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jackalsinthekitchen · 4 months

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a wizard/a true star is fifty

some folks was even higher than me – but probably not too many

“It isn’t supposed to be for having major epiphanies. It’s supposed to be for looking at colorful shit.”

I still recall how intensely I resisted my sister’s advice – seldom the choicest instinct. She was my sitter, uniquely predisposed as she was and is to equanimity and sweetness. Of the two of us, I tend to be the handful, and she has enough patience and self-control for both of us – sometimes I wonder if I left mine behind in the womb for her. Anyway, she’d brought two tabs of LSD, a gift from a boy she lived with who shared her name, a former child prodigy violinist who’d completed his descent into defiant chaos. Drug-dealing was a part of this, and it’s another testament to my sis that she only ever did a few bumps of coke, in such proximity to his tundra of a stash. I’d have ended up at the “being murdered for pinching” part of the process in weeks, and I don’t even like cocaine – though that’s mostly because I’ve never tried it, having somehow sustained a rule to avoid anything that could kill me.

She’d had her first experience with acid that summer, nearly five decades after the of-love one, and neither of us could say if the stuff in our possession shared one molecule of ‘60s acid’s chemistry – the stuff that woke the Beatles up, and spurred them in 1967 to blur the lines between rock ‘n’ roll and some wondrous something else. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band was the first album to come clad in a self-consciously artistic garb: the world’s most famous band disguised in mustaches and multicolored marching band outfits, the unwieldy misdirect of a title printed on a bass drum and BEATLES spelled out in flowers. In books they loved (Through the Looking Glass et al.), Lennon & co. had learned how to translate the beguiling mystery of dreams into text. For three LPs, climaxing with Pepper, they’d more or less invented the music for it, too.

That kicked off a little epoch of people trying to do the same – my favorite in pop history. Every sound was new, all prior rules relaxed as fresh ones were being fashioned. The “rock” music of that ’67-‘74 era – a wild mass art project which for me includes Stevie Wonder and Joni Mitchell’s tonal palettes – eludes description. Music itself is remarkably emotional, endlessly communicative beyond the purely verbal. It’s a mysterious, potent substance, these infinite combinations of waves. Short of a more inventive image, Pepper and its descendants were radiant splashes of color bleeding through greyscale lines, indelibly staining blank canvas with unprecedented tints and shades. Even decades ago, people tried to wave their hands through that pink smoke with complaints about Western chauvinism and “high art” gentrification. But to me, it’s surrealism + genderfluidity + pure melodic rapture. You say you want a revolution?

Drugs were the primary engine of a lot of this effort. But by the mid-‘70s, which were a long time ago, even the best art-rock sounded washed out – overfed and overfunded. The hippies’ sweet dreams had barely weathered a dark night of the soul in full swing just a year after they’d hit full flower. But even without a ‘68 to bring everybody down, the fact remains – few dreams survive daybreak. And the waking dreams drugs deliver do usually crash into some kind of foggy hangover, “that elusive feeling” alcoholics talk about reliably dragging them closer to the gates of insanity or death. As for me, I first tried a drug – marijuana – just in time for my 21st birthday, after a youth spent getting high on people and rarely subduing my lows. It did feel like a waking dream – and as with any other addict, that enchantment came to haunt me. No common sense could keep my cat-curiosity from pulling me toward a second try.

Just a few years later, the obsession was total. My rock bottom was still a long way down, but anytime I could get my hands out of my empty pockets and on something which promised a buzz – an escape from reality’s perpetual itch and unrelenting anxiety – I made sure I did. I invited myself anywhere that held the promise of a shared smoke, and when no such invitation/intrusion was available, I credit-carded locked doors and quietly opened drawers minutes before the absent party returned. On a particularly audacious occasion, I found my way through a window I’d only hoped would be so easy to jigger open on the ride over. So often is marijuana insisted to be non-addictive, yet I went to insane lengths to disprove this, with no intention of sharing the data – the hiding, a product of the shame, is a huge part of addiction. I wasted time dreamin’ of the myth of California sobriety, but I was as much a mess as anyone stuck in their cups.

The accumulation of highs puts you sorely in the red on time and money you’ll never get back, and distances you from the longer-lasting highs you could, and ought to, build toward. But along with peacing (when not freaking) you out, drugs might, at their friendliest, convince you that you can see for miles and miles and miles. Oh yeah. What is it about, say, a THC high? It illuminates and then softens the barriers between you and the ether, that magical otherworld glimpsed in dazzling flashes but so elusive, drowned out by reality (or is it society?)’s dutiful buzzkill. It really connects you with something that does feel cosmic or spiritual or otherwise enlightening, and it can lead to breathtaking external or internal connections, or – if you happen to be an artist – invaluable arrangements of elements not otherwise discoverable. At its most benevolent, it can make artists of us all. But is the art you make true enough to be worth it, when it’s not you creating – it’s you through some disorienting filter?

Why I’d waste the actual prime of my life on all those fuzzed-out “highs” speaks to questions I’ve yet to answer. Other than being a lifelong self-sabotager, there’s no solid explanation available. Some of the motivation, though, lies in that first night I ever tried LSD. My quest for profound realizations was thwarted by a sudden inability to properly complete sentences. This did not ease my passage to becalmed bliss, and eventually my sister accepted that while I would probably prevent myself from enjoying/embracing the experience, I also wouldn’t die. She left, but it’s OK. She reclaimed her night, and I reclaimed my sanity (such as it was) by discovering how much nicer Can’s “Future Days” and Parliament’s “Flash Light” suddenly felt – my sister’s advice in vivid action.

I once read a quote about a researcher of some kind discussing two test groups of scientists, boldly exploring the frontier of recreationally ingesting mind-altering substances (for science). It was something about the marijuana users sitting around discussing life’s most profound questions, and the LSD users sticking their fingers in their bellybuttons. My only worthwhile experiences on LSD the three or four stomach-churning times I tried it that summer were musical. This translated to marijuana, which at least did me the favor of not disabling communication (and by extension, creativity). But in general, I was not asking profound questions while on weed – I’d just hole up and let my mind wander, with music becoming my most irresistible companion.

Frankly, the harmonic and structural advancements THC spurred in music I wrote were indispensable – bar its inconvenient side-effect of keeping me from finishing 80% of my ideas. The music I replaced these incomplete masterpieces with was an endless stream of Spotify playlists, glutted with mostly “art rock” from mostly the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Much of it was designed for something like weed – you have no reason to play a Yes album more than once otherwise. I distracted myself from the fact that I was merely distracting myself with so much art whose sole purpose was to capture the whims of its perpetrators’ wasted minds. Still: in a big-beat, multi-track format, that approach can yield some real fun. Just marvel at the complete works of the second-chiefest (after sex) pleasure of my brief LSD patch, Jimi Hendrix, who died chasing his extraplanetary visions, but sure sounded dynamite giving them life.

Fifty years ago, Todd Rundgren, who like a lot of painfully white folks loved Jimi Hendrix, had ended up on the same astral plane Jimi crashed in. Having avoided drugs for ages, the better to maintain his uptight aloofness (and develop those acrobatic arrangements, and produce like nine other albums a year), by 1973, he was in a position to spend a lot of time and money getting audibly smacked sideways by substances. The hardest thing he’d taken before had been Ritalin, which resulted in the double-disc talent tour Something/Anything. But after disliking his first taste of psychedelics (DMT, the one where you have that fleeting field trip to a land of elves), Todd fell headfirst into his own head. What he saw made him hear beautiful music only he was capable of concretizing.

“I became more aware [through psychedelic drug use] of what music and sound were like in my internal environment, and how different that was from the music I had been making,” Todd told Mike Myers’ brother, who proved himself an excellent reporter (and très enthusiastic fan) for a 2010 biography. “My new challenge was to try to map, as directly as I could, the various kinds of chaotic musical element[s] in my head.” The artist began to externalize these mad visions by building himself a studio, and enlisting fellow musical utopians in the reification of his own flights of fancy. The resultant A Wizard/A True Star was an hour long – a two-LP length. But Rundgren crammed it onto one record, risking the loss in fidelity for his magnum opus in order to honor its unbroken sides. Wizard is the white Electric Ladyland: a production fantasia only a talent as hyperactive/producer as unkempt as Todd could’ve fashioned.

