#“what if i tried to import his conscience into a digital thing and like made it so you would never have to loose someone again”

[tabbyrocks]

monodeku au where izuku plays this one dating sim visual novel game and one of the characters is monoma.

and i mean that literally. like monoma got trapped in this game somehow.

when monoma starts talking to izuku, izuku thinks "oh this must be a 4th wall break horror type thing" but when he posted about it or something people thought that monoma was a fan character he made (since he like, isnt in the game game, just trapped in izukus)

[letterstotheflre]

my drug is my baby

summary: sirius is glad he was patient enough with you and takes part of what he has been craving most

warnings: daddy kink, a smidge of religious references, dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering and oral sex (fem receiver), innocence/corruption kink

word count: 3.2k

a/n: i kinda hate this now but i think it’s because i read it too many times, idk || i think it's a universal experience to not being able to cum from your own fingers... right?? and we all know that sirius has a crying kink... also i think it’s so hot when they make you thank them for letting you cum, sue me!!

Sirius Black liked to believe he was a patient man when he needed to be.

He was known for being reckless, always jumping into the next adventure without much thought, ready to follow James wherever he went. Most of the time he spoke without thinking, especially if he knew his comments would make his parents red with rage. Sometimes he didn’t even mean what he said, he just spewed whatever progressive or controversial opinion he had in hopes of making his mother’s heart stop beating.

He revelled in making rash decisions, somehow always ending up being benefited by them. He never gave much thought to anything: always doing his homework last minute yet somehow still getting top marks, taking some jokes too far, never taking into consideration other people’s safety unless they were close friends.

Some may call him selfish, but he liked not having to put too much thought into every single action. He spent most of his childhood walking on eggshells, afraid of saying the wrong thing and being punished or worse, Regulus taking the beating for him. But now that he finally escaped the Black family, he enjoyed the freedom that came with leaving Grimmauld Place.

He enjoyed breaking rules and creating chaos. It made him feel mighty, knowing he had the power to make all of those choices, still coming out on top, and see how they affected certain people. Most applauded him, revered him for being so spontaneous and adventurous; others couldn’t stand him, complaining about his mean jabs and sometimes harmful pranks.

Yet he knew how to wait for the things he deemed important or worthy. He knew that it was best to wait for Euphemia’s cherry pie to cool down before eating it, to wait for three days after the full moon to make a werewolf joke to Remus, to wait a few hours after James lost a Quidditch match to suggest a quick trip to The Three Broomsticks. And he knew it was best to wait for you.

Good things come to those who wait, that was his mantra. Of course, most of his restraint when it came to you was because he cared deeply about you and your comfort, but his conscience also drove him to keep his hands to himself. Every time his hands were about to go under your skirt, every time he heard your breathy moans when he kissed your neck, every time you looked at him with pouty lips begging for a kiss and his fingers craved to squeeze your neck, he took a step back. He felt so guilty for tainting something that in his mind was so pure, so he just held you close and peppered your face with kisses until you giggled.

But the thought of you being so untouched and how bashful you looked when he teased you or someone made a sexual comment made him want to ruin your innocence. Something inside him craved to see you tainted, to have you writhing under him as he rolled his hips against yours while you clutched his shoulders. He wanted to take that holiness you had and turn it into something so sinful that there was no way for you to ask for redemption.

And when you opened the door and took the first step, who was he to deny you?

He dragged everything out. Since the day when he taught you how to touch yourself, he wanted to make you wait for every sexual act that followed. He wanted to see how long it would take for you to beg him for some relief.

So today during a lecture when you looked at him with glazed over eyes and begged him to help you relieve the strange ache you felt in your stomach since you woke, he decided to be benevolent and give you some relief. He swiftly moved his hand under your skirt (thanking God that most of your closet consisted of that particular piece of clothing and dresses) and pushed aside your underwear before his fingers made way between your dripping folds. He didn’t enter you, just played with your clit until you had to bite the back of your hand to muffle your moans.

But when you whispered a small “thank you, daddy” and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, the only thing he wanted to do was take you back to his room and press you to the bed until your legs shook and tears ran down your cheeks. His eyes quickly scanned the classroom to make sure no one saw or heard anything, shoulders tense because of your words. All he could see were students with their own glassy eyes as they listened to whatever the professor was talking about. Fucking tease, Sirius thought.

And now, as he watched you on your knees and clutching his leg, lips pouty and cheek nuzzling his jean covered thigh, he was thankful for being patient enough.

“Please, Sirius, they’re back,” you said. He knew exactly what you were talking about, but played dumb as one hand petted your hair. “What’s back, baby?”

“The tingles,” you explained.

“And you need me to fix it, hm?” A small taunt was evident in his tone. “Your hands aren’t enough anymore, right bunny?”

Your cheeks warmed up at the implication, nevertheless, you shook your head. You still managed to make yourself cum, but the way Sirius could play with your clit like an experienced musician and how his big hands moved your hips along his jean covered leg would never compare to your dainty digits. The thought of his big fingers inside of you was enough to increase the tingles, and your hands pressed down on your stomach trying to soothe the pain.

“Please, Sirius, it hurts so bad,” you whimpered.

“Use your words, angel. Be good,” he said. You looked up at him with watery eyes, your mind already slipping and not letting you form too many coherent thoughts. “Please, daddy,” you sniffled.

He kept petting your head. “What do you want, angel?” He asked, looking almost bored with the situation as he listened to your pleads. “Anything,” you whined.

He shook his head, mocking disappointment. “You know you have to ask for what you want, puppy.” Even though he wasn’t angry, honestly a little amused at your desperation, his voice was stern, trying to engrave his rules in your fuzzy brain.

Your hands squeezed his leg, “I need you… down there.”

“You need to be clearer.''

You closed your eyes. You hated being so crass, but Sirius certainly had no qualms about it. “I need you… in my pussy,” you got out. But it wasn’t enough, not for Sirius who longed to ruin every aspect of your innocence. “What do you want, baby? D’ya want my fingers or my tongue?”

“Both,” you whined. Bingo, he thought with a dark smirk that would’ve sent shivers down your spine if you weren’t absolutely drenching and desperate for his touch. “Up you get, puppy,” he said, “lay on the bed f’me.”

You got on the bed right next to him, your head laying on one of your fluffy pillows. Your dress rode up a bit with your movements, but it didn’t really matter, and you pressed your legs together trying to relieve some of the tension while you waited for Sirius to do something. He simply watched you, taking in the image of you wriggling in place and toying with the rings he bought you for your birthday.

You felt a soft touch on your calves, and it gave you a fluttering feeling in your stomach. Sirius’s hands were moving slowly up your legs, nudging them apart without needing much force since you complied immediately. You were about to burst, ready to scream at him to just get on with it, but decided to keep quiet.

One of his hands made its way to the edge of your dress, swiftly going under it and his fingers slightly grazing your clothed pussy. Your hips bucked at the soft touch, but then just as quickly as it came it was gone. “No, come back!” you implored, reaching for Sirius’s wrist but being too slow.

Sirius arched one eyebrow, “What was that?”

“I’m sorry!” you cried out, “M’sorry, I just need you so bad. It hurts.” But Sirius remained where he was, arms now crossed over his chest as he looked at you. His eyes were full of disappointment and you wanted to cry, “What’s gotten into you today? You were so demanding in class before, so bratty, I don’t think you deserve it at all.” He was stretching the truth, you were by far the least bratty person he had ever been with, but he couldn’t help himself when he saw how much his words affected you.

A few tears fell at his words, “No, no, m’not bratty. I’m a good girl, daddy. I promise I’ll be so so good, your best girl! I won’t ask for anything more, m’sorry.'' You were saying anything you could to convince him that you were still his good girl, his angel.

Your lips were quivering and your chest was heaving with sobs you tried to keep inside; babbling apologies and trying to convince him that you would never act like this again, and he finally took pity on you. His hands gripped your ankles and opened your legs so he could lay comfortably between them. He could see a dark patch on your lavender underwear, and he huffed out a laugh with a slightly amused shake of his head. “I forgive you, bunny, but you’ll have to take everything that I give you. D’you think you can do that f’me?”

You nodded eagerly, choking a small ‘thank you’ as you tried to control your breath. He grabbed the ends of your dress and bunched it up over your waist, not bothering to take it off. He licked a strip over your underwear and the combination of his warm tongue with the friction of the cotton cloth was enough to make you mewl.

Sirius could not deny that he had been craving to taste you once more after he licked your fingers clean that day, and now only getting a smidge of your taste from what seeped through your underwear drove him insane. He needed to taste you completely, so he quickly pulled them off and pocketed them in the back of his jeans.

He used his fingers to spread your folds wide open, staring hungrily at all the slick that had gathered. “Oh puppy, look at the mess you’ve already made,” he crooned. “Y’re dripping, d’ya really need me this bad?”

“Yes, so so bad. Please, daddy.” He was so close, his warm breath hitting your wet folds and making you tremble in anticipation.

You watched, using your elbows to raise yourself a little, as he slowly started to take his rings off. “Hold ‘em for me, bunny, don’t want them to get dirty,” he said as he slid his chunky rings into your fingers. The metal dangled a little because of the size difference, so you closed your hands to keep them from falling.

Finally, his tongue made contact with your clit and you sighed in relief. It was followed by a moan when he started to suck on it, making sure to swirl his tongue all around before slurping. He looked like a starved man that finally came into contact with some sweet fruit, moving his head around your pussy to have you gushing on him. The ache in your tummy was slowly decreasing, now replaced with a nice fluttering feeling.

Your whines and moans echoed through his ears, resembling the most beautiful angel choir he had ever heard. He pulled away for a moment, “I’ve been waiting to taste you for days, puppy. S’better than I remembered.”

The more he pushed his tongue inside you, the more your legs shook. You involuntarily closed them, your pillowy thighs acting as earmuffs around Sirius’s head. He let them rest there for a few seconds before pushing them open once more, adding more fervour to his movements, eager to drink your sweet ambrosia.

Your closed fists went to his head, and you opened them a little to grip his hair, trying to ground yourself. “Gonna cum, daddy, can I?” You breathed out. Sirius just hummed, sending vibrations that were enough to make you let go. You tried to close your legs once more, but his shoulders prevented you from doing so. You felt like you were floating, your brain shutting off for a few seconds before returning to earth.

But Sirius didn’t stop moving his tongue, one of his fingers circling your hole before entering you slowly. Just one of his fingers felt like two of yours, even though you knew it wasn’t an accurate comparison. The stretch this time burned more than when you touched yourself, and you whined while shaking your head. “Too much, s’too much.”

Sirius paused for a moment so he could press your legs to your chest with one hand while the other kept moving in and out of you. The sudden switch in position made you gasp, but not as much as when Sirius thrust his fingers hard. “Are you dumb? I told you you had to take everything I gave you. D’you want to make me mad again?”

More tears fell when he curled his fingers, expertly finding that spongy spot inside you that pumped white heat through your veins. The way they twisted resembled a musician fiddling with a harp, your needy whines accompanying them like the main act. “No no, I can take it” you gasped, drowning in bliss as his fingers kept hitting the perfect spots.

You were already so close, Sirius giving you no respite as he quickly pushed his fingers. Your hand gripped his arm, fingertips digging the ink-covered skin. “C-close,” you whined, eyes rolling back and mouth open as you felt the tension ready to break.

“Going to make more of a mess, angel?” he grumbled, and you tried to nod as much as you could in your constricted position. Sirius chuckled, “Dirty little thing. Go on, I’ve got you.”

You whimpered brokenly as he pulled another orgasm from you. It felt like his fingertips were scrapping your insides to drag it out, and your feet dangled in the air as you swung them while trying to grab his wrist to stop him from moving.

Sirius couldn’t tear his eyes from you, with your pretty tears dripping down your cheeks and your chest heaving with small sobs from how good you felt. For him, all for him and only ever for him, because no one had ever touched you like he has and no one else ever would. “You look so pretty like this,” he cooed. “God I love your tears, baby, look how hard you make me.”

Your eyes moved down his body—when had he taken off his shirt? His tattoos splayed over his toned muscles made you clench around his fingers. You adored the small drawings that covered most of his body, they looked so beautiful on him and you just wanted to cry even more at how pretty your boyfriend was. When your eyes moved lower, following his previous instruction, you could see there was already a bulge in his pants that you knew was his cock, and your mouth watered at the thought of it just resting against his stomach like it did the first time you sucked him.

“I wanna feel you,” you cried while stretching your hands to touch him. He let you, your soft palms going over his chest and grabbing his shoulders so you could pull him down. “Kissie,” you breathed, letting his lips hover over yours for a second before kissing you hard and messily. His tongue played with yours and it only added more fuel to the fire inside you.

A moan broke you apart when his fingers resumed their pace, “P-please, no more” you babbled, the stimulation too much to bear.

“How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take my fingers, hm?” He asked and you whined, his fingers burying themselves up to his knuckles and making your eyes roll back once more. Your mouth was dry from being constantly open, whimpers and moans constantly escaping from the open cavity. “Come on, one more, I know you have it in you. My good girl aren’t you?”

The squelching sounds were so dirty and they rang through your ears,  yet even through your fuzzy mind you could discern the important words, “Y-your good girl,” you managed to get out with a smile, glad to be praised by him.

His other hand pressed down on your legs even more, and now you could see the way the digits moved in and out of you, a slight sheen coating the skin every time they came out. “God, you were right, bunny, you are tight,” he grunted, “I don’t think I’ll ever fit, m’gonna break you.”

At that, your eyes widened. “No no, you’ll fit, daddy!” But he just chuckled at your desperation, “M’gonna break you in half, angel. Do you want that? Do you want me to split you open?”

A small chant of ’yes’ and ‘please’ echoed through the room. You could feel another wave coming, ready to wash over you as your toes curled in anticipation. It was like you were dangling on the edge, your hands holding on for dear life as you tried to hold on, and your moans grew louder and louder with every thrust Sirius gave.

Your clenching walls around his digits were warning enough for him, and he kept his eyes on your form as you struggled to keep it at bay, waiting for his permission. He watched as your ring clad fingers scrambled to the sheets, gripping them tightly as your head moved from side to side. “That’s it, bunny, let go f’me” and with one harsh thrust, you slackened the hold you had on your release and finally let go.

If you felt like you were still on your body you would’ve screamed. A white heat engulfed you as your vision grew hazy, your hips raising of their own accord and aiding Sirius in dragging your orgasm out. You looked so beautiful like this, a sweaty sheen on your skin and now tangled up hair sticking to your forehead. Sirius leant down, tongue cleaning the fallen tears before they dried, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.

He grabbed your face, squishing your spit covered cheeks. “What do you say, angel?”

With a shuddering breath, you looked into his stormy eyes as he cleaned your release from his fingers with his tongue. “Thank you, daddy.”

You tried to lower your legs, but Sirius kept them in place. You stared at him, confused, yet he was staring at your puffy cunt, all shiny and stretched out for him. A smirk covered his lips as he finally looked at you, “I think y’re finally ready for m’cock, angel.”

TAGLIST: @ildm4ev @capsmischief @dracosafety @dracoxgeorge @roonilwazlibswhore @lovelylupinx @sarcasmismyon1ydefence @marxy-06 @remusjlupinisdead @mattefic @artisancowbells @zzzfour @emmaev @gxtitobxby @sam-hollandsgirl —if you want to be tagged tap here

[blzzrdstryr]

Midnight chatter

Yandere Diluc x gn!knight!reader

Wordcount: 2385

CW: Yandere, drugging, kidnapping

This was a third week after his return and fifth day of the tireless fight with winery work, when Diluc received an unexpected guest. During his travels across the world, the winery business fell into disrepair and almost collapsed, so once he learnt the state of the wine industry he decided to settle in his office and try to battle the endless reports about necessary expenses and small profits all on his own.

He started to work with the first rays of sunlight well into the night, squeezing every bit of energy his body had, not only because financial issues could affect him personally, but also because of the night vigilante of Mondstadt title he took upon himself.Due to the increased workload he couldn’t find time to patrol the dark streets and alleys of the city, while experience and conscience didn’t allow him to thrust the safety of ordinary citizens into the hands of bumbling, cowardly and lazy knights.

The day soon turned into the late evening, and dawn winery workers started to go home, when someone knocked on his door. It was Adelinde.

Her steps were faster than usual, her stoic face shadowed by the note of concern. Diluc wanted to say that no, he won’t go and have a rest, but she spoke first.

“Master Diluc”, she stopped before his desk: “we have a guest, a knight”.

He lifted his head shifting the eyes from the report to the head maid and pondered - despite his long absence, a lot of people in the city had a general idea how much he dislikes the Favonius Order and so a rare knight would actually dare to bother him, unless… Unless, they were acting out an order from someone high-ranking, like Jean or Varka for example.

Apprehension that his former colleague somehow learned of his nightly escapades sent an unexpected wave of shivers and vague feeling of unease, but he didn’t let it get to him.

“Ask why this knight is here and if it’s something unofficial tell them to leave”, he ordered, at which Adelinde blinked, slowly and tiredly, as if she was looking for the strength to tell something incredibly upsetting or scary.

“The thing is, master Diluc, that I already let them in”.

“Without my permission?”, his eyes widened at that, and the heart started to pick up the pace. What if this knight was really sent here by Varka or Jean? If it was true, Adelinde, unknowingly set him up to fail.

She was looking after him from his earliest childhood, so she was allowed to do and say more than any other of his staff, yet this perceived audacity was unheard of before.

“They were badly injured and said that they needed to stop for the night and once it’s over they will travel to the city with the first sun rays. We helped them to patch up their injuries and offered a room for guests, yet they declined and remained to sit on sofa”, the maid explained absolutely unfazed, after noticing Diluc’s dissatisfaction and then added : “If you are that displeased, master Diluc, I can tell this tired and battered knight to get out from here into the dark night”.

Her voice remained even and emotionless as usual, but even like that young Ragnvindr could hear a light mocking in her words. And to think about it - he got so freaked out over some silly coincidence - the knight stopped here because of the injuries, not some insidious scheme.

“Alright”, Diluc admitted defeat: “they can stay… and offer them some food and tea”, he added just as Adelinde’s hand touched the doorknob.

“Will be done”, she replied before exiting the office. The corners of her mouth slightly moved and crept upwards.

***

Despite his earlier goal of finishing as much work as he can, Diluc couldn’t do anything. Small digits and letters started to float and dance before his eyes while the long lines fused together, when he tried to analyze the state of wine business in naught. But the worst thing was the fact that his thoughts strayed to the topic of mystery knight again and again and Diluc lost count how many times he caught himself thinking who this person is.

He sat like that for a while, until the cinnabar of dying sky got replaced by the darkness and pleasant chill of the night.

Diluc scolded himself for his uncharacteristic indecisiveness, standing up from the desk and locking the office, when this thought, loud and persisting, knocked into his head again. Wouldn’t it be nice, he wondered, to learn who this night is, and finally decided. After all the thoughts about them pestered him for a long time.

Quietly and carefully walking through the unlit corridor of the winery, he confirmed that all servants and workers had already left for sleep, some into the rooms of the main building designated for them, some into the cabins around it. All in all, he was confident that there’s no one except him, the knight, Adelinde and a couple of other maids.

His steps were quiet and slow and not even a single board in the wooden floor creaked under his weight as he knew the winery like the back of his hand. With a bated breath he made his way downstairs, making out vague shapes of the familiar objects. Moonlight pouring out through the windows illuminated only the silhouettes, but even with that he quickly noticed the unknown frame.

The person was half-sitting half-lying on the sofa, and their sword and armor were placed nearby the furniture, reflecting the pale light of the moon. They weren’t moving, seemingly asleep. Diluc couldn’t make out their face even after making a coming closer, so he decided to take the risk and summoned a small wisp of flame.

The dancing light illuminated everything in a small radius and what he saw made him jolt and take a step back. You were the mystery knight.

Why are you still a knight? Where were you? Who injured you?

Still shocked by the previous revelation, Diluc accidentally knocked over the breastplate with his foot and it fell on it’s side with a loud thump.

You woke up.

“What… Who?”, you stirred and half sat on the elbow: “Ah, it’s you” and saw him :”What are you doing here?”.

Caught red handed, Diluc didn’t find any words - it was so sudden and unusual to be caught unaware, and because of that doubly unpleasant.

“This is my winery and I am free to do whatever I want”, he decided to hide the awkwardness behind the faux annoyance.

“Easy, easy” you half smiled, half yawned: “I just managed to fall asleep”. You yawned again and blinked at him with sleepy tired eyes.

“I have sleep medicine if you want some”

You got surprised and touched by his sudden responsiveness: “Thank you, but I think painkillers would be better. My body is aching and that’s the main problem”.

Maybe because of the trembling, dancing light or maybe because of the recent sleep you imagined worry and pity twisting his facial features.

“I have it too. Wait here”, he quickly replied and vanished into the dim darkness of the winery, not giving you any time to answer, as you were left to sit and wait for him. Diluc, to your own surprise, happened to be extremely stealthy, able to move without producing a single sound.

“Here”, you first heard and then saw him,as Diluc used pyro vision to light the nearby candlestick and then opened the medicine vial he brought and handed it to you: “Drink it all”.

“Thank you”, you whispered to him, taking the painkiller before making a big gulp. The taste was horrible, so horrible in fact that you almost immediately started to violently cough. Well, if it’s as effective as foul, then I will be good as new in no time, you thought to yourself, suppressing the urge to throw up.

Diluc stood nearby and observed your reaction, his hand extended on his own when the coughing started as he awkwardly tried to pat your back in the gesture of comfort. “I will be here with you until you fall asleep”, he stated once the fit stopped and then, seeing your highly raised brows explained further: “Painkiller takes time to work. Tell me if you won’t feel better”.

You nodded in response, and closed eyes, listening to the sensations of your body. Your injuries still burned and screamed and throbbed, yet a strange numb sensation started to slowly surround you. Just like Diluc said, medicine would need time to fully settle in.

“If you're here can you talk with me?”, you decided to shorten the time in conversation: “Ijust wanted to talk with you. For a really long time”.

“About what?”, he allowed himself a shadow of the smile, Diluc that you used to know peeking through the gloomy facade, like a long awaited sun or it’s reflection on the tranquil mirror of the water surface. Next words stuck in your throat, bitter and acidic and totally unfit, and you had to force them out through your own hesitance to destroy this calm.

“What happened that day? The day before you left. I asked Jean and Kaeya and other knights who were present with you, yet no one said anything”, the water surface bubbled and the visage of that old, sunny Ragnvindr shattered into thousand pieces. The person before you adopted the same cold facade of annoyance and indifference.

“Why do you need to know it?”, he answered the question with another question and you sensed barely buried hurt and grief.

“You leaving hurt. A lot”

“That’s why you are still a knight?”, you quickly nodded at that.

A minute passed by and he still stood, without saying a single word, thinking what to do. On one hand, he didn;t want to open up, the story of his eighteenth birthday was incredibly painful and personal experience to be shared so freely, on the other hand he yearned for your understanding.

"Alright", he broke the silence:"Let's make a deal, you answer my questions and I'll tell you the whole story after. Deal?"

"Deal".

Diluc looked at you again, looked at the bruises and cuts, still peeking through the bandages and for a second his mind lit up with one thought alone: what disgusting bastard did that to you. He suppressed the rapidly rising rage, deciding to start from the most important.

"Is my leave the only reason why you decided to stay?" his heart picks up the pace again, he needs to know the answer.

"Basically yes, you knownI didn’t do it for my parents… I just.. That tragedy, I know it's not my place, but… I always wanted what happened to you. I asked this question to myself everyday and night, and I missed you terribly".

His breath hitched and he lowered his gaze. For some reason you always managed to fluster him with the words alone, even if it wasn't your intention.

"Your parents must be happy", h e changed the topic, stifling the heat in his heart.

"Yeah, they're ecstatic that I stopped being difficult and made their aspirations real. Hm, do you have any other questions?"

"What happened to you? ",he pointed at the bandages covering most of your body.

"Ah, catching treasure hoarders does that to you, usual stuff", you dismissed his concerns and Diluc started seeing red from the way your voice remained so calm and unbothered. Usual stuff? Usual stuff?!

"Grandmaster could send anyone else", he snapped:"Favonius Order has more than plenty of vision holders, they should've sent one, instead of you! You could die!".

Diluc’s sudden explosion left you speechless, but soon your own weaved words of irritation:"Ordo Favonius doesn't consist of Jean and Kaeya only. We can't let them handle all the hard and dangerous business all the time. Ordinary people like me can still help, even if the gods didn’t favour us. Don't think of me as some helpless idiot just because I have no shiny vision to show off"

Your heated response seemed to work and Diluc turned red from embarrassment, realizing how annoyed you got, despite the worry for your health and still present anger at the other knights for letting you get hurt. He also didn’t like how you looked at him, reprimanding and disappointed.

