It’s late. But you know him—you know that if he’s calling at this hour, it’s not casual. You slide your finger across the screen and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then— “She’s getting married.”

His voice is low, worn out. Not angry. Not sad. Just… broken.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your breath catching slightly. “She called you?”

“Just hung up,” he says. “She was so excited. Said it like she couldn’t believe it herself.”

You smile faintly. “She was glowing all day, Chris. You should've seen it.”

Chris lets out a laugh—quiet, hollow. “I remember when she used to light up like that just from sitting on my shoulders.”

There’s a long pause, one of those where neither of you needs to speak to understand the ache the other is carrying. “I know it’s stupid,” he finally says, “but it feels like I’m being cheated on. Like—she was mine. My baby. My little cub. And now some guy gets to come in and just—just take over. Call her his family.”

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together. “It’s not stupid.”

“I used to be her whole world,” he says, his voice cracking. “Now I’m... a scheduled phone call. A guest at her wedding.”

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your heart heavy with a quiet ache. “You’ll always be her dad, Chris. Nothing will ever take that from you.”

He sighs, and you can hear the way he’s holding back more. Memories. Emotions. Regrets.

“I missed so much already,” he mutters. “Her graduation. Her first heartbreak. All those stupid in-between things. I thought maybe I’d have more time.”

“You’ll have different moments now,” you say gently. “Maybe not the same ones. But new ones. Important ones.”

Chris goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if he’s still on the line. Then, softly, he asks, “Did you cry?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Of course I did.”

“I wish I could’ve seen her,” he says. “Wish I could’ve been there. With you. For her.”

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat. “She looked so much like you when she said yes,” you whisper.

That gets him. You hear the hitch in his breath. The rest of the night is spent like that—Chris talking, remembering, grieving something that was never really lost, just changed. And you listen, the way only someone who’s loved him deeply once can. You let him be selfish, fragile, ridiculous—because this isn’t about being rational.

This is about love.

And when he finally falls silent, you whisper, “We did good, you know. Raising her.”

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, “Yeah. We really did.”

You set your phone down gently on the nightstand, the screen going black like the closing of a curtain. The house is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—thicker somehow, like it’s holding something inside of it. You lean back against the pillows, exhaling slowly as your eyes drift up to the ceiling.

It’s not just you.

That’s the thought that settles over you like a blanket. You’re not the only one caught in this strange in-between—between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go. Chris, too, is reeling. Grasping. Feeling like he’s losing something he thought he had more time with. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing that.

Because tonight, watching Tigerlily say yes with the sunset blazing behind her, part of you had felt like you were standing still while the rest of the world moved on without asking. Like everything was changing too fast, too soon.

But now, lying here in the soft hum of the night, you realize that maybe change doesn’t have to be something to fear. Maybe it’s just a new season arriving—quiet, inevitable, and hopefully, kind.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a photo of Tigerlily on your dresser. She’s younger in this one, her cheeks round, her smile toothy. You remember taking it. You remember everything. You smile faintly. Maybe this is what growing up looks like—not just for her, but for you, too.

And maybe it’s all changing for the better.

-

It’s a slow Saturday afternoon when you hear the familiar creak of your front door opening and Tigerlily’s voice calling out, “Mom?”

You glance up from your notebook, pen still in hand, and before you can answer, she’s already walking into the kitchen like she owns the place—as she always has—plopping her purse on the counter and reaching straight for the cookie jar.

“You want something?” you ask without looking up, grinning as you hear her bite into a cookie.

“Yeah,” she says around a mouthful, “I want you to come out with me tonight.”

That gets your attention. You raise an eyebrow as you swivel in your chair, playful curiosity in your voice. “Wow, inviting your mom out on a Saturday night? What, Julian couldn’t make it?”

From the kitchen, she groans. “He’s been swamped at work this week. He said he might fall asleep standing if he tries to go out tonight.”

You smile as you stand and stretch. “So I’m the backup plan.”

“No,” she says pointedly, another bite of cookie halfway to her mouth, “you’re the main event. I wanted to spend time with you. Before I become someone’s wife.”

You’re halfway to the kitchen when she says that, and your steps falter just a little—just enough to register the weight of her words. You reach her side and pluck a cookie from the jar, mirroring her stance, leaning against the counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask softly, a teasing edge to your voice.

Tigerlily doesn’t answer—not with words. She just gives you a knowing look, the kind of look that says everything without saying much at all. And you know. You know what she means.

That she won’t always be yours first.

So you gently pat the top of her head, a silent acknowledgment of what’s changing—of what will never change, too.

And then you take a bite of your cookie, brushing the moment aside with practiced ease. “So where are you taking me, future wife?”

She perks up, cookie forgotten. “There’s this art exhibition downtown—Julian got me the invite—and I thought maybe after, we could get drinks or something. Just us.”

You nod, finishing your cookie. “Alright then. Let me go throw on something cool and age-appropriate.”

“Please do,” she says with a smirk. “Because you’re about to be seen with a young woman.”

You flick a crumb at her, already walking away. “Then I better wear heels. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m your mother or something.”

The city hums quietly around you as Tigerlily drives, her fingers drumming lightly against the wheel to the rhythm of the song on the radio. The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across her face—her cheekbones highlighted, her eyes focused, her lips painted a shade that suits her too well.

You’re watching her in silence, your elbow propped on the car door, cheek resting against your hand. It hits you all at once—how grown she is. Not just older, but grown. A woman. Not just your daughter, but someone’s partner. Someone who knows what she wants, who walks into rooms with her head high and her heart wide open.

She catches your stare during a red light and raises a brow. “Do I have something on my face?”

You blink yourself back into the moment and smile softly. “No. I just… I like your lipstick.”

She grins. “It’s in my bag if you want to use it.”

You reach down and grab her purse from the floor, fishing through it. Lipstick, sunglasses, tissues, receipts, mints—and a folded, glossy brochure catches your eye.

You pull it out, unfolding it. “Is this the exhibition we’re going to?”

Tigerlily glances over. “Yeah. Julian’s firm helped sponsor it.”

You scan the list of artists until a familiar name stops you cold. Hwang Hyunjin.

Your brow arches. “Wait. Is this… the Hyunjin I met on the boat?”

Tigerlily’s grin is instant, wicked, and wide.

“Yes,” she says, dragging out the word. “That Hyunjin.”

You slide her a look.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, “you totally forgot he was an artist, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence, setting the brochure in your lap. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t know he was showing here.”

She laughs, delighted, tapping the wheel. “You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You do. You got all flustered the second he called you beautiful.”

You roll your eyes. “Tigerlily.”

“Mom.”

You look out the window, but you’re smiling now, the kind that tugs at the corner of your lips despite yourself. And she sees it.

“Oh my god, you do like him.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “He’s like, what, twelve?”

She snorts. “He’s as old as Julian.”

You glance back at her. “That’s not better.”

“That’s hot,” she says instead. “You’ve still got it.”

You shoot her a look. “Please stop.”

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous—this wasn’t a date, it was an art exhibition with your daughter. But ever since spotting his name on that brochure, there’s been a flutter of something low in your stomach, delicate and unshakable.

You walk beside Tigerlily into the exhibition, all clean lines and soft lighting. Art lines the walls—paintings, sculptures, ceramics—and you try to keep your eyes on them, but you can feel it. His gaze.

And when you look up—there he is. Hyunjin, standing near a tall display of pottery, dressed in relaxed black slacks and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His buzzcut somehow makes his cheekbones look sharper, but it’s the way his eyes immediately find you that makes your breath hitch.

Tigerlily grabs your hand and tugs you toward him. “Let’s go say hi to your potter boy.”

You gently swat her arm but don’t argue.

Hyunjin straightens as the two of you approach, a soft, knowing smile spreading across his face. His eyes flick between Tigerlily and you, but linger on you—open, unbothered, like he has no intention of pretending otherwise. “Hi,” he says simply, like the word is meant only for you.

Tigerlily grins. “Congratulations, Hyunjin. This whole thing is incredible. The colors, the forms—like, it’s weirdly emotional. I didn’t expect to feel something over clay.”

Hyunjin nods, appreciative. “Thank you,” he says, and then, softer, to you, “I’m glad you came.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around your clutch. “It’s beautiful. Everything.”

Tigerlily glances between the two of you, and you catch the flicker of realization in her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Hyunjin, then you. A smile curves her lips, but she doesn’t say anything—just lightly touches your arm.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” she says, far too casually. “You two go ahead and talk about... I'll just go.”

Before you can say anything, she’s already turning away, leaving you alone with Hyunjin in the middle of his world.

Hyunjin smiles, as if this was always meant to happen. “Would you like a tour?” he asks. “I’ll show you my favorites.”

You nod, trying to collect yourself as he leads you across the room to a display of delicate, curved vases and explains a bit about it.

“Have you ever worked with clay?” he asks, that slight tilt to his voice—casual, but laced with suggestion.

You shake your head. “I don’t know the first thing about pottery. But it’s… really beautiful.”

“I could teach you,” he says.

You laugh, a little flustered. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“For you, I’d make time.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. No hesitation. No games. And that’s what throws you.

You look at him, really look—and he’s looking at you like you’re the centerpiece of the exhibition, like he curated the entire room just to bring you here. It’s intense, that kind of attention. Unapologetic.

“I doubt I’d be any good at it,” you say, trying to deflect.

“Come to my studio,” he says. “Let’s find out.”

His voice is low, but not pressing. Just enough to leave space—for you to lean in or walk away. But his eyes… his eyes are burning. Admiring. Wanting. A quiet pull you can’t quite escape.

You break the gaze, looking down at the smooth glaze of the pot nearest you, your fingers brushing lightly over its curve. Hyunjin’s smile deepens, and you don’t have to look at him to know. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And somehow, you don’t hate it.

-

After the exhibition, you and Tigerlily settle into a cozy booth at a bar just down the street from the gallery. The music is mellow, the lights low and golden, and the clinking of glasses and quiet hum of conversation wrap around you like a blanket. You each have a drink in hand—something fruity and pink in Tigerlily’s, something simpler in yours.

You sip, exhale, and lean back. “Well… that was unexpectedly interesting.”

Tigerlily’s lips curve around the rim of her glass. “You mean the exhibition?” she teases.

You lift an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

She laughs, a full, unfiltered sound. “I saw you and Hyunjin, you know. Sneaking off for your little pottery tour.”

You feign a gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “What are you saying, Tigerlily? You want a new dad?”

She chokes on her drink, coughing through her laughter. “Oh my God, please don’t ever say that again.”

You grin as you stir your drink with the little straw. “Just checking.”

But then, her tone shifts—still playful, but more earnest now. “I’m serious, though. I think it’s a good time for you to start dating again.”

You glance at her sideways, teasing, “Oh? So you’ve finally given up on the dream of me and your dad running off into the sunset?”

Tigerlily chuckles, soft and knowing. “I mean… yeah. I used to hope, but now? I just want you to be happy. However that looks.”

Something in you stirs. It’s not sadness—not quite—but something tender. Moved. You coo, placing your hand over hers on the table. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

She gives you a sheepish smile, then rolls her eyes as she groans, “Even if that happiness means Hyunjin becomes my stepdad. Ew.”

You burst into laughter. “He’s not—Tigerlily!”

“I’m just saying,” she lifts her hands in defense, eyes wide, “if it ever comes to that, I’ll be supportive. Slightly traumatized, but supportive.”

You laugh until your chest aches, then sigh as you cradle your glass between your hands. “I don’t know… dating at my age, it feels kind of—”

Tigerlily gasps. “Don’t even start with that age talk.”

