#i think it's crucial that i first read these books the summer before my first big school related break down

[jessmalia]

I'm super visual when reading books and usually see the whole thing playing like a movie in my head, and when I first read the PJO books I had a very clear mental picture of Percy, but this time around it's much more blurry... cause Percy's kind of just faded into me in my mind.

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 1: The Story of Job

I'm absolutely not the first one to talk about this on here and I probably shan't be the last either. Alas, here's my take on why all of the minisodes in Season 2 should be enjoyed with great care – and taken with a grain of angelic salt.

I'm gonna split this into 3 parts, aka the three minisodes we are shown, since I tend to get a bit waffley in my posts and want to still be able to include all the little details. Once I've written them, I'll link Part 2 & Part 3 here as well!

Alright, let's get into it under the cut of doom.

Episode 2 opens with the Story of Job. Right off the bat, I noticed that it sort of looks like an old film playing. At first I didn't read that much into it, but once we see the cut-away to Aziraphale at the bookshop, currently reading that part of the Bible (presumably), I immediately thought: "Oh! It's because it's his memory. He's remembering how it went down and therefore it plays like a figurative film in his head."

This, I then came to realize, is a very crucial difference to all the flashbacks of S1, which were exclusively told and narrated by God. May her intensions be as ineffable as they are: She did tell us all of these stories from an objective outsider's point of view. Now, however, it's Aziraphale who's re-telling those stories to us from memory.

And if there's one thing that's for certain, it's that a memory is something entirely different to an objective narration of a story. Just think about how you yourself remember things. Especially things that happened years, maybe even decades (or, in an angel's case, millenia) ago. What is it, that you really remember? Can you know for sure, that a conversation was held with those exact words? Are you 100% certain that the clothes someone wore weren't different? Had it really been snowing or would that make very little sense given what you're remembering happened in May? And did it even happen in May? Or does that just happen to be your favourite month, the current weather, your preferred style of clothing and what it was that you would imagine someone would have said to you?

What I'm trying to say is: The further away it is that something happened, the more your brain has to fill in the gaps. This is why, for example, your parents will remember the family summer holiday entirely different when you ask them about it 20 years later.

"No, it was Sarah who puked on the car ride home!" "Nonsense, Sarah never puked as a child. Bobby had that gone-off pizza, he's the one that was sick the whole ride long!"

We've all been there. Bobby made it out alive. Don't buy gas station pizza.

Alright, back to the plot: Naturally, Aziraphale is not actually human, so it is a pure assumption on my part that the way his memory works is similar to ours. However, the whole topic of "memory" is actually quite a recurring one on Good Omens.

Crowley seems to have lost his in the Fall, yet somehow managed to get most of it back. Not all of it, though, he clearly has some major gaps ("You used to jump on me back, little monkey in the waistcoat!"). Beelzebub helps Gabriel store all his memories in their little fly container before they get wiped entirely too, by the Metatron and/or Saraqael. Crowley and Aziraphale (and possibly Jimbriel) perform a miracle together that makes everyone in Heaven and Hell forget who Garbiel is or what he looks like. And we know that the Book of Life apparently has the ability to completely erase someone from existence – ergo also erasing them from everyone's memory and making it is as though the person had never been in them at all.

So, clearly, angels and demons being able to remember, forget, reconstruct and, if you're the Metadork, wipe memories, is very much canon. Apart from that very last one, it does make them quite human-like in a way. We too can forget or (wrongfully and incompletely) reconstruct memories, due to things like trauma, illness or simply a lot of time having passed.

So, just like Crowley remembers going into battle but doesn't remember Furfur being there, or just like Jimbriel has entierly forgotten who he is but still remembers the tune and lyrics to Buddy Holly's song Everyday, and just like archangel Michael was miraculously made to forget Gabriel and yet says "Don't I know you?" when seeing him again – just like that, Aziraphale's memories of the story of Job, the story of wee Morag and the story of the magic show in 1941, might not actually be the whole truth.

So, time to look at where the furniture isn't.

Now, it could very well be that the costume designers of S2 thought: "Fuck it, let's go crazy" – but given that this show has a track record of meticulously making sure to stick to accurate and cohesive character design, doesn't it strike you as odd that Crowley would go from this look at the Flood in Mesopotamia, 3004 BC:

... to the (very iconic, don't get me wrong) Bildad the Shuhuite drip in 2500 BC:

... back to this at the crucifixion of Jesus Christ in 33 AD:

I mean ... I mean– come on, that seems like a bit of a far stretch, even for someone as enthusiastically experimental with fashion as Crowley.

And it's not just that: Where did the sunglasses come from, all of a sudden? And why do they look like some sort of obscure, ancient optometrist's device? It's a known historical fact that the Romans were the ones to have invented sunglasses, somewhere around 50-ish AD. Which actually matches perfectly with when Crowley and Aziraphale meet again in Rome 8 years after the crucifixion (51 AD).

So, where do the weird spectacles come from, over 2000 years too early? Maybe from Aziraphale's brain filling in some gaps? Hasn't Crowley always worn those ridiculous sunglasses? Was it Rome? Or Golgotha? Wessex? Oh, blimey, what does it matter!

And it's not just Crowley: Aziraphale's own clothes, as well as the other angels', seem to be very different from the rather plain linen we see him wear before and after the story of Job.

They're laced with golden embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. The remind almost of the clothes angels are depicted wearing in biblical and historical drawings. Ornate and decadent. Not at all like we see Aziraphale in the other flashbacks of S1.

Even Bildad the Shuhite's hair within the minisode keeps changing, going from all pouffy and voluminous to rather deflated and straight-looking:

The costume department either had to fix up two seperate wigs or manually straighten out the volume of the one again to give it a more sleek look. I'm not a professional in this field, but if there's anything I've learned from watching hours of behind-the-scenes material of movies and shows, it's that very little about costume, character, prop and set design is purely coincidental.

You know what it could be, though? An accurate representation of how memories aren't linear, historically correct and objective representations of a certain event, but rather an ever-changing, jumbled mess of impressions, emotions and exaggerations.

More specifically: Aziraphale's impression, emotions and exaggerations.

Like "remembering" Crowley with sunglasses because he's been wearing them for so long.

Like "remembering" himself wearing more luxurious, angelic clothes because that's how he thinks of the difference between Heaven and Hell.

Like "remembering" the permit as a ridiculously long scroll that folded out over an entire valley.

Like "remembering" Job's children to be weirdly sassy in an almost Aziraphale-esque way (Enon: "Don't be silly!") for the fact that Job would have probably taught them to be more humble and obedient in the presence of a literal angel.

Like "remembering" eating an entire fucking Ox after having just one bite of it while Crowley watched him lustfully, sipping on his wine.

Like "remembering" Crowley calling him 'angel', despite them having barely known each other back then.

There's a reason why the flashbacks in S2 seem so much more alive, quirky and, at many points, confusing and all over the place. Because they're not objective stories being told by a third party. They're Aziraphale's. So much of his own thoughts and feelings at the time get projected onto them because that's simply how memory works!

It's subjective. It's unrealiable.

It's not that I'm calling Aziraphale a liar. He's no more a liar than your parents are, mixing up Sarah and Bobby. Or you, remembering snow instead of sunshine. Memories aren't lies. They can simply be faulty, focus on things that you thought were more important and leaving out or changing things that weren't, to you.

The real challenge in all of this, is trying to filter through Aziraphale's stories to see what it actually is they're telling us. Where it is that the furniture isn't. And I think in this case, that's 6 main things (eff you, God, I know you like sevens, but I don't care):

God and Satan (still) talk to each other We see that Aziraphale is quite surprised when Muriel mentions that the whole Job thing is God's bet with Satan. But clearly, despite having made him and the rest fall, God still converses with Her number one traitor about whether or not the humans simply love Her because she gives them nice things or because they truly believe in Her.

God and Satan (and Heaven and Hell) can and do collaborate with each other when they feel like it So much for choosing sides, huh? Truthfully, this is not the first time this is shown to us, but still. It's another piece of evidence on the growing pile.

Aziraphale understands the World and humans way better than any of the other angels "Well, you see ... Citis is 58 ..."

Aziraphale, despite having troubles voicing it, absolutely disagrees and even condemns God's plan of destroying Job's children (and goats and camels and––)

Aziraphale is willing to lie and thwart the will of God Also not the first time we're being shown this but again, piiiile of evidence.

Angels don't automatically Fall simply by doing the above To me, this is one of the most important take aways. It's already hinted in S1 as well that 'Falling' seems to have been a one time even back when the first war broke out in Heaven. And I actually believe that ever since then, no other angels have Fallen again. Aziraphale is the best example for this. He has gone against God's plan numerous times and even lied to her very face (voice?) about it. And yet, nothing ever happened to him. Why exactly that is the case remains a topic for another meta (that I might or might not be working on already, teehee).

Alright, that concludes this first look at the Job minisode! If there's anything I missed, feel free to share it with me. I'll try and add Part 2 (the story of wee Morag) and Part 3 (the magic show of 1941) soon.

Update: Part 2 and Part 3 have officially been written, you can find it them right here:

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

Part 3: The Story of the Magic Show in 1941

Hugs and kisses, (God)!

[cctinsleybaxter]

2023 in Books

I need to stop bragging that I’ve got this reading thing all figured out, because man if 2023 wasn’t a year of terrible books. I liked less than half of the 37 I read and nothing quite gripped me in the way it has in years past… but to put it more optimistically I liked a full third of what I read, and the ones I liked best were a fascinating and unexpected silver lining. Without further ado:

Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand, trans. Brian Hooker

Tell this all to the world- and then to me. Say very softly that… she loves you not.

I read a couple of plays this year for the first time since college and liked them fine, but there’s a reason this has been adapted five million times. Everyone go watch Megamind right now.

Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand

Of all the found footage-inspired horror fiction I’ve read this one makes the best case for existing in its chosen medium, as a 70s UK folk rock band are interviewed about the summer they spent recording what would become their final album [thunder crashes.] It reminded me of a Tana French mystery in its language and ability to make space feel lived-in; the character writing is so strong I realized that at some point I had stopped checking the interview headings to know who was speaking. Hand unfortunately distrusts her audience to read between the lines at a few crucial moments (and ruins what would have been a perfect ending and a deeply affecting scare by gilding the lily, or, in this case, photograph), but I love that she went from seemingly by-the-numbers American YA fiction to a meticulously-researched and truly unique horror novella. Puts other writers working in the genre to shame.

A Kiss Before Dying by Ira Levin

Reminiscent of the best kind of TCM suspense thriller (and was adapted into one), but could only exist as a book for the kind of narrative tactics it employs. Levin is brilliant at setting and character; I think any one of his contemporaries would have leaned into archetypes for this sort of story, and he instead distinguishes his proper nouns in subtle, clever ways that lend them the weight a noir needs. Can’t wait to read more of his stuff!

All the Names They Used for God by Anjali Sachdeva

I’d like to know why this anthology got hit with what a friend has termed a pottery barn throw pillow cover + a ‘the tiny things we know to be small’ title, because the eponymous story isn’t even called that! It’s just The Names They Used for God, and is, appropriately, about two women kidnapped by a religious extremist group. High risk-high reward; I think taken at their base premise the stories could have been insufferable and are instead strange, compelling, and fantastical. There’s a methodicalness and, I don't know, lack of whimsy? to them that’s unusual for fantasy, but also an absence of any one goal or moral in the way Le Guin speaks so highly of. It made me feel the way I did reading and adoring Kelly Link in middle school, and Sachdeva has a much different style that I guess works all the better on adults. My favorite was Robert Greenman and the Mermaid.

Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Lauren Hillenbrand

Someone recommended this to me via Tumblr anon over five years ago, so let me start by saying if that was you I’d like to thank you properly! This book rules! It was written in ‘99 so falls prey to a very specific kind of jingoism, but the mechanics of that are interesting in and of themself. Seabiscuit the animal is a lens through which to view turn-of-the-20th-century America written from the precipice of the 21st; his story told through the expertly-researched biographies of his owner, trainer, and jockey. Hillenbrand is not only a good pop nonfiction historian, but has been a sports writer since the 80s and I never imagined the genre could be so thrilling as I did reading her work. Horse racing is insane and no one should be riding these things btw.

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

It was one of the great livery-stableman’s most masterly intuitions to have discovered that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it.

Wharton came from old money New York*, was deeply disillusioned with it and pined for rational (i.e., even more insane) social and political scenes, had myriad thoughts about women and gender relations, and held a love for interior design. I learned all of this after reading but it’s apparent on every page; deeply funny and perceptive, fantastic use of language, the moments where it lost me completely nothing if not interesting. What sticks with me the most are a flair for the operatic and an ability to voice both the feeling and consequences of losing oneself to imagined scenarios. Read the pink parasol scene.

*Ancient Money New York; the saying ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ is apocryphally attributed to her father’s side of the family

Owls of the Eastern Ice: A Quest to Find and Save the World's Largest Owl by Jonathan S. Slaght

We’d return to our camp to huddle in the freezing tent and wait for our owls in silence, like suitors agonizing over a phone that never rings.

One of the better pieces of science writing I’ve read in a long time, as Slaght frames rural communities as a quintessential part of ecology rather than a barrier to it. His style is amiable and matter-of-fact (sometimes overly so; the amount of metric GIS directions, help), but he's super engaging and clearly holds just as much compassion for people and history as he does animals and natural landscapes. The Blakiston’s fish owls he’s studying are described as unreal, with hoots so low and quiet it sounds like someone has thrown them under a blanket. You can listen to them here.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

Took my breath away and surprised me in a way a book hasn’t in years. I'd read Clarke’s 2004 novel when I was maybe fourteen and had vaguely positive but mostly neutral memories of it, and Piranesi being sci-fi-fantasy that came recommended by Tiktok had me very dubious. I ended up devouring it in the way I haven’t read books since I was fourteen; more of a mystery than the suspected high fantasy, with characters I would do disservice to in trying to describe in brief. While the mystery isn’t difficult to ‘solve’ (I’d argue the book also skews young!), the story ends in a way that’s both deeply unexpected and in the only way it could have.

Honorable mentions

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, trans. Peter Washington

[Jigsaw voice] Every man has a devouring passion in his heart as every fruit has its worm.

I spent so much time running my mouth about this one on Tumblr there’s really not much left to say. I think it’s a work of genius that was physically exhausting to read, and I’m sticking it with the honorable mentions mostly because I remember The Three Musketeers being the better book. If you want to read Dumas- and you should- start with that one.

Jonny Appleseed by Joshua Whitehead

I would’ve liked this more had I read it in my late teens/early 20s, but I still think it’s pretty good and would absolutely recommend to anyone in that age bracket. Things that normally annoy me about philosophical first-person lit fic didn’t matter under the weight of Jon’s narratorial voice. He reminded me a little of Lynda Barry’s Maybonne in his understanding and depictions of community and family; his stream of consciousness letting contradictions sit rather than trying to explain them away (Whitehead also makes sex very prosaic and pretty-sounding while still being frank and gross about it, which is a rare talent!)

The Seeds of Life: From Aristotle to da Vinci, from Sharks' Teeth to Frogs' Pants, the Long and Strange Quest to Discover Where Babies Come From by Edward Dolnik

This one fell in the rankings because the writing isn’t my favorite (think early days Vulture article rather than NYT), but I cannot stop referencing it in conversation. I want to read the whole thing to people and make them understand how truly unfathomable it is not only that every one of us is the product of 1 sperm and 1 egg, but that anyone ever figured out how that process works. When Western Europeans first started using microscopes they studied water; there were gross little bugs in there to watch and enjoy, so when semen was revealed to have its own bugs no one was shocked, but they also weren’t impressed. We would not see one enter an egg until EIGHTEEN SEVENTY-FIVE.  

Killer Dolphin by Ngaio Marsh

The Malaise of First Night Nerves had gripped Peregrine, not tragically and aesthetically by the throat but, as is its habit, shamefully in the guts.

Has made it into my top 5 favorite Inspector Alleyn mysteries. I’m not keen on Marsh’s theater settings (and there are a LOT of them), but a convoluted setup made this one all the more rewarding. The final revelation as to a point of blackmail is visceral and bizarre in a way I haven’t seen from her before.

The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon

We all have dirty hands; we are all soiling them in the swamps of our country and in the terrifying emptiness of our brains. Every onlooker is either a coward or a traitor.

Best read in conversation with other writers, I wouldn’t recommend Fanon as the end-all-be-all introduction to communist and socialist thinking (the fact that he inadvertently describes what was going wrong with the USSR at time of writing is fascinating), but he explicitly invites that conversation and the value and impact of his work really can’t be overstated. Our points of disagreement tend to be in regard to nationalism, not his condonation of violence.

Persuasion by Jane Austen

Fascinating to see how Austen was thinking about relationships near the end of her short life. I laughed to see the idea of preferring your brother-in-law’s family to your own was back in full force from my own favorite Emma, as well as an eleventh-hour ‘maybe I should ship the villains??’ My biggest issue is that, like Emma, Persuasion is written in third person limited narration, but Anne is fundamentally Good™ so doesn’t need to learn anything about herself or the world; critic Bob Irvine points out that she and her dashing, misogynistic sailor are beset rather than changed by it. That said I love a people being beset by people (concussed temptresses) places (Bath) and things (cars), and Austen's writing style is really firing on all cylinders here.

[falsebooles123]

Car Trouble and a Full Scredule - Diary of a Big Ole Gay - 3/26/23

Hey Whores, I'm back after what feels like a ridicolous long week.

Let Me get into it. Monday morning my second kitchen job cuts my hours because they got a new guy. He seems pretty Chill, Then both the business meetings and date I had planned on monday got reschreduled for the middle of the week. My car has been acting up so I had to deal with the stress of driving a ticking time bomb that I don't know whats wrong with it to work because I need the money. and my scredule changed again friday like a couple hours before work. That was when I set up my second checking and spent a bunch of money because my bills had already came out. It was like 40 bucks but y'know what I deserved to treat myself. Also this was the weekend so not only did we have a shitshow of a friday prime rib night dinner but I also got to finally do a dinner service on the line. The fact that they have a bonified dishwasher now instead of just recreating that thing were your mom passive-aggresively bitches about the dishes because no one else will wash them.

