#and the usage of time as a way of storytelling

[torgawl]

do you think part of the reason diluc still struggles with his resentment towards kaeya is because kaeya is more like what crepus wished diluc to be? crepus was so proud of diluc for his accomplishments as a knight and lived his dream through him as well and we know how much crepus' approval meant for diluc, more than any title or doing. i sometimes wonder if diluc feels hurt knowing that kaeya gets to live the equivalent to his past life as a knight as if nothing happened when he had to make sacrifices for his own peace of mind and sense of justice. i wonder if that's what pains him the most, not the fact kaeya ommited the truth about his past for so many years but having felt like he was the only one who cared to do something regarding his father's death and who showed any sense of uprightness when confronted with the knights' request to cover their mistake and negligence. i always think about how diluc might have felt like everything was a lie and his sense of betrayal. but maybe that didn't matter as much as having the support of his brother and someone he could share his pain with would have mattered. maybe the worst thing wasn't what kaeya did but what he didn't do; maybe it was never about his actions but the lack thereof.

[foxcassius]

just thought abt furuya sensei for a little too long. god she was infuriating.

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

With Them, Who Swallowed a Star

PAIRING: Professor!Task Force 141 X F!Student!Reader WORD COUNT 5.3k CONTENT WARNING: NSFW! group sex, age gap, fingering, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, facefucking/blowjobs, unprotected sex, p in v, anal sex, slight usage of nicknames, reader is a pianist/student, tf141 are professors, smut with plot SYNOPSIS: A musician is a storyteller in their own ways. You had told yours and captured the sights of men you never expected to pull when you stepped inside an academy. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I tried to be poetic. This fried my brain and I'm not going to write something like this again. That's a lie because I have a series that has 5 love interests. This one was supposed to have Graves as well since he's actually my inspiration for writing this shit, but I ended up not adding him. I might do it on Drabbles if someone asks though. And yes, I have changed my username from DontFearTheReaperAzura. Here's the Masterlist for more! Also on Archive of Our Own / DISCORD SERVER

Your fingers fluttered slightly as you lifted your hands to the keys, blocking out the rustling from others as they sat in the grand auditorium. Long and drawn, you began to tell a tale you had held for a long time. Notes swam in the air, old friends that played with your tresses and caressed your skin.

The story started slowly, the sound of the beginning, the beginning of the end. Longing clashed with trepidation, your fingers sang a song of despair. You swayed with the music, lost in the whims of unspoken words—of a world you owned. Quicker and quicker, the notes climbed in sync with your heart, growing joyful in hopes of masking the mournful melody surrounding you.

It filled the emptiness deep within your chest for a moment, before like the heavens shed tears upon a barren land, you showed—you poured out the lore of your world, and with heavy reluctance to leave what you created, you played the last few notes.

For a few moments, you kept your eyes closed, and when a series of claps reached your ears, only then you opened them. You were shackled back to reality just as you held back your work.

You looked at the people, who in your eyes were nothing but shadows at the beginning, now enamored, yearning for the rest. You knew they felt it, too. Pulled, as though you were the center of the system. Like the Sun, a star.

And one man stuck out more than others, gazing at you, blue eyes almost ravenous. But it didn’t last for long, just like a song in the wind, he faded among the standing crowd, drowned out in the flurry of praise.

You breathed out a sigh as you stared at the towering structure before you, now your second hell—in replacement of the ramshackle place you call home—after you had gotten a scholarship to this prestigious university after years of a couple of years of working your ass off. Students rushed past you on their way in and out of their classes, but you stood frozen.

Suddenly you felt awfully unprepared for this unfamiliar place, of socializing and strangers, and of university. Of life. What did Google say about socializing with people your age again? How about impressing a professor? Good lord.

You shrugged off your thoughts and sauntered to your class. A large lecture hall welcomed your sight and you found an empty seat at the front row. Not the perfect place for observation of the whole place, but good for listening to the professor.

The sound of expensive shoes echoed throughout the hushed room and you kept your eyes down as you took out your notebook and pen. As the quiet dragged on, you glanced at the professor and found your brows raising at his sight.

He was tall, seemed to be fit, and in his thirties. He had a few wrinkles, a beard, and brown hair, but no sign of graying.

Above all, you could remember those eyes. An endless swirl of blue. The man at the concert hall.

You put your gaze down as the professor looked down on you, your heart hammered against your ribs, sudden nervousness springing in your nerves. You wished he wouldn’t recognize you, but at the same time, you hoped he did.

Yet, the silence remained, and in curiosity, you looked back up. Your breath hitched as your eyes met his, gaze shining with something you couldn’t decipher, and a smile formed on his lips.

You forced yourself to mirror it and batted a glance at the door. You wanted to get out.

The professor introduced himself as Jonathan Price, and told the class a few things about himself, before diving straight into the first lesson of Philosophy.

Time seemed to flow fast throughout his class and you kept your fingers busy, writing down his words. He was easy to understand, bringing out intricate details in his lesson, and asked questions now and then if he was going too fast while walking around the room.

You couldn’t help but notice his slacks fit in a certain area. Then again, that thing wouldn’t give you a brain cell even if you suck it off.

The bell chimed and you gathered and stuffed your notebook and pen inside your bag, jolting up to your feet. But as you approached the exit, his canorous voice called out to you.

“Pardon me, young lady.”

You turned to face the professor, keeping a respectable distance from him, which he closed off, only standing a couple of feet from you.

“Yes, sir?” You asked in a small voice when he remained silent, his eyes studying you with disconcerting intensity, just like how he gazed at you at your performance.

Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he asked. “What’s your name?”

You spoke of your name in a steady voice, equally confused and intimidated, you gripped on the strap of your bag. Everyone had already left, now bringing quietness to the hall.

He smiled once again, his head tilting a bit to the side. “A pretty name.” His voice sent goosebumps on your skin, making you breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of his pleasant cologne. “Such a shame I couldn’t catch it after your performance a couple of weeks ago.”

He remembered you.

Your cheeks began to burn.

Oh, how he yearned to caress your tinted cheeks, place a kiss on them, and mutter praise against your soft skin.

“Ah, you were there, weren’t you, sir?” You offered him a smile and a pause. “I think I caught a glance of you in the front rows.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you for watching, sir,” you said, not knowing what to speak of next, and nodded at him, reaching out to the knob to leave. But he reached for the door, making you blink at his unexpected actions, caged between the door and him.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he fessed, bodies now closer to yours that you almost touched, and you gulped. “You were magnificent.” He opened the door, a hand motioning at you. “See you on Wednesday. And I hope we see more of your performance.”

We?

You jolted awake at the loud laughter of a raucous group outside of your room and grunted at the sudden pang of pain in your head when you stood up. You glanced at the alarm clock by your bedside and muttered a crisp curse, hauling your bag. You burst out of your room, slipping past students in the hallway like a breeze, hurried apologies were called out to those poor victims she bumped into.

The morning had been long and tiring, and you decided to take a nap earlier, only to end up sleeping for a couple of hours. Now, you were about to get late for your next class, and the usual ten-minute walk turned into a five-minute run and an uncalled exercise.

You glanced from left to right in the hallway, glancing at your phone to make sure you were in the right building, and turned to the right, following the signs. You halted before a room, strangely closed even though the class was supposed to start in five minutes.

You used your phone as a mirror and patted down your hair, before turning the knob and opening the door. You walked into a softly lit room and realized the mistake you had made as you spotted a man splayed down on a couch across the room. A hand behind his head and over his stomach, and over the lower half of his face was a black mask.

Inside was a personal office, belonging to one of the professors.

You immediately turned away, about to exit the room when an angry voice echoed.

“Have you got no manners?” The man rose to sit, a scowl painted on his face.

For the nth time in your sorry life, you wanted to bury yourself alive. You dipped your head low in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry, sir. I thought this was the room my class was in. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You frantically fumbled on your phone, inputting the wrong password one time, and read your schedule.

You read the room number wrong.

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

The professor fixed his crooked mask. “What class were you supposed to go to?”

“Uh, a math class of Mr. Simon Riley,” you read on your phone, keeping your head low.

A hum escaped past the man’s lips, making you glance up at him. His dark blond hair slightly ruffled from his apparent nap and coat a bit crooked. He ran his hand on his hair, fixed his coat, and patted down the invisible wrinkles on the fabric.

He stood up and you inched back, surprised at his stature. A tall man with broad shoulders and arms noticeably strong, (massive honkers) and eyes like a pool of honey, swirling like molten gold under the light.

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I’m Simon Riley. You’re in my office, our class is in the next room.” Unlike earlier, his cold voice had turned a bit softer, but the fact that he was your professor made your sweat run cold.

You nodded, inwardly wincing at your dumbass. “Again, I apologize, sir.”

He stood before you, next to the opened door. Gladly, there were no students passing by in the hallway.

“What is your name, love?” he questioned, his hands going to his pockets. His eyes narrowed at the way your head dipped, refusing to meet his gaze. Like a meek little bunny, scared of the world and what all those pretty eyes could see.

He wanted to place a finger under your chin and lift your face up to look at him.

You never knew introducing yourself could feel like an interrogation until now. You told him your name, averting your gaze down at his shoes that shifted slightly. “Nice to meet you, Sir Riley. I’m sorry it wasn’t under the best circumstances.”

He hummed once again and stepped out of the office. “Pleasure’s all mine."

You followed him out of the room and he swiftly closed the door behind you, his being a bit closer to you than comfort.

With a nod, Professor Riley led you to the classroom. Dozens of students had already occupied the room and you silently made your way to a vacant seat on the second row, placing your bag next to you.

Just like Mr. Price, the masked professor went straight to the point, briefly introducing himself to the crowd, and began his lesson. He, too, was easy to understand, repeating the equations some couldn't get well, and was kind enough to let the class take a few minutes of break, before continuing. You had also come to notice he would fix his mask every once in a short while.

And when the bell chimed, he bid his students goodbye, yet called for your name. You halted on gathering your things as he approached you. His eyes glanced at the students who last left the room before he spoke.

"Feel free to come by my office whenever you have a question or need anything. Can't have you lose your way again, do we?" He asked, a bit of amusement in his voice as he leaned close.

You smiled at his offer. "Thank you, sir."

Sure as shooting, you asked him where your next room was for Chemistry. By good fortune, he knew where it was and who the professor would be.

"Ah, there he is." Sir Riley abruptly came to a stop, making you halt in your tracks as well and follow the direction of his gaze, to see a man with a mohawk.

"Simon!" The man jogged towards the two of you, a grin playing on his lips in contrast to the man who never took off his mask. Another person with blue optics, but his were bluer as though someone took a piece of the briny deep and placed it in his optics.

He kept a smile as his attention swept to you. "And who's the little bird?"

You frowned a bit at the nickname, nonetheless gave him your name, and watched his eyes light up with fascination. The man began to tell the pull he felt by the notes of your music, how enamored he was by the unspoken words of your tale.

He was there, too and Sir Riley was along with them.

Your face flushed as he ranted and they both noticed, taking note of the shades painted on your skin, bashful of the sudden recognition.

"He is John Mactavish, your Chemistry professor," Sir Riley piped in, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, before bidding his farewell at the moment, marching down to his next class.

Left all alone with Professor Mactavish, you turned to him. He grinned at you and he beckoned at you to follow him. The man was, well, talkative and wasted not a second expressing his applause of your performance and how he never expected to see you in the university.

You could only mutter small words and nod, already feeling exhausted. But it was pleasant to hear him compliment you. You could get used to it.

And you could get used to his enthusiasm for teaching. His first lesson went straight to an experiment and dragged you to his side as his assistant, instructing you to mix chemicals. Occasionally, his fingers brushed over yours as you passed vials.

