#employment of adolescents

[yazzsquiz]

SURVEY

hey it would help me out so much if you guys filled out this quick survey for a CAFS assignment on adolescents and education, :) its anonymous so your responses wont be shown thru who you are <3. LINK - https://forms.gle/mkKmpUcPR8yABX7T7

[frappe-the-peppermint]

HI TEA 💥💥💥

Or Peppermint :]

HELLO SPY!!!!!!! 💥🎇🎇🎇

hmmm. all of the above works, but u can play around if u liek!!! pep, pepper, minty, mint, etc are all very fun!!!!!

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The Canadian Youth Commission, which owed its very creation in 1940 to the King government’s recognition of the Depression’s toll on the young, emphasized how the experience had imprinted this generation. Surveying youth organizations across the nation, the CYC

quickly discovered that no one under thirty remembered normal times. . . . So deep are the scars left upon Canadian youth from the Depression years that any of their discussions of postwar employment were prefaced . . . by reference back to what had been and what must never come again.

As one Quebec youth group submitted, unemployment caused more damage among young people than among adults:

It confuses them in a period of adaptation and development, undermines their confidence in life and can even destroy their latent possibilities.

The CYC’s final report on this topic, Youth and Jobs, urged national responsibility for full employment. The commission wanted to see programs for youth aged sixteen to twenty-one that offered paid work “of varied kinds” as well as physical, vocational and citizenship training, the latter to ensure “the experience of democratic living.” Remembering the Depression’s army-regulated work camps for single unemployed men, the majority of youth polled expressed their opposition to any idea of compulsory national service. Instead they called for “projects of general value” that offered “real wages,” including conservation; construction of rural schools, libraries, parks, shelters, and tennis courts; and a variety of possible services to public and private agencies. The “real objective” of the plan would be the development of “good citizens who would find a normal place for themselves in the life of the community.” Like their elders, the young adopted the language of citizenship and national welfare—a language that obviously held much resonance for Canadians of this time—to promote their generational ends.

By 1940, three broad youth-employment trends had become evident. First, not surprisingly, the wide-open field of unskilled and semi-skilled labour remained the predominant employer of the youngest among the under-twenties; second, white-collar vocations, represented by the clerical and professional occupations, did not recruit substantial numbers until the ages of seventeen or eighteen; third, the level “distinguished either by seniority and experience or extended education” recruited hardly at all before the age of twenty-one and often long after that age. Recruitment to the skilled trades among workers under twenty-one was relatively small-scale, although, as discussed, it had been showing some signs of growth before the crash of 1929. For urban youths, the largest occupational fields appeared to “wax and then wane” in rhythm with their stage of adolescence, some very early and others toward the end. The lowest service category, comprising store delivery boys, messengers, bellboys, and predominantly female domestic servants, lost members rapidly as early as the age of seventeen, a “mortality” that characterized the so-called blind-alley or stopgap occupation. While some young Canadians moved on of their own accord, with a “noticeable influx” to the intermediate manual groups at the ages of seventeen and eighteen, these were lines of work where younger employees were actually most in demand. By the age of seventeen, “boys’ rates” had to be raised, making it more profitable for employers to replace the maturing delivery boy from a younger and cheaper reserve. Likewise, the intermediate service sector, although open slightly longer, was fairly closed to persons over twenty-one years old. The largest category open to the under-twenties, therefore, was unskilled industrial work, mainly light factory jobs. Yet the ephemeral nature of work in this area is revealed in the fact that it also accounted for the largest number of the unemployed.

Published on the eve of World War II, Leonard Marsh’s employment study concluded on an ominous note where jobs for Canadian adolescents, most particularly future male breadwinners, were concerned:

The narrowing of opportunity on the very threshold of manhood thus backs up on itself . . . a large part of the fund of labour which in the ’teens may seem to have wide scope.

Some young workers might feel the pressure after their first job, at fifteen or sixteen; others experienced it at nineteen or twenty, when the supply of unskilled labour was enlarged by migrants from the farm and overseas, who tended to be somewhat older, and when learner posts were much harder to find, with most provinces adhering to an upper age limit of twenty-one years for formal apprenticeship. Young women encountered the restraining effects of market demand even sooner. The service category, already disproportionately composed of women, contained fewer eighteen and nineteen year olds than any other age, while the numbers of “light” factory workers among women also declined after the age of twenty. Marriage partly explains the decline, but age was also an important factor: there was more demand for younger girls in these areas, and younger girls—with little or no experience and consequently few alternatives—were also more likely to take up the jobs. Cheap female labour was typically a little younger than cheap male labour as a result. Sharing a common view, Marsh argued that young women’s own attitudes and ambitions most often shaped their prospects. He conceded, however, that modern industry’s growing dependence on young unskilled female labour, and the evidence of oversupply in white-collar fields, made it impossible to regard the problem of training and entry-level positions for youth “as only a male one.”

None of these findings about the youth labour market and the nature of employment during the interwar years is startling. By World War II, employment beyond the dead-end or blind-alley jobs was contingent on the education of the job-seeker—a fact underscored by the economic crisis just ending. Put simply, the steadier, better-paying, and more promising jobs accrued to the better-schooled—and therefore usually older—of the youth sector, especially among young men. The data call into question any notion of a “golden age” for unskilled youth employment that might have existed before schooling or specialized training, as well as maturity, were requisite. Gaining entry into the world of wage labour, especially for those who left school before age sixteen, was challenging simply because of their age. The majority of that group stepped into adulthood as cheap and dispensable labour. Nor was this simply an outcome of the Depression. Long-term structural changes in production meant that modern commerce and industry had fewer places than formerly for beginners, the vast majority of whom were under twenty. Many of the unskilled jobs customarily the lot of the young were now performed by machinery; many of the new jobs resulting from production changes required the skills, or at least the experience base, of older workers. In fact, reasoned the Canadian Youth Commission, in “a great majority” of cases, even when the work was classified “unskilled,” jobs called for “a certain physical and mental maturity” and “a degree of emotional stability” that Canadian youth, “from the very fact that they are young,” could not be expected to have. It was generally believed that, where under-eighteens were employed, “the usual experience” was higher costs to the employer because of age related higher accident rates, breakage and wastage, the extra supervision required, and the higher rates of turnover.

Technological advances had made increased training a prerequisite of employment. For many young Canadians, certain occupational paths were thus closed: their families lacked the means to provide for this training. This was especially the case in the category of white-collar and professional employment, the means of entrance into which were tightly class-, race-, and gender-delimit- ed as well as age-defined. The CYC’s 1943 national youth opinion survey showed that 40 per cent of young Canadians would enter the professions if they could, in stark contrast to the 5 to 6 per cent of high school students who actually went on to the university courses that the professions demanded—and the population of high school students, while steadily on the rise, still represented less than half of the public school population. Most commentators were agreed that education, including vocational guidance, was the solution. What was needed above all was “a detailed occupational outlook service for the whole school leaving population,” which would allow for “constructive and scientific planning for Canadian youth."

- Cynthia Comacchio, The Dominion of Youth: Adolescence and the Making of Modern Canada, 1920-1950. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2006. p. 154-156.

[slyandthefamilybook]

since we now know that all those "my blog is safe for Jewish people" posts are bullshit, here are some Jewish organizations you can donate to if you actually want to prove you support Jews. put up or shut up

FIGHTING HUNGER

Masbia - Kosher soup kitchens in New York

MAZON - Practices and promotes a multifaceted approach to hunger relief, recognizing the importance of responding to hungry peoples' immediate need for nutrition and sustenance while also working to advance long-term solutions

Tomchei Shabbos - Provides food and other supplies so that poor Jews can celebrate the Sabbath and the Jewish holidays

FINANCIAL AID

Ahavas Yisrael - Providing aid for low-income Jews in Baltimore

Hebrew Free Loan Society - Provides interest-free loans to low-income Jews in New York and more

GLOBAL AID

American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee - Offers aid to Jewish populations in Central and Eastern Europe as well as in the Middle East through a network of social and community assistance programs. In addition, the JDC contributes millions of dollars in disaster relief and development assistance to non-Jewish communities

American Jewish World Service - Fighting poverty and advancing human rights around the world

Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society - Providing aid to immigrants and refugees around the world

Jewish World Watch - Dedicated to fighting genocides around the world

MEDICAL AID

Sharsheret - Support for cancer patients, especially breast cancer

SOCIAL SERVICES

The Aleph Institute - Provides support and supplies for Jews in prison and their families, and helps Jewish convicts reintegrate into society

Bet Tzedek - Free legal services in LA

Bikur Cholim - Providing support including kosher food for Jews who have been hospitalized in the US, Australia, Canada, Brazil, and Israel

Blue Card Fund - Critical aid for holocaust survivors

Chai Lifeline - An org that's very close to my heart. They help families with members with disabilities in Baltimore

Chana - Support network for Jews in Baltimore facing domestic violence, sexual abuse, and elder abuse