You shrug, playful but honest. “It just seems a little late to open up my heart again.”

She leans forward, voice soft but firm. “Then don’t open it wide. Just crack the window a little. Let some air in. You never know what might fly through.”

You look at her, this remarkable woman you raised, and something about her words nestles itself right under your ribs. “I’m not saying it has to be Hyunjin,” she adds, sly smile returning. “But… you could do worse.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that lifts your lips is genuine. “You’re kind of sweet when you’re not being annoying.”

She raises her glass. “To annoying daughters who want their moms to be ridiculously happy.”

You clink glasses with her, the sound small but meaningful and for the first time in a long while, the idea of something new—something a little wild, a little uncertain—doesn’t scare you. Not when you’ve come this far. Not when your daughter is rooting for your heart.

-

So here you are, standing in front of the brick building tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the late afternoon sun casting warm shadows across its facade. The metal plaque reads Studio Hwang in a clean, simple font. You pause at the door, your hand hovering just before the handle.

This doesn't mean you're going to open your heart.

You're not here to be charmed or swept off your feet or written into some kind of romantic plot twist. No. You’re here because—well, because you were curious. And maybe a little flattered. And maybe, maybe, you wanted to try something new.

You exhale through your nose, give a small nod to yourself. Who knows, you think, maybe I’ll like it. So you push the door open.

Inside, the soft hum of conversation mingles with the earthy scent of clay and dust. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, warming the space in golden hues. Shelves are lined with ceramic pieces—some smooth and glazed, others raw and half-finished, waiting to become something more.

You spot Hyunjin almost immediately. He’s across the room, mid-conversation with someone—maybe a buyer, maybe a fellow artist, you’re not sure. He’s gesturing toward a set of tall vases, his tone focused, expressive. He hasn’t seen you yet.

For a moment, you hesitate. Your instinct tells you to step back outside, to give yourself an out before this becomes something real.

But then Hyunjin turns. He catches sight of you—and his entire face lights up. His smile is instant, genuine, radiant in a way that makes you forget you were just about to retreat.

“I’m happy to see you,” he says, stepping away from his conversation without hesitation. “You came.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, glancing briefly toward the person he was speaking with, your hand still loosely gripping the strap of your bag. “I can come back later, if you’re busy.”

But Hyunjin’s reaction is immediate. He takes a small step toward you, shaking his head with a pleading softness in his eyes. “No. Don’t go.”

You blink, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I was just finishing up anyway,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile, one that almost feels like a quiet apology for making you feel like you weren’t welcome here. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Stay—please.”

And it’s the way he looks at you. Open. Warm. Like your presence just made his whole day better. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather have you be.

You feel your hesitation melt, bit by bit. Your grip on your bag loosens. Your heart softens in a way you didn’t expect. So you nod. Quietly, simply, you say, “Okay.”

As you wait, you take slow steps around the studio, letting your eyes wander over the carefully displayed pieces—bowls, vases, sculptures that seem to carry a sense of motion even in their stillness. Each one is uniquely imperfect, textured with fingerprints, small ridges, grooves. They're beautiful in the way something made by hand always is—full of soul, full of intention. But as much as you're trying to focus on the art, your attention keeps drifting. To him.

Hyunjin stands a few feet away, still finishing his conversation, and you can’t help but look. The way he’s dressed is simple—just a white tank top tucked into jeans, the fabric hugging his frame in all the right places, and an apron dusted with clay tied around his waist. His buzzed hair is wrapped under a bandana. He gestures with his hands as he talks, his words low and animated, his passion palpable.

There’s something magnetic about it—the way his brows pull together when he's describing a shape, the way his hands mimic the curves of the piece, like he’s still molding it in the air. You find yourself watching too closely. Admiring too much.

God, he's attractive. Really, really attractive.

You realize you’ve been staring, your thoughts trailing somewhere they shouldn’t, and you quickly look away, pretending to examine a nearby vase like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.

Your pulse does this little skip in your chest and you remind yourself again: You're just here to learn pottery.

The soft click of the studio door signals that Hyunjin’s guest has just left, and suddenly, it's just the two of you. The room feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting. You run your fingertips along the rim of a ceramic bowl, pretending to study it as you hear the sound of his footsteps getting closer. Your heart does a little flutter as you straighten your posture, but you don’t dare turn around until you hear his voice.

“So…” he says, his tone lighter now, a little teasing, “ready for your first pottery lesson?”

You finally turn to face him, and he's looking at you with a smile that makes you feel warm all over. His apron is still dusted with clay, his arms streaked with it, and there’s a tiny smudge on his cheek you have to force yourself not to reach for.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving a small laugh. “I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to break anything.”

He grins, dimples and all. “Don’t worry. The only rule here is to enjoy yourself.”

The way he says it—calm, easy, inviting—makes you relax a little. You nod, your lips curling into a smile. “Okay. Teach me, then.”

Hyunjin reaches for an apron hanging on a hook, shaking the dust from it before offering it to you with a quiet smile. “Here,” he says, “can’t have you ruining that pretty outfit.”

You chuckle softly as you slide your arms through the apron, smoothing it down the front. Before you can reach behind to tie it, he’s already stepping closer—close enough that the heat of his body brushes your back.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

His fingers gather the straps at your waist, slow and deliberate, and as he knots them behind you, you feel the firm brush of his knuckles against the small of your back. Your breath hitches—just slightly—and you’re thankful he can’t see your face just yet. But then… he moves higher.

Without a word, his hand lifts to your hair, gathering it gently, fingertips brushing your nape as he lifts it away from your neck. “Can’t let it get messy either,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave as he twists your hair and pins it up with a clip from the table. “There. Perfect.”

Hyunjin doesn’t step away. He lingers, his hands falling slowly, deliberately, to rest lightly on your shoulders as he leans in—just enough for you to feel the soft, warm brush of his breath against your neck. You close your eyes for a moment, heat rising in your cheeks, heart fluttering like it’s never been touched before.

“You smell really good,” he says, low and sincere, as if it’s a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You swallow, pulse quickening. “I—um… thank you.”

When you finally turn your head slightly to glance back at him, his eyes are already on you—dark, unreadable, but soft. And the look he gives you makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth curling up like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Let’s make something beautiful,” he says.

And you’re not entirely sure if he’s still talking about pottery.

-

Hyunjin leads you to the table, where a solid mound of clay sits waiting. He picks up a thin, taut wire with wooden handles on each end and holds it out for you. “This is a cut-off wire,” he explains gently, “you use it to portion the clay before you bring it to the wheel.”

You take the handles in your hands, unsure, and glance at him. He steps behind you again, not too close this time—but close enough that you can feel the presence of him, the quiet patience he carries.

“Pull it tight,” he says, “and glide it through like you’re slicing butter.”

You do as he says, but your motion is a little hesitant, uneven. He doesn’t correct you right away. Instead, his hands come up to rest over yours, steadying them, guiding the motion with a softness that makes your breath catch.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice brushing your ear.

Together, you slice through the clay. When it’s done, he lets go—slowly—and steps around to lift the cut piece with ease. He smiles.

“Perfect,” he says. “See? Not so hard.”

You follow him as he carries the clay over to the wheel, your heart still fluttering from the brief contact. He pats the stool next to the wheel.

“Come sit. Let’s get your hands dirty.”

You do, smoothing the apron over your lap as you settle in.

He slaps the clay down at the center of the wheel with a satisfying thud, then sits beside you, adjusting the pedal with his foot. “We’re going to start by centering the clay. That’s the most important part.”

You look down at your hands, already dusted with faint clay residue. “What if I mess it up?”

Hyunjin leans in with a smile that borders on a smirk, eyes flicking up to yours. “That’s part of the fun.”

His hands take yours again, guiding them toward the spinning mound of clay. The wheel starts turning, slow and steady, and he wraps his fingers around yours as the clay begins to take shape beneath your touch.

The sensation is strange—cool, smooth, pliant—but with him guiding you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… grounding. Intimate. “Just feel it,” he says quietly. “Don’t overthink.”

You nod, even though your heart is racing—not from nerves over the clay, but from the way his voice settles into your spine. The way his hands feel sure and gentle over yours. The way his focus is split between the clay and you.

Then, Hyunjin moves to the wheel across from you, his own piece of clay already set and spinning. “Watch me first,” he says, looking up with a soft grin. “Then you can try.”

You nod, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you lean forward slightly, eyes on him. On the way his hands wet with slip move gracefully over the surface of the clay. His fingers are long, precise—expert—and there’s a natural rhythm in the way they press and pull, coaxing form from the formless.

Your gaze drops to his forearms, where veins run along the skin like rivers, his muscles subtly flexing as he controls the wheel. The way his biceps shift beneath the snug fit of his tank has your breath hitching just slightly, and then your eyes move up again—past the bandana holding his hair back, past the little smudge of clay near his jaw—to his face.

Hyunjin is all focus. Calm, unbothered, completely at home in the motion of his craft. And for a moment, you forget where you are.

You’re watching him—not just the process, but him—and your thoughts go quiet. All you hear is the hum of the wheel, the soft squish of clay, and your own heartbeat tapping against your ribs.

Then, as if he senses it, his eyes lift. He catches you staring. You look away fast, cheeks warming, pretending to busy yourself with your own shapeless lump of clay. But across the room, you hear his soft laugh. Low, amused, unbothered.

“I can feel you watching me,” he says, not looking up this time as he dips his fingers in water and smooths a new edge into his piece.

You glance up at him again, trying to sound casual. “I’m just observing. You said to watch.”

“Right,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye now. “Strictly academic.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads on your lips. He doesn't push, just continues shaping his work with that same focused grace—while every now and then, you catch his gaze flicking back to you. And each time it does, it lingers just a little longer.

Not long after, you find yourself sinking into it, the stillness not awkward but comforting. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket, where nothing needs to be said. Your hands move gently over the clay, smoothing it, shaping it—not entirely sure what you're making, but enjoying the process anyway. It’s oddly therapeutic, the coolness of the clay, the give and resistance of it, the freedom to make anything. You let your fingers trail along its form, until—

The wheel spins too fast beneath your hand, wobbling wildly, and your once-decent shape collapses inward with a wet slap. You sigh, pulling your hands back, covered in clay and frustration.

Hyunjin looks up from his own wheel. He sees your frown, your ruined creation, and he doesn’t laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he wipes his hands with a rag and rises, walking over with an amused curl to his lips and that glint in his eyes. “You panicked,” he says softly, voice dipped in warm amusement.

“I messed it up,” you mutter, eyeing the deformed lump.

“You can still fix it,” he simply resolves.

Before you can ask how, he’s already behind you. Not too close—but close enough that you can feel his presence, the gentle press of warmth radiating from his chest. Then, with zero hesitation, he reaches around you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he guides your hands back to the clay.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your neck.

You try not to shiver as he continues, “Just feel it. Let your hands listen to what it wants to be.”

His hands gently cup yours, steering them over the clay as the wheel spins again—slower this time. Controlled. Intimate. His fingers never leave yours, and every time he leans in to speak, his lips come dangerously close to your ear. “You’re doing good,” he whispers. “See? Told you we could fix it.”

You manage a breathy chuckle, though your focus is split—half on the clay, half on how close he is. How his chest nearly grazes your back, how his voice sinks into your skin, how his fingers linger just a little too long with each adjustment.

“Feels a little like cheating,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh behind you. “I like helping.” His voice dips a little lower. “Besides… if it means I get to be this close to you, I’m not complaining.”

