#i mean this in the purest academic sense possible

[forgetful-ontologist]

hetero c*ssoids are subhuman

[spacewizardtrek]

WARNING: This post will ruin you. Like Medusa; look at your peril.

But here is is. It’s the one you’ve all been waiting for.

Kirk bod appreciation #7: The RIDICULOUSLY BEAUTIFUL FACE. A highly technical and academic review.

This is a rather nebulous one. And not, on the face of it (pardon the pun) very philosophical, as it’s essentially about Kirk being stupidly pretty. This post probably will (it will) descend into just screaming and sobbing, but there will be, I promise, *some* meaningful insight into the meaning of ‘beauty’ and textual analysis of its role herein.

Beauty is subjective. But look at him. It’s not just being aesthetic, but it’s the *way* he’s aesthetic. Here I might repeat myself a bit, but stay with me. I may have mentioned before once hearing him described as ‘beautiful in the way women are often described as beautiful’. He is PRETTY. He is indeed often conveyed in the way the women stereotypically (not necessarily rightly) are on screen: perfect, smooth skin; soft, big eyes; luscious lips (his body is sensually curvaceous and furthermore it’s emphasised). He’s not androgynous though. He’s masculine. And yet I still sense what was meant in describing him as ‘beautiful in the way women are often described as beautiful’. He is a rather uncommon form of gender fuckery. He is a form of stereotype-subversion not commonly acknowledged. He seems to be everything at once, ALL THE GENDER; combines whichever traits he desires from those categories, and yet is undeniably a man and masculine whatever the ingredients. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE, one might wonder. The fact of the matter is, that it IS. And it teaches us something.

The FUCK. nO. You are not allowed to be that pretty, and you are NOT allowed to look at her like that. We’re trying to have a SENSIBLE DISCUSSION here.

Sorry, that was a non-sequitur / nothing to do with what we learn by Kirk’s embodiment; I was just ambushed by my own gif. Only the control of a Vulcan. ONLY that could possibly withstand this onslaught. And even that won’t hold up forever AS WE WELL KNOW

God.

This is going well, as you can tell.

OK. So, it’s claimed he has Eyes and Stupidly Long Weakness-Inducing Eyelashes. You know, from all that fanfic that goes on about ‘big, sparkling eyes’ and him fanning his ‘long, copper eyelashes’. I mean, yeah right, tropey mc tropeface -

IT’S TRUE. HE IS LITERALLY AN ANIME PRINCESS.

There are some moments where he just BLINKS and, how to describe it...how does a BLINK have that effect. It’s NOT ALLOWED.

...I’m sorry. It IS allowed. All of it. I am not shaming you your beauty. Never change, Jim. Never.

OK. I’m ok. 3 pics down, we can get through this -

Oh you are joking. Stop.

I don’t understand how anyone can be so beautiful. Life is a lie. Reality is fake -

- you did NOT just turn your big anime eyes on Spock. You do know this is why he ran away to PURGE ALL HIS EMOTIONS?

And for that matter, you know when Kirk looks his most beautiful? Literally WHEN HE’S LOOKING AT SPOCK. Spock talks some bollocks and Kirk just sparkles like a fucking angel:

Unbelievable. But utterly undeniable.

Sigh. Moving on.

Oh - someone once suggested I talk about The Lips. Lips are so wonderful aren’t they. So many wonderful things they can do.

And Kirk’s. They’re there in every picture: perfect, rosy, soft and madness-inducing. My advice is just...don’t think about them. But since I’ve been asked to draw attention to them, well, you’ve just sealed your fate. Scroll down at your peril.

I WARNED YOU.

I am pulling NO punches.

I’ve seen this great meme going around:

Excuse me though....CUTE?

That’s the understatement of the 23rd century.

Try impossibly beautiful, mind and body: heart of solid gold, soul deep in love with you. Those eyes and all their passion burned into your memories a thousand times over, along with - maybe, suggestibly, idk I’m extrapolating from all the goddamn tension - even the one unforgettable time he laid between lily-white sheets and gave himself to you; every gift of the mind, body and soul - and your ostensibly-forced Vulcan conditioning, that completely ignored how incompatible one part of you was with it, caused so much dissonance that you thought the only possible course of action for you both to survive was to BREAK UP, tear yourself from this beauty and love and sweetness to PURGE ALL EMOTIONS because nothing, nothing equipped you for this; you were set up specifically to fail, and fail hard in the face of transcendental love and beauty by those who rejected such things and didn’t understand you and could never imagine this for you and who instead of helping your beautiful neurodivergent brain flourish taught you to repress and caused you pain and shame and Gol was so hard and Kirk was so sad, so very sad and depressed and hurt and yet he couldn’t stop loving you with a bond so strong he called to you across the stars and Gol was all for naught yet you still didn’t know how to live like this, it was torture, torture until the mind meld with the living machine flashed your BIOS and you knew, love.exe was suddenly running with no errors and he came after you and held you and you held hands and, and -

.

*sobbing*

.

just...give me a moment

.

YOU WONDER WHAT THE SUBTEXT (FRIKKIN’ MAIN TEXT) OF STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE WAS ALL ABOUT???

The pain?? The angst?? The two logical entities seeking contact, love, THIS SIMPLE FEELING? That fucking moment when spock walks on the bridge and the only way he can control himself is to be SUPER Vulcan, while his love gazes at him with those EYES, fucking huge and glittering and hurt and loving?? Is it so much a mystery what memories these two are carrying, what’s behind the searing tension???????

Love him. Love him Spock. Take him in your arms and love him. He’s for you. All for you. Fucking hell guys. The fuck. This movie.

.

ok.

ok I can do this

CAN U NOT

those damn eyes I swear

It’s obviously not all just superficial physical beauty. What IS beauty? Narratively we do sometimes find this ‘prettiness’ enhanced and emphasized like the old vaseline lens to set the tone of a scene (he’s vulnerable and delicate, or someone’s indeed in love with him so we see their ‘lens’ on him); but it is somewhat intangible and nebulous and changeable. I don’t think aesthetic beauty, if one deems it so, on its own, would be enough for the likes of Spock (indeed, no woman could charm him thusly); it's about something deeper. It’s about who he is. Who he is inside: the beautiful AND the imperfect. How his good and bad - how his ‘all’ -  chimes with Spock’s 'all’. The Enemy Within deals with this, and shows how Spock loves all of Kirk, wants him complete, with both his light and shadow. The beauty of all of us is this totality and variance, not one intangible quality.

I’ll bet Spock’s parents knew immediately. Can you imagine Sarek trying to be a total bitch over Kirk, having heard the rumours and just wanting to have one more thing to reject Spock over, immediately projecting onto Kirk as some blow-up pretty-boy and how Incredibly More Disappointing My Son Is for being Obviously In Love With Stupid Illogical Human Doll Face Bubble Butt Bimbo Captain, and Amanda’s like, stfu, let me remind you Kirk is actually a Fucking Amazing Highly Decorated Starship Captain who Saves Your Life and don’t you DARE resent him just because he’s got tits/ass/tum/lips that won’t quit and is obviously the freakin’ sun Spock orbits. Mr ‘I married a human but that was special because it was logical’ or some bullshit. How is Kirk an illogical choice? I mean literally, Spock is a Science Genius™ on the federation’s FLAGSHIP whose well-matched Genius Captain™ understands him, accepts him, brings the best out of him, helps him fulfil his whole potential and is in love with him in the deepest and purest way and will be his bonded soulmate for ALL OF TIME and that fucking sour-faced bih at the start of that ep, ffs.

Of course Amanda stays in touch with Kirk, adores the fuck out of him, sends him old Vulcan lit on t’hy’la bonds (yes sarek, a T’HY’LA bond, so revered freakin’ poets write about it) etc because frankly her son could do FAR FUCKING WORSE.

FAR. FUCKING. WORSE.

Don’t...just don’t slip the bod into the equation, the face is enough for one post. We’re all in therapy for this already, let’s not relapse.

Oh, what’s the use. I’m gonna die. This is it. This is like the Monty Python joke that is so funny it kills you. This man is lethal. I need to stop this thread and purge all my emotions

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

That’s it. I’m dead. You’re dead. We’re all dead.

I hope, however, seeing this post was worth it. See you at Gol everyone.

.

.

The Forbidden Texts, DO NOT READ:

Kirk bod appreciation #6: The Curves. The Front. The...chest. AND THE AMAZING GREEN WRAP

Kirk bod appreciation #5: The Paws

Kirk bod appreciation #4: The Curves. The Back. Poetry in motion.  

Kirk bod appreciation #3: Season 3 (Part 1)

Kirk bod appreciation #2b: The Gluteus Maximus

Kirk bod appreciation #2a: The Gluteus Maximus

Kirk bod appreciation #1: The Tum

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

⇺ ⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂ ⇻

↣ Masterpost

↣ inspired by @haik-choo’s post

↣ wc: 1.7k 

↣ warnings: some self inflicted pain (nothing major!), cheating mentions, serious heartbreak. 

↣  song recommendation:  tolerate it - taylor swift 

↣  preamble (as written by haik-choo):  akaashi keiji doesn’t get that not everyone can understand how someone feels with one look. he puts an extra sugar in his coffee and expects you to know that he wants to go out to a bakery, he clicks his red pens a few extra times and expects you to know that he needs refills – he says he has a lot of work tonight and expects you to make him midnight snacks. to him, that stuff is easy. why can’t you understand him? he does it for you – he shouldn’t have to say it out loud. you should already know what he’s thinking. if you don’t, maybe you don’t love him as much as he thought you did.

The complexity of love has never been accurately represented in the media. Films present reality through the lens of a fractured mirror to provide viewers a sense of emotion they cannot find elsewhere. Fairy tales are perhaps the worst form of media to exist. They are created to be consumed by young impressionable children who develop unrealistic expectations that are later thrust upon the unfortunate souls that become their partners. You were one of those children who bought the falsities sold to you. Love was something magical, the intertwining of two hearts.

You were sixteen when you fell in love for the first time. Enthralled by how one emotion could paint new colours in the horizons, you allowed yourself to fall… it was perfect, until you found yourself crying on the bathroom floor, wondering why the fairy tales lied to you.

You were seventeen when you first experienced heart break. Even now, you can remember the shame that drenched your soul when you learned that the one you loved, had slept with someone else. Each inch of your skin was tainted by your “prince charming.”

That night, your mother had to drag you out of the bath. The pads of your toes and fingers had shriveled up, while your arms and legs burned a bright crimson from the incessant scrubbing. Yet the tingling of your skin was merely a scratch in comparison to the laceration inside of your heart, and there was no band aid that you could apply there.

That was December 3rd 2014 – the date you abandoned your foolish ideals.

You met Akaashi Keiji exactly six months later.

If you were ever asked to describe the mystery that is Keiji, where would you begin? Were there truly any words that could accurately capture the very essence of his kind soul? Or the depth of this mesmerizing eyes? How would you possibly begin to explain how a single caress by his calloused fingertips had melted away the imaginary grime that had coated your skin? If anyone was prince charming, it was him.

But little did you know that sometimes he doubted whether you were his Cinderella. His happily ever after…

The first indication of his veiled concerns occurred in your last year of high school. With the departure of his third-year friends, Akaashi was titled captain of the boy’s volleyball team. While he enjoyed volleyball, he was never obsessed with the sport like his best friend. Volleyball was his hobby, nothing more and nothing less. He was more concerned with maintaining his high academic record than securing a ticket to nationals. Last year balancing the various fragments of his life was simple. But the absence of his friends weighed on him, each day the anxiety increased until he could barely sit without jitters swarming his limbs. As his girlfriend, you should have known the stress he was battling… Sure, he was pushing you away, but you should have known why.

Yet, when you attempted to thwart his efforts to establish distance, you were chastised for your lack of understanding.

“Y/n. I am busy. Please do not disturb me during practice.” Not the slightest bit of respect was allocated to you, despite your status as his girlfriend. And while his pointed response was undoubtedly directed towards to you, his attention was on the practice commencing inside of the gym. “Listen, I need to go back. If you want to talk, consider picking a more appropriate time in the future.” Rolling the towel within his grasp, he refused to acknowledge you beyond sharing these words.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” To even utter an apology stole the limited resolve you had to address the situation. How much did you have to degrade yourself to fix a relationship he evidently did not want?

But the following day at lunch period, a dozen roses were delivered to you with an apology note attached to the stems. It was only natural for you to grant him the forgiveness he sought. Dismissing his actions was simple once you rationalized it as a normal reaction to an abundance of pressure. Diamonds may be created under pressure, but he was no diamond, and neither were you.

The second indication of his concealed doubts did not emerge from a set of actions, nor did it include the exchange of harsh words. Rather, it was his silence that nurtured your insecurities and provided you confirmation that while he was your happily-ever-after, you may not be his.

To celebrate Keiji’s 19th birthday, his mother had offered to host a gathering at his childhood home. When the details of the party were conveyed to you, excitement had fluttered to life inside of your stomach. It was the perfect opportunity to develop your relationship with the woman who had raised your wonderful boyfriend. Yet, not even the purest of intentions would save you from the humiliation that awaited you that night.

At one point of the evening, Keiji had vanished for a considerable amount of time. Naturally, you searched the house for your boyfriend. When you peaked inside of the kitchen, you found him engaging in a conversation with his mother. You almost called out to him instinctively, except your vocal cords denied you access when you caught the end of their conversation.  

“Has she been tending to your needs yet? Or has she remained as useless as before?” The older woman clutched the stem of her wine glass, with a scoff clawing at her throat. It seemed that the liquor coating her tongue had turned the muscular organ into a knife.

Keiji stood with his back pressed against the kitchen island, listening without a reaction. The nonchalance emanating from his demeanour indicated that this was not the first occurrence. No, this had happened before, otherwise he would have had some form of a reaction. A flinch – a twitch – anything. But he stood still, emotionless, distant. The targeting comments were equivalent to a whisper in the wind – not deserving of a response, nor a stir.

“Keiji, you are aware that you are wasting your time and yet you stay with her?” The sigh falling from her stained lips was extended to emphasize her distress, and the gentle sound was enough to weaken your knees.

No longer able to support your own weight, you leaned against the wall, allowing your eyelids to flutter shut. Your fingers tangled with the fabric of your shirt as you waited for his response.

Say something – anything. Just tell her she’s wrong.

Yet the denial never came.  

The first two indications were shoved aside, dismissed with excuses that would serve as a band-aid on your decaying relationship. But then came the third.

The third indication of his doubt occurred on an average college night when you were in the process of selecting your outfit for the night. Bokuto had arranged an unofficial Fukurodani reunion for the boy’s volleyball team. As Keiji’s girlfriend, the invite was naturally extended to you. Usually your boyfriend would be in higher spirits knowing that he would soon be in the company of his high school friends. But tonight, a frown remained etched into his features, not wavering for even a single moment.

“Which one? I don’t want to be underdressed. But on the other hand, Kou is always dressed really weird. So, I don’t know.” Two outfits were presented towards the male, a scarlet cocktail dress and a navy pantsuit with a low cut.

“Does it matter, y/n?” The sharp remark was blown out with a heavy sigh. It was as though he could not muster the energy to care for your feelings. Or perhaps, he simply chose to display his inner conflict, with no concern of the consequences of his decision.

The noise was startling enough to strip you of the excitement that once animated your movements.

“I guess not, but is it wrong that I want to look good for my boyfriend?” The counter question was voiced barely above a whisper, with each word sounding fainter than the last.

“Maybe if you knew me well enough you wouldn’t have to ask.” His eyes did not meet yours, rather they stayed fixed on the writing utensil within his grasp. “It’s not that hard, y/n. You just don’t care enough to put in the effort.”

The verbal assaults implanted daggers into your chest, but the pain would only become worse – since he was not done just yet.

“If you refuse to love me with your entire heart, what is the point? Let me go.”

“Keiji!” Pain cut along the inside of your throat from the shriek erupting from your chest. Had you ever screamed his name in quite a harsh manner? Liquid blurred your vision, and with your air-filled organs wheezing in distress, your words were stated between staggered breaths.

“I am not a fucking mind reader.” The fog of desperation encompassing you was comprised of poison, one that soon threaded throughout your system. The properties of the poison enflamed your lungs, burning the organs and halting the flow of air. Instinctively your hands were sent to your skin, clawing at the flesh as if you could simply rip out the emotions suffocating you. “Just because I don’t love you the way you think I should, doesn’t mean I don’t.” Whether the words spilling from your lips were responsible for the bitter taste in your mouth, or the tears now gracefully parading down your cheeks was unknown. Either way, the release of the steaming liquid eased the burning sensation in your lungs.

