#also be plagued with Inspiration for a million other things since i absolutely do not have time for any projects

[biborispavlikovsky]

going insane from grading

[seriouslysnape]

Sticky Kisses

Neville Longbottom x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Fluff. A short mention of death.

A/N: I hope Google translate did this justice lmao.

Word Count: 2,069

“Can you stir the syrup, please?”

Neville was awakened by the sunlight filtering in through a crack in the curtains in your bedroom. The morning sunshine splayed across his face caused a gentle warmth that also caused black spots behind his eyelids. It took him a moment to register where he was, the sight of the still foreign bedroom causing him brief confusion. He lifted his head from the squishy pillow, sighing in content remembrance when he identified the clean sheets of your shared bed. It had been exactly two weeks since the two of you had moved into your new flat, and it was taking Neville some time to get used to it. Living with you had been pure bliss so far. He adored waking up to you in the mornings and going to bed with you at night.

He was counting down the days until your wedding. In addition to moving in together, it had also been three months since he had officially (and shyly) popped the question. Neville wasn’t always sure about everything, but marrying you and spending forever with you was a no brainer. Moving in together had been the first step, and he was loving every minute of it.

Not long after he woke up, the most delicious smell filled his nostrils. The moment his eyes opened to bring him out of his slumber, his mouth was salivating at the scent floating around in his bedroom. His belly grumbled audibly, reminding him that neither of you had eaten dinner the night prior. The plan had been for the two of you to have a date night in London, consisting of seeing a movie and going out for dinner. However, the two of you had gotten handsy during the film and, well, coming back to your apartment and making love well into the night sounded like a better plan.

Eventually, the delicious smells coming from your kitchen had tempted him long enough. He sat up in bed to stretch his tense muscles and crack his unpopped knuckles, it was always his first step in getting out of bed every day.

He pushed back the duvet, wincing at the feel of the cool air hitting his skin. He made his way out of your bedroom, following the aroma of what he knew to be cinnamon and vanilla. His padding feet stopped short when he saw you turned at the stove, clad in his cream colored sweater that he had worn the night before. He felt a heat creep onto his cheeks. He loved this picture.

He felt his heart swell at the sight of you making breakfast for the two of you and dancing around your quaint kitchen. He watched you move around, expertly whisking and pouring to prepare whatever it was that you were making. You sensed his presence behind you, turning to smile at him.

“Good morning, Nev,” You greeted sweetly, “Did you sleep well?”

Neville grinned in response, entering the kitchen fully. In the last six months, Neville had slept better than he had in his entire life. The war had been over for several months now, Neville was to begin his teaching position at Hogwarts in the following school year, you were engaged to one another. Things were falling into place perfectly. His life was finally heading in the direction that he wanted. He had control over his future. 

And his future was with you.

“Yeah, love. I did,” He answered, his hand finding the small of your back as he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, “But I missed waking up with you.”

You craned your head so he could lower his face to leave a peck on your lips before returning to what you were doing. Neville was watching over your shoulder and, truthfully, he had no idea what you were making. You had an interesting line of ingredients going, including bread and a bowl of some sort of egg and cinnamon mixture. 

“I know. I figured that a nice breakfast that’s more than three cups of tea might be good. That and we never had dinner last night,” You explained, your cheeks heating up slightly at the remembrance of why, “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No, no, flower. I’m partial to waking up this way,” He replied with a chuckle, “What...what are you making anyway?”

He was puzzled when you dipped the bread into the slimy mixture before laying it into the frying pan on the stove. The summer leading up to your fifth year at Hogwarts, you had taken a few months to live in London, studying Muggles and their lifestyle. You learned all kinds of things, including many popular Muggle cuisines. It wasn’t at all uncommon for Neville to find you cooking something that he had never seen before, but it almost always was delicious.

“French toast.” You told him with a smile.

Neville cocked his head curiously. He had never heard of such, and he was intrigued.

“French toast?” He questioned.

“Mmhm. It’s bread that you dip in cinnamon, milk, egg, and vanilla. Then you cook it on both sides.” You listed off to him.

The smell was incredible, but Neville didn’t quite understand it yet.

“But...what makes it French?” He questioned.

That made you pause. You hadn’t the slightest idea as to why French toast was called French toast. Leave it to Neville to ask a question that you didn’t know the answer to.

“You know...I don’t know. They didn’t teach me that part.” You giggled.

“I know French.” Neville announced.

“Do you?” You queried, turning around to look at him in surprise. 

“Well...a little. A few phrases and words.” He blushed.

Your excitement caused a flutter in his belly as he watched you get riled up over this.

“Tell me something in French!” You squealed, absolutely stunned that Neville had never told you this before.

“Uh, what should I say?” He returned.

“Anything. Come on, please?” You pleaded.

Neville racked his brain, trying to come up with a sentence that he could say fluently. Neville wasn’t fluent by any means, but he knew a few things. He looked around the kitchen for inspiration before his eyes spotted a wooden spoon on the countertop.

“La cuillère est là-bas.” He said after a few moments.

You stared at him blankly. You had no idea what he just said.

“Hm. Translate?” You requested.

Neville smirked, nodding towards the spoon.

“I said, ‘the spoon is over there’.” He told you.

Your jaw dropped minorly as your impressed expression increased. Never in a million years would you have guessed that Neville knew even a lick of French.

“Tell me something else!” You shrilled, bouncing on the balls of your feet with jittery thrill.

Neville didn’t really know much beyond that, but there was a phrase that he knew very well.

“Je t'aime.” He hushed out, his lips close to yours. 

You let out a short, airy laugh. Taking his round face into your palms.

“Now that I know,” You beamed, “I love you too.”

You caught his soft lips in a kiss, giving him a burst of energy. Mornings with you were one of his favorite times of day. Seeing you in such a relaxed state made him unbelievably happy.

 “Can you stir the syrup, please?” You asked when you pulled away from him.

Maple syrup was something that Neville was familiar with, but he hadn’t ever had homemade syrup. Only the kind that came out of a bottle.

“You’re making syrup?” He gawked, reaching around you to stir the thick liquid, “You’re too good.”

Neville chuckled again in your ear when you bashfully shimmied against him, keeping you close to him while you continued to make breakfast. When the syrup was okay to stand alone for a bit, his hands found your waist, rubbing easy circles with his thumbs. Every few moments, his fingertips would find the sides of your knickers under his sweater that you were wearing. You weren’t sure if it was the privacy of your own home or what, but Neville’s touches had become more frequent. He wasn’t one for PDA other than hand holding and an occasional kiss, but when you were at home, he was all over you. 

The war had really awakened something in Neville. You both had endured it. You had both experienced it. But it affected Neville differently than you. Innocent lives were lost, some of them being people that Neville cared about a lot. He had a couple of close calls himself, and it taught him not to be so careless with his life before he hurt the ones who loved him. Every day he worried about you. Every day he was terrified that he’d find that your body had joined the corpses in The Great Hall. Losing you had been something that plagued him. Every moment that he wasn’t with you, he was worried sick. 

He was forever thankful that you both made it out of the war relatively unharmed. He was even more grateful that his future plans were still intact. The first night after the war, the two of you spent the night in his childhood bedroom at his Grandmother’s house. The two of you were crammed into his tiny bed, pressed so close against each other that you could hardly move. Neither of you cared though. You slept maybe two hours that night, while Neville didn’t sleep at all. Silent tears streamed both your and Neville’s cheeks as the two of you just soaked up each other’s presence. Thinking about how you were grateful that you were still there together. How you were grateful that you still had a chance at a long life together. 

You were grateful that you had both made it out alive.

That was the night that Neville made a silent vow to himself. For the short time that you had slept, Neville watched you. He swore to himself that he’d never take life for granted again. He’d take advantage of every moment with you. The good and the bad moments. The small and the big moments. He’d take the inevitable arguments and the passionate moments of love with full seriousness.

Because he had learned that those moments could be taken away in an instant and without warning.

“Breakfast is ready, honey.” You said happily, turning around with a plate stacked with delectable French toast. 

Neville reached for the pot of syrup, eyeing it hungrily.

“Can I?” He motioned towards the bread.

“Go ahead.” You granted, knowing what he was asking. 

He poured the syrup from the pot onto the stack of French toast. He made a noise of satisfaction when the syrup seeped over the bread, spilling over the side and onto the empty parts of the plate. Neville always had an appetite for breakfast, unlike you who often chose a quick breakfast over a filling one. You didn’t bother waiting to sit at the table, reaching for a fork and digging in where you both stood in the kitchen. You stabbed a cut triangle of toast onto your fork, holding it up to his lips. His pupils dilated at the sight, his lips wrapping around the fork as he took the food into his mouth. He chewed slowly to savor the taste, his eyes rolling back into his head at the almost orgasmic taste. 

“How is it?” You asked, bursting with anticipation. 

He smiled once he swallowed, taking the fork from your hand.

“Spectacular. So amazing,” He complimented, taking more on to the fork to let you try, “Open up.”

You opened your mouth as well, Neville feeding you a bite of your wonderful creation. You had to admit, you had outdone yourself. 

“Not bad if I do say so myself.” You bragged, snickering when Neville barely waited before taking another mouthful. 

“It’s absolutely perfect. Just like you.” He grinned.

He kissed you again, your lips sticky and sweet with syrup. You tasted of maple and cinnamon, two of his favorite tastes in the entire world. Although, he loved the way you tasted without it. Just like the dinner from the night before, your breakfast was put on hold suddenly for other activities. He was overwhelmed with love and care. This was the life he wanted. He knew this would be his forever. 

And he was excited to live every minute of it to the fullest.

******

Tags: @lupinsslut @writingscape @msmimimerton @thefilmcity​

[ryrycaptain]

Lets See Where This Goes

Description:

Dan and Phil go to the same high school, with Phil a year older than Dan. Phil’s aesthetic is more 80’s/retro, whereas Dan’s is a grunge e-girl aesthetic with makeup. Ever since Dan’s freshman year, Phil admired him for embracing individuality and slowly started to fall for him. However, they never talked except for Phil being nervous and clumsy around Dan. Little did he know that Phil had feelings for him but didn’t show it.

Notes:

Hello! Thu is my very first fic for the PRB, and I'm excited for you all to read. My piece was inspired by the lovely art futurebunnyfluff made. My amazing beta was supermariohbrothers! . I hope you enjoy the fic.

ao3 link

When Phil first saw Daniel Howell, the younger boy had been talking to Phil’s new maths teacher for directions. He quietly slipped past the pair, but it didn’t stop him from noticing the younger boy's style. Dan had been wearing a black shirt with a small logo of an upside-down smiling face. The shirt was worn over a black and white striped shirt and tucked into black shorts that were adorned with white ruffles. The belt cinched around his waist pulled the outfit together and highlighted Dan’s curves. Although the outfit was bold, Phil was surprised to see the purple lipstick that coated the younger boy’s lips.  He also noticed the slight blush on his cheeks and the purple eyeshadow coating his eyelids. Overall the younger boy looked absolutely breathtaking with his brown curly hair and chocolate eyes.

His attention had been stolen by the way the boy stood confident by the teacher and how he moved his hands while talking. Dan was confident, and he knew he was special. Phil couldn’t help be inspired by the way the younger boy presented himself when there were so many threats for being different.

Phil’s style wasn’t too out there, but it still stole attention from all the wrong people. He liked the 80’s aesthetic he’d come to life over the year. It helped represent his old soul. He'd been bullied on multiple occasions, and his sexuality had been a popular topic amongst his classmates for a good half of last year. He couldn’t imagine being as confident as Dan was. Needless to say, Phil had been distracted for the rest of the day.

It didn’t get much better after that though. He was often caught sneaking glances at the other boy, and it became a hot topic at his lunch table. He was sitting with his food in front of him staring at the younger boy when PJ dropped into his seat across from Phil. The other boy followed Phil’s gaze, “Have you talked to him yet?”

Phil shook his head. “Every time I try I get too nervous and back out.”

It was true. In a way, Dan had become his idol, and Phil looked up to him like he looked up to Muse. It was stupid, but Phil couldn’t stop his mind from creating situations where Dan would run away or think he was obnoxious. Just as he was about to spiral, Pj interrupted him, “Stop overthinking it, Phil. He’s just another teenager.”

PJ had been his friend since the day he accidentally stepped on the other boy's sandcastle at the park. They’d grown close quickly, and PJ could somehow read his mind at this point.

“I’m trying, Peej.”

Pj sighed “What could go wrong?”

Phil didn’t even need to think before he started listening off all of the reasons introducing himself to the younger boy could go wrong. “-might think I’m weird and hide from me for the rest of my life. Really there are a million ways it could end badly.”

“I wasn’t being serious,” Pj said glaring, “Seriously though, you should go talk to him. I don’t think I can stand you looking at him like a lost puppy for the rest of the year.”

Phil huffed, “Fine.”

He stood up and made his way to the other boy’s table, walking with confidence he didn’t know he had. When he actually gets to the younger boys table, he loses it immediately. He can feel the blood rush from his face, and his lips are moving but no words are coming out.

Dan looks flawless yet again. The younger boy has a purple crop top that stops just above the band of his black ripped jeans and he sports clunky Doc Martens. He’s wearing makeup again, and it sparkles against his eyelids. Phil’s pulled out of his reverie by a small cough. “Hi,” Dan says.

His voice isn’t as high as Phil imagined it, but it’s still smooth. “Hi,” he responds, “I’m- um- Phil. Yeah, that’s right. That’s my name. Phil. Phil Lester.” He laughs awkwardly and then he’s taking off, away from the table and back to the one friend he has.

When he flings himself into his chair, Pj jumps and he looks at Phil with caution in his eyes. “Did everything go down well?”

Phil feels like he’s about to cry and he has to blink a few times to clear the unshed tears from his eyes. “God I screwed everything up,” he groans.

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Pj reassures him.

“I promise you it was that bad.”

Pj snorts, “Not everything is as bad as you think it is.”

After that, Phil lays low and he doesn’t talk to anyone but Pj. He wouldn’t say he was a social butterfly, but he made an effort to talk to people most of the time. He’s worried that Dan’s going to start rumors about him and it’s not implausible.

Dan had become quite popular a few days into the school year. He’d made a lasting impression on most of the popular girls, and he seemed to get along well with them. Phil was pretty sure a few of the girls even had crushes on him. The only thing keeping Phil’s hopes alive is the rumor that Dan’s gay. The younger boy hasn’t commented on it yet, and for all Phil knows, the younger boy could be dating one of the most influential people in the school.

The only thing keeping Phil from worrying about the girls themselves whispering about him is the fact that Dan sits away from them with his friend Louise. Louise was nice with curly blonde hair dyed pink at the tips. She seemed like a mother hen, and Phil constantly caught her fixing Dan’s hair or lecturing the younger boy.

Phil’s pretty sure he should try talking to the other boy again to quell his fears, but he still hasn’t convinced himself to do so. He ends up going to talk to Dan on several occasions before chickening out.

He spends the rest of the year giving Dan longing looks and wishing he wasn’t socially inept. His wishes don’t come true though so he stays away and sulks. Pj confronts him multiple times and he ignores the other boy’s advice every single time.

—

The next school year, Dan starts dating one of the football players at school and it confirms one thing for Phil. [ Dan likes guys. ] After his hopes are confirmed his crush gets worse and he’s desperate for a relationship with Dan whether it’s a friendship or something more.

When he finally gains the courage to talk to the other boy, he trips right over an outstretched foot, and he can’t stand to look at Dan for days.

He’s always been clumsy and he doubts he'll ever be able to get away with hurting himself in front of Dan. This time rumors spread, but he doubts Dan was the one who started.  He’s only giving Dan the benefit of the doubt because everyone saw it.

His avoidance of Dan spans the rest of the school year, and Phil spends most of his summer listening to Muse and complaining to Pj about his lack of social skills. He also finds Dan’s social media and stalks it for days mesmerized by his makeup looks. He’s seen Dan in makeup before but those are simple looks that don’t draw too much attention, but the looks he posts online are extravagant and eye-catching.

It inspires Phil and he spends a lot of time painting eyes and other random designs onto thrifted clothing that he finds on his shopping spree. By the time he’s done being inspired, he has enough new outfits to last him the first two months of school.

He’s amazed by what the younger boy brings out him, and they don’t even know each other. It makes him think about how much more inspiring Dan would be if they were friends but he pushes that thought away and distracts himself with something new.

—

The first day of school this year was the last and Phil was excited by the idea. He dressed in a black button-up that had a retro pattern scattered across in and threw a pair of stared overalls he painted over top of the shirt. The patterns meshed well but still provided a neat look. He lastly threw on his battered pair of converse and headed off to school.

His day starts off well but it gets better when he finds out Dan is in the same AP art class as he is. He’s honestly surprised the other boy likes art but then he remembers the amazing makeup the younger boy does.  He realizes he barely knows anything about the younger boy. He knows things from rumors and social media, but half of it could be fake.

Phil spends most of the class sulking over the fact that he isn’t near Dan, but his luck pulls through a few weeks into the school year. They’re doing a partner's projects and the teachers picked the pairs. He usually picks Pj, and most of the time, the teacher pairs them up as well. She must have noticed the way he smiled at Dan though because she makes them partners.

He gives Pj an apologetic look and makes his way over to Dan’s desk. “Hi. I’m-”

“Phil. Phil Lester,” he teased, “I remember.”

Phil groans, “Sorry I’m so awkward. I’m surprised you didn’t run away when you found out I was your partner.”

Dan laughs at that. “Why?”

“I’ve been so weird in front of you.”

“That just made you all the more interesting. I’ve been trying to get to know you for years, and you’ve just now noticed.”

“You have?”

“I’m mean- of course. You really inspire me.”