You glance back at him—only to find his face already angled toward yours, eyes heavy-lidded with that teasing smile. Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. You pull in a breath, trying to center yourself again—on the clay, the motion, the wheel beneath your hands, not on the way Hyunjin’s breath felt brushing your skin just moments ago.

“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s just finish this.”

And you do. You put all of your focus into the shape, your hands moving more confidently now. Every curve, every pressure, you begin to feel the rhythm. Hyunjin stays close but doesn't interfere anymore—just lets you work, watching with quiet eyes and the occasional, almost imperceptible smile. A few times, he gently murmurs encouragements, soft like a breeze: “Just like that… slower on the edge… good, yeah, that’s it.”

And slowly, it comes together. A little uneven, maybe. Not perfectly symmetrical. But it has a charm—your charm, your hands in the shape of it.

When you lift your hands and look at what you've made, you let out a quiet breath. “It’s… kind of a plate?” you say, unsure.

Hyunjin chuckles, stepping in. “It is a plate,” he says warmly, reaching for the cut-off wire. He carefully loops it beneath the clay, slicing it from the wheel with practiced ease, and lifts it with gentle hands like it’s a masterpiece.

He turns to you with a smile so genuine it makes your chest swell. “You did a really good job,” he says.

You smile back, your cheeks still warm. “Only because you practically made it with me.”

“I was just your guide.” He winks. “You’re the artist.”

You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you stand a little taller. Like maybe you are capable of making something beautiful—even if it’s just a slightly lopsided plate in a small studio, with a man who’s slowly but surely making a mark on your heart.

-

The clay’s still under your nails a little, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. A trace of the afternoon etched into your skin. You wash your hand in the nearest sink and feel a little more relaxed as you're toweling your damp hands.

Not long after, Hyunjin walks in, balancing two cups of coffee with ease, still in his paint-smeared apron and bandana, looking effortlessly undone in the most deliberate way.

“Made us coffee,” he says, handing you one of the mugs. Your fingers brush for a second as you take it, and it sends a small jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking a sip and leaning against the big wooden table beside him. The studio is quiet now, just the soft hum of life outside the windows and the lingering scent of clay and coffee between you.

You admire the wall-to-wall shelf of pottery on the other side of the studio, each piece unique, imperfectly perfect in their own way. “You’ve made all of these?” you ask.

He nods, glancing at them over his cup. “Each one’s like a memory.”

You smile at that, letting the silence wrap around you both for a beat. Then, from beside you, he says casually, “So… I might’ve done a little internet stalking about you.”

You glance at him, brow arching. “Oh?”

He smiles into his cup, lowering it slowly. “I was curious.”

“And what did you find out, detective?”

He turns his head to look at you, something playful and soft behind his eyes. “That you were… different.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “Different how?”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Fiery. Effervescent. A little wild, in the best way.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Are you disappointed now?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on yours. “Not even close.” His voice is low, steady. “I like who you are now.”

Your heart flips, unprepared for the way he says it—so matter-of-factly, like it's the easiest truth he's ever spoken. Then he adds, almost as if speaking to the room, “But I think that part of you is still in there. Just… quieter now. I wonder if I'll ever meet her.”

You look down into your coffee, lips curling slightly before glancing back at him. “Or maybe you should’ve been born sooner,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

But Hyunjin just smiles, slow and knowing, as he turns to face you more fully. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “If I was born sooner… you wouldn’t have noticed me. I’d be nobody.”

Your smile falters, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer. “You would’ve looked right through me. But now…” His eyes lock on yours again, this time deeper, weightier. “Now you see me.”

Your breath hitches, the space between you shrinking, thick with something electric.

“I think,” he murmurs, voice low, “we met at the right time.”

You swallow, caught off guard—not just by his words, but by the way he says them. The way he makes you feel. And you realize, maybe it’s not about being ready to open your heart. Maybe it’s about someone walking in and making it feel safe enough to try.

And then, he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the brown of his eyes, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple from earlier.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice low, husky with hesitation… and intent.

You nod before you can think better of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep it cool,” he murmurs, his hand brushing the edge of the table near yours. “Trying not to be… too much.”

Your lips twitch, heart hammering. “You think this is you trying to be subtle?”

Hyunjin lets out a quiet laugh, one that curls around your ribs and settles in your belly. “I guess I’m not very good at subtle when it comes to you.”

And then, slowly, he reaches out—his hand gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw before falling away. The touch is light, but it lingers in your skin like fire.

“You make it really hard,” he says, barely above a whisper, “not to want... more.”

“More?” you echo softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

His eyes don’t leave yours. “More moments like this. More of your time. More of you.”

The silence stretches for a beat—your heart racing, cheeks burning—but you don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. Because in this moment, with the earthy scent of clay still hanging in the air and the fading sunlight washing golden across the floor, it feels terrifyingly easy to let yourself lean in—just a little closer.

And Hyunjin sees it. He sees the way your eyes flick to his lips for half a second too long. So he closes the space between you, just barely, until his face hovers inches from yours. Not touching, not yet. Waiting. Letting you decide.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “and I will.”

But you don’t, you don’t say a word. Instead, you meet his eyes—warm, steady, searching—and you let yourself lean in just enough to close the last inches between you.

And then, finally, his lips meet yours.

It’s soft at first—so gentle, as if he’s afraid to break something delicate. His lips move against yours with reverence, like he’s been waiting a long time for this moment, and now that he has it, he’s not going to rush. He kisses you like it means something. Your hand finds the front of his apron, clutching the edge of the fabric just to ground yourself, to make sure this is real. And when you respond—when your lips press back into his, just a little more certain, a little more open—he sighs softly into the kiss, like relief, like gravity finally pulling him where he belongs.

His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, and the other finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer—not demanding, but asking. You let him. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, the quiet hum of something new and terrifyingly beautiful blooming between you.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only just—his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed, breath mingling with yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, “since the first time I saw you.”

You smile, breathless, your heart blooming in your chest like something brand new. “And here I thought you were just being polite.”

Hyunjin huffs a quiet laugh, his nose brushing yours. “Not even a little bit.”

And for a while, you stay like that—close, quiet, wrapped in something warm and soft and maybe even a little magical—before the moment gives way to the next.

Because this doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the very beginning.

-

✨ Chapter I of Evermore is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @drhsthl @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanniebunch @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @hwangjoanna @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @angstraykids @lenfilms @inniesfanblog @multi-fandommaniac @tirena1 @nightmarenyxx @nebugalaxy @akindaflora @iknow-uknow-leeknow @satosugu4l

[mint-fixates]

There's so many new ppl in the fandom right now I felt the need to remind everyone of The Before Times (the Early-to-Mid 2010s Gravity Falls Fandom Experience™:)

• Mystery Kids and that sickass fanmade animation/storyboard of it. By extension, Parapines (Dipper x Norman from Paranorman) being a super popular ship

• Depravity Falls

• Reverse Falls

• Ask blogs for all of the above things

• When we all thought Stanley was Stanford and Stanford was Stanley (or thought the Stan Twin Theory was too far-fetched/wasn't real)

• The fandom-wide debate of whether Stan said "*I* have them all" or "*WE* have them all"

• People genuinely thinking Stan was secretly evil

• People genuinely thinking McGucket was the Author

• People thinking Bill was just a mischievous, chaotic neutral trickster with no evil intent

• People thinking Dipper was possessed by Bill during Not What He Seems

• People somehow predicting that Pacifica was the llama on the zodiac wheel as early as 2012 even though it made no sense until Weirdmageddon????

• Billdip & Mabill.

• PINECEST. EVERYWHERE. YOU COULD NOT ESCAPE IT.

• Mystery Trio (Stanford, Stanley, and Fiddleford)

• the "please draw Pacifica with a grocery cart full of Wonderbread" creep bothering EVERY. SINGLE. ARTIST. IN. THE. FANDOM.

• The fandom-wide meme of everyone making ironic Billford AMVs set to early 2000s-2010s breakup songs out of the same like. Four clips after The Last Mabelcorn released

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Maximalist Literature

Around the mid-to-late 20th century, writers and critics began to categorize literature into two categories: minimalist and maximalist. Minimalist works and maximalist works have unique characteristics that contribute to how the narratives are written and interpreted.

Maximalist writing style - broad and complex, involving many different literary devices and elements.

Maximalism came to prominence in contemporary American novels in the 1970s, only gaining popularity in Europe by the twenty-first century.

Maximalism is often seen in postmodern books, which are usually more digressive and generous with its metaphors, descriptions, and other figurative language, covering a more comprehensive range of subject matter and emotional exploration.

Purveyors of literary theory like Nick Levey (author of the 2016 book Maximalism in Contemporary American Literature: The Uses of Detail), Stefano Ercolino (author of the 2014 book The Maximalist Novel: From Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow to Roberto Bolaño's 2666), and others like Franco Moretti and Tom LeClair, all offer conflicting definitions on the true embodiment of maximalist style.

Famous Maximalist Writers

Don DeLillo: Following an advertising executive in New York during the Nixon era, Underworld (1997) explores the rise of global capitalism, the decline of American manufacturing, the CIA, and civil rights, among other themes, through nihilism and the fantastical appearances of American mythos figures.

Thomas Pynchon: Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) is an example of maximalist literature, using complex structure to cover various subjects such as culture, science, and literary propriety. Some early critics viewed this work as overwritten and obscene, though some now claim it to be one of the greatest American novels ever written.

Zadie Smith: Smith’s White Teeth (2000) is a maximalist exploration of different historical, cultural, and social classes. The characters in the novel also come from different religious backgrounds, offering a complex, blended narrative laid across 20 fragmented chapters.

David Foster Wallace: Wallace’s Infinite Jest (1996) embodies maximalism through his postmodern characters, overuse of endnotes, and meandering consciousness.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[rmbunnie]

Okay, here's part two of my Green Arrow: Seeing Red thoughts. I'm going to be talking about the much more well-debated side of things here, and that is, of course, the Mia-Jason side of things. I don't really have a thesis for this essay of a post, besides the basic ground rule that I don't think Jason intended to kill Mia, and that's written out pretty clearly in the text. Also that the idea that Jason was lying about his history and beliefs to manipulate Mia (to what end people never really say, as similarly to the "killing her" misconception, he also wasn't trying to recruit her or really make her do anything) isn't particularly supported by anything in the storyline OR any of Jason's previous characterization, adds very little to the story except maybe peace of mind that his entire presence and everything he says aren't worth thinking over because they're just lies anyways and one contribution to a hypothetical callout post for fictional character Jason Todd that needs to be beefed up with conjecture because actual published stories about him aren't cutting it, and kind of just doesn't engage in like, the basic concept of accepting the premise of a work of fiction imo. I do love a good theory, but there's no subtext really there to support it, and the only piece of evidence is just "what if the story itself was wrong." What if he was lying? Well, then it would serve no purpose and go nowhere. What if Oliver Queen was secretly named Pete Arrows and they just didn't say it ever. What if. This is really just going to be loose thoughts on the storyline, but having said that:

I think Seeing Red coming relatively close after Heading Into The Light contextualizes the story in several really important ways: it makes Jason's actions read even less as an attempt at lethal harm with Dr. Light's actual go at killing people in mind, and it gives Mia a reason to be on high alert. Whether it was an intentional parallel or Winick just had certain scenarios he liked to default to during the mid-2000s I can't say for sure, but Heading Into The Light gives us a benchmark to compare Jason's scheme to of a sadistic villain intending permanent harm through an attack with shared elements to Jason's... thing, only implemented much more severely. And let's be clear, two things can be bad, and Dr. Light is the genuine worst. He is potentially the easiest character to ever be a better person than. but lining them up side by side? Dr. Light attacks Mia's school with full attendance, remotely mass murdering her classmates in a very methodical and near-instant pattern as a way of drawing her out. Jason shows up in her high school gym at night, when the building is empty, and attacks with the single goal of prolonging their conversation as he goads her to fight against him more and more viciously. Dr. Light actually DOES explicitly mock Mia for her HIV status, both internally (implying Ollie would be predatory towards her if he wasn't afraid of catching AIDS) and externally "(I guess hookers really are street smart and tough,") as well as making uncomfortably suggestive comments towards her ("Not quite the schoolgirl in that belly shirt. I feel like you should be in a bar with eight other girls. I could always go for some jello shots.") Jason brings up Mia's history specifically as a response/correction to "You don't know anything about me." Tactless to say the least, but not unprompted like one would expect from a taunt (and like Dr. Light's references to Mia's abuse,) and much less derogatory than "you hookers are tough." The part of his statement that reads as aggressive is centered around Mia's (alleged) unwillingness to kill, her status as a victim isn't the target of his scorn. Which, that isn’t a feat to be clear, i just don’t think he’s mocking her for her diagnosis like I see claimed. In terms of reaction: Mia usually likes to dish it out back, and when Dr. Light disparages her her knee-jerk reaction is saying he has no right be talking shit about her when he's dressed like that (to summarize.) When Jason says they're similar in background she just goes back in for another attack with a yell. Which seems like she might be more upset with Jason's reference than Dr. Light, but not like her usual response to insults.

