#Teen Screenwriting Classes

[lowrisemiller]

ᴄʜᴀʀɪᴛʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ

pedro pascal x younger!fem!reader one-shot

insta smau

or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.

masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx

You hadn’t even meant to enter.

Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.

“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

divider by @/cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @xodilfluvr @annulmaelae @millersdoll @inbred-eater @thezatannaprint @stvrl1ghtt123 @umadirectioner @aj0elap0l0gist @heather81 @subconsciouscollapse @catch1ngmoths @littlemillersbaby @lizziesfirstwife @amyispxnk

[cassiebones]

Please Chill

Please, I am begging you all to chill out. I'm speaking specifically to my wlw Agatha fans right now. Even more specifically to the ones who are angry that the last episode revolved around Teen/Billy.

He is a main fucking character. His backstory is important to the plot. We only get nine episodes in this series and the plot needs to move forward. We cannot do that without revealing who he is and what his motivations are, from a storytelling standpoint.

I studied creative writing in college. I worked really fucking hard to get into my program, too. I took classes on novel writing, mainly, but also in screenwriting and playwriting. I took classes on TV writing in the mid 2010's at a time where the trend was shifting to streaming services putting out entire fucking seasons at a time.

But I remember having to wait a week for an episode of a show I loved. I remember what happened to my favorite wlw characters. I remember being absolutely devastated by Lexa's death in The 100. I know you're scared of it happening again, but there is so much evidence on the contrary to prove that it's not going to happen here.

Firstly, I don't think for a second that some of the actresses who signed up for this would have done so if they thought they were going to pull the same shit. I don't think Jac or Kathryn or fucking Aubrey, who legit said that she signed up because it's a queer show, would do that.

But i don't know. Because the show isn't over. We have three episodes left over the next two weeks. I, like you all, am praying that they're not about to pull some bullshit, especially considering the majority of their current fanbase is comprised of queer people.

But you can't just call them lesbophobic because they focused on a canonically gay character rather than your favorite lesbian ship for one(1) episode. They have confirmed that Rio and Agatha are estranged exes. They showed us so much flirting and yearning and longing. From a storytelling standpoint, they are building that tension for a great payoff. Its's gonna happen. Please, just be patient.

I was upset, too. I did not want them to shift focus to Billy. When I saw that that was going to be the majority of the episode, I was upset. I made a couple posts about it. But I still watched and it was honestly a pretty good, important episode. And fucking funny as all hell. We truly saw the aftermath of Wanda's actions. Wanda, who wasn't trying to be malicious or harmful, but she still caused so much harm.

As much as I would have loved to see Rio, I understand why she wasn't in this episode just yet, but she'll likely be in the next one. It was probably only like 2 minutes after he threw them into the mud that Agatha crawled out. Also we see Lilia and Jen in future promos, so they'll be fine.

I predict that the next three episodes are going to be longer and more plot heavy moving forward. I really hope we see more of Agatha's delusions from the POV of Rio, because Kathryn Hahn and Aubrey are fucking hilarious and I know it's going to be just as funny as last night's Teen POV.

I want to see people theorizing about the next three episodes and what's going to happen and how they're going to rectify anything, but I'm seeing so many negative posts about why your favorite lesbians didn't kiss or fuck yet on this Disney show. Please, just be fucking patient. It's coming.

That being said, if I am wrong, I will be the first to admit it and be super salty about it. I hope I'm not, but who knows? I'm not going to make a snap decision either way. You shouldn't either.

[munamarvel14]

Okay, time for a proper intro post...

Hello. The name is Muna. She/Her. Proudly African. Lover of superheroes. I write in multiple genres but mainly in space scifi, high fantasy and superhero.

I'm a minor (highschool) so please don't interact me if your NSFW and want to discuss anything above PG-13. Plus no homophobes, racists, anything bias or just complete assholes.

And also book promotion blogs. Please I AM NOT INTERESTED!!!!

MY STORIES SO FAR

Every Dragon Has Its Day: Dauntless the Dragon, bored of routine, helps a young witch with her magic school homework.

Late Again, Mr. Jamieson: Set in a futuristic academy, a rebellious teen, late for another class, has a very interesting conversation with the school's AI system.

Enjoy The Show -- In a galaxy where Earth’s destruction is just another form of entertainment, an alien spectator finds his perfect evening interrupted by a defiant human determined to save his planet.

I'm also the admin for these communities:

The Superwriters of Tumblr --for superhero writers, artists and lovers

The Sci-Fi Society-- for all things science fiction!

Teens of the Screen-- for aspiring teen screenwriters, actors and theatre kids

Teenage Bookworms -- for...teenage bookworms

The Original Writers of Ao3 -- for those who write and post original work on a03

If your interested, don't hesitate to join! You're always welcome!

I think that's about it. Follow me and let's enjoy the ride!

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 有翡/Legend of Fei.

Legend of Fei is a 2020 adaptation of priest's webnovel Bandits that tells the story of a competent yet sheltered young swordswoman, the terrible gremlin boy who decides they're married now, and their various friends as they venture into the jianghu to acquire the legendary MacGuffin that will do ... uh, something, probably.

This show is a delight. It is pure goofy, tender-hearted sincerity. It has so many precious baby angels with adorably pinchable cheeks performing so many fetch quests in so many styrofoam dungeons. It is funny on purpose and funny on accident. It is 51 episodes of rollicking, slapdash, green-screened adventure.

I am trying real hard here not to bite on @agendratum's wonderful rec post for the series, which includes the words "discount word of honor with teens," a phrase that lives rent-free in my head. Go look at their work for a more detailed character guide. What I have here are a mere five reasons above and beyond said post that you should watch this darling little show.

1. All the production values of a sixth-grade class play

This show flopped pretty hard, and I can understand why. It was a highly anticipated drama with two big-name headliners. Fans expected a lot from it! And what they got is something that looks and feels like a mid-budget syndicated UPN show from 1993, complete with how all the high-schoolers are played by actors in their thirties.

This show is comically janky and earnest. Stunt people fall down before they're hit. Breakaway furniture abounds. Actors bounce gently off "stone" walls. Damn near everything was filmed on sound stages with greenscreens. (Filming ran from September 2019-January 2020, stopped for pandemic reasons, and finished March-April 2020. While this certainly is not the only cause of the show's jankiness, it definitely contributed.)

This it not a show with no money; this is a show with an appropriate amount of money spent poorly.

The flow and pacing of the story are as smooth as a car crash. So many times, a scene with Characters A and B will be happening, the show will cut (sharply) away to a different storyline, and by the time it jumps back, Character A is in a completely different location and Character B has departed. When did that happen? Why did that happen? Where are we now? No time to ask questions! Establishing shots are for weenies! This director knows filmmakers who maintain narrative continuity, and they're all cowards.

Speaking of the narrative: I've seen Saturday morning cartoons from the '80s with more depth. I would be hard-pressed to explain what exactly is happening that's driving the plot. There's big business with a deposed emperor and a forever war happening on some distant front and disgruntled veterans of the army that's fighting it ... but, like, it doesn't matter? All those machinations are barely relevant to the plot at hand, which can be summed up thus: Bad Guys want Thing, Good Guys go on adventures to stop them from getting Thing.

And I am listing all this messiness as a selling point -- as the show's primary selling point, in fact -- because I think it's all charming as heck. This show is plain, unpretentious fun. It's a downright romp! It's got a very teenager's-eye-view of the inscrutable situation driving the whole plot, which does a good job of drawing attention to how maaaaybe this whole situation is bullshit and the grownups should stop killing themselves and other people because of it.

Here's a good metric: If the Ye Olde Haixing parts of Guardian warmed your heart, you are in exactly the right frame of mind for this.

There's no way to tell how much of this campy, underfunded aesthetic was intentional, and how much was the result of both poor budgeting and way too many cooks in the production and screenwriting kitchens. I'm not going to say this was a labor of love, because it was at best a labor of like. Everybody onscreen is giving it their all, but no one's giving the same all as anyone else. Go into it expecting that and nothing more, and you'll have a great time.

2. Punching the Bechdel Test into next week

Are you someone who loves c-dramas, except for the part where you're like, gee, I sure wish there were some girls in this? Oh, my friend, there are so many girls in this.

I actually kept being stunned while watching it by just how many girls are in it. Old girls! Young girls! Evil girls! Nice girls! Rich girls! Poor girls! Strong girls! Weak girls! Just a whole lot of girls!