"Alright, sorry", he cleared his throat:"where were you before? I haven't seen you anywhere"

"City gates aren't the only thing that needs guarding. I was sent to the Liyue border, to make sure that no treasure gang crosses it. I think I will get sent there again, once I fully recover".

Diluc got angry at that too, yet this time he suppressed unpleasant feelings, already knowing how you will rebuke and reprimand him again. There's no convincing to be done, as you won't change your opinion. You left him no choice for what he was going to do.

"Alright, you answered all my questions", he said before changing topic again:"Did painkillers start working? I have another".

Being so engrossed in the conversation you forgot about the ache, yet once he mentioned it your body started to hurt with a renewed strength.

"Yes, I would like one", you decided and Diluc vanished in the unlit hall yet again.

"Here", he handed the small bottle to you already opened. The new substance was different, sweet and viscous. You managed to take two sips before your eyelids started to feel up with lead, and soon even lifting a hand seemed like a highly arduous task. Whatever the thing that Diluc gave you wasn't a painkiller.

"What…", you uttered, before your body relaxed and you fell asleep once again. Diluc bent over, looming over your unconscious form, as his hands carefully took the bottle away. He didn’t want it to somehow fall and injure you

This is a necessary measure, Diluc assured himself, before making a plan of actions. He would need to fake your disappearance and forge enough leads to direct investigation into the completely opposite direction, but now he needed to wake Adelinde up and ask her to prepare the room in the basement. He didn't want you to be uncomfortable in your new home.

[socketz]

Charlie Dalton x Female!Reader

Angels of the Night.

Type : Fluff and Smut! (with a little Angst at the beginning)

Warnings : Very sexual at certain parts & particularly detailed, talks of death (in general, not Neil, don’t worry), crying I suppose, but that’s about it.

Word Count : 10.4K (roughly) I got a little carried away, oopsies

Request : Anonymous: So for the request, I was wondering if you could do something soft and smutty with Charlie (Dalton)? Like his and a fem reader’s first time together or smth?

Summary : Essentially the request but they go out to make snow angels after, and there’s a little bit more plot :)

Authors Note : Plsss🥺🥺🥺 I love this so much and the idea was so sweet, Charlie is my BABY. I love him fodjdjdbfi. Thank you for this request! And my other requested fics will be put up as soon as I’ve finished them <3

Angels of the Night, Charlie Dalton x Female!Reader

Perhaps it were the midst of Winter engulfing my complexion, rupturing me cold and abnormally behaved, or maybe I was simply being overdramatic. My nose cold, stained with the shiver of a scarlet hue - eyes something of a similar shade, glossy and leaking. Pathetic, my mind spat, utterly pathetic. The sobs escaping my throat were hardly stifled by the wool of my knitted scarf, eyebrows furrowed and blush - I presumed - something of a terrible crimson. I found myself choking on my laboured breaths, feet crunching upon the delicate, unscathed, snow below.

He could hardly love you, my mind seemed to snear, something icier than the wind whipping through my locks. You are too difficult to adore. 

Another stifled cry whimpered between the ruffle of my lips, moist and troubling, and I simply hoped - my vision blurred, incompetent - that my direction were a honest path, and I should discover the courtyard of the infamous Hell-ton (a place often discouraged and avoided by my conscience, for girls were surely not prohibited, and Charlie would be oh-so-severly punished, should I find myself caught.) in no time at all. 

But, oh, it were true. A wreck, I was, and impossible to love. Charlie; a man with such incredible charm, a certain warmth to his gaze, and the intelligence of someone wonderful. Everything a dream could give, embodied - real. Perhaps he was the kind of guy, the kind of face, that poetry was bound from. The kind of person the Gods found pride within - a joyously great boy. 

My footsteps found a rhythm, falling within the tough scale of such icy blankets; fingers but limbs of solid numbness, fumbling within the depth of my pockets; a gentle pulse to racket the edges of my brain. Thump, thump, thump, it said; Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. 

What was I even to do? To approach him, to mortify him - though undoubtedly far more myself - before his friends, his closest companions, and express my excessive need for clarification? Was I going to whine for his adoration, for a smitten smile - the kind I’d always read about, always heard in folk-talk about the town - and the attention I found myself so desperate for? It was all so absurd, and, as I glanced with a blurred sense upon the harsh white all around, I found myself wanting to burrow beneath it all, and await the part of death to crawl within my veins, to freeze until I perished. Dramatic, perhaps, though valid nonetheless.

I suddenly felt warm, doused in the flush of embarrassed scarlet, a hue so easily identifiable - especially among the fleet of snow, draped upon the landscape for miles, and miles, to stretch. Heavens, I felt ill. Sick with stupidity - my own, all the same. 

How could I possibly fall so low as to beg a man for adoration? My cheeks were a furious red, stricken with frustration. I felt a fool, storming over to his school - his strict, unapologetic, pro-punishment, school - with tear-stained cheeks, a lump in my throat and a pensive anxiety through the roof - all as though my implored desire were of anything important, anything meaningful. Charlie was a man of great confidence, and surely - by now, at least - his true feelings for me, if any at all, would have confessed their way to me, somehow - anyhow. 

And yet, despite our many months of close friendship, our continuous flirting, and the pet names - though only to be revealed when swarmed with the comfort of desolation -, with the dates (he had assured me that they were, in fact, dates, and not just a friendly accommodation) - despite it all, he had not once confessed to his true feelings. And I suppose that I struggled to believe whether he held anything romantic for me at all, anymore. Perhaps he was excited, in the beginning, and thus he felt something then, and now - now that we had never quite ventured within the sexually active side of things - I supposed that he were growing bored, and those feelings - whichever he may have obtained - were diminished,  unimportant, and-

“Y/N?” The delirious notion of my attention snapped up, grasping the direction of the calling - a familiar tone. Knox. I found myself spinning, undoubtedly a natural reaction, to turn away from his curious gaze. I wiped my eyes, a harsher manner than intended, with my numb digits digging a little deeper upon the flushed complexion than comfortable. “What are you doing here?” There was a breathy laugh, and I suppose he hadn’t noticed my watery expression, his crunching footsteps achingly close. 

“I- uh-” Turning to face him once more, I fluttered a kind smile upon my features - hoped he wouldn’t notice. “I came to visit Charlie.” I said. 

“Oh.” He said, dismissive, with another curious gaze and a tilted head. “He’s in a meeting-” He caught himself, glancing with something worried, “You okay?” He asked. Through his furrowed eyebrows and his genuine eyes - always gentle, always dreaming - I found comfort among the softness of his stare. Knox was a good friend - hopelessly in love with Chris, of course - and utterly tender. It was no wonder he and Charlie were the closest of companions. Both irresistible, both dependent upon each other - brothers, soulmates, a match for angelic enigma.

I hardly had a chance to catch my movement, shoulders falling and descending to a slouch, a sigh breaching my lips. “I’ve worried myself ill.” I said, and true it surely was. He smiled, a humorous smile, and shook his head.

“Always a worrier.” He spoke, fondly, taking me beneath his arm, and pulling me to the direction of the entry door. I almost thanked the warmth he radiated, had it not been for his words interrupting my decision, “You’ve been crying, I can see.” He said, and I nodded something silent. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Charlie.”  I sighed, unable to pause the way it slipped, so easily, through my teeth. I tried to bite it back, but it begged for release and I could fool myself no longer. I needed to talk about the issue, I needed advice. “I feel as though I bore him - as if he doesn’t like me - like that - anymore.”

He let out a laugh, full and plentiful, as we walked through the waft of warmth, basked by the golden-lit entrance. His stare was wary, cautious, and he - in his height, with that uniformed jacket clung around a part of myself -  buried me within his hold, ushering us through the walkway with a slight urgency. “Why the hell not?” He said, amused and slightly riddled with disbelief. 

“I-” I paused, a kind of summary attempting to congregate within the depth of my mind, every anxiety rushing to the front in a large blur of nothingness, “I just do.” I said, a deep puff of air to follow. “We’re nothing official, and I know that - of course I do! I just…” A moment of silence followed, we wandered up the staircase, feet echoing simultaneously as our tones found hushed whispers. To be caught was simply not an option “I suppose I need to know.” 

I found a gentle ache to sprout, deeply, within the base of my throat, a roundly stinging sensation to my eyes, and I knew - Oh, I knew it well, my jaw clenched, and orbs rolling to the sky - that tonight was a night for honesty, and for feeling morose. Charlie liked that word - morose - for it reminded him of things pleasant - ironically - and thus he used it in the incorrect context. ‘I am morose, tonight, Dear,’ he would say, a grin and faux British accent, all the while proceeding to play his cheeriest Saxophone pieces, all so wonderful and joyful. Nothing morose about it, but that was just Charlie. That was Just Charlie, and Charlie was the man I loved. 

The tears began to fall - a first, and then a second, and then there was simply no stopping them after that. Knox hummed, and we entered the hallway. “Need to know what?” He said, our footsteps echoing upon the wooden flooring in a patterned, mismatched, rhythm.  

“How he feels.” I said, a gentle sob to fall from my tongue. “How he feels about me - and him. Together - us.”  We paraded through the course of the rooms, an occasional curious eye from a bystander - usually a boy with books, or perhaps a recognizable face - and landed before a familiar door.

“Ah,” He said, “So that’s why you’re here? To confess your feelings and hope that he reciprocates?” I found myself pausing in the doorway, Knox almost diving upon the neatly made bed - upon Charlie’s neatly made bed - that anxiety riddled within my head all over again. Thump, thump, thump, it said. Hope, hope, hope.

“Hope?” I said, “What do you mean, hope?” 

He furrowed his eyebrows, dismissive to my worries, and picked up the small clock - slightly battered and a little broken - from upon the side table, stacked with loose paper and a few poorly handled novels, and said: “I worded that wrong.” With a reassuring smile to soften his expression. “You’re worried over nothing, Y/N.” He chuckled, gentle and kind. 

But what if I wasn’t? “And if I’m not?” 

“Then it would seem I don’t know Charlie at all.” He said. And, oh, how honest he seemed, so undeniably truthful, but that little voice - that fester of illness, sprouted within my gut -  found my eyebrows pinched, and my frame collapsed within the chair of Charlie’s desk. I removed the wool of my scarf, a sigh slipping the brace of my gritted teeth, gentle moisture collecting upon my complexion, flushed with the sudden gust of warmth, and similarly cold by the retraction of heat. 

“I hope those shoes are clean, Overstreet.” I said, breathless to my thoughts. He snorted a laugh, and my lip quivered at the corner. Perhaps I was worrying over nothing - yes, yes, nothing at all. Though my tears seemed to occupy my anxieties, and such a thought did little to diffuse my worry. “But what if he doesn’t have feelings for me?” I said, exasperated. Knox sighed, a pointed look from his direction. “I mean, how embarrassing! I’d surely never recover.” 

Another scoff breached his throat, “Are you kidding me?” He said, rolling his eyes with a subtle fondness about him. “He practically worships you.”

“And you’re sure he likes me? Romantically?” 

“Smitten.” He said, toying with the ill-treated clock as it lay within his hands, tossing it from one hand, to the other, up and down, left and right. I watched with a glimmer of amusement as the contraption fell from his grasp, landing heavily upon the wooden flooring. The mechanisms simply fell apart - meat from the bone - and a light wince sounded out from his direction. “Damn.” He mumbled. A soft laugh fluttered from my lips, and his rose to a tender smile, soft and kind - always so kind. 

The door billowed open, a gentle slam against the opposing wall a thunder upon the scene. A waft of cologne, a roll of the eyes from Knox, and I found my smile broadening a little, broadening enough.  Always the kind for an entrance, I thought, as the wooden plank poised between the man himself, and I. “Knoxious.” Charlie called, a tone of thick amusement and mischief to coax his smirk - a factor so notoriously him, I could hear it through his speech. 

Knox grinned, a furtherly boyish kind than the ones he shared with me, and avoided the shattered clock altogether, as it lay, pathetically, upon the ground. “How’d it go?” He asked, lying pointedly within the comfort of Charlie’s bed, making a fact of wiggling upon the comforter.

“Not so bad.” Charlie said, blissfully ignoring his teasing. “Meeks agreed to help. Study group and all that.” 

Knox nodded, glancing once in my direction, as I found myself merely grinning - for whichever reason, I had no particular clue. Perhaps it were his voice, or his smile - the way it conveyed within his speech. I didn’t know, and I found, as he spoke once again, that I didn’t care to find out. 

“How was the Danbury’s future wife?” He teased, “Seen her naked, yet?” His tone of humour were almost overbearing, as he strode forward - in front of myself, my presence consequently unknown - and kicked the door shut, the thud another echo throughout the almost silent corridor. 

He rolled his eyes, the ghost of a smile to be present, and spoke gently, “Shut up, Dalton.” He said, motioning effortlessly in my direction, “Your girl’s here to see you.” 

As though an elastic band, he swiveled upon his toes, eyes precariously enlarged with a sense of surprise. My grin remained, and his gaze seemed to soften somewhat upon noticing my hunched posture, curled within that chair of his fabulous desk. His expression eloped with something wide, his smile crawling instantaneously, as he strode to rest himself behind me, engulfing my shoulders in a two-armed-cradle. His chin rested upon the dip in my neck, breath warm; close. “Hi.” He said, tone soft with a joyous grin. 

“Hello.” I mumbled, resting the side of my cheek upon his head. Serenity, peace - I had almost forgotten the moisture to lie upon my rosy complexion. “What was the meeting about?” I asked.

“It’s nothing, just-” “He’s flunking trig.” Knox interrupted, a flutter of buried snickers to follow. 

My eyebrows furrowed, knitted tightly as I positioned myself to face Charlie furtherly forward. “You’re flunking trig?” I asked. He shrugged slightly, tightening his embrace 

with a sharp inhale to his nose. 

“Only a little.” He said, gaze roaming upon my expression. Two digits, curled to the softness of his palm, graced the damp flush of my cheek, recoiling with a scowl of fond woe displaced upon his furrowed brows. “What’s the matter?” He asked, something mellow. 

As though dancing to their own accord, the tears found themselves heavier than before, trickling upon my features as they found a subtle scrunch, and his frown drew deeper. “Hey,” He whispered, brushing - almost nervously, dare I say - a few strands of hair away from my face, tucking them behind an ear, with a glance of thorough concern. 

I stared, albeit tried to, with such blurry gaze, into his eyes. So warm, so amiable -  hot chocolate, topped with sweetened whipped cream and marshmallows on a chilly Wednesday afternoon - Home, his eyes, they looked like home. He felt like home. And, oh, how dearly I loved him. “What happened?” He mumbled, “Knoxious,” he said, turned to face the boy who glanced something somber, “What did you do?” 

I could care to notice the smile upon Charlie’s expression, and from the reciprocated grin festered within the boy across the room, I understood, a teary smile and a gentle laugh, that he was doing what he did best - he was going to cheer me up. “Overstreet.” He said, standing with a sudden gust of wind. 

Knox stood, a scramble to his feet, a mischievous grin eloped upon his expression. “Dalton?” He said, a tilt of his head - a nod, I suppose, though something mocking. 

“Grab me a bowl.” Charlie ordered. 

His smile fell, and he said: “A bowl?” 

“Yeah, of food.” He said, “I’m hungry. Whatever’s for Dinner, alright?” 

He nodded, somewhat dazzled, and the smirk crawled back upon his expression. “Yes, Sir.” He said, “What about the others?” 

“The others?” 

“The Dead Poets?” Knox said, “What’ll I tell ‘em?” 

Charlie shrugged, he glanced once to myself as I sniffled, and I wiped my eyes with my hands once more. “Tell ‘em I’m busy.” He said, a smile. Knox knew - he knew better than anyone - just how deeply controlling love could feel, how gut-wrenchingly wonderful it tended to grow, and thus he left without another word, merely a smirk, and a gentle wave to I. 

The door remained cracked, though only a slither, and before a moment's silence had passed between us, Charlie planted his lips upon the cold complexion of my snow-kissed cheek. A retraction, “God,” He said, “you’re freezing.” I didn’t feel particularly cold - not anymore, at least -- not after the weight of his tightly woven arms upon my shoulders. It should seem, however, that the glisten of moisture upon my cheeks were enough to remind my complexion of it’s shiver, Charlie - without hesitation - ripping into the array of clothing, shoved messily at the pit of his closet. “Here.” He mumbled, a thick, woolen, jumper extended from his slightly pink cheeks. “Put this on, you’ll get sick.” 

I have fallen sick already, I almost scoffed - sick with the worries of my own foolish mind. But I grabbed the soft material nonetheless - a favorite of mine, one I thought he wore so very well - and removed my jacket, peeling the cold material from my bare arms. I placed it on, woozy with the intoxicating smell that was him, engulfing my frame in a combustion of warmth, of safety, and I smiled. A toothy, poorly contained, smile. 

That smirk fell upon his lips, a signature twist of features. I watched his supple gaze, drifting upon my figure from across the room, and those butterflies - the ones I’d so anxiously murdered a while ago, when such intrusive thoughts seemed too dangerous to express fondly - found themselves utterly contempt, dazzling themselves drunk with romance. Eyes darkened slightly, though soft, as though glancing to something delicate, and his hands fumbled within his pockets. How pretty he was, I found myself thinking, and I adored him all the same. 

He smiled, a shake of the head, and said: “I wasn’t expecting to see you.” 

“Oh, yeah…” I said, another sniffle, contained and hardly morose at all. My expression seemed to falter, though only marginally - enough for Charlie to notice, his gaze scowling something gentle, something worried - and I presumed, as he motioned for me to join him, himself clambering upon the mattress and lying upon the cover, that I would simply have to let it all out. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” I began, sitting at the edge of the bed. He kicked off his shoes, allowing them to clatter upon the ground with a careless sense, attentive and glancing warily to myself. 

He frowned, subliminally displeased by the distance I had placed between us. “Are you mad at me?” He asked, confusion to bind between his features. 

It was my turn to furrow my eyebrows, a rather quick shake of the head. “No, no, nothing like that.” I said, “No, quite the opposite, really.” I kicked off my own shoes, not nearly as eager to ruin his bedding as Knox had seemed to be, and placed them side by side, a neat sort of line. The tears, they had stopped - or paused, perhaps - though the dampness of my blush was something rather frustrating, as I harshly wiped upon the irritated skin, attempting to rid of the lightly tangy moisture. 

“Alright.” He hummed, an arm to lock upon the soft of my stomach, drawing me closer in a swift kind of movement. I laid back, his chest moving something rhythmical, my head falling within the crook of his neck, glancing up to the side of his face. He was surely the prettiest boy I had ever known. And as his thumb stroked the skin of my knuckles, his eyes glancing down to meet my own, I found myself thoughtless. Blank - nothing. He smiled. “Well?” 

I rolled my eyes half heartedly, for I was so filled with something fuzzy, something fond, I was unable to spark any kind of annoyance. “So impatient.” I grinned, shuffling lightly to tangle my feet beneath his own. Oh, how cold my toes were. He hissed lightly at the contact, though allowed it nonetheless, and I found myself unable to dismiss the gentle grin as it slipped upon my lips. “I- Well, I-“ I coughed, an ache to my throat. Feelings, themselves, were particularly frustrating - difficult things to understand - and yet confessing them were so much harder. “God,” I sighed, closing my eyes with a light groan. Carpe diem - it was all Charlie used to say, before he’d do something risky; before he asked me on a date for the first time; before he inevitably did a thing he’d surely regret, or, perhaps, receive a kind of punishment for. Carpe diem. “Do you like me?” I asked. It was timid, shy. 

A moment of silence graced us by, the soft hum of his breathing  mingled with that of my own the only disruptive notion. I peered through my lashes, cautious as to my findings, and gazed upon his beautifully carved features. Glancing to his lightly flushed expression, his smile, and his subtle laughter, I suppose that I gathered I had been worrying about nothing, after all. Stretched within his grin, he said: “What’s the matter with you?”, a gentle laugh soon followed . “Of course I like you.” He said. “Why’d I keep you around if I didn’t?” 

I felt myself bubble with a lightly humiliated laugh, trickling from my tongue like treacle - not honey, far too thick, too sticky. Unpleasant - it was a frustrated and false kind. “I don’t know.” I muttered. “I thought you did it all out of pity.” 

A snort escaped him, “Fucking pity?” He echoed, bemused as before. “You think I’d deliberately risk getting my ass kicked by my Father, for bringing a girl to school, if it was out of pity?” I shrugged something small - utterly humiliated. Though, in a way, I suppose I kind of enjoyed this humiliation. I found a certain warmth in his mocking, for I knew it was his dote of affection. I knew that although his commentary were merely humorous, I could find a sense of adoration between the lines, a sense of truth. There always seemed to be such things. 

And so, as though a strike of courage had flourished within the depth of my bones, I found myself speaking thoughtlessly. “You just never…” I paused, hesitation riddled within such courage. “You’ve never told me that.” I sighed, glancing away with such an inflammation to my cheeks, I simply thought I’d explode into a ball of flames.

“Oh,” He muttered, a tinge of disheartenment to his tone. I flickered my stare to fixate upon his expression once more, crossed handsomely with a frown. He didn’t meet my gaze, “Well, what do you want me to say?” He said, a little thickly, with a hint of discomfort. 

Tell me you love me, I wanted to say, confess your adoration! Though instead, there was a: “Nothing.” and an: “I’m sorry, I’m being dramatic.” 

“No, no,” He said, a stroke to my side; up and down, up and down, so gentle, so soft. “No, you’re right.” A curt pause followed, a tense thing. He drew in a sharp breath, “I just thought that…” He trailed, marinating his words, as though deciphering how to piece them together. “I thought you could tell.” He smiled fondly, shook his head, “The Dead Poets… All they do is tease me. They see it.” He glanced toward me, a curious glance, and said: “Why can’t you?” 

I paused, the gentle stammer to exit my mouth, “I-” but caught myself before mine own excuses. There was a furrow to my brows, one that rose a single of his own, and surely, he were right. 

Between the gentle dotes of affection - often an arm burrowed around my waist, or my shoulders, or a kiss to my cheek, hand holding (though usually interlocked pinkies) - the long, - dare I say - intimate stares; the softness of each glance, of every expression; the subtle compliments, followed with a fond kind of joke, or a faux insult; the adoration, spilled between every moment we spent together, that I were simply too worried to notice. Damn, I almost sighed, though bit it back (barely) - I felt bitterly foolish. 

Heavens, how could I not have noticed? 

There was an overwhelming kind of heat washing over me, and oh, I truly wanted to hide - to run, and to hide, far, far,  away.  What a fool, an incompetent fool. The flutter of a laugh slipped between his lips, a lullaby to my fixated embarrassment, and - before long - I found myself reciprocating a gentle giggle, too. 

“Idiot.” He teased, another snort of laughter, though only quiet - a fond mocking, one could say. I rolled my eyes, unbearably aware for the scarlet flush upon my cheeks, and swatted his chest gently. His digits wrapped around my own, drawing the back of my hand to his smile, as he peppered a loving kiss upon the complexion.  “‘Looks good.” He grinned, “My clothes - they suit you.” And there I was, blushing all over again. 

“Shut up.” I mumbled, burning something violent. 

He smiled, that toothy, mischievous, and utterly him, smile. “Never.” He whispered, a wink, and a closing gap. 

His eyes, those beautifully entrancing eyes - gorgeously brown, amorous in shade - glanced, feverishly, upon my lips, slightly agape - drying. The space between our mingled breaths seemed to lessen, the scent of his cologne an overwhelming disorientation to my unmoving self. I found my frame utterly frozen - we had never kissed before. I gulped, our gazes entangling once again, and his expression found a subtle pinch. 

Is this okay? It seemed to ask, and oh, how I melted. I nodded, soft and hesitant - merely within my own - or, rather, lack there of - experience. His digits ran smoothly upon my side, trickling their way upon my tingling complexion, and weighted a supple grip upon my jaw, thumb tracing the flush of my cheek. 

And then, the space between two such lovers diminished. 

Molded so wondrously, an aubade of something perfect. My eyes found a restful close, the pressure of his lips, so tender and gentle - passionately loving - upon mine, a soulful clash of dreamy nights, and explicit daydreams, embodied. The digits upon my cheek failed to release, momentarily squeezing, as the barricade upon my lower back embraced my frame, warm and comforting, and his strength lulled me closer. 

I tilted my head, only slightly to the left, as to deepen such affection, and the simple way in which my nose brushed upon his, found my heart slurry with a combustion I could hardly contain. My hands trailed upon his chest, pathing a certain comfort upon his clothed complexion, winding to a settlement along his jaw, cupping his face in a brisk motion of adoration. This was real, I found such a touch reminding me, he was truly within my hands, and his lips were smitten upon my own. Oh, how long I had dreamed such a night.

It seemed almost strange, that such a new found discovery could feel so dearly like home - like comfort, fed upon a delectably silver spoon. 