I also think it's worthwhile to note that the gym is, up until this point in the comic, exclusively the setting where Mia came out to her entire school as being HIV positive. I wouldn't assume Jason knows that specific info, but the location already has a strong association with Mia revealing a personal secret to her peers, and it's where Jason's little chat with her, another teen sidekick, about them having similar pasts and parents goes down. It could be adding a layer of legitimacy or subtext to Jason's speech through the parallel to Mia's earnest coming-out and bid for understanding from her peers, it could be tainting Mia's reclamation of her diagnosis to have the place where her past was owned become the place where it linked her to a guy who cuts off heads -- do with it what you will. The gym is blown up at the end.

Jason actually does lie to Mia in this one, just not about himself or his past. He says that when she runs out of arrows, she knows that's gonna be it for her, and he'll be coming for her. It's technically true in the sense that she does know that, but it's ultimately an incorrect perception. Her bow breaks halfway through the fight, and Jason tosses her a pair of swords, then waits for her to get back up to keep fighting. In the end when she's pinned down, unarmed, and he's coming towards her with a knife, there's a panel of her face as she more or less accepts her fate, before it cuts to her safe outside of the building. So. He will not be getting her when she runs out of weapons. (I am so curious what happens on their end in the time between those panels, besides "he lets her go.") This also establishes a pattern of behavior consistent with his Onyx encounter, and which leads me to believe the Onyx interaction probably wouldn't have ended with him killing her either: He starts the combat with a big display of strength (kidnapping Mia/stabbing Onyx in the shoulder,) frees the opponent from it (unties Mia/dresses Onyx's wound with his special instant suturing bandaid,) insists that he's going to kill them if they fight him, and then doesn't. With Mia, he lets her go, and with Onyx, he's interrupted before she can start attacking (which he's waiting on her to do.) But applying the Mia pattern to Onyx, I do in fact think he's full of shit, and that even if Bruce hadn't shown, we can retroactively assume he would likely have had little intention of actually killing Onyx.

I just think it's fun that Mia's high school is named after Dennis O'Neil (Green Arrow/Green Lantern) and Kevin Smith.

I find it vague what Jason means when he says Mia "understands that very bad things need to be done to accomplish a great right." Obviously it's just Jason's worldview, that evil can be a tool to accomplish good outcomes, and the simple answer is him broadly saying she can relate to it, but why is he telling her? "You do [understand]" feels more personal than that, and what the "great right" actually is, in regards to what Mia is doing, seems unclear. It's a separate statement to "doing bad things just to get by" which references her/their background/s, and frames the good outcome as just surviving another day. I'm sure for Mia it reminds her of the end of City Walls, when she shot that guy because she had to take his wall/police-state curse down, but the thing is, even if she didn't like it, and had a major crisis of conscience over it, she did kill that guy. Not that Jason knows. In general, Green Arrow has much less of a revulsion to killing and death than Bruce, for whom it's nothing short of a fixation. So unless Jason just doesn't know that about Green Arrow, nor that Mia had already killed, it's a really weird point to argue. That probably is the situation, Jason just straight up does not know and is projecting his dynamic with Bruce onto a more understanding father, but it's a weird page, with the cut from him closing in on her to her safe outside, the emphasis on his dagger. Could Jason coming over to her with his dagger, taking into account the fact that she's open and he's shown to not kill her despite this, be following the pattern, shown twice in this issue alone, of him providing opponents weaponry to use against him? Was the "bad thing that needed to be done" his way of prompting her to use the dagger on him, in line with his efforts to make her shoot for his face? Probably not. It's a stretch, but then again, he did move the encounter along to the "advanced readers group" where he starts to allude to his own past and their similarities only after Mia followed up on her threat to shoot for his eye, effectively setting up a system where she "progresses" for hurting not villains or criminals, but him personally. Reading too far into this, but something about that page feels odd to me. It's just SUCH an ambiguous place to cut the scene. Anyways, whatever he way saying there, Mia seemed to be convinced.

I think the thing that bothers Mia most about the Jason interaction, by far, is that it inspired doubt in her relationship with Oliver. That, and the idea that overcoming her circumstances might not be enough to actually keep her Good, which are kind of the same thing. Mia seems to take a lot of pride in being like Oliver, and almost sees him as a uniquely good man, in her history at least. (Connor too, but he's not in the same type of caretaker/authority role.) She spends a substantial amount of time majorly upset after she finds out he cheated on Dinah, which seems somewhat charged taking into account her history, and the fact that he saved her from that politician, saved her from her abusive boyfriend, always responded appropriately to her early series crush, while every other man she interacted with only continued to perpetuate her suffering. (I see Winick's Green Arrow critiqued for having Ollie cheat, and while I absolutely don't agree with the choice to kill Joanna off in the manner that she was killed, and Winick's interview answer when asked about the choice to have Ollie cheat was that he just liked writing Oliver flawed, which is fair, I also think it serves Mia's character really well to have this kind of trial come up in her new parental relationship.) In the same issue where Jason says she's emulating her new flawed "daddy," she lies about her favorite type of pizza so she can agree with Ollie. Throughout the issue, her points of contention with Jason are less about his stance on killing and more that his claims that they're alike are incorrect, at a point where all she knows about him is that he's no longer good, and his father thinks he's trash in the gutter. Ollie will understand when push comes to shove. Ollie is unlike every other figure she looked up to who came before him, and she is unlike Jason, who attracted the wrath of his father by turning to evil. And are their situations similar? In some ways. Like I said in my mentor thoughts, Ollie is much more aware of his role as a parent than Bruce. We see his reaction to Mia killing, which is nothing like anything Bruce would even consider with the extent of his hang-up. He does share his privilege and wealth with Bruce, which Jason talks about as the root of their unwillingness to compromise in their values, while he, Mia, and people like them sometimes have to make the choice to do wrong in order to survive. (I do also think there's something to the fact that Jason comes to the conclusion that Ollie wouldn't understand Mia after pressuring both of them to opt for lethal shots on him, which Ollie abstains from and Mia gives in to, when really, there isn't a ton on the line for them to lose against him? He makes himself out to be like the benchmark of evil for a hero to use lethal force to stop, but like, there's no real threat that needs stopping in these scenarios.) Neither show up to their sidekicks' explosions in time to help them. Whether or not they're the same, (which to be clear, I don't think Mia could be put in Jason's position with Oliver as her parent,) I do think Mia assumes pre-encounter that Jason was sort of passively on the unchallenged side of good until he got sick of it, with how she says "stay on the right side of the line," and I do think it scares her, a character so centered around overcoming her past, to see that another kid started out needing to do wrong, getting the opportunity to leave that behind, and then ending up finding it necessary again of their own volition. But the idea that she might have picked the wrong person to follow again, that even if you rise above you can still end up being Jason, and even rising above can mean putting aside your past and trailing behind your new dad's convictions while your own sit latent, is probably what has her pushing him away when he tries to hug her outside.

[lookingforhappy]

Extra Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven - Transcript

(note that there is a lot of random placements & repeated paragraphs. I've tried to connect as much of it as possible, and cut out repetitions to make it flow a little better. Hope this is enjoyable/interesting!)

as much content as I could find from Viktor's book transcribed in one post, picture credit to the TUA Prop Auction:

EXTRA ORDINARY MY LIFE AS NUMBER SEVEN AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY VANYA HARGREEVES Vanya Hargreeves is well known for her virtuosic skills as a violinist. Less understood is the role she played as one of Reginald Hargreeves' adopted children, standing alongside - but never counted among - the famous Umbrella Academy super kids. This is her story, in her own words. "An incredible read... a revealing portal into the amazing life of Vanya Hargreeves and the life she has lived. I couldn't put it down!" -Gerard Way

Vanya Hargreeves is well known for her virtuosic skills as a violinist. Less understood is the role she played as one of Reginald Hargreeves' adopted children, standing alongside - but never counted among - the famous Umbrella Academy super kids. This is her story, in her own words. Extra Ordinary: My Life as Number Seven is a tell-all autobiography by one of the central figures of Reginald Hargreeves experimental and tragic team of heroic children, collectively know as the Umbrella Academy team. In this book, Vanya, ready to expose the truths behind the Academy's operation prior to it's disbanding in the mid-late 2000's, goes all in. With stories and anecdotes from her many years in the shadows. Vanya Hargreeves pulls no punches. No stone is left unturned, and no other member of the team is left unmentioned, for good or for ill.