Community Alliance for Jewish-Affiliated Cemetaries - Care of abandoned and at-risk Jewish cemetaries

Crown Heights Central Jewish Community Council - Provides services to community residents including assistance to the elderly, housing, employment and job training, youth services, and a food bank

Hands On Tzedakah - Supports essential safety-net programs addressing hunger, poverty, health care and disaster relief, as well as scholarship support to students in need

Hebrew Free Burial Association

Jewish Board of Family and Children's Services - Programs include early childhood and learning, children and adolescent services, mental health outpatient clinics for teenagers, people living with developmental disabilities, adults living with mental illness, domestic violence and preventive services, housing, Jewish community services, counseling, volunteering, and professional and leadership development

Jewish Caring Network - Providing aid for families facing serious illnesses

Jewish Family Service - Food security, housing stability, mental health counseling, aging care, employment support, refugee resettlement, chaplaincy, and disability services

Jewish Relief Agency - Serving low-income families in Philadelphia

Jewish Social Services Agency - Supporting people’s mental health, helping people with disabilities find meaningful jobs, caring for older adults so they can safely age at home, and offering dignity and comfort to hospice patients

Jewish Women's Foundation Metropolitan Chicago - Aiding Jewish women in Chicago

Metropolitan Council on Jewish Poverty - Crisis intervention and family violence services, housing development funds, food programs, career services, and home services

Misaskim - Jewish death and burial services

Our Place - Mentoring troubled Jewish adolescents and to bring awareness of substance abuse to teens and children

Tiferes Golda - Special education for Jewish girls in Baltimore

Yachad - Support for Jews with disabilities

[pastryfication]

rivalling teams | oscar piastri

a bit of a part one to this. thank u for the idea @insunia 🫶

pairing: oscar piastri x williams employee!reader

summary: the story of how it came to be that a member of logan’s team went on a date with a mclaren driver, and all the hardships you had to face because of your different team colours.

warnings: james vowles being a dick

working in formula 1 had always been your dream, and landing a job as a data analyst for the williams f1 team was that dream come true.

but the thrill of joining such a prestigious team was quickly ruined by the nervousness you felt as you stood outside of the doors on your first day. you were younger and less experienced than almost all other employees and you felt a sense of segregation as you first entered the team.

luckily for you, you were starting at the same time as logan sargeant; a young and talented driver who was also new to the team.

from your first day at williams, logan and you formed a quick bond. both of you were fresh out of adolescent, very ambitious, and more than eager to prove yourselves. the shared experience of being newcomers provided a foundation for a strong friendship and you often found yourselves working late into the night together, enjoying each others company immensely.

it happened one day, after a particularly grueling week, that logan invited you to join him for a casual dinner.

"you need a break," he had said, flashing his characteristic grin. "and i want you to meet an old friend of mine."

curious and eager for some downtime, you had agreed, and you soon found yourself following logan to a small, cozy restaurant.

the old friend he had wanted you to meet was oscar piastri, and you found yourself extremely grateful for logan when you realised that his fellow driver and longtime friend was charming, with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eye that made you feel at ease instantly.

the evening turned into night, and you found yourself drawn to oscar. while he had seemed closed of at first, you had soon realised that wasn’t really the case. the three of you talked for hours, and by the end of the night, oscar asked if he could see you again.

over the next few weeks, you and oscar started dating. he was thoughtful and kind, always making time for you despite his hectic schedule. your relationship blossomed quickly, and you cherished every moment together, even though you had to keep it discreet. you had no idea what the reactions of your employers would be, but you were both nervous to find out.

and find out you did, because the secrecy didn't last long. the williams team found out about your relationship, and the reaction was less than favorable. one afternoon, you were called into a meeting with your boss.

"we've heard about your relationship with oscar piastri," james began, his tone stern as he looked at you. "it's causing concern within the team. we need your full commitment here, without any distractions."

you felt your heart sink at the words. “my relationship isn’t affecting my job, i can assure you of that—“

“i’m not sure i can trust you to do your best for the team while being involved with a rivalling driver.” he interrupted you.

his tone made you feel like a misbehaved kid and you looked down to avoid his gaze. "are you asking me to choose between my job and my relationship?"

he nodded, his expression unyielding. "unfortunately yes, we are."

the news left you devastated and confused. you loved your job and had worked so hard to get there, but you also cherished your relationship with oscar. torn and unsure of what to do, you confided in logan later that day.

"this isn't fair," logan said, frustration evident in his voice. "why should you have to choose? they should be happy for you, not punishing you."

oscar was equally furious as soon as he heard about the situation. "they can't make you choose," he insisted. "we can make this work without affecting your job."

determined to support you and keep what felt like his only friend on the team, logan decided to take matters into his own hands. he arranged a meeting with the team management, his confidence unwavering.

"she’s a valuable asset to this team," logan argued passionately. "her work is impeccable, and she’s extremely committed—even with how negative everything seems right now. it’s not fair to ask her to choose between her job and her relationship."

his words seemed to surprisingly resonate with the management, who began to see the unfairness of their request, and after some deliberation, they agreed to let you stay, recognizing your contributions to the team and the dedication you had shown.

you had never been so grateful before, and the gratitude you showed logan almost made your boyfriend jealous. he couldn’t be though. not when he was just as thankful towards his american friend.

as your relationship continued to flourish, you and oscar found ways to navigate the challenges of your respective careers. sneaking away to see each other on the weekends and convincing the team to let you stay in his hotel room, you cherished every second you got together while still being careful to maintain professionalism at the track.

despite the continued subtlety of your relationship, he relentlessly supported you through the challenges of your job, always there to listen and offer advice, and you did the same for him. the bond you shared deepened, filled with late-night talks, shared dreams and a love that felt completely unshakable.

one evening, after a particularly grueling day, oscar takes you out for a quiet dinner. he holds your hand across the table, his eyes filled with warmth. “i’m proud of you,” he says softly. “for everything you’ve handled, for standing strong.”

you smile, squeezing his hand. “i couldn’t have done it without you.” thinking for a moment, you add: “or logan.”

oscar chuckles at your words. “yeah, he’s been quite amazing too.”

after dinner, you join logan for a movie night, a tradition that started when you first joined the team. as the movie plays, you sit nestled against oscar, logan on the other side of the couch. at one point, logan looks over, pretending to be annoyed.

“you know,” he says with mock exasperation, “i really don’t want to be the third wheel here.”

you laugh, reaching over to nudge him playfully. “sorry, logan. but you’re stuck with us. it’s your own fault, really.”

he grins, shaking his head. “yeah, yeah. just don’t get too cozy over there.”

as the movie continues, you feel a deep sense of contentment. despite the challenges, you’ve found a way to balance your job and your relationship with oscar, thanks to logan’s unwavering support and your own determination. the three of you have become a close-knit team, navigating the highs and lows of the racing world together.

in those quiet moments, surrounded by the people who mean the most to you, you realize that no matter what obstacles come your way, you’ll face them with courage and love. with oscar (and logan) by your side, you can conquer anything.

[justalittlesolarpunk]

A lot of people are radicalised by suffering, which is a valid and sadly all-too-common experience. But you wanna know what really radicalised me? Softness. Joy. Freedom. I spent so much of my adolescence deeply sad and uncomfortable in spaces that weren’t right for me, navigating a body that didn’t feel like home. Despite many many privileges, and lots of moments of genuine happiness, I often didn’t overall enjoy my life. But then I got gender-affirming surgery. I moved into my own modern, clean, comfortable flat in a friendly, walkable city full of nature and beautiful buildings. I started being able to take care of myself. I keyed into robust local social networks of people who shared my interests in nature, creativity and ameliorating the world. And I am deeply, thoroughly content. It has been incredibly radicalising to realise that, contrary to what I thought for so long, it is very easy for human beings to be happy if their material and emotional needs are fulfilled. So alongside my joy there’s this constant simmering rage. I deserve all the good things I have now, sure. But not any more or less than anyone else. The children being bombed deserve this too. So do the homeless people being moved on by police outside my local supermarket. So do the people starving in famines, imprisoned by immigration systems, brutalised by their employers, their families, the state. All I can do is fight for a world where everyone has these things. It’s a choice not to share them equitably.

[feminist-space]

Article by Fortesa Latifi:

"Being the child of an influencer, Vanessa tells me, was the equivalent of having a full-time job—and then some. She remembers late nights in which the family recorded and rerecorded videos until her mother considered them perfect and days when creating content for the blog stretched into her homeschooling time. If she expressed her unease, she was told the family needed her. “It was like after this next campaign, maybe we could have more time to relax. And then it would never happen,” she says. She was around 10 years old when she realized her life was different from that of other children. When she went to other kids’ houses, she was surprised by how they lived. “I felt strange that they didn’t have to work on social media or blog posts, or constantly pose for pictures or videos,” she says. “I realized they didn’t have to worry about their family's financial situation or contribute to it.”

