#ship trash boys with no boundaries and who don’t take no for an answer with angry and traumatized broken girls

[cocoabubbelle]

Wanda: Toad, why are you crying? 
Todd: This book is so sad!! 
Wanda *picking it up*: …this is my diary-

[xxwhisper255xx]

Huma Fanfic- Goodnight

Audrey didn’t quite know what to make of her new roommate. She knew that she was the daughter of a sea witch, had a pirate crew, and apparently destroyed cotillion. There were worse roommates to have.

Uma mainly kept to herself, staying on her side of the dorm and avoiding conversation with the princess. It seemed to be going smoothly.

The first time Uma left their dorm at 9:30 at night, Audrey didn’t think anything of it. She was probably just getting a drink or something, and she returned just before curfew at ten o’clock. But this became a routine. After a week of the same thing, Audrey was starting to get suspicious. What was so important that she needed to do right before curfew? Was she planning some villainous act? Trying to take over Auradon like Mal and her friends did?Sometimes she worried that Uma wouldn’t return in time, but her roommate always managed to slip in the door just before ten. Her paranoia and curiosity eventually won over and Audrey decided to follow her.

Audrey followed Uma down the multiple corridors of Auradon prep. They had already past the kitchen and the entrance that led outside, but Uma hadn’t show any sign of slowing down. It wasn’t until they were in the section where the male dorms were that she stopped. Audrey quickly ducked behind the corner and watched in confusion as Uma approached one of the doors. What were they doing outside the boys dormitories?

Peeking around the corner, she realised that Uma has disappeared into the dorm. Audrey crept closer and found that it was slightly open, just enough for her to peek inside. She glanced through the crack, trying to stay as quiet as possible. The first thing she saw was Gil passed out on one of the beds. He drooled on his pillow, making the princess grimace. Uma appeared at his bedside, pulling blankets over the sleeping pirate. After he was tucked in, Audrey’s eyes followed Uma to the other side of the room. Harry Hook sat on the other bed, fiddling with his hook, which had been dulled when they arrived in Auradon. She watched as Uma sat beside him and they talked in quiet voices, not wanting to wake up Gil.

She looked back up just in time to see Uma embrace her first mate. He buried his face in her neck and squeezed her tighter. Audrey was shocked at the intimacy, not expecting to see a VK look so vulnerable. She stepped back, suddenly feeling bad for intruding on such a personal moment. A few moments later she heard Uma’s voice become clearer as the pirate moved towards the door. “... get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Audrey jumped back and darted down the hall, back to her room. Uma closed the door behind her just as the pink blur disappeared around the corner. She furrowed her eyebrows and sped back to her dorm. When Uma returned to her room right at 9.59, Audrey was sitting on her bed, pretending to read. The two girls’ eyes met, and Audrey froze. It felt like she could see right through her. The princess looked back, and the look of understanding in her eyes was enough to make Uma relax. The two went to bed without a word.

——

It was a few weeks later when Uma’s routine was suddenly knocked off balance. The two girls sat on their beds, Audrey writing in her diary and Uma doing homework for her goodness class. As an unspoken rule, neither had mentioned Uma’s nightly visits.

A loud static filled the room before Fairy Godmother’s voice came through the sound system.

“Attention, Auradon Prep. As we will be expecting some royals on campus for a meeting tomorrow, I expect all students to be in bed by 9.30 so you can wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed! Thank you, have sweet dreams.”

Once the sound cut out, Audrey glanced over at Uma. The pirate was glaring at her homework, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Uma, are you alright?” Audrey asked softly. The pirate looked back at her with a calmness that looked completely fake.

“Course, Princess.” She said, scoffing like the question was ridiculous.

Audrey frowned. She didn’t know why it was so important for Uma to see the boys every night, but she knew that it had to be big if she was like this.

“I’m sure they’ll be okay.” The princess said hesitantly. It was the first time either of them had directly mentioned Uma’s nightly visits. She immediately regretted breaking their unspoken agreement.

“I know,” Uma replied, collecting her work and dumping it on the desk. Audrey felt relief at her response and followed suit, putting her diary away before climbing into her bed. She glanced over at Uma once she was settled, but all she could see was her roommate’s back. Audrey sighed and rolled over, drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

——

It had only been a couple hours when her sleep was interrupted by a horrific scream. Audrey sat up quickly, looking around for danger. Finding none, her eyes landed on Uma.

Uma was still asleep, but she was panting and gasping for air. Her hand was reaching around for a weapon or something. “No! Don’t touch them!” She shrieked to an invisible threat.

Audrey leaped out of her bed and raced over, grabbing Uma’s arm.

“Uma, it’s okay, you’re okay,” she said, shaking the pirate. Uma trashed harder, tears now pouring down her face.

Audrey had to think fast. She knew that Uma wouldn’t want Fairy Godmother or Mal (who’s dorm was the closest) to see her like this, so they were out of the question. Suddenly, the obvious answer struck her and she stood up.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” She told the pirate, before dashing out of the room.

Audrey ran barefoot down the hallway, trying to remember the room number she was looking for. Spotting what she hoped was the right door, she skidded to a stop and knocked urgently. It took about ten seconds for the door to be opened, revealing a sleepy Harry Hook, looking confused at her sudden appearance.

“What do I owe the pleasure, princess?” He grumbled. She had no doubt that it looked weird, showing up at his door in her silk pink pjs at two AM.

“It’s Uma,” she barely got the words out before he suddenly became wide awake. Before she could say anything else, he had already pushed past her and was running down the hall. Audrey pulled herself together and followed him, having trouble keeping up with him.

She reached her doorway, panting. Harry was already beside Uma’s bed.

“Uma,” he whispered, sitting down and pulling her into his arms.

“It’s alright, captain. We’re in Auradon. You’re safe,” he continued to reassure her in whispers that Audrey couldn’t hear. “Harry?” Uma mumbled, her eyes opening.

“Right here, love. You just had a bad dream, is all.”

Uma choked on a sob and dropped her face onto his bare chest, her breathing still rapid. Audrey stood in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in her own room.

“I’ll get her some water,” she said, not sure if either of them even heard her.

——

When Audrey returned, she was met with only quiet. She opened the door and stepped in on her tiptoes, not wanting to disturb them. The two pirates were curled up on Uma’s bed, the girl in question being sound asleep. Harry looked up from his captain and met Audrey’s gaze. She tried to smile, lifting the glass of water.

“Is she okay?” She asked, looking at Uma asleep on his chest.

“Yeah. You did the right thing, comin’ to get me.” He told her, gratefully.

Audrey nodded, placing the glass of water at Uma’s bedside.

“So I assume you’re staying?” She asked politely, not wanting to sound like she was trying to kick him out.

“Anyone gonna know?” He asked, tightening his hold on his captain as if the very idea of leaving her was impossible.

Audrey chuckled and moved to her own bed.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,”

Harry gave her a small smile before looking down at Uma.

Audrey watched them for a second before speaking hesitantly.

“Has this happened before?” She questioned, her curiosity getting the better of her. Harry was silent for a moment and she wondered if she had overstepped a boundary.

“Happens on occasion, but it’s usually the other way ‘round.” He said finally. “There was always someone on the ship that woke up screaming.”

“Is that why she visits you guys every night?” Audrey spoke before she could stop herself. When Harry didn’t show a notable reaction to her question, she guessed that Uma had told him she knew.

“Yeah. We used to share a room back on the ship, but we can’t do that here so seeing her is the best she can do to help stop me from havin’ nightmares. I guess it helped her too.”

Audrey wondered if he was revealing all of this because he was tired, or if he really trusted her with that information. Either way, she was beginning to understand her roommate a little bit more.