(I'm the mom in this context, also this was the only gif I could find that didn't give people seizures or was literally porn.)

so I had a lot going on. I also watched a bunch of TV and did manage to catch a few films since the last week we did this.

Caged! (1950) dir. John Cromwell

Some people have called this this the Godmother of the Women in Prison movies and you wouldn't be remised to notice its DNA in later films and shows like Orange is the New Black.

I talked about it in a lot more depth on Letterboxd so I'll try my best to summerize.

First the movie is about a young ingenue named marie who is sent to an all-women prison on trumped up charges, the film makes a point to discuss the cruelity from the prison guards, including the trunchbullian Matron Harper, the lack of resources for the prisoners, and how oftentimes this type of uncivil atmosphere and lack of real resources to reintergrate them into society cause most of these women to return or in marie's case enter into a life of crime.

Luckily we have fixed all these issues in the prison system and thats totally not the same issues we have today /s

As I have said this is the Proto-Woman in Prison film, perhaps the ur-WIP movie and thus the question is raised.

What About The Lesbians!!!!????

So first I will say that this film is not textually queer, Marie is not eating kitty the second she gets into lockup but the film I will say has a queer sensibility.

I'm just going to quote my Letterboxd Review.

"and the answer is probably. I've haven't read the book that this is based on so I can't tell you if Kellog talked about it but this is a womens prison honey we can guess. We have to remember that this is in the middle of the haes code and so you couldn't have a character just be like, "hi, I like women". That being said there are a few choice lines that hint at that kind of thing. Kitty mentions that after awhile "You don't even think about men, you just fall out of the habit", a newspaper discusses prison immorrality, which probably is reffering to like gambling and smoking cigerettes but might hint at a more siturational inversion so to speak. 

Outside of these supposed oblique references there is the culteral queerness of it. The aestetic aspect of queer coding. First there is obviosly a lot of butchness about this film. we have just a fuckton of these butch tops in this film from Kitty(Betty Garde), Elvira (Lee Patrick) to the trunchbullian Everlyn Harper (Hope Emerson), to even the prison warden Benton (Agnes Moorehead). they all have this kind of dominant aggression to them. This masculinization. 

And this trope continues, Marie has her head shaved at a crucial part of the film and there is the repeated motif of the women doing rollcall were they have to speak there last names first, Marie Allen, now being called ALLEN, marie. Its literally patronymic. 

On one hand we can absoulutely interpret this trope as a comment on how prison dehumanized women, talking away there individality especially there vanity. The social way that they are able to express themselves. And this is emphasized a lot actually, the gift of lipstick at christmas, the head shaving, the fact that Marie asks for a brush during her mugshot and the guard quips back, "why theres no men here".

And I think its important to recognize that this type of dehumanization is different from mens prisons because our sense of vanity is different. A man can affirm his gender by getting jacked in prison but a women can't affirm herself along traditional feminity the system is designed in a certain way to masculinize that experience. In some small sense the very notion of a womans prison is a queer space outside of its constuct as a gynocentric space. 

(note: prison cosmetology is absolutely a thing and women perform a lot of amazing feats of ingenuity, from like tattoing on eyebrows to making makeup out of magazine ink and deoderant but note that these are ways of subverting a system not a byproduct of that system)

Even if we except the trope of a womans prison as a non-normative gendered space its also important to notice that one of the main conflicts in this film is not just between trunchbully Harper and her cruality against Marie, but also between the power struggle of "Corrupting" Marie by the hands of Evelyn and Kitty, who both want her to join there crime syndicate. Marie at one points says "If I said No to Kitty why would I say yes to you". Both of these characters are maternal in a sense but they also take on a very lesbian coding. Evelyn makes a point to gift the women feminine products for christmas, (makeup and a handmirror). In a straight lens its another commentary on femeninity and Evelyns power in the system through a queer lens its almost courtship. This is the type of thing you could buy your girlfriend as a present. In some ways A Life of Crime and Criminal Gayness are symbolic analogs to each other"

Honestly if you were a fan of Orange is the New Black or just like Butch Crime Donnas then this is a pretty good time. Another one of those "This is honestly not that gay but it was an absolute iconic piece of cinema so thank you" movies.

Tea and Sympathy (1956) dir Vincente Minnelli

This was one of those films that took me like a week to watch.

So I've quoted vito russo like 15 times at this point so let me just summerize the vibe. Basically theres a guy in this movie whose a sissy, he dances, he's in theater, he even sews. Wow, what a faggot. and none of the other boys want him to play in their raindeer games because he threatens there fragile masculinity. What I'm saying is that the first half of this TWO HOUR FILM, is just him being bullied for being a sissy.

I'm also saying this shit was highly triggering as both a cocksucker and a limp-wrist soyboy.

(oh god I just had a truamatic flashback were a church mom and her daughter were mocking me for being a limp-wrist faggot and I didn't understand why they asked me to do the limp wrist gesture. and so i'm just puzzled at this random gesture they wanted me to reinnact while my father is just visable angry sitting besides me. Honestly first fuck them and also my dad might be a homophobic asshole but at least he had the decency to never call me a slur.)

so childhood truama and complicated relationship with my father aside after we get through the very long and insuffrable queer misery porn we get to the actually fun part of the movie where there are HORNY MILFS. HORNY MILFS IN YOUR AREA.

THESE WOMAN WANT TO FUCK! NO CREDIT CARDS! HOOKUPS ONLY! CLICK NOW!!!!

yeah basically this movie is two hours of this guy making moves on his landlords wife while the guy is out hanging out with a bunch of twinks.

as I said in my extremly long write-up on the topic. T&S is absolutely a good film in showcasing what this type of homophobia and toxic masculinity is like and it was controversal for a reason but I also want to recognize that as a queer person this shit was hard to sit through.

so for a bit of fun yet another LB quote.

Because this shit is true to life. It feels very reminescent of my own experiences with homophobia. The kind that is more subtle and exclusionary and so while this is a objectively subversive and provokative film. I'm still going to relegate it to "Things I'm making Straight People watch during pride month while I leave the room". Its a double feature with brokeback mountain. Whats that.... thats four hours of Queer Misery Porn. Well too damn bad. Maybe if you stopped sharing those proto-terf facebook memes we could have watched Cruising or Rocky Horror. Sit Down, Shut Up, and relive my childhood trauma and daddy issues straiggot.

The Strange One (1957) dir. Jack Garfein

One of the weirdest episodes of Haze Him I've ever seen.

Jokes aside The Strange One is basically this drama set at a military academy. Person with a real name. Jocko De Paris, (I'm not making that up), is basically one of those rich assholes who is also criminal insane. He manipulates a group of other cadets into getting a guy expelled for being drunk.

Why did he do this. Well if you believe morissey (yes that Morissey), its because Paris is a little bit of a closet queen.

This film is weirdly homoerotic for no discernable reason. The queerness of the characters have nothing to do with it the director was like I'm going to make a movie with deep ideas about the nature of evil and tyranny and also everyones going to kind want to suck dick.

Another one of those films thats honestly kinda slow but I still think about the visuals.

Everything Else I Watched This Week

oof ok I finished Re: Mind, loved it messy moe drama made no goddamn sense would watch again.

Tried to watch Circus of Fear which is a Rialto Crime Movie but not one of the Krimi Films. Also Really Boring.

Also binged the second season of carole and tuesday. I loved it, the shows not perfect but I had so much fun with it.

I also saw Free Guy which.... was fun. I'm sorry but not every blockbuster is going to be worth adding to the Falseboolesey Hall of Fame. Also its like a second-rate Lego Movie which is without any irony. A modern Classic.

(this is non-negotiable. The lego movie is a deep introspection on the apollian vs dionysian drives, an exploration of childhood and adult perspectives and are fear of the joy of choas. It also may literally be cladestine Agritprop)

I also tried to have a Falsebooles123 Kinema movie night. I watched Grandma's Boy which people mention a lot as the prime example of like the sissy trope but honestly I don't remember anything about the film. I kinda just blanked out.

anyway whores. I have an entire week off starting tomorrow so its going to be a lot of editing, yard work, and doing some prep stuff for april which will be so busy. I'm excited through. I'm also very close to watching all the films I could find in the internet archive so theres that. woot woot.

[seashellsoldier]

“Denim & Leather” by Michael Hann (2022)

I had pre-ordered this e-book as soon as the promotional email hit my in-box. Surprisingly, after the book was released just two weeks ago, I had a tough time finding a hard copy to gift my heavy-metal battle buddy for Festivus (I’m on an eight-year boycott of evil Amazon, Barnes & Noble was out, and even the publisher [Bazillion Points Books (https://www.bazillionpoints.com/)] had a tough time filling orders. They sent me one though, and kudos to them for having such a solid hit on their hands.

Now, I’m not a fan of written “oral histories” as they are, and it took me a few chapters to get into a mental rhythm with this book, but I eventually did and it was definitely worth it.

I tally my entrance into heavy metal being in 1985 at the age of 12. In Chicago we had channel 50 on the UHF dial, twisting the rabbit ears just so to get a half-way decent signal. During the summer, at noon (if memory serves me correctly), they’d play music videos. Nobody I knew had cable and MTV was years away from my viewership, but channel 50 played all the Gamera and Godzilla movies and had “Samurai Sundays” packed with bad kung-fu flicks, and all manner of schlocky shows, including mid-80s music videos, so it was our favorite when we only had seven channels to choose from back then. When Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Going to Take It” video played for the first time (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9AbeALNVkk), I was transfixed, then hooked.

The summer before was a hellscape of trauma for my sister and I (abandoned by my mother and trapped in the house with a rampaging, alcoholic, Vietnam-vet dad), and it fundamentally twisted my mindset in long-lasting ways. Parental love was horse manure, the concept of “god” was a cruel joke, and friendships could be ended in a car crash. My home was a battlefield and nowhere felt safe. Seeing that abused suburban kid transform into Dee Snider with his wild hair, pancaked makeup, and feathered Mad Max-Road Warrior football pads was almost precisely what I wanted (minus the makeup). At the local Kmart, I found that song on a compilation cassette tape called “Heavy Metal Thunder”. It was the gateway to what I—to this day—consider a powerful part of my identity. Alongside Twisted Sister was Judas Priest, Blackie Lawless’s WASP, the Scorpions, Quiet Riot, KISS, Dio, Accept, Krokus, and Great White.

Now, I had been subjected to piano lessons and ultimately played trumpet in high school concert, jazz, and marching bands, so I knew music to some degree. Like the Twisted Sister video illuminated, metal music was a direct assault on the status quo and gave furious middle fingers to the hypocrisies of society, politics, and organized religion. Neoconservativism was our enemy (and still is), and man did the bible-thumpers hate us. We fed, and still feed, off their flagrant stupidity, their delusional hypocrisy, and their moronic fantasyland belief systems.

Hann’s Denim & Leather teleports us back in time to what’s known as the “new wave of British heavy metal” (NWOBHM), circa 1978-1983. Short-lived, but this was a crucial evolutionary micro-epoch that warrants such an enjoyable exploration. Music is an amorphous thing and sub-genres are tough to parse out accurately, and most bands are even tougher to wedge into a sub-genre unless one is hellbent on doing so (I think most metal bands don’t like to be siloed into something when any musician could have a thousand other influences going on inside his or her brain, worming such things into their music to a nearly imperceptible degree). I like what Bandcamp does, using many sub-genres and bizarre phrases as adjectives to describe what band X sounds like. Still, such compartmentalization must be done to tackle a book like this, and while I would never lump Whitesnake and Venom into any similar grouping, the NWOBHM has to. For those like me who favor the heavier side of things, having to read about Def Leppard and other FM radio and MTV pop stars was a slog, but chapters on Venom, phenomenal female bands like Rock Goddess, and others made this read truly worthwhile. The photos, like those awful music vids, are often priceless too.

I grew up in the shadow of Chicago and even such a big city did not play heavy music. Z95 was about as heavy as it got, and it pandered to the spandex and mascara crooners of the big-hair rock bands (Bon Jovi, Poison, Mötley Crüe, and that ilk). I vaguely recall some classic Judas Priest and Black Sabbath being played, but not even Iron Maiden was on the airwaves. The tiny college radio station in my hometown had an intrepid dude who, on a Saturday graveyard shift, would play the most off-the-wall metal music he could find. Doors blew off my brain. I also explored on my own, having to travel 45-minutes away to Hegewisch Music outside Merrillville to find the intoxicatingly weird stuff. It didn’t take me long to discover the thrash bands, then the speed metal, then the death metal. (Full disclosure, I truly believe grindcore/deathcore is the timeless paragon of metal music.) My first live venue was the Milwaukee Metal Fest of ’89, a life-altering experience in and of itself, and soon after I was at the Rosemont Horizon seeing Megadeth open for Judas Priest, walls of speakers blowing eardrums out. So, while I was not distinctly aware of NWOBHM as a brief movement, and my interest piqued after its demise, I did have some rudimentary awareness of its place in the evolutionary timeline, and now I have a solid understanding of how the opening guitar chords of Black Sabbath in 1970 turned into today’s global free-for-all. Hann gives us great detail to an important missing piece in the taxonomic order for all of us who weren’t in the UK visiting these venues at this point in time. If you love metal music and can appreciate the history of it, this book will certainly satisfy.

Music is completely subjective and each of us finds the stuff that thrums within our souls. I will never understand why so many favor “popular music”, but it must be the herd mentality and simple psychologies. The fact that Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” (from 1986) surged to the top of playlists after a silly CGI scene in a cool Netflix show this year proves that far too many are completely ignorant of metal music writ large. We have been, and will always be, the outsiders and rejects, the nonconformists and the contrarians (https://aeon.co/essays/on-nonconformism-or-why-we-need-to-be-seen-and-not-herded), the rebels and the doubters, the critics and the scapegoats.

I had a leather jacket with a Napalm Death back-patch in high school with my ripped up jeans, pit-stained shirts, and a giant chip on my shoulder. Today, I listen to metal music while performing my morning yoga routine and grounding myself to the roots of the Earth for the day ahead working in healthcare. Metal music has helped me survive the undulating chaos of life far more than anything else. I don’t need wild hair, an epidermis stained with tattoo ink, or piercings in my naughty bits. I just need the music that communes with me, speaks to me, and speaks for me.

I hope you do too.

All hail science! Happy Festivus >;)

Metal for Life \m/

[shadowqueenjude]

So this will probably get long, so keep reading tag for others' convenience:

I am not saying that Tamlin is a natural-born killer, that is ridiculous. I have already stated in the past that no one is ever born evil. I simply mean this as a skill; for instance, Feyre is good at archery. Building relationships? Not so much. Same thing with Tamlin. He's skilled with a sword, he's a skilled musician. Building relationships? Again, not really his strong point. While Tamlin might have self-esteem issues, he is introspective enough to know his own strengths and weaknesses. Again, while he might find speaking difficult, that doesn't mean he is inept. He can do it when he has to, but doing it on a regular basis, maintaining relationships, can be exhausting for him. And again, we see his difficulty in building relationships with Feyre. Feyre warmed up to Lucien first. Why? Because Lucien is a better speaker; he was able to get through to her where Tamlin could not.

It is difficult to delve into the unknown, which is why I was solely speaking about Tamlin as he has been written in canon. Since we have not seen Tamlin in canon before the events of ACOTAR, we cannot know what Spring was like. That being said, I have already stated in the past that I believe Tamlin did a great job with what little he had been given and what little he knew. He eradicated slavery, certainly, but how did he handle the aftermath of that? The loss of slavery is a major labor loss, and it most likely affected everything in Spring. How many years did Tamlin rule before Lucien came? We don't know. Additionally, while Spring might have been in a decent spot and Tamlin managed to wrangle up his own people, a court cannot be self-sustained. Without building relationships with other courts, Spring would've ultimately collapsed, which is why Lucien was crucial.

Why did Eris trust Tamlin? He didn't really have much of a choice. Lucien had to go to one of the courts neighboring Autumn, which left two options: Spring or Summer. Nostrus was the head of Summer before, and we know nothing about him. Lucien and Tamlin were said to have been friends before Lucien ever came to Spring.

“The youngest of seven brothers. The Autumn Court is … cutthroat. Beautiful, but his brothers see each other only as competition, since the strongest of them will inherit the title, not the eldest. It is the same throughout Prythian, at every court. Lucien never cared about it, never expected to be crowned High Lord, so he spent his youth doing everything a High Lord’s son probably shouldn’t: wandering the courts, making friends with the sons of other High Lords.”

Which is most likely why Eris trusted Tamlin; they were already friends. Also the fact that Spring was somewhat of a refugee court at that point.

4. Comparing Tamlin to Rhysand is an insult to Tamlin to be honest. We all know Rhysand is a garbage truck leader.

5. Tamlin's descension into mental instability has been slow, yes, but there are things we learn in ACOWAR that show that he's not right to be ruling.

“You saw your room. He trashed it, the study, his bedroom. He—he killed the sentries who’d been on guard. After he got the last bit of information from them. He executed them in front of everyone in the manor.” My blood chilled. “You didn’t stop him.” “I tried. I begged him for mercy. He didn’t listen. He couldn’t listen.”

Tamlin has had anger issues since book 1, but he had a grip on them until Under the Mountain happened. This is when we start to see him lose control. Feyre didn't manipulate anyone here; this occurred while Feyre was in Night. Tamlin started to lose the trust he had so carefully built on his own. Yes, Ianthe manipulated Tamlin because he was depressed and all that. Guess who was also depressed?

"Thoughts slammed into me, images and memories, a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever, and sad, so endlessly sad and guilt-ridden, hopeless—"

While I mainly talk about Lucien's education, his connections, and his ability to talk to people, we overlook how important his self-restraint is. This is a crucial trait in a leader. People need an emotionally stable leader to look up to to feel that confidence. And Lucien didn't buy into Ianthe's bullshit.

6. You bring up Jesminda, and Lucien's desire to live a quiet life. I'm assuming you're talking about this line:

Lucien said he didn’t care that she wasn’t one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap into place soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father’s court to his scheming brothers.

And my response is simply, Lucien is the most romantic motherfucker there is. Of course he was willing to drop everything for Jesminda. And additionally, there is this:

Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she’d been born into. She had teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn’t wanted anything but her. She’d seen him not as a High Lord’s seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him.

