#loud and PROUD talk to any person who asks about being the bio son of Bruce and the Al Ghul's. he's literally royalty and does not hide it

[starlight-storytime]

- jason todd, after resurrecting himself on social media for the sole purpose of @-ing annoying ppl in Dick's tiktok

The Batkids being considered the biggest nepobabies in the DC universe makes me grin so much

[vandorens-archive]

ten questions tag | i was tagged by: @mshelleys, @emdrabbles, @pe-ersona, @evergrcen and @septemberliterature. thank you so much, and i’m so sorry i’m getting to this so late!

everything is under the cut!

@mshelleys

i. if you could change the genre of one of your wips, what would you change it to and how would the story/characters change?

So, trahison already features a ghost and a brief stay at a manor. have i considered turning it into a full fledged horror because of that? perhaps.

ii. do you think of your characters as actors playing a part in a movie or as people in history actually doing things that effect the future?

i think of them as actors playing in one long, crazy, unpredictable play. 

iii. role swap your protagonist and antagonist but keep their personalities the same; how different would your story be?

honestly, not different at all, because when it comes to it, the subject of trahison’s antagonist (s) is pretty complex. 

iv. are any of your characters based on you, family, friends, or someone else you know?

oh, absolutely. my characters range between self inserts, to characters i wish i was more like, to characters that are essentially walking, talking, breathing love letters to the people i care about.  

v. how long have you had your main protagonist(s) of your wip(s)?

I’ve been working with marin, nate and ruby for years, long before they were even called that and were a part of a dystopian crime novel (don’t ask). antoine joined them soon after, followed a while later by beth and isadora, and miles was invented during the plotting stage. 

vi. do you prefer to write chronologically or just make a bunch of scenes and order them after they’re written?

it depends on what i’m working on and how serious i am about it, but if we’re only talking about trahison, then chronologically!

vii. imagine the problem in your wip is sorted out, how would the protagonist recount the story to their children if they asked?

with a far away look in his eyes and an uncharacteristic fondness in his voice, marin would turn to his children, and tell them how extraordinary his friends were during his university years—their zeal, their inquisitiveness, and conveniently leaving out the uncomfortable loyalty they all had towards each other, until time and life’s commands separated them. 

viii. favorite (non-spoilery) line(s) of your current wip(s)?

This small bit of description, albeit a little purple prose-y, is one that i’m very, very proud of.

“ The morning rain had made its grave in the dirt, the bittersweet smell—like exotic black tea—rising into the air. It was the night pluviophiles came to dance. If I think hard, I can still taste the ghost of the raindrops on my tongue and sense Beth’s radiating warmth beside me; its own ghost ” - trahison, chapter three

ix. if your wip was a movie, could you see it be done in the 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, or 2010s? why that decade in particular?

so, fun fact, i hadn’t decided when to set trahison (see: the big question mark in my plotting notebook) but i have recently made up my mind and decided to set it in the seventies! if it was a film, then i could see it being made in seventies france! very a la the dreamers.

x. are you able to just make up a story on the spot, or do you need help (plot generators or other outside influences)?

sometimes i’ll take the help of prompts or media, but otherwise i just come up with things on my own!

@emdrabbles

i. what do the names of your main characters mean? did you pick them for the meaning or another reason?

i picked the trahison characters’ names based on two things: how much it related to the character’s backstory or personality, and how pleasing it sounded out loud. here are the meanings of their names:

marin — of the sea

ruby — deep red; precious stone; behold a son

elizabeth — god is my oath

nathaniel — gift from god

antoine — priceless one; beyond praise

isadora — gift of Isis

ii. what book are you currently reading?

I’m currently reading the time machine by h.g wells!

iii. last sentence written?

“ When the end of the world comes — I’ll film it ” — copycat, or the one where i predict the future. 

iv. who are some of your faceclaims?

i usually don’t use faceclaims, but if i had to choose:

marin van doren (trahison) — timor simakov

eloi hill (psychophantia) — maxence danet fauvel

cass parker (penny lane) — monica tomas

v. gimme some worldbuilding facts!!

alright, here’s one: in the world of psychophantia, not only is the magic system and your powers controlled by your morals, but so is your social ranking, your education, and any future you may have—to an extent. 

vi. do you outline? if so, do you have a specific method?

i’m a plotter and only really work well with a solid outline, however, my outlines range from a series of messy, incoherent bullet points to meticulous scene-by-scene planning based around the three act structure. this post is my go to for plotting assistance! 

vii. favourite author?

Like every tumblr user ever, i love donna tartt and maggie stiefvater, but i’m also a huge fan of f.scott fitzgerald, agatha christie and vera caspary!

viii. what is your oldest wip?

trahison! It went through many, many changes — from changes in genre to changes in character names, and there’s still a possibility that it could change even further. 

ix. what is your favourite wip?

every wip i reblog under my #others. tag! You all are so damn talented!

x. where do you get your inspiration from?

everywhere around me! from conversations i have with people, from films and books i consume, from the music on the radio — i like that anything and everything can inspire me to create.

@pe-ersona

i. in one sentence, explain your current wip!

a group of secretive students attempt to become immortal, only to uncover the worst parts of themselves — and each other — as they do. 

ii. was writing your main interest or did you have other interests?

although writing is my main interest (see: my social media bio on every platform ever), i also like to journal, sew, cook and make videos! my interests usually do have to do with the intention of creation. 

iii. what’s your favorite genre to write? to read?

I love writing horror and mysteries. those are my favourite genres, but i also love reading a good contemporary romance!

iv. what is one goal you have for your wip this year? how’s that goal going?

to finish the first draft! so far, not so bad, though i do wish i could write more, but unfortunately, time constraints plus school restrict me from doing so. 

v. how old is your wip? or when did you start writing your wip?

trahison is nearly three years old, but i only started writing the current version of it a year ago. 

vii. what scene made you cry or laugh or both?

these lines made me laugh out loud the first time i wrote them:

“ Up the stairs stumbled Miles, my slovenly genius roommate. He grinned at the giggles and winked at the exasperated stares. 

The gall of him! 

I wanted to be him. 

He managed to find his balance enough to reach our dorm. I immediately stepped back to let him in, and to make sure I was in no association with his uncomposed state. Nate gave a disapproving look at his back as he staggered in. 

I took another step back, raised a pointed eyebrow, and closed the door ” — trahison, chapter three

vii. how many ocs does your wip have? who’s your favourite?

my main wip, trahison, has six main characters. out of the main six, my favourite has to be nathaniel. he is very much the epitome of pure, and sometimes i wonder how he ended up in the middle of such a dark plot. 

vii. you have a brand new idea for a wip, what do you do? 

brainstorm, brainstorm, brainstorm. scribble down whatever the hell pops up in my brain, attempt to link it together by a thin string of yarn, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

ix. you are having your first book-signing, where are you?

i’m in a small bookstore, nestled in a corner near the storage room. almost no one knows about this town, so the line is small but chatty, fans exchanging theories and analysing certain paragraphs. the sight of them makes me feel warm inside. 

x. you have the ability to live in any book, publishing or not, what would it be?

would it be too cliche to say the harry potter universe? other than that, other worlds i would love to be a part of is the world in my novel penny lane, or in midst of a detective story.

@evergrcen / @septemberliterature

i. how did you come up with your wip’s title? what does it mean in relation to the story?

okay, so i discovered the word ‘trahison’ after hearing my french teacher say it, and immediately knew i had to use it for something. ‘trahison’ means betrayal or treason in french, which is one of the main themes in the novel. 

ii. do you title your chapters? if so, what’s your favourite?

I don’t, but I would love to!!

iii. what’s a recent line you really like?

Not a very dramatic or noteworthy line, but here’s one from a poem i’m writing:

“ So the two of you get in the car, proceeding to have an argument with the radio ” — examples of easy solutions, or the one where the internet has no answers. 

iv. are there any writing-related quotes you really like?

“i think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you” — keaton henson

v. do you have an idea for a cover design for your story?

A black background with serif text, that’s it. It’s simple. It’s mysterious. It’s the type of vibe I want to exude. 

vi. what sort of au can you imagine your story being?

...dark academia au anyone?

just kidding. in all seriousness, though, i can see a royalty/political au for trahison, or a medieval fantasy au!

vii. which oc would be the most angry with you as the writer?

eloi. i really need to give that poor boy a break. 

viii. if you had to tell the story from a different pov, which character would you choose?

ruby! she’s the token enigma of trahison, so i think her point of view would be very interesting to see. 

ix. what would be your oc’s taste in music if they lived in our world?

OKAY let’s see:

marin — classic rock, so the who, queen, def leppard.etc

ruby — that one person who you’re pretty sure only listens to classical music, but is actually very attuned to modern day music. she would mostly listen to female singer-songwriters, so take lorde, marina, lana del rey, and other such artists. 

beth — take one look at her playlist, and you’ll see that ninety five percent of it is mitski, while the other five percent is bedroom pop. she would like very tender, calm, cry to in bed music. 

Antoine — same as marin, but add other modern day music artists with eclectic sounds, such as twenty one pilots, arctic monkeys, that sort of thing.

nathaniel — classical music, instrumentals, and film soundtracks make up his playlist. if it has sung words, he won’t listen to it. has little to no understanding of modern day music and is too scared to find out more about it.

isadora — 2000’s diva pop plays in the background of her life. rihanna is her go to whenever she gets to control the party. Don’t be surprised if ‘rich girl’ by gwen stefani starts playing in your head at the sight of her. 

x. what’s one personal goal you want to achieve by the end of the story?

finishing it with pride!

[ghostofvixx]

Royalty (2) |HRJ|

When Prince Renjun is still under his father’s control and he still misses you, so he decides to fix all that.

Find the first part here!

genre: fluff

words: 2.8k of pure bullsh*t

requested: It says in your bio that requests are open so I decided to give it a shot...? Can I request a part 2 of your Renjun scenario, ‘royalty’? If you don’t want to do this it’s fine 💕💖

warnings: maybe swearing?? + maybe cringy at some point idk anymore and also THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING A SECOND PART even though I feel like I should have done better after all the time it has taken me lmao this is a m e s s but oh well so am I. N e ways I hope you enjoy!

To Renjun, live a happy and calm life is impossible.

These past few months have been a hellhole to him. All his parents do now that he has the age to become a king is to put pressure on him, not only when it comes to typical royal duties such as self-defense and ways to handle the common people but also when it comes to getting married.

"Do I really have to do this?" Renjun asks his mother.

The actual queen is the only person Renjun trust when it comes to his possible future wedding. She has a huge list of candidates and has underlined the ones that would favor the Kingdom's economic relationships but also the right person for her son.

Renjun is thankful for that since, unlike his father, his aunt or his cousins, the queen is looking for the balance between becoming powerful and being happy. However, nobody seems to understand it is not his desire to get married. He wants to become a king, why do princes or princesses need to get married? Can't they just handle the kingdom on their own? Renjun knows he can, and that long list of boys and girls he could get married to can do it on their own too, besides, he can't forget that person he met years ago at the circus.

"You must do it, son, it's our duty." The queen tells him.

And he nods. He promised you one time that he was going to be a good king, and in order to get that, he should have a mind and a voice on its own, just like you expected him to be, but the truth is he has given up. Nothing has changed since that night, he hasn't turned into a rebel, or has ever been against his parents, just like before.

He is mad, at his parents and at him. He's tired, disgusted, and still feels like a puppet.

"I have to talk to your father." His mother says suddenly, overexcited. Renjun just nods, as usual, but wonders what has made his mother so happy.

He finds out hours later when having dinner.

"We have something to announce." His father says. "Renjun, my son, we are proud of you and want to give you the best future, you know it right?"

Renjun almost snorts, but remains quiet.

"We finally have the person we want you to marry." Says the queen. "She's perfect for you."

It hits the young prince, who still hasn't analyzed the fact that he must get married because he has to, not because he wants to.

"When is... The wedding?" It is all he can ask.

"In a month."

"A month!?" He shouts. He knew his parents were excited about his only son's wedding, but this is much more than he can handle. Nobody has warned him that it would happen so soon, under such circumstances, and without his opinion. Even Sicheng, his teacher and the one that knows everything about him, is shocked, to say the least. "I don't want to."

"Renjun, we didn't raise you like this." His father says in disbelief. "What do you mean you don't want to? You are going to do it."

"I want to get married once I'm ready, and now is not the moment." He finally speaks up.

His father shakes his head with an ironic smirk.

"It's decided, you're going to get married, like it or not, and if you don't agree then I dare you to leave the castle." It's obviously a commentary, the king would never let his son cross the front door without his permission, but an idea crosses Renjun's mind immediately.

"If that happens, I dare you to find me."

***

He leaves at midnight, knowing that everyone in the castle is asleep but that the village is wide awake. All the lights, the heat from the fireplaces to keep them warm and the sound of music all around the streets, making it seems like it's midday.

He remembers that time when he walked the same streets with you, and he regrets the fact that he hasn't had the chance to listen to your advice. You would be disappointed at him for being as submissive, but he knows he probably won't see you again, so he continues his adventure as he crosses the walls of the village as he wonders what are you up to.