“Goodnight, Harry,” she said, getting back into her bed. She heard him respond quietly before she fell into a deep sleep.

——

“Is everything okay? We heard noises from your dorm last night,” Mal asked at breakfast the next morning. Audrey saw Uma and Harry tense up across from her and jumped in.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I started sleep walking and Uma woke me up. Sleep issues seem to run in my family,” she glared playfully at Mal, who laughed in response.

The topic of conversation shifted quickly and Uma met Audrey’s eyes, nodding in thanks. The princess smiled back. The two girls shared a mutual respect, and Audrey knew that this was only the beginning of their friendship

[lord-explosion-baku]

Before You Ask...

Here are the FAQs!

Story Status- These are the most frequent asks in my inbox. The “do you plan on continuing this fic?” “When will you update?” “How often do you update?”

📝For frequent updates

✅For complete

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THORNS-📝 I try to update every two weeks, although my busy schedule might not make this very consistent. I try not to be too strict with myself so I don’t beat myself up over not getting a chapter out in time, although I’ve been liberally very good about it so far.

Tempting Tempest-✅⁉️ I wrote the two parts I knew I was going to write. I might continue the stiry for option three when I have time

Our Love Is God-⁉️I’ll only be writing for this when I have the time. It’s not an obligation and only something I’ll turn to when I’m like “???huh. Got nothing better to do rn!”

RISING SUN- ⁉️ I know. I know I haven’t updated since 2019 and some of you guys really like this story. I like it, too, and I do plan on continuing it, but goodness gracious do I have to be in the right mindset to write this. Like, come on, it’s a fantasy fluff fic with a made up language, it’s not the easiest thing to write. I do have some plot ideas in mind as well, but I don’t have the whole story fleshed out. I will get to it though. Eventually.

Reread Me- ✅ basically this was a request I turned into a fic. The request was for “Yandere!Aizawa x School Nurse!reader, NSFW pls” and that’s what I did. I don’t plan on delving further into this plot. I surely could and will write more of yandere!Aizawa but this story is over, bro.

Like Ghosts In Snow- ✅ This is completed and I don’t plan on continuing it. I might do random off oneshots for the series, but that’ll be on my own accord.

Fate’s Kiss-⁉️

How Not To Marry a Demon Lord-⁉️

Red Scarf-✅ I do have a request for a continuation that I may get to, but for now I’m satisfied with saying that it’s completed.

You’re All Mine-✅ The story ended with the reader going back to Dabi y’all. No mas. It was literally the first thing I ever wrote and I’m happy with knowing that it’s over since it’s pretty much a train wreck lol.

A SWEET BOY-⁉️

DANCING’S NOT A CRIME (UNLESS YOU DO IT WITHOUT ME)-❌ I’m gonna be real, sport. This was a just-for-fun thing I started when I first got into writing. I didn’t expect people to read it, I didn’t expect it to get popular, I didn’t expect it to be anything. When I started it, I didn’t know how quirks worked, so I made the reader an overpowered Mary-Sue. I also had a bit of a direction for the fic at first but then I let my audience influence how things turned out. I started feeling very iffy about the fic and updates became a huge hassle. The last time I updated, even after it was difficult for me to get it out, people made comments about not liking how things were going. I felt under appreciated and this fic became a stab in my chest. Add that in with people complaining and asking so many times when the next update was going to be, I decided that I would be happier if this shit just stopped. Sorry guys. No mas.

THE FOREST- ✅

Yandere Neko!Shinsou- ✅⁉️ As far as I know, it’s done. I could probably write more, but let’s be real, I cursed it by using the term “tiny pants.” Also, no offense but being berated with “part 2? Pt. 2 pls,,,, part 3???” makes me not want to write anything

The Kiss of Death- ✅this was JUST a one shot. Please see rule #9

Rules For This Blog. The “Please Do Not’s”

These are not the Rules For Requests, but some of them are related.

Please do not berate or spam me with the same ask over and over again. I’ve had people cloud my inbox with multiples of “bloop” or “how many followers do you have?” and like??? If I hadn’t answered you the first couple times, I’m not going to answer you the fifth or sixth time. Please be chill. I announce my follower milestones when it’s relevant and your spam becomes my followers’ spam if I answer every nonsensical thing sent my way. I’m sorry if this seems mean.

Please try to keep asks BNHA related seeing as this is a BNHA blog. I’ll answer personal questions, sure, and I’ll partake in some asks games, however, if you want to strike up a conversation, my PMs are open. I’m not always the best at replying but I do try to get to them on my own time!

No transphobia, homophobia, ableism, racism, or religious call outs of any sort. I want this to be a safe space for all people. If I didn’t know something might be ableist or racist or anything of the sort, I would appreciate being informed about it, and regardless of the intent, I’ll have harmful slander removed for the blog.

Please do not ask me to reblog your posts. I’ve been taken advantage of in the past, and I don’t appreciate it.

Please keep overly sexual or sensitive content out of my ask box. I know I’ve written quite a bit of promiscuous and down right nasty shit, but when I do that, I can at least tag warnings and such for people who don’t want to see the big nasty. It’s only respectful to consider my boundaries, as well as the people who follow my blog’s boundaries. If there’s a not safe for work topic you wish to discuss, again, my PMs are open.

No discourse. No cartoon politics. Whether you are pro or anti characters or ships, whatever, those are not topics of discussion I wish to have in this blog.

Do not request when requests are not open??? I’m sorry, but it’s literally in my bio when requests are open. when requests are open, I put it in my bio as well as the “ask” option that requests are open?? Read people’s bios, dude!

I’m really sorry about this one, but no emergency comfort requests. I’ve gotten at least five and my heart goes out to you guys with problems and like,, I want to help but this is seriously stressful to me. I want to help you, I want you guys to be okay, but I can’t be responsible for that. Like, GOD, I want to help you but as soon as I get an emergency comfort ask I’m like?! Full panic mode. I think about writing something, anything, to make y’all feel okay, but then I overthink and I can’t get to it, and then I feel like I’ve failed you. That’s not fair to any of us.

“Part 2 pls.” Listen. LISTEN. OH MY GOD. there’s nothing that compares to working hard on a oneshot, and getting so excited to see someone comment or send in an anon and it’s literally just “part 2 pls”. God. It means a lot that you liked something enough to see more of it but fffff writers are working hard to get this shit out for you for free and “part 2 pls” should not be acceptable. I’m sorry. There are better ways of telling writers that you liked their work enough to see a continuation. Be considerate dude. Also, appreciate ambiguity a little more. Use your imagination. It’s not that hard.

If you do not agree with some of the unconventional things I write, don’t read it?? Get out?? Leave??? Nothing you say to me will sway me away from writing the shit that I want to write. I simply use the characters of BNHA as a medium for the stories I choose to write. They’re fictional, and I do not support a lot of the shit that goes down on my writing, not irl. There’s a difference between fantasy fiction and real life. If you knew who I was in real life, you’d know how angry I am at the disgusting trash in the world. That doesn’t affect my writing though. Writing is a coping mechanism for me. I do my best at tagging the horrible things I might get to in my fics/one shots, so if you’re reading whatever the fuck I’ve done with an intent in being angry??? Take a bath, maybe eat some bread, and think of another way to expend your energy, dawg. I’m going to ignore you otherwise.