“I’m done, Keiji. I’m done.” Slowly claiming your insides was a thin layer of ice. By now, you had run out of excuses for his behaviour. There were no longer any band-aids you could use to tend to the wounds. The question of whether your boyfriend considered you “the one” was answered.

Despite the ache weaving into your muscles, your feet dragged you to the front door. A piece of you desired to catch one final glimpse of him – as your heart knew this would be the final time you would see him. But afraid you would lose your resolve to leave, you pressed the car keys against your palm, and remained fixed on the exit.

Behind you, the brunette voiced a weak apology – you were unable to catch the exact words, as they were muffled by the fabric of his sleeves. But not even the sweetest words could remedy the situation. Since, now you had accepted the truth.

Love was never a fairy-tale, and Akaashi Keiji was not a prince. Love would never be what you wanted it to be, and it would always hurt.

Love would always hurt.

A/N: I ended up finishing this today because I got into a bad mood and so I needed to channel it into something lol 

Taglist: @sayakaaaaaa @sanitisegermsfree @haikyuufairy @newfriendjen @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @amberalisa @graykageyama @yourstarvic @chaichai-the-weeb @chibishae34 @haikyuusimp91 @volleybloop  @rajablast @idiot-juice-enthusiast @melonmayhere @cuddlesslut  @athenarosaline @memes-and-money @coconut-dreamz  @mismatched-loves @elianetsantana @tsumume @tsukkismamagucci @the-golden-jhope @camcam1617 @prettyforpapiiwa @swoonhui​ @neobakas​ @azumane-kun @elephantloser​ @dreamstormings​ @anejuuuuoy​   

~ message me to be removed from the general taglist + bolded means I can’t tag ya 

[thatscarletseven]

His Angel (Smut)

Dedicated to the anon who graced me with the prompt; “So Beej is like some kinda demon right? Then what if the reader would be some kinda angel but she’s a virgin. And if she’s gonna lose her virginity she wants to be the dominant one but she’s just too submissive and she fails. Idk if you want to could you write about that for me?”

Note: I made my own cannon for angels in the Beetlejuice universe. Basically, if Beej was once alive but is now a demon, the reader could’ve been alive too and become an angel. Also, despite how the first couple of paragraphs may look, the reader is of age at the time the smut takes place. I just have to set the stage, you know?

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction AND a request. It DOES NOT reflect the author’s real-world values and beliefs. Also, this is smut where the reader is female and gets just a tad sub-spacey. Also also, use of headcannons regarding Betelgeuse’s mood ring hair and excessive ejaculation + glowing ejaculate.

---

For the first time in your after-life, you were truly happy. You’d originally been sent by Juno to keep the Maitland-Deetz household safe from Betelgeuse. Every single entity occupying that house loved having you around. You cleaned, cooked, and protected, and you loved doing it. Even when Betelgeuse was integrated into the make-shift family and was no longer a threat, you stayed. You had finally found a home

You’d died as a kid during the black plague. Since your soul was pure, you weren’t just any old ghost or demon in the after-life; you became an angel. Juno raised you like Mowgli was raised among the wolf pack. Even though the black plague had caused a massive influx of angels, most of them had stayed far away from the evils of the underworld. 

In this new spiritual state, you grew to be the beauty of the underworld, just as a flower is in a battlefield. Besides that, you’d proven yourself in mastering your supernatural abilities and in combat. Even though you were witty and clever too, academics were never your strongpoint. You grew to your peak young age and there you stayed, this beautiful thing preserved forever in angelic death. You were eventually assigned to be the guardian angel of the Maitland-Deetz household.

As soon as Betelgeuse was decidedly not evil, you allowed yourself to feel what you’d previously pushed down; you really liked him. Not only was he sexy as hell, he was also exactly your type. Thick in just the right places (there were days you wondered if this extended to someplace else as well), and a face that you adored. When he hugged you, you melted into his soft form. Betelgeuse was surprisingly clingy and cuddly, but you didn’t really mind. One of your favorite features about him was his hair. When he was in a lighter mood it was green. When he was lonely it was a purplish blue. When he flirted with you it could be anywhere from a light green to a dark magenta, but that depended on the caliber of the joke. His jokes were often sexual in nature, so you saw something close to magenta quite often.

Thus you embarked on the best chapter of your after-life.

As far as the rat himself was concerned, he’d been lusting after you the day you arrived with the intention of kicking his ass. One of his favorite thoughts was sexually corrupting you, you who were so pure, and probably still had your virginity to lose. He often dreamed of tying you down and filling you up with his seed, or overstimulating you, or biting into and permanently marking your perfect skin, or, or, or- there were just too many good possibilities. However, on his more lonely days, he though of it the other way around; you riding him, holding him down with your angelic power. Completely and utterly using him for your own pleasure. Maybe you’d spank him. Since he was in the privacy of his own room (the basement) at the time this thought first occurred to him, he moaned aloud at the thought. 

One summer evening, the two of you sat outside the house. Lydia had just had a fight with Delia, and tensions between everyone else had been high due to the nature of the argument. Delia had made a snide comment at dinner about how all the living inhabitants of the house “might die someday because of all the ghosts! I mean, what if Betelgeuse decides to go rogue again?”. You and Lydia had immediately jumped to Betelgeuse’s defense, and Lydia was absolutely livid. She cut you out of the debate all together, but this gave you time to notice that your favorite demon’s hair was getting progressively bluer. He had also found his family in these people, and to have one of them say something like this must’ve hurt. Though the hair confirmed what he was feeling, his facial expression said it all. His eyes were wide and unfocused, and he was trembling. The two of you had gotten to know each other a little, and you could tell that he needed to get out of here. His literal blue-ness often turned to panic, and panic often snow-balled into rage. You touched his arm lightly, and his head snapped up, eyes meeting yours. If he had been living, the action would’ve been painful. “Take my hand.” you whispered softly to him. Betelgeuse nodded and interlocked his fingers with yours. His grip was tight.

This was how you ended up comforting him. You didn’t touch him and he didn’t touch you. You just sat on the porch next to him, and it was enough.

To you, Betelgeuse seemed like the perfect picture of despair. His blue locks hung over his sad eyes. Old eyes, you realized. Betelgeuse wasn’t young. He probably died in his mid-thirties, but he’d been dead for so much longer. His large frame was hunched over, wide shoulders stooped. He wasn’t wearing his overcoat or his suit jacket, but he’d kept on his suspenders, rolled up his sleeves, and undone his top buttons. If he was a little less sad, he’d be downright sexy.

You were snapped out of your little trance when you heard him say your name softly, “Am I a bad person?” The question hung in the air for a few moments, and then you spoke, “The fact that you’re asking the question means that you probably aren’t.” And that was the beginning of your friendship.

You and him spent more and more time together, and Betelgeuse began seeing you as more than just good jerking-off material. He saw you as another person. He noticed something very human in you despite your angelic state, and you began to see the human in him. You two found laughter in each other. Betelgeuse was particularly amused by you when you kept yourself from cursing. It was only natural, since you were the purest being he’d ever encountered.

You noticed the way he got all giddy over mundane human things. You loved the gross things about him, like his taste in insects. You loved his sense of masculine fashion. You like his eyes - sad, old eyes - and the way they let you in on his internal thoughts even better than his hair did sometimes.

He noticed the way you hid your pain, tucked away where only you and him could see it. He was fascinated by you. He’d always thought angels were little happy babies with wings and halos, but you weren’t. You didn’t have wings or a halo, and you certainly weren’t a child. You just had this calming infectious glow about you.

Everything was fine when you and Betelgeuse were together.

The first time he kissed you, it was a quick peck on the lips and neither of you talked about it. You reciprocated it later that night.

Whenever he got sad, you kissed him.

Whenever you got sad, he’d hug you.

Soft intimacy became part of the normal routine.

True to his nature, soft intimacy grew sexual in private. You didn’t mind, but the thread was getting thinner every time.

One night, Betelgeuse had gotten all sad on you in his basement bedroom. He responded to your soft kiss with a passionate one, and you didn’t mind. He did this often, and it never led anywhere. You and him exchanged soft kisses that quickly heated up. You found that you couldn’t bear to separate yourself from him. 

“Beej-” you used the nickname that he’d adopted recently. “Beej, I want- “ he kissed you again, “-me too-” You loved his gravelly voice all the more in this situation. His sleeves were rolled up and his suspenders were on and his top buttons were undone the way you liked. His hands pulled you closer and then you were straddling him and you could feel how much he liked this. 

The thread was gonna break soon.

“Lawrence.” He stopped and pulled his face from yours for a moment. Now you only ever used his real name when you were being serious. He growled softly because you were pressed against his junk and this was so not the time to be serious. His hair was a sinful shade of pink. “Betelgeuse,” you started again. “I want- shit, I want you, but I-” He’d never heard you curse before and it was automatically a turn-on. He silently vowed to make you curse more often. “I’ve never had sex before but I really wanna ride you.” Well damn, he certainly didn’t expect you to be dominant this early on. “.. Ok.” The demon said simply. “Uh, I don’t think ghosts can get knocked up, just sayin’.” Betelgeuse chuckled.

The thread that suspended your boundaries snapped.

Even though you’d never even gotten yourself off, getting naked and being intimate with your demon felt natural and taboo all at the same time. You were experiencing the pent-up sexual energy of the past few hundred years and it was hitting hard. Your entire body was burning with turbulent need, and your core was practically dripping with slick. Your mind was spinning and spiraling with fantasies of what could be that made you all tingly. The feeling was so foreign and wonderful. 

Betelgeuse was almost as needy, feeling so free after using his hand for so long. He’d been so busy in the past couple months that he just willed his boners away instead of dealing with them. 

Even though you had opted to dominate him, you were much too shaky and turned on to do much of anything. He spread you out on his unmade bed and buried his face in your neck. He inhaled sharply, eyes shut as his body convulsed and he almost gave up on foreplay then and there. He shuffled himself downward and spread your thighs apart.

Your slick had made a dark spot on his bed and had cascaded down your thighs. The musky perfume of your slick made his mouth water and he longed to taste you. Betelgeuse hiked your legs up on his shoulders and then his filthy mouth was kissing your cunt. You tasted something like salted dark chocolate to him, a flavor that he quickly became addicted too. He dipped his tongue teasingly into your hole, but payed much more attention to your clitoris. You ground your hips against his face as his short beard scratched the interior of your thighs. The pleasure that sung through your being made you feverishly warm. He sucked and licked and you felt like you were going to piss yourself, but you knew this wouldn’t be the case. You thought you could feel some kind of vibration in your throat and you weren’t sure how loud you were being.

Betelgeuse was shocked by the dirty noises that made their way out of your throat in long sighs and broken moans. Your face was red and teary-eyed and you were utterly gone, lost in the pleasure. He was swallowing mouthfuls of your addicting slick at this point, and he was so thankful that he didn’t have to breath. He was painfully hard but was too invested in your pleasure to do anything about it just yet.

The feeling off needing to piss was getting stronger but you let it happen, bucking your hips up into Betelgeuse’s face. The feeling flooded your body, up your spine and radiated inside your skull. It danced down your arms and burst forth again from your cunt and down your thighs and all the way into your toes. This feeling was no longer like fire, but like lighting, striking your body repeatedly and constantly.

The feeling seemed to sit and simmer for a moment as your lover pulled away to wipe off his mouth and position himself over your body.

Betelgeuse was big. So big, in fact, that even when his pants were on and he was flaccid, there was a substantial bulge there. The stretch of his cock head was nothing but electrifying pleasure. You thought for a moment that you were paralyzed because you just couldn’t move. Betelgeuse tucked his head back into the crook of your neck and you were both sobbing into each other as he all but shoved the rest of himself into you.

Betelgeuse realized just how much power he held over your pleasure. He knew she hadn’t ever cum before (thanks to a game of drunk truth or dare) and the power this situation gave hime completely went to his head. Before he really knew what was happening, he was pressed all the way inside you and experiencing the most intense pleasure he’s felt since his first orgasm back when he was alive (and he really didn’t remember it so it didn’t really count anyway). He was in this weird space between cumming and not cumming and it wouldn’t take that much for him to start.

You felt yourself suddenly seize up and jerk and pulse. The immense simmering pleasure was magnified a hundred fold and you wrapped your leg’s around your lover’s thick hips. You were in complete euphoria. Your being was numb and all you could feel was Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse.

As your orgasm continued, Betelgeuse whimpered into your neck broken curses and whiney pleads. Without pulling out, he humped into you as the accumulation of a good few months burst into your womb. He generally produced significantly more semen that any average man, ghost, or demon, but after saving up for so long, you were sure to be flooded.

Betelgeuse was pressing into you so hard, and with your recently-virgin pussy, his cum wasn’t able to leak out of you when you got full. You got full almost immediately. “Oh- fuck, gah-” he moaned into your neck as he felt your belly beginning to push up against his own.

You enjoying the sight of your lover enjoying himself as you regained your other senses. You decided that you liked the increasing feeling of fullness in your belly, even though you were way too fucked out to really get aroused again, especially after something so intense. You reached a hand up to thread in his pink hair, just softly playing with it as you cooled down.

When he had finally stopped cumming, you realized with dawning amusement that he had fallen asleep against you. You decided not to wake him back up just yet.

You knew that you loved him and he loved you, but actions speak so much louder than words, don’t they?

-END-

[alyssabethancourt]

If you only read one of my project updates, make it this one.

It took most of the day to kick in, for some reason, but the price of the Mornnovin eBook on Amazon has finally adjusted to 99¢. It will remain at that deeply discounted price at least until February 26th. I may or may not be persuadable on the subject of extending the sale for an additional week.

So now that the stress of that unexpected snafu has lifted, I can do a proper update.

It's Friday, five days in, and as of posting this the fundraiser is sitting pretty at $821 or 22% funded. We're nicely on track. The next big goal, obviously, is getting to 25% ($925) and I'm confident we can hit that mark easy-peasy before the end of the weekend. Please, keep talking up this series and sharing the link with your friends, family, and followers.

Trajelon is a special book not just because it's mine and I have to say that, but because it explores issues and themes that I don't think we see often enough in fiction – especially not in the sparkly elf magic genre.

I'm going to get real with you for a minute.

I've talked before about how the version of Mornnovin that is now published is the culmination of thirty years and four versions of telling that particular story. What people may not know is that I'd also written Trajelon once before.

In late 1997, I was 18 years old and I'd made some terrible decisions that I was locked into living with for the foreseeable future, both because of the nature of responsibility but also because of pride. People had tried to warn me, and of course being the age I was, I knew everything. I'd been downright insolent about my conviction that I knew what I was doing.

So there I was, miserable, bridges burned, everything to prove, struggling under the load of several massive responsibilities all taken on at once, knowing that I'd made the bed I now had to lie in. I was also trying to pass my first semester of college as an English major. I can't remember now precisely which combination of events led me to come to this conclusion, but I started to feel that although I was reasonably good at academic writing, my creative writing was a clear waste of my time. I actually went as far as deciding to give it up.

I think, now, that I might have been trying to punish myself.

That take makes sense in hindsight because as soon as I'd grounded myself from the sort of writing I actually enjoy doing, two things happened.

One, at odd moments I started doodling scenes that weren't supposed to be part of anything, so I was free from the feeling that they had to be any good or make any kind of sense or fit within a larger narrative. This would come to be important later.

And two, the scenes I was scribbling down without any commitment to story or quality were all about bad things happening to Loríen.

Because writers have to write, even if they've made bullshit nonsense declarations about how they've given it up, a story idea did eventually coalesce out of all of these snippets. And because of where I was, the story was dark. The finished product was horrible, but it was genuine – a savage cry of pain from someone who believed she had no right to it.

Fast forward ten years. Now it's 2007. I'm still living in that hell of my own making, but it's different because I'm ten years older and time does change things, for better or worse. Now I'm working a crappy retail job and it's killing me. To save my sanity, one day, I pull some blank receipt paper out of the cash register and in tiny, cramped letters I start scribbling some scenes that aren't supposed to be part of anything. They're just junk for my brain, something to keep me alive. Because they're not for anything real, I don't worry about them being any good or fitting within whatever other arbitrary writing rules I have for myself. At night, while the household is asleep, I transfer the cramped letters from cash register paper to computer file.

After a while, I realize they are actually starting to make a coherent story, but it's not canon, I tell myself. It's just some cracky Asrellion fanfiction. Just some mindless entertainment. I keep giving myself permission to tell a different kind of story from whatever I imagine canon to be.

By the time I leave that crappy retail job, I find that in my time there I've managed to scribble onto bits and pieces of receipt paper what amounts to roughly twenty typed pages of... something.