Chapter One Our parting was sad, but natural in the end. I think about the circumstances of out vastly different births all the time. I've read the newspapers. I've seen the evidence. But at the same time I can't believe any of it. Even if Allison, Luther and all the rest of them were born and collected like the papers say, how did I become a part of this extraordinary family? Was I a dud, an unfortunate super-child who wasn't set up with the right circuitry? Or did I even come from the circle of miraculously born children at all? It made the most sense of any of my theories: a young mother, terrified by a future with a child she couldn't afford, saw the world-wide birth announcement, followed by Hargreeves' request and reward sum. I went through life cursing my mother, determined she was a money-grubbing con artist who sold me away to an eccentric, cold man who couldn't even use me for the purposes he set out. I was carted off like cattle and sequestered to a young life of self-doubt, all because my mother had wanted a payday more than she wanted me. I only sought out my birth mother once. All these news stories kept the identities of the traumatized mothers tightly under wraps, of course, but those were in the upstanding

publications. I believe that any detail about human history, if salacious or powerful enough to cause harm, can be found with the right kind of determination. I found a list of names, and scoured each for signs: did she have a boy or a girl? What had she done with her earnings from Hargreeves? Had she had other children? Where was she now? Two of the women could have lined up with my birth: Allison and I were the only female babies "found" by Hargreeves. It was easy to narrow down once I found pictures of them both: the woman with my hair, and my nose, lived in a small town off the Southern coast of Russia. At least, according to what I could find. I convinced Hargreeves that we needed to take the team there to train, after extensively researching the area's high mountains and secluded trails. It was perfect, and miraculously, he agreed! Thinking back, I wonder if he knew exactly what I was up to and wanted to help. We stayed for five days, and as the others sweated and trained, I kept records, and occasionally went off on my own. For any of the academy members to question Hargreeves' strict schedule or participate in non-approved "free" time would have been unacceptable. But as for me, I wasn't on the schedule in the first place. We spent enough time in Russia for me to track my birth mother down. I took buses, spoke what broken Russian I could to locals, and finally came to the house where I had been told she would be. We spent enough time in Russia for me to learn that the mother I had spent years searching for had died. The family of hers, and I guess of mine, who greeted me there invited me in. They seemed harmless and even kind. But I couldn't stay. Whether my mother knew I wasn't special or not, I realized I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hate a dead person any longer. Now I knew she was gone, it seemed pointless anyway. I've found that focussing on the past can only hurt me further. It's not worth spending any more of my time on the people who have all but forgotten me. I haven't gotten a call

from Allison in years, Diego's out fighting crime, Klaus has been partying himself into a stupor ever since we left the house, and Five is gone. Luther's the only one of us who stayed. I envied him for so many years growing up: Number One, the group's true leader. But now I pity him. Luther could have been anything: he could have had the fame Allison did. He could have gone wild like Klaus. He could have taken to the streets and fought against evil himself like Diego... but he stayed to become Hargreeves' pet. In the end, there was nothing really connecting the seven of us. We weren't related. We were nothing alike. We were just seven strangers living under the same roof: destined to be alone, starved for attention, damaged by our upbringing, and haunted by what might have been. We all wanted to be loved by a man incapable of giving love. Our father never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was ordinary - a hard thing for a little girl to hear. But lately I've started to wonder - what's so bad about being ordinary? From the second we're born we're told to reach for the stars. To accomplish great things. But there is a value in life lived quietly. Going about our days, little by little. Finding contentment in small victories - a promotion, a friend, a beautiful day. Sometimes, the simple things are extraordinary.

so-called rumours about Allison and Luther, no pun intended, I can't say for sure. I'd like to think that what they have transcends words - when we were kids, it was just obnoxious. They spoke in code, swapped whispers. They were part of a world in which we weren't allowed. But as we got older I realised it wasn't some fantasy world they were playing in. Their minds were off somewhere else together. They shared looks and gestures that were meaningless to the rest of us... save maybe Klaus, who can be oddly perceptive when you least expect him to. But as for a romantic relationship between the two of them, that's none of my business. Frankly, I don't want to know. Adopted or not, if it were two of your siblings, would you want to picture that? Their secret conversations were the first sign of what was to come: watching the two of them so happy together, and acutely knowing I could never belong would become an intimate feeling in my life. Soon, they were together on missions. They were training all afternoon. And they were playing games I couldn't learn the rules to. It was all too obvious that there was a club for children with superpowers, and ordinary children like me were decidedly barred. I would say it was Dad who implemented all of this. He caused my alienation through procedures, through harsh rules that we all followed for fear of the alternative. And to an extent, that's all true. I can't forgive what he did to me - but sometimes I wonder where Dad's actions ended and my siblings' began. When you consider what a mind, especially a young mind, will absorb and harness when put into dire situations, it's not at all difficult to believe that my siblings learned cruelty from Dad until they eventually made it their own. It wasn't just the rules keeping me out of top-secret meetings anymore. It just made sense that I should sit at the end of the table, so Diego could help Five's technique, or so Allison could paint Klaus' fingernails. I became accustomed to sulking and watching them from afar - most of my morning oatmeal went uneaten and but thoroughly picked at.

Meals became the one time of day we were all forced to be together - and I met them with equal parts anticipation and dread. Would today be the day I engaged Allison? Could I stand up to Diego's taunts? Maybe I'd show Five the musical piece I'd been working on for weeks. Though prone to arrogance and outbursts, even more than the average preteen, Five was my sole confidante in the years before he disappeared. It almost seemed fitting that of all the siblings to leave us, it would be him who I fully trusted, and who fully trusted me. Five was almost always one step ahead of Dad's manipulations, and he didn't play into the games of favourites like my other siblings. Five always told me that ego was man's most unattractive weakness - he thought himself above competing for fatherly love and prizes. Even then he was beyond his years. I think about Five often, and where he is now. The others say he's dead, caught in a terrible accident, or shredded up in the time space continuum. But I know Five, and I know he was too smart for that. Reckless, maybe, but he's brilliant. I wouldn't be surprised if he were living it up in the seventies now... but hippie hash wasn't really his style. For all I know he's gone to the future and never looked back. If he has, and he's happy, then I am happy for him. I'm sure none of us can say we never had a moment where we wished we could escape. Not just run away, but also go somewhere where Dad couldn't track us down and pull us back into his web. Surprisingly, I only ran away once. Despite everything, it took so much for me to believe I could belong anywhere else but the home in which I was abused. Shortly after Five dissappeared, I took his lead. It was about time I saw what's out there. But I knew nothing other than what I had been taught about myself and my life: I was simply not special. But I asked myself on that day: What if I was special, to somebody else? The rest of the world was ordinary. Maybe the real world was where I belonged all along.

One morning, I left the Academy - my bag stuffed to the gills with clothes, snacks, and mementos I couldn't leave behind. I think I even brought a dream catcher, for fear of nightmares from home following me wherever I went. I only made it to a bus stop, and I sat there all day long - and strangely, for the first time in my life, it hit me that I was completely alone. I had thought I was alone my entire life, but this was something new and entirely different. I was afraid of what I didn't know, and would choose Dad's torment any day over the endless dark that stretched down our street. Buses came, but I waved the kind drivers away. That night, I walked back through the front doors, and no one knew I had ever left in the first place. I wonder how long it would have taken them to realize - the extra girl they never needed was absent. Would it have made a difference? To this day, I'm not sure. The next time I left that house was when we all did. After what happened to Ben. Our everyday existence was full of evidence that Dad had stepped into treating us like experiments. Not as children, but like animals. And what happened to Ben was the last straw that finally shattered the illusion for the others. I regret that though I knew all along what they realised that day, I didn't have the spine to leave on my own. It wasn't until Allison took off for Hollywood and Diego cursed out the old man for good that I realized we were, ultimately, a broken family.

I had always kept up hope that my family would accept me into the fold. I thought that as long as there was a club to belong to, one day they would notice me and invited me in. Everyone would apologize: Vanya, we can't believe we wasted so much time without you, you're our sister after all. But it was then that I realized something massive: there was nothing for me to aspire to be anymore. It was liberating - the life that I had wanted for as long as I could remember was had finally fallen apart. Without "The Umbrella Academy," I had the freedom to be whomever I chose. Suddenly, my violin playing wasn't stupid - it was something that made me special in the real world. It made me enough money to afford an apartment - it's small but it's mine. It got me into an orchestra, a position I got all on my own talents. This meant I could teach young people how to be special for themselves. Teaching became my passion - my own, personal super power. I treated my students how I had always wished my father had treated me: I trained them, I listened to their problems, and I made sure each of them felt loved in their own, special way. Teaching may seem such a small profession to many, but it became the best part of my life.

[creature-wizard]

Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler: Two Of The Most Dangerous Conspiracy Theorists Most People Have Never Heard Of

Fritz Springmeier is a conspiracy theorist who has written a number of absolute doorstoppers (the content of his books is poorly arranged and highly repetitive) claiming the existence of a global satanic cult that secretly controls the world - basically, your typical Protocols of Zion redux shit. Some of his books were written with Cisco Wheeler, a(n alleged) multiple system he claims to have deprogrammed from Illuminati mind control in 1994. Their work has been deeply influential on today's general belief in alter programming. Even if you've never read Wheeler and Springmeier's work directly, you may have come across their ideas. If you've seen anything about jewel programming, flower programming, planet programming, etc.? That's from them. Writers such as Unwelcome Ozian and Svali get their material from their work (in fact, Unwelcome Ozian's book Chainless Slaves literally copypastes some of their material), and people such as Ellen P. Lacter and Alison Miller of the ISSTD/RAMCOA-SIG frequently cite Svali. Furthermore, their work has had a huge impact on David Icke's reptilian alien conspiracy theories.

Here's a selection (yes, seriously, the following wall of text is only a small sample) of their claims from their trilogy series on Illuminati mind control (They Know Not What They Do - An Illustrated Guide To Monarch Mind Control, The Illuminati Formula Used To Create An Undetectable Total Mind Controlled Slave, and Deeper Insights Into The Illuminati Formula), which they wrote/published in the mid to late 1990's:

The Illuminati is a multi-generational satanic cult made up of thirteen elite bloodlines, who are working behind the scenes to enthrone the Antichrist in the year 2000. (It's been over twenty years, still no Antichrist.)

The Illuminati is behind the French Revolution and the Abolition movement. (Conspiracy theories invented by people who were pro-monarchy and pro-slavery.)

The Illuminati is pushing for gay rights as part of their plan to bring the Antichrist into power.

The Illuminati creates effeminate gay men by dosing pregnant mothers with progesterone and estrogen.

The Illuminati practices "trauma-based mind control," which in this context refers to an alleged (and very unsubstantiated) practice of inflicting brutal tortures to trigger the formation of alters, which will be programmed for various tasks, and made accessible to programmers via special codes and triggers.

TBMC practices often (though not always) take the form of satanic rituals. (Evil is always very, very theatrical in the minds of conspiracy theorists.)

The Illuminati's rituals are "based upon the most ancient mystery religions," because "one of the secrets of the Mystery Religions, especially the Egyptian Isis mystery religion was the ability to use drugs and torture to create multiple personalities." (Citation needed, Fritz.)

The European witch hunts were actually justified, because Europe was full of satanic practitioners of trauma-based mind control. (Seriously, what kind of ghoul claims the witch hunts were in any way justified?)

The Nazis' eugenics program wasn't actually about eugenics. It was actually a front for researching mind control, and that Project Monarch was based on research conducted by Dr. Josef Mengele, whom they claim was an "adept in Caballistic magic" assisted by "Askenazi hasidic black magic adepts." (This is a variation on the claim that Jews actually orchestrated the Holocaust)

Groups that are part of the Illuminati and practice Monarch mind control include (but are not limited to) The Catholic Church/Jesuits, Mormons, Assembly of God churches, the Watchtower Society, Hasidic Judaism, modern witchcraft, Druidry, Santeria, Freemasons, Golden Dawn, NASA, and professional baseball. (I think we can agree that some of these groups are very harmful, but that doesn't mean they're part of this conspiracy he's talking about.)

There are many different types of Monarch alter programming, including but not limited to gem programming, elemental programming, flower programming, color programming, Gumby programming, beehive programming, sex kitten programming, Greek letter programming, carousel programming, demon programming, alien programming, Mensa programming, Atlantis programming, paper doll programming, tumbleweed programming, waterjar shaking programming, Cinderella programming - it goes on.

"Body programs" can be installed to cause hearing problems, circulation issues, headaches, digestive problems, heart failure - basically, all those health problems that people who aren't conspiracy theorists would explain through allergies, stress, mental illness, or just common flaws of the human body.

Most slaves have "end-time programming," and will be activated to round up and kill opponents of the NWO when the time comes from the Antichrist to take power. (Again, it's been over twenty years.

Cisco Wheeler was programmed to be part of the Antichrist's elite imperial guard.