Phil’s caught off guard by that. He’s never seen himself as an inspirational person. He runs away from most of his problems, and he avoids human connections like the plague. He isn’t popular, in real life or online. It makes him feel awkward, and he wonders what Dan knows about him.

What happens if he doesn’t rise to Dan’s expectations? Phil can’t imagine disappointing the other boy, and he becomes self-conscious immediately. Besides, he’s borderline obsessed with the younger boy and he starts to worry if Dan has seen the internet stalking that Phil does. It would be even more embarrassing if Dan knew about Phil’s tendency to stare at the other boy.

“Why?” he asks Dan. It’s the only way he can find out what Dan thinks about him.

Dan hums and sits in thought for a few moments. “You seem happy with what you have. I have all of these friends and I’m treated like I queen by half of my dates, but I’m still not sure I’m the happiest I can be,” Dan sighs. “I’m sorry if that was too deep.”

“I don’t think it was,” Phil reassures him. “I had a lot of trouble at first. People aren’t the best at handling differences, and some people tried to change me. It made me stronger in the end though.”

The bell cuts off their conversation then, and Phil realizes they never discussed the project. He doesn’t even know what the prompt is. “Do you want to exchange numbers?” He asks Dan,

“Uh- sure,” he sputters, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Phil takes a few seconds to type in his number and hands Dan the phone. “Text me?” Phil asks, “To talk about the project and stuff.”

“Yeah of course.”

—

Phil is stuck staring at his ceiling. He can’t seem to sleep and his brain is repeating the conversation he had with Dan earlier. It was weird to know that Dan looked up to him in the same way Phil looked up to Dan. Somehow they both comforted the other even though they barely knew anything about each other. He feels slightly guilty for not telling Dan about his admiration. He wishes he had Dan’s number so he can clear his conscience, but the younger boy still hasn’t texted him. It makes him worry he creeped out the other boy, and he doesn’t know how he’d get through the project if he has.

It’s like Dan’s reading his mind because the next thing Phil knows, his phone is brightening up with a message.

From Dan

Hey. It’s Dan :D

Phil can’t help but smile at the smiley face at the end of the message. It fits perfectly with Dan’s personality.

To Dan

Hey, stranger. What are you doing up so late?

From Dan

I couldn’t sleep. You?

To Dan

Same. I can’t stop thinking.

It feels weird to actually talk to Dan outside of school. He wants to run away from the awkward vibe the messages are giving off, but he isn’t risking a low grade in the class. Then again he doesn’t know the prompt so he’s probably doomed to a failing grade in the class anyways. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Dan, but he’s a bit wary about working with someone other than Pj.

At least Pj is working with someone he knows. The girl’s name is Sofie, and Pj had mentioned her multiple times at lunch. Phil’s surprised he hadn’t noticed the look in Pj’s eyes when he talked about her before. Phil’s definitely jealous, but he’s happy knowing that Pj is living the dream.

From Dan

That’s never good.

To Dan

I suppose so.

He watches as the three dots in the corner of his screen move and waits for Dan’s reply. It’s awkward. Phil doesn’t like talking about himself that much, but he’s finally having a conversation with Dan. After a few minutes, the bubble disappears, and Phil is left alone again.

—

When he wakes up the next morning his eyes hurt from leaving his contacts in. He must have fallen asleep after Dan and he stopped talking. He stretches out and makes his way to the bathroom, relieving himself and trading his contacts for his glasses. His reflection looks exhausted and it makes him realize how tired he actually is. He tries to sort out the bird's nest that his hair has become and pushes it into a quiff.

His closet is a mess of colors and patterns, and he can’t seem to focus on any of the pieces. He ends up throwing on a random sweater and a pair of pants that he’d painted over the summer. He remembers his phone and picks it up. It’s completely dead and he can’t help but chastise himself for not plugging it in last night. He throws it on the charger and finishes his morning routine.

When he gets back to his room, his phone is back on and he has another text from Dan. [I can’t wait to work with you].

—

As soon as he meets up with Pj, the other boy is rambling about Sofie and how much they’ve talked. Apparently, they share multiple interests, and Pj thinks he’s found his soulmate. He can’t seem to talk about anything else, and Phil mopes in silence. He needs Pj’s advice on the whole Dan situation, but he can’t bring himself to interrupt his cheery mood.

At lunch, Sofie joins the duo at their table and Phil can't help, but feel like a third wheel.  The other two can’t stop talking, and Phil gets annoyed quickly. Dan must notice the bored look in his eyes because he calls him over at lunch. “What's up?” Phil asks.

The other boy is wearing yet another black shirt, this one decorated with the print of an ouija board, and his classic Doc Martens, but the piece that surprises Phil is the skirt that Dan’s sporting. The piece that pulls the outfit together is thigh high socks that hug Dan’s long legs. Phil can’t help but stare for a few moments. He’s interrupted by Dan’s voice, “You looked bored.”

“I feel like a third wheel with them,” Phil shrugs. He turns to Louise. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Phil,” he states, sticking his hand out.

“I know,” she replies simply.

At that comment, Dan blushes. “Do you want to sit with us?” he asks, “We can talk about the project if you want.” Phil grimaces. “Or we don’t have to. Just sit with us.”

Phil slides into the seat next to Louise so he doesn’t have to turn to see Dan’s face. “What were you guys talking about?” he asks.

“Makeup,” Louise chirps.

“We can talk about something else if you want to though,” Dan adds.

“I don’t mind,” Phil answers.

Dan shakes his head. “Come on Phil. I want to get to know you better.”

“I’m not that interesting,” Phil replies.

“I don’t care if it’s boring. What’s your favorite band? favorite color? Do you have any hobbies?”

“My favorite band is Muse-”

“I love Muse!” Dan exclaims, cutting him off. “What’s your favorite album?”

“I guess Origin of Symmetry,” Phil replies.

“No fucking way.”

“What?”

“That’s my favorite too. You must have an amazing taste in music.”

Phil blushes at that comment. He never gets compliments, especially not from cute boys. “As for my favorite color. It’s blue, and I paint. A lot. I also play video games sometimes. What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you have a favorite color? Hobbies? This isn’t going to be one-sided, Dan.”

“I guess my favorite color would have to be black, but I love pastels too,” he says gesturing to his outfit. “As for hobbies, I like makeup, though you probably already know that since you follow my Instagram page.”

With that comment, Phil’s face turns bright red. “I’m sorry. I just think it’s really pretty,” Phil mumbles.

“Don’t worry. I’m just glad you aren’t an asshole who thinks boys shouldn’t wear makeup,” Dan states. “Though I also like video games. I’ve been getting into Animal Crossing recently.”

“Good choice.”

They sit and talk with each other for the rest of the period, and Louise butts in from time to time. He feels bad for putting her in the same situation he was in with Pj and Sofie, but she seems caught up studying for a class for most of the conversation.

It’s weird getting along with someone so well. Even though their styles and friend groups differ, their hobbies and interests are almost the same. It’s easy to talk to Dan. He’s sarcastic and witty, and it makes Phil fall in love with him a little more.

—

When Phil finds out what the project is, he immediately relaxes. It’s a symbolic portrait. All he has to do is create a portrait that reveals parts of Dan’s personality. He’s looking forward to learning more about the younger boy, and he can’t wait to see what Dan does to represent Phil.

It’s hard coming up with an idea at first. Dan has so many layers that Phil has learned about over the past couple of days and it’s hard to choose the most important aspects. He wants to pick something that most people don’t know about Dan, but it’s hard when Dan is so popular. That’s when he thought of a plan.

——

They were up next and Phil was a mess. He was half-convinced he was dying even though he knew it was just an anxiety attack. His palms were incredibly sweaty, and he felt his chest constricting. He could barely focus on the duo presenting in the front of the classroom. They were talking about fish or something similar.

He was jolted out of his dream-like state when he felt a hand being rested on his shoulder. He turned his head expecting Pj, but he wasn’t surprised when he was met with Dan’s doe eyes. “You ok?” the younger boy asked, “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m swell,” Phil breathed.

“We both know that’s bullshit, mate. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the nurse or something?” Dan pressed.

“It’s just another anxiety attack. It’ll be over soon.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or breathe together? I don’t know what you like to do, but anxiety attacks suck.”

“I just need to calm down.”

“Let breath then.”

Phil was reluctant but Dan eventually convinced him it would make the edge of the attack go away, so they took a few breaths. After a few seconds, Phil’s head felt much clearer and he was suddenly aware of everyone staring at his and Dan. He blushed before shrugging Dan’s hand off his shoulder.

“You good now?” Dan asked.

“Yeah. I feel a lot better. Thanks.”

——

Phil was walking down the hall a few days later when Dan ran up to him. They’d texted briefly over the past couple of nights, but they weren’t having as many conversations as they had when they were working on the project together. Phil had gone back to sitting with Pj and Sophie which was extremely awkward at times. Overall he missed the bond they’d formed and he really regretted losing it.“Oh my god, Phil! Did you see our grade?”

“Yeah,” Phil chirped, “100%”

“I’m glad. It took me a long time to finish.”

“You definitely deserved it, Dan.”

Phil was being honest. When he’d first seen the outcome of Dan’s hard work his jaw had dropped. Every color seemed to jump off of the page and they seemed to move in a strange way. Dan had managed to capture so many of his quirks and interests that it blew his mind.

Phil thought his project had been less interesting though. His picture was grayscale with hidden shapes dotted throughout the landscape. Phil wanted to capture the hidden layers of Dan’s personality, and he had tried to portray it with the colorful shapes breaking through and symbolizing a different part of him. It seemed like a shitty metaphor, but somehow their teacher had loved it.

“You did too,” Dan replied, “I like how much thought you put into it.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Of course. I just love the idea that everyone has a hidden personality and that you never know everything about someone.”

“Yeah.”

“You took Trig already. Right?”

“What’s with the sudden change of topic?”

Dan blushed, “I’m struggling a bit on the new lesson and I need some help.”

“Oh. Of course, I can help! At least I’m assuming that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yeah,” Dan replied, “Can we meet in the library after school? Around 3?”

“That sounds good to me.”

——

“You seem to be doing really well with this lesson. Are you sure you need help?” Phil asked.

They’d been in the library for about twenty minutes, and Dan had answered every problem right so far. It honestly wasn’t bothering Phil because he enjoyed spending time with Dan, but it was a bit strange. “Maybe I’m better than I thought?” Dan said though it came out as more of a question than anything else.

“I think you’re fine,” Phil reassured him. “I think you just need to be a bit more confident in your math skills.”

“Me? Not confident? You wish, Lester.”

Phil laughed. “Ok, maybe I choose the wrong words. But if you ever feel like you need help again I’m here for you. Unless it’s history, I’m horrible at remembering dates.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dan nodded.

They sat there in awkward silence for a few seconds. Phil didn’t want to leave Dan and risk never hanging out again. He panicked and before he knew it, he was blurting out a set of questions. “Do you want to come over to my house and play video games? Like right now? I got the new Mario Kart and I’ve been waiting to test out my skills.”

“I don’t know. I have a ton of work due tomorrow.”

“Shit I forgot about homework,” Phil groaned, “Do you want to go back to my place and keep each other company while we do it?”

“Sure. Sounds good to me.”

——

“I’m sorry it's a bit of a mess,” Phil said while he was kicking his shoes off. “My mom's been busy at work and I’ve been busy at school so we haven't been able to clean up recently.”

“It’s fine,” Dan said with a shrug, “Where are we going?”

“Up to my room,” he pointed up the staircase, “You’ll probably be able to tell which room is mine.”

Dan scampered up the stairs, and Phil followed shortly after with a sigh. He didn’t know how much longer he could spend with Dan before he broke out into a crazy story about how perfect Dan is.

When he arrived at the top of the steps he found Dan staring at his door in awe. “Did you paint this,” Dan asked.

“Ah yeah,” Phil said, “I did it a few years ago so it’s not the best piece I’ve done.”

He’d painted an array of vegetation along with his door with various small items hidden through them. A few of his favorites were the stars and eyes scattered throughout, but he really appreciated the piece as a whole. “Do you want to head in?”

“Yeah.”

As Phil walked in front of Dan, their shoulders brushed and he felt a jolt of electricity run through him. They’d touched before but none of those had felt as electrifying. He pushed open the door and flung his backpack onto the ground. “You can take the desk and I’ll take the bed?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Just let me grab my laptop real quick and I’ll get out of the way. And sorry about the mess, I wasn’t really planning on having company and that’s where I plan my paintings and stuff.”

“It’s fine. My makeup desk is a mess too,” Dan smiled.

“Well I’ll let you get to work,” Phil said before situating himself on his bed and opening his laptop.

——

Phil felt a jab against his shoulder and he rolled over with a groan. “Phil,” someone whispered.

“It’s too early for this, Mum,” he mumbled.

“You’re not telling me I sound like an old lady right now, are you, Lester?” said a voice that was definitely not his mother’s.

He opened his eyes a bit to see who it was before springing up. “Oh my god Dan, I’m so sorry, I fell asleep. I’ve just been having a stressful day and I can-“

“Calm down, Phil. I’m not mad,” Dan rolled his eyes. “I was going to let you sleep but your mom wants to know if you’re hungry. She shouted up.”

“Oh shit, I forgot she comes home early on Thursdays.”

He rushed down the stairs quickly and into the kitchen where he found his mother stirring a pot of noodles. “Sorry, Mum. I forgot what day it was.”

“That’s fine, sweetie,” she said before glancing over his shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, that’s Dan.”

“Ahh. The elusive Daniel. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she hummed to Dan.

“All good things I hope,” Dan said, easily slipping into the personality Phil saw him use around their teachers before.

“Of course dear. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Only if you’ll have me. I’m assuming my visit wasn’t run past you.”

“No,” she sighed, “But dear Philip is a bit scatterbrained so I wouldn’t expect anything different.”

“Hey,” Phil mumbled in mock offense.

“She's right you know.”

“That’s a very mean thing to say to your host.”

“Ah like falling asleep isn’t a mean thing to do to your guest. Was I really that boring, Phil?”

“No, I already told you-“

“I’m joking, Phil.”

Phil turned back to face his mother and saw a quick flicker of fondness in her eyes. “You’re sure it’s not an issue if Dan stays? I don’t want to put any pressure on you. We can go eat out.”

“He’s fine, Dear,” she laughed. “Besides I need a new person to gossip about you with.”

“What does gossiping about Phil entail? Do I get to see baby pictures?”

“Shush he’s not supposed to know about that part,” she laughed, “but yes dear I suppose that can be arranged.”

Phil blushed in embarrassment knowing that Dan would finally figure out that his hair was naturally a strange shade of orangish brown. He hadn’t been keeping it a secret on purpose. Especially since his roots took to peaking through every once in a while. “Please don’t show him,” he muttered.

“Why not?” Dan frowned.

“Philip was an adorable baby. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want anyone to see his squishy face.”

“Very funny, Mum.”

“I’m being serious,” she laughed. “Dinner is finished though. It’s nothing too fancy. Just some spaghetti.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lester.”

“Oh, dear, you can call me Kath.”

“Ok, Kath.”

——

Dinner went by smoothly and Phil was sat listening to his mother telling Dan what he was like as a baby for what seemed like ages. The worst part was when she brought out the baby books and started to show Dan his pictures.

“Your hair is naturally orangish? Why’d you dye it?” Dan asked.

“I like it better this way,” Phil responded. “Though one time I did try to dye it blonde. Let’s hope she doesn’t show you that picture though because I look like a literal highlighter.”

Dan giggled. “I’m sure you were a cute highlighter.” Phil watched Dan’s cheeks turn bright red and then he was off in another conversation with Phil’s mother.

He came up with a plan then. He would ask Dan out. He didn’t know when, but the new Avengers movie was coming out that weekend, and he knew they’d both enjoy it. He just hoped he was reading Dan’s messages right.

——

They’d ended up back in Phil’s room after some ice cream, and Dan was packing his stuff into his backpack. It was the perfect time to ask but his nerves were everywhere, and he didn’t know if he could get the words out. Dan’s voice broke him from his thoughts, “I really like your mom.”

“Yeah,” Phil replied. “She's pretty cool.”

“She wasn’t as judgemental as some of the other parents I’ve met. Most of them make assumptions and stuff.”

“I think I’ve trained her well enough not too.”

Dan laughed at that. “You can’t take the credit for her lovely personality. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“I’m pretty sure I can, Daniel. Besides, Who said she wasn’t just as naive as everyone else’s parents before I- you know- came out.”

“Yeah. She tried though. Not everyone’s parents do.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Phil watched as Dan’s face twisted into a scowl. “My Dad wasn’t the best. He was very picky about what we could do, and he forced us into sports early on. He was concerned that we wouldn’t be manly enough because people started to accept others more. I was rebellious so I started stealing my mother’s skirts and messing around with her makeup. It made me feel like myself,” Dan said. “My parents divorced when I was just starting secondary school. My mom tried to help us move away from the idea that men had to be a certain way. I started incorporating more stereotypical feminine items into my style.”

“Your dad sounds like a shitty guy, but I’m glad you found yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dan mumbled, “He's not in our lives anymore. He has a new family and I guess that’s okay with me. I never really had him so it's not like I miss him.”

“I get what you’re saying. Look I know this is pretty shitty timing, but do you maybe want to go see the new Avengers movie with me?”

“Oh yeah. I forgot that was coming out. What day do you want to see it?”

Phil internally groaned. Dan wasn’t seeming to get that Phil was trying to ask him on a date. Sure he had bad timing but he thought the excessive nerves would clue Dan in. “Friday’s good for me.”

“That’s perfect.”

“It’s a date then.”

“Is it?”

“Of course. I’ve liked you forever, Dan.”