The standard for headphone music fifty years ago was the clean dreariness of Dark Side of the Moon, the first rock LP where all technological shortfall has been eliminated from the recording process. But Rundgren’s facile pop confections reliably share two characteristics – impudence and impatience. At his best, these qualities are more temperate – don’t let Mark David Chapman scare you off the brilliant (if deceptively deep) Ballad of Todd Rundgren. Yet a lot of times Todd’s natural insolence is what makes him fun – makes him punk, albeit a punk who’d never give up pop. He remains the corniest musician ever to secure Patti Smith’s stamp of approval (Blue Öyster Cult are close), but even she’s ignited by his messy genius. “Clever as a fox, my spirit lights,” she says in a poem Wizard included. “Spirit laughing free as water, in a ring of fire, with its hair aflame.” Todd had dyed his hair three neon colors that season.

Few records are as nice a listen high as Wizard – which inevitably means it loses a little luster when you’re not, its flaws magnified in the first rays of the new rising sun. It is the surest proof of one sad principle: the music intensifies the wonder of the drugs, but the drugs don’t deepen the meaning of the music. In any case, Wizard pulls out all the trippy tricks beautifully at its beginning. It kicks off with a fractalized tone dancing from one corner of your brain to another. Then the simulated sound of a rocket’s billowing plumes, then a slurp up to the stars on some synthesizer setting, and finally, a resonant keyboard ostinato Pete Townsend might give his sad-eyed nod to. It’s as if AI were told to synthesize “far out, man!” into a piece of music, and AI had a trace of wit (yet). It spills into a wonderful pop song, one which actualizes the automatic agape of psychedelic euphoria. “International Feel”’s pretty chord sequence that helps spruce up its words, which are only not nonsense under certain conditions.

(There is more) international feel

(And there’s more) interplanetary deals

(Still there’s more) interstellar appeal

(Still there’s more) universal ideal

“I only want to see if you’ll give up on me,” he sings. Decades later, he bragged during a commencement speech about how Wizard halved his audience, touting it as an example of the valiance of following your own nose. Not terrible advice for a graduating class – but an arguable misreading of what his endeavor represented. Wizard was designed as mass outreach, but when Todd turned on, it turned people off. Alienation is no virtue, and it’s definitely no way to establish a utopia. The fact is, so many drug users imprisoning themselves in their own heads think the things they’re conjuring up in there would set the entire world free – but good luck getting a coherent message across when you’ve returned to Earth. So the fun of this record is in its self-referential games, not its cockeyed aperçus, a technicolor extrapolation of Something/Anything’s cute “sounds of the studio” interlude. “Just as surely as I’m in your ears”, he winks at you at one point, and I can never for the life of me remember the second half of that thought.

After “International Feel”, Todd drifts into a number from the Mary Martin Peter Pan before the primary fear of a “head trip” hits – that the good part will fade soon (better get more!). “Tic, Tic, Tic (It Wears Off)” takes you on a cheerful march through the LP’s main style – intricately layered synthesizer doodles, unless Todd is picking up his guitar and brontosauring around in the manner of the most indulgent Roy Wood. It resembles Something/Anything’s “Breathless”, though wiggier and more whimsical, which is welcome. At its most arbitrary, Wizard feels like nothing more than exercises in overdubbing – but if you’re in an altered mindstate, everything is illuminated. He then crashes into a song that bellows “WHAT YOU NEED IS YOUR HEAD”, even as the artiste sounds like he’s lost his. The album is usually either a kaleidoscopic confluence of alluring cadences, or a lot of weird shit piling up around you.

It doesn’t puncture the dreamlike aura, but “You Need Your Head” unleashes Todd’s mean streak, which no magnitude of good vibrations can subdue. For a willow of a wunderkind, at his worst, Todd was a notorious asshole. Though the bar was low enough to reach, the vitriolic “Rock ‘n’ Roll Pussy” is a much weaker song than the contemporary work of its target, John Lennon. Of all those impotent dogfight insults, the word “pussy” – so sensual in its other sense – is especially noxious. Lennon was a far gentler spirit than Rundgren, but Rundgren has the advantage of never dealing anything but verbal blows. “Pussy” is commendable for calling this out, but when Rundgren took it farther in offhand comments, he got his ass handed to him, in the finest thing Lennon wrote in 1974.

After that, Rundgren layers himself pretending to be dogs laughing for another transitional minute – it’s annoying, but not ineffective, especially if you’re in that tense interval every high guarantees. This whole sequence of vignettes slides by so fast, and is so disorienting and unprecedented, that it can be a rush in context. But as I write about it, the meaner-spirited it all feels. This is especially true of the supercute but indefensible “You Don’t Have to Camp Around”, on which Todd (who somewhere on side B sings “my voice is so high, you would think I was gay”) confers upon himself the authority to call out the queer male community’s “mincy lisping” as some kind of pose. Wilde might smirk at the “tssss-ts-ts-tssss” vocal percussion, but mostly, it's typical ‘70s hate humor. The permission it thinks it gives for gay men to liberate themselves from already liberated behavior is a condescension that could only spew forth from a giant fucking dick.

Still, it’s in keeping with the concept, which is apt for a drug album: Whatever Just Occurred to Todd, verbally and musically. Yet another arch instrumental (“Flamingo”, get it?) blends into side A’s captivating, perplexing centerpiece, “Zen Archer”. It seems bent on being a battle hymn for Martians, and the lyrics scrape at significance without ever getting there. But as it gives way to a swirl of harmonies (a Rundgren specialty, that callow, childish voice going all angelic in a choir of itself), and as those simulated arrows soar between your ears, you’re under the wizard’s spell, and buying everything the true star is selling. On a song like this, the endless sardonics lighten a heavier tread – Todd is too sarcastic not to palliate self-serious caprices such as this.

Still there’s more. Todd impersonates a nightmare oompah band on “Just Another Onionhead”, another set of words the drugs told him were profound enough to write down (“the falling of the hare“, “prime cut of baby’s butt”). It switches on a dime to “Da Da Dali”, an ersatz Al Jolson croon over an atomized jumble of deliberately fucked-up Tin Pan Alley chords. Then comes “When the Shit Hits the Fans; Sunset Blvd.”, another blast of macho-rock – as Todd sings elsewhere, “I play my guitar in such a man-cock way”, and this proves it again. One of the ways Wizard best flatters a high is how you can let your mind wander about fifteen minutes in and you won’t miss anything. But when it all surges back into “International Feel”’s glorious refrain, well. You feel like you’ve really been somewhere.

As I inferred earlier in this piece, I didn’t want to take drugs to turn my mind off. Todd has spoken of the same objective. Trouble is, when you take drugs, you’re not necessarily likely to strengthen your mind. Indeed, you’re ceding its control to an occupier that can’t think, but sure has some ideas about how you should be doing it. Even a few years into my abuse of weed, I recognized that what I appreciated about it was uncomfortably close to one of alcohol’s many dubious assets: the parameters of its impairment momentarily strengthened a focus. (Being a millennial means having ADHD – like Todd – so I shudder to imagine how many problems of mine a first sniff of cocaine might appear to solve.) It’s just an illusion, and all its confusion will catch up to you sooner or later. Some of Wizard’s players crowed to Paul Myers about how nice the muddled-ethereal chords are for “Sometimes I Just Don’t Know What to Feel”, but the lyrics prove its clearest thought is the titular one. It vies for incisive, but ambles toward aimless.

That song is an uncertainty manifesto: a self-negating oxymoron. But the parts that aren’t dour or overambitious are really gorgeous, and the rest of side B is a string of some of the nicest pearls ever to form in an acid-addled noggin. “Does Anybody Love You” boasts a master melodist’s most effervescent melody, and the auteur’s chirping vocal improves one more unaccountably bitchy lyric, knocking a mirror-gazing narcissist of the female persuasion. (He was with Bebe Buell at the time, a person who’s made a career of her own promiscuity, and who inspired another talented sexist, Elvis Costello, to pen his most vituperative tunes.) It's a testament to Todd’s equal-opportunity nastiness that he manages to sling mud at the vain and the self-disgusted (“love between the ugly is the most beautiful love of all”) in the same two-stanza track; it’s a testament to his voracious taste for sweeter melodies that he cloaks this dagger in one of the sweetest.

He then spares us further transitional crotchets by borrowing some of the most beautiful melodies of all. Like so many Philly musicians, pop-soul was in Todd’s blood. To kick off the medley in this side’s middle, he chooses one exquisite hit each from the genre’s greatest innovators, Curtis Mayfield (the Impressions’ “I’m So Proud”) and Smokey Robinson (the Miracles’ “Ooh Baby Baby”). The choices are astute – two of the dreamiest songs by two of the dreamiest writers, who shared a gift for sifting disarming emotion out of the harmonic atmosphere. The songs’ mutual tone is so gentle and compassionate that the long break they offer from Todd’s uncut ego dissolves any bad taste he’s left. I wish he’d gone with Chairmen of the Board’s “Give Me Just a Little More Time” or the Five Stairsteps’ “O-o-h Child” over the Delfonics’ “La La Means I Love You” for his third, but his bratty delivery adds an odd resonance to its innocence, and he would’ve ruined those other, better songs anyway. And though his 7/4 rendition of “Cool Jerk”, the medley’s conclusion, is another burst of buzzy racket, for once, the music justifies the discord.