Truly, it's not just how many female characters there are, but the sheer variety of them. The main octet includes an awkward tomboy who can kick your ass, a spunky brat who's not above crocodile tears to get what she wants, and a soft femme who's a brave little toaster despite having zero martial arts skills. The show absolutely loves them all and thinks they've all got important things to contribute, no matter how hard they can or can't punch.

And that's before we get into how many female side characters there are, both heroes and villains. I've seen that some people hate on these side characters. Those people are wrong.

Maybe the best part is how much they interact. There are many scenes with multiple female characters in them, sometimes with male characters too, and sometimes just the girls. Because this is a jianghu story with martial artists, several of the female characters have unique skills that they pass on to other, younger female characters. Women are often the honored masters of things who have competent all-ladies support staff. And there's no sense that they wash out after a certain age -- even the grannies can still school you as needs be.

...Of course, the sad thing is, I'm touting all this ladyfolk representation when maybe 20% of the total listed cast is female (doing quick math from the MyDramaList cast page). Pound for pound, the Untamed's listed cast has a (slightly) greater female:male ratio, and nobody would call that a girl-forward show. It just makes a difference when what female characters you have, you push toward the front of the narrative and give them reasons to have relationships with one another, instead of making them occasional props in the background while real (read: male) people get to be people.

The entire reason the Bechdel-Wallace Test exists is not to praise or condemn any individual piece of media, but to comment on larger trends in the depiction of women in fiction. It's not a problem when one thing doesn't pass the test; it's a problem when nothing passes the test, or when the things that do pass skate by on single moments and technicalities. The more things that fail its three criteria, the more that indicates the prevalence of an attitude that regards women only as accessories to men's stories.

Legend of Fei is aware that not only do women have inner lives, but they relate to one another in very specific, culturally informed ways. The female characters in this are not just male characters with incidental she/her pronouns. Zhou Fei not only gets to be the protagonist who goes on the whole hero's journey of growth and change, but along the way she also gets to have some complicated interactions with her own gender and how much expected modes of femininity do and don't suit her. But it's also not because she's Not Like The Other Girls! It doesn't make her better or worse to be that way. It just makes her more like her mom -- and if there's one thing I know that makes a teenage girl break out into a cold sweat, it's the idea that she's anything like her mom.

This little drama is hardly some revolutionary piece of thought-provoking feminist insight, or anything like that. It's just that if you're feeling the lack of ladies in your c-dramas and wish to see girls on film (as it were), Legend of Fei may be what you're looking for!

3. Chaotic bisexual (asexual?) extravaganza!

priest's work is queer as fuck, and while this story itself does not rise to the level of being textually gay, there's still a great big rainbow flag flying over the whole business. You can rest assured that when two dudes or two ladies are giving one another meaningful looks, it is not an accident. We all know who's writing this.

Do you like relationship charts? Because I've got a doozy for you:

How many of these are me making jokes? Way fewer than you think.

There are of course some actual canon couples in there, and the amount of real estate they take up in the narrative means your affection for them will make or break your affection for the show. Fortunately, all the teen pairings are super-cute!

Zhou Fei embodies the bisexual stereotype of liking all the ladies and maybe one dude. Xie Yun falls so hard and fast for this beautiful butch-by-local-standards that his head spins. Together, they are the romantic backbone of the story, and they are just a treat.

I've seen people say these two have no chemistry, and I think that's bullshit, but okay, let's assume that's your read on it. You can still understand why they like one another, beyond your standard, he's a boy, she's a girl, what more do you want? Zhou Fei likes Xie Yun because he's funny, emotionally available, and socially unacceptable. Xie Yun likes Zhou Fei because she's fierce on the outside and warm on the inside. Sure, they're in love, but what's more important is that they're good partners and great friends.

(I think it helps that even though the characters are supposed to be around the same age, Zhao Yiling is literally a decade older than Yibito is, and he clearly thinks even off-camera that she's dreamy.)

Also, it's great when he helps her sheathe her sword. This is a couple that's going to take about three whole minutes to figure out pegging.

Li Sheng and Wu Chuchu are the normie couple. He is big strong boy-man! She is small helpless lady-girl! ...Except no, this is yet another case of a wife guy who thinks his girlfriend's strengths are awesome; it's just that in this case, her strengths are her brains.

The fact that her attack and defense scores are nearly zero does not keep Chuchu from being the most competent person in any given room. She starts out as the girl who's important because she's got an important dad and an important key item, but she winds up being basically Jianghu GameFAQs. She never stops being soft and pink and feminine and tender, and she never learns to fight worth a damn, and none of that keeps her from being a vital (if unfortunately kidnappable) part of the team!

Meanwhile, Li Sheng is never really a male chauvinist, because he's grown up under his aunt, who kicks so much ass. But he is a bit of a cocky teen-boy turdface who needs to get knocked down a few pegs. It's great, then, that the show pairs him with the kind of helpless femme that he's supposed to want, then has him decide the fact that she's miles smarter than he is is the best.

And then there's these dipshits.

Normally in c-dramas, I'm used to triangles that are a strong canonical line between the main guy and his girlfriend, a strong but unacknowledged line between the main guy and his best friend, and maybe a faint dotty wisp between the girlfriend and best friend. Not so here! Ying Hecong, Li Yang, and Yang Jin (L-R above) are a damn near equilateral triangle. I mean, okay, technically they're set up as a more conventional love triangle, where both boys like the same girl, and she does sort-of choose one of them in the end. But in that arrangement, you'd expect the boys to become rivals -- and they never are. In fact, they become special allies who trust and take care of one another more than they do anyone else.

They're a great weird trio. Ying Hecong is a poorly socialized weirdo whose special interests are poisons and befriending snakes. Yang Jin is the chief of Doctor Village, a position that he got not by being a doctor, but by being a dumb jock who didn't realize fast enough why nobody else wanted the job. And Li Yang is the spoiled little sister of Li Shen and cousin of Zhou Fei, prone to getting what she wants by pitching a damn fit about it, who has decided that both of these boys are hers now and she can do whatever she wants with them.

(Li Yan is actually the most Actually A Teen of all the characters, and is the one who makes me wish so much that more of the cast had been played by actual age-appropriate actors. Some character traits are adorably tolerable when someone's twelve and verge on really fucking annoying by the time that same person is twenty-five.)

If you are into OT3s where two partners have to join in solidarity with one another so they can survive their third, you've found your pot of gold. Each one of them is enough of a catastrophe that they need two whole love interests to manage them. Between the three of them, they almost make one well-functioning human being.

Now: A thing to note about all these relationships, and one thing that may be surprising to you about something adapted from a priest novel, is that this show is negative horny. All of the romance is extremely chaste. At no point does any grownup worry that leaving these teens alone with one another will lead to some hanky-panky. Nobody ever volunteers to chaperone, or seems to need one. The adults aren't particularly horny about one another either! This is the kind of universe where people blush while tenderly embracing, then go to pick their baby up from the local cabbage patch.

Even my jokes about Zhou Fei's fuckable grandpa are just jokes, because nobody actually wants to fuck him. They all want to duel him, or to fuss over his health, or to follow him around and bask in his nobility. He has two kids, but we never meet their mom(s?). He deflects the obvious interest of multiple beautiful women with ease. He is the perfect man, both fuckable and unfuckable at once.

This may be what's having people read the main pair as having no chemistry. They have a lot of chemistry! It's just not a particularly sexual chemistry. It's extremely tender and playful, and there's plenty of physical intimacy. But it's not horny.

And that's not on the two actors. I've seen both of them look at someone else like they wanted to eat that boy alive. That was a choice this show made, to play all the romance about as spicy as when the puppets on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood hold hands. The only hints of horniness are in the fighting/injured bits, because sex is a big no-no, but nice polite violence is always okay! (Hey, uh, culture? We need to have a talk about this.)

4. The Grownups

As you may have gathered, most of this show is about the younguns. But a great deal of the supporting weight is carried by characters who are supposed to be of their parents' generation (even if most of their actors are only a decade or so older than the "teens").

I cannot fully in this post detail my great affection for every adult character; I wouldn't have room for anything else. So here's my top-three shortlist of the most memorable old folks.