[southboundhq]

MEET ISLA,

FULL NAME › Isla Eileen MacClean AGE › eighteen GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Boot Hill, Arizona RESIDENCE › Trails End Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Student at Boot Hill High School, Box Office Attendant at the Continental Moviehouse (Saturdays), Waitress at the Schoolhouse Cafe (Weekday evenings) NOW PLAYING ›

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: disappearance of a family member, alcoholism mention

 the only perfect girl is a dead girl. that’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter, growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. in the beginning, they thought isla was a blessing – may’s soul reincarnate, the lord’s prayers finally answered. you were given her clothes, her room, even her name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. seven boys, a dead sister, and you who, with your white-blonde hair and cornflower eyes, was merely a walking ghost to your mother, half-the-time soppy with tender kisses, the other half haunted, confining herself to the dark corners of a house too small for eight ragamuffin kids. you were either overwhelmed or underwhelmed, numb or heretic, dealing in extremes like the hand your mother dealt you – either starved of affection or slathered in it. tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage – these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own, lest you disturb the lingering presence of may. soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

    at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a townhouse boy. “adam, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” his mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the girl with a sprig of ivy in her hair, you never did find out. white trash. the expression was never far from earshot when the maccleans were around – eight boisterous lads in battered shoes and tattered clothing and then isla, like an angel – perhaps because that’s what you had been forced to become. death resurrected in tired eyes and a tutu.

    you kept yourself groomed like a pageant dog – hair always combed with whatever you could find, nails clipped, dresses re-hemmed when the stitches rotted out, feet squished into too-small shoes from a charity store on the outskirts. you made the best of what you had in the hope that standing out from your siblings would prove you existed outside of may. you found attention through other means. you learned the clarinet at nine and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at ten. by twelve you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too much, too perfect, nothing like eileen, why can’t you just fit in?

   lying is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off – and soon ‘isla’ becomes just something you perform, a character, a toy. the person you became in high school was an artistic fabrication; the bright smiles, soft words, cherry-flavoured lip gloss, all magpie thieved from magazines on how to be a girl. the first time you told a lie, eight years old with silk ribons in your hair, tongue as sharp as a stanley knife, eyes like a wildfire staring into those of your mother’s, you had felt invincible. after that, it was a downward spiral, lying about the simplest of things, just for the thrill of it. you’d go to buy a paperback book, and upon being asked where you’d been, you’d claim a bike ride, a date, a visit to the rabbits in the next door neighbour’s garden. little white lies that built up a repertoire of manipulation. words had the power to make people believe anything you wanted, as long as they were convincing. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant.

    there were parts of your head you tried to keep hidden, boxed up like coffins, never learned how to deal with things properly. anger escapes in bursts ; in the thwack of a hockey-stick against skin during a brawl, muttered excuses that your hand slipped. they believe you, of course – you’re nice, you’re loving, you’re sweet. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the one only alison knows about. you slather it in foundation daily, until your hair grows wild again, skirts that float at your knees swapped when the sun sets for others that kiss the cheeks of your bum. smile. sit up. close your legs. comb your hair. arch your back. purse your lips. this was what it was to be a girl half-dead, bras hanging over wooden crucifixes while stone angels watched you climb down the guttering in a too-short skirt. unlike with mother, you don’t have to beg for affection from the boys. they think you’re cool, stylish, pretty, clever. when they kiss you it tastes like cigarettes and your brother’s aftershave. they say they know cian, or that other one, the redhead. that one of your brothers pedalled them acid. not that dangerous, just a bit of fun. you take it on the tongue like alice in wonderland and get drunk on the feeling of being known not as a macclean but merely as you. and maybe the girl they see you as – this dreamy, far-away thing – has been who you are all along.

    flattery will get you everywhere – so silver-tongued and cupid-mouthed you win affections like they’re poker chips. at school you could whip the girls into a frenzy with a cutting remark or an elaborate dare ; the mere flick of your tongue you could have an army in your ranks. like a caged hummingbird you’d learned to sing in the dark, and it was time for the world to hear your voice. you’d heard about the girl who lost it to her bike as she tumbled too fast down a hill, heard second-hand how lily sanchez’s parents were gone, a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. never had a sip before that night. you learnt who you are like the click of an aluminium can, worms spilling out in that vivid space between angelic and disgusting, something repressed finally coming to fruition when you lose it on the floor of a swimming pool changing room, soggy back, polka-dot nylon pulled down to your ankles. it gets easy to pretend. you hide it behind the sugar-sweet smiles and the butterfly barrettes. hunger pools in the pit of your stomach like an unborn child. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you’re helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships, and may never went to college, never got out of this sad little town.

    for the first time in your ghost-like existence, you want things, people, places. you have ambitions that stretch further than the four walls of a glitter-gritted cell, further even than the town boundaries. bright-eyed and cheer skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. part of you wishes that sonny had done it – flown the nest. it would make it easier for you to break your mother’s heart, but it was never you whom she loved anyway – just a dead girl you half-resembled in the moonlight. so you cash in your chips in piggy banks, stash notes under floorboards, patch up your old jeans when the seams split. working two part-time jobs juggled with homework, arithmetic scribbled on the backs of napkins as you wait for the coffee beans to roast – it’ll take a fucking miracle to earn enough, but you were raised like a resurrected lady lazarus, a girl brought back from the dead. you’re nothing short of miraculous.

❝ there’s something dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Eliza Scanlen AUTHOR › Nora

[southboundhqarchive]

MEET FINOLA,

FULL NAME › Finola Eileen MacClean AGE › eighteen GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Boot Hill, Arizona RESIDENCE › Trails End Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Student at Boot Hill High School, Box Office Attendant at the Continental Moviehouse (Saturdays), Waitress at the Schoolhouse Cafe (Weekday evenings) NOW PLAYING › You Don’t Own Me by Lesley Gore

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: disappearance of a family member, alcoholism mention

    The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter, growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought Finola was a blessing – Eileen’s soul reincarnate, the Lord’s prayers finally answered. You were given her clothes, her room, even her name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Seven boys, a dead sister, and you who, with your white-blonde hair and cornflower eyes, was merely a walking ghost to your mother, half-the-time soppy with tender kisses, the other half haunted, confining herself to the dark corners of a house too small for eight ragamuffin kids. You were either overwhelmed or underwhelmed, numb or heretic, dealing in extremes like the hand your mother dealt you – either starved of affection or slathered in it. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage – these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own, lest you disturb the lingering presence of Eileen. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

       At eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a townhouse boy. “Adam, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” his Mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody Mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the girl with a sprig of ivy in her hair, you never did find out. White trash. The expression was never far from earshot when the MacCleans were around – eight boisterous lads in battered shoes and tattered clothing and then Finola, like an angel – perhaps because that’s what you had been forced to become. Death resurrected in tired eyes and a tutu.

       You kept yourself groomed like a pageant dog – hair always combed with whatever you could find, nails clipped, dresses re-hemmed when the stitches rotted out, feet squished into too-small shoes from a charity store on the outskirts. You made the best of what you had in the hope that standing out from your siblings would prove you existed outside of Eileen. You found attention through other means. You learned the clarinet at nine and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at ten. By twelve you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. Loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. That was how magnetic you wanted to feel. But mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too much, too perfect, nothing like Eileen, why can’t you just fit in?

      Lying is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off – and soon ‘Finola’ becomes just something you perform, a character, a toy. The person you became in high school was an artistic fabrication; the bright smiles, soft words, cherry-flavoured lip gloss, all magpie thieved from magazines on how to be a girl. The first time you told a lie, eight years old with silk ribons in your hair, tongue as sharp as a Stanley knife, eyes like a wildfire staring into those of your mother’s, you had felt invincible. After that, it was a downward spiral, lying about the simplest of things, just for the thrill of it. You’d go to buy a paperback book, and upon being asked where you’d been, you’d claim a bike ride, a date, a visit to the rabbits in the next door neighbour’s garden. Little white lies that built up a repertoire of manipulation. Words had the power to make people believe anything you wanted, as long as they were convincing. A mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. Bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. To have the power to control that is to be a God. It’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. Small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant.

