#its like this... the ideas and words and settings are ordinary. but the experience is emotional and surreal and magical and it swallows you

[mejomonster]

Sometimes I feel like I write really... simple? Which isn't a bad thing. Just sometimes rereading my stuff feels like I'm reading a fairy tale (ignoring the actual Faerie Stories I write galore lol)

#rant #mejo writing #like. i get it? part of it is i lean toward simpler words because i want as MANY people to understand what i mean as possible #and im used to tutoring a lot of people of varying vocabulary and the simpler more understandable words the BETTER when #trying to teach math frankly. and then also when i speak in french or chinese i likewise lean toward more common words #since im more certain im expressing myself in the way i intend. whereas if i use specialized chinese words theres a higher risk i say #something i didnt mean. and in general i just notice a lot of things i got used to in french grammar i... #oddly ended up integrating into how i write english. which is absolutely bizarre to me. and tjen since reading more chinesr #ive really adapted to more SHORT sentences just focusing on making my point. #and then of course. my biggest style influences are haruki murakami and edgar allan poe. #i dont pick as perfect words as poe (unfortunately). but i like the idea of prose written as if its poetry. with thought put into #the length of sentences and SINGLE WORDS as sentences. and cut off sentences. and alliteration. to control #the reader experience and affect the impact of the prose on the emotions. #and then murakami lol. murakami??? my favorite short story he wrote is The Kangaroo Communique #which i think explains a LOT about why the fuck i write the way i do #have you ever read his stories in The Elephant Vanishes??? #its like this... the ideas and words and settings are ordinary. but the experience is emotional and surreal and magical and it swallows you #inside the narrator's head. #and you truly have no idea what objective reality in the story is. only what the character narrating is Claiming to experience (and they #might be lying about themselves and whete their attention is too). #and i LOVE it. i love it i love it. it FEELS like being in my mind. so i try to write that way. #and i almost feel like when the prose is simpler words... its more like how a general person may think things #(at least how i do. with simple understandable explanation) and so its easier to suck the reader into the #narration pov's mind #and get them to feel what the character feels and notice what the charqcter avoids. and feel reality of the story #becoming as warped and unreliable as the narrator.

[m00nsbaby]

Clumsy II.

Marc Spector + Steven Grant x F! Reader. Next part to "Clumsy." (Or Already Over IV)

Tags & warnings. You already know the deal lol + Marc is still a jerk. (Sorry btw) This is the last part of the mini saga. :)

Word count. 2.9k

Summary.

I let you down, I've been clumsy with your heart again, I guess you figured me out, Now here's a taste of my own medicine. Caught at the end of the lifeline, The catch of a lifetime. Oh, we were destined for danger, Familiar strangers.

Everything you had done for the past 2 years had been for Steven, reaching the point of having him as motivation to get out of bed.

Unfortunately, this day was no different. If you had managed to muster the courage to stand up and accept Jake's unusual invitation, it was purely for him.

The part about choosing a nice dress was a personal choice, though.

"So, then…?"

"4 o'clock sounds perfect." His voice was soft on the other end of the line. Not quite like Steven's, but Jake's voice had something… special.

Something that could make your cheeks blush just by hearing it.

"4 o'clock at your apartment then."

"Steven is excited." The mention churned your stomach.

Truth be told, you had been on autopilot for quite a while, even before Jake made his proposal. There were small details that brought you back to reality, even if it was just for a few seconds—seconds in which you physically felt the consequences.

"I'll see you in a bit, Jake." You hung up. You couldn't set his expectations too high. This wasn't going to be a romantic reunion or your way of saying, 'Everything's okay, it was just a misunderstanding.' Instead, it was your way of bringing closure to things with Marc. If it weren't for Jake, he would still cling to the idea that he doesn't need you in his life.

Knowing that at least more than one person was on your side had given you the strength to face it, and to question whether maybe you weren't the one who was wrong in this situation.

"It won't be long, buddy." You told your cat as he nudged his nose towards you. He meowed back. "Take care of the house, okay?"

Marc had been inconsolable for about two weeks now, and the news of Jake's arrival weighed heavier on him than any of the three would have liked.

It was just another way of reminding himself how messed up he was. If getting used to Steven had been an ordeal, this would probably be World War II.

He would scream at himself in the mirror or break anything that could show his reflection, depending on his mood. Meanwhile, Steven felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He stopped being the one who took care of Marc, at least for a few days, and he had time to experience his grief as it should be.

Jake was compassionate towards both of them. He somehow understood what they were going through.

"I don't want her here!" He drank from his whiskey, savoring the burn in his throat.

It was 11 in the morning. His hand moved on its own, throwing the bottle to the ground, shattering it into a million pieces.

"Idiot," he growled.

Steven said nothing, only chuckled to himself at the mere idea that Marc probably looked insane.

He'd let him argue with Jake as much as he wanted.

"It's for your own good." It was the only thing he heard back in his head, and Marc had to put both hands over his face as a way to console himself. He was drunk, with a terrible headache, and a strong urge to give up on life, although lately, that was nothing out of the ordinary. "Give me the body."

He accepted it without protest, and even the strongest of the three groaned at the sudden dizziness and the awful state in which Marc always left the body whenever he had it in his possession.

He showered, cleaned up. Did everything the other two hadn't been doing during these sick days, even answered your call.

And when he was done, his leg trembled up and down as he stared at the clock on his wall, which showed the exact 23 minutes left until your arrival.

And despite being the most prepared of the three, he nearly jumped in fright when you knocked on his door. Exactly three times to let him know it was you, something he learned from your secret techniques with Steven.

When he opened the door, both of you exchanged smiles, which was unusual. Yours was nervous, shouting 'I'm glad to see you but I fear what might happen,' and his, on the other hand, seemed quite excited.

Even more so when you hugged each other as a way of greeting, even if the contact only lasted a few seconds.

"I'm glad you came," he whispered as he closed the door behind you.

"I told you I would."

"Yes, I… yes." He cleared his throat; he could feel the burn as if he was still drinking whiskey. "Come in, let's go to the bedroom."

You filled your lungs with oxygen, enjoying the scent of Steven before nodding slowly.

"Is Marc going to…?"

"Yes." He interrupted instantly, biting his lower lip as if he was hiding something. He directed you to his bedroom, although you already knew the paths within his house perfectly well. "I need you to listen to me and trust me."

You frowned.

"Huh?" You entered his room slowly. And he closed the door behind you.

Your expression became even more confused when you saw him lock the door.

"Sorry, there's no way he won't escape if I don't do this."

"Jake?"

"Sorry," he repeated, stepping back.

Forcing the switch between them was always uncomfortable, especially when he had to put in double the effort to get Marc out, as he clung to hiding. Unfortunately for him, Jake was stronger.

You noticed the change in his expression almost immediately. You would recognize that furrowed brow anywhere, and while it looked slightly puzzled, he didn't take long to place himself.

When his gaze settled on you, Marc could swear his heart stopped.

He had spent so much time dreaming of you that he completely forgot certain details about you that were undoubtedly better in person.

"Marc?" You whispered shyly, almost fearfully. You hadn't seen him since he cruelly broke up with you.

Your heart raced, even after all the damage he had done to you.

"I have to… Uh." The air got stuck in his lungs. After several seconds of staring at you, he averted his gaze, stumbling clumsily over his feet to the door.

He tried to open it but it didn't give way. Jake had done his job well. He gave it another tug and grew even more nervous.

"Marc!" You called for his attention, your brow furrowing. Barely 3 seconds together and you were already losing patience.

This wasn't going well.

"What?!"

"Stop it!" Finally, he looked at you, and in a matter of seconds, it seemed like his eyes had welled up with fear. Did he fear you? You, who had to tilt your chin up to look him in the face because he was noticeably taller than you. "Stop it." You repeated, this time in a low tone.

"I don't want to talk to you, I won't."

Ouch.

"Either that or you'll have to break down the door, and Steven won't…"

"Steven doesn't even talk to me!" The sudden way he raised his voice made you jump slightly, and you pressed your lips together at the news.

Would it be wrong to admit that this was something you were expecting? You remained silent for a few seconds, and you swore you could hear his ragged breathing, as if he had the right to be angry with you.

"Jake won't let you out unless we do this now." You cleared your throat as you crossed your arms over your chest.

He cursed internally at how adorable you looked in that gesture.

"You and I have nothing left to talk about."

His words sent a wave of heat through your whole body.

"What did you say, Marc?"

"That you and I do…"

"You're an idiot," you whispered with a sarcastic laugh, and he finally fell silent. It had been so long since his ego had been hurt that he almost felt good about the slight pain in his chest. "You hurt me. Like no one ever did before."

He fell silent, waiting for you to continue, but he didn't let his guard down. You could see it in his irritated expression.

“You blamed me for… You blamed me for loving Steven. You let me live with the burden of thinking that I had destroyed your life.”

"You did." He whispered. It was visible how tense his body was, and you laughed sarcastically again at his words.

"Don't give me that, Marc Spector." You spat his name out with resentment. It was the first time you allowed yourself to be angry with him after forcing empathy for him for so long. "You got what you wanted. Layla? Your life made out of lies? Pushing Steven away from you?"

His expression finally wavered, even if it was only for a few seconds.

"Layla left me."

The news hit you like a bucket of cold water.

That made everything make more sense. The sudden appearance of Jake, his insistence on you talking to them, coming back. They were using you as a second option now that they had nothing left, trying to get you back as if nothing happened.

After all, you had always been the foolish one at Marc's service, willing to give up everything for him whenever he asked.

This wouldn't be one of those times.

You gathered all the strength you had in your small body to push him with both hands. He barely stepped back, stumbling in surprise at your sudden attempt to attack.

"I hate you!" Your voice broke.

His heart raced as if he had run a marathon, yet he didn't say anything.

"I hate you, Marc!" You sobbed, giving him another push. This time he didn't even move.

He stood still, and his hands trembled.

"Why are you doing this to me?" You were still the only one speaking. You sounded devastated, even more so than the day when you almost begged him for a chance. "Why?"

And, as usual, you got no answer. In fact, you got nothing; Marc wasn't even looking at you.

The truth was, despite having to deal with Steven and Layla telling him these kinds of things, coming from you was… worse. It was like a doubly more horrible shock therapy. The pain in your voice was something he had never heard before, and the truth was, he never wanted to hear it again.

You were choking him without even laying your hands on him. The words wouldn't come out, and his feet were rooted to the ground; he couldn't even look at you.

"You're killing me, Marc." You whispered as if the strength had left you. After receiving nothing from him, you knew it wasn't worth fighting, not with him. "You don't want to be with me." Admitting it aloud left a bitter taste in your mouth. "But you won't let me go. Don't you realize what you're doing?"

It was you, as usual, who crouched down. You sought his gaze, regardless of the mess you were in.

He looked back at you, and you waited.

You waited, and you waited.

When time passed, you knew what his answer was. Marc would never take a risk, or at least he wouldn't do it for you. He was too stubborn, and you doubted that he would ever lower his eternal guard.

The day Steven begged on his knees not to leave hurt, but somehow it was worse to receive silence from Marc. Knowing how little you mattered to him based on his actions.

"I understand," you whispered, wiping your tears with the back of your thumb. "Jake? Can you let me out?"

You reached out to grab the door handle, and he grabbed your wrist.

"Let go of me."

It sounded like a threat.

He, once again, didn't respond; he tugged on your wrist and almost made you let out a shriek as you collided with his chest.

Marc was so quick that you didn't even have a chance to react when his free hand positioned itself on your chin, pressing it between his fingers and holding it firmly.

Yet, you didn't protest; you let him guide you until his lips met yours. There was your answer.

When they finally kissed, tears welled up in your eyes again. In fact, you suddenly felt like you were drowning against his mouth, as if you wanted to groan but refused to break the contact between you two.

"I hate you," you said with difficulty against his mouth, trying to convince yourself of what you had said. He just made a small 'hmm' sound against your lips.

Apparently, neither of you trusted your words.

He let go of your wrist when he made sure you no longer wanted to touch the doorknob, but he continued to hold your chin. Eventually, he also took you by the waist and brought you even closer if that was possible.

His kisses were rough, so forceful that for a moment you doubted this body was the same as that of your ex-partner. Steven had never been like this. You also wondered if this was just a result of pain and desperation, or if his kisses were always like this.

With just two steps, your body was squeezed between his and the wall.

"I love you."

Your stomach turned.

"I love you." His kisses didn't allow you to respond. You wouldn't know this, but his fear wouldn't allow him to hear what you might say about it. "I love you." His fingers tightened their grip on your chin. "I love you." He sounded desperate. In pain.

You responded to each of his kisses, and you noticed that he needed a few more seconds to find calm.

"She left me because she knows I love you." He said quickly when he finally gave you a chance to breathe. His forehead rested against yours, and those big brown eyes were fixed on you. "S-She knows… She realized that…" He stammered. There was nothing more horrible for Marc Spector than expressing his feelings, giving explanations. "S-She…”

You were worth it.

You were worth throwing his pride to the wind.

"You took my heart when you left. You took everything." He admitted in a whisper and didn't receive an answer by his own choice.

He kissed you again as if his life was slipping through his fingers.

You didn't talk for the rest of the afternoon. You received all the kisses he had to give, and he allowed himself to feel your delicate hands on him. Massaging his shoulders at times or stroking his curls as you used to do for Steven.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized that you were doing it for him this time. You were taking care of him.

"Did you miss me?" His voice was so sweet that even with your face flushed from crying, you managed to smile.

Everything was so easy with Steven.

"I already told you I did." You laughed like a little girl who was recovering from a scolding or perhaps a tantrum. You even felt lightheaded, just like in many childhood instances when you had cried until your throat begged for a break.

"How much?" His fingers traced your waist, and you sighed at the familiarity of the sensation.

"With all my heart."

His eyes lit up at your words. Poor Steven had been through so much that he could swear this was a mirage or an illusion from his brain. There was no way you were really there in front of him.

As beautiful as ever.