Then I realize that what I have on my hands isn't just something, it's the seed of a new version of Book 2. One that actually has something to say besides screaming in wordless agony. The only problem is, this new book that I can see laid out before me is far too good for the terrible most-recent draft of Book 1 that would precede it.

Then I realize that I'm going to have to write this book, which means that I'm also going to have to rewrite the first book in the series in order to lay the necessary groundwork.

That's the story of how I came to begin my ground-up re-imagining of Mornnovin in 2008.

It turns out to be a good thing that I took the time to do that first, because I wouldn't have been ready then to tell the story that I ultimately had in me in 2016 when I wrote Trajelon over the course of six intense months. By then, I had escaped Hell. By then, I was safe. By then, I had some perspective on what it is not just to live through but to survive trauma and depression.

The first incarnation of Trajelon was what I needed it to be when I screamed it up, all those years ago. It was catharsis. I don't blame it for its darkness or its ugliness any more than you would blame a post-surgical scar for its raw appearance. This iteration of Trajelon is what it needed to be. Almost Athena-like, it sprang fully-formed from the brain of its creator. And it's no longer a cry of suffering. It's... a meditation on living with the suffering that inevitably comes along with the triumphs we experience in life. Living with, enduring, growing from. Learning to discard where possible. Drawing into our identity and building off of where necessary.

No doubt this is scary territory for some readers, but that's exactly why I think it's so important to tell these stories. They can't all be about glorious victories on the field of battle. There are more shades to the spectrum of the human (elven?) experience. I so wish this book had existed at a time when I could have drawn strength from it. Now I no longer need to draw on that kind of strength, but others do. I know they do.

So maybe this was a big old heavy update for a Friday evening, but I hope you don't mind the candor. This book is very personal for me, as you now understand, and that would have become clear anyway as soon as you read it. Because I think that's actually its truest and purest strength, I wanted to be up front about it in this fundraiser. I am pitching to you a fantasy novel written by a survivor of abuse, trauma, and depression written for survivors of abuse, trauma, and depression.

If you, like I do, think that's an important thing to have exist in the world, please help me get the word out and bring it into reality.

And thank you for letting me get real.

Help fund TRAJELON on Kickstarter.

[tremolux]

Snap and Kill

(Blood on his hands? Could be some bloody good foreshadowing.) 

"At BHU we'll do whatever it takes to stay on top. We thrive under pressure, and strive for perfection. But no one's perfect, and the pressure is building to a breaking point. And someone is about to snap, and kill."

Interestingly enough, if we interpret The Perfectionists' introductory monologue in its purest sense, in terms of (academic) pressure pushing a student to eventually "snap and kill," then of the main trio of suspects, Dylan best fits the profile.

Caitlin's motive would be based on her mom's political career and her own future ambitions, and being a fake girlfriend to Nolan. While Ava's would seem to be centered around relationship woes, or possibly something to do with her internship/business. 

Sure there’s pressure, and they each have problems with Nolan. But where’s the urgency? I'm not sold on the idea that either of these two are really on the verge of snapping.

"You know, I feel bad about Dylan doing my work. We're all under enough pressure as it is," Ava says while lounging by the pool.

Dylan, on the other hand, is shouldering a triple workload at school, his relationship, music scholarship (and identity) are in jeopardy ("music... is everything that I am" / “everything [he’s] worked for”) and he faces possible expulsion. 

It’s all very understated, but if you put it together, it really does paint the picture of a student who could “snap” at any minute. 

He’s essentially facing death (in a psychological sense), and his back is against the wall. This threat and the drive to survive make him fairly compelling as a potential killer.

Dylan was introduced as the one who's "always right," but perhaps more significantly, Nolan called him "the smartest guy I know." 

Considering Mona's allusion to the “dangerous,” potentially weaponized nature of Nolan's own intelligence, I’m not sure that was a compliment. 

It could hint at some darkness within.

“You have no idea what I’m like when I’m angry,” he warns Nolan.

And I kind of believe him.

After all, this series is titled The Perfectionists for a reason. The truth is "nobody's perfect," so we can expect a major theme to be that of presentation versus reality. 

"Always said I was a good kid..."

This lyrical match up is a bit chilling, coming after Alison figured out that Dylan wrote the papers, based on repeated patterns throughout his work.

"It's your gift for words that gave you away," she tells him. 

Much like the blood on his finger, this could be a nice potential foreshadowing of him ultimately getting caught as Nolan’s killer. 

The word meticulous appears several times across the papers he wrote. While Dylan does seem to be a detail oriented guy, I don’t think this murder was a meticulous plan by any means. 

I’m not convinced it was planned at all. 

Perhaps the most important thing to take away from the meeting in the woods is that they part ways with no solutions and no plans moving forward. 

Which is okay for Caitlin and Ava. They can go home and go to bed and wake up no worse off than before. 

Dylan, however, still faces Alison’s 24-hour ultimatum regarding the plagiarized papers. He either gets expelled, or faces the wrath of Nolan. Neither choice will end well for Dylan. But he still has to make one. He’s got to do something. 

Unlike the others, there's a real urgency and a call to action on Dylan’s part. So do we really believe he just went home with nothing solved? 

Up on the rooftop of Thorne Hall, Nolan makes a plea for help. He needs a recruit who’s savvy enough to help take down Beacon Guard, or whoever’s hijacked that system for their own nefarious purposes.   

Who better to ask than Dylan, the most dependable and "smartest guy" he knows? The one who always delivers the goods?

“I know someone we can trust,” Nolan told Taylor. 

Of course trust would come easy when that “someone” is Dylan, who’s already firmly under Nolan’s thumb. Even more so if Dylan has lingering feelings for Nolan, which could be the motivation behind Nolan’s more humbled manner and the “I’m sorry I've been such an asshole” speech. 

But at this point it’s just salt on the wound. Dylan's fed up with Nolan's games, and he’s not about to be put in that position again. He’s on the verge of losing everything. The clock is ticking. The pressure’s on. He's got the means and motive, and a need to take immediate action. 

Perhaps the opportunity presented itself, and the absolute nerve of Nolan wanting more from him after he’s already been stretched so thin is what caused Dylan to finally “snap and kill.”

How ironic would it be for the guy who writes everyone's papers to turn around and plagiarize Caitlin's fantasy of killing Nolan?

Remember, Dylan was the one who introduced the idea of murder, saying outright "we could kill him." The whole time, he kept (jokingly) pushing the idea, almost as if he was feeling them out to see if they would (seriously) go for it. He called Caitlin's vision "great," said "murder can be justified," and hey -- Dylan's always right -- so maybe he actually believes it.

With Nolan the provocateur now dead, it's likely that Alison will drop the plagiarism issue and give Dylan a second chance, considering that it won’t happen again, and the fact that she really wants to help these kids. 

Nolan’s death solves most of Dylan’s problems and pressures, while adding a new one. 

As for Nolan dying in this particular manner, it sort of draws the main three together as suspects/accomplices by default, adding layers of complexity and confusion to a crime that might actually be very simple and obvious when it’s all said and done. 

[shamelesskenz-blog]

piece 1

A few summers ago my family and I unburied a time capsule that we kept in our backyard for six years. The time capsule was given to my brother as a christmas gift, it was small, plastic, and purchased at Toys R Us. Nonetheless, it was the sentiment that counted.. Every member of my family had goals they kept in the capsule and checklists that we were hoping to achieve. There were some silly ones like my brother’s goal to become the fastest kid ever and some serious  ones like my mom and dad’s desire to make a more meaningful impact and travel to help in a third world country. I remember seeing their faces when they did not achieve their goal in the span of six years and hearing the sadness in my mom’s voice. In addition, there was one thing that really bothered me that she said, which was: “life gets in the way sometimes, and that's just how it goes”.

I completely disagree. It reminded me so much of Pixar’s film UP, where Carl and Ellie really wanted to go to Paradise falls, but they never did because they prioritized other things such as car payments, new furniture, and fancy dinners over making their dreams come true. Similarly, my mom and dad prioritized other things over their goals and therefore became sad when the goal magically did not happen. The point to this story is that sometimes we go through routines because we think that something will change, or maybe we are just so comfortable in our life that failing (because of change) scares us. Either way, routines make us eating, sleeping, zombies who walk through life until one day, years later we ask ourselves where the time went. I don’t want to go through routine or follow the same path everyone else does. I want to follow my passions and see where it takes me. But with a purpose of course.

Clearly, we are not a “potted plant” put on this earth to eat and sleep but in the time that we spend on this here, it is important that we do not waste time on the same path as everyone else or going through everyday knowing there are dreams that are unfulfilled. My answer to the  question “what should we be doing with our time? And who do you want to be in that time?” is: do what you love, be spontaneous, be proactive, go outside of your comfort zone, and strive to be the best version of yourself. I have big dreams to make an impact on our world. I want to motivate others, bring out the best in others and become the strongest most confident person unafraid of challenges and hurdles in my life.

I read a book a while ago which has since become one of my favorites. It’s called Into the Wild, and it’s a true story about Chris McCandless. I think a lot about this story, and how extreme and authentic it is. Chris decides to take extreme measures to stray from the common path in order to find happiness. In fact, he wanted to show himself and others that materialistic things and long resumes do not make you a better person. McCandless is the personified answer to the question presented above because he followed his heart, traveled on the road less traveled by, and still managed to be happy and kind to others. At one point in the story McCandless wrote “Greetings from Seattle, I am a hobo now! Thats right, I’m riding rails now. What fun, I wish I had jumped trains sooner” (Krakauer). Although McCandless did something illegal by not paying for the ride, he chose to live a lifestyle that most people frown upon. However, he tried something new and showed that happiness is not a result of having things or money but the experiences that we embark on.

In high school someone told me a quote that went: “A hearse does not tow a uhaul along with it to the grave”. I know these weren't the exact words but  it basically means that all the things that we associate ourselves with such as a fancy car, a big house, and designer clothes can’t follow us to our grave and only hold value when we are alive. Therefore, it makes more sense to spend time making memories and being happy doing things we love, because there is no price tag for happiness. As a result, McCandless defined himself based off experience and the people he met along the way. Additionally, he was able to do more in his last few years than most people do in their entire lifetime by going out of his way to be kind and meet strangers. Throughout the story, people explain how McCandless affected their lives and further explained how much of an impact he had on people.

In fact, I have a philosophy: every single person that comes into your life has an impact. whether that impact is small, big, negative, or positive you have changed slightly or dramatically because of that person. An obvious example would be our parents because they help shape us into the people we are today. However, a less obvious example would be a stranger who opens the door for multiple people. This person selflessly went out of their way to make other people’s day just slightly better which inspires a chain of people to do a kind deed.  McCandless influenced each of the people in his life which was evident from the story. When Krakauer tracked down a majority of the people McCandless came into contact with, they all said the same thing: he was an authentic, happy, genuine person that they would never forget. Clearly, McCandless made an impact on a lot of people and he wasn’t being nice to get money, food, clothes etc. He was in his purest, happiest form, doing something that made him feel alive.    

In our society, we are expected to be a certain way. All the people who veer off the common path are deemed to either be crazy, weird, or just simply looked down upon. However, maybe it is the things that the common person cannot see that make these “weird people” genius. An example  is an inventor. In the medical field there people who see a problem and invent technology in order to solve an issue. The inventor used creativity to do something that helps people through a way no one else was able to understand. McCandless worked similarly by creating/inventing his own version of a perfected lifestyle. He saw everyone living their life going through the same routine, and hitting the exact same milestones (college, job, spouse, house, family, retirement...etc) and he went down an alternate route that made him less favorable, but a person with more character and a greater impact on people. He tried a “normal” life, and became less than himself because he was going along the path that everyone else was taking. What McCandless did was instead of living a normal life being unhappy, he took chances and decided to be spontaneous in order to obtain his own happiness. I believe that living the same days over and over again (eat, sleep, work, repeat) makes people extremely similar to a plant, that goes through the motions in order to survive without ambition or character. Its sad to think that people would much rather stay comfortable to avoid failing. However, if we don’t gain experience, fail, and learn then we cannot grow to become the best version of ourselves. McCandless took extremes in his life without any hesitation or worry of what might happen. Although he died trying to live the life he wanted, he reminded those around him what was truly important in life and inspired others to stray from normalcy without fear of failure.

Now I know that I just spent a lot of time analyzing one of my favorite books, but the story of Chris McCandless truly inspires me to live without fear and follow passions no matter how crazy they are to everyone else. I think the people who tell you not to do something are hoping that you don’t succeed because they know they would be able to do it themselves. I want to achieve so much more than just academic wise here at UW. I want to surround myself with people that are so different than me, I want to grow in the way I view the world, I want to go out and explore Seattle, I want to adventure new places, I want to diversify my experience and get as much out of college as possible not just through classes. I have dreams of being a leader and helping others. I want to manage situations and help inspire others. I’m going to do the things I dream of and I’m not going to let anyone tell me I can’t. I want to travel the world, and experience culture, and do things that scare me. I think that my desire to adventure is linked to the curiousity that I have. I am inspired by expereince, and I create art and think deeply about how to problem solve from these expereinces. Sometime people don’t understand that. Doing something different from others can sometimes be lonely, but its also extremely worth it. McCandless was a unique person who lived his short amount of years to the absolute fullest, which is an inspiring message especially to those who feel lost. McCandless was ill prepared for his expedition to Alaska, but he tried things that others could not or would not and to me, that is what geniuses are defined by. He saw the world for what it was and decided to go against the grain in an unusual way because he had greater plans. In fact he set aside all fears and darkness from societal thinking and became a better and happier person because of it.

Everyday people put on their tunnel vision glasses and see the world through routine and structure, but this act not only a waste of precious time but it is also extremely limiting. I never want to be blinded so much to where I completely lose sight of the dreams I have. In addition, I want to be able to live day by day just like McCandless did without thinking about the destination. The next journey in my life is running with my passions and not being afraid of where it takes me. There's a whole world out there, and although I will not be living out of a hunting bus in the Alaskan wilderness, I will be living like McCandless: Without fear and hungry for adventure.

[mzargentum]

The Stormsender’s Daughter | Chapter XII | Third Eye

Chapter XI | Chapter XII | Chapter XIII

Word Count: 5,114

Warnings: None.

A sudden pulse like a solid punch to the chest ferociously yanked Ceres from her meditation.

Taking her breath away, leaving her in a heavy pant.

She clutched her chest in slight fear by the random sensation. Cautiousness and curiosity filled her mind.

She had never felt such a reaction from her daily routine. Especially since her meditation period was meant to keep her emotions at bay. Or risk her Third Eye leveling the entire kingdom. 

The stress of a Queen was not like any other.

Once she began to catch her composure, Ceres examined the bruise upon her chest.

Despite the light pain it caused, somehow it was...heartwarming.

What about this particular spot made her feel such a nurturing acceptance toward the impact?

As she scoured her memories to learn what the great Ramuh was trying to tell her, the only one she could pinpoint was one day some years ago...

...a gentle presence gracefully resting upon her breast...

...it was the day she lost...

“Muerlin...!”

It had been 14 years since Willownoire lost its princess...

14 years since she was taken away from the family that loved her dearly.

Those years had not been too kind to the Zephyr’s.

Sure, they were beloved by all who knew them throughout the kingdom, but losing Muerlin caused a strain on the family.

The sorrow within the hearts of Silvanus and Ceres weighed heavy on their 4 remaining children.

Ein, being the eldest Zephyr child, was proper heir to the throne, but declined it at a much younger age. Instead he join the kingdom’s military forced at 17 and at 24 has climbed the ranks to Captain of Willownoire’s Glaive.

He had always been a straight forward and no-nonsense character. Unfortunately his upbringing made it difficult for him to really enjoy his childhood.

He rarely spoke of Muerlin for he was aware of the main purpose he joined the military rankings. Muerlin was the Pythoness and the prophecy state that the Stormsender’s Daughter would succeed the throne.

His job was to make sure his little sister had the support system she needed to do so...whether he was here or not.

He was one of the only two of the Zephyr children that was aware of his potential fate. Yes, the kingdom was prosperous now, but the Zephyr’s had previously concluded that their days of serving Niflheim were over.

...and Ein was prepared to protect his sister’s legacy by whatever meant necessary.

The second eldest Zephyr child, had a different approach...

Gaea had spent most of her adolescence despising her parents for what happened to Muerlin. 

She saw them as cowards for letting the Nifs take away their own flesh and blood and seemingly replacing her with two more children.

As she grew, that resentment wained, but forgiveness was a much bigger step.

At 21, forgiveness was knocking upon her door. Though she hated the idea of her parents potentially trying to replace Muerlin, she understood what was at stake during that time.