Vanessa, who requested anonymity to speak freely about her family dynamics, says she helped create content for huge companies like Huggies and Hasbro when her mom landed endorsement deals. When she reached puberty and began menstruating, her mother had her do sponsored posts for sanitary pads. “It was so mortifying,” she says. “I just felt like I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.”

Being part of an influencer family changed everything about her life, Vanessa says. “Sometimes I didn’t know where the separation was between what was real and what was curated for social media.” And her mother’s online presence indelibly warped their relationship. “Being an influencer kid turned my relationship with my mom into more of an employer-employee relationship than a parent-child one,” she says. “Once you cross the line from being family to being coworkers, you can’t really go back.”

...

Khanbalinov has had zero new offers since he took his kids offline. “When we were showing our kids, brands were rolling in left and right—clothing companies, apps, paper towel companies, food brands. They all wanted us to work with them,” he says. “Once we stopped, we reached out to the brands we had lined up and 99 percent of them dropped out because they wanted kids to showcase their products. And I fought back, like, you guys are a paper towel company—why do you need a kid selling your stuff?”

The law has woefully lagged behind the culture here, but there’s signs that policymakers might finally be catching up. In 2023, in addition to Illinois, three other states—New York, Washington State, and New Jersey—proposed bills to protect influencer kids. Contrast that with the flurry of legislative activity in just the first two months of 2024. Seven more states—Maryland, Georgia, Ohio, Missouri, California, Arizona, Minnesota—have introduced similar legislation. Some of the bills are going one step further to protect the privacy of the kids featured in this content. In some states, proposed legislation would include a clause that borrows from a European legal doctrine known as the “right to be forgotten”—it would allow someone who was featured in content when they were a child to request that platforms permanently delete those posts. None of the current legislation introduced, however, would outright bar the practice of featuring minors in monetized content.

...

The movement on this issue was glacial for years, but it finally feels like the ice has thawed. Much of that progress is thanks to activists like Cam Barrett (she/they), a 25-year-old creator (@softscorpio) who uses TikTok to talk about her experience of being overshared in their childhood and adolescence. Barrett doesn’t go by her legal name anymore because of the online history it’s tied to. “I love my legal name,” Barrett tells me. “I just don’t love the digital footprint attached to it.” Last year, Barrett testified in front of the Washington State legislature as a proponent of a bill to protect influencer kids. This year, they testified again—this time, in front of the Maryland legislature.

“As a former content kid myself, I know what it’s like to grow up with a digital footprint I never asked for,” Barrett told the Maryland House of Delegates Economic Matters Committee in February. “As my mom posted to the world my first-ever menstrual cycle, as she posted to the world the intimate details about me being adopted, her platform grew and I had no say in what was posted.” And yet, Cam says her activism has been healing.

For Cam and other influencer children, getting a paycheck won’t give them back what they lost—a normal childhood unobstructed by the cameras pushed into their faces. But it could be the beginning of some version of restitution. “My friends say I’m fighting for little Cam,” she tells me. “It feels very healing because I didn’t have anyone to fight for me as a kid.”"

Read the full article here: https://www.cosmopolitan.com/lifestyle/a60125272/sharenting-parenting-influencer-cost-children/

[haggishlyhagging]

This introduction can serve as a working sheet for a beginning consciousness raising group.

The typical consciousness-raising group is composed of six to twelve women who meet on an average of once a week. Groups larger than ten or twelve are less conducive to lengthy personal discussion and analysis. The consciousness-raising process is one in which personal experiences, when shared, are recognized as a result not of an individual's idiosyncratic history and behavior, but of the system of sex-role stereotyping. That is, they are political, not personal, questions.

Generally consciousness-raising groups spend from three to six months talking about personal experiences and then analyzing those experiences in feminist terms. Thereafter they often begin working on specific projects including such activities as reading, analyzing and writing literature; abortion law repeal projects; setting up child care centers; organizing speak-outs (rape, motherhood, abortion, etc.) ; challenging sex discrimination in employment, education, etc.

The following is a list of topic areas generally discussed. Although listed by week, they are not in any particular order, nor is it necessary to rigidly adhere to a one-week/one-topic schedule. The questions are examples of the kinds of areas that can be explored.

Week 1 GENERAL: What are some of the things that got you interested in the women's movement?

Week 2 FAMILY: Discuss your parents and their relationship to you as a girl (daughter). Were you treated differently from brothers or friends who were boys?

Week 3 FAMILY: Discuss your relationships with women in your family.

Week 4 CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENCE: Problems of growing up as a girl. Did you have heroines or heros? Who were they? What were your favorite games? How did you feel about your body changing at puberty?

Week 5 MEN: Discuss your relationships with men-friends, lovers, bosses—as they evolved. Are there any recurring patterns?

Week 6 MARITAL STATUS: How do (or did) you feel about being single? Married? Divorced? What have been the pressures—family, social— on you?

Week 7 MOTHERHOOD: Did you consider having children a matter of choice? Discuss the social and personal pressures you may have felt to become a mother. What have been your experiences and thoughts regarding such issues as child care, contraception and abortion?

Week 8 SEX: Have you ever felt that men have pressured you into having sexual relationships? Have you ever lied about orgasm?

Week 9 SEX: Sex objects-When do you feel like one? Do you want to be beautiful? Do you ever feel invisible?

Week 10 WOMEN: Discuss your relationships with other women. For example, have you ever felt competitive with other women for men? Have you ever felt attracted to another woman?

Week 11 BEHAVIOR: What is a "nice girl"? Discuss the times you have been called selfish. Have you ever felt that you were expected to smile even when you didn't feel like it?

Week 12 AGE: How do you feel about getting old? Your mother getting old? What aspects of aging do you look forward to? Fear? Do you think it is a different problem for men and women?

Week 13 AMBITIONS: What would you most like to do in life? How does being a woman affect that?

Week 14 MOVEMENT ACTIVITY: What are some of the things you would like to see the women's movement accomplish?

-‘Consciousness Raising’ in Radical Feminism, Koedt et al (eds.)

[scotianostra]

On February 16th 1954 the writer Iain Banks was born in Dunfermline, Fife

Banks was a son of a professional ice skater and an Admiralty officer. He spent his early years in North Queensferry and later moved to Gourock because of his father’s work requirement. He received his early education from Gourock and Greenock High Schools and at the young age of eleven, he decided to pursue a career in writing. He penned his first novel, titled The Hungarian Lift-Jet, in his adolescence. He was then enrolled at the University of Stirling where he studied English, philosophy and psychology. During his freshman year, he wrote his second novel, TTR.

Subsequent to attaining his bachelor degree, Banks worked a succession of jobs that allowed him some free time to write. The assortment of employments supported him financially throughout his twenties. He even managed to travel through Europe, North America and Scandinavia during which he was employed as an analyzer for IBM, a technician and a costing clerk in a London law firm. At the age of thirty he finally had his big break as he published his debut novel, The Wasp Factory, in 1984, henceforth he embraced full-time writing. It is considered to be one of the most inspiring teenage novels. The instant success of the book restored his confidence as a writer and that’s when he took up science fiction writing.

In 1987, he published his first sci-fi novel, Consider Phlebas which is a space opera. The title is inspired by one of the lines in T.S Eliot’s classic poem, The Waste Land. The novel is set in a fictional interstellar anarchist-socialist utopian society, named the Culture. The focus of the book is the ongoing war between Culture and Idiran Empire which the author manifests through the microcosm conflicts. The protagonist, Bora Horza Gobuchul, unlike other stereotypical heroes is portrayed as a morally ambiguous individual, who appeals to the readers. Additionally, the grand scenery and use of variety of literary devices add up to the extremely well reception of the book. Its sequel, The Player of Games, came out the very next year which paved way for other seven volumes in The Culture series.

Besides the Culture series, Banks wrote several stand-alone novels. Some of them were adapted for television, radio and theatre. BBC television adapted his novel, The Crow Road (1992), and BBC Radio 4 broadcasted Espedair Street. The literary influences on his works include Isaac Asimov, Dan Simmons, Arthur C. Clarke, and M. John Harrison. He was featured in a television documentary, The Strange Worlds of Iain Banks South Bank Show, which discussed his literary writings. In 2003, he published a non-fiction book, Raw Spirit, which is a travelogue of Scotland. Banks last novel, titled The Quarry, appeared posthumously. He also penned a collection of poetry but could not publish it in his lifetime. It is expected to be released in 2015. He was awarded multitude of titles and accolades in honour of his contribution to literature. Some of these accolades include British Science Fiction Association Award, Arthur C. Clarke Award, Locus Poll Award, Prometheus Award and Hugo Award.

Iain Banks was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the gallbladder and died at the age of 59 in the summer of 2013.

[marisol-holme]

The retired good girls guide for writing

I haven’t always been able to understand myself. 