"I bet I missed you more." You laughed again, specifically because you knew he meant it. You missed that smile so much that you decided to agree with him. You placed a hand on his cheek and nodded.

"I bet you did, love."

Steven could have burst with happiness right then and there.

"I have to go home, Steven." You spoke again, your thumb gently pressed against his cheek, right where his smile ended.

The news hit him hard. So much that you almost wanted to laugh.

He was terrified that you wouldn't come back, that you would consider this just a momentary mistake and nothing more.

"B-But I…"

"Sekhmet is alone." You corrected him with a slight smile, trying to give him the confidence he seemed to urgently need.

He nodded silently, looking like a sad puppy.

"Do you want to come with me?" Ah, there it was. His eyes were on you again as if he couldn't believe your offer.

No wonder you had never doubted Steven's love. The guy looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever seen, even after everything that had happened, not to mention the 300 times he had apologized to you for something he hadn't done.

"Can I, love?"

"You can spend the night there."

Silence. Seconds of silence before he nodded so quickly that his curls fell onto his face, making you laugh.

A genuine laughter that lit up your entire face, much like the one he had caused on your last date when he lifted you up in his arms and Sekhmet entered their lives.

Steven felt his heart skip a beat and his cheeks turn rosy.

"Let's go!" He gave you a little nudge, and you laughed again. "Jake can drive."

#moon knight #moon knight x you #moon knight x y/n #moon knight x reader #moon system #moon system x y/n #moon system x you #moon system x reader #moon boys #moon boys x reader #moon boys x you #moon boys x y/n #steven grant #steven grant x y/n #steven grant x you #steven grant x reader #jake lockley #jake lockley x y/n #jake lockley x you #jake lockley x reader #marc spector #marc spector x y/n #marc spector x you #marc spector x reader #oscar isaac #oscar isaac x you #oscar isaac x reader

[romione-trope-fest]

Call It What You Want - Romione Hidden Relationship

Title: Call It What You Want

Author: adenei

Selected Trope: Fake NOT Dating (Hidden Relationship)

Brief Summary: In a world where there is no Voldemort, Hogwarts is just an ordinary school for witchcraft and wizardry. The Golden Trio still pass through its hallowed halls for their seventh year, but not as you’d expect. Hermione Granger, of Ravenclaw is—naturally—Head Girl, and Ron Weasley, of Gryffindor, was named alongside her as Head Boy. It’s everything Hermione’s ever dreamed of, except there’s one small problem. After a falling out in fifth year, Hermione and Ron don’t get along. Or so everyone thinks.

Word Count: 2,771 (Chapter 1 of a multichapter story)

Rating: T

TW: None

This is not how tonight was supposed to go.

Hermione rubs her temples with the thumb and middle finger of her left hand, squeezing her eyes shut. Blots of ink drip from the tip of the quill in her right hand, hovering over the box labeled ‘7 November’ on the magically duplicated parchment, soaking through and threatening to stain the old maple of the worn desk. There are other things she’d like to be doing against this desk right now instead of creating the rounds schedule like the dutiful Head Girl she is. Like writing her Ancient Runes essay. 

Yes, her Runes essay is exactly what she’d rather be doing. Not this stupid round schedule that she shouldn’t even be completing alone. The Head Boy should be helping. The Head Boy who should also be back by now. The one she’s been daydreaming about for the last thirty minutes. Visions of him shoving everything off the smooth desktop to lay her down on it so they can—nope. That’s definitely not what she’d rather be doing instead.

She sets down the quill, bunches up the parchment and tosses it in the bin. “Ugh. This is stupid.”

The whole thing is stupid, really. Hermione swore to herself she’d play this whole thing cool. She can manage ‘cool’, right? It shouldn’t be hard. 

Yet here she is, fixating on him, the boy who’s always intent on letting her down. Who can’t even bother being on time after he said he would.

Empty promises. 

Maybe this is a bad idea, after all.

She pushes the wooden chair with leather upholstery out from the desk and escapes into her bedroom. There’s no point in staying in her uniform anymore. Tonight’s assigned Prefects are already on duty. It’s not like they’re going to come and request assistance. Hermione doesn’t know why she bothers to stay dressed until at least ten every evening.

I know why.

God, she hates the singsong voice taunting her mind. She will not think about the other reasons she’s still dressed in her uniform. How the tie makes it easy for him to pull her close. How the white button-up shirt is translucent enough to pique his imagination, making it impossible for him to hide his desire. How the loose pleated skirt can offer easy access for him to—

Nope. I said we weren’t going there. 

Plus, it’s not like she’s let things go that far. Though, she wonders if that could possibly be the reason she’s so fixated on her desire right now. Maybe she needs to experience the release and then she can not be so wound up for no damn reason. Because she’s being ridiculous—she needs to get it together. When has Hermione Granger ever let her thoughts distract her to this level of being completely incapable of doing anything?

She pulls out her comfiest pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms and a matching black vest with Ravenclaw’s crest on the upper right chest. Once she’s slipped off her skirt and replaced it with the worn-in, faded fabric, she works slowly at the buttons of her shirt. Is she going to fully turn-in for the evening? Does she really not want to see him at all? Can she fall asleep without knowing why he blew her off?

With fingertips grazing the front clasp of her periwinkle bralette, she ultimately decides to leave it for now. She’s not quite ready to shut him out tonight. Not yet. She’ll give him thirty more minutes while she reads by the fire.

Still, there’s a voice in the back of her mind trying to convince her to just shut and lock her door. ‘Ice him out. Give him the silent treatment.’ But she wants the satisfaction of seeing him squirm as he tries to make some half-arsed excuse as to why he’s late. 

Clearly, he’s not taking his duties seriously—not taking her seriously. What a typical Gryffindor. What on earth was Professor McGonagall thinking?

Hermione swipes the novel she’s currently reading off of her nightstand and stomps back out to the common area, plopping down on the sofa in front of the fireplace. She doesn’t even need the wool blue and bronze blanket draped over the back because the fire manages to keep the small room so warm—almost too warm.

Well, something needs to keep me warm tonight.

She tries desperately to get lost in her book. It takes longer than necessary, but eventually, the plot takes a turn, drawing her in with the promise of a mysterious prince taking interest in the stubborn, independent main character who is out to prove that she doesn’t need a man to complete her.

And naturally, once she’s sucked into the witty banter of the main characters, there’s a soft click that echoes across the mostly empty space as the door opens and shuts. In walks the bane of her existence, forehead glistening with what she assumes to be sweat; the tips of his red fringe wet.

Eyes peering over the top of her book—and against her better judgment—she drinks him in as he kicks off his standard broom-riding leather boots. Damn him for bending over and showing off the sculpted muscles of his arse in those tight khaki pants. And damn her for all but drooling over it. It’s like he knows she’s going to be pissed and needs to break her resolve. The red and gold jersey doesn’t help either, given that it threatens to rip open any time his arms flex. How she’d love to grab it by the number ‘two’ plastered on his back and rip it off of him so it’ll stop turning her on when she’s supposed to be mad at him.

Yes, because getting him shirtless is going to help the anger situation.

Hermione forces her eyes back to the book, but still catches the way he beams his stupid lopsided smile at her when he finally turns around. Why does he have to be so cocky and confident and put together all the freaking time? Even when he’s not, he still manages to pull off ‘effortless’ like it’s nothing. She should be lucky he wants to spend time with her at all, given he’s so out of her league.

Sure, pair the brainy little Ravenclaw with the jocky Gryffindor fuckboy. Dumbledore probably had a right laugh making that decision. They get along fine. Ha. That’s what he thinks. Of course, they used to, before he did the one thing that fucked everything up fifth year.

Stop. Things have been fine so far. More than fine. I’m sure he has a perfectly good excuse for why he’s—

“Hey.” He breaks her out of her spiral. “Sorry I’m late. Practice ran a little over, then I thought I’d hit the Prefects Bathroom to shower before heading—”

Hermione huffs a little too loudly. 

“What?”

“Save it, Ron. I don’t need your excuses.”

“It’s…not? Demelza would not let up tonight. She wanted the Chasers to perfect this play and begged me to stay an extra twenty minutes.”

She raises an eyebrow and allows her gaze to settle on him, searching for sincerity in the striking cornflower blue of his eyes. Ugh, she hates how those eyes can damn near melt her with a single heated look, much like the one he’s giving her now. Like he knows what she’s about to say, but is challenging her to do it anyway.

And naturally, she does. “Right. So, then you needed a, what, thirty minute shower? In the Prefects Bathroom, no less, when you could have come straight here?”

Even though he’s goading her and should be fully expecting it, his jaw still drops. He folds his arms, and—ugh, for Merlin’s sake she needs to stop staring at the contours of his chest—shakes his head slightly. A scoff escapes his throat.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Do you really expect me to? It’s okay, you can tell me if you got mauled by your groupies. I can’t imagine having a fan club follow me around like the sun shines out of my—”

“I do not have groupies. Those fourth and fifth years are always after Harry.”

“Right—”

“And I’m not lying to you.”

“Of course you’re not. Because the first thing I always like to do after taking a shower is put on the sweaty clothes I just stripped off to get clean from.” She shoves the bookmark in her book and slams it down on the sofa as she finally stands to face him.

The frustration in his eyes shifts as soon as the words come tumbling out of her mouth. She’s not even sure if he’s still listening, given the way his eyes flit down to her heaving chest. Unabashed desire falls over his face as his eyes darken and the corner of his lip curls upward. For a split second, she wonders what could possibly possess his face to transform that way. Because it’s not entirely want. If it was, she doesn’t think they’d be standing this far apart. 

Studying his expression a little longer, she wills her mind to connect the dots. She knows that look from somewhere. But…where? And then the familiarity suddenly hits her. It’s the face he makes when he finds the checkmate.

Nice try, Weasley, but you’re not winning this one.

It’s beyond annoying, not to mention ridiculous. There’s no way he can win this. Her logic is sound and his story doesn’t line up. If he thinks he’s going to get out of this one, she’d like to see him try. 

He takes a step closer, but remains on the other side of the sofa. His arms relax as his hands grip the back of the sofa while he stares intently at her. “You know I have two practice jerseys right?”

“No,” she responds automatically before her eyes go wide. 

She purses her lips and is tempted to stand down, but she refuses. Hermione Granger does not back down from a fight. Even if she knows what’s coming and he’s got her cornered. As much as she doesn’t want to, there’s nothing left to do but brace herself for the inevitable checkmate and prepare for a rematch.

“Mental, isn’t it? Having more than one? I mean, I could see why you’d think that—most players offer their jerseys to girlfriends or boyfriends to wear as support during matches. But considering our first match isn’t for another month, I haven’t given mine away yet. It’s still sitting in my Prefect locker—well, it was. You haven’t forgotten we have those too, have you?”

Her nostrils flare. She hates the way he gloats. “No,” she spits, knowing he won’t go on until she acknowledges the question. 

“Yeah, well, you were right, though. I was a sweaty mess and didn’t want to come back looking like that. But I also know how much you like the uniform, so…it seemed like the perfect solution.”

Her jaw twitches. Okay, so he wasn’t off with another girl. Not that she really thought he would be anyway. She supposes maybe she’s just overcompensating—desperate to hear him say he only has eyes for her. But that would be delusional. 

Just because they do, in fact, work well together, and they happen to have an agreement in place, doesn’t mean he’s going to be that forward. Besides, he clearly isn’t as serious as she is about their agreement given his tardiness—which further reiterates her decision to take things slow—and that’s precisely what she hones in on next.

“Yes, well, it’s already well past nine, and if you happen to recall, we were supposed to start the Round schedule for November tonight.”

“I’m aware.” His hands clench and Hermione’s gaze follows as the tightness ripples up his forearms, through his biceps to his neck and jaw.

Satisfied she’s swiped the relaxed, cocky demeanor out from beneath him, she’s certain she’ll take the next win. “Well, I don’t particularly appreciate having all the work shoved on me. Just because I’m a Ravenclaw with a high work ethic and the need to have everything organized and done weeks in advance does not mean I will be picking up your slack by completing it on my own.”

And he doesn’t need to know that I almost did, either.

“Hermione, who says I’m shoving the work off on—it’s October fifteenth—”

She cuts him off. “And we promised McGonagall a draft by Monday! Just because I can manage my schedule does not mean I’ll be bailing you out. The Heads are supposed to work together. It’s not my fault you’ve got Quidditch and Chess and all your classes to account for. I’m busy too, you know. I’ve got a heavy NEWT load, and can’t lose precious study time working on schedules by myself because you’re too busy playing Gryffindor’s savior on the pitch.”

“Are you seriously going to hold that team meeting on the Express over my head all year? I told you it wouldn’t be long and I’d be back to help. No one asked you to make the first week’s schedule on your own. I wanted to help.”

Hermione throws up her hands and turns to head to her room. “I’m not holding anything against you. I’m just saying, if I’m not important—if this isn’t important—then maybe we should rethink—”

Ron’s large, warm, freckly hand grabs hers and spins her around before he backs her into the frame of the door, his body flush against hers. It nearly knocks the wind right out of her lungs. Her spine is so erect that she almost doesn’t notice how her chest is pushed out, but when she tilts her head up to meet his gaze, she realizes very quickly that he does.

“You are important. But we have an image to maintain, remember? The one we agreed on? I couldn’t exactly tell my teammates to sod off because I had somewhere to be. They probably thought they were doing me a favor, keeping me later.”

It’s all she can do not to let her eyelids flutter shut as his hot breath hits her cheek. He definitely showered, all right. The warm, spiced scent of his soap invades her senses, and suddenly it’s difficult to think of anything else.

“I guess,” she concedes.

His knuckles graze her hips before blazing a tantalizing trail up her sides. It’s slow. It’s sensual. It’s everything she’s ever dreamed of. Eventually, his fingers tangle in her hair as his palms cup her face. Twenty-nine days and counting and she’s still not used to it. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be.

But before she lets herself get lost in his touch, his smell, his gaze, she notices his face split into a wide grin. He’s got one more trick up his sleeve, but at this point she doesn’t care. She just wants to feel his lips on hers. Because fourteen hours and three minutes—give or take—is far too long since the last time.