Sweeter than any honey infused dessert, delighted with the bitterness of inexperience and unveiled expressions, my awareness a haze of muddled infatuation. For although my fingertips caressed the smooth complexion of his jaw, and my frame lay, entangled, within his own, it seemed that my feel, my sense of attention, was something of a great lack. Everything seemed so out of focus, so ill-tuned. All but the pressure of the fiery ignition, between the kiss of an epilogue I dreaded immensely. 

My breaths fell short, something deep and ravenous, and I found yourself withdrawing gently, engulfing the sudden gulp of oxygen with a slight pant to accompany it. Charlie’s glance was warm; every kind of affection intertwined within one honey glaze; mouth agape, clawing to the fresh air with a timid smirk, reddened and slightly swollen - kissable. His thumb caressed the complexion of my rosy cheek, a falter nowhere to be seen, and his grip on my lower back trailed up, grasping the base of my neck in a sloppily tender hold. He pulled me nearer, a soft guidance, as his breath fanned my expression, gorged with a timid and delightful smile, and the gingerly peppered peck followed. "I love you." He mumbled, eyes fluttered shut. 

He loved me - He loved me! Oh, how I had longed to hear such a confession! I truly pondered the sincerity to his words, though decided that perhaps a paranoid ponderous session was in fact unnecessary, and, in due time, such doubts could trail my conscience. After all, he had confessed that he loved me, and, well, that was just enough for my satisfaction. 

Tugging upon the hem of his jawline, a subtle smile traced the hue of his expression - peacefully quiet, with his orbs still hidden to a close - and my lips descended, something brash and seemingly passionate, upon his own. His response trailed suit, the grip upon my neck squeezing momentarily - an embrace I found alluringly entrancing, with a tingle between my thighs - and a gape to mold within his mouth. Craning his neck, once more, Charlie tilted his head to the right, in a consequent attempt to deepen the kiss. And perhaps it were foolish of me to notice such simplicity, but I found it captivating, the way in which our eyelashes freckled upon each other's cheeks, and our noses clashed so gently, brushing a blushed complexion with no morsel of objection. 

His tongue ran along the moisturized flesh of my flushed lower lip, a subtle nip between his front teeth igniting the heated warmth, oozing between my own frustrations, and - although I had, for arguments unbeknownst to myself, never before used my tongue in a passionate manner - I found my lips parting subconsciously, and welcoming the sloppy warmth of an entity my dreams could hardly fathom such experience of. 

A gentle invasion, something utterly welcome and wondrous; his tongue ran along the edge of my own, myself mimicking the soft touch with slight hesitance. His thumb caressed the complexion of my cheek once more, lightly gripping upon the side of my face and tilting it such, himself adjusting to furtherly explore the depth of my intertwined lips. I were surely rendered breathless, a slight ache beginning to accumulate within the pit of my lungs - I hardly knew how to breathe through such intimacy. Charlie sighed something gentle, the puff of air to tickle my upper lip, and it seemed the recollection of my nose fluttered on back to me, as I gulped a large inhale through the deprived nostrils, a subtle blush encasing my cheeks, flourished with the tinge of thickening embarrassment. That was a bit fucking stupid, I scolded, shamed by my bitter inexperience. 

I wondered if I were... Well, if I were any good, to put it simply. Never before had I truly made out with a boy, and every time they tried, it seemed to - somehow, somewhere - go wrong. Of course, I had shared subtle kisses with pretty boys, and my virginity was long gone - many moons ago, was it taken, by a man unbelievably unworthy of the title - but it was never anything emotional. Nothing riddled with mutual feelings, and adoration spilling from every passing moment. It was different - Charlie was different. 

And as my grip slithered upon the roots of his hair, planted along his lower cranium, and entangled with a gentle tug, I understood that perhaps he thought I was different, too. For the sound he made was heavenly, as the groan slipped between his lips, and vibrated upon my tongue, and oh, did I crave to hear it again. His smile was a radiance of arrogant pleasure, tattered against my lips, as his teeth nibbled something tender upon my swollen flesh, and, Heavens, how the shuddered sigh mortified me. I had little time to control myself, as his grip tightened upon the base of my neck, and the other hand slunk itself upon my clothing, wriggling the base of my shirt, and planting a firm grip upon my bare waist. 

I wondered, merely a moment of passing thought, whether my skin were as smooth as his own, or that of the other girls he had bedded, before myself. At least, I assumed such a happening would unfold within the shared company, as my lips began to shimmer a light sting, something barbarically pleasing. Another nibble ran upon my lower lip, a slightly harsher endeavor, as a sharp flourish of pain cursed through my mouth, eloping the pleasurable chafe in a reactive heat. My fist clenched, tightly engaged, within the roots of those chocolate, brown, locks, yet another groan to interrupt the blurry silence, and a sudden flavor - something unusual, unknown - infiltrated the bliss, and... Metallic? I frowned subtly, decidedly unknowing as to just what it could be, and - Blood. 

Heavens, I was bleeding! I felt myself gasp something light, his smirk merely amplifying to such a bemusing reaction, and his tongue softly grazed the small wound with great humor, before slithering within the gaped part of my inflamed mouth. 

His hand squeezed, momentarily, upon the rear of my neck, it's warmth surely missed, as it trailed an affable motion along my back, and his digits curled upon the hem of my shirt. One subtle tug, and a second shortly followed, his permission permitted clearly, and his grip maneuvered such clothing from upon my heated frame, hands lightly brushing the shivered complexion of my bare sides, with deliberate teasing, as he went. The shirt was thrown somewhere unbeknownst to myself, the knitted jumper a deduced accomplice,  and I simply hoped it wouldn't land upon Richards bed - that kind of commentary I would surely never live down - as my hands slithered their way beneath his own clothing, resting upon the warm complexion of his softly animated chest, rising and deflating rhythmically beneath my grip.

A supple grasp of his warm touch, cupping upon the thinly laced fabric of my forgettable bra, found delightful swarms of shivers, crawling with great animation, to scuttle upon my spine. The gentle arc of my back, a soft pressure of my chest upon his own, allowed our mingled affection to deepen, be it only slight, as his tongue slithered endearingly alongside mine. Once more, I hoped that my actions were at least satisfactory, as the persistence of the surprisingly wondrous invasion, sultry within my mouth, peppered on. His breath was short, gentle, yet utterly irrational, a certain tinge of warmth to radiate from the subtlety of his glamorously expensive cologne. 

And, despite my growing adoration for the way in which our bodies found a perfect kind of mold, so effortlessly, the tender reminder that Charlie was still... Well, he was still bothersome in clothing, his attire entirely intact, as he lay responsive below my trembling self, found a certain nerve within the depth of my hidden anxieties. Perhaps I had read too far into such a night, and it would not quite end the way I had hoped - perhaps he was simply going along with everything through courtesy. He was a rather gentlemanly man, I could agree. I found a timid blush crawling the complexion of my expression - oh, how foolish I felt! My mind rendered itself bitterly clouded - maybe my crowing insecurities would, in fact, not wait - and my hesitant touch seemed to lightly drift, no longer positioned upon the warmth of his beautiful skin. He didn't even want this, I was almost certain. After all, it was me lying flat upon his frame - not him. I had control - idiotically so - and therefore, he did not want me. Not in that way, at least. 

The distance forced itself between such entanglement far before I found a moment to conceal the concerns, myself positioned to a particularly uncomfortable straddle, perched lightly upon his pelvis with my hands palmed upon his erratically pulsating chest. His eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly, toppled with a mantra of concern, lips bruised an almost impressive tinge of inflamed scarlet. "What's wrong?" He muttered, albeit breathless and slightly dumbfounded. His darkened gaze pinned me silent, a flicker of uncomfortability to reside within my mind. I could hardly see just why he would want me, in any kind of way, never mind the sexual kind. 

I glanced to my hands, toying subtly with the fabric of his clothing, and my stomach spiked with some kind of nervous gip. Fucking hell, I scolded, what is wrong with you?  His digits encased my own, plush lips a delicacy upon the soft complexion, as he traced my palm with a gentle touch, and peppered affection among my knuckles. "Y/N..." He sighed, a sudden softness about his expression. My eyes danced reluctantly, cautious and riddled with my cock-blocking, frustrating, anxieties, and met his gaze with a shy tinge. "What's with the nerves, all of a sudden?" A lovable flutter of laughter slipped his throat, engulfing his expression in that wide grin I found myself adoring so deeply, and another blush drooped upon my smile, small and timid in itself. 

"Sorry." I mumbled, somewhat awkwardly, as I lightly shifted my positioning. 

A slight hiss escaped the gape of his reddened lips, "Oh, God," He said, "please - God, fuck - don't do that." He groaned, a strong grip and swift maneuvering moment of furrowed expression and concerning grumbles to follow, and I discovered a position of swandled helplessness, upon my back, himself a display of further dominance, as he hung above my confused person. A slither of arrogance spilled within his smirk, particularly delighted with the shift in positioning. 

Perhaps he did want me, after all, I dared to ponder. Heavens - he surely looked Godly, struck above, a slight strain to his muscles, and a shimmer of reddened blush to coax his complexion. Two digits maneuvered upon my cheek, another pinch smitten within his expression, and he stroked my features, as he said: “We don’t have to do it, you know.” And he smiled something gentle, reassuring. 

I found myself silly with a grin, shaking my head subtly. “No,” I said, “No, I want to.” I brushed away the fringe of fallen hair, tucking it away from his forehead. Truly the most beautiful boy I had ever known. “I want to, I just-” I paused, sighed, “I want to make sure you do, as well.” I said, quieter, with a furrow to my brows. 

That similarly contagious smile only seemed to brighten, the breath of a laugh a whisper to the quiet. “Me?” He somewhat scoffed, “Sweetheart, tonight is about you.” 

Contorted with a sense of confusion, I said, “Are you sure?” And wrapped his warm expression within the palms of my hands. “I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do, Charlie.” I said. 

His grin something soft, he shook his head. “Dammit, Y/N, the name is Nuwanda.” He said, with not a moment's hesitation. His lips found mine own once more, eloped within that same enigma of beautiful, gratifying, expression. And, oh, if this were the love I had read about, that I had heard the stories of, perhaps I could dare to allow myself to fall. 

Mouth a hot trail, lingering with a sloppy kind of warmth, trickled - like honey, sweet, addictive - upon the flush of my complexion, gently peppered along my neck, a rough trail to the crane of my breast, parting through the middle, and a pause at my stomach. The tips of his fingers wound little circles within my pale flesh, a tickle embraced delightfully, and I found myself flustered and warm - dampening, perhaps, in an area more than one. 

The gentle, almost trembling, I cared to notice, graze of his fingertips, caressing the sensitivity of the skin most unscathed, perched above the button of my waistband, found a fluttered breath to fall from my tongue. A sigh, one could admit. And, as he maneuvered such digits to undo the subtle mechanisms of the button, and of the zipper, I found my gaze interlocking with his own, a dirty kind of smile to pepper his expression. 

“Wait-” I breathed, a little sultry - too sultry for my liking, though his grin only widened upon such a shaky tone. 

“Yes, Dear?” He said, a grip to my waist - something squeezed, something utterly distracting - and crawled his way to hover above me, our gazes interlocked and level. A sharp inhale found my throat, and I paused, albeit disorientated, and that intense expression of his dimmed somewhat. I found myself blushing, flustered idiotically, and I tugged upon the lower creases of his shirt. He glanced down, a breathy laugh to follow. 

He sat back slightly, resting mostly upon his legs, straddled either side of myself, as I lie, watching - no doubt looking a mess, with disgruntled hair, and half a naked body - and he began to unbutton the cotton of his creased, white, shirt. 

Pasty, toned - oh, I were surely thankful to Nolan for such persistent rowing training - and utterly divine. The shirt found the floor, and I subconsciously began trailing patterns, gently, upon the muscled complexion of his abdominal region. His smile was infectious, dazed, as though swarmed with consuming bliss, and his slow descent was something teasing, patient. 

I leaned up, unable to pause myself, and caught his lips with my own, furtherly passionate than previously seemed - harsher, dripping with an uncanny tinge of desperation. He slipped his way back down, continual pressures of feathered kisses, slobbered messily upon the heated skin of my neck, my breast, and the lower fraction of my stomach. My hands wove between the gloriously soft strands of his hair, clenching upon the roots with a great anticipation. I surely wanted him - needed him. 

Picking off from where he had found himself interrupted, Charlie made a point to daringly drag the material from upon my limbs - slow, deliberate - and peel them unto the floor. That smile - that damned smile - bled me something mushy, utterly submissive to every which occurrence seemed to take place henceforth. His mouth, hot, entirely entrancing - dreamy, perhaps - pressed, a ragged breath to accompany, upon the flesh of my thigh, trailing up, further, further, until they grazed the cloth of my lacy waistband. 

Naturally - with somewhat an embarrassing notion - my hips seemed to rise, to buck up, and follow his retreating mouth. The gaze in which he dared to share, - oh - it ached me. My stomach pooling - almost, as it seemed, distributing elsewhere, in a mantra of pleasure, and of need.  And the sound that escaped the gape of my mouth were something utterly mortifying.

He breathed a gentle chuckle, crawling up once more, his thumbs brushing lightly upon the fabricated hip, and allowed his forehead to rest upon my cheek, a deep breath - in, and out, in, and out - with a number of peppered affection to burn the complexion of my jaw. My grip remained, gentler, within the roots of his hair, rummaging among such luscious locks, and his breathing feathered, wavering with a soft tremble. 

Charlie snuffed his way, knocking my nose with his own, and smiled something tender, a to lock our gaze. “I love you.” He mumbled, the gentle ghost of a kiss to slither upon my lips. 

I hardly awaited a moment’s hesitation, “I love you,” I said, and I surely meant it. 

There was a moment of shuffling, himself withdrawing the belt - a clink, and a burning fire between the ache of my thighs - and the rustle of descending cloth. Our lips a tangle of blissful abundance, daydreams, passion, all that seemed so wonderful - all that life seemed to be understood for - wrapped within such a sweetened, musky scent. And then, as he parted my legs, something gentle, and particularly kind, and the lace of my dampened panties were discarded to the side, I found, for a heightened moment, I understood the root of all poetry. 

For the breeze was nippy, but he was a kind of warmth - a slow, graceful, entrance. He shuddered a breath, his member fulfilling the absence of a warm embrace, and I found myself a wholly consumed fool. “Charlie,” I breathed, a gentle tug to his hair. He groaned something heavenly, vibrating among the thickening air - sticky, almost, with such a sweet sensation, and then he began to move. 

Gradual, as he dug further, a greatly whole sensation washing over my pleasured shudder, until he paused, entirely consumed by his depth. Breathing deepened, ravenously implored by my tender whimpers, he captured my moans in a grunt of his own, “Shhh,” he muttered, a strained kind of speech. “You’ve got to be quiet.” He muttered, a whisper of a breath upon my lips. 

He retracted, slow, daring, from within me, movement slick and utterly dangerous. “We don’t-” A muffled groan fell from his lips, pausing with a noticeable withdrawal, his smirk something bitterly infused with desperation, with longing. “We don’t wanna get caught, do we?” 

I shook my head, far too engrossed within the bask of delight and satisfaction to pay my embarrassment any kind of interest. “No,” I breathed, my hips rising once more and grazing the moisture of his hardened self. A subtle moan escaped the rumble of his throat, a bastardly smile embracing his daring expression, lips crashing to connect with my own once more. 

His digits encased my own, hardly noticed and utterly trusted, and he withheld such grip above my head, smitten upon the pillows, and the headrest, and he entered me once more. I found a muffled moan escaping my throat, digested with the greedy tongue of his own, as he withdrew his frame, and began to find a kind of rhythm. He ground something gentle into  me, a tender type of jive, and allowed the rhythm something slow, something gradual. It were a mere mumble upon the flush of my lips, though I smiled nonetheless, as he said - breathed -: “Is this-” A pause, a shuddered inhale, “Is this alright?” 

I nodded, unable - quite - to express such simplicity in any which way. “Perfect,” I muttered, allowing my head to fall comfortably, resting with my gaze locked upon the ceiling.

Ragged breaths, furtherly accompanied by the feathering pepper of his sprinkled kisses, planted sparsely along my jaw; an embodiment of all the wonders, every kind of lyric, every stanza, every momentary pleasure; the warmth of a gradually increasing rhythm, so comfortingly blissful, my lower stomach contracting with a pleasurably unfamiliar sense of tightness; that musky scent, so beautifully him, so perfectly raw. 

He found a lightly harsher stroke, breath an uneven hymn, a prayer the angels seemed to cry, and I found my moan something - soberly - mortifying, drunk with a combustion of thickening lust, of adoration, of love. He heaved a breath, somewhat a laugh, and tilted my chin to level our gaze, his lips capturing my whimpers in a silencing kind of manner. He reached to my hips, their slow slipping of something unsatisfactory to his heavy grip, and he tugged me down upon his thrusts. A cry - a moan - slipped between our mingled breaths, and he seemed to pick up such speed, delicately embracing my complexion in a gentle manner, a loveable motion, and pulling me into his stroke.

A knot, something unfamiliar with the burden of time, tightened somewhere deeply, warmth emitting between the slick moisture between my thighs, and igniting a rich kind of fire within the enigma of my lower stomach, and Oh- 

A moan slipped the gape of my lips, his member discovering a kind of depth I had hardly realized accessible, and I- “Charlie,” I breathed, a pathetic taunt within the front of my conscience. His groan was something reciprocal, strokes strong, deepening, and undoubtedly a kind of heavenly descent. 

He muttered my name, a breath I found myself entirely enthralled by, and found his rhythm to a slower pace, retracting gradually and entering - deeper, oh, far deeper - with a furtherly slow invitation. A shuddered, heightened, moan slipped the grasp of my throat, coarser and far more depthful, and that knot - Heavens, that damn knot - tightened; it tightened and it squeezed, and it ached the course of my thighs. “Charlie-” I whispered, almost certain for the fiery warmth, engulfing the towering pull among my abdomen. 

He nodded, a breath to trickle his expression, “Yeah,” He said, “Yeah, me too.” 

The knot rose, a consuming tug among my dizzying conscience, and it lulled my limbs into a distracted, sedated, kind of manner, blissfully encased with a pleasure enamoured. Another moan found my throat, and his rhythm remained something increasingly shaky, strong and utterly defying. 

His breath fell to something unstable, gradually embracing an elated sense of ragged unevenness, as he captured our lips once more. A series of whimpers found the depth of my throat, my attempt to bite them back insufficient to his rhythmic thrusts, member far deeper than it seemed I could reach, myself. “Charlie,” I mumbled, almost finding myself warning as to the upcoming occurrence, himself smirking thickly against the gasp of my lips. 

“Go ahead, Baby,” he shuddered, “I’ve got you.” And then, I found myself unable to hold on any longer. 

A tremble of muffled cries - once, twice, copious times again, until my throat lay wretched with not a sound but the mere whimpers of pleasure. The knot, it combusted in a matter of electrical warmth, flushing through the gape of my parted, shuddering, legs. “Charlie,” I cried, like a song upon the dry whimper of my throat, “Charlie, Charlie,” until his name seemed nothing more than a word upon my tongue. Such a wave, engulfing me in a sensational kind of suffocation, an infectious kind of entrapment. I ached, another moan to fall from my lightly gasped mouth, and I found the knot, the gentle tug, no longer there - diminishing, one may say. 

I had hardly noticed the withdrawal of his softening member, stomach glistened with the tone of his undoing, his breaths ragged - deepened - though upon meeting his glance with that of my own, I understood that this - this man whom I loved, whom I adored - were someone I could most certainly Carpe Diem with every goddamn day. He smiled, something tender, something soft, and draped his lips upon my own, a sweet, kind, peck. 

“I love you,” He muttered upon the swollen flesh. 

A smile, “I love you,” I said. 

There was a moment of nothingness, filled by the still of ragged breathing, and his tone came teasing, came blissfully characteristic. “I’ll never hear my name fall from your lips innocently again.” He said, the light trickle of laughter to drabble by. “But, oh,” He closed his eyes, head tilted dramatically, “Oh, it was the sweetest song I ever heard.” I rang with a short giggle, a roll to my eyes, and muttered a gentle curse for his mortifying dictation. 

“Fuck you, Dalton.” I mumbled. 

His lips caught mine, once more, with a sloppy sense of warmth, and he said: “I’m afraid you already have, Dear.” With a wink and a poke to my naked side. 

His withdrawal were something quick, a suddenly cold departure, as he picked up the discarded shirt from upon the floor. He pinched his expression, a conflicting frown, and I maneuvered to rest upon my forearms, a furrow to my brows. “What are you doing?” I asked, a dopey smile unnoticed yet utterly welcome. 

He breathed a laugh, “I’m not sure if this is my last shirt.” He mumbled, scratching the base of his neck with another little chuckle. I let out a short snort, shaking my head, and spoke teasingly, unable to help the way it fell from my tongue. 

“To say I’m surprised would simply be a lie. Grab mine.” I said, motioning to the entanglement of woolen jumper and cheap t-shirt. 

He passed such fabric to myself, and I made an effort to scrape the slick moisture, puddled upon my stomach, a slight sigh to escape my mouth. The click of a lighter, and the rustle of an almost empty cigarette carton caught my attention, gaze drifting to watch as Charlie inhaled a deep breath, the chemicals of the darkened smoke disrupturing to his toughened throat, hands fondling the clasp of his belt. 

I found my underwear, sliding into the small item of clothing, rising to a standing position as I did so, and the cigarette fell between my lips, a wink to follow his retreat. 

“Let’s make some snow angels.” He said, a glimmer of something bright to sprinkle within his gaze. The laugh coughed from my chest, deep and humorous - oh, how I loved him. “Hey,” he scoffed, taking back the cigarette and handing me his woolen jumper, “I’m serious!” An inhale, a smirk, and a darkened gaze, watching with great intent as I wrapped my frame within the loose fabric of his favourite jumper. 

I smiled, “Of course we can, Charlie.” I said, unable to stop the slip of the giggle that found its way out. He grinned, a final toke of the cigarette, before stubbing it out upon the bedpost, tossing the end through the window he slid open, and basked within the cool breeze for a moment or two. 

Scoping my pants, I threw the material upon my legs, doing up the mechanisms, and simply watching his relaxed frame, gazing through the gape of the window. A pale complexion, littered with small, yet noticeable, moles, and bodily freckles. Athletically lean, though not particularly tall, and ridden with just enough muscle - wondrously divine architecture, I could dare to admit. 

“Come on,” He grinned, whipping around and wriggling his eyebrows something childish. Another snicker escaped me, though I placed on my shoes, and I tugged on my jacket nonetheless, awaiting his restless dressing. He threw on the shirt, hardly bothering to button the majority of the buttons, and his shoes, tying them scruffily in a manner I were sure would simply undo in a moment’s notice, his hand encasing my own in a youthful taste of blissful excitement, dragging me to the door as he collected his coat, and found his way into the hallway. 

Desolate, empty - entirely surprising. 

In truth, I had expected a kind of congregation to fall through the entrance as Charlie swung open the door, and yet, not but a whispered sound was to be heard. Admittedly, such a discovery were something welcomed and serene - I doubted I would ever live down such humiliation. It occured to me, as I glanced upon the solitude of the hallway, that Knox had not returned, either. Perhaps he had heard the… the happenings, from behind the door, and decided simply to take a hint. I adored that boy, his heart of gold, I thought, a gentle graze of a smile upon my lips. 

Charlie barreled into the limbs of the woolen coat, buttoning only a few of the gloriously expensive pegs, as he interlinked our pinkies - much the same as he had always done - and dragged me through the hall. 

“Charlie-” I attempted to whisper, anxious as to his dismay of cautious rationality, though instead of a useful kind of attention, I found his lips crashed upon my own. Against my better judgement, I melted within the warmth, a sigh to exit my mouth, and allowed his silencer to work its wonder. He pulled away, a wink and a peck to my nose, and continued with his fast paced march. 

I followed, helpless, and slightly anticipated, riddled with nerves, as we hurriedly descended the stairs, our light feet echoing gently among the silence around, and we entered the main entrance-way. The trophy case, lined with achievements, with pictures of men no one truly knew, nor particularly cared for, passed us by in a whir of rushed blur. A subtle laugh fell from my tongue as Charlie broke out in an increasingly paced run. 

He took off, dragging myself along merely a few steps behind, with an incredibly fast kind of speed, unable to halt the laugh that stifled passed his lips. The wind were of something bitterly cold, whipping our laughter from the left, to the right, though such a stinging sensation of sour change did little to defy the warmth within my blood, my chest. 

And then, myself undoubtedly following behind, he seemed to tumble. The groan of the thud, where his frame collapsed to the ground, ached within the air, his grip unwavering upon that of myself, as I, too, clattered within the snow. Upon my layers, and the soft of the whitened blanket, I felt little to nothing, as I lay, a little dizzy, with a loud laugh to accompany Charlie’s own. 

“Shit,” he chuckled, “You alright?” 