       There were parts of your head you tried to keep hidden, boxed up like coffins, never learned how to deal with things properly. Anger escapes in bursts ; in the thwack of a hockey-stick against skin during a brawl, muttered excuses that your hand slipped. They believe you, of course – you’re nice, you’re loving, you’re sweet. You cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the one only Alison knows about. You slather it in foundation daily, until your hair grows wild again, skirts that float at your knees swapped when the sun sets for others that kiss the cheeks of your bum. Smile. Sit up. Close your legs. Comb your hair. Arch your back. Purse your lips. This was what it was to be a girl half-dead, bras hanging over wooden crucifixes while stone angels watched you climb down the guttering in a too-short skirt. Unlike with mother, you don’t have to beg for affection from the boys. They think you’re cool, stylish, pretty, clever. When they kiss you it tastes like cigarettes and your brother’s aftershave. They say they know Feargas, or that other one, the redhead. That one of your brothers pedalled them acid. Not that dangerous, just a bit of fun. You take it on the tongue like Alice in Wonderland and get drunk on the feeling of being known not as a MacClean but merely as you. And maybe the girl they see you as – this dreamy, far-away thing – has been who you are all along.

       Flattery will get you everywhere – so silver-tongued and cupid-mouthed you win affections like they’re poker chips. At school you could whip the girls into a frenzy with a cutting remark or an elaborate dare ; the mere flick of your tongue you could have an army in your ranks. Like a caged hummingbird you’d learned to sing in the dark, and it was time for the world to hear your voice. You’d heard about the girl who lost it to her bike as she tumbled too fast down a hill, heard second-hand how Lily Sanchez’s parents were gone, a free house for the night, bottles of Ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. Never had a sip before that night. You learnt who you are like the click of an aluminium can, worms spilling out in that vivid space between angelic and disgusting, something repressed finally coming to fruition when you lose it on the floor of a swimming pool changing room, soggy back, poka-dot nylon pulled down to your ankles. It gets easy to pretend. You hide it behind the sugar-sweet smiles and the butterfly barrettes. Hunger pools in the pit of your stomach like an unborn child. In leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you’re Helen of Troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships, and Eileen never went to college, never got out of this sad little town.

       For the first time in your ghost-like existence, you want things, people, places. You have ambitions that stretch further than the four walls of a glitter-gritted cell, further even than the town boundaries. Bright-eyed and cheer skirted, you’d always known you were more. There was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. Part of you wishes that Sonny had done it – flown the nest. It would make it easier for you to break your mother’s heart, but it was never you whom she loved anyway – just a dead girl you half-resembled in the moonlight. So you cash in your chips in piggy banks, stash notes under floorboards, patch up your old jeans when the seams split. Working two part-time jobs juggled with homework, arithmetic scribbled on the backs of napkins as you wait for the coffee beans to roast – it’ll take a fucking miracle to earn enough, but you were raised like a resurrected Lady Lazarus, a girl brought back from the dead. You’re nothing short of miraculous.

❝ if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Eliza Scanlen AUTHOR › Nora

[chase-the-windandtouch-the-sky]

What about a Bellarke one shot where Madi sets up a date for the two of them? She is aware that Bellamy is in love with Clarke and vise versa and decides to take them to a secret date she planned because she is tired to wait for them to be together!

Oh my gosh, I never got these notifications! Tumblr mobile app, WHY?!

The theme of the above prompt?!

PARENT TRAP.

It took three days to set up.

Madi isn’t proud of it - well, she is but she won’t be telling Clarke that anytime soon - but she is tired of the dancing around. All it took was an old book Shaw found on the Eligius ship, Murphy’s help through intense bribery (and then Raven’s subsequent help and forcing Murphy to do as well for free), and an honest request. She flipped through the pages of 101 Ways to Tell Her How You Feel, the pages old from dust, mining for hints and tricks for courtship. Shaw chuckled as she does so, insisting that even a hundred years ago, the book was outdated, but she had nothing else to go on. All she knew is the following:

Clarke and Bellamy are idiots.

She would never say it to their faces, but even Raven admitted their actions after the valley was won were exhausting. Madi figured they would need some time to settle back in the valley and learn how to live with the Eligius crew, but once everything was figured out, wouldn’t they at least talk about it? Instead Clarke and Bellamy did what Clarke and Bellamy seem to do best: throw themselves into work for ‘the greater good’ and ignore the one thing that would make them happy. Add the fact that there was no sense of privacy in the village, Madi was convinced nothing would ever happen.

So? Madi decided three days ago that she was going to change this.

On the night of the set-up, Madi pours over the book one last time. It talks about candles and fancy food that she’s never eaten, but she gets the gist: do things you wouldn’t normally do to show someone how you feel. She hunted for days trying to earn enough to barter the Eligius members for trinkets and knick knacks, get extra meal tokens, and after three days - and one threatening session from Raven and Murphy to a few Eligius members, she’s got everything she needs.

Diyoza stands in front of the crowd of people, her eyes searching for Madi. Once they catch her eye, Diyoza smiles. “Alright, due to some concern of the southwest barrier, we’re going to need a handful of lookouts.”

Clarke frowns, where she stands next to Madi. “Lookouts?” She repeats. “Is there a threat we’re unaware of?”

Diyoza shakes her head. “It’s the one part of the underground fence that hasn’t been completed yet. I think we all can agree that we’d feel safest if it’s guarded until Raven and Shaw have an opportunity to finish their project.”

Raven scoffs. “I don’t think you realize how complicated it is to set up the security system you’re requesting. It’s not something you can snap your fingers and have it done overnight.”

Diozya sighs, “No one’s saying that, Reyes, I’m simply say that you never know what’s out there.”

“We’re literally the last humans on earth, why are we worried about that?” One of the crew members call out.

“I think we can all agree from experience that, that sort of mentality always leads to trouble.” Diyoza says with a smirk. “First watch will be Blake, Griffin, Murphy, and Shaw.”

Madi can’t help but smile, ducking her head when Diyoza winks at her. She was the only one that didn’t need a ton of convincing. Madi had a feeling the longer her pregnancy continued, the more likely she would be amenable to shenanigans Madi came up with. So, she better get Clarke and Bellamy together now, because Diyoza wouldn’t be as lenient with her forever.

Rushing over to Murphy, Madi, sneaks a something into his hand. “All you have to do is put this on the radio,” she whispers, trying to find Clarke. Of course she’s already next to Bellamy, shouldering her pack and beaming at him. Once the war stopped, the two seemed to have a weight lifted from their shoulders. The loss of life was minimal and for at least the foreseeable future, everyone was getting along. They were safe. For the first time everyone was together, they were safe. While Madi could always see the ghosts of the past behind Clarke’s eyes, they lighten when Bellamy is near. “Raven says once it’s in place, it’ll sound a memo of Diyoza calling you and Shaw back.”

Murphy takes the device from her, rolling his eyes. “Why not simply ask Diyoza to call us back? She agreed with everything else.”

“She said that while she’s 'fine with ordering people for the safety of others, she won’t get drawn into my prank.’”

Murphy laughs. “Sounds about right.” He ruffles Madi’s hair in the way that she hates, pulling on her braids. “Alright pipsqueak, let Operation Bang It Out commence.”

“Good god, Murphy,” Raven says exasperatedly. “Can you at least pretend you have a filter?”

“I’ve never had a great internal imagination.”

Raven shoves Murphy so he stumbles toward where Bellamy, Clarke, and Shaw are. She then turns to Madi with a smile. “Ready? With your tracking abilities, they should never know we’re following them.”

“Shaw and Murphy could distract them, you know.”

“Dumb and Dumber? I don’t want to hold my breath with those two.”

“I thought you said that Shaw was smart enough to hang with you?” Madi asks, confused.