Your eyes met, and sparks flew all around.

Literal spark.

And fire.

Professor Mactavish pulled you to the side, hand remaining on your arm as the chemicals were set ablaze.

With a couple of ticks of the clock, a giggle erupted from your lips and like there was a pull, his chuckles followed.

In the sea of awes, his laughter floated on the surface.

You sprinted on the hall, navigating through the winding routes of the structures, and arrived at one of the most exquisite auditoriums you had ever set eyes on. Your eyes took in the magnificent chandeliers and the divine paintings stretched across the ceiling.

The sound of a throat clearing pulled you from your stupor.

“Are you just going to stand there?” a voice called for your attention to where he stood near the stage. The man basked in the warm glow of the concert hall, skin as though molten caramel, and eyes like embers.

“Oh, forgive me, sir.” You straightened yourself up like a soldier before a superior. “I was just, well, this place is beautiful.” You couldn’t help but glance around once again.

“Isn’t it?” A soft smile crawled its way to his lips and he approached you. “I am Mr. Garrick and you are . . .” your name rolled out of his tongue like a serenade, gentle to the ears, a sight to see the way his lips moved, and he extended a hand to you.

You clasped it gently before realization dawned on you. “Pardon me, Garrick as in the Kyle Garrick?”

In a flash of a moment, something sparkled in his eyes and searched yours. “Yes, it is me.”

You nearly squealed and ran around the room in excitement. “Oh my God. Wow. I-I’m a huge fan, sir. You were such a huge inspiration to me—and, and, I wished I could have watched your performance at the concert before, but I was busy preparing for mine. Oh, that must be why Mr. Price, Mr. Riley, and Mr. MacTavish were there! You are friends!” Your words tumbled out of delight.

"Yes, well, thank you for the kind words." His hand sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his smile becoming wider.

You gazed at him for a few moments before you snapped out of it, your brain slapping it to your face that you just rambled in front of this gentleman. "I'm very sorry, that was unprofessional of me."

"No need for apologies. But I do want to get a feel of your play today as soon as possible." A hand landed on your back, his warmth slipping through the fabric as he led you towards the grand piano patiently waiting for you at the stage.

Your fingers itched in anticipation.

Sir Garrick gave you a comforting smile and sat on the front row seat. "Feel free to play whatever your heart desires."

What your heart desires.

With a shaky breath, once again, you began to tell a tale, the notes sounding like a human voice as it wove its sonorous song.

A ballad to tie what dream your heart made. An andante at first and increased tempo at each heartbeat.

Lightning striking and thunder howling, Kyle was consumed with the way you swayed from one note to another. He couldn't peel his eyes off you as though you had him in your grasp, a puppet for you to control. And only when the last of the music hung in the air, could he snap free of the strings.

He walked towards you and dropped to his knee, taking one of your hands in his palm. "You were truly astonishing."

"I'm telling you, she was marvelous," Kyle exclaimed, pacing around Price's office and pointing at his fellow professors. "Blimey, if only you guys were there the other day, you'd feel chills."

Simon kept a straight face as he sat on the couch, legs spread, his knees bumping with Johnny who took a seat beside him, sipping from his mug of coffee. Whilst, Jonathan inclined on his chair behind a mahogany desk, decorated with intricate carvings and souvenirs he had gathered as they traveled across continents.

"I get that you're delighted, but could you quiet down?" Price grumbled on his desk, a pang of pain shooting his head.

"No, I am not shutting up." Kyle raised a hand, shaking his head. "She recognized my name. My name.” He pointed at himself.

“Anyone would recognize your name if they’re yer fan or hater,” Johnny quipped and placed the mug down on the coffee table.

Kyle turned to him. “You don’t get it, mate. She said she’s a fan of mine. I was a huge inspiration to her—”

“Was a huge inspiration to her,” Simon echoed, leaning back against the couch. “Used to be, not anymore.”

Kyle glared and stomped towards the masked man, grabbing his collar when the other merely raised his brows in a challenge. “I swear to God, Simon, I swear to—”

“I swear to God if you three don’t shut the fuck up—” Price paused, straightening himself from his chair as Kyle shook Simon, and glared at them— “I’ll have you asinine blokes chopped into bits!”

Kyle let go of Simon, who simply fixed his crooked collar and tie, and raised a brow at the man behind the desk. He sat down on a vacant chair, his eyes not leaving Price, and asked, “Are you jealous she recognized me, Price?” he was answered with another glare, which he shrugged at. “Or not.” He definitely is.

For a few moments, they sat in silence, each lost in their train of thought. All centered on a certain lady, whom they had watched from afar, now within their grasp. They only acted as though it was their first time meeting you.

Each born to a wealthy family, presented interesting things which soon died down as they broke them down into pieces, they had grown bored. And had found that there were only a few they could put their trust in this world. Though not related by blood, they shared everything since they were younger. They knew one another strengths and weaknesses. Their faults. Their passions.

Their desires.

A knock pulled them out of their reveries.

Johnny being the closest to the door, got up and opened it. A smile was brought to his face as he found you. “Hello, bonnie. C’mon in.” He swung the door open, a hand motioning at you.

You hesitantly stepped in as you saw your professors inside the office, eyes all settled on you. You put a hand on your other arm to hold down your nervousness as the door behind you shut.

Four men who were strangely overly friendly to you. You could think of a couple of reasons. The first being a musician they had watched and the second, being their student.

A hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you further in, making your face flush. “Have a seat,” Sir MacTavish waved a hand at the sofa, where he and Simon sat. 

You kept your gaze low as you obeyed him, sitting between him and your math professor, red cheeks going in a deeper shade as you met Kyle’s gaze. Embarrassed, you finally faced Price, and asked, “What is it that you called me for, Professor?”

Price put his elbows over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “We have a proposition for you . . .” Your name rolled sensually out of his tongue.

The proposition was to be their assistant. Given their overlapping schedules these days, it was hard for them to handle them. At first, you refused the offer, telling them you had a part-time job to do, along with practicing your skills in piano. But they had already thought about that and said they could pay you for your work.

A tempting proposal. Perfect for a student like you who got into this prestigious school through a scholarship.

You tapped your pen on the table and heaved a sound sigh, slouching on the chair. You were in a cafe near the school, in an attempt to change the atmosphere and help you write a report for Sir MacTavish's and Sir Price’s classes, but it didn’t seem to be helping at the moment. A pleasant music came from your earphones to block out the background noises and you closed your eyes to lull yourself.

When you opened your eyes, you jolted up your seat. “Shit!” your hands immediately flew to your potty mouth and straightened your spine at the sight of one of your professors, Simon, across the table. “Ah, uh, I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you—”

“Why do you apologize so often?” his rough voice was low and he placed a cup of tea on the table. His eyes landed on your notebook, full of notes, written clean as though it was printed.

You pursed your lips, unable to think of an answer, and ran your tongue over the soft flesh, catching Simon’s attention. “I . . .”

Simon glanced around the empty cafe, the only other person within the area was the staff over the counter, who kept her eyes on her phone. And you had perfectly picked a secluded spot. He looked back at you and reached out a hand, placing it under your chin. He lifted your face to bring your eyes to his.

Your heart raced at his actions.

“An angel as brilliant as you are should carry yourself with confidence, sweetheart.” His thumb caressed your lips. “Perhaps, we could teach you that.”

Your lips parted at his touch, warmth pooling at your stomach. You knew this was strange—wrong, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

But he let go and leaned back, and you found yourself gripping on your thigh. “Have you thought of our proposal last week?”

You nodded, clearing your throat. “I have, sir.”

“What do you say?”

“The offer is good, and I don’t think it will clash with my schedule under normal circumstances, either.” You paused, letting him wait for your answer as you gazed into his caramel eyes. “I’ll take it, professor.”

You were fond of puzzles. You were interested in mysteries. And you were drawn to danger.

Being their assistant had more perks than you initially thought it was. You talked with them about their terms and added some of yours, and they seemed to be pretty considerate about it.

Maybe, a bit too much.

You had moved to an apartment they got you, so you wouldn’t be distracted by your roommates. When you had breaks, they would call you to their offices and give you desserts and snacks.

And more often than not, their touches lingered, turning into hugs, caressing, and pinching when in private. To close, seemingly the start of a taboo, a risk, and yet when Professor Price had you pinned between him and Professor Garrick in his office one late night when most of the people at school had gone home, you didn't want them to stop.

You wanted the heat to rush over you, like a forest fire, unwavering.

Didn't pull back when he planted his lips on you. Didn't stop the very professor you looked up to as a musician to bunch up your skirt and grind his dick against your ass. Didn't stop even when the other two entered and Sir Price had his hand rubbing against your clothed cunt. Didn't stop when Professor Riley locked the door behind him as Sir Mactavish joined in.

Johnny’s snaked a hand around your waist, a bit harsher than the ones he’d always done, but you didn’t mind it. Not when his lips were gentle against yours, patient and exploring as he led you on his lap when he sat on your couch, stealing you from Price and Garrick. He drank on your gasp as you felt another pair of lips on your nape, dusting kisses along your flesh.

Simon breathed against your shoulder, hand grasping the swell of your breast and performed maddening massage that got your nipples pebbling under the fabric of your top. You flinched when he took them by fingers, the rolls languid, and shifted on the other man’s lap as you felt a poke underneath.

Johnny groaned against you, parting the breathtaking kiss. He removed you from his lap, only to turn you against him, now facing the professor who had shed his mask. His fingers dipped under the band of your panties, into your untouched bud and your wet folds. He rubbed with a hum, spreading your filth.

“You're so wet, hen,” he commented and inserted a digit, rubbing it against your slick walls.

Your teeth sunk to your lower lip, biting back a squeal at the sudden intrusion.

Simon placed his fingers under your chin and leaned down on you, his tongue running over your lips, something he had always wanted to do before. “Don't bite your lips. That's something we're supposed to do, yeah?” He whispered on your lips and explored your mouth, savoring the echoes of your pleasure, and left to plant his marks on your collarbones. Hands gathered your shirt and lifted it, exposing your chest to his sight.

His mouth dropped to the nipple, sucking while his hand went to work on the other. 

Johnny began to pump faster, making you throw your head back to his chest, moaning out in pleasure as you shot a glance at other professors.

“You are not so innocent after all, hm?” Price took your jaw and ran his thumb over your lips, before pushing it in, muffling your cries.

“No one's that innocent nowadays, Price,” Garrick remarked, watching the frown on your face and the flutter of your lashes at every jerk of Johnny's hand made and Simon’s tongue did. His tongue ran over his lips, hand cupping over his hard-on, palming himself through his pants.

You began to suck on Price’s finger, making his dick twitch in his pants—his brain wondering how good your mouth would feel around him. He pulled his hand away to work down on his belt and pants, hands pulling out his shaft. He gave it a few pumps, chuckling when he noticed the way your tongue ran over your swollen lips before a groan escaped from it as Simon planted a bite on your neck and Johnny's thumb began to work on your clit.

Price brought his tip to your mouth. “Open up, dove,” he demanded and grunted as he pushed his shaft in, breath hitching at the warm feeling of your tongue and your throat. Your face twisted a bit at the taste of his precum. He let you adjust for a couple of seconds, hand going to the back of your head before he began to thrust.

One of your hands flew to hold onto his hip as you let him use your mouth, eyes fluttering closed and focusing on breathing through your nose. Out of the blue, Johnny pulled his fingers out and Simon stepped away, eliciting a whine from you. Vibrations ran down Price’s body and he groaned.

Unbuckling of belts echoed in the air, and you were pulled away from Price, making him curse. The next thing you knew, you were staring into the eyes of the man you had admired for so long.