My laughter rang loud, free, and it should seem that everything felt better with Charlie at my side. “Perfect.” I smiled, albeit winded from such a clatter of clouded descent. Somewhere within the beat of silenced laughter, air thick - sweet - with an indescribable sense of contentment, Charlie had shuffled to embrace my frame in a hold, an arm around my shoulders, as he toyed with the ends of my hair. We stared to the pattern of gentle snow, cascading so beautifully - tender, soft - upon our stoic position, a natural entrancement, as the dark hue of the sky loomed above. The moon, hardly peeking behind the thick array of winter clouding, seemed to smile - to sigh, with a great sense of complacency. It seemed to twinkle with a kind of reserved joy, saved just for us - just for us, and our blooming love. 

“O’ me, o’ life,” Charlie muttered, “of the questions of these recurring.” He paused, as though contemplating his words, and spoke gently, “Carpe diem.” He said, with a smile upon his face. “You know what it means?” 

I raised an eyebrow, almost lost within the perpetual tranquility that was the nigh. “No.” I said, and I basked in his warmth. 

“Seize the day.” He said; “Seize the day, boys, make your lives extraordinary.” The gentle mumble of his tone were almost lost within the vast quiet, though I caught it all the same. “Captain - Mr K -” He said, “He’s crazy.”

I found myself smiling, “You like him, though.” I said. 

He grinned, “He makes it difficult not to.” He said. “Seize the day - Carpe diem - O’ Captain, my Captain - I mean, who teaches the idea of free thought? Of freedom? Passion? He’s crazy.”

“He sounds wonderful.” I said. And to which I had not lied. “What was the first bit?” I asked, “The ‘Oh me, oh life,’ one.” 

“The question, O’ me! So sad, recurring - What good amid these, O’ me, O’ life?” He recited, the bite of a classically brightening smile to his tone. “The answer? That you are here - that life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” 

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. 

“Puts things into perspective.” I mumbled, awashed beneath Charlie’s gorgeously muttered recital, and the prospect of the pattering snowflakes. “That we, as humans, mean nothing. What may affect us today, has no say on tomorrow.” I said. I hardly knew the words as they fell from my lips, though I allowed them nonetheless. “And no matter how greatly we fear the inevitable, life will throw us away and be done with us, when our time comes around.” 

There was a gentle pause, softly laboured breaths, and he said: “Yeah.” With a light, breathy, chuckle. “We’ll all die, someday.” He said. “And that’s alright. Seize the day while you can, live and don’t just exist, and things will be alright.” 

I smiled, and said: “Yeah.” With not a word more. 

A moment, perhaps a few, of silence graced us by, mingled in comfortability and unspoken adoration, and I marvelled in the way his breathing deepened, tinged with an entanglement of a rough-nights-sleep. He was tired - exhausted - and I certainly hadn’t helped - of such, I was certain. 

“Charlie,” I muttered, adoring the softly responsive hum to fall from his breath. “Char, it’s getting real late.” I mentioned, a gentle stroke to his knuckles, as they dwindled within the ends of my locks. Another hum followed, and light shuffling was to be heard. 

“Can you get home alright?” He mumbled, thick, with a sense of tiredness. 

“Yeah.” I nodded, truly feeling the absence of warmth, as he shuffled to displace his entanglement next to myself. I frowned slightly, glancing to face the boy.

His eyes had found a restful close, timid with a tender smirk, and his limbs began to brush - up, and down, up and down - once, twice, three times more, with a deepening indent upon the snow. A smile drooped upon my features, and I allowed my frame to excerpt the similar movement, ridden with a light shiver as the material at my legs found something damp, seeping slightly. 

“You have to go?” He whispered, a gentle frown upon such expression. 

I smiled; how beautiful he was. “Yes, Charlie.” I said, “You’ll be expelled if we’re caught.” 

A quiet sigh vibrated through the air, and I knew of his compliance. He sat up, glancing to myself with a smile of utter tenderness. “I suppose I’d best let you go, then.” He said. I grinned, and he continued. “I’ll watch you leave, though. Not risking some creep snatching you up in the bushes, alright?” 

I laughed something gentle, “Okay, Char.” I said, and we rose to our feet. 

His digits were cold, numbingly cold, and a furious pink, as he lay his palms upon my face, and drew me a little closer, our noses to brush upon each other’s. “I love you, y’know.” He said, and I found myself smiling with a roll of the eyes. 

“Yes,” I said, “I know. And I love you, too.” 

His grin was radiant, peppered with the scarlet hue of all things wondrously cold. “Good.” He said, a subtly trailed glance to the subtle indents of our motioned frames, trailed within the soft blanket of snow. “We make good Angels, huh?” He smiled. 

A laugh rumbled through me, “Yeah,” I said, resting my forehead upon the cold complexion of his flushed cheek. “We make wonderful Angels.” 

“Angels of the night.” He mused, turning back to face me. I merely smiled, engulfed in the way the shadows loomed across his expression, lowering with a light glimmer of something morose. “Take a cab, please.” He sighed, “And be safe.” He fluttered a tender peck upon the very tip of my nose, before capturing my lips in the swoon of a honey dripped kiss. It lasted hardly a moment, for we were numb with the cold, and bitterly exhausted. He laughed, pulled away, and said: “Sorry.” 

I smiled, “No.” I mumbled, “Don’t be.” 

“Okay.” He said, thumb brushing lightly upon the flushed complexion of my cheekbone. “I’ll see you later, then?” 

“Of course.” I said, a curtly peppered peck to his coldly chapped lips, before smiling something warm, and beginning mine own retreat. 

Footsteps echoing among the plush of the winter snow, sinking with every passing stride, I found my grin something silly - something foolishly reciprocant for my adoration. And, upon glancing behind me slightly, approaching the hardly open gate, I noticed the swarm of familiar faces, each bounding over to a stoic Charlie, perched with his hands in his pockets, and a lovesick smile upon his face. They crowded him around, yelling and cheering things incoherent, and yet, still, he smiled on, merely widening with the attention of their supportive company. 

A laugh rippled through me, and I waved something curt, receiving a soft repeat from the Lover-Boy himself, and a particularly exaggerated, full-arm, wave from Knox, as he bellowed a loud; “YAWP!” And tackled Charlie in a boyish embrace.

Idiots, I thought, though I’d have it no other way. 

[dragonhoardsbookz]

A Clone and a Padawan

(part of I Know A Guy)

She was good, Slick had to give her that. In fact, for someone he suspected hadn’t had anyone’s support in quite a while, she was pretty damn good. That didn’t change the fact she had just tried to pickpocket him. He pulled her into an empty side alley.

“Now what”, he asked slowly, “is a Jedi Padawan doing here?”

“I’m not”, she protested.

“Yes you are. Most people wouldn’t realize, I’ll give you that, but I can tell. Where’s your Master?”

He knew he’d stepped on a nerve when her face crumbled and she looked down.

“Dead”, she muttered, “we were sent to gather information, but we were caught and they died and I tried to continue, but I can’t.”

Oh shit. Crying. She was crying. How was he supposed to deal with that? Hesitantly he put his hands on her shoulders.

“Look, kid, you’re like ten years old –“

“Fourteen”, she interjected, he ears flattened.

“Fine, Fourteen. Only an idiot would expect you continue the mission on your own. Now, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, the Jedi Council is not that stupid. You should make your way back to the Temple, I’m sure they’ll be glad to have you back.”

She looked back up; she had still tears in her eyes, but most of her face was pure stubbornness as far as Slick could tell. He wasn’t the best with reading non-humanoid expressions. “I’m a Jedi, and I will do my duty.”

Right, duty. He’d thought that particular trait was only Kenobi, but it seemed some Jedi got implanted with a sense of duty when they became Padawans. Maybe Skywalker was just a special case, having not been raised in the crèche. Slick felt torn. He couldn’t in good conscience leave her on her own. He had his own job to do here, and the time window for that was kinda short, so he couldn’t drag her back to the temple himself right now. Still, she seemed well fed, so she knew how to survive, even if she lacked the knowledge or contacts to gather intelligence, so she was somewhat capable. An idea started to form, and Slick hated his whole life.

“Right. It’s like this, kiddo. I got a job to do for Councilor Kenobi, though if you tell anyone, we’re pretty much all dead, so don’t, please. And I could use your help.”

She brighted. “You work for Master Kenobi? Of course I’ll help you!”

 He’d been right. A’minaa was seriously capable. After a quick crash-course in the dos and don’ts of breaking and entering, she’s climed up the building and through the window his contact had left open for her. They’d been relieved their role in this project had decreased significantly now that Slick had an assistant. Which made it more likely they’d be willing to help again, so Slick put that one down as a win.

After she’d deactivated the security, Slick sneaked to a secured terminal and copied the information he needed. The money trail on where the money for the army had come from was convoluted and full of dead ends, so he was glad he’d found this before it could be mysteriously deleted.

“Slick?” A’minaa’s voice through the comm. “There’s something here that feels important. Sheets of plast, not digital. The Force tells me I should take them.”

Now that was something he’d only ever seen Kenobi do. The unique certainty that the Force provided concrete hints to help with whatever he was doing. Kenobi had said it was strength in the Unifying Force, whatever that meant. But it seemed A’minaa had that as well. Someone needed to introduce these two, they would fit well together.

“Can you make copies without it being noticed that you made them?” he asked. The last thing they needed was someone realized they’d been there. Shit like that could get them or their contacts killed.

“Yes”, she replied, “I can.”

“Ok, then do that, then get out. Our time here is limited.” Slick pulled the datachip from the terminal and left the building.

A’minaa decided a discreet exit would be jumping out of the window. Because of course she did, kriffing Jedi. The itch to introduce her to Kenobi got ever stronger, those two deserved each other.

“Nobody saw me”, she protested when he glared at her in what he hoped was complete disapproval. Slick rolled his eyes.

“If you say so. Now, are you finally willing to return to the Temple?”

She shook her head. “My place is here. For the moment, anyway. I promise I’ll return to the Order as soon as I’m done.”

“Good enough, I suppose. I can’t force you to do anything, anyway. Don’t get killed, kiddo.” Slick turned to leave, ruthlessly crushing the urge to knock her out and drag her with him.

“May the Force be with you, Slick.”

He really hoped she’d make it. He had a Jedi Master to introduce her to.

[tessatechaitea]

Text Adventure Review: “Border Zone”

The main reason I'll probably need to pause the game is to masturbate when I meet the sexy double agent and type, "Fuck sexy double agent then fall asleep".

In the picture above, try not to read the three chapter titles because there's a spoiler in the third one that says "The Assassination." I'm going to forget that's a plot point and start playing "Chapter 1: The Train" because Marc Blank suggested that's what I do. CHAPTER ONE The protagonist (that's you! The person you play in the game! Or it's me! I'll probably go back and forth using first and second person pronouns so please don't be confused by my amateurish writing style) is just a regular non-spy person who does a little importing and exporting across the Iron Curtain. This game is from 1987 so nobody remembers what the Iron Curtain is anymore. It really wasn't that important anyway, at least not to those of us living on the Western side of it and never had to really think about its implications on the people trapped on the Eastern side of it. Am I supposed to have enough time and compassion to worry about the state of other peoples' worlds when I can barely keep my world from disintegrating?! If you want Levi's, people dumb enough to be born in countries annexed by the USSR after World War II, maybe you should have thought about that up in heaven when God was asking you what uterus you wanted your soul implanted in! Idiots. The train story begins, as all good espionage train stories do, with a probably dying secret agent breaking into your compartment to hand you the documents that will stop the assassination if only you can get them to another secret agent by responding to a coded phrase with a coded phrase of your own. I think I've practically got this part of the game won! Except I've forgotten both of the phrases already. I should probably restart and make a note of them, right? Okay, I've figured out what the secret agent will say to me and what I have to respond and I've even translated the sayings into Frobnian because I understand how Infocom games use their non-digital printed material as copy protection! Somebody without the phrase book that comes with the game wouldn't realize that the American agent is telling you the English codes but his contact is Frobnian! I'm so far ahead of Marc Blank right now he would say something like, "Whoa! That guy is super far ahead of me! And totally not a virgin." As an experienced business man who has dealt with border control for my entire business life (the fictional me in the game! What, you think I actually work for a living?!), I know that I can't just keister the document. The searches at the border are brutal. And I don't have a fake mustache so I'm flummoxed already. Plus the wounded agent left a big blood spatter on the floor of my cabin. So to even make it out off the train so I can meet my contact, I've got to clean up the blood and figure out what to do with the document. The blood was easy but to keep the document, I had to get caught a few times to figure out where the evil trench coat wearing man's interrogation weaknesses lay! Or lie (I knew I should have phrased that differently. Stupid lie/lay is worse than who/whom). Because apparently even if you flush the document down the toilet underneath a huge nervous stomach shit, the border patrol will dig it out and bust you. So I cleaned up the blood by doing all of the boring and inane steps like turning on the faucet and wetting the towel and turning off the faucet and scrubbing the floor and returning to the bathroom and flushing the towel. In Infocom games, it isn't enough to just tell the protagonist to clean up the blood and then, like a normal adult human being, the protagonist would think, "Oh yeah! I know how to do that! Let me get right to it!" I guess Infocom games are less about ordering some jerk around and more trying to pretend that you are that jerk and that that jerk is kind of stupid. After cleaning the blood, I had to figure out what to do with the document. No matter where I tried to hide it, border control sniffed it out and traced it back to me. So the only thing to do was to tear it up and shove it up my ass! I mean throw it out the window. But that meant I couldn't complete my mission which really wasn't my mission anyway and why did I care if some ambassador was assassinated?! I didn't ask for this responsibility! It's not my fault if somebody dies today. It's the fault of the clumsy American agent who got himself shot, stumbled upon a useless dolt to complete his mission, and then fell off the roof of the train! I should just throw the document out the window and get on with my life! And maybe I will! But before I did that — you know, just in case my conscience berates me continuously for the rest of my life — I figured I should probably keep some photographic evidence of the document. After doing so, I couldn't help worrying about how there was another picture left on the roll of film and I was probably going to have to completely restart this stupid game when I realized I needed to take one more picture before removing the film and hiding it up my ass from the border patrol. Stupid Infocom games always have me worried that I'm in a walking dead with a roll of film up my ass scenario! Being the super chill American businessman turned spy kind of Lothario I am, I totally and easily complete my new mission and probably fuck a hot double agent too! But not the young girl I handed the roll of film to! The double agent was probably older than that!

I know this screenshot is different from the previous screenshot! But the Apple IIe copy I found crashed when you examined your clothes or photographed the document. And the Commodore 64 version seems to think people who play Infocom games are already wasting their lives so why not make every move take an interminable amount of time. So I wound up playing the browser MS-DOS version on Archive.org.

For an Infocom game, that first chapter was simple! All you had to do was act like a boring idiot who totally wasn't involved in political espionage at all and you succeeded! I bet every nerd who tried their hand at this game beat Chapter One. But the next chapter will be different because the player takes on the part of the American spy! What greasy nerd knows how to act suave and sophisticated and super sexy? I mean aside from me! I was born to play this role! CHAPTER TWO You begin the story of the American Spy after he falls from the roof of the train. He claims he jumped for it but when I was the businessman, I know what I saw! I'm a clumsy oaf! I mean he's a clumsy oaf! No, wait. I guess I am the clumsy oaf! And I'm not clumsy at all! I totally jumped for it and looked hot doing it. Now I just have to survive the freezing weather and try to get past the border patrol or else I'll die out here in the ... BORDER ZONE! Hopefully I'll also get another chance to fight my rival Viper to the death! Ew, I'll show him! Or her! Or not! After playing this chapter for about ten minutes, I realize it does every single thing I don't like in text adventures: time limit, characters that go about their business while you're off in other areas, and a puzzle that relies on knowing so much about the timeline that you have to play the scenario dozens of times to work it all out. I feel like I've got the gist of what you have to do (although I'm probably wrong on one key point because I haven't played more than a handful of times) but I'm not sure I'm willing to keep at it. After you bail from the train, the border guards begin searching for you. So you've got some guys in a vehicle driving around and a pack of dogs (not to mention the searchlights and fences at the border) hunting you down. Early on, you have to get to a small house because it has a parka in it to keep you from freezing to death. You have to time this with when the guards arrive to talk to the owner so he's distracted while you sneak in the back. There might be more to do inside the shack other than gather up all the crap in the storage room but, as I mentioned, I haven't really explored the scenario yet in multiple ways. As a spy, you have an explosive pen on you. It has a timer which means I have to figure out how long to set the timer for and where to stick the pen to get something further in the story to happen. I feel like I have to stick it on the guard's automobile so that it explodes near the border, distracting the guards at the spotlights so I can make a run for the other side. Realizing that that might be the solution is what has really made me dread continuing with this game. Another puzzle is to get the dogs to stop following you. I'm fairly certain you do that just by putting on the work boots and trudging through the swamp a ways before leaving the swamp in a new location and leaving the boots behind. If there are any other puzzles (aside from staunching your bleeding gun shot wound), I haven't found them. I suppose the biggest one is sneaking about to get the pen on the guard's car and figuring out how long to set the timer for. Do I want to bother with that? I feel like that's the big puzzle that allowed Infocom to tack on hours and hours of gameplay to Border Zone. Because now I have to follow the car around to see where it goes and how long I'll need to set the timer for and where I'll need to be when the pen blows up. I have other things to do with my life, Marc Blank! I mean, they're not very important things. But they're things I'd rather be doing than messing around with the timer on my imaginary explosive pen! I'm not cut out to be a spy, especially when that spy has to know things he couldn't possibly know on the first playthrough of this game. Does Marc Blank know how real life works?! Oh, your argument is that this is a game and not real life and that maybe I should chill out about it?! Well if this game is a game and not real life, why the fuck does everything keep moving along even when I'm not entering any commands?! Who wants to play a text adventure like that?! Even Bioshock doesn't demand that kind of effort out of the player. Bioshock is the only other game I could come up with. It isn't even a fair comparison. If Border Zone were a first person shooter, I'd absolutely finish this chapter! I could see the guards moving and physically hide from them. I could observe how everything moves in the game by following them around. But in a text adventure, it's fucking impossible. Sure, the game tells me if the dogs are to the north or the west. But when I'm hiding behind the shack, it sure would be a lot easier to figure out what I'm doing if I could see the guards interacting with the owner of the shack and milling about searching the premises! I don't think my imagination is good enough to handle this bullshit tension. I'm so fucking stressed out right now!

Apparently you can get close to the border without doing any of the stuff I previously mentioned except stealing everything from the storage room.

It doesn't seem like I've done enough before getting to the border but I guess I should explore this area a little more before writing Marc Blank a letter about how terrible some of his decisions were early in his career. I suppose I need to use my explosive pen here to blow a hole through the fence which I won't be able to climb through because the guards will hear it. Unless I time the explosion to blow when both guards are at the same spot, killing them? Then can I rush through in the chaos?! Figuring out the answer to that means doing math, I bet! That's because you get a timer and a little ASCII display of the guards' motion as you watch them. This is way too hard! I miss the Infocom days when you could just type "kill thief with sword" and hope the random number generator gave you a good result. Once you get through the fence, you can climb up a guard tower where there's a bolted ladder leading up to a locked door with a guard inside. But even if you can hide on the metal bit bracing the ladder, knock on the door, and shove the stupid guard off of the tower, you still can't jump across the border from the top of the tower. You just wind up dead. Which is when I thought, "Hey! I need the exploding pen for this part! I bet I can just climb over the fence and save the explosives for this scene!" And I was almost completely and absolutely right except for a few small details which would have frustrated the fuck out of me if I hadn't gotten completely lucky on restarting Chapter Two to try out my new solutions. You see, there's a small shed in the forest near the shack. A small shed that is almost impossible to find due to my apathetic attitude toward mapping Border Zone and the way every location is described as "You move 100 yards north and find you're still in the snowy forest. What did you expect, jerk?!" Sure, the shed has been drawn on the map that came with the game so that people who actually purchased Border Zone would have explored long enough to find it. And I have access to that map because everything is free on the Internet. Right? Am I making a terrible assumption there? Um, anyway, when I restarted, due to not having mapped, I couldn't remember exactly how to get to the shack before the guards got there. While stumbling around lost, I found the shed with the rubber gloves and bolt-cutters inside. And like in most text adventure games that aren't Infocom, the main puzzle was simply finding the right items where they were hidden. Because as soon as I found the bolt-cutters, I knew I had this chapter beat. What I didn't know was that the border fence I'd previously blown up to get through was electrified! Luckily, I had found the rubber work gloves right there with the bolt-cutters. Marc Blank practically gave that puzzle's solution away for free! Idiot. He should have hid the gloves somewhere in the forest where you weren't ever clued in to dig in the snow. That's more like a proper 80s text adventure! Of course, that's not Infocom's way! Infocom wants you to succeed! They want you to realize you wasted the pen explosive and needed a new solution where you use the pen to blow up the tower so that it falls over the border fence with you inside of it! But at least in the actual solution, you still get to push that stupid Frobnian Nazi off of the tower. Eat snow, grumblebutt!

I'll accept my Champeen of Infocom crown now.

Chapter Three The first two chapters were way too easy for Infocom games so I'm really nervous about this third chapter. Have I just gotten more brilliant as I've grown older or did Marc Blank save all of his dreadful Infocom ingenuity for this final chapter?! Hopefully this chapter doesn't have dozens of NPCs whom I've got to track across multiple playthroughs just to figure out where I should be every minute of the scenario. I really do prefer text adventure games with static environments that simply react to the things I do. I'm already stressed out thinking about my race against the clock to save the ambassador! Remember when I didn't even care if the ambassador died during the first chapter?! Why am I suddenly invested in saving that asshole?!

In this chapter, I'm the sexy double agent!

The sexy double agent is also — and this is a huge spoiler for all you Infocom fanatics who just haven't, for some reason, gotten around to playing all of the Infocom games — Viper, the man in the trench coat trying to get the documents back from the importer/exporter in the first chapter! If that's the case, you'd think I could just go to a coffee shop and hang out for the rest of the game. If I'm trying to stop the people trying to stop the assassination, then can't I just stop trying to stop those people so they can stop the assassination?! Maybe if I just hit "z" and "enter" until this chapter ends, everything will work out for the best! Seventeen in-game minutes later, the ambassador has been shot and killed. What the fuck?! How incompetent are the American spies? I guess that's why I'm a double agent. Because I'm double the agent all of these other jerks are. I guess I need to get to work saving the day all by myself! If only that stupid American businessman had given me the documents, I could have saved the day myself. Except when I did get the documents in Chapter One, the game still ended with the ambassador getting assassinated. I should just get on with saving the day already. I bet when I'm done, I'll run into Topaz (that was my secret agent name in Chapter Two, apparently) and we'll share a deep, passionate kiss. I do run into Topaz chilling at a coffee shop exactly like I was planning to do!

I guess Topaz doesn't feel the same way that I feel about him.

Topaz is probably still important to the story, so I decide to leave him alone for now as I got about my double agent business of stopping the assassination that I put into place. It's actually not too hard to do if I don't mind sacrificing the rest of my double agent career. I meet my contact, learn the sniper's password, figure out what window he's sniping out of (by checking the apartment directory, you just have to find which eastern facing apartment is empty on the fifth floor (maybe other floors at time but it always seemed to be the fifth floor on my multiple restarts), and go shoot him in the back. But that puts a lot of suspicion on you and you wind up pushing papers in Siberia. Better to trick Topaz into stopping the assassination! I guess that's why you have to save his life in Chapter Two. To do that, you have to get him to chase you back to the sniper's nest without getting caught by him or the local police. At one point, you get to push over a hot dog vendor's cart so it really feels like you're in an action movie and also that you're a fucking prick. Once you lead Topaz back to the sniper, the difficult part was not also being killed by Topaz. After making him a huge hero, he kept shooting me in the face because he's a huge bastard whom I wish I never helped cross the border now! At first I thought, "Well, this is an Infocom game. It was bound to get difficult at some point! And I guess one or two moves away from completing the game is as good a time as any to get stuck." But then I thought, "Well, even though the sniper doesn't let me move or do anything, and the sniper's apartment is completely bare, maybe I can try to hide so Topaz doesn't fucking murder me when he kicks in the door?"

Oh fuck. Easy as that, was it?!

And with that final move to hide in plain sight, I fucking defeat Marc Blank! You stupid son of a bitch! You thought you were so clever, didn't you? "Oh, look at me! I'm an Infocom imp! I write the hardest text adventure games in the world and I only mattered for like four years in the mid to late eighties because I hitched my star to the most boring entertainment ever! Only stupid virgin assholes would keep playing the games I wrote, the dumb bastards!" Hey! Fuck you, Marc Blank! How did that Marc Blank imaginary soliloquy get away from me so badly?! Anyway, suck on this, Marc:

Seriously though. I can't believe I beat this game without any hints. I'm fucking chuffed.