If you like your ladies badass and crazy, Duan Jiuniang is here for you. Her grip on reality is ... well, it's complicated, but it doesn't stop her from being able to roast you from the inside out with her special skill. She's a terrible teacher and an even worse step-grandma who's made a lot of life choices that weren't what she wanted, but were what she needed to do to survive. I have no idea where she got those hideous leggings, but I kind of want a pair. She doesn't stick around past her one arc, so enjoy her while you've got her.

Speaking of crazy, the Phoenix, Mu Xiaoqiao, is a beautiful, tragic, genderqueer, completely insane middle-aged drama queen with a pipa to play and an ax to grind. I would watch an entire hundred-episode drama just about his campy antics. Hands-down my favorite character in the show. I'm not even going to say anything more. This bitch must be experienced. Love you, baby.

This fucking DILF. Holy shit. Shen Tianshu has a chocolatey voice and the world's most inconvenient prosthetic hand. At first his facial hair seems excessive, but then you see him without it in flashbacks and you're like, no! put it back! put it back! Frankly, I'm glad for the tufty brows, because this man does so much eyebrow acting, and you wouldn't want to miss a sinister moment of it.

And he's not the only one! Every single villain is running with full Bad Guy From A Power Rangers Episode vibes. No piece of scenery remains unchewed. They're what make this whole thing feel like you're watching a stage play. Every arched brow, every expansive hand gesture, every maniacal laugh, all of it plays to the nonexistent back row. (In fact, one of them -- Eyepatch Guy -- was so over the top that we had to look up his whole deal. Shockers, he's got an opera background.) If you have affection for the points I discussed in selling point #1, you will have love extra for the adult antagonists.

If you've ever watched a show made for a young audience starring young actors, you know exactly the grownup vibe I'm talking about. No, real adults don't act like this. But these are not real adults -- they are adults seen through the lens of a YA narrative, where everyone has big emotions and ultimately pretty simple motivations. Violence is acceptable but sex is not, and sexualized violence is especially not. You can threaten the kids but you (mostly) can't kill them. Parents should be removed from the main storyline, by death if necessary (offscreen preferred). By the end of the story, all adults must defer to the wisdom and battle strategies of the kids or be ready to be taken down by them. The lessons of age and experience are ultimately only useful once handed to the next generation.

Which is fine! ...provided it's the vibe you're expecting. I'd put this as another item in the list of probable reasons that this show did not go over as well as it should have.

5. We use every part of the Wang Yibo

Okay, so if you're like me, your introduction to this beautiful man was the Untamed, where 95% of his job is to keep every one of his facial muscles from doing anything -- and, if you're like me, you then watched some Untamed behind-the-scenes stuff and went, holy shit, this boy can make expressions?

This boy can make so many expressions.

I'm not going to argue that Wang Yibo was necessarily miscast as Lan Wangji, because that's not a fight I'm interested in having with internet strangers. I do, however, think it's undeniable that the Untamed misused him by all but ignoring his two primary skills: his giant goofy smile, and his being a dancer.

Legend of Fei makes use of both of these to great effect. Xie Yun is a gremlin who can't fight but can dodge. The show loves to leave the camera on him and let him spin and duck his way out of battles with his own mischievous grace. Wang Yibo does a remarkable amount of his own flipping and fighting, with and without wires. In a world of stunt doubles and smash cuts, it's a delight to watch.

My favorite thing about Xie Yun is that he likes that girl so much. He looks at her like she's the best thing in the world. He is her biggest hype man. He's all wife guy. Every time she's stronger and butcher and meaner than he is, he's pulling out his pompoms and cheering her on. He is in no way emasculated by the fact that she kicks so much more ass than he does. He is actually her wife, and he knows it. Kick their asses, baby, he'll be your flower.

Wang Yibo sells that devotion with each look in her direction. He brings every piece of his inherent chaotic good energy to the role. He's a comedic scamp right up to the point where he rips your heart out. If you are at all a Yibito fan, you owe it to yourself to get this show in front of your eyeballs so you can see what trouble that precious baby boy has gotten himself into this time.

Bonus: Do you like Word of Honor? Because this is how you get Word of Honor.

So I'm betting a lot of you did what I did, which was that you watched Word of Honor, and you loved it, so you went to read the book, and you were like, the fuck? Because Faraway Wanderers is also great, but uh, after a certain point, they're two very different stories.

While I cannot prove this, I would place a large amount of money on the screenwriter for Word of Honor's having been very aware of this production while doing the adaptation. See, in case you haven't read it, Faraway Wanderers itself barely spends a page of time with anything outside of what the main dads-and-kids quintet is doing, which makes for a fun danmei webnovel, but doesn't translate so well to live-action. I am almost certain that in the same way that they used frog DNA in Jurassic Park to fill in the gaps in the dinosaurs' code, this screenwriter (who is a priest fan) used Bandits/Legend of Fei to build out Faraway Wanderers' moments into a whole drama.

The timeline goes like this:

June 2010: priest publishes Qi Ye

October 2010: priest publishes Faraway Wanderers

November 2015: priest publishes Bandits

September 2019: Legend of Fei starts filming

June 2020: Word of Honor starts filming

December 2020: Legend of Fei airs

February 2021: Word of Honor airs

So yeah, it's not like the Word of Honor screenwriter could have watched Legend of Fei prior to penning the Word of Honor script. But there's too many similarities to be coincidence. To be clear, I'm not accusing the Word of Honor screenwriter of ripping off Legend of Fei. Watching it is more like seeing bits of Word of Honor's first draft. The Color of Ocean and Heaven and its five tokens become the World's Armory and the Glazed Armor. Wu Chuchu becomes Gao Xiaolian. Mu Xiaoqiao becomes the drama version of Xie Wang. All the nonsense with Yu Wenzhi and the Demons becomes all the nonsense with Zhao Jing and the Scorpions. Someone with more time than I have could probably make a thorough accounting of the number of times scenes with Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu visually parallel moments Xie Yun and Zhou Fei have, and how often those scenes were in bits not related to the original Faraway Wanderers plot.

And I think this is great. It's why, even though a lot of Word of Honor was not in priest's original text, Word of Honor is still very priest-flavored. Frog DNA, you know?

All of which is to say: If you love Word of Honor, you owe it to yourself to watch Legend of Fei. It's much sillier and straighter, and it's way less sexually charged, but it's got a very similar vibe, and it's fascinating to see what the two have in common. Think of them as two distant cousins, where you're like, sure, I can definitely see how you're related, but ... huh.

Ready to embark on your journey?

So many options! It's on iQiyi (VIP), Viki, and YouTube.

We watched it on iQiyi, and the subtitles were ... well, they made some interesting choices. You could always tell what they meant, but the actual phrasing was often wonky. Occasionally, where you'd expect a "Dammit!" or "Crap!" these subtitles would have someone exclaim, "Screwed!" And we never stopped laughing about the poor villain whose name those subs rendered as "Pathetic Clam." I cannot tell you if the other subtitles are any more polished, but I can promise that the awkward translations just added to the charm.

Do I have a soft spot for well-meaning television that does not have the means to achieve its goals but tries anyway? You better believe it.

Just a pile of precious cutie pies.

[leighlew3]

Hello. I just started screenwriting. It was a bit difficult since all I've been writing was prose all my life but I got used to it in a bit once I finished watching all the Youtube tutorials and kept studying scripts, especially superhero ones since that's what I write. I started screenwriting because I realized I think more visually (especially with my ADHD) and I wasn't writing as much as I used to. Plus my writing style sucks. Peroid.

Can you share tips for beginner screenwriters? Like writing tv show and episodic stories if you can? It will be highly appreciated.

Also, how did you get into screenwriting?

Hi!

Welcome to the circus! We're all clowns here.

Nah, but real talk -- I'd be sure to check in on some free resources online that offer invaluable information and tips. Whether it's just random sites found via Google, or podcasts. Two of the only ones I personally really pay much attn to:

John August's Blog Scriptnotes Podcast (eps are free but there's Premium extras)

First things first, MY tip to you is to learn to love and embrace research. A huge part of the craft and job itself is researching. So if you learn to be good at it, even right off the bat in looking up tips on structure, formatting (Screenwriter's Bible is a great book for the technical basics), etc -- you'll be able to slowly learn the basics, and then how to evolve as a writer, and so on. Everything I ever knew of screenwriting before becoming a professional was self-taught, so don't think that one has to spend a fortune, take classes, etc to do this. If you have the determination, the drive, the work ethic, a smidgen of talent, and the delusion to not give up -- you never know how far you could actually go.