“By the way, if you’d checked the top right drawer, you might have noticed I already filled out half of November’s schedule.”

“You—what?”

His smile softens so that it’s more sheepish, but it’s still radiant as ever. “Yeah. Figured I owed you for September.”

“But we’re supposed to be doing it—”

“Together, I know. Except I’d rather be doing this instead.”

He swoops down and captures her lips with his, taking her breath away. She should really be used to this by now, but she’s not. Not even close. Her hands drift up his chest, grasping the jersey she was ogling not fifteen minutes ago, tugging and pulling at it. Because as good as it looks on him, she wants it off. Now.

His hands shift down to cup her arse, lifting her up and she wraps her legs around his waist. Her teeth scrape his bottom lip before her tongue darts into his mouth, eliciting a groan from deep within his chest.

“Fuck,” he says as he tears his mouth away from hers, peppering kisses along her jaw and down toward her neck. “So, we’re done rowing about the rounds schedule now, yeah? Because if it’s all the same to you, I’ve been waiting all day to do this.”

Hermione tilts her neck to give him easier access as her hands rake through the soft thicket of red hair as she guides him to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Please,” she sighs with contented relief. All the tension she’s been holding evaporates with every kiss. “Though, I can think of some more comfortable places to snog other than against this door frame.

He smiles against her collarbone. “Right. Your room okay?”

“Always.”

As he carries her into her bedroom and kicks the door shut, Hermione can’t help feeling foolish for picking such a ridiculous fight. But she loves the thrill of going toe-to-toe with him because it makes the snogging—and then some—so much better.

It’s okay that he’s late—really, it is—because it means that their secret is safe. Outside these walls, it’s all an act. They’re indifferent toward each other, tolerable for the sake of being Head Boy and Head Girl. Working together only because they have to.

Little does everyone know they’re doing a lot more than working. It’s thrilling, really. Unbeknownst to the rest of the school, Ron Weasley is her boyfriend. And so far, it’s practically perfect in every way.

#submission #fake not dating #hidden relationship #romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger

[cool-fancier]

Academic Duels

Synopsis: In the halls of Daewon High School, you academic rivalry, born of contrasting styles, laid the groundwork for an unexpected connection. A tale of competition, shared recognition, and evolving relationship.

A/n: Academic Rivalry,some playful banter,Bada being kind,is a bit rushed

Word Count:3.9k

The story of the academic rivalry between you and Bada could be traced back to the halls of Daewon High School, a prestigious institution in the bustling heart of Seoul. Both of you were prodigies in your own right, emerging as academic stars in a sea of bright minds. The competitive spirit that simmered beneath the surface of your scholarly pursuits had its roots in the early days of your high school journey.

As freshmen, you and Bada were already making waves with your exceptional performances. The teachers couldn't help but marvel at the intellectual prowess displayed by two students who seemed destined for greatness.

Your backstory was one of humble beginnings. Born into a middle-class family, you had always viewed education as the key to transcending societal limitations. The determination to succeed and prove your worth had been instilled in you by your parents, who worked tirelessly to provide you with the opportunities they never had.

Bada, on the other hand, hailed from a family with a long lineage of scholars and intellectuals. The pressure to uphold the family legacy weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her parents, both accomplished academics, had set a high bar for success, and Bada was determined to not only meet but exceed those expectations.

The first encounter that set the stage for your academic rivalry occurred in the freshman year English class. The teacher, recognizing the exceptional talent in both of you, assigned a collaborative project that would serve as a precursor to the competition that would unfold over the years.

As fate would have it, you and Bada were paired together for the project. Initially, it seemed like a harmonious partnership, with the shared goal of producing a stellar presentation. However, as the days progressed, the differences in your approaches became apparent.

You, driven by a passion for the subject and a desire to delve deep into the material, took a creative and holistic approach to the project. Bada, with her meticulous and analytical mindset, preferred a structured and methodical strategy. The clash of these contrasting methodologies resulted in a project that was neither a seamless fusion of ideas nor a harmonious collaboration.

When the teacher evaluated the project, the feedback was mixed. The creativity and depth of your insights were praised, but the lack of structure and organization drew criticism. Bada, on the other hand, received commendation for the precision and clarity of her contributions but was urged to consider incorporating a more creative element.

The experience left both of you with a sense of dissatisfaction. For you, it was the first taste of a less-than-perfect performance, while for Bada, it was an unaccustomed brush with constructive criticism. The dynamic had shifted, and an unspoken challenge lingered in the air.

The following years witnessed an escalation of the rivalry. Each exam, project, or presentation became a battleground where you and Bada sought not just to excel but to outshine each other. The competition fueled an unrelenting pursuit of excellence that saw both of you consistently topping the class.

In the crucible of academic fervor, the rivalry extended beyond the classroom. Extracurricular activities, leadership positions, and even accolades from teachers became markers of success to be fiercely contested. The once-harmonious atmosphere of Daewon High School now crackled with the electric energy of a rivalry that had transcended the ordinary.

The competitive spirit, while driving you and Bada to extraordinary heights, also exacted a toll on your personal lives. Friendships were strained as the pursuit of academic superiority overshadowed other aspects of high school life. The unspoken tension in the hallways, the pointed glances exchanged during class discussions, and the occasional clashes in student council meetings became defining features of your high school experience.

The teachers, observing the intensity of the rivalry, attempted to channel it into positive avenues. You and Bada were often chosen to represent the school in academic competitions, debates, and quiz bowls. While these opportunities provided a platform to showcase your talents on a broader stage, they also heightened the stakes of the rivalry.

Despite the competitive undercurrent, there were moments of shared recognition. The mutual acknowledgment of each other's brilliance, even if begrudgingly given, fostered a strange camaraderie. You both knew that the rivalry, while fierce, was also a source of mutual growth and intellectual stimulation.

"You did well in the debate today," you acknowledged, unable to completely conceal the admiration in your voice.

Bada responded with a slight nod. "Your points were impressive too. It's always a challenge keeping up with your unpredictability."

The recognition, however, did little to assuage the burning desire for supremacy. The rivalry continued to drive both of you to push the boundaries of academic achievement.

The banter and debates during those high school years had a different flavor. In the classrooms of Daewon High School, where the echoes of spirited discussions reverberated, the story of you and Bada unfolded amidst playful taunts and competitive banter.

"Looks like you narrowly escaped defeat in today's quiz," Bada teased, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You shot back, "Narrowly? I call it strategic brilliance. Keeps you on your toes, doesn't it?"

The teachers, familiar with the dynamics between you two, often found themselves caught in the crossfire of banter.

"Ah, the intellectual sparring continues. I'm beginning to think I should assign you both to opposing debate teams," Mr. Kang, your history teacher, remarked with a chuckle.

Bada replied, "We'd welcome the challenge, wouldn't we? It might make things more interesting."

The banter extended beyond the academic realm. During student council meetings, where both of you held prominent positions, the discussions often took on a competitive edge.

"I propose we implement a mentorship program," you suggested, eyeing Bada with a challenge in your gaze.

Bada responded, "While mentorship is valuable, let's not forget the importance of independent learning. We don't want to coddle our fellow students."

The debates, while spirited, were always underlined by a mutual respect. The rivalry, though palpable, was a driving force that propelled both of you to strive for excellence.

Amidst the playful banter, there were moments of genuine collaboration. The fusion of your creative approach and Bada's analytical mindset occasionally resulted in projects that showcased the power of your combined intellects.

One such project, where you both collaborated on a research paper exploring the intersection of literature and science, garnered praise from your professors. The recognition, albeit shared, did little to quell the ongoing rivalry.

— — — — —

The hallways of Seoul National University echoed with the hurried footsteps of students rushing to their next classes. Among them were you and Bada, academic rivals whose competitive spirits fueled a perpetual race for excellence.

In the realm of academics, you and Bada were often neck-and-neck. Your prowess in the sciences matched her linguistic finesse, and each test became a battleground where victory was never guaranteed. The atmosphere between you two was always charged with unspoken competition, and your grades were the scoreboard that determined the winner.

Today was no different. The air buzzed with anticipation as the university prepared to release the results of the latest round of exams. The stakes were high, and both of you knew that this could be the moment that tilted the scales in one direction.

The backstory of this rivalry traced back to your first year at the university. Both you and Bada were standout students in your respective high schools, used to being at the top of your class. When you found yourselves in the same university, it was inevitable that your paths would cross.

The competition began innocently enough, with friendly banter and subtle attempts to outshine each other. However, as the semesters progressed, the rivalry intensified. Your accomplishments became the measuring stick for Bada, and vice versa. The stakes were not just about grades; they were about asserting dominance and proving who was truly the best.

As you entered the lecture hall where the test results were to be announced, a knot of nerves twisted in your stomach. The room was abuzz with whispers, and the tension was palpable. Bada, with her customary stoic expression, sat a few seats away from you. The unspoken challenge hung in the air like an electric current.

The professor walked in, holding a stack of graded papers. The room fell into a hushed silence as he prepared to distribute the tests. The moment of truth had arrived.

One by one, the professor called out names and handed back the exams. The tension in the room escalated with each passing moment. As your name was called, you reached out to grab your test, trying to hide the tremble in your hands. You quickly scanned the pages, relief washing over you as you saw the coveted "100%" at the top.

A triumphant smile crept across your face as you turned to glance at Bada. "What did you get?" you asked curiously, a mix of excitement and anticipation in your voice.

Bada's expression remained impassive as she received her test. She glanced at the pages and replied, "99%," her tone cold and unaffected.

A surge of exhilaration coursed through your veins. For the first time, it seemed victory was firmly in your grasp. "Well, looks like I finally got the upper hand this time," you said, unable to conceal the wide grin that spread across your face.

Bada met your gaze with a steady look, her poker face betraying no emotion. "Congratulations," she replied simply, her voice devoid of any hint of rivalry.

You couldn't resist the urge to boast. "I guess I've broken the cycle. Maybe this is the beginning of a winning streak," you declared, reveling in the momentary triumph.

As the news of your perfect score spread through the lecture hall, whispers of congratulations and admiration filled the air. Friends patted you on the back, and the sense of accomplishment lifted your spirits.

However little did you know the true nature of Bada's response. While she maintained her cool facade, there was a subtle glint of satisfaction in her eyes. What you didn't realize was that she had intentionally missed one question, not out of negligence, but as a calculated move. Bada had liked you for a long time, and this small act was her way of creating a moment of joy for you.

As you continued to bask in the glory of your achievement, Bada sat there, seemingly indifferent to the numbers on her paper. In reality, her heart carried a secret that she had guarded for far too long. The satisfaction in her eyes was not just about letting you win this round; it was about creating a moment that would make you smile, blissfully unaware of her feelings.

The rivalry between you and Bada had always been more than academics. Beneath the competitive banter and shared challenges, a connection had quietly blossomed. Bada had admired you for your dedication, your passion, and the genuine kindness that you extended to everyone around you. It wasn't just about being the best academically; it was about being the kind of person that made her heart skip a beat.

The backstory to this unexpected gesture traced back to a moment of vulnerability. Bada, with her sharp intellect and disciplined approach to academics, had always been perceived as an unyielding force. However, beneath the exterior of stoicism lay a desire for connection and understanding.

One day, as you were preparing for a particularly challenging exam, Bada caught a glimpse of the stress that clouded your usually confident demeanor. Instead of seizing the opportunity to press her advantage, she recognized the humanity in your struggle. It was then that she made a silent pact with herself – to occasionally let you taste the sweetness of victory, even if it meant deliberately missing a question.

In the weeks that followed, as you continued to revel in your newfound success, Bada observed from the sidelines. She saw how your confidence blossomed, how the taste of victory spurred you to even greater heights. And in those moments, she found a peculiar satisfaction – the satisfaction of seeing you smile, even if it was at the cost of a single percentage point.

The days turned into weeks, and the routine of academic rivalry persisted. However, an unspoken understanding had developed between you and Bada. She continued to be the formidable competitor, pushing you to excel, but every now and then, a subtle gesture hinted at a connection that transcended grades and competition.

In the midst of this dynamic, a friendship, unacknowledged and yet quietly thriving, began to take root. The rivalry that had once been fueled by a desire for supremacy now carried the weight of shared victories and unspoken gestures of camaraderie.

As the semester progressed, the academic challenges continued, but the relationship between you and Bada took on a new dimension. The hallways that were once silent witnesses to whispered rivalries now echoed with the occasional laughter and shared insights.

The library, with its hushed whispers and the scent of old books, became an unlikely setting for the next chapter in your evolving connection with Bada. As you both immersed yourselves in your studies, the atmosphere was charged with an unspoken camaraderie that had gradually replaced the intense rivalry of your earlier encounters.

One day, as you were engrossed in your textbooks and notes, Bada looked up from her own stack of books. "Do you want to grab a coffee after this?" she asked, her tone casual but carrying a warmth that transcended the usual competitiveness.

The invitation caught you by surprise, but the genuine sincerity in her eyes made it impossible to decline. "Sure, I'd love that," you replied, offering a genuine smile and a light blush. The idea of sharing a coffee, something that had started as a casual outing, had now become a symbol of the connection you were building.

As you both ventured into the campus café, the familiar aroma of coffee beans enveloped you. The atmosphere was light, free from the usual undercurrents of rivalry that had defined your interactions. The conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving through topics beyond the confines of academia.

"I never knew you were into literature," you remarked, genuinely intrigued by this new side of Bada.

She chuckled, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Yeah, I've always loved getting lost in a good book. There's something magical about the way words can transport you to different worlds."

The exchange of personal interests continued, revealing shared passions for travel and a mutual appreciation for the intricacies of the Korean language. The coffee outings became a regular occurrence, each one peeling away another layer of the barriers that had once defined your relationship.

As weeks turned into months, the initial wariness between you and Bada melted away, paving the way for a genuine connection. The unspoken pact, where occasional victories were traded for moments of acknowledgment, remained intact.