I never felt like I was able to clock pure basic needs. Couldn’t tell if I was hungry or thirsty. I finished my meals early, preferring to always feel full, in a silent critic of my mother and father’s controlling rule over my life. A few bites of fuck you always left on the plate. I liked to see how far I could push it. How little I could drink, sleep, or eat, and still function. A true desert island scenario would see me lasting years; I had inadvertently trained myself for it. Except my desert island was more devoid of emotional fulfilment and attention. 

I had to get creative. I developed some interesting tendencies, sure. But mostly I just wanted to escape. Now my parents never went out, and my internal world was already tumultuous at best, so I did what anyone would do and read. I read voraciously. The ability to turn off my hunger had seeped into all areas of my life. A fugue state dissociation through most of my early years through to adolescence. But I was able to come alive when I was reading. When I read, it was like my first breath. Hungry. I could imagine these worlds and built them up easily, colourfully within my mind’s eye. I'd picture the strong female characters that I admired. I’d taste food, hear music. It was the only time I was ever able to really live, before I had to go downstairs and pretend to eat.

Unwittingly, my upbringing fostered just the correct environment for me to develop a writer’s hunger. Because a writer is always a reader before they grow mad to write. I grew mad fast. I had to. I had to create worlds for me to escape into, away from all the shouting and fighting. Alchemise what I’d read into something new and original. It helped that I was an avid daydreamer, although a psychiatrist might call me a maladaptive daydreamer, but it only ever occurred to me when I was bored. Parallel to this, I grew into shame, so what I wrote I would throw away. I sadly have none of my early works. They are long decomposed into sub-atomic and absorbable waste, probably seeped into a water system somewhere and live inside all of you. Yuck. Not even my best work. 

Then I grew up and I had no dreams because I was not hungry. I hadn’t picked up a book in a long time. I dabbled with things that made me feel warm. Partying and shallow conversations. Grotty pubs and sticky clubs. Good friends made me feel a good kind of warm. But it took me a long time to find my way back to literature. Through a work stint as a Nursery Practitioner, I found my way back into writing. You see, at the nursery we had to send updates to parents all about what their children were getting up to. I enjoyed this task and wrote the children’s days like stories. Descriptive and alive. I’d got the bug and the bug had bit me. I didn’t last long once I had started writing again and I quickly found myself working at the Ideas Foundation. 

Through my new employer, I was encouraged to trial as much as possible to find out what I enjoyed doing. I was also very privileged to have access to several creative professionals who genuinely wanted to help and mentor those younger than them. Mentors can see all your ducks and help you to get them in a row. My ducks were all over the place and needed very graceful guidance. You push my ducks too much and, well, they explode. Poof!

Speaking to seasoned professional copywriters, I was able to glean their persistent journey into the profession. The confusion I once had around my goals has seemed to have dissipated. The ability to feel hungry for life and understand myself has only grown. My spark is back. 

The excitement and giddiness I feel when I think about myself as a writer is immense. The energy can fuel me for days. I look to the bottom left of my documents and the number of words that can pour out onto a page grows and grows with each project I set myself. The possibilities as a writer seem endless from this perspective. 

I understand that there is a lot more to these dreams that simple want. I must be focused. Persistent. Take up the offers of guidance from those around me. Accepting critic and moving towards goals. But the potential is there. I understand myself a little better. I value my work a little more. Hopefully, one day in the not-so-distant future a book of mine might get thrown away and end up decomposing in the damp soil into tiny fragments that find their way into us. At least that work will be better and born of something other than the child’s will to survive and create. That would make me feel okay. 

[afewfantasies]

🏔️The Retreat 🏔️- Chapter I

Prologue | Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Misc references & details

Summary:  Set after the events of the war Gale and Lorena are recovering from what they thought life would be and their new realities. Gale and Lorena were deeply in love with their respective significant others before the war, they had big dreams and grand plans for their futures together. Only it was not to be. Gale takes to a Lakeside retreat in the mountains away from city life when things with Marge don’t go as planned. After a hard breakup and subsequent divorce from her husband Lorena ends up at Gale’s retreat looking for work and a place to stay. This is an angsty fic that follows the themes of love, loss and recovering from trauma. 

Pairing: Gale Cleven x Lorena (black fem oc)

Warnings:  Race is a factor but there will be no overwhelmingly racist outbursts. It is more so a discovery element and explorations, different worlds, a little forbidden love element.

Chapter I - Retreat

*Three Months After Prologue*

The birds woke before everyone, even the sun on some days. Their cheerful chirping allows Lorena to watch the sun rise over the trees and above the mountain. It was a wonder how one day she was traveling scared, heartbroken and lost, then another she’d found this place. The expansiveness of the wilderness the antithesis of everything she had ever known. There was solace in that fact. She’d driven for days, but something stopped her from taking root in other places. There were little things that reminded her of home, of the loneliness and failure she now found as a single woman in a mans world. Families, children, schools, social settings and society life. It was all too raw still. She had never considered the mountains. Although she had enjoyed hotels and banquet halls in her adolescence, the lakeside retreat was the furthest thing from what she expected. A great stone building with many wings for the kind of people she’d never known in the city. It was the perfect place to get lost in, the great beyond was so expansive sometimes it would be impossible to find people even when you went looking. Showering she refreshes herself for the day applying perfumes and fluffing her hair. The prettier she could make herself the better the tips. Fully dressed and in uniform she heads downstairs to see her landlord and employer Gale Cleven. He sits in the same spot as always a man of routine, holding a coffee in his right hand and the paper in the left. Lorena smiles, in appreciation of her unlikely company. it wasn’t something she was conscious of but his routine and predictability brought her peace after years of uncertainty.

“Good morning” Gale says in his even tone.

“Good morning” Lorena responds.

Gale Cleven was her third stop. Unlike the others he was a soldier and his eyes weren't like a predator looking waiting to pick off easy prey. He was quiet and didn’t ask a lot of questions, seeming to want the same in return. It was a dream to Lorena who didn’t want to talk about the past. Thus far he always paid her fairly, and minded his own business. Where his wife was was the greatest mystery of all. Gale was a handsome man, blonde hair, blue eyes, muscular and rich from his lake house retreat. However, his reputation in town was less favourable. He was regarded as a seriously bitter man, who threatened to shoot trespassers and would employ all measures of diversion to maintain his property and the respect he said it deserved. There were scores of scorned women who’d lost their husbands and thus had been denied the passionate trysts they yearned for when they knocked at Gale’s door. He’d turned away more damsel’s than any other man could. He also seemed completely without vice. He ever smoked, never drank and only cursed on rare occasions. He also didn’t talk much to anyone unless something needed to be said. It had taken Lorena some time to get used to the silence and longer still to decide whether Gale liked her or not.

“You have the day off today” he said interrupting Lorenas first sip of tea. She raises a brow in question. “Bunch of rowdy ones arrived late last night - I don’t want any trouble”  Gale says plainly. In his experience men became worse in the presence of a beautiful woman, worse still when they had strong opinions and she was likely to deny their advances like Lorena. In just shy of three months Lorena had come to know no one was a better judge of character and behaviour than Gale.

“Okay” she nods applying jam to her toast. Unlike most men Gale didn’t have to love her to treat her well. She hadn’t arrived batting her long lashes or with a sob story, just well manicured fingernails that looked like they hadn’t done a days worth of honest work in their lives. He’d met his fare share of women from the city, it always took him no time to pick them out. But it was the pain in her eyes that he recognized first, it was the heartbreak that made him give her the job. Lucky for Lorena, Gale didn’t need to like a person to take care of them, he was a Major after all. The safeguarding of others was his forte.

“You have some mail” Gale mutters standing. He heads to a locked drawer pulling out three unopened letters. One is large, the other are undoubtedly personal letters. Gales eyes are attentive as always. Opening the first two Lorena shakes the letters and out fall two cheques. One from her father and the other from Reggie. Enough for her to survive for the next three months with frivolity and not a day of work.

He didn’t need to ask to know what happened to Lorena, he could see the heartbreak in her pretty brown eyes. Still, he respected his commitment to life more than he pitied the heartbreak that befell her. No matter how she sobbed some nights she always came downstairs ready to work without excuse. She had a thing for doing her hair like the starlets of the time. It was good for business to have someone as pretty as her working at his retreat. Service with a smile and surprisingly good conversation for a woman of her standing. She treated everyone equally well, learning about the local fishing from solo travellers and old men and even offering to be a beautician for women on their honeymoon. Her tips were handsome and Gale knew he’d never have another staff member like her. Even if his generous salary offer had been charity at first; she’d earned it. Clearly without needing to work to earn her stay. But he knew better than the most, the key to not being levelled by heartbreak is to keep busy.

“Your folks still worried?” He asks not wanting a search party at his door.

“My mother and sister want me home so I can be remarried” Lorena responds with a bitter smile after briefly looking over the letter.

“Is that such a bad idea?” Gale asks.

Lorena scoffs shaking her head at Gale as she folds the cheques putting them into her breast pocket. “It’s a terrible idea” she responds with folded arms. Her offence is clear.