After the dumb “Hungry for Love” – which always flies by even though it technically hangs around for two minutes too long – come two cuts, one feather-soft and one diamond-hard, which pull off the unusual trick of partially justifying their own toxic politics. “I Don’t Want to Tie You Down” is the most vulnerable Todd ever let himself be in front of a microphone, a rare concession that the double standard men impose on liberated women (a still-fresh concept in 1973!) is bullshit. As I-fucked-up songs go, it’s a blue valentine. “It gives my life a bit more meaning to feel in love with you,” Todd admits, letting his codependency show. But he sees this shaky foundation, and a glimmer of saving-grace interdependence: “The balance of our minds together, the perfect give and take/for me to let my love possess you, that would be my worst mistake”. Only once does he compulsively mar his own perfect picture, cracking his paper thin voice as he leans into the one stupid line he allows: “oh JEsus/I don’t want to nail you down.”

Then there’s the striking “Is It My Name”. An ardent, searing plea to some ladyperson who doesn’t want to deal with Todd’s bullshit, there’s plenty of it to step in throughout the lyric – not just the gay voice-“man-cock” couplet, but the indecipherable chorus itself. Is Todd’s hypothesis that she doesn’t want to go out with him because he’s too famous (haha), or because he has one of the unsexiest (Rundgren) names (Todd Rundgren) in rock ‘n’ roll history? And does he seriously not know that’s not it? But the opening line is “there is cause and effect/there’s a reason I’m so erect”, and it’s belted with such openhearted urgency, the crotch-rock of it all is dispelled in the sheer candor. Its extended coda is a clunky blizzard, but if your mind was blurry to begin with, this feels like a real climax. Then he closes out with five flawless minutes: “Just One Victory”, as celestially empowering an anthem as was ever divinely dictated to a nerdy white pseud.

I spent ten years high on not just weed but the same small chunk of pop history. I eroded my resolve against the hippie era’s long-disproven false promises with a dangerous cocktail: records, mixed with stronger and less pure intoxicants than the stuff they had back then. A horribly destructive bout of alcoholism – that habit is a whole year kicked – pulled me away from pot for a hot minute. But I still tricked myself into thinking that being a clean half century away from 1973 meant I should drown myself in its music, which, barring some anomalies, was either painfully pillowy or deliriously droogy. That year was peak bleak ‘60s hangover, and while I’m glad coke and quaaludes aren’t all the rage anymore, I gobbled enough space candy to simulate each, tearing myself off my own yellow brick road. And I frequently returned to “International Feel”, giving into the urge to tickle my brain with the same distressingly impermanent hour on trips that got me precisely nowhere.

I don’t know what Todd and I were looking for – escape, I suppose, a version of consciousness featuring frills only mirages can provide. In any case, he never got where he was trying to go either – his next three records, Todd, Todd Rundgren’s Utopia and Initiation,took unchecked psychedelic doodling well beyond the humanly tolerable. Because Todd’s best work (productions for other artists aside) was behind him by 1973, I’d forgotten how self-parodic and sanctimonious so much of his later work could be, even after he’d rediscovered form’s function. He was so talented, I have a permanent soft spot for him, and I was licking my lips reading the effusive descriptions of heavenly harmonies on the much later Nearly Human’s “The Waiting Game”, which Todd claims he dreamed. Put it on and you hear ‘80s hell. Rundgren is too sharp today to suspect he stayed stoned, but I wonder how unblown a mind can become. The loss of whatever he traded away was a fatal one.

I’ll never forget the soul-settling luminosity of the opening notes to Jimi’s “Burning of the Midnight Lamp” as I enjoyed them coming down from a no-fun high (so many of them are no-fun highs), while laying back in my neighborhood pool after dark. But the reality is, you don’t need any substances to really dig Electric Ladyland – it gets you there anyway. Wizard is the ultimate drug LP; drop the 3-D glasses, and watch its dimensions flatten. And much of the last decade’s pop, be it trap or the sugary soundscapes of Charli XCX (who sampled Todd on an early mixtape), does the waking dream thing better. As more earthbound sounds seep onto the charts again, I uneasily realize that much of what I’ve been up to all this time is diluting one high with another one. The best music will transport you all by itself. To insist on conjuring up clouds to admire it through is to pull a curtain between you and the art – and even worse, you and the life the art is there to affirm.

#todd rundgren #a wizard/a true star

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dark-romantics · 2 years

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tag yourself: artists

writing. sharing pieces of your soul with the world. starting revolutions with simple words. typing in a dark room. the Oxford comma. the soft glow of candles, using a receipt as a bookmark. leather bound journals. scribbling notes on your hands and arms. shelves full of plants and beautiful editions

painting. too many brushes. sunsets. white canvas. denim jackets and overalls. hands covered in paint. local art galleries. pink hair. drawing tattoos on your arms with a pen. looking for beauty in everything, water-coloured skies, museum dates making a masterpiece at 4 am.

sculpture. brushing your hand against mosaics on cathedral walls. colorful light streaming through stained glass. the gentle and knowing smile of greek statues. clay speckling your sleeves after ceramics. convincing your classmates to sit for portraits. ceramic mugs. the intoxicating smell of dried clay

photography. Chasing butterflies. Nature walks. Too-long sweater sleeves. Cloud watching. Peach cobbler and watermelon sorbet. DIYing everything. walking barefoot on grass or sand. bold sunglasses. loves an adventure. succulents. vintage polaroids. the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours.

poetry. blooming flowers, late study nights, picking up an old hobby, writing never-sent love letters, reminiscing about the past, buying heartfelt gifts for friends, telling the moon all your problems, fuzzy socks. cocoa by the fireplace, cold nights, snowfalls, cold hands, stage fright, drama/theater, large rooms with high ceilings, large dreams

hiking. falling asleep, cozy video games, writing essays hyped on caffeine, blankets and pillows, lofi music, floral/botanical print fabric, jewel tones, flannel, wet grass, daydreams, sunlight on a still lake, faded jeans, dog-eared notebooks, comfort films, wide smiles, buttered popcorn, warm blankets crowded on an unmade bed, hands linked by little fingers, smiley faces on torn up bits of paper, daydreams on the second-to-back seats of the bus at 4pm

gardening. mini skirts and leg warmers, strawberry tea, light colours, big angelic eyes, a bit shy at first, soft smiles, meadows with wildflowers, buying flowers, scrolling through pinterest, love songs, daydreaming, rough sketches, white blouses, fairy lights, pink glassware, baking cookies, love notes

#dark academia #dark academia aesthetic #classic literature #light academia aesthetic #virginia woolf #english literature #literature #librarylife #letters #lit #tag yourselves #tag yourself #types of people #artists on tumblr #female artists #artistssupportingartists

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depressedacadamia · 3 years

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Idiot academia and Dark academia: People truly question the friendship. How is someone who seems so smart friends with someone who seems so clueless? In reality, there’s a very tight knit friendship entirely based on some oddly specific subject. Both high achieving people but don’t put much effort into their work. They both save mysterious lives to everyone else but the idiot academia person is more approachable. People think they’re secretly dating as the dark academia person can tolerate only the idiot academia person. A lot of classical subjects. English lit, history, classics, some languages. Intense discussions over classics and arguments over history. Which revolution was more significant. They have Henry and Bunny vibes (but better) from the secret history.

Idiot academia and idiot academia: this is clown to clown communication. No one understands what’s going on. People know them as the weird kids- you want to know the etymology behind a certain word? These kids probably can tell you. They’ve probably attempted to drink a neutralisation product because technically speaking it should be ‘safe’ to consume. They’re funny people, they do dumb things that make you laugh until your insides hurt; often times you wonder what on Earth they were thinking. They hyper obsess over things and are very very caring. Reading scholarly articles on subjects they aren’t even taking so they can talk to the other about it. Going out at 3 Am drives to McDonald’s and talking about philosophy or the terrible physics in films.

Light academia and romantic academia: These Two are definitely dating. People get sick from how cute they are. Quoting poetry for each other. They’d encode secret places to meet up within their favourite pieces of literature. Falling asleep in the others arms while they read classical romance novels. They ace English exams- but sometimes are told in their essays to stay on topic because they ramble so much about other masterpieces. Calm and collected around the public but chaotic near their S/O. Classical music in the background, offering their hand to the other for a dance. Stepping on each other’s toes and letting out small giggles as they try and dance. Giving each other flowers every time they meet.