But she still wasn’t about to sit by and allow her sister to return to a ruined kingdom.

As Ceres grew older, she was less able to keep up with the forests and the gardens.

Gaea gladly took upon the role of Guardian of the Forests. She scours the kingdom watching over the inhabitants of the forests. Keeping the wildlife in good health, the trees, the soil, the rivers.

As the Zephyr almost always on the prowl to better the wilderness, seeing her around House Zephyr was rare. As well as seeing her around the cities at all.

Younger children throughout the kingdom made up rumors of her existence and she became a model of protection in the kingdom.

it was rumored by the children that if you ever saw her, you were immune to daemons.

For the Guardian would always protect you.

This fine morning, Gaea had just finished her first sweep of the east forests and was taking a break perched in a high tree top.

The air was crisp emitting a delicate breeze that very much pleased the young princess’ senses.

Weather in Willownoire was usually nice, but today...it was especially lovely. Gaea didn’t think much of it for a moment until...

...a light growl in the distance interrupted her trance.

She pondered it for a moment for it wasn’t like anything she heard before.

“Wait...no way...”, she lightly exclaimed before bolting in the direction of the growl.

As she approached the sound, she remembered a story she was told as a child...

When Asteria was young, she played with all the creatures of Willownoire. Then one day Ramuh asked her which was her favorite and she said the behemoths.

So Ramuh found the purest, most gorgeous behemoth he could find and gave it to the little girl as a present.

The night she perished, he infused part of his life force into the creature making it immortal and sending it into hibernation in a cave far from the cities...

...and it was only to awaken when the Pythoness returned to the light.

Gaea had never really believed the story as more than an old fairytale, but the more she grew, the more she hoped it were true.

And sure enough...at the far east of the forest...emerging from a monumental cave...the more spectacular behemoth Gaea had ever seen. It towered the size of the average full grown beast. It’s eyes were a crystalline teal...just like Muerlin’s.

“It can’t be....”, Gaea’s shock still overcame her senses as she watched the beautiful creature take its first steps in centuries.

“Wait...”, she paused. “That must mean...”, a sharp gasp escaped her throat as a smile stretched across her face.

She finally had a reason to go home. The wind carrying her at light speed.

As years passed, Silvanus spent most of his time in a constant brooding state. As King, his responsibilities were to his people, but his depression grew and grew. 

Ein and Gaea were usually busy and rarely home. Though he had his wife and two youngest, Talon kept mostly to himself and tiny Heira was so oblivious to the chaos within her family that he felt constant guilt when he was near her.

Losing Muerlin did not only plague him to the brink of sickness due to his failure as a father, but showing his family love seemed so fake that he couldn’t bare to look them in their eyes.

A father giving away his little girl is supposed to be a momentous occasion of hope and joy as he gave someone who adored her for everything she is and gave her the best love she could ever feel the keys to his heart.

But this...

He never even got to look her in her eyes for the first time and tell her how much he loved her.

How much she meant to him.

And protect her like a father really should.

How could he prove to her that she was his everything when he gave her absolutely nothing?

Every night he imagined what she could’ve possibly looked like. What color were her eyes?

Were they his lavender hues or Ceres’ celeste?

Did she have Ceres’ full cheeks?

Her crooked grin?

Her quips and quirks?

Who was his little girl now?

At 14, she must know, wherever she is, she doesn’t truly belong...she must know she’s different.

Does she know about him? Her family? Did she hate him...?

So many questions.

So many what ifs unanswered...and as far as it looked for him, they never would.

Until...

“King Silavnus!!!”, a light shrill startled the tortured king, lifting him to his feet.

“What is it?”

“It’s...it’s Lady Ceres”, Yurin, one of the loyal servants of House Zephyr, and personal friend of the queen, panted in-between her words.

“What’s happened?”, Silvanus’ youth beginning to rush back at the worry of his wife.

“She collapsed in the east corridor. She told me to fetch you right away”, the panicked servant explained before Silvanus rushed by at a full sprint, Yurin following behind.

“CERES?!”, the desperate king called out toward his wife before he found her on the floor of her meditation chamber panting and wheezing while holding onto her chest.

Frantic of what could possibly be ailing his wife, rendering her immobile, he hurries to her aid.

However, when he reaches her, he notices that her face is drenched with tears.

“Ceres, what is it? What’s wrong?”, Silvanus takes his wife into his arms. To his surprise, upon lifting her gaze to meet his, he realized...she was smiling?

“What the devil...?”, the stunned king thought out loud.

“I-It’s her...”, the overjoyed queen replied between sobs, “I felt her...”.

“Who?”, Silvanus’ confusion still evident.

“Muerlin”.

At that moment, the king felt his heart stop with one booming beat.

“But...but how is that possible? How could you know?!”, he spouted in disbelief.

“R-Ramuh told me...”, the scatterbrained mother stammered, “I-I don’t know how, but...she’s alive...a-and...she’s coming home. She’s coming home, Silv!!”

Unable to contain her excitement over the matter, she began to shake.

And, honestly, who could blame her? Certainly not Silvanus for he yanked his elated wife into his arms for the most warming embrace, no longer able to hold back the tears that had built in his ever so tormented lavender eyes.

Their daughter was finally returning home.

After a moment...

“My King”, a low firm voice echoed through the meditation chamber catching the attention of the royals and Yurin.

“Sir Jerith”, Yurin gently greeting the elder whom merely glanced at her with a stern eye.

Jerith Atrium was the head councilmen of Willownoire and Silvanus’ merciless, no-nonsense advisor. 

“Ah, Jerith”, Silvanus greeted the man catching his composure. “What brings you out of your cave?”, he teased the ever so stoic man.

“Our meeting to discuss new policies on the military academic programs. It was meant to start nearly a half hour ago”, the elder stated, seemingly irritated by their king’s forgetfulness.

“Oh, dear...”, Silvanus sighed. “Is it that time already? It completely slipped my mind”, he cleared his throat as he stood from the floor, assisting his nearly calm wife.

“Um...I shall be up momentari-”.

“THE BEHEMOTH IS AWAKE!!!”, an abrupt shriek filled the room halting the king’s sentence, also startling the grumpy elder.

All eyes were on the panting, virtually exhausted Gaea.

“Lady Gaea?!”, Yurin gasped as she had not seen the princess in multiple weeks.

This was the first time she had graced the palace with her presence by her own will in quite some time.

“What is the meaning of this, Lady Gaea? You are completely covered in sweat”, the elder nagged the young woman. 

“What I just said, Jerith”, she retorted. Not having any of the man’s sass. “The behemoth hidden away in the east forest!! It’s awake!!”

“You mean...”, Yurin began in disbelief, “from the stories?”

“Impossible”, Jerith spouted toward the young adult like she was delusional. “That story is only an old folk to pacify children with fears of the dark”, he continued receiving an annoyed glare from Gaea. “Besides, if the behemoth of legend was real, it would only awaken if-”.

“If the it sensed it true owner; the Pythoness. MY sister”, she retorted.

“How are you even certain that you didn’t just see a lowly behemoth prowling about?”, Jerith continued to goad the Guardian. “There is a possibility you were patrolling the forests in the west and didn’t even know it”.

“Oh, just because I’m not an 800 year old asshat with rank prune breath, I can’t tell direction?”, Gaea mocked the elder as she stepped toward him.

“Gaea”, Silvanus called toward his daughter.

“I know what I saw!!”, Gaea spouted toward her father.

“She is right”, Ceres’ soft voice sliced through the tension as she finally recollected herself. All attention now on the queen’s stern gaze.

“Muerlin is alive. She is returning to Willownoire. I received a message from Ramuh himself. She has been sent down the path toward home. Only time will tell when she will arrive at our gates”.

Silence filled the room as the gravity of the realization settled within everyone.

With a shake of his head and light eye roll, Jeirth finally surrendered.

“I will postpone the meeting”, he released in sighed.

That night...

The eldest Zephyrs gathered in the drawing room.

The only light within the room was the subtle glow emitting from the fire place.

The only sound was the crackling of the flames until...

“So”, Ein broke the silence in a hushed tone, “...Tenebrae, huh?”

“Yes”, Ceres confirmed. “That was the direction of her essence resonated from”.

“It’s been 14 years. How was she able to hide out there for so long?”, Gaea curiously asked, starring out the window by her seat to the starlit skies above.

“My guess would be the Nox Flueret’s...”, Ein replied in turning his gaze toward his mother whom emitted a light smile.

“Oh, Sylva...”, Ceres softly chuckled, remembering her dear late friend. “Always full of surprises...”.

“So, what do we do now?”, Gaea turned her gaze toward her family. “Niflheim troops are most likely looking for her. Shouldn’t we find a way to go get her?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot”, Silvanus replied. “It would only threaten her safety more”.

“How? We’d be going to keep her safe from the Nifs. Couldn’t Ein send his men on a retrieval mission or something?”

Silvanus shook his head. “That would only make it worse. The presence of Zephyr’s outside of Willownoire would cause suspicion. Suspicion will cause curiosity. Curiosity brings chaos”.

“But she’s walking from Tenebrae and no one’s even heard a peep”, the Guardian protested still not understanding her father’s point.

“And why do you think that is?”, Ein chimed in. “The Nif’s wouldn’t want anyone else knowing that she’s alive. There would be worldwide panic”, he explained.

“Well, if the Nifs don’t want her being discovered, why would they allow her out of Imperial Territory? They had to know she was there...right?”, Gaea turned toward her mother.

“Not necessarily. Sylva would’ve taken precaution...for Muerlin to not draw attention to herself, she had to have a life outside the palace”, Ceres explained. Plus Niflheim is a large place...as well as Tenebrae...I’m sure the Chancellor kept her mostly a secret from a large portion of his army as well”.

“Precisely”, Silvanus agreed with his wife. “The fewer people that know of your treasure, the less likely you are to lose it”.

The thought of his sister being a trophy in Niflheim’s treasury burned Ein to his core. “Hmph...bastard...”.

“Okay...so they didn’t know she was in Tenebrae”, Gaea shrugged. “Still, it seems weird that she would be able to just walk out like it’s nothing”.

“That is true”, Ceres agreed lifting a pondering finger to her chin.

“Maybe they found out...”, Silvanus thought out loud.

“...hmm...it would make her departure more plausible”, Ein confirmed. “Despite being Imperial Territory, the longer she remained there, her powers would be nulled to a dormant state. Her appearance being all that set her apart from the norm...unfortunately...if her hand had been forced, she may have had no choice”.

“But how?”, Gaea asked. “If her powers were in a dormant state, wouldn’t that mean she couldn’t use them? How could they have found out?”

“Well...”, Ceres began to explain. “Her powers being nulled don’t exactly mean she couldn’t use them. It’s like the Third Eye. My abilities are driven off emotion so it’s imperative that I remain cool and collective at all times. Even if there was an adversary at hand. I meditate daily to keep myself in this state. If not, I risk losing control. The Pythoness’ power ranges at a much larger scale than mine so Muerlin will have a lot more to keep in check. Plus....there is the daemonic essence she harbors from Asteria. This essence is constantly battling her psyche for control. If she isn’t subjected to understanding her abilities, she is more susceptible to lose control...and the consequences could be apocalyptic”.

Understand this, horror filled within Gaea’s heart as she imagined what could’ve possibly happened to her sister. “Do you think...”.

“...it’s possible”, Ceres concluded.

The atmosphere shifted to a more somber state as the family mulled over the potential turmoil that their beloved Muerlin must’ve faced to result in her departure from Tenebrae.

“Not to change the subject, but...”, Ein began as he turned toward his father with a stern eye. “...if we conclude that the Nifs forced Muerlin out of Tenebrae, we must address the possibility that they will proceed to make their way here to find her”.

Silvanus sighed at his son’s remark. Although he did not want to admit it, he was correct. Chancellor Izunia would most likely assume she would be returning to Willownoire and would expand his efforts to retrieve her once again.

The ladies turned their attention toward the king.

“Ein is right...if Muerlin is not apprehended on her journey, the Chancellor will most certainly turn his attention to us to draw her out”.

“So, what do we do?!”, Gaea exclaimed. “We can’t just sit on our hands and wait for him to show up! The citizens; they wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“Gaea is right...”, Ein chimed in. His tone more stern than usual. “Muerlin is top priority, but we cannot allow the Chancellor to lay waste to the entire kingdom”.

Ceres couldn’t help, but smile in pride of her children. “Besides...how is Muerlin to return home if she doesn’t have a home to return to?”

Silvanus couldn’t smile despite the determination of his family.

“Still”, he began. His tone as heavy as his heart. “...determination and courage is one thing...but situations of this caliber often end in sacrifice...”.

Ceres was fully aware of this notion, Silvanus knew, but what about the other two?

Ein and Gaea locked eyes for a moment.

Despite Muerlin’s importance to Willownoire, she wasn’t the only child the king and queen cared for. “

“The weight could be too great...”, Silvanus spoke up against the silence, “...you two may have each other and your younger brother and sister to look out for”.

“They depend on you”, Ceres lightly added.

“So, if it comes down to it-”.

“We will see it this through until the very end”, Ein cut off his father.

“No matter the cost”, Gaea chimed in expressing to the two adults they were not fearful of their fate.

“Ein...Gaea...”, Ceres lightly pleaded toward her children, “this isn’t your burden to bare”.

“Like hell it isn’t!”, Gaea rose from her seat. “Those damned Nifs destroyed our family! Made us resent each other AND ourselves!”

“They need to learn whom they are toying with”, Ein added. “Muerlin is not the only Zephyr they need to worry about...they will pay...whether it’s Muerlin...or us”.

Despite the horror of the situation, Silvanus and Ceres can’t help, but feel an unfathomable warmth and pride for their children’s tenacity.

“Alright...so it’s settled”, Silvanus concluded the meeting. “Gaea, would you mind making sure Talon and...”, a sudden creak from the door behind them hushed the king.

After a moment, the azure gaze of Talon came into view.

The four remained silent upon his entry.

The somberness of his stare broke their hearts.

Did...did he hear the whole conversation?

“Talon?”, Ein broke the silence, shifting the young boy’s gaze to his older brother on the couch. “Is something the matter?”

“...Heira had a nightmare and woke me”, he murmured.

“Oh, dear”, Ceres responded in attempt to sound like her normal cheery, collected self. “Perhaps, you’d like to-”.

“She’s in her room...”, Talon abruptly interrupted his mother before taking his leave.

Ceres returned her gaze to Silvanus in worry. He definitely was listening to them.

“I’ll go check on him”, Gaea volunteered to ease her mother’s mind on the matter disappearing from sight as she ventured through the pitch halls.

Talon’s room was in the south wing of the castle on the second floor.

Although Gaea was rarely home, she knew how much he preferred his privacy for his door was almost always locked.

She hadn’t been inside for about 4 years. She didn’t really know how to approach him anymore, but she was already standing in front of his door so backing out was not an option.

“Here goes nothing”, she sighed before gently knocking upon the door. “Talon?”

No one answered.

“Talon, it’s Gaea...”, she tried again. “Can I come in?”

Silence.

She glanced down toward the door handle, biting her lip anxiously. She had no idea why she was so nervous about this. He was her little brother. This shouldn’t be this stressful. It should literally be cake, but for some reason it wasn’t.

Regardless, it had to be done...so, swallowing up her fear, Gaea turned the knob, gave it a light push and...

“...Talon?”, she whispered into the abyss only welcomed by more silence. “Are you in here?”

Flipping the switch to illuminate his room, it was determined that it was barren.

Her anxious mind had egged her to close the door and wait, but her curiosity drove her mad.

Talon was now 13 years old. Gaea hadn’t really seen him since he was about to turn 10.

Even at that time, he had distanced himself from the rest of his family.

He began to let go of the cheerful, optimistic, goofy child he was in the past and absorbed the darker aspects of what the life as a Zephyr was truly like, but judging by what Gaea saw by entering his room...his love for one thing hadn’t changed...

Muerlin.

His walls were cluttered from the ceiling to the floor of portraits of a girl with teal iris’ and silver hair. 

They all had subtle differences like the facial structure, hair length, but they all looked like their parents in some way.

The Guardian was torn between marveling in her brother’s unbelievable talent and mourning for his saddened soul for the longing of their sister.

“What’re you doing?!”, a growl startled the young woman.

She quickly spun around to see her younger brother standing at his door, completely mortified by Gaea’s intrusion.

“Talon...did you draw all of these...?”, Gaea asked in absolute awe. “How long...have you been doing this?...Is this why you’re always in here?...”

The teen had nothing to say...his innermost feelings and possessions have been discovered.