“Yeah, with engineering.” Raven snorts. “Poor boy has been frozen for one hundred years, which leaves his social skills to be desired.”

“You mean he hasn’t asked you out yet?”

“No need to parent trap this one, Madi. I am very desirable and go for what I want.” She flips her hair. “Did you think Shaw even had a chance?”

Madi giggles and the two trek in the forest several feet behind the group, who are chatting. Raven catches Madi’s eye and rolls her eyes, pointing at Clarke and Bellamy, who are so far ahead of Shaw and Murphy, but lost too much in their own conversation to even notice. “We don’t even need to be discreet.” Raven mutters to herself.

Pulling the book out of her backpack, Madi opens to a dog-eared page. “It says here that music is a good way to indicate the goal of the evening. 'For example: if you want to maintain the boundary of friendship, play something light and poppy, as to tell the other person thank you, but we should remain friends.’” Madi pulls out a device she traded the Eligius crew for on the ship and hands it to Raven. “Do you know any of these songs?” She asks, scrolling through.

Raven flips through, “Uh, not really. They would play some music in Engineering on the Ark, but it wasn’t romantic songs. Think: more head bangers. Hey, this one looks like the person is holding a paintbrush.”

Madi smiles, “Perfect, Clarke loves to paint. We’ll use that one. It’s an album called 'It’s Blitz!’ I have no idea what that means.” Madi flips through a couple pages. “So, it also say alcohol helps, specifically something called 'wine.’ I don’t think we have any of that, so I got some moonshine from Monty…” She rummages through the bag. “And tonight’s the perfect night because there’s a full moon! They say the evening sky is the perfect setting for ambiance.”

Raven chuckles. “Madi, I’m sure everything will be perfect.” She places a hand on her shoulder. “Do you mind my asking why this is so important to you?”

“Aren’t you tired of them not talking?” Madi exclaims, huffing. “Clarke spoke with Bellamy on the phone every day for six years - I had to listen to it for six years.”

“That’s a lot of years, Madi.” Raven says with a soft smile.

“And,” she continues, wincing. “I always felt bad.” Madi shrugs, trying to shove down her guilt.

Raven frowns. “Felt bad? For what?”

Madi sighs. “Clarke was left behind. And sure, I’m grateful because that means we had each other, but it had to have sucked for Clarke, you know? It’s not fair. It’s not fair that you guys got six years of peace together and she was stuck here, even if it meant I had someone too.”

Raven stops walking. Madi almost argues, but Raven places her hands on her shoulder. “Madi, she got six years of peace. Sure, it wasn’t with us, but it was with you. And she doesn’t just try to make you feel better when she says she’s happy she’s with you. She talks about it all the time. How grateful she is everything worked out and how grateful she is you found each other. Don’t feel bad for something you had nothing to do with, because I am not lying to you when I say, she does not.”

Madi can’t help but smile to herself. “Thanks, Raven.”

Once they reach the checkpoint, Clarke and Bellamy cast looks over their shoulders and realize Murphy and Shaw are way behind them. They laugh, Clarke placing her hand on her hip and tapping her wrist at Murphy until they catch up. Murphy bellows a laugh and shoves her playfully, causing Clarke to stumble forward. She places a hand on his shoulder and shakes her head, jogging up to where Bellamy is chuckling at the two of them. Madi and Raven creep up to where they are, pushing back a few branches.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand your friendship,” Shaw is saying.

“What’s to understand? We’re high class and Ark trash.” Murphy answers. “I’m obviously the high class.”

“It’s true,” Clarke answers, leaning down to tie her shoe. She sucks in a breath and extends her arms. Madi can barely remember the last time she looked this at peace and free, Clarke spinning around a few times. Bellamy watches her with a soft look in his eyes, not even trying to hide it. Raven elbows Madi’s side and nods at him, to which she can only laugh. “This is actually one of my favorite spots in the valley.” She says with a smile. “Look how the moon reflects across the water.”

Bellamy steps forward to where she is, crossing his arms. “It’s not something we could see from space, that’s for sure.”

Murphy turns around, searching for them. When he finds Raven and Madi, he mouths, “Oh my god,” causing Madi to need to clasp her hands over her mouth before giggling.

Murphy fiddles with the radio, which crackles to life. “Shaw, we need you back at camp. Something malfunctioned on the ship. Murphy, walk back with him for safety.”

Murphy puts on a good show, snarling into the radio, “That was a nice demand. Where’s my please?”

The radio doesn’t even crackle.

“Rude.” He states. “Well, it’s been fun. You guys good by yourselves?”

Clarke and Bellamy frown. “Everything okay?” Bellamy asks, suspicious.

Madi should’ve seen this coming. They’ve been through too much not to be suspicious.

“That ship, man,” Shaw tries to cover. “If I had a dollar every time it broke… well, since we don’t use dollars anymore, it doesn’t really matter, but you catch my drift.”

“Dude, please be cool, for once in your life.” Murphy hisses.

It’s clear neither of them are convinced. Before Shaw can dig himself a deeper hole, Murphy grabs his arm. “Duty calls and all that. Radio if anything happens. Here, have my pack. It, uh, has food. And Monty packed some moonshine.”

He yanks Shaw behind him, the two stumbling through the forest. Clarke arches an eyebrow at Bellamy, who shrugs. “At least we get the view?” He offers.

The two sit at the edge of the water, the moon rippling off the waves. Madi almost feels guilty watching because it’s such an intimate moment. The two are shoulder-to-shoulder, arms crossed against their knees. After a few moments, Clarke takes off her boots, tossing them to the side. Dipping her toes into the water, she sighs. “What are you doing?” Bellamy cries.

“It’s very refreshing, you should try.”

“You’ll get sick! Plus, what happens if something actually happens? How are you going to run barefoot?”

“I got very good at running barefoot, I’ll have you know.” Clarke grins. “A radiation-soaked planet is a hot planet.”

All he does is shake his head in response.

Clarke bows her head, tilting it slightly toward Bellamy. “You doing alright? After everything?”

Bellamy sighs. “I suppose. Octavia still won’t talk to me for talking Diyoza’s deal behind her back and causing a mutiny in Wonkru. She doesn’t agree it saved their lives.”

Clarke hesitates before responding. “She’ll see. You know Octavia, she’ll fight you, but she’ll come around. One day she’ll see how you saved everyone’s lives. Once we get settled and she realizes that death isn’t the only answer, she realize what you’ve done for her. What you’ve done for everyone. She’ll remember how special you are. And really see it this time.”

Madi can’t see it, but she knows exactly the look Bellamy’s giving her right now. It’s a smile saved especially for Clarke, slight and grateful. “Is it time for the music?” Madi whispers to Raven, pulling out the device and a set of speakers. Raven nods and Madi plugs it in, pressing play.

“Off with your head!

Dance, dance til your dead!

Off, off, off with your head!

Dance, dance til your dead!”

“What is that?” Raven cries. “Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off!”

Madi scrambles, yanking the chord out.

Bellamy shoots to his feet, unholstering his gun and pointing it where they’re hiding. “Who’s there?”

Clarke pulls on his pant leg. “Put the gun down, it’s just Raven and Madi.”

The two freeze in their hiding spot.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are, I’ve known you were following us since we left camp.” Bellamy lowers the gun with a frown, but doesn’t sit back down. “Raven, please take Madi back to camp. Madi, you know it’s past your bed time. And Raven, tell Murphy and Shaw I will deal with them in the morning.”

Madi gulps. “Sorry,” she mouths to Raven, who is fighting a smile.

“We wouldn’t have to do this if you two would just TALK, you know.” Raven calls to them.

On their way back, Madi observes the album cover closer. “OH, it’s someone breaking an egg with their hand. It’s not a paintbrush at all.”