Witchy academia and dark academia: people are scared of these two. Their vibes are the ultimate power up. Meetings in dark corners, crumpled notes being slipped into the others pockets. Lots of homoerotic tension between the two, people can never tell if they’re dating or not. Intense and passionate arguments. Committing small misdemeanours for the other. Stealing a pentagram necklace for the other. Classical literature and old, ancient languages. Old leather bound books that they nick from one another. Red wine that tints their lips or stains their clothes. Talking about cults, joining or creating cults together. Making blood pacts for each other. Wearing vials of each other’s blood around their necks.

Theatre academia and chaotic academia: Loud, loud people. Singing songs at the top of their lungs. People acknowledge their performing talents. Always are in lead roles for school plays or musicals. Quoting Shakespeare plays for fun. Insulting others with Shakespeare because they are both so used to having to learn it. Dancing to classical music and then blasting musical songs. Playing classical instruments together. Cello and violin. Piano and singing. Watching plays together, mumbling all the lines under their breath because they already know them. Meeting up in the middle of the night to read a play together while they drink wine and watch the stars. Re enacting favourite scenes from each other’s favourite plays.

Arabic academia and dark academia: these two are dating. No doubt. Dark kohl underlining the Arabic academic’s eyes and eyeliners under the dark academic’s. Early mornings, still quite dark drinking red tea. Reading in foreign languages to each other, always trying to impress the other with learning a new word or phrase. Secret kisses. Trying to teach the other something and getting distracted by them. Late nights talking to the moon together. People think they are mysterious but alluring. Bookshelves full with books. The Arabic academic with Arabic poetry sitting open, with a translation being written underneath for the dark academic. Handwriting love notes to each other in new languages, not understanding what the other wrote. Keeping a box of said notes and trying to learn the phrases.

All of these, combined: hands down, the ultimate friendship group. Late night trips to libraries. Drinking wine in gardens while the sun sets. Teaching the others to cook traditional foods. Silences filled with them pouring over their books. Humming and singing because they hear their friends doing it so often. Classical music always in the background. Knowing random facts. Cigarettes sitting next to abandoned glasses of bourbon, all sitting on top of an expensive piano. Fingers dancing across the keys, at night. Exclusive parties for themselves. Tight knit friendship group, trust is in the air.

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malpractiice · 3 years

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OLYMPIAN AESTHETICS.

APHRODITE laughter-loving, sweet smiles, dressed in silk and satin, flower in their hair, thrives on attention, sees the world as a runway, unapologetically sexual, the sea washing their ankles, in love with love, stirrer of passion, cunning concealed by painted lips, secret daggers, doves, revolution in their kiss, delighting in the waves, flirtatious winks, strolling along the beach, staring wistfully from a balcony, this is how to be a heartbreaker, your girlfriend thinks they’re attractive, wants to be adored, gets turned on by danger

APOLLO glitz and glamour, art galleries, turning the volume up, being made of gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, bathing in the sunlight, the powerful urge to create, collecting vinyl records, beautiful cover of wonderwall, playing multiple instruments, tasting like sunshine, healing touch, speaking in prophecies, smile mingled wrath, sporting shades, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, sleeps naked, arrow to the heart, paint brushes, probably has a Tinder account

ARES armed for battle, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, soft spot for children, gives piggyback rides, scarred body, blood on their hands and face, willing to fight the world for the ones they love, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, boxing gloves, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, fists raised in protest, ignites revolutions, fear is a prison, more sensitive than what their tough shell will make you think, exhausted, force to be reckoned with, red roses, curses under their breath

ARTEMIS keen sense of a hunter, freckles like constellations on their skin, piercing eyes, disheveled braid, moonlight peeking through the shadows, the calm of the forest at night, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, mother doe and her fawn, protecting their kin, the moon shimmering on a still lake, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, running with wolves, bonding while circled around a campfire, not being much of a people person, arrow hitting a target, popping egos, patience on 3%, touches heaven and returns howling

ATHENA discerning gaze, unreadable face, the patience of a lifelong teacher, quiet museums, owl perched on their finger, armor that intimidates, eye for architecture, plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, big fan of logic, loves brain teasers, go-getter, balls of wool displayed on shelves, ancient buildings, hair done up, can kill you with their brain, heads to the library often to research, sharpened pencils, stoic statues, pottery classes

DEMETER soil-covered hands, smile that can bloom flowers, skin loved by the sun, being the mom-friend, can lift you and your friends, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, takes pride in their beautiful garden, speaks to their plants, leaves rustling in the wind, stalks of wheat, picking fruit, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, values simplicity, daisies dotted across a collarbone, curls crowned with flowers, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air

DIONYSUS drunk shitposter, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, seductive smirks, untamed curls, rich fabrics on dark skin, sleek-furred panthers, theater masks, stage productions, receiving a standing ovation, rose caught between their teeth, being the baby of the bunch, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup, creeping vines, inspiring loyalty, grand opera houses, masquerade balls, rolls of film, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor, pouring champagne into flutes, lives for the applause

HEPHAESTUS sweaty brow, flame burning in their eyes, inventive mind, broad shoulders, steampunk goggles, nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes, ashes, striking a match, blueprints for future projects, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, wrestles with bitterness, work boots have seen better years, wrinkled plaid shirts, iron melted in blazing fire, huge jackets, crafting masterpieces, greased-stained overalls, fascination with robotics, pain is fuel, stack of weaponry, even their muscles have muscles

HERA resting bitch face, dressed to the nines, cows grazing on a pasture, cool rain, loving and hating fiercely, hand clutching a string of pearls, large chandelier with glittering crystals, plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims, romance to realism, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, files that under fuck it, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix, like their selfie or you’re grounded, knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, marble and gold

HERMES devil-may-care smile, ink-stained hands, always up-to-date on the latest technology, will steal your french fries, does it for the vine, shitposter, puts googly eyes on everything, meme hoarder, long drives on the highway, ma and pop diners, spontaneous road trips, folded maps, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, shooting hoops on the basketball court, chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations, goes jogging in the morning, mixes redbull with coffee, menace on april fool’s, hoodies and sneakers

POSEIDON storm with skin, colorful coral reefs, waves crashing against the shore, the sea casting its spell, stroking the soft fur of a cat, their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, clothes smeared with paint, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns for more, leather jackets, fondness for diy projects, handwriting that flows across the page, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, mood as ever-changing as the sea, the roar of a motorcycle, compass with a spinning arrow

ZEUS thunder in their heart, running on coffee, flash of lightning, natural charisma, eloquence, badass in a nice suit, aficionado of history, force of nature, lenny face, pretends they don’t have feelings but they do, nightmare-filled nights, proud arm around their lover’s waist, high-rise buildings, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, technician on the piano, maintains order, strong handshake, juggling multiple events on their busy calendar with ease, most likely to be voted class president out of their peers, expensive watch

#「 HEADCANONS. 」#now i have to go back to work but ideally?? i will have some time on thursday/friday

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kathrynalicemc · 2 years

Text

Greek God Aesthetic (2/3)

Kiri Amaryllis

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #hpma #magic awakened #hphl #hogwarts legacy #kiri amaryllis #greek god aesthetic #demigod au

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korianelise · 3 years

Text

Of Protective Big Brothers and Asshole Friends

People should be more like flowers.

Flowers were simple, easy to please beings that were just along for the ride. All they needed was Sun, Soil, and water, and they were happy.

Flowers were beautiful in their simplicity. They were independent, quiet, and everything Purpled wishes he could be.

Humans, though, were ugly in their greed. Always needing more for themselves, hoarding as many riches and resources they can. It was never the necessities they craved, it was how much junk they could buy to show off. In Purpled’s opinion, he’d rather be a lonely flower.

Or maybe a weed? While flowers stuck out for their beauty, weeds blended in for the opposite. Yeah, that’s right, he’d rather be a weed sitting atop an abandoned hill, overlooking the sea, flowing in the breeze, then what he was right now.

It’s not that he was the problem, the boy actually prided himself on staying out of the countless wars going on in the server, it was everyone else. It seemed like they had all been blinded by their own need for power.

The once beautiful SMP now represents something dark, ugly, and twisted.

But what could he do about it? He was one of the most irrelevant inhabitants on the server. It hadn’t always been that way, but as he said, humans were greedy.

So, what the hell was he supposed to do when Dream all but breaks his door down in a haste to get inside?