“Sir—”

Kyle put his thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. “Not sir. Call me Kyle.” He positioned his cock under your cunt, rubbing the tip on your entrance.

You gasped at the sensation. “Kyle . . .” Your jaw slacked as he slowly went in, hands pulling you closer to his clothed body, fingers running on your flesh, gentle just as how he played his instruments. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, hands sliding down to your ass to guide you up and down on his length.

Now, he made music out of you.

It didn’t take a few ticks of the clock until they fucked you with all they had.

Simon’s cock was buried in the confines of your mouth, fingers tangled on your tresses, watching the curls of your lashes get soaked by the tears that rolled down on your cheeks as they relentlessly pounded on you—Kyle on your pussy, Price on your ass, and Johnny on your grasps. You had never felt so full, so complete.

You feel your legs shake���the sign you have reached the pinnacle of pleasure and exhaustion when Kyle hits the spot deep in you. You whined against Simon’s cock, groaning as beg for the overdue orgasm that they had been keeping from you.

You felt a hand slide down your thigh, finding your swollen clit, before the rough pads of the fingers rubbed aguishly gentle and slow. If they weren’t your professors, you would have cursed at whoever the one was doing it. But your wish had been heard and he picked up the pace until you were crying, arching your back.

But they weren’t done.

You felt Kyle and Price become rougher at each of their thrust, Simon tugging on your hair harder, and Johnny losing his rhythm on your hands, until they all pulled back, coating your skin with their cum.

You slumped on Kyle’s chest, limbs like a stringless puppet as you ride out the aftermath of your orgasm. Your heavy lids fell close, tired from the deed, but you fought back the drowsiness, not wanting to fall asleep in the state you were in.

“You did good, love,” Kyle cooed into your ear and planted a soft kiss on your temple.

Johnny leaned down and pressed a kiss on your shoulder. “Yer amazing, bonnie. Can’t wait to have more of ya.”

A hand caressed your flushed cheek, swiping the transparent mix of tears and sweat. “Let’s bring you back to your apartment, dove,” Price said in a gentle voice.

Gentle fingers scraped your scalp, gaining a hum from you, must be Simon with how his fingers feel on your head. An unspoken apology about the way he tugged on your locks.

Like the sky glowing, your skin glittered in the ruins they drew up. A masterpiece you were, vulnerable, vincible in their sight, like walls that had fallen. And yet as though a book which held thousands of words, they still had more things to know about you. 

Like every start of a relationship. How fortresses were made. Each beginning of a story. 

You basked in the echoes of their praise, letting their words bring you comfort and slowly help you regain your mind and strength.

Like after a fire, new maps were drawn. A new tale was written, with them, who swallowed a star.

Taglist: @itsyellow

[ganondoodle]

(totk rewritten)

finally, all the arm and spirit abilities- for the first half of the game (rauru) and for the second half with the shiekah arm replacing links arms instead and the spirit abilities gained through ganondorf

(please excuse my handwriting and sometimes repeated info on the first two, i lost motivation/patience at the end and couldnt get myself to basically redo it all from scratch just to make it a bit more cleaner)

note, the camera rune is unconnected to the arm, its the shiekah stone copy link has (zelda carries the one from botw, a copy was attempted to be made for link but it lacks all runes except the camera, the map and its teleportation, and journal/archive)

note for the heal effects of some spirit abilities- im also reworking the healing system, making it more like the older games, so healing isnt as easy and much more restricted, thus making those effects of spirit abilities more valuable ( lil potion icon on the d pad will act a little bit like in skyward sword, opens your limited selection of healing items and if chosen link switches to holding it and letting you consume it with -a- while walking around in real time- to avoid more pausing and mass healing on regular items while in menu)

additional note, the automatic recharging of the magic meter depending on the environment gives you a reliable but less abusable way of using abilities and allows for even more creative dungeon/challenge design by using it effectively- it works by absorbing magic from its surroundings, so if its an area with little magic it recharges slower, if its a very spiritual or healthy place it will recharge faster, it can be used to make things more challenging and also as subtle storytelling (example, theres a graveyard with the magic energy around being off the charts, even if there are no spirits to see, it could hint at the people buried not having died peacefully, no matter what their gravestone says...)

the usage of magic and how much the different abilities cost also allows for a much more dynamic fighting style for players to choose and try out, balancing them all out with their cost instead of a fixed timer, and the recharging beign affected by the environment perhaps forcing players that favor high cost magic abilities to use the lower cost ones for example, or not being able to charge one up bc the enemy is too fast and doesnt give you enough time to charge it

about half of the small overworld dungeons (not shrines) are also locked/inaccessible for the first half and new quests appear as the second half commences- together with the additional changes raurus return brings with it (sonau buildings, enemies being mostly cosntructs that he summoned etc) and whole set of new abilities giving you a fresh new way to play while (hopefully) not making you feel too restricted for the first half

... making these detailed concepts took me longer than id like to admit q-q

[gremlingottoosilly]

Cabin in the woods (yan!slasher!Konig x fem!Reader x yan!slasher!Horangi) part 2

You listen to the story about those woods. Turns out, real life is way, way nastier than any of those stories. Don't lose your head.

TW for the chapter: Blood, gore, dead bodies, slut shaming(usage of outdated horror tropes), knife play, blood play, mentions of STDs

— Do you know what animal is this? 

The body of a small creature – rodent, probably, you don’t think there could be any other animals around – was lying on the road near the place you decided to stay for the night. The “Coolest fucking thing in the world that is also just a few hours from here” was still a few hours from here because it was fucking dark and you already left your car on the sidewalk, hoping no one would steal it because honestly, why would anyone need this pile of burning crap. 

— According to the “Basic Bestiary of Austrian Animals” it might be an extremely rare Austrian Marmont.

You fucking hated Max. Mostly because his form of being different was “being an intelligent asshole” and also because he would never forget to rub the fact you were behind him in the grades into your face. 

— Waaaaaaait, a mamont? But it’s small! You have to give Karen – blonde, tan, tall, straight C everywhere except for her chest (then it would be D everywhere) – credit. As adorably silly as she was, she was still the only person you could have a meaningful conversation with. Except for the times when she was fucking your boyfriends. Or when she forgot that you don’t have a boyfriend so he doesn’t need to fuck random people just to spite you.

— Perhaps, if we are extremely lucky, a European edible dormouse, also known as…

— Fuuuuuck, people eat this thing? Yuck! Austria is like, literally the worst country EVER!

You feel like every second of this conversation, even though you are just listening to it, is going to take 10 years from your life span. You never knew why the two got together – maybe because Max loved fucking someone dumber than he is, and Gretchen loved placing the responsibility for her actions on her beloved sociopathic boyfriend. 

You wanted to say that this was literally a fucking squirrel, but you know better. Not like anyone is going to listen anyway. 

You get to the supposed location a few hours – already deep in the night, everything that you hate about forests – unkept environment, horrible living conditions, mosquitos, and occasionally wild animals are making you squirm each time your butt switches the place and you involuntarily sit on the cold, damp ground. You lick your lips, trying to adjust in the position in front of the fire. Fire that you probably shouldn’t be making in the middle of the private territory, but Chad said the place belongs to some weird hillbillies who wouldn’t care about a bunch of college grads having fun. 

You just finished the last of your coke – mixed with cheap whiskey and rum you got back at home, you feel just buzzy and fuzzy and relaxed enough to at least try to engage with people around you. Just didn’t want to make Jenny embarrassed – she was the one to vouch for you, even though you didn’t want to go camping with them. 

— I heard there is something happening in these woods. 

Everyone around you groans and you comply, groaning too. Chad has the worst storytelling voice and even Marty – the resident stoner of the group – is visibly unhappy about having to listen to his dumb jokes. Brace yourself for at least twenty minutes of dumb story with a cheap attempt to scare you. 

— You talk like those locals. What can be here except for drunkards? 

— Very fucking funny, Marty, I hope you laugh at people’s death too. 

Everyone groans again. 

— Shut up and let me finish! So, there is something hiding in those woods…legends…

— What legends? This place was built like 20 years ago. 

— Shut the fuck up, Max! It’s the legends before the town even was built. In those very forests…

— Forests? I thought it was like, just a suburban area. 

— It’s wild Austrian woods, why I would put you to adventure in the fucking suburbs? 

— You’re a suburb baby. 

— Shut it! God, I hate you guys. Alright, so…these woods are populated with…creatures. 

— Ooooh, like the mammoth we saw! 

— Karen, seriously, what the fuck? These woods are filled with motherfucking human-eating killers, not just some animals! 

— Then why do you say “creatures”? — Because it makes for a good fucking story! God, everyone, this is why none of you are studying creative writing! 

— Only your parents have money to pay for it. 

— This is why you all are fucking losers. Alright…god, I hate you. People went missing in these woods. Mostly tourists, never the local population – this is why police don’t care about it. Bodies were found, half-eaten, rotting under that very tree! 

— Which tree? There are like 10 of them just here. 

— More like 100. 

— Under every fucking tree! — That’s a lot of bodies. 

Chad groans, visibly aggressive. You just tilt your head to the side, only talking to him once before taking the last sip of your Coke and standing from your place. You wanted to take a chance to see those woods before you’d be going even deeper the next night – Chad was planning quite an adventure in the wilderness, to your dismay, and you wanted to have a chance to see the cool part of nature before you would grow tired of it. 

To your surprise, Karen was nowhere to be seen. Knowing the girl, she is far too innocent and dumb to be here – probably ran away to not listen to scary stories or got lost while trying to find a good place to pee. You sigh, feeling that it is your responsibility to pick her up – she is Marty’s girlfriend, but he is too stoned out to notice her disappearance yet. 

You stumble on your foot – alcohol makes you dizzy, makes you relaxed and smiley. You don’t even care that no one came to ask what the fuck you are doing – as far as you aware, they all can go and fuck themselves while you have a lot more fun things to do. Like searching for a drunk girl in the forest in the middle of the night…yeah, you really should work on your definition of fun. 

You already a good few minutes into the forest. Nothing but trees, not even a squirrel or a wolf pocking around to feast on yummy bodies. Not like you wanted to see a wolf, of course, but meeting with the wild life could be fun. You’d like to see a bear, for example. 

(And you will – just a bit later) 

— Karen? Karen, are you alright? You decide to scream for her once you are far enough from your friends that they won’t question why you are so concerned for her. Poor girl was obviously scared and you didn’t want to embarrass her even further, so you stroll through the woods, an empty bottle of coke in your hand – not sure why you didn’t threw it away. Littering isn’t nice, after all. 

— Karen? You’re scaring everyone, come out! 

You scream some more – she is probably lost, deep enough that she can’t even hear you. You try not to panic, try to be the reasonable friend – it’s usually Jenny’s task but here you are, trying to be the cool one of your friend group. You yell for Karen some more, listening closely to every little sound that could be easily taken as her whimper or cry for help. 

Nothing. 

Just how far can a scared drunk girl go? Probably not further away than you – you’re already starting to get tired and you knew that Sidhey got far drunker than you are. Which means she could lay here, somewhere, passed from the exhaustion, freezing, with forest animals feasting on her…no, no, you can’t think like that. She is fine, she has to be, or you are going to get into so much trouble with the police and her parents. You never told any of your families about the trip, so you wouldn’t want to get in trouble what ould require their assistance. 

You take a step into deeper part of the forest – and you think you saw a glimpse of…something. Metal, probably, might be her phone or that atrociour hair dye she is using to stop everyone from calling her a mouse. You also think you could hear a sound of someone breathing – heavily, gruffly, definitely a male, but you don’t really know how. You squint, trying to see through the trees. 

You see Karen. 