He doesn't expect to find the answer to his question as soon as he keeps walking a few meters away

A giant sign announces a great circus with marvelous spectacles only a few meters away. It would have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because of your name written under the "awesome numbers" section. He doesn't doubt it and makes his way to the next town, as excited as he could be. Unfortunately, he misses your spectacle since it's late, he finds the marquee empty.

He feels defeated and tired and decides to go for a walk until a voice he remembers pretty well stops him from doing so.

"What are you doing here?" You're sitting on a branch of a tree, as talented as you've always been for that, but the usual calm on your face has been replaced by a surprised look in your eyes and a wide opened mouth.

"It's good to see you." He comments, approaching the tree. You jump and land gracefully on the floor. Your desire to hug him is as big as your desire to slap him, what is he doing here?

"What are you doing here?" You ask again, unsure of how to react. "Why aren't you inside your castle doing king duties and all that stuff?" Renjun sighs.

"I'm a rebel now." You look at him unamused, not believing a single word.

"As if it was easy to do so when you're a king."

"I'm not a king yet." He corrects you. "And yes, I'm a rebel because of that, I'm not going to get married."

You arch an eyebrow.

"Weren't you going to be a good king? You should stay inside and take care!"

"And just listen to what my parents have to say and be their puppet? That wasn't what I promised you!"

"To be a good king you should be the king first!"

"I will! But not by getting married to anyone!" At this point, you're arguing louder than you should.

"Why didn't you stay inside the castle anyway? You could be in danger now!" You know you've sounded way too worried, but you don't care anymore.

"My parents won't listen to me otherwise. I'm the first one who is scared and worried about my kingdom, you know?"

You look down, avoiding his eyes. You want to say something comforting, but somebody calls your name from behind and you know it's your time to go.

"Please, Renjun, I'm sure you've already scared them, come back and stay safe, be careful."

"Can't I say with you? For tonight only?"

You look at him scandalized.

"Of course not! We're going to keep traveling, tomorrow you'll be even further and it'll be harder, just come back okay?"

You turn around and begin to walk off as he says something you end up pretending you haven't listened to.

Three words are enough to make your heart beats faster in adoration for that kid.

"I've missed you."

And you do want to pretend you haven't heard them, but you know they mean a lot to both of you, as you have a special friendship. You feel paralyzed for a few seconds, biting your tongue to not to say 'actually, I've missed you too, sometimes'. But what happens next goes way too fast to ignore.

You hear someone screaming and a loud blow as if someone has been pushed. When you turn around, you see Renjun on the floor and a bigger person with blonde hair and black clothes you identify as Jeno on top of him.

"Did you catch him Jeno?" Jaemin appears right behind Jeno, astonished.

"I have him! Are you okay y/n?" You feel your cheeks burning in anger and you must be doing a face because Jeno's satisfied grin turns into a funny face.

"Now I do know the reason why you're in the circus." You begin. "You haven't even looked at his shirt, right?"

Even if Renjun has tried to cover the fact that's he belongs to the royal family, his shirt is still made out of materials that any person from the common people would have.

"If I were you." You continue. "I would let go of your majesty right now."

That's enough for Jeno and Jaemin, who look at Renjun and immediately stand up and begin to beg for their lives.

"We thought our friend was being annoyed, we wanted to protect her, we're sorry your majesty."

"Oh, it's fine."

"We really mean it we-." Jaemin, the most soft-spoken, stops his speech and looks at the young boy in front of him.

"You can stand up, you know? Even if I wanted, I'm not the king, nor.the prince right now, not for tonight."

"Oh really? Why?" Jeno can't stop himself from asking.

"I runaway."

"Oh really? Why?" He asks again, louder this time. That makes Renjun laugh softly.

"I'm trying to teach a lesson here."

"In the wrong way." You add.

"Oh! And why did you miss y/n?"

"We're old friends." You explain quickly. "We have to say goodbye to Renjun, he's leaving."

"I'm not going to go to the castle." Renjun says again, more serious this time.

"He shouldn't." Jaemin says. "It's pretty late, he might get attacked."

"You're right." Jeno agrees.

"Then what should he do?" You ask them, annoyed by Hoy your friends seem to know a lot about the situation.

"Stay with us! We'll repay you for the inconvenience."

"Absolutely not." You say at the same time that Renjun answers 'good idea'.

And that's how you end up stuck with Renjun in your carriage while he's being covered by Jeno and Jaemin, trying to go unnoticed by the rest of the members.

"We don't keep secrets among us." Jeno explains. "But it's better if they find out in the morning, then Johnny will know what to do and where to drive you." Renjun nods from behind the blankets making all three of you laugh.

"You'll have to sleep here Renjun if not everything would be suspicious. Y/n will stay by your side." And for the first time, you don't complain.

Jeno and Jaemin wink at you and you just ignore them. Even if the carriage is big enough for all of the members of the circus to sleep comfortably, it is the truth that the fact that Jaemin and Jeno are not sleeping by your side as they always do won't go unnoticed, and you're afraid of what the rest will ask you in the morning.

"Y/n, I'm sorry." You hear Renjun's voice low, maybe due to the sheets that cover his body, but you know that he's also afraid. "Have I disappointed you?"

"How could you?"

"I tried to be a good prince, really, I tried to escape and visit my people and listen to them but my parents found out. I haven't tried ever since I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry." He sounds heartbroken, and your feelings for the prince that once had to.open his eyes come back. "It's okay, I understand, we understand. I was just very worried about you and that's why I reacted like that."

"Why?"

"I want you to be a good king, live adventures, be fair and nice, but I also want you safe too you know, you're very important to me."

He remains quiet and you think you may have talked too much when he speaks again.

"You're the most important person to me or at least one of." You open your eyes wide and you're glad he can't see your face.

Renjun is glad you can't see his either.

"I've thought about this a lot of times."

"About what?" You ask.

"You, us. But you overall. I've always thought that you would be a good queen and you'll guide everyone well."

You feel like you're choking on your spit, so you begin to cough.

"Sicheng says that I'm very blunt sometimes too, I'm sorry if I've startled you with my words."

"You haven't, but I just wasn't expecting you to have that image of me." You speak clearly.

"I do, how can I not?" He seems like he wants to keep talking, but you can tell he's thinking his words. "I haven't loved anyone in my life... Romantically at least, if you know what I mean... But I think I wouldn't mind loving you."

"Romantically?"

"Yes."

"It's late Renjun, let's go to sleep."

He doesn't answer and you don't add anything else, but you can't stop thinking about it all night.

***

"Can you repeat the story?" Johnny asks, sitting in front of Renjun, looking at him, then to you, Jeno and Jaemin, then back at Renjun and again the same process.

Renjun starts his story for the fifth time and tries to cover up the fact that Johnny is scarier than he thought he would be.

"Is that true?" He asks you once Renjun is finally done.

"Did I ever lie to you?" You snap back.

"You're right." Suddenly, Johnny's expression changes and takes a bow at Renjun. "Let's get going then! We have some castle to visit!"

“Are you all going to come?” Renjun asks, amused.

“I can go with him and then come back, that way you won’t waste time.” You say quickly.

“Y/n please, we are not going to leave you on your own just like that.” Johnny rolls his eyes as if he was stating something obvious and you roll your eyes back, but smile. To Renjun, anything goes unnoticed, absolutely everyone treats each other nicely and cares a lot one for the others. It’s not like he doesn't have that, but it feels more like an obligation. He feels like an obligation.

On his way home he doesn’t let go of your hand. He’s scared, anxious and doesn’t want to let you go, not again, and it’s not as if you were rejecting his touch anyways.

“Just so you know.” He whispers. “This time I’m going to fight for what I want, and I’m going to fight to be a good king.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

“I’m glad then.”

“I really want you to stay with me y/n, but I understand what’s your home for real and I can’t take that thing from you.”

“I honestly wouldn’t mind staying with you, but not now, not yet. I have a life to live and you have an argument to win.”

“In the future?”

“I’ll gladly say yes.”

“Awww just kiss already!” You hit the blonde boy by your side.

“Can't we have some intimacy?”

“But it’s so beautiful.” Jaemin dries a fake tear. “You really deserve each other please get married and give y/n the queen life she deserves.”

Renjun couldn’t be more ashamed, but still, he managed to whisper an “ I agree” in your ear.

***

Time went through, Renjun managed to become the person he had always wanted to be, ever since he knows you. He didn’t need his parent’s approval when he came back, they talked and talked for hours and finally accepted that his son was hoping for another type of life.

He also kept in touch with you, via letters, and if he actually liked you, now he can say that he’s in love with you. You can also say the same thing, your adoration for the young boy who has grown into a man has turned into love, even if you’ve lied to yourself and told yourself it was impossible, but you know Renjun, nothing’s impossible to him.

You waited, and waited, living your life and him living his, making a great kingdom with an even better king, and then you appeared once again, unexpectedly. He’s always been the one to look for you, and now it was your time to finally look for him, with Sicheng’s help, of course.

“Your majesty.” He announced that day. “You have a new message from your loved one.” Renjun laughed.

Renjun,

Congratulations on receiving this letter, it is, as always, the most important and most interesting letter you’ll receive. This time, I have nothing to tell you, but all I can say is that you can find me, right here, right now. If you knew me well, you’ll know where.

There was only an answer.

He opened the window of his old room, where he liven when he was a prince, next to the giant tree.

“I knew you’d be here.”

“You always see me on top of trees and I belong to the circus I won’t be surprised if one day I turn into a monkey.”

“You’re right love, but come here now, please.” You didn’t waste time and held Renjun’s hand even you didn’t need help. 

His first action was to kiss your hand, your first action was to kiss his lips.

“Will you marry me now?” He asked the question you wanted to hear.

“Of course I will.”

[agrcengrass]

NATALIA DYER? No, that’s actually ASTORIA GREENGRASS from the GOLDEN TRIO ERA. You know, the child of ELIJAH GREENGRASS and ELIZABETH GREENGRASS (NÉE ROWLE)? Only 20 years old, this SLYTHERIN alumni works as a WIZARDING NANNY and is sided with THE NEUTRALS. SHE identifies as a CIS WOMAN and is a PUREBLOOD who is known to be JEALOUS, FRIVOLOUS, and MATERIALISTIC  but also DIPLOMATIC, CHARMING, and NURTURING. 

Warnings: PTSD, slight alcohol abuse, depression

HEADCANONS

01. Her parents raised her and her sister with blood purity in mind. That she was to marry a pureblood man and have pureblood children. At first, Astoria was more than okay with that. Was happy to play the part of a simple pureblooded girl. However, after the war and seeing classmates die and families ripped apart all because...of blood? She didn’t want to be part of that world anymore. She’d rather teach kindness and acceptance than spilling blood over ancestry. Her parents, however, do not understand why Astoria can’t be like other pureblood women like Narcissa and Bellatrix. But Astoria has tuned them out, whenever she sees them she tries not to talk about any of her relationships. She doesn’t need them meddling into her life. Astoria, while not completely confident in this, knows she can live her life outside of what her parents think. She’d be lying, however, if she said it didn’t hurt her when they compared her to the other girls or try to steer her back in the Death Eater path.

02. At Hogwarts, she was very ambitious and always tried to rise to the top. Not because she liked her classes or was particularly clever, but because she wanted to be on t o p. She would study relentlessly and stay up making sure her homework was just perfect. She was planning on NEWTS and planning out possible jobs (she wanted to be a curse-breaker). Was focused on carving out her own achievements that did not include blood purity. But then came the war and everything she had been building came crumbling down. Now, her ambitious streak has dried up and she’s lost at what to do. Astoria never returned her 7th year to take her NEWTS and is unsure if she should even try now. Currently, she’s a nanny and l o v e s it and the children. Loves taking care of them and playing with them. For the first time, it feels like she’s actually good at something and she doesn’t have to try so hard. Caring for these children just comes...naturally. 

03. Astoria is used to being doted on, whether by her family or friends or whoever she was seeing. But the minute whoever she was seeing at the time gives attention to anyone (but especially another woman) she might as well actually turn green. She’ll force herself by his side and smile all polite, then will talk about how she is his date and ‘who are you again?’. She’s not asking to be the center of attention, but she’d like it if her date didn’t get too close to other women and smile when they got all touchy-feely. Even with just her regular friends, she’ll feel it b u b b l i n g up inside her when they ignore her to talk to other people. Unfortunately, this also means that Astoria believes in the “two can play at that game” mentality at times. 

Short Bio

The second-born daughter of Elijah and Elizabeth Greengrass. Her parents had been hoping for a boy, especially after Daphne, but instead Astoria came into the world very early that October morning.

Her mother especially doted on her and was more than happy to give their youngest daughter whatever she wanted. Her father, while he was able to hide it, was still trying to get over the fact that he had no sons to pass on the Greengrass name. 

The doting became problematic when it was time for Astoria to head to Hogwarts, she didn’t want to leave her mother who gave her whatever she wanted. Suddenly, being thrown into a whole different world where she had to look out for herself. (The doting still is problematic. Her parents sending her money and gifts that Astoria doesn’t realize is them trying to bribe her back to the path of blood purity.)