One afternoon, as you sat in your usual corner of the café, sipping coffee and sharing laughs, Bada seemed a bit more reserved than usual. The air carried a subtle tension, and you couldn't help but notice the thoughtful glances she occasionally directed your way.

"You seem a bit quiet today," you observed, your tone gentle. "Everything okay?"

Bada took a deep breath, as if gathering her courage. "Yeah, everything's fine. Actually, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

The shift in her demeanor caught your attention. "Sure, go ahead. We're friends, right?"

A hint of relief but quick sadness flickered in Bada's eyes. "Yeah, friends," she affirmed, her gaze meeting yours. "I wanted to say... I that I really love our time together, and I don't want to mess it up, but I need to be honest with you."

Curiosity tinged with a touch of concern filled your expression. "Of course, Bada. You can be honest with me."

Taking another deep breath, she confessed, "I've liked you for a long time now. More than just as a study partner or a friend. I wasn't sure if I should say anything, but I didn't want to keep it from you."

Surprise registered on your face as you absorbed her words. Bada, the once stoic academic rival, had just revealed a vulnerability that spoke volumes. The café, with its low hum of background chatter, seemed to quiet down as you processed her confession.

The pause lingered for a moment, tension hanging in the air. Then, unexpectedly, you found yourself smiling. "Bada, I appreciate your honesty. I didn't see this coming, but I have to admit, I've liked you too."

Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. "You do?"

"Yeah," you chuckled, the weight of the unspoken tension lifting. "I guess our connection goes beyond just acing exams and grabbing coffee. I like you, Bada, more than I thought."

Relief washed over her, and a genuine smile graced her lips. "I was worried I might mess things up between us."

You reached across the table, gently taking her hand. "Bada, our connection is stronger than that. I'm glad you told me. Let's see where this takes us, without the pressures of academic rivalry."

From that moment, the dynamics of your relationship with Bada shifted once again. The coffee outings, once symbols of friendly competition, now became a canvas for the blossoming romance. The barriers had crumbled, revealing a connection that transcended the expectations of academia.

As the days turned into nights, you and Bada navigated this new chapter with a shared understanding. The unspoken pact, built on the foundation of occasional victories and heartfelt acknowledgments, had paved the way for a love story that had quietly unfolded beneath the surface of academic competition.

— — — — — —

The test results, once a source of tension, became a mere formality in the journey of your academic and personal growth. The rivalry that had once defined your interactions now stood as a testament to the transformative power of unexpected connections.

One day, as you and Bada sat in the same lecture hall where the initial rivalry had taken root, the professor announced another round of test results. The atmosphere, once thick with tension, now held an air of camaraderie.

As the professor called out names and distributed the exams, you and Bada exchanged knowing glances. The competitive spirit remained, but it was no longer fueled by a desire for supremacy. It was a shared journey of growth, each victory and defeat a stepping stone in the evolution of your friendship.

When you received your test, you scanned the pages, your heart pounding with anticipation. The familiar "100%" greeted you, and you couldn't help but smile. Turning to Bada, you asked, "What did you get?" Curiosity and genuine interest colored your words.

Bada, maintaining her composed demeanor, replied, "99%," with a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

The realization hit you – this was not a defeat but a continuation of the unspoken pact. You smiled widely, not as a display of triumph, but as an acknowledgment of the shared journey you and Bada had undertaken.

"I guess we're maintaining the balance," you said, your voice filled with a newfound understanding.

Bada nodded, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes mirroring your own. The professor, unaware of the intricacies of your connection, continued with the announcements, and the hall filled with a sense of collective achievement.

As you and Bada walked out of the lecture hall, the sun casting a warm glow over the campus, the unspoken pact between you two lingered in the air. The rivalry had evolved into a friendship, a connection that defied the expectations of competitiveness.

In the heart of Seoul National University, where the halls echoed with the pursuit of knowledge, the story of you and Bada became a testament to the transformative power of unexpected connections. The rivalry that once fueled the academic landscape now stood as a symbol of growth, shared victories, and the enduring bonds that emerged from the unlikeliest of beginnings.

Now, with the acknowledgment of your mutual feelings, the dynamics between you and Bada shifted once again. The coffee outings, once symbols of friendly competition, now became a canvas for the blossoming romance. The barriers had crumbled, revealing a connection that transcended the expectations of academia.

As the days turned into nights, you and Bada navigated this new chapter with a shared understanding. The unspoken pact, built on the foundation of occasional victories and heartfelt acknowledgments, had paved the way for a love story that had quietly unfolded beneath the surface of academic competition.

The exchange of glances had become laden with unspoken meanings, and every shared moment held a layer of intimacy that went beyond friendship. The sunsets over the campus felt warmer, and the laughter shared in the cafés echoed with the resonance of newfound affection.

One evening, as you both strolled through the campus, Bada couldn't resist a playful jab at your once intense rivalry. "Remember when you used to boast about being the smartest one in class?" she teased, nudging you lightly.

You chuckled, playing along. "Ah, those were the days when I had to remind you who the real brainiac was."

Bada raised an eyebrow, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Brainiac? Please, I seem to recall someone struggling to keep up with my brilliance."

You feigned offense, a playful glint in your eyes. "Oh, please. Your brilliance couldn't even match my wit."

The banter continued, each remark carrying the weight of shared history and a newfound camaraderie. As you both reached a quiet spot under a tree, the playfulness took a surprising turn. Bada, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, suddenly lunged at you, causing you to stumble backward.

Laughter echoed through the campus as Bada pinned you down playfully, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of challenge and affection. "Who's the brainiac now?" she teased, a playful grin on her face.

You couldn't help but grin back, the rush of the unexpected moment adding a layer of excitement to the playful banter. "Alright, you got me this time. But let's see who emerges victorious in our next academic duel."

Bada leaned in, her breath mingling with yours. "Oh, I'm looking forward to it. But for now, let's enjoy this little victory, shall we?"

As the playful banter lingered under the shade of the tree, Bada's eyes held a warmth that transcended the teasing. The laughter, the shared history, and the unexpected twists in your connection had brought you both to this moment.

Bada, still playfully pinning you down, leaned in with a gentle smile. "You know," she whispered, "sometimes the best victories are the ones we least expect."

A grin played on your lips as you replied, "I couldn't agree more."

In that suspended moment, the air between you and Bada crackled with anticipation. The playful rivalry had seamlessly transformed into a shared understanding, and the lines between competition and connection had blurred.

Without another word, Bada closed the distance, and your lips met in a tender kiss. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the warmth of the embrace. The kiss, a culmination of unspoken feelings and the journey from rivals to something more, spoke volumes.

When you finally pulled away, a shared smile lingered between you. The playful banter, the academic duels, and the unexpected connection had led you to this moment, where the heartbeats echoed a new chapter in your evolving story.

In the heart of Seoul National University, where academic excellence met the uncharted territories of playful romance, the story of you and Bada continued to unfold. The once fierce academic rivals had discovered a bond that went beyond the confines of competition, and every banter-filled moment added a layer to the narrative of your evolving connection.

#bada lee x reader #swf2 #swf2 x reader #bada lee #street woman fighter 2 #bebe #bada lee fanfic #bada lee x oc #bada lee x y/n #bada x reader #bada lee imagine #lee bada #academic rivals

[gabessquishytum]

Started thinking about toys in an omegaverse, and came up with one for dreamling to use as both omegas; imagine a double-ended dildo, but at the center are two knots close together. If each omega takes in the dildo and pops a knot in, their crotches are flush together enough that it feels like it’s each their partner’s knot.

So now imagine Hob and Dream, two omegas, riding one of these together. It could be a pretty basic model, the knots always present and only just small enough to push into their holes without much issue, and then once in they can grind on the knots together until they come. There’s also a fancier model, where the knots can inflate either with a remote control or a timer; Hob and Dream can treat it as an ordinary double-ended dildo up until either the timer goes off or whichever of them holding the remote presses the button, at which point the knots will inflate and lock them together.

More of a word picture than a story this time ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-🪽anon

Ooo I like this a lot. The omega x omega sex toy concept is so good, I kinda love the idea of the omegas being able to "fight" for the knot in the middle, both of them wanting their partner to get knotted first, but every time they thrust forward they ultimately get the rebound thrust... I think its a great idea for a toy.

I really like the idea of Hob really getting into the whole thing and talking dirty like the toy is really his knot, talking about how he's going to knot Dream so hard and fill him up. Maybe he pushes forward and properly mounts on top of Dream, driving the fake knot closer and closer... Maybe Dream cums just hearing Hob talk about it, and maybe Hob cums because Dream is squirming underneath him and the knot is starting to slip into both of them, tying them together...

When Dream finally comes back to full awareness he sees Hob licking the fake knot clean and sucking their combined cum off the toy. And then it's Dream’s turn to pounce and press Hob into the mattress. Maybe the knot also has a vibration setting that Dream is very interested to experiment on Hob with... before he tries it out himself 😏 it's endless fun tbh. And eventually they fall asleep, tied together by the swollen fake knot, both absolutely satisfied and very much looking forward to spending their next heats together, with the toy. Maybe they'll get a spare, just in case.

(You also asked about the other asks you sent getting lost - I am SO sorry, I honestly don't know what happened there. I feel like maybe they came in while I was really sick? I also had problems with not being able to edit my drafts, so there are honestly multiple things that could have occurred. I'm so sorry D: im going to dig through my inbox and see what i can find - i have 350 asks so they could very well be buried somewhere!)

#🪽 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw omegaverse

[dabilove27]

Character: Joey Wheeler

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Public masturbation, Male Masturbation, Joey is depicted as 21+, Not Beta'd. If I missed anything let me know!

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hello hello! So this is a bit different from what I normally do so please excuse it if it's horrific. This comes from a lovely requester who wishes to remain anonymous. Here is the request: "For my request, can you write a oneshot featuring Joey Wheeler (aged up) but with public nudity please? In the story, he gets the idea to try walking through downtown Domino City late at night wearing nothing but his birthday suit. You can decide on where he'd go, but I'd like it if Joey was focused on walking through without anyone catching him also masturbating/cumming along the way." I hope you like it!!

other a/n: my dumbass had to keep editing this aye aye aye

Joey perceived himself as a daring risk-taker, always ready to face danger with no second thoughts. As he entered adulthood following high school, he remained labeled as reckless by others. However, as Joey entered his early adult years, he carried a secret within him. His constant drive to push his boundaries led to a diminished excitement for ordinary experiences.

Joey was uncertain about the process through which he realized that this was his area of expertise.

It started on a scorching summer day when he set out for the pool unaccompanied. The sparkling sun drenched the area in a golden light, its rays softly brushing against his skin. Lacking ambitious aspirations, he merely craved the soothing comfort of the sun. Strangely, not a single person was there on this beautiful summer day.

Rather than going into the bathroom to change, Joey took a risk and changed right there, in the open air. A powerful voice of persuasion boldly called to him. A combination of fear and excitement filled him as he removed his clothes.

Joey's heart throbbed as he rapidly stripped off his shirt and shorts, attempting to be swift and unnoticeable. A surge of adrenaline washed over him as he reveled in the thrill of engaging in forbidden activities. The voice he heard in his head gave him confidence that he would go unnoticed.

After changing and getting into his swim trunks, Joey felt sweat rolling down his forehead. With a nervous glance, he quickly checked to see if anyone had caught sight of his unconventional actions. The pool remained quiet, with no one in sight.

Despite feeling uncomfortable and always being concerned about getting caught, Joey found a sense of liberation. Being bound by societal expectations had been his reality, but this rebellious act briefly liberated him. His inner voice muttered words of encouragement, compelling him to embrace his genuine self.

With a surge of confidence, Joey descended to the pool, prepared to express his true self. With the weight of secrecy gone, he felt a newfound sense of empowerment. He finally accepted that the little voice in his head had been right all along. He was ready to face the consequences of his actions, knowing that he wouldn't be discovered.

As Joey leapt into the invigorating pool, he could feel a surge of courage and determination propelling him forward. The voice in his head had become a powerful force, motivating him to break free from societal conventions and embrace his true identity. From that moment forward, he embraced the voice that resonates deep within him, promising to follow its guidance as it led him towards a life of genuine purpose.

It was a sequence of events that led Joey down an unexpected path, eventually resulting in him finding refuge in an alley where he could savor the refreshing coolness of the evening air in Domino City.

Something had unexpectedly motivated him that evening, which led to his actions. The voice he heard at the pool years ago might have caused this sensation. In a swift motion, he untangled himself from his jeans and allowed them to cascade down, landing softly on the earth, all while the crisp air of early fall danced teasingly across his legs.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Joey, making his heart pound. Intensifying the sensation, the cool air sent shivers down his spine. A surge of electricity seemed to have sparked his senses, awakening every nerve ending in his body.

With his jeans pooled around his ankles, Joey stood there, overwhelmed by the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future. The memory of that voice, from two years ago, lingered in his thoughts, urging him to heed his gut feelings, abandon the ordinary, and embrace the unexplored.

As the city lights shone brightly, the alley came to life, with long shadows that waltzed gracefully across the brick walls. Excitement and a touch of anxiety made Joey's legs tremble as he stood there, bare-skinned. The sensation of the crisp air on his skin was both invigorating and unsettling, a physical manifestation of his decision to step outside his comfort zone.

Joey's inhibitions gradually faded away with every passing moment, leaving him with a fresh feeling of liberation. Allowing himself a moment to take a deep breath, he embraced the coolness of the evening air that entered his lungs, providing an additional boost of invigoration. By placing his jeans on the ground, he metaphorically shed the weight of societal expectations, visually expressing his yearning to embrace the uncharted path that lies ahead.

In the alley, Joey's veins pulsed with a wave of courage and determination. The chilly wind acted as a catalyst, igniting his spirit and increasing his curiosity. Wasting no time, he took off his shirt and boxers. Aware of his vulnerability, he realized that this moment held the potential for self-reinvention and the revelation of his deepest desires.