For me, this reads as several things:

This was Lucien's first love, and it happened to him during a time when he felt unwanted by nearly everyone in his life and was desperate to feel wanted. "As the youngest of seven sons, I wasn’t particularly needed or wanted." Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. It seems like Lucien puts a lot of emphasis on being chosen and wanted for who he is. Jesminda was perhaps the first person in his life to do that.

Teased him, taunted him—seduced him so thoroughly This builds off of point one; This line suggests to me that this is a very young love, when neither person is sure of themselves or what they want to be in life. Lucien might have said he didn't want to rule then, but he was very young and it was his first time being in love. In fifty or so years, would he truly have been happy in a cottagecore life? Lucien at his core is a man of action, which I covered in this post: link

7. Interesting that you bring up Nesta, because notice how Nesta is often described as a queen countless times, and she does not become a ruler. Nesta and Tamlin are kindred spirits in this way, because they have loads of power but have no interest in ruling. We even see Nesta's aversion to power in ACOSF:

“So the Mask remains,” Amren said wryly. “It can only be dealt with. Not eliminated.” “We should dump it in the sea, then,” Nesta said. “No taste for the living dead, girl?” Amren asked. Nesta slid her eyes toward Amren in a way that had Cassian bracing for the worst. “No good can come of its power.”

Considering how often Nesta was attributed to a queen and she didn't become one, is it really surprising for Tamlin, a character already a High Lord and of a similar disposition to Nesta, to then give up that power? I am not saying it is a certainty, but I don't believe SJM will be keeping him on as ruler.

As one of my friends described it, Tamlin can do shit, but he's reluctant. It's a 9-5. It's a chore. Whereas Lucien loves the grind. Can't relate, but he's honestly a king for that (figuratively and literally).

So there you go, there's my two cents.

I would be nice and say there's a 50-50 chance, but I prefer to be honest rather than nice, so I'll say I'm almost certain I'm right and SJM will be replacing Tamlin in some capacity, and Lucien and Elain will become High Lord/Lady or High King/Queen.

So a lot of Tamlin stans are coming into my comment section saying Tamlin is not a quitter and all that good stuff, so I will be discussing Tamlin as he has been written in canon. This is not anti-Tamlin in any capacity.

Tamlin does not have the ideal character traits of a ruler. This is not an insult at all. In fact, it is something he admits himself, book 1:

“I’d realized from an early age that fighting and killing were about the only things I was good at.”

“I claimed Lucien as my own—named him emissary, since he’d already made many friends across the courts and had always been good at talking to people, while I … can find it difficult. He’s been here ever since.”

This doesn't make him less than; there's nothing wrong with wanting to live a simple life. But, Tamlin was chosen to become High Lord. And he didn't quit- he did the best he could with what he'd been given, despite all the courtiers not having any faith in him. For someone woefully unprepared for the job, he did a great job, at least until ACOWAR, but he would've had a lot more difficulties had Lucien not showed up. Tamlin had very little courtier training, and he wasn't very good at that shit anyway.

In ACOSF, Tamlin is extremely depressed. His court is in shambles around him, and he has pretty much given up on his own life.

“They say a beast prowls these lands now. A beast with keen green eyes and golden fur. Some people think the beast has forgotten his other shape, so long has he spent in his monstrous form. And though he roams these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes, the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he himself destroyed it.”

“You’ve been trying to bring Tamlin back for a while. But he isn’t getting better, is he?”

You're welcome to have your own interpretation on this, but from what I'm reading, it really feels like Tamlin has no interest in ruling over Spring anymore. While he's not generally a quitter, his life has become so shitty that he has given up on himself. I am not sure that SJM will keep Tamlin as the ruler of Spring; he might be killed off, but my personal belief is that she will have him abdicate the throne somehow. I know people will claim this is a retcon, but I don't think the possibility of abdication has ever actually been discussed within the scope of the books, so it wouldn't be a retcon.

[heliconcarpet]

Any Port in a Storm | summer

Chapter : 1 of 5

Relationship : Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader childhood friend

Summary : Before the warlords title, or while he became a mastermind of any crucial incident, like the downfall of two sea emperors, Trafalgar Law was only a boy who was looking for his dear childhood friend through North Blue into the New World. It's what he seeks that is seeking him.

.

" Why worry too much about the daisies, (Name)? " 

" And you! Why are you minding your time in the death frog? "

Law only shrugs his shoulders in response to your question. He is about to go back to focus on the unconscious frog aka the death one. You start thinking about how many pity frogs he caught just to fulfill his dream of becoming a famous surgeon. Although as a kid you admire Law's determination in surgery, perhaps the family environment influenced him a lot. Compared with Law, you'd likely work in the right brain area, which is all about the structural aspects of the imagination. You're way better at expressing yourself through painting. You once were Law's volunteer doing the frog anatomies doodle in his little notebook. It's almost full of your painting. Add a bright color here and there. Since then, you two almost proclaimed being a whole part of the brain, he as the left area, and you as the right area of the brain.

" Law, I was wondering if all my paintings had become real, like, they were alive out of the drawing book! " 

" Well, now you're going to tell me about having the magic crayons or your other painting tools? " 

" Imagine it, Law, in case your notebook with the colorful doodle I've made becomes alive. It does change the world! People would love every medical encyclopedia we made. Compare the dull explanation in the white - black bored medical books you always read! " 

" Brilliant, " Law, as usual, does not amuse in your artsy stuff. "Now, (Name), could you please give some color in these parts? Thank you. " He ended the little unlogical chitchat by passing his notebook to you.

Law did not understand art or the painting days you constantly blabbered about, but he did enjoy and be pleasant even, when you accompanied him on his medical nerd days. In fact, Law and you play side by side as a whole, a gestalt. You two are as simple as the purest childhood best friends you've ever had. Count the number of times you've been the adorable stickers, inseparable. The innocence of love, like in a daisy field, has bloomed.

___________________

It was a school holiday break when summer came in Flevance that year. You have some plans to visit the downtown area by 11 a.m with your mother. Specifically, the flower encyclopedia you've been dreaming of is going to be in your hands. You made a maximal effort to save money to buy it one day, and that day has arrived. Before leaving the house and heading to the bookstore, you might even do a little preparation by emptying some spaces in the rack. You grin from ear to ear until your face aches. You'd finished cleaning the rack when your mother on the first floor yelled at you, and the excitement you'd built since the morning vanished.

Your mother couldn't accompany you to buy your dream encyclopedia. It's enough to turn you into a whining baby when you complain about this and that to her, so she has a backup plan for you. She adds, "Why not ask Law for help, since the Trafalgar family were your neighbors?". Geez, it will always be the case that where there is you, there is Law, or vice versa. Law was already standing in front of your house's door minutes after your mother shut down the Denden mushi. Sometimes you wonder if the only time you have left is for Law's existence for you. In a hurry, she placed a straw hat with a hint of yellow ribbon on your head, saying only that it was a precautionary measure to keep you from the summer heat.

" (Name) Dear, watch your step! Don't give Law a trouble and direct to the home once you've done it. Thank you, Law. Please accept my apologies for unexpectedly requesting your assistance. Stay safe on the way to the bookstore! " She told me and greets Law.

" No problem, Mrs. (surname), well, we are going now! Come on, (Name)! " Law give a hand to stand on when you finish tightening the shoelaces. Your eyes meet Law's but notice how weird his mushroom hat position is. It shows how in a hurry he was when on his way to pick you up. At least you stopped Law's step by fixing the mushroom hat, until it looked like symmetry. 

" And, your hat looks neat now! ". As a kid, at 8 years old, you didn't understand how the gesture you just made caused his cheeks to turn red. Law makes a 'thank you' gesture with his mouth for mending his hat.

The bookstore you two went to was crowded with people. The majority of the visitors were middle-aged gentlemen dressed in a brownish-colored suit vest reminiscent of an old page book. Law, which had been by your side since both of you arrived, had vanished. You simply sighed and walked into the children's encyclopedia section, minding your own business. Your dream book is peeking between the other books beside them. Still euphoric, you grabbed it without wasting any seconds, then ran to the cashier. At the same time, you heard a quiet noise in there. Duh, it's Law.

" Uncle, please have the mind to give me more than half price for this book. It was said that the book was of secondhand quality! " said Law.

Law was a super tiny and loudest boy among the tall gentlemen around him. He was, as usual, a tough cookie for his will. You only saw Law in your distant memory, doing nothing. Your common sense before was right about him that you have to admire his determination to be a medicine's learner. The most recent book he bargained for was the animal anatomy encyclopedia's latest edition. He indeed won't miss it. You just chuckled and walked into the confused cashier, poking Law's left shoulder. 

" Uncle, please wrap my book and his belongings. I will pay ours. " You smiled at the man at the cashier. You nailed the pointless bargains that Law has created. Law's mouth hanging open, he probably doesn't expect you to be willing to pay for it as well. 

" Thanks, (Name). Glad I finally got this book until I forgot to put my full savings in my pocket. Don't worry about your money, do you? " He said it, making the happiest face he'd ever made.

" Don't worry, Law. You can return my money whenever you want. Or maybe you return it with an item costing as much as the price of your book? " 

" Oh, is that so? If you wouldn't mind, then! "

It was summer almost at noon. Your straw hat is being blown by the cool breeze. Your hat twirls back down, but then Law runs to pick it up. This time, like a repeated pattern, it's Law who puts the hat on until it looks fine in your head. You were both giggling at each other. Two kids with larger hats in their hats were basically always in charge of each other. 

" (Name), let's go to my house then! Lammy and my mother have a bucket of strawberry sorbet! ".

___________________

" So which one, young boy? daisy or marigold? " The flower shopkeeper repeated the options for Law to decide. Law, on the other side, seems in a deep thought. A colour that represents you will always be a yellow one. The marigold also had a burst of yellow color, but had the deepest shade compared with the daisy's yellow, and because of that, Law picked the daisy as the best. All of his memories recall your explanation of the aims of the daisy flower for medical treatment. At least, Law thinks, a part of his soul has been put into the daisy bucket he brought for you. Law brought the bucket with the reason that he was returning a book's money.

It's been two weeks since the post - bookstore holiday outing. Due to the fact that the first day of back to school will be the first day of the next month, Law needs to spend his last school break finishing a little promise to you. He is already on the way to your house, only two houses away from his. He'd imagine how happy your face would be when you saw the money turn into a bucket of daisies. Law knocked on the door and called your name three times, but there was no response inside. He began to suspect that since last week he hadn't met you even once. Actually, this daisy bucket agenda is also a part of Law's surprise. He went back to his house and asked his parents for information after a strange feeling hit him in the gut.

" I've already told you, Law, about a week ago, you only made yourself hectic with the new anatomy book. (Name) was moved from Flevance. " Law's father explains with a serious tone. Chuckling in disbelief at why his son was so careless.

There was a gulp in his throat that made Law feel sudden nausea. His surprise plan was in vain. He hadn't expected it, but sometimes there is always an error output from the many trials of plans. Too stunned, he then sat on a cold hospital floor, folded his small feet, but the warm tears hugged him in a coccon.

It was his father's hand that reached Law's crown of head, " It's fine to cry, Law. (Name) left you a handful of the drawing book. Open it whenever you want. From my vantage point, your pure bond with (them) grows stronger with the passage of time. It will be unbreakable. That's why it's something you must keep throughout your lifetime. "

At that time, the last summer of the year was in Flevance. The heat wave started to decrease the temperature in the cold air. This winter is going to turn this town into a white landmark again. The white town of the North Blue, their actual name. However, it's just a natural phrase. The warmth will surely greets here in the years ahead, and there will be a time when Law meets the daisy field again. Like the innocence of love, in a daisy field, it had bloomed against the harshness of the cold. Its roots swallow the deep ground below, beyond any measure. 

.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the New World, there is a spring island climate with a town less crowded than Flevance. The central town landmark has similarities with Flevance's. The bricks were the preferred building material, but unlike the Flevance's white-pale bricks, the brown-colored ones were more common. A similar type of moment, but with a different substance. It does, indeed.

" Come on, darling, our new house has been waiting for us! speeds up your walk! ". Your mother shouts from a mile away.

Actually, you slow down the step because the cough you just experienced has gone worse. If there's a chance to rip out your throat, you do it happily, only to give a few scratches.

The Flavence memory recalls, it was a moment when you had a bad cough and Law, without hesitation, took you to Mr. Trafalgar for further medical treatment. Right now, if only you could paint a memory of being alive. You just smiled, disgusted by the coughs you've had since leaving the Flevance. The coughs were alive somewhere in your body, they were alive, and faded, as well as your memory of the white town. 

" Come in, Mother! ".

___________________

Note :

Another pandemic-stay at home writing (two years ago). It's my very first time doing this kinda stuff, alongside with Sabo's before. So please bear with me.

.

A little inspired by making a painting come to life is from this one, If I Could Draw Life - Yoasobi

[eyra]

A Brief History of Dragons (2022) - eyra - Harry Potter - [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Harry Potter Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Writer Remus Lupin, Mythology References, Legends, Cornwall, Castles, Folklore

It's lovely up here; all meadows dotted with wildflowers, wind-beaten tracks criss-crossing this way and that through the fields, weaving inland to the pinewoods. The sun's hot on his back as he passes ramshackle stone walls, long since crumbled to piles of ancient rubble and scree, and then the path winds downwards, still following the line of the coast until Sirius finds himself outside an old white cottage, tucked away behind the hill with a rose garden that faces out to the sea.

Sirius moves to Cornwall for the summer and meets a rude, beautiful boy who is writing a book that may or may not be about dragons.

-----

Well guys, it's coming up on two years since I first published this story and I've been thinking for a while that I wanted to spruce it up a little. This was one of the first multi-chapter stories I wrote for Sirius and Remus, and it means so much to me to know that it's become such a comfort read for so many people - and I definitely don't want anyone to panic and think that I've fundamentally changed the story from what it was. I haven't! It's exactly the same story - nothing about the plot is different, and very little about the dialogue has changed. And crucially, nothing about Remus has changed; I know he's one of my most popular Remus's and I didn't want to change a thing about him. What I have done, though, is rewritten other parts of the story that I felt were at odds with my current style of writing: there were big stretches of this piece that, upon revisiting, I felt didn't sound like me. They weren't in my voice, they weren't - being honest - very good, and I didn't feel any connection to them. I also never really loved James in this story. He always felt a little two-dimensional to me, and after writing Beneath a Big Blue Sky and all the rest and falling back in love with the guy I really felt he deserved more here: he just deserved better writing. So I've worked on that a little, and changed some other things around, and I can finally say I'm pleased with this story. For people who've already read it, this new version should feel exactly the same as before - it'll just sound a bit more like me, and a bit more up to par with the newer stories that I've written. A Brief History of Dragons (Eyra's Version), if you will.

It's also about two thousand words longer, and there may or may not be one little new scene, as a treat.

Enjoy. x

[curmudggeon]

Southern Hope (Arthur Morgan x Female Reader)

❝ If by any chance...in another lifetime, we happen to see each other again, I'll come and find you. And I'll make you fall in love with me, over and over again ❞

In which romance novelist, Mary-Beth under the pen name of Leslie Dupont, writes a coming of age love story based on her favourite gang members in the past, You and Arthur.

Trigger Warnings; Violence | Blood | Angst | Sexual Intentions

A/N: This is a project I've been working on for quite a while. I had the idea in mind when I had the chance to experience the musical composition of Aaron Copland's quintessential American Dream, 'Appalachian Spring' -one of my favourite pieces with such a beautiful storyline. And I wanted to retell it in the form of a book that is available on my Wattpad (ongoing) for you to enjoy from Mary-Beth's POV. I hope you show love to this book as much as I loved writing it. Have a sneak peek at the prologue!

Read on Wattpad here for more chapters to come!

PROLOGUE

Leslie Dupont; Mary-Beth Gaskill

Lemoyne, Saint Denis

November 1907

-

“Mademoiselle Dupont, we expect your next manuscript to be submitted by next summer. Now is not the time to be reminiscing.”

Here we go again

Mary-Beth sighed as her editor, Céline Laurent, had warned her once more for not meeting the deadline to her books. She was in a crucial position in her life. After her debut as a romance novelist, The Lady of The Manor was an instant best-seller across the country. It was the kind of thing she specializes in, silly ol’ romances.

“I promise you, I’ll get it done by then.” Or maybe, at least not for now. She shouldn't have promised something she couldn’t keep, especially in the meantime.

“I’ll take your word for that, if you don’t meet the deadline by then. Y’know what will happen to your contract, Leslie.” Céline stood at the door frame of Mary-Beth’s office with hands on her hips and raised eyebrows.

She knew exactly what she had meant. In fact, she knew the consequences on the back of her head when she first signed that contract with her publishing company. Two more books were requested of her. Or else she would be evicted of her apartment and be forced to live along the streets of Saint Denis for the rest of her life. A life of luxury slipping between her fingers.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary-Beth disclaimed, the moment her editor slammed the door as she left her office. Heaving yet another exaggerated sigh, she crosses her arms on the grand rosewood desk, flopping her head on top of it. “What am I going to do now…” She murmured into the crevice of her arms.

Mary-Beth was in the middle of a major writer’s block for a few months now. She lost sight of that imaginative space of hers, consisting of the most swoon-worthy romances to the picture-perfect life she portrayed through her characters. A part of Mary-Beth that her readers absolutely adored. But, her head was now a clouded space of everlasting void. It was difficult for Mary-Beth to come into terms of writing again, but she couldn’t quite identify what had put her into this position.

Once she gathered the courage to write again, it all came crashing down like violent tidal waves when she came face to the daunting blank page of nothingness —almost drowning her.

It was as simple as that. Come to work, have a cup of tea, sit down, and a blank page.

Every. Damn. Time.

Maybe it was because she was already nearing her mid-thirties, and she hasn’t found someone to sweep her off her feet. Maybe it was when she first held Tilly’s baby that she found the need to be a mother someday. Maybe it was the overwhelming response towards her writing, she felt the need to hide away into an abyss. Or maybe she couldn’t stop thinking about the time she had come across John again after so many years that the memories just come flooding back.

Or maybe, just, maybe. It was because it’s November.