“Why didn’t you ask sooner?” Dan said punching him in the shoulder. “You had to have seen that I liked you too.”

“I didn’t really notice it until we started working on that project together. Why didn’t you ask me?”

“I thought you didn’t like me and I wasn’t going to be an annoying underclassman.”

“Oh my god we’re both so stupid,” Phil laughed.

“We really are,” Dan agreed. “I'm really excited to see where this goes.”

[recentanimenews]

ESSAY: How Does My Hero Academia Fit Into Global Superhero Culture?

  In 1989, Batman became the first film to make over $40 million in its opening weekend. In 2002, Spider-Man became the first film to make over $100 million in its opening weekend. In 2007, Spider-Man 3 hit over $150 million. In 2012, The Avengers nabbed over $200 million. And in 2019, Avengers: Endgame got over $350 million. Despite the fact that there have been concerns over “superhero movie fatigue” for literal decades now, it’s a genre that shows no signs of slowing down. As its universes expand on streaming services like Disney+, it’s apparent the age of the cinematic hero might be an indefinitely lengthy one. 

  As Marvel Comics luminary Stan Lee once said: “The pleasure of reading a story and wondering what will come next for the hero is a pleasure that has lasted for centuries and, I think, will always be with us.” In that quote, it seems our destiny is almost sealed — we crave heroes and we crave their stories and we crave their sequels. 

  This is the environment in which My Hero Academia was born.

    My Hero Academia is, first and foremost, a superhero story. One could argue that most narratives of its ilk are superhero tales — anime like Dragon Ball, Naruto, One Piece, and others are full of good guys shutting down malicious attempts at local or world domination — but My Hero Academia embraces the iconography, both thematic and physical, of the superhero in a way that many other stories don’t. In fact, it might be one of the purest explorations of that kind of universe ever in fiction. It’s a world where heroism is practically currency, where roughly 80 percent of the earth’s population is imbued with some kind of inherent genetic power. 

  Populating your superhero story with powerful people instead of going the typical cinematic route of having one or two supernatural characters with a supporting cast of everyday folk might have been subversive 20 years ago. But in the age of the Avengers, where multiple heroes cross in and out of each other's storylines and the narrative objective was to eventually wrangle them all in one mega-movie, My Hero Academia fits comfortably. That doesn’t render it as uninteresting, though. Instead, rather than build to the issues that will inevitably crop up in a world full of Supermen, these themes are inherent in the story.

    As such, most of the plotlines have to do with the idea of rampant heroism and the backlash that it would create. Plenty of superhero films address this (multiple Batman movies make the case that if there were no Batman there would be no Joker), but in My Hero Academia it is a constant struggle. Overhaul, wearing a variation of a 17th-century plague doctor mask, looks at these “Quirks” as if they’re a disease. Stain is against superheroes using their status for fame. Tomura Shigaraki wishes to destroy society as we know it, hating its values and its borderline divine treatment of figures like All-Might. These patterns are not just repeated in My Hero Academia, but inevitable. They are anime embodiments of that “superhero fatigue” article I shared above, except in this case they hurt and destroy in their attempts to find an alternative to the super status quo, rather than write essays in The New York Times.

  It’s certainly an enthralling formula, though: My Hero Academia continues to be a best seller and has won numerous awards. Its anime has been similarly well-received. Despite the fact that superhero films very rarely have the same box office prominence in Japan as they do in America, My Hero Academia has been able to make an impact. That might be because, at its core, My Hero Academia adapts the ethos found in a hero that many Japanese creators really do enjoy: Spider-Man.

    Kohei Horikoshi, My Hero Academia’s creator, loves Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man films. Creator of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Hirohiko Araki gushed over his love of Spider-Man 2 to director Sam Raimi during an interview. Yusuke Murata, illustrator of One-Punch Man, has done some absolutely amazing work when it comes to posters for Peter Parker’s cinematic adventures. Hideo Kojima, a video game designer whose creations are absolutely inspired by anime, called Into The Spider-Verse a “great masterpiece” and was “moved” by Spider-Man 2. After it became the best-selling game to be developed in the West but funded by Sony since 1998, Japanese game developers voted Marvel’s Spider-Man as their 2018 game of the year. So why the embrace of this particular character? 

  Journalist Kuremasa Uno told the Japanese site Business+IT that it’s because Japanese youth are more accustomed to embracing younger heroes. Since so much of Spider-Man’s Hollywood journey deals with him experiencing problems as a teenager and young adult, he fits in among the protagonists of series like Gundam or Naruto. Hideo Kojima even told Famitsu that Spider-Man is “similar to Japanese heroes,” as he has “worries.” 

    The aspect of youth is particularly interesting, as it’s what often renders heroes like Spider-Man to be the most relatable of all of their peers and rivals. In the comic book world, age tends to warp characters, turning them into beacons of impossible standards rather than troubled everymen. We have little in common with the hulking, aging Batman snapping bones in Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns. We are enthralled with the story on a narrative level. Even the legendary curmudgeon of the comic book industry, the supremely talented Alan Moore, found The Dark Knight Returns fascinating because it gave a hero a chance to end, rather than cycle through an eternal series of escapades. If you know Moore’s stance on heroes, that’s high praise, but it’s hard to connect with him no matter how cool he looks taking down the Mutant Leader.

  In youth we find common ground. We all grow up, and for the most part, we all experience that mix of angst, desperation, and uncertainty that comes with finding yourself on a bullet train to adulthood. In my interview with Matt Alt, author of Pure Invention: How Japan’s Pop Culture Conquered The World, the writer/historian affirmed these feelings as especially true in anime: “It doesn’t look at adolescence as a lesser form of adulthood and it doesn’t condescend to the young people experiencing problems.” That is true of My Hero Academia, which treats Midoriya’s teenage problems as valid and worth concern, and is also true to Stan Lee’s affinity for Spider-Man: “He’s the one who’s most like me — nothing ever turns out 100 percent OK; he’s got a lot of problems and he does things wrong, and I can relate to that.”

    So perhaps it is in collecting a cast of characters that, like Spider-Man, are all dealing with youthful problems that Horikoshi found the fantastic formula for My Hero Academia. It’s a world with teachers and Pro Heroes, but there is no real equivalent of a Justice League, no impenetrable class of demi-gods to impart moral lessons on not just younger heroes but the world at large.

  Instead, much like in real-life youth, the characters of My Hero Academia and the class of 1A must discover those lessons for themselves. With that, the reasons for the aforementioned creators’ adoration of films like the Spider-Man trilogy and Into the Spider-Verse seemingly become more clear. Though these films feature a ... ummm ... supportive supporting cast, the integrity must come from the hero alone in the end, no matter how tough their obstacles become. You are born with Quirks, but how you choose to implement them for the good of mankind is up to you. Great power, great responsibility, etc.

    My Hero Academia and Spider-Man are not a 1:1 comparison as, again, the basics of its world and the attributes of its cast fit it more firmly with late-term Avengers films where dozens of heroes interact in a spectacle created by the sheer existence of their number. My Hero Academia rarely feels as lonely as Spider-Man tends to be. But in capturing the relatable qualities of adolescence and focusing on the “quirks” of what is essentially high school life, it does manage to hit some of the same high notes, notes that I imagine contributed greatly to its popularity.

  Does that mean All-Might is an Uncle Ben character, with his “Now it’s your turn” point to Midoriya serving a similar purpose to the “Great responsibility” speech? Eh, a little bit. But in relating it to the superhero genre that currently forms an entertainment monolith around the world, especially when it has to do with the character of Spider-Man, we start to unlock some of the reasons why My Hero Academia has been such a powerhouse series over the past few years. You can see just as much of Midoriya in Peter Parker as you can in guys like Naruto or Asta — characters that aren’t relatable simply because they’re young, but because we connect to their experiences of youth, experiences that are somehow both deeply specific and also beautifully universal.

      Daniel Dockery is a Senior Staff Writer for Crunchyroll. Follow him on Twitter!

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features.

By: Daniel Dockery

[robbyrobinson]

IN HEAVEN - A Horror story 

Being a reverend of our local congregation was a family tradition. My father was a reverend. His father was a reverend. His father was one. You get the picture. Sure, I might have had some doubts about the profession, and in life, I had tried to stave it off by furthering my education at some far-away university, but one way or another, the position called for me. I devoted most of my time at the university studying theology and religion. I was at the top of my class.

Soon came when my father passed the task of reverend to me. I recall that before he died, he seemed to be slightly darker in his mannerisms. He was always an optimistic man, even in the face of anyone who criticized his livelihood. But in his final years, he changed immensely. Anywhere he went, he carried grimness with him. He acted as though a rain cloud were over his head. He had grown despondent at his time of death, refusing to accept any prayers that his immortal soul be taken to a place of rest. But just before he succumbed and left the mortal coil, there were reports that he was deeply horrified and hyperventilated rapidly. His heart rate skyrocketed to abnormal leaps, and he died, a look of sheer horror being permanently glued on his face.

My first year as reverend didn't go as well as you'd imagine. For one, there were many young people who were the epitome of smart alecks. They always loved to bring up the supposed contradictions in the scriptures or how God was an immoral being who for all accounts was a tyrannical, mass murderer who was offended that mankind worshiped other gods or that He was simply unfair. This was always something that I was raised to believe: God had his reasons for what he does. What may seem to be bad for us is mere because we view things from our own perspective rather than his. Sure, descriptions of God's firing down burning sulfur and brimstone onto Sodom and Gomorrah were terrible, or God's slaughtering of the Egyptian children in the tenth and final plague that befell Egypt as stated in Exodus sounded horrific, but ultimately, I was convinced that God ultimately saw it as being for the Israelites' good, or how whenever bad things happened in my life, I held onto my faith.

Just last month, I lost my youngest son, Theodore to childhood leukemia. Yes, we prayed fervently for his recovery until he took his last breath. But still, maybe God wanted his precious, precious soul to be with him immediately. My one regret, however, was that he was never baptized. I remember my daughter looked at me with the most frightful expression of concern. That her brother was in Hell because he was too young to understand the notion of turning his life over to Christ. I tried to console my daughter that he was in Heaven, but she only compounded my frustrations by asking then why man was considered wicked the moment they were born.

But with all my trials, I prevailed. I continued to preach God's Word to the masses, saving countless souls. Some didn't accept the word, but if the seeds were sown, I was content. For sixty years I taught the same lesson of God's love for us and how he sent his son to act on our behalf. I also challenged countless atheist and agnostic debaters. To my congregation, I had - in their words - royally schooled them on my knowledge of the scriptures. By the time I retired, my eldest son Samuel took up the mantle. He started out kind of like how I did. He wasn't as bold in what he was saying, but within three months, he was becoming more convicted in the word.

At the age of 64, everything changed. During a monthly checkup with my doctor, I received the news that a tumor was detected forming in my frontal lobe. I had earlier endured severe headaches and I felt more tired than usual. I went to chemotherapy for weeks; anything that the doctors tried to implement simply did not work. On my death bed, my family gathered around. My church congregation had since ceased their prayers for me. Dying never really bothered me. Since I didn’t remember what it was like to be born, this would then mean that dying would be painless. My vital signs started to fade, and after two minutes, I let myself slip away.

A beam of light gently grazed upon my eyes, forcing them open. My eyes beheld the Pearly Gates. Past that was the streets paved with gold and the many mansions that Christ discussed with his followers. As my eyes beheld several of the sights, I noticed that there was something strangely odd about it all. No one was present. I expected to at the very least see old faces once I woke up in Heaven. Instead, the streets were empty. Rather than hearing angelic singing, everything was bereft of the slightest murmur. I walked around the barren streets for quite some time. Right when I turned to head back, a low audible sound crept into my ears.

My legs tightened. Without a second thought, I sprinted towards the site of the audible noises. It took me to the very heart of the city. Right when I was about to make a right turn, my eyes locked onto something. In the middle of the square was the throne of God. The exact White Throne that was attributed to God and the exact one where it was held that he would judge the living and the dead. It was awe-inspiring. It was everything that I was taught to believe. The throne glowed with pure, white light. But with all that breathtaking majesty aside, something felt horribly wrong about it. The throne flickered feverishly. The sounds became more audible. Curiosity crept into me, and I slowly made for the throne.

What I saw made me question everything.

The throne itself throbbed as if it were a nightcrawler thrashing on a fishing hook. Upon closer inspection, I saw the faintest of humanoid attributes on the throne. The throne of God pulsated rapidly, the screaming nearly deafening me. Before my eyes, faces emerged from the throne. Each one bore the same look of terror. Their eyes were wide, almost as if they were observing something, but at a long distance. I could feel the heat of their glares on me, as though they were trying to telepathically beg me to put them out of their misery. They screamed in unison, their shrieks sounding like legions of malfunctioning sirens. I looked further at the throne, seeing that it had a fleshy appearance. It was as though the throne itself was one living creature. The tortured beings frothed at the mouth, making inhuman noises, the sounds of absolute hell.

I could make out that an innumerable number of bodies that comprised the Great White Throne of Judgment. Limbs littered the throne in different places. The light began to fade revealing the throne to be nothing more than a putrid-smelling mass of red meat. Whoever these people were, they had been conjoined. Something must have broken them down and put them back together with gallons of glue. I felt myself nearly vomiting if it were not for a voice.

“Welcome to Heaven.”

I looked up at the throne of God and saw a gargantuan figure sitting in the chair, as though it were completely unaware of the horrid screaming coming from its throne. The voice wasn’t as loud as I’d imagine it to be. It sounded as soft as the wind, but it didn’t comfort me in the slightest. This being was submerged in blinding light. I searched for a semblance of a face on the large entity, but I couldn’t. The further I looked on this creature, I felt a terror bubble from the deepest parts of my stomach. Somehow, I managed to choke a word out.

“Are, are you God?”

While I couldn’t see it, I could tell that the being before me had a wide smile across its face.

“I have many names,” it stated in the same eerie giddiness. “I am YHWH, Jehovah.”

What he said shocked me the most.

“I am also Zeus. Thor. I am Shiva. I am all of the gods that humanity had willfully believed in.”

I stood there, my jaw agape. “But, but, God, what about my life work?”

God chuckled. “You humans never cease to amaze me with the utter ridiculousness of what you’d be willing to believe.”

God had a good chuckle over it as if I had told him one of the funniest jokes in over a thousand years. The joke being my former life. After laughing fervently, God paused to feel the texture of the throne.

“It is a fine throne, isn’t it?” God asked.

My hopes of God somehow being ignorant of the deathly screeches of its throne died at that moment. This god almost got ecstasy from hearing millions – maybe trillions – of souls being melded together as a large blob of disharmony. The urge to vomit arose again.

“Do you know what this throne is made of?” God asked.

I shook my head, not wanting to know. But God was, of course, going to disclose the texture of it regardless of whether it intrigued me or not.

“Years ago, I created the angels,” God shuffled in its chair before continuing, “they were always meant to worship me, but after eons of feeding off their praise, it wasn’t enough for me.”

I flinched as I expected more vivid descriptions from God.

“When I created man in my own image, the angels didn’t want them to suffer as they had.” God sounded noticeably angered, its voice raising an octave to emphasize it. “So, one leader rose up to rebel against me.”

“Satan,” I said.

God scoffed. “Because of their betrayal, I decided the best way to punish them is to condemn them to a life of endless suffering, one of which would make them regret being birthed from the fires.”

I nearly fell backward at the realization. God’s throne was comprised of the fused bodies of nearly a third of the angels who rebelled against him and failed. Now they were being made to be eternally tortured. I tried to rationalize God’s justifications for this disproportionate retribution, but no logical answer would suffice. There were no excuses for what God had done. But the one thing that made me more curious was what became of the human souls of those who had died. If what God had said was true, then the afterlife as we know is just one inescapable nightmare. God apparently read my thoughts, and before my eyes, God conjured up legions of souls. Each soul lacked pupils in their eyes and their skins were a pale grey. They reminded me of the many zombie-related movies in olden times. But they were all people I knew in life.

The one that caught my eyes the most was a small figure. It tilted back and forth; its mouth open as though it were inciting a chant. I could tell that short stature from anywhere; it was Theodore. I ran to my son and hugged him tightly. I opened my eyes fully expecting the hug to be reciprocated, but instead, I felt the slight nibble on my neck. I looked at my son, to my horror, he started to bite down into my neck in a blind frenzy. I pried him off, tossing him to the ground, only for him to emotionlessly pick himself up and stand with the other souls.

I turned to look at God in anger. “That’s not my son.”

God giggled. He merely looked at the souls before him, as though he were an artist marveling at their work.

“No, he isn’t. And he never was.”

Each human soul was a former shell of themselves lacking even the slightest characteristic that made them lively. They had instead become inhuman slaves without their free will. At the time of death, God stripped each soul of their individuality, making them worship him forevermore. This would be the fate of untold many people who either followed the Christian faith or any religion for that matter. It seemed to not even matter if you chose to not pursue a religion because I saw many of my former atheist and agnostic debaters in the masses. It all made sense for why God would masquerade as different gods: the more people he got to believe him, he would bathe in their worship until their time of death when they would be made into the perfect followers by being removed from anything that made them human. This was the fate of my son, my father, and my grandfather. Even if I chose against the profession of a reverend, it wouldn’t have mattered much to God because he’d convert me the moment, I stepped foot in his kingdom.

I felt myself getting lifted into the air against my will. I levitated over the masses of souls and I was back to God and his revolting throne. While again I couldn’t see a discernible expression on his face, something told me that it was smirking.

“Well, time for you to join the heavenly choir, shall we?”