Raven bursts out laughing. “Yeah, that’s why this plan became a disaster. Otherwise flawless.”

Except neither of them bring it up when they make it back to camp the next day. When Clarke and Bellamy arrive, Madi catches as they slip their hands out of each other’s when they come into view. She catches when they smile at each other when they think no one’s looking, or how they disappeared for an hour in the afternoon.

Before everyone separates to go to sleep, Bellamy approaches Madi. She prepares herself for a half-hearted argument, but is greated by a high five. “Thanks,” he mutters before walking away.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a disaster after all.

[easkyrah]

What’s your opinion on younger teens in the sjm fandoms? I’m starting to get uncomfortable when younger kids follow me and their age is outright listed on their description.

This went way longer than I thought it was. I’d originally planned simply giving a one sentence response, but the more I thought about it, the more I think I needed to clarify, and pin down why I felt this way. Because opinions aren’t fact, you know?

I didn’t grow up on bedtime stories where the prince saved the princess. When my mother tucked me into bed, she told me two weeks after her marriage, she cut herself. As she made the motions over her wrist, I sick feeling remained in my stomach for days, and every day my father came home from work, I would rub my palms over my arms.

My father holds that sex remains an integral facet of a marriage. Without intercourse, two individuals exist as friends. So whenever my father felt aroused, he forced my mother to have sex with him, even though she’s repeatedly told me when we’re alone she doesn’t want it—but she has to if this marriage is to work.

I told my mother that that is rape, that he’s undermining the vow to love each other. But my mother’s so broken down from her young, past self, she can’t see it. One day, she asked me, “Do you think your father’s controlling?” Not husband, but my father.

And it is my father that locked me out on the porch, and when he let me in with me blubbering “why why why”, he told me, “I destroy my enemies so completely so that they don’t destroy me.” Me—his daughter—his enemy.

I’d been doing the dishes, and the plates had made a clashing noise. “That sound is annoying,” my father had said, approaching me. “If you make it again, I’m going to start using my fists to keep me happy.”

I told him I’d report him, but that didn’t deter him. “Good!” he shouted. “Report me so that I don’t have to take care of you anymore.” My mother had watched silently, but she knew she couldn’t do anything.

Because he is controlling. He had my mother quit her job before I was born, and told her if she wanted to get one know, it would have to be as a trash can driver—because it’s work that’s singular, where she won’t be surrounded by people. He closed both my mother’s and I’s bank accounts.

My younger sister whispered to me one day when our father was home, “If this is love, then I do not want it.”

I found love overrated at this point, anyway. I identified (and still do) as an asexual, so when my father preached sex was the fundamental root of a relationship, I cringed. And when my sister, still discovering her orientation, told me she thinks she’s bisexual—well, I knew we were doomed.

We couldn’t talk to our parents—because my mother tells my father what we tell her—about how we felt.

“You’ll like boys when you get older,” my father said. It’s why when I was in elementary school, he had me sign a contract that I wouldn’t date until I was over 21. “You’ll start feeling attracted sexually—that’s normal.”

But I never did. I found boys cute, sure, but it never went further than that. And whenever my friends came out to be gay, and he found out, he’d say, “It’s a phase in life, they’ll get over it.”

I’ve never said it outright that he needed to get over his own homophobic feelings. It was not up to him to play a god and determine the happiness of others—such as I cannot let age be an aspect of discomfort to justify monitoring or controlling others.

Who was my father to lecture me on the privilege of having the chance to cut myself when he found out I was suicidal? Who was he to laugh at me when I demanded he re-open my bank account and tell me “that’s cute” when I begged for my own credit card? [Side not, just today I opened a student savings account! It feels amazing having this autonomy, even small, from him. It’s a step.]

Celaena had been told by Arobynn, the father (?) figure she knew, about the ways of assassins. When you apply the psychodynamic view, it’s no surprise she believes in the beginning violence is the answer. And in my household, when not negative reinforcement, but punishment reigns, you associate violence as a form of tough-love.

But books show that this is not the way, and it doesn’t have to be. I read TOG when I was a freshmen, thirteen years old. I’d gone through the Wattpad phase, scoffing and belittling every romance/chick-flick/werewolf/vampire/love work in my head. What did these people know about love, probably conjuring these scenes they wished happened to themselves?

But the beauty with SJM’s works is that not only are her fictional relationships unique, but herself and her husband Josh’s relationship too. With SJM’s characters such as Aelin, it took our favorite protagonist more relationships than the single one in books where the female lead + first male mentioned ship together.

In ACOTAR, on the other hand Nesta’s been assaulted by Tomas Mandray. Feyre goes back to an abusive relationship (arguably) with Tamlin. Elain’s put herself in a shell when Feyre went missing. Her characters intertwined with pieces of my own story. There are not just external challenges, but internal character development cognitively.

And meeting people, conversing with people over Tumblr—I found people just as broken, if not more, than me. You can’t dismiss these people in the fandom across all ages who have had their own experiences because of relativity.

And I find age a relative number. Oprah Winfrey was 9 when she was raped. One of my closest friends, an immigrant from Egypt, was nearly 5 years old when his house had been ravaged apart and the sounds of gunshots still ring in his years more than decades later. And conversely, I learned what a dildo was when I was in a senior in high school—and over Tumblr.

When sex-ed teachers said “don’t have sex till you’re married”, I saw that sentence as justifying what my father said—that sex is essential to marriage. But it is anything but. Trust and communication are. In fact, in social societal circumstances, what you learn in the classroom never covers this. And if you’ve been raped—how do you feel, knowing that you didn’t have a choice?

Because my mother didn’t have a choice, not when she’d be left with nothing now if she filed for a divorce. Neither did my friend who was attacked by a male when she was at the gas station and dragged away in the night at Bakersfield. Education never covers more than the basic of what has been preached for years.

For so long, no’s have been negotiated. If I tell a man “no”, he says, “But I’ve brought you coffee this entire week. I’ve made you food when you were sick. You owe me this at least.” Do I really owe him that? If I’d known his supposed kindness wasn’t hallmark of friendship, but something much more sinister, would I be emotionally manipulated into feeling like a bitch if I’d disagreed?

So when SJM gives me a badass female who goes through the stages of defeat and grief, but picks herself back up, I see a role model. I see what my mother could have been. I see what my father would have deserved—my father who negotiated my mother’s no’s, and that is not okay. “No” is a complete sentence.

It’s not to say SJM’s books prove the epitome of relationships—Aelin had intercourse with Rowan on the beach—do you know how unsanitary that is?? Do you know???

I get the age stigma, and I’m going to admit that I didn’t have my sister read City of Heavenly Fire while Jace and Clary have sex in hell—am I the only one who found that ridiculous?? Books do over-romanticize things, but isn’t that the point of fanfiction? To portray it in however you feel—more realistically?

When I first came onto Tumblr, my fics were only angst. I carved facets of my own family life into these fics, and when I received notes that readers cried and couldn’t believe I had the capacity to write this, they became more exposed unknowingly to bits of me.

I’d rather my sister read books and join the Tumblr fandom than say yes to the boy on the bus showing her a pornographic video (because boys do that unashamed here), allow teammates on our cross country and track team to smack her butt and ask to make her feel better with a kiss, etc.

Because in our circumstance, reading the stories of those, such as Celaena who survived Endovier—she’s the closest thing we have to understanding our own situation of what transpires in our house. When Sam died, my friends had sobbed while those whose parents had passed away—they didn’t shed a tear. So the former learned what it felt like to have someone you loved ripped away from you—and this empathy later on serves as a life skill.

The fandom itself has been incredibly supportive. I’ve met people from Bulgaria to Australia, and not only do I have better glimpses into the culture, the bond of SJM books have brought a situational awareness that I have yet to experience sitting fifty minutes in a high school classroom.