Growing up, Astoria looked up to Daphne and looked to them for guidance while at Hogwarts. She was a bit attached to her sibling up until fourth year when she started coming into her own.

And come into her own she did. She flirted with whoever she pleased. Became friends with whoever sat next to her in classes, regardless of house and only had slight reservations about blood purity. She enjoyed the social side of Hogwarts, making connections and friendships and things more than friends. Although watching her friends and boyfriends or girlfriends talk to other people, become close to other people, made her stomach turn. It made her feel as if she was being left behind as if she was as unwanted as last year's dress robes. 

School did not come naturally for her, but she worked her ass off to get good grades on her OWLS and to qualify for NEWTS. However, she was doing all of this for the wrong reasons. She did not want to disappoint her parents, who always believed in their children being well-rounded with school, activities and well...finding a pureblood husband. A respectable pureblood husband at that. 

After her OWLS came back and she only qualified for two NEWT classes, she really stopped caring about school. She’d skip frequently and hang out with her friends or hook-up with whoever she was seeing. 

The war changed everything. Blood purity seemed pointless. School was even more pointless. She tried her best to help students around Hogwarts, to keep them safe. Slowly building up the courage to stand up to the blood purists. Her parents could not believe this and still chose to forget this ever happened. But helping people and standing up to the bullies gave her new confidence. It was much more fulfilling than any class she could take or EE she could’ve gotten. 

[TW: Slight PTSD]

Of course, of course, the war took more than it gave to her. She knows she had it much easier than some people, but the aftermath still lingers with her. Still follow her around. It’s hard to care about things she was interested in before, classes and subjects she even enjoyed sparked nothing. Only charms really stuck with her, trying push down the memories of classes where they did their best to ignore...everything that was happening.

Flashing before her are people that couldn’t be saved. The bodies in the Great Hall. Someone said something along the lines of survivor’s guilt. 

[TW end]

Astoria did not return to take her NEWTS. Instead, bounced from party to party to social gathering to social gathering to fill her time. Her parents still taking care of her from kilometers and kilometers away. Until one day a neighbor asked her to watch their baby girl and Astoria fell in love with taking of children. Even loved getting up early and going to their large flats or sprawling estates to take care of them. She still loves filling her free time with parties and gatherings, but at least she has a job that she loves. She just wishes her parents could understand that as well. 

The time jump...is mostly an annoyance in Astoria’s eyes. Through a series of unfortunate events, she’s found out that she’s not alive in 2029. In fact, she’s been dead for ten years. This is what is most worrisome and plagues her thoughts. She’s not too interested in figuring out why it happened or what caused it.

Character parallels

Sansa Stark (ASoIaF/GoT) + Serena van der Woodsen (Gossip Girl) + Vex’ahlia (Critical Role) + Alison Hendrix (Orphan Black) + Lydia Martin (Teen Wolf) + Rachel Green (Friends) + Emily Fields (Pretty Little Liars) + Glinda (Wicked)

Random Tidbits 

She was enjoying her life before the time skip and so it’s annoying that she’s here and not back in 2001. But in Astoria’s eyes not much has to change, she can still be a nanny and go out and about. In the grand scheme of things, she doesn’t take the time skip that seriously...except for...

The fact that she’s supposed to be d e a d here upsets her greatly. She shouldn’t even be here. Her thoughts about this are extreme and she tries to not let it show how upsetting it is. She puts on her happy face and pushes the feelings aside. Other than that, the time skip is just an annoyance. 

While Astoria makes a lot of her decisions based on emotions rather than facts or logic, she knows how to keep a cool head even in an argument and is very good about walking away when need be.

Except maybe when it comes to talking to her parents about her life and trying to get them to understand where she’s coming from, she gets very emotional talking to them about it.

[TW: Depression + PTSD + ALCOHOL ]

Is low-key depressed (lack of motivation and ambition, going out and drinking far more regularly, feeling of emptiness and like she’ll never make people proud) but is not medicated and has never and doesn’t want to see a therapist. 

Suffers from slight PTSD. Explosions, fireworks, and sometimes just random loud noises still can trigger her as if she’s back at Hogwarts that May. (She chose to stay behind, even though her parents wanted to take her out.) 

[END TW]

Tries to put her energy and time into other people so she doesn’t have to think about herself and her own problems.

While most of her friends and Daphne knows, her parents do not know about her bisexuality. And frankly, she’d like to keep it that way.

Is brilliant at charms and was her favorite class at Hogwarts and is a decent dueler. 

She only qualified to take two NEWT classes (charms and transfiguration), but other than that her grades fell a bit short despite her best efforts.

Worried that people will leave her, this is mostly based on losing people in the war and her own parents being...not the best.

Personality

Very outgoing and extroverted. Would much rather be around a ton of people — a bar, a restaurant, a party, etc — than be alone. People distract her from the fact that she’s basically a dropout that has no prospects.

Also because she can’t stand to be alone with her thoughts. The memories of the war. Of the destruction. The bodies. 

Or her thoughts about her death. She doesn’t know how she died, or why, and frankly she’s not positive she wants to find out.

Empathetic — she’s good at being able to understand people’s feelings and making them feel validated. Meaning she’s also good at getting other people to open up. 

Astoria is great with children and adores them. She’s very nurturing and her maternal instincts kick in almost immediately. 

This goes for...most people regardless. But she’s especially good with children. But if you’re not a complete asshole or Death Eater, she’ll be nice to you.

Tries to be mostly positive and happy, despite the PTSD and depression. She doesn’t want people worrying about her (especially Daphne).

Being upper-class, she’s materialistic and doesn’t quite understand that not everyone can afford designer brands and have cushy flats. Or understand that some people’s parents can’t just give them money.

She is impulsive and will decide to do something slightly drastic at the drop of a hat. Like dying her hair, going out and getting blackout drunk. And has a hard time saying no to things she probably should not do.

For the most part, Astoria has a hard time taking things seriously. She figures that after surviving a war, she’s allowed to be carefree and not worry about her future or jobs or anything that really entails being an adult. She’s not necessarily worried about being in the new timeline, outside of the fact she’s not supposed to be alive.

Has a mean jealous streak that can extend to from friends to romantic partners to just one night stands.

ABOUT page ⚘⚘ CONNECTIONS page ⚘⚘

[tegary-blog]

12+75 for your prompt list please?

A note before we begin: in this ficlet, I am writing for a pansexualgenderfluid character. As a cisgendered lesbian myself, I do not have the samebackground or experiences that a person who identifies like Loki would have.Please, please shoot me a message if I misrepresent anything.  There are also some ignorant questions addressed at Loki and biphobia(from other characters) addressed at Thor ahead.

12 + 75: Roommate AU & Bedsharing

It’s half-past two o’clock in the morning whenLoki is awoken by the door to his apartment closing. Thor isn’t exactly beingloud, per say, but the old, rickety, 1960s era foundations of the building theylive in make it so that you can’t hardly breathe in the front entryway withoutmoving something in the bedroom hallway. Pulling a pillow over his head, Lokigroans and rolls over. His temples are still vaguely aching from the couple ofeight-packs he split with Val a few hours prior, and he squeezes his eyes shutwith every intention to just go back to sleep.

That is, until Loki remembers what exactly it isthat Thor’s been up to.

About a week ago, Thor had come to Loki whilethe former was trying to finish up a paper for his Philosophy of Law class,wringing his hands and nervously asking Loki if they could talk. Loki had held one finger up, finished his lastcitation, and shut the lid of his laptop, gesturing for Thor to take a seatacross from him on the couch.

“What’s on your mind?” Loki had asked.

“I think I’m bisexual,” Thor had blurted.

It had been silent for a few moments, Lokiblinking widely while Thor’s face explored the color spectrum between baby pinkand fire-truck red in a span of about ten seconds. Of course, Loki wasn’tput-off. Far from it, in fact. Loki had first come out as bisexual during hisfreshman year of high school, before learning about pansexuality and realizingthat term more closely fit his own sense of self-identity. And once Loki’scounselor had explained to him what genderfluiditywas? Loki felt as if he’d finally fit together the parts of himself thathad been standing in sharp dissonance all of his life.

Of course, he’d been extremely lucky to receive thesupport he had from his family: Fárbauti had sat down theday Loki had come out to her and gathered every resource she could on the topicof pansexuality and genderfluidity, devouring them all within hours. Loki hadawoken the next morning to his mother making pancakes and asking what pronounshe’d like to be addressed by that day. And when Loki had sheepishly asked herto teach him how to apply makeup? She’d spent hours showing him, over and over,until Loki could successfully reproduce a winged eyeliner that was so sharpthat it could probably kill a man.

Loki’s father and brothers had taken a bit more time. Helblindi and Býleistr had all types of questions when Loki hadfirst told them: isn’t that just beingbisexual? Does that mean you want to be a girl? But Loki had taken time toexplain to them what it meant, and how he felt, and he’d come away feelingfairly good about the conversation. It took them a while, but soon, the pairwould ask for Loki’s pronouns for the day before beginning their incessantbrotherly teasing. For his first Christmas after coming out, Loki’s brothershad collaborated on a sign for Loki’s door with Velcro attachments where hecould post his pronouns each morning.

Laufey…is still getting a hang of things. Mostof the time, Laufey will use Loki’s pronouns, but he still occasionally messesup and misgenders him. Loki doesn’t usually have to do the correcting, though: Fárbauti or Helblindi or Býleistr will usually hop in with a “it’s she today,dad,” or “he, remember, dear.”

Thor’sparents were not so accepting. At least, his father wasn’t. Loki had never metThor’s mother, though with the tales Loki had heard about Frigga, he’d wager aguess that she would love Thor no matter what. Odin, on the other hand, was astereotypical machismo father-type. All he cared about was his son’s footballprowess and the girls Thor dated. It’s all he ever asked about. Loki remembers conversationsThor would have with Odin on the phone during their freshman year: “Yes, Dad, I’mstill staring quarterback.” “No, Dad, I’m seeing another girl now. Her name isMelissa.”

As soon asOdin had left on move-in day, Loki had unpacked his pansexual pride flag,started to hang it up on the wall above his bed. Across from him, Thor hadstilled.

“What’sthat?”

“Oh, this?”And the skin at the back of Loki’s neck had prickled. “It’s a pansexual prideflag. Got it off the internet last year.” And he’d continued to hang it, butthis time, a bit slower, hyper-aware of the fact that Thor’s gaze never lefthis back.

All of Loki’s worries about having a phobicroommate had disappeared soon after, though, as Thor was quite possibly the friendliest person Loki had ever met inhis life. He was constantly inviting Loki to hang out, or bringing him schoolgear that he’d gotten from the athletics department, or asking him to get pizzawith Thor’s group of football friends. It was there that Loki had met his bestfriend Val, a gymnast who wore the school’s mascot suit, and Val’s friendBruce, an awkward Biochemistry grad student.

And after waiting a whole semester to come outto Thor as genderfluid? The other man had simply smiled, nodded, and opened hisarms for a hug.

Which is exactly what Loki had done for Thor.

The big oaf had crashed into Loki’s arms,holding him so tight that Loki feared he might be strangled to death. But he couldfeel that Thor was shaking, and Lokihad just held him, rubbing his back in soothing circles and promising thateverything was going to be okay.

Which leads him back to the present, in whichThor has just returned from his first date with another man.

Loki is out of his bed in a second, ignoring thesmarting protest at his temples as he hurries out of his bedroom and down thehallway. Skidding to a stop at the entrance to the living room, Loki throws hisarms wide.

“How was—it…?” And Thor’s face tells Loki allthat he needs to know. His eyes are downset, mouth turned in a grimacing frown.He’s taken off the leather jacket that Loki had picked out for him and iscarrying it dejectedly at his side.

“Thor?” Loki asks quietly, taking a stepforward. It takes a moment, but Thor does eventually look up to meet his gaze.His blue eyes, which are usually so full of light and laughter, are dim, dullin the light from their one standing lamp.

Loki has never felt the urge to murder so strongly.

“He said…” And Thor’s mouth works wordlessly fora moment. He brings an arm to wipe across his face, and Loki realizes thatthere are tears in his eyes. “He saidI couldn’t have both. That I had to choose…”

Loki frowns, not quite understanding. Slowly, heapproaches, placing a gentle hand on Thor’s shoulder.

“Pardon?”

“It started out well. Then I mentioned Jane, andhe…he…” Thor sniffles, and it’s like a dagger straight to Loki’s heart. “Hesaid ‘oh, you’re one of those’. Hesaid I couldn’t have both men and women. That it was selfish. That I had topick just one.”

Loki had been worried about this. Though, as apansexual, he didn’t experience it in quite the same way, Valkyrie had told himonce about how she and her then-boyfriend had been confronted at a prideparade, told that they didn’t belong. It’s why Loki had been so damned careful when he was helping Thor searchthrough Tinder. And the man they’d agreed upon had seemed fine enough—he wasThor’s type (skinny and with a mop of curly black hair. Huh. Loki had assumedThor would be more interested in bigger men), and there wasn’t anything in hisbio that jumped out to Loki as a red flag.