Not expecting an answer, I felt a surge of God’s power penetrate my body and consume me. I screamed in excruciating pain as my world suddenly started to grow dark. I tried to fight against the conversion with all my might, but my rationalization was starting to melt away. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think a cognitive thought. I used the last of my consciousness to curse God’s name before sudden darkness filled my sights.

[davidmann95]

Velvet's battle is a great choice, though I'll always have a special place in my heart for the fight against the Grimm Deathstalker and the Nevermore in Episode 8. That said, what do you think of the individual members of Team RWBY?

I decided to wait on this until I caught up on the series thus far, which I just finished doing the night before last in pretty much the only time in my life I’ve ever really properly binged anything other than comics, and…wow. I knew RWBY was a thing just as a matter of course from being on this site and Youtube, and from watching Death Battle, so I picked up some major beats by osmosis. But my main impression was that it was a charming pseudo-anime online thing of decent quality that unsurprisingly got heavier as it went along as such things tend to do, with extremely rad fights and music along the way; figured it’d be more than serviceable to watch while I was on the treadmill as a disposable distraction from the agony of propelling my wheezing, sweating, loathsome meat-scaffolding forward.

I did *not* expect it to eventually end up after growing pains a - while far from flawless - intensely engrossing story of all-consuming personal and generational pain and people who choose to love and do the right thing in defiance of that trauma and loss and hopelessness, where also occasionally a corgi gets fastball specialed at mechas. Though once it became clear that’s what it is, it pretty clearly sat at an intersection of a hell of a lot of my favorite things, especially when characters copped in-universe in both the main series and spinoff material that this is basically a superhero thing. My initial impressions re: the fights and music were on-point though.

I actually have quite a few thoughts on pretty much all the protagonists of note at this point (other than I suppose Oscar and Maria. Like them both though, and I do hope that nice boy’s brain somehow doesn’t dissolve into the blender of Ozpin’s subconscious), but I’ll just stick with the core four here as requested for now unless someone asks otherwise. Weiss is the simplest to get at the core of, I’d say: her arc is learning that fuck rich people, actually. She’s a seriously difficult character to get onboard for at first - especially if you’re watching those first episodes for the first time in 2019 - as the mean unconsciously racist rich girl who learns to be less mean and racist but still kinda mean. But after you’ve extensively seen the hideously toxic environment she grew up in, and fully understand her efforts to grow past the empty values it inculcated in her in favor of everything she was raised to think of herself as above, she becomes a hell of a figure to root for. Assuming RWBY is gonna go, say, a respectable 10 seasons given it was just renewed through 9, I could easily see the upcoming 7th be the climax of her arc with her return to Atlas and likely further reckoning with the consequences of her families’ actions beyond how they’ve hurt her personally.

Yang is also, in a certain abstract narrative sense, simple, in that she’s built around the very oldest trick in the book for characters whose main deal is ‘can punch better than absolutely anyone’: give them problems that cannot be solved by punching. Except in her case it’s less a material “well, this person is invulnerable to punching!” or “well, actually this other person can punch most best of all” issue blocking her path than “punching cannot solve depression, abandonment issues, questioning whether what she considers her purpose in life is one she’s truly pursuing for noble reasons or if she even has the resolve for it anymore after what’s happened to her, or PTSD”. Yet, while it may not be the kind that manifests in the form of punching people with a smirk and a bad pun anymore (much as she still definitely does that all the time) what ultimately drives her and defines her is still her strength: to move forward, to forgive, to let go, to do the right thing in spite of the risks. Which could easily come off as some unpleasant “you just have to get over your moping!” dismissal - there’s a bit with her dad that means it saddles riiiiight up to the edge of that - but there’s a weight to how her traumas remain a consistent factor in her life and have shaped her outlook even as her circumstances and day-to-day disposition improve that makes it feel thematically like it’s coming from a place of acknowledgment and endurance rather than denial, even if it’s not handled perfectly. Great to see her apparently recapturing some more of her joie de vivre based on the trailer for Volume 7, and how that’ll interact with how she’s grown should be interesting.

Blake is…tough, because you fundamentally cannot talk about Blake without getting into the Faunus, which is maybe the biggest aspect of RWBY that leaves it in the realm of Problematic Fave. It really, really wants to have something substantial to say about the proper response to racism, and every now and then it pumps out a “capitalism greases the wheels of systemic oppression and vice-versa” or “it’s perfectly reasonable for the oppressed to seek to fight back directly against their oppressors, and even the pacifist in the room can recognize that’s a defensible approach that deserves its place”. But then Abusive Boyfriend Magneto literally murders nuance in Vol. 5 episode 2, and it descends into some borderline “but what about black on black violence” respectability politics shit. It’s the classic X-Men setup - this persecuted race of often superpowered folks torn between pacifism and efforts to prove themselves to their oppressors, and those who think they should rise up and annihilate the flatscans - with most of the same pitfalls, but also we haven’t had over 50 years to get used to that just being how it works here, and it doesn’t have the excuse of having to expand as best it can on a metaphor that was originally devised before most of the people currently handling it were born. All of which would be rough enough, but given I watched this right as Jonathan Hickman’s been completely refining the entire X-Men paradigm outside that outdated binary, it especially grates. I’d love to be directed to any solid counterarguments - I’ve heard it might actually be an analogue, and a well-done one, for The Troubles, which I am one million percent unqualified to evaluate - especially since apparently one of the writers grew up in a mixed-race household, and at the end of the day I’m a white guy who may well be talking completely out his ass. But it sure comes off at a glance as some well-intentioned dudes stumbling through stuff that’s not their business, and that’s inextricable from Blake’s character when so much of her story is her navigating through that metaphor. Hopefully with new writers coming onboard this is something that can be navigated more insightfully in the future.

On a purely personal basis however, Blake’s a standout in terms of relatability when her story comes down to a pretty universal shared horror: how to climb back from having fucked up. She tried really hard to do the right thing, was taken advantage of and led into doing things she eventually realized were wrong, was so shaken that she couldn’t tell who to trust, and then the situation spiraled out of control on every possible front just as things finally seemed to be stabilizing. The way a single mistake - enabled and exacerbated by an abusive past relationship in her case - expands into a self-loathing far beyond the bounds of anything she could possibly be responsible for is brutal and completely understandable, and seeing her start put her self-esteem back together with the help of those closest to her and the power of her original convictions is arguably the single strongest, most clearly conveyed individual character arc in the series. I’m very curious where it goes from here: Adam’s finish represents a logical climax and the setup for a happily-ever-after with Yang (or Sun if they end up going that way after all) for her to coast through the remainder of the series on, but the way emotional consequences have played out in the series thus far I doubt her demons are going to be put to bed that simply.

Finally there’s Ruby, and I am contractually obligated to note up front: she is clearly not a Superman analogue. There is precisely zero percent chance that she was conceived as such or was ever deliberately executed in such a way that mirroring him was kept in mind. Though she IS a super-powered idealist raised in the middle of nowhere with a significant deceased parent who wears a red cape, flies, gives inspiring rallying speeches, has black-ish but primary color-tinted hair, and has a mysterious birthright that involves being able to shoot lasers from her eyes, plus she has a dog who also essentially has superpowers, plus she tells someone they’re stronger than they think they are, plus Yang basically quotes a bit from Kingdom Come regarding her in Rest and Resolutions. But it probably goes a ways in explaining why she works so well for me.

There’s more to it than that of course, though it does bring up the closest way in which she relates to the superhero paradigm: she doesn’t go through an arc in quite the same way as the others, instead being an already solidly-defined character who is simply illustrated by how she interacts with the people and situations around her. She learns and grows and matures, but her most basic motivations and goals and outlook haven’t really changed since the day she enrolled at Beacon. She’s a good, caring person, a leader archetype who still has more than enough personality to spare to keep from falling into the genericism that can often plague that role. A big part of the key I believe is that she’s the audience surrogate in a profound way beyond the obvious touchstones of her frequent awkwardness and self-doubt: the reason she does this is because she was inspired by stories. She’s a fan, ultimately, but one who learned all the right lessons, whether recognizing from day one the way reality falls short of the tales she was raised on but still believing in the ideals they represent, or openly holding up Qrow as a role model while being willing to call him on his shit when push comes to shove. It’s a romantic, hopeful perspective that stands out sharply from even our other heroes even as it mirrors their struggles, but as of yet there’s little to suggest it comes from a place of naivete so much as a belief that it’s the only way to bear the pain of the world and continue to believe in it. Bit by bit it’s clear she’s heading for a breaking point, but all signs point to that being a matter of her ability to withstand what she’s been through, rather than any doubt that it’s necessary, and should that time come she’s inspired plenty who’ll be able to help her back onto her feet the way she has for so many others. So while I understand her speeches apparently grate on some, as far as I’m concerned keep them coming, they’re the beating caring heart of the series and often the sole respite in the eye in the storm.

[imaginedisish]

Heroes (Stefan Butler x Reader) (Bandersnatch)

A/N: Alrighty...here it is...the long awaited Stefan x Reader fic...the last imagine of the weekend! I LOVE DAVID BOWIE SO AN ANON REQUESTED THIS AND I ACTUALLY SCREAMED NGL. Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for the love so far. I’ve written fanfics before, but never like this. I don’t feel forced to put out things…and I feel much better getting requests as opposed to having to think of everything on my own. Tumblr has a much different vibe than fanfic.net and wattpad, and I love it sooooo much. Stefan x Reader was heavily requested so I figured I needed to feed da people. While I’m super into writing for Bandersnatch, and love writing for Bandersnatch the most, my next two fics will most likely be two anon requests: one  about Donnie Darko, and another about Alex Turner. (DON’T WORRY MY FELLOW BANDERSNATCH LOVERS, I’LL WRITE HEAD CANONS TO KEEP YOU ALIVE…and i have an idea for my first multi-part Bandersnatch fic sooo…get ready for a “BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGE”….) For now…enjoy this Stefan x Reader imagine, guys…

Summary: Your an art student, and you have chosen to paint a portrait of Bowie for your final project. However, things go horribly wrong…that is until Stefan is there to help :)

Warnings: Panic attacks, minimal to medium angst, lots of language, fluff!

Word Count: 1,688 

Your brush dances ever so carefully across the bright, white canvas. David Bowie’s “Heroes” blasts throughout your flat. 

Outside your window, the rest of South London decided it was time to turn in for the night. You imagine small children crawling into bed, begging their mothers or fathers for one more story…just one more. 

But not you, you wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Your eyes struggled to stay open as you began to add more shading to your portrait of David Bowie.

You fell in love with Bowie’s music and his entirely fantastical persona at a young age. Maybe it was his voice, or his lyrics, or perhaps his message of artistic integrity and being yourself regardless of what others say that made you so obsessed with the Starman. 

Regardless of what exactly made you love Bowie, he was the reason you had the confidence to make your move to the UK. He was the reason you decided to apply to art school in the first place. 

So, when your professor announced that your final project of the year would be a portrait of someone that has impacted your life greatly, Bowie instantly came to mind. 

Without Bowie, where the hell would you be? You most likely would be back in the States, going to a university you had no interest in, pursuing a major you hated, in a relationship with a boy you could never love as much as you love…him. 

Oh yes, him. Stefan Butler. Without Bowie, you couldn’t have ever met Stefan. He was your Moonage Daydream, your Modern Love, he was yours. He was so kind and soft and caring. 

When Stefan needs you, you’re there in an instant. He needs you quite often, to be completely honest, but you never mind. You understand that his past traumas plague him, and you want to help him more than anything else in the world. And, naturally, without Bowie, you would never be able to do so. You owed so much to that magnificently talented man. 

And yet this painting of him was slowly becoming a pain in the ass. 

I need to get this done, You remind yourself. Tomorrow is just hours away. 

Unfortunately, you feel as though your hours of painting have led to absolutely nothing. You step back from the painting in an attempt to see it better. However, the more you step back, the more wrong things seem to be. 

“This…this just isn’t right,” you mutter under you breath. A feeling of distress creeps under your skin and eventually pushes itself into every part of your body. You reach for the grey paint, and apply it forcefully to where you think you need it. 

You don’t realize it isn’t actually grey paint until you remove the brush from the canvas. 

“What the fuck?” Now you’re fuming with anger. “This can’t be happening…no no no no no!” You fall to the ground sobbing, your head smashing into your hands. 

A large, vibrant, pink slash of paint displays itself in the middle of your grey, “Heroes” album cover painting. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, and you know that. You simply sob on the floor of your flat, as the creativity you had earlier in the day leaves, and replaces itself with total and utter sadness and disappointment. 

Then, for some reason, you decide to look over to the alarm clock next to your brass, queen bed.

2:00 am

“Oh no, god no!” You shout, expecting your neighbors to be at your door any second now to complain about all the noise. 

Your throat quickly begins to close up, and your heart beats out of your chest. You haven’t had a panic attack since you left the States, but the feeling was familiar nonetheless. You try to scream, but you just can’t. 

A million thoughts race around your mind at once. Every bad experience, relationship, argument, and situation you’ve ever gone been in or gone through resurface in your mind. You simply don’t know how much you can endure before you fall apart, or worse…

“No, no I can’t think like that, I just can’t,” you whisper to yourself.

Before your old, depressive thoughts begin to come back to haunt you, you reach for your phone, and dial the number you know will fix everything.

“(Y/N)? It’s two in the morning, is everything all right?” Stefan’s voice is hurried and panicked. He knows something is wrong. 

“I fucked up, Stefan, so terribly terribly bad,” You’re voice is unsteady and hoarse. You struggle to get your words out as you sob to Stefan.

“(Y/N) tell me what happened.” Stefan was beyond worried now. 

“It-it’s my p-painting. I-,” you take a deep breath before continuing, “I n-need you, n-now.” You sniffle audibly. 

“H-hold tight, k-keep breathing. I’m on m-my way.” Stefan hangs up. You try to do as he says, but it’s no use. You feel your depressive, almost suicidal thoughts begin to push through the barriers you worked so hard to put up. 

No, stopping thinking like that! You think to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut in attempt to free yourself from your intrusive thoughts. You throw your head back into your hands. 

Less than five minutes pass by, when a soft knock echoes through your studio flat. 

“C-come i-in,” you croak. Stefan slowly pushes the door open. His fluffy brown hair is a mess, and his dark circles highlight the emerald-ness of his wide, puppy dog eyes. He’s wearing black shorts and a baggy black sweatshirt. His long, bright yellow socks pop out against his black converse. 

You obviously woke him up, and now you felt like you were being a bothersome girlfriend. You are the one who is supposed to help him. It isn’t supposed to be the other way around. Guilt begins to fill your stomach. 

“(Y/N), m-my god,” he paused, looking at your beet red face and puffy eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks. He rushes over to you, and holds you tightly in his arms. “I’m here now, let it out, it-it’s okay.” 

You sob violently into his chest. You don’t know what else to do. In fact, you realize there is literally nothing else you can do. 

You separate from him for a moment, and nod towards your now adulterated painting. 

“L-look at it. I’m going to fail, Stefan. It’s due tomorrow. It’s worth 70% of my final grade and I’m going to fail,” You say in a soft, factual whisper. He shakes his head. 

“I see nothing but amazing artwork, (Y/N),” Stefan replies. You grow angry again. 

He’s just lying to you, you think to yourself. It’s absolute shit! Anyone could see that. Yell at him, scream!

“Bullshit!” You cry out in a rage, scooting away from him and getting up. You want to punch something, a wall maybe. 

“(Y/N), s-stop,” Stefan pleads softly, getting up from the floor as well. You ignore him, and start to pace the floor. You can’t stand yourself now. Your hands begin to shake. You wish everything would just disappear. 

“Fucking hell I hate thi-,”

“I said STOP!” Stefan screams this time, cutting you off. Stefan was usually so soft, so timid. In this moment, he was the opposite. 

You stare at him with wide eyes. He nervously reaches up to pull on his ear lobe. His emerald eyes become glossy. 

“I-I’m sorry I-I didn’t m-mean t-to-,” Stefan starts to apologize, but you quickly cut him off. 

“No, n-no I am. You were just trying to help and I screamed at you. I’m just so sor-,” the second half of your “sorry” is muffled into Stefan’s chest as he rushes towards you and captures you in his arms.

He smells like peppermint and roses. His scent relaxes you and you practically fall limp in his embrace. He kisses your forehead lightly, and rubs your back gently. You stay that way for what feels like hours, even though it was most likely only a few minutes. 

“We can figure this out, things are going to be fine, I’m going to help you,” Stefan coos in your ear. You melt to the sound his voice. 

Feeling much more calm now, you and Stefan separate. Stefan makes his way over to the painting staring at it for a few seconds. 

“Aladdin Sane,” is all that comes out of Stefan’s mouth. 

“Hmm? What about it?” You weren’t sure what he meant. 

“The pink streak it reminds me of ‘Aladdin Sane' record cover,” Stefan states rather factually. 

Then, it hits you. 

“Stefan, you’re a genius! An absolute genius!” You scream, but happily this time. You run over to him, cupping his cheeks and pulling him into a kiss.

“I should be a genius more often then,” Stefan says smiling widely, blushing intensely. 

Stefan stays with you as you continue your painting, watching you, making sure you don’t overwork yourself. He checks in with you every now and again to see if everything is okay. Of course, now that he was with you, everything was completely fine. Your confidence and inspiration was back. 

Around four in the morning, the painting is finally complete. You step back and smile as Stefan joins you by your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder. 

“Its absolutely, stunning, (Y/N),” Stefan says, his eyes twinkling even in the low, poor lighting of your flat. 

The painting was a fuse of the “Aladdin Sane” and “Heroes” album covers. You felt fulfilled and happy with your work, and it was all thanks to Stefan, your hero. 

“I love you so much,” Stefan says, pulling you closer to him. 

“I love you more,” You say in return. 

Stefan simply shakes his head.