“I didn’t mean to pry” he says meeting her scowl with surrender. He’d been fearless during the war but something about an angry woman always took him back. It was the only kind of battle he wished to retreat from.

“No you’re just trying to get rid of me” Lorena snaps throwing an accusatory gaze at him. He’d never met a women who could switch from sweet to fierce so quickly.

“I’m not gonna carry on with you Lorena” he warns putting some bass in his voice not wanting an argument. He takes a quick sip of his coffee before putting on his jacket and leaving the house to head into the main lodge. Signing deeply Lorena looks to the large envelope and tears it open to view the finalized divorce decree. Silent tears roll down her eyes. Heading upstairs she takes the safe she’d purchases and places the cheques and letters inside it with all the others. Sobbing silently Lorena loses track of time wallowing in self pity until she hears hooting and hollering from the unruly guests. Sitting in the bay window she watches them scamper around the grounds drunk already before they strip down and head into the lake.

She spends the day writing replies to letters from the past month to each of her parents, her older sister and finally the first since she’s left to Reggie. Looking down at the men returning before dusk she considers a dalliance with one of the young men. It’s been too long since she’s given into the needs of the flesh. So long since shed been desired, since she felt truly desirable, since she’d been held. Since she’d awaken to a strong warm body beside her. Even if it was only for a night perhaps it could do well to quell the loneliness. Twisting her wedding band around her finger, her commitment to Reggie is still too strong. He was who she had wanted then. No one but Reggie would do then and still now. Everyone always told her she was beautiful, men gave her longing looks since she’d began to mature but the words had been empty until Reggie gave them new life and meaning. She wanted to be all the things her friends wanted to be for their beaux’s for him and she was. No preparation was too slight for him to notice, even the change of rouge he saw and complimented. Reggie held his head high as they walked the town together. Everyone could tell it was real and everyone wanted what they had. The feeling was second to none and Lorena had wanted it for everyone too. If it hadn’t been so real perhaps she could go along with an advantageous marriage with an old man. If it wasn’t so real maybe she could stomach moving forward, moving on. If it wasn’t so real maybe she wouldn’t be thousands of miles away crying in her bedroom housed with a stranger.

Giving her wedding band a final twist she removes it placing it into the safe. Maybe the gold would be worth something some day if she fell on hard times. Wiping her tears she gets a tissue blowing her nose. She begins folding the paper placing them in envelopes and lighting candles as the last of the suns embers cast a fading glow on her bedroom. Another day wasted to tears. Putting on the record player only enhances her somber mood she sits folded in her chair with the curtains closed staring into space.

Gale holds the tray as he heads upstairs with hot food. He knocks twice with his elbow hearing the record playing. He’d left men alone all day only to find them no longer living. He’d lost his last man to sadness during the war. With no response he pushes the door open finding Lorena seated at her desk with teary eyes. There’s no judgement in his, he’d been where she was before. He swallows hard placing the tray down in front of her.

“You need to eat something” he says collecting the letters on the table in frnt of her.

Getting a whiff of dinner Lorena smiles wiping her eyes, “Kurt made me Italian style pasta?” She asks.

“Rose stopped by and made it” Gale responds uncovering the pasta dish.

Rose, the mother of his bartender an older woman with a sweet but no nonsense disposition is who he called when he deemed having Lorena working the lodge too much of a headache to him and the others who’d grown protective over the woman.

“She still here?” Lorena asks.

“No, it’s late.” Gale responds.

“Please give her my full days pay” Lorena says taking the fork up.

“I will” Gale responds watching her take a bite. “Do you need me to have these mailed?” He asks looking at the letters on her desk.

“Yes please” she sniffles. He notices the absence of her wedding band on her left hand and puts the letters in his back pocket. He steps back ready to leave without a goodbye. “Gale?” She calls.

“Yes?” He stops turning to face her, no judgement in his eyes.

“It’s just the war right? There’s nothing wrong with me? The war changes people right?” She asks breaking down again. Sighing he closes the distance between them pulling Lorena into an embrace. He’d held countless men during the war, broken men in their last moments wailing as he promised them it would be okay with a terrible pit in his stomach. This was somehow harder holding a woman who was not his and was in his care. Her ex-husband an enemy he couldn’t commit to killing for his slights because they’d fought on the same side of the war. Her sobs soak through his shirt and he strokes her hair whispering assurances to her. Lorena had never been prone to hysteria or sorrow. Her parents had raised her better than that. She was a woman of composure. She’d left her marriage without grandiose demonstrations of emotion and yet somehow with Gale she felt safe. In the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, without friends and slow to making conversations; Gale was as good as it gets for a secret keeper.

“Nothings wrong with you. It’s just the war doll, just the war” he repeats in affirmation. Only the war could make a man crazy enough to leave a good woman like Lorena.

_________

Authors Note:

Thanks for reading lovlies, the second chapter should be out soon. Don't forget to like and comment if you'd like me to continue with this story. 😊😘

[darkshelbyfiction]

The Price to Pay (Cillian Murphy Blurb)

Warning: Dubious Consent

When you arrived in New York, at the tender age of eighteen, you never thought that life could be so cruel. You had just completed your freshman year, and an internship at a top-notch talent agency seemed like the perfect opportunity to gain some real-world experience.

You were keen to get your foot in the door of the acting world, having a fondness for drama throughout your adolescence. Who knew that this internship would plunge you into the depths of a depraved, immoral world in which you were nothing more than a plaything for the rich and famous?

"You know how women in this business get ahead, don't you?" your employer , a sleazy, overweight man named Harold, leered at you during your first week at the agency. "It's all about who you know and what you're willing to do for them," he said, suggestively licking his lips and letting his eyes roam freely over your petite figure.

"I am not going to do this kind of thing. I never even had a boyfriend before. This is disgusting!" you told Harold, thinking that this would shut him up but, much to your surprise, a week later, he made you a proposal.

"I have a client who is rather famous . I think he could help boost your career. I just need a small favor in return," he said with a sly smile.

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as your gut twisted in dread.

"What kind of small favor?" you cautiously asked and Harold became rather direct. 

" Well, that client of mine has requested a meeting with you. Unfortunately, he cannot keep his hands off young, attractive girls like yourself and you are most certainly his type. And if you want to get anywhere in this industry, you need to play the game."

"So, you're offering me a choice between my integrity and my career aspirations? That's just great." You muttered, feeling a heavy weight settle in the pit of your stomach.

"Come on Y/N, all you need to do is spread your legs for two hours or so and let him stick  his prick inside you and then you'll be on your way to stardom," Harold said with a drunken grin.

You were disgusted at the thought, but you were also aware of your own naivety. You only had $100 in your bank account, and you couldn't afford to pay your rent or tuition. You knew that if you didn't take this job, you'd be back at square one.

"Okay , I'll do it," you said reluctantly, your voice barely above a whisper, causing Harold to grin triumphally before setting up the date.

"If you see Lisa, she will tell you what to expect. She slept with him a couple of times before to get parts in movies," Harold added and it was indeed what you did. 

Lisa was just one year older than you and had acted in several movies and Cillian was one of them. She too had sex with influential men to get ahead in her career. She looked young, but her eyes held a thousand stories you could never compete with, and you were grateful to have her guidance.

"He was the first guy I ever slept with. I had just turned 18. It was on his 46th birthday and Harold organised it," Lisa began, her voice barely above a whisper.

"And you never had sex before?" you asked Lisa , your voice wavering slightly as you struggled to process this new information.

She chuckled lightly and shook her head. "No, I was as nervous as you are and I think that is what gets him off the most. He likes being the first ," Lisa shared, her voice monotonous and distant. "I slept with him a few times, but the first time was the hardest. I remember staring at the ceiling, feeling his body on top of me and knowing that I could never get that moment back. I was vulnerable, and he knew it. I don't think I even uttered a sound, except for a slight whimper when he pushed in to me."

"God, the pain was unbearable," she continued, her voice low and filled with a heavy dose of shame. "I remember he came inside me, so much so that it ran down my legs and I was so sore the next day that I could barely walk when I auditioned for a show. But I kept my mouth shut," Lisa said, her voice trailing off. "I knew what I had to do to make it in this industry, and I was determined to do whatever it took."

The following day it was your turn to do whatever it took.

The door clicked shut as Harold left you alone in Cillian's luxurious penthouse suite after delivering you there and making the necessary introduction.

The silence was crushing as you took in your surroundings. Your pulse raced, your palms slick with sweat, as you nervously glanced about the elegantly decorated space. A beautifully carved wooden headboard, perfectly positioned to overlook the sparkling skyline, drew your attention, your heart sinking as you realized this is where the violating act would take place.

"Would you like a drink to calm your nerves?" Cillian asked you as you stood there trembeling  , staring at the plush carpet. His voice was smooth and silky, a complete contrast to the rough and raw pontential of what he was about to do to your young, innocent body.