“Thor, Thor no,” Loki murmurs, cupping Thor’sbearded cheeks in his hands. “Look at me. That guy is an asshole. You don’thave to choose. You are completely valid as you are—don’t listen to anyone whotells you that you’re not.”

The watery smile Thor gives him in return breaksLoki’s heart all over again, and he drops his hands to take a hold of one ofThor’s arms.

“Come on. Come with me.”

He leads Thor down the hallway back to his room,carefully ushering him inside. Turning to give his roommate some privacy, Lokidigs around in Thor’s closet (it’s an absolute mess. Loki makes a mental noteto offer to help Thor organize) for a pair of sweatpants and a white v-neckt-shirt. He holds them out behind him and feels Thor take them from his hands,turning back around only when Thor murmurs okay.

“Do you need anything? I think we have chocolatesyrup in the fridge, I could make some hot chocolate…” And Thor shakes hishead, stares down at his feet for a moment.

“Thor?”

“This…is going to sound silly,” Thor says aftera moment more, still not bringing his eyes to meet Loki’s. “But I really don’twant to be alone right now.”

Loki blinks once, twice.

“Alright.”

Negotiating space on Thor’s tiny twin-sized bedis a battle, and Loki ends up closest to the wall with his back pressed alongThor’s front. After deciding that their positioning won’t do at all (he cannot get aroused right now. Not afterall Thor’s been through tonight), Loki flips so he’s facing Thor’s chest. He’snot actually sure if this is any better, though, as now he’s getting deepinhales of something that’s a mix of Thor’s cologne and the cheap shampoo theyboth use and something that is so uniquely Thor that it sets Loki’s heartracing.

Loki’s proud of his self-control, because hedoesn’t jump when one of Thor’s arms comes to wrap around Loki’s shoulders,holding him close. They just lay like that for a while, until their breathssync.

“Loki?” Thor asks into the darkness.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, MINI! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HIEROPHANT with the faceclaim of ANNA SHAFFER. Wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Reading this through from start to finish, and sipping at my coffee -- I felt genuinely at peace. I knew right from the start you pinned down The Hierophant’s character, right from the very first sentence: “When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.”” Boom. Immediately hooked, no hesitation, no doubt. What followed was an in-depth dissection of human anger and rage and what happens when you let a pot boil over. I am fully prepared to let Kithri burn all of Tyrholm down when the time is right. In fact, I welcome the flames.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC INFORMATION:

Name: Hey there! I go by Mini. Pronouns: She/Her/Hers. Age: I am 24! Timezone/Activity Level: I live in New York, so my time zone is EST. I work full time, but my hours are steady and I have evenings/weekends free. One of the things that excites me about this group is the promise of it being writing-heavy, and so in order to produce quality replies I would say that I will certainly be able to get posts up a few days during the week. I am also almost always at least mobile on Discord, and I am really committed to character development — I am frequently around to talk plotting or headcanons. Overall, I just intend to be an active presence! Anything Else: Nope!

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION:

Skeleton: The Hierophant. Name: Kithri Barwin (Pronunciation: ki as in “kiss,” -three, bar-win) Faceclaim: I did send in the message asking after a couple different possible FCs for this character, and I’d say of those that were approved, Anna Shaffer and Jodie Comer are my preferred FCs. I struggle to choose between the two, but I would say that Anna is my first choice, and Jodie is my second. When it comes to Anna Shaffer, I think that her look fits the vibe of the character in a big way. Generally, I almost feel like she fits into the world you’ve created better. I really love her and think she would suit the role nicely, my only hold up for her is that she looks so nice in all of her Witcher resources, and I’d like to have a FC that has range within their resources. But, I can also easily see her fitting the image I have in my head for the character. I’d have to boost her age a bit, probably 3 years — putting the character again at around 31. The thing that I like about Jodie, particularly in The White Princess (which would probably be the source I’d largely draw on for gifs), is that she does an excellent job of portraying this barely-contained rage in her face that I think translates very well to this role. Again, I’d have to boost up her age a bit for the appropriate range — I’d say I’d probably still play the character at around age 31, so 4 years older than Jodie. Really, I’d be happy with either one of them — whoever you see as being more of a fit! Age: 31 Details:

The first line of the skeleton, “you consider the day you celebrate your thirtieth year alive a victory over everything else,” immediately hooked me. What I get from this character is that every moment they live and breathe is something that they view as something that ought to be worthy of awe and admiration; and yet they are met with nothing more than a passing interest, and treated by many as a party trick. They are gifted and captivating, until they are no longer interesting to the people of the court. I also see the “arrogance” perceived in this character as being a huge coping mechanism — what choice do they have but to be proud of their power and the fact that they are living when no one else will recognize it? How can they not be proud, when they feel in their blood and bones that there is so much more power in them than is “appropriate” to display? And what is the point of this power, and the inevitable total consumption that it brings with it, if not to use it? Why do they have to look at their ever-growing scarification, and feel time ticking, if they receive nothing in return? I think for this character, the final straw was the utter dismissal of THE EMPEROR when they asked for the chance to fight at Koldam and show their true power. This was the final sign that neither Septimus nor his son would ever view them as having any more value than being court entertainment. Tyrholm and its King have given them nothing. And if they will not allow this character to embrace their power, then they will burn for it.

On a personal note, I can say that what really draws me to this character is a huge opportunity to play outside of my comfort zone and love doing it. I LOVE fantasy/medieval-type groups, and I tend to gravitate towards noble-class characters, or characters who are political animals. (I am a classic Margaery Tyrell applicant, basically.) But I am so in love with a character who is not only not invested in politics, but seems to almost entirely disregard it as being nothing more than a burden. I also love that they appear to increasingly wear their heart on their sleeve, and both emote and vocalize their disdain — I can only imagine what trouble they might find themselves in because of it. Furthermore, I can only imagine what trouble they might want to create.

And lastly, I did some research into THE HIEROPHANT tarot card. I am very interested in the idea of this card being the counterpart to THE HIGH PRIESTESS, which I’ll discuss further in the plot ideas section. The Hierophant traditionally represents traditional values and institutions, spiritual wisdom, and conformity. I view this character as being a clear representation of the card’s reversal, which represents personal beliefs, freedom, and challenging the status quo.  

BACKGROUND:

Below is Kithri’s backstory. This is my first attempt at writing second person POV for a bio, but I wanted to keep in the style of the skeleton!

i. ignition.

When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.” When you are brought to her breast to suckle, she shrieks and pushes you away and claims “it hurts.”  

Your mother cries for four days until her voice deadens to silence, and her teary eyes go unseeing. The midwives explain to your father that childbed sickness took her, and that it was the fever that burned her, but he does not believe them. He explains precisely two things to the women: one, that you are not his child, and two, that you murdered his wife. On the first, he is unquestioningly right. You do not carry his features, nor do you particularly look like your now-dead mother. Your face belongs to another man — who, your not-father does not know. It only matters that the memory of his wife has been tarnished, and the only piece of her that he might go on to have has not even done him the kindness of bearing her eyes or smile. On the second, the truth is complicated. You were unborn and your mother lived, then you came into the world and she died. Without you, she may have lived on. But is that murder? Your not-father assures you that it is.

He raises you, because he fears and loves the Undying God and knows that you must be his burden to achieve a blissful afterlife. He gives you his surname, even though to do so pains him. He allows you to call him father, even though he cringes every time you say it in your tiny, childish voice. You do all that you can to persuade him to love you, but it is all for naught. You are bad, and there is nothing you can do to be good. It becomes easier to lean into being bad, because then he at least has a reason to look at you. You are loud because it is the only way to avoid being ignored. You whine and cry and begin to throw tantrums until your not-father threatens to throttle you, or to toss your small body into the fireplace that you tend to gravitate to so often; as if it is the comforting skirts of an ever-absent matronly figure. It does not stop you. You beg to be seen, and will take whatever punishment comes with it.

One day, you are so angry and cry so much that it has no choice but to pour out of you: fire leaks from your burning fingertips and crawls up your throat from the black despair of your gut. For the first time, you see that your father does not simply hate you — he fears you. When it happens three more times — the fire finally unleashing itself from your mouth on the last occasion — you can hear your not-father crying to the Undying God for mercy as you pretend to sleep. Despite the tight squeeze of your eyes, you can feel the way the embers from the nearby fireplace pull towards you with something like a magnetic force  — inching closer and closer,  as if to give your fingers a soothing lick.

You are six years old when your father saddles the horse and tells you that the two of you will be going on a trip — a long journey from your home in Koldam to a place called Tyrholm that you know nothing about. You are misguidedly excited. The ride is long and arduous, but you enjoy the forced embrace of your father’s arms around you while you sit in front of him on the horse’s saddle. He mutters often how hot your skin is, but the comments rush over your small head. He brings you to a city much larger than the home you came from, and takes you to an inn where the people do not know you and give you ignorant, kind smiles. He whispers to the husband and wife who own the inn while you eat a hot meal, and later chastises you for your nosiness when you ask him what they spoke about. As you are drifting off to sleep, you think you hear your father remark with a sense of uncharacteristic pleasure: “we are a long way from home.”

When you wake the next morning, your not-father is gone.

ii. blaze.

Your father’s abandonment causes a tantrum unlike any you have had before, and in your grief you nearly burn down the inn that he has left you to. The woman who runs the now-damaged property coughs smoke from her lungs as she grabs you by your wild hair and promises to make you regret what you’ve done. Her husband is more empathetic, and wrestles you from the murderous woman’s arms as he attempts to soothe his wife: “she’ll be dead before long, sweetling — do not test the Undying God’s mercy by killing her yourself!”

The wife yells more at the husband, and the husband tries again to calm his wife, but all you hear is that you are dying, and the revelation leaves you feeling chilled for the first time in your life. With fear coursing through your veins, you run from the couple. You run even as the innkeeper attempts to take some of the gold coins your father had paid him to toss at your feet. You run even as the innkeeper’s wife screams for the guard. You run until exhaustion claims you, and you sleep that night in a cramped alleyway amongst the muck.

When you wake, you realize that you are truly alone. You do not know the way back to Koldam, and even if you did, you cannot simply walk back. You have no coin with which to purchase passage back to your home — and even if you did, you know with a too-mature sense of realism that nothing awaits you there. You are as good as an orphan, though perhaps that has been the case since the moment your mother breathed her last breath.

You survive on the streets in spite of the stink of death that clings to your skin. You steal to eat when the charity of strangers fails you, and sleep under porches and in hidden shadows. There are brief instances when merciful strangers allow you to sleep amongst their livestock, and even briefer occasions when a bleeding heart takes you under their roof for an evening. No one will hold on to you for long once they have an inkling of what you are. Slowly, you learn what that is. The inferni are the stuff of childhood nightmares, and now you are more horror than girl. For a long time, you strive to ignore the feeling of fire under your skin. For a long time, you wait to die. Despite this, you continue to live.

When the fire inside of you can no longer be denied, and when you are no longer convinced that every day you will die tomorrow, you start to play with the magic — just a little bit, and just to see. You watch as fire dances on your fingertips, and flows from your lips. You feel the way glowing torches and roaring fireplaces call out to you. Slowly, carefully, you find that you can bend the flames to your whim. You sense the innate control you have over the fire, even despite the cautious voice that whispers it controls you.

Over time, dying begins to feel an awful lot like growing power.

iii. wildfire.

You become the topic of whispers in Tyrholm, and you cannot deny that you like it. They whisper that you ought to be dead by now, and they whisper that you could burn a stable and all its horseflesh without blinking an eye. In all your years in the foreign city that has reluctantly become home, you have caused outright destruction only a handful of times, and nearly always by accident. There are few over the years who have cared enough to know your name, and your tendency to hide in plain sight means that you have evaded the notice of the guard.

You have never destroyed a stable with your burning hands, but when you hear the rumor, you know that you assuredly could. But what is true does not matter to the mundane civilians, who view your magic as something that can never be tamed. You have always craved attention, and you endeavor to feed off of their fear if it is all they will allow, but it does not taste nearly so sweet as the awe and reverence you not-so-secretly hope for. You think that if you could only show them all what mastery you have over the fire that flows from your body, they might realign themselves accordingly. Just as you did with yourself, you can slowly show them what you can do, and gradually reveal your power. Beyond the fears of conflagration, there is a beauty to what you can do; your very existence is something to behold, if they would only look your way.

If you cannot convince them to be wonderstruck by what you are capable of, you do not know what other options you have. You are uneducated and without a trade; too short-tempered to be a serving wench and too proud to be a whore. If they cannot see your beauty, whatever time you have left will comprise much of how you have lived so far: a street urchin on the brink of starvation, equal parts hungry and angry. Your very survival depends on a change of their hearts. You know that in order for them to be awed by you, you must act as if you are awed by yourself.

This forced arrogance is your downfall.