It was a surprise to see the man, so much so that he startled so bad he drops the sword he was holding, distantly aware of how the blade barely missed his socked foot.

Watching the older man clumsily make his way to his feet, out of breath and face split into one of the biggest grins Purpled had ever seen, he merely raises an eyebrow when he exclaims, “Oh man, I can’t believe that worked! ”

Huffing a bit, still unsure of how he felt about the intruder in his home, Purple catches eye of all the potions and weapons strapped to the Admin’s body. “Care to explain?”

God, what was he supposed to do? He hasn’t seen Dream in so long, the elder being busy trying to take Wilbur and Tommy down. Why? He couldn’t tell you, but word on the street says the blonde wasn’t happy with the revolution against his rule.

It was, what, 5? 6? Citizens in total? Purpled didn’t understand the big deal, but honestly? That’s probably for the best, something tells him trying to wrap his head around the conflict will give him one hell of a migraine.

“Annual manhunt,” Swiping a hand through his now damp hair, Dream starts to look a bit sheepish, “I-I didn’t think you’d be home?”

Scrunching his brow even further, Purpled is a bit puzzled by the statement. If he wasn’t home, Dream wouldn’t have been able to get it. It’s a blatant lie, but Purpled is too exasperated to call the blonde out on it. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It sure as hell would have made me feel better.” Flopping down on the bed next to him, Dream sighs in content at finally being able to sit down.

Purpled, on the other hand, squawks in protest at this, the man is soaking wet, and he was kinda planning on sleeping in his bed tonight, so he’d rather it not get soaked.

Stifling a sigh, the boy trudges his way over to his bed. All but throwing his body onto it, Purpled starts poking the older blonde on the cheek repeatedly, “Get up you big oaf.”

Slapping the smaller boy’s hand away, Dream turns his head to the boy, unclipping his porcelain mask from his face. “What did you just call me?”

Chuckling nervously, Purpled inches his way off the bed bit by bit, “Nothing.”

“No, no” Pouncing before Purpled could even comprehend what was going on, Dream has the boy tackled to the bed, hands waving playfully over him, “You called me an oaf, I think that warrants an apology.”

A cocky grin suddenly fills the smaller boy’s face as he looks up, mischief shining in his violet eyes, “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sooo sorry that you’re just so lazy, and boring and-”

“That’s it!” The young boy is cut off by a giggle forcing its way out of his throat as Dream’s hands suddenly scribble at his side.

“W-Wait! Dream-” Hands flying down to fight off the ones scratching at his ribs, Purpled can’t stop the relentless laughter that comes out of him. It takes the boy a few minutes, but eventually, he is able to wriggle himself out from under Dream, propping himself on his elbows to catch his breath. “God, you asshole.”

Laughing to himself, Dream lightly smacks the boy on the shoulder, “Don’t say that.” Waiting for the teen to compose himself a bit more, Dream watches in mild curiosity as the boy reaches into the chest next to his bed, pulling out a golden apple.

Throwing it at the older man’s head, Purpled scoffed as he almost dropped it, “Thought you might be hungry.”

Taking a bite of the sweet treat, Dream doesn’t even attempt to keep good manners as he mutters a quick, “Thanks,” with a mouth full of food.

Scrunching his brow in disgust, Purpled looks at the blonde critically, “You’re so gross, god,” Laughing at the shove that follows the remark.

The two sit in content silence for a bit after that, both waiting for Dream to finish his food before striking up conversation again.

Purpled had begun to fiddle with the sleeves of his jacket waiting for the older man to finish, a nervous habit he picked up once the wars started.

You can only be shoved to the side so many times before you start to get anxious every time you talk to someone.

Dream must have picked up on the dip in his mood though, carelessly tossing the apple core behind him and shifting so he’s sitting more in front of Purpled than off to the side of him. “So, what have you been up to, kid? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It took all of Purpled’s self-control not to snap at the man. “Maybe because you haven’t. I’ve been...busy. Super duper, have no time to hang out with anyone, busy.”

The wince he receives from the statement is satisfactory enough.

Because it has been forever since he’s seen Dream--well, scratch that. He sees Dream all the time, but the man is always busy fighting off that little rebellion. What did they call themselves again? L’Manburg, right?

But, before Dream could even utter a word of apology, a shrill yell cuts him off.

“It’s the only place we haven’t looked, man! He has to be up there!”

Exchanging a glance with Dream, both boys make their way over to the stained glass lining his UFO’s walls. Upon looking down, Purpled can make out both Bad and Sapnap making their way up his water elevator, and George keeping watch on the ground.

“ Shit!” Flying away from the window and into the middle of the circle room, Dream quickly clips his mask back on as he tugs anxiously on his blonde hair, “They’re here.”

Returning his gaze to the window, Purpled’s eyes widen upon seeing the two hunters about halfway up. “You gotta go, man. Like right now.”

Dropping his head, like he’s about to regret the decision he’s about to make, Dream turns to Purpled one last time, stature rigid and jittery, before saying, “I’m sorry kid, I’ll pay for the damages. Go hide.”

And with that he crashes through the window, glass shattering everywhere as Dream pulls out a water bucket to stop the would-have-been fatal landing.

The second Dream hits the ground, Sapnap, and Bad break the hatch to his UFO open, wasting no time in composing themselves and scouring the room.

It wasn’t until Sapnap’s gaze snapped onto him that Purpled felt the terror he was feeling truly sink in.

Now, he wasn’t an easy kid to spook, he played bed wars for fun for god’s sake! But, this wasn’t the arena where everything was just fun and games, no, this was Dream's server where you only get three respawns, three , before you’re dead. Permanently.

So can he really be blamed if he countered every step Sapnap took towards him with his own step back?

The tactic seemed to be working fine for him until his back finally hit the wall he knew he inevitably would.

It seemed like that had been the cue Sapnap was waiting for. Surging forward, the brunet swings out his sword and presses it gently against his neck faster than Purpled’s brain could keep up with.

Sucking in a harsh breath, Purpled can’t help the tremors that wrack his body as Sapnap snarls in his face, “Where is he?”

This wasn’t the Sapnap he knew, wasn’t the man he usually hung out with. No, this was a tired, agitated, and not thinking straight Sapnap. A Sapnap that was known to make reckless and poor decisions, a very “act now, think later” typa guy.

God, why can’t his brain just shut up for once?

“Sap, wait, he’s not in here.” Sagging in relief as the blade was pulled away from him, Purpled looks over to see who just saved his neck. Standing over the broken glass of the window Dream jumped out of was Bad, looking down at the duel between the blonde and George that was currently happening, “The muffin jumped.”

In a moment of bravery Purpled sure as hell didn’t really possess, the boy scrambled over to where Bad was standing. Looking down, he can’t help the proud smile that creeps its way onto his face. Dream is kicking George’s ass.

Maybe if he had been paying better attention he would have heard the muttered, “Green bastard,” from Sapnap, or the “Language” exclaimed by Bad, or the look the two men changed before two large hands clamped down on his shoulders.

His whole body tensed under the touch, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. This wasn’t a brotherly clap on the shoulders from Dream, or a playful swat from Tommy, this was a “You’re not getting away” grip.

“I’m sorry, kid” And before Purpled even knew what was happening, the arms on his shoulders were forcing his body out of the window, the alarmed cries of Bad falling on two pairs of deaf ears, “But we really need a distraction.”

Purpled, in his panicked state, had just enough time to remember that he didn't have any water buckets in his inventory before he was pushed off the ledge, a blood-curdling scream ripping through his throat as he plummeted towards the unforgiving ground.

He almost missed the way Dream's head snapped up at the shout before the world went black.

He was entirely out of options.

Manhunts usually don’t go this poorly for him, not to brag or anything, but Dream usually kicked ass during them. This year? Not so much.

He couldn’t even tell you why he was doing so bad, he had plenty of armor, food, and weapons. Yet here he was, almost completely out of breath, running like a madman to his little brother’s humble little home.

Okay, maybe a giant UFO in the sky wasn’t exactly too humble of a home, but you get what he means.

Reaching the door of the water elevator, Dream hesitates. His friends aren’t that far behind him, and he knows how desperate they’re getting to disarm him, to win their first manhunt. All in all, a version of his friends he doesn’t really want around his little brother.

But, he was out of breath, his legs were aching, and he hasn’t seen Purpled in so long .

With that thought in mind, the blonde wrenches open the door, taking a deep breath before stepping into the water and letting it pull him up to the trap door leading into the younger’s house.