They claim, and I quote, "drugs, torture, hypnosis and MPD all work to enhance memory" and "most slaves have some photographic memory capability." They also claim that systemwide photographic memory can be created through brain stem scarring. (Conspiracy theorists literally made this up.)

The brains of Monarch slaves are more active than normal people's brains, because both sides of the Monarch slave's brain work simultaneously. (Both sides of everyone's brains are working all the time, that is literally how brains work.)

Mind control implants have been a thing since the 1960's. One woman had an implant disguised as a pubic hair. JZ Knight had an audio implant in her teeth that activated her to become a New Age leader. Microchip implants can affect DNA growth. "Fiber optic" mind control devices can be shot into the skin from a distance. (You can tell they rely on their audience to not understand anything about electronics in addition to neuroscience.)

Switching alters can literally change the color of your eyes. (It's impossible for someone's eyes to instantly switch color in the same way it's impossible for their skin to instantly change color.)

Fairy tales, fantasy media, movies, and television shows are full of deliberate programming. Some (but not all) of the media Springmeier and Wheeler implicate includes The Wizard of Oz, The Chronicles of Narnia, Alice in Wonderland, Disney films in general, A Little Princess, Star Trek, Star Wars, E.T., Tiny Toons, The Simpsons, Frankenstein, Bewitched, and Labyrinth.

Basically, any piece of entertainment that isn't morally pure from a far right Christian perspective is part of the Illuminati's plan to corrupt the youth and lead them down the patch of witchcraft and into satanism.

The story of the Golem is actually about a mind-controlled slave, and that "the main goal of the Cabala is to create a mind-controlled slave called a golem." Also, the Brothers Grimm were "Cabalistic Jews." (For a guy who insists he's not antisemitic, Fritz Springmeier sure likes to accuse people of being Jewish and demonize Jewish stuff.)

Famous Illuminati slaves include (but are not limited to) Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Roseanne Barr, Bette Midler, Madonna, and the Beatles. They claim Charles Manson was programmed with Beatles music.

(List break here because this whole thing was longer than Tumblr's allowed block length. Again, I emphasize, I am only posting a small sample of the BS they put in their books.)

The Illuminati's intelligence agencies have programmed "thousands upon thousands of slaves." The Naval Ordinance Test Station at China Lake was actually a Monarch programming facility, where thousands of babies were kept in cages. "Lots of 1000 babies was a small batch," and "many batches were 2000 or 3000 babies."

The average Monarch system is programmed with 1000 alters.

The Illuminati prefers to program blond, blue-eyed children without visible body defects or scars. (Funny how these conspiracy theorists keep claiming to hate white supremacy, then insist blond, blue-eyed children are special targets.)

The Illuminati has no trouble finding sadistic torturers because, and I quote, "essentially all human males can be taught to engage in sadistic behavior." In fact, the Illuminati's Mothers of Darkness are often necessary to make sure the male torturers don't go too far.

The Illuminati used chimpanzees to physically torture children. (The pair of them clearly do not understand how strong chimpanzees actually are.)

Babies can learn to read by six months old with the use of subliminal tapes.

Learning to write backwards makes you more likely to dissociate. (Bizarre variant on old 'Satan does things backwards to mock God' canard.)

Failed Monarch programming/TBMC causes autism. Autism is when children withdraw from the world and retreat into themselves. (If there's two things we know about autism, it's that it's not traumagenic, and it's not about withdrawing from the world to retreat into your own mind.)

If you hang someone upside down long enough, they will begin to reverse pain and pleasure. Yeah, supposedly, if you physically reverse a person's body, their mind will start reversing, too. This, apparently, is how we get kinksters who like pain.

Scars can be made more visible via hypnotic command, and this has been a thing in the occult world for centuries. (Modern version of the Devil's Mark/witch's tit myth.)

Moles are a sign of prior electroshock torture. (Another modern version of the Devil's mark/witch's tit myth.)

King Hezekiah - yes, the Biblical King Hezekiah - was a child victim of satanic ritual abuse. (Of course the Bible chapter they cite - 2 Chronicles 29 - mentions nothing of the sort.)

Direct quote, "Vice-President Al Gore is a vampire and carries a briefcase of blood with him." (Modern conspiracy theorists love to sling blood libel at Democrats.)

Hillary Clinton is an Illuminati Grand Dame and programmer. (Gotta accuse those Democrat women of being witches.)

Roma people practice cannibalism. (Pure anti-Romani racism.)

The Illuminati has the cure for AIDS.

Adrenochrome is a secret black market drug. (This is a modern form of blood libel.)

Snuff pornography is a real thing. (It's really not.)

Being on Prozac makes you susceptible to becoming homicidal or suicidal if you're exposed to certain electromagnetic frequencies. The Illuminati is deliberately exposing people to these frequencies to increase these behaviors in order to get anti-gun legislation passed.

Cellphone towers emit electromagnetic frequencies that can control people's minds.

Putting one's hands behind one's head is a secret Illuminati hand signal meaning "I'm master." Folding one's hands is a secret Illuminati symbol for "you can't break the circle." Thumb-twiddling is an Illuminati hand signal for S&M. Other normal, everyday hand positions/gestures/movements are given equally conspiratorial explanations.

The "Vulcan peace sign" is an Illuminati/occult greeting. (This claim isn't just demonizing Star Trek - it's antisemitic.)

High-ranking members of the Illuminati hold fancy cannibal dinner parties and feed children to lions and tigers.

Lots and lots of child sacrifice happens. There's even rituals where children sacrifice other children and eat their hearts.

The shape of your skull affects your personality, and the Illuminati creates permanent personality changes by changing the shapes of people's skulls. (This is literally phrenology, which is pseudoscience.)

The Illuminati implants real, actual demons into victims, which can only be removed through Christian deliverance. Also, accepting Jesus as one's Lord and Savior is the only way for victims to truly heal, no ifs, ands, buts, or maybes.

Down's Syndrome can be cured with cranial manipulation. (Craniosacral therapy is quackery.)

Many people diagnosed with schizophrenia have actually been given implants by the government.

Ronald Reagan is "our future president." (Yes, Fritz Springmeier wrote these words during the Clinton administration.)

The US government has built 140 massive underground bases for various purposes, including housing "several varieties of aliens."

The Illuminati has been creating human clones and biological robot doubles for years, and has created such doubles for politicians such as Jimmy Carter. (Allegations of clones and duplicates goes back to the witch hunts, where witch hunters would claim Satan conjured up doubles for witches so their families wouldn't miss them while they went to the witches' sabbath. Also, it's a form of dehumanization.)

Therapists treating victims of alter programming/trauma-based mind control should separate their clients from their programmer (read: isolate them from friends, family, and acquaintances) and hold multi-hour therapy sessions to help them remember their abuse and discover their hidden alters (read: make sure they're constantly exposed to this narrative so they'll start to internalize it and begin "remembering" what you want). Wheeler outright says that the "better therapists" will wear down their clients with lengthy question and answer sessions. She recommends having a team of therapists to work on a single client, with a female mother figure and male father figure.

Depression is a sin that comes from a lack of faith.

Trance-Formation of America is a good example of how mind control victims are treated. (Trance-Formation of America is also part of the Project Monarch/alter programming conspiracy theory.)

Full quote, "All Illuminati victims of mind-control have been terrorized by their abusers about how God hates them and how God will punish them for their badness." (In other words, much of what these people are chalking up to alter programming/TBMC can very easily be explained by religious trauma from being brought up in a conservative Christian environment.)

Again, these are the types of claims made by the two people from which all of this stuff about all of these specific types of alter programming, body programs, etc. originate. Whether or not people on RAMCOA sites acknowledge Springmeier and Wheeler outright, much the stuff they're claiming can very much be traced back to them.

Now, some of you reading this might still be wondering whether the alter programming could more than a conspiracy theory; like, maybe there's actually people out there who are really doing this, even if they aren't involved in some grand sinister conspiracy. And the answer is still no.

First, this conspiracy theory effectively proposes that there was an epidemic of people engaging in this very specific practice back during a time period when the most that people knew about DID (if they knew about DID at all) came from from the Sybil book or movie (and the real "Sybil" never had DID); or even before that point, if we include the people who claimed they were programmed in the 40's-60's. The idea that all of these unconnected people all independently came up with this is simply beyond absurd. If this was a real practice being done out there by any significant number of people at all, extensive technical literature describing the procedures in full detail would have to exist. This literature would at some point have been found in the homes, workplaces, etc. of programmers. Alter programming has allegedly been practiced since at least the 1940s, and not a single piece of this literature has ever been found anywhere; not on the most depraved 4Chan user's computer, not in the edgiest occultist's library, and not in the home of any child molesting priest. The only literature that describes these supposed practices comes from conspiracy theorists, and they aren't nearly detailed enough to constitute any kind of actual manual. It's very telling that when Fritz Springmeier et al name books that supposedly contain this sort of information, the books either contain nothing of the sort (for example, old grimoires), or have no evidence of ever existing in the first place.

And while it's true that extreme trauma can cause dissociation and the formation of alters, that's about the only thing this conspiracy theory gets right. Everything else is like some kind of edgy sci-fi take on it, about as accurate to real neuroscience as Jaws is to real sharks. The people who thought they saw evidence of "structured DID" back in the day made a similar error to the people who look at natural hills and mountains and think they're seeing ancient pyramids, or look at Bimini Road and actually think it's a real man-made road rather than a natural rock formation. People would look at someone having literally any trauma response or distress behavior (which may or may not have actually involved DID or OSDD), and think they were seeing the work of some diabolical mastermind. Basically, it's a form of pareidolia. The therapists would share their beliefs with their patients, who would internalize it in their own minds, and come back with stuff that seemed to confirm their therapists' suspicions.

What's going on here is a pretty straightforward case of confabulated memory cultivation. This kind of thing happens all the time in places like the New Age starseed movement, where people start learning New Age mythology and what kind of alien beings they supposedly could have been in a past life. Whether through hypnosis, vivid dreams, or even incredibly vivid flashes of mental imagery out of the blue, people begin "remembering" supposed lost memories that simply cannot be real because real historical evidence contradicts them at nearly every turn. You can see examples of this for yourself over here and over here.

Confabulated memory cultivation isn't really practiced on purpose, per se; at least, not typically. What happens is you have people who legitimately believe that they can retrieve lost memories, whether from their childhoods or from a past life. And unlike literature that tells you how to program alters, literature that describes methods to supposedly retrieve lost memories exists in abundance. People have made jobs out of allegedly helping people retrieve lost memories ever since people believed that was a thing they could do.

The alter programming conspiracy theory was part of a mental health fad where people believed that repressed memories were the root cause of many ordinary mental and physical health problems. Symptoms of anxiety, depression, chronic stress, PTSD, C-PTSD, BPD, schizophrenia, bipolar, autism, ADHD, allergies, mast cell activation syndrome, fibromyalgia, and more are all chalked up to repressed memories and alter programming. Very, very tellingly, many of the symptoms described in this type of literature are exactly what you'd expect from religious trauma in a conservative Christian environment. In fact, the alter programming conspiracy theory implicitly denies that it would be possible to develop serious trauma from the kind of abusive parenting that conservative Christian culture encourages and condones.

Also, the fact that the ISSTD/RAMCOA SIG continues propagating the claims made by Springmeier and Wheeler definitively shows us that the purpose of ISSTD/RAMCOA-SIG is repackaging Satanic Panic and far right conspiracy theories more generally, and that the very term "Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, & Organized Abuse" is in fact a Trojan horse intended to slip all of this stuff back into legitimate psychological discourse and discussions of systemic abuse, religious abuse, human trafficking, etc. The fact that people cannot question RAMCOA without being accused of denying these things shows that this is working out really well for the the ISSTD/RAMCOA SIG right now.