“Impossible. It would be impossible even in an alternate timeline, in-, in an alternate universe, (Y/N). That is infinitely and eternally impossible.”

[artificialqueens]

In Retrograde : Chapter Two (branjie) - ephemerals

Author’s Note: Thank you for all the support on the first chapter!! I’m glad you are enjoying reading because I have enjoyed writing this. You can find me at @missvanjies.

Synopsis: After spending months uninspired, Vanessa, a local reporter, becomes infatuated with writing a story surrounding the downfall of a police officer discharged after killing an innocent man.

When Brooke Lynn returns to her hometown after her life begins to fall apart, she doesn’t expect to find solace in the charismatic brunette who seems just a little too invested in uncovering all the secrets of her past.

In the days that followed the night at the bar, Vanessa’s mind had become plagued with inspiration. She had pitched her idea to Michelle, the editor. A think piece, the details will come later. All she knew was that the star of the show would be Brooke Lynn Hytes and her fall from grace. Surprising, Michelle enjoyed her ambition. Probably excited to read something with some substance. She just needs to see a draft on the table by the end of the week.

However, it becomes clear to Vanessa that she’s overlooked a lot of details and maybe she was a little too ambitious. Her grand plans are thwarted by crippling writers block, and when it hits the night before the deadline, she’s got absolutely nothing on her page. She needs to do some research, and quick. So, Vanessa reverts to the most effective method of gathering research; Facebook stalking.

Brooke Lynn Hytes. Seventy-four mutual friends. Vanessa enlarges her profile picture. She’s smiling, looking down from the camera towards her cocktail. It’s obviously taken by someone else on vacation, probably somewhere Mediterranean. Her blonde hair is back pulled in a tight bun, skin bronzed and absolutely glowing. If Vanessa didn’t know she was doing research on a criminal, she would have assumed this woman was an Instagram influencer or something along those lines.

Vanessa aimlessly clicks through several public photos, all of them seeming meticulously chosen. There was not a single bad photo among the bunch. In every single photo that loaded, Brooke looked the exact same. Tall, blonde surrounded by other beautiful women, handsome men. And that’s when she notices something. Not a single one of these photos were uploaded by Brooke, nor were they uploaded recently. Vanessa keeps scrolling through the pictures, all dated two, three years in the past.

And there’s this man. He’s in almost every single photo. Just slightly taller than her, dark hair, designer suits. Gorgeous and absolutely terrifying. Intrigued, Vanessa opens his tag. Luke Connelly. Luckily for her, his profile was completely public. Investment banker. Toronto. Got engaged to Brooke Lynn Hytes in August, 2015. Broke up with Brooke Lynn Hytes March, 2018. Well, this is just an assumption. There’s a surplus of brand new photos featuring a much younger, much smaller blonde girl. Her names Ariel and she’s a makeup artist. Vanessa also assumes Luke has known her longer than March.

After spending the better part of an hour scouring through the network of profiles, Vanessa concludes that she isn’t going to reach the deadline. That’s always when she decides that maybe she needs a drink.

…

Brooke’s been bored shitless for days. She’s really trying to stick to the promise she made with Nina. To behave herself, stay out of trouble. It’s been easier that she thought to do so. In the week she had been home, she had left the house only once and the entire time strangers gawked at her like they had seen a ghost. She spent her hours dwindling down her parents collection of mature wines and watching whatever Netflix recommended to her. It was just enough to distract her from thinking about her life, but not enough to entertain her.

As the supplies began to run dry, Brooke had begun to look for some new ways to keep her occupied without leaving the house. Late one afternoon, she found herself curiously rummaging through her father’s collection of vinyl records. Most of them she remembered fondly, her father playing them softly through the house whenever he was home. Brooke chose one at random, examining the cover for a moment before turning to the track list. Born In The USA. Gently, she removes the cover and places it on the turntable. As the needle hits the vinyl, the first notes of a familiar song begin playing.

Brooke takes a seat on her father’s armchair, resting her chin in her hand. This was the album she used to dance around the house to as a kid with her dad. He’d swing her around in circles until her mother would stop them in frustration. Her father was the first one to suggest that Brooke should take dance lessons, and with extreme perseverance, her mother finally agreed. Sometimes, Brooke wished that she followed that path instead. There was always this voice in her head that told her to be realistic, get a real job, get married, have a normal life. It was so much easier to surrender. So she moved to Toronto, trained with the police and got engaged to the first man who showed interest in her. And now this fantasy world she had built for herself was crumbling.

That was the worst part of it all. This wasn’t even what Brooke wanted. All of this was a masquerade. Brooke had lured all these people into this lie. That’s what she felt the most guilty about. Nina, Luke, her parents. People who are going to be hurt in the fallout. Tears begin welling up in her eyes. Her chest is heavy and it isn’t long before Brooke is choking back sobs. She falls back into the armchair, weeping to the soft hum of her father’s music.

…

Brooke awakens, weary-eyed and hazy, instantly drawn to the sounds of movement in the room. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, slowly opening them towards her father tidying up in the corner of the room. The album had come to a halt, needle caught spinning in the deadwax.

“Springsteen huh?” He holds up the cover to Brooke, grinning. Brooke sits herself up, limbs still tired.

“I just picked whatever.”

“You know,” her father slides the album between hundreds of others on the shelf, “We used to dance to this when you were little. Your mother hated it.”

“Yeah,” Brooke’s reply is soft, “I remember.”

Outside, the world has become dark. The sun had set and the stars were high above. Her father goes back to what he was previously doing, solemn with nostalgia. Of all the people she has hurt over the years, her father had taken it the hardest. In his eyes, Brooke would always be his little girl. And yet he knows everything Brooke has done.

“Your mother-,” there’s a beat, he turns towards his daughter, “and I, we think it’s best if you see someone again. I know you won’t like the idea-“

“I’m fine, Dad,” she hoists herself up, begins to walk towards him, “I don’t need a stranger to pry inside my mind.”

There was always this uncertainty around how Brooke would react. Every since she was young, Brooke had always lashed out in unexpected ways. It was her way of controlling things, taking everything out on herself. Entirely impossible to predict. By now, her father knew to approach things with caution or else prepare for the worst. If Brooke was heading on the path of self-destruction, nothing could stop her.

“Brooke,” he rests the palms of his hands on her shoulders, “You keep drinking the day away. I hear you awake at all hours of the night. I don’t think you have eaten a single meal since you’ve been home. What if you relapse? What if it’s worse? We’re just worried.”

“I’m not going to waste my time pouring my heart out to someone, just to tell me how much of a bad person I am. I already know that I’m a terrible person.”

“Just,” he presses a kiss on her forehead in between his words, “Think about it for me. Promise me?”

“Okay, I will.”

Looming over her, Brooke has all these promises she’s destined to break. Going to therapy, bringing her problems to light, sounded like the worst scenario. For now, Brooke carries this weight with her. There’s a million things demanding her attention that she will continue to keep repressed for as long as she possibly can. She needs something to stop the noise, even if it’s just for a minute. She just needs something.

…

When Brooke first enters the doors of the bar, it was as if she never left. In the two years since she had been home, the place had not changed in the slightest way. The jukebox booms over all the other noise in the room. Eerily empty, the sparse customers all focused on the hockey game playing silently on the TV. Brooke saunters up to the bar, leaning over towards the bartender.

“A whiskey on the rocks please,” She asks politely, the bartender raising his eyebrow at the request. Brooke slides the money towards him.

“That’s not the kind of drink a pretty girl like you should be orderin’,” An older man calls from across the bar. The gathering of people around him snicker at the comment. Brooke rolls her eyes and knocks back her drink in a single gulp. She doesn’t flinch as it burns her throat.

“I’ll take another one please,” She smirks, the men on the other side of the room stop instantly. She could out-drink each and every one of them. Brooke perches herself on a stool, downing her second drink at a much slower pace. That’s something she didn’t miss about being single, the attention she would receive from men. Having a ring on her finger was enough protection. Men respected other men. They respected the concept of her husband more than they cared about the woman before her. Now she was exposed and vulnerable. A pretty unclaimed woman. The thought of it all made Brooke feel ill.

Hey, little girl, is your daddy home? 
Did he go away and leave you all alone? 
I got a bad desire.

Oh, oh, oh 
I’m on fire.

The melody of a familiar song begins playing in the background among the blur of chatter and clamouring of glass. Brooke empties her glass and orders a replacement. She looks back behind her briefly, caught off guard by a piercing glare in her direction. A woman sitting alone in a booth with caramel hair and dark eyes. Hauntingly beautiful. The eye contact causes Brooke to recoil, turning her head back to face the bar immediately. Brooke’s almost certain she’s still staring, burning her way through her skull. A part of her wants to turn back, take a good once over of this woman.

Tell me now, baby, is he good to you? 
And can he do to you the things that I do? 
Oh no, I can take you higher.

Oh, oh, oh 
I’m on fire.

A cacophony of drunken men erupt in song. It’s rowdy and loud, arms being thrown around shoulders in camaraderie. An average night in a small town bar. It distracts Brooke for long enough to forget about the mysterious woman behind her. Enamoured by the chaos. They sing and slosh their drinks around, whiskey and rum flooding the floor.

Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull
, And cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull
. At night, I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet
, And a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head.

Tapping her foot against the stool, Brooke can’t help to hum along. She envisions her father joyfully spinning her around their living room, lifting her up high towards the ceiling. They slide around on the floorboards in their socks, jump around on the sofa while her mother is away. Her eyes are closed but Brooke is beaming, immersed in the song.


Only you can cool my desire.

Oh, oh, oh
 I’m on fire.

And as the song draws to a close, Brooke is brought slowly back to reality. She’s alone and slightly tipsy in public. The outro rings through her ears. The spontaneous karaoke is replaced by conversation. The room is back how it once was. Brooke curiously glances behind her.

The booth was completely empty. The woman was no longer there.

…

After a while, she slips out the front for a cigarette. The night air caresses her exposed skin. She’s dressed quite casually, ripped jeans and a baggy shirt that slouched down her shoulder. Brooke didn’t have the commitment to dress like she used to. It cost money and her precious time to look that way. She covers her cigarette to light it, inhaling sharply, exhaling the smoke into the night.

It was a bad habit, but not her worst by any means. While the thought didn’t necessarily thrill her parents or Nina, they gathered it was much better she smoked then binged on drugs or hurt herself again. Brooke liked the routine of it all. It was a meditative experience, taking time out of her day just for herself. Nina had argued that it was making time to slowly kill yourself, but the argument was lost on Brooke. She was always going to do what she wanted, regardless of what anyone had to say. On a good day, they were enough to keep her calm. On a bad day, well, they just came in handy.

Today, Brooke wasn’t entirely sure where she was at. The hours passed painfully slow. Maybe it was just the alcohol clouding her brain, but everything had felt almost like a dream. Dampening her brain with masses of alcohol had just saturated that feeling. Brooke couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. She was utterly surreal. It could have all been part of her imagination, a hallucination. But the fierce stare had penetrated straight into Brooke’s soul. The interaction had been so abrupt, had it been literally anyone else, it would have already slipped her mind.

But it lingers, and it burns.

If Brooke was smart, she would go home and sleep it off. Wake up in the morning, perhaps a little hungover, but at least with a clear mind. Her mind is foggy, just enough for her to keep pushing. She takes the final drags of her cigarette, stubbs the remainder into the wall and she steps towards the building’s door. Except as the door swings open, Brooke’s stopped in the tracks by a sudden force. She loses her balance temporarily as the other person curses in a raspy voice.

“Hey! Watch where you’re goin’.”

“I’m so sor-“ Brooke starts, as she looks up. Caramel hair. Dark eyes. Oh fuck.

Startled, both women step back. The other woman’s mouth agape, eyes wide. Deer in the headlights. Once she regains composure, Brooke restarts her apology.

“I’m so sorry, I should watch where I’m going.”

“Uh,” the woman stammers, “Don’t worry about it. I was just leavin’.”

Hurried, she pushes past her trying to escape. Brooke reaches out, in a rare moment of intoxicated bravery, and grabs her wrist gently. Her fingertips ignite at the feathery touch.

“Wait!” Brooke’s words come out shaky in confusion, hoping, praying that somehow she can get this woman to stay. Brooke was definitely intrigued, “Let me buy you a drink to apologise.”

“I-“ The woman pulls away, stuttering through her words, “I have to go.”

Swiftly, the woman disappears into the night. Left silent and astounded, Brooke is still. Illuminated in the neon light, wind hissing in her ear.

Brooke is on fire.

[geek-patient-zero]

Prologue (Part 1)

Or: My Dinner with Reuben

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Dead Trilogy Volume 1

I always loved the cover art. It was done by an artist called BROM. Here’s his website.

Robert Weinberg dedicates the book to Edgar Allan Poe “for obvious reasons” and Bram Stoker “who started it all”, though Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu might disagree with that. On Poe, peppered throughout the book, between the three parts and on the back cover are short quotes from his works, mostly “The Masque of the Red Death”. Obviously. It’s a little BS though. Any elements inspired by Poe are shallow, at least in this book.

Underneath the dedication is a little disclaimer:

While the locations and history of this trilogy may seem familiar, it is not our reality. The setting of Vampire: The Masquerade of the Red Death is a harsher, crueler version of our world. It is a stark, desolate landscape where nothing is what it seems. It is truly a World of Darkness.

For in the grim dark 1990′s there is only war. And vampires.

Going into the book I thought this disclaimer was a little wanky. I expected that “a harsher, crueler version of our world” would translate to “our world but with more rats, goths, and supernatural creatures.” Similarly, the book’s spine labels the genre as “Dark Fantasy” which in my experience usually translates to “regular fantasy but with more rape.” Turns out the World of Darkness setting is a little more complicated than that, but most of the time Weinberg isn’t too subtle on the whole “darker version of our world” thing.

I just want to let you know, before we get started, that I’m not the biggest expert when it comes to V:TM lore. I’ve never played the tabletops, or read their source books. My knowledge comes from Bloodlines, wiki binges, and lore dumps on Reddit and the Something Awful Bloodlines 2 thread. Please bear with my dumb ass if I get something wrong.

Alright, enough preamble, let’s get to the actual story.

We start in Rome, June 15, 1992, at an outdoor restaurant near the Coliseum. A meeting there was set up the night before through an anonymous phone call to the “heart of the Vatican.” For a suitcase full of money, they’d talk about vampires, or as the book dramatically puts it:

“We will talk,” declared the mysterious voice in somber, cold tones, “of The Kindred.”

The first to arrive is Father Naples, named so because it’s a word you’d find on a map of Italy. He’s a member of the Society of Leopold, who only get one more brief mention after this prologue so all you need to know is that they’re Catholic vampire hunters. He’s a big buff guy, described like a cross between a priest and a high ranking CIA agent. He came unarmed.

His faith served as his shield.  Along with the five other agents of the Society of Leopold in the restaurant, including two women disguised as streetwalkers.

The Society of Leopold is the “the devil was behind this” kind of religious, so it’s weird they’d jump straight to hookers when thinking of disguises for their agents, or that said agents would agree to it. But this is the World of Darkness, a harsher, crueler version of our own, and that means there’s hookers everywhere, so put on the hot pants and think of Italy.

So Father Florence here’s got his disguised agents, who “carried enough firepower on them to start a minor war.” He’s also something of a badass.

And, though he had retired years before as a field operative, Father Naples still maintained his training in the martial arts. An expert at both kendo and karate, he could kill an attacker a dozen different ways.

He’s also got some agents in a nearby hotel room with a directional microphone aimed at his table to record the conversation. Soon, the target of all this seeming overkill arrives; a blonde mid-twenties guy in a white suit. His voice was different than the one who made the phone call, implying to Naples, and us, that there’s at least two people involved on the other side of this setup. It’s a neat bit of foreshadowing. After a firm handshake and no-selling Father Naples’s patented death glare, the stranger introduces himself as Reuben, “like the sandwich.” They banter a bit about the biblical Reuben before he decides to troll the Father a bit. First by saying he’s older than he looks, then by passing on the Father’s offer of wine.

“No thank you,” said Reuben. “I do not drink wine.”

He waits a beat for a reaction, then orders a Coke and a menu. I think I like Reuben.

Since vampires can’t eat or drink (unless they have high Humanity and a good dice roll) Father Naples is thus satisfied that the guy is not a vampire trying to trick him, deciding he’s “definitely human. And not very clever.” Reuben had made an obligatory knock at airline food, so now Naples believed the agents recording the conversation could use this clue to track down his real name and where he came from through airline records.

They get to the You Got the Cash/You Got the Stuff part of negotiations, with Reuben showing off the twenty million US dollars in his briefcase (Not euro because we’re the only country whose currency matters fuck you Italy) in exchange for a monologue from Naples about the history of the Kindred, starting from the beginning. Reuben says Father Naples can summarize if need be.

“Summarize?... How does one summarize ten thousand years of absolute evil? An impossible task, but let me try.”

The rest of the prologue until the end is Naples’ exposition on vampires while he drinks a shit ton of vino. Since it’s Vampire: The Masquerade Lore 101, I’ll summarize like our pal Naples.

Vampires secretly control the world. There are thirteen vampire clans descended from Caine, of Cain and Abel fame only spelled with an e for some reason. Ye olde Caine killed his brother, though I once read that in this setting it wasn’t so much just committing the first murder as introducing the very concepts of murder and killing to reality and basically ruining everyone’s lives, including demons. God punished Caine by giving him vampirism, forcing him to kill to survive for inventing killing. The vampirism also gave him superpowers, so he’s like a little bloodsucking demigod. I’ve seen jokes about God punishing Caine by giving him cool superpowers, but according to Father Naples Caine needed them because everyone knew what happened and were pissed at him for inventing murder and eating them. When everyone and everything wants to kill you on sight you need to be OP to survive and then feel sad about it.