SCORES Game Title: Not great since it basically drove me away from this game for years. I suppose if you're into espionage stories, it's a great title because it's so evocative of crossing a border! That's like the hardest challenge in the espionage genre! I think. I'm not a fan so what the fuck do I know? My favorite espionage movie is Run, Lola, Run. Does that count as espionage? I guess that's more heist fucks time travel while fingering romance's anus. Puzzles: As far as modern day Interactive Fiction "rules" go, the puzzles in Border Zone are terrible. Nearly all of them rely on playing through and losing dozens of times to see how the NPCs react to different situations. It's the only way to learn how they behave so you can act accordingly. But compared to a non-Infocom game, the puzzles were generally satisfying. Because of the way the game works, I'm not even sure some of the things I did were solutions to puzzles or just wasting my time. Did I have to go through the swamp to lose the dogs or could I have just done everything quicker? Were there alternate ways to solve puzzles or were things like the binoculars and the wood saw in Chapter Two just red herrings? Generally, once I saw the way the other characters reacted, it was long before I figured out how to thwart them. I believe Marc Blank was relying on some puzzles to be difficult due to the player losing track of the story. Like in Chapter One, you can get all the way to the end and still get caught when you try to pass the documents to your contact because you were wearing the stupid white carnation the entire time. But once you realize you seem to have done everything correctly and some guy on the platform is still following you, it's not hard to realize you need to not stand out and to keister that stupid flower until you actually need it. Gameplay: Fucking annoying. I hate adventure games where the story continues no matter what you do. I hate timed adventure games. Border Zone decided not only to use those two aspects I hate but to invent a third one that — Hey! Guess what?! — I hated even more: time passes even when you're not typing! Is there a word that means both "innovative" and "Goddamned fucking annoying as fuck"? Whatever it is, Marc Blank should copyright it. Graphics: Normally for a text adventure, I'd say none and be done with it. But this one did have graphics! It had a little ASCII bit to show two guards marching around the base of three towers! And it absolutely did nothing for me because the dumb guards barely even notice you when you cut through the fence silently instead of blowing a huge hole in it. Hell, even after blowing a hole in the fence, the idiots keep to their regular patrol only slightly more alert due to hearing an explosion. Concept: I think I more than adequately covered my apathy toward the concept. I will compliment Marc Blank for his work in making a game about a really stressful experience into a really stressful experience. Good job, jerk! Fun Time: I keep forgetting to track the amount of time it takes me to play these games. Maybe I'll get better at it eventually. But I think I spent maybe six hours (at most. I might even drop that to four or five) playing this game over the last week and a half? I did think about it more than that though. But not a lot more. And the third chapter which I thought would be dreadfully hard took the least amount of time of all. Probably not even an hour. The good news is that the amount of "fun time" I had with this game is equal to the amount of time I played it. That doesn't often happen. Usually the "fun time" gets expended quickly and I force myself to trudge through the rest of the game, adding the experience to the long list of things I'll regret when a doctor finally says to me, "You have three months to live due to your malignant finger cancer caused by typing."

[tommoholland2013]

what do you want from me? — p.p.

Word Count: 3.6k Warning(s): Angst, Fluff at the end, and I can't think of anything else Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Request: Can you PLEASE do an imagine where peter denies the reader when she admits her feelings, and begins to like someone way hot, not as hot as peter, but somewhat, and peter realizes his true feelings and tries to make her jealous and just makes her angry because she thinks peter just doesn't want her to be happy !! i will love you ON AND ON A/N: So like... this request was made two months ago, but I've had the worst writer's block since January. Anyway, point is, I'm working through it. I decided to write this in first person to be more inclusive of others. I hope you all enjoy this, I really enjoyed writing this. Feedback is always appreciated so feel free to give some! Song Inspiration: Ocean by Martin Garrix feat. Khalid 

I turned my head to glance at the digital clock perched upon my nightstand.

4:13am.

The digits clearly portrayed ungodly hour I found myself awake at. I'd been up all night—literally. Tossing, turning; worrying, thinking. This had become the norm for me as I contemplated the difficult situation I found myself in; the complex decision that presented itself in the form of a red button, waiting to be pushed. My hand was shaking with unease over the figurative button, hesitant of motion.

Suddenly, the room was too warm. The bed was too hot, and my blankets were suffocating me. I threw the awful coverings away from my body and decided it was useless. There was no sleep to be had with my heart dropping the way it did every time I thought about his sweet smile and the difficult decision that stood—towered—with a threatening stance before me.

It had been almost four years of knowing him, and three of those spent being his best friend, until something pivoted the previous year. I wasn't sure what, or why, but I suddenly found herself seeing my best friend differently. My heart began to race every time I thought about him, my hands shook and my knees would grew weak every time I made eye contact with him and he smiled. And any time he pulled away from a greeting hug, I felt like I'd been acquainted with the gates of heaven; all things I had never felt for Peter until the previous year.

The cause of my unrest was honesty. I wasn't sure whether to tell him or not. I wasn't sure whether it was worth risking our golden friendship for a "silly hormonal crush", as I had put it to myself.

But I knew there was absolutely no way I could continue to hold off my shallow breathing, constricting heart, and shaking hands any longer; I had to tell him.

But every time I thought I had reached my conclusion—to tell him—my ever so considerate conscience would pipe in, reminding me that there was a high chance he didn't feel the same, which in turn could lead to the end of such a beautiful friendship. And thus, I found myself awake at four in the morning, going around the same track of thought again and again.

It really was so stereotypical. The typical teenage limbo of "He loves me? He loves me not?," only in this unique case (or not necessarily unique case) it was "tell him, don't tell him."

I was tired of the arguing in my mind. I was exasperated with the constant back and forth. In the day the voices whispered, but in the night, they screamed at one another.

But, finally, at the ungodly hour of 5:23am, in an exhausted voice, I voiced my final decision.

"I'll tell him."

The worst that could happen was that he would reject me, right? 

"Hey, Y/N. You look... tired? You okay?" Peter asked as he walked into their first period class and sat himself in his usual seat beside me.

"Well, considering I only got fifteen minutes of sleep last night, I think it's excusable that I look more like a trash bag today than I usually do," I remarked with a sarcastic smile.

"Fifteen minutes? Of sleep? Why? And you never look like a trash bag," Peter said with a slight frown.

"Oh... uh... it was nothing."

I dismissed his last comment, knowing it would only make my feelings for him worse. I was more nervous now than before. I fumbled with the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I opened her mouth and closed it on several occasions, trying to fit the words I wanted to say properly.

"It actually has to do with something I want to talk to you about, l-later today." Great. I was stumbling over my words now, and all I had done was ask Peter to meet me later in the day.

"Uh, yeah, sure. I'll meet you after school. Are you sure you're okay, Y/N? You look a little... scared."

"Yeah, yeah I'm"—on the verge of vomiting right here right now—"all right." 

The rest of the day went by too fast. At lunch, I didn't contribute to the table conversation whatsoever, and I barely touched her food. In fact, I didn't even bother too look up from my book. I wasn't even registering the words my eyes were running over, but I knew I just couldn't look up, or I really would keep to the promise of vomiting. My nerves were sky rocketing, and my anxiety, as always, was not helping whatsoever. That day, It felt like every class lasted about ten minutes.

Then, the final bell rung.

School was out. Peter was expecting me.

Suddenly, my heart rate had tripled and my hands were shaking non-stop. I shuffled to my locker and collected my things and walked out as slowly as I could. I told myself there was no backing out. I couldn't back down now. I had to tell him. The longer I postponed this, the worse I would become at hiding it and the easier it would be for him to eventually find out on his own. I wanted him to hear it from me first.

The main doors flew open and I walked down the stairs slowly.

Everything was too loud, the sun was too bright, my books were too heavy. Everything was too much of something.

Peter looked up from his very shattered phone screen just in time to see me approaching him. He offered me a smile, but I just could not bring myself to return it.

"Hey? Are you—"

"It's important. What I'm about to tell you. I've been worried sick about it for days, I haven't slept in weeks, maybe even months, all because I've been thinking about this one thing. So I need you to one: stop asking me if I'm okay, because I don't think I am, I may just vomit right now, to be one-hundred percent honest with you, and two: take me seriously. Nothing of what I'm about to tell you is a joke, or a wile of any sort."

I spoke fast, maybe too fast. Or maybe I spoke too slowly? I couldn't tell.

"Uh, sure. You're worrying me now..." Peter asked with a concerned look on his face.

"Peter..."

This was it. This was either going to be the end of something beautiful, or the blossoming of something beyond the word beautiful.

"I... I really... like you. More than a friend," I let the words slip from my lips. Peter was silent, the words hitting him with a wave of shock. The silence didn't seem to end and next thing I knew, I was rambling.

"I don't know why it started, or really when, to be honest. I just know that I can no longer be in your presence without feeling like I'm shaking hard enough that it looks like I'm shivering, or worrying that my knees will literally buckle underneath me every time you smile, or feeling like my heart is racing so fast it just may explode. It took me so long to get the courage to tell you and that's kinda what's been keeping me up for nights on end. I'm also well aware that maybe you don't feel the same way, and really, I don't know what I'd do at that point, probably melt out of embarrassment for even thinking it was a good idea to tell you and now I'm rambling."

I sucked in a breath and chuckled lightly. By now, the steady flow of students had trickled down to a few leaving the building and only a few left hanging around the entrance, awaiting their rides home.

I could tell Peter didn't quite know what to do, or what to say, really.

"Peter, say something... anything..." I eventually pleaded with a quit voice.

"I just... I don't know what to say because... I don't—I'm sorry but I just don't feel the same about you, is all."

The world came crashing down around me.

"I mean, I really care about you, a lot. But I just... I just don't see you as more than a friend."

It was my turn to be at a loss for words.

So fate had chosen the end of something beautiful then.

"Y-yeah, uh... I-I understand. I-I'm sorry for..." I couldn't bring myself to finish my sentence. My desire to escape the situation was much larger than my desire to complete my statement.

Peter scratched the back of his neck, the action betraying his own discomfort. "Anyway... I uh, I gotta go..." Peter said after he cleared his throat. My eyes were far too focused on the ground beneath my feet to hear Peter's terribly awkward goodbye. Assuming I'd heard, Peter turned around and began to speed walk in the direction of his favorite deli-grocery shop.

That was a month ago. Just as I'd predicted, the conversation would either be the beginning of something even more beautiful than their friendship or the end of a golden friendship—it turned out to be the end of something golden.

I spent the following nights of that day crying and regretting everything I'd done and said, cursing my heart for choosing him of all people. I did, however, get over it... eventually. I distanced herself from Peter, which meant I also distanced myself from Michelle and Ned.

Now, I sit with Liz Allen and her friends at lunch. I haven't spoken to Peter since that day. I can't even manage to be in the same room as him.

I collect my lunch tray from the line and walk to my usual sitting place with Liz and her friends. I take a seat at the table, the last one to arrive.

"Hey, Y/N. We're just talking about Homecoming. Are you still planning on going with Austin?" Liz asks as she nudges my shoulder. I chew on a fry, my cheeks flushing a sweet rose color. Austin and I aren’t really official. We’ve had a few dates here and there, and we text everyday, but that was about it. Austin is sweet, kind, really caring, and very good-looking. Needless to say, I had a thing for him.

"Yes. Yes, I am. He asked me today, before school," I answer with a shy smile after I've swallowed the single fry.

"That's great! I'm so happy for you, Austin is a great guy. Quite good looking too," Liz winks, causing rest of the table to laugh as I continue to blush. "Liz, who are you going with?" One of the girls at the table asks, the attention finally being removed from me. I grab another fry from my tray.

"Peter Parker. He asked me yesterday in the hallway," Liz says with a sweet chuckle. Everyone at the table congratulates Liz with big smiles and teasing shoulder nudges.

Meanwhile, I choke on my fry. I cough wildly, my hand beating on my chest repeatedly until I finally manage to swallow the piece of food. I gasp for air.

"Oh my goodness! Y/N! Are you okay? Should we get help?" Liz asks, her hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles. I reach for my water bottle and desperately chug the liquid.

"I'm fine. Yeah, yeah I'm good. Just, went down the wrong pipe is all," I state with a stale chuckle, my throat still dry as the Sahara desert.

"Hey, weren't you and Peter the best of friends not too long ago?" Liz asks after I have calmed myself down. I no longer have an appetite, so I push the tray of fries away from me.

"What? Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah we uh, we kinda drifted though. Not really on speaking terms," I laugh nervously, the attention unwanted. "But you guys have fun, you'll be really cute together," I congratulate.

Then the day continues.

The final bell rings and I slowly gather my things from my desk and walk to my locker. I can't seem to move on from what Liz had said. I can't help but feel betrayed by Peter. I know he isn't my boyfriend or anything like that, but of all the people he could ask to homecoming, he asks Liz? It feels intentional, but I know Peter isn't the kind of person to do something so petty. Before I know it, I'm standing before my locker. With a sigh, I open the door and begin gathering my belongings and books and such. Then I sense a presence behind the locker door. I decide to investigate, so I shut the locker door and right there, right in front of me, is Peter Parker.

"Can we talk?" Are the first words he speaks.

"Uh, sure... I guess," I answer. "What about?" I ask as I fold my arms over my chest.

"Austin," Peter responded. I give him a funny look. Now I'm interested.

"Look, Y/N. I know we aren't exactly on speaking terms, and I know that's my fault, but you have to hear me out. You don't deserve to be with someone like him. You deserve someone better—"

"Oh, so after avoiding me for almost two months, you're here to tell me who I deserve and who I don't deserve?"

"I don't mean to overstep, but be honest with yourself. What good qualities does Austin have that you find attractive?" I'm in shock. Utter disbelief. He doesn't mean to overstep?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask, my voice laced with offense.

"It means that you're too good for him, and I wish you'd see that," Peter argues.

"What is this? After you reject me, you come for the guy that didn't reject me? And then you have the nerve to say that you don't mean to overstep? What, is it that you just don't want me to be happy?" I ask, my tone razor sharp.

"No I just— I care about you and I really think you deserve better," Peter says softly as he stares at me. I don’t fail to note that Peter doesn’t even touch on the fact that he had painfully rejected me that day. Now, I’m livid.

"Do I? So you don't think a great guy like Austin is good enough for me? Why? What gives you the right to decide who's right for me and who isn't?" I’m being vicious, I know. My questions are hostile and my tone is venomous.

"Peter, I didn't come up to you and tell you whether or not you deserve Liz. So why do you feel the need to do this to me?"

"I was just trying—"

"You were just trying to what, Peter? First you humiliate me, and then you try to tell me what I do and don't deserve? There's a reason we aren't talking. I think it should stay that way," I say with a cold tone to my voice. My heart hardens as I see the hurt look that flashes across Peter's face before anger takes over his features. Peter then simply nods his head, turns on his heel, and marches down the hallway. I don't even bother to look at him as he leaves, furious that Peter would think he could actually cross such a line, especially with the current status of our friendship.

  ✽ Two weeks later ✽

It's finally Homecoming. I step out of Austin's Mustang GT as he opens the door for me, his handsome, dazzling smile making an appearance.

"After you," Austin says sweetly. I blush.

"Thank you," I shyly say as I place my hand in his.

"Have I already told you that you look stunning yet tonight?" Austin asks as his hand rests on the small of my back as he guides me towards the entrance.

"Well, I think you mentioned it a couple times at dinner," I answer with a wide grin as we walked to the gym entrance. As I walk up the stairs, I see some of Liz's friends at the top.

"Is Liz here yet?" I ask after I've sent Austin inside before me.

The girls shake their heads. "But here she comes!" one points out.

The small, old car pulls up at the entrance. First comes Liz, then Peter. Peter and I lock gazes briefly before I brake it, focusing my attention on Liz.

"You look so pretty!" I say with a wide smile as she hugs me.

"Thanks! You too, you look stunning!"

✽

The dance is in full swing, the music pulsating through the crowded gym.

"I'm gonna go grab some water. I'll be back," I yell over the music into Austin's ear.

He nods his head and answers with a "Don't be too long, beautiful," accompanied by a cheeky wink.

After I down the cup of water, I realize I need fresh air. So I head to the back of the building, doing my best to avoid the heavy rain under the minimal shade.

"I thought I'd find you here," Peter says over the sound of the rain slapping the ground. I turn around  to find Peter standing not too far from me. My lips purse.

"Peter—"

"Can I just explain myself? We haven't talked in two months and it's killing me and I really feel like you deserve an explanation," Peter says as he stands before me, clearly not having a care about getting wet in the rain. Before I can even answer, he’s talking.

"I like you. In a 'more than a friend' kind of way," Peter begins, the rain water beginning to soak into his clothes and his hair; droplets of water sliding down his face, down his beautiful features. He watches for my reaction.

My lip quivers and I shake my head. Hot tears threatened to spill from my eyes the longer I look at him. The lump in my throat prevents me from properly swallowing. He’s just said the words I was been hoping to hear from him two months ago, and yet, my heart breaks instead.

And then I just choke. The tears fell in a similar manner to the heavy rain.

I don’t know if he can tell I’m crying or not, but Peter continues.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I can't believe it took me two months to realize it. I'm sorry it took seeing you with someone other than me to realize that I do like you. I'm sorry I hurt you. God, I'm so sorry," Peter apologizes, his voice shaking. I don't know what to say. I stand there, looking at him. I'm angry, I'm heartbroken, and I have no idea how to handle this situation. So, I do my best to put how I'm feeling into words.

"Peter, I can't keep doing this with you. This terrible back and forth. I tore myself to pieces contemplating whether I should tell you how I felt. And I finally decided I'd tell you, and you brushed me to the side, if anything. So forgive me if I don't just rush into your arms and say that all is forgiven," I gush, my salty tears mixing with the falling rain.

"Y/N, please," Peter begs.

"Please, what, Peter? What do you want from me?" I sob.

  "I want a second chance. I screwed up, and I realize that now. Please. Just give me a second chance. I'm so so sorry I hurt you. And I know I didn't make it any better by bringing Liz as my date. I just wanted to... I wanted to make you jealous." Peter's crying now too.

The rain is pouring relentlessly, our clothes all the way soaked through, the fabric sticking to our skin.

"And instead you hurt me," I bite.

"Please, Y/N," he begs again, his voice desperate. Peter closes the space between us. I place my hands on his chest, trying to create more space between us. My effort was futile, so instead, I wrap my arms around my shaking frame.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispers, his eyes wandering across my face, trying to find an emotion—any emotion—in my eyes. We stood there, the two of us staring at one another, the rain's rhythmic tune filling our silence. Right now, there's absolutely nothing more that I want than for my heart to stop aching. I want him to reach out for me, to pull me in; to make the pain go away.

Instead, I find myself doing what I want him to do to me.

I reach out for him, my hands cradling the nape of his neck as I pull him towards me. Peter's hands move to rest on my waist. Our foreheads press together, lips barely brushing against one another.

"I really want to—" Peter begins.

"Kiss me," I interrupt, my Y/E/C meeting Peter's chocolate eyes. Without hesitation, Peter gladly dips his head to finally connect his lips with my own.

There is still so much we need to talk about, so much I still have to tell him, so much I still have to explain; so much to be said. But right now, this kiss is all I need.

A/N: Hi. I’m working on requests right now, just trying to work through this terrible writer’s block. Anyway, can we get this to at least 200 notes? I worked really hard on it and some support would really be great. Also, feel free to give me some feedback!

Taglist: @gerardway-has-socks-yeah

[betadereader]

It’s “just” fiction.

How many of us have come across the typical phrase "it's just fiction"? Starting from a personal basis, I have always found it as a justifying sentence of an author with its content. And if the author has to get away with this defense, it is because someone has previously questioned said content. 

To begin with, I will clarify a point. Writing about a murder does not make you a murderer, just as writing a rape does not make you a rapist; role-playing a sadistic and abusive character does not make you that character, acting in your real environment just like them. 

In the world there are people who know how to separate the line of fiction and reality very well, while others do not. However, this is not the focus of this essay. I wanted to focus on the undervaluation of fiction in that very phrase "it's just fiction." I am going to articulate it with several examples that have occurred or continue to occur in reality, in addition to raising a series of questions. 

For better or for worse, the news media have configured a heritage of History. We are aware of History because there is written and / or audiovisual material, but the story offered by the media may not represent History itself. We know the version of history that they tell us. 

If I have gone to a very current example, the simple fact of creating a story in the format of an informative speech does not always reflect 100% of the object that occurred. 

With information abuse (the saturation of information) and so-called fake news, they also have the possibility of affecting the user's conscience, despite being a totally invented, fictitious story. 

Again, for better or for worse, and putting history and the media together, people tend to learn history more easily with fiction series. The fictional discourse can be educational and, at the same time, not represent History as such, trivializing some political aspects or creating a polarized world of black and white; good vs. bad. 

I also wanted to highlight a sociological experiment that was carried out on television, replicating Milgram's experiment. 

Milgram's original experiment, now cataloged by several experts as immoral, reflected very favorable results for the scientific community in its day. His main objective was to study the forms of obedience and whether they could find connection with those condemned during the Nazi era. Translated to the television world, in the documentary The Game of Death, they wanted to see to what extent a game show could become an authority, in addition to coming up with several theories. 

Like the original experiment, an agentic state (sometimes conformism too) was found in the contestant, relegating all authority to the guidelines of the program. There is an additional theory that mentions “belief perseverance”. In the contest, electric shocks are given to a subject who cannot be seen but can be heard. As the program progresses, the greater the intensity of the shock. Obviously it is an experiment and the pain is acted out, but in the participant —who did not know that they were part of the experiment— the following belief came up: "I can't really be hurting him because this is television."

“This is television” as a synonym for prior planning and pure spectacle; as a synonym for falsehood; just fiction.

I mentioned this example because, especially at the beginning of the documentary, it denounces a normalization of violence and physical and emotional torture on television. It denounces, also at the end, that commercial televisions, in their desire for money, "teach us that it is normal to humiliate, eliminate and be sadistic." (It’s an old documentary but if you want to see it, click here. It’s in French, I’m sorry).

Continuing with sociological experiments, how many experiments have tried to study the link between violence and video games? Or sexism and video games? Or xenophobia and video games? Or nationalism and video games? 

It should be said that the last mentioned are more common in the attitude of the player, using the video game as an expressive way to say whatever they want. However, we cannot ignore that, like historical television series, video games can also serve for nationalist discourses by demonizing the enemy and sanctifying themselves (especially when talking about video games which main topic is war).

I do not wish to dwell too much on each of the questions raised, since the emphasis is not the result of these experiments, but the undeniable interest and concern on the community of experts, as well as more and more students who are interested in these problems in order to analyze and debate them.

We are not indifferent to the images or books we consume. No matter how invented a story is, it stirs up real emotions. We grow with the media (traditional or digital media) and the content they have to offer us. There is socialization with the media at a very early age, and when we grow up we continue to learn from them.

Media acts on our emotions. And the stories that are told to us through media help to frame a collective imagination that even affects the vision of reality itself. Reality can also help build fictional worlds. And so the cycle would begin, since new ideals in fiction can act as a mirror for a future society and/or perpetuate harmful values (especially when under romantic treatments). They are two worlds that feed into each other.

For this reason the famous so-called "romantic love" has been so analyzed and criticized for promoting toxic ideas such as 1) love is the final happiness of every person and we are not complete otherwise, 2) we must to depend on someone else consider ourselves a "whole", 3) "for love everything is forgiven", "true love is eternal" and more idealizations that impacts on society and its perspective of love.

(Closely linked to romantic love, monogamy has been accused of being toxic and I wanted to make a small point that the decision of a closed relationship is as valid as an open relationship, and that an open relationship can be as toxic as a closed one. Here everything is said).

If fiction lacked that power, censorship would never have existed. The witch hunt in Hollywood or censorship that existed in the USSR for the control of the media and its content should not have happened. And many more historical contexts that I am ignoring. Governments were afraid of a content contrary to the predominant ideology, because it could break and violate their established values.

If fiction lacked power, propaganda would also lack power. Propaganda, especially in the context of dictatorships, offers a cult of personality; they idolize, endow dictators with divine values.

We just have to see the television advertising: it is all an idealized, invented version of the product. Don't give me that you've never been disappointed in buying the real product because "it wasn't like it was on TV."

We just have to see how certain groups in society (racial groups, different sexual orientation and gender identity groups, cultural ...) demand to be participants in fictional stories because fiction configures a mirror of the real world, where they are already participants.

Okay, taking a step closer to the "it's just fiction" statement ... so why do film academies exist? Depending on the film, they work with fiction to a greater or lesser degree, but it is still fiction. Why would there be jobs that are dedicated to worlds which work with fiction, if that is worthless? If "it was only fiction" nobody would pay for a movie or a book. And the same happens with television and animation series; no one would consume them. Any story that contains fiction, that is, any made-up story (depending on the needs of the script and the historical context), has no value.

By the same logic, any literary work would not have survived in memory and the writers we know as the "classics" would no longer be. By the same logic, any artistic movement (theater arts, literature, audiovisual and more), would have fallen into oblivion and its formal codes by which they acquire identity, would not be worthy of analyzing and studying. 