The most dreaded time of the year. November, in which the seemingly fearsome Van der Linde gang had officially broken up. Guns were fired, ties were broken and deaths were grieved. An unforgettable, painful memory.

She would often think about campfire songs, the girls and, Miss Grimshaw’s constant nagging about undone chores. Oh, how best of friends Céline and Miss Grimshaw would have been if she had heard Mary-Beth had been slacking again. It was her coping mechanism, think more about the good times to get rid of the bad ones.

Mary-Beth remembered when she took in her hands at being a matchmaker. Prancing around the camp, she would eye her two best contenders. You and Arthur.

She knew from the start when you had laid your eyes on each other for the first time, she could see through the inexplicable connection in between. You were both extremely awkward when it came to small-talk or addressing each other as you walked by across camp. However, it never stopped Arthur to come to camp as soon as he could just so he could see you, even just for a second.

The conversation would often start with Arthur while on his way to Dutch’s tent,

“Hey,”

“Hey.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Yea sure…”

—and that would be it.

At the same time, every single day, at the course of sunset.

You poor socially inept fools.

Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen would always see the interaction happen in the middle of their afternoon chores. Grinning from ear to ear. They would elbow each other whenever there was something different about the correspondence.

One time, you would walk past him, suddenly kissing him on the cheek and scurrying away.

Arthur would stop in his tracks, stunned, with a hand-over where your kiss tingled on his skin. Then he would look back at you as you laid down, smiling to yourself against a tree with a book in your hands. And Dutch would yell his name, knocking him out of his stupor before he noticed he was staring for a little too long.

The girls would start applauding for your heroic performance, it was like a groundbreaking plot twist Mary-Beth couldn’t wait to write about when the idea came into mind.

The both of you were like a walking excruciating slow, slow-burn romance novel. That was when Mary-Beth would cue in her entrance as matchmaker as soon as the interaction slowly died down. Your story had to have a happily ever after in her book.

She would pester you and Arthur separately, mentioning each other’s names and slipping in hints of romantic intentions from the other side so the both of you can address whatever this relationship was.

Mary-Beth knew it was a mission accomplished the night Sean was rescued back to Horseshoe Overlook. When she stood aside of the camp watching Dutch and Molly ballroom dancing into the moonlight, she caught a glimpse of you and Arthur behind them. Running into the woods, hand in hand, giggling to yourselves like prepubescent teenagers.

After that night, it was a considered job well done when your chance encounters slowly turned into planned ones. He would take you on dates, and you would show him affection like nobody’s business. A perfect couple, your American dream.

Until it became a nightmare.

And Arthur had passed,

your Arthur.

Ever since then, Mary-Beth wondered what had happened to you. Were you still alive after all these years? She couldn’t imagine how hard you must be coping with the news. Or what if you didn’t know at all? Even when she asked John and Tilly, they said you disappeared that night he passed.

Not even a single trace. Where were you?

Mary-Beth dismissed the thought out of her head, lifting her head away from the desk. She had to let go of these memories for her own well-being. For what seemed like yesterday were merely years ago. But it couldn’t have hurt to reminisce just a bit, for old times sake.

The story of You and Arthur was unwritten, left to collect dust from the lack of content. The perfect example of a sepia-tinted photograph, forgotten. Mary-Beth believed the both of you deserved something much more than a devastating ending. She wasn’t as ruthless as the other authors she had met that held an iron fist when killing off their characters. Mary-Beth wasn’t like that.

And the idea came to mind. She was a romance novelist for a reason; to fulfil all the possibilities for the unconditional love you shared.

And so Mary-Beth picked up her beautiful fountain pen,

She began to write on the great desk in her quiet room.

To write the most beautiful story of the century,

You and Arthur. Arthur and you.

A perfect couple. The American Dream.

A life that could have been so much more,

A life to remember…

[troquantary]

Cutting Hair as Punishment in the Twilight Saga

Okay, I’ve been trying to organize my thoughts around this into a sort-of-essay format for a while, because I find it disturbingly mean-spirited: Meyer has a pattern of using hair-cutting as a form of punishment for characters, especially female characters, who fail to embrace Bella and the Cullens with open arms. I’m talking particularly about Leah and Lauren, both of whom, while not outright antagonists like Victoria or James, are situated along with Rosalie as “against” Bella throughout the series. The Quileute pack, meanwhile, is situated largely “against” the Cullens, meaning Jacob and the rest of the pack get the Haircut of Shame, too.

(Also, I’ve been creeping through @panlight ‘s blog because I thought she had a recent post relating to this -- I was probably thinking of this submission and her addendum, which does discuss Meyer’s “punishment” of certain characters, but that post was about characters suffering for not waiting for True Love, or daring to do the Devil’s Tango before marriage. Still, it’s on-theme and very much worth reading, like all her stuff!)

So here’s the general outline: first I’m gonna talk about the shapeshifters and how their overall lack of choice frames cutting their hair as something forced on them and therefore punitive. Then I’m going to discuss Meyer’s FAQ response where she reveals that Lauren was tricked into cutting off most of her hair over the summer before New Moon, and how this adds an extra fun misogynistic element to the hair-cutting theme with respect to Lauren and Leah. I also use way too many words to do it, sorry.

Punishment | The Shapeshifters Are Given No Other Option

I don’t have the background or knowledge to discuss the significance of long hair to indigenous culture and identity in detail, and my understanding is that different tribes ascribe different meanings to it. What I’ve read it about it suggests that, generally, long hair represents strength of one’s individual spirit and of the community. It’s a source of pride, and is only cut off voluntarily in extraordinary circumstances, often as an expression of grief, or to mark a significant life change.

This sort of works in the context of the shapeshifters all cutting their hair -- phasing into a giant wolf, discovering the existence of the supernatural, and assuming the role of protectors is a major life event for these characters. But the negative associations make it a troubling choice on Meyer’s part, and that’s without even getting into the problem of her imposing her own worldbuilding onto the legends and culture of a real tribe. Because of the lack of choice involved in becoming a shapeshifter, the whole situation feels like a scenario in which the Quileute characters have their hair forcibly cut -- a degrading and traumatic act that (depending on their particular tribal belief) might symbolically sever them from their sense of cultural identity and connection with the rest of their tribe.

It all kind of begs the question: why does Meyer even have shapeshifting work this way? What narrative utility is there in having the length of their hair in human form determine the length of their fur as wolves, thereby compelling the shapeshifters to cut it so it isn’t a physical impediment? It’s another sign of the changes in Jacob, sure, but he’s already being uncharacteristically cold and distant, plus suddenly has the physique of a fit twenty-five-year-old; Bella already knows something’s very wrong. His short hair is just another jarring thing for Bella to notice and mourn, like the loss of Jacob’s “baby face” and general sunniness.

It does work as a symbolic thing, representing another sacrifice Jacob has to make and the change in how he now has to perceive himself -- but he’s already got a literal giant wolf form to represent that change in identity/self-perception. Forcing him to cut his hair too just feels like piling on. My argument here, which I hope will be supported when I discuss Lauren and Leah further in, is that it’s not just piling on, but actively punitive -- because much like Leah and Lauren are “against” Bella, the pack at large is “against” the Cullens pretty much through the end of the series.

The Quileute pack is definitely not a Cullen fanclub. The entire purpose of their existence is to destroy vampires, and the truce they have with the Cullens isn’t friendly. They still don’t particularly like or trust the Cullens even after allying with them in Eclipse, and in Breaking Dawn Sam is fully prepared to go to war against them to enforce the treaty. Bella expresses frustration with Jacob and the pack for not appreciating the Cullens more, yet is curiously less willing to scold Alice, Edward, or Rosalie when they call the Quileutes dogs and complain about their smell. (I think she might reprimand Edward for it at some point, but I don’t remember the exact passage.) Bella even starts throwing around “dog” and “mutt” as an insult herself -- I think we know whose side ol’ “Switzerland” is on, here, and whose side Meyer is on as well. The Quileutes aren’t exactly enemies, and in fact are crucial to the Cullens’ survival in both the newborn and Volutri conflicts, but they’re punished nonetheless because they aren’t wholeheartedly Team Cullen from the get-go.

So to explain why I’m so convinced that there’s a link between hair-cutting and punishment in particular, let’s talk about Lauren. There’s a definite gendered element to it this time, too -- by being tricked into cutting her hair, Lauren isn’t just diminished/shamed, but rendered (*thunderclap*) unfeminine.

Lauren Was Rude To Bella Like Twice, Let’s Humiliate Her

I think Meyer’s answer to the question “What happened to Lauren’s hair?” on her FAQ page speaks for itself:

Ha ha. I had fun imagining this one—I only wished that it had fit into the book somewhere. Lauren fell victim to the “model discovered in the mall” scam. An alleged modeling agent approached Lauren in a mall in Victoria, B.C., and told her she was a natural model. Lauren ate it up. The agent told her that if she did something edgy with her hair, and took some high quality head shots, her future was assured. Lauren followed the instructions—dropping fifteen grand on the pictures taken by the agent’s partner—and waited for her career to begin. She’s still waiting. Snort.

It’s pretty obvious that this was done spitefully. Here’s the list of Lauren’s crimes against humanity Bella at this point in the series: 1) she was jealous of the attention Bella was getting as the new girl; 2) she talked behind Bella’s back once, saying Bella might as well just sit with the Cullens now (and she isn’t wrong); 3) she eyed Bella “scornfully” the day of the La Push beach trip; and perhaps most damningly, 4) she’s blonde.

Post-haircut, she has the gall not to be thrilled that Bella’s deigning to speak to the lowly non-Cullens again, then sides with Jessica after Bella uses Jessica to make a point to her dad, is shitty company, and then risks getting them both raped and murdered in Port Angeles so she could get off on her hallucination of Edward’s voice.

I think it’s pretty common knowledge that long hair is tied to patriarchal notions of femininity and attractiveness. Women with short hair are still derided for being ugly, or assumed to be lesbians in a derogatory sense, or simply considered less feminine and therefore less desirable/worthy (because a woman’s worth depends on her desirability, after all). For many women and girls, losing their long hair -- whether because of illness, or gum getting stuck in it, or whatever -- is very upsetting and a hard blow to their self-esteem. Just look at Alice as an example of Traumatic Short Hair; her hair was shorn like that because she received electroshock “treatments” in an asylum. (Although in Alice’s case, I don’t think her having short hair is punishment, but a facet of the traumatic backstory all female characters in Twilight have to have for some reason. Plus, she started the series with short hair, which distinguishes her from the pack and Lauren, who were tricked or compelled into cutting their long hair during the series.)

But Lauren’s so bitchy, so she deserves it, right? Ha ha, she was mean to Bella and cared about her appearance too much, so now she’s ~ugly!

Leah Has It the Worst and It Makes Me Want To Burn Everything

The misogynistic aspect of hair-cutting as punishment is taken up to like, twelve with Leah. Not only does she suffer for being “against” the Cullens along with the rest of the pack (and Bella, too, so extra sinning), but she suffers uniquely for being the only female shapeshifter. A bunch of teenage boys regularly see her naked body against her will. Her previously devoted boyfriend imprints on her cousin/best friend, Sam dumps her and can’t even explain why, and the whole pack -- including her own brother -- resents her for being upset about it, even though she can’t help the lack of mental privacy. Because of that same lack of mental privacy, she has to hear every gripe the boys have about her, plus every enthralled thought Sam has about Emily while she’s still deeply wounded by their breakup.

She blames herself for her dad’s death, because she phased at the wrong time. We don’t get any indication that her fellow shapeshifters or the elders are trying to reassure her otherwise.

And of course, because she’s a shapeshifter, she has to cut her hair. In addition, because Leah’s a woman, this has the same misogynistic connotations as it did with Lauren. In Leah’s case, though, the de-feminization is compounded by her sudden infertility. It’s clear that Leah attaches her sense of womanhood to her fertility, rightly or wrongly -- she bitterly calls herself a “genetic dead end” in Breaking Dawn and thinks of herself as a freak. She feels like there must be something wrong with her, some un-womanly flaw, that made her one of the shapeshifters at all.

Then, just when Jacob starts to see her as a human being worthy of compassion, he imprints on Renesmee and doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything else anymore. No more bonding with Leah, no blooming friendship to help her heal and come to terms with the new realities of her life. (This is one of those dropped threads that aggravate me to no end -- what was the point of having Leah opening up to Jacob, or starting Jacob on the path of realizing he was being a dick to her this whole time and that she’s a person with  value, if he was just going to spend the rest of the book as Renesmee’s love-zombie and never think about it again? Disgusting.)

Leah was a lot more forgiving of Jacob than he deserved at that point in the story, for all the good it did her -- I think she’s mentioned maybe once in Book 3 of Breaking Dawn. At least she got her god-tier moment of yelling at a deranged, pregnant Bella Swan.

Speaking of Bella...

I’m just going to note, for no particular reason, that in Breaking Dawn we get to hear explicitly that Bella’s got hair that falls “almost to her waist” and that she looks like “a freaking supermodel” because she’s so “beautiful and pale.” It just strikes me as a telling contrast at this point.

[zeldasayer]

Futile Devices — Chapter 5

A Javier Peña/Call Me By Your Name AU

gif by @pascalplease

Javier Peña x Reader

Summary: Everything has changed since your father’s book with Javier was rejected, just as you and Javier were getting close.

Warnings: SMUT — age gap (reader is of age), inexperienced!reader themes, gagging, praise (use of “little girl”), vocal Javi, squirting. Angst. 18+

Masterlist | Chapter 4

——

Vita Murphy was born on April 9th 1963 in Milan, Italy to American architects Connie and Steve Murphy, who met your mother by chance one afternoon at a market in town. Taking a liking to Connie, Daisy invited her and her husband to one of their legendary parties. Your mother and father loved to entertain and invite interesting people into their home for cocktails and Daisy's delicious cooking. Your parents celebrated every holiday, birthday, or life event they could think of, any excuse to dress up, string lights through the fruit trees in the back yard and drink in excess to your father's extensive record collection. As a child, you missed most of the parties, having been put to bed just as they were taking off, but when Connie and Steve arrived to your mother's 35th birthday after meeting in the market, and saw you sitting alone at your piano, Connie knew that next time she would bring her daughter.

Even at 13 you felt the pull that Vita had. You watched as she floated around your home, seeming even more comfortable in it than you were, stealing sips of wine and hors d'oeuvres before noticing you and asking if you had ever had your tarot cards read.

"It's my favourite game." You spat out nervously unaware.

Vita just smiled with a nod, "Yeah. Mine, too."

And from then on, you were inseparable.

"She didn't cry, she sang!" Connie always said about her daughter's birth. "It was the happiest day of my life."

Made in her mother's stunning image, Vita had the most incredible large eyes and long blonde hair she cut only once a year. Connie knew at a young age that her daughter was special, as a believer in the universe and the infinite lives a person could have, she knew her daughter was an old soul put on Earth to love and protect the new souls, the tired souls, those who were born somewhere and didn't know why they were born there. She knew it would be quite the burden for one girl, but she saw it quickly in her daughter that it was what she was meant to do. A healer, a listener, someone who understood what many feared no one ever could. Vita attracted those who needed her, and in that, unfortunately led to a large turnover in friendships. Vita was used to strong, short bursts of complete female unity, where she loved you undyingly and provided the support that you needed to pass through a difficult period of your life. But not with you, there was no passing through with you. Not even during your extended stays in the United States or even now that you are gone most of the year in college, could your friendship be weakened.

"It's because you were siblings!" Connie exclaimed in a tipsy state on a summer night long ago. "In another life."

"Do you think?" Vita asked, turning to you.

You believed in Vita and her mother's cosmic knowing, and relied on it more than you were willing to admit. "Of course."

"You were brother and sister." Connie said before taking a sip of her wine, and going quiet.

She always goes quiet — one moment she will tell you how your whole life is going to be and the next, just as she's about to get into the details, she switches off without any explanation, claiming she "doesn't really know this stuff, anyway."

It always makes Vita roll her eyes, because she knows that's not the case for she is just like her mother. Vita saw everything and found people she couldn't read extremely frustrating. Vita has this otherworldly understanding of people and a patience unmatched by anyone you have ever met. She knows how devastating it can be to be seen, but how crucial in life it is to not only be understood, but accepted. Vita also knew how often you spent up in your head, in your make believe world where nothing could hurt you. How your lust for life was so consuming it left you unable to move, too afraid to start because it always felt like you were doing it on your own. Your best friend once told you with tears in her eyes that she wished she knew what planet you were from so you would have the peace of mind that you weren’t completely alone, and you thanked her because sometimes that is enough.

Vita is the human embodiment of home.

So why can't you tell her what is going on? Why does your throat close up every time you want to talk about Javier in any capacity? Why does your throat close up when you think about Javier at all? A part of you wants to run barefoot straight to Vita’s house and up to her room, beg her to help you understand your own emotions. Why are you so enamored by a man who always makes it so hard to breathe? How he manages to make you so hyper aware of your movements, yet he isn't even looking at you. How he's never there when you want him but you would drop everything to be close to him once more. You would drop everything just to be what he wanted again and it makes you sick to your stomach. It's like watching yourself at 15 all over again, when you believed the most important thing you could be was desired. Hell is the mind of a fifteen year old girl, and you thought those days were gone forever.

The tension in the house doesn't make it any easier. You and Daisy tiptoeing around your father and house guest. The quiet meals, that used to be your favourite parts of the day now leave you cold even in the relentless summer sun. You spend most of the time, sitting across from Javier, staring at him. Waiting for him to look at you so you can ask him what's wrong with your eyes. To let him know that he can come to you, that you want him to. But he never does.

Christian and Javier lock themselves away in the library most days and your mother tells you they still haven't come up with anything new. You're startled every night when you're woken by their raised voices traveling through the halls and you hold your breath until you hear their roaring laughter and you know they must be drunk.

You don't see Javier much these days, but you don't see anyone for that matter. Resorting to lazy floats in the pool by yourself or reading alone in the cool living room to escape the heat. It feels as though, if you can't be around Javier you can’t be around anyone at all and sometimes you can make that make sense but most of the time you ignore the irritating notion that you may really be going crazy.