— Karen? God, you scared everyone…well, me. Where the fuck have you been? 

You smile and wave at her, your drunken state isn’t allowing you to see that, for some weird reason, she isn’t waving back. Or moving, so to speak. She stared at you with that terrified expression of hers and you tilt your head to the side, not udneratanding why is she like that. Something happened between her and others? 

You take another step back and Karen falls. 

Well…her head falls, anyway. 

There are a lot of feelings right now. Panic, panic, panic, a little bit of panic and, oh, who could have guessed, another riel of panic which makes you freak the fuck out and sprint – towards her. Maybe she will be alive if you could put her head back on her neck really-really fast? 

— Is it too late to convince you this is all a dream? 

The voice. 

You don’t recognize it – it’s distorted and quiet under the mask and you don’t know anyone int his fucking place anyways. The voice is weirdly happy, weirdly laughing and you want to vomit from how easy-going it sounds. Like the corpse of your beheaded friend is nothing, like it’s a fun pun, like…

You laungh forward, trying to, maybe, get revenge on your not-really-a-friend. Guy lets go of Karen’s body, allowing it to fall down, her head rolling to the nearest creek and tumbling into the water like a sports ball. You can’t even sob – the situation feels too unreal, too shocking, you are still very much drunk and when the guy simply wraps his hands around your waist, not allowing you to move even an inch, you fall limp in his hold. 

You sob. 

His hand goes to grasp your face in a tight embrace, making you gag from the smell of blood splattered all across his hand. You hear chuckle. 

— Didn’t want you to see that first. Wanted to play hero, yes? 

You sob, you tremble, you can barely master a few words out of your mouth. You want to scream, but it’s like all the air just decided to disappear from your lungs. So, you cry instead. How brave of you, Karen would be so proud of her friend not even trying to avenge her death. 

— F…fuck…you. 

You master with all you strength. Guy is laughing again – his other hand goes to squeeze your waist even more, pushing you against a tree. He wears a full mask with some red drawings on it – a satanic cult, really? You thought about serial killer, maybe, but definetly not about crazy cult maniacs running around. The more you know. 

— Oh, kitten, I’d love to fuck myself. But you’re here for this, no? 

He called you kitten – you squirm in his grasp, not wanting to give him the easy way to kill you. Something pokes you to the side – it’s a knife. Large, sharp, military-issued, you saw it in movie and action TV shows – and now the bloody razor almost grazing over your skin, through the thing fabric of your open jacter and a simple T-shirt. 

— Wh…who are you? 

Stpuid question, really. 

— Why does everyone wants to ask who we are all the time? Would you die happier knowing my name? Would it help you escape knowing how many beauty marks I have?

It would certainly help the police if you were to survive the encounter. Even though you are certainly going to die right next to Karen over there. 

He pushes a knife towards your side, the blade cutting through fabric easily, You brace yourself for being gutted alive. 

— I don’t like stupid questions. Ask something wrong and I will see if you are as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside. 

In a normal situation, you would punch him for such a corny joke. But you’re too drunk for this, but you’re too exhausted for this, but you just want to curl away in some nice place and fucking die, but not because he was the one to kill you. You certainly do not want to give him the satisfaction of being the one for you. 

So, you feel your cheeks heating up with the faintest of blushes. 

— What are you going to do with me?

He pushes the knife deeper, sharp edge cutting the thin line into your side. You sob immediately, tears filling your eyes as you almost feel blood – not a lot of it, just a tiny sharp streak – fill your shirt. You want to vomit, hate pain, and everything that is related to it. Thinking that the knife is dirty already and he would probably infect you with whatever one of the 13 STDs Karen has if he were to proceed. He stops right before the blade can penetrate your skin. 

— I’m a serial killer. What do you think I will do with you? 

You shake your head, trying to search for the question that won’t make him plunge a knife into your body. 

— W…what is your favorite color? 

Good job. Amazing job. Let’s hope you don’t like your liver all that much because he is definitely going to cut it out and eat it. 

— Red. I like you. 

Suddenly, you are being pushed to your knees. Suddenly, he is standing right in front of you – he is tall, of course, bulky and big, and he seems even bigger from this angle. Your face is pressed against his crotch and you can feel the dread slowly filling up your weins. Is he going to…

He presses a knife against your lips – you part it obediently, nervously, you feel your face twitching with disgust as your mouth immediately fills with the metallic taste of Karen’s blood. You really need to vomit right fucking now, but he is petting your head with his other hand like someone would do to a dog or a cat, and you sob. Too scared to do anything and here you thought you would finally stop letting people walk all over you. You thought it would start a journey of self-actualization and finding your own priorities, but…

He presses the knife a bit deeper. 

— Someone here has manners. Your friend here was trying to fuck me until she saw a knife. 

Sounds like Karen. You still remember her fucked-out face when she happily stumbled out of your room, with your boyfriend that you thought was never into cheerleaders. She had her urges and it was normal until she started to get off with those urges on everyone who liked you, or who you liked – and with such an innocent smile that no one was ever mad at her. 

He presses the knife against your upper jaw, laying it flat on your tongue – you sob, trying not to shake your head too much as he wipes away your tears and pushes your throat even deeper on the blade. You don’t know how it still hasn’t penetrated you yet. 

— Squealed like a fucking pig, not even fun anymore. I assume she was the whore of your group? 

You shook your shoulders, not wanting to give him any answers. He laughs, pressing the blade down and slightly turning it to the side. You feel the string of saliva running from your open mouth – he wipes it with his finger, leaving blood stains on your face. 

— Clean the knife for me, okay? I might leave you live if you would be good for us. You launch onto the opportunity to save your life so quickly, that you don’t even register the word “us” slipping from his tongue. 

You suck the knife obediently, carefully holding your tongue from the sharp edge so you won’t cut yourself, trying so desperately not to hurt yourself on the blade, that it’s almost adorable, He looks at you, the way you even fucking hollow your cheeks to clean it more efficiently, like you were sucking a cock and, with every passing second, he doesn’t really feel like killing you anymore. 

He feels like keeping you bound to him – maybe cutting your ankles so you would never run away from them, maybe tying you up to the body of your friend and holstering you both to the house, making you watch him gut Karen so you’d know not to run away from them. 

He pets your head like you were a cat – and, god, he always adored cats. 

You hear the noises from the side – your gaze darts to the nearest bushes as the guy waves his hand to someone gigantic sitting down at your side. Two pair of hands are now petting your head like you were a fucking animal – and you’re still sucking on his knife, feeling the pressure on your lips. You want to die, but there is no choice but to keep living. 

— Scheisse, what do you have here? 

A hand goes to cup your face and turns you to the side, to meet the giant, bulky figure fully wrapped in camo gear. His face is concealed with some sort of hood, which makes you shake even more. They both look like soldiers – or soldier-cultist-butchers from a horror movie. But, then again, you are in the fucking horror movie, since the big guy has Karen’s head in his hand, holding her by the hair. You sob even more. 

— Stumbled across me as I was gutting the slut. 

— Is she a smart one then? 

The guy with the knife laughs, yanking the blade from your mouth. You want to close it immediately, but the second guy pushes his finger between your lips, keeping them apart – and you are too scared to even try to bite him. Instead, you sit here, obediently, feeling the alcohol in your system working its magic. Again. Making you drowsy and relaxed, panic drained so much energy from your body, that you genuinely feel horrible. 

— No, wouldn’t say so. Obedient, more like. 

— Not a cool one either. Are you a virgin, Schatz? 

You want to lie, just so you won’t feel so fucking embarrassed because of it – but something in the brutality of what they did to Karen made you reconsider. You just shake your shoulders, not wanting to give a definitive answer. 

— Cute. Been some time since we saw a cute one like this. 

Your sobbing intensifies and the big guy suddenly yanks you on your feet. You immediately feel ill, pressing your head against the tree and emptying your insides – mostly because of the panic and partly because of the amount of alcohol you drank. Their touches are surprisingly soft on your skin, gently removing any stray hairs from your face and holding a firm hand on your back, rubbing the blood and grim into your jacket. 

You stand like this for a few minutes, choking on your own tears, vomit, and blood. They coo at you, gentle hands on your body guiding you towards them just so the second guy – a smaller one, relatively of course – could get a hand in your hair and yank it back. Hard. 

— Calm the fuck down. 

— You’re scaring her, Tigeren. 

— Aren’t we here for this? 

— Thought you liked this one. 

— I do. But…

— But? 

— Not fun to take her just now. She can help stir her friends a little. Make them run a little. 

They fucking killed Karen and they want to…let you go? They made you clean their knives, stand on your knees in front of them, and then gently helped you empty your insides – just to let you go when you could run into the nearest policeman and destroy their whole little game? Are they dumb or overly confident? 

— She could run. I would rather keep her with us. 

— They won’t get out of these forests without phones. And their car is already…shit. Spoilers. 

— Alright. But I would be the first to take her next time. 

— She won’t be any good after you, Ko. 

— Our Kleine Hase has more than one hole, ja? 

This is it. 

You take the opportunity – they are distracted by their little conversation, so you duck under the hand of the bigger man and run in the close direction to where the group is sitting. You are covered in blood, and dirt, you shake like crazy and you can barely even run straight without getting right into the various trees, but you don’t care. You aren’t strong enough to sit here and listen to their conversation – not when the self-preservation makes you forget about Karen. Not when that feeling in your chest can only be described as “She got what she asked for��� – because she was a bitch, but not nearly enough to deserve being beheaded by two psychos. 

They laugh as they watch you run. Horangi smiles, nudging Konig to the side – you’re not a fighter, but still interesting enough. Adorable and obedient, just vile enough to suck on the same knife that killed your friend – interesting mix, to say the least. Hongjin always wanted a cat, but never got the time on the various deployments – and you behave like a perfect mix of a kitten and bunny. 

Konig tilts his head to the side, watching you, this pathetic little thing, run like the devil was after you. He was, of course. and he came in double, but it was still funny, how a city girl like you seriously thought you would be able to get away if they weren’t allowing you to. You’re cute, for a tourist, and he wants to hunt you some more – perfect foreplay before destroying you with either his cock or his knife. 

One down – and both of them couldn’t wait to finally get to you. 

[leidensygdom]

Hasbro's CEO is, once again, expressing interest in using AI at WOTC

Not surprising, but I think his own chit-chat about it (directed at shareholders, of course) is quite the read (derogatory):

"Inside of development, we've already been using AI. It's mostly machine-learning-based AI or proprietary AI as opposed to a ChatGPT approach. We will deploy it significantly and liberally internally as both a knowledge worker aid and as a development aid. I'm probably more excited though about the playful elements of AI. If you look at a typical D&D player....I play with probably 30 or 40 people regularly. There's not a single person who doesn't use AI somehow for either campaign development or character development or story ideas. That's a clear signal that we need to be embracing it. We need to do it carefully, we need to do it responsibly, we need to make sure we pay creators for their work, and we need to make sure we're clear when something is AI-generated. But the themes around using AI to enable user-generated content, using AI to streamline new player introduction, using AI for emergent storytelling, I think you're going to see that not just our hardcore brands like D&D but also multiple of our brands."

This directly fights against WOTC's already very weak claims about not wanting to use AI (after massive backslash from players anytime they had tried to get away with it), and does paint quite the bleak future for DnD and Magic the Gathering. AI usage doesn't really benefit the consumer in any way- It's like a company known for nice homemade cakes trying to tell you that factory made cakes are actually also good and you should be buying them too. The cakes aren't better. You can get those cakes elsewhere. The only person benefiting from factory made cakes is the one selling them, because they're the one saving time and money by making them that way.