As the days grew shorter and autumn arrived, the gentle breeze continued to brush against his legs, as if inviting him to embark on fresh adventures and explore his true self. Joey closed his eyes, fully immersing himself in the sensation, and silently vowed to obey the persistent voice that had haunted him for years. With a fresh perspective on life, he courageously moved ahead, leaving his clothes and venturing into the unknown, fully prepared to embrace whatever came his way.

A refreshing coolness fills the air. The gentle wind rustles through the trees, creating a soothing melody. With the perfect weather in place, Joey's plan is ready for success. Domino City holds no secrets for him, as he is intimately familiar with its every corner and neighborhood. It's the prime spot to begin his voyeuristic quest, where he can surreptitiously observe the unfolding scenes around him.

Joey leisurely starts his stroll, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of the wind against his bare skin, while he meanders towards the pathway that encircles the deserted lake. The rush he feels from the anticipation of being caught pushes him onwards, compelling him to stay watchful for any sudden nocturnal wanderers that may cross his path.

Even though ten minutes had elapsed, Joey had encountered no one at all. Not discouraged, he persisted through the eerie stillness of the night, cautiously navigating around abandoned vehicles, his heart racing with every step. The expectation of a potential individual inside the car caused an adrenaline rush, leading to unpredictable bodily responses. Sensing the need for haste, he hastily sought sanctuary in an industrial area, desperately yearning for a moment of relaxation.

Eventually, he finds the perfect hiding spot concealed behind a tall oak tree, where the moonlight filters through the leaves. With a careful balance of openness and seclusion, the environment allows Joey to explore his desires freely without worrying about unwanted attention. Deliberately, he reaches down, his hand encountering the velvety texture and warmth of his manhood, causing a tingle of anticipation to travel down his back. While he strokes back and forth, a euphoric symphony escapes his mouth, blending with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds, forming a seductive melody in the embrace of nature.

With each stroke, Joey could see the pearlescent pre-cum glistening on the tip of his cock, heightening his pleasure. With each movement, a cacophony of loud, wet sounds filled the surrounding space. Lost in the sensation, he couldn't help but moan audibly as his hand traced the contours of his firm stomach.

Sensing the release was imminent, Joey quickened his pace, eager to reach it. His forehead and chest glistened with perspiration as small beads of sweat formed in response to the heat.

With each moan, Joey became less and less hesitant.

Joey firmly gripped his hands around his throbbing member, his fingers tightly encasing the pulsating shaft. His moans grew more intense and resonated throughout the room with every powerful thrust. The air carried a distinct scent of longing, blending with the intoxicating aroma of sweat. His lips, slightly parted, released a series of breathy exclamations, punctuated by the occasional whispered “oh fuck.”

Joey couldn’t hold it anymore and a sudden exclamation escaped his lips, “Ah, F-Fuck!” To ease himself, he expelled a significant load onto the grass, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

Before finally going back to get his clothes, Joey lingers for a while, savoring the moment with a hint of reluctance.

#joey wheeler fanfic #yugioh fanfic #joey wheeler smut #my writing #introspection #dabilove27 writing

[daylight-boyy]

An observation on the Magnus protocol (so far)

Presumably, the mechanics of fear and the paranormal are different in this universe than in archives, for there to be enough variation to keep long time listeners' attention. What we don't know is how it's different yet.

People don't seem to be afraid in the case files. Or rather, the people being most directly influenced by supernatural powers don't seem to be afraid.

When Daria talks about her experience of...ehm...altering herself, she doesn't talk about it as if it was a horrendous, traumatic event. The thing she seems most upset she seems is getting the tattoo, but ‘bad tattoo job’ is a fairly ordinary experience, if that makes sense? When she talks about ‘touching up the painting’ (the most overtly paranormal part of her experience) she speaks almost with a reverence or amazement, focussing on how she was "making progress", "so much better", "perfect", "perfect", perfect. She even admits she intends to make more ‘adjustments’ when she gets the chance.

Although Dr Webber is panicked by his worsening condition at first, there is a really sudden change in mood around the point he talks about being "covered in insects" - he seems relaxed, happy, even. Although he almost certainly met a fairly gruesome end he likely did so in a state of bliss. He does mention there being "something that still shakes with terror" within him, but his language is detached, as if the fear is separate from him/is a more passive feeling.

Now, the case involving the-thing-that-was-not-Arthur is a bit different in that the person whose perspective the story is told from isn't directly on the receiving end of supernatural...weirdness. Harriet is understandably absolutely horrified at what she sees, similar to how Sarah is horrified when she sees Daria after her ‘alterations’. However, we only hear her perspective. For all we, the audience, know, the thing that was some of Arthur might have been having a lovely time.

Again, the Magnus institute case is a little different too. Again, we believe this could be in part because RedCanary starts off an observer rather than being directly involved in a paranormal occurrence. Interestingly, rather than just being emotionally distressed, like Harriet and Sarah, RedCanary (arguably, not confirmed) meets a nasty end after returning to the institute.

So, so far in protocol, witnesses of supernatural events find them horrifying, traumatic, even - but those who actually experience it firsthand seem unfazed, even if they undoubtedly suffer.

In different words- the watched thrive while the watchers suffer.

Okay but with more overt phrasing I think the mantle of "victim" could be on observers/witnesses of paranormal events rather than those who experience it firsthand

I guess this could be linked to fears or entities leaking through from the universe archives is set in, and maybe the Beholding being weakened from losing its pupil before being pulled into this universe

But I don't imagine this is likely to get confirmed confirmed a la protocol being accessible/understandable to new listeners

But anyway yeah. Ideas :)

#rambles #hollering into the void #the magnus protocol #tmagp theories #🟣🟢

[zaftikat]

20 Questions

This is the most 2010s tumblr thing I can recall doing on this site, and I have participated in the supernatural fandom. (Tagged by @toopunkrockforshul )

ALL OF THIS UNDER A CUT

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Five, but like you know, I'm workin on it.

2. How many words?

16,320. 11.4k comes from one fic tho

Nine Worlds Series by Victoria Goddard (specifically: Greenwing & Dart and Lays of the Hearthfire)

Star Wars by way of @dangersquaremedia's Chicks with Dice

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

well, i've only got the 5 so...

1. It's just Intermundial Tax Law, how hard could it be?

2. On Escaping from Orio Prison

3. The Tanà's Daughter, or How Pinyë Got Her Groove Back (Hiatus)

4. If the Lady Wills it, Ever Onward (Ongoing)

5. The Poola Blossom

No because I'm afraid it might come across as weird? I don't read a lot of fic, so I'm not sure what the etiquette is?

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Implying I finish my fics instead of losing steam and forgetting them.

That said, when its finished, How Pinye Got Her Groove Back is going to be pretty fuckin angsty

Again, implying that I finish my fics.

The one I've gotten the most "this made me so sad" comments on is actually my happiest in my opinion. I wrote Intermundial Tax Law right as I was gearing up to move countries, and the story ends with the main character feeling confident and determined in his choice to leave home. That's the happiest ending I could have imagined at the time, because emigrating somewhere new is not a simple prospect, emotionally.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I write for very small fandoms full of predominantly very nice and supportive people. I would not change that.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I, a transfem on progesterone, have written smut, yes. The armpit licking kind. What other kinds are there?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I love a good AU, but I'm not super into crossovers. Just not my bag.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

If I have, I apologize to the thief for the sort of mauve hue to my prose.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

no, but damn if I wouldn't love to have a yiddish fic

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I have ideas for a cowritten fic with @toopunkrockforshul ! its a wrestling AU

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

oh, maybe HMS Agamemnon. She was a 64 gun third rate who participated in the battle of Egypt and then shortly thereafter the Nore Mutiny. Laid up in 1802 in poor condition, and then brought out of ordinary in 1804 because napoleon was going to invade and they needed all the ships they could get. She took and demasted the Spanish 112 gun Santisima Trinidad at Trafalgar which is pretty cool.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

How Pinye Got Her Groove Back probably won't ever get finished because I've lost the mindset. Its a fic about dysphoria and coming out and as I get farther away from the direct experience its harder to set in my mind.

16. What are your writing strengths?

idk. it feels odd to talk about my strengths when I'm so very green at this. I think I'm pretty alright at knowing when to kill a darling.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I tend to get lost in the middle between where I know I'm going and where I currently am. It slows me down a lot.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Like, maybe I could do Jack Aubrey quality french.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Greenwing & Dart

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

If the Lady Wills it, Ever Onward its just the most complex and well written thing I think i've ever done, and I can't wait for something else to replace it as my favourite.

I don't know enough people who write fic to tag them, so have fun if you want

#writing #long post #puppy speaks #fic

[hlstead]

the best girl that could have

[will halstead x reader]

request by @zaidatorcuatomorgado

Zaida had always admired the early morning light. It painted the world in delicate shades of pink and gold, casting a warm glow on everything it touched. Today was no different. As the sun began its ascent, Zaida found herself standing before the door of her own little haven, a heart full of excitement and a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

Will Halstead, her beloved, lay asleep inside, completely unaware of the surprise that awaited him. With a mischievous grin, Zaida stepped inside the house and silently closed the door behind her. She tiptoed down the hall, her heart beating faster with each step, fueled by a mix of anticipation and giddiness.

She had managed to get home unusually early, determined to make the most of this day off that Will had in the Mediterranean. The plan she had concocted was whimsical and playful, a manifestation of her deepest desires to experience something out of the ordinary.

Slipping into a flowing dress that rustled with each movement, Zaida carefully padded her way into the bedroom. The gentle rhythm of Will's breathing reassured her that he was still lost in slumber. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, peaceful and vulnerable in his dreams.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she imagined his reaction when he woke up. The room was adorned with an enchanting charm, as if a slice of a hospital from the Mediterranean had been transported into their home. The bed was transformed into an examination table, complete with crisp white sheets and a pillow for a headrest.

Zaida's gaze traveled to the corner of the room where she had laid out a selection of doctor's clothing, including a white coat and a stethoscope. The idea had been born out of a playful whim, but now that it was taking shape, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement coursing through her veins.

Finally, the moment arrived. The world around her seemed to hold its breath as Will stirred awake, his eyes gradually opening to meet Zaida's sparkling ones. A wide grin spread across his face, and he blinked in surprise as he took in the unexpected transformation of their bedroom.

"You," he mused with a chuckle, "you've outdone yourself."

With a graceful twirl, Zaida presented herself, her dress flowing elegantly around her. "Doctor's orders," she said with a wink, her voice teasing and playful.

Will's laughter filled the air as he eagerly embraced the role. He dressed in the provided attire, the stethoscope hanging around his neck like a prized possession. Their day transformed into a delightful escapade, as Zaida became his patient, and he, her dashing doctor.

With a captivating mix of seriousness and charm, Will led Zaida through mock examinations, mimicking scenes from the Chicago Med that they had both enjoyed watching together. The atmosphere was electric, charged with shared laughter and the palpable connection between them.

As the day unfolded, they delved deeper into their roles. Zaida's heart raced as Will leaned in to auscultate her chest, the cold touch of the stethoscope's bell sending shivers through her body. Her heartbeat danced to a rhythm only he could evoke, her emotions laid bare with each tender press of the instrument against her skin.

She met his gaze, her eyes speaking volumes that her words couldn't convey. In that moment, it was as if the walls around them had disappeared, leaving only the two of them in a world of their own making. She could feel the weight of his attention, the depth of his care, and the intensity of his love in every touch, every gesture.

When the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, Will's expression turned more serious. He gently guided her to the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. With a quiet reverence, he asked her to remove her dress for a complete auscultation, his voice a tender caress against her ears.

Zaida's heart fluttered in her chest as she complied, her pulse quickening as his intense gaze never left her. The stethoscope's diaphragm was cool against her skin, sending a delightful shiver down her spine. With a steadying breath, she closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of her heartbeat and the sensation of his touch.

First, he placed the stethoscope on her chest, directly over her heart. Her heart raced, both from the contact and the vulnerability of the moment. As she felt his warmth radiating against her, she couldn't help but open her eyes to meet his gaze. There was an intimacy in this act, a connection that transcended the physical, baring their souls to each other.

He moved the stethoscope to her back, his arms encircling her in a gentle embrace. With each breath, she felt his heartbeat and hers synchronizing, a symphony of emotions intertwining in the space between them. He asked her to take a deep breath, his voice a soothing cadence that eased her nerves.

In that intimate cocoon, Zaida found herself sharing stories, thoughts, and dreams. Their playful role had evolved into something profound, a journey of discovery that mirrored the depth of their feelings. And as she bared her soul to him, she realized that this day, this moment, was a culmination of their love—a love that was as vast as the Mediterranean sea and as timeless as the sunsets that painted its horizon.

But the day was not without its twists. As the hours passed, Will's doctorly instincts kicked in when he noticed Zaida's swollen left foot. Without hesitation, he became her caretaker, his genuine concern replacing the playful doctor's role.

He guided her to lie down on the makeshift hospital bed, his touch gentle as he cushioned her foot and applied ice. Zaida watched him, her heart swelling with emotion at his kindness. As he tended to her, she found herself sharing the stories behind her day, the feelings she had carried, and the simple joys that made her heart sing.

And in that vulnerable moment, as the day shifted into night and their roles faded away, they were simply two souls baring their hearts to each other. The stethoscope, once a playful prop, had become a conduit for their connection, a bridge that spanned the depths of their love.

As Zaida looked into Will's eyes, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, she knew that this day had etched itself into their shared history. It wasn't just about playing doctor or enacting a fantasy—it was about the moments they had created, the emotions they had shared, and the love that had grown stronger with each heartbeat.

As they drifted off to sleep, their fingers intertwined and their hearts in sync, Zaida couldn't help but whisper her love into the stillness of the night. And in that moment, she knew that their story was more enchanting than any fairytale, more profound than any dream, and more real than anything she had ever known.

#will halstead #will halstead x reader #will halstead imagine #will halstead x you #one chicago #one chicago imagine #chicago med imagine

[mysterybooks-world]

My original idea for Silencestar's design

Fun fact Silencestar has Emerald colored eyes featuring a star on her left eye While Starscream has ruby colored eyes featuring a star in his right eye,

They can hide the mark on their eyes.