Swinging the small hatch open, Dream throws himself out of the water, not even caring to try and do so gracefully. “Oh, man,” He breathes, a wheezy laugh bubbling out of him, “I can’t believe that worked! ”

Because he really hadn’t, today has been a mess and he didn’t expect anything to go his way. He truly thought his friends would have caught up to him before he was able to make his escape.

Somewhere in the room, Dream hears a surprised yelp cut its way through his laughter. Looking up, the blonde is just quick enough to catch the blade of a diamond sword barely missing Purpled’s socked foot, though it seemed as though the boy was too shocked to notice the close call.

Jesus, he didn’t come up here just to suffer a heart attack.

But, before he could berate the boy for being so careless, Purpled’s voice cuts him off. “Care to explain?” The remark comes off playful and sassy, but Dream could hear the slight concern and confusion behind it.

Climbing to his feet, Dream takes a moment to collect himself. “Annual manhunt, “ he sighs, swiping a calloused hand through his sandy hair, “I-I didn’t think you’d be home?”

He hates how it comes off more like a question. It’s clear to see in the younger blonde’s expression that he doesn’t believe him a single bit. But, it seems like the kid was willing to humor him if his next statement was anything to go by.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It sure as hell would have made me feel better.” Which wasn’t a lie, Dream doesn’t think he’d be able to live with himself if Purpled got hurt because of him.

Deciding that he was done standing, Dream flops onto the purple bed next to him, relishing in the relief it brings his aching bones, and smiling at the squawk of protest it gets out of Purpled.

Closing his eyes, Dream hadn’t noticed the boy had begun to make his way over to the bed as well until he felt a hand sneak under his mask to poke his face. Again, and again, and again.

“Get up you big oaf.”

Finally having enough of the childish antics, Dream unclips his porcelain mask and turns to face the younger beside him, mock anger taking over his face. “What did you just call me?”

It takes everything in him to not burst out laughing at the panic blossoming on the blonde’s face. “Nothing.”

“No, no” Tackling Purpled to the bed, Dream wiggles his fingers above the boy’s rids threateningly, an evil grin splitting onto his face, “You called me an oaf, I think that warrants an apology.”

He can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the cocky smile that takes over the younger’s face. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’m sooo sorry that you’re just so lazy, and boring, and-”

“That’s it!” Digging his hands into the teen’s ribs, Dream can’t help but laugh a bit along with him. It’s been so long since he’s heard his little brother laugh, he hadn’t even realized how much he missed the sound until now.

With a gasp, he feels smaller hands fly down to his own and try to fight them off, “W-Wait! Dream-” but Purpled couldn’t seem to complete a sentence through his relentless stream of giggles.

Finally taking pity on the boy, Dream lets up on his attack, moving away from the smaller body to let the blonde compose himself.

“God, you asshole.”

Chuckling a bit at the snark, Dream lands a light slap onto the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t say that.” Sure, it was a bit hypocritical, he had quite the potty mouth himself, but it made him feel like more of a big brother to say things like that.

Watching with mild curiosity as Purpled leans over the side of his bed, reaching into the chest there, Dream is most definitely not prepared for the golden apple that comes flying at his head, scrambling back to try and catch it clumsily.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

Taking a bite into the small treat, Dream can’t help but sigh in content at the taste. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until now, “Thanks” he mumbled, having no regard for the fact that his mouth was full of half-chewed up food.

With a fake gag and a look of utter disgust, he hears Purpled say, “You’re so gross, god.”

Scowling at the statement, Dream leans over enough to shove the boy away from him, slumping in his own mock self-pity.

Taking another bite of the apple Dream contemplates a thought over each bite. How could he have gone this long without checking in on his little brother? Sure, he was older than both Tommy and Tubbo but he was still his baby brother .

He was supposed to be there for him, hang out with him, and make him feel loved. But, he can’t help but feel as though he’s failed Purpled.

How do you just forget about the most important person in the world to you?

Moving his gaze back to the blonde boy in front of him, Dream notices the way his face has fallen, and how he’d started to fiddle with the sleeves of his cotton sweater.

Huh, last he checked the boy didn’t have any nervous quirks to him.

Tossing the apple core behind him, not even caring to try and aim it at the trash can, Dream’s face softens as he focuses on trying to fix the mistakes he’s made. “So, what have you been up to, kid? I feel like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Maybe because you haven’t. I’ve been...busy. Super duper, have no time to hang out with anyone, busy.”

Okay, that one stung.

Because he knows it's a lie. Dream doesn’t even want to count how many times he’s seen Purpled warily watching him from afar. Watching him fight in a stupid war that didn’t seem so worth it anymore. Not if it hurt his relationship with Purpled this deeply.

Just as he was about to open his mouth and tell the boy in front of him how sorry he was, and how much he truly meant to him, a shrill yell from outside cuts him off.

“It’s the only place we haven’t looked, man! He has to be up there!”

He had really hoped he would have more time before they found him.

Glancing at Purpled, both boys warily make their way across the room to look outside. Upon reaching the window, Dream’s heart almost beats out of his chest. They were coming up here.

“Shit!” Launching himself into the center of the room, panic starts to creep into Dream’s chest.

They were going to come up here, into his little brother’s home, and trash it in search of him. His poor, innocent, little brother’s house that he spent weeks building from the ground up.

God, he was so stupid.

“You gotta go, man. Like right now.”

Snapped out of his trance, Dream hadn’t even realized Purpled had taken another peek out the window.

Stifling a long, exasperated sigh, Dream hangs his head low. He needed to get out now . Not being here would put Purpled in less danger, and give him a better chance at getting to the End. He could easily fight off George.

But he really didn’t want to leave Purpeld alone.

Clipping the white mask to his face, not wanting the other blonde to see the regret for his future actions painting it, Dream lets the emotionless smile settle on the violet eyes boring into him.

“I’m sorry, kid, I’ll pay for the damages. Go hide.”

Not giving himself another second to think about what the hell he was doing, Dream sprints as fast as he could towards the glass in front of him, making an effort to ignore the surprised gasp Purpled had let out.

Drawing a water bucket from his inventory, Dream uses it to turn the would-have-been-fatal fall into the exact opposite. Upon landing, he whips around to see George charging him, sword out and ready to come down on him.

Pushing away the panic about the boy he left behind down, Dream smiles under his mask. George was just too easy.

Ducking under the swing, Dream kicks his leg out, sending the older man flying back with a grunt of pain.

Not giving his opponent the chance to retaliate the blow, Dream is on him in a second.

He wants to end this as soon as possible. He left his baby brother alone with Bad and Sapnap--someone who was known to make brash and dumb decisions. But, his pride wouldn’t let him just stand down. The sooner he could win, the sooner he could-

White-hot pain exploding on his face him cut off the blonde’s thoughts.

Stumbling back, Dream registers that George had clocked him in the jaw, a cheap shot taken in a moment of vulnerability.

Shoving down his agitation, Dream pulls his focus back to the fight. Getting his ass beat isn’t going to help anybody.

Taking out his own sword, Dream starts taking slash after slash at George, forcing the britt onto the defensive as he takes step after step back to avoid getting cut.

None were fatal blows, but ones that would sure as hell hurt.

Raising his sword backward, so the hilt of the blade was above George’s temple, Dream can’t help the smirk that plasters itself onto his face as he’s about to drop his arm and knock the older out, but a sudden noise makes his whole body freeze.

That….sounded familiar.

The scream was too high-pitched and youthful to be from either Sapnap or Bad, which only left one other person as to who it could be- no.

Dropping his sword, Dream's mind goes blank as he starts running as fast as his body will allow him to Purpled's rapidly falling form. The boy had gone silent, no long flailing in the air, or screaming, or sobbing, or giving him any indication that he was still awake.

And if he had passed out, there was no way for him to land safely.

That thought seemed to do what Dream thought was impossible, and made his body move even faster. The boy's body was too close to the ground now for him to catch him gently.

In a last-ditch effort to reach his baby brother's body, Dream takes a leap of faith and all but football tackles the small, limp, fragile body not 5-feet in front of him.

Tumbling to the ground, the force of the impact forcing Dream to roll head over heels multiple times, he looks down once he stops and is more than relieved to see a small body cradled to his chest, not ashes from what would have been his first death.

Ignoring the throbbing in his own body, or the 3 forms making their way over to him, Dream looks over Purpled, noticing that he was right, the boy had passed out. There were tear tracks on his face, red, and blotchy, and just wrong looking on him, and he had a sluggishly bleeding cut on the crown of his head.

Overall okay--but far from it at the same time.

This was the boy's first close encounter with death, and if Dream had any say in it, will be the closest Purpled ever gets to dying again.

Pulling the vulnerable form closer to his chest, Dream buries his head in the soft curls of the boy's hair. Nothing else mattered right now, just his little brother secured to his chest and the fact that he almost died .