You bring too much attention to yourself too quickly, and the guardsmen that the innkeeper once threatened you with as a child finally arrive, albeit nearly twenty years later. You suspect at first that you will be brought to the cells and charged with disobeying the confusing laws on magic set forth by Septimus, but instead you are brought to Castle Tyrholm. Bizarrely, you are told that you will be brought before the King. You assume that this must be because he wants to deliver the punishment to you himself; to make an example out of you in front of his court. You expect to be thrust onto your knees before his throne, and instead find yourself ushered into the reception hall sometime after the King and his nobleblooded guests have eaten their fill. The occupants, Septimus included, stare at you. You stare back. A miserable beat passes, and then the King demands:

“Entertain us, mage.”

You waver for a moment, unsure of what to do, but decide ultimately that if your eternal fate is to die, you would rather do so showing them all some small piece of what you are capable of. You don’t approach the extent of your capabilities, but you allow a fraction of your true power to escape in a pretty dance of flames that causes gasps to erupt amongst the blue-blooded guests. When you tire yourself, you expect to see condemnation on the faces that surround you. The sound of applause is foreign, and you unabashedly revel in it.

You are offered a position at court that evening, and you do not hesitate in taking it. A part of you knows that it is not an offer, but a demand  — you are just too clouded by the heady haze of appreciation to mull over the consequences of that difference.

iv. inferno.

Six years elapse at the King’s court, and you have long-since known that it is not the hub of reverence you had hoped it could be. Not for your kind. Regretfully, it is not even a place where you feel at all accepted or appreciated for who you are. You are not exactly feared by the nobles who occupy the court, but it is not because what you are and what you are capable of does not frighten them. They view you as something wild that the King has broken; a dog on a very tight leash that does tricks for food and shelter. Their laughter is sometimes uncomfortable as they watch you perform your magic in the court, but they are nonetheless comfortable enough to laugh at all. Their applause is sometimes stilted when it is too clear that you are angry as you put on your little show, but they clap when Septimus claps anyway.

You would not dare bite the hand that feeds.

For all the scars that mar your body — the mark of death on your skin over and over again — you are still alive, which seems to impress nearly no one. The only magic that amazes is the work of the necromancers: they give the miracle of life, whereas the miracle of your life resonates with none but you. You are desperate to prove that you are so much more than the other inferni who have come before you, but you have no platform beyond court jester with which to do it. You feel an untapped power swirl in your gut. You grit your teeth and try — unsuccessfully — to ignore it.

When the King’s son prepares to lead the fight against Koldam, you ask — beg, really — for the chance to travel with him. You have no love for the son of Septimus, but you think it may be your only opportunity to show the full extent of your capabilities. Selfishly, secretly, you also have some desire to have revenge against the place where you were born. If your not-father is not dead, then he is old — but you nonetheless dream of him wearing a poor man’s armor while riding atop that same horse he’d taken you to Tyrholm on, burning in your flames.

When you are categorically denied and encouraged to return to your courtly duties, you understand that you will never be seen as you wish to be. You will never be on the same playing grounds as the Court Necromancer, who commands the respect of Septimus himself. There is no more hope to grasp at — there is nothing salvageable in the King’s court. Him and his kind will bid you to be their clown until your fire burns you from the inside out, and you finally die: a legend amongst inferni, and yet not at all remembered by those who beheld you.

At last, you realize the undeniable truth about what must be done. You decide then that if you have to burn up entertaining the nobles, you think it is only fair that they should burn too. For those who are left behind in the wake of your flames, you think your smoldering ghost will tell them the truth they have all so earnestly ignored —

—  a mage is not to be underestimated; an inferni least of all.

PLOT IDEAS:

The first four points I have listed are not so much general plotting ideas as they are specific expansions on the character connections the Hierophant has, with some general ideas I have about how I might develop that dynamic over the course of gameplay. The second four points I have are more general plot concepts that I would be happy to explore with whomever. I am also totally down for  doubling up — that is to say, any of the specific character connections can also fulfill the general plotting ideas.

THE HIEROPHANT AND THE HIGH PRIESTESS: As mentioned above, something that grabbed my interest in reading about the hierophant tarot card was the fact that it is the natural companion of the high priestess. Taking from the skeleton, I imagine that part of the reason Kithri finds necromancers uncomfortable to be around is because they are difficult to read, whereas she is expressive almost to the point of her own detriment. I also imagine that Kithri would experience a profound jealousy towards necromancers, given that they receive not just respect, but reverence. Given the role the High Priestess serves in the court, I believe that she would be the ultimate representation of everything that Kithri resents. I think challenging Kithri’s perception of what necromancers are and what the specific motivations of the High Priestess really are presents a good opportunity for character development. Depending on the route chosen by a prospective HP player, I can see Kithri finding herself manipulated into fighting the inevitable battle fully on the priestess’s terms, or perhaps finding an unexpected mentor. I also think this dynamic will put Kithri on an interesting journey into learning more about necromancers in general, and potentially finding some common ground through their shared — albeit differently expressed — magical capabilities. THE COURT JESTERS: After reading through the sample application for The Star, I immediately thought that Armel could have a really interesting dynamic with Kithri — and much to my excitement, Hierophant was included on the Star’s connections! I think that Kithri is really desperate for some sign of no-strings-attached kindness, or even a basic acceptance of who she is. Despite that desperation, she is heavily guarded and has a wall of defensive arrogance that would certainly shut people like Armel out. I think it’s interesting that the two essentially occupy the same position at court, and despite their different circumstances and upbringings, they’ve arrived at similar emotions and motivations when it comes to Septimus. I think it would be interesting to see Kithri start to learn trust and friendship — I think she could really benefit from having a confidante, especially as whispers of revolution spread. TO KOLDAM, WITH LOVE: I imagine that Kithri’s motivation for knowing what happened in Koldam is incredibly personally motivated. It was her home once, and though there isn’t anything about it that she looks back on fondly, there is nonetheless a lingering connection there. Although her prime motivation for coming along with the Emperor was having the opportunity to display her full abilities outside of the suffocating confines of the court, I think she also wanted an opportunity to have some revenge against her birthplace, which she likely wholly associates with “rejection.” I think the dissonance between the way the victory has been perceived and discussed by soldiers and the evident difference in the Emperor has clearly caught Kithri’s attention, and she feels as though she is owed some information on what really occurred in Koldam. I think this desire to know has the potential to push Kithri out of her typical tendency to be subjugated by the ruling class and brood. Seeing her in a position to gain the confidence to demand answers, even from a Prince, could certainly alter the way she is perceived by the nobles who view her as a trained monkey. THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY: I found it very interesting that despite the fact Kithri and The Fool are on a similar side politically, the character connection situates them as having more of an antagonistic dynamic. I would love to explore Kithri’s feelings on being treated by The Fool as some kind of threat to the order they have established at court — I almost think that rather than cowing her into submission, it might empower her to know that someone recognizes just what all she is capable of. I think that as an overarching plot, this character interaction could be a great way to demonstrate that just because there are people who want Septimus gone, it does not mean that they are all allied or have the same ultimate end goal. I think this character interaction would provide a great opportunity to further develop what Kithri really wants to happen in Tyrholm. Will she stay committed to the idea of burning down the throne room, and the noble class with it? Or will she be swayed into falling into a political agenda? POLITICAL PET: As Kithri interacts with other revolters, I think it would be interesting to explore how she fits in with their political agendas. Kithri is not a politician, and I think she does not put much stock into what comes after Septimus is no more. Personally, I think this lack of foresight is not her being short-sighted — she just knows that the chances of her living long enough to see what happens after she shows Tyrholm what she’s capable of are minimal. Why should she care about what happens after she’s dead and gone? She squarely falls into the burn it all down camp, which differs from many of the characters who seem more motivated to find a suitable candidate to replace Septimus. Will Kithri pose a problem as the plot develops, and a coup is planned? Or is there a possibility that one of the revolters can convince her that acting in accordance with their plans will also give her the justice that she seeks? I’d love to play it out. LOW BREEDS FROM LOWTOWN: After being abandoned by her father, Kithri spent her life prior to joining the court in the streets of Lowtown. I’d love the chance to further develop Kithri’s history in Tyrholm through interactions with other characters who have come from this humbler background as compared to the noble characters in the group. I imagine that Kithri would feel more of a natural kinship with people from Lowtown as compared to the noble class, though she ultimately has still felt rejected by and large. Individuals from Lowtown would be more likely to see a less harsh version of Kithri. Because she defines herself so wholly by the fact that she is an inferni, I think it could be cool to explore a more human side to her. BEAUTY IN HORROR: I would really love to explore the dynamics that Kithri has with the other inferni present at the court. I found it interesting that in the skeleton, it ends with: “you’ll prove you are not a hound to be leashed — no mage is. You’re a powerhouse, and they won’t forget it.” This to me suggests that Kithri is not simply disgusted with her own treatment at the court, but is overall angry by the way mages have been treated by Septimus. Despite the fact that she may not be on the same side as the other inferni at court, I nonetheless imagine that there might be some commonality amongst the handful of them present that is worth exploring. Do they avoid one another? Do they have respect for one another? Do they feel at all like they can confide in one another? Kithri wants some kind of acceptance or validation, and so I think she might be open to fostering relationships with others who might understand what it is to be inferni — even if the other inferni might not have her best intentions at heart. HONEY & WILDFIRE ARE BOTH THE COLOR OF GOLD: As a final plot point, I would love to explore some opportunity for Kithri to show kindness or general soft-heartedness. So much of her is consumed in anger and rage, but I think she is still capable of acts of tenderness and empathy. Beyond that, I think she still desires some kind of a connection. Her life has been defined by her early abandonment, and I think it would be great for her long-term character development to have interactions where her rough exterior is gradually broken through. Whether this be through a romantic encounter or intimate friendship is to be decided by plotting, and I would absolutely love either!

CHARACTER DEATH: If it makes sense plot-wise, and given the caveat that you would ask first, I’ll say that I’m willing to have Kithri killed off!

WRITING SAMPLE:

***I do acknowledge that depending on what FCs other applicants may use, Kithri may not be the oldest inferni in the group — but based off the age suggestions set for the inferni skeletons, and for the purposes of the writing sample, I’m writing as if she is the eldest inferni at court. I hope that is okay!***

For all the profound hatred Kithri had built up in her heart towards King Septimus and his court of tittering noble fools, there was always a blip during her little performance where the utter loathing  she had towards the King and his retinue briefly slipped away. In the moments immediately preceding her entry into the reception hall, she seethed with barely-contained rage: she was not a trained dog, and by the Undying God, she would not do their little dance for them again. Kithri would pace before the large ornamental doors, grit her teeth and clench her fists, and glower at anyone who dared to meet her gaze. Just before she was escorted into the rowdy room by an apprehensive guard, she would allow herself the fantasy of lighting the hall ablaze, and settle herself with the knowledge that she would make good on the reverie one day. As she stepped inside the hall, the candles which lit the spacious area all suddenly extinguished; and the air filled with the scent of smoke and the gasps of her audience.

It was in that darkness she’d created where a shift occurred in Kithri: the rage did not disappear, but instead retreated to the recesses of her consciousness whilst the forefront became consumed by the fire she worked to conjure. A mind which was usually overwrought by powerful emotion and nonstop thinking became hyper-focused on the flames that leapt from her hands and bent to her whim; and for the duration of her performance she allowed herself the momentary pleasure of reveling in what she could do. With what was just a fraction of her true power, she could amaze any and all who were lucky enough to be seated in the room — their delighted murmurs and shocked exclamations were not lost on Kithri’s ears, even as the crackling flames glowed purple-blue with extreme heat. She was reminded of a time when she believed that all it would take to earn love was to prove that there was beauty in her abilities.

The rancor never stayed away for very long.

When her display of magic ended — which did not so much reach a natural conclusion, but instead finished when Septimus opted to cut it off with a sudden burst of clapping — the mage was thrust back immediately to her bitter reality. The momentary empowerment fled, and she was left with only her hatred and resentments, which clung to her skin like a plague. On some nights, in the moments after she re-lit the candles that gave light to the hall, she found herself staring at the occupants of the room: perplexed to find that they looked discomforted by her presence, when she had been so sure that they had been enamored by her only moments earlier. On others, they continued with polite applause even after she had finished, but the return of her own disgust made it impossible to enjoy the noise. No matter their reaction, she almost always exited the hall with some immediacy following the show of magic — she could not bear to linger around Septimus and his ilk any longer than was strictly necessary.

With a stiff and perfunctory bow, the mage had started to make her way towards the doors from whence she’d came when one of the King’s perfumed courtiers leaned over towards him and remarked: “your mage looks terribly old for an inferni — I thought that they all died before reaching adulthood.”

Kithri could not see the King smirk from her vantage, but she was certain that she could hear it in his voice as he spoke. She paused before the doors, glaring at the wood as if it were responsible for her continued presence in the reception hall, rather than the King who spoke at her back.

“Most die young — mine is a rarity. She is not without her own damage, unfortunately...they do all destroy themselves in the end. Mage, come back here. Show us the scars you’ve collected.”