As much as it burned Gaea’s heart that the lad would keep such a talent hidden from the rest of their family, it hurt more knowing that he was hurting so...

Noticing a few incomplete sketches on his desk, she approached to get a better look.

“Talon...why didn’t you come to us?...You’re hurting...why won’t you let us help?”

“...you wouldn’t understand”, the boy replied, holding back bitter tears.

“Talon...”, Gaea’s voice softened, “we all miss Muerlin. You can talk to us about it whenev-”.

“No, I can’t”, the boy spouted. His pain beginning to take over his emotions. “I can’t talk to any of you about it...”, he insisted.

“The only person that could understand is Heira.....and she’s too damn stupid to know anything because you try so hard to protect her from the truth...”, he lightly growled, his gaze turning into a heart wrenching glare.

“But she’ll learn when Niflheim blows us sky high...”, the boy mumbles, confronting his sister over the earlier meeting, much to her dismay.

“Talon...”, she began hoping to explain.

“Just get out!!!”, the boy shrieked as he dashed toward his sister and began to shove her out of his room refusing to allow her to view his tears.

“Talon, please, just listen to m-”, Gaea desperately tried to explain before having her brother’s door viciously slammed in her face and bolted shut.

As much as Talon wished his family could understand what he felt, they couldn’t. His parents, along with Ein and Gaea got to see Muerlin. Got to actually welcome her into the family.

Talon and Heira never got that privilege, but he was barely a year younger than his estranged sister.

He felt his existence was merely to shroud the fact that she was taken...alas, he grew up feeling outcasted because of this.

The affection from his family never felt real. It felt forced...and the older he got, the more it took effect. 

He grew up seeing his mother’s tears more than any of his siblings and as much as it pained Silvanus, there were times where even looking at his son was difficult.

He wished he could go to them and express how he felt, but it would only bring out the only thing he ever really gave them...sadness, so he remained in his room.

Locked away to dwell on the fact that the person he longed for most in this world, the only one that ever made him feel as if he belonged, would never know him as he gazed upon the hundreds of portraits he drew of her, unable to tell which one was really her before lowering his head against the wall...his gentle sobs filling the room.

On the lower floor of the south side of the palace...

11 year old Heira gazed from her window toward the moonlit sky, wide awake before the latch of her door caught her attention.

“Hello, sweet-tart”, Ceres pleasantly greeted her youngest daughter.

“Hi, mommy”, Heira yawned as she rubbed her eyes.

“What seems to be the matter?”, the queen asked as she took a seat on the bed next to the child. “Talon said you had a nightmare”.

“No, I didn’t”, Heira replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh...?”, Ceres asked realizing her son had lied to cover the fact he was eavesdropping, but with a sigh changed the subject. “Well, then why’re you awake? It’s late”.

“I know. I was just counting the stars”, the little girl admitted with a smile on her face.

Being 3 years younger than Muerlin, Heira had almost no emotional attachment to her older sister. She barely remembered her existence most of the time.

This helped the king and queen cope slightly since to her, the gloom was normal so it didn’t feel like anything was amiss, but the guilt in their secrecy was still prominent.

The only one that was oblivious was little Heira.

As Heira grew older, it just became routine to shield her from the horrors of the Zephyr family making her innocence both her best and worst quality.

Especially now...the whole legacy of the Zephyr’s could crumble into dust within the coming months and she had no idea...but how would she, as a mother, explain to an 11 year old who’s lived with a falsehood of perfection that everything she knew and loved could be destroyed because of someone she never knew?

Was there even a way?

“What’s wrong, mommy?”, the delicate child asked her mother, her majorelle iris’ glistening in the night’s hue.

“...Nothing, pumpkin”, the woman lied, upon pure instinct much to her sorrow, as she pulled her daughter into her lap and watched the stars with her. A single tear rolling down her cheek. 

“Nothing at all”.

Deeper into the night...

Little Heira had finally drifted to sleep sending Ceres on a tearful walk toward the master chambers.

Upon entering, she was surprised to see Silvanus fully dressed and packing some of his belongings.

“Silvy?”, the queen addressed her king, catching his attention. “Where are you going this time of night?”

“...Insomnia”, the man replied after a deep sigh.

“WHAT?”, Ceres loudly whispered as she rushes toward her husband. “Tell me you’re joking!”

“Alright. I’m joking”, the king replied planting a light kiss upon her cheek.

“Now say it like you mean it”, she demanded in light irritation.

“See, that’s called lying and I’ve sworn by oath never to do so to you”, the man attempted to joke to ease his wife’s worry, of course, to no avail.

“Silvanus Zephyr, do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What could you possibly need to go there for? You tell me this INSTANT or I swear on Ramuh’s grave, I will-”.

“Alright”, the king reluctantly complied to ease his fuming queen. “Alright”.

“Well?”, Ceres egged him, growing inpatient with his silence.

“Look...we both know that the day will come when Izunia seeks our end and will stop at nothing until he makes it so...”, he admitted with a sigh, discouraging Ceres despite the fact she was also aware of this.

“Whatever happens to us, we cannot allow him to find Muerlin...at least not until she’s ready”, he continued.

“So, what is your business in Insomnia?”, Ceres asked with a raised eyebrow.

“To keep her safe as she prepares for the hardships ahead...”, he finally admits. “Sylva kept her from him long enough for her to find her way home, but she will not be safe here for quite some time...and we must be prepared”.

“...but...what if he comes before she returns?”, Ceres asked in slight worry.

“I was speak to Regis of this. The point is, in her current state, she cannot stay in Willownoire”, Silvanus concluded before he finished packing. “I will return soon”, he said in-between a gentle kiss upon his wife’s lips as he exited the room, making it all the way toward Willownoire’s portal gate before...

“WAIT!”

The king turned to see his wife desperately running to him in tears.

“Ceres, what’re you doing?”, Silvanus exclaimed in concern.

“Let me go with you”, the queen begged. “With the two of us, we could watch each other’s back”.

“Ceres, you are needed here to keep the rest of them at bay”, Silvanus denied her request.

“They’re be fine. Ein and Gaea can watch Talon and Heira, it’ll be fine”.

“Ceres”.

“Please!...I won’t be able to live with myself if I lost you too...”, she sobbed, finally admitting to her worries, melting the old king’s soul.

Placing his hands upon her shoulders, Silvanus gazed lovingly into his wife’s crystal eyes.

“Ceres Hova...my love...I promise...I swear...with every ounce of my being, if I am to die soon...it’ll be aside you...protecting Willownoire”, he gently wiped her tears with his thumb before pulling her into a loving embrace.

...and with that, the King of Willownoire bid his kingdom farewell as he set off to The Crown City to ask his dear friend for one final favor.

Tagging: @digitalkanvas @insomniasix @glacian-apocalypse @aquathemermaidstripper @a-new-recipehhh @prettyprompto @dizzymoogle

[stereotypicali]

05/17/2012

This blog has always been my solace. My safe space. I think it's been the platform that has allowed my most raw form of expression, especially regarding my writing. I have always found such comfort and ease in writing, and it's about time I start embracing that. Since early school years, I wanted to be a writer. It was the only artistic gift of mine that was valued by the adults in my life. People loved my writing, and I loved to write, so naturally, I wanted to grow up to be a writer. And then there were all of these rules, all of these complications in form that came up specifically in my high school years. I don't think I have ever seen MLA format outside of my high school environment. The fiery passion I had for writing began to dwindle as the logistics and technicalities continued to flow in. I don't remember a lot from my classes in high school. I found it difficult to focus and unnecessary to learn the majority of the material I was being taught. I've always had my priorities in check, in a weird way. Those priorities required me to be, for lack of a better word, "checked-out" in class. Except in Mrs. Schrock's class. She was the first teacher who saw me for who I really was and showed kindness, understanding, and decided to nurture my gifts rather than force me into a uniform agenda. Rather than my parent's going to conferences with my teachers and hearing about how hard it is to get me to do my work or how much of a pain I was, Mrs Schrock expressed that I was a light in her day. "Hannah lives in her own little world, and I wish I could be a part of that world," she would say. Mrs. Schrock, you were a very important, core piece of that world and I cannot express enough gratitude for the love and nurturing you showed me as a child. I kept her close to my heart as I continued school. Although I didn't find another like her until I was 16 years old. I fell out of love with writing with the English teacher before her who insisted I couldn't write worth a damn. Nancy Nott was vibrant, fun, and incredibly intelligent. Not only did she academically excel, but she understood people. She understood people to a degree in which I entrusted her to understand me. She did, and I had no doubts that she was placed into my life at that exact time for a very important reason. She reminded me that although I was growing up, being an adult didn't mean that I had to abandon that sense of magic and childlike joy in my soul. I could express it through art and writing, and maybe one day, I could just express myself. Well, I'm getting there, Ms. Nott. I know I am just a background character in your story, but you were an important building block in mine. This one goes out to the teachers who don't just read and assign. Thank you for everything that you do to nurture your students as individuals and leading them to find their passions in life. Thank you to the adults in my life who accepted me in my purest form and loved what they saw. I'm starting to see, and I'm starting to love what I started to think that I lost. Thank you to the teachers who care. My father, my biggest fan and one of my ultimate role models, is retiring in a week from 30 years of teaching middle school math. Bless his heart. The patience and care he has always had with me and my sister, he expressed to all of his students. I applaud the chaos of teenage hormones he had to endure and the endless days and nights he spent teaching and coaching to make sure his students received the best care possible. I used to think I would die if I had to attend the school district he taught at. Now, I would consider myself lucky. My father is one of the ones who cares. To some, it is second nature. To others, standing in the shoes of another is difficult, and our selfish thoughts and ego can blind us. The best we can do, every day, is just try to be the one who cares.

[rotationalsymmetry]

I think there is something of a both/and on academia and progressivism. Both: well educated types tend to run left, and the kind of leftism that well educated types tend to run to...is not necessarily the best kind of leftism. It can run skin deep. It can be lacking in self-awareness. It can be ... I hate this word, but...performative. The kind where you know exactly the right words to use, but still mistake the black woman at your academic conference for an admin when she’s actually a tenured professor. I know this kind of leftism. I don’t think it’s usually a lack of sincerity, so much as a lack of...something else. Integrity, I guess. An integration of the mind and the whole being. In other words: it’s not malicious, it’s just what it is. This is an effect education often has on people: a well-developed intellectual life that’s often very disconnected from the core of one’s being. That one SNL “black jeopardy” sketch where there’s a white professor of African American studies shows it pretty well I think: what you learn from academic study and what you learn from lived experience are different. Your social location, your background, matters, and there’s some things you’re not going to know in your bones just from having read about it. And, tbh, what eventually sold me on race being important wasn’t reading about it. Part of it was putting a framework on things I could observe for myself but previously hadn’t assigned meaning to (”unpacking the white privilege knapsack” -- what colors band-aids come in, etc) but more of it was...attending an ecowomanist conference (ie: save the planet stuff through black women’s lenses) and having the felt sense that there were things being talked about here that didn’t get talked about in the books I’d read by white (mostly white male) save-the-planet types. I can’t even tell you what those things were, I just remember the feeling. And the thought: if the race of the people talking about environmental stuff didn’t matter, then the content would be the same, or possibly strictly less good. But it wasn’t. So. It matters. White people tend to miss important stuff. Non-white voices need to be included, no not included but centered, even when the topic doesn’t initially appear to be about race. And the corollary: if you don’t specifically try to center marginalized voices, you will center white men’s voices, every single time. Nobody does it on purpose, it just happens. Every single time. Another thing: dismissal of education and academia as being not strong etc, is a fascist thing, so it’s reasonable and appropriate to be concerned when people brush off academic knowledge as being less valuable than non-academic things, like common sense, or like lived experience. Academic knowledge and academic skills are not valueless, and there is a danger in the idea that they are. Another thing: there can be this idea that academic leftism is leftism, that because some of the words used to talk about political issues on the left are academic jargon, that the ivory tower is where leftism comes from and where the truest or purest leftism lives. In the same way that: obviously any collection of observations or theories about animals or plants has to be biology (or else just junk) because that’s what the study of life is. Which means non-Western cultures have to explain their bodies of knowledge as “science” (and therefore have their bodies of knowledge judged by a modern western framework of hypothesis and experiment and so on) in order to get taken seriously, because we conflate “science” (a specific modern Western framework of determining truth -- granted a pretty good one, but not one without flaws) with any way of accurately acquiring truth. The idea that there might be ways of curating and preserving truth (and ways of avoiding the distortion and misinterpretation of truth) that Western science hasn’t really figured out or doesn’t emphasize enough but that other cultural knowledge frameworks have figured out, is inconceivable. Another thing: academia has issues, and has positive attributes as well. Another thing: academia is a safe haven for people with certain types of neuroatypicalities (is...is that the right word? I don’t know.) and also academia is a disaster for people with other tyes of neuroatypicalities, or even the same neuroatypicalities presented slightly differently, or it’s a mix of both, with some classes and subjects being “home” and others being a nightmare. Another thing: academic skill/book smarts is rewarded, economically and socially, and academic skill/book smarts is punished, economically and socially.

[thelondonfilmschool]

“Students are the purest fuel for the film industry and it’s great to be around them” - Heads of Screenwriting, Sophia Wellington & Jonathan Hourigan

Sophia Wellington and Jonathan Hourigan have been popular tutors for many years at London Film School (LFS), so it was no surprise when they were chosen to fill Brian Dunnigan’s considerable shoes when he left this year after 12 years as Head of Screenwriting. We chatted to them about their new shared role, what they love about LFS and how they’re continuing its legacy.

S.M: Could you tell us a little bit about your background before working at London Film School?

Sophia Wellington: I got into film, I think like a lot of people, by accident. I had a temporary job at the BBC, at Television Film Studios, Ealing (TFS) and then whilst I was there I started to follow the camera crew around and went every weekend for about four weeks, going on set and just talking to them. And then, from doing that, I got onto a course at the BBC where I trained in technical production and on studio cameras. I then became a camera assistant on film cameras and then in the cutting room. My training was mainly technical and, as I say, by accident, but that’s how I started. Then, when Avid became very popular, I made that switch to development and worked in development and production as a freelancer, working with writers. And the rest is history!

S.M: You’d taught before, in Singapore?

S.W: I did, but actually the first place that I taught was at the LFS. Like a lot of people in the industry, I thought that once you get to a certain level in your work it’s really important to try and give back. So, I was a mentor here in 2004 and then started as a feature development tutor, around 2005-6. I did that for a year or so and then went to Singapore and taught full time. New York University has a film school in Singapore, Tisch Asia, and I taught there for eight years. It’s a long time to be away from the UK industry, but it was really useful to be in Asia. The training that I got in Singapore made me aware of the different film industries, but also how universal stories can be and should be, and how to approach them and ways of storytelling. When I left Singapore, I came back to work at LFS.

Jonathan Hourigan: I was interested in photography when I was a teenager, my uncle was a photographer and taught photography at West Sussex College of Art and Design. I remember going to a screening there one afternoon and I saw The Spirit of the Beehive, projected on a scratchy 16mm print, literally onto a white sheet stretched onto a wall. And that was the moment I vividly remember thinking, “Oh, that looks like an interesting thing to do, I don’t want to take photographs, I want to do something about making movies.” Then I went to university and did an academic degree, and was interested in the cinema but didn’t really know how to get going. I got very interested in a French director called Bresson and I got in contact with him and showed all his films in London, as you couldn’t see them otherwise, and it just happened that as I was finishing university he was making a film. So, I went and worked with him in Paris for a year, and I came back and thought, “Well, I’m not very enterprising and I know that about myself, so I’ve got to go to film school.” I’ve got very clear views on why you should come to film school, and having come back to the UK after working with Bresson in France it took me a few years to get around to making a film to get me into the National Film School. I went there for several years, then left the National where I studied direction, tried to set things up and I just found I started to get work script reading and got more and more interested in writing. So, I started to write, and do some teaching around that and in fact, Sophia introduced me here at LFS. I was a mentor at some point around 2003-4, just before she went away (to Singapore) and I think I probably inherited her feature development group. I took an opportunity that was too good to say no to, which was to replace Sophia! And the rest is history. I teach here, a little bit elsewhere, and carry on writing as well.

S.M: This is the first year that you’ve both taken over from Brian Dunnigan, who’d headed the MA Screenwriting program for 12 years. Why did you decide to share the role? 

J.H: We’ve both worked here for a number of years and feel very loyal to the place. We’re very interested in the way the school works – there aren’t many conservatoire film schools left. We worked with Brian but also with a very good group of other visiting lecturers, and we felt there was something really powerful about that group. When the opportunity came up because Brian was leaving, and the school was looking for a new head of screenwriting, we thought it would be a great opportunity to step up and do something different, slightly change our focus. Job sharing allows us both to share the challenges of doing this job which is great, but also to carry on doing other things so that we’re out in the industry as well.