"I-I don't know..." you stuttered, unsure of how to respond as he assessed you, his manhood already straining against the expensive fabric of his trousers.

The idea of a drink repulsed you, but the thought of being alone with him in such an exposed state made your stomach turn. Reluctantly, you nodded, and he waved a hand towards the ornate bar in the corner of the room.

As he poured out a glass of amber liquid, you tried to steady your shaking hands. Liquid courage, that's what you needed. You took a tentative sip and felt the burn of the alcohol course down your throat, warming your trembling body.

"Harold tells me that you just turned eighteen and looking to make a name for yourself in this industry," Cillian said smoothly, his eyes fixed on your slender frame.

You nodded slowly, wondering where this was heading. Your mind raced with questions, but your fear kept you silent.

"Well, if you are good girl for me , I can definitely help you with that," Cillian said, his voice dripping with lewd intentions as he guided you towards the bed .

Your mouth went dry as you tried to shake your head, to protest, but your voice was caught in your throat. You knew what was coming next, and you couldn't stomach it.

"I don't really want to do this ," you stammered, your voice trembling.

"I know, but think of all the opportunities this could bring you, " Cillian purred, inching closer to you before he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Come on, I will be gentle and promise it won't be that bad, " he whispered, nuzzling your neck.

"It's just, I never had sex before, " you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Even better, " Cillian murmured, his hand reaching up to cup your breast, giving it a squeeze through your dress. "This means that I get to pop that cherry of yours," he told you and you gasped as his other hand slid down your body, making its way beneath your dress.

He slipped his fingers beneath your panties, groaning as he felt your bald , shaved pussy. "Fuck, your hole is tiny," he growled, his fingers now tracing your slit.

"P-please don't do this," you stuttered, feeling tears spill from your eyes as a fresh wave of fear and resistance flooded through you.

"Sshhh, it's alright," he murmured, his mouth suddenly on yours again, kissing you hungrily as his fingers played with your labia. "I know you are scared, but just relax and let it happen."

His words were muffled as he spoke them around your lips and tongue, his fingers now dipping between your folds, exploring you gently and curiously, like a man trying something for the first time.

"Now why don't you take your clothes off for me," he murmured, as he pulled away from your mouth, his oceanic eyes meeting yours.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest and your hands trembling with fear and anxiety, but the threat of his looming presence, towering over you, made your compliance instinctive.

You undid the buttons of your shirt slowly, his gaze devouring your young body with each piece of clothing you shed and, eventually, all you were wearing was some white cotton panties featuring a small stain of blood from when he had fingered you.

It was that innocence that excited him the most.

"Such a good girl," he praised you, sliding his hand over your collarbone and down your chest. You quivered under his touch, wishing you could disappear. Your fear mingled with disgust as his finger traced the outline of your breast, lingering on your nipple, hardening it. "Harold wasn't wrong. You are a stunning little thing."

Your skin crawled at his words, but you remained frozen, submissive under his touch, too paralyzed with fear to fight back.

He undressed himself quickly, revealing his toned physique, exaggerated by the soft glow of the dimmed lights. He was completely naked now, and you gasped at the size of his manhood.

"Lie down, sweetie," he commanded, and you obeyed and, with a shivering body, laid down on the large bed while he stroked his cock provocatively.

'Spread your legs for me,' he ordered and with a deep breath, you obeyed. You heard him gasp at the sight of your pure, perfect body before him. He noticed your blood-stained panties and his chest heaved at the prospect of claiming your innocence.

"Ah, sweetie, I see your panties are stained from when I fingered that virgin hole of yours. Let's have a look at it, shall we?" he drawled as he reached for the hem of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. He paused for a second, marveling at your bare pussy, the folds pink and tight. "Perfect," he murmured as he spread your legs wider, exposing your bleeding slit to the cool air of the room.

He then ran his fingers over your blood soaked slit , causing you to whimper at the intrusive sensation.

"Such a tight little thing you are," he growled as he slipped a finger into your channel, pushing against the barrier of your virginity before pulling it out and wiping it on the sheets.

"It's going to be a snug fit ," he mused, admiring the sight of you lying there, exposed and vulnerable under his gaze. Your skin was flushed, your pulse quickened at his words. He was sizing you up, like a predator would its prey, and you couldn't help but feel like a lamb led to the slaughter.

"Well, let's see if we can stretch that hole a bit, shall we?" he smirked, climbing on top of you. His legs pinned yours down, spreading them wider apart.

The head of his thick cock nudged against your slick entrance, causing you to be startled by its girth and you squirmed under his weight, his hands gripping your hips fiercely, preventing you from moving.

"Wait," you whimpered, your voice trembling with uncertainty and fear. He looked down upon you, his piercing gaze holding your own. "Aren't you going to wear a condom?" you asked, swallowing hard and looking up at him with wide, scared eyes. 

"No, I want to feel you bare. It's so much better that way," he replied eagerly while running the head of his cock over your slit. 

"But, I'm not on birth control," you stammered, realizing how foolish it was to say such a thing at this point.

He smiled and braced his arms on either side of your head. "That's okay. I will give you the morning after pill when we are done," he whispered, before he began pushing the tip of his swollen cockhead against your entrance. The pressure of the head pressing against your innocence made you squirm and protest underneath him, but he didn't heed your pleas.

"Oh god, it hurts ," you cried out as he pushed in another inch, stretching your cherry to the brink.

"I know. It's alright . Just relax, baby," Cillian whispered soothingly, despite knowing that the pain was inevitable. "You are such a good girl for me," he told you , as he began pushing deeper, slowly and deliberately, tearing through the thin barrier of your innocence.

You couldn't help but let out a yelp, a combination of surprise, pain, and discomfort, as you lay there beneath him, legs trembling, hands fisted at your sides, nails digging into the luxurious sheets of the elegant suite. Your whole body tensed, tears streaming down your face, as he kept pushing forward until his entire length was buried deep inside of you, groaning out in pleasure.

"Fuck, you're so tight. I knew it was going to be good, but goddamn," Cillian muttered, starting to thrust in a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the feeling of your virginity tightly wrapped around his cock.

"Please...it hurts," you whimpered, trying to hold back the tears as you felt your body stretched and invaded beyond belief.

"Just relax and let me stretch you out," he grunted, slamming all the way inside of you, filling you up with his thick, swollen cock.

Your tight pussy burned with a throbbing sensation, your body still adjusting to the sheer size that was previously unknown to your innocent body.

Cillian smirked as he felt your virginity broken, your blood glazing the length of his shaft.  You cried out in pain, your fingers digging into the plush fabric of the bedsheets beneath you. He reveled in your discomfort, savoring the feeling of your tight pussy clenching around him as he thrust deeper into your young, innocent body.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he grunted, his hips driving into yours with a ferocity that made your breath catch in your throat.  "Look at me while I fuck you."

You yelped in pain, tears streaming down your cheeks as he mercilessly thrust himself into you, ripping through your innocence. Your young, untouched body screamed in protest, but Cillian showed no remorse.

"I am going to cum deep inside you," he growled, his hips slamming roughly against yours.

You felt disgusted, helpless as he ravaged your body, pushing himself to the hilt with each brutal thrust.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he buried himself deep inside of you. You whimpered softly, fighting the urge to cry as the pain intensified.

"Almost done , little one," Cillian grunted, breathing heavily as he slammed into you forcefully. With a final groan, he ejaculated, releasing himself deep inside your tight channel.

It felt like a burning hot poker stabbing you relentlessly, the sensation unbearable. The intimacy of his release within you made you shudder from its intensity. The aroma of his sweat hung heavy in the air, mingled with an undercurrent of blood - your blood, invading your innocence and leaving a trail of crimson on the creases of your thighs.

His grip on your wrists slackened, allowing you to wriggle free from his grasp and when he pulled out of you, you could feel his semen oozing out, coating your inner thighs in a slick, wet mess.

The pain radiated through your body with a vengeance, and you couldn't help but wince as you shifted on the bed, the sheets sticking to your damp skin.

"There are towels in the bathroom," Cillian said casually, gesturing towards the en-suite with a nod. "Clean yourself up."

A flush rose to your cheeks, as you looked away from him, the embarrassment lodging itself in your throat like a fist.

You had heard stories of young girls like yourself being taken advantage of in the entertainment industry, but you never thought it would happen to you. 

When you stood up quietly, you felt his cum leak out of your pussy, a mix of pain, discomfort and shame pulsing through your veins. Your muscles protested as you walked on shaky legs towards the en-suite bathroom. Once inside, you locked the door behind you, and stared at your reflection in the mirror. 

You cleaned up , using a warm washcloth to wipe the cum and bloodstains from your thighs, feeling the painful throb radiate from within and when you retreated from the bathroom, Cillian handed you a packet containing a single pill.

"Take this. It's the morning-after pill. Make sure to take it tonight. Filming starts tomorrow," Cillian said, his tone flat.