When it comes to the TV space, I will say it's... evolving. Drastically and quickly. 'Rules' and standards in the industry that were rules 20 years ago changed 10 years ago. And they're changing again now as we speak. That being said there's always going to be the core basics.

I think a good resource some for the basics at this point in time can be found here.

Beyond all that, a very helpful thing to do is to download and read as many scripts in the vein of what you hope to write as possible. Make a list of your favorite shows or ones in the genre and style and format you hope to work in -- and check around online. You're sure to find some pilots, maybe even some early pitches or show bibles for those series. Seeing how it's actually done on the page will always be the most valuable way of learning, above all else.

If you have more specific questions, I'm around and can try to help further. As for how I got into screenwriting? I realized very young I wanted to be involved in the industry in a creative capacity. I loved writing short stories and poetry as a kid and won some stuff in school but I never really thought about writing professionally. That being said, I was studying box office results like it was math homework and reading the trades while my friends were reading teen magazines on fashion and celeb couples, lol. At first I thought perhaps I would be a director since I'm a visual person, but then I wrote some fanfiction as a teen, and so many people would say "I wish you wrote for the show!" so I started to think maybe I could be a writer, but I didn't think I had my own stories to tell. And then... one day I did. I dove into some original ideas by thinking on what I wasn't seeing enough of from Hollywood (female lead action and thrillers, etc at the time) and off I went...

I've worked in the industry in other capacities (social media, PR, marketing, etc) from afar (in TX) for many years but eventually really started to do everything I could to pursue the true dream and be a writer. Alas, I wanted to make it on my own without asking for favors nor hookups. I would avoid what I did, if I were you -- GO AHEAD AND ASK FOR HELP. Don't be afraid to. I stupidly took longer than needed b/c I didn't want to be that person that asked for help or yet another friend of a celebrity who needed / wanted something from them. That was dumb. I could've saved myself years of struggling and hustling alone -- alas, lesson learned. 😂

Anyway, I eventually landed a rep via cold email queries. The guy was awful. I've since upgraded to much better reps and have a lot of exciting things happening. Slowly. The pandemic and strikes sidelined a lot and made projects that would've happened 5+ years ago only now start to really happen, but hey -- better late than never.

So yeah, just know that it's a really really REALLY hard time in the industry right now, and the TV space is being hit the hardest. That being said -- somebody still has to write for television. And there's no saying it can't be you, or anyone else reading this. If you can learn the basics of formatting and structure, hone your craft, find your VOICE as a writer, and work really really hard and be patient as hell... you never know what you can accomplish.

[clonerightsagenda]

#recently read October 2024

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle. When a screenwriter resists corporate pressure to kill off his gay leads, he starts being stalked by his own horror character creations. *Fun concept, very on the nose, also was convinced the boyfriend was going to be evil because he was Too Placid and Perfect but he was just like that. Shame.

Scholomance trilogy by Naomi Novik. El tries to survive a killer magic school while not turning into the dark sorceress she's prophesied to become. *Very readable, appreciate the interest in structural inequalities in access to education. Feel like it should be classed as YA though.

The Village Library Demon-Hunting Society by C M Waggoner. Small town librarian Sherry solves murders in her free time, until she begins to realize there's a greater force behind the high mortality rate in town. *Has fun prodding at cozy mystery tropes

Scarlett and Browne 1&2 by Jonathan Stroud. A post-apocalyptic UK Weird West setting following an outlaw and a teen who escaped from a facility for children with... unusual abilities.

Miserable showing this month, but I was very busy. Also I guess Scholomance is three books which would've padded this list out a lot. I am not writing a novel this November so maybe I will have time to read more.

[tawked]

Okay so I just hustled me up a poorly scanned PDF of the 1907 Library of Early Novelists reprint of the 1796 novel, "The Monk: A Romance," by Matthew Gregory Lewis, and sis

the introduction is the shadiest shit I have ever read in a work of classic literature, my lord.

It may be admitted at once that this erst belauded romance has little claim to perpetuation on its own merits. Only disappointment awaits anyone who has taken too seriously the praise bestowed by his contemporaries on Lewis [the author]'s supposed gifts of powerful and unearthly imagination, and has been deceived by the story of his sudden leap to fame ... into fancying The Monk in any way a great book. ... There is food for thought in the case of a man of mere average ability who, on the strength of one crude production written in his teens, was able to find publishers and a market for a miscellaneous series of works that would daunt the hardihood of the most indefatigable researcher to read now ... ... [Lewis was] born rich, he never had to face adversity in any shape, unless we except the differences between his father and mother, in which he took his mother's part, and had his pocket money reduced as a consequence. ... a good-natured, insignificant young man, who never made an enemy; a man who shone in private life, was kind to his slaves, and never had a brilliant idea in his life. ... One of the most superlative gifts of the literary mind is the faculty of reticence, the instinct that tells what to omit. Lewis' particular gift was the negation of reticence... ... An excellent example of Lewis' contrarious reading of the rules of good writing is [editor continues on to describe Lewis' other work, particularly alleging that Lewis' earlier success was down to shock comedy, something the editor does not like]. ...

like bitch free him, let him write about horny monks doin bad

The introduction continues on like this and is of some historical interest for how it (at points very uncharitably) discusses the late 1700s / early 1800s Gothic Romance genre from a very early 1900s smug prick perspective.

It's very booktok, very mid-2010s literature tumblr, very "I'm going to be a screenwriter" kid from that one compulsory creative writing class you had to do in university.

shoutout to "these early writers are all alike in the painful insipidity of their style."

E. A. B. is E. A. Baker. For a fun time go see if you can find his wikipedia page and then compare it to the length of Matthew Gregory Lewis', for full perspective on the disproportionality of this man's vent post lol.

Truly, one of the most fun literature hater essays I've ever come across and the fact that my man chose to do it in the introduction of a historical reprint is so much.

[dvrkacademics]

down  the  dim  hallway,  zora ellison steadies  PEYTON  CARTER  with  an  arm  around  their  waist  as  they  both  try  to  suppress  their  laughter.  everything  feels  funnier  than  it  should  at  this  hour,  the  exhaustion  and  alcohol  blurring  the  edges  of  the  night.

[  ruby cruz.  non-binary.  she/they.  muse thirty six.  ]  welcome  back  to  montclair  university,  peyton marie carter  !  according  to  your  student  file  you're  a  TWENTY FOUR year  old  JUNIOR,  studying  CREATIVE WRITING,  and  funny  enough  you  were  voted  most easy going your  senior  year  of  high  school  back  home  in  BOSTON, MA.  i  can  totally  see  it  with  your  extroverted,  independent and  hot-headed  personality  !  but  enough  about  that  —  i  heard  you  were  lizzie  harrington's  SECRET HOOKUP.  makes  sense  when  you  take  into  consideration  your  status  as  a  scholarship  student…  and  the  fact  that  you're  hiding  [ redacted ].  you're  often  seen  at  The Rialto Cinema,  and  you  kind  of  embody  scuffed up converse high tops that look to be moments away from falling off their feet, an old vhs player and tapes stacked in their dorm room, a carefree smile that puts anyone at ease, a five hour dnd session that goes deep into the early morning hours, and an extensive pokemon collection from their youth…  not  to  mention  people  always  seem  to  hum  end of the beginning by  djo when  you're  around,  but  you'll  always  be  known  on  campus  as  THE  PEACEKEEPER who  enjoys  board games and  has  384  of  instagram  followers…  good  luck  this  semester  !  [  brie.  32.  she/her.  cst.  none.  ]

BASICS

Name: Peyton Marie Carter

Nickname(s): Carter

Faceclaim: Ruby Cruz

Birth Date: December 10th

Zodiac: Sagittarius

Age: 24 years old

Gender, Pronouns: Non-binary, she/they

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual, homoromantic

Relationship Status: Single

Major: Creative Writing

Hometown: Boston, MA

Reference Characters: Stiles Stilinski (Teen Wolf)