But what was supposed to happen? Javier would fuck you and realize right then and there he couldn’t live without you? It’s so embarrassing because it’s true. You can't talk to Vita because you're embarrassed to admit you wanted to be more and tonight after another lonely dinner where you might as well have been eating alone — you dumped your dishes in the sink and slipped out to the back gardens for your abandoned childhood swing set. And you finally cried.

“Fuck!” You scream up at the sky and you kick your legs back.

As you create your momentum, swinging back and forth you can’t help but succumb to your own erratic emotions and you wonder why it has to be this way. Why can’t you just be happy with what you have? Why must you always need more? Why is it so goddamn exhausting to keep yourself neutral? You’ve never felt sad, only despair. Never angry, only full of rage. You’ve never been embarrassed, you only know humiliation. And you hate to think this way because you always search for your brain for a time you were truly happy, but you always come up empty.

Something is always missing. Something is always missing and you’re always alone but you can’t even be upset because you do it to yourself.

It feels like you’re taking the world on by yourself simply because you are. Because you feel like you need to, this is your burden and yours only. You must suffer to be rewarded for one day you will be able to walk in the sun and be alright.

But to what end? When will you be rewarded?

You want it to be Javier. Just being close to him feels like the reward. The energy you feel just sitting next to him, those eyes you want to swim in, the perfect angle of his nose and the voice that drips from his lips. It must be him, but he won’t even talk to you.

You spend the evening locked in this thought, the concept of the reward — you can convince yourself it isn't real but your heart aches for it knows it is the truth. Which is why Javier is so difficult. He is the one and it makes you dizzy with excitement, but you’re not sure if you can trust it. There is this pull of doubt at the corners of every thought because he still doesn’t know you. Though he could. If he just said the word, you’d spill every story, every thought, every idea you’ve ever had. How you long for more. More life. More love. More sex. More understanding. To truly be alive, not just living. Who could understand that better then him?

——

You like the way the cold ground feels under your bare feet as you walk back up to the house in the darkness. You feel lighter, now that you’ve cried and the house that sits quiet and empty is suddenly comforting. This is your life, your home. Javier is just a tourist and he should be so lucky to exist in the same space as you. But maybe this is you just channeling arrogance as to not be so sad, focusing on what he’s missing instead of your desperate need for him to actually see it.

“Claude?” You hear from the living room at the first creak of the wooden stairs.

You tiptoe through the corridor and into the living room to find Javier taming his fluffy hair with a yawn. Your jaw tightens.

“I’ve been waiting for you. I fell asleep.” He says and you just stand there, crossing your arms over your light blue summer dress. “Can you come sit?”

Shit.

“I don’t know Javi, I’m tired.” You shrug.

“Look, I just want to apologize.” He says, standing up and turning toward you, “We had sex and I haven’t spoken to you since and that’s fucked up. I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen, but he doesn’t see because he looks down like he’s ashamed. You believe him. Gliding across the living room, you watch him in his usual ensemble — tight black t-shirt, soft cotton pants and his thick black framed glasses, and sit back down with him, on your side.

“It’s just everything with this book, I’ve never felt this kind of anxiety.” He says, his eyes cast down, resting his head on his fist propped up by the top of the couch.

You nod for you understand, but it hurt. “You didn’t even look at me this week.”

“I know.” He sighs, “I know, but I really am sorry. Please believe me when I say I’ve missed you.”

You look up at him, biting your cheek to contain your excitement.

“I miss you even while we live in the same house.” He says, looking away. His hand fidgets against his knee. “If you’re not at breakfast, or you spend your day here, reading in the living— I miss you when you aren’t around me.”

You wish there was a way to burn these words into your brain so you could have them at any time, to hear his voice say these things to you. This validation that he has felt the same after these long, horrible days of practically ignoring each other.

Bringing your hand to his cheek, you turn Javier’s gaze back to you, and study him as you feel the fine hairs of his beard under your fingertips. He looks tired, even behind his glasses you can see the deep longing for rest in his eyes. You don’t think he’s used to rejection either.

Javier leans into your touch with a soft hum and you could almost lose your breath from the tenderness. You want to hold him, bury your nose in his hair and tell him to rest with you. Just laying together, his big body between your legs and head on your stomach, until the inevitable rising of the sun. You can hardly bring yourself to imagine how beautiful Javi must look by the light of the morning.

“Come here.” You whisper, though it’s barely audible, as you rise up on your knees so you are flush against his side, looking down at him. Before you kiss him, Javier kisses you, and your hand floats down from his cheek to wrap your arms around his glorious neck.

Javi wastes no time, his one big hand dragging up your spine to squeeze the back of your neck, holding your against him. And with the other, letting his thick fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass. You can feel the desperation in his skin, and you want all of it, this exquisite juxtaposition of feeling both safe in his arms but that he could also crush you with his desire.

What was life before this? Before Javier’s thick moans into your mouth, his heavy wet finger tips tracing. He takes up all the air in the room and you don’t stop him. He is everything.

You break off the kiss for a moment and remove his glasses. “I missed you too.”

“I’ve only touched you once, but I have spent every day thinking about you. Kissing you. Having you.” He says, pulling you impossibly closer to him. “It’s all I’ve wanted, every day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me.” You ask, and you can’t help the confused look on your face but Javier doesn’t respond. You search his face anyway longing for something heartfelt, like he was locked up in his head, consumed by his feelings for you, like you were. Instead, he kisses you again. Swallowing any upsetting feeling you’ve had since you’ve touched him last.

Kissing Javier is a soft pleasure all in its own, but you want more. More skin. More contact. To ache around him again. To show him how much you truly missed him.

“Let me take care of you.” You whisper, your palm trailing flat down the man’s chest. You get lower and lower, kissing along the beautiful exposed skin of his neck, dragging your hand down the soft black fabric until you reach the drawstring of Javi’s pants.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you feel his body stiffen as he looks around.

You nod, pushing your legs out from underneath you so you’re laying flat on the couch, your face practically in his lap. “Just relax.”

Javier lets all the air escape from his chest as you pull on the pants and he lifts his hips so you can get them down his thighs.

He watches you with heavy eyes, his mouth falling open as you kiss up the underside of his length, hardening under your lips. Swirling your tongue around the tip, you rest your head on Javier’s lower abdomen lazily, feeling him grow even more in your hand as you stroke him.

“Shit..” He says through his teeth, smoothing your hair back out of your face for you.

You continue to take your time teasing him. Humming in delight as Javier can barely contain himself, thrusting up into your hand shamelessly. He keeps his eyes closed, hands in your hair and you can feel the relief radiating from him. He was desperate for touch.

“Oh, Javi.” You coo, as his head falls back on to the couch, fucking up into your hand and you swear you can hear him whimper. This feeling of power over Javier is absolutely intoxicating, to feel so disconnected from him all week then to have him almost pathetically trying to relieve himself with any bit of human contact you’ll allow him.

“Look what you do to me.” He growls. “Fucking your ha-and...”

Javier reaches around, taking his length from your delicate grasp and pushes you lightly into his pelvis.

“You’re so fucking — soft.” He grunts, tapping his throbbing head against your lips before dragging his cock along your face.

You smile, letting him. Revealing your tongue for a moment to tease him once more.

“Thought you wanted to take care of me.” He says, his voice tight and you feel his hand in the back of your hair as he continues to run his length along your face. Grinning as his grip tightens, he doesn’t hurt you, it’s just about the control.

“I do.” You moan, as Javi softly pushes and pulls your head in a rhythmic motion, just hovering over him.

“Open your mouth.” He mumbles and you do what you’re told.

Javier motions your neck down, pulling you slowly over him, taking just his head in your mouth. “Is this okay sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” You whimper around him, your thighs involuntarily rubbing together, searching for some kind of relief from the arousing pull of his voice.

“Yeah? F-Fuck your pretty mouth.” He grunts, thrusting up slowly, stretching your lips to accommodate his thickness. You close your eyes, focusing on the fullness, calming your breath to take him.

“Stay just like this.” Javier sighs, his other hand tangling into your hair to keep you in place and you hum in agreement. Then he thrusts — quickly like he’s actually fucking you and it comes as a surprise but the moan that drips from his mouth almost instantly is enough to make you squeeze your thighs tighter. You have never felt a high like this, being exactly what Javier wants.

You dig your finger nails into his thighs as he takes you, a blunt, bruising force to the back of the throat and you can’t help but gag.

“That’s a good girl.” He says, “Taking my dick in your hot fucking mouth. I love that sound.”

You gag once more and Javier pulls out to you gasping. Spit suspended from your mouth to his cock and you watch it for a moment before grinning up at Javi.

“You’re so fucking cute.” He shakes his head in disbelief, wiping the saliva from your mouth.

“I’ve never done that before.” You smile, looking down slightly embarrassed as you wonder if you were even any good.

“You keep saying that...” Javi’s voice trails off as he pulls your dress up to knead your behind. You love having his hands on you, playing with you. “But you’d never know...”

You try to suppress your satisfied smile, flattening your palms around the base of Javier’s shaft, you take him back in your mouth.

“Fuck...” he exhales long and slow, grabbing a rough handful of your ass before pushing you down on to him, taking him completely down your throat and keeps you there. Your eyes water, and your leg kicks out before he lets you breathe again, coming up for air with a cough you look up at him and he looks down at you like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

——

Javier pulls you back up against his side, and he looks up at you as he’s slumped down into the couch. You wrap your arms back around his neck, fluttering your fingers through his hair and he nuzzles your chest, pressing his lips into your skin. You wish he was like this always, soft in your arms.

Javi hooks a finger into the top of your dress and pulls down, freeing your breasts, nipples hard in attention and he takes one in his mouth. Your cradle his head as he sucks on the buds and you let your own fall back slowly, relishing in the feeling of his tongue and his lips, the brushing of his moustache and the digging of his nose and how sweet he looks in your arms. This is too much, you’re going dizzy.

Javier helps you pull your dress over his head and his lips quickly return to your nipples. His big warm hands squeezing your bust harshly, alternating with his teeth scraping the sensitive flesh and completely pressing his face into your chest. Even as you climb into his lap, on top of him completely nude, his tongue doesn’t give up until you pull his face up to yours for a kiss.

He tastes like everything you want to drown in and it’s heady, like a force you must fight before it completely consumes you, but you don’t want to.

“Fuck.” You gasp, grinding your hips along Javi’s length, desperate for more.

“Oh, god.” He chokes, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Are you going to fuck me this time, sweetheart?”

“Yeah..” You whine, reaching between your bodies.

“Yeah? You’re gonna bounce that wet little pussy on my dick?” His voice shakes into your neck, and it’s such a contrast from his stern “Get on your bed.” from days ago.

You nod, kissing up his jaw in this sudden codependency, his need to feel every inch of you as you both fall back into the couch.

“Relax, Javi. Let me do this for you.” You coo, sinking down on to him. You hum from the incredible stretch and Javier groans right into your ear.

“That pussy is so fucking tight.” He says, out of breath. “Don’t move.”

You obey him, stilling in his lap and Javier lifts his head from the safe space between your neck and your shoulder and he looks up at you.

“What if I just held you here like this.” He says, almost to himself, his hands coming up to your ass. “Stuffed full of my dick and I didn’t let you move.”

“Javi...” You whine.

“Would you still be my good little girl?”

“Javi...” You whine louder, your chest feeling like it’s going to collapse, Javier’s fingers digging into you and he gives you two small thrusts.

“You love being my good girl, don’t you?” Javier whispers, pushing your hair behind your shoulders.

More than anything.

“Yes.” You gasp.

“I know you do.” He says, guiding you slowly up and down. “Just sucking my dick made this pussy a dripping mess.”

“I love it.” You groan as the sound of your skin against his gets louder as you work your hips for him.

Javier looks a moment away from possession and it just fuels you, for you have him where you always want him and you want this to be the death of him.

You still again, but only for a moment to steady yourself as you get up on your feet.

“Shit..” Javier sighs, before he turns you both with your arms wrapped around him, his back now against the arm rest and his legs straight out along the couch. “There you go, baby.”

You reach behind you, finding your balance with your grip on his knees and you pull your hips up.

“Oh my fucking god.” Javier gasps, running his hand down his face and you push your hips down slowly, watching him and in this moment he is really yours.

Fighting through the burning in your arms and your legs, you give him everything you’ve got. Mewing in the pleasure of seeing him underneath you like this, needing you like this. Submitting to the grinding of your hips and the wetness that aches around him. You wish you could see yourself on top of him, your chest bouncing, skin glowing in sweat so he knows exactly what he could have, whenever he wanted it.

“Your pussy is so fucking pretty.” Javier says, his thumb dragging across your mound and down to your clit, that is begging for attention and the moment his fingertip grazes the sensitive nerve your legs clamp together. But he doesn’t stop. Even as his length falls from your body from the increased height of your hips, Javier’s hand doesn’t retreat from the soft thighs it’s wedged between. Circling your clit over and over, your arms buckle and you hold your breath. You thought you had the power but even on top of him you’re just putty in his hand and he knows exactly what to do to make you sing.

“Are you going to squirt for me again?” He rasps, his other hand pushing you down into his lap. “I want to watch this pretty little pussy squirt all over me.”

“Put it back.” You gasp, trying to force your legs open.

“Yeah, baby? Do you need my dick?” Javi teases, pushing at your thigh to open up for him again. He finally eases his dizzying pressure on your clit and holds you just above his pulsing head, slick with you. Running his tip along your folds, you try to sink down on to him, but he keeps you suspended.

“Beg me.” He demands. “You know I love the way you say my fucking name.”

“Please, Javi.” You whine, grinding your hips into nothing. “Please, I love your cock so much, give it to me.”

You push yourself up and fall forward so your hands are on his chest, “Please, Javi. Make me squirt again. Only you know how to fucking do it”

“Oh, fuck.” He groans, pushing up into you sharply despite your yelp. “Anything for my good little girl.”

Javier pulls you down, flush against his chest, still clothed against your’s nude and he wraps his arms around you. He smells like amber and fresh linens as always. Summer. A sunset. The breeze off the ocean and wine. Safe.

His grip around you tightens as you inhale him, pounding up into you as he finds your ear, and his voice is like syrup, “I’m going to take care of you sweetheart. Going to make this pussy cum. You tell me okay? I want to see it. Want to see you fucking soak me. Don’t by shy, my good little girl. Give it to me.”

“Fuck, Javi.”

“You’re so fucking incredible. Taking my big dick in this perfect little pussy. Let go, Claude. Cum for me, angel.”

You groan lewdly and Javi’s hand comes down on your mouth.

“Shh. Shh. Shh.” He warns, and you sigh into his palm. Angel.

This pace is overwhelming, and as he’s restricted your limbs there really is nothing you can do but take it, trying to keep your thighs from clamping together every time Javier brushes that incredible spot within you. Your moans getting longer, from an even deeper part of your throat every time. Your core twists and tightens as he brings you there, unlike anyone else ever has.

“Javi, now!” You exclaim, barely recognizing the screech in your voice and Javier pulls out. His lap wet with you.

“Oh that’s a good fucking girl.” He says, kissing the top of your head as you fall to his side. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Your house guest’s impressive length twitches in his hand as he strokes himself, his nose buried in your hair as you nuzzle his chest in hazy delight and he keeps whispering, “Fucking you is such a dream. You make it so hard not to just nut in that tight fucking pussy.”

You hum, lifting our head up and kissing him softly. “Cum for me.”

“Yeah?” He swallows.

“Please, Javi.” You sigh.

“Where?” He asks, stroking himself harder.

It takes all your strength, but you slip silently off the couch and on to your knees. “On my face.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He says, getting up quickly.

Javier takes your chin delicately in his hand, stroking himself with vigor with the other, and you display your tongue for him, feeling the weight of his cock on it instantly.

“Such a good girl, letting me cum on your pretty fucking face like this. I don’t deserve you. So fucking— pretty.” He groans, with everything left and in this moment you have him, again.

——

You wake in your bed, and you know it’s late because you’re hit by a wall of heat followed swiftly by disappointment when you realize you are, once again, alone. With your arm spread out at your side, you know you are going to be met with nothing but empty sheets and you still feel it at the pit of your stomach anyway.

You sit up with a sigh, back to normal you suppose. Another day of existing separately, but together with only your lost puppy sense of self and a fascination for this man to sustain you.

Then you see him. Javier leaning up against your balcony door with his coffee, wearing only his pyjama bottoms. He hears you stirring and looks back with a smile, “Good morning.”