Because what difference does it make. It is just fiction. Nothing happens for the massive creation of very questionable content (the topics of which this blog will address later). 

Continuing with this essay, does anyone remember 50 Shades of Grey trilogy? Yes, that mess that originated (if I remember correctly) as a Twilight bad fic. How much movement was there on social networks denouncing an abusive and toxic relationship? Apart from BDSM and the criticism that it was painfully written (I started reading it by laughing and ended up wanting to tear my eyes out), there were countless posts in which the relationship of the characters was analyzed. Many voiced their complaint and amazement at how a book that focuses on and romanticizes a toxic relationship could hit the market.

I suppose that something problematic is even more when it becomes popular and it is about making money with it. And probably publishers don’t give a damn because they're going to make money anyway. Although the world of FanFiction is not destined —in principle— for commercialization, the fic that romanticizes problematic subjects is not "less important" for this reason, because it can do the same damage. There is a vast "FanFiction culture", and more than one fic has made the jump to the market. We have all seen a book with its brilliant promotion of "phenomenon on Wattpad".

Fickers —writers of FanFiction— are not film or television producers. It is good that FanFiction (and like FF we have Wattpad and AO3) is not a strictly professional universe. A fic, like a movie or a television series or a video game, can narrate very murky and dark things from life. A story can talk about drugs (or other types of addictions), the inhumanity of war, torture, sexism, rape, pedophilia and more that I’m ignoring. You can do it from the critical perspective of the characters and their actions, or from the point of view of the addict, inhuman, sadistic, sexist, rapist or pedophile respectively with the aforementioned.

Why if the producer/writer who whitewashes the image of pedophilia or terrorism (for example) or romanticizes them is considerated as a pedophile or as a terrorist but nothing is said against romanticization and the subsequent normalization of rape in the FanFiction world?

That question is one of many examples of harmful behavior by content creators, which toxicity can be seen thorugh fiction. That question is one from many others that this Tumblr account wants to develop as essays.

Because fiction is not “just” fiction. Whoever wants to rely on this phrase, is the equivalent of being a shameless person... as something to begin with.

[cryptoevent]

Erik Voorhees – Cointelegraph Magazine

We felt like we were doing God’s work, says Eric Voorhees, a pioneer of cryptocurrency payments, who recalls how he tried to convert non-believers in the early days of Bitcoin.

The man whose SatoshiDice gaming platform was once responsible for half of all Bitcoin transactions is now a top government cryptologist and the CEO of the ShapeShift exchange.

He recalls that Bitcoin was considered a hoax at the Money 2020 conference in Las Vegas in 2012. At the time, he was working for BitInstant, one of the first Bitcoin exchanges, and they had a booth next to PayPal.

I remember the PayPal people giggling nearby. Some may have heard of Bitcoin. If they had heard of it at all, it was a complete hoax – a stupid internet scam or something. It was a totally unproductive conference.

History has not been kind to sinners and cheaters, many of whom have since repented. In 2020, eight years after the conference, Paypal finally made its appearance, allowing users to buy and sell encrypted products, and will soon be added as a payment method at 29 million merchants.

Voorhees spread the gospel of Satoshi during the conference with Charlie Shrem and Roger Wehr. Shrem is the founder of BitInstant, who is considered a martyr by some after serving two years in prison in a case involving the resale of bitcoin by a user of the Silk Road marketplace on darknet. Ver was perhaps the biggest believer of all, earning him the nickname Bitcoin Jesus for his charismatic promotion of currency.

When it came to conversion, Roger was the best. He was a real maniac, Voorhees said, laughing.

Even for Charlie and me, who were very much for this shared feeling, it was quite overwhelming and simply unrelenting.

Everyone who works in a startup feels like they’re changing the world, that they have a huge mission, and of course every company tries to reinforce that, he says, a CEO himself. But for Bitcoiners, Voorhees explains, it’s really about changing the world, on a fundamental level. It’s about changing the institution of money itself – that’s a very big task.

Vorhees explains that he sees Bitcoin as nothing less than a revolution:

It’s not just better unemployment insurance for the money people used to have. It’s a different kind of money that changes the government, that changes the culture, that changes social and economic relations at a very deep level. That’s why it took him so long to catch up, to get recognition, because he’s trying to get into such an established institution.

The year is 2012. @ErikVoorhees @rogerkver and I decided to pool our money for our first #Money2020 event. We told them we wanted the best possible stand, but that we needed to be next to @PayPal’s stand to be able to show the world OUR financial system!

Welcome, paypal! pic.twitter.com/5BzvQDfvFb

– Charlie Shrem (@CharlieShrem) October 21, 2020

Roots Library

Voorhees, now 35, spent his childhood in the mountains of Colorado in the early 1990s before moving to the University of Puget Sound, near Seattle, in 2003. He studied economics and international affairs, but he doesn’t really feel like he’s studied either one.

Throughout my studies in economics, I took courses on the history of economic thought, but I never learned anything about the Austrians, he says, referring to the Austrian School of Economics. The Austrians, often ignored by Keynesian economists, are obsessed with things like hard currency and deciphering non-refundable money. That’s why they’ve been adopted by goldbugs and the Bitcoin community, who, after all, often call them digital gold.

Fresh out of college, Voorhees headed to Dubai in 2008 to embark on an adventure where anyone with a college degree could find a job right away because the company was growing so fast.

He worked as a salesman at a brokerage firm and watched from afar as the world he thought he knew began to shrink under the weight of the global financial crisis. Dubai did not feel the effects until six months later, he recalls, describing the intervening period as very strange, during which Dubai experienced a huge economic boom while the rest of the Western world collapsed.

It was from this desolate oasis, untouched by the global drought, that the business and economics graduate, I think, really began to understand money on a very fundamental level. For Voorhees, the story of the money is simple: Money appears as a commodity not infrequently shrouded in disorder. It used to be gold and now it’s already a lot of money, but it could be something else if silver was more useful and efficient.

Following this realization, Voorhees had a very strong aversion to fiat money and government control of money, because as a proponent of the market economy, he believed that no government should determine the price or distribution of a good. Money was in fact the most important commodity of all, so the most important thing is that it not be centrally planned. Even in a so-called capitalist economy, he says.

A capitalist economy with a government-run monetary system seemed totally unethical to me, but I had no other answer or solution than to return to the gold standard, which seemed somewhat anachronistic to me.

After two years abroad, Voorhees returned to Colorado and soon moved to New Hampshire to join the Free State Project, an organized political migration he describes as a multi-day effort to bring 20,000 radical libertarians to a small jurisdiction [New Hampshire] to exert, he hopes, undue influence on the political structure. It was there that Voorhees, along with other radical libertarian political activists, stumbled upon Bitcoin in 2011.

At that point I was completely sold and a year later I left New Hampshire and moved to New York to join Charlie Shrem at BitInstant. He’s taking over the marketing department there as employee number three.

Around the same time, Charlie Shrem, Roger Wehr and Eric Voorhees – all of whom would go on to become cryptography greats – raised their money to set up a Bitcoin booth at the Money 2020 conference in Las Vegas. We needed to be near the PayPal booth to show the world our financial system, Schrem explains. Vorhees says they were unable to convert anyone to Bitcoin at the conference, despite their best efforts.

Belief in false profit

Vorhees admits he was a Bitcoin maximalist, a proponent of the one true currency who rejected all fake coins. I was a maximalist. When I got into Bitcoin, that was obviously the only room, he says.

When the other pieces came out, I rejected them, made fun of them, and generally hated them because I felt they were a distraction from an important project.

Although he tried to focus on Satoshi’s vision, new projects began to bother him, and he realized that many of them were doing things that Bitcoin didn’t or couldn’t do. By mid-2014, the transformation was in full swing.

My whole state of mind began to change. One of the most important aspects of Bitcoin is that it is decentralized. And that seemed to me the antithesis of a decentralized digital economy where there’s just one chain – you know, one code base, one chain, one set of economic rules. It seemed very appropriate that you get multiple different digital assets, and that was actually part of the decentralization, part of the merit of Bitcoin was that Bitcoin was not the only thing that existed.

He mitigates this by adding the usual warnings – most tokens are rubbish, many are scams, most will fail. Only a minority is interesting, but a minority is much more than one.

People at ETH… …are trying to keep these Bitcoin Maxis for Ethereum out of Binanka.

– Eric Voorhees (@ErikVoorhees) February 19, 2021

He still feels sympathy for his short-sighted maximalist colleagues, whom he sees as victims of the human tendency towards tribalism, which manifests itself in various ways: Of course, it manifests itself in religion. And it has expressed itself through cryptography, and some of the people – their conscience – has been warped into a complete endorsement of one flag and a complete mockery of all others.

It’s a group psychology phenomenon, and I don’t know how it will stop, but I think it’s really detrimental to the growth of decentralized digital finance in general.

Satoshi Dice Set

Just one year after his discovery of Bitcoin, Voorhees launched the Bitcoin-based game site SatoshiDice in 2012, which has taken the young cryptophile community by storm.

On Reddit, this guy wrote that he had created a mechanism similar to that of a casino where dice are rolled and the user picks up or loses their coins according to the result of the dice. I tried it and there was magic in it right away… so I started working on it.

It was revolutionary because it allowed anyone in the world to place a bet by sending a Bitcoin transaction, no matter where they were from or how their local laws regulated online gambling.

Moreover, the player didn’t have to trust SatoshiDice because it was clearly fair, meaning it worked as a transparent machine where all the odds and inner workings were there for all to see. Governments around the world have various gaming regulatory and oversight bodies, but the SatoshiDice feature can make these bodies redundant, impotent, or both.

SatoshiDice has shown you what the odds are. It was transparent and you could prove that the rules were right.

The simple, reliable and flawless nature of SatoshiDice has made this platform a great success. A few months after its launch, the game was responsible for nearly half of Bitcoin transactions.

SatoshiDice conducted an unofficial IPO on the MPEx, a type of Bitcoin exchange where unlisted Bitcoin companies offered shares and paid dividends in BTC. They ushered in the ICO boom a few years later and drew similar attention from regulators for securities law violations.

While the casino was winning tons of money, it was also losing momentum because Voorhees felt that his job as head of the world’s largest Bitcoin casino was distracting him from his great calling, which was to preach the good word of Satoshi. Despite continued growth, he reluctantly sold the company in 2013 for 126,315 BTC, then worth $12 million. That would be a nice $6.25 billion today.

System-related disputes

Mr. Voorhees’ peace of mind did not last long, as the SEC soon sought him out for a public offering of unregistered securities. Voorhees thought this was unfair after seeing his investors make exponential profits. He eventually got in the saddle for $50,000.

They’ve been miserable for nine months. If I didn’t already despise the government, I do so even more after this event. That was real nonsense.

Its fundamental value is that people should be free to communicate with each other voluntarily, and that no government agency has the right to interfere. In his worldview, institutions and governments exist only to limit people’s power over money, whereas cryptography gives people full economic power to conduct transactions any way they want, and no one can stop it. According to Voorhees, these two forces will inevitably collide.

Voorhees’ company, Shapeshift, allows users to exchange cryptocurrencies without identity verification. That hasn’t always been the case – in 2018, Voorhees says his company is subject to the same rules as traditional banks and has therefore had to implement identity verification (Know Your Customer, or KYC) procedures, making anonymous transactions impossible. It was absolutely pathetic. Our customers didn’t like it. I hated it.

But by 2020, decentralized exchanges (DEX), which allow users to trade without depositing their money with a third party, will gain ground, allowing Shapeshift to refocus its activities on its libertarian values. All KYCs were abolished and the platform became a gateway that allowed users to trade on different DEXs. With Satoshi Dice, I learned that economic relationships require nothing more than a public key to send a transaction, and that everything else can be based on that, he says.

Voorhees says his opposition to KYC is not about ideology, but about protecting users from things like identity theft.

Identity theft is a $30 billion to $40 billion a year problem in the United States alone. It is more expensive than all forms of theft combined. It’s a big problem, and cryptography is the answer. But to what extent is he bound by this principle? It would classify as theft the government’s access to user data to tax financial transactions not reported by customers. Yes, it’s true. Taxes are absolute theft, he answers unequivocally.

WSJ examined.

The spirit of ShapeShift has proven controversial among advocates of the rules and regulations surrounding traditional funding. An investigation by the Wall Street Journal found that users of Shapeshift laundered $9 million through the platform. However, an analysis by a third intelligence firm, CipherBlade, found that the investigation was flawed because it suggested that the funds were illegal, even after they passed through four different hands, resulting in an inflated $9 million. Understandably, Voorhees, who is normally calm and composed, was deeply affected by this situation.

Here’s the Wall Street Journal calling us money launderers, even though according to their own figures we would be much better [at fighting money laundering] than all those big banks they keep writing about.

There is a noticeable tremor in his voice. The struggle is personal.

We spend our last moments comparing attitudes towards money in different societies. In the Scandinavian countries, for example, all taxes are public. Voorhees finds this troubling, adding that many people feel guilty about having money, when ethically he believes wealth creation is a good thing for society.

I want people who become very rich to be able to be proud of that above all else, provided they do so ethically and use those resources as they see fit. I think that’s the way the economy develops, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

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[loveinthebones]

Fragment (Do you realize how important you are?)

Rating: T

Prompt: 8. Things You Said When You Were Crying

Summary: Patton knows Roman is hurting.

Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, could be read as a platonic or romantic Roman/Patton, Self-Doubt

These are your WARNINGS: Manipulation by Deceit 

Note: This is (technically) a follow-up to this but it is a separate prompt and can stand alone. I just…I have a lot of feelings about the Sides, okay?

-Fragment (Do you realize how important you are?)-

This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for him.

He stood outside the door, fingertips pattering against the sides of the bowl cupped in his hands, as he hopped from one foot to another.

It never got any easier, especially when the situation was…not the best, to put it lightly.

Patton was the one who tried to make sure the others were taken care of to the best of his ability.

Most of the time…His childish, somewhat naïve tendencies helped to smooth out the others’ ruffled feathers and allowed them to laugh- but he knew that his usual approach wouldn’t cut it this time.

He hadn’t heard Thomas’ call and that had given Deceit the opportunity he had been waiting for. 

The gleeful, mischievous troublemaker had used his form to wreak havoc.  

It was an imperfect copy, of course, because the embodiment of self-preservation, the basic instinct to take care of you and your own, could never truly mimic the intuitive impulsivity that Thomas relied heavily upon when dealing with others.

Deceit couldn’t truly step into his role because Morality- Patton- didn’t handle just the dilemmas of the conscience but also the realms of emotion.

Of happiness. Of anger. Of sadness.

Of love.

It didn’t matter in the slightest that there had been hints and glimpses of the puppeteer at work…Deceit had done his job and all the sides, those that he loved, were shaken up, hurting, or fearful.

Patton wanted to help… no, he needed to help.

He took a deep breath and shifted the bowl to rest against the cat cardigan he had draped across his arm to protect his skin and opened the door.

Princey is really hurting.

The normally bright and lively room was dim. The grand red curtains were drawn and the woven stars Princey had taken a liking to were scattered along the carpet but that wasn’t what alarmed Patton the most.

Oh no…why would he…?

What alarmed Patton was the abandoned red sash flung carelessly on the floor where anyone could trample it and the emblem with jagged edges lying beside it. He crouched to pick it up with gentle fingers and a crushing weight in his chest.

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton straightened, making his way to where a lump hid beneath the satin comforter. He deposited the torn emblem beside him with care. “You haven’t been out of your room in a couple of days so I brought you some soup.”

He pretended not to notice the way Roman stilled at the sound of his voice or the sharp exhale the other tried to muffle.

After a few quiet breaths, Roman emerged from his cocoon. His hair was greasy and mussed and Patton took in the pink tint staining the rims of his glassy and puffy eyes.

There were also the tell-tale blotches of rose splattered across his cheeks that they all got when they were upset.

Or crying.

Patton’s lips trembled as he smiled and offered Roman a spoon full of the soup.

“Open up.”

“I’m not hungry.” Roman mumbled, curling his knees even closer to his stomach. “I just want to sleep. Leave me alone, Pat.”

Patton shook his head stubbornly and offered Princey the spoon once more, jabbing it against his pursed lips. “You need to eat—”

Roman glared at him but it was a mockery of his usual irate scoff, irises dull and flat. His fingers came to encircle Patton’s wrist with a tighter force than needed and Patton froze when the hairs along the back of his neck started to raise, warning bells chiming lowly in the back of his mind.

“Roman?” Patton questioned, letting go of the utensil in his grasp, as Roman pinned him with an almost desperate stare.

“How do I know that it’s you?”

Patton brought his free hand to press against Roman’s lightly and he could feel the jumping digits under his own. The walls of his heart clenched tightly, agonizingly, and the force stole his breath away.

“It’s me, Ro.” Patton reassured him numbly, tongue clumsy from the lack of oxygen in his lungs and his steadily increasing worry. “It’s really me, kiddo.”

“How would I know?” There was a curtain of water raising to shield Roman’s gaze as his words warbled, rising and falling with his frustration and fear. “I didn’t notice before and…”

“This is your fault.” Deceit’s whisper drifted through his mind and Patton leaned away from Roman to set the bowl on the nightstand.

This isn’t about me. This is about Roman.

“If you had come when they called, it wouldn’t have come to this, would it?”

“Roman,” Patton shuffled until he was in Roman’s personal space, dominating his line of sight intentionally. He lowered his tone to a soothing, gentle cadence. “What’s this about, love?”

Roman relaxed at the pet name instantly, tugging on Patton insistently. Patton angled his head to the left in confusion, lips twitching upward reflexively, as he let gravity drag him down, allowing Princey’s movement to guide him until he was sprawled on the mattress, flat on his back.

Patton kept his mouth shut as Princey burrowed himself against his side, sniffling.

Sometimes, the best thing to do was to be still and let people open up when they were ready, so Patton merely wiggled until he was more comfortable.

He combed the strands of Princey’s hair back as he softly cried.

“Virgil,” Roman began, attempting to clear his throat of the mucus clinging to its walls. “He…he is really upset with me. Like…really upset, Pat.”

Patton bit his tongue, stifling his knee-jerk reaction to disagree with Princey’s assumption, and mulled over the last couple of days.

After their eventful gathering with Thomas, everyone had holed up in their respective rooms.

Surprisingly, it was Logan who was the first to wander back into the open space they utilized as a living room, and he had drug Patton out of his domain after three days of silence. Virgil had lingered in his sanctuary for a bit longer- but he eventually joined them and he hovered by Patton and Logan, shoulders tensed and raised, when Deceit was in the area.

Virgil hadn’t asked about Roman, or made any snide comments about his disappearance, Patton realized belatedly and the arm slung around Roman’s form squeezed him closer.

“You can’t change how he’s feeling—” Patton rushed to continue when Roman’s lips parted, the familiar spark of exasperation brightening his eyes for a moment. “—but you can apologize and give him time. Don’t force it.”

Roman sighed.

The gust of hot air drifted over Patton’s neck and he suppressed the urge to shiver. 

“Yeah, I know.”

He knew that there was more but he let the conversation between them drop as Roman’s fingers twisted the fabric of his polo.

Patton listened to the stuttering, labored breaths of the usually boisterous and energetic side. His own eyes started to burn with salt but he willed the feeling away.

“You can’t do anything for him.”

“Do you think…” Roman trailed off as he put some distance between them, slowly dragging himself upward so he could lean against the headboard. “Do you think I might be a dark side?”

Leave him alone.

Patton’s jaw unhinged slightly so his mouth fell open. Blood rushed through his ears with the speed of his movements and his head spun but Patton ignored it to squeak: “Of course not! What on earth made you think that?!”

Leave him alone.

“You’re going to lose him, Morality, and there’s nothing that can be done to stop that, is there?”

Leave him alone.

“I…” Roman refused to look at Patton, fingers flexing like talons as they dug into the fabric covering his lap. “I’m not…as great as I think I am, am I? I crave the spotlight so I rush into things…just…”  Crystal droplets clung to Roman's chin and Patton witnessed the moment they gave up and fell to their death- flattening against the unyielding surface of his knuckles and the comforter. Patton’s tears made their own escape at the heart wrenching sight, at the whispered words, at Roman’s pain. “I just…I’m so stupid and I make things harder for Thomas…”

“No, no, no.” Patton denied vehemently, jerking his head left and right with so much force that his glasses were knocked askew. “We’ve gone over this. Thomas listening to any of us too much or too little can make things harder for him.” Patton was distantly aware that he was gesturing wildly, hands flying- up, down, slapping against his palm or his thigh. “Virge, you, me, Lo- it doesn’t matter.”

“You aren’t forgetting someone, are you?”

Patton clenched his teeth subtly, grinding the top and bottom rows together. His chest was heaving from the emphatic fervor his words had picked up steadily and adrenaline coursed through his veins, making his heart jump.  

You help Thomas in small ways but that doesn’t make you right.

“Right and wrong are meaningless. Logan said so himself.”

Roman blinked at him owlishly, dark eyelashes fluttering against his skin. The lines around his eyes disappeared as he tilted his head, obviously lost to the thoughts swirling through his mind.

Air whistled through Patton’s nose as he tried to steady his erratic breathing but the little oxygen he had worked to claim escaped in a hiss when Princey’s lips quirked into a false half-smile that was marred by the melancholy that still encased him.

“We have talked about this, haven’t we?” Roman murmured, bringing a hand up to smack himself lightly on his temple. “I remember now.” His tone swam with exhaustion and Patton ached because Princey was trying to cover up the fact that he didn’t believe him.

“Ro…” Please, Roman, please. You know this. I know you do.

“I’m doing much better now, Pat.” Roman carried on. He kept that weak grin on his face and Patton’s stomach churned at the dazed, faraway, and hazy cloud that blocked Ro’s eyes from him, hindering his ability to read his emotions. “…I’ll be down for dinner, okay? I really am tired.”

Patton wanted to refuse, to wrench Roman from the bed like Logan had done for him, but he couldn’t. He tried to speak but his vocal cords remained motionless.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Patton scooted closer to Roman, pulling on the sleeve of his white t-shirt in a mirror of Princey’s earlier actions. He flopped on his side unceremoniously, not releasing his hold on the article of clothing in his grasp.

Sleep with me?

His eyes pleaded when his voice could not and Roman swayed uncertainly before he huffed, pulling the blanket from underneath his rear and throwing it across Patton.

He shimmied down his sheets until he was horizontal, nose nearly brushing against Patton’s own.

“You didn’t ask me to promise,” Roman mused, closing his eyes. “You always make me promise when I say I’m going to do something.“ He regarded Patton with a jaded and lackluster but curious squint. “Why are you staying, Patty cakes?”

“You are going to lose him.”

“Because ohana means family,” Patton recited with a gravelly rasp, not breaking eye contact. “Family means no one gets left behind…or forgotten. You’re family, Ro.”

Tears started to tiptoe down Roman’s face, leaving behind wet trails as their footprints, as Patton finished his thought and the pads of the prince’s fingers dug painful half-moons into his side but Patton didn’t protest.

I am the Heart and he’s apart of it. I’m not going to let him go without a fight.

He rested his chin on Roman’s head as his arm draped itself across Roman’s hip, resting against the small of his back comfortingly.

So kindly back off.

Patton hugged Ro as tight as he could manage, humming softly to help him calm down enough to sleep.

-

Part One, Part Two, Part Three (You are here)

[calacuspr]

AS Roma 'Missing Children' transfer tweets unite city

The fierce rivalry between AS Roma and Lazio dates back over 90 years and affects almost every aspect of life in the Italian capital.

So it speaks volumes about the brilliance of AS Roma’s Missing Children campaign that their Lazio counterparts have supported the initiative, putting competition to one side for the greater good.

The campaign is the brainchild of Paul Rogers, AS Roma’s Chief Strategy Officer, who wanted to break the mould for social media engagements.

A native of north west England, who worked as Head of Content and Head of International Development at Liverpool FC, Paul joined AS Roma in 2015 and set about planning to establish the club as digital leaders in the world of elite football.

Rather than just use tried and tested techniques to drive engagement and awareness, he wanted to do something that would make a difference as well as help the club stand out.

Paul’s team had already made their mark at the club, creating social media posts for transfers such as the announcement of Cengiz Ünder that went viral.

AS Roma have more than three million Twitter followers with accounts in 15 different languages and more than 18 million followers across all its channels, so their reach gave them a huge platform to promote positive change.

“We built a big following,” Paul added. “The only non-UK clubs with more followers than us on English-language Twitter were Barcelona, Bayern Munich, Real Madrid and Juventus, so it was clear that people enjoyed the style of content we produced.

“We felt we had an opportunity to use social media for social good so we pushed an anti-racism agenda; climate change awareness; gender equality and the fight against homophobia.”

A magazine article about a music video produced over 25 years ago provided the club’s social media for good campaign its greatest inspiration.

Paul explained: “I read an article about rock band Soul Asylum and the video for their song ‘Runaway Train’ which featured missing adolescents in America.