S.W: I completely agree. I think that from our time here, at the school, we’ve got a commitment to it. We think it works really well, and we’ve got a great core of tutors. And so, when Brian left, there was the risk of somebody new coming in and changing it, or whether we could step up and protect what we have and continue it. And so, I think that for both of us that was a big part of it – trying to continue this great legacy and this great team, and make it as good as it could be. The job share, I think, is really important because this is such an industry facing course, and it allows us to keep links with the industry and with outsiders. There’s a lot of work to do here, and being full time it’s possible just to focus very much on the teaching and the students, which is important, but at the end of the year they do have to go out into the industry. Our connection with the industry allows us to be mindful of that at all times – that not only are we teaching students to be as good writers as they can be, but in a year’s time they’ve got to go out into the industry. We have to make them aware of and prepare them for it, and this job share offers, I think, the best opportunity to do that.

S.M: Has it been a case of taking the baton from Brian and carrying on more or less the same, or are changes afoot?

J.H: As we said, we’ve always felt there’s something very special about the structure of the course and about this school, and so you want to preserve a lot of what’s going on. But we’ve changed a number of things. We’ve got some new tutors involved, because we’re not now doing so much of the frontline teaching ourselves. We do the Work and Research Journal in a slightly different way than has been the case in the past, although funnily enough in a way that’s an evolution that’s in keeping with the rest of what we’re doing. We’re now doing the journal in group sessions, which of course replicates the very powerful feature development group model, and it seems to be working well. It’s a change but it’s in keeping with what’s been going on. But there haven’t been any major ruptures with the past.

S.W: I don’t think there needed to be. The way that the course was run was excellent and incredibly strong. With the two of us, it now means that there’s a little bit of fresh energy, because I would say that we are aware of different challenges facing the course and the industry. So, we have to be mindful about how we’re going to deal with those. One of the challenges that we’re dealing with is, of course, the popularity of writing for mediums outside of the big screen – for television and other areas. And whereas our focus is very specifically on writing a feature script, we’ve also got to see how we can address a changing industry and make sure that our writers have the skills that can transfer into these other areas, while still ensuring that we have given them the best teaching possible. So, while there are no major changes, we are very aware of new challenges and spending a lot of time thinking, “How can we tweak areas here and there to make sure we can face these challenges?”

S.M: Having both worked and studied in a variety of different film school environments around the world, what do you think is special about London Film School?

J.H: In terms of the school, the non-specialisation is really powerful, having graduated from the National myself where you specialise right from the beginning, I think it’s a really interesting comparison. You see people who embrace it and make a strong decision to come here because they really want to experience that whole range of roles involved in making a film. On this course in particular, I think the thing that’s impressive is how collaborative people are. Students are developing their own ideas, about which they are passionate, but there’s a very powerful sense of collective purpose and that they can all flourish equally and so therefore there’s real benefit in supporting one another. Not in a complacent way, because support is often by giving robust challenges, but I think that’s really powerful, that sense of collective identity. They make very different work, but there’s a real sense that they’re a group. They stick together and help one another. It’s impressive.

S.W: Just to go off that, of course, it’s a one-year course. All the other courses I’ve been on have been over two years, so this is incredibly intense and much tighter, by virtue of being one year. We do encourage a lot of that learning and development to come from fellow students, not just from the tutors. Compared to the other film schools I’ve been at, which worked incredibly well for what they did, I think that the way that this course is organised and how we work within small groups and the really great student to teacher ratio allows everybody to be incredibly supportive of each other. It forces a strong community during the year that they are studying here, and it also creates a very creative environment where they are getting feedback, not just from tutors, but from each other. They understand that that’s what they’re supposed to do. So, I think that’s one of the real strengths for writing here. Writing is such a solitary profession, I think it’s fantastic that they start their learning in understanding that, actually, it can be more collaborative. You can get support from others. This is a different way of doing it, it’s not just about locking yourself in a dark room and writing, it’s actually about being supported by other people. That’s a very strong ethos of the school and one of the things that makes it unique.

S.M: How does the school prepare people for life after film school?

J.H: You’ve got to prepare people for moving out and working independently, and it’s a real challenge. We send them out, hopefully, with the capacity to generate good ideas, a lot of powerful transferrable skills as writers, a set of relationships with other writers, the people who teach them and the filmmakers up the road. And, of course, the film industry in London, so a world of agents, producers, other writers who hopefully come through the school and who they meet on their journey through here. The thing that’s impressive in comparison with when I was at film school is that students also come with a lot more enterprise. We don’t have to work that hard to talk to them about preparing for life after film school. I was talking to some of the current cohort, who are only four weeks in, and they’re already thinking about that. They’re more and more proactive and thinking about how they’re going to make themselves employable, without compromising the educational and creative work that they’re doing here. I think that’s impressive.

S.W: It’s always a challenge, preparing students for the industry, and we can talk about the schedule that we have here, the industry guests that we bring in and the fact that all of the tutors are visiting lecturers who work in the industry. So, every bit of their teaching is informed with their industry experience. The students are surrounded by, and their teaching is done by, industry people. For all film schools, leaving is challenging. It’s like being kicked out of the nest, but we provide them with the tools and the skills to get out there and to fly! The other challenge is always to provide them with the confidence to believe that they have those skills.

J.H: We’ve just done a big piece of work on tracking graduates over the last four or five years, and you see a number of trends. A lot of graduates leave, and they probably do other work and build up a portfolio of films, working with filmmakers up the road. Ben Cleary’s is an example of somebody who went out, made a short film and won an Oscar. Alejandro Stepenberg from a couple of years ago I think has about seven or eight graduation film credits, people he’s kept in contact with and is travelling the world, making short films with people. Other people have found themselves doing script editing, we’ve got students from three or four years ago who have got show running jobs in children’s animation series … A whole different range of ways that people find their ways into employment, which reflect their creative preferences, their personalities, their desire to be in a job or working freelance. I think we send them out with the creative and technical capacities, and then they generate and we nurture that sense of enterprise that means most of them find work within the industry. They then have to negotiate where that goes longer term. 

S.W: I think that point about having the film students over the road and the ability to work on graduation films is really important, because it’s a step into the industry. That allows them to stay connected for some time. It’s like a lovely transition period where they can work on student films at a high level while still being slightly supported. As I say, because we’ve only got one year, we think our relationship with our grads and our alumni is really important, and how they can support each other. That’s something that we are looking to improve, because so much of supporting people into the industry is the alumni who have gone before. They’re the ones that can help give them a softer landing and a leg up!

S.M: A big part of your job is student enrolment. What kind of things are you looking for in potential students?

S.W: In the interview, I’m looking for somebody who wants to engage with telling stories. Somebody who has some sort of visual sense, somebody who’s interested in people and also has something to say. Someone who has a passion for film and connects to it in an emotional way, rather than just an intellectual way. There’s not one type of student we’re looking for - one of the great things about this course is that it’s incredibly diverse and we have very different people. I think definitely a passion for film and stories, and a desire to play with them. That is something that I always stress in interviews, that they’re open to feedback and ideas and coming up with ideas and sparking conversation. Because, that’s so much about how we teach here – we’re teaching in small groups, so it’s about what they’re giving to that group and what they get back. Anyone with those types of qualities is definitely what we’re looking for here.

J.H: I’d say the same. For me, at interview and once they’re here, it’s about this balance between core point of view, where you feel there’s something about them and that they’re interested in the world, and then around that, in orbit, is that flexibility that Sophia’s talking about. That willingness to balance that sense of real purpose with a willingness to explore the different ways in which you might develop it.

S.M: Once someone’s been accepted onto the course, what advice would you give them to best prepare for their year here?

J.H: What I wouldn’t do is sit and read a load of screenwriting manuals, but I would try and watch a lot of films. Hopefully anyone applying would already be watching a lot of films, but it’d be great if they went and read a bunch of screenplays, that’s also very useful. And of course, keep writing. Keep writing as part of a process. Don’t think you’re getting ahead of the game and nailing your first term’s work – just immerse yourself in a world in which writing becomes a daily practice, which is one of the key parts of the course, to be doing it all the time. 

S.W: I would encourage anybody who’s gone through the interview and been given a place to continue that sense of wonder and interest and appetite. I would also stress that coming onto the course is not a time for them to then have to give up any creative thinking, thinking that we will provide lots of answers. Not at all. You really have to come here with an appetite to explore for yourself, and to question and wonder about things. So, you should never think of the interview as, “Phew, I’ve passed that, everything’s fine!” Rather, that work of questioning ideas, what you’re interested in and questioning yourself should continue after the interview and throughout the course. It’s about creating that writing practice. You learn how to write through the practice of writing, and we don’t create perfect writers at the end of the course but rather those who know how to develop and to grow.

S.M: What inspiration do you take from being around students?

S.W: What is great about students is that they think anything is possible. They think that the industry can be changed and that it’s an important place where you can change the world and present incredibly powerful messages and themes and make important stories. When you work in the industry for a long time it can often feel like it’s about money and the economics and everything else, so students give you a moment to breathe fresh air and think, actually, this is what the industry is. It’s a place for art, for exploring ideas and universal questions. Students are the purest fuel for the industry and it’s great to be around them because they have those fresh ideas and that passion that we need.

J.H: Being around students makes me realise how important and worthwhile it is to teach. And you’re right, they do come with enormous energy and enthusiasm, determined to break down the walls. It’s exciting to be part of that and to help focus it.

S.M: It does seem to be part of the industry, that people get to a point where they want to give something back in terms of sharing knowledge.

S.W: Yes, whether it’s a little bit of mentoring or full-time teaching, I think that is definitely built into it. Even within the formal structure of film schools there’s always somebody who is more of a mentor who really is inspiring. I think we all have mentors, within film schools and also within the industry, who have done an awful lot to help us and shape our own passion for film. It’s a responsibility to pass it on to others, so you’re right, teaching is an opportunity to do that.

S.M: Jonathan, you mentioned before that you went to film school after returning from working with Bresson in Paris because you felt you weren’t very enterprising. There’s an ongoing debate about whether writers and film makers need to go to film school or not – what’s your opinion on that?

J.H: For me it was an incredible experience and I loved going there, and I don’t think I would have found my way into being a filmmaker had I not done it. But you have to make a strong choice and have strong reasons to do it. Screenwriting is a little different. Writing is solitary, and if you’re going to do the equivalent of going and doing your first feature, which is to sit at home and write it, it’s very hard to do that first time. I think that at film school, you’re putting yourself in a community of writers for a year with all the benefits that come from that. There aren’t many people, starting out, who would be more productive in a year sitting at home or sitting in a garret in Paris, even, than they would be coming here. I think you learn a lot and you’re encouraged to be very productive.

S.W: I think it’s something that you should think about seriously. Going to a film school is only the start of getting yourself into the film industry. You have to think long and hard about what you want to get out of it and what you expect to do with it afterwards. It immediately puts you into a creative environment that will sustain and inspire you and allow you to continue being creative during the following years. If you don’t have that it’s very easy to slip out of the industry. It also gives you, very quickly, the tools and the skills you need to problem solve when you’re dealing with either filmmaking issues or story issues. You’re given this information upfront in very clear ways. Also, within a film school environment you’re encouraged to work on areas where you are weak, in a way that you might not when you’re working on your own. The other thing I will say about film school, as much as I loved my training at the BBC, film schools are one of the last places where you are allowed to dream and break rules and think as an artist. And you do not get that within industry training. Film schools are the only place, I think, where you are given the time, and the freedom, and the support to do that. That’s where artists come from, and what film schools support.

[roseonhissleeve]

Have A Little Faith: Chapter Six

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves.”

- William Shakespeare

“Let’s go.”

Harry followed me out of the building in silence, and I tucked my hands into the pockets of my shorts as soon as we were outside. It was dark enough that the street lights were on, and if I looked up I could see the stars in the sky.

The streets were almost bare, occupied by no more than couples walking down the street hand in hand. I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing the bustling city in rest yet, so the sight made me feel a sense of contentment.

“What’re you thinking about, love?” Harry asked, pausing to stand beside me and glance down at my features. I must’ve been out of it. I flashed him a soft smile as an apology, shrugging a shoulder. And I didn’t even feel weird when he called me “love” this time.

“About how the stars,” I offered, lifting my chin a little bit to look up into his curious eyes. “I know it’s a cliché thing to say…”

“Not at all. What about them?” He said tenderly after he’d heard my hesitance, urging me to continue. If there was one thing I knew about Harry at this point is that he liked skipping right past the small-talk.

“Um…I guess I love them because they remind me of how little I am, and how short life is,” I explained, pausing to pull on a lock of my hair, a nervous habit I’d developed. “Because of how far away they are, the stars that we see could possibly be burned out already. But we still see them shining because it takes their light so long to travel from there to here. They have an effect on us even after they’re long gone.”

I ended with a whisper, voice trailing off as I realized how stupid I sounded. I lowered my gaze to the ground and felt heat rise to my cheeks, only to hear Harry’s voice a moment later.

“Why do you do that?” He inquired, tilting his head a little bit sideways in an attempt to regain eye contact.

“Why do I do what?” I asked, granting his wish by looking back up into his emerald eyes that were riddled with an emotion that I couldn’t identify.

“Every time you say something important to you, you hide right after. As if you don’t think your ideas matter,” he explained, and it wasn’t until I heard him call me out on it that I realized how much I did that. I’d spend the greater part of my adult life doing it. “I want to hear what you have to say, yeah?”

I looked at him for a long moment as his words resonated in my mind. I wanted to ask why. Why was he here? Why me?

“Okay,” I finally said, nodding my head. He seemed to be satisfied with my response, and now that it was settled I took the opportunity to speak again. “So, where are you sneaking me off to, Styles? What’s so special that I had to wait until ten at night? This is my bed time, I’ll have you know.”

His face softened with my words just like I’d hoped.

“You’ll see, it’s a surprise. Promise I’ll make it worth your while, grandma,” he teased back, his cheeky grin causing his dimples to appear yet again. Every time they surprised me just as much as the first.

“Alright, but if it isn’t I’m demanding a refund,” I grinned in response, and with that he began walking to our destination.

The rest of the walk consisted of more lighthearted topics filled with small silences in between.

The thing about the silence, though, was that it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward at all. There was no obligation between us to constantly keep up the conversation, and when we did speak it happened naturally. It was the first time where I hadn’t felt another person’s silence as a threat.

“Alright, we’re almost there,” Harry murmured as he broke one of the silences between us. We were in the older part of the city—  the streets were empty, and the peace that it brought made me glad that Harry had chosen such an odd time to have this date.

We entered a plaza that was illuminated by a few street lamps on either side, but I was distracted by the centerpiece in the small corner of paradise.

My lips parted in awe as I laid eyes on the Trevi Fountain herself, the sounds of the water trickling filling the air around me.

“Thought we could make a wish,” Harry announced, pulling a couple of coins out of his pocket.

“You believe in wishes?” I asked, taking one of his coins with a grateful smile. I approached the fountain and toyed with the cool metal in my palm, Harry following me as I walked.

“I’ve got to. Too many coincidences not to,” he explained, his features suddenly serious as he explained himself. “Besides, when I was little all I wanted was to be a performer. An’ that wish came true.”

“How did it happen?” I replied curiously, taking a seat at the edge of the fountain while facing his broad frame. I could feel the mist from the fountain spraying my arm lightly, and the cool temperature of the water felt nice in contrast to the warm night.

“Well, I’m in class, right? So’m in this music class, and the teacher absolutely loathes me,” he began, taking a seat next to me on the fountain. He played with the rings on his fingers a little bit as he talked, and I shifted on the seat to face him so I could give him my full attention. “I mean, I’m sure he didn’t LOATHE me, but I was an absolute wanker when I was in school. I wasn’t a fan of academics back then as much, an’ I constantly goofed around and got myself into trouble.”

“So nothing’s really changed,” I interrupted jokingly, and he poked my side in response with a chuckle.

“So I’m goofin’ around all the time, an’ one day I really fucked up. I was tossing around a basketball with my friends and it went right out the window and onto the principal’s car, breaking his windshield,” he explained, looking at me in a way that made me feel like I was a part of the story myself. “I was going to be suspended for a couple o’ days. But instead of the suspension my music teacher looked at me and said, leave him with me.’”