"-Ream, is he alright? You're gonna have to move buddy, I need to look him over."

Snapping his head up at the voice, Dream is met with the face of an all-too calm Bad. But, upon closer inspection of the man's face, he could tell he was pale, seemingly shaken up from the past events as well.

To his right was George, the Britt's hand slapped over his mouth, eyes bulging out of his head as he stared at the two huddled on the floor, as if he couldn't believe what just happened.

And that means to his left was Sapnap.

Eyes narrowing in the deadliest glare he could muster, the only thing keeping Dream from attacking the man right now was the little body cradled in his arms. " I’ll kill you ."

#mcyt #dsmp #twitch #youtube #dreamwastaken #dreamteam #sapnap #georgenotfound #badboyhalo #purpled #burpled #older sibling dream #protective dream #younger sibling purpled #hurt and comfort #hurtnocomfort #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt roleplay

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sanktere · 3 years

Text

Olympian Aesthetic Headcanons

Bold where applicable, italicize where situationally relevant

APHRODITE. (2.5) laughter-loving, sweet smiles, dressed in silk and satin, flower in their hair, thrives on attention, sees the world as a runway, unapologetically sexual, the sea washing their ankles, in love with love, stirrer of passion, cunning concealed by painted lips, secret daggers, doves, revolution in their kiss, delighting in the waves, flirtatious winks, strolling along the beach, staring wistfully from a balcony, this is how to be a heartbreaker, your girlfriend thinks they’re attractive, wants to be adored, turned on by danger.

APOLLO. (4) glitz and glamour, art galleries, turning the volume up, being made of gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, bathing in the sunlight, the powerful urge to create, collecting vinyl records, beautiful cover of wonderwall, playing multiple instruments, tasting like sunshine, healing touch, speaking in prophecies, smile mingled wrath, shunning lies, sporting shades, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, sleeping naked, arrow to the heart, paint brushes.

ARES. (4.5) armed for battle, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, soft spot for children, gives piggyback rides, scarred body, blood on their hands and face, willing to fight the world for the ones they love, fights against injustice, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, boxing gloves, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, fist raised in protest, ignites revolutions, fear is a prison, more sensitive than what their tough shell will make you think, exhausted, damaged goods, force to be reckoned with, red roses, curses under their breath.

ARTEMIS. (2.5) keen sense of a hunter, freckles like constellations on their skin, piercing eyes, disheveled braid, moonlight peeking through the shadows, the calm of the forest at night, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, mother doe and her fawn, protecting their kin, the moon shimmering on a still lake, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, running with wolves, bonding while circled around a campfire, not being much of a people person, arrow hitting a target, popping egos, patience on 3%, touches heaven and returns howling.

ATHENA. (3) discerning gaze, unreadable face, the patience of a lifelong teacher, quiet museums, owl perched on their finger, armor that intimidates, eye for architecture, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, big fan of logic, loves brain teasers, go-getter, balls of wool displayed on shelves, ancient buildings, sweaters in neutrals and cool colors, hair done up, can kill you with their brain, heads to the library often to research, sharpened pencils, abs that can cut steel, stoic statues, pottery classes.

DEMETER. (4.5) soil-covered hands, smile that can bloom flowers, skin loved by the sun, being the mom-friend, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, takes pride in their beautiful garden, speaks to their plants (elementals), leaves rustling in the wind, stalks of wheat, picking fruit, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, values simplicity, daisies dotted across a collarbone, curls crowned with flowers, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

DIONYSUS. (0) drunk shitposter, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, seductive smirks, untamed curls, rich fabrics on dark skin, sleek-furred panthers, theater masks, stage productions, receiving a standing ovation, rose caught between their teeth, being the baby of the bunch, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup, creeping vines, inspiring loyalty, grand opera houses, masquerade balls, rolls of film, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the floor, pouring champagne into flutes, lives for the applause.

HEPHAESTUS. (0.5) the calloused hands of someone who knows labor, sweaty brow, flame burning in their eyes, inventive mind, broad shoulders, steampunk goggles, nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes, ashes, striking a match, blueprints for future projects, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, wrestles with bitterness, work boots have seen better years, wrinkled plaid shirts, iron melted in blazing fire, huge jackets, crafting masterpieces, greased-stained overalls, fascination with robotics, pain is fuel, stack of weaponry.

HERA. (1) resting bitch face, dressed to the nines, cows grazing on a pasture, cool rain, loving and hating fiercely, hand clutching a string of pearls, large chandelier with glittering crystals, plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims, romance to realism, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath, like their selfie or you’re grounded, knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, marble and gold.

HERMES. (0) devil-may-care smile, ink-stained hands, always up-to-date on the latest technology, does it for the vine, shitposter, puts googly eyes on everything, meme hoarder, long drives on the highway, ma and pop diners, spontaneous road trips, folded maps, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, shooting hoops on the basketball court, chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations, goes jogging in the morning, mixes redbull with coffee, menace on april fool’s, hoodies and sneakers.

POSEIDON. (5.5) storm with skin, colorful coral reefs, waves crashing against the shore, the sea casting its spell, stroking the soft fur of a cat, their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, clothes smeared with paint, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns for more, leather jackets, fondness for diy projects, handwriting that flows across the page, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, mood as ever-changing as the sea, the roar of a motorcycle, compass with a spinning arrow.

ZEUS. (2) thunder in their heart, running on coffee, flash of lightning, natural charisma, eloquence, badass in a nice suit, aficionado of history, force of nature, pretends they don’t have feelings but they do, nightmare-filled nights, proud arm around their lover’s waist, high-rise buildings, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, technician on the piano, maintains order, strong handshake, juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease, most likely to be voted class president out of their peers, expensive watch.

#˙ ˖ ⊰ ✧ ⊱ 彡 meta ･ mercy has come to me exactly in this way¸ as a premonition.#i expected demeter to be high but poseidon winning....... INTERESTING #should clarify i don't think lucius is Moody in the traditional sense but he has an aries cusp on that pisces and it jumps out sometimes #lucius as a son of poseidon.... :think: unorthodox but i kinda dig it

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septembers-kingdom-of-dreams · 3 years

Text

September's Kingdom of Dreams

Chapter 3

They'd had it coming. Nauria had told them, for years and years, people like them wouldn't hold the throne for long. But nooooo, little power plays were more important to the king and queen than the wellbeing of everyone else. They'd deserved what had happened.

The others however hadn't. Nauria dreaded to think of what could have happened to Gardan and the rest of his expedition troop. And of course, Crimson. The princess. Too young to understand the heaviness of her responsibilities, but young enough to learn to face them better than her parents had. She had the precious gift of time to change, time that she would spend knowing the terrible fate of those who refused to learn. She'd seen it with her own eyes.

But for now they only had to do one thing: Escape the castle.

The unusual pair was rushing down into the vault, Nauria clutching Crimson's hand. They heard voices from above, screams, cruel laughter, harsh commands. Then the squeaking gate to the vault opened.

"Bubak, Hallafeen, you search the dungeons. They have to be down there."

A voice with a slight lisp answered. "B-but she's just a child. What's the most she can do?"

"Listen to me you useless sack of straw!", the commander bellowed. "Everything that remains of the Calderia line will threaten our glorious revolution, so go down there, and finish her!"

"We're gonna be found," Crimson whispered timidly.

"Don't worry, we'll be fine," Nauria whispered back. Then she heard footsteps and pulled the princess into an empty cell. "Stay quiet!"

Two figures passed by, a man with dark blonde hair and white clothes and a nervously twitching silhouette with what appeared to be a massive amount of....straw for hair. With his every step he left behind dry blades of grass and occasionally wilted flowers.

The other man abruptly elbowed him in the ribs and he doubled over in pain.

"Look at the mess you're making!", the blonde hissed. "Everyone will see where we've been!"

"I'm sorry, I can't help it-"

"Shut up!" The blonde sharply inhaled through his teeth. "We're splitting up. I'm going to the other wing, you search here." He grabbed the other man by the collar and slightly shook him. "And if you let them escape, I'm breaking your arm again."

With that he left.

For a few moments it was quiet. Then the young man turned over and looked directly at the dark prison cell.

"Hey," he whispered. "I know you're here anyway. I don't want to hurt you."

Nauria hesitated. Was it a trick?

"Look, I can see in the dark, okay? I know you think I'm bluffing, but it's the truth. Listen, I wanna give you some time before Hallafeen comes back, so please hurry up. You can even threaten me with that lovely sword you have, if that makes you feel safer."