She's supposed to be a young twin sister of Starscream.

She looks like him But with Simple differences like an example.

The part color scheme is Green, not red.

She has small fangs Like a bat and a Tail (She can use her tail as a third hand And fight)

Always Silencestar wears lens green Smart goggles & a scarf. Fun fact She can use her scarf as a dangerous weapon & a tool bag.

She can hide her fangs and tail if she wants

Silencestar has supernatural abilities.

Silencestar loves to play the role of a mad scientist making strange inventions and chemicals

She likes to go out of the ordinary and one of them is Scrapio The ScrapHeap Silencestar found it while it was still in its egg, in an abandoned ScrapHeap nest So she took the egg with her secretly And she always talked to the egg And of course, You guessed it when Starscream discovered that his sister had egg of ScrapHeap He went crazy And Chasing Silencestar then They both kept quarreling They stopped when they heard a breaking sound And looking at It the hatched egg And a small creature came out of it

Silencestar Gently she held him and fed him a bottle Full of Iron liquid

After she finished feeding him, Starscream was Amazed and shocked By the behavior of his twin sister

Silencestar She said his name is Scrapio

She begged her brother Look at His eyes And she raised Scrapio in front of his face With her eyes like puppies

Starscream surrenders But it must be set in rules Because Scrapio Raises by Silencestar and Starscream. Scrapio is a genius And he has a microphone that translates his words even though doesn't need it Because Silencestar and Starscream understand him But in case Scrapio wants to talk to others Silencestar makes him a microphone

In the beginning Starscream didn't want to be attach to ScrapHeap But over time really cared for Scrapio

But of course no one knows Existence of Scrapio If others find out about him They will destroy him or They are experimenting on him

Silencestar hates Primus And always curses him and She doesn't believe in him

If you give her a chance to meet Primus she will jump on him and Attack him

she says If I die I never join the All Sparks.

Primus doesn't know how to deal with her Especially since She has a stronger power than him

Primus wonders where it came from And it feels strange that it's familiar but he can't put his finger on it

Interesting information: Unicron and Primus have a sister and she maintains balance But everything about her Existence was erased All that's left is There are 2 stars

When Starscream thinks he lost everything His personality and thoughts change He's not himself anymore but

before The series begins with events and Episode: Darkness Rising: Part 1 from Transformers: Prime.

Silencestar appeared to Starscream And she offered him an offer To get back together But Starscream refused Then the scene turns to

Later I will do a gacha video But I'm a beginner so it may take time so Wish me luck

#Starscream sister #Starscream #Transformer #Autobot #Decepticon #OC SilenceStar #Youtube

[stefankarlfanblog]

Article written for Dagblaðið Vísir - DV and credited to SM, from the 6th of January 2001: https://timarit.is/page/3010470?iabr=on#page/n24/mode/2up

Marie Jones, author of Stones in his Pockets: In love with words

The play Stones in his Pockets, which the National Theater premiered last December 30th, has been well received by critics. The work is by Marie Jones, she was present at the latter part of the premiere, as she didn't come to Reykjavík in time to witness the entire exhibition. She then saw show twice in its entirety.

In 17 years, Marie has written 27 works and they have been performed around the world, and Stones in his Pockets is another of her works that finds its way to Broadway. The other show was A Night in November which is a solo act that has received some acclaim. Marie is an actress and has, among other things, acted in several films, for example she played the role of the mother, Sarah Conlon, in the film In the Name of the Father, where Daniel Day-Lewis played the lead role. Initially, she started writing plays because there was a great lack of good roles for women, ordinary women.

Laughed at the right time

Marie says that it was very strange to see the show in Icelandic. "I didn't understand a single extra word," laughs Marie. "After a while, I started distinguishing the names and got used to the sound of the language. I know the work very well so I kind of knew what they were saying. Hilmir Snær and Stefán Karl were clever and very kind. I always laughed at the right time."

Two worlds

Marie says that the idea for the work was sparked by the couple's experience of acting. Marie's husband is Ian McElhinney, who directs Stones in his Pockets at the National Theater and has followed the work from the beginning.

We have acted in many films and the experience is very special. Films are often shot in places where the main focus has always been on agriculture. However, globalization has meant that there is no need for as many farmers as before. There is therefore a certain danger to these small rural villages. In response to this danger, efforts have been made to attract tourists, and related to this is getting American film companies to shoot their films in Ireland.

It's very interesting to see these two worlds trying to coexist in harmony: Hollywood with all the glam and the glitz and then the quiet rural world that has so far relied on farming. The cohabitation often lasts six or seven weeks and the conflict between these worlds takes strange forms. These worlds do not fully understand each other."

American Ireland

"Ireland is not what it appears to us in American movies," says Marie. She says that many Americans have their roots in Ireland and that is part of the reason why the image of Ireland in movies is so romantic.

"The story in the play is the true Ireland: a young man struggling with drug addiction. No hope, no land and no future. It is a stark contrast to the romantic Ireland being created in the film in the piece. These worlds are declared to last together."

Marie Jones - Photo credited to Hari for DV. "The story in the play is the true Ireland: a young man struggling with drug addiction. No hope, no land and no future. It is a stark contrast to the romantic Ireland being created in the film in the piece. These worlds are declared to last together."

Rather words than images

Marie says that she wrote it with two actors playing all the roles. However, she wasn't worried about how the conversations would be resolved on stage. She put the script in the hands of Ian and the actors and left them to solve any problems that might arise.

"It was very good because they had to completely take care of creating the characters and environment because I didn't leave anything to them - except the words.

A lot of authors have a lot of play descriptions in their scripts and envision a set and the like. I can see the work in a cinematic way but I couldn't imagine it on stage. I never envision my work on stage.

I prefer not to watch rehearsals. I was very surprised how well the director and actors worked on the piece." Although she thinks in terms of films, her mind is not in them.

"I don't really like movies. I prefer not to go to the cinema. I can write plays about movies, but I don't want to see them," says Marie, laughing. "I love the theater. I love words. When writing a screenplay, it's always said that you don't need to say much because the visuals are so strong. I'd rather say it, I'd rather hear words than see pictures."

Without a voice

The work has gone very well since it has been set up. Marie is not averse to the fact that there is something international about the work.

"Stones in his Pockets is about people who don't have control over their lives. Many people can identify with these people. in the play, the main characters learn that they may have something to say about their fate. Powerless people face the people who have power. Somehow those who lack the power manage to win. All my works are along these lines. They're about people without a voice who eventually find one."

-sm

Author and Actors Hilmir Snær Guðnason and Stefán Karl Stefánsson have rightfully received a lot of praise from critics for their performance in Stones in his Pockets. Marie Jones says she is very happy with their performance and plans to come back.

#stefán karl stefánsson #stefán karl #stefan karl #stefan karl stefansson #robbie rotten #2001 #stones in his pockets

[alastaircraig]

Bowie

Illustration by Hannah Aiello

January 2016:

The strangest part of working in a newsroom: you will occasionally have to act on awful news – if only for a few minutes of speedy fact-checking – before you’re permitted to completely feel it. Even when it’s the loss of somebody who you admire not only for his music, but his very existence.

The first thought that penetrates your professional numbness: a memory of 2003; sitting next to your Mum and sister at a Bowie concert, singing along with the man himself to “Suffragette City”. You will forever cherish the memory of your Mum shouting “WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA’AM”; forever brandish it as Exhibit A in the Wow, My Mother Is A Genuinely Cool Person argument. You realise that to you, the saddest part of this sorry news is the fact that she’ll have to hear it.

The walk home is far, far too short to process anything. So you keep walking. The Brisbane river is lovely. The humid air is cooling. Your fingers, acting almost of their own accord, have already tapped on your magical space-age phone and purchased Bowie’s final album – the album he surely knew would be his last – and pressed play.

It’s weird. It’s alienating. It’s inaccessible. It’s every bit as different to old Bowie as a new Bowie album should be. You find delight not in the songs, but the simple fact that he was finding entirely new things to say to the very end. The knowing references to death and afterlives and vigils are achingly sad, of course. But for the next half hour, he feels very much alive.

You keep walking, and walking, and walking. As the album ends, the final cosmic fade out is almost too much to bear. In your headphones, in this state, it feels like a one-on-one communication: a conscious, affectionate goodbye from a dying man.

Then it’s over. You’re back to reality. The little noises of the outside world seep back in: the bark of dogs, the tweeting of birds, the waves of the river. It’s gentle and peaceful and – through the muffle of the earphones you can’t quite bring yourself to remove – suddenly missing something vital.

So out comes the phone once more. You reach for the old. The familiar. The beloved. The Rock and Roll Suicides. The New Killer Stars. The Ziggies Stardust. And still you trundle along, step by step, doing an approximation of ordinary walking so seamless it has everybody around you fooled. The news has travelled far and wide by now. Is anyone else having a moment like this? That jogger? That lady with the dog? Are they all just as good at pretending? What about their mothers? Who can say?

The sun has set. The humidity has replaced itself with a chilly breeze. Your sunglasses are no longer necessary, but you’re afraid to take them off. You may still need them, having no idea at this stage how your eyes plan to react, water-wise, as you approach the end to Life On Mars.

The air gets cooler. Bowie hits his high note. Your whole body breaks out into sudden goosebumps and you secretly know that’s not the wind’s doing at all. Whatever intangible thing you were looking for in this walk, you’ve probably found it.

As you finally turn and head home, 90 minutes later than planned, you realise two things. First: you’re already writing about the experience in your head. You’ll feel compelled to put it into words. You’ll probably give it more narrative coherence and broader emotional significance than it actually had. You might not edit it; not as much as you should. You will almost certainly regret sharing it. You might not even bother to take it out of the lame second person form, which you are even now worried might seem self-absorbed.

Secondly: the song in your ears no longer carries the weight of the world. It has returned to what it always was, and always will be: good, fun music. As you wait for the elevator, “Little Wonder” reaches its triumphant, transcendent, critically-underrated second half. The doors open. You see your reflection and realise you’ve been quietly dancing on the spot. And smiling.

#bowie #david bowie #little wonder #life on mars

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

'The Ghost of Black Rose Hall' Chapter 3: so long and lost

Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

.

.

His dreams had consisted of fire and echoing screams he presumed to be his own. At one point, it depicted him and Mycroft as they are now in the presence of the little girl, her back turned toward them. She turned abruptly, a sharp glare in her eyes. “You look funny grown up,” she told them. The moment he woke that morning, Sherlock made it a point to write a letter to his brother, insisting he visit as soon as possible. Inside, he enclosed the photo, hoping it would encourage him to make haste.  

                Days passed without a word from Mycroft. Perhaps his brother was just as surprised, or most likely, had kept this secret his whole life. The question was ‘why?’ Where were his memories of the girl? And why, when he repressed them, did everyone find it best to keep her a well-kept secret? Musgrave Hall had clearly been his family’s home once. Briefly, he wondered whether James Moriarty knew anything about this. It was a long shot, but it wouldn’t hurt to inquire.

                Sherlock set out the next morning to Black Rose Hall, unable to keep from glancing up at the attic window, and knocked upon the door. It opened a crack, only wide enough to see half of Moriarty’s face. “What do you want, Mister Holmes?” his voice was naturally soft, but there was an underlying threatening tone to it.

                “Did you know Musgrave was once my family home?” he asked, curious of what details he might glean from his landlord.

                James opened the door wider. “Yes; I assumed that was why you decided to retire here.”

                “And what of my sister?” he pushed on, ignoring the lack of sanity in the man to get the answers he needed.

                He clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring. “You tell me,” he snarled. “Step foot here again, Mister Holmes, and I promise I’ll rip the heart out of you.”

.

.

The rain poured down that night. Thunder boomed so forcefully, it shook the foundation. Sherlock rested comfortably in his chair as he paged through his book. He paused to take a sip of whisky, taking the edge off. There was no denying that Moriarty was a despicable man, so closely resembling the behaviours of psychopaths he had dealt with in the past.

He continued his reading, thinking up ideas for new experiments. The hooting of the owl outside kept him company. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room through the windows.

                Tap Tap. Tap.

                The wind picked up, whistling loudly.

                Tap. Tap. Tap.    

                He elected to ignore it. Most likely, it was a branch from the tree nearby.

                Tap tap tap tap.

                It was frantic now, lower in tone, even. Sherlock stood with a sigh, closing his book. He peered out the window, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The storm raged outside. From his downstairs sitting room, he could see directly into the foggy graveyard, the trees’ branches swaying in the wind. But wait…there was a figure winding its way through the headstones. It was almost translucent. “Impossible,” he muttered, watching the figure disappear further into the fog in the direction of the old abandoned church.

                Despite the downpour, Sherlock quickly grabbed his coat and headed outside to follow after her. He ran toward the dead, buried six feet below his feet. Most of the stones were worn and faded. It would have been difficult to make out any of the names even without the rain and fog. Thunder rumbled again overhead. He picked up the pace. It wasn’t much longer until the crumbling safe haven came into view.

                Quickly and quietly, he entered the church, shutting the door behind him, blocking out the wind that had begun to pick up tremendously. It was just the one room, four rows of pews on either side. There came a shuffling of a shoe against the stone floor as if someone had slipped for just a moment. “Hello?” he called out. Not a sound was to be heard. The room was too dark, save for the occasional flash of lightning.

                His steps were delicate as he moved toward the front of the room. If there was someone here, the last thing he wanted to do was frighten them. He continued his slow trek toward the front row.

                “I’m not here to hurt you,” he insisted. “I just want to help, if that’s what you need.”

                The clouds must have parted just a little outside, he realised, noticing a beam of moonlight shining through the window. It illuminated the room just enough for him to notice a bit of white gauzy fabric sticking out from behind the large wooden pulpit. He stopped just before it when a soft, raspy voice spoke out. “Nobody can help the dead.”