“So he makes me start going to his classroom once a week to clean all the instruments. And this day is also the same day that the choir practices in his room. And while I polished the intruments I would sometimes join in on the singing, always quiet, always in the back o’ the room. And watching him teach choir and connect to something I was so passionate about…well, I never acted out in his class again. Jesus, there was something he’d always say…‘there’s a difference between music and noise. Music is life in it’s purest form. Music needs to mean something.’ I think about that ALL the time…”

“Anyways, one day he comes up to me. He shakes my hand and looks at me, and says, ‘Harry Styles, you’re going to make it some day.’ And God, I couldn’t get that outta my head. That night I went home and found out that there were auditions for the X Factor in Manchester.”

“And you auditioned,” I interrupted softly, a small smile on my face. I hadn’t known exactly how Harry’s band blew up and was created, but I was starting to fill in the blanks.

“I auditioned,” he confirmed, his smile widening a tad. “It was one o’ the scariest things I’ve ever done in my life, and somehow I made it through.”

“So you didn’t know the rest of the guys in your band beforehand? You went alone?” I wondered, toying with a lock of my hair absently as I looked at Harry. I smiled a little bit when my finger brushed against the petals of the rose and I remembered the gift he’d given me earlier.

“Yeah,” he explains, exhaling a soft chuckle with the word. “We were all put together once we got there. Jus’…so many things had to fall into place to lead me to where I am. Can’t help but believe in a little bit of luck and a little bit of fate.”

I stayed quiet for a moment, processing his words as the silence was filled with the sounds of the fountain beside us. He spoke about his music in a very similar way to what I felt towards my drawings, and it made me feel connected to him. Plus, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about it…well, it made me a bit weak.

“Maybe, but you also put a lot of work into it. If you weren’t good, NONE of it would’ve happened. You’ve gotta give yourself credit, too. Can’t just all be luck,” I challenged, and then it was his turn to stay silent, obviously giving some thought to what I’d just said.

After a few moments his lips twisted into a smile, his head tilting to the side as he leaned his arms forward onto his elbows.

“So you don’t believe in luck, then? Fate? Destiny? Any of that?” He asked softly, as if he knew it was a touchy subject.

I’d suffered through way too much shit to believe that it happened for a reason.

I looked at him for a long time, and a part of me wished that I could tell him that I did believe. But I hadn’t experienced anything to make me believe—as far as I knew, things happened because other incidents cause them. There’s no one up in the sky, no great force that pushes things to happen. Life is one big chain reaction.

“I can’t really believe in something I can’t see,” I explained, shrugging a shoulder softly.

He looked at me. His green gaze felt like it was piercing through me, as if he could see everything underneath my skin that I was trying to bury and keep away from him. It made me feel uncomfortable, like my secrets were all out there.

“Let’s make our wishes,” I offered, standing up and taking a few steps away from the fountain. He followed me and glanced over at me with a smile, giving a nod of his head.

“Ready?” He asked. I nodded, weighing the coin in my hand and closing my eyes. It felt a little bit like I was a kid again, getting ready to blow out candles on my birthday.

“Okay…one…two…three,” he counted, and once he’d reached the last number I tossed the coin in the air and into the direction of the fountain.

I had no idea what I was wishing for. It was hard to know what you wanted when you had spent so long keeping your dreams in the darkest corners of your mind— so I settled for a simple wish, one that maybe didn’t have to be so far off.

Happiness.

“Alright,” Harry’s voice pulled me back in, causing me to look at him once more. “There we go, then.”

“So, what now?” I asked, tugging on a loose lock of my hair that had fallen out of my hairdo.

“Now, onto the next part of the night. If you’re ready to leave, that is,” he clarified, and I nodded to let him know that I was good.

“Do you wanna take a picture or somethin’?” He asked, nodding towards the fountain whilst simultaneously reaching to adjust the flower that sat upon my ear.

“I’ll just come back tomorrow and sketch it,” I explained, smiling. He seemed satisfied with the answer and began walking out of the little courtyard.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think you would’ve done if you hadn’t auditioned and been accepted?”

We began walking down the streets again and I kept an eye on where Harry was going, allowing him to guide me through the illuminated cobblestone paths.

“Well, I used to work in a bakery, y’know…”

***

“Harry, where are you taking me?” I asked for about the millionth time in the last fifteen minutes, knowing that his answer would be the same as the last million times I asked.

“You are absolutely the worst receiver of surprises ever, did’ya know that, Ro? I’m not telling ya,” he declared as he continued down the narrow street. After extensively hearing about Harry’s time working in the bakery we’d moved onto my previous occupations which consisted solely of helping my father at the clinic, and I was pleased that he didn’t pry too much into my family afterwards.

“Hey, I’m trying to do you a favor, buddy. Since you won’t tell me, my expectations are sky high. If I knew, I’d at least be able to hide my disappointment if it’s mediocre,” I teased with a soft giggle, to which he leaned over and gently shoved my shoulder with his own.

“I’m just trying to be romantic, next time we go out I’ll be sure to send you the itinerary three days beforehand,” he teased back, and I felt a bit of heat rush to my cheeks as the word romantic left his lips. “Alright, this way. We’re heading upwards, so be careful.”

He led me into a small building, holding the door open for me as I stepped inside. The inside of the building looked close to ancient—the doorway was narrow and the foyer was small as well, and I could tell that it had been designed hundreds of years ago. It was well-preserved, though, and the space was homey and reminded me of the feeling of visiting your grandparents when you were little.

“Harry?”

“Shhh, trust me. Come’ere,” he said, and I followed him as he led me towards a small staircase at the other side of the small foyer. “I hope you dont mind, it’s a bit of a climb…”

“Let’s do it,” I replied, flashing a smile of reassurance. I suddenly felt very thankful that I hadn’t worn heels.

It wasn’t too long of a climb, but combined with the heat and the physical activity I could feel a layer of sweat form on my body that I was a tad self-conscious about. Don’t be stupid, Rosie, everyone sweats, I thought, taking a deep breath.

“Almost there, you ready?” He asked, and I thought that I heard a bit of a nervous quiver in his voice.

“Ready,” I confirmed, eager to finally see what he had up there.

He opened a door and walked through it. I followed him, and the first thing that greeted me was the cool breeze from the outside. It felt nice on my skin, and it took me two seconds to clue into the fact that we were on the roof.

It was as if it was a different building entirely.

The entire rooftop was illuminated by lights that had been strung up around the perimeter. In the center of the space there was a seating area, which had been set up with a mattress, blankets and pillows. Nearby there was also a small picnic that had been laid out, and I could see the outlines of champagne flutes. I finally looked over at Harry, his handsome features illuminated by the glow of the lights, and I wanted to melt at the sight of his breathtaking smile.

“Do you like it?” He asked, running a hand through his short hair and resting his hand against the back of his neck afterwards as he awaited my answer. The fact that he got a bit nervous around me was something new—I’d never experienced it before at all. Usually I was the one who got nervous.

“I…I love it,” I whispered, revealing a wide grin as I timidly fiddled with my own fingers. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

“Really?” He seemed surprise by the confession, as if he was expecting otherwise. If only he knew the kind of affection that I’d been used to receiving. “Well, come on, then.”

We took a seat among the pillows and snacked on chocolate covered strawberries. He couldn’t seem to eat them without the chocolate crumbling off of the strawberry and into his lap, which only made me laugh, and I had to occasionally have to cover my mouth so I wouldn’t spill my own food everywhere. Once he realized how amusing I found it I swear he did it on purpose, just to get a laugh out of me.

I crinkled my nose upon my first sip of champagne—it’d been forever since I’d had an alcoholic drink, and the tingling sensation was foreign.

After snacking on the food that he’d provided we laid down on the makeshift resting area, which was surprisingly comfortable. I laid on my back with my hands over my stomach, and though I could definitely sense Harry moving closer to me a throughout the night, he kept a respectable distance and never made me feel uncomfortable.

As I looked up at the sky I plucked my rose out of my hair and began playing with it.

“My little sisters and I used to sit in our backyard and watch the stars,” I shared, looking up at the glowing night sky. We’d settled into comfortable conversation, both of us at peace and cozy.

It was easy to talk to Harry, but there were certain things that he didn’t need to know about, like how sometimes when Elijah would be out with his friends at a bar I’d look at the stars from my window and cry. Or how when I left him and went back home, one of the first things I did was get five stars tattooed underneath my left ribcage.

“Mm, you’ve got sisters, eh?”

“Mhm. I love them more than anything,” I admitted. I smiled at the thought of them—I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t missed them. They were sometimes the only things that would get me through my lows. “Do you have any siblings?”

“My older sister, Gemma,” he replied, his voice soft. “She’s one of my best friends, her and my mum.”

“My parents and I…well, I love them, but it’s a bit complicated right now. I think they’re still a little mad that I came on this trip,” I admitted.

“How come?” He asked, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could get a better look at my face.

“They didn’t think I could do it,” I said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

“It looks like you’re doing fine to me,” he reassured, and at his words I couldn’t help but look up at him and smile.

***

“Favorite ice cream?”

“Cookie dough. Pineapple on pizza?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, this ends now, you monster.”

It had to have been a least an hour since we’d arrived on the rooftop, and we’d fallen into a comfortable peace. I could tell that he was treading carefully, asking questions that he knew wouldn’t bother me, but I could also tell that he was curious to know more.

We’d thankfully moved onto lighter conversation, quizzing each other on our likes and dislikes. We celebrated when we shared the same likes and picked on one another when we disagreed, although it was always jokingly.

After bantering for a little bit we settled into a silence, looking up at the stars that still shone above us and laying down in our cozy place. I closed my eyes, and I was beginning to doze off when I heard Harry’s voice break the air.

“Rosie?”

“Mhmmm?” I replied, my voice sleepy.

“I’ve gotta ask you somethin’ important,” he said, his voice. I opened my eyes to give him my attention, and he paused, his lips parted as he carefully selected his words before continuing.

“Can I…I mean, would it be okay if I held your hand?”

I continued to look at him, absolutely stunned.

The expression on his face showed no hint that he was joking, and I could see that he was incredibly nervous. I was taken aback by the fact that he’d asked—throughout my (limited) dating experience, men would always act first and apologize later if it wasn’t acceptable.

But Harry…God, he was something else.

I thought about it for a moment, nibbling on my lower lip shyly. Would that be okay? It’d been so long since I’d had any semblance of a romantic relationship with anyone. I didn’t really even know how to respond.

“I…Yes, that would be okay,” I whispered, and I unfolded my hands from across my belly to lay my arm beside me and bend my elbow, my hand resting beside my head with my palm upwards.

He paused for a moment, and for a split second I thought that maybe he’d reconsidered and changed his mind. But soon enough I watched as he flipped so that he was resting on his belly, and I watched as his free hand settled atop of mine.

Damn.

The warmth of his palm against mine radiated throughout my entire body and I didn’t even know how it was physically possible. I also quickly learned that there were nerve endings in my body—nerve endings that were on every single inch of my hand, nerve endings that had somehow lay dormant my entire life and come alive in this very moment with Harry’s touch, as if they were waiting for it the whole time.

His palm easily covered my entire hand, and after a few seconds I felt his fingers intertwine with mine, which added a whole other layer of stimulation. The connection was electric, as if there was something living and pulsing between us that was hungry and passionate and ALIVE. The cold surface of his rings pressed against my skin and I didn’t mind in the slightest, the rest of my body betraying me and shivering slightly when he gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

I then looked up to watch his features. His gaze was still attached to our interlocked hands, and the way he looked at them knocked the breath out of me. He was looking as if my hand was a butterfly that he was holding, one that he’d been watching for quite some time and just waiting for the right moment to care for.

He then ran his thumb across the surface of my skin and awoke a whole other set of nerves that had been dormant, causing me to part my lips I awe of the feeling as I lay perfectly still beside him. Anything I did could potentially disrupt the moment, and I wanted to freeze this moment, put it in my pocket and live in it forever.

“You’re beautiful,” he suddenly whispered, and I looked up from our intertwined digits to stare into his green eyes that I was growing fonder of with every passing moment. I didn’t really know how to react to that statement—especially when he said it so plainly and genuinely, as if it was just a fact that he needed the universe to hear.

“Thank you,” I whispered in response, and I watched as he laid his head down as he settled in beside me on the makeshift bed up on our rooftop. Once again the quiet fell over us, except this time my heart was racing yet I was perfectly calm at the same time and I didn’t know how that was possible. We looked at each other for a long moment, and when I started feeling self-conscious about the fact that I was basically staring at his face I forced myself to look away and up at the sky.

His hand still firmly in mine, I turned my head to glance at him quickly and held back a small giggle when I saw that he had closed his eyes. With my free hand I grabbed ahold of the rose that he’d given me earlier and gently teased the tip of his nose with the petals, which caused him to crinkle his features slightly.

A hint of a smile danced across his lips and I laughed a little, watching as his face relaxed once more but his smile remained. He looked like he could be sleeping, and I suddenly felt my own exhaustion creeping up on me. I allowed my own lids to fall shut and gave into the feeling, and even though I was tired I was still hyperaware of Harry’s thumb caressing the skin of my hand every once in a while.

Just when I began dozing off, I heard Harry’s voice beside me.

“Let’s get you back, love,” he suggested, and I thought that I heard a bit of reluctance in his voice. My eyes opened slowly and I nodded my head, turning to smile at him.

“Is it really late?”

“Almost two o’clock,” he admitted, releasing my hand. As soon as I lost the contact with him I somehow felt a tiny bit colder, and I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed as well.

“Two?!” I repeated, sitting up and running my hands through my hair that was sure to look messy after laying down against the pillow.

“Mhmm. Hope that’s okay,” he asked as he stood up off of the ground and offered his hand out to me, which I gratefully accepted. He pulled me up off of the ground and I was pleased that he didn’t let go afterwards, instead guiding me towards the door to the stairwell.

I thought about tonight as he led me down the stairs, and when we’d made it out of the building still hand in hand I spoke once more.

“You surprise me a lot, Styles.”

“Is that a good thing?”

I paused.

“I’ll let you know.”

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[automaticmoons]

as a French anarchist I kind of wish Anglo-Saxon ancoms out there could stop being so un-critical of the Invisible Committee and fantasizing about it. Regarding the content of their books but also the articles they/their little elitist club write on French anarchist media from time to time, I’m very surprised they’re considered as a model by people who seem to be attached to collective organisation and liberation.

I mean, they do write well-put constatations on the current state of society and the current state of leftist milieus, right, I get it. It’s true. They’re good at… describing obvious stuff. Guess that’s not surprising when you’re a bunch of freshly graduated students from the most elitist schools in France.

But like... their first text “The Call” is a mere description and not a call to anything, and it’s quite logical when you think of it: they do not have any project. They don’t want any better world, they’re only putting themselves in a warlike perspective; that’s it. They justify this by the fact that everything is a desperate cause and that you therefore have to quit waiting for another world. And like… this doesn’t interest me??? I’m a revolutionary because I want to build something afterwards???

But, ah yes, there’s the rub. This demands work. Fucking dirty activist work, like you know... going and talking to non-politicized people, organising protests and gatherings and making sure everyone will be as safe as possible, taking in account the material capacities of everyone in the struggle, defend people against their bosses in everyday life. But hey! since they’ve persuaded themselves that “the insurrection” will just… somehow happen, run (spontaneously!!) by the revolutionary elite, they don’t have to do that job! and they can stay in their (literally, I don’t mean this to exchange insults) bourgeois academic environment, how convenient. There’s always a kind of sick fascination for pure and gratuitous destruction in their books, with the idea that there’s nothing to claim. So it’s totally empty, all they offer is a theory of pure emotional release and there’s absolutely no will for an emancipation of human beings.