A chill ran down Kithri’s spine at the request, and she felt her stomach sink as she slowly turned on her heel and made her way back into the heart of the room. Coming to a halt in the middle of the space, she uttered in a tone too icy to be appropriate: “they are covered by my clothing, Your Grace.”

Guffawing, the King waved a dismissive hand at her, and bid: “undo the damn buttons, girl!” Septimus looked about at his retinue, and commented with a sneer: “talented with the flames, this one is, but a bit soft in the head.”

Despite the King’s command to partially undress and display the consequences of her craft, Kithri did nothing for a long moment. She did not trust her hands to move from her sides without flames erupting from her palms and consuming the King — and she was momentarily unable to convince herself of any strong reasoning as to why that was a poor idea. Her wandering eyes caught sight of Septimus’s son seated nearby his father, and she remembered. The young heir sought, for some reason, to cut himself in his father’s image — she would be dead on his orders only moments after Septimus burned. Her death may have been an inevitability, but Kithri refused to die on anything less than her own terms. When she at last unleashed her power, it would not just be Septimus who suffered for it.

Only after repeating an internal chant of in due time in due time in due time did she at last allow her trembling fingers to unclasp the buttons which cinched her sleeves taught against her skin. Pushing up the fabric, Kithri revealed her forearms. The flesh was mottled with scarring: some marks were white and smoothed over with age, while others were raised with an angry-red newness. Kithri could feel the heavy thrum of her heart in her chest as she saw courtiers lean up from their seats to have a better view of her destroyed skin, and inhaled sharply through her nose when the King callously demanded: “I want to see the neck — undo those buttons as well.”

Burning fingers mechanically moved towards her neck, and the forced expression of indifference on Kithri’s face began to tip towards a more telling anger as she pulled apart the fabric concealing her neck. Not unlike her arms, the mage’s neck was similarly covered in scars at all different stages of healing — some were still tender to the touch, so much so that she visibly grimaced as she turned her head and agitated the healing tissue. Similar to the oohs and aahs the mage had earned with her performance, the occupants of the hall ogled her disfigurement with equal intrigue. Kithri endured the forced humiliation for what felt like an eternity before she found that she could trust herself enough to speak, and lifted her eyes to meet the King’s gaze. In her peripheral, she could see the necromancer lingering close by Septimus — she knew that the ancient woman had been watching just as closely as all the others in the room, though Kithri suspected it was not her scars that interested the discomforting woman. She hoped against hope that the elder woman thought the same thing she did: all of this should be burnt to rubble.

“If that is all, Your Grace — might I be excused to my chambers?”

Seeming to have lost interest in his pet, Septimus grunted his affirmative response. Kithri all but ran from the room, and when the heavy doors shut behind her she allowed her expression to melt into one of complete and utter contempt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bard — Armel — looking at her. Whatever his expression carried, be it amusement or empathy, she took it to be a mockery.

“Go on, then,” she hissed. “Have a look! And dream something horrible about it tonight.”  

ANYTHING ELSE:

Here is a mock blog for Kithri. I’ve filled it with some inspirational posts that fit my understanding of the character. I also have headcanons and a playlist below.

i. headcanons. One of the only creatures in Castle Tyrholm that Kithri shows any outright affection to is Nuria, a nasty tabby cat that serves as a ratter in her quarters within the castle. The cat is missing an ear and is otherwise scarred from numerous fights with other felines and animals within the keep, and has a tendency to hiss and scratch most who come near it. Nuria is sweet with Kithri, which may be because the two are kindred spirits. Kithri uses a gentle hand with the cat, and feeds her table scraps she brings back from the dining hall. As a result of the frequent use of her magic, Kithri often has a smokey, scorched scent clinging to her. Her hair is frizzled at the ends from the extreme heat it is often near, and the majority of her clothes are singed around the wrists. Speaking of her clothing, Kithri often wears dresses and other garments that are long-sleeved and have a high neck. She is not ashamed of the scars she bears — or at least, if someone were to ask her if she was, she would vehemently deny it — but she does not believe that the effect of her magic on her body is anyone else’s business. Kithri has accepted that her scarring is an inevitability of her magic, but she does still suffer some pain from their development across her body. She dutifully applies healing salves to the afflicted areas nightly. She knows that it will not make the marks disappear, but it does afford her some relief from the tenderness and discomfort that comes with newly developed burns and scars. Not unlike the chill that comes from having a sunburn, Kithri often feels cooler than most despite the fact that her skin is warm — or even hot — to the touch. Kithri struggles with sleeping at night, which is largely attributed to racing thoughts and powerful emotions that she struggles to control. Because of this, she has a tendency to sleep during the day time — not for extended periods of time, but she is good for a daily nap or two. It helps that she has a limited interest in interacting with others at the court: she has no qualms with spending her day sleeping rather than out and about. Kithri identifies as bisexual, and has had sexual encounters with both men and women. Sex for Kithri is largely transactional: it is more about lust and release than emotional connection. There are very few sexual memories she looks back on with any sense of nostalgia or affection.

ii. playlist.

I have a playlist posted on Kithri’s mockblog, but I figured I would also just list out the tracks/relevant lyrics here for ease: Prologue: Firebird Suite: The Infernal Dance – Igor Stravinsky. i. Motherless Children – Steve Miller Band (Father do the best he can when the mother is gone, but there’s so many things he just don’t understand) ii. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier (When I was a child, I'd sit for hours, staring into open flame. Something in it had a power, could barely tear my eyes away) iii. Bravado – Lorde (I’m faking glory, lick my lips toss my hair) iv. My blood – Ellie Goulding (And God knows I’m not dying but I breathe now) v. Let the Flames Begin – Paramore (I give it all my oxygen, to let the flames begin) vi. Already Dead – The Pretty Reckless (I’m cold, already dead) vii. Seven Devils – Florence and The Machine (I don’t want your money, I don’t want your crowd, see I have to burn your kingdom down) viii. The Wild One – Suzi Quatro (I’m a red-hot fox, I can take the knocks, I’m a hammer from hell. Honey, can’t you tell?) ix. Destruction – Joywave (Oh my god, there’s no one who can set me right. I’ve been sent to torch the palace down in broad daylight) x. Whore of Babylon – Zheani (I’m naked, dancing frustrated, the brighter flame has you faded) Epilogue: Concerto L’estate RV 315 (The Four Seasons: Summer.) – Antonio Vivaldi.

Thank you so much for reading through all of this. I appreciate your time, and hope for the opportunity to take part in what I think will be a really amazing group! If you opt for another applicant, I would love any feedback you have!

p.s. - i’m just gonna leave this display of Kithri Energy here:

[bouncingtigger10]

New Post has been published on The Bouncing Tigger Reads

New Post has been published on http://www.tiggerreviews.com/a-blitz-of-a-book/

A blitz of a book!

IF SHE WERE BLIND is the first book in the engaging New Adult series AFTER TWELVE by author Laney Wylde. Perfect for fans of the television shows REVENGE, SCANDAL, and VERONICA MARS, the AFTER TWELVE Series is a gritty social-issue drama that delivers steamy romance, intrigue, and the most bittersweet revenge plots. Estlyn’s determination to right every wrong is sure to quench your thirst for justice, yet leave you wanting more.

  https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40866623-if-she-were-blind

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/if-she-were-blind-laney-wylde/1129186876?ean=9781634223386

https://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/if-she-were-blind/id1418955414?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/if-she-were-blind

https://www.xpressobooktours.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2018/10/2-book-banner-After-12.jpg

“The Privilege to Write About Race”

I was eighteen the first time someone made me feel shitty about the color of my skin.

It was my sophomore year at Biola University, a Christian college in Los Angeles County committed to racial reconciliation. That fall, at our annual Torrey Bible Conference, to which attendance was required, a black speaker addressed the topic of racial injustice. At least, that’s what I think he talked about. I stopped listening after he told the gym full of mostly pale students that white people were racists.

I couldn’t believe it. He listed half a dozen races, victimizing each one for the challenges they faced. I waited for him to say something about whites. We were the last he mentioned, saying we simply didn’t understand what black people endured.

How dare he, I thought. How dare he assume that because my ancestors were from Europe that I held a hatred toward people who look like him. How dare he presume to know anything about me. Because he didn’t. He didn’t know that some of the most influential women of my adolescent years were black, that one of my exboyfriends was Mexican, that I had friends of all colors and shapes and sizes.

It’s funny now to reflect on that rage I felt. I made it to eighteen before someone stigmatized my race. I doubt the speaker had made it that long.

Fast forward six years. My husband and I were watching a documentary on Netflix called 13th about mass incarceration in the United States. Several men and women, white and black, were interviewed. Whenever a white person spoke about institutionalized racism black people still face in the United States, I listened. When a black person did, I did my best not to roll my eyes.

That’s white privilege.

Privilege is an insidious force. It was invisible to me, because, like many others, I just didn’t know any different. I was raised to be colorblind, and consequently never attributed injustice to race. In fact, calling out the police or politicians or the church or any individual on anything less than involvement in the KKK was unfair.

Because if a cop shot a black man, it was because he wasn’t compliant, because he was running, because he deserved it. If he was in prison for life, it was because he broke a law that warranted that kind of sentence. If he was poor, it was because he didn’t work hard enough.

Black people told me otherwise. They protested through tears. They shared stories of the sons they lost to police brutality. They voiced the pain of being stereotyped as criminals. But I didn’t listen.

Until a white person said something.

I’m not proud of this. But I think it’s important to admit, to say out loud that I had and still have blindspots because of my privileged skin. Because maybe other people with skin light as mine will feel free to say the same, and start asking questions they once thought they had the answers to.

So many of us are afraid to say that we’re ignorant, that we just don’t know. But, guess what: when I approached my black friends with questions about what it’s like to be them, they answered. Happily. They assured me that there’s nothing wrong with not knowing. There’s only something wrong with refusing to learn.

When I started writing If She Were Blind, the first installment of the After Twelve series, I wanted to explore racial issues by writing from the perspective of characters of color. I wrote these characters in first person so I could feel the fear, the indigence, the often futile fight against a false inferiority placed on them.

It was the first time I wept for the people whose stories I had once refused to hear.

So, I wrote If She Were Blind not only to revolutionize my own perspective, but for everyone else like me––those who need someone who looks like them to validate the stories of those who don’t.

Because privilege is only insidious if you never use it to speak for those who don’t have it. Author Bio

Laney Wylde is enamored with all things southern California–the traffic, smog, surprise earthquakes, and nonindigenous palm trees. Consequently, it’s the landscape her strong and sometimes lovable female leads paint their stories on. Her New Adult novels Never Touched and the After Twelve series are bright with provocative themes, steamy romance, and inappropriately timed humor.

When Laney isn’t writing, she’s singing Taylor Swift with her little boy or asking her husband not to tell her about his work as a surgical resident while she’s eating. She daydreams about using her math degree to get into law school, then realizes that would be too much work and that she should just play pretend court on paper instead. While she loves a good book, nothing beats 30 Rock with a bag of popcorn and M&Ms.

[hogwartsuniversity-rpg]

Sample Application

Hey all! Here is a sample app written for Sirius Black, who admin Zev will be playing! Hopefully, this helps give an idea of what we are looking for, but it should not be taken as a template! 

-Admin Zev

OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION;

Name/Alias: Zevia/Zev

Pronouns: She/Her/s

Age: 18

Timezone: PST

Trigger Warnings: Redacted

Activity Level: On the dash probably a 7-9. As your admin, I will always be around!

About You/Previous Experience: I have admin’d one roleplay before and have been roleplaying for five years. I also aid for a help blog from time to time. Also, see the About Us page.

BASICS;

Desired Character: Sirius Black

Gender/Pronouns: He/Him/s

Sexuality: Bisexual, actively not thinking about this as he is working through internalized homophobia from his upbringing.

FC: Ben Barnes, Matthew Daddario, Ezra Miller

Scholarship Status: None, supportive of the expansion.

Major: Literature

Extracurriculars: Begrudgingly in the Slug Club

PAST;

Sirius Orion Black should have been his parents’ pride and joy. As the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son of the Black family, he was expected to be the next great patriarch. The Blacks traced their heritage to a Baronetcy granted after the English Civil War and have an honest-to-goodness framed page from Dungale hanging in the foyer to prove it. However, somewhere along the line one of the ancestors had been a younger son, and when the titled side of the family died out, forgotten drama deprived the surviving branch of inheriting the title. A fact Walburga and Orion Black remain jealous of to this day. Sirius, for his part, couldn't care less about family history, except to laugh at the striking similarity to the Elliots in Persuasion. Lady Susan remains his favorite Austen, but that is mostly because he doesn’t think he makes much of an Anne Elliot. For one thing, he doesn’t see the value in a persuasive temper, though perhaps that’s because he’s spent most of his life fighting against his parents’ expectations. He was meant to be proud and powerful. You can really spit those words out, what with all the P’s, as it didn’t take Sirius long to learn. When he was young he and his parents could play the part well enough; they’d dress him up and he’d smile just right so he might be smirking (like his father did) for all their rich friends, but when they were alone, well… relations between the boy and his parents been frosty for most of Sirius life.