I'd like to emphasize that I am not trying to say that people who were led to believe they were victims of alter programming haven't been severely abused in some way, or that none of them have DID. This conspiracy theory is very much built to prey on these sorts of people. The point I am making is that it is indeed a conspiracy theory, and that it harms many people, both with and without DID.

Now, I know there's some folks out there who have been led to believe that real evidence of widespread alter programming or even widespread ritual abuse (ie, the practice of abusive occultic rituals) were found, but conservative Christians simply co-opted real events to attack the people they didn't like. And that simply isn't what happened. It was the conspiracy theorists - people like Dr. Lawrence Pazder and Mike Warnke - who positioned themselves as ritual abuse experts and instructed police and therapists on what to look out for. It was always a literal witch hunt from the very beginning.

If you are looking for any kind of mental health support, or wish to talk about real forms of abuse, I strongly recommend avoiding terms like Satanic Ritual Abuse, Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, & Organized Abuse, Organized Abuse, Organized Extreme Abuse, Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, Trauma-Based Mind Control, and so on, because these are all terms created and used by conspiracy theorists. We have other terms to talk about real abuse, including spiritual abuse, religious abuse, systemic abuse, institutional abuse, sexual abuse, sex trafficking, and so on.

Likewise, if you see someone using these terms, you know that their information is downstream from conspiracy theorists, and therefore, is highly suspect. If you're looking for any sort of mental health/trauma support whatsoever, be very wary whenever you see someone using them. Even if they mean well, what they're putting out there is still contaminated by the myths and misinformation of the Satanic Panic, which will never support actual healing.

[girlsloveupdates]

Pluto and Charon

“Kiss and Capture”: The Icy Collision That Bound Pluto and Charon Forever (via. SciTechDaily)

The themes of space are heavily used throughout the series, hence the name Pluto.

EP.12 is titled You’re My Charon. The name of the book Ai-Oon wrote about their love story which she dedicated to May.

Ai-Oon tells May about the relationship between Pluto and Charon, and compares it to their own relationship.

Charon is the largest of Pluto's five moons. The same surfaces of Charon and Pluto always face each other, a phenomenon called mutual tidal locking. Charon orbits Pluto every 6.4 Earth days. Charon neither rises nor sets, but hovers over the same spot on Pluto's surface, and the same side of Charon always faces Pluto. (via. NASA)

A new theory suggests that, billions of years ago, Pluto and Charon collided in the far reaches of the outer solar system. Rather than obliterating each other, the two bodies joined together in a spinning snowman shape (the kiss) for 10 to 15 hours before separating—but ultimately, they remained trapped in each other’s orbits (the capture). (via. Margherita Bassi)

Ai-Oon and May are Pluto and Charon. Destined to be in each other’s orbit forever.

An interesting detail:

This photo of Pluto and Charon was taken on July 8th, 2015. Ai-Oon was born on July 8th, 1998. This day is also the mid point between Namtan (01/07/1996) and Film’s (14/07/2000) birthdays.

[dimetrodone]

Surfs up, love that movie. What do you think?

The superior penguin movie, despite likely being conceived as a way to cash in on the various other penguin based media that was coming in the mid 2000s. It being a mockumentary+ parody of surfing movies gives it more charm then a lot of these movies about x animal having y skill

I have a crack theory regarding the name of Cody’s hometown. In the 90s the proto version of what would become the Madagascar penguins was an idea for a movie about a parody of the beetles but as penguins. I’m curious if the Surf’s Up town of “Shiverpool” was something brainstormed form the old Dreamworks project ages ago that ended up being remembered fans used by someone who eventually went to Sony.

It also has this scene.

The sequel they made years later about wrestling was just bad.

[mysticode54]

This iceberg chart serves as a table of contents for the ICO encyclopedia I've long been building up in my brain. Feel free to reach out and ask me about any of these entries (but don't anticipate a quick response, especially when I need to gather a lot of sources to fully explain the entry). Transcription of the image under the cut. Higher resolution image

Tip of the Iceberg

Connections to Shadow of the Colossus

US vs Japanese Box Art

Watermelon Ending

You Fight the Sacrificed Children as Shadows

Design by Subtraction

"Mono is the Queen" Theory

Inspired the Gaming Industry

Below the Surface

(a.k.a "What you might learn in a video essay about the game")

Inspired Hidetaka Miyazaki's Career

Hidden Weapons

Originally Developed on PlayStation 1

The ICO Novelization

Amiga Game Inspirations

Scrapped Human Enemies

Yorda's Language is Japanese with Each Word Spoken Backwards

Yorda's Tattoos (PS1)

The Cut Dialogue

Regional Version Differences

i-c-o.net

Yorda's Hints

Ueda's "Pilot Movie" for ICO

Bottom of the Iceberg

(a.k.a "What you might learn from a speedrunner about the game")

50 Hertz Super Jump

Shouting Makes Ico Faster

The Shadow's Names

The US Version Released First

Shadow Phasing

The Unseen Commercial that Inspired Ueda

Shadows are Weak to Water

Ico Can Block Attacks

Below the Ice

(a.k.a "What you might learn from research and repeat playthroughs")

The Pipe Between Upper and Lower Cogwheel

E3 2000 Articles Claim Yorda is Magically Cursed with Blindness

The Staff Exclusive ICO Merch

The Queen's Sword Has a Missing Scabbard

Ico's Handcuffs

Scrapped Shadow Types

R1 to Find Queen's Sword

Dark Water

(a.k.a "What you might learn through translation and sharp eyes")

The Horsemen are Priests

Scrapped Bats and Geckos

Yorda's Name Comes from Hilda (from "Horus, Prince of the Sun")

UEQ Website

The Castle Has Some Electric Lightbulbs

Kabutomushi

The Graves Have Horns

The Deep

(a.k.a "What you might learn over the course of many years")

Scrapped Backstep Maneuver

Idol Statue Children are Based on Yorda's Pilot Design

GPL Violation

The Queen and Yorda Share Face Textures and Body Proportions

The Queen's Concept Design is Still in the Game

Yorda's Dress is Partially Inspired by Cicadas

Midnight Zone

(No clever title. You're too deep for clean categories.)

The Pattern is Everywhere, Even the Sofas

Scrapped Mid-Boss Fight

Yorda's Shadow Form Briefly Has a Forcefield in the Storyboards

Luz y Sombra

Ramsès Younan's "Tropique du Cancer" is the True JP Cover Art Inspiration

Prototype "Nostalgia of the Infinite" Cover

Abyssal Zone

Yorda's Cage Neighbors the Throne Room

Wireframe Office Fans

Insect Net

November 5th, 2001 at Shibuya's "Museum 1999 L’eau à la bouche"

Subtle Alterations to End Credits' Flashbacks

Yorda Sings in Early Concepts

Below The Abyss

Ico Calls Out Yorda's Name (8/06/01 Prototype Build)

Scrapped Queen Statue

Scrapped Heroine "Reaction" Mask

イand コ Buildings

Scrapped ICO Numerals

Hadal Zone

Throne Room Bloodstains

The Saddle Blankets

Scrapped "Torture Chamber" and Other Stages

PS1 Ico Operating a Mounted Gatling Gun

[treasure-mimic]

Psychopomp and What Things Mean When They Don't Mean Anything

So if you haven't noticed or you don't follow me, I recently became interested in a small, one-man dev team indie game by name of Psychopomp. As a brief synopsis and pitch, Psychopomp is a game about a woman who seemingly suffers from paranoid delusions, through the lens of this narrator she tells us that there's a labyrinth of catacombs hidden underneath every public building and sets out to explore them to uncover the world's secrets, armed with nothing but a store bought hammer.

The game's intro puts it in words better than I could and more influential than any pitch is just seeing the protagonist's design.

As one commentator states, she looks like a skateboard mascot from the mid-2000s. Like she should be on those posters with a snarky quip just fucked up enough to catch those pearl clutching puritans off guard. I love the style and I love the tone and I love the premise.

This might be the best time to note that if you're interested in playing this game, you should stop reading here, as this discussion will contain spoilers. It's a short game, took me about 3 hours on my first playthrough, and it's pretty cheap, even has a free demo in the form of the base version with Psychopomp Gold serving as the expanded, completed experience.

Anyways.

I've always found conspiracy theories fascinating but in the modern age it can be hard to immerse yourself in these reality-detached belief systems without acknowledging, you know, the racist dogwhistling and tangible physical harm it's causing to society at the present moment. Psychopomp is able to pretty gracefully sidestep this issue by setting its anarchic anti-government sentiments against its protagonist's paranoid delusions rather than adherence to a faith or belief system.

Indeed, the game seems to take systemic beliefs as its central enemy. The entities that are necessary to kill to progress through its levels are defined by the systems they interact in, historical figures of elevated status, keystone positions in industrial manufacturing, even abstract systems like urbanism and DNA composition are posed as societal and oppressive. I'm not saying that there's no way to interpret the game in bad faith and make it directed at marginalized social, political, or ethnic groups, but I also struggle to imagine the person who takes the game literally on its face value?

Which I guess leads me to the main topic I wanted to discuss. The game very obviously has an unreliable narrator (for the record, the protagonist remains nameless for the bulk of the game, I will be referring to her as Venus as it's the closest she has to a name that's explicitly stated within the text itself) with the flavor of one whose intake of reality may be different from what's actually occurring. The game uses a combination of conspiratorial rambling and dream logic to stage its unreal tone; for example, one level delves into the "biology" of buildings, stating that they use graffiti to communicate and that black mold is a pheromone used to evacuate its inhabitants to allow for mating. Loading screens come with "Gameplay Tips" and "Real World Tips", both of which are often dense and inscrutable; for example you might get a pair like "Not all enemies are friends" and "Viruses do not exist. Illness is simply your body punishing you for what you've done wrong."

Surrealism and unreality as stylistic choices can be a bit of a tightrope walk to get right. On the one hand, if you make it explicit that a story takes place in a state that did not happen even within the story's universe, a dream or a hallucination, it can rob the narrative of its stakes, regardless of how well executed the internal metaphors are. Psychopomp very explicitly does not do this, regardless of what it is that Venus is experiencing, the game makes it clear through scientific logs and communications (as well as a brief epilogue set outside of her perspective) that something abnormal is happening, the question is just where in between normality and Venus's experiences does the truth of the game's narrative actually lie.

The other side of the tight rope is literal interpretation, presenting a setting that's absurd to our sensibilities but tangibly explainable, where meaning is supplanted by lore and the cosmology begins to solidify into a set of Calvinball rules that don't make sense, but are still adhered to, and this is the side Psychopomp threatens to lose me on. There is a credible argument to be made that there is no difference, that what Venus is experiencing is her reality without warping and distortion, it's a more credible argument than saying she completely fabricated all of it, and it's an argument I was starting to wonder wasn't the intended interpretation. Until I got the game's second, secret ending.

Psychopomp has one collectible that doesn't serve a direct gameplay purpose, but each catacomb has a key hidden away, often behind false mimic walls that bleed and scream when you hit them with your hammer, and which unlock new rooms in the only permanent location "Home". Initially a gray, cubical, concrete room with a single mattress and a small table with a radio on it, collecting keys allows you to further explore outside(?)/within(?) the home with a unique camera perspective and limited interaction. In the first layer there's a blob man who cries out in torment, demanding to know why you specifically made the world like this, giving some credence to the deification of Venus implied by the game's ending. In the last layer, Venus traverses underneath and past her own brain to unlock a repressed memory.