Their cult of spontaneity unsurprisingly doesn’t lead anywhere; the guys who put the IC’s ideas in practice just... well, they break stuff at protests. Okay cool. Then what. I’m deeply disturbed by their positions on trade unions and, frankly, on any form of organisation except the “commune”, which they see as a sum of spontaneously gathered human beings in the purest individualistic tradition. Not only do they refuse to support trade unions (who have many flaws but are at least useful tools for everyday life when you’re a worker and can set up a power imbalance between workers and bosses, I thought this was admitted ffs), but they also deny the existence of social classes—well, these two facts are obviously linked. And to me, by doing so they refuse to base their analysis on anything real (in the sense of: what people live everyday), and no one can liberate oneself with that. This is truly dangerous; it erases any possibility of fighting social domination and it actually maintains this domination: when you don’t reflect on power imbalances and on how to share the power equally and how to set up autogestion/self-management practices, you just allow leaders to emerge and become uneradicable. They don’t identify any power imbalance between social groups, this is not part of their lexicon; they’re against “the empire”, against “the desert”, against “the ennui”, but never against any systemic oppression. They want to steal things and plant flowers to make some herbal tea, but: who’s able to do that? probably only their cherished vanguard elite. They denounce the “milieu” but are precisely speaking to this very milieu and consider it as the only possible executor of their fantaisies. They’re extremely contemptuous towards “identities” without understanding that those identities take root in material conditions of existence. However their new obsession is about generations, and how that “ungovernable generation”, i.e. young people, will gather (spontaneously!!) to make the insurrection happen, denigrating the very numerous old people who went to march against labour law last year, who fight on a daily basis in trade unions, etc. They oppose generations because it allows them to gather high schoolers and students, who constitute the main part of their followers, and because it allows them to avoid class analysis. “every episode of revolt, every strike, every occupation, is a breach opened up in the false self-evidence of that life, attesting that a shared life is possible, desirable, potentially rich and joyful”, they say in To Our Friends. Wow that’s so exciting!! too bad that joyful moments aren’t enough to live decently when you come from a low to middle class background. But since social classes don’t exist... it must be that people are too alienated to appreciate that “breach opened up in the false self-evidence of that life”. This aestheticisation and romanticisation of struggle as an end in itself is truly worrying me.

Their assumed vanguardism is just unbearable, they’re perfectly okay with the idea that the revolution will be made by a few enlightened people, actually they don’t see it otherwise. They put themselves in the position of those who have understood everything before everyone, telling everyone else what to do, what is revolutionary and what is not, distributing good an bad marks. This is obvious in their very writing style: a lot of italics (cause ”I’m trying to instil something important in your stupid brain you little twat”) and convoluted words to describe familiar and evident situations, with a kind of mystical/philosophical reflection using obscure terms… I mean, they see themselves as revolutionaries but exclude the overwhelming majority of people, the very people who could benefit from the revolution but do not have access to that kind of vocabulary and discourse. This two-cents lyricism is excedingly painful and condescending.

Frankly, they’re a caricature of post-situationist pseudo-intellectuals who jerk off on their comprehension of the current world as decaying and depressing. They’re anti-materialistic as fuck and totally disconnected from pretty much everything—save for what could improve their popularity on social media and among Parisian high school/student circles. I wouldn’t be so angry about them if their shit was only some poetical sci-fi thing that did’t present itself as revolutionary. But their books have created a whole movement which is very visible in the French anarchist milieu, and they essentially behave as reactionary fucks (against the notion of social classes, against trade unions, against the communist project, against collective emancipation, against civilisation as a whole… doesn’t that ring a bell? They have recuperated pretty much every fascistic philosopher only to denigrate the workers’ movement????). I get that their style is aesthetically pleasing but please stop treating them as politically pertinent theorists T__T

[viedechlo]

April 28, 17 ⚠️ warning this is probs gon' be an all feeling-sy post soo 🙄🤔 AND BTW TRIGGER alert Bc my ex is in one of these pictures (probably wondering what in the damn hillbilly shank Shaw Wild West he's doing here...) BUT THISLL MAKE SENSE IN A SEC I was happening to go through my iPad, which is a device I acquired my junior year of high school. And to say the least, I know that that year of school was NOT by far my best year in literally almost EVERY aspect (academics, personal relationships, self esteem, ya know, the works) As I was scrolling through my VSCO on my iPad, I came to the horrifying realization that I still had a million and one pictures of me and my ex on my VSCO ... surrounded by a million and one selfies of myself (I'm not conceited I just used to send le ex a selfie everyday yadadada whatever) Immediately, per usual, I cringed. I have not seen these photos for a very long time...considering I 100% thought that I deleted every last bit of that dusty relationship existence from my brain (I even went through my old iPhone like ...lol I literally didn't want anything to do wit it) But... it's interesting because I found myself not only cringing at those pictures of me and the other designated person, but... I cringed at the pictures of myself It's interesting to see myself, now two years later, looking back. It's so cliche.. I know. But honestly I was trying so hard to be happy. Even though my life was in shambles because I decided to burn my own existence over another human being. But I cringe because I actually lied to myself over and over so many times that I tricked myself into believing that I was happy despite loads of crap; the brain Is a powerful source of inner wealth. It could be a weapon or a tool, against you or others. It's interesting because I really thought I knew what made me happy. I really thought I knew myself... when I was only scratching the surface because heck, I still don't really know me. But one thing I DO know with 100% certainty is that I've GROWN. I know what makes me happy and I know it's not another human being, even if a human being can greatly contribute to your choosing of happiness. I've learned what it means to be a better friend, to be selfless (I struggle but a girl can work at it right?), I've learned what it TRULY means to love someone and literally be loved back in every purest possible form and way. Ive learned gratefulness and gratitude, I've learned about priorities and respect. I've learned about me and god (still working at it). But really I've learned that no one can make me happy but me. I can either choose to slap a smile on my face for show or for real. And I know I'm talking about "you don't need no man, you are a woman, you are strong and you can rely on yourself" but I really can't talk about all of this without it looping right back to my amazing boyfriend isaac. Because although I believe that I would be okay on my own, I also know that I wouldn't be who I am today without him. He has truly exemplified what sort of pure delight can come from being in control of your own actions and happiness. He's my one and only, and I'm sorry for all the sap and weird emotions, I'm prooooobably just on an emotional high or still triggered from those dog-gone awful pictures, but looking back at myself then only makes me more grateful for myself now and everyone in my life that I have (INCLUDING YOU KARINA BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'LL BE READING THIS AT SOME POINT ily your my best friend don't ever leave me 💕) Anyyyyyways that was my life lesson rant, now I'm off to delete lots and lots and loads of ex couple photos (pray4me 😂) AND BTW MY DAY WAS GREAT , thank goodness for fri-yay amiright 🤔😂 And btw BTW.. can we just take a moment to do a comparison because dang, I look so much happier ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️ I'm sorry I don't mean to toot my own horn but like... my happiness really glow'd up 😊

[brazenautomaton]

I found Father rather dumb. The twist to his character only works if you gave a fuck about Shaun, which I didn’t, because the prologue does a piss poor job of making you care about anyone.

There are two twists that get revealed at the same time. One is that Shaun, the son you were looking for, is the head of the Institute everyone fears. The second is that the Institute is a very pleasant place to be, with happy, friendly people who are excited about the work they are doing. That’s a very important twist and everyone forgot it was a twist at all.

Even if you never gave a fuck about Shaun, he gives a fuck about you as a source of emotional validation as he faces the end of his life. If you don’t give a fuck about him, that means he’s trying to enmesh his life with yours without your consent in order to fulfill his own selfish needs. How does your character feel about that? That’s a roleplay hook you can’t have with an emotionally numb drifter with no connections to anything?

Father does things because of his personality and emotions, and those have dimensions to them other than “I am extremely evil” and “I desire resources”. This puts him ahead of every Fallout villain other than the Master. You spend a lot more time getting to know him and fleshing him out than the Master. 

The Instutute wreaks ruin in the world because of their character flaws, not because they look at extremely evil actions and say “This is what I want, Actually Evil Is Good Because”. They are willfully blind to the death and sorrow they spread because they separate themselves from the world they despoil and they’re too excited about the possibilities of the work they do and information they gather to confront their own evil. This puts them ahead of every antagonist faction in Fallout including the Master’s Army.

What if I didn’t want a spouse and child? What if I didn’t want my male character to have a pre-defined military background?

What if I don’t want to be a Vault Dweller, who has way more of their history pre-defined because it all took place in a very constrained area with few possibilities? What if I don’t want to be a Chosen One tribal, which defines my community and outlook and relationships thereto? What if I don’t want Courier Six to be an emotionally-numb drifter?

I’m not really seeing the moral ambiguity

You then go on to list how the factions all have deep flaws to them  as if that’s not where moral ambiguity comes from. 

The Railroad are passionate and have the purest motivations but the least foresight and internal coherence. The Brotherhood are driven by anger and disgust and their need to protect humanity is driven by their need to *force* the awful, writhing world they live in to make sense. The Minutemen are utterly dependent on you and your leadership (because let’s face it compared to them you’re a fucking Romance of the Three Kingdoms character). The Institute are so preoccupied with intellectually interesting theories they never bring anything into practice and just keep spreading death and ruin (like the Soviet academics they have clear parallels with). All of them have serious things wrong with them and all of them can believe they are the heroes, though in the case of the Institute it requires willful and explicit blindness to their flaws.

In New Vegas, we have The Most Evil People Ever feat. Cannibal Rape Terrorists, opposed by Three Paths To Aid The New California Republic. Choosing between those paths is not a matter of worldview or ideology, just fictional resources. The flaws of the NCR are barely shown, and there is no ambiguity when your choices are “one shade of grey” vs “blacker than the blackest black times infinity”.

In Fallout 3 we had Heroic Techno-Knights vs Evil Techno-Nazis.

In Fallout Tactics we had You vs Merciless Army of Killer Robots.

In Fallout 2 we had You Vs Evil Techno-Nazis That Don’t Show Up Much Also Remember This Movie Quote?

And in Fallout we had You vs the Master’s Army, which was driven by a character who thought what he was doing was right and had an intellectual argument that could be believably swayed. But none of that was reflected in any of his minions and you only spent any time talking to him at the actual end of the game. 

The only real change at the end of the game is the color uniform the grunts patrolling the Commonwealth are wearing.

Now you’re trying to say the story is bad because it lets you play after the main quest. It’s obvious after the main quest that the faction who is ascendant is about to do things (and more differences are modeled than just the patrols, there’s a fair bit of dialogue reflecting it too, especially from companions), but they haven’t made large-scale changes to the world yet because that would basically be adding a new act to the game for the development cost of three and a half new acts. Post-main-quest puts you on the cusp of changes being made and several characters talk about the fear or excitement they feel.

I like this template

Original image

[a-breton]

A Primer to Boost Your Content’s Readability

Our content was too academic and didn’t resonate with our audience. When we focused on making it more readable for our audience, business grew. What about you? Is your brand deliberately centered on readability?

At its purest, readability is about keeping things simple. It’s about explaining things in as straightforward terms as possible. Content marketers deliver a wealth of ideas and information, but it’s not always presented in the best way. Among the potential problem areas:

Length of words and sentences

Grammar

Structure of content

Use of language

Poor readability is a signal that you’re not looking after your audience. It can mean you:

Spend a lot of time, money, and other resources producing material that doesn’t fit its purpose

Don’t have an engaged audience

Lose audience trust, which diminishes customers’ relationship with your business

Find your customers taking their business elsewhere

Lose revenue

Poor readability signals you’re not looking after your audience, says @stevelinney. #writingtips Click To Tweet

When the Dutch government used readability tools, it found its content’s readability level (C1 – see scale below) was too high for the majority of readers in the Netherlands, who are at a B1 readability level.

Given that most readers could not fully understand the content distributed by the government, it was not only a waste of taxpayer money but it could have hurt people’s well-being if they couldn’t understand the content related to topics such as social security.

When my toddler fell down the stairs, my wife and I were scared. We went into full-on protective mode and searched on Google to see what danger signs to watch for and whether we should take him to the hospital. (He was fine, as it wasn’t a bad fall.) I’d hate to have been reading advice that was too difficult to understand quickly. Especially when panic, stress, and a crying toddler is added to the mix.

Yet, though the average American reads at an eighth-grade level, consumer-focused medical content frequently is too complex for the average reader, as shown in a comparative analysis of patient education materials from 16 medical specialties.

In our business, we collect data on readability and have discovered common issues include:

Overuse of long sentences

Words with too many syllables

Reliance on industry buzzwords and jargon

The good news is these mistakes can be avoided by adopting readability measures as part of your content assessment process.

Long sentences, words w/ too many syllables, buzzwords & jargon make #content harder to read. @stevelinney Click To Tweet

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT:

How to Make Your Content More Readable

Get Your Readers to Stay Longer With These 4 Formats

How to adopt readability, a step-by-step guide

I will take you through nine steps to ensure that your audience is more likely to consume and engage with your content.

1. Have a customer focus

This is content marketing 101, but it’s the most important aspect. Create content that:

Is genuinely useful to the reader

Is relatable

Answers a question or solves a problem

Informs, entertains, or educates (preferably all three)

The relatable point is an essential one. Too much content, particularly on websites, is me-me-me – the brand only talks about itself. Avoid doing that at all costs. For example, turn the focus of how you do something to how your readers can benefit by adopting the same practice.

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT: Road Map to Success: Creating the Content of Your Audience’s Dreams

2. Get a baseline score

Once you have your first draft ready, it’s time to determine its readability score. You can use one of several free and paid tools. (Disclosure: My company, readable.io, is on one of the lists.) With these tests, you can learn the Flesch-Kincaid U.S. grade level along with other standard readability assessments, such as the Flesch Reading Ease, Gunning Fog Index, CEFR, and SMOG Index. Some highlight word by word (or sentence by sentence), the potential readability challenges.

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT: The Ultimate Science-Backed Method for Creating Content That Readers Love

3. Revise to achieve correct reading level

As a general rule of thumb, we aim for a reading level of grade eight for our blog posts – which is the level of a 14- or 15-year-old – to ensure that a wide audience can understand our content. We focus on grade 10 for e-books and grade 12 for white papers and books.

Your personas or audience description will help you pick the right grade level for your content.

Your personas will help you pick the right grade level for your #content, says @stevelinney. #writingtips Click To Tweet

4 . Shorten your sentences

The No. 1 element that readability algorithms agree on is that long sentences are bad. Thankfully, it’s an easy fix – shorten your sentences.

The No. 1 element that readability algorithms agree on is that long sentences are bad. @stevelinney… Click To Tweet

Full stops and bullet points are your friend. Use them, and use them often. You’ll soon have content that:

Can be easily read online

Doesn’t drag and drain your reader

Is structured in a reader-friendly way

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT: Words That Convert: Test, Learn, Repeat

5. Reduce the number of long words

Long words are another red flag for readability. Where possible, look for shorter alternatives (e.g., you might replace the word “alternatives” with “options”).

Now, this isn’t always possible, as your organization likely has some words that must be used. Edit to minimize the number of long words but don’t make everything as readable as possible to the detriment of your brand message.

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT: 7 Fixes for Common Writing Mistakes [Examples]

6. Scrub your copy of buzzwords, geekspeak, jargon, and acronyms

Resist the temptation to fill your content with buzzwords, geekspeak, jargon, or acronyms. They limit the content to those who are already in the know. If you must use challenging terms, explain them.

When working in my first job in London, I had the delight of editing blog posts written by structural engineers. They loved to fill their content with as much jargon and as many acronyms as they could to try to look smarter than their peers. They didn’t care about readability and their audience.

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15+ Worthless Words to Cut to Improve Your Readers’ Experience

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7. Don’t overuse adverbs

People frequently tend to liberally overuse adverbs, eventually causing sentences to be really cluttered.

If you take all of the adverbs out of that previous sentence, how much better does it sound?

Like anything in life, moderation is key.

HANDPICKED RELATED CONTENT: Ann Handley on How to Make Your Writing ‘Ludicrously Spectacular’

8. Set a balance between formal and conversational

My preferred style of writing edges toward conversational with a formal tone, but you have to match what your audience is expecting. The two styles of writing can be split easily:

In conversational content, I aim to make it feel like I’m talking directly with you. It makes the reading experience more personal. It also feels more natural to me to write this way, even after years of writing for a B2B audience.

Just because you’re writing for business doesn’t mean you have to write with no personality. Make sure the flow of copy is natural and not forced.

Make sure your copy flow is natural to ensure that it’s readable, says @stevelinney. #writingtips Click To Tweet

In some cases, conversational or informal tones are not appropriate (e.g., a privacy policy). But formal doesn’t mean you should abandon readability. Clear language always wins, formal or conversational.

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9. Seek feedback and proofread

Common-sense time, again. As many pairs of eyes as possible should read a document before it goes live. As a writer, you can be too close to the text. Another person can give you the perspective of a reader and point out areas of improvement.

(There have been some great additions to this blog post since my first draft, suggested by those who proofread it. My vanity as a writer won’t let me tell you what they are, just that they exist.)

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Conclusion

Readability and content marketing are about the same three principles:

Keep your audience at the center of everything you do.

Inform, educate, or entertain your audience.

Keep it simple.

Keeping things simple isn’t easy, but practice makes better content. The more you stick to readability principles, the more readily your audience will consume and engage with your content.

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Please note:  All tools included in our blog posts are suggested by authors, not the CMI editorial team. No one post can provide all relevant tools in the space. Feel free to include additional tools in the comments (from your company or ones that you have used).

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Cover image by Joseph Kalinowski/Content Marketing Institute

from http://bit.ly/2pV3yqK