His words echoed in your ears as you took the pills from him, feeling numb with shock and disgust. You wanted to scream and shout, to tell him that he had no right to do this to you. But all you could manage was a weak "thank you" before turning away from him and gathering your things. 

[mistic-turtle]

*comes out of the sewers* I like to think that every version of the turtles are incarnations of the mirage turtles themselves. Let me explain.

The turtles in the 1987 version are cuddlier and cutter because the Mirage turtles would have liked to look friendlier.

The turtles of the 90s are the desire to have a sister like them, Venus de Milo.

The tortoises of 2003 are the lighter, most youthful form of themselves, though darker... It's got more action, in a nutshell.

The 2007 turtles are the Desire to have more independence and a life of my own outside of the team. Donnie wanted to experience employment in an area in which he is an expert. Rafa on being a hero freely. Mikey is about doing what he loves the most: entertaining others and what better way to make money than with that? Leo, on the other hand, wanted to experience himself, to be his own leader and responsibility, as well as to discover the world in which he is immersed and to discover his own moral compass without the presence of an authority making him understand what he is doing.

The Turtles of 2012 are the desire to be teenagers and united with each other, beyond being a team, but a family. To have that union of siblings and moments together.

The 2018 turtles are the desire of having a chill adolescence and freedom of be wild. Mainly, for Donnie who is not as introverted like his past life (2012 Donnie) and doesn't have a "Crush" on April. She's his best friend. Just that.

The Mutant Mayhem turtles are the desire of having a good ninja training but living a chill adolescence. Just being kids.

So in conclussion, Mutant Mayhem is important and special to the fans, because means the each version of the turtles' desire.

Just being a kid and enjoying life as one.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"By the 1930s, all provincial statutes stipulated that young persons were not to be employed in work where their health was “liable to be injured.” Such an imprecise directive, however, left great scope for interpretation and especially for neglect. None of the provincial factory laws required that industrial establishments be regularly inspected by physicians or medical officers of health.

The medical profession, despite its dominant role in the period’s campaigns to regulate child health and education, and despite its growing interest in adolescence, was decidedly vague about the relationships between health, class, age, and the nature of work:

The damage done to the child from excessive work may be difficult to detect until he has been engaged at it for a period of years.

Consistent with the larger “expert” discourse on adolescence, medical concerns that were explicitly tied to the life stage of these young workers referred to emotional or psychological more than to physical problems. Thus doctors worried about the “striking phenomenon” of youth’s “rebellion against authority,” a phenomenon otherwise regarded as “normal” among adolescents. For young workers, some contended,

monotony in this period of life will kill the best instincts of the future citizen, and very often leads to Bolshevistic tendencies, or some-times to the vicious characters so often encountered in city life.

Young workers might, moreover, embrace views “sufficiently warped to drag down hundreds or even thousands.” Where young women were concerned, doctors worried about the impact of fatigue and other work-related health threats on the fragile physical and nervous systems of this “delicate” group, considering that they might lead to “permanent derangement of health and difficulty in childbearing.” The “fundamental fact” determining women’s place in industry was simply that “nearly every woman is a potential mother.” Young working women were believed to be even more prone to all manner of “breakdowns” than were their more affluent sisters. Such concerns about the health of young workers and worker efficiency were closely connected, often masking anxieties about production with those about reproduction.

...much of the evidence about youth labour in the past is patchy, often anecdotal and autobiographical. A significant part of young people’s work defied easy measurement because of its marginality and even invisibility in the formal labour market. Yet there is enough evidence to sustain the notion of its persistence and its continued importance to families, and also to show that social convention and familial expectations upheld a certain filial duty in this regard, especially but not exclusively in immigrant households. One young woman who had left Naples for Montreal as a child was obliged to take on full-time factory labour at the age of thirteen:

This was hard work. I used to get up at five o’clock as it took an hour to reach work on the street car. We worked from 7 to 5 and though I was supposed to weigh macaroni in the boxes, I had to do much other work and this was very hard.

Despite the steady chorus of worries about child and youth labour, it was also the general wisdom that some sort of part-time, after-school, or weekend job would convey critical lessons in self-discipline, money management, thrift, and the importance of earning one’s keep through honest toil. Chatelaine magazine promoted sales by regularly exhorting its (largely female) readership to “help your boy or girl to help him or herself ” by “showing them” the opportunity to sell subscriptions door to door. Fathers were urged to “give your boy or girl an early start in training for business” in this manner.

A great many young adolescents held part-time jobs, a pattern that seems to have been the norm even in fairly well-off middle-class families during this period. For some families, of course, the need was entirely economic. A.W. Currie remembered the intensive labour that his part-time job—necessary support for his widowed mother in small-town Ontario in the 1920s—demanded of him:

My big break came when I was 15 for I got a job in the town’s largest grocery store after school on Saturdays and during the summer holidays. From some points of view it was hard work. . . . I had to help fill shelves from stock in the basement; put the proper weight of white or brown sugar, salt and such in bags for subsequent sale; do the same for anything from tumeric to prunes and coffee on customers’ order . . . , write out orders given by customers across the counter or over the telephone; remember the correct price of every article including what was on sale that weekend, for only a few prices were displayed within the store . . . , clean, get accustomed to wearing a long apron and “remain pleasant all day.”

Currie worked after school from four to six o’clock, Monday to Friday. On Saturdays he worked from six in the morning until eight in the evening— “at full clip” during the final four or five of these fourteen hours, in order to fill all orders before the store closed. For this he received four dollars per week and, during summer vacation, seven dollars for six full days’ work.

Opportunity for part-time work also reflected gender conventions that were often reinforced by the nature of the local economy. In the Cariboo-Chilcotin region of central interior British Columbia—the so-called hub of the Cariboo, with its important lumbering and service sectors—the nature of the local economy meant that few adolescent girls worked part-time while still in school during the 1940s and early 1950s. Boys, on the other hand, easily found “some kind of little job” in stores, garages, or with tradespeople. Parents in an affluent anglophone Montreal suburb in the 1950s agreed that their teenagers learned “proper” economic values through after-school jobs that would impress upon them the virtues of work and saving. As one mother described it,

I’ve always encouraged the boys to take any stray jobs—cutting the grass of neighbours, putting up storm windows, even baby-sitting. . . . It’s not the money. They should learn that you just don’t get money, you work for it. It develops a sense of responsibility.

Part-time work was the norm for adolescent boys in the community, and increasingly common for girls."

- Cynthia Comacchio, The Dominion of Youth: Adolescence and the Making of Modern Canada, 1920-1950. Waterloo: Wilfred Laurier University Press, 2006. p. 135-136.

[piggyinthesea]

Lest You Ache My Wrath| mv1

part one, part 2

wrd count: 3.1k

warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex, reunion of teen lovers, mention of std, restrained during sex, foreplay (f receiving), some angst, inappropriate language

~

The stars illuminated the night sky like the way she stood out from the rest. It’s terrible, he knows it, yet he’s forced to answer the knock on his window. She was daring, clearly adventurous the way she always climbed up the garage into his window - knowing she’s not allowed in his house.

“Max, I have to go. I don’t know when i’ll be back. I’m leaving the state tonight.”

“Don’t! Please. You can live with me, I’ll… ask dad.” He knows he won’t say yes, but he’s gone far too down the rabbit hole of love to let go of her.

“Our dreams will hold us together. We’ll meet again. I’m sure of it.”

-

-

Her mind formed an endless cycle of anxiety-inducing thoughts. It wasn’t easy building her life from the shambles her deadbeat father had left her in. Throughout her adolescent years, tears were shed and wiped from her soothing cheeks.

It wasn’t so terrible, often times she met kind souls who’d lent her a roof over her head along with kind commodities such as food and clean clothes. She was alone, most of the time, but within darkness, there was light that had a warm grip on her. She thought she’d never see him again.

Years passed since she left that particular area, and her mind formed a haze around the memories she had spent with him. Her mind began playing tricks on her, and after a while, she began thinking that those warm nights wrapped around him were just a hallucinogenic side effect that came from her traumatic experience.

Those memories, sadly, began to fade like froth on a window.

She began to live a relatively normal life once she reached her 20s. She didn’t live paycheck to paycheck anymore, not usually, at least. She finally had enough to buy her own car, a trophy she held dear to herself. It was a reminder of the overwhelming struggles she endured and surpassed. She had normal hobbies and purchased normal things, much like everyone else. It felt weird to her, knowing she could blend in with everyone else, despite having a not-so-common upbringing.

She worked as a journalist, with a modest brand, and served the entertainment genre. When her boss called her into their office unexpectedly, neurons began connecting and triggered a flurry of speculative thoughts- such as the act of termination. It wasn’t that at all, in fact, her position in the company had been moved from entertainment to sports journalism. It wasn’t a huge leap of a career path, but it led her to contemplate the sudden shift of promotion. If, you could even call it that.