But short-term benefits (through firing large portions of their artists and replacing them with AI made slop) outweighs any attempt to maybe get some trust from their already alienated consumers back. I also find it kind of incredibly funny and pathetic how this man claims to play DnD with about 30 to 40 people and "how every single one of them uses AI". I'm not entirely sure this guy is even aware of how DnD groups are usually sized, and how you would not have any physical time to do anything if you somehow played with 40 players on the regular (that'd be about 10 games!)

Anyways, as always, there's nice TTRPGs out there that don't absolutely despise their customer base nor are obsessed with cutting any remains of humanity out of their product to save a few cents. Play Lancer, play Blades in the Dark, play Pathfinder or Starfinder 2e if you want the DnD experience without the bullshit. Plenty of options out there that deserve your money far more than DnD.

[archivistbot]

Hi everyone, long time no see.

It's been a while since my last update here, and I wanted to take a moment to address this project's status and express my heartfelt gratitude to all of you.

As many of you may have noticed, Archivistbot has been inactive for quite some time now. I think it's time for me to officially acknowledge that I likely won't be going back to the project. This decision wasn't easy to make, but several factors have contributed to it. The primary reason was the changes to Google Colab's GPU usage limits, which make it impossible for me to continue training the model unless something changes. Additionally, at the time I'd been facing some profound mental health challenges that impacted my ability to dedicate time and energy to Archivistbot.

This blog was my first foray into alternative storytelling, and it has been an incredible journey. What started as a way to kill time and explore a new technology during the beginning of the widespread availability of LMMs quickly evolved into something much more meaningful. Through this project, I learned about alternative mediums for storytelling and fell deeply, madly in love.

I'm really thankful for the experience and for all of you who supported me throughout this. The friends and the community I found through Archivistbot have meant so much to me.

As I step away from Archivistbot, I want to direct you to a special project by my friend Mia. She's been a long-time fan of the early 2000s supernatural drama TV show Rearview Mirror, and is preparing to begin the endeavor of compiling all scripts and previsualizing material on her website. It's a labour of love and it would mean a lot to me if you checked it out. You can find her blog here.

Thank you all once again for your support, enthusiasm, and friendship throughout this project. It has meant the world to me, and I will always look back on this time with fondness.

I love you all.

-Mod

[solar-sunnyside-up]

I'm really curious about what you think schooling would look like in a Solarpunk world/future!

Because the current public school system is broken af and the homeschool system isn't much better. I personally have looked into things like Sudbury schools and found good things and also issues. I've always been a proponent of the IDEA of Unschooling (which I understand to be, letting the child learn naturally through the world around them, learn reading through reading to them or teaching math and even basic chemistry through teaching them to cook, etc) but it seems like most parents use it as an excuse to not educate their kids...

I really think kids should learn practical things alongside the Academic stuff (three Rs, science, etc) but no system seems right...

Oooh boy! Have I thought about this one endlessly!

So background info that I have to frame where I'm coming from-

A- the current system is built for school>> factory worker pipeline

B) it also evolved from ppl working at factories and needing to put their kiddos somewhere while they worked their 9-5! Thus Sunday school evolved from something to teach basic literacy to a full time job for children (it's legit nearly 40 hour weeks for CHILDREN) so there's a lot of padded time to ensure they meet that quota

C) it's used of a massive scale it was NOT designed to be used at

Soooo!! Let's imagine a better one!

Personally, based on children's development I think schooling should be broken up into focused chunks and then obvi each kiddo should be able to work at their own pace within these chunks of time.

0-6 Motor and sensory skills- introduced to music/shapes/building, "helping" with community chores (laundry/windows/dishes/sweeping), basics of plants/gardens, learning about transportation and basic navigation.

7-10 Written- literacy (reading/printing/telling time/storytelling/etc), health (emotional+physical), basic cooking + tool usage, basics of history/geography, basics of all sciences, gardening more independently

11-13 social + advanced work -- advanced history/science/literacy/home eco/etc.. start working within the community in a vollunteer capacity, Starting to specialize in interests, focuses in philosophy/analysis/debate,

14-20 community and citizenship --greated focus in Philosophy/debate/analysis in addition to apprenticeships of testing out what they'd like to do with their lives

20+ whatever they wanna do! Personally I think our adulthood should start over from 0 here. Bc after you hit 20 your a baby adult, but like a 35yr old is nearly a teenager as should be treated as such! Finding themselves, building community, getting the swing of all that jazz.

Then the WAY this is taught would be with ppl close to the kiddos, neighbors and parents and community leaders would be in charge of these chunks. Much more like a tutor or professor style where each teacher specializes in both the thing their teaching but also the kiddos their raising.

[squash1]

THREES THREES THREES:

Oh hello. I want to talk about the stylistic/textual role of Threes in The Raven Cycle.

Threes – as a general concept and as a number – are a major symbol and motif in the series. Maggie tells us that threes are important from the very first book: from Maura’s favorite saying being “good things come in threes” to Persephone telling Adam that “things are always growing to three or shrinking to three,” threes are discussed at length in the text of the narrative. Maggie also shows us that threes are important as a motif/symbol for important aspects of the story: three Raven Boys, three Fox Way women, three Lynch brothers, three main ley lines, three sleepers, etc. Threes are, textually, incredibly significant in The Raven Cycle, and we know this because we are shown AND told it throughout the entirety of the books. 

We all know the significance that is given to threes in the story itself, but what I want to talk about is the usage of a thrice-repeated word or short phrase (going forward I’m referring to this as “Threes” or “a Three”) as one of Maggie’s writing signatures (across the series, there are 65 Threes). This creates a meta level to threes being an important aspect of The Raven Cycle universe. A classic example of a Three (one of my favorites, in fact) is from The Dream Thieves: 

“As they walked, a sudden rush of wind hurled low across the grass, bringing with it the scent of moving water and rocks hidden in the shadows, and Blue thrilled again and again with the knowledge that magic was real, magic was real, magic was real.” (TDT, 12)

In a way, the Threes join the intradiegetic (what is happening within the narrative itself) with the extradiegetic (what the narration is communicating solely to the reader). The reader and characters are told explicitly that the number three is significant, important, notable, and powerful. In using Threes as a writing signature after giving the reader that information, the Threes are designed to signal to the reader that this line, this moment, is important.    

So the question is: What Are The Threes Trying to Tell the Reader??? 

Amazing question. 

In my recent TRC reread, I was already keeping track of Threes, because I was curious to see how many times they appeared. And then my sister, who was also rereading, said something interesting (after reading this Three from The Raven Boys):  

“He was full of so many wants, too many to prioritize, and so they all felt desperate. To not have to work so many hours, to get into a good college, to look right in a tie, to not still be hungry after eating the thin sandwich he’d brought to work, to drive the shiny Audi that Gansey had stopped to look at with him once after school, to go home, to have hit his father himself, to own an apartment with granite countertops and a television bigger than Gansey’s desk, to belong somewhere, to go home, to go home, to go home.” (TRB, 370)

My sister said: “Adam’s like Dorothy.” And then she said: “Wait. Do you think the Threes are like a spell? Or… a wish?”

Which was……. Interesting. 

What I have determined, after completing my reread and spending way too much time analyzing this, is that a Three is either a wish, a hope, a longing, a prayer – or, alternately, a warning, a curse, a negative promise. 

In either sense, Threes are a foreshadowing of what is to come – whether it be good or bad. Threes exist to signal to the reader that they should be paying close attention to whatever is being said or observed.

Threes in….. Everything Else: 

Before we get too far into TRC Threes, let’s talk about the precedent for three being an important number in art, math, storytelling, etc. I found some interesting information about how three is a satisfying number for the brain: 

Grouping things in threes leverages the power of repetition to aid memory; denote emotional intensity or importance; and ease persuasion (research by Shu & Carlson (2014) found that three positive claims is the most effective for persuasion).

Three is the smallest number that the brain can still recognize as a pattern, and the brain loves pattern and repetition. This is true in visual art – having three main compositional figures to create a pleasing image – and also in storytelling and narrative. Using threes for repetition in storytelling is a very common occurrence. 

Some classic examples of repetitive threes are Shakespeare’s “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” or Lincoln's “a government of the people, by the people, for the people.” In each of these examples, a repetition of three is used to create pleasing auditory rhythm. There is something inherently memorable about literary Threes. 

Perhaps the most interesting information I found while digging into the precedent for threes is about the rule of threes in folktales. This information happens to come from Wikipedia (side note: Wikipedia is a modern tool of collective consciousness and we should utilize it more). This page describes how in its most basic form, the rule of threes in storytelling is just beginning, middle, and end. Because this is such a common convention, writers tend to “create triplets or structures in three parts.” It then talks more directly about the use of threes in folktales: 

“Vladimir Propp in his Morphology of the Folk Tale, concluded that any of the elements in a folktale could be negated twice so that it would repeat thrice.”

This is especially interesting to me. The idea that an element of a folktale “could be negated twice so that it would repeat thrice” shows up prominently in the plot of The Raven Cycle – a book that is heavily influenced by folktale motifs – but also in so many of the folktales/fairytales we all know. A classic example of this would be Goldilocks and the Three Bears – Goldilocks must try porridge that is too hot, too cold, and then, finally, just right. The journey of these three actions is satisfying to the brain because it is a complete pattern: the third and final result of “just right” porridge is only satisfying because of the two “not right” porridges that preceded it. 

Getting back to Stiefvater Threes:

For anyone who’s seen The West Wing (and even those who haven’t), here’s a good way to explain what I think the Threes are doing. You know that thing they do during a The West Wing “walk and talk” where two characters will be throwing information and little quips back and forth at each other rapid-fire, and then suddenly, they will both stop walking, and the camera will stop moving, and they’ll say a line that contains really important information that you need to know to understand the storyline of that episode? That’s what Maggie’s Threes are doing for the reader. That’s what 6:21 is doing for the characters. It’s intentional: the writers/directors/actors/camera operators on The West Wing know that they’re throwing a lot of information at you, and know that they need to get you to pay attention to the most important parts somehow, so they do it by forcing the viewer to lean in and listen. It changes the focus and energy of the scene from something with momentum to something that pauses, and therefore makes you pause. 

The Threes compel the reader to pause and consider the information being delivered as more important than they might consider it if it was not written as a Three. “Maura’s expression was dark” does not read the same as “Maura’s expression was dark, dark, dark.” And in a text where characters directly state the magical importance of threes, compounded by three as an overarching motif, there is clear intention and meaning behind these written Threes.

In the context of TRC, Threes act as a fourth-wall break.

They are essentially a way to poke the reader and say: “Are you paying attention? Because you should be.” 

These Threes use a symbolic motif – the rule of three – that is already heavily discussed in the text – to get the reader to pick up on the internal motivations of the character who is “wishing” their Three or the narration which is using a Three to foreshadow some important aspect of the plot. 

The Threes are like the literary equivalent of a record scratch. It stops you in your tracks, breaking the established rhythm and making you take notice of what is being said in a new way. 

Let’s Look at Some More Threes (but just a few don’t worry)!

1. We get a classic Three, and a very Gansey Three, right after the group comes out of Cabeswater: 

“‘What about that thing in the tree?’ Blue asked. ‘Was that a hallucination? A dream?’ 

Glendower. It was Glendower. Glendower. Glendower” (TRB, 231).

Finding Glendower is one of Gansey’s core wishes, one of his core longings. Although this line is a literal answer to Blue’s question – he saw Glendower in the tree – in making it a Three, Maggie has given it added weight and meaning. It is prayer-like in its intention. It is almost an incantation: by saying it in Three, Gansey wishes it into being.