HISTORY

one. some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouths and others a plastic spork that was stolen from the local food drive. peyton carter was the latter. for the first few years of peyton's life, their parents did everything they could to get by. her father, a sales man, did a pretty good job of working his way up the corporate ladder, until finally they were able to call themselves lower middle class. two. it was during middle school that the carter family broke. when peyton's older brother moved out after high school, her father and mother made the decision to separate. or well... her father made the decision by packing up his shit and leaving. it was rough, and in order to compartmentalize their feelings as well as take care of their mother who was not doing well, peyton turned to movies. action movies. romances. horror's were their favorites. anything that could give them an escape from the every day life. three. high school was when a teacher took notice of peyton's storytelling skills. a fictional essay meant to rethink the ending of some assigned reading drew eyes to peyton's ability to weave a plot and characters easily. but when you spend your whole life watching different stories play out, why would anyone be surprised by your imagination? four. after high school peyton took a few years off. even with their older brother sending home money to help support peyton and their mom, it wasn't enough. so peyton stepped up. got a job at the local movie theater and worked a few years to help make some extra income. when things finally seemed to settle, peyton applied to montclair. regardless of their late start, they were able to get a financial scholarship to the esteemed college. five. with every intention to major in creative writing, peyton is hopeful they'll become a successful screenwriter one day. but now that they've been in school for three years, peyton can't help but wonder if perhaps they'd rather be behind the camera directing instead of in the writers room. unsure if they can afford a change in major's, the only carter to ever attend college is willing to put that dream aside as long as it secures them a degree. TLDR: peyton carter doesn't come from money, and in order to escape the troubles of their every day life, disappeared into film. as they got older, their creative mind inspired and wowed those around them, and peyton realize their talent for storytelling. but with recently divorced parents and a mother unable to keep them above water, peyton took a few years off of college to work at the local movie theater and help their mom make ends meet. they are now at montclair as a scholarship student, and are wondering if it's possible to switch their major and still graduate on time.

CHARACTER TRAITS

positive: extroverted, intelligent & independent negative: impulsive, blunt & hot headed

HEADCANONS

Carter is a movie buff, specifically horror. Things like Rear Window, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Jaws are ones she'll watch frequently. But she also stands by the statement that Back to the Future was one of the best movies they’ve ever seen.

Carter is always recording things around them. They make sure to get the consent of those on film, but makes sure to always be ready to get anything on camera that inspires them.

Carter doesn’t talk about their life before montclair. The situation at home is not one that is fun to talk about so they let people around them jump to their own conclusions and doesn’t correct them, especially if people think the situation is better than it is. Sometimes living in a story is better than reality.

Carter is a huge believer in the supernatural. It started because her dad always watched the x files growing up, and it's hard not to completely buy into the unbelievable.

While Carter is pretty intelligent - they got by in school as a B student without having to study - they didn't seek out higher education immediately after graduating. Instead, they took a few years off, worked at a local movie theatre to raise some money.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

an ex they uhaulded with but things ended bc reasons and they're still... unreasonably close and on good terms? ya know that lesbian shit where everyone is friends with their exes

smoking buddy

someone who peyton either finds to be an asshole, or just a someone that could be a source of conflict

movie buddy - THEY SEE NEW MOVIES TOGETHER LIKE ONCE A WEEK AND HAVE OSCAR NIGHTS EVERY MARCH

a coworker

a gamer friend. LET THEM PLAY BG3 TOGETHER

CONNECTIONS

the secret hookup. lizzie harrington. {+/-}. peyton and lizzie hooked up once upon a time. it didn't mean anything. it was fun, and maybe happened once more after the fact. but that's all it was, a hook up. there weren't any feeling caught, at least not on peyton's side. however, lizzie fate was unexpected and has left peyton feeling uneasy at montclair.

the dealer. brody kingston. {+]. brody sells and peyton buys, simple as that. normally peyton would go to a dispensary for their weed but brody doesn't charge nearly as much, and honestly, is more enjoyable to be around during an exchange.

[msweebyness]

Theater Kid Families

These are the families for my theater kiddos! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002 Enjoy!

Missy:

Axel Rutherford

Raised Missy on his own since his wife died in childbirth

Swimming instructor

Missy's temper comes from him

They argue a lot, but love each other very much

Sees Ondine like another daughter

Jesse:

Imelda Ortega

Possibly the sweetest woman in the world

Except when you hurt her son, ask her ex-husband

Research botanist

Seeing a therapist to work through feelings from her marriage

Good friends with Fred Haprele, Jesse and Mylene ship them

Manolo Ortiz

Massive POS, physically and emotionally abusive

Reason Jesse is blind in one eye

Currently in prison, courtesy of the Tomassians

Involved in a bunch of shady business

Ayesha:

Megan Reynolds

Ray of sunshine gene comes from her

Certified life coach

Talks a bit louder than she needs to

Makes up cheers for household chores

Watches her daughter's cartoons in her free time

Kurt Reynolds

Yoga instructor

Super chill and positive

Serves as a grounding force for his wife and daughter

Likes to doodle with Ayesha

Dot:

Enid Waverly

Could be BFFs with Nathalie, tbh

Event coordinator for a big business

Bun life 24/7, not a hair out of place

Struggles with expressing emotions

Never without her tablet

Orenthal Waverly

Very no nonsense, but more chill than his wife

Prosecuting Attorney for a big law firm

Soft-spoken when not in the courtroom

Keeps fidgets on hand for his older daughter

Dolores Waverly

Much more scatterbrained than her little sister, Dot helps keep her on track

Seriously, would lose her head if it wasn't attached

Deals with some anxiety

Always has at least two books on hand

Petra:

Arlo Markov

Petra's Bio Dad, an old friend was their surrogate

Interior designer, owns a business

VERY energetic, how much coffee does he drink?!

Happy flaps when he's excited

Will smack a bitch for his kid

Dennis Windham

Dad #2, the bear of the group

Junior football coach

Very emotionally intelligent

Usually has his whistle

Preston Manheim

Dad #3, the voice of reason

Very prim, always uses proper grammar. High class boi

Loves him some argyle and tea

Soft-spoken, but people listen to him

Curator of an art gallery

Trent Knapp

Dad #4, the hippie dad

Plays the mandolin, writes songs for his partners

New Age Philosophy teacher

Speaks like a fortune cookie, tbh

Anais:

Olive Ackerman

Celebrated particle physicist

Expects nothing but absolute perfection from her child

Think of Nicole Watterson's parents and Ming Lee, combined

Refuses to believe she's doing anything wrong

Praise is very controlled and limited

Quentin Ackerman

Chemist, very respected in the field

Secretly feels they may be too hard on Anais

Too scared of his wife to say anything, tho

Tries his best to bond with Anais over their shared interests

Roxie:

Richard Richter

Manager of a music store

Gives guitar lessons on the weekends

Actually a pretty chill dude

Good friend of Anarka, they had a band as teens

Can think up lyrics on the spot

Rydel Richter

Contemporary piano teacher

Roxie gets their temper from her

Strong enough to throw a table if needed

HATES Roxie's ex with a burning passion

Mama Bear

Rover Richter

Curious about everything, always has to ask why

Wants to be a drummer, carries around sticks

Has trouble sitting still

Will kick Roxie's ex in the shins on sight

Anthony:

Sylvie Mathis

Diplomat from England

The epitome of a proper British lady

Very supportive of her son, he got her into punk rock

Adores Jesse like her own son

Can play a mean game of foosball

Bradley Mathis

Diplomat from England

A bit more laidback than his wife

MEGA Cockney accent

Knows everything about the Beatles

Makes the best tea ever

Eri:

Hiroshi Tanaka

Screenwriter for an Indie studio

HUGE nerd but also really cool

Has never missed a play by his daughter or wife

Trivia champ, could rival Max

Sasami Tanaka

Celebrated stage actress, has done 215 (and counting) productions throughout her life

Every bit as dramatic as her daughter

Loves to quote plays in everyday life

Dresses to impress, always

Ryuji Tanaka

Eri's twin, just as goth but more subdued

Cosmetology student, attends a different school

Talks with his sister every day

Snark besties with Anthony

Candace:

Laurent Fletcher

Antique dealer, owns several successful branches and establishments

Charmingly British and a bit awkward

Has ridiculously high patience

Loves Candace as much as his bio sons

Sandra Fletcher

Former top-selling musician, now owns her own restaurant

Might spoil her kids a bit

Cried with joy when Candace became head cheerleader

Attends every pep rally

Finnick Fletcher

Ten-year old mechanical genius, looks up to Max

Always needs to have something to do, has ADHD

Always trying to help his stepsister, doesn't always succeed

Very close with his brother

Ferdinand "Ferdie" Fletcher

Rarely ever speaks, and only to his family

Knows FSL and ASL

Artsy kid, always drawing on something

Actually really smart

Soo-Yeon:

Eun-Jeong Park

Professional restorator, has a meticulous eye for detail

Speaks when something needs to be said

INSANELY flexible for some reason

Helps his son practice on their hoop at home, he used to play in high school

Mi Cha Park

Every bit as clumsy as her son, seriously, babyproof that house

Stay-at-home mom who sells her handmade snowglobes on Etsy

Cheering the loudest for her son at his games

Can kick both her husband and son’s butts on the court

Margo:

Leif Jorgensen

Professional contractor

Very jovial and kind to everyone around him

Can have his head in the clouds sometimes

He TALL, but somehow not intimidating

Besties with his daughter

Dagny Jorgensen

Artisan woodcarver, owns a successful business

Loves doing DIY projects with her daughter

Slips into Norwegian when frustrated

Most down-to-earth of the family

Staci:

Bai Kwan

Staci gets her sass from him

Political commentator for TVi, cannot stand Alec. Hates Bourgeois too

It’s a game at the studio to try and get him to laugh

He only laughs or smiles around his family

Yumei Kwan

Owns a local cafe, the fave for quality Chinese food

Takes no one’s shit, but also super perky

A former cheer squad flyer who helps Staci work out

People wonder how they’re related sometimes

Parker:

Col. Levi Beauregard

Big, strong military man

Speaks in all the military jargon

Surprisingly warm with his kids

Does obstacle courses with Parker

Cissy Beauregard

Retired army nurse, now works at DuPont

Meticulously keeps medical records of all students

Rose sees her like an aunt of sorts

Still uses military jargon

Jack Beauregard

Going into the army after high school

Strained, but loving relationship with his younger sister

Very tall and buff

Always trying to impress his father

Taught Parker self-defense

Brecken:

Annie Sutcliffe

Adopts a crap ton of random animals

Owner of a local, accredited shelter

Soft-spoken. Except when animals or her kids are threatened

Queen of the flannels

Rachel Sutcliffe:

Southern Belle with a kickass edge

Pro kickboxing instructor, who slays in sundresses

Will deck you if you call her son stupid

Makes a mean sweet potato pie

Dana & Donna Sutcliffe:

Try to tell these two apart if you’re not their brother. Just try.

Starting at DuPont next year

Have both had crushes on Kim

Aspiring cook and artist

Do the synchronous talking thing

Evie:

Julio Balthazar

Independently successful mosaic artist

His in-laws warmed up to him over time

Proud of his talented kids and boss wife

Always has glass cuts on his hands, poor guy

Carolina Balthazar

Comes from an old Spanish family of wealth

Still the CFO of a Bigshot record company

May put a little too much pressure on her kids, but not maliciously

HATES the stuffy old heiress stereotype

Alma Balthazar

Talented classical musician

Feels like she’s always in Evie’s shadow

Can be a little snippy, but has a soft side

Weak for comedy films

Emilio Balthazar

Snarky and suave lil shit

Can impersonate anyone's voice

Huge prankster

Gets on Evie's nerves 24/7

Jorge Balthazar

The shyest kid you may ever meet

Speaks similarly to Juleka

Loves to put on little puppet shows

Fidgets with his hands a lot

Rosa Balthazar

Baby of the family, and she knows it

Loves to wear her princess dresses

Adores her oldest sister, wants to sing like Evie

May have a little puppy crush on Brecken

Aggie:

Rohan Findlay

Aggie's paternal uncle, gained custody when she was nine, because his brother is a drunk and his sister-in-law is negligent

Mechanic who co-owns a practice

Bought Aggie her first skateboard

Good friends with Aerinn O'Connor

Bit of a jokester

Mona:

Bindi Truffaut

A bit of a helicopter mom to Mona, kinda overprotective

Kindergarten teacher

Has a mild stutter

Will punt an ableist's ass

Darnell Truffaut

Guidance counselor at DuPont

The chill teacher dad, that you don't mind being there

Helps his wife give Mona some space

HATES Damocles with the fires of hell

Cares a LOT about the students

Eloise:

Roerva Matuidi

Teacher of psychology at an elite university

Tutors at a community center on the weekends

Academic mom, but a chill one

SO proud of her daughter's math prowess

Cannot stand Olive Ackerman

Chet Matuidi

Eloise's gaming buddy, has a streaming channel his sister guests on

Really good with lit, but struggles with math

Helps his sister with emotional expression

Has to be forced to sleep

Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[thefirstempress]

Prelude

Another more recent addition to my manuscript for The First Empress: Book I is the following Prelude by Zahnia, the Chronicler. Since I want readers to understand that Zahnia is going to be an important character in later stories, I decided to begin the story with an excerpt from one of her works. This is still kind of a rough draft, so any feedback is welcome!

Excerpted from Empress Viarraluca: Life of a Titan, by Zahnia, the Chonicler, Biographer for Empress Viarraluca I

Sometimes even the most competent rulers of the most powerful nations find themselves unable to stem the tide of change. Sometimes a potent enough ruler from a backwater polis can completely change the course of history. The conqueror of the Vestic Sea and surrounding lands, Empress Viarraluca I’s life and legacy have captivated the imaginations of nearly a hundred generations of scholars, playwrights, and later even novelists and screenwriters over the past 1,800 years. She was a skilled warrior and capable warlord, though not nearly the warmonger that certain later and contemporary critics would accuse her of being. Her prowess showed through during the Vedrian campaigns, the last Illaran War, the great sea-battle off the coast of Tutna, her defense of Kammaliya, and her invasion up the Arville River, cementing her reputation as a military leader. Even her defeats at the Siege of Valos and the Battle of Temetteni demonstrated her ability to recover from near-catastrophe and the value she placed on preserving the lives of her soldiers.

Even in her teens, Viarra cut a poignant contrast from the youthful heroes and heroines we’re used to in history and entertainment. Far from the baby-faced idealist we find in the later King Teucer the Great or the winning smile that the young Empress Larthia IV was famous for, Empress Viarra was huge and imposing even at sixteen or seventeen years. Rather than the brash optimism we see in sci-fi hoplite Lecnes Lightwielder, his mother and arch-nemesis the Black Myrmidon might be a better comparison. Viarra was terrifying when angry and not much less so when merely annoyed. She suffered fools only when they proved themselves useful, and she could be just as ruthless toward unreliable allies as she was toward her enemies.

And yet I’m not aware of a time during her reign where Viarra failed to remember that her subjects were the most important part of her job. She never built a palace to display her greatness or even a triumphal monument to celebrate her victories. Every building she commissioned, whether through tax money or spoils of conquest, was either a public building or public work. Throughout her empire, she commissioned schools and libraries to educate her citizenry, temples for her citizens to worship at, theaters for the latest plays, markets and emporiums for trade, housing for the lower classes, baths to help keep her people clean and healthy, sewers and other drainage to keep her poleis clean, wells and above-ground aqueducts for fresh water, stronger walls to protect vulnerable cities, and even harbors and bridges for improved travel. Had arched bridges and paved, deep-bed roads been invented in her time, I’ve no doubt Viarra would have launched a massive highway-building program, similar to that of co-empresses Velimnei and Seianti in the 230-60s AE.

The point being that Empress Viarraluca was far from what most people expected, both during her reign and after. Her political and geopolitical rivals, in particular, frequently made the mistake of assuming Viarra thought similarly to them—that she had similar goals and used similar tactics and methods of achieving those goals. The aristoi who conspired against her in 5 BE suffered worst from this lack of understanding, while Viarra’s more dangerous rivals like Queen Sita and Emperor Orvandius quickly realized that the standard geopolitical strategies would be worse than useless against her.

Viarra’s prowess in warfare, in the political arena, and even in the bedchambers with other women have all been thoroughly discussed and analyzed throughout history, but serious scholarship on who she was as a person has only been a major focus for a little over two decades. Everyone knows she led dozens of battles, executed or exiled plenty of corrupt aristoi, and shagged more queens and princesses than should be physically possible in a single lifetime. But who was Empress Viarra as a person? Was she a cat-person or a dog-person? Did she prefer tea or wine? What kind of plays and literature did she enjoy? Which charioteers did she cheer for at the hippodrome?