(He also didn't learn most of those powers until later, when he met Lilith.)

Caine discovered that he could make more vampires through the classic “drain their blood to the point of near death and then feeding them your own blood” method. He sired three new vampires, who weren’t as powerful as him but still quite capable of ruining your day, a trend that continues through twelve or thirteen vampiric generations, although the latest generations are puny compared to Caine and his kids.

Caine and the Second Generation founded Enoch, the First City, and were worshiped there as gods, I’m guessing because of a mixture of fear and the hope of getting some sweet vampire powers if you suck up to the first murderer. The Second Generation then sired the Third Generation, thirteen vampires that became known as the Antediluvians. They’re the ones the modern thirteen vampire clans descend from. 

Then everything goes to shit for Caine. Again. The Antediluvians, ambitious dicks, rose up and killed the Second Generation, destroying Enoch in the process. This could be thought of as Caine’s true curse: being forced to watch his childer, and their childer, and so on plot against and murder each other as he had done to his brother, and generally being a plague on mankind. See, Vampire: The Masquerade can be a bit too try-hard edgy and horny at times, but then you also get neat bits of writing and lore like that. As for Caine, he disappeared after the fall of Enoch. He’s now a cab driver in Los Angeles. Or a hermit in Greece, messing with traveling scholar vampires. Or both. Depends on who you ask. No, really. I’m being serious.

I should mention that, religious guy that he is, Father Naples likes to pepper his monologue with casual mentions of the devil. He says things like...

“It was then, in his darkest despair, that Caine learned from Satan a monsterous secret.”

“Encouraged by Satan, Caine created three such monsters.”

“And, in time, urged by Lucifer, they, too, bestowed the gift of eternal life on a select group of their victims.”

“They knew not the Lord God, but Lucifer, the Dark Angel.”

...and generally blaming the big guy below for getting the vampires to do vampire things. While most of what Father Naples says about the setting’s history is correct, the Satan stuff isn’t. Lucifer is a character in the World of Darkness, specifically Demon: The Fallen, but he has nothing to do with V:TM. This adds a neat bit of characterization and unreliability to Naples’ narrative; something Reuben will point out at the end of the prologue.

The Great Flood happened, but Father Naples doesn’t mention it. He skips to the Antediluvians founding the Second City, which didn’t get a name like Enoch because in its two thousand years of existence apparently no one could think of one. With the support of their childer, the fourth generation, they ruled over the Second City and, according to Naples, enslaved humanity. But eventually humanity rose up against the vampires, killing some of them with sunlight, fire, and beheading. The Second City fell and the surviving vampires fled. The Antediluvians disappeared. Some modern day vampires believe the Antediluvians were all dead, while others (the correct ones, turns out) believe they’re hiding, resting in torpor (a kind of vampire coma) this whole time and one day, they’d wake up and, as Father Naples says, “...the world of the Undead shall tremble.” This is our first mention in this book of Gehenna, the end of the wold according to the Kindred. He also says their return was predicted in Revelations, but I’m no biblical expert so I can’t tell you what bits of Revelations that might be referring too.

Reuben asks what happened to the fourth generation, or the Methuselahs as they’re now known because they’re old as balls but not “lived before the Biblical Flood” old. Father Naples tells him, then goes on to explain the titular Masquerade, vampire factions, and the thirteen clans.

[the-spoopy-ghost-of-raejin99]

I've been looking more into Greedfall since, when I made my previous post about it, I'd only seen a little bit of the actual game itself and a number of reviews, so for the sake of integrity I wanted to see more, especially how the game treats the native inhabitants of the islands the game takes place on, as the Let's Play I've been watching hadn't gotten there yet, so most of the relevant information on that was from reviews.

And, well...oof. Like, an attempt was made, I guess. For full disclosure, I still haven't watched a full playthrough from start to finish yet, but I did see the entirety of Siora's questline/romance and several of the endings, plus several other videos as well.

First, the game's faction system lumps them all together as "Natives". I get it, they're a small team that probably couldn't program in a million different clans but like...if you want to portray a complex situation, especially one consisting of so many different clans, you might want to do better than just lumping them all as "Natives". I know the game is not 100% based on the real world, but in the real world, while terms like "Native Americans" and "Indigenous people" can be useful when talking in a broad sense, they also can often be used to erase the lines between numerous separate, distinct cultures.

And from what I've seen of the "best" ending, where the natives get their land back but also go to the mainland and heal the plague, I can't help but feel that the game's message is "Look, these people can contribute to the world, therefore they deserve respect!" And on the surface, that seems inoffensive, but the truth is people deserve respect because they're people. They deserve dignity because they're people. That's the default state, and it's only when you act like a terrible human being that you lose that respect and dignity. They don't need to earn that base respect and dignity.

Despite showing awful things the other major national factions are capable of, their sovereignty is never in question. Their morals, maybe, but never their sovereignty. And yet in the only ending I've seen where the Natives aren't screwed over by colonialism or by you and your cousin becoming tyrannical gods of the island, they must prove their worth by curing the plague. Apparently there is no option for them getting their island back and telling the mainlanders to go fuck themselves for trying to exploit them, not one that I've seen at least.

Maybe they thought they could couch it by basing the islanders off of Celts and Gauls (from what I've read, but if anyone could provide me with what the actual developers stated their inspirations were, I would appreciate it), and not off of any cultures from the Americas, for example, but the issues still exist, and they seem pretty glaring. I don't think the devs set out to make a game with these issues as their goal, but it doesn't excuse it either. If you want to tackle serious subjects, you need to be prepared to do your absolute best, and accept criticism where you fail.

Also, side note, but literally all of the endings I've seen have screwed over Siora in some way, because the ending remarks how regretful she is for having wasted time with an outsider, even on the best ending. Is that like inevitable, or are people on YouTube just being dicks specifically to her?

[tisthenightofthewitch]

Ghost has turned its tour into a theatrical production to keep audiences engaged and give them a performance like no other.

The band has decided to skip the never-ending drum and guitar solos and instead pace its show differently.

“We chose to do the theatrical Act I and Act II, because, one, since we’re headlining and the price of tickets, we want to give people value for their money, and playing for two hours 20 minutes, it’s a little bit of a stretch,” said frontman Tobias Forge, who now takes on the persona of Cardinal Copia. “I think it’s very much like comparing it to film; I always draw cinematic parallels to making records to the show. I just like the format because you play an hour and that hour will feel like a beginning and an end. But it’s like making two films: a one and then a sequel, where you leave it sort of hanging on the first act and then it comes to this resolve at the end of the second act.”

The show features a collection of songs from Ghost’s musical repertoire, including its latest album, “Prequelle,” which was somewhat inspired by the Plague.

“That doesn’t mean I was trying to do a historical account of what happened physically with that contagion,” Forge said. “That was not the point. It was a great metaphor for the world coming to an end, especially back then the various theories that they had as to why they were subjected to this turmoil and the wrath of God and God casting damnation upon humanity for this, that or other reason. And it’s also interesting in times of mortality being questioned. We all tend to do mean things. It’s just an interesting metaphor for things that go on and has been happening for hundreds of years after the Plague. People during the plague thought the world was definitely coming to an end, but it didn’t, obviously, but the world has come to an end many, many times, many, many places afterwards, and that will continue happening, unfortunately.”

Ghouls and Ghoulettes have been added to Ghost, which makes for a better live show. The additional band members have replaced back tracks, which has made for a better-sounding, more organic performance. Being summoned to be a Ghoul or Ghoulette takes versatile musical talent.

“You need to have certain metal chops,” Forge said. “If you are a guitar player in this band, it’s very old school, it’s very much old rock style. I am an old school guitar player. I’m not an ’80s-’90s sort of shredder who plays a million notes a minute. I am way more ’60s-’70s kind of style, and I write very ’60s-’70s. If you come in like a typical modern drummer who is used to playing only with tricks and double kick and, like, big, big, big, fast roles but you can’t play a swinging shuffle, then you can’t play in Ghost whatsoever. You need to have spent your time from playing Top 40 pop rock in order to know how to play a song like ‘Ritual,’ a song like ‘Absolution’ or ‘Idolatrine.’ You need to know your classic drumming and your classic guitar. You can’t have people in the band who’s like only metal, either, but if you don’t know metal, you can’t play Ghost anyway because there are elements in my guitar playing that are very, very, very based on me having played death metal, like ’80s death metal, so you would have to play a Slayer riff as well. You need to be sort of equally familiar with Jimi Hendrix and Deep Purple as you are with the more extreme forms of metal, generally. So it’s not for everyone.”

ABQJournal.com

[rizeofkylo]

Reylo is toxic! Here are the reasons why

Ever since storytelling was invented, there have been dozens of tales about the hero character falling in love with the villainous character. From The Phantom of the Operato Beauty and Beast, there are always fans of stories about the sweet young woman falling in love with the tall, dark, and angry stranger.

Unfortunately, movies and television have taken these classic tropes and have normalized unhealthy, abusive relationships. For example, many viewers criticized the Twilight series because they felt that Edward Cullen was abusive to Bella Swan by isolating her from her friends and often picked fights with Jacob Black.

Fans of Arrow have also called out Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak’s relationship for being toxic, since the latter was often emotionally abusive and threw a temper tantrum when she found out her boyfriend had an illegitimate child.

Amongst the Star Wars fans, there’s a huge divide over the “Reylo” (Kylo Ren/Rey) romantic relationship. Some are hoping they wind up together in Episode IX while others loathe it because it normalizes abuse.

For everyone that avoids ‘ship wars like the plague and might be wondering why people hate the idea of “Reylo,” the following list explores why this romantic relationship is incredibly toxic

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MINI-VADER HAS ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES

A romantic relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey would never, ever work because the former PHYSICALLY TORTURED HER. Did everyone forget that he took her captive in Star Wars: The Force Awakens and tortured her in order to get information? It's not like he sat her down at a nice

restaurant for a cup of tea and some crumpets; Kylo was incredibly brutal. So why on Earth would Rey even WANT to fall in love with him? The dude is brutal and Rey probably still has nightmares from being captured by Kylo’s sorry butt. That is NOT a good basis for a romantic relationship at all, whatsoever, and if Rey MUST have a love interest, let it not be some whiny emo man-child with serious anger-management issues.

-

STOP ROMANTICIZING ABUSE 2K19

For the love of all things holy, can we as a society PLEASE stop romanticizing abuse? It’s 2019 and it’s high time that people realized ‘ships like “Reylo” are toxic. People romanticized the abuse in the god-awful Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer, even though Edward Cullen never let Bella Swan

have her own life, was incredibly controlling, and their “relationship” was a toxic mess.

In all honesty, neither Bella and Edward, nor Kylo and Rey, are the basis for a healthy romantic relationship, and it is disturbing to see so many young people fawn over such ‘ships on the Internet. There really needs to be less “Reylo” and more healthy romantic relationships being included in movies and television shows. Take Outlander, for example. Claire and Jamie Fraser have their issues, of course, but they have always been supportive of one another. Rey needs a Jamie Fraser, not a Kylo Ren!

-

HAN SOLO WOULD ROLL OVER IN HIS GRAVE

Kylo Ren is responsible for the deaths of not one, but TWO of Rey’s father figures. He cold-bloodedly murdered poor Han Solo RIGHT IN FRONT OF REY during The Force Awakens. And to add insult to injury, he is also responsible for the death of her mentor Luke Skywalker in

The Last Jedi. Even if Kylo Ren DOES become redeemed in Episode IX, it would be pretty messed up if Rey ignored the fact that he DOES have blood on his hands and went “Oh em gee, I still love you despite the fact that you murdered your biological father AND both of my father figures.” That is not how healthy romantic relationships work and I’m pretty sure if that DID happen, the Force ghost of Luke Skywalker would appear and start facepalming.

-

STOP NORMALIZING CHARACTERS THAT ARE QUITE LITERALLY FASCISTS

As hot as Adam Driver is, and as much as he is a good actor, let’s not shy away from the fact that the character of Kylo Ren is a literal Nazi. The allusion between the First Order and the real-life Nazis is hard to miss; it is SO not

cool to romanticize a fascist. After all, this is a character that is the head of the armies that murder on a whim and have caused suffering throughout the galaxy. Why on Earth would ANY self-respecting writer want to pair Rey, who is the embodiment of all that is good, with Kylo Ren, who is the embodiment of all that is evil? Rey deserves so much better than to be paired with a fascist that shows zero remorse.

-

A GIRLFRIEND SHOULDN'T BE KYLO'S REWARD FOR BEING REDEEMED

There are some Star Wars fans that have suggested perhaps “Reylo” will be the cause of Kylo Ren being redeemed in Episode IX and that for the love of Rey, he will be inspired to turn back towards the Light Side. Kylo shouldn’t be redeemed just so that he can

get a girlfriend and win the heart of the fair maiden like none of his horrendous crimes have ever happened; he should be redeemed because he realized that he ROYALLY f—ked up and wants to attempt to make up for all of the evil things he’s done since turning to the Dark Side and becoming Snoke’s right-hand man. Now THAT would show some much-needed character growth and would be a great way to turn the franchise on its head

-

REY IS NOT A PRIZE TO BE WON

Hey society, can we PLEASE stop reducing strong female characters into trophies for the male characters? Rey is absolutely NOT a prize to be won by any man — not by Kylo Ren, not by Poe Dameron, and not by Finn. She is her own person, and it would be

incredibly gross if Star Wars negated all of the progress they made by having a kicka** female character be the lead instead of the stereotypical Skywalker male, by having Rey’s character arc be erased. Almost like turning her into a trophy for Kylo to display, being like “OMG HE’S SO REDEEMED AND NOT EVIL. See? Even Dark Side users (or former Dark Side users) can feel love!”

That’s just a slap in the face for women everywhere.

-

THINK OF THE LITTLE GIRLS, DAGNABIT

If Rey DOES wind up falling in love with Kylo Ren, whether he’s redeemed or not in Star Wars: Episode IX, then that sends a TERRIBLE message to little girls everywhere who look up to that particular character. Not only does it normalize abuse and make it seem like the

standard for a romantic relationship, but it also teaches little girls to NOT stand up for themselves against people that will try to manipulate and hurt them — both physically AND emotionally.

There’s a long history of romanticizing abuse and unhealthy relationships in both television shows and movies (see Twilight, The Vampire Diaries, Arrow, etc.). Star Wars has the chance to lead a changing tide in Hollywood by making sure Rey does NOT fall in love with an abusive jerk.

-

PLEASE STOP THE CHEESY TROPE OF BEING REDEEMED FOR LOVE

The whole idea of Kylo Ren being redeemed because he falls in love with Rey is SO DAMN CHEESY and it reinforces the negative stereotype that women aren’t human beings with minds of their own, but simply rewards for “doing the right

thing.”

If Kylo NEEDS love to be redeemed, it would be far more interesting AND more in line with the original Star Wars trilogy if the love for his mother Leia Organa helped him turn back to the Light Side, It would be her love that inspired him to work hard to right all of the wrongs he has done when he was a member of the First Order. After all, it was paternal love that inspired Darth Vader to turn back to the Light Side, so it would be poetic justice if Kylo becomes Ben Solo again due to maternal love.

-

WE STILL MIGHT GET A JAW-DROPPING REVEAL OF REY SKYWALKER

Many Star Wars fans were FURIOUS when Kylo Ren revealed that Rey’s parents were nobodies. However, abusers often manipulate the truth to their victims and we’ve already seen Sith misleading people so that they’ll turn to the Dark Side (Palpatine and Anakin, anyone?). It is possible that the people who

left her on Jakku were not her biological parents, but adopted ones, and there’s still a chance that her TRUE heritage could be revealed.

Perhaps she really is Luke’s long-lost daughter OR she is related to Schmi Skywalker’s long-lost family. If this is revealed in Episode IX, than not only would it be incredibly gross for Kylo to fall in love with his literal cousin—because this is NOT Game of Thrones—but it would also mean that he lied to her in an attempt to manipulate her.

-

STOP IGNORING THE FACT THAT THE DARTH VADER WANNABE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS

Regardless of whether or not Kylo Ren is redeemed in Episode IX, having him paired up with Rey in a romantic relationship glosses over the fact that he has the death of MILLIONS of people on his hands. He didn’t just cold-bloodedly murder Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, but he

also helped kill countless others in the Resistance, and tons of innocent people, too.

That’s not something Rey—or anyone else—should forget.

Kylo did monstrous things both as Snoke’s right-hand man and as the new Supreme Leader of the First Order. There’s no escaping that fact, no matter how much hand waving or denial goes on in the fandom. Kylo Ren has blood on his hands, and the LAST thing Star Wars should do is give him a girlfriend.

-

AN AWESOME JEDI NEEDS NO MAN

'Shipping characters (and to a certain extent, ‘ship wars) are natural to fandoms because, of course, everyone wants to see their two favorites get together. There isn’t anything wrong with that, of course, but it WOULD be cool to see the Star Wars writers and directors go “You know what?

F—k it. Every other heroine in this franchise has had some kind of love interest, and it’s a common trope in Hollywood. Let us turn that trope on its head by making Rey a strong, independent woman that doesn’t need a man (or a woman) as a love interest.”

It would be pretty awesome to see a bold statement that such a kicka** hero doesn’t need to be pigeon-hold into a romantic relationship in movies.

-

THE EMO VILLAIN TOOK ADVANTAGE OF REY WHEN SHE WAS HELLA VULNERABLE

Another reason why a romantic relationship between Rey and Kylo would be weird AF is due to the power imbalance. Yes, Rey is strong with the Force and probably COULD easily overpower the emo man-child, but they first met when she was his CAPTIVE and he was her

TORTURER.