“The song itself was not about missing kids but I found out that they made four different videos; for audiences on the east coast, west coast, Australia and the UK. Wherever you watched it, you saw a different video most relevant to you on MTV or The Box.

“One of the kids (Mark Garvey) was a teenager from Liverpool who was last seen near to a pub I drunk in, the Jolly Miller.

“Now that we have social media, I thought we had an opportunity as AS Roma to take this idea and very much run with it.”

The first Missing Children post went out on June 30 2019 when Leonardo Spinazzola was announced as a new signing alongside individual posts and videos for six missing children around the world.

The campaign was supported by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children in the United States and Telefono Azzurro in Italy and now works with a wide range of different organisations searching for missing children around the world.

“We wanted to raise awareness about what the charities do, rehabilitating those who come back, highlighting those who are missing.

“Some people questioned why we would do this during the transfer window but that is the most viral and newsworthy moment.

“We have found that because of social media, fans want to help, not just fans of Roma but of other clubs as well. People didn’t care about club rivalry, they just cared about helping.”

While the campaign’s intention is to shed light on those young people who are missing and may have been forgotten by all but their closest family, the fact that a number have now been found who were featured on the AS Roma videos underlines the brilliance of the initiative.

“I don’t think any of us thought a child would be found – we just felt we could raise awareness of the issue of missing kids,” Paul reflects.

“I got a call from Missing People in London telling me a missing girl in London had been found safe – I never felt such joy and pride and it was the proudest moment of my career.

“When I told the president, it was like we had won the most important match. The emotion of a child being found, that was what we set out to do.”

To date, seven children who featured in the videos have been found safe – three in the UK, two from Kenya, one from Belgium and one from Italy.

When Chris Smalling signed permanently from Manchester United on transfer deadline day, the latest child, a 17-year-old from Italy, was found safe after being reported missing, the third to be found who featured alongside his announcement posts.

With the Covid-19 pandemic limiting fans at stadia worldwide and the increasing social conscience felt by young generations of supporters, Paul believes that fans expect their clubs to do the right thing.

He said: “We have a platform and a vehicle we can use for good. We don’t believe we can change the world on our own but we do want to make a positive impact on society.

“Rather than just promote ourselves, we promote humanitarian causes and beliefs that we would like to elevate in the eyes of the public.

“I believe that fans are desperate for their clubs to do things that make them proud – what goes on the pitch is one side and what happens off the pitch is also important.

“We have given other clubs the confidence to use their platform. We never did this to get a pat on the back – we did it because we thought we could help and use football for good.”

On International Missing Children’s Day in May this year, Paul collaborated with FIFA and the European Clubs’ Association (ECA) to extend the campaign with more clubs.

He explained: “I put together an initiative where we would get together with other clubs from all over the world and put rivalry to one side.

“Over 200 clubs released videos that AS Roma made featuring missing children around the world – we had no Roma reference and just branding saying “Football Cares”. We did not want it to be club affiliated.

“We had clubs such as Manchester United, Arsenal, Marseille, Real Madrid, Barcelona and even Lazio taking part and a child in Taiwan was found as a result.

“Lazio were one of the first clubs to come back and agree to join the campaign. I wasn’t surprised by their response, as this issue transcends sporting rivalry, but it does prove the point that when it comes to trying to do good, club colours don’t even come into it.

“The campaign attracted millions of video views and showed the power of football to come together and build on what we had done at Roma.”

While the Missing Children campaign has been high profile, in these challenging times, AS Roma has also undertaken other projects to support local and international communities.

Paul added: “We live in strange and difficult times, where COVID has impacted lives in different ways and there is a growing concern for the world around us, a less selfish concern.

“During COVID we have raised money for hospitals, distributed masks, food and medical supplies - anything we can do that can use the power of Roma to do good is something we are keen to do.

“We raise issues about mental health, gender equality and the empowerment of females around the world.

“We are great admirers of what Laureus do – and like them, we do not think these humanitarian issues are political.

“We don’t believe that racism or feeding hungry kids or finding missing children is political: they are human issues and we like to approach things from a human perspective.

“What we have done is show the power that sport can have in a social context and use our position to be useful in the world.”

 This story originally appeared on the Laureus website.

[bucketorandomness]

Let’s talk about my impressions after the Debate

For anyone who doesn’t want political stuffage on their dash, I will now be tagging everything I think is directly related to elections and such “#political shenanigans” so please, use the filter function if you don’t want to see my political views. Social issues will still be using the “#serious ones” tag, though if you want me to separate those, too, jus let me know, kay? You’re totally valid. Go curate your experience and keep it good.

Anyway. Onto the essay/rant/vent/thing.

I currently live in a pro-Trump house and--before y’all get upset with me please wait--let’s just say the Debate the other night didn’t thrill me. As part of becoming an adult, I’m starting to form my own opinions. One of those opinions is who I’d like to vote into office. I’m not completely sold on Biden, yet, but I can confidently say I don’t think I can support Trump with a good conscience.

I tried to get others to watch the Debate with me that night, but even his own Supporters didn’t want to watch him. Not sure what you think about that, but that just gives me weird vibes. Like, they didn’t watch to support Trump, their chosen candidate. Is that... Is that what others do? It makes sense to me that if you want to elect someone to lead the nation, you try to hear their opinions on important issues, and that was the whole purpose of the Debate.

At some point in the Debate, the topic was Covid and the candidates’ responses to it. Mainly, Trump held large rallies, “Because people want to hear what I have to say.” There are plenty of ways to do that without gathering in person. Heck, if you think about it, there’s a possibility he could reach more people with a digital rally. My local church has, for instance, and we’re not even a globally known name. Biden, on the other hand, has been holding small scale meetings, and as soon as he mentioned that, Trump immediately interrupts with something along the lines of “because nobody wants to go.” Like, yes I understand the Presidentials are basically he biggest popularity contest in the country. However, this is the future of the entire nation we’re talking about here, and that comment struck me as really childish. When mentioned to the local Supporters, I got a good-natured, “Well, that only to be expected.” I’m not sure I like having a President who makes childish comments and is basically expected to make them. A leader with a lack of maturity is not going to make the best decisions, especially with an office as large as the Oval. I get it: politics is about making your opponent look like the worst possible choice, and attacking them is the fastest way to do that. Doesn’t mean I think that’s the right way to go about gathering support. Like, yeah, you don’t like your opponent. It’d be kinda weird if you did. Why don’t we try to stay civil, though? Personal attacks come when you don’t have anything constructive to add to the conversation. If you value tearing down your opponent over an informative debate, I think your priorities are a little different from mine.

Towards the end of the Debate, as well as a significant portion in the middle, Trump straight up attacks Biden’s sons. Listen, I like a good family man, and I feel horrid for all the mud the media slung at Melania Trump these past four years, but that does not give Trump the right to attack another man’s family. The first one was about one son receiving a supposed monetary gift from abroad. Trump spent a considerable amount of time asking Biden questions and then not allowing him to answer. The worst, I think, was “What did he do to deserve [large sum I no longer remember]?!” As if Biden’s son had no worth. As if it was completely ludicrous that Biden’s son could earn a gift like that based on his own merits. Biden was good natured and tried to brush it off with simple answers Trump barreled right through until the moderator helped get the Debate back on track. The second time really hurt, though. Maybe I’m just too empathetic, but I actually winced while listening to the Debate. Biden was talking about his son’s military service and Trump immediately started dragging down both this veteran and another son from the service. I don’t know if any of those accusations were true, but that is where Biden got riled up enough to lash back, and I don’t blame him. How could he stand by while Trump interrupted his proud story to drag both sons through the dirt for the sake of politics? Trump may claim to be a family man, but the way he treats other fathers is not something he should be proud of! I can understand attacking Biden, the opponent, but attacking Biden’s kids is underhanded and not something I want to see the President doing. Trump’s opponent isn’t the moderator, and it definitely isn’t Biden’s sons. Attacking the family is something you do when you can’t make an outright attack on the target. Trump should know this! It’s what happened when he got elected! And what’s he doing? He’s trying to get the media to chew up Biden’s family just as much as it chewed up his. I’m no interested in Biden’s family. I’m interested in Biden. Is that such a weird thing to ask for?

I tried mentioning how terrible Trump’s whole attitude was to the local Supporters: he asked questions he didn’t allow answers for, he insulted and attacked everyone within range--including the moderator--, and he didn’t always answer the questions asked of him. Their response? “He [Trump] is a good President, he’s just not a good orator.” If I tried to pull his attitude during class, I doubt I’d get a passing grade! “He speaks American.” As an American I can tell you I didn’t understand most of what came out of his mouth. If Trump “speaks American” it’s only to a certain kind of American, and there’s more than one of us in the US. “He wasn’t raised to debate; he’s used to walking into a room and taking control. He monologues.” I don’t know about you, but that sounds kind of like a spoilt child to me? Trump doesn’t consider the other people in the room; if they don’t agree with him and what he wants, they’re wrong. He’s used to getting what he wants when he wants it. I don’t think that’s a good quality to have in a leader at this time.

Yes, there are times when a commanding presence is needed, but I think, for this coming term, what we need more is someone who can compromise. Having someone as stiff as Trump in office has polarized the country. I keep hearing rumors of terrible things and thinking to this one prediction a friend made four years ago: “We’re going to have a second Civil War.” It won’t be about slavery. It won’t be North versus South. This time, it’ll be Republicans versus Democrats, and God help the Independents in the middle. America is being pulled in so many directions right now, something’s going to give. Someone willing to ease up on their tugging and mend the tears showing up will do more good, I think, than standing firm and making those tears worse. At the moment, I don’t know if Biden’s the one to do that, but I do know Trump is not.

Trump may “get things done” like the Supporters say, but I don’t think I can agree with his code of ethics. For me, the journey is just as important as the destination. How we accomplish our goals is just as important as the outcome. I don’t think I can support someone with ethics so wildly different from my own. The President represents America. The President’s code of ethics is America’s code of ethics. If those ethics aren’t something I agree with, then how can I in good conscience elect Trump to represent me on a global stage?

Trump had some good points. Mainly, that if Biden was promising to do what he was promising, why hadn’t he done it already as a member of the government for the past couple decades? You can go ahead and support anyone you want to. That’s your right as an American voter, and even more as a human being with personal opinions. Just because we don’t agree doesn’t necessarily mean one of us is wrong.

I know neither of the candidates really answered the last question of the Debate, but please, stay calm. Talk like the adults we are. Don’t engage in civil unrest over this election.

[angeltriestoblog]

I watched a couple of movies! (Part 1)

Back when I regularly had the luxury of long breaks, I spent my days binge-watching films, as you can see from my extensive knowledge of 80s chick flicks and all the cheesy tropes and disgustingly adorable, predominantly white leading men that come with them. Sadly, a side effect of growing older in the digital age seemed to be the diminishment of my attention span: the only things I could focus on were academic requirements, simply because I had to. But, thanks to several factors—the suspension of online classes, the sudden annoyance I developed towards Barney Stinson that prompted me to discontinue How I Met Your Mother, etc.—I decided it was high time to rekindle this lost love. So, here is an unsolicited review of the 17 films I managed to finish in a little over a week! Rest assured, I tried my best to venture out of familiar territory and brush up on some of the more cultured picks, according to Letterboxd, at least.

Bar Boys (2017, dir. Kip Oebanda) ★★★

The film that kickstarted everything, which I never would have seen if the director had not uploaded the full version on YouTube. This well-meaning tale of four best friends (Carlo Aquino, Rocco Nacino, Enzo Pineda, and Kean Cipriano) and the challenges they face in law school—terror professors, fraternities, and financial difficulties included—does have a lot of heart, and is sensitive enough to show how the effect of this experience differs depending on a student's background. But, what it lacked for me was a certain degree of specificity: I think the same premise would have been applicable in med school, or any other post-graduate degree for that matter. So, why did the characters choose law? I also would have appreciated some commentary on the shortcomings of the country’s justice system, and further fleshing out of the characters so the audience could have seen why we could count on them to fill in the gaps.

Legally Blonde (2001, dir. Robert Luketic) ★★★½

The rating might be surprising, considering that the courtroom scene was responsible for the short law school phase I had in Grade 5. As if I could ever make use of the rules of haircare in an actual cross-examination. Of course, I am compelled to admire Elle (Reese Witherspoon) and how her motivations for going to Harvard shift from winning back a boy to discovering what she never knew she had and using these gifts to help those around her (especially the manicurist, who I feel was given way more exposure than what was due to her). Ultimately, though it was inspirational at some points, it felt too good to be true and impossible to relate to. (But then again, shouldn’t there be a willing suspension of disbelief when consuming forms of media such as this?)

Lady Bird (2017, dir. Greta Gerwig) ★★★★★

I’ll probably end up making a separate post dedicated to this movie and how it singlehandedly called me out, as a sensitive, occasionally self-important product of an all-girls Catholic high school. For now, I am forced to condense my overflowing feelings into a couple of sentences. Lady Bird takes place over the course of the titular character's senior year, a pivotal moment in the lives of all teenagers. But, instead of focusing solely on the formulaic firsts like the normal coming-of-age film would, it shines a light on her dwindling relationship with her equally strong-willed mother. Saoirse Ronan’s colorful performance as the human embodiment of my pre-teen self's conscience, and Greta Gerwig’s tremendous ability to make even oddly specific scenes speak to any viewer shine through and speak to me the most, and easily make this gem something I will be recommending this to anyone who bothers to ask for as long as I live.

Bohemian Rhapsody (2018, dir. Bryan Singer) ★★★

There’s a lot of controversy surrounding Bo Rhap, particularly its failure to portray Freddie Mercury in a manner that does him justice. While I understand that it is a valid concern for fans of the band, I admit I don’t know enough about who he was as a person to criticize the film in this aspect. Regardless of its factuality, this still was just average for me, the typical rise-and-fall type of biopic that is indicative of a rockstar’s legacy, but with laughably faulty editing. The redeeming factors were Rami Malek’s brilliant portrayal of the legend himself—his Live Aid performance gave me chills that lasted the entire 20 minutes, how alarming—and, obviously, the soundtrack that I kept on loop for several days.

About Time (2013, dir. Richard Curtis) ★

Apparently, this movie focuses on Tim (Domhnall Gleeson), who discovers at age 21 that the men in his family have the power to time-travel and thus revise and repair certain parts of their lives. He uses this to address the fact that he’s never had a girlfriend, and effectively so as he ends up bagging Mary (Rachel McAdams), a charming American who is the settler in this relationship by default. But, of course, this gift is not without its dire consequences—or at least, that’s what it says on Wikipedia. It’s hard to trash on this and admit that I bailed halfway because so many of my friends swear by this. But, I just couldn’t stomach the lack of chemistry between the two leads; the surprisingly boring dialogue for a screenplay crafted by Richard Curtis of Notting Hill fame; and the story that, although bore enough of a resemblance to “The Time Traveler’s Wife” to be interesting, was still not powerful enough to sustain my attention.

Your Name (2016, dir. Makoto Shinkai) ★★★★★

I’m a huge fan of plots that are sure to make my eyes swell and heart hurt—I can’t explain the psychology behind this either. So when this was recommended to me and I had made it through an hour without shedding a single tear, I was prepared to be disappointed. But, the events leading up to the conclusion proceeded to rip me into shreds, as if to taunt me and say, “You asked for it.” Mitsuha (Mone Kamishiraishi) and Taki (Ryunosuke Kamiki), teenagers living on opposite sides of the country, suddenly start switching bodies following the appearance of a comet. This unexplainable phenomenon causes them to forge an unbreakable bond that transcends the very limits of time and space. I know the description is not much, but it’s best to experience this unique plot for yourself. Besides its storyline, its charm lies in its excruciating attention to detail in depicting life in urban and rural Japan, both in the realistic animation of one picturesque scene after another, and the use of cultural elements to arrive at a twist viewers will not see coming.

Booksmart (2019, dir. Olivia Wilde) ★★★★½

I can't summarize what I imagine Booksmart to be for teenagers in the future, so here's an entire scenario: It's the year 2070. Two young girls of around 16 are sprawled on their bedroom floor, watching this on whatever device they use for streaming. (Maybe it's from an LCD projector embedded in their foreheads, who knows.) The credits roll, and they instantly think to themselves, "Man, we were born in the wrong generation!" (They simultaneously think of doing a high-five, and without raising their hands themselves, it happens because that's technology.) Anyway, Amy (Kaitlyn Dever) and Molly (Beanie Feldstein) are best friends who played by the rules all throughout high school and realized too late that they could’ve afforded to have a little more fun. On the eve of their graduation, they decide to cram four years’ worth of adventure in a single unpredictable and outrageous night, getting to grips with everything that comes their way in an exceedingly comedic yet refreshing fashion. Also, the protagonists have such a genuine and wholesome relationship: the way they hyped up their most ridiculous looking outfits, or overshared borderline uncomfortable stories is honestly my personal definition of an ideal friendship.

When Harry Met Sally (1989, dir. Rob Reiner) ★★★★½

Despite this film’s constant presence in every “chick flicks you must watch” list I’ve bothered searching up, I spent a huge chunk of my teen years in constant protest against the decision to cast Billy Crystal as the male lead instead of, I don’t know, literally any other actor on the planet. But, once I finished it, I realized that he’s a much better fit than I thought. The laidback Harry to Meg Ryan’s finicky Sally, both of them spare no effort exploring and debunking truths and misconceptions about modern relationships: examples of which are the idea of being high maintenance, and the quintessential question of whether a guy and girl can ever be just friends. Although their dynamic is the definition of slow burn, audiences can’t help but earnestly root for the pair—the frustration brought by the several almosts pay off in the end, as they lead to one of, if not, the most romantic love confession scene.

Hintayan ng Langit (2018, dir. Dan Villegas) ★★★★½

This tale adapted from a play by no less than Juan Miguel Severo is set in purgatory—a grandiose art museum-four star hotel hybrid of sorts—where souls can stop and rest while their papers for entry to heaven are being processed. It is here we meet Manolo (Eddie Garcia) and Lisang (Gina Pareno), ex-lovers with unfinished business. Things admittedly start off a bit slow, but it's understandable since there needs to be ample provision of context regarding the standard operating procedures of this unique waiting area. Once that’s done, the focus stays on the main actors, who drive audiences to tears with their powerful performances, and thought-provoking questions on matters of betrayal, forgiveness, and the afterlife. The ending had me rocking back and forth like a baby, my shirt soaked with tears, so do take heed and stock up on tissues!

The Social Network (2010, dir. David Fincher) ★★★★★

Within its packed first 15 minutes alone, you can easily see what makes The Social Network an example of cinema at its finest: an intoxicated Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) hacks into the websites of all Harvard dorms to create Facebook’s oldest ancestor from scratch, in an attempt to get back at his ex-girlfriend. The atmosphere is tense, the dialogue is loaded with witty one-liners and powerful insight, and the actors are so in touch with their characters they practically fuse into a single person. This remains consistent for the next two hours or so, making for an enjoyable and fast-paced, yet still informative glimpse into the human side of what is arguable the most powerful company of this era. I also heard that it’s much more fun if seen with the cast commentary on, so I’m gonna have to find a copy of that for myself!

Pretty in Pink (1986, dir. Howard Deutch) ★★★★★

I’m cheating here, I know: this has been a long-time favorite, but I guess I can still give a review if I was still 15 when I last saw this. Andie (Molly Ringwald) and Blane (Andrew McCarthy)’s classic “poor girl + rich boy = happily ever after” story is masterfully tackled by John Hughes, who manages to inject equal amounts of swoon-worthy romance and biting criticism of the inherent class divide in society. Others would argue that Duckie (Jon Cryer), Andie’s devoted best friend, is the true star of the show, and while I do agree that he has his shining moments (if you listen closely, you can hear Try A Little Tenderness playing softly in the background), I sadly inherited my mother’s adoration for Andrew, which I will pass on to my child and so on—truly the defining characteristic of our lineage.

St. Elmo’s Fire (1985, dir. Joel Schumacher) ½

I understand that being an adult in the Real World is bound to come with some grave mistakes and lapses in judgment. But, not a single character in this friend group redeems themselves by the end. While Ally Sheedy’s Leslie and Mare Winningham’s Wendy were just borderline forgettable (why did the latter even end up here with the Brat Pack?), Judd Nelson’s Alec cheats on his girlfriend and believes that marriage is what will make him change his ways; Rob Lowe’s Billy neglects the family he didn’t plan on having by fooling around with other women and making a home out of his favorite bar; Demi Moore’s Jules relies on cocaine and extramarital affairs to hide trauma she refuses to process, and Andrew McCarthy’s pretentiously cynical Kevin suddenly claims he knows what love is when Leslie pays attention to him for 10 minutes. But, none of them compare to Emilio Estevez’ Kirby, the sociopath obsessed with a girl he barely knows. It honestly resembles some sick contest of how many problems this gang can cause before they end up behind bars, with the last scene being a lazy and rushed attempt to wrap everything up, in the name of this surface-level “friendship”.

Before Sunrise, Sunset, and Midnight (1995, 2004, 2013; dir. Richard Linklater) ★★★★★

Guess it’s better to admit it now, but I made this post as an excuse to rave about how beautiful this trilogy is, the most authentic depiction of love in its purest form. Sunrise has been recommended to me by both friends and the Netflix algorithm, but I put off watching it again and again and again. I mean, what could I possibly get out of looking at two strangers roam around Vienna? Well, to answer that question: quite a lot. Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy)’s relationship spans an entire trilogy, and throughout that period, they manage to define then destroy the idea of having a soulmate to call your own in approximately six hours. But certain constancies are present in each movie: the emotion intense even in the smallest of gestures (you don't understand the anguish I feel when the scene at the listening booth randomly pops in my head), the dialogue truly thought-provoking and natural, the settings so picturesque, and the chemistry of the actors so electric I have trouble believing that the director didn’t actually invade the personal space of a real couple and eventually get issued a restraining order.

High Fidelity (2000, dir. Stephen Frears) ★★

I’d like to think of this as an essay: I'm confident that the introduction is the protagonist Rob's soliloquy on his five biggest breakups to understand why he’s so flawed that everyone always leaves him, and the conclusion his attempt to win his ex Laura (Iben Hjejle) back. But as for the body, I’m not entirely sure. Interspersed between these moments are thoughtful top five lists of anything that can be enumerated, and occasional banter with the employees at his record store that may be charming, but do not enhance the film in any way, shape, or form for me. Also, I normally enjoy seeing John Cusack onscreen, but more often than not, he was nagging in front of the camera instead of talking to the people around him; no wonder his relationships failed!

Scott Pilgrim vs the World (2010, dir. Edgar Wright) ★★★

I wanted to enjoy this so bad, I swear! Sadly, the one thing I gained after seeing this is knowledge of where the “I’m So Sad, So Very Very Sad” meme came from. I get that it’s supposed to resemble a comic book or video game, and maybe the reason why I failed to appreciate this as much is because I was never a fan of either. I found the prolonged action scenes surprisingly boring, the storyline too fantastic, and the whole quest of having to defeat seven monstrous exes for the hand of a manic pixie dream girl not worth it in the end. Although I can’t give it less than three stars given its impressive visual effects, and appeal to the entire Tumblr community (gamers on one end, millennial film connoisseurs on the other), it’s definitely not something I would watch a second time.

There will surely be more where that came from! (I mean it. Since completing this post, I’ve finished another five films.) If you wanna keep tabs on what I’m watching without having to wait on another post, you can give my Letterboxd a follow. Wishing you love and light always, and don’t forget to wash your hands and pray for our frontliners!

[mbtizone]

Liam Booker (Faking It): ISFP

Dominant Introverted Feeling [Fi]: Liam has very strong morals and is first and foremost concerned with doing the “right” thing. His conscience rules him, and if he does anything that contradicts his internal values, he obsesses over it until he’s able to correct his perceived shortcoming. Liam takes a stand for what he believes in. He is socially, economically, and environmentally aware, and wants the way he lives to reflect his principles. He’s opposed to lying and sneaking around, which makes his relationship with Karma difficult for him because he’s under the impression that Karma is dating Amy. He doesn’t want to get in the way of their relationship, and even though he cares about Karma, he feels that getting in the middle of their relationship is wrong. That’s just not who he is. Liam values honesty and hates that Amy is forcing him to keep their secret from Karma. He just wants to fess up, tell her the truth, and deal with the consequences. He can’t live with the guilt. Liam believes in punishing himself when he breaks his moral code and vows to abstain from sex after sleeping with Amy. He doesn’t like to openly discuss how he’s feeling, and prefers to do something to fix things rather than talk about it. Liam is very loyal to the people he loves and gives up his dream to get Karma and her family out of jail. He doesn’t tell her about this, though, because he didn’t do it to gain favor with her. He wants to earn her forgiveness and had no intention of using his good deed to sway her. He’s outraged when Karma considers taking the $250,000 check Mr. Booker wrote her to keep her away from Liam. He turned Zita down after she threw herself at him while Karma was contemplating accepting the bribe money, which hurts even more, because he knows she wouldn’t consider it for a single second if the money was given to her to stay away from Amy.