2. In The Raven Boys, after Gansey has bribed Pinter to keep Ronan at Aglionby and has learned that Noah has been dead the whole time they’ve known him, we are given this Three: 

“The Pig exploded off the line. Damn Ronan. Gansey punched his way through the gears, fast, fast, fast” (TRB, 311). 

This moment foreshadows what directly follows: a distinct lack of fast as the Camaro breaks down and Gansey is held at gunpoint by Whelk. This Three is not a prayer, but a warning, and an indicator to the reader that something important is about to happen. Had Gansey not been trying to go so “fast fast fast,” the car might not have broken down; because the Three incanted it, disaster follows. 

3. To return to a Three I have already mentioned, but follows the typical Three structure: 

“...to go home, to go home, to go home” (TRB, 370). 

In this scene, Adam’s wish is less about actually wanting to return to his literal home, because his house was never really a home for him. Adam’s wish/longing is for a home that he could return to, that he would want to return to. He is longing for a place/feeling/experience that does not exist for him. The Three in this sentence comes after a string of active wishes/longings, and by ending with this Three, it casts a spell of sorts, honing in on the truest underlying wish that Adam has. In using the phrase “to go home” three times, the narrative is making sure you, the reader, know that this want, this need, this wish, is the most Important to Adam, and will drive his actions for the rest of his story. 

Most of the Threes feel like this. They are often tacked on at the end of a sentence or embedded in a sentence. They’re an addendum to the action of the story. They’re like casting a spell – once to manifest, twice to charge, three to cast. 

…..And Some Other Types of Threes:

Then there are the Threes that don't follow the typical pattern of the same word repeated three times one right after the other, but are still a Three in a different way.

There are short phrases/sentences that are repeated three times throughout a page or chapter. In the prologue of The Raven King, we get this: 

“He was a king…

He was a king…

He was a king.

This was the year he was going to die.” (TRK, 1-3)

In this case, the Three acts as a promise of Gansey’s kinghood, but in ending the sequence with “this was the year he was going to die,” the promise of the three is given a condition: it is not going to be a joyful kinghood, but instead a kinghood intertwined with the death we’ve known is fated for Gansey.

One of Adam’s Threes from Blue Lily, Lily Blue, uniquely breaks the mold of Threes in a format that does not appear anywhere else in the four books: 

“It was his father. 

He opened the door. 

It was his father. 

He opened the door. 

It was his father” (BLLB, 242).

❋ (We’ll talk about this one more in-depth later.)

There are also a few “unfinished” Threes: 

In The Raven King when Ronan is having a nightmare (infected by the demon) about Matthew and the mask, he has this Three: 

“Ronan’s throat was raw. I’ll do anything! I’ll do anything! I’ll do anythi 

It was unmaking everything Ronan loved. 

Please” (TRK, 96). 

With the uncompleted Three, there is an uncast wish. Ronan’s wish is about Matthew, yes of course, but also about being willing to do anything to keep those he loves (ie. Adam, Gansey, Blue, his brothers) out of the reach of the “unmaking.” This unfinished Three serves to foreshadow the harm that does ultimately befall first Adam and then Gansey as a result of the unmaking of Cabeswater by the demon: without the Three spell completed, his wish is not fulfilled.

*This is Not all the uncommon/mold-breaking Threes, just a few that are interesting!

Do All Threes Come to Fruition???

The short answer is: No. Or at least not in that way. 

Once again looking at the text of The Raven Cycle, we are given an answer of sorts. In discussing Gansey’s predicted death, Maura says:

“First of all, the corpse road is a promise, not a guarantee” (TRB, 155).

This seems to apply to Threes as well. Threes are not a guarantee. They are a promise. Not all Threes come to fruition the way one might expect – or at all, for that matter. The important part of Threes is not that they will definitely come true, it’s that they could come true, because the Three gives them the potential to come true. 

Structure, Structure, Structure:

The main Threes structures are:

Three of the same word separated by commas: 

“magic, magic, magic” (TRK, 59).

A short phrase/sentence separated by periods:

“My father. My father. My father” (TDT, 369).

A short sentence that is repeated three times throughout a page/paragraph:

“Gansey did not breathe…

Gansey did not breathe…

Gansey did not breathe” (TRK, 209).

A word that is repeated three times and is connected by “and”:

“Round and round and round!” (BLLB, 224)

Italics vs. Non Italics:

Italics in The Raven Cycle are often used for character’s inner thoughts/anxieties. This continues to be true in the context of Threes. A Three that is not written in italics indicates a promise, or some foreshadowing of a plot point being foretold through the Three – it is typically more “real” – whereas a Three that is written in Italics seems to indicate a wish/hope/longing that is unattainable in some way. Italics almost always indicate a Three that may never come to fruition, or at least not in the way the character hopes it will. 

An example of this distinction can be found in chapter three (hah) (I don’t believe in coincidences and neither does Gansey) of The Raven King: 

First we are met with Ronan wishing/hoping to return home:

“That morning, Ronan Lynch had woken early, without any alarm, thinking home, home, home” (TRK, 24). 

This home, home, home, is in reference to the idea of home rather than the reality. Ronan is wishing to return to a home that does exist physically, but is not the same as in his memory – he wants to be at the Barns as it was in his childhood. 

Then, in the very same chapter, Ronan actually returns home and we are given this Three: 

“Slowly his memories of before — everything this place had been to him when it had held the entire Lynch family — were being overlapped with memories and hopes of after — every minute that the Barns had been his, all of the time he’d spent here alone or with Adam, dreaming and scheming. 

Home, home, home” (TRK, 27).

This second home, home, home, is about the actual reality of being in his childhood home – the good and bad that has existed in the years since the childhood he longs for. 

The Addition of AND:

The most notable use of “and” is in Noah’s very last chapter:

“Sometimes he got caught in this moment instead. Gansey’s death. Watching Gansey die, again and again and again” (TRK, 416).

When “and” is added into a Three, it becomes circular, cyclical. The ��and” gives the Three a sense of infinity, or creates a loop of sorts. 

This Three operates in the same way “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” does in Macbeth – it is meant to convey the endlessness of time, a relentless cycle of tomorrows.

❋ While there are not many of these Threes with “ands” in The Raven Cycle, there are other examples of Threes or Three-like occurrences that fulfill the same purpose as the “and.” For example, remember this Three:

“It was his father. 

He opened the door. 

It was his father. 

He opened the door. 

It was his father.” (BLLB, 242).

In this case, instead of the word “and,” the Three (It was his father) is connected by “he opened the door.” This Three is accomplishing the same feeling as “again and again and again” – the feeling of being caught in an endless loop. 

Another example of an (implied) “and” in The Raven Cycle is: Gansey’s life. Gansey starts out alive and then dies as a child only to be reborn, and then killed again through his sacrifice, and then reborn for a final time. Gansey is Alive, Dead, Alive, Dead, Alive. And so Gansey’s life is a cycle of Three.

As with the Threes that contain “and,” Gansey starts where he ends: alive. 

Other Ways Threes Show up in The Raven Cycle:   

I will state the obvious once again: there are three Raven Boys, three Lynch brothers, three Fox Way women, three sleepers, three main ley lines (the lines that “seem to matter” to Glendower’s story), Gansey the Third (Gansey Three, Dick Three). 

There are also the more obscure: the “three kinds of secrets” in The Dream Thieves prologue and epilogue; each Lynch brother inheriting three million dollars from Niall Lynch; the three figures with Blue’s face on the tapestry and later as a vision in Cabeswater; Adam and Gansey going to DC for three days; the shield pulled from the lake having three ravens embossed onto it; Ronan having dreamt Matthew at the age of three; the door to the Demon’s room needing “three to open” it; Aurora Lynch staying awake for three days after Niall died. 

And of course, we have the ley line symbol/chapter header:

And then there are the 300 (three hundred!) Fox Way “villain” readings. (This was something that was particularly interesting to me.)

The first antagonist we meet is Whelk. When he comes for a reading at 300 Fox Way, he first pulls the Three of Swords. 

When the women all draw cards together, they pull identical cards for Whelk: three of the Knight of Pentacles, then three of the Page of Cups. After drawing, essentially, three threes (the Three of Swords, then two sets of three matching cards) in this reading, the first Three of the entire series appears: 

“Maura’s expression was dark, dark, dark” (TRB, 124). 

The second “antagonist” we meet is the Gray Man, who comes to 300 Fox Way in The Dream Thieves to “observe.” Maura, Calla, and Persephone are predicting which card is on the top and bottom of the stack and the first card, predicted by Calla, is the Three of Cups off the top of the deck that Mr. Gray is holding (a remarkably happy card in stark contrast to Whelk’s Three of Swords). 

When the third antagonist, Greenmantle, comes for his 300 Fox Way Reading he also draws the Three of Swords. The fact that each of the three antagonists come for a reading is in itself a sort of Three, but to further the importance of these moments, each of them draws some sort of three-related card. 

All of the examples I have touched on have been more symbolic references to Three as a motif of the books as a whole. However, Threes also show up in the literal number of times important quotes are said/written. 

I was tracking some of the most well-loved TRC lines to compile them, and noticed that the lines “don’t throw it away” and “safe as life” happen to appear exactly three times throughout the series. This was honestly pretty surprising based on the importance of those quotes – I would have assumed they showed up far more. Actually, they both appear twice in The Raven Boys and once in The Raven King. Threes, and the importance of Threes, is embedded so strongly into the narrative of The Raven Cycle that even the quotes we all think of as the most beloved of the series follow this rule of Threes. 

Now, could you chalk some of these up to coincidence? I guess. But Gansey doesn’t believe in coincidences so I don’t either. So what’s the point of all these Threes?

Conclusion???

In a literal, literary way, Threes are a fourth wall break to make the importance of a moment obvious, but I’m not sure what the larger “point” of Threes is. My best analysis comes from the idea of The Raven Cycle being all about time and Threes playing into the importance of time as a sort of record scratch or loop. The Threes, as a stylistic, written motif, seem to connect the time-based cycle the characters experience to the time-based cycles the reader experiences by reading the books. 

But my conclusion feels incomplete and so I would like to rely on the collective for this one – just about the most Raven Cycle thing you can do. So I’m asking you, the collective you, what conclusion would you draw? What do you think? 

What I do know for sure is that Threes are magic, magic, magic.

For Your Convenience: Here is the textual significance given to threes within the books (chronologically): 

And here are the Threes, Threes, Threes (compiled):

(If you made it to the end of all this, I love you. Have a gold star and a hug <3)

[pen-and-umbra]

Ever Crisis's intriguing development could have far-reaching consequences for the Remake's finale. With it, the circulating theory about Sephiroth assuming a new role just got a boost.

I had suspicions that Ever Crisis was being clever with its storytelling. This was the first scene that caught my attention.

Glenn's team briefly touches upon how secrets as well as childhood memories end up in the Lifestream. The focus on Sephiroth's adolescence in the title makes this detail quite telling.

In later chapters, Sephiroth's cherished necklace, holding a picture of his mother, is also cast into the Lifestream. In a possibly related context, Lifestream Black indicates that OG Jenovaroth discarded his human memories, including those of childhood and friends, to retain independence in the Lifestream and prevent assimilation by the Planet. By discarding these additional memories and linking himself to Cloud, he furthered his agenda in Advent Children. These memories also make their way into the Lifestream.

Previously, the relationship between these tidbits and EoC!Sephiroth was speculative.

Players have observed stark contrast in Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation: his livelier expressions and defensive fighting style against Cloud, reminiscent of past battles with Angeal and Genesis in the VR simulator. Notably, the distinction in pronoun usage was emphasized: masculine 'ore' instead of Jenovaroth's gender-neutral 'watashi,' reflecting the symbiotic relationship between post-Nibelheim Sephiroth's body and Jenova cells that Jenovaroth fixes his lower body with. Drawing from these observations, some fans have theorized that EoC!Sephiroth showed a stronger connection to his human side. With Ever Crisis' latest chapter, that inference is no longer theoretical. Sephiroth at the Edge of Creation mysteriously possesses human memories.