#sherlolly #the ghost of black rose hall #my fanfiction

[iironwreath]

Should [Iona]

[177]

Once Orla was comfortable, Iona sent a magic letter asking for a spell to ferry her back to Syngorn. The covered wagon would have to stay behind—either become Brambleview property or driven to Syngorn. Iona liked the idea of it being a thank you gift to the Gilded Thorns for allowing her sister into their home, small as it was, even if they could afford fifty of them.

Theotae waited for them outside the main gates, Symania with her. Her arms were folded behind her, and she straightened when their small troop stepped onto the road. Open skies became occluded by vast, magic redwood and the near horizon twinkled with the golden ramparts that shielded the city. Homesickness ebbed away.

Theotae smiled reservedly but genuinely, but catching a glimpse of Iona’s expression, it dimmed. 

“Welcome back,” she greeted, a question in her voice. 

“Thank you,” Iona said. “Apologies for the delay. There were some…hiccups.” She had no reason to be opaque, given the two Emerald Archers were there to experience Orla’s situation with her, but saying it aloud reminded her of the source of her most recent stress.

Theotae turned to the side and gestured for her to follow. “You’ll have to fill me in.”

They passed into the city. The Emerald Archers broke away to return to the Beryl Keep, but Iona and Azariah continued with Theotae and Symania to the Raethran Estate. Theotae’s air continued to be the nonpareil professional, like this was ordinary business with her Aegises and the court druid; Iona matched accordingly. 

Theotae brought them to the library. A few staff milled about, but they dispersed with their books and polite nods as Theotae led her to a corner lounge with an active fire crackling in a grate. Symania gave Iona’s arm a quick squeeze before she left them to privacy.

Theotae embraced her and a minutiae of tension fell away. When she drew back, she held her arms and searched her face. “You look troubled.”

“Worried,” Iona supplied, throat tight. 

“Would tea help?”

Iona nodded, grateful. Theotae nudged her towards a couch—it didn’t look like a request—and disappeared as Iona folded herself down onto a cushion.  

Theotae returned a minute later with a tray laden with a pot, cups, and a small bowl of fresh fruit. She poured Iona’s—added what she liked, which warmed her—and wordlessly handed it to her. She sat on the coffee table beside the tray opposite Iona and crossed her legs, waiting.

“Orla is fine,” Iona explained. “We were delayed because she got sick, but she recovered and we arrived in one piece. I hope we didn’t worry you?”

Theotae shook her head. “I was never worried for you or if you could handle yourself, just her. That’s why I sent two guards with you: to reduce that worry. A bit like having you and Symania; more for show than anything.”

Iona filled her in on the rest between small sips—sips meant to steel herself for whatever sentence would follow, to steal tiny breaks from the suffocating weight of her worry. It didn’t take long to explain, but her words hung like lead in the air.

“She’s in capable hands,” Theotae said after a moment. She placed a hand on Iona’s closest knee. “They’re treating the root and the symptoms. I have faith she’ll pull through, Iona.”

“Faith isn’t enough to stop me from worrying.”

“I know. I’m not discounting the worst—should it come to pass, I’m here for you. But we can be prepared for that while still hoping for the best.”

“I’ve been hoping for the best since she was born,” Iona murmured, wringing her cup in circles. “It wears on you. It scares me to think of her not making it now, when we’re so close.”

“This is the first time she’s had a cure on the way instead of blindly guessing and experimenting,” Theotae said. “It may not feel like it, but it is the best chance she’s had.” 

Iona nodded, a sigh escaping her lips. She made to sip again and—empty. She frowned at her cup. Theotae lifted the teapot invitingly, but Iona shook her head and set both teacup and saucer back on its tray. Theotae held the bowl of fruit towards her, so she plucked two blueberries that had tumbled from the top of the pile and were sitting at the rim.

“I had an idea for our date,” Theotae said, directing them to brighter subjects. “I think it may be more beneficial now than ever. You treated me, so I’d like to treat you.”

Iona pinched a blueberry between her fingers. “What’s that, my—” She cleared her throat. “Theotae. Sorry, I’ve fallen back into it while I’ve been gone.”

Theotae smiled, swinging her legs apart. “I own a cottage on the Menagerie Coast. I’d mostly forgotten about it, but my father recently visited with mother, and it’s well looked after. Do you think you could afford the time?”

Heat climbed into Iona’s face. She shoved the blueberries in her mouth to temporize while she chewed over an answer. A whole continent away, mostly alone with Theotae—

It sounded like heaven. 

Her worry for Orla scratched at her desire to go, but being in Wildemount wouldn’t change how quickly it would take her to get to Westruun in a hurry, now that Orla had been safely delivered. Iona could travel freely with magic.

“That sounds…pleasant,” she decided. “I’ll have to check in with the Emerald Archers, but I think I can spare it. I’ve already spent a month transporting my sister, I doubt they’ll take umbrage at a few extra days.”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of ‘can.’ I think you should. As far as the Emerald Archers are concerned, you’re still my Aegis, and you go where I go.”

Iona smiled, mind already made. “So hypothetically, if you took a vacation right now, I’d be forced along?”

“Hypothetically speaking, of course. If you have any reservations, just know that we’ll be able to return to Tal’Dorei at a moment’s notice. I’m sure Elspeth will reach out to you if Orla takes a turn.” She cast her gaze to the side, into the darkened spaces between columns of shelves. “It’ll be good for me as well, really.”

“It would. I’ll come.”

#writing tag #writing: iona #iona #theotae #eleven month downtime #exandria #tal'dorei

[1ns4n3j3st3rf0rlyf3]

Militant shelter programs are more evil than jail bc there is less routine and more consistency in abuse

Being in a homeless shelter is isolating, paranoia inducing and traumatizing. So is being in prison or jail. They are built in such similar ways that once you lose your connection to community and you have been in the system for long enough you rationalize being stuck in the system with its toxic codependency that makes people feel like they're doing something the right way. It's emotional Stockholm syndrome that makes people dependent on any kind of reward. Stockholm syndrome describes the psychological condition of a victim who identifies with and empathizes with their captor or abuser and their goals. Stockholm syndrome is rare; according to one FBI study, the condition occurs in about 8 percent of hostage victims.

https://www.britannica.com/science/Stockholm-syndrome

When community is existing outside of the shelters it is so much more preferred to the shelter. Streets over the system until the streets become unlivable bc of the profit based motives the system prioritizes.

It's a large scale propaganda that the shelter is a safe space to put the displaced peoples, so when people prefer to sleep on the street it makes jailing them justifiable to the wrong kinds of people. I think cops like spreading that nonsense to make it seem more humane that they lock up vast numbers of homeless for any possible infractions, real or imagined. They make it seem like they're doing the homeless guy a favor for "taking them off the streets".

Stanford prison experiments and their relation to system based community

Carried out August 15-21, 1971 in the basement of Jordan Hall, the Stanford Prison Experiment set out to examine the psychological effects of authority and powerlessness in a prison environment. The study, led by psychology professor Philip G. Zimbardo, recruited Stanford students using a local newspaper ad. Twenty-four students were carefully screened and randomly assigned into groups of prisoners and guards. The experiment, which was scheduled to last 1-2 weeks, ultimately had to be terminated on only the 6th day as the experiment escalated out of hand when the prisoners were forced to endure cruel and dehumanizing abuse at the hands of their peers. The experiment showed, in Dr. Zimbardo’s words, how “ordinary college students could do terrible things.”

https://exhibits.stanford.edu/spe

This study to me shows how silly it is to expect people who haven't been screened and trained effectively to effectively hold that much power over people. When people are given unnecessary and unreasonable amounts of power, that feeds a fragile ego and makes people act selfishly. The systems in place (ie: shelters, mental hospitals, care programs, anything medical, jail, etc) all share a very similar method of gatekeeping and toying with people for profit.

Gatekeeping theory is the connection between two inarguable facts: events occur everywhere all of the time and the news media cannot cover all of them. And so, when an event occurs, someone has to decide whether and how to pass the information to another person, such as a friend, an official, or even a journalist.

The gatekeeping of political messages is known as media gatekeeping (Shoemaker & Reese, 1996)—that is, “the process by which countless occurrences and ideas are reduced to the few messages we are offered in our news media” (Shoemaker & Vos, 2009, p. 75).

they make it hard for us to get what we need because of the lack of interconnectivity within the care routes and they want to keep the marginalized poor so we r easier to silence

Medical "gatekeeping was associated with better quality of care and appropriate referral for further hospital visits and investigation. However, one study reported unfavorable outcomes for patients with cancer under gatekeeping, and some concerns were raised about the accuracy of diagnoses made by gatekeepers. Gatekeeping resulted in fewer hospitalizations and use of specialist care, but inevitably was associated with more primary care visits. Patients were less satisfied with gatekeeping than direct-access systems." -- quote from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6478478/

This continued gatekeeping of medical care leads to the further marginalization of peoples who don't have access to direct access medical care and terminology. Getting help with disabilities is a very rare thing to happen unless you are not marginalized. So the 1% is again hoarding the care while the disenfranchised get stuck in the cycles of gatekeeping. The majority is left feeling isolated and without care.

Now they if they try to seek out care.

I think Stockholm syndrome is trained into people who fall into the system like Pavlov's dog. (Pavlov demonstrated salivation in dogs through a series of experiments where he paired the sound of a bell with the presentation of food. Over time, the dogs began to associate the bell with food and would start to salivate at the sound of the bell, even when no food was presented.) To me the pipeline is troubled teen, rehab, jail, shelter, jail cyclically.

troubled teen - mental health

"Ms. Ianelli is an activist and the author of a new memoir, “I See You, Survivor,” which details her ordeal. But she is far from alone. Hundreds of thousands of young Americans have endured similar harms or assaults in residential boot camps, wilderness therapy and Christian and therapeutic boarding schools, which claim to vanquish teen psychological problems like drug misuse, depression and defiant behavior. Among them is Paris Hilton, who first told her story in a 2020 documentary and is now lobbying for recently introduced legislation to stop the abuse.

These children’s programs act similarly to psychiatric hospitals in that they control residents’ custody and communication with the outside world, but they are typically not strictly regulated. Some states exempt programs that claim to be religion-based from standards enforced on other child-caring facilities, while some states have few, if any, regulations on these programs. Because more than a dozen states allow spanking and paddling in schools, corporal punishment that would be illegal in prisons occurs in many of these programs. Evidence suggests that the punitive “therapies” that these facilities use are unsafe and ineffective."

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/19/opinion/troubled-teens-industry-regulation.html

Children's autonomy is easier to steal with no reparations. Legally more excusable historically.

The Children's Rights Movement is a historical and modern movement committed to the acknowledgment, expansion, and/or regression of the rights of children around the world. This act laid several constitutional laws for the growth of a child's mental and physical health. 

https://www.childrensrights.org/

- [ ] Mental health - Rehabilitation

- [ ] Toxic punishment reward system based on shame and fear

- [ ] Rehabilitation - abuse

- [ ] Push and pull loves of drugs and connection

- [ ] Abuse - jail

- [ ] no tolerance for own emotion bc the childhood systems in place silenced ourselves

- [ ] Jail over the streets

- [ ] Community over isolation

- [ ] Food water shelter

- [ ] Not chemically dependent on substances (other than big Pharma)

Gatekeeping and Gerrymandering is a huge system in the bay area. the systems in place currently serve to protect the 1% instead of us and keep us cycled in trauma.

Gatekeeping theory is the connection between two inarguable facts: events occur everywhere all of the time and the news media cannot cover all of them. And so, when an event occurs, someone has to decide whether and how to pass the information to another person, such as a friend, an official, or even a journalist.

The gatekeeping of political messages is known as media gatekeeping (Shoemaker & Reese, 1996)—that is, “the process by which countless occurrences and ideas are reduced to the few messages we are offered in our news media” (Shoemaker & Vos, 2009, p. 75).

they make it hard for us to get what we need because of the lack of interconnectivity within the care routes and they keep the marginalized poor so we r silenced

Medical "gatekeeping was associated with better quality of care and appropriate referral for further hospital visits and investigation. However, one study reported unfavorable outcomes for patients with cancer under gatekeeping, and some concerns were raised about the accuracy of diagnoses made by gatekeepers. Gatekeeping resulted in fewer hospitalizations and use of specialist care, but inevitably was associated with more primary care visits. Patients were less satisfied with gatekeeping than direct-access systems." -- quote from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6478478/

This continued gatekeeping of medical care leads to the further marginalization of peoples who don't have access to direct access medical care and terminology. Getting help with disabilities is a very rare thing to happen unless you are not marginalized. So the 1% is again hoarding the care while the disenfranchised get stuck in the cycles of gatekeeping. The majority is left feeling isolated and without care.

The majority people of the United States are not millionaires. According to the statistic below in 2020, the San Jose-Sunnyvale-Santa Clara metropolitan area in California had the highest share of millionaire households of any U.S. metropolitan area, with 13.6 percent of all households having at least one million U.S. dollars in investible assets. This is Bay Area culture. The poor stay poor and the rich stay rich.

https://www.statista.com/statistics/294941/largest-ratio-millionaire-households-per-capita-us/

This is where gerrymandering comes into play. To gerrymander is to manipulate the boundaries of an electoral constituency so as to favor one party or class.

Typical gerrymandering cases in the United States take the form of partisan gerrymandering, which is aimed at favoring one political party while weakening another; bipartisan gerrymandering, which is aimed at protecting incumbents by multiple political parties; and racial gerrymandering, which is aimed at maximizing or minimizing the impact of certain minority groups. 

https://www.sfchronicle.com/projects/2022/san-francisco-redistricting-final-map/

There is a clear decision to make the minority voting members of communities that are usually more marginalized by our country.

Again, https://www.sfchronicle.com/projects/2022/san-francisco-redistricting-final-map/ this link is crazy to see the intentional disparity

currently on social media especially there are polarizing AI bots that cause micro conflicts within the communities that should be fighting together

"A report we recently published through the Center for Business and Human Rights at New York University’s Stern School of Business sheds light on the relationship between tech platforms and the kind of extreme polarization that can lead to the erosion of democratic values and partisan violence. While Facebook, the largest social media platform, has gone out of its way to deny that it contributes to extreme divisiveness, a growing body of social science research, as well as Facebook’s own actions and leaked documents, indicate that an important relationship exists."