He never liked to talk about it, or think much about it if he could help it, and maybe that’s why he can’t remember when their relationship flew south for the winter and never came back. It could have been when he was five and his parents wouldn’t let his new black friend come over, it could have been when he was eight and first heard them talking about ‘filthy queers,’ or when he was nine, or when he was 6, or, or, or… Or maybe those were only the times' fuel got added to the fire. The truth, he knew deep down, was that in addition to being horrible people, his parents were simply unprepared to be parents. Babies are loud and messy and emotional and everything his parents hated. Sirius later thought of them as more actively abrasive versions of Tom and Daisy Buchanan. They were wealthy and careless and absentee and, well, Fitzgerald never gets into how the daughter grew up in the end.

So, Sirius rebelled. In everything he ever did. He wore his hair long and stayed out too late. He tried to run away three times before he was 15. The third time he got dragged back into the house by his ear he saw Regulus’s face— tired and drawn— and they might be less than a year apart but Sirius never wanted his little brother to look that old again, so he stopped running. Still, he never stopped regarding himself as a soldier in a one-man war and was always searching for the next inch of ground he could gain from his parents. He was determined to love everything they hated. He never regretted fighting them, either. Every cut from a bottle shattering against the wall near his head after Walburga drank too much was a medal of valor. Every bruise Orion left on him (always where clothes would cover it) after Sirius pushed just far enough was proof he was winning. Every screech that pierced his ears was a war cry. Once when Sirius was 13, Regulus asked him if he had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. “Yes,” Sirius had told his brother, “I’m preserving myself against them. You ought to as well.” Regulus infuriated his brother because he bowed his head and went with all the shit their parents said, but in some ways, Sirius couldn’t help blaming himself. He’d rebelled, he’d separated himself from the Blacks. That had left his parents with only Regulus. They funneled their anger, their hatred, at Sirius, yes, but he knew they pushed their manipulation, their pressure, onto Regulus. As pissed as Regulus made him, he got it. Maybe he didn’t understand it, how he could play their games, but he got it. They were his parents. Hell, Sirius wouldn’t have fought so hard if they weren’t. On some level, Sirius knew he was pushing back because he wanted what every kid wants; for his parents to engage with him, to love him. Regulus sucked up in search of that, Sirius fought back. At least, the war had started that way. By the end, Sirius wanted nothing to do with them, but at its roots, well. Some rich kids smashed expensive cars into trees, he smashed himself into his parents’ ideology. Same basic principle.

As a result, he’d been planning his escape to Uni for practically as long as he could remember. He’d accepted going to Hogwarts as a legacy student, mostly because of the school’s somewhat funky reputation, and actually leaving was one of the most liberating experiences of his life. He’d been to boarding school before, but with overbearing headmasters and Walburga and Orion never more than a short drive away, that hadn’t done much to elevate the stifling nature of his childhood. That said, he’d taken every chance to fuck around in the past and had every intention of continuing the tradition at Uni. He might be able to angst and brood like Mr. fucking Rochester, but he honestly preferred what he would call a certain care-free roughness. Chaotic Good, as he described his sixth form DnD character. Consequently, he’d never been fond of self-reflection, but if he’d bothered, he’d have realized that those first few months with James and Remus and Peter were terrifying. He’d been so angry his whole life, he never really learned how to make friends casually. So, when he met the three of them during Freshers Week and knew in an instant he wanted them to be friends, he threw himself wholly into making it happen. Any scheme James thought up, any late night Remus wanted to stay up talking, any homework Peter wanted to put off to play just one more round of chess, Sirius agreed, no questions asked. He never thought about the possibility of being rejected, only plowed forward with everything he was. In the year that followed at Hogwarts, he did everything in much the same way: full speed ahead, no questions asked.

He didn’t mean to be careless or to run over people's lives with his own, he just couldn’t bring himself to care that he did. Sirius lived for the moments and didn’t see anything wrong with that. He was of the opinion that anyone who had a problem with him, his friends, or their pranks was too sensitive, and they only hated people who deserved it. Grey area was a concept Sirius had a hard time grasping. He and his friends were good, nothing they did could be evil. People like his parents were evil, no one who was associated with them could do anything good. He had no illusions of being perfect, (that, after all, would be boring) but in the end, he was one of the good guys.

As his second year at Hogwarts opens, that certainty is flagging. He’s grown up to realize some of the pranks he’s pulled and the ways he’s acted have been very, very not cool. Other people have told him he needed to lay off before, but he’s always dismissed them as being uptight. He knows he has a… big personality, and that people listened to him, that he could goad people into doing things. So, coming to those realizations, he’s starting to see that he’s been hurting people. And it’s messing with his head. He’s thought back to all those pranks and jokes that had been just so funny only to hear a voice keeps telling him “you are just like your parents.” Whether that particular thought is true or not, he’s trying to change. He’s struggling with what needs to change and the walls of stubbornness he’s built up, but he’s promised himself he’ll at least pay attention. He has no plans to follow the rules to the letter, or anything crazy like that, but he is growing more aware. Of himself, and of the world around him.

EXTRA;

Headcanons:

My bio may have made Sirius sound more brooding and, well, serious than he is. This boy is a goofball— he is cuddly and (deep down) kind, once you get past the layers of well-meaning snark. His friends mean the world to him and yeah, he loves a good party, but he’d sooner take a quiet night talking with friends somewhere the worries of the world can’t find them.

Sirius makes it a point of pride to know both pop and “high” cultural references. He’s a literature major, and very fond of the classics (the Romans were ridiculous and knew how to party), but ultimately, he’s a nerd, as much as he tried to be cool and a “”bad boy.”” He loves Star Wars with his whole heart. Everyone thinks it’s because of Han Solo. In fact, he thinks of James as much more of a Han. He’s cast Peter as Luke, Remus as Leia, and himself as everyone's favorite walking carpet Chewbacca.

Sirius smokes and he’s trying to quit the habit. It just goes so well with his whole aesthetic but, well, people keep telling him it’s “”killing him”” so. He also drinks, but not enough for it to be a problem. He’s only properly drunk once. 

Sirius sometimes thinks he’s more messed up than he has a right to be, and doesn’t like feeling sorry for himself. That said, he’s not that brooding a guy. He’s happy at Hogwarts and it’s not completely wrong to describe him as “carefree.” He loves his friends and he’s a troublemaker. He’s really just a big kid still.

He has two styles of clothes: Cool BadboyTM and 80′s Disaster. He loves ugly sweaters and mortifying the more fashion-minded of his friends. 

He wants to be a good brother and truly loves Regulus, but he feels like he’s let their split go on too long to be mended.

Aesthetic and Quotes: https://fallendog-starblack-aesthetic.tumblr.com/

ANY CHANGES?;

Nope!

[cstesttaken]

The man in the social media mirror: what's the truth about my online persona?

s a general rule, you can make lots of assumptions about people from their social media feed. If they’re always changing their profile pic, they’re obviously unstable. If they’re ranting about relationships, they’re high maintenance. Moaning about politics: too self-involved. Reposting old jokes/claiming nicked ones as their own: annoying/untrustworthy. Humblebragging: esteem issues, possibly insane.

But then you pause for a second as a chill wind blows right through you. “Hang on”, you think, “what if everyone else is as sharp and astute with their judgments as I am? What if they all think I’m an idiot?” 

God, if only you could ask a group of impartial observers to study your social feeds and make a quick diagnosis (more on which very, very shortly). 

I’m not normally like this, by the way. I wasn’t always so needy. But since becoming fairly active on social media I’ve found myself putting more and more stock in how I’m coming across. My poor wife has been forced to endure an endless barrage of paranoia. “Am I annoying people?” “Do you think I seem too full of myself?” “I’m not humblebragging, am I?” “Do you think my friends are starting to secretly hate me?” “Are there too many pictures of me having fun?”

It’s not the sexiest look in the world. And it’s an unusual one too because, at 40, I’m from a generation that existed perfectly healthily without social media. We spent our formative years relying on quaint, analogue things like “meeting up” or “naturally losing touch with each other”. But now the landscape has shifted, and my virtual friendship circle is an ever-growing blob made up of people I used to know (then had often stopped knowing), people I met once and got on with, people I worked with, people I grew up with, people I snogged, and people I bonded with more recently in life. Like any normal person, I’ve changed quite a lot in the time that it's taken for that collection of acquaintances to form. I’m not the same guy I was ten, twenty, in some cases, thirty years ago. I may even be a different man to the one I was last week. 

For an average Joe like me, this presents a bit of an obstacle, because it means that all of your “friends”, cohorts and followers pass you through a variety of different filters. In my case, some will remember me as young, loud and obnoxious; some as young, wasteful and unfocused; some as old, lost, and bamboozled; some as hairy, anxious, and unemployed. Some won’t remember me at all and some may even have muted my feed to shut me the hell up (and who’d blame them?).

Watch | Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg - by numbers

o it’s weird. It’s weird to have all these people in one place, and it’s easy to become tangled up in the strange version of yourself that you’ve created as your “online presence”. It feels almost duplicitous – which is why I came up with a plan to silence all the doubting monkeys in my mind. First I'd talk to an expert, then I'd play guinnea pig in my own sick investigation by getting honest answers about my social media persona from people with no vested interest in me – ie. actual strangers. Terrifying.

STAGE ONE: Talking to an expert

The expert in question was Dr Gary Wood, a social psychologist. I had lots of insane-sounding questions to ask him – almost all of them incredibly self-involved, and concerned with why it has become so important to us to receive online approval for these weird, slightly bogus, versions of ourselves. 

“We all care what the world thinks of us, otherwise who are these channels intended for?” he reasons. “And as social animals, lots of the ways we describe ourselves are meaningless unless viewed in terms of other people.”

This made lots of sense to me – after all, you don’t buy a cool pair of trainers and only wear them around the house, you need the world to see them, to validate how hip your footwear decisions are. Else what’s the point? 

“It also helps to remind ourselves that social media is about being sociable, and it works best when our aim is to make connections, rather than living our lives like an open-wound. Too much self-disclosure is often not healthy or recommended."

Instantly, my mind trawls through the recent tweets I've written. Was I over disclosing? Onto Stage Two to find out ...

recreate your holiday by wandering into Greggs wearing swimming trunks, pointing at a sausage roll, shouting TWO and paying with a £50 note

— Joshua Burt (@joshburt76) September 2, 2014

STAGE TWO: Showing my feeds to people

For this stage, my plan was to ask strangers online to look at my social feeds and to tell me the kind of person they think I am, based on what they find. I soon encountered a problem: everyone on social media is only a few degrees of separation away. So the “strangers” ended up being a mixture of friends of friends, or colleagues of friends. Still, at least they knew nothing about me.

I gave them the links to my Twitter feed (where I mostly make bad jokes, and self-promote), to my Facebook page (almost entirely self-promotion) and to my Instagram Account (where I post pictures of records, interspersed with endless images of my 2-year-old son – yes I’m afraid I’m that guy). 

I was hoping they might say something along the lines of “funny” or “nice”. And if they wanted to throw a “handsome” in there, that’s totally their choice, I wouldn’t bat it back. For the record, no one did.

What they said

“You’re a fairly new dad, and very VERY proud about that!”

“You’re so London, it hurts.”

“You look like you might be a bit snobby about music”

“Work is life, life is work – you enjoy what you do” 

“I’d like to be your FB friend but wouldn’t be bothered about Twitter”

“You’re a proper hipster dad”

 “I reckon you’re the funny one in the group”

“You’re the kind of guy who looks like he smokes loads of weed, but doesn’t.”  

“On Twitter your bio is ‘words is my tools', which is a good way of saying 'I'm a writer but don't take myself too seriously, or 'I want you to believe that I don't take myself too seriously'.”

My deductions

ll in all, it made for surprisingly nice reading. My low online-esteem had me holding my breath, ready to be taken apart and brutalized like a ragdoll in a gorilla enclosure – but no one was particularly mean about me (and they had every opportunity to be). Interestingly, there was a real sense that we all present an online image of ourselves that may not be completely authentic – more the version of us that we want the world to see – and that that’s okay. Perhaps we all know that we’re lying to one another. At least it's an open dishonesty.

In fact, in many ways, their deductions were probably a better reflection of me in real life than my actual posts are, because they were able to see beneath the veneer, and to give a reasoned, objective insight into the man behind the social media mirror. I am a hipster dad, I do wear spectacles, I am a music snob, I do love my work, I do come across like a weed smoker despite not having puffed on a joint for the best part of ten years.

Ultimately, it probably is impossible to dupe people into accepting what you want them to see as the truth. Which is either good news or a great tragedy, depending on how you look at it.

Source

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/men/thinking-man/man-social-media-mirror-truth-online-persona/

[old-soulless]

How Going to the Gym Scared the Death OUT of me

I remember my first stint at the gym like I remember my first kiss: My heart was racing. Okay, that was the only similarity.