Because it’s too late to learn the truth of things in college. Our brains do not absorb the information as compared to when we were younger. Retention rates and all that—we’ve got to start young. There are many forms of education, and Tumblr taught me that my father is not the only type of male in the world—and that there are others like me who have thought there was no way out.

SJM’s characters have taught me self-love, that I can be more than my environment. Age knows no boundaries. What one person experienced at 9 years old is what another could have in his/her 20’s.

Age has always been a limit. I mean, it wasn’t until the 26th amendment 18 year olds and over could vote—but are there not the prodigies below that mark more informed about government and politics than someone who has only lived in their city and has been exposed to their parent’s opinions since he/she never went to college? Especially today with the Internet as such a vast source and online class to enroll it, education starts with incentive, not age.

And if NSFW posts are the issue, then we can always insert that read-below cut. It won’t prevent them from not reading, but we can always frame it in a way that perhaps is meant for these younger readers, and then at the very end, reveal that it was for such.

We can use our blogs in a positive manner to educate about sex, if that’s the root of uncomfortableness. We can be the sex-ed class that we never got. Tell me why my sex-ed teachers called people out if they asked questions, saying the kids were too eager? If we are to overcome the stigma about learning about our bodies, then we have to be able to talk about it.

The youth are the future generation, and if we keep teaching kids that we shouldn’t know things at certain ages, then we set limits on education itself. When I told my sister to not read City of Heavenly Fire, she got a copy from her friend and read it herself—which put a strain on our bond. Because restrictions show that we do not trust. And we’ve got to take the leap of faith. 

I get not everyone has these tragic/pity/sorrowful stories, no matter what you believe. But personally, SJM’s books taught me that there exists some good in the world. There is redemption. There are second chances, and my sister and I struggle to fix our family.  

We have to be exposed. It’s how we function. And for kids who never went through sex-ed, reading books as a source of information can direct them to look things up and educate themselves.

SJM’s books illustrated that you could find happiness without sex—a fact my father would have disagreed with. SJM showed that love is progress, and doesn’t have to be detrimental. Some may interpret her books in other ways, but that’s why it’s so pivotal we have these discussions.

Take Nesta Archeron. Lots of people has called her a cold-hearted bitch, not realizing that it’s an actual, legitimate defense mechanism. And if being a cold-hearted bitch is sending mercenaries after your sister, starving yourself to death so their father would save them, writing a letter to the Mortal Queens despite her hatred of Faes—then I guess I would be too.

But knowing me, I’d freeze up and probably would have not lived at all. Because it’s easy to dismiss characters when they do something we don’t—as if we could have done better. Sure there’s ways Nesta could have gone about and done things differently, but then she wouldn’t have been Nesta Archeron, you know? We’re dismissing her as a person, and coping mechanisms as invalid, which people use in life.

Passing judgments on characters is easy, but when you dive into the Tumblr fandom, you see people defending her (like me), and get another side of things. These debates allow for that one track mind to diverge.

Because if I hadn’t opened up to people, then I would have continued to cut myself. And then I was able to help my sister stop too. The exchange and interaction of ideas may be used to promote ideas that no longer remain up to date, but that’s why we have other users who are up to date, and use their knowledge to write about them. Because knowledge is power!!

What do you guys think? Lowkey highkey want your feedback and thoughts not just to my response but the anon’s as well.

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, ARK! You’ve been accepted for the role of HORATIO. Thank you so much for bringing us our beloved Hector! I enjoyed reading every word of your app, particularly your plot ideas. They were written beautifully and were very thorough; the emphasis you placed on Hector’s dedication to Hiran and to his people—rather than to the Montagues—was spot on. I loved your interview questions (Hector wondering if God could touch him in the back of church, Hector reminiscing about the Cathedral but offering up a bland, more acceptable response), and your para sample lived up to the precedent the rest of your app set. You’re right; there’s an art to forgetting. There’s also an art to understanding a character, and you’ve mastered it. Welcome! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within twenty-four hours.

                                                                          WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Ark

Age | 18+

Preferred Pronouns | they/them

Activity Level | around 4-7/10. I currently have 4 active RP accounts I’m juggling, but my work is very flexible and I can be online a lot (case in point, submitting this application at work). I’m a little bit patchy when it comes to activity- I’ll suddenly be crazy active one or two days in a week and be spottily lurking for the rest, but I try not to leave replies too late.

Timezone | GMT+8

In Character

Character | Horatio / Hector Sawiris

What drew you to this character? | Honestly all of it. All of Hector’s bio and my heart. This is just everything I love best in characters pulled into one character and I was like. “well, well damn”. Loyalty, sacrifice, walking a knife’s edge waiting to topple, also Rami Malek. My soul lmao. (like honestly it was Circe or Hector and in the end Rami cinched for me) (i had no choice)

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

tw: gore (mention), violence (mention), alcoholism (dubious sort of vague mention)

&&. immolatio ;           –you’ve never known how to save yourself

the way you worship that boy, like a sinner to a saint and you would tear your heart out for him, break it from your aching ribs and place it on an altar. or perhaps he is the sinner and you are the saint who would die for him, you would raise him up and give him all your blessings until you had none left to give.

the truth; you know how to sacrifice. you know how to die for someone, how to make a slit in your bones and pour out the marrow from within for another to eat, how to starve and sacrifice, piece by piece, limb by limb, feeling the weight of the air drag on your body, drag you down into the loam of the earth and the bones of the birds beneath it. you know how to die for someone, you have been doing it all your life.

you have never been taught how to live for them.

&&. amare ;           –loyalty, shaken; faith, unmade

there’s a flush on your cheeks and it might be embarrassment, it might anger. sometimes you want to manhandle him into the nearest alley and maybe you’d bash his head into the concrete, maybe you wouldn’t (maybe you’d just press all of him against the brick wall and with your hands shaking give yourself to the devil). but honestly who would blame you.

you have never been good at control. you watched strangers with wary eyes and when your mother told you to smile the expression was never quite right on your child’s lips. perhaps it was never a matter of control; perhaps you were only ever too honest.

and- you don’t know what this is, what game this is, you only know that you’re being played as if a string on a lyre and you do not know how to stop it.

it is, after all as they say; the devil does not come in a red cape and pointy horns.

&&. proditio ;           –for them, and you would take judas’ mantle and wear it as your own

do ut des. i give so you may give. all things have a price. to take you must pay something of equal value.

they speak of blood, of loyalty, of brothers and you understand that, you were raised that way after all. you were raised with them. you fight and your hands no longer shake when you raise a gun, your grip is steady and your aim precise, your knives are always clean when you put them back where they belong. there are nightmares that come at night and they have become a part of you. you have given so much and yet you know that this is still not enough.

(you understand the principle of this; the tower of babel and when everything crashes there will be no war left to fight)

you do not know what price you will have to pay, you do not know the price for saving your friends. you do not need to; however high it is, you will not hesitate to give it.

&&. terminus ;           –it’s not a question of if, you simply don’t know when

you’re slipping more and more, day by day and it’s alright, that’s alright- you’re falling so they won’t have to, you’re breaking so you can keep them whole.

you don’t intend to survive this war, and even if you did you do not think you could. you’ve cut your hands on shattered bottles too many times, your back is bent from picking up the debris and you’ve dropped to your knees trying to keep them from falling. there are some things you do not return from. there are some things that you cannot.

(you forgive him and every time you do a little bit more of your heart withers away. the cuts on your palms and the stain of liquor that doesn’t fade away, and forgiveness is what will kill you.)

every night when you close your eyes and the deadness returns, you do not resent it. this is the price you pay for death. you owe a debt now, the shadow of it will linger behind you all your life.