While these and similar questions have been discussed in other scholars’ research as well as my own, this text is my attempt to look comprehensively beyond Empress Viarraluca’s mighty accomplishments as empress and more closely at who she was as a human being. As well as being a scholarly account of Viarra’s personality and psychology, I hope Life of a Titan serves as an effective tribute to the incredible ruler who once took in this nine-year-old girl with a strange curse of eternal youth, starting me out as her personal chronicler and biographer. She turned my curse into a gift and granted me the chance to share that gift with the world.

[bungacow]

Tick Tick Tick: The Human Fear of Wasting Time

Right now as I'm typing this I am nineteen years old reaching the end of my teenage years and realizing that I spent the last seven years of my life in a very stereotypical way. Obsessing over boys. Even right now I'm sitting through an hour-and-a-half-long movie because Leigh Whannell is in it for about three seconds. As much as I'd like to say I regret the way I've continuously chosen to spend my time, I don't, not even a little bit, but as I near the dreaded label of "young adult" I wonder if I would have been better off with a more productive hobby.

The fear of wasting your life starts very early, maybe even the second you are born. I wouldn't be surprised if my very first thought was "Man, I wish I would've come out of there sooner, now I've gotta make up for those nine months of doing nothing with my life. How lazy of me.". I believe the real start of this fear is high school. When you take pubescent teenagers and tell them that they better do good in school now or it'll fuck them up for the rest of their lives. The words "Permanent record" illicit an incredibly strong fear response in teens and ex-teens.

I think telling children to figure out their entire life plan at the ripe age of fourteen is irresponsible. Ask any thirty-year-old on the street what their plans are even just for that afternoon and you'll soon realize how ridiculous it is to ask someone to plan a career for themself before they're even able to drive. I know I personally have gone through at least six different potential careers and still here I am working part-time at a retail store with nothing but a high school diploma.

That may be the worst part of it all, I'm only nineteen and it feels like my life is already getting away from me before I even get a chance to actually live it. Anyone over the age of thirty-five is audibly scoffing reading that and I have to admit it's dramatic and untrue but the fear is so ingrained in me that I can't see passed it. Realistically, I know that I've got an entire lifetime ahead of me and I'm only just starting, but when your entire life so far has only been nineteen years long...it's hard to see the big picture when you've only lived the little one.

I'm starting to make peace with the fact that I spent my teens writing fan fiction about hot guys and very little else. On the surface, it seems stupid to do nothing but fawn over forty-year-old men for months but if you look deeper than that I actually have a lot to show for it. With these obsessive crushes, I've gained knowledge and appreciation for a wide variety of subjects such as music, screenwriting, comedy, directing, acting, painting, and poetry.

Where you see a teenage girl with a photo of Gerard Way in her phone case, I see a teenage girl who was inspired to learn to play bass and write music of her own. Where you see a girl with a button of Rodrick Heffley on her bag, I see a girl who just discovered the wonders of DVD audio commentaries for the first time, a girl who just thought about film scoring in a way she didn't think to before, and a girl who just unknowingly developed an appreciation for guyliner.

So while maybe a little unconventional, my methods of navigating the world around me and learning more about the art that I one day hope to create myself have worked as well as any other. Sure, maybe I could've just taken a music appreciation class or sat through a screenwriting lecture, but it's much more fun this way.

Maybe I'll keep this up forever and be forty-eight crushing on a ninety-year-old who paints. All I know right now is I'm perfectly content with the idea of being permanently boy-crazy. Maybe I'll grow up one day and realize how little good centering my life around men has done for me, but for now, I will be sitting in front of my TV waiting for Leigh Whannell to come back on screen.

Anya out. xx

[the-monkey-ruler]

Into the Badlands (2015) 荒原

Director: David Dawkin Screenwriter: Alfred Goff / Miles Millar / Michael Jones-Morales Starring: Daniel Wu / Emily Beacham / Sarah Burger / Ola Brady / Marton Cocks / Aramis Knight / Madeline Mantock / Alan Holman / Stephen Lang / Morgan Benoit / Eddie Gaethje / Sam Medina / Shane Graham / Lance E. Nichols / Owen Hahn / Starlett· Miaglioni / Johns Myers Genre: Action / Adventure Official website: www.amctv.com/shows/into-the-badlands Country/Region of Production: United States Language: English Date: 2015-11-15 (USA) Number of seasons: 3 Number of episodes: 32 Single episode length: 60 minutes Also known as: Deep into the Badlands / 深入恶土 / Deserted Land / 荒芜之地 / Into the Dangerous Lands / 深入险地 / In Bad Lands / 穷山恶水 / American Version of Journey to the West / 美版西游记 / Badlands IMDb: tt3865236 Type: Reimanging

Summary:

Daniel Wu plays the motorcycle-riding Sun Wukong, a brave warrior named Sunny who escorts a young teen called M.K. with a heavy responsibility (Tang Monk) in search of the legendary Paradise. In a postapocalyptic world approximately 500 years in the future, war has left civilization in ruins. Some elements of technology, such as electricity and ground vehicles, have survived the apocalypse, but society now shuns firearms, leading to a reliance on melee weaponry and crossbows.

In a territory known as the Badlands, encompassing several states located between the Rocky Mountains and Mississippi River, a feudal society has developed to fill the power vacuum left by the war. Barons control land and monopolies over commodities like opium and fuel, trading amongst themselves to maintain the peace. Each baron is served by a massive workforce of slaves called cogs, as well as a prostitute class called dolls. A baron maintains power through an army of young men and women called clippers: highly trained and loyal warriors, clippers are forbidden from marrying and having children lest their loyalties be divided. Each clipper force is captained by a regent.

Several groups exist outside the strict hierarchy of the barons. Nomads are the most common, mostly lawless homicidal bandits who subsist on stealing from trade convoys between the baronies but some live in organized clans. The River King and his men control water trade in the Badlands and beyond, and is considered a neutral party in the barons' power struggles. An ascetic religious movement called the Totemists is also shown to exist on the fringes of society, living in isolated communities and practicing a form of idol worship. The Widow leads a revolutionary group of anti-feudal fighters from her late husband's barony; although nominally recognized as a baron by her peers, they do not respect her, and the contempt is mutual.

Little is known of the world beyond the Badlands, but it is implied that it is far less politically stable yet environmentally sound like the Badlands. The mythical utopian city of Azra is believed to exist outside the Badlands, but most dismiss it as a legend.

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Into_the_Badlands_(TV_series)

Link: N/A

[livtoseeabrightertomorrowarchive]

Ice breakers can be fun, as long as you make them that way!! You just have to keep it original and entertaining, I had my Intro to Screenwriting class do a sort of improv thing where I gave them the first line of a story and then next person added a sentence, and the next, etc etc, it was so fun!! I'm not sure it made any sense in the end, but that's half of the appeal right?? Like Mad Libs!!

Hi Amy!! Liv Washington, she/her, Film Studies and Screenwriting Professor. I have heard of the Duvals (former teen actor turned screenwriter here!!) but I never judge anyone based on their parents, I certainly wouldn't want any judging me based on my mom...

People don't like their college roommates?? That's so sad, I loved mine!! But it definitely does not feel like a lawyer problem if they do, I don't understand why anyone would think it was?? How weird... university canteen food does feel criminally bad sometimes tho, I can see wanting a lawyer to get involved with that, even if it isn't necessarily practical or reasonable

New school year means I'm incredibly busy, though I somehow had the time to make this page. Currently going through all of these posts and seeing that nearly everyone is introducing themselves. It feels almost juvenile, like we're in high school and doing an ice breaker where we have to tell each other something fun we did over summer break. Amy Duval. She/Her. Lawyer. And most importantly, mom to three perfect little cats. Perhaps you've heard my last names quite a few times (especially around Emmy season), though rest assured I am nothing like Elodie or Alexander. I'm much better, actually. I'm currently going through work e-mails before the new week starts, and I'm already quite done with these complaints. Part of my job is dealing with student complaints/grievances that they believe can be taken to a higher level. Students: not liking your roommate does not call for contacting a lawyer. Complaints and grievances are serious, such as your professor doing something illegal (not giving you the grade you deserve because of something personal, being an absolute creep, etc.) Do me a favor and do not send me you don't like what they've got for food either. Yes, I have gotten that a few times.