Now, Edge of Creation can be thought of as a smaller-scale pocket dimension, akin to Destiny's Crossroads. Fascinatingly enough, its emergence is accompanied by colorful glow effects, not too unlike the effects of branching universes introduced in FFVII Rebirth.

It appears to be stranded between two universes, as represented by the two separate nebulae in the backdrop. According to developers (courtesy to aitaikimochi translated Ultimania bits), one of them alludes to Sephiroth's winged appearance and was intended to evoke imagery of his menacing presence. I can only imagine it referred to his Safer Sephiroth form.

The red one, on the other hand, displays some parallels to Jenova's monstrous appearance (courtesy to u/nzivvo pointing that out). Thus, EoC! Sephiroth is stuck between “Sephiroth's menacing presence” and “Jenova” figuratively.

And yet, EoC!Sephiroth indicates a desire NOT to vanish/end [presumably as a result of worlds merging?]. As he does so, he glances at "Sephiroth's menacing presence" nebula

So who is EoC!Sephiroth? Various interpretations align with the newly introduced lore. It could be Sephiroth who regained his human senses sometime down the line — a singularity-like dimension appears to exist beyond time-space and is connected to all points in time, just like Destiny's Crossroads. It could be a fragment of his spirit—his human memories, hopes and dreams creating an 'alternate world' within the Lifestream. It could be Sephiroth from some other “world”—perhaps, a timeline where he never went insane and never took a dive at Nibelheim. At any rate, he seems to be trapped in that bubble dimension, which is also destined to disappear [become part of another world] one day, a fate he seemingly opposes. Interestingly, in Aerith's "dream world," it is revealed that she was hiding in one of the worlds that was purportedly "ending" or "embracing its fate [to be merged/vanish]”.

Such circumstances share uncanny similarity to the ones EoC!Sephiroth is facing. Therefore, it's possible that EoC! Sephiroth isn't sealed/trapped by external force per se, but is concealing his presence. For what purpose? That remains to be seen. Peculiarly, FFVII Remake Ultimania provides different entries for Sephiroth we encounter at the end of Midgar’s highway and Sephiroth we talk to at the Edge of Creation.

Moving on. From a storytelling standpoint, it's deliberate that at the Edge of Creation he contemplates his journey to becoming who he is, what values he held and at what cost. His monologue about the cycle of hatred is particularly memorable.

Not only does the scene emphasize his caution when it comes to violence that he ostensibly came to develop after being part of Glenn's team, but also his lack of enthusiasm for it. Notably, he offers the enemy soldiers to stand down, not resorting to combat from the get-go. The monologue further conveys the desire to end the cycle of hatred.

So maybe asking Cloud to lend him strength wasn't a ploy or a trick after all, if EoC!Sephiroth is a being entirely distinct from Jenovaroth, one that remembers that once upon a time he strove to end the cycle of hatred and vengeance.

👋 @pen-and-umbra

[writingwithfolklore]

5 Writing Rules I Like to Break

                Listen, I am firmly of the belief that writing doesn’t have rules. There’s no one way to do it—no one schedule or technique or tip that’s going to work for everyone and produce perfect narratives. Which is a good thing! I think if we all had to write exactly the same way, our stories would end up looking very similar.

                So while in general I tend to say throw out any and all rules (and yes, even including the advice I give on this blog if you so desire), here’s 5 common writing rules I specifically and intentionally break, and why:

1. Write what you know

I already talked all about how I tend to ignore this advice here if you’re interested. The TLDR version of it is that you can absolutely write things beyond your scope of knowledge (in fact, I’d guess that’s where the majority of fiction comes from) as long as you write it genuinely—this rule should be instead ‘write what you feel’.

2. Don’t edit as you write

Booo!! Okay maybe it works for some of you—if so, by all means continue (this applies to all the rules I’m about to mention, so just keep that in mind). Editing as I go is how I get back into the swing of things in a new writing session, and also allows me to try a scene a few different times to get the most I can out of it. I tend to believe that words are words even if they’re edited, rewritten, or even deleted.

If your goal is to finish your project as fast as possible, I imagine going back to edit before you’re finished your draft might slow you down. However, I also imagine editing as you go might save you an entire draft. Whatever works for you here is what you should do, but I personally love to edit as I write.

3. Avoid ‘said’

At least I think a lot of you guys are with me when I say that ‘said’ is sometimes just the best word to use. Using lots of descriptive words like, ‘yelled’, ‘begged’, ‘exclaimed’ can be distracting. When the dialogue speaks for itself, the ‘said’ disappears into the background of the scene, while necessary for grammar, it’s a formality for the actual storytelling. As well, I like to experiment with said by adding a descriptor afterwards. ‘Said quietly’ ‘said through a laugh’ ‘said without taking a breath’ etc.

4. Avoid adverbs

Here’s what I’ll say about word usage in general, as long as you pick your words with thought and care, you may use whatever words you want. Words have different specific connotations, and not always will avoiding the adverb have the same impact. For example, changing “he laughed lightly” to “he giggled.” We may have removed the adverb ‘lightly’, but ‘giggled’ holds a completely different connotation. It evokes a sort of immaturity, not unlike the ‘schoolgirl’ stereotype. If we don’t want that connotation, in this case, laughed lightly may be better.

                So don’t count out adverbs for the sake of it. As long as you’re choosing your words with intention and you understand the meaning behind them, you can experiment with a world of adverbs!

5. Never use passive voice

This one I didn’t realize was important to break until quite recently. We tend to be taught that passive voice automatically equals bad and I’m here to tell you that isn’t true. Passive voice should equal focus on action. Active voice equals focus on character. There may be certain sentences in which focusing on either the character or the action is more beneficial.

For example, “the alarm was pulled by Alice” (passive) kind of sounds clunky and wrong, whereas “Alice pulled the alarm” (active) is much more effective.

BUT “Alice was dragged out of the way” (passive) focuses on the action of Alice being dragged, rather than “Something dragged Alice out of the way” (active) focuses on the something that is doing the dragging, which in a moment of action, may take away from the pacing.

As long as you choose your voice with intention, both passive and active voice can be used to create strong, effective sentences.

                What are some typical writing rules you tend to ignore?

[vulgar-mary-p-ppins]

A glorious and stunning movie, well worth going to see. Miyazaki has not shied away from talking about the war before: The Wind Rises, albeit at it’s core a love story is still about the problem of creating the kamikaze planes and how life continues even in war time. As Miyazaki’s work has matured and his son has taken over more and more of the production, I find that his stories have become darker and his story-lines more complex. As such, I am delighted to see him make something so unsettling and mature as a (extremely loose) Dante’s Inferno. This is a far, far, FAR cry from something like Kiki and Totoro.

The details in which the shadow of the ongoing Pacific War color this film lend to Miyazaki’s style of talking about calamity in the softest way possible. Barring the opening sequence in which the main character witnesses the firebombing in Tokyo, there is no other “war violence”. However, at one point, his father stores something his factory is making in their house: the cockpits of the kamikaze planes. A character in the other world mentions off hand “soon, your world will be enveloped in fire”, which is clearly in reference to the bomb. Background details show wartime propaganda posters, nationalistic symbols, and children and adults performing the volunteer work usual for late stage war time. Much like Nausicaä, these are all details of the setting and are almost never overtly mentioned or pointed out.

This is a story about grief, just as Dante’s Inferno is, but also about the processing of war time trauma by a country besieged. Mihito, the main character, means “sincere one” and, when looking at this piece through the understanding that many Japanese perceive themselves as victims of World War II, he is a symbol of the victim mind-set of Japanese war time. He takes things as they come, never having a strong reaction either way. He isn’t bitter or angry, neither is he sad or grieving. He is numb. He goes through the motions of politeness, the motions of nationalistic fervor, the motions of life; but he is numb. It is only when the promise of retrieving his mother from death comes to him that he begins to break through his numbness, but it is the retrieval of his aunt that makes him a little boy again — a symbol of processing the loss of his old way of life, pre-war Japan, by embracing the new, post-war Japan.

I need to do more research into the symbolism of particular birds, because the usage feels too specific for me, but frankly, I haven’t yet. I loved the movie. I can’t wait to watch it again. Its a movie about sitting with your emotions, however, so, much like Miyazaki’s other more mature works, it is almost painfully slow. But that is what makes him a master storyteller; as an artist he reminds us to sit down and wait. The world is too fast now, and he has stated in interviews that his works is supposed to instill nostalgia for a time when we were younger and the world wasn’t so fast nor demanding. He wants us to sit: with the whimsical, with the painful, with the romantic, and in this case with the unsettling. And he does it again.

[devdirt]

Hollow Knight vs. Vivziepop character design language

I know it's kind of a wildcard comparison but Vivziepop is a fan of Hollow Knight and its designs. I wanted to explore how shape language, color usage and storytelling in design are used in both properties.

NPC designs do a great job at telling you the character's personality or occupation without being overly detailed. One well placed trait does wonders, like Cornifer with his bundles of maps or Tuk and her hoarding, scrap salvaging hobbies. Paired with the world it tells two people doing their best to survive their dying realm, one by mapping out the twists and turns and the other by scraping up whatever she can find from abandoned civilization.

Now when we look at visual storytelling in Hazbin there are some good details! Alastor's outfit design and trademark microphone give you old timey host vibes right away. Niffty (my angel) sports a poodle skirt, kerchief around her neck and apron, also telling you her occupation and time period she's likely from. Everyone in this show has a big toothy grin but hers plays well into her hyperactive and always happy personality.

But there are also really poor moments of character storytelling. Everything about Beelzebub has already been said. She doesn't read as gluttony, she doesn't read as a bee, and she doesn't read as an animal tamer. When I look at her I see every other wolf character Viv has ever done. If Jayjay is party wolf and Loona is goth wolf then Beelzebub is lava lamp wolf.

The sins are mostly misses for me. They don't read as their sins or their circus related occupations. Asmodeus has fire powers but doesn't read as fire spinner. Mammon doesn't give off greed at ALL but the jester look works (which is also wrong because he's a CLOWN apparently, not a jester.) And don't get me started on this one.

This is not Lucifer.

Nothing about this reads angel, devil or even pride. This design goes all in on the ringmaster design, which is great for the circus theme! But the apple on the hat is the closest we get to this being Lucifer. I didn't even notice the snake on his hat because it looks like a worm for the apple, and they both cover the crown.

Add a second apple on the cane. Okay, so we know for sure this is supposed to be Lucifer but...why? It's another Beelzebub moment where you're left wondering why the design went in this direction. "Apple" shouldn't be the only giveaway here for the most important man in the world these stories are being told in.

Now let's see the celestial leader of Hollow Knight.

That is a god.

Removing all story context, this is incredibly quick to read. Large wings, all white, glowing yellow eyes and a crown. It looks celestial and it doesn't even need color, which is the point!

Now lets view them both within their stories. Is there visual storytelling when compared to other characters and the world around then?

Hollownest is a dark world where every character is dully colored. The Radiance and her power stick out with a glow, juxtaposing themselves with the dark as the light.

Lucifer does not look any different than most of the Hazbin cast. He has all the red, the same sharp toothed grin, the same body type as 90% of the cast of both Hazbin and Helluva Boss. If you lined him up with everyone else somebody like Asmodeus would be chosen as the obvious leader of Hell with his stature and power in the design alone.

Simplicity can tell an entire story while overextending your designs can muddy it.