——

Tags: @pascalisperfect @thefinalgurl @we-are-like-a-timebomb @ssppoorrkk @headsindreams @kehrite @nerdyknightwritersblog @tangledlove27 @chipotle-pour-moi @jokersdoll @zea-is-amazing @someplace-darker @kaylaylaylayla @spacenerdsebby @forever-rogue @fionnthebandersnacc @colourmeinblue @longitud-de-onda @dogsinspace @spitmillk @staellula @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @leo-moon @mandoandyodito @bonkybaaarnes @sadthotsonlylove @ah-callie @astrolo-galaxy @lockedoutofmyotherblog @hayley-the-comet @boybalm @casjason @mrsparknuts @blushingwueen @ignimbritetcax @benakenalove @fioccodineveautunnale @exrebelshocktrooper @pascalisthepunkest @sav-a-nna @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @solarwars @cumberbitching @rae-gar-targaryen @tabalugax @lokiaddicted @roxypeanut @ezraslittlebirdie @thisainttheway @none-of-your-bullshit @mand0-l0rian @assaultsofthought

Love, Zelda

[dropofgoldensun]

omg hiiiii i am here from cat (@luvdsc) wondering if you could offer any advice about college apps 🙏 especially about the uc piqs? thank you so much i hope ur doing well!!!!!!!!

yes yes hello friend !! 💝 miss cat directed you to me because i did my college apps last year !!! (yikes one year passed already?? why does that feel ages ago 🤧)

first of all, congratulations on making the decision to apply to college !! i know it’s been hard for a lot of people our age to figure out the college situation recently, so i’m proud of you for choosing to take the extra step this summer to buckle up and write those essays 💞

i’ve compiled a few tips on answering the PIQs (i was actually in the middle of typing this up when i received your ask haha), but some of them can be applied to other essays, as well !! they’re all under the cut (because, unfortunately, being brief is not my forte) 😊

(and for reference, the prompts i chose were #2 (creativity), #6 (subject), #7 (community), and #8 (anything) !!)

tip #1: understand the prompt.

before you even begin writing, it’s important to understand what the question is really asking. for the UC PIQs, this will look different depending on which four prompts you decide to do.

in question one, for example, they want to know about your skills in leading others, but notice that they’re also curious about your resolution abilities and teamwork experience. or in question two, they don’t want to know that you paint and that you love painting—they could be asking how resourceful you are, how you think outside the box when you have an idea.

once you know the question you’re going to be answering, you can move on to brainstorming!

tip #2: write down three (3) key takeaways.

these are like the most basic, not-even-a-sentence answers you would give to each question. so for me, in response to question eight (“what do you believe makes you stand out as a strong candidate for the UCs?”), my answers were perseverance, courage, and character. i had a story about that, so i wrote about my experience with martial arts.

i recommend you do something similar. decide on three things that you want to communicate to your audience, and write them in the footnote of your document. your goal is to cover all three points so that, if anyone were to read your essay, they would walk away understanding those three things about you.

i found this strategy really helpful for keeping my essay streamlined while writing—if a sentence didn’t relate to any of those main points, i would cut it since those words would take up valuable space in the word count. stay focused on what needs to be in this essay, and if you have extra words left in the word count later, you can add those details back in.

and once you’re done with your essay, make sure to refer back to your takeaways and check that you covered all of them sufficiently!

tip #3: highlight your stories.

i sent cat an ask a couple days ago with a few pictures of my response to an end-of-year college counseling survey that referenced this tip (you can find it here). basically i said that, when choosing what topics to write about, pick things that interest you! if you get excited talking about it, your audience should get excited about reading it, because they’ll pick up on the passions you have and then everyone’s excited !!! :D

i’ll tell you a secret: everyone you meet, everyone you see, has countless unique experiences that few others may have. me? i spend hours making mashups out of kpop songs. i earned my black belt years after a traumatizing experience during training. i get russian harry potter and spanish dr. seuss books from the library. and i created a collaborative online google photos album for my classmates that now has thousands of entries. although these aren’t necessarily unique to only me, they’re still special enough to the point where, when you put them all together, you get a better image of the person i am, and what i value.

so find a story, a habit, a hobby that makes you different, because i believe that everyone has them. give them some food for thought, or that one-liner that sticks in their brain and won’t go away. and remember: these stories don’t all have to be extraordinary—they should be about people or moments of special value to you, because that’s what matters.

personal tip: when i was brainstorming ideas, i decided that the best way to get ideas out there was to go on a rant (because sometimes it helps to just have a conversation with yourself !!) and i recorded myself, so i could replay what i said !! this was so so crucial to me finding my own voice for writing essays. notice the way you word things when you talk—a good line or two may make it into the final draft :)

i found it helpful to read sample essays as well! they give a lot of great ideas on the kinds of topics people write about. (also, it’s kind of fun, because who doesn’t love a good story?)

but the people reading your essay won’t be there to just enjoy your story; what they really want you to do is to tell them what you learned from your experience. they want to know whether you’re teachable and willing to grow both as a student and as a young adult. so make sure to take note of the life lessons you learned, experience you gained, character you built, etc.

minor tip on ending your essay: if you’re telling a story that happened in the past, then close with what you learned and how you can apply that to your life moving forward. if you’re telling a story that has no definite end yet (like a passion or dream you have), you probably don’t have everything figured out (and you can say that in your essay!), so it might be better to close with your hopes for the future.

tip #4: ask your family for help.

peer-editing is one of the most effective ways to detect errors and inconsistencies in your writing, because, after staring at your essay for so long, you might gloss over glaring contradictions. for all of my essays, i printed them out and asked my parents to help me revise them. we’d meet every other night (or every night, depending on how much time was left) to review and discuss improvements.

i actually kept some of those printed drafts (only the first and the final ones for comparison), and let me tell you from experience—you’re probably going to have a lot of drafts (i think the most i did was seven? but you don’t need to go that far!). this part of the process does take some time, so remember to be patient and kind to yourself :) these essays won’t happen overnight!

enlisting the help of others also helps keep you accountable. one of the struggles many seniors face while writing essays is just... setting aside time to do them. and even though the constant reminders from your parents will definitely get repetitive and a bit stress-inducing, i can tell you from personal experience that i’m so glad they did; otherwise, i don’t think i’d have my essays done in time :’)

while writing college essays is challenging, your family will be there supporting you each step of the way. chances are that they’ll have their own pointers to pass on to you, since they probably remember doing this process themselves! and, out of everyone in your life, they probably remember the most about you (because you probably don’t remember much when you were four or five), so they might have a couple starter ideas for topics when brainstorming. you can rely on them for their advice and their experience.

tip #5: self-editing.

here’s the part that takes the longest time.

use action words. this is probably something you’ve heard all throughout elementary school where they didn’t like you to say “said” because it was “boring”… but honestly, the difference between “doing my own version” and “infusing it with my personality” could go a long way. also, use words that you would actually use in an essay—then it’ll have your own special flair, and not sound like it’s taken from some stuffy 80s textbook!

here are some of the words i used (once again, you shouldn’t use these words if they don’t sound like something you’d write/say): potential, overlay, wrestle, launch, analogous, weave, infuse, experiment, outlet, revel, fascinate, satisfaction, pursue, expand, distinction, capture, range, archive, engage, beyond, build, adversity, cultivate, preserve, commit, explore, convey, naturally

also, be on the lookout for repeated words. i once wrote an essay without noticing that i used “hope” three times in the same paragraph. don’t do that! use synonyms :) personally, i tended to run short on synonyms, so i always kept a tab or two open on my computer reserved for searching up new words.

side note: unfortunately, during my search for synonyms, i discovered that thesaurus.com just didn’t give me what i was looking for. i highly recommend using wordhippo instead; it has so many more options and they’re grouped by the different definitions of your word! i found the synonyms i needed really quickly and it was very satisfying!

avoid the passive voice! my teacher gave me this tip for theses or any other college-level writing. here’s an example of the passive voice: “there was a large part of me that wanted to turn back.” that’s twelve words taking up precious space in your word count! instead, say something like, “i considered turning back.” you’ve just freed up eight words :)

tip #6: final revisions.

this is the step where you fine-tune your essays. meet that word count.

read your writing out loud. does it sound like you? it should. every writer has a different voice, and you need to ensure that yours is pervasive throughout your essay. feel free to use contractions—not only do they reduce your word count (this was a good thing for me, since i had a problem with getting under 350 words), but they also give a more casual tone to your essay, as if you’re telling a story to someone in the room.

next, pretend to be an admissions officer and have someone else read your essay to you. do you get excited hearing about this student who shares your name? if you do, there’s a good chance the real admissions officers will love your essays, too. this also gives you a chance to review to your essay as a whole. pay attention to the overall flow. is there a clear beginning and end? do you resolve the issues and overcome the trials you brought up? listen to it as if it’s a story, and take this time to enjoy what you’ve written. you worked hard!

final thoughts / encouragements.

oh my goodness, did we make it to the end? honestly if you did, thank you so much 🥺

okay but despite my relatively optimistic tone throughout this post, i’m still going to be honest with you—the college essay writing process is difficult. it requires you to look inside yourself and analyze the “why” behind some of the things that you love, and that isn’t easy to do at all. it’s intellectually and emotionally challenging, because not only do you need to use so much energy writing, but you also have to dig deeper to understand yourself, and that’s not easy, either.

but i wanted to encourage you, too. no matter what you may think of yourself at 12am, 2am, 4am writing these essays, believe you have a personality that others love and will love when they meet you. you are an interesting person with unique experiences who deserves to share your thoughts with others. you have so many people behind you, supporting you during these next few months. and when you find that you can’t write any more, remember to take time to care for yourself. have a warm shower. go to bed early. i could go on and on about why sleep is good for your brain but i’ll spare you the details in this post 😉

one last thing: keep the bigger picture in focus. remember, by december or january, you will be finished with most of the application process. that’s no small accomplishment. you can do it. 💝

i really hope you found tips that you were looking for, and that they’re applicable to your own PIQs and other essays !! if you have any other questions, feel free to send in another ask (i promise my response won’t be this lengthy LOL) 💘💓

oh, and if you feel comfortable enough reaching out about anything in particular, i’m only a DM away 💕 i wish you the best of luck on writing your essays and i hope you enjoy your final year of high school !! 💗🌸💟💖

[lastwagontrainhopper]

A guiding hand

Royai week day 2 - Serene (let’s collectively ignore how late I am posting this ok thaaaanks)

Summary:   “She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke again, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ” ”

---

The Colonel and his Lieutenant share a late-night conversation. (Blind!Roy)

Words: 2489 

Tags: Blind Roy Mustang, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, Established Relationship, Canon Compliant

read on aot

“They had left their windows wide open, letting in a soft breeze to relieve them from the heavy summer heat. The curtains were rising and falling without a sound, fluttering in the air like ghosts. Even the streets around the house were quiet at that hour; the only thing that broke the stillness of the night was Riza's voice.

"As for Senator Harn's wife, she was wearing a very elegant apricot-colored dress. With her signature high hairdo, of course.”

Their blankets had long been kicked away to the bottom of the bed in a messy pile. Roy was lying on his back, facing to the ceiling, one hand playing idly with a lock of Riza's hair.

"Apricot?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "That's the yellow with a touch of pink, right?”

"That was pretty much it, yes." Riza was lying on her side, her head against her hand, elbow propped up on the pillow. The room was covered in shadows, but the flickering lights from the window on the street allowed her to see the outline of Roy's face.

"And you said Harn had a royal blue jacket...That must have made for an odd contrast.”

Riza smirked. "Yes, that's what several people seemed to think. It looked as if the General and his wife had not consulted with one another before coming to the gala.”

A sly smile spread across Roy’s face. "Ha! And you just know the rumors about their marriage are already flying high. It's sort of ironic, considering how Harn is constantly babbling to the Parliament about the “traditional family” and the “sanctity of marriage” and whatnot." His hand came to lightly circle Riza's wrist, his thumb tapping the back of her hand. "I’m sure you now understand how crucial fashion is in Central. It's not just a matter of taste: it's inherently political.”

"Sure," she answered, unconvinced. "Anyway. The Harns didn't capture the guests' attention that long, since the buffet was brought shortly after.”

Roy hummed appreciated. "And that was a good one. I've rarely tasted crab this delicious.”

"Yes, and they must have put as much effort into the presentation as in the cooking, because the set-up was magnificent. Everything was served on glittering silver plates, which reflected the glow of the chandeliers. On each table, the dishes were arranged in a sort of pyramid, culminating with the piece of meat or seafood. It looked extremely fragile, like...like some sort of house of cards, or crystal architecture, defying gravity - but they all stood the evening without crashing down. It was breathtaking.”

This had become the most constant part of their day. Almost every night, as they lay in bed before going to sleep, Riza would describe to Roy a long list of the things he hadn’t been able to see during the day. When they had first started this habit, as they were working on the the reconstruction of Ishval, Riza's descriptions had been much more pragmatic, like a mission report: which building seemed in need of repair? Which tribal leader looked unsatisfied during their morning meeting? She did her best to give him this information as the day went by, but there were always important details that she missed.

As the years had passed and the two had distanced themselves from the military, Riza's description had slowly become more lyrical. She began to tell him about beautiful sights that he was missing – a particularly colorful sunset, or the way the city lights looked at night. As time went by, she started to enjoy these conversations and more more, and they became increasingly long. It got to the point where, as Riza saw something pretty during the day, she found herself immediately thinking of the way she would describe it to Roy later at night.

"You should try to write a book," he had told her once. "You're so good at this - I can picture in my mind everything that you're telling me about like I was seeing it."

"It wouldn't be the same," she had answered, shaking her head. "I like hearing your reactions."

He had arched his eyebrows, smirking. "And yet you scold me every time I interrupt you.”

"Stop being overdramatic,” she had retorted. “Now let me continue." They had left it at that.

Sometimes Riza would rest her head on his chest as she went on with her stories. This was what Roy preferred.  Ever since losing his eyesight, he had grown much fonder of physical contact, even casual, with her - after all, it was the surest way he could know that she was by his side. But Riza liked to remain slightly further, just next to him, so that she would be able to observe him during their late-night conversation. His face would take on such a special expression at those times, almost peaceful, or...serene.

Serene. That would have been the last word anyone would have chosen to describe Roy under normal circumstances. Despite his reputation as a slacker, he was a man that was constantly busy thinking about one thing or another, pondering, planning his next ploy – or his next date with a certain Lieutenant. His eyes in particular had always betrayed the constant working of his mind: they were restless, always darting around the room to study the people they were talking to, noticing details in their postures, noting suspicious movements out of the corner of his eye.

And, Riza knew it well, even the moments of rest didn’t bring Roy much serenity. More often than not, his sleep was plagued by violent nightmares that would wake him screaming in the middle of the night - or at least, that tensed and distorted his expression as he slept.

This had not changed since the Promised Day. But since Roy’s fight in the underground of Central, his blind eyes had lost their piercing look and had taken on a milky appearance. In the first few weeks, Riza had hated meeting that blank stare - it reminded her too much of what his eyes used to look like, as well as symbolizing her failure as a bodyguard.

But eventually, she had come to see a certain beauty in them, and in the calmness they brought to Roy's expression. He was still as expressive as ever, with his trademark crooked smile and taunting eyebrows. But in the evening, when they were alone together, his face truly relaxed. As Riza described the day's events to him, he would focus entirely on her voice, letting his mind recreate the image she was painting. His eyebrows would loosen and his forehead became smooth, free of its usual furrow; his mouth would fall half-open. At this particular moment, Roy took on a serene expression that Riza had never seen on him before, and she never got tired of looking at it.

"I need to tell you, unfortunately," Riza broke the silence that had settled, "that you were not the best-dressed man at the reception.”

Roy propped himself up on his elbows, frowning with surprise. So much for serenity.

"What? Who was?”

“You’re not going to be happy about this,” Riza said, trying to hide the small smile in her voice. "But Colonel Birks made quite an impression. He wore a rather daring suit, made of a black  fabric from which red velvet patterns stood out.”

Roy huffed with indignation. "Velvet! Nonsense. He obviously can’t stop pushing the boundaries of extravagance – and of bad taste.”

"I don't know," Riza said evasively. “I thought it was pretty elegant…and I wasn't the only one.”

Roy ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Outdressing the president should be considered insubordination," he muttered under his breath. "I'll call Ms. Zhao tomorrow. I need something more avant-garde for the next gala. Maybe with some silk mixed in with a cotton suit?”

He lay down again on the bed and raised his arm, inviting her to come closer. Riza moved to nestle up against him, putting her head on his shoulder, a hand on his chest. Roy wrapped an arm around her waist and buried his nose in her hair. Whenever he did that, his breaths would tickle Riza's neck, making her giggle; she would always pretend to be annoyed but it, but they both knew better.

After a moment, Roy tucked some of her hair away from her face. He brought his lips close to her ear. "Tell me again what you were wearing."

Riza felt a shiver go down her spine. That deep voice that Roy used when he whispered always got a reaction out of her, no matter what cliché or silly thing he would say.

A wry smile crossed her lips. "At this point, you know my wardrobe better than I do, Roy. ”

"I know," he answered, unabashed. "But I like hearing you describe it."

Riza chuckled. “Well,” she began, “I was wearing the flowy emerald green skirt that Rebecca got me for Christmas, a brown leather belt, and my white blouse. The one with the embroidery on the collar. ”

He hummed in appreciation. "With your golden high heels, I'm guessing."

"With my golden high heels," she nodded, "because even though my feet are killing by the end of the night when I wear them, they do really go well with that skirt." Her hand started to play with the ring that Roy wore as a necklace. "I didn't put much makeup on because of how humid the weather was. But I did wear my bright red lipstick."

She felt his cheeky smile even before he spoke. "I can recognize it by taste, now."

If they weren’t pressed so close together, she would have dug her elbow into his ribs. She rolled her eyes instead. "I also had my gold bracelet to go with the shoes, and the earrings you bought me to complete it all. What else...my hair was in a bun, and, of course, I had my necklace."

She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or a joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ”

Riza felt her smile drop. A lump appeared in her throat. Roy rarely complained about his blindness; even in the months following the Promised Day, he had adapted to his new lifestyle with impressive resilience. At first, it seemed as if his disability had affected his Lieutenant, plagued by guilt, more than himself. Still, Riza knew that he must have carried a lot of silent regrets through the years. There was so much Roy had had to give up, so many compromises he had had to reluctantly accept on his plan to reform Amestris – and on his personal life.

Riza disentangled herself gently from his grasp and straighten up, half sitting, to observe him. One of his arms was folded under his head, and he still seemed to be looking at the ceiling - but of course, that was just an impression. She ran a hand through his hair, brushing them away from his face. He smiled slightly at her touch, but she didn't need to see the pupils of his eyes to know that his heart wasn't in it.

She didn't like seeing him like this. With thoses cloudy eyes, melancholy turned his serene expression into a confused one - like he was a child that got lost and couldn't look for his way home.

Riza laid down again and rested her head on the pillow, her face turned toward Roy. She started to gently stroke his arm. "At least, you can keep in your mind the image of what I – and you – looked like in the prime of our youth," she said after a moment in a playful tone, trying to comfort him. "You won't need to see us get all old and wrinkled.”

To her surprise, Roy's face saddened further.

"Don't say that. Beautiful women are like fine wine, they only get better with age - that's what Chris used to say. I always wanted to see how you would look as you grew old.”

Riza raised her eyebrow, surprised. "Really?" she answered in spite of herself.

He nodded. "Not everyone ages gracefully, of course. But I know that wrinkles would look flattering on you; you have such elegant features. And silvery hair never fails to give this distinguished look - at least on women," he added, running a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. His eyebrows furrowed. "Do I already have grey hair?"

Riza felt her shoulders relax. "You're almost completely bald by now, Roy."

He winced. "Please don't joke with that. I don't know what I would do if this were to happen.

Riza simply smiled, and they fell back into a comfortable silence. She watched Roy’s chest rise and fall with his breathing, lulled by the calm rhythm.