My first visit to a gym was far more traumatic than my first kiss

I was humiliated to even walk through the door. I felt the eyes of 32,230 judgmental, gorgeous women on me. I felt like everyone was staring at me and I could practically hear their thoughts: “Go home, fatty! Go home!” It was horrifying, and it almost made me cry. Anyone who knows me well knows I do NOT cry. That day, with every fiber of my being, I wanted to run out of that gym—which, ironically enough, would have pushed me in the direction of my goals. But I digress.

I was on a mission: I was pushing 260 pounds and I needed to commit. I had already joined Jenny Craig, and I was off to a great start. But I knew I was missing a key component. You know, exercise.

When you’re tipping the scale at twice the weight of your 7th grade son, fitness isn’t a topic you casually throw around. It’s something you hear “other” people talk about. You know the type: fit, toned women with perfectly coiffed hair and their mascara on fleek. Or men who sit in the sauna, flaunting their sizzling six-pack and perfect pecs. (Not that I’ve been in a sauna with men—promise!)

Anyway, it was always “other” people who were interested in fitness. Not for nothing, but I had interests, too—like challenging myself to eat three rows of Oreos and rearranging the remaining cookies in the carton so nobody would notice. Or like, digesting an entire Domino’s pizza during one or two episodes of MTV’s The Real World.

But fitness?

The First Step was Overcoming My Fears of the Gym

It was all new to me but still intriguing. It was like a foreign language I knew nothing about, but I figured: I could learn to do it—and maybe even master it. The first step, though, was to get myself into a gym.

  The first day I showed up, I was already feeling judged. Most gym veterans have a name for people like me: I was a “resolutioner”—someone who came to the gym for a few weeks at the start of the New Year. Or maybe they figured I was someone who had been sent by their doctor after being told they were on the verge of suffering from diabetes and heart disease. I could imagine the trainers sizing me up as I waddled in, wearing an XXL tee shirt from Costco and a pair of my husband’s baggy shorts. At the very least, I’m sure they were thinking: “Someone get this heifer some proper workout clothes!”

I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying as I walked into the cycling classroom for my first spin class—my first any kind of exercise class—ever. I saw the “others” busily setting up their bikes, and I sensed them giving me the side-eye while I desperately tried to remain unnoticed. I was sure I had a sticker that read, “Loser!” on my forehead, and I was mortified. Thankfully, the instructor recognized that I was a newbie and was kind enough to come over, introduce himself, and help me set up my bike. This was an absolute lifesaver for me. Getting proper guidance before your first spin class is worth its weight (!) in gold; getting it from a friendly instructor who goes out of his way to make you feel welcome—priceless.

My biggest fear at the start of the class was that I would fall victim to a sudden heart attack, and when that didn’t happen, it was replaced by another fear: that I must have done it all wrong because I was certain that heifers like me didn’t make it out of this kind of class alive. I was also fearful that maybe the instructor had decided to play his music particularly loud that day in light of my tremendous huffing and puffing. Nevertheless, I was grateful—both that I hadn’t keeled over dead and that I hadn’t scared anyone else off. I considered it a huge bonus that the lights were dim so nobody had to see me dying on a bike seat that was practically swallowed by my arse, which was about 10 times bigger.

Why Quitting Wasn’t an Option and What it Taught Me About Myself

When class ended, I remember a moment where I was proud of myself. I had followed directions to the best of my ability—and I didn’t quit. I didn’t even consider quitting, in fact, in spite of my extreme discomfort.

My pride passed quickly as I stepped off the bike to see a small pond of my own sweat circling the floor around me. I wasn’t the only one sweating, for sure. But I think I was the only one who had dropped a good 23 pounds of water weight in 45 minutes. I saw my classmates wiping down their bikes, so I took a cue and took care of my own. I don’t know if anyone tried to make eye contact with me. I was staring at the floor the whole time, embarrassed of how pathetic I thought I looked in comparison to the demi-gods all around. I was intimidated. I was humiliated. And yet, I was oddly exhilarated. I was ready to do it all again two days later. And I knew I would have to keep doing it, over and over again, if I wanted it to be fluent in the “body language” of fitness.

I was intimidated. I was humiliated. And yet, I was oddly exhilarated.

Click to tweet

Throughout my journey in this class—and subsequent others—I kept asking the question: How badly did I want it? Did I want it more than being fat? Did I want to be healthy? I thought of my children, my husband, and my own future.

But how badly did I want it?

Turns out I wanted it so badly that not only did I go back the next day, but I kept going back—day after day—until days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. I am happy to report that I continued my quest to conquer cycling, and even made a few gym friends in the process. As time went on, I discovered that “other” people—the beautifully coiffed and perfectly stacked specimens—were much friendlier than I would have guessed.

The lesson?

My own insecurities had been holding me back for far too long. I was as prejudiced toward “healthy” people as I assumed they were toward me. I perceived cyclists as hoity-toity, stuck-up perfectionists, when, in reality, they were kindhearted people, many of whom I am proud to call friends.

#noexcuses http://pic.twitter.com/4AFnyL4Bhj

— @MelissaKahn7 (@MelissaKahn7) January 24, 2017

The end result and my new lifestyle…

I lost about a third of my body weight with the help of that class and have an entirely different perspective now. I’m no longer the newbie, and my confidence is through the roof. But I’ll never forget how it felt to be the “other” woman—the one who feels like an outcast in a gym full of pros—and I am happy to remind my fellow gym goers to believe in the “other” men and women who have made the decision to walk through the door. It doesn’t take much to send positive energy to someone who appears to be a novice:

All you have to do is smile and nod and show up as one kind soul—one person who is not judging them for their beer belly, post-baby body, or fat-suit that they developed as the result of emotional eating or otherwise.

Consider making a NEW Resolution this Year

Set a goal to reach out and try to help if someone is looking confused and out of place. You may be the one smile they needed to see to keep going. You may be the one ray of light in a day that needs some sunshine.

It’s not just good etiquette; it’s the right thing to do.

Author Bio: Melissa Kahn

Melissa Kahn is a Jenny Craig brand ambassador and the proud founder of Run, Heifer, Run! —a fun-loving community of fitness enthusiasts dedicated to commonsense solutions for weight loss and healthy living. Melissa competes in triathlons now, having lost over 100 pounds, or the equivalent of 45 kilos of fear. She has maintained her healthy weight for more than five years—another proud accomplishment considering she’s yet to meet a cookie she doesn’t like. Melissa lives in Phoenix with her husband Dave (a pilot), four foul-smelling teenagers and two spazzy dogs who remind her that the glass blender is always half-full even when someone forgets the top.

January 30, 2017 at 03:40PM

[jonathantwatson]

How Going to the Gym Scared the Death OUT of me

I remember my first stint at the gym like I remember my first kiss: My heart was racing. Okay, that was the only similarity.

My first visit to a gym was far more traumatic than my first kiss

I was humiliated to even walk through the door. I felt the eyes of 32,230 judgmental, gorgeous women on me. I felt like everyone was staring at me and I could practically hear their thoughts: “Go home, fatty! Go home!” It was horrifying, and it almost made me cry. Anyone who knows me well knows I do NOT cry. That day, with every fiber of my being, I wanted to run out of that gym—which, ironically enough, would have pushed me in the direction of my goals. But I digress.

I was on a mission: I was pushing 260 pounds and I needed to commit. I had already joined Jenny Craig, and I was off to a great start. But I knew I was missing a key component. You know, exercise.

When you’re tipping the scale at twice the weight of your 7th grade son, fitness isn’t a topic you casually throw around. It’s something you hear “other” people talk about. You know the type: fit, toned women with perfectly coiffed hair and their mascara on fleek. Or men who sit in the sauna, flaunting their sizzling six-pack and perfect pecs. (Not that I’ve been in a sauna with men—promise!)

Anyway, it was always “other” people who were interested in fitness. Not for nothing, but I had interests, too—like challenging myself to eat three rows of Oreos and rearranging the remaining cookies in the carton so nobody would notice. Or like, digesting an entire Domino’s pizza during one or two episodes of MTV’s The Real World.

But fitness?

The First Step was Overcoming My Fears of the Gym

It was all new to me but still intriguing. It was like a foreign language I knew nothing about, but I figured: I could learn to do it—and maybe even master it. The first step, though, was to get myself into a gym.

  The first day I showed up, I was already feeling judged. Most gym veterans have a name for people like me: I was a “resolutioner”—someone who came to the gym for a few weeks at the start of the New Year. Or maybe they figured I was someone who had been sent by their doctor after being told they were on the verge of suffering from diabetes and heart disease. I could imagine the trainers sizing me up as I waddled in, wearing an XXL tee shirt from Costco and a pair of my husband’s baggy shorts. At the very least, I’m sure they were thinking: “Someone get this heifer some proper workout clothes!”

I bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying as I walked into the cycling classroom for my first spin class—my first any kind of exercise class—ever. I saw the “others” busily setting up their bikes, and I sensed them giving me the side-eye while I desperately tried to remain unnoticed. I was sure I had a sticker that read, “Loser!” on my forehead, and I was mortified. Thankfully, the instructor recognized that I was a newbie and was kind enough to come over, introduce himself, and help me set up my bike. This was an absolute lifesaver for me. Getting proper guidance before your first spin class is worth its weight (!) in gold; getting it from a friendly instructor who goes out of his way to make you feel welcome—priceless.

My biggest fear at the start of the class was that I would fall victim to a sudden heart attack, and when that didn’t happen, it was replaced by another fear: that I must have done it all wrong because I was certain that heifers like me didn’t make it out of this kind of class alive. I was also fearful that maybe the instructor had decided to play his music particularly loud that day in light of my tremendous huffing and puffing. Nevertheless, I was grateful—both that I hadn’t keeled over dead and that I hadn’t scared anyone else off. I considered it a huge bonus that the lights were dim so nobody had to see me dying on a bike seat that was practically swallowed by my arse, which was about 10 times bigger.

Why Quitting Wasn’t an Option and What it Taught Me About Myself

When class ended, I remember a moment where I was proud of myself. I had followed directions to the best of my ability—and I didn’t quit. I didn’t even consider quitting, in fact, in spite of my extreme discomfort.

My pride passed quickly as I stepped off the bike to see a small pond of my own sweat circling the floor around me. I wasn’t the only one sweating, for sure. But I think I was the only one who had dropped a good 23 pounds of water weight in 45 minutes. I saw my classmates wiping down their bikes, so I took a cue and took care of my own. I don’t know if anyone tried to make eye contact with me. I was staring at the floor the whole time, embarrassed of how pathetic I thought I looked in comparison to the demi-gods all around. I was intimidated. I was humiliated. And yet, I was oddly exhilarated. I was ready to do it all again two days later. And I knew I would have to keep doing it, over and over again, if I wanted it to be fluent in the “body language” of fitness.

I was intimidated. I was humiliated. And yet, I was oddly exhilarated.

Click to tweet

Throughout my journey in this class—and subsequent others—I kept asking the question: How badly did I want it? Did I want it more than being fat? Did I want to be healthy? I thought of my children, my husband, and my own future.

But how badly did I want it?

Turns out I wanted it so badly that not only did I go back the next day, but I kept going back—day after day—until days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. I am happy to report that I continued my quest to conquer cycling, and even made a few gym friends in the process. As time went on, I discovered that “other” people—the beautifully coiffed and perfectly stacked specimens—were much friendlier than I would have guessed.

The lesson?

My own insecurities had been holding me back for far too long. I was as prejudiced toward “healthy” people as I assumed they were toward me. I perceived cyclists as hoity-toity, stuck-up perfectionists, when, in reality, they were kindhearted people, many of whom I am proud to call friends.

#noexcuses pic.twitter.com/4AFnyL4Bhj

— @MelissaKahn7 (@MelissaKahn7) January 24, 2017

The end result and my new lifestyle…

I lost about a third of my body weight with the help of that class and have an entirely different perspective now. I’m no longer the newbie, and my confidence is through the roof. But I’ll never forget how it felt to be the “other” woman—the one who feels like an outcast in a gym full of pros—and I am happy to remind my fellow gym goers to believe in the “other” men and women who have made the decision to walk through the door. It doesn’t take much to send positive energy to someone who appears to be a novice:

All you have to do is smile and nod and show up as one kind soul—one person who is not judging them for their beer belly, post-baby body, or fat-suit that they developed as the result of emotional eating or otherwise.

Consider making a NEW Resolution this Year

Set a goal to reach out and try to help if someone is looking confused and out of place. You may be the one smile they needed to see to keep going. You may be the one ray of light in a day that needs some sunshine.

It’s not just good etiquette; it’s the right thing to do.

Author Bio: Melissa Kahn

Melissa Kahn is a Jenny Craig brand ambassador and the proud founder of Run, Heifer, Run! —a fun-loving community of fitness enthusiasts dedicated to commonsense solutions for weight loss and healthy living. Melissa competes in triathlons now, having lost over 100 pounds, or the equivalent of 45 kilos of fear. She has maintained her healthy weight for more than five years—another proud accomplishment considering she’s yet to meet a cookie she doesn’t like. Melissa lives in Phoenix with her husband Dave (a pilot), four foul-smelling teenagers and two spazzy dogs who remind her that the glass blender is always half-full even when someone forgets the top.