A healthy romantic relationship is based on mutual trust and respect, which is NOT what we see between Kylo and Rey.

Even if Kylo is redeemed by the end of Star Wars: Episode IX and Rey manages to forgive him, he’ll always be the man that tortured her and took advantage of her when she was in a VERY vulnerable position.There’s no way of getting around it. Rey should have a partner that actually loves and respects her, and not someone that will constantly try to take advantage of her.

-

THE FORCE AWAKENS SHOWED KYLO'S CAPABLE OF ASSAULT

The brutal Mind Probe scene in Star Wars: The Force Awakens is a metaphor for sexual assault, because Kylo Ren forced his way past Rey’s mental defenses and violated her. If Kylo Ren and Rey become canon, she is essentially falling in love with the a**hole that raped her. That’s

NOT a good message to send to the audience, especially given the fact that so many women and little girls see Rey as an icon. It also normalizes rape culture, which is STILL a huge issue in our society today. If the Star Wars writers and directors make the decision to put those two characters together in a romantic relationship after all that, then they’ll have to be prepared for a major backlash from the fans.

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REY ALREADY TOLD KYLO TO BEAT IT

Kylo Ren and Rey also wouldn’t work as a romantic relationship because he tried to get her to join him in The Last Jedi, and she basically went “Oh hell no!” That should be the end of it; she does not want to join the Dark Side and she certainly

does NOT want to be in any kind of romantic relationship with Kylo.

Perhaps she feels sorry for him since he was manipulated by Snoke, but it would be really s***ty if Star Wars paired them up even AFTER Rey rejected his offer in The Last Jedi. It would reinforce the negative stereotype in society that women “don’t know their own mind” and if men keep pestering women until they give in, than their rejection “doesn’t matter.”

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NO ONE DESERVES AN EVIL VILLAIN AS A BOYFRIEND

Finally, IF Rey winds up entering into a romantic relationship with a character at the end of Episode IX, then she deserves to have a significant other that will truly love and respect her. Rey deserves better than Kylo Ren, who is an emotionally and physically abusive jerk that absolutely

does NOT respect her and keeps trying to take advantage of her. He doesn’t take no for an answer and he’s a murderer that is part of the evil First Order. That is NOT boyfriend material, no matter how handsome and charismatic the actor that portrays Kylo Ren is.

Rey deserves so much better than Kylo Ren, especially given the fact that she had a traumatic upbringing and SHOULD enter a relationship with someone that is mature and stable.

_

( I mean I love Adam Driver. I respect him and I could not imagine a better actor. And when I saw TFA, I fell in love with the character Kylo Ren and not Ben Solo. He just has so much potential for a good villain and that should not be destroyed by a toxic romance. I am a woman myself and I'm just 18 years old (almost 19!) and I'm the same age as Rey. Really I love Kylo but as a villain but personally I would not want to have such a man by my side who is a murderer, who has hurt my friends. Who hurt me! (And he wanted to kill me!) Who likes and loves such men in real life, I can not help these people anymore. That is already pathological when such people think so. If you already think so, then please live your morbid fantasies in private life and not on the world wide web. Kylo Ren is ruthless and would do anything to reach his goal)

[ofcloudsandstars]

I've surpassed a quarter of a century living here. It felt like an eternity, like I've lived several lives already. I know around each quarter of a century saturn will return to the same place it was when you were born but saturn hasn't made it's return for me just yet.

To be honest almost every year my birthday depresses me. I have been having existential crises since I was 7 years old. I remember one night I was in bed with my mom staring at some old victorian wallpaper and having a moment of awareness that was outside of who I was. I asked her "Why am I here? Why was I born in this time? And also in this place and country when I could have been born to any parents in any place on this earth. Why do I exist?" I could imagine from her perspective to have your child ask you this at 10pm is like overwhelming but that thought and emotion never left me for 19 years.

I never asked to be here.

I often feel like wherever I came from I miss it a lot. I feel like there was some kind of mistake and that I've fallen from some other existence that was nicer and now I am on this dying planet constricted by time and decay with creatures that only care about consuming everything they can. There is so much potential here and so much to be given but it's been spoiled over time, claimed by violence and anyone who tried to change it would get assassinated.

I remember when I was in nursery school (I still have so many vivid childhood memories) and I was graduating with my class into pre-K and we had to do an assembly where we told middle schoolers what we aspired to be when we grew up and I remembered my answer was Jesus and I probably remembered this so vividly cause my teacher had an Episode about it. Like: You can't say that!! Do you know what you said?? Like she wanted me to understand the gravity of my statement but I didn't understand why it was so shocking. I am Obviously not christian, haha if you know me you know that, but as a child I understood that someone like Jesus was selfless and cared about people even if they were outcasted and unloved and cared about fixing the corruption of the government and he was killed for it. I didn't understand much of christianity as a child and I HATED going to church but even when I was 6 I knew what it meant to be selfless and to give unconditional love because sometimes doing acts of kindness can inspire others to heighten their awareness yet I lost respect for religion when I was a teen cause I saw how prophets' simple messages of being thoughtful were weaponized cause nothing on this plane can ever stay uncorrupted for power. Anyway I said I wanted to be a motorcyclist. I mean as a 5 year old I just said it as 'motorcycle guy' and the teacher thought that was good enough. I still think motorcycles are cool haha.

It wasn't until I was an adolescent that I was hyper aware of death in every way. It was the worst time of my life. Everything idealistic I felt about this world was wiped away and I became aware of the realities of racism, sexism, everything -ism that made me feel like I wasn't allowed to enjoy anything. I could go on and on about the effects of racism and sexism and how my gender and sexuality felt like a prison and how once again I never decided on any of these things but it felt like I was out of place and on top of that there were consequences for being out of place. As a girl especially finding a guy to love you was something they brainwash in you early and if you couldn't you wouldn't have value. As a girl, you always looked externally for people to validate you with their love cause you weren't allowed to love yourself. Living in a body that wasn't the right race, gender and sexuality made me feel hopeless and full of hate and that I would never be accepted. I was suicidal and I felt like it wouldn't make a difference if I ended myself then or waited cause I wasn't living life anyway and I knew some inevitable death was coming. Like a huge storm in the horizon. It was the time of my life reoccuring dreams of the apocalypse were coming. Night after night I would have dreams running around in cities avoiding mobs while heat waves burned everything or tsunamis came or some plague effected millions creating some zombie like reality. I never enjoyed being a teenager and it lead into my young adult life. I always wanted to go out and be carefree, do stupid things, get drunk, have a young love and not worry about the world yet there was always some constraint like strict parents or not being the ideal woman to 'deserve' these things and I felt like I was wasting the one part of my life I could enjoy before the global darkness arrived.

I always felt like I was born at the end of something. Even when I finally had the chance to go out people would tell stories about how great certain places to go out where or places to experience, or urban cultures that could be found in some areas but they 'no longer exist'. 'People don't do that anymore'. "It used to be wild but now it's strict". "The place was torn down for condos". "It got commercialized and tickets are expensive, but the culture isn't even there so it's not worth it". Nothing lasts forever and neither did my adolescence. It was the one time I tried to give what this society have to offer a chance and I accept it wasn't meant for me. I was born in the wrong time when everything was ending.

And though this world has given me constaint restraints I still am trying to make the most of this existence. I've accepted that we live in some kind of hell and it's inevitable for suffering to end. People could give messages of compassion and it would be weaponized to control others or commercialized to sell overharvested crystals and herbs in huge businesses. To live we have to eat other living sentient beings cause that's how energy is transferred unless you are a plant that can do photosynthesis but they can still suck water and minerals from their neighbors for their needs. There is no balance here. I find living exhausting. I still don't know how I got here.

I did ask my mom a year or so ago on my birthday why she had me. She just said 'it was the thing to do'. So I am alive cause it was a thing people do, just have children I guess. I wonder if I am just a product of my body like am I a conscious being because of the energy generated in this sack of flesh or do I also have some element of me that came from a world beyond this one. If I am just a physical being then why do I constantly feel out of place for nearly two decades. I could describe it as a kind of dysphoria for my being, like I don't feel like I am a woman but I definitely don't feel like I was meant to be a human being and that there was a mistake.

I know that time can reveal some truths and I always dream about using my suffering to create some kind of balance here. Maybe it was a good thing that I feel I would never find love so I wouldn't get confined to some relationship where a boy would dictate my life. I stopped caring about being validated by others and I tried to focus on validating myself. It was probably a good thing that I was shut at home and unable to go out because what is conventially seen as a good time is self destructive and I shouldn't be trying to escape reality. Maybe just maybe it is a good thing that I was born into a world that will meet it's end soon because I am already unattached to my life here but maybe I should use my energy to be selfless like the people I looked up to when I was a child and try to bring positive change even if it means being assassinated cause I would either die by the hands of corrupted forces or by mother nature and it's better to try then to wait around to die because that's another form of suffering and being confined.

---

For years I wanted to be an architect and urban planner. If we want to back track after I got shamed for wanting to be jesus at around 8 I was obsessed with being an astronaut. I wanted to see if I could explore other worlds out there and find something beyond earth that was a place that was full of adventure and escape. After learning how literally everything up there can kill you and that it required math I was into robotics in my early teens. I thought creating a reflection of sentient life was amazing and could open up doors to how we understood ourselves but I literally had teachers in my middleschool repeat how it was difficult for women to succeed in science and it was hard and Everything in life was hard for me then and I just wanted to conform and please others so I dropped it and didn't really care about my future until the middle of highschool where they pressure you to start thinking about it to apply for college. I think what made me want to be an urban planner was that my escape was day dreaming and it was in late middleschool I would day dream about my ideal society that resembled absolutely nothing close to this one. I knew it was far fetched so I just pursued something I knew I was good at doing since I did it in my spare time which was game design. It was really an excuse and something fun to study to appease everyone that I was in college so I wouldn't kill myself studying some other boring garbage but it was also a cop out since I was too afraid to pursue urban planning since it's intensely political and I felt like I could never go far. Instead now I am a bartender, another skill I find enjoyable in my free time that's now killing me as a job that I absolutely hate. I am about to go into reception which I know will be worse but it will just pay bills.

I think this year after 25 years of just 'living' I should try to pursue what I care about. I am now in a place where education is cheaper and they care about society and the environment so it could be feasible and less of a risk then in the US where I could end up hundreds of thousands in debt for chasing a dream. I have met so many amazing people that made me feel less alone and have the same drive and passions as me and maybe we can learn and build together. Even if my life feels like some kind of accident or something that was done to consolidate a marriage it doesn't have to be wasted. I still am not a fan of being here but I am happy to say that my 26th birthday was the first after YEARS that I have not woken up depressed and I think it's because its a shift for me and maybe finally I won't be constrained.

[kyulkyungs]

Ripped

Character(s): Yoon Jeonghan

Genre: Angst :(

Word Count: 1,662

Summary: Jeonghan crafts through cloth, something that gives him endless possibilities. But something is tying him down, locking him away from that freedom.

A/N: Another snippet of what happens when I watch the VCR and decide to improve my angst writing skills. (this has been sitting around for like months lol) Honestly it’s really bad, but I don’t have much energy to go through and redo this whole thing, so I’ll just...... put this here.........

When Jeonghan found out he was a Creator, he didn’t know what area he would go off too. Would he take up working with paint like Seungcheol did? Would he carve and shape like Wonwoo and Vernon? When a younger, more powerful yet less known Creator came up, he suggested that Jeonghan work in the same field as him.

“Working with cloth?” Jeonghan had asked. Seokmin nodded.

“It’s something about it that I really like. Maybe it’s how free the cloth is until you shape it into something else, tie it together so it can no longer unravel unless your word calls for it.”

“So you’re saying that you enjoy taking away freedom?” Jeonghan teased. The younger shook his head slowly, lost in thought.

“Not at all. It might be how it makes me feel free. There’s so many things I can do with one piece of cloth.” He held up a beautiful red silk, saying it was a gift. “This... I can turn it into a blanket, gloves, a coat, a scarf, a pillow case, or a dress. If I felt like it, and conserved the cloth correctly, maybe even multiple of those.”

Jeonghan’s imagination flew with hundred -- no, thousands -- of ideas when the material was placed into his hands. “I’ll try it,” he said. Something about it just felt right.

That’s how he felt when he met you.

Something about you made everything seem right, seem okay. As another Creator, he felt that he could truly connect with you. He absolutely loved creating things of all sorts for you. Tapestries, new pajamas, blankets, you name it. He loved to make all of it.

But most of all, he loved to craft dresses. The way they flew freely with just a twirl, the way the cloth felt and allowed so much space for room, the way each and every one of them had a different shape.

You were his inspiration. His muse. Whenever he saw you at anytime all he wanted to do was create. This was certainly the cure for his block from so long ago. Jeonghan was addicted to this wonderful feeling.

Sometimes he’d watch you carefully move nimble fingers to craft the perfect scene made from whatever materials you had at hand. You were a sculptor. Unlike his soft and delicate hands, yours contrasted with his with an uncharacteristically rough touch. He marveled at them though, wondering how such beautiful hands manage to stay at work all day.

He’d play with your fingers when you took a break, a pure look of adoration on his face at all times. You’d have a sleepy and dreamy look on your face as you allowed him to talk to you about anything and everything.

Most often the topic circulated back to his work. The new dress he had in mind, the most extravagant design he had planned. He drew the patterns softly along the skin of your arm. Sometimes you were in awe at how soft his fingers were despite being pricked by needles every hour of the day. The soft curve of them had you wondering if his hands were actually real and you didn’t create him.

Ever since a mutual friend of yours told you that you could give life to your sculptures, you were terrified. Thinking about Jeonghan being with you only because he was practically forced to. It made your body cold despite the warmness he was offering. 

Jeonghan was tracing a spiral on the back of your hand, his fingers gliding smoothly across your arm in more waves. He asked you if you were okay, and the gleam in your eyes told you everything you needed to know.

He was constantly drawing in a little sketchbook if he wasn’t with you or mannequins. He absolutely had to get all of his ideas down. And the more he drew, the more he created.

This drove you insane.

You kept wondering, still, about if Jeonghan were actually another being created just for creating. Or if he was a creation made by a Creator. And the only way to escape your hold on him was to distance himself by doing busywork.

Work. That’s all it was. No more did the conversations stray from one topic to the next. It’d always fo back to him and his dresses. They were beautiful, no doubt. They were surely something to be worthwhile talking about. But to come up in every conversation you had with him for the past month... Although it was irrational, the only thing you could think about was Jeonghan and his work and your problem with creating statues with a life force. Wonwoo told you about it, showed you even when you snuck away from Jeonghan for a day. When you saw the statue, cleaning up and taking care of Wonwoo with such adoration and care, you grew afraid and ran back to Jeonghan. When you had come back he was still working... like always.

You don’t know what started it. Maybe it was just some paranoid thoughts at first. Or stress. From the hard work of statues for days on end. You can’t say for sure, but nonetheless it wasn’t healthy. Your suspicion and doubt grew more and more once you noticed Jeonghan growing even more distant. He had another project in mind.

He knew you could put life into your statues. You told him and how it scared you. He had taken a hold of your hand and told you that you didn’t ever have to do that if you didn’t want to. After soothing you, he gave you a kiss on the forehead and walked off to do some more work. Jeonghan wanted to find out what he could do. Obviously he can’t make a dress speak, so maybe... just maybe... he could try to make it do something else. He’d find out.

It wasn’t until you heard Wonwoo tell you that animating the stone you worked with messed him up real good. Something happened. And that plagued your mind for the longest time.

Your thoughts traveled back to Jeonghan. What if you did create him unconsciously? Now you can’t even remember the details to how you met. What if you made a story to tell him and ended up convincing yourself as well? What if he was just a statue? Would you end up like Wonwoo and his statue? Did Jeonghan really love you?

You can’t remember really how it started. One moment you were sitting in front of an old, completed statue. The next it wasn’t there anymore. Jeonghan said it was one of his favorite pieces that you made. It used to be an animal of some sort. A sloth you think, you remember it vaguely, the shape of it’s arms. You had made it to challenge yourself on an uncommon animal to sculpt. Now, it lay by your feet in a million pieces.

You only feel bits of you still grounded. You can’t recall the feeling of the sledgehammer against your palms. Nor can you gather how you swung it over your head and blew another chunk off the statue. You can’t remember anymore. Not what this statue looked like before this, not what that one looked like, or this other one, or even the one in the corner. You can’t.

Everywhere around you is dust and pieces of stone, marble, wood, whatever you name it. It’s hazy and it’s not the particles flying everywhere in the air. It’s you. Your mind is no longer clear and you can feel yourself breaking too. This is something they warned you about.

When you are a Creator, you create. Now you are destroying. A Destroyer. That is the only thing you can call yourself at the moment, for everything else is lost. You saw a door in the dust, and headed towards it. You don’t remember that being there.

You’re in a hall. Now you’re in a room. It’s empty but it’s filled. No life around here, only empty mannequins dressed nicely. You remember something stirring inside of you. You can’t remember what. You notice you can’t remember a lot of things.

The cloth is light and soft in your fingers. Under the stress of it all, that’s all it took. You stared at the cloth in your hands, in between your fingers. Then you stared at the dress in front of you. Or... at least what was left of it. The mannequins around you also had tatters on them. Except one. The cloth around it still looks like it’s being worked on. So you leave it alone. Whatever is left inside of you tells you to leave that one alone, no matter what. Without a word more, you leave.

Jeonghan doesn’t understand what had happened. Seokmin told him that it’s what can happen to a Creator under too much stress. The divine connection between them and whatever caused their existence is what he believes is tampered with, corrupted. Jeonghan doesn’t understand why it happened to you. He can’t ask Wonwoo, he’s in tatters too over his own work. Now you. His friends have gone through it, turning into people other than his friends.