(there’s only one way to pay, after all)

// on immolatio, because well, mostly his relationship with hiran, the lengths he’d go to to protect him and those other people close to his heart. i want to see just how far he can go, the things he would do. all the blood he’s spilt and everything is for them. he knows it, it’s why he hasn’t broken yet. this ties into terminus, because like i wrote, everything has a price. taking another’s life indebts you to death, and the shadow of it will hang over him until he can pay it. but terminus isn’t just the end, it’s the boundary, the breaking point and sometimes the breaking point is the end, sometimes it is only the beginning. i want to see hector break. somehow or somewhere- i’d like to see him completely and utterly shatter and never be able to go back to what he was before. because he’s breaking more and more every day and one of these days all the pieces of himself he’s holding together are going to crumble out of his grasp. will there be anyone there to put him back together? or is that just it, is that the end, at that point will he give up or will he still want to survive, will be still be able to pull all the twisted, broken pieces of himself back together into the semblance of a man.

proditio; he doesn’t trust either the montagues or the capulets to win the war. he doesn’t trust them to leave his family safe. he’ll fight this war, he won’t hesitate to fight, he won’t hesitate to die but- he won’t let the anyone he loves die. the witches are a different matter than the capulets- he knows they have power beyond either families, he knows they will never involve themselves in the war- and he will sell more than his soul and he will not see it as betrayal. his loyalty was never to the montagues, his loyalty was to the people within it. and i want to see the consequences of that, i want to write him betraying his ‘people’- because truthfully that’s where i want it to lead to- and i want to see how it ends up all panning out. because i’m a sucker for angst.

and finally amare; because hector’s always been guarded as a person, he’s never easily accepted anyone else in- what would it take for him to falter. he’s only ever had several select people that he’s held close, what would he do if someone just broke in. someone who wasn’t ever meant to be anything to him, who he doesn’t think he’s anything to and hector doesn’t even realize until it’s too late. how would that affect his dynamic with everything and everyone else? this can be anyone really. i mean i kinda allude too much but ayy it’s an application, ayy hypotheticals ayy pls nobody take it seriously least of all me. (me, aside from being plotting trash: also basically shipping trash) (also me: lmao im joking unless ur up for it) In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

Stone spires and marble arches, the scent of wax candles and incense burning. Light coming in at every angle through the glass, every sound echoing. The carpet smells of moss and damp. Capulet territory, and yet he’s been coming here since he was a child, a single man slipping in with a crowd, and who would ever notice. Sitting in the third pew from the back, wondering if God could touch him from there, wondering if he could reach salvation with his hands- his hands that were stained red by the light shot through stained glass windows. It was reminiscent of a different kind of red entirely.

A holy place and yet he had never believed in it, his Grandmother had taken him every Sunday as a child, had prayed with her fingers cracked and her voice quivering, eyes turned upward towards the Heavens beyond. Hector had watched, followed, never quite known what he was there for. He never believed and yet he had tried to find salvation in God anyway- or perhaps he had already given up on salvation, perhaps it was only the comfort of the musty pews and the creaking seats that had him returning time and again, a pilgrimage that did not offer him any grace.

It was beautiful though, the stone that echoed and the comfort in silence, the murmurs of latin in the dim light, the choir’s soft hum and the organ that made the benches tremble with the sound of it. He liked going there in the quiet times inbetween. It was solace, perhaps.

He blinks, the memory fades. His answer is slow in coming, bland and quiet and it tilts a little towards the end, almost a question. He’s never been good at half-truths. “The Museum’s nice.”

What does your typical day look like?

“The sun wakes me up at around six. If it… doesn’t, my alarm wakes me at seven. I go to work. I…” he trails off, wonders what else to say. What else there is to say. “I come back.”

He wonders what a day could be described as. What it looks like. But the days are all the same, the hours bleed into each other and like the sun rises in the morning it falls again at dusk, he sleeps his broken dreams and then he wakes again. Nothing changes.

“That’s all, I suppose.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

The war. The blood. The tension in the streets and the way it rose as a crescendo rose, they were the orchestra and it was a discordant, dissonant cacophony they played, the unease that wove into every note and cadence-

the gurgle of a man falling under him, blood in his lungs and blood on his tongue and hector’s knife stained with it, filthy and red and

a sacrifice, a sense of inevitability in the dark of the night

(the question: who was sacrificed)

“Necessity.”

In-Character Para Sample:

tw: (implied) depression

Night in Verona is quiet, bright with the glow of the stars above. Wandering the streets at night was never a good idea. Hector didn’t have many good ones nowadays. He was still blinded by a haze that blurred his sight and a cold that numbed his limbs- it was nothing out of the norm and yet- (and when, he asked himself, had it become the norm)- and yet. This time, and he’d felt so empty- as if something snapped and then everything drained out of him, all the power and the will and the helplessness and it was gone. Just like that. He’d left, terrified in some distant part of him that Hiran would see, terrified Hiran would realize.

Hiran, he’d said, begging, pleading, never angry, how could he be angry, please, and perhaps he already knew that whatever he did it would not be enough, whatever he said it would have no bearing. Perhaps that was it, perhaps that was why.

The Cathedral was closed, now. He wouldn’t make it that far even if he tried. There was nowhere to go except his home. So he walked aimlessly instead, walked until he found a bench by the river and buried his face in his hands beside the running tide beneath him. What’s wrong, he thought again, what’s wrong with me. But there was a hollowness in him and he wondered, foolishly, stupidly, how much he had left to give.

(he’d give it all, but how much was left, how much did he have left to give)

(but that’s easy, as long as his heart beat and he lived there’d still be something left)

There was an art to this, to forgetting. And he’d forget all of this by tomorrow, if tomorrow came. The hollowness would be gone, alongside the cold. There was a method to this, a method to staving this emptiness away until it left.

He closed his eyes, and wondered, not for the first time, if he’d ever open his eyes again. He found himself barely able to care.

Additional Para Sample: here.

Extras: N/A!

Although I was just about to submit this and remembered a song I thought would really fit and HERE it is. I just remembered it and thought- wow, bam. B a m.

(also i’d just like to say sidney poked me to this rp this morning and i blame sidney for everything) (and i only met them this morning too what)

also, small snippets I wrote and never put anywhere:

he is damned and perhaps he was always destined for this, his hands that hated violence, he was cold and terrified and as he made them their salvation they were the ones to damn him.

//

(ask of yourself this; if not a sawiris, if not for that name, then what;

there’s a museum in verona, an art museum, walls of baroque art and perhaps he would have been able to go into art after all. perhaps he would have enrolled in an arts school, perhaps he would have found work at that museum after coming home, he would have been content with his job, his life. perhaps he would have had a cat, he might’ve called it hamlet.

in the evenings he might visit the cafe beside the river, watch the boats trail past, his eyes fixed on the flowing water and the houses on the other side- his sketchpad would be on his lap and charcoal would stain his fingers black.

perhaps, later on, he might have found himself a love, not a love meant for history or legend but a love of his own, quiet and soft and they might have had just a couple more cats. just one or two more. or maybe five, because five was a good number and they would have bought a house beside the river.

he might have found contentment.)

//

sometimes he wondered what it was- sometimes he wondered if it was a sin. him, he, this. he did not know when it started, did not know when it would end- he found himself aching and it was a nameless, wordless ache, but they were brothers and this was not a thing to be felt between brothers, this was not a thing to want for.

it was easy to ignore the sensation, easy to forget it in the presence of his brother, easy to overlook the struggling thing in his chest that twisted harder every time, that left some hollow spot above his heart and grew with every passing day he kept his silence.

but he knew sin, perhaps he should not have been surprised after all.

//