"You know, I always wished I could see you grow old, also because it would have meant that we made it."

Riza felt her breath catch in her throat.

She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek, hoping her touch could tell him what her words couldn’t.

“We did make it, Roy.” Now of all time, she wished he could see her face.

"I know," he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I know."

Riza propped herself up on her elbow. She close her fingers around his, and squeezed firmly.

"Listen. We'll just do like with everything else. When my hair turns grey, I'll describe it to you. And as for the wrinkles," she placed his hand on her face, "you can see that for yourself."

Roy made a small smile. For the first time, he turned to face her, placing the tip of his fingers on both sides of her face. That was something he never tired of doing. Before he had lost his sight, he had always been able to read her like a book, understanding the meaning behind even the most subtle of her facial expressions. Now, he could do it in a much more literal sense, by tracing the surface of her body, reading the lines on her skin as if they were words written in braille.

"And when my face is so wrinkled it's unrecognizable,” she continued, "you will know the story behind each one of them.” She injected a smile into her voice. “The ones I already have on my forehead, for example, come from the stress of having spent so many years asking you to do your paperwork.”

His fingers brushed her forehead, and he smiled, abashed. "And you're all the more beautiful for it, my dear." He reached toward her and, guided by his hands, placed a light kiss on her head. “I can’t wait to see the rest.” ”

[cyhyr]

Summer of Whump Day 16: Touch Starved

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: G

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, pre-relationship

WC: ~1870

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

A/N: Are y'all ready for some whumpy fluff??? Cuz I got some kinda cavity-inducing treat here for those that're into that.

~

In theory, Kakashi should have been assigned a touchstone during his ANBU service. Looking back, he’s ambivalent about how he feels on the subject. Sure, a touchstone could have been helpful if they were trained well and able to calm him down from the nightmares he had as a teenager; but he’s also historically one of the deadliest shinobi enlisted in ANBU and the possibility of accidentally killing a touchstone would have gotten him discharged early at best or put down because of a psychotic break at worst.

He doesn’t casually touch people, and hasn’t since his fist went through Rin’s chest ten years ago. He’s okay with this. He doesn’t want to touch people anyway—it registers a part of his instincts that equates touch with mission and he doesn’t like being “on” while in the village. Even Gai keeps a respectable distance unless they’re sparring, especially after the last time they had been walking through the village and brushed elbows and Kakashi flinched hard enough that two on-duty ANBU flickered into view on the rooftops.

But really, he’s fine.

~

Then he becomes a jōnin-sensei and formally meets Uzumaki Naruto and, by extension of Naruto, Umino Iruka. And see, after a week of training with the genin, he thought he’d gotten used to being casually touched again. Naruto, in particular, likes to take Kakashi’s palm in high-fives without permission and run circles around his legs like an over-excited pup. But Sasuke also will lean against him for a breath if no one else is looking, and Sakura is a hugger.

This does not prepare him for meeting his team’s old Academy teacher, who invites all of Team Seven—including Kakashi—to his home at the end of their first week for dinner. It seems odd that Naruto knows where everything is in the home enough to help Umino-sensei finish cooking and set the table; even more odd is Umino ordering Naruto around and Naruto following those orders without question. After the meal, Kakashi resolves to pick the man’s brain to figure out how he does that.

But then he notices how the man is moving around the kitchen; stiffly, limping, one hand bracing his lower back if he needs something out of his reach. And how Sasuke and Sakura are also hovering, asking if there’s anything they can do to help—and Kakashi realizes that he’s missing crucial information.

He gets the story about the scroll, the betrayal, and the fuma shuriken after dinner, while he’s helping Umino-sensei clean up. They had sent the genin out of the kitchen—Umino hadn’t wanted to recall it around them, worried it might “upset them”—so it was just the two of them in a tiny space.

And he’s not ready for it. Every time Umino passes behind him while Kakashi’s washing up at the sink, he presses a gentle hand to his upper back. Their fingertips brush occasionally when Kakashi’s handing Umino freshly washed dishes to dry.

His fucking laugh is a touch of its own.

Kakashi starts out tense but minutes go by and Umino doesn’t seem to recognize that his actions are distressing so Kakashi just… breathes through it. And relaxes. And lets himself feel.

And, gods, it’s nice.

~

It doesn’t stop. Umino—

“Iruka, please,” he smiles and it’s like sunshine after a month in the Land of Frost. “I’d like to think we’re friends, Kakashi-sensei, and my friends call me Iruka.”

“Then just ‘Kakashi’ is fine,” he replies—

He’s still wondering why he said that, but it certainly happened; it was at the Mission Desk and there were witnesses—

Anyway.

Iruka doesn’t stop with these friendly, gentle touches. But after that first night he is always careful to do them in places where no one else can observe Kakashi’s reactions, which Kakashi is immensely thankful for.

He doesn’t ever turn on Iruka, but there are some close calls. He once followed Iruka down into the archives and while they were down there he said something—likely a crass joke, remembering Iruka’s flush and that particular smile. In hindsight, Kakashi realizes that the jab on his arm was meant to mean oh gods why are you like this in an amused air; at the time, he froze and his heart had started pounding and he briefly saw Iruka as a threat.

Iruka didn’t move, either away or closer, just waited until Kakashi’s tension released. It took almost a minute. He did, however, continue speaking; going into a story about Naruto and Shikamaru from their earlier days at the Academy. Once Kakashi was back to himself he stuck his hands in his pockets and Iruka finished his filing in the archives, walking around again as though he hadn’t just been in potential danger.

Kakashi wonders if Iruka has touchstone training. He wonders if Iruka would entertain being his touchstone; but, no, he’s not ANBU anymore, he doesn’t need one anymore.

~

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

~

One day after training his team, he catches sight of Iruka lounging in the grass by the river, reading a novel. The sunset warms the deep tones of his skin even more than usual and Kakashi groans because he’s been psyching himself up to do something like this for weeks and here, here is the perfect chance. And he could absolutely keep walking down the road and keep his hands and body to himself and Iruka would be none the wiser; and even if he does find out, Iruka will never hold it against him or call him a coward.

He can do it. He takes a few steps down the hill.

He can’t do it—he turns back up to the road and puts his face into his hands. He resists groaning, as that would alert Iruka to his presence and then he’s fucked.

He turns back around and looks at Iruka, turning the page of his book and tucking an arm under his head. Gods, he’s…

If I go down there, I’ll destroy him.

If I don’t, I’ll destroy myself.

Kakashi doesn’t whine, he doesn’t. He fought in the Third Great Shinobi War. He’s a hardened ANBU operative—retired, but. He’s one of the deadliest shinobi Konoha has on its roster. He can approach a chūnin Academy sensei, his friend, for no other reason than to just sit near him.

His legs move before he can form the thoughts to stop them, and he’s dropping into a cross-legged seat beside Iruka.

“Hello, Kakashi,” Iruka says. He sets his book aside and sits up, shifting so he’s more facing Kakashi. And gods that smile. “How are you?”

Kakashi finds that he can’t quite get the words out, and so just holds out a hand between them hoping Iruka will understand.

“Ah.” Of course, Iruka does. He slips his fingers between Kakashi’s slowly, giving him the chance to pull away if he needs. But Kakashi isn’t here for need; he’s here for want.

He pulls Iruka’s hand up to his cheek and presses into it, his pulse quickening.

“Kakashi, is everything alright?” Iruka murmurs.

He nods. The lump in his throat eases enough that he’s able to mutter back: “Exposure therapy. My apologies, sensei, for using you this way.”

Iruka’s palm is warm through his mask. He wishes he hadn’t done this in public, that he could feel Iruka’s hand on his bare face.

“I understand. I have done this before.”

“Y-You have?”

Iruka nods, shifts closer and lays his other hand on Kakashi’s shoulder. “I’ve had other friends in ANBU,” he whispers. “I was a touchstone for, ah, three years? For them.”

Kakashi can’t help the bubbling laugh. “I had wondered where you got these kinds of instincts, sensei.”

“It’s certainly not from teaching pre-genin.”

Iruka continues lightly stroking his shoulders and cheek where Kakashi placed his hand, until Kakashi fidgets and shifts and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck.

“I was wondering if—um—could you—that is—”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Iruka nods.

“That’s just the thing,” Kakashi sighs. “I’m not comfortable with any of this.”

“Okay, so then just ask,” he says instead. “I promise, it’s neither the oddest request I’ve gotten, nor will I refuse you.”

Kakashi quirks an eyebrow and Iruka chuckles.

“I’ll tell you later. Ask.”

He takes in a deep breath and on the exhale says it at once: “CanIputmyheadinyourlap?”

Iruka takes a second to decode what he says, and then his grin widens and he turns back to where he’d placed his book. He shifts it further aside and situates himself better, and then nods, making a subtle come here gesture with the hand near his book.

Kakashi turns and just about falls into Iruka’s lap, now laying parallel to the river and looking up at the reddening sky. In the east, a few early stars are coming out. But here, on the riverbank, Iruka runs his fingers through Kakashi’s hair and it’s heaven. Fingertips from his other hand stroke gently down the side of Kakashi’s face and neck. After a few minutes, Iruka settles his arm over Kakashi’s chest in a loose embrace and it causes a hitch in his breath and a stutter in his pulse but—

But he’s with Iruka and he’s in the village and the fingers through his hair are so nice and he’s safe and Iruka’s safe—

He relaxes.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Iruka says softly.

“This is wonderful, sensei,” Kakashi breathes. “You’re just enough. Exactly what I needed.”

Iruka lightly scratches at his scalp and Kakashi groans. The arm across his chest gets a little heavier and Kakashi notices but doesn’t care because he’s in the village and safe and with Iruka—

“Can I… um. No, nevermind.”

Kakashi opens his eye, looks up at Iruka, flushed in the sunset, and says, “Ask anyway?”

Iruka bites at his lip and hesitates, but Kakashi has all the time in the world right now. Eventually, the sun goes beyond the horizon and Iruka asks barely above a whisper, “Can I kiss you?”

He’s honestly surprised, thinking that he was the only one harboring a crush. But then he thinks about the sensitivity of lips on lips and tongue and teeth and being that close and I’ll destroy him—Kakashi stops that line of thought fast and clears his throat to fight off the bile wanting to rise. He swallows hard and says, “Not yet. I don’t know if I can—”

“Shh,” Iruka presses one finger to his lips over the mask; it’s excruciating. “You don’t need to explain yourself. A no is enough. I’ve got this,” gesturing to Kakashi, laid out beside him, and then threads his fingers back in his hair, “and I'm more than happy.”

Iruka eventually relocates them to his apartment, where Kakashi goes along quietly and eats what he’s given and washes up beside Iruka like he always does at the Team Seven dinners he hosts. And when they move to the living room and Iruka sits in the corner of his couch and pats his lap questioningly, Kakashi falls into place like a good soldier and spends the rest of the night trying not to tear up at how good it feels to be touched so carefully, so gently, so lovingly.

[pepperpills]

The Harvest - RE8 Fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

Notes: heey, so here is Part III, hope you all enjoy it! i'm thinking of starting a new story soon, once this is ended, probably focusing more on world building and Karl and reader relationship hehe

Warning: NSFW content

Part I - Destiny (1) Part I - Destiny (2) Part II - The Lord

Part III – The Hunt

Getting to know the factory turned out to be a fantastic experience. You had never seem so many different paraphernalia in your live, the closer you had ever got to that was when you were a child poking around your dad’s storeroom, but there were only some tools, agriculture products and inherited ornaments from your cabin family – these last ones were your absolute favourite.

Heisenberg’s factory, on the other hand, was full of interesting things, some of them you had no idea what were used for. You even found a suspicious “torture” room, but couldn’t dig into it, once he was nearby. Still, you found his journals narrating his experiments, his audio reports and some guide books on mechanics that had you intrigued for a long time while reading them. He was a madman, you were convinced, but at the same time, that secluded part of you was growing a little each day you explored his life.

Lord Heisenberg was nicer and quieter than you would imagine. He basically lived in his various offices across the factory, mostly he would be trying new mechanisms on bodies and seeing how they reacted with the Cadou, the strange parasite the villagers mentioned only on rare and veiled conversations. As far as it wasn’t you, or your family, lying cold on one of the stretchers, you didn’t care. As a matter of fact, you felt tempted to try some things with the gears yourself as you deepen your studies in his books.

At your first days there, you got worried you would have to share the bed with him, which would be much more proximity than you had ever had with another person. The man had already seen your half naked and that was enough. However, he didn’t sleep there with you and you wondered why, once he so enthusiastically mocked you about it when you arrived. Actually, you started doubting he ever slept at all.

You were still a bit scared, though, never knowing if he would play a prank on you, so you were very careful to avoid him for a while - that didn’t endure –, believing you should give him space to get used to your presence after the mood he got into after your reception.

He was disturbed, indeed. His work was getting closer to a crucial point that involved Mother Miranda. He musted be discreet, but it was proving to be a real trial with Soldats activating and running around as lost beasts. Also, having you around actually gave him a new problem.

Lord Heisenberg would walk around the factory looking for material, testing the Soldats and cursing a lot, some of these swearwords you didn’t even know, but started liking how he used them, almost cartoonish. It was never directed to you, of course. He acted like you weren’t there most of the time, in others, when he was more chilled, with less work to do, he asked “how is the mess at the wing, buttercup?” laughing at you blushing at his indiscreet platonic flirts.

You had to find your way around the factory. That place was a labyrinth and a map would come handy, so you drew it on some clean papers you found lying around, loving not to get lost anymore. You hadn’t been face-to-face to one of his creations yet, just saw them on the production lines on the overview of the factory and on some specific rooms. You also avoided it due to fear.

He told you where the wing to be cleaned was and you found it after an hour. It was so incredibly packed with mechanical parts that you could barely come inside to take a look. Huffing, you thought that he could solve that without moving a muscle. It made you mad, but also made you wonder what you were doing there. You cleaned it anyway, as it was your duty and used that waste to build some minor projects.

At the end of your expedient, your hands were orange because of the rusty irons you were moving all day long and you had little cuts here and there, but nothing really bad. As it was going, it wouldn’t take long for you to finish cleaning and could even decorate it for him, making it feel more like home to you too.

You were liking it there. Of course, it was dusty, grey, sometimes rusty and hot all the time, but it was also very different from everything. Once you said goodbye to the cabins, then to the Village and maybe being away from Miranda’s dominance made you feel lighter.

You found some red fabric lying around somewhere, appearing to be forgotten, made some nature sketches on blank papers and put yellow lights on the bedroom and on Karl’s soon-to-be new working room. It looked cosy. You hoped he would appreciate it when he met the reformed wing, until then, you would keep quiet not to bother him.

Though, shortly after you finished decorating the bedroom, an event destroyed your plans of avoiding Heisenberg. On your daily route to what you would now call your wing, you crossed the kitchen and found an overcoat-less Karl trying to prepare a sandwich. He had any chef’s nightmare happening in that place. There were blunt knives flying around, a metal cup chasing the kettle spilling hot coffee all over the floor as he tried to open a bottle of whiskey and, finally, hot coffee hit Heisenberg’s chest and he screamed and cursed like a sore animal.

“FUCK!” He thundered, his word echoing in the corridor where you stood.

You couldn’t ignore that scene even if you tried. You were getting tired of not talking to him, you lived together now and all your few friends were slowly becoming distant memories. You would be happy to hear his voice, something else than gears rumble, even if it was cursing your predecessors.

As a powerful person, he would try to use his powers to do simple things and do a real mess instead. You felt compelled to give him some support, maybe it was a part of your mother’s care for others that lived in you too. You entered the kitchen headstrong, holding a laugh at his misery looks. Now he was stroking his shirt with a cloth and only noticed you when you were getting around the island.

You didn’t know, however, he never “never noticed” you. He felt your presence at the corridor before you saw him and he felt ashamed of you seeing him failing at a stupid task, and so forth his reaction was to be boorish.

“What?” He asked in a rude tone.

“Just let me help.” You offered, placing your hand in the air between you two. It wasn’t really an offer, you were just being polite, you would help him one way or another, you would have your small talk, but he wouldn’t give up so easily. “Please.” You asked, making the sweeter voice you could.

He huffed and threw the wet cloth on the sink. You took another cloth from one of the drawers – you were getting used to the utensils’ places –, wet it a little with water and looked at him, your head slightly tilted to the right.

“What is it, kitten?” Heisenberg questioned, roughly playful then.

“It is your shirt.” You pointed.

“Yes, it is dirty. Weren’t you trying to help?” He started to lose patience.

“Yeah, I am. It is just… You will have to take it off.” You let it out unpretentiously, although in your mind you were revengeful.

“Oh.” He understood and immediately took it off with so much easiness you wondered how many times he did that when you were so uncertain of it at your first day.

You had never seem him shirtless. To be quite sincere, you hadn’t seen many shirtless men in your life. The Village was a very cold town, once it was deep into a forest in the mountains, so even in the summer there wasn’t a hot weather, so people tended to keep their clothes on. Because of this, when he took it off you instantly blushed at his scarred chest.

He has what you would call a dad body. It isn’t really sinewy, although still very strong with thick arms and defined muscles. He has some belly, which means he isn’t a skinny person, but he isn’t fat also. And maybe you took too long looking at him like that and feeling weird feelings you would think about later that night.

“You’re almost drooling there, buttercup.” He teased you and when you quickly, but gently, started cleaning his chest with the cloth, so you wouldn’t have to answer, he gave up a deliciously loud laugh.

You laughed with him, making him laugh even harder. You didn’t want to admit it, but you liked it, this casual connection between you two. The laugh died a gradual death and you started moving you hand on his chest, feeling its warmth below the cloth. You could almost swear his breathing was getting faster and you saw he was biting his lips, maybe because you were taking too long. You didn’t want to finish, but you both know there wasn’t much coffee on him anyway.

You put the cloth with the other one in the sink and as you watered them, you saw him going to get his shirt that had been laying on the island.

“No, no, no.” You said, taking it from his hands kind brusquely, making him confused. “I need to wash these.”

“I see.” He said, raising his hands to show he wouldn’t try again, as a peace offer that made you grin.

“I can finish your sandwich for you, it will only take a minute.” You added, embarrassed to be so bossy with him.

“I will be at my office.” He told you and left without looking back.