[metamorphosis-malkavian-blog]

My New Daddy Is A Mummy - EP. One - ACT 2 (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1392672058-my-new-daddy-is-a-mummy-ep-one-act-2?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=AloraAisling&wp_originator=Rmnx9dei2w5pADP0PDLP7HMPgRYPAAZ3XPSYj8z%2BzmZ6xIdRBr3Evp6JGD%2BuLGGFWv26CoszzUyBFVCZNBRufcDgfzgJU1eWIwLYj%2B1iycPw4zl8%2FtfVEu3oAGG7%2FufU Script for a screenwriting class :) Title: My new Daddy is a Mummy! Oh, because taking a trip with an ancient deity and discovering your royal lineage is just your everyday Pre-teen adventure. Join Cleo on this totally mundane, everyday magical journey through ancient Egypt, where she'll have tea with the god Anubis her new foster dad, learn to control her newly stolen powers from Set, and stumble upon the shocking revelation that she's descended from Cleopatra. Just your typical Tuesday, right?

[croquet-and-pate]

Heathers 30th Anniversary Vinyl — Inner Sleeve

This exclusive content is featured on the packaging of the limited edition Heathers soundtrack vinyl. The record’s inner sleeve includes rare commentary from composer David Newman on the film’s score. 

Transcript below

See more Heathers content here

High school in the 1980s meant big hair and even bigger shoulder pads, a decade of acid-washed jeans and Members Only jackets, side ponytails and scrunchies. At the movies, students were ordering pizza in class, looking pretty in pink, and getting into innocent mischief on their day-off. But by the end of the decade, the rate of teen suicides was on the rise, and teenage film comedies were ignoring the dark consequences that came from school’s atmosphere of bullying.

Until Heathers. 

Winona Ryder stars as Veronica Sawyer, a Heather-in-training in a cliquey trio of pretty, popular bitches, all named Heather. When the head Heather turns on her, Veronica sets out to get even, with a little help from the new hood in town, J.D. (Christian Slater). In screenwriter Daniel Waters’ scathing satire, parents ignore the warning signs and the media takes a noble view of teen tragedy, all while the body count rises. 

Waters said the idea was born out of his “warped fantasies” about girls during high school. “One weird hobby I had as a kid was that I used to read Seventeen magazine the way other kids would read comic books,” he told The New York Times. “I’ve always loved books about angsty young girls, girls who would write in their diaries and complain about life.” After reading Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, he thought it was “great stuff for a movie, the way girls maintain their own oppression. I was always fascinated that other girls are the ones who hate a fat girl, much more than guys do. It was something I’d always observed, and then to actually read it in this philosophy, I’m sure I’m the only person who ever read that book and said, ‘Hey, there’s money to be made.’”

Not surprisingly, Waters had trouble shopping around the script. “Some agents were appalled by it. They thought it would never get made.” The studios were wary as well. New World Pictures president Stephen White consulted with medical experts and researched the issue of teen suicide and violence before deciding to go ahead with the film. “Don’t think we weren’t worried,” White told the Los Angeles Times. “I did go the extra mile. Ultimately you have to make a judgment, but I don’t take it lightly.” 

“When we were trying to cast the movie, we found that certain people react very negatively to the attitude of the script,” director Michael Lehmann told The New York Times. “The mother of one teen actress we wanted told us the script was satanic, that we were the voice of evil.” “This isn’t a geeky girl getting revenge on the popular kids,” Waters explained. “Here’s the Albert Speer insider. She’s part of this Third Reich, so she has to work from the inside.”

“I remember wanting to kill some girls in high school,” Ryder said in the production notes, “but never would have dreamed of doing it. But it’s such a difficult time in a person’s life, and I think almost everyone has fantasies like that. Although the film is in exaggeration, the cliques and all the pranks in the film were like those I experienced in school. I think it’s the insecurity of students that prompts them to be cruel to others. The results can be humiliating and devastating if you’re not a member of one of the cliques — which I detested with a passion.”

The Village Voice called it “The Breakfast Club in Hell,” and the Chicago Tribune said it was “Bonnie and Clyde on angel dust.” The film opened in only 35 theaters and maxed out at 53 in the five weeks it played in theaters. But Variety was correct in its assessment — “Pic possesses the sort of edge and hipness about teen life that will make youthful audiences adopt it.” And adopt it they did. Certain snippets of dialogue like “What’s your damage, Heather?” and “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw” became popular catchphrases. 

While many critics appreciated the satire, the film saw its share of negativity, and the filmmakers were forced to do damage control. “People have argued that satirizing suicide is as bad as satirizing cancer or AIDS,” Waters explained to Newsday. “It’s different. No one wants AIDS, but for that one moment, suicide is desirable. I think the film makes a lot of jabs at the Phil Donahue way of romanticizing suicide.” He told the Los Angeles Times, “I know the film will offend a lot of people. But I hope it’s a healthy anger.” 

One person it did not anger was composer David Newman. “There’s something very theatrical and Greek tragedy about Heathers,” he said in our interview. “It’s a really wonderfully rich script. I don’t mean to be hyperbolic, but it’s kind of Shakespearean in what it wants to do. It’s all slang, so it’s not Shakespearean in that sense. But there’s a lot of music in the dialogue. There’s a concept that certain Shakespeare scholars teach, how Shakespeare uses the sound of the words to orchestrate his plays in a way. There are so many words that Shakespeare made up. I’m certainly no Shakespeare expert, but that was always a compelling notion to me, that dialogue could be music in a way. And if it’s really dense and thick it means that your music doesn’t want to do that. You want to stay away from that and be a little sparer, let the dialogue do some of the things music would normally do. But I don’t know that any of us really talked about all this back then.” 

The film’s meager $3 million budget meant an orchestra was out of the question. Newman composed the score using an 8-track tape recorder and a bank of keyboards, principally a Roland D-50 synthesizer. “I love gear,” he says. “I love buying electronics. I love computers. I would say I am a computer nerd. But I am not an engineer and I’m not a sample programmer. I’m actually not a programmer at all. I just hunt and peck for stuff.” Even though Newman had composed an all-electronic score for the 1987 low-budget fantasy/horror film My Demon Lover, he describes his Heathers setup as “very primitive. I didn’t have a lot of experience with it, but I had a full-time employee who did. So there was somebody there helping with all the technology, so I could do more of the music part of it.” 

“Certain things are thematic,” Newman explains, “but it was more a texture sort of sound score than a theme score. The first cue is the only thematic thing in the movie.” That thematic material, a series of arpeggiated fifths, was actually a standard patch on the Roland. “It sets the mood for the world because the sound is so weird.”

Textures include the quasi-Baroque organ for the funerals and finger snaps, like a demented take on the choreographed juvies in West Side Story. “The Heathers are kind of riffing all the time, and the finger snaps are like dancing through life,” Newman says. “They’re riffing because their dialogue is so beautiful and slangy and interesting. When I first saw the movie, I said, ‘God, what are they saying? It’s so interesting.’ I’d never heard anybody talk like that. Somebody probably did talk like that. It just wasn’t in my world.” 

The pulsing synth rhythms of certain source cues in the dorm and action cues in the forest plant their feet unapologetically in the electronic film music world of the decade. “It’s all very ’80s,” Newman says, “because it was the ’80s! There’s no getting around it. So we just embraced it.” The harmonica is the only acoustic instrument in the score. “I didn’t use the harmonica in a generic way per se. I used it more in a filmic way.” Whether conjuring images of the lone gunslinger or a number of classic other film tropes, the harmonica gives the characters a slight touch of warmth and humanity belied by the coldness of the electronics.

“Heathers is not for everyone,” said The Hartford Courant in its understatement of a review, yet its twisted morality tale still persists. In our post-Columbine/-Virginia Tech/-Sandy Hook world, school bullying teen suicide, and violence are unfortunately as timely as ever. The film was made into a 2014 musical that ran for four months Off-Broadway, and a new television reboot is set to premiere. But it is the original film that continues to resonate, thanks in no small part to David Newman’s musical contribution.

“The sparseness of the score, the spare production off it, enhances the movie,” Newman says. “It makes it seem dreamy and nightmarish at the same time. And it makes it seem very young, too. The score wasn’t necessarily intentionally under-produced. It’s just the way stuff was at that time with the amount of money I had, the amount of experience, and what equipment I had available to me. A lot of technology is what’s available to you, how good you are at using it or finding the people who are good at using it, and how well you can perform with it, along with what your music is and what the movie is. I like the music in Heathers. It’s not super-produced. It’s pretty raw. But in helping tell the story it was absolutely the right thing to do.”

How very... 

- Jim Lochner