Now he’s lost you. And that tore him to shreds. He doesn’t know why you didn’t tell him sooner. Was it because he was so focused on his work? He had become so obsessed with it, wanting to better himself, figure things out, because he had been lost for so long. He thought he found himself. With you at his side, it’d been only that much better. You drove him to create, it seemed. But you also drove him away. 

He was too distracted. He thought he was better, that the situation was better. 

When Jeonghan found out he was a Creator, he didn’t know what area he would go off too. He certaintly didn’t think it’d end up like this. His heart ripped right out of him.

[forzalando]

lots of ~emotions~

For a large portion of my life, I have felt unbearably inadequate. This specific feeling leaves me questioning my purpose in life on a day-to-day scale, as well as a greater one pertaining to my overall purpose. It plagues me with the thought that I will never be successful in any aspect of my life. It makes me wonder if I am worthy of love. It leaves me wondering if I am any sort of special. It forces me to think that I do not have the capability to achieve my dreams. I feel that I am just here; in a state of merely existing and lacking the capability and confidence to make waves in the waters of life. I want to make a difference, I want my actions and my words to mean something, but I am just me. Just Marissa. And I’ve never thought myself to be capable of making a difference or impacting others in a positive way. These fears and ideas are always present in my mind, but sometimes they are more prominent and for the past few months, they have been consuming and consistently tearing me down. 

When those feelings are that particular kind of overwhelming, I can’t bring myself to leave my bed and face the world. There are some days when facing the world is just too scary of a thought, so I hide myself away.

I tend to avoid human interaction for days at a time while in this state. I’ve always slept, read, or wrote for myself to pass the time. However, lately I have taken to sitting in my room to write for all of you, which has brought me a newfound sense of personal healing. I’ve been churning out content left and right, eager to please all of you, but there are also personal pieces and poems that shall remain my own. I have been suspended in one of these states for about a month now; the amount of content I have posted to this blog pales in comparison to the unseen amount tucked away in a documents folder. 

Ever since I could form grammatically correct sentences and discovered descriptive language, I have been writing. It has always brought me immense joy and proven time and time again to be my preferred method of catharsis. 

I never dreamed in a million years, that my personal escape from the unpleasantness of my mind, an escape that I have created with my very own thoughts and ideas, could provide the same comfort for someone else. 

A few nights ago, I received a message in my ask box. The sender was not anonymous, but I have made them anonymous and asked for their permission before posting this because of the incredibly personal nature of the message:

“Feeling a lil down, wanted to spread some positivity :) My best friend recently passed away, and it absolutely wrecked me but I didn't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable by talking about something so dark. So I came on tumblr- and I started reading stories from around my childhood, and eventually I found your blog. You sound so happy, and the things you write make me so happy, that you inspired me to start writing... I feel so much better. You work wonders, darling. I can't thank you enough.”

I was an absolute blubbering mess by the time I had finished reading those words. Once I finished, I read them again, and again, and again. I’ve tried multiple times to accurately portray how receiving this made me feel with the use of words, but I haven’t been able to. However, I am giving it my best shot. 

For someone to reveal to me their personal heartache, a heartache that without a doubt is a pain no less than unbearable, and then proceed to tell me that I have not only made them happy, but inspired them to do something that has helped them in their healing process....I honestly just cannot find the words. 

This beautiful, strong person, by sharing their feelings with me, has done so much more than put a smile on my face or bring me temporary happiness. 

I will remember this message for the rest of my life because of how it has affected the feelings of inadequacy I expressed at the beginning of this post.

Those feelings, while still present in my mind, have become less daunting and heavy on my heart. 

I truly just want to make people happy, no matter what I am doing, and reading that message assured me that I have the ability to do so. 

Somehow, someway, the way that I speak, write, and interact with others, made someone happy, and at the same time, inspired them. 

However, it was the last two sentences that left me speechless and helped the most with looking at things from a different perspective; which is something that I find practically impossible to do when it comes to self-criticism. 

The phrase “you work wonders”, is a phrase that I am so very fond of, but don’t use very often because in my eyes, it is such a beautiful, delicate compliment. 

The last person I said “you work wonders” to, is someone that I am in complete awe of.  He is one of the most special people in my life, and I love him with everything I have in me. 

The reason I adore him so much, ironically, is because of his unique ability to make me happy even when I am at my lowest, and that is how he works wonders in my life. 

The thought that I, through my writing, could do that for someone is something that I cannot believe. It leaves me speechless and filled with a euphoric feeling that I can only describe as sunshine invading my entire body. 

The change in my perspective has to do with how we see ourselves and how others see us, but more specifically, the differences in how I see myself vs. how others see me. I know that each person is their own worst critic, but acknowledging that fact doesn’t make the insecure whispers fade away.

These words I received from a stranger, that combat every insecurity that has been running through my head for the past month, came to me exactly when I needed to be reminded that the malicious thoughts in my head were not true. 

Just because I may feel as if I don’t have a purpose, doesn’t mean that I’m not fulfilling it, I just may not realize that I am. You, yes you reading this, could be making a difference in someone’s life without even realizing it. And if there is someone in your life that is making a difference, tell them!!! Everyone struggles with insecurities and self doubt, and letting someone know that they have made a difference in your life could help them in ways you can’t even imagine. 

As for success? I don’t want to make a career out of writing; the only thing I have ever wanted is for my writing to help others as much as it has helped me personally. I want to make people feel things, but I have never seen my work as capable of doing just that. That message, with such a raw display of emotions, gave me a newfound sense of pride in something that I pursue as a hobby as well as for my emotional healing. All of you are a part of this as well!! Every time I receive feedback from any of you, it means the world to me, and I could cry knowing that you appreciate, and enjoy, reading what I write because it makes me feel genuinely proud of myself, which hasn’t happened in a while. 

Even though I look at myself and see unhappy and painfully ordinary, someone else can see a girl that is happy and special; someone who can work wonders.

I just can’t believe that at the height of a very emotional and troublesome time for me, a beautiful message came to me in my time of need and reminded me that the rest of the world does not see me the way that I see myself, because what I see is not who I truly am. I am capable of so much more than I think I am, and so are all of you. 

NEVER doubt yourself or your abilities. NEVER doubt your capability of making a difference in the world or in someone’s life. AND ALWAYS REMEMBER, that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are unique, special, beautiful, capable; all of the positive things that your mind may tell you that you’re not. 

I know this was an emotional rollercoaster, definitely all over the place and it might not make sense at all, but it’s definitely something that I needed to get off my chest. It’s so much easier for me to write about my feelings, than express them in person to others. 

All of you make me so incredibly happy each and every day, and you are making a difference in my life. I thank every single one of you, from the bottom of my heart, for reminding me of all the positive things about myself, when I can only focus on the negatives. 

All My Love, Marissa

[realchrisilluminati]

Writer’s Block Is Bullshit -- Here's Why You're Stuck

For a substantial number of years, at the onset of my writing career, I absolutely believed in writer's block. The inability to breakthrough while writing an article, book or short story usually crept its ugly head at two precise moments — the seconds before sitting in front of a computer to get to work and the hours spent thinking about the task that needed to be completed.

Yeah, basically writer’s block happened all the damn time.

My form of writer's block always involves chasing the "feeling." Being overcome with the motivation or inspiration to write. To be in the mood, in my case, demanded this perfect scenario of setting, time of day, physical sensations and a hundred uncontrollable factors that must align.

Eventually, I came to a few realizations. First, nothing in life will ever be perfect. Second, I realized writer’s block is fictional, and I was just fucking scared. What if I put all my eggs in one basket and that basket is made of wet paper?

Now I know the truth.

Writer's block is a bunch of bullshit. Writer’s block doesn’t exist. As much as every working writer wishes it were an actual ailment, I repeat, writer’s block does not exist. Writer’s block is self-doubt. There's something you don't want to write, think you can't write or feel you're unqualified to write.

You don't have writer's block you're just scared of something. First, let’s figure out what…

The Common Fears That Cause Writer's Block

Here are some of the common issues that plague writers.

The “I Suck” Syndrome

Every writer, even the literary greats, begins the writing process with an awful first draft. No author vomits perfection all over the page every single time he or she sits down at a keyboard.

Most writer’s block issues can be traced back to personal feelings about yourself and your writing ability. You believe you haven’t written anything “great” in a while and have lost your mojo. The work on the page isn’t up to your often immeasurable standards, and it’s causing internal conflict. You don’t want to spend another minute sitting in front of a computer.

Here’s the bad news — you do suck. Here’s some fantastic news — every writer sucks (at some point). But you're in good company with every other writer ever. Welcome to the club!

“The first draft of anything is shit.” Ernest Hemingway

You Have “Nothing To Say”

One of the most prolific writers of the last 50 years is Robert Shields. You’ve likely never heard of him because he never published any work. Well, not really. He did, however, bang out an estimated 37.5 million words over a few decades.

“Starting in 1972, Shields was hit by the urge to document every moment of his life in his diary. It was estimated that he spent about four hours everyday typing, relaying the day’s most major events alongside the most brutally minute details while sitting on his back porch in his underwear.

He described what he had for every meal, what kind of heartburn he had (along with what he took for it and how long it lasted), who stopped by to visit him, and what he fed the cat. He was particularly precise about his bowel movements, documenting when they happened and every detail about what came out of him. (He even had a number of different ways for cataloging urination.)”

Everyone has a story. Everyone's life is interesting. Even though Robert Shields and his list of daily activities. Admit it — even though you don’t know Shields personally and every detail of his life sounds monotonous and crazy, you kinda want to see at least one of his journals.

You’re putting something off because you feel like you don’t anything original to say or add to the topic. You’re wrong. Every person adds their own unique angle to a story, and other people are interested in reading those opinions.

Famous Writers (Who Are Also My Friends) Give Advice About Writer’s Block

In case you’re thinking “who’s this idiot saying writer’s block doesn’t exist?” Well, first off, my name is at the top of this website. That’s who I am. Second, I’m not the only writer that’ll say bluntly that writer’s block is BS.

I reached out to fellow freelancers, writers, editors, authors and a few people who write just for the fun of putting pencil to pad (or digits to keys). I gave them one prompt. “Writer’s Block. Go!” They shared the first thoughts that sprung to mind.

“Anyone who says they have writer's block isn't writing...THAT is the problem. Writer's block is an excuse for distraction. Write until it's not there.” - Jason Donnelly, author, Gripped

“Some people think writer's block is like a dam, where all the ideas just get backed up and will start flowing again eventually. Others think it's a drought, and eventually, the rain will come. Writer's block is when the river is still flowing as usual, but the water's turned to piss. The flow is still there, but there's nothing worth drinking.” - Daniel Coffman, author, Four From Below

“Writer's Block is a funny thing. I think it comes from trying to come up with something perfect. The perfect topic. The perfect opening sentence. The perfect follow-up sentence. The perfect closing sentence. And for the most part, we overthink it. We end up blocking ourselves from thinking of what to do next because we just want to get the damn thing right.” - Rey Moralde, writer, The No-Look Pass

"My writer’s block generally stems from self-doubt, when I start wondering why the hell anyone might care what I have to say about a subject. I'm usually working on multiple projects at the same time, and I often find that if I'm struggling with one, it cripples my other writing because it starts occupying all my thoughts and I'll set aside time to work on it, then spend all that time thinking about how stupid it is and what a colossal waste of time it has been and how if I actually practiced what I believe about sunk costs I would scrap it altogether and move on. Being in the news business sort of forces you to get over writer's block when it comes, since sometimes you simply have to cover something, and even if you suspect all your words are dumb and bad, you need to be willing publish them to ensure future paychecks. And after writing professionally in some form for the past 10 years, I've come to understand that there's not always a correlation between the stuff I write that I think is good and the stuff people seem to enjoy reading.” — Ted Berg, sports columnist, USA Today

“The first thing that comes to mind when you say Writer's Block is a scene from the best running moving ever: Run Fat Boy Run. He hits the wall in running his first marathon, and it's a wall. No really, a wall. I think that's what writer's block is like. I don't want to spoil the end of the movie, but he gets through it, just like I do in writing life.” — Jen Miller, author, Running: A Love Story

“Writer’s block is the unavoidable flu of writing. It must be pushed through, survived, repeated, and conquered.” - Elysia Regina, writer

How To Break Writer’s Block

I’ll humor you for a few minutes and pretend writer’s block does exist but I won’t call it writer’s block. Instead, I’ll say you’re stuck. Here are some ideas and items to get the gerbils in your head back up and running on those wheels.

The first method is one of my own creation, named after one of my favorite professional wrestlers.

The Lie, Cheat and Steal Method

Eddie Guerrero is a former world champion and a member of one of the most revered families in professional wrestling. Right before his untimely passing in 2005, Guerrero was one of the most popular wrestlers in the WWE. During the height of his heel run (that’s wrestling speak for a “bad guy,” Guerrero preached the three tenants of getting ahead in wrestling or any walk of life. Lie. Cheat. Steal.

Guerrero’s advice isn’t practical or sound for any profession other than the fictitious world of professional wrestling, but it’s solid advice for a writer. Here’s how it work…

Lie: Sit down with a blank piece of paper and conjuring up the biggest bullshit lie ever. It can be about yourself or even your subject. Write a lie so massive it would be impossible for anyone to ever believe. Now, prove that lie to be true. Make your prose convince you, a family member or total stranger that this massive lie is a stone cold truth. I’m certain that by the time you’re done either a new story, new article idea or angle to a project you’ve been putting off for months will emerge.

Cheat: Go back into your archives and find a finished article or story. Now take the opposite argument. If it’s fiction, write the story in a new direction. If the story was about a man, make it about a woman. If the article was about donating time to shelter animals, take the opposite stance. (Yes, that’s a jerk thing to write about, but this is an exercise in breaking writer’s block). Find the piece you’re most proud of and turn it on its god damn head.

Steal: Grab your absolute favorite novel off the bookshelf. Open it to a random page and begin reading. Find the first sentence that really grabs you by the genitals and copy it, word for word, into a new document. Start typing a brand new story based on that one line. When you get far enough, go back and change that first line to your own words. I’m not telling you to literally steal another writer’s work, just temporarily channel their mojo for prose.

Take A Runner’s Approach To Writing

Jen Miller alluded to this approach in her quote earlier in this text but one of the best approaches to writing is similar to how people tackle the task of training for long distance runs. A runner doesn’t always feel like running, especially those long distant athletes who have to log miles and miles every single day to stay in top performing condition.

So what’s their secret to running on the days when they just don’t feel like it? They just start running. It’s that damn simple. They lace up the sneakers and hit the road. The same goes for writing. What should you do when you don’t feel like writing? Sit down and write. Every mile is a step towards running farther. Every sentence is a step towards something, even if it’s absolute gibberish.

Buy A Writer’s Block Book

There are countless apps and websites dedicated to breaking writer’s block through writing prompts. I’ve tried a few, mostly just for inspiration, and my far and away favorite is 642 Things To Write About.

“This collection of 642 outrageous and witty writing prompts will get the creative juices flowing in no time. From crafting your own obituary to penning an ode to an onion, each page of this playful journal invites inspiration and provides plenty of space to write.”

Buy A New Notebook

Five-and-dime stores were crack to me as a kid. If you’re unfamiliar, or not as ancient, a five and dime store was a step above a dollar store but not quite a Walmart. Places like Murphy’s and McCrory’s littered the land in my youth, and I loved every single one of them. What I loved most about these stores was that they sold just about everything. Toys, clothes, games, housewares, tires, magazines, records. I’d get lost in the aisles and never want to leave.

A similar feeling overcomes me each time I step foot in a stationary store. Just staring at all of the journals, pens, and accessories for writing and I GET SO FIRED UP!

How Other Writers Bust The Block

“It's like anything else: Ask for help. Sweeten the deal with cookies if you have to. It also helps to take a walk Or just physically move. I get my best ideas when I'm driving or in the shower or boxing, so basically never when I am in a situation where I can actually write something down.” - Jessica Sager, writer

"The best way to conquer writer's block is to engage your brain that can mean anything from listening music, watching a favorite show, or sometimes I find a good walk gets things moving. Failing that, sometimes it helps just to write and I mean write anything, even if it doesn't make sense. Sometimes just the act of putting words on paper, even if it's putting words on virtual paper, can get the juices flowing." — Karl Smith, editor and former newspaper columnist

“The best cure I've found for writer's block is pushing forward through something even when I think it sucks, because I'm not going to get anything else done until I'm finished with it anyway and because there's a non-zero chance the dreck I burp out when the words aren't flowing will prove more popular than the stuff I write when I feel great and invincible and dope.” - Ted Berg

“I'm a big fan of music, usually a good instrumental track works. I mix it up between jazz and new stuff like Tycho. Wine also works really well” -- Andrew Ward, writer & strategist

“Step away from it and do something else. Something out of your norm. Whatever you need to concentrate on it. Then take a nap. Or just fuck off for as long as you want to like George R.R. Martin.” — Carl Ceposki, writer

The End Of Writer’s Block (For Now)

If you still believe in writer’s block, there could be something deeper behind the inability to sit down and get work done. It’s up to you to figure out the issue and fix it. None of these problems ever go away. You’ll still have doubt, think you’ve got nothing to say or continuously chase the perfect “time” to put out a best seller or finish a work project. In the end, the only way to break through is to literally break through.

If worse comes to worse, and the words don’t come, just write about what you know. As Charles Bukowski put it “Writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all.”

Chris Illuminati is the author of five books, countless articles, a billion post-it notes and a 323 million incomplete works of fiction.

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