Nauria felt the cold handle of Heartpiercer in her hand. Then she took a deep breath, gave Crimson a reassuring nod and stepped into the dim light of the flickering torches.

At first Nauria thought the stranger was wearing a mask, but then she realized that he wasn't. The man standing there and patiently waiting, was a scarecrow.

She raised Heartpiercer, but she wasn't even sure where to aim now. He acknowledged her confusion with a tired twitch of his mouth.

"Why do you want to help us?", Nauria asked.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I don't know. I feel like I should."

"That doesn't sound very convincing."

"Do you have any other options?"

Nauria hesitated, then shook her head. "Nope."

"Good. Did you have any plans how to escape the castle?"

"There's a window in the back where one can climb out."

"Good. You go there, I'm holding up Hallafeen. Deal?"

"Deal."

They hurried down the corridor, until finally, they reached the window. Nauria helped Crimson climb on the windowsill, but once the little princess was there she grabbed the Pirate Queen's arm in white-knuckled terror.

"It's so high!" Her voice was shaking.

"Hey. Hey." Nauria was trying to calm her own racing heartbeat. "You'll be fine. I promise."

Footsteps in the distance. The scarecrow spun around, panic in his face. "Hurry up!"

Nauria bit her lip. Then she made a decision and drew her sword.

"Take Heartpiercer," she whispered. "It'll protect you."

Crimson's red eyes widened as her small hands closed around the cold handle. She glanced up at Nauria, swallowed hard and nodded.

Hallafeen appeared around the corner and Bubak leaped forward to hold him up. "Hallafeen, wait-!"

A blade slashed through his face, followed by a punch and the cracking of bones. The scarecrow yelped and curled up on the floor in pain. Nauria spun around, her eyes wide open.

"Crimson, save yourself!", she yelled.

And the princess jumped.

***

The rain was still drumming on the ceiling of the camping trailer. A stray raccoon found an open window and shuffled inside. It jumped on the wooden table and shook it's damp fur. Silver water droplets flew everywhere, softly plopping against the glass of the window.

The raccoon's muddy paws left stains on the previously clean table as it shuffled over the polished surface and jumped onto the floor. It was hungry.

A bag of crisps on the shelf smelled promising. The raccoon's claws tapped on the ground as it scurried over. Plastic rustled when it climbed into the bag and started munching on the unprecedented snack.

When the raccoon's head appeared from the depths of the crisp bag it suddenly felt watched. Hesitantly, it turned around and realized in utter horror that a human was lying right by the shelf and looking right at it. It bounced to the floor, but then realized that the human wasn't moving.

It's dead, the raccoon thought. It had a small brain, but eventually it came to the conclusion that if something as large as a human had died in this strange box, then a small raccoon probably wasn't safe either. With a small metaphorical sigh the raccoon braced itself and climbed back outside into the storm.

#september's kingdom of dreams

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illusionage · 3 years

Text

OLYMPIAN AESTHETICS.

APHRODITE. laughter loving. sweet smiles. dressed in silk and satin. flower in their hair. sees the world as a runway. unapologetically sexual. the sea washing their ankles. in love with love. stirrer of passion. cunning concealed by painted lips. secret daggers. doves. revolution in their kiss. delighting in the waves. flirtatious winks. strolling along the beach. staring wistfully from a balcony. this is how to be a heartbreaker. wants to be adored. gets turned on by danger.

APOLLO. glitz and glamour. art galleries. turning the volume up. being made of gold. neatly organized music sheets. notebooks filled with poetry. bathing in the sunlight. the powerful urge to create. collecting vinyl records. beautiful cover of wonderwall. playing multiple instruments. tasting like sunshine. healing touch. speaking in prophecies. smile mingled with wrath. shunning lies. sporting shades. hanging out at music festivals with their friends. sleeps naked. arrow to the heart. paint brushes. probably has a tinder account.

ARES. armed for battle. wants to raise a dog with their significant other. soft spot for children. gives piggyback rides. scarred body. blood on their hands and face. willing to fight the world for the ones they love. fights against injustice. warm hugs. well worn combat boots. boxing gloves. bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles. fist raised in protest. ignites revolutions. fear is a prison. more sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think. exhausted. damaged goods. force to be reckoned with. red roses. curses under their breath.

ARTEMIS. keen sense of a hunter. freckles like constellations on their skin. piercing eyes. disheveled braid. moonlight peeking through the shadows. the calm of the forest at night. lying on the grass and staring at the stars. mother doe and her fawn. protecting their kin. the moon shimmering on a still lake. quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree. running with wolves. bonding while circled around a campfire. not being much of a people person. arrow hitting a target. popping egos. patience on 3%. touches heaven and returns howling.

ATHENA. discerning gaze. unreadable face. quiet museums. owl perched on their finger. armour that intimidates. eye for architecture. plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses. studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid. big fan of logic. loves brain teasers. ancient buildings. sweaters in neutrals and cool colours. hair done up. can kill you with their brain. heads to the library often to research. sharpened pencils. abs that can cut steel. stoic statues. pottery classes.

DEMETER. soil covered hands. smile that can bloom flowers. skin loved by the sun. being the mom friend. can lift you and your friends. flowers kept in the pockets of overalls. takes pride in their beautiful garden. speaks to their plants. leaves rustling in the wind. stalks of wheat. picking fruit. greenhouses. heart as strong as a mountain. values simplicity. daisies dotted across a collarbone. curls crowned with flowers. folded pile of sweaters in warm hues. pulling out fresh baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

DIONYSUS. drunk shitposter. on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second. seductive smirks. untamed curls. rich fabrics on dark skin. sleek furred panthers. theatre masks. stage productions. receiving a standing ovation. rose caught between their teeth. being the baby of the bunch. wild parties that last from sundown to sunup. creeping vines. inspiring loyalty. grand opera houses. masquerade balls. rolls of film. shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine spilled floor. pouring champagne into flutes. lives for the applause.

HEPHAESTUS. the calloused hands of someone who knows labor. sweaty brow. flame burning in their eyes. inventive mind. broad shoulders. steampunk goggles. nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes. ashes. striking a match. blueprints for future projects. fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades. wrestles with bitterness. work boots have seen better years. wrinkled plaid shirts. iron melted in blazing fire. huge jackets. crafting masterpieces. greased stained overalls. fascination with robotics. pain is fuel. stack of weaponry. even their muscles have muscles.

HERA. resting bitch face. dressed to the nines. cows grazing on a pasture. cool rain. loving and hating fiercely. hand clutching a string of pearls. large chandelier with glittering crystals. plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims. romance to realism. pictures of the sky while flying on a plane. files that under fuck it. downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix. like their selfie or you’re grounded. knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man. dark eyes that penetrate your soul. marble and gold.

HERMES. devil - may - care smile. always up - to - date on the latest technology. will steal your french fries. does it for the vine. shitposter. puts googly eyes on everything. meme hoarder. long drives on the highway. ma and pop diners. spontaneous road trips. folded maps. fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop. shooting hoops on the basketball court. chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations. goes jogging in the morning. mixes redbull with coffee. menace on april fool’s. hoodies and sneakers.

POSEIDON. storm with skin. colorful coral reefs. waves crashing against the shore. stroking the soft fur of a cat. their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop. tousled locks. clothes smeared with paint. owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more. leather jackets. fondness for diy projects. handwriting that flows across the page. nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin. velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams. mood as ever - changing as the sea. the roar of a motorcycle. compass with a spinning arrow.

HADES. walking home alone in the early morning. back alleys. drinking alone in a graveyard. crippling loneliness hidden by sarcasm and cynicism. crows picking a carcass. untended dead flowers. the black sheep of the family. black coffee. money can’t buy you happiness. murder mystery dinner parties. blood on your shirt collar. dust illuminated by sunlight. classical music. dogs are better than people. a quiet wrath. shady business deals. taking what you are owed. paint it black. seasonal affective disorder. popping the suit collar. grey rain on a cityscape.

ZEUS. thunder in their heart. running on coffee. flash of lightning. unnatural charisma. eloquence. badass in a nice suit. aficionado of history. force of nature. lennyface. nightmare - filled nights. proud arm around their lover’s waist. high - rise buildings. planes soaring through a cloudless sky. technician on the piano. maintains order. strong handshake. juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease. expensive watch.

tagged by: stole from my old blog! tagging: honestly any1 who wants it.... theres like four ppl in this rpc im not tagging them im shy

#huh. v. v interesting!#ive always put elliott down as a likeness to hermes or apollo but dionysus came out of nowhere...#same w ares... huh. inch resting!#i make this look good. / aesthetics.

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