I take this as confirmation that there's some level of abstraction at play here. Under scrutiny it feels as though there must be some level of abstraction at play here because when taken as a whole, the conspiracies start becoming outright contradictory, even if you try to take the cosmology at play as fact, which are the closest thing to objective facts that we have.

See, Venus's perspective takes place an alternate Earth, one that both seemingly was broken off from the planet and now orbits it like a new moon but also has always existed. One of the locations is a natural history museum which explains the history of sentience on this counter-earth, humans rose, went extinct, were supplanted by a species called the thrait, then humans returned in a mutated form and retook the surface and forced the thrait back underground (though the museum also refers to the thrait as extinct despite being the most common friendly NPC you will encounter). Another location seems to imply that the humans of this world, or maybe only some of them, are artificial clay creatures, reinforced by the arbiters of the DNA factory too being clay alleles. The Human Seedbed even has the game's most effective jumpscare in it, where Venus cannot leave the area without being confronted with a jittering clay facsimile of herself.

But with that in mind, what the hell is Venus then? By no account is she one of these artificial clay people but then how did she get here? The game's introduction implies that she used to be a normal person, or at least closer to, with lived experiences inclusive of complete ignorance to this underworld, the game's endings imply that she's an immortal god-being who has been intentionally working towards her own reawakening, and that is actually one of the least ambiguous plot points within the narrative. None of the pieces of this world lock together to form a cohesive vision of a setting that operates on even the barest of internal rules, and yet the game in the same step refuses to be a character study or subconscious examination, I mean the epilogue is a damn sequel hook that involves assembling the damn Avengers to combat the ramifications of the events of the game.

So, I come to realize, I'm the problem. I might, in fact, be thinking about this too hard.

One of the locations in the game is called "Daddy's Bad Place". It is a single, tiny room of a house or apartment, frozen in a moment of tearing itself apart, that only contains a dusty old TV set with a small, pointless ornament sitting on top. In any other surrealist game, this isolated circle of clarity, a compact orb of recognizable terrain, would be a moment to deliver one single jolt of reality into the metaphor of the protagonist's journey through their own subconscious.

In Psychopomp the TV turns on and delivers a distorted warning about a giant insect which is deadly, deceitful, and above all, not real.

In Daddy's Bad Place I come to realize something. The lore is fake, the characterization is fake, the dichotomy of truth and delusion is fake, the insect is not real. Let's think about what I'm doing here for a moment, right? I'm trying to discern the truth from within a work of fiction. None of its true, none of it happened, what difference does it actually make?

The thing about conspiracy theories is that they don't make logical sense. It's a known phenomenon that conspiracy theorists love to debate, but cannot be reasoned out of their beliefs by facts or logic. There is never a counter, but always a failsafe argument that can be retreated to for safety. What conspiracy theories do make is emotional sense, they make narrative sense. The line that initially sold me on Psychopomp was one of the aforementioned loading screen tips, "All the food you've ever eaten is rotten. You have never tasted fresh food."

Patently false statement, does not hold under scrutiny, but I, as someone who lives in America and lives in a city center and has to get all my food through corporations, can look at a statement like that and say yeah. Checks out. I believe you. We would know if children were being smelted into egg slicers underneath public schools, but it resonates with our emotions about the systems of education we enforce upon children, so it could be true. We would know if buildings were a living, reproducing organism, but it resonates with the feelings of being born into a world where urbanism exists, has existed as permanent fixtures of the world, and is continuously encroaching upon the face of the world, so it could be true.

Anyone who understands the fundamentals of incentives and human psychology does not need to believe that there is a coordinated group of ontologically evil individuals driving the world to ruin for ruin's sake, but that narrative still feels true, it becomes validating in the ways that it plays off of the emotions of believers until it becomes a foundational pillar of belief that cannot be destroyed by logical contradiction.

Psychopomp, in the same way, presents information about its internal systems that cannot be true logically but form self-justification anyways through emotional resonance. It doesn't matter if the lore works because its stated, it isn't wrong, so it must be a truth. This is the way that Psychopomp emulates the unreality of the conspiracy theory in a way that can avoid the disturbing implications of the real world practice. I've made comparison to surrealism by dream logic and surrealism by internal self-reflection, but this is a different mode entirely and the game simply refuses to operate by those tropes at its core. Conspiracy is itself contradiction, not the soft contradiction of two halves of a dream that don't lock together, but the hard contradiction of attempting to apply emotion and narrative to a waking world that rejects either premise. Psychopomp, then, is surrealism by way of conspiracy.

[4dmc]

Been reading and rereading people's takes on DmC and i guess it's because of the netflix anime adaptation they've been coming out..

Anyway long tldr yappy rant from a 30s something watching fandom shenanigans & just realize that we're human... doesn't negate the fact i do have negative feelings about it

There really was an entire decade (and still going) of how people are offended by DmC and it is frustrating and obnoxious to see at least of the dmc fandom, even though I do understand these are people's views of it and it comes from somewhere

And it's usually the core hateful fans' narrative where that's coming from, and there's still yapping, where they hypocritically and unironically miss everything, but the oddest ones to me are the ones where they're expecting to be spoonfed a pseudo-empowering "badass" feminist narrative and I get it... But like, they too turn around and become sexist themselves (it's not shocking most of them are likely cis-het male)

I do understand the overall need to have women characters just be depicted as fully fledged beings. And I get that they're disgusted with Lilith and what was done to her. And I don't quite recall if I made a point about her here but I feel like I need to add on to a mutual's point defending her ..

But it's maddening to think people are equating that to what Ninja Theory believes about women. Which is insane, because so many writers before and after have written women in many ways, despite the fact they actually may or may not have a positive or humane view of women (..... Neil Gaiman.... 💀)

There's also the fact many writers and creatives have both done beloved masterpieces that do appeal to a mass audience, but have also created the most depraved, brutal, dark and offensive masterpiece that would definitely offend a mass audience, and would take an open mind to understand why. (I'm not saying the most beloved appealing type of masterpieces would easily be understood, the inverse happens)

And Lilith's story and figure, while it has shortcomings, is just the most remarkably truthful take about the reality of women, and how they are as perpetrators themselves, weaponizing the very things about what makes women and where they are in the world, in spite of their statuses, or even because of their statuses.

The way some of the opinions against DmC really is a symptom of a mixture of rigid readings about what feminism is, and the toxic positivity that women characters "should just be a certain way" and nothing else. And girl, that certainly reads into what they must view of women in real life, but I'm thankfully just assuming...

Whatever happened to the whole "women are put in pedestals" and fighting that? Because i think any fully fledged female character can be anything. And by anything, it would mean depictions that will not be comfortable nor a badass escapism story, or of how deplorably flawed women can be

There's also the obnoxious and quite widespread notion, especially now, how one equates their joyful entertainment and relatability to a piece of media as the most important metric, to the point it is the only metric whether or not that piece of media is worth any nuanced opinion of. Or worse, their enjoyment, relatability and escapism of the piece of media is a metric for whatever their own ideologies be and if it's a solid match.

Basically, they're being shallow, unchallenged AND quite frankly making their preferences as the only absolute metric

I may be discussing usually of devil may cry, but this kind of very rigid and shallow reading has been permeating in online spaces and soon even in real life, for quite a long while now.

Perhaps it's so coincidental that such a thing has been well recorded at the same time as when DmC was coming out. Now, this game wasn't the only one treated like garbage by an obnoxious audience, and I have been in some game and fiction fandoms in the late 2000s to mid 2010s. So yes, the horrible takes have been quite everywhere. And soon from the 2010s onwards, as online spaces truly overlapped in our public spaces and persona, it's mutated into an inescapable reality.

To me, the biggest shortcomings about Lilith was that we don't get to have "fun" with how cruel she is. Now I'm not asking for gruesome Salo film style depravity, but even just 2 more cutscenes of her inner workings would've hit the nail on the heads what kind of sick world the demons are running.

I mean yeah there's Capitalist demon Mundus sure, but it's quite inferred he's rarely come down his ivory tower. I mean he's the boss, he doesn't need to always run his hands dirty

But Lilith is interesting and much more on theme with the way Limbo City aesthetically looks like and how very heavily implied the seedy, sleazy underbelly is on this worn out city. It definitely draws a lot of the 90s to 2000s grungy gritty action films, particularly even some of the slightly bloody vampire films like Wesley Snipes' Blade.

Like they did say They Live was an inspiration, but definitely the grainy, worn out looks of Fight Club and the tall & cold monolithic like structures in Nolan's Batman films were quite there too.

As for her end, as gruesome as it is, it's not as un-feminist as people say it is. But nor is it a feminist one either. Because neither of them is the point. And not everything involving women will be automatically feminist. And that's not a bad thing. (any right wing dipshit reading this shoot yourself to Mars for us with Elon Musk and never come back)

I feel like people for the last 20 years or so, as an audience, became too genre savvy, too technical, and even too hyperfocused about the "rights and wrongs" of an ideology that they use as a lens of criticism, to the point it looped back around that they're just not really understanding what's in front of them. And in a way it's a bit of a refusal to see what the creators/writers/artist intended.

Did they not realize how cold and straightforward Lilith's death was. And it also highlighted Vergil's flaws: his impatience, his opportunistic and dishonorable traits. And on top of that, he has the gall to be shocked in his own actions.

It's gruesome, no glamor, razor sharp in condemning Vergil as the perpetrator, by Dante. And Vergil's actions reignites a second wave of an inciting incident so they can finally break into the tower.

It also shines Dante as the actual honorable figure while the inverse happens to Vergil, whose charm and smarts reveals him to be a calculating and uncharitable figure. The ongoing theme of nothing is as it seems is a ball rolling upon the three lead characters, so yes including Kat. She has been underestimated by Vergil at the last chapters of the story. But there is the overall enslavement and milling of humanity, as nothing but swill to be churned for the demons' systemic gluttony. And Kat being human means she's at the bottom of the food chain.

In her perspective, Kat is fighting eldritch entities from Hell and she wishes nothing but the few who can see the demons to fight back for the rest who can't. Odds are stacked against her, yet she's overcome them not just with magic she has but with outwitting them, outlasting them & corny as this sounds, with the power of friendship. Her befriending Dante had been her best hand against demonkind

But just going back to Lilith I do understand where some of the readings are coming from but it's also doing many of us a disservice to think that how you read it is the only way and must be unequivocally something Ninja Theory is as people. At the same time the hyperfocus of wanting only right things happening is denying the conflicts being raised in DmC and even devaluing the moral grey issues it's trying to infer to us to weigh on

Lilith is a cruel villainess who will not hesitate to do war crimes. But she was given grace to live because of a very dire situation and she has to uphold her end, as Dante does for her. She isn't without any agency. This is the deal and a deal even Mundus must now play and abide by. If Vergil hadn't assassinated her, who's to say she won't exact revenge when they get Kat exactly on that pier.

Anyway.... I feel like this has gone on too long...

I think i needed to discuss this because, yes there's Shankar's adaptation of DMC on netflix, but because the comparisons raised about how the demons are depicted are brought up, and among the ones the dmc fandom has been comparing them is through Lilith's situation and other gaps they try to bring up.

And of course, I can't really trust them to "know" anything about the most hated game in the franchise. While I'm no expert, reading their takes is making me lose hope that these "core fans" are representative of the DMC community

also fuck shankar... Enjoy the anime, but omg, i can't take the guy seriously....