You thought he got mad at you because of the shirt situation. It made you sad, you started having a nice approach. To compensate you made him a really good sandwich with the meat and vegetables you found in the refrigerator. Searching for food there you considered asking him to go see the Duke and buy supplies, maybe even hunt, because you didn’t have enough provisions. Anyway, you also prepared the coffee, poured a glass of cowboy whisky – sipped one, two or three times yourself – and cleaned what was there to be cleaned. It took more than one minute, but less than teen.

You were heading to his office when you heard a muffled noise. It sounded guttural and made you shiver. Electricity running through your body, making you feel hopelessly exposed, only that countered by the alcohol it felt good. You stepped carefully as you got closer to the door. You considered not knocking, but the noise made you knock.

“Just…” He gasped. “Leave it at the door, please.” Heisenberg was painting, but he asking “please” was what made up your mind, that politeness wasn’t usual, so you did what he requested.

You wanted to be around him on that day, but chose to respect his privacy. You didn’t imagine that his mind was blowing with you, he desperately wanted to continue the kitchen talk, but couldn’t give himself the chance once he was so close to perfecting the Soldats.

To ease your thoughts, as you were no longer requested at the factory, you tested your stealth skills and slipped to the forest behind it, caring your bow and arrows determinedly.

You were familiar with that area as you have hunted all around the Village, thus, you knew where to go to find good preys. It was by the lake were the deer stopped to drink water. It was far from the factory entrance, but again, you knew exactly what you were doing. When approaching the lake, you climbed a tree and waited.

It didn’t take long until a lonely deer appeared, unsuspicious. It leaned its head so it could reach the water level and started drinking it. You positioned one arrow, held your breath and did the physics magic. The arrow nailed its left eye. It didn’t scream, it was over very quickly.

You climbed the tree down, came closer to the body and tied it with the rope you brough from the factory. Your way back wasn’t effortless, you were slower due to the extra weight and the lycans sensed its blood, their sounds were all around you. They wouldn’t hurt your, though, somehow, they knew you were with Heisenberg.

It was past four in the afternoon when you reached the factory, panting with the effort of bringing the deer. Heisenberg was poking around for something in his front yard. He noticed you just as you appeared in his peripherical vision. He walked towards you, with an intrigued expression that transformed into an impressed one when he saw the deer.

“Some gifts you have there, kitten, ain’t gonna lie.” He commented, squatting to take a good look at the animal. “How did you do that?” It was clear he didn’t mean to offend, quite the opposite, he was genuinely curious.

“A girl has her secrets.” You answered, when you finally stop panting, shrugging when internally you are fulfilled someone knew about you hunting and didn’t seem mad at you.

He wasn’t even angry you left the factory without his permission, which made you happier. He stood below you with the animal for a few seconds more, than got up on his feed, laid his hands on your shoulders, well, on your skin hunting jacket, and said “You are really something, kitten.”

You fell for his words. You never wanted to feel that dependant on someone’s appreciation for you, but with him it was lighter. Karl took the weight of the world off your shoulders by bringing you there and kind off supporting you even though you had only spent little more than a month together.

“Thank you, my lord.” You spoke.

“Stop it. Call me Karl.” He said roughly, but good hearted. “Now, do you know how to clean this deer?” Heisenberg asked.

Usually, Duke would do it for you, although you knew the theory, you hadn’t much practice.

“I was hoping you could help me with it, Karl.” You suggested, toasting him a malicious smile.

“For fuck’s sake.” But he cursed laughing.

He cleaned this table at the garage and disposed the deer there. You helped him doing the messy job, learning with him what you only saw the Duke doing. It wasn’t pretty, but you were comforted by his presence and obstinacy. He probably did it often as it showed, but didn’t bother to take it slower so he could teach you.

Heisenberg enjoyed that night more than you could imagine. He didn’t care for the Soldats, they could wait, it was nice being around you for a change, not running away from your hair, your smile, your presence. For the first time in his life, he actually had someone who wanted to be around him.

Later your prepared venison, demi-glace, potatoes, a fresh arugula salad and both of your enjoyed dinner at the kitchen island with bottles of dark beer. He was funny, he was tripping over words a little, due to the alcohol, but his stories, oh man… He was a real brat. You told him about the cabins and the hunting. He listened carefully, never judging you and laughed at your silly manners, at your etiquette and, over all, loved your cook.

He slept in the bed with you, tired, amused and drunk, he sunk in his dreams. You stayed up a bit longer, resisting your lazy eyes temptations just to appreciate his scent, it would smell like burned wood.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Lucien’s R&S - Regarding what books don’t say (Eng Translation)

🍒This R&S (关于书上没说的事) was part of the Dream Heart Lake event which will unlikely come to EN!🍒

A character featured in @lucienism‘s translation of his 2020 birthday event is introduced here!

More Lucien R&S from this event:

> regarding what books don’t say ♡

> my love rival older brother

> the victim who disappeared

> since that rainy night

[ Chapter One ]

Everybody knows that there’s an especially intelligent child in the neighbourhood.

His parents are both high-ranking scientific researchers. Although husband and wife have always kept a low-profile, quite a lot of rumours involving their child still flowed into the streets - He knew over ten thousand words at the age of one, read “The Brief History of Time” at the age of three, and could already engage in scientific research with his parents at the age of five.

As for how much of it is true or false, the neighbours didn’t delve too deeply into it. They just needed “someone else’s child” as an example to enhance the persuasive effect when dealing with their own children. “Brat, could you stop making me worry! Just look at that little genius next door. He already knows how to read books obediently at the age of five!”

As time passed, the children developed a strong resistance towards this little genius who rarely showed himself.

Unlike what their parents hoped, they didn’t see him as a role model for studying. Instead, they chose the naive and cruel method to express their unhappiness which had accumulated over the years.

-

[ Chapter Two ]

To the children, “isolation” is an extreme punishment. However, this didn’t have much of an effect on the little genius. He has always holed himself up in the study room, immersing himself in scientific materials which even normal adults find cryptic and difficult to understand. After classes in the afternoon, he would occasionally hear the clamour of playing, and would close his book temporarily, laying on the window sill to take a look. 

He can easily explain how the human mind operates, but is unable to understand why the boys in the yard enjoy running after a ball. Each time he sees them running themselves into a sweat-drenched state and yet able to laugh heartily, he remains puzzled despite pondering over it for a long time.

Although he has considered directly asking the children in the yard for their reasons, he can detect the alienation in their eyes even from afar.

It’s as though they are magnets with the same poles. Even if he tried taking a step closer to them, they would naturally take a step further. This caused him to gradually feel that even though he was a human being like them, there were also some slight differences.

Since he couldn’t quell his bewilderment through a survey sample, he had no choice but to have a hands-on experience. As such, he, who rarely brings up wanting anything, asked his father for a small soccer ball.

Seeing his son take the initiative to ask for a toy for the first time, his father agreed immediately. He even completed his work on hand early, and specially took a half-day leave to accompany his son to play in the grass patch in the park.

In the midst of the pleasantly warm summer breeze, father and son have a few exchanges. However, aside from “hot” and “tired”, the boy didn’t obtain more helpful information.

He lifts up the strands of hair on his forehead, which have been drenched with sweat He trots over to his father’s side, tugging onto his sleeve.

“Dad, are you tired? Why don’t we go home?”

His father crouches down, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his son’s sweat, thinking he was saying he was tired because he typically lacks exercise.

“Mm? Are you tired? In that case, should we take a break before continuing?”

The boy shakes his head, returning the small soccer ball to his father.

“Dad, is this the wrong playing method? Why do other kids look especially happy when they play this?”

In response to his son’s dead serious question, his extremely knowledgeable father actually couldn’t find an answer.

Because of how busy work is at the research centre, he and his wife are mostly able to only meet their son’s material needs. Giving him necessary company completely exhausts their limited free time.

Those books don’t mention the things they don’t have time to teach him. The things that are crucial for “normal kids” have been neglected without realising it--

For instance, “friends”. For instance, “friendship”.

“The next time you want to play with the little soccer ball, you can bring it up to the kids in yard.”

“Mm.” The boy nods, not telling his father about the icy look in the eyes of the other kids. He holds his dad’s hand tightly, and they return to the yard.

-

[ Chapter Three ]

That brand new little soccer ball never appeared again since that day, and nobody knew where he hid it. Even so, every time after school ended, he would still gaze towards the clamour occasionally.

Sometimes, the little soccer ball belonging to the kids would fall into the courtyard of his home. But every time he returned the little soccer ball to them, the kids would turn around and run away without even a word of thanks.

The boy didn’t harbour much unhappiness towards the way the kids treated him, but didn’t expect that a “busybody” neighbour would seek justice on his behalf.

-

“Hey, you guys! You don’t know how to say ‘thank you’?!” A tall and towering neighbour appears before the kids, looking as though he’s about to chase them down. While calling him “Stupid Policeman”, they scatter.

With sharp eyes and agile movements, he grabs the kid who took the ball. Grabbing him by the collar, he brings the kid to the boy. “Okay. Where’s the ‘thank you’?”

The kid who was grabbed unwillingly says a ‘thank you’. The boy, face expressionless, responds with a “You’re welcome”.

Without sensing anything out of the ordinary, the man releases his hold the kid. Even without taking a few steps, he turns around to pull his face into a mocking scowl.

“Stupid Police Uncle, he’s scowling at you.” Upon hearing this, the man chases him once again. Seeing the kid fleeing in fear, the little genius actually feels like his pent-up feelings have been released.

After the kids run out of the yard, the man returns. He shouts after the boy who is just about to walk into the house. “Hey, Boy! You don’t have anyone to play with? Want to come over to my house to play?”

“No need. Thank you, Uncle.” With this straightforward response, the boy returns into the house. With a remark reminiscent of a human trafficker, he decides that he should not entangle himself too much with this adult. 

Ignoring the rejection, the man crosses the fence, stopping the closing door with his hands. “Brother is very good at playing games! Anything you want to play is fine. If you want to learn anything, I’ll teach you till you know it. I’ll keep you company!”

“Uncle, there’s really no need.” The boy hides behind the half-closed door. This is the first time he's met an adult who is so difficult to shake off.

“Come to think of it! You’ve been calling me ‘Uncle’ since just now!” He rubs his head in an exaggerated manner, the main point of his words digressing to strange places. “Do I look that old! Just call me “Brother”. Come, repeat after me. “Brother Zihang’.”

“... Brother Zihang.”

“That’s right, that’s it! Remember it!”

“Okay, Brother Zihang. I’ve remembered it, Brother Zihang. May I know if I could close the door now, Brother Zihang?”

"You won’t be able to grow tall if you keep holing yourself up at home!”

Hearing this, the boy finally wavers. He releases his hold on the door slightly. “In that case, we’ll just play one round of international chess.”

“Can’t you play something more suitable for kids?!” Despite what Fan Zihang says, he elatedly brings the boy towards his house next door.

-

[ Chapter Four ]

This is the first time the boy has been invited to someone else’s home. Although he wanted to pretend that it wasn’t something new, his wandering gaze had already betrayed him--

Although there’s a huge difference between the entranceway and decor of the living room as compared to his house, the overall getup is still similar. The most shocking thing to him is Fan Zihang’s room. It’s basically a disaster scene left behind after a dinosaur stepped on it.

Fan Zihang doesn’t seem to mind at all. With a normal expression, he steps through the piles of various objects on the floor, towards the side of the bed. Sticking his butt in the air, he searches underneath the bed. 

“First things first. Even if my opponent is a kid, I'm not going to give any chances. Also, if you’ve finished looking around, give me a hand in searching for it.”

The boy stands on his tiptoes, bypassing the scattered objects. With a face full of curiosity, he asks, “Do you really have a chess board here? Actually, I could head home to get it.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m certain it’s here!” Fan Zihang says in a completely unpersuasive manner. He searches the bottom of his bed, which appears to be a black hole. Seeing his persistence, the boy has no choice but to provide assistance from the side, helping him tidy up the pile of items which have been unearthed.

After a very long time, Fan Zihang finally finds the chess board. As excited as a child, he exclaims, “I’ve found it!”

His cry is accompanied by the sound of his head banging against the board of the bed. Covering his head, he crawls out from underneath the bed with the chess board. In the process of arranging the chess pieces, they discover that the black king chess piece has disappeared.

“I’ll go home and get mine.”

Just as the boy prepares to stand up, the not-like-an-adult-at-all neighbour stops him. He opens a box of small bear biscuits. Picking a whole one, he places it on the position where the black king is supposed to be. “With this, it’d be fine!”

This is probably the most abnormal chess piece the boy has ever seen. In less than ten minutes, he wins this game of “Small Bear International Chess”.

“Oh my goodness! You’re too strong! No wonder nobody wants to play with you!” Fan Zihang plops the “black king”, which the boy was about to checkmate, into his mouth. As though he’s taking revenge, he munches it with force.

“So why did Big Brother want to play with me?” The boy looks at the neighbour, who is propping his leg up without a care about his image. At the same time, he starts packing up the chess pieces.

He taps the boy’s temple, stuffing a small bear biscuit into his hand. “Because you looked too pitiful just now. When you were standing at the door earlier, you looked like you were about to cry.”

“I... I wasn’t...” His tone evidently weakens. Originally staring straight at the other party, he slowly averts his gaze. At a glance, it’s clear that he’s pretending to be courageous.

Fan Zihang didn’t expect that this kid, who appears so gentle and quiet, to have a pretty stubborn streak. He can’t help but be mischievous. He leans in front of the boy. “If you play another round with me, I won’t tell others that you were about to cry!”

“I already said that I wasn’t crying!”

Although that’s what the boy argues, he has been goaded successfully. He takes out a small bear biscuit and places it on the black king’s position, the calm little adult image completely tossed to the back of his mind.

“Very good, very good. You’ve got a fighting spirit. This time, I won’t show any mercy either.” Seeing that the boy has regained his vigour, Fan Zihang feels gratified, patting his head.

“You’re obviously very weak.”

The boy takes the lead with a white chess piece, ridiculing him unreservedly.

“This is an average standard, okay! You’re obviously the one who’s too strong! Kids like you would have been brought to take part in ‘The World’s Greatest Mind’!”

While joking, Fan Zihang also follows closely behind. His style of chess is free and laid-back. Or rather, he does it recklessly.

“You’ll be checkmated very quickly again like this.”

“So what? It’s chess - being happy is what’s most important!”

A cool breeze blows by slowly. The clamour outside the windows remain. But between the two of them, there seems to be the occasional sound of descending chess pieces, mixed with the sounds of scattered munching.

-

[ Chapter Five ]

Since that day, the genius boy became a regular visitor of the house of that Stupid Police Officer.

Fan Zihang continued getting off work early each day, and would bring the neighbouring boy along before heading home. His mother would sometimes criticise him for playing with a little kid at his age. But she’s extremely affable towards the boy, and would leave a serving of whatever delicious dim sum there is for him.

They would sit together and eat the dim sum, play games, and be pretty friendly with each other. No matter what the topic starts with, their conversation would always return to the same conclusion.

“Just look at yourself. Loafing around at this age.”

“Mum, it’s a good thing that my position is idle! It proves that there’s justice in the world, and that the civilians are safe.”

Aunt Liu doesn’t listen to such glib words. The more he says such things, the more worried she gets. With such a silly son, she’s worried that even by the time she gets old, he wouldn’t be able to settle down and form a good family. 

Evident from the facts, Murphy’s Law does exist. The more worried a person is about something, the more it will happen. 

Take for example, this particular evening. Fan Zihang, reeking of alcohol, walks into the residential area. His eyes are red, and one can’t tell if it’s due to crying or from being drunk.

Just a few hours earlier, he received a text during work from a girl he had been dating for several years. The contents of the message were brief and to the point - she wanted to break up with him. He was so frantic that he kept making calls, but even till his phone shut off from a lack of battery, he couldn’t contact the girlfriend who had suddenly bid him farewell.

Intoxicated, he supports himself on the wall and walks forward. Because he can’t find his keys, he starts pressing on the doorbell frenetically.

After a consecutive stream of ringing from the doorbell, the door finally opens.

The person who comes out is a boy whose face is full of distaste.

“Hm? Why is it you?” Only now does Fan Zihang realise that he had walked to the wrong door. He decides to give up on himself, squatting down and giving him a hug. With snot and tears running down his face, he relates his own tale of tragedy. “Boy, what do you think! Brother is so tall and handsome. Why would he get dumped!”

The boy is about to faint from the smell of alcohol. Even though he pushes and beats him, struggling violently in his arms, he isn’t able to twist out of the other party’s brute force. In order to escape as soon as possible, he ponders for a moment, thinking that it’s best to answer his question honestly.

“Truthfully speaking, I think it’s nothing strange for someone like you - who refuses to admit defeat even when playing games with kids - to get dumped.

“What I need right now is comfort! Are there bad friends like you out there?!” Fan Zihang lifts his tear-stained face, facing the boy. But the boy grasps the only important point in his words.

“We’re friends?” The boy’s question is particularly sincere, adding another blow to Fan Zihang’s hurt feelings.

“Boy, you really lack a conscience!! If we weren’t friends, would I accompany you to play chess every day and be easily defeated by you!”

The boy is suddenly enlightened, and the look in his eyes brighten. He says softly, “So friends share such a relationship?”

“Boy, the main points you get are really off the mark...” Seeing the boy look as though he just resolved a difficult problem boggling the century, Fan Zihang can’t help but laugh. The gloomy and dismal clouds hanging above him have more or less dissipated without him realising it.

“This counts as an honour to you, Boy. Your first friend is me, an amazing criminal police officer!”

“Mm, a useless adult who weeps to a kid after getting dumped by his girlfriend.” Over the course of their interactions, his refined and polite appearance has long since disappeared. He would even bicker to no end with Fan Zihang.

“You really aren’t cute at all sometimes! How can a person mature without experiencing some blood and tears!” Fan Zihang rubs his fuzzy little head roughly, filled with anticipation for his future. “Whether it’s you or me, there will come a day when we become very amazing people!”

He knows that their paths have conveyed only temporarily. He knows the two of them will eventually walk down completely different life paths.

But at the very least, at this present moment, they can cry and smile, smile and cry, supporting each other.