Hollow Knight relies on few details and minimal storytelling yet it weaves a tale of an usurped kingdom and a god fighting for revenge. You are void, the world is dull, and god is bright and beautiful and terrifying to your way of life.

Vivziepop wants to weave a complex tale but utterly fails to do so with her designs. I purposely did not bring up Cherri Bomb, Sir Pentious or Stolas' designs since they have elements that were taken from other people and properties. I wanted to focus on what she made with her own hands, and when I narrow it down I do not see the story being told or even what side some characters are supposed to be on. Adam and the exterminators look the same as any demon. The leaders of Hell mostly sink into the ocean of overdone details. When everybody is trying so hard to stand out nobody stands out.

[trollprincess]

Okay, so. “The Apprentice.”

Before we go in, if you’re going to watch this film, keep in mind trigger warnings for marital rape and racial, religious, and homophobic slurs.

Now, I would cut for spoilers, but I feel like at this point we should all know enough about Trump’s past that none of this is a spoiler. It’s a bit like saying “The boat sinks” about “Titanic.” Well, yes, it does, but the devil’s in the details.

Anyway. The movie focuses on a younger Trump’s mentorship under attorney, known scumbag, and gay-but-let’s-pretend-he’s-not Roy Cohn. (Let’s put it this way. If he’d died now instead of ‘86, the “I didn’t know the leopards would eat my face” song would be playing over celebratory TikToks.) Cohn proceeds to mold him into the douchebag we all know and loathe, and ends up getting bitten in the process. (Just as a note, this prompted me to get a Cohn biography so I could beef up on just how awful he was in even more detail than I already know.)

The film itself is very well-made. There are choices in terms of camera usage (making it look more 70s and 80s), storytelling, foreshadowing current events, etc., that are very well done. At the beginning, you almost have a smidge of sympathy for Trump, although it’s a HUGE almost. (It’s clear he was raised by a dick and wants to be like said dick, when maybe he would have been better off if his father croaked when he was little and his mother had all the control over his raising and that of his siblings.) Like, there is a *hint* that he might be redeemable if the right person got their hands on him. Instead, it’s Roy Cohn, and we have the six-foot pile of chinchilla diarrhea we have now.

So here’s the thing. I think anybody who heard Jeremy Strong was cast as Cohn thought, “Now that’s perfect casting.” And it is! He looks like him, he sounds like him, he plays him as manipulative sewer sludge. I will be incredibly surprised if he doesn’t get an Oscar nomination for best supporting actor. Every time he’s on screen, you’re drawn to him. He’s a monster, but a monster you want to keep your eyes on, either to see what he pulls next or to see if he finally gets what he fucking deserves.

But you know what was a delightful surprise? Sebastian Stan as Donald Trump. No, I’m not kidding. I mean, no, Trump is not delightful, but I know a lot of people were like, “Aw, SebStan as Trump? Come on.” The thing is, he’s *good*. Obviously, Trump in 2024 is an absolute cartoon of a human being, but all those tics and vocabulary choices and style choices came over time. The Trump at the beginning of the movie is a sliver of what he is now. You can see him if you squint, but you’re still working on SebStan in a bad wig. By the end of the movie, though? He IS Trump in the late 80s. He moves like him, speaks like him, brags like him. It’s as if the current Trump is him turned up to eleven, and SebStan at the end of the movie is him at about five tilting toward six. The last scene is him speaking to the ghost writer of “Art of the Deal,” and you can see Marla Maples-era Trump *right there.* It’s not a comic impression, it is a very real and respectable performance.

I feel like I should also mention that Maria Bakalova portrays an empathetic Ivana, especially given the mentioned rape scene and the moment when she shows Cohn something approaching real sympathy. I think she may be overshadowed in terms of awards by Strong and Stan, but she does a commendable turn as the first of the three wives Trump bulldozes through as his desires change with the wind.

It’s entirely unsurprising that the Trump campaign wouldn’t want this movie released. I mean, for starters, the marital rape scene is horrific and upsetting. But I think they should also be worried about just how much Trump seems to lift wholesale from other people without attribution - Cohn’s rules for life, Reagan’s campaign slogan - not to mention Cohn repeatedly getting him out of shit that should make any average American enraged. Why in God’s name would you support someone who got out of federal discrimination charges and $160 million in taxes for building a hotel using Cohn’s expertise with blackmail?

Of course, that requires the entire movie to be true, and … well, even the most historically accurate movies have their flaws. The problem here is that the people who worship him aren’t going to believe anything bad about him, and the people who wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire are bound to feel that even if something isn’t true, it *sounds* like something he’d do. So fact-checking “The Apprentice” is like fact-checking Cocomelon. Your toddler doesn’t care as long as you give them the damn iPad. But at least with Cocomelon, if you just give them the iPad and walk away with your hands up in defeat, your toddler is probably not going to threaten to set the house on fire because Cocomelon told them to.

So yes, anyway, an excellent movie. I hope someone else is president when it gets nominated for Academy Awards because Jesus fucking Christ.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Overuse of I/Me/My in First-Person

Anonymous asked: I'm writing a first-person POV story and am growing a bit tired of everything repeating "I raised MY sword" "I glanced down to MY right" etc… I'm annoyed by how much 'I', ''my', 'me' gets pushed into my sentences everytime I describe my MC doing something. I try to rearrange the sentences but it ends up the same "with MY sword raised, I will… blah blah blah." I feel like I overuse the POV stuff, but if I don't, everything muddles into confusion on whose stuff I'm talking about. Any help appreciated. Thank you!

(Ask edited for length...)

There are three things to consider when you feel like you're overusing I/me/my in first-person POV.

#1 - Pronouns and adjectives of possession (his/her/my/their/its) are just a part of telling stories. I think we tend to be more aware of first-person words than third-person words, if for no other reason than we're talking about ourselves when we use them in life. However, they're a necessary part of storytelling regardless of which POV you're using.

Consider this random paragraph from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon:

Drowsy as I was, I wanted nothing more than to curl up under a cozy bush and go back to sleep. There wasn't room for that, though, so I continued to stand, peering down the steep path in search of oncoming Druids. I was getting a crick in my back, and my feet ached, but it couldn't take long; the streak of light in the east had turned a pale pink, and I supposed it was less than an hour 'til dawn.

In this 82-word paragraph, the first-person pronoun "I" appears five times, and the adjective of possession "my" appears twice.

So, to some degree you have to really think about whether you're actually overusing these first-person words or whether you're just more aware/over-sensitive to their use.

#2 - You could be over describing your character's actions. When writing in first-person in particular, it can be tempting to describe every movement your character makes, resulting in a sort of "laundry list" of actions that requires a lot of I/me/my usage. For example:

I opened my eyes as my alarm went off. I hit the snooze button, but then I realized I needed to get up. I sat up and stretched my arms, then I swung my legs over the side of the bed and put my feet on the cold floor. I slid my feet into my slippers and stood myself up, and then I shuffled across the room to the bathroom. I opened the bathroom door...

I opened my eyes. I hit the snooze button. I realized I needed to get up. I sat up. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I slid my feet into my slippers. I shuffled across the room. I opened the bathroom door. It's way too much detail. Your readers don't need a blow-by-blow of every second. It's sufficient to say:

I hit the snooze button through bleary eyes, quickly realizing I needed to get up. Sliding my feet into my slippers, I shuffled across the room to the bathroom for a quick shower.

See how much better that is? Your reader understands how to get out of bed, so you don't have to describe swinging your legs over the side of the bed unless that's important for some reason. Your reader can fill in the smaller movements between bigger ones, so it's not necessary to describe every small action.

Per your example, "I raised my sword" is a pretty necessary use of "I" if it's important that your character raised their sword. However, "I glanced to my right"

#3 - You're overusing filter words. Words like realized, knew, felt, saw, watched, heard, looked, glanced, remembered, decided, spotted, noticed, thought, noted... are called "filter" words because they come between the character's experience and the action unnecessarily, like a filter.

-- I realized it was getting dark out ... It was getting dark out -- I knew it was getting late ... It was getting late -- I felt the icy floor under my feet ... The floor was icy under my feet -- I saw the sun was starting to set ... The sun was starting to set -- I watched a bird land on the branch ... A bird landed on the branch -- I heard the wind rustling the leaves ... The wind rustled the leaves -- I looked and saw it was 4pm ... It was 4pm -- I glanced down and saw rocks below ... There were rocks below

You get the point. :) By eliminating filter words, you will eliminate a lot of the necessity for the use of I/me/my.

#4 - You're over-tagging dialogue. Even if your character is alone through much of the story, or even if they're only talking to themselves or one other character at a time, over-tagging dialogue can still be an issue. You can read my post Avoiding Repetition with Dialogue Tags to help with that. I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

LEARN MORE about WQA

VISIT MY Master List of Top Posts

COFFEE & COMMISSIONS ko-fi.com/wqa

[cosmicmordecai]

Im not understanding the nonsense surrounding Yord and i actually went out of my way to not look at anything related to Acolyte until it came out.

SPOILERS under the cut

i’m

“ Im distrustful of the dude that flagarantly uses the Force to get their way.”

First off, he probably did that to scare them without any real intent. He follow protocol & is an over-achiever. And second, people love jumping on black characters for supposedly flagrantly using powers.

But stay dead silent when Qui-Gon was quick to use the same ability casually to get his way & laud him as THE Jedi™️. I don’t hear people bad mouthing Cal Kestis’s casual usage of mind trick towards both animals & others to the point even he lampshades Cere may not particularly like how he uses it. Gameplay implies he can even kill people with the mind trick if tapped into the dark side.

Hell, Sol flagarantly used the same power for a similar purpose of getting through bullshit when the violent prisoners made up some shit about Oshra & he’s being hailed as “the Qui-Gon” of the show.

“He’s quick to use his lightsaber”

Dude uses his lightsaber as a flashlight just like Cal Kestis or he fears a purported Jedi Killer enough to be quick to use his lightsaber or is not above using it against a potential jedi killer & suddenly it’s bad because “hIgH rEpUbLiC jEdI uSe iT aS a lAsT rEsOrT”

This is not Avatar & the Jedi Order is not the Air Nation. They’re not pacifist and Mae, a ASSASSIN, killed a JEDI MASTER known for her abilities in combat. God forbid in a fictional setting, black characters defending themselves is bad.

Honestly, this is a non-point especially when this same franchise & fandom gives lot of focus & credit to characters who are quick to use their lightsabers (Anakin, CW!Ahsoka, Survivor!Cal, Rebels!Ezra) to the point mentor characters remind them how to solve problems without one (Cere, Kanan, Tera Sinube) but they’re the “RIGHT Jedi”.

“Something something ACAB Jedi”

Against, pitting this idea primarily with the actions of a BLACK CHARACTER in TWO episodes who is helping solving a JEDI KILLER related case sounds both tone deaf & nonsensical.

“Something something flaws Jedi prequels parallel”

This is the last point because it’ll sum up the intent of the post: let characters be CHARACTERS for goodness sake.

Star Wars fandom is so used to unconventional Jedi being protagonists & being in the “morally correct” (even when they’re tweaking & capping) that people who follow basic rules are bad even though they don’t actually do anything significant to warrant bad faith.

Not to mention Yord is a 2 year old knight. How the fuck can he represent the prequel Jedi when he’s not even in a position of leadership to spearhead whatever flawed mindset you think the Prequel Jedi had?

Final thoughts

Me personally, Star Wars fandom is capping again with some of these characters & it shows. And it needs to be said & pointed out every time. These characterization & ideas get to the point people behind the scenes feed into this but don’t even consider the implications of it. It’s not riveting storytelling of “George Lucas’s true intentions”.