Auxiliary Extroverted Sensing [Se]: Sometimes, Liam makes shortsighted decisions in the heat of the moment and often comes to regret them after having time to reflect. He keeps seeing Karma, even though he’s against being with her behind Amy’s back. When he’s angry or upset, he tends to react without considering the ramifications. After his breakup with Karma, he learns that she had faked her relationship with Amy. In his outrage over being lied to for so long, he sleeps Amy and becomes immediately remorseful of his actions following the incident. Liam enjoys sensory pleasures, particularly sex, and is a talented artist. He expresses himself by creating, and is very good at translating his feelings into the works he produces (Fi-Se). Liam tends to work through his feelings physically – whether it’s by producing art or going to a mixed martial arts class with Theo.

Tertiary Introverted Intuition [Ni]: If Liam gets a hunch about something, he usually believes in it, fully committing to the idea, even if he’s completely mistaken. When Jackson Lee takes a special interest in him and his art, Liam is convinced that Jackson is his real father. He begins investigating to confirm his suspicions, and believes that he found “evidence” to prove it (his mother in the same photo as Jackson). However, it never occurs to him that it’s just a coincidence and his theory turns out to be incorrect. When Liam has a goal in mind, he can become singularly focused on achieving it, particularly if it’s something that is important to him morally.

Inferior Extroverted Thinking [Te]: When Liam believes in something, he does something about it. He organizes protests and inspires others to rally around him and fight back. When in protest mode, Liam is able to take charge, make decisions, and shout commands to the crowd. He doesn’t like when things are done for money, power, or control, which is why he refuses to drive a fancy car or buy expensive clothing, even though he comes from a rich family. He doesn’t like what money has done to them and rebels against that lifestyle. Liam is very upfront and lays down rules when need be – he tells Brandi upfront that their relationship must be casual sex or nothing. He’s not looking for a girlfriend, and if she can’t handle that, they have to stop hooking up. He knows what he wants, and has no problem speaking up.

Enneagram: 1w9 4w3 7w8 Sx/So

Quotes:

Brandi: Where have you been, Pooh Bear? Who’s this bitch? Liam: Whoa, Brandi, you’re drunk. Brandi: He’s mine, so keep those nipples to yourself. Karma: That was my goal from the beginning, I promise. Liam: Look, I am not your boyfriend. We’re just good friends who occasionally have sex, but if that’s too confusing for you, then we have to stop. [to Karma] What? Karma: Nothing. Liam: Look, I’m not a douche bag, all right? I’m always clear about my ground rules. And girls, they always agree to them, and then they get- Karma: Clingy? Women are genetically wired to mate and start a family. In fact, if we weren’t, our entire species would’ve died out, so have some respect.

Shane: They’re here, they’re queer, they need your votes. Nice work, minions. Liam: Anything to help the gays.

Karma: Liam’s parents are rich, but he drives a beat-up biodiesel, which means he’s socially aware. His best friends are a gay guy and a feminist, which means he’s tolerant and accepting of strong women. And he’s an artist, which means that deep down inside he’s wounded.

Liam: I’m glad you got back together with your girlfriend. You two are like the school’s Portia and Ellen. Karma: Which one am I? Please say Portia. Liam: Trust me, you’re the Portia. Which is why we probably shouldn’t make out again. I don’t want to be the asshole that breaks up Hester’s cutest couple.

Liam: We can see through your lies! She’s just trying to buy us! Robin: Trust me, no one is trying to buy you. Though you’ll each be getting new Skwerkel smartphones and tablets. Liam: What do you get out of this? Robin: The satisfaction of helping a school in desperate need of money. Also, Skwerkel will own all data collected on these devices. Karma: That means our photos, our emails, our text messages. They want to make us their digital slaves. Are we gonna let them? Crowd: Hell, no! Liam: Time to occupy Hester. Man your stations!

Liam: Money has made my family secretive, image-obsessed ass. I want nothing to do with it or them.

Liam: Look, maybe you two are okay with this sneaking around thing, but I’m not. I tried to be, but it’s just not who I am.

Liam: They’re right. I knew Karma had a girlfriend, but I kept seeing her. Shane: Why are you beating yourself up like this? It’s not your fault they broke up.

Liam: Six months? That’s forever. Karma: I know, I’m sorry. But if people at school think I left Amy for you, they’ll hate us more than oil companies. Liam: And Amy is okay with this? I just, I really don’t like lying.

Amy: This is kidnapping. Shane: It’s really more blackmail. Lauren: We’re going to take photos of this assjolr that are so shocking and deviant, he’ll never tell anyone my secret. Shane: Conveniently, my mom sells sex toys out of the trunk of her car. Amy: Guys, guys, this is illegal and highly disturbing. Lauren, how bad could this secret be? Lauren: Ugh, I’m not telling you my fucking secret. Shane: She’s not. Trust me, I tried. Liam: Guys, I’m with Amy. Maybe it’s a good thing this thing gets out. They say you’re only as sick as your secrets. Amy: What? No, who says that? Who, the voices in your head? Tell ’em to shut up. I changed my mind. I’m on board. This is America. We are all entitled to our secrets. Will you excuse us for a second? What the hell was that? “You’re only as sick as your secrets”? I’m sorry, but the guilt is killing me. Amy: Oh, this little piggy went boo-hoo-hoo all the way home. Man up. Look, it’s killing me too, but what would it do to Karma if she found out that her soul mate slept with you? Liam: So what, we just pretend it never happened? Amy: What happened? See how easy that was? And before we never speak of this again, do I need to add contracting syphilis to last night’s list of tragic events?

Shane: You’re still hung up on Karma, aren’t you? I don’t get it. Are her lips dusted with cocaine or something? Liam: No, this is not about Karma, and I’m only hung up on her because Little Liam wanted to meet a lesbian, so he needs to be put in time-out. Shane: Why are you punishing your penis? Hey, Karma is the one who lied. Liam: Trust me, I deserve to be punished. Shane: No, you deserve to move on, and the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new, stat. Unless you don’t want to get over her. Liam: Of course I want to get over her. I just think celibacy is the best way to do that. Shane: I don’t know. In my experience, it only leads to blue balls and long, incoherent speeches about wolves.

Amy: This is your last chance. Promise me you won’t tell Karma or I’m about to make a scene so juicy I might win a daytime Emmy. Liam: What if I tell her I slept with someone and I don’t say that someone was you? Amy: Not a negotiation, last chance. Liam: Wow, you’re completely mental. This is what secrets do to people. Amy: Three, two – Liam: You wouldn’t dare ’cause then you’d have no leverage. Amy: [hits Liam in the face] How dare you? That was one. Liam: Amy, come on. Amy: Don’t touch me! Liam: Amy. Amy: Do you know where I met Liam? At a protest. And do you know what we were protesting? Skwerkel. Mr. Booker: Liam. Amy: But it turns out, he was just seducing me. He never told me his father founded the company. Who are you, Liam Booker? Liam: That’s hilarious. Amy has been taking improv classes, and she’s getting very good. Amy: And if that weren’t enough of a betrayal, I also found out that he slept with my best friend.

Liam: I cannot believe – Did I just really say all of that out loud? Amy: You did. And your family… Liam: Probably disowned me, but right now, I do not give a fuck. I have a huge weight off my back. Amy: Now I get why you’re so hung up on honesty. Liam: Yeah, well a few years ago I accidentally found my original birth certificate and my whole world cracked. It weighed me down ever since. I wish somehow I could un-know it, but, I can’t. I don’t want to tell Karma something she can’t un-know, I care about her way too much. Amy: That’s just how I feel, thank you.

Shane: Quit taking it out on these innocent art supplies. Liam: Shane, really, I don’t want to talk about it. Shane: That’s just your straight guy resistance to talking about your feelings. Push through it. Theo: What are y’all on about? Shane: It’s Karma’s birthday, and Liam can’t be with her for reasons too complicated and fucked up to specify. Theo: Wanna go hit stuff? Always makes me feel better. I’m taking this mixed martial arts class downtown. Shane: Nice try, Theo, but what Liam needs is to talk it all out over some grilled cheeses at Millie’s Diner. Theo: What is this, The View? Liam: Shane, I’m sorry, but that class is just what the doctor ordered. Shane: You’re not the doctor. You’re the patient. You can’t prescribe your own medicine. Theo: Wow, you really think you know what’s best for everybody, don’t you? Shane: It’s a gift. Liam: We’ll talk it out later, I promise. But right now, I just want to punch someone in the face without getting arrested. You wanna come? Shane: I’ll pass. It all sounds a bit too aggressively heterosexual for me.

Karma: If she can’t handle our relationship, then maybe it’s not meant to be. Do you want some dessert? They have homemade doughnuts. Liam: She doesn’t want doughnuts. She wants Reagan. Karma: Amy loves doughnuts. Liam: Karma, we get it. You know all of Amy’s favorite foods, but can’t you see that she’s really into Reagan? You can fix this, but you’ve gotta go and stop her. Amy: You’re right. Liam: No, Karma. Karma, this isn’t about you. You need to give them space.

Karma: You gave up art for me? Liam: Zita told you? Karma: The real question is why you didn’t. Liam: Because I didn’t do it to buy your forgiveness. I want to earn that. But do you think I ever will? Karma: Look, I want to forgive you. You’re doing all the right things. I’m just scared of getting hurt again, which is why I need to be in control. Liam: I’m okay with that. Karma: Then put your hands behind your back.

Shane: Grr! Young Jackson Lee was cute. Liam: And that’s Robin in the same picture. That’s proof! Shane, he’s my dad! Shane: I don’t know. I’ve been in plenty of pictures with people I haven’t impregnated. Liam: No, it all makes so much sense now! Being an artist is in my blood, and now my dad has come back to build some kind of relationship with me. I’ve dreamt about this moment. Shane: Liam- Liam: Shh! When I dreamt about it, there was no talking.

Amy: Who wouldn’t consider taking $250,000? Liam: I’ve been such an idiot. Karma: It could help my parents get back on their feet, help pay for college. How could I not consider it for even a second? Liam: After you left L.A., Zita kissed me. She made it very clear she wanted more, but I turned her down. It didn’t take me a week to think about it. Karma: Oh, yeah, well, too bad you didn’t think before you slept with Amy. Amy: Karma, please leave me out of this. Liam: Here we go again. You’re taking a bribe to stay away from me, but I’m the one defending myself? Karma: I’m not rich, Liam! I didn’t fall asleep in class because I’ve been studying. I’ve been working every catering gig I could get. And I live in a freaking juice truck! Liam: It’s so besides the point, it’s not even funny. If you were offered that money to stay away from Amy, you wouldn’t have considered it for one second!

Principal Turner: These are all of the school’s known visual artists. One of them has to be “B.” All right, you Banksy wannabes. You’ve had your fun. Now if someone doesn’t admit to being “B,” you will all be suspended. And yes, I can do that. Again, read the Terms & Conditions. Liam: It was me, okay? I am “B.” Now, let everyone else go. Principal Turner: B for Booker. You know, I think we might just skip right past suspension to full-on expulsion Penelope: Stop! It wasn’t Liam. It was me. “B” is for Beaver. I mean, Bevier.

Liam Booker (Faking It): ISFP was originally published on MBTI Zone

[bdsm-lover-nbg-blog]

Cybernetic god

Imagine a dream really https://www.behance.net/michealgreen seems like a reality. Think of special effects so realistic that you start to wonder what is right and what is fiction. Imagine an action movie so intricate and complex that it almost becomes a philosophical image ... Before the State - "Matrix". What is the matrix? Andy and Larry Wachowski, both scriptwriters and directors, were tempted to say that he is all that surrounds us. We see it in all situations: when we watch TV, we look out of the window or pay taxes. If so, did they give us their view of God? They https://www.instapaper.com/read/1201681644 d a world so convincing and wonderful and yet so similar to the one we know that many a person has already asked the question: "What if they are right If my world is just an illusion and I http://forum.abantecart.com/index.php?action=profile;u=36119 no impact on this?". Wachowski at every step, in all scenes, tries to prove his dissertation that we all live in a sweet unconscious, making more and more sophisticated arguments. The whole process, however, continues gradually, and the voltage tensions so that the film does not allow you to take your eyes off the screen for the duration. It starts modestly - know Thomas Anderson (the role was taken by Keanu Reeves) - a relatively normal man, who after working hours is domorosłym hakerem.Yet, however, something that sets it apart https://scala.libhunt.com/u/vipmovies others - Neo (whom he liked to call himself) believes that with the world who surrounds him, something is wrong. He quickly gets the opportunity to get answers to the questions that plague him. Thanks to an apparent coincidence he goes to a meeting for Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne), a person who disconnects from the system and shows the world as he really is. Disconnection should be taken very seriously here, because actually the world jest.W "The Matrix" every person is connected to a large network created with machines and computers that generate the head in the "real" world, they want to come back, just one - our Energy. No one knows why people have created this digital moloch. No one knows how the machines took over. What matters is that it actually happened and people were marginalized. They remained only a small group, which is nothing compared to the six billion people living on earth in 2000. That's what they decided to fight with machines and free people from their yoke, and he went to Keanu's local militias, is called rebeliantami.Ich task to hack the matrix and steal data and drop the "mind". Soon it turns out that, according to some, Neo has to play a more important role in the history of mankind - after ancient prophecy is chosen, which is capable of creating the Matrix at will. The whole thing is very complex, and it is very important, interesting. Wachowscy has incorporated a large dose of philosophy into the sensational Sci-Fi image, thanks to the fact that the film already serves a plus - it's original, as little as production in recent years. Unfortunately, you https://www.universalhunt.com/profiles/seymour-wolf feel a rasp here - all the theses of heroes are pronounced in such a high and pathetic way that they lose their credibility. The biggest problem with this, it seems, Laurence Fishburne, who plays the role of mentor, has also become prom drewna. The fact of fact - the rebels belong to people familiar with fear, but does it mean that all human emotions are alien to them too? So it is in the case of Carrie-Anne Moss (Trinity plays the role), where even the mouth confesses love as reading nekrologu.Plejadę rescue the main actors Keanu Reeves and Hugo Weaving (Agent Smith, who will be identified during the story), As with a clear conscience, they can consider their roles to be life. The first is a typically lost boy in a big forest who does not know what to do with his miserable fate. The other in the game looks like a program - and that was what it was! Admittedly, it is a big change for him, the role of the movie "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" .Czas go to audiovisual, which gave "Matrixowi" https://forum.ct8.pl/member.php?action=profile&uid=28909 in the Annals of cinema. Wachowski siblings went here, using computer technology, the other of which is not even enough to write śniło.Teraz "bullet time", and now most people know that there is a phenomenal cushioning of time as a bullet from a rifle journey in pedestrian. In addition, there is also an unmistakable mastering of the "blue box" technique, which made it possible to create such iconic combat scenes as a duel in the underground. When we talk about the fight, it should be mentioned that here also the "Matrix" rules! We didn't have such choreography ...

[coccccchen-blog]

Who Owns What? Who Can Speak for Whom?

A survey of international writers, curators and artists in response to recent controversies surrounding appropriation

———————————————MY POINT———————————————

John Keene:

As an author, He believes that cultural exchange is the core of art and vitality of life and is indispensable. However, because of the oppression of historical colonization, the discrimination of social status, the difference of political system and the difference of economic power, cultural appropriation is accompanied by the bullying and discrimination of the weak groups in culture, history and politics. The dominant group will freely use the traditional cultural art and the culture of the group without respect for the history and culture of the weak group. At the same time, in the face of external criticism, they either ignore it or deny it, or even use "political correctness" to justify it.

So, according to this author, can the essential problem of cultural appropriation be the lack of understanding and disrespect for culture?

Kenneth Goldsmith: 

As a poet, He believes that the public ignores an important issue, and the Internet makes cultural artifacts more easily copied and disseminated. Many people share pictures or other digital works on the web, etc., ignoring the context and verifiable sources that accompany the work. On the other hand, he criticized critics who deliberately neglected and downplayed cultural appropriations involving digital technology. He accused them of doing the same thing as those who did not ironically complain about corporate culture.

In combination with his point of view, it is said that many people on the Internet now use other people's works directly, and make secondary revisions, uploads and shares. This is inevitable to avoid a large proportion of cultural misappropriation. Therefore, on the issue of cultural appropriation, we cannot choose to ignore and dilute the problem because the produced works are not in the form of entities.

Khalilaba

As an artist, He expressed his attitude towards cultural appropriation in his own way. His work showed the innumerable nails around the word "philistine". On the one hand, if you call someone vulgar, you mean they don't care about or understand good art, music or literature, don't think they are important. On the other hand, you can use vulgarity to describe people or organizations that you think don't care about or understand the value of good art, music, or literature.

It is a pity that he did not explain his work in the form of words. I am not sure whether he is a person who is arbitrarily using cultural elements for creation or use, or who is too sensitive to the issue of cultural appropriation. I personally hope that his attitude is to criticize the issue of cultural appropriation, because art, literature and music are all part of culture. It is completely unintentional and spends time and energy to like or say that you can use it as you like. To understand them, this is actually a behavior that is not respected.

Sarah Shulman

He is a writer who teaches at a public university in New York and most of his students need financial aid. At the same time, he mentioned a report from the "New York Times", which reflects the gap in economic power generated by different sectors of the United States. He tried to describe his life to his students. Many students' stories depend on white people or rely on TV, comics or novels. The life described is not a real American life, or rather a life in their reality. They feel inferior because of their race, family background and economic strength, and are reluctant to accept this fact. He believes that the problem arises largely because the entertainment industry misrepresents the use of real culture and shapes the so-called "real Americans."

Therefore, cultural appropriation is not only limited to the traditional sense of culture, history and artistic relics, but also contains images, impressions and so on in real life. Just like in a Hollywood movie, the image of the Chinese is always out of no effort, buns, attire, cheongsam, and even they think Asians always highlight hair. The British are defined as hypocrisy but pretending to be gentlemen, always out of the image of a hat and a pipe. These stereotypes are more or less offensive and disrespectful, not to mention the fact that the United States has always been able to intervene in the political and social culture of other countries in the form of a power-holder, so when these so-called powerful citizens, enterprises and When the media involved cultural appropriation, people had to wonder if there was a strong person who bullied the weak.

BárbaraWagner and Benjamin de Burca

These two are artists from Brazil who have conducted a brief analysis of the current state of sculpture in Brazil. They talked about the original Brazilian government's introduction of relevant laws to constrain and protect works of art, especially sculptures. The first article mentions that if the sculpture works in a large public area, the sculpture must have a recognized artistic value. The second article stipulates the materials used and the originality of the required works, and the single artist can authorize the sculpture. Placed in the public area, the third is that the sculpture must be licensed before it can be placed in a large building. Attached to these laws, by the 1980s, most of the works of art were closely linked to the artist's own artistic values ​​and prestige. In the 1990s, because some private interests affected the law, a large number of works of art rely on intermediaries, seeking artistic value has become a pursuit of commercial value, too many sculptures can only be guarded by security guards.

So when people begin to chase business value too much, the so-called art works are no longer art, losing the deep meaning and artistic value behind the works. This is just as many fashion brands just take it for granted when they extract certain "natural elements" or some kind of "cultural elements". These works and products are just empty shells without souls, and they do not see their respect for art and culture.

Victor Ehikhamenor

He is not only an artist but also a writer. He believes that culture should influence each other and people should influence each other. However, when there is a power/institutional imbalance between the owner of a culture and those who infringe on culture for economic or other interests, this is an unnecessary cultural appropriation. He mentioned the traditional masks made by African artists, and you will feel uncomfortable when you see the British colonists seize these masks. And when modern European artists “recite” these African works, copying their forms and aesthetics, and making few changes, the inspiration for the so-called works is not separated from cultural appropriation. At the same time, he pointed out that he criticized an artist named Damien Hirst and his work Golden Head (female), 2017. There are too many artists like Damien Hirst, and their behavior will hinder the future of legitimate cultural communication.

I fully agree with Victor's point of view. In addition to the experience of being colonized by Britain and France, China has also experienced a brutal World War II. China has been plundered too many cultural relics, especially the Yuanmingyuan. Nowadays, many auctions in the world can be seen without a conscience to auction Chinese artifacts. In East Asian culture, Japan and South Korea have been influenced by Chinese culture in history, so today's three-nation culture is inevitably too similar in the eyes of Europeans and Americans. However, Japan is the aggressor of the Second World War. For the Chinese, foreigners are free to promote the Japanese samurai spirit or kimono culture into Chinese culture, which is extremely embarrassing to the Chinese. Of course, I don’t think Japanese people like their own culture to be described as Chinese culture by ignorant people. Therefore, when the media and the fashion circle use East Asian cultural elements only as a pattern or a special image, they are disrespectful behaviors for the people of East Asia. I think this is cultural appropriation.

Deboracas

She is an American artist and she says she believes in the basic principles of the First Amendment to the US Constitution. Freedom of speech is protected by law. But she mentioned a key question. What were the consequences of inappropriate, insensitive or offensive remarks in the Trump era? It is worth noting that the impact of suspicious speech can vary greatly depending on the audience being interviewed, the audience, and (most importantly) the speaker. Like the new US administration, the art market continues to relentlessly reject and devalue the voices of certain citizen groups (women, LGBTQA, Native Americans and people of color) to ensure that a small number of people (99.5% happen to be white males) Financial hegemony. In her work, she used misappropriation to question the power and value mechanisms in the post-war art asset class, as well as its official record - art history for centuries, when men portray women in a manner that discriminates against sex, there is almost no A voice of protest. When white males are culturally fit to come from less powerful classes, they face small setbacks. Sometimes they will do this, but then he will apologize and receive congratulations from the agency award. The issue of freedom of speech, cultural possession and representation remains a matter of privilege and power, and remains firmly in the hands of whites.

I think that the problem she raised is largely due to the capitalism of the United States. Capitalism itself will lead to an exaggerated gap between the rich and the poor. The difference in economic power will actually bring about human rights and discrimination. When the class is unbalanced, the so-called value is controlled by the upper class, and such value is already distorted.

Yoshua Okon

First of all, he questioned the issue of this interview. He believes that these problems often lead to censorship, rather than solving the problems they are trying to solve, but will make things worse. He believes that we should be connected and interdependent, and we need to find a solution together. If we want to solve the problems of exploitation, plagiarism, poverty and racism, then we should address them directly. Trying to determine who has the cultural or ethnic heritage to think from the perspective of racial or cultural purity, these absurd ideas are not only a waste of time for splitting rather than unity; they also lead us to a very dangerous path, possibly It will lead to more violence and alienation.

His ideas are very independent, and he directly denies the practice of clarifying the culture of each country. From the perspective of historical development, world culture has always been mutually influential, and in the subsequent frictional fusion, a new culture was born.

how they relate to my work & why they are relevant to my project.

Cultural appropriation has always been a sensitive and complex issue, and it often appears in the arts, advertising, fashion and media. Several artists have different opinions and opinions about the appropriation of culture in the art world. First of all, artists like Khalil Rabah and Damien Hirst, who call the critics of their works of art accused of cultural appropriation philistine, mean hey do not care about or understand good art, music, or literature, and do not think that they are important. People who are too sensitive. And, like Anna Chen, the BBC's editor, she argues that the online media, or netizens, are confused about cultural integration and appropriation. So she thinks in many cases, it's just when different cultures come together that they communicate and enrich each other. On the other hand, several authors and theorists are opposite to what they think. Victor Ehikhamenor believes that culture should interact with each other and that people should interact with each other. However, when there is a power/institution imbalance between the owner of a culture and those who infringe upon it for economic or other benefits, this is unnecessary cultural appropriation. Writer Coco Fusco says there are a lot of color artists and scholars who deliberately ignore these questions altogether. At the same time, she pointed out that as artists, how we borrow symbols from a variety of resources, if any, can rarely be dealt with in a profound way. When young artists learn how to create art, they do not have the opportunity to explore the political implications of their choices and references: keeping them ignorant is largely dangerous. Any commitment to a deeper understanding of the politics of cultural embezzlement needs to be changed. I agree with them very much that artists like Damien Hirst, whose behavior will hinder the future of legitimate cultural exchanges. Many fashion brands just take for granted the extraction of a "natural element" or a "cultural element" like these works and products are just soulless shell, do not see their respect for art and culture. Especially when Valentino used African prints in his collection, he rarely used black models, but boldly labeled his African-style clothes as "primitive" and "wild". This phenomenon is common in fashion. This is actually the prejudice and racism in colonial era, still lurking in the fashion world. In addition, a BBC report on misspelling reminds me that many people have tattooed foreign words on their bodies as designs, or improperly printed words on their clothes, producing sentences of unknown origin. This is actually the most easily neglected Cultural Representative Behavior in daily life. Therefore, the most appropriate angle of view for this display should consider both the smallest and the most reflective phenomena.