"In an article published in October 2020 in the journal Science, a group of 15 researchers summarized the scholarly consensus this way: 'in recent years, social media companies like Facebook and Twitter have played an influential role in political discourse, intensifying political sectarianism.'"

https://www.brookings.edu/articles/how-tech-platforms-fuel-u-s-political-polarization-and-what-government-can-do-about-it/

“Twitter has emerged as a key platform on which anyone with a smartphone can engage in political discourse,” observed Michelle Nguyen in her article entitled “Twitter’s Role in Politics” in The Northwestern Business Review (https://northwesternbusinessreview.org/twitters-role-in-politics-b3ed620465c9). She noted that a TV ad “can cost millions of dollars” but “a single post can reach the same number of people just as quickly for a tiny fraction of the cost.”

"Though this study was focused on Twitter activities of members of the 111th U.S. House of Representatives, we suggest that our findings have broader implications about the use of social media by political and administrative institutions. Results of our study are cautionary for governments and policymakers who use social media to collect and interpret the voices of citizens because the preferences of citizens expressed through social media may be directed more toward contentious political issues rather than toward solving challenging problems."

"The capacity of social media to personalize information appears to be contributing to greater levels of extremism, and online political polarization is increasing. Therefore, institutions and governmental entities must develop a process for gathering a wider range of opinions (and greater online participation) from the public and simultaneously discern which voices represent extremist views."

https://scholar.harvard.edu/sounman_hong/political-polarization-twitter-social-media-may-contribute-online-extremism

there are niche micro arguments between people that have the same wants with different language and that's where classism comes into play with our language and the gatekeeping of regular communication

This video shows parts of how language can lead to pipelining and polarization.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baaMpTGC04U&ab_channel=Jubilee

What is the alt-right pipeline? 0n3ph Answered: it most often refers to a feature of the algorithm wherein maybe you start with a couple of sjw cringe compilations, then you get passed on to say Tim Pool or Jimmy Dore, and then on to maybe Sargon of Akkad or Steven Crowder, and eventually end up with neonazi content.

It means a series of stages presented to a viewer through the algorithm which slowly boiling-frog radicalises them into going full alt-right.

the ways that society is being polarized by trauma porn is making them feel like the largest public issues are what deserve the most importance but the issue is that we are moving away from collective action in places where our masses could actually do something good

#queer artist #chaotic good #original art #digital art #eyestrain #i’m just a girl #third eye #artists on tumblr #original thots

[fyapoetry]

Poetry: Unveiling its Definition, Beauty And Power

All About Poetry

Poetry. Image by: Ksenia Makagonova Many people need help understanding and appreciating poetry. Interestingly, poetry is one of the oldest forms of art, dating back thousands of years. This article aims to show you the beauty and power contained within poems. Discover why poetry still captures hearts around the world. Key Takeaways: - Poetry uses words and rhythm to express emotions, tell stories, and capture images. It makes language powerful by adding music to the words, which creates vivid pictures in our minds. -  There are many forms of poetry, from traditional types like sonnets and haikus to modern styles such as slam poetry and prose poetry. Each form offers different ways to explore emotions and ideas. -  Poems connect people across cultures and periods by capturing complex feelings in just a few lines. This art form helps us understand each other better by sharing personal experiences through language. -  Poetry serves as a tool for social change, addressing issues like inequality and environmental concerns. By using metaphor and imagery, poets inspire action toward making the world better. -  Reading or writing poems can help individuals express their thoughts and feelings when it's hard to find the right words. Poetry builds communities where people feel understood by sharing their experiences with others.

What is Poetry?

What is Poetry? Poetry is an art that uses words to capture feelings, stories, and ideas uniquely. It combines language and rhythm to touch hearts and spark the imagination. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOGMUeZilY8 The Beauty of Poetry Defining poetry Poetry is the art of using language in a way that stirs emotions and paints pictures in the mind. Each word and line is chosen carefully to create a specific feeling or image. This form of writing goes beyond ordinary sentences by adding rhythm, rhyme, and often metaphor to express ideas more powerfully. Different people see poetry in unique ways, much like looking at art. Some might find meaning in the sound of the words together; others might focus on how poetry makes them feel. No matter the style, from classic verses to modern slam poetry, this literary form connects deeply with readers and listeners around the world. Different perspectives and interpretations Defining poetry sets the stage, but how people view and explain it varies greatly. Some see poetry as a way to capture beauty, while others believe it's about expressing deep emotions that are hard to talk about. This shows that poetry is not just one thing; its meaning changes depending on who you ask. Artists and readers from different times and places have their takes on what makes poetry unique. For example, ancient societies used it for storytelling and to preserve history, whereas today's poets might focus more on personal feelings or social issues. This diversity in understanding and usage highlights how flexible and impactful poetry can be across cultures and eras. The power of language and rhythm Language and rhythm work together in poetry to bring words to life. Poets choose and arrange language to make a substantial impact on readers. They use rhythm, which is the beat or pace of the words, to add music to their poems. This combination helps create vivid images and emotions. Rhythm also helps people remember poems when they recite them aloud. Think about your favorite song and how its beat stays with you. Poetry does the same thing with its rhythms, making feelings and ideas stick in your mind long after you've read or heard them. The language chosen carefully alongside rhythm turns ordinary phrases into memorable poetry that moves us. A universal and timeless art form Poetry transcends culture, language, and time. It serves as a bridge linking the ancient with the modern. People from every corner of the globe find solace, joy, and understanding through poems that echo their thoughts and feelings. Poetry has the unique power to capture complex emotions and experiences in just a few lines, making it accessible to everyone regardless of age or background. Through its rhythm, meter, and carefully chosen words, poetry celebrates life's diversity while highlighting our shared human experience. It remains relevant across centuries by adapting to changing societies yet maintaining its essence. As both an art form and a means of expression, poetry continuously enriches literary history by drawing on tradition while embracing innovation.

Elements and Forms of Poetry

Elements and Forms of Poetry Poetry encompasses a wide array of elements and forms that allow poets to express themselves in unique and compelling ways. Meter, rhyme, and structure are some of the key elements that define poetry and influence its rhythm and flow. Form is another crucial aspect, with various styles such as sonnets, haikus, and free verse offering diverse ways for poets to experiment with language and imagery. Each element of poetry contributes to the overall impact and effect of a poem on its reader. For instance, the choice of rhyme scheme can evoke a sense of harmony or discord within a poem, while varying line lengths can create tension or release. Understanding how these elements work together can help poets craft poems that engage readers on multiple levels and leave a lasting impression. Exploring different forms of poetry allows writers to push their creative boundaries and challenge traditional conventions. By experimenting with structures like acrostics or pantoums, poets can discover new ways to convey emotions or ideas effectively. Ultimately, the elements and forms of poetry provide endless possibilities for expression, making it a dynamic art form that continues to evolve with each new generation of writers. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6R49IH6Id3c Parts of a Poem Literary Devices: alliteration, assonance, metaphor, etc. Poets use alliteration to make their work sound catchy and memorable. This technique repeats the same starting sounds in nearby words, like "silver swans sing softly." Assonance is another trick where vowel sounds echo within words close to each other, creating a musical effect. For instance, in the phrase "the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain," the repeated "ai" sound makes the line more appealing. Metaphors are powerful tools that compare two things without using "like" or "as." They help readers see ordinary objects in new ways. Think of a metaphor as saying one thing is something else, such as "time is a thief." It isn't true, but it suggests time steals moments from our lives. Moving on from these devices opens up a world of traditional and contemporary poetic forms like sonnets and slam poetry. Traditional Forms: sonnet, villanelle, haiku, etc. Poetry has many faces and forms, showing its beauty and complexity through various traditional styles. These styles have stood the test of time, each carrying distinct rules and offering unique ways to express emotions and tell stories. - Sonnet: This form is famous for its 14 lines and strict rhyme scheme. Often, sonnets explore themes like love, death, and nature. They come mainly in two types: the Italian (or Petrarchan) sonnet and the English (or Shakespearean) sonnet. The difference lies in their rhyme schemes and how they organize ideas. - Villanelle: Recognized for its repeating lines and intricate pattern, the villanelle consists of 19 lines divided into five tercets (three-line stanzas) followed by a quatrain (four-line stanza). This form often deals with themes of obsession and returning thoughts or feelings. - Haiku: Originating from Japan, this short form captures moments or images related to nature in just 17 syllables divided into three lines (5-7-5). Its simplicity and focus on imagery make it powerful for conveying vast ideas or emotions in a few words. - Epic: Epics are long narrative poems that recount the heroic journeys or deeds of characters often embodying the values of their culture. Classics like Homer's "The Odyssey" or Virgil's "Aeneid" are prime examples, blending myth with history. Contemporary Forms: prose poetry, slam poetry, etc. Moving from the classic styles like sonnets and haikus, we dive into the vast ocean of contemporary poetry. Modern poets experiment with new forms that push the boundaries of traditional poetry. These include prose poetry, slam poetry, and more. - Prose Poetry blends the elements of prose and poetry to create a unique form. It lacks the line breaks typical of traditional poems. Instead, it presents poetic language in paragraph format. This style allows for a more natural flow of ideas, resembling spoken word while still using poetic devices like metaphor and alliteration. - Slam Poetry is performed live and engages directly with the audience. Slam poets use their voices, gestures, and facial expressions to add an extra layer of meaning to their words. This form is competitive, often seen in poetry slams where poets perform their work and get scores from judges or the audience. - Visual Poetry plays with text on the page to create a visual impact that complements the poem's message. This can involve unusual placements of words or incorporating images alongside text. The layout becomes part of how readers experience the poem. - Found Poetry takes existing texts and rearranges them into a poem. The original context is removed, giving new meaning to the words. Found poems can come from sources like books, magazines, or even mundane items like grocery lists. - Micro-poetry focuses on short but impactful statements. Often shared on social media platforms, these poems get straight to the point in just a few lines or less than 140 characters. They make poetry accessible and shareable in today's fast-paced world.

Genres and Uses of Poetry

A Woman Reading a Poetry Book One of the most compelling aspects of poetry is its ability to encompass a wide range of genres, each with its unique characteristics and uses. From traditional forms like sonnets and haikus to more contemporary styles such as slam poetry and spoken word, there is a genre of poetry for every individual taste. Lets take a looks at few genre examples below: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xtsib8Qjyj4 What is Poetry Lyrical, and epic poetry Lyrical poetry, on the other hand, expresses personal emotions or thoughts. It often has a musical rhythm that makes you feel as if the poet is singing directly to you. Emily Dickinson's work showcases this beautifully with its deep exploration of inner feelings. Epic poetry spans great lengths to recount tales of heroes and their adventures. homer's "The Odyssey" is a classic example, taking us on Odysseus' epic journey home from war. These poems combine storytelling with expansive settings and notable deeds, immortalizing characters through grand narratives. Elegiac, and fable verse Elegiac verse deals with themes of loss and mourning, expressing sorrow over what's gone. It captures deep emotions, helping people find words for their grief. Fable verse tells stories with morals, using animals or inanimate objects as characters. These tales teach lessons about life's truths in simple yet profound ways. Dramatic and speculative poetry Dramatic poetry brings characters to life through dialogue and performance. It's like a play in poem form, where emotions run high and stories unfold in powerful verses. This genre often captures intense human experiences, allowing readers or viewers to feel as if they are part of the scene. Speculative poetry ventures into the realms of fantasy, science fiction, and other imaginative landscapes. It uses language chosen and arranged with care to whisk readers away to worlds that defy our usual rules. Here, poets wield their craft to explore what-ifs, painting possibilities that stretch beyond the boundaries of reality. Through vivid imagery and inventive use of poetic elements such as metaphor and rhythm, these poems spark curiosity about the universe's endless mysteries.

Poetry for social commentary and activism

Poetry has long been a powerful tool for social commentary and activism. One good example of this is Guyanese poet Martin Carter. Poets use their words to highlight injustices, spark change, and call attention to important issues. Through metaphor, rhythm, and vivid imagery, they convey messages about society's challenges in ways that articles or speeches sometimes cannot. This form of poetry turns personal feelings into a universal call to action. Several American poets have also gained recognition for their work in this area. Their poems often serve as a voice for the voiceless, pushing readers to consider perspectives beyond their own experiences. By addressing topics such as inequality, racism, environmental concerns, and human rights through poetry used for activism, these poets inspire movements and bring about social change. Their work proves that poetry possesses the power not just to reflect on the world but also to influence its course toward a better future.

The Impact of Poetry

Poetry touches hearts and changes minds. It bridges gaps between cultures, healing wounds with its words. Poems give people a unique way to express their feelings and thoughts. Through careful choice of words and phrases, individuals can share deeply personal experiences or emotions that might be hard to say out loud. This form of expression allows for a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience, which helps writers and readers connect on a profound level. It provides a special kind of emotional release not easily found elsewhere. Next, the power of poetry goes beyond just personal benefit; it brings people together, forming strong communities. - Connecting and building communities Poetry goes beyond personal expression and emotional release; it also plays a crucial role in bringing people together. By sharing poems, individuals find common ground, realize they are not alone in their thoughts and feelings, and form supportive networks. Such connections create communities where members feel understood and valued. Through public readings, poetry slams, and online forums, poets and listeners forge strong bonds. These gatherings become spaces for celebration, healing, and the exchange of ideas. They allow diverse voices to be heard and respected, cultivating a sense of unity among participants from different backgrounds. - Preserving history and culture Poems serve as a bridge to our past, capturing the essence of moments that define human history and culture. Through their verses, poets encapsulate the emotions, struggles, and triumphs of people across different eras. This art form allows us to experience the world from numerous perspectives, fostering a deeper connection with ancestors and ancient societies. Verses carry the stories of great battles, significant events, and everyday life from centuries ago directly to modern readers. They also play a crucial role in passing down traditions and cultural identities from one generation to another. Read the full article