She was quickly informed that the previous sports journalist had quit, seeking larger pay from a rival journaling company. It seemed similar enough to her previous work, but she opted to play it safe rather than being sorry and promptly piled up on information for her upcoming interview.

There was a lot of terminology she had not heard of before, which made her second-guess her qualifications for her interview, but a job was a job and if she had disguised herself to appear knowledgeable, she would.

It was unprofessional of her employer to send her off on a job that required a person well-informed in the motorsport “Formula One”. Nonetheless, she was there, with a tiny microphone clipped to her collared shirt and an iPad with suggested questions.

It was odd at first. Not because of the awkward nature of the beginnings of interviews but because of a certain familiarity she thought she felt when staring at the driver.

Unbeknownst to her, he felt the same. He chalked it up to the subtle undeniable attraction he must have felt toward the interviewer, but the longer he answered her questions in a haze, the more he felt connected to her. His mind wandered off, did he know her from somewhere? Thoughts flourished to endless possibilities until was abruptly snapped out of his trance.

“Kind of lost you for a second there, didn’t I?” Her charismatic voice easily ushered the awkwardness away.

He shyly laughed, “Sorry, I’ve just kind of been out of it. What was your question?”

The tension became increasingly clear throughout the interview. The questions seemed to never end, and that was okay because Max was focused on figuring out who exactly was sitting in front of him. Could it have just been a sense of faux deja vu that lingered in the back of his mind, or did he truly know this woman?

All thoughts perished as the interview reached the end. He met her eyes for what felt like the first time, and immediately he felt a magical stillness sweep all lingering sensations in its enchanting embrace.

A sense of realization dawned on him at that moment, and the memories of whispered promises came back, despite his previous failed attempts to have them buried and forgotten.

His mind can’t help the gravitational pull of the vivid memory stored at the back of his mind, aching to be released. An incandescent flash of light transports him to a younger version of his naive self.

Recounting it felt like a haze, but he vividly recalled the hypnotic pull of her eyes that had irresistibly drawn him toward her lips.

“I won’t ever forget you, schat. Even after many years, you’ll still be on my mind. Even if I lose my memories, the dreams I’ll have of you will always hold us together.” He said, his words floating through the air as he shed a small, barely recognizable, tear.

With that, he’s pulled back to reality, and he’s faced with a sudden endeavor. His PR manager calls him over, but he can’t help but ignore him while he searches for the woman who has miraculously disappeared instantly. He danced his way around the endless crowd of people that served no use to him. He sees her, finally, and rushes over.

Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she turns around, and though he has seen her before, he can't help but still be captivated by her eyes, even after all these years. He doesn’t know what to say at first, what could he have said?

Did she remember? Or was this all just a misunderstanding his mind despicably played against him? But alas, his worries are washed away when she initiates the conversation with alluring mannerisms.

Though her upbringing was anything but soft and sweet, she embraced kind gestures with ease. Almost doe-like, her head tilts as she coyly states, “Hey, I don’t wanna sound like a stalker, but uh, I think I know you.” She’s sweet, and though it probably shouldn’t have mattered, Max felt relieved she remembered him.

His breath hitches. He feels his body acting faster than his brain when he pulls her in for a warm hug. The truth is, she didn’t remember who he was exactly- until he welcomed her with a warm embrace.

“Max? It’s you.” Her brows furrowed while the gears in her head began turning. All those years believing the nights she spent with him were fake, only to turn out to be incredibly real, dawned on her.

He was quick to drop his celebration plans for her, insisting he fell ill to the challenging cold weather. It felt, different. In a way, it was strange talking to your high-school sweetheart but after a few words into the conversation, they effortlessly fell back into their close bond.

Later that day, they decided to meet at a small local cafe. The vibe set around it was homey, with the color palette of the restaurant being in neutral shades of brown.

“It’s so good seeing you, seriously. Like, where have you been?” Max starts off, enthusiastically as he skims through the menu.

She chuckles, “Where haven’t I been? But seriously, I’m glad you’re where you always wanted to be.”

“How are you? So much time has gone by, it feels unreal that I’m even seeing you again.”

Their conversation was cut short by one of the waitresses. After writing down their order, the waitress leaves and allows them back to their conversation.

“I’m doing great. I continued school, you know? Went to college, and got a degree in journalism. For a little while, I thought you were just something my mind made up to cope with everything going on. But, here we are.”

He grimaces, internally. He knew of the situation her younger self was in and even after all this time, he still felt a sense to shield her from everything; just like his younger self.

His coffee comes in, as well as her macchiato. The rising steam vanished, unveiling a delicate pattern in the milk atop her macchiato—a subtle and artful touch to the rich espresso. His coffee was plain black, a simple reminder of their opposite environments.

“That’s great, I’m really proud of how far you’ve come.” He offers genuinely, a sliver of longing evident in his eyes.

“Me? Look at where you’re at. You know, I only just learned this recently but, you’re a 3x world champion. That should overcome any achievement of mine.” Her words echoed a camaraderie feeling between the two.

“It’s not that impressive, but please, keep raising my self-esteem.” His words are filled with friendliness, adding a familiar touch of friendship to the air.

She smiles and sips on her macchiato as the two exchange subtle but longing looks.

Soon enough, their drinks are empty and though she strongly resists, Max pays their tab and follows her out the cafe door.

“What now?” She asks, not quite wanting the day to end.

“Well… I did just win a race today. I think I deserve a celebration. My hotel room has those mini shots we can drink if you’re up to it. Or has your alcohol tolerance dropped over the years.” The playful banter exudes a familiar memory between the two, from when they were young, dumb, and incredibly drunk.

“You’re on, tough guy.”

His hotel room was impeccably furnished, surpassing her expectations. The aura of luxury permeated the space, enhanced by the balcony's view as the sun dipped into a mesmerizing palette of red and orange hues. It seemed like second-hand nature for him as he shamelessly guided himself towards the stainless steel mini-fridge, grabbing as many tiny one-shot bottles of liquor.

“Like old times.” She said, eyes trailing the mix of alcohol as he dropped them on the king-sized bed.

He glances up at her, a devilish smirk smiling at her, “Bottoms up!”. The tiny plastic bottle handed to her was already opened, and she sniffed the substance suspiciously before downing the drink.

It stung as it ran down her throat, though she victoriously held her poker face. Max grimaced from the taste, just a bit, enough so that he wouldn’t be a victim of teasing. Realizing she was the only one standing, she found her place on the king-sized bed, unintentionally causing a rift of tension in the air due to the close proximity.

A few conversations and tiny bottles later, the two had sufficiently numbed themselves to the point of no return. To them, the room spanned around them as they laid still on the cushioned mattress. A variety of bottles had been littered across the floor, taunting them, as if they knew the pain they’d share the next morning.

“You, kn-know, I’m really glad I met you- again.” Max hiccuped between words.

Her body turned towards him, facing his enchanting eyes as she dwelled on the weight of his words. “I’m glad I met you too. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

A comforting silence swept between the two of them, and though he normally wouldn’t, the alcohol gave him a bold boost of confidence as he innocently laid his hand on her cheek. The confidence was limited, he hadn’t yet dared to close the gap between them.

She read the longing aura he produced, and reached over to him, pulling him into a magical sensation as the two shared a kiss. It was passionate, but as she started to pull away, he pulled her back into a more risqué kiss. She caught onto the newfound energy, equally kissing him back with the same intensity. His tongue lapped into her mouth, exploring a territory he once knew all too well.

Tension impossibly heightens as he pulls her well-matured body closer while his pants begin to ache with a well-known sensation. The air was charged with a blend of emotions – passion, longing, and a hint of uncertainty. The past once shrouded amid fading memories, now resurfaced with vivid clarity. It was as if time had folded upon itself, bringing them back to a moment that had never truly left their hearts. Yet, as the kiss deepened, there lingered an unspoken question - what would this unexpected reunion lead to?

The chemistry was undeniable and unparalleled to anything else they had felt, a force that could not be contained pulled them even closer. Her body laid dangerously on top of his, and his hand seemingly burnt through her skin as they traveled down her waist. The tent in his pants was inevitable, she was far too seductive to his body. Her crotch glazed his cloth erection, and as though a flip had switched in him, he flipped her over and predatorily stared into her eyes.

“I need you to say you want this.” It’s a demand. His voice is dark and unamused, leaving a sense of sexual frustration in her.

“Please, I’ve waited too long.” Her whiny voice is laughable, and she feels like a lamb sent to slaughter.

He lifts his shirt off with ease, subtly inviting her to do the same, which she instantly does. It’s a game of haste that the two play as they scramble to completely undress themselves. She was bare and vulnerable - her seamless underwear being the only fabric on her.

His large hands cup her plump breasts, gently toying with the bud of her nipple. She pulls in his head for a swift kiss, nearly knocking the air out of him. He grinds onto her, flexing his chiseled jawline, as he embodies his soul into the kiss. Like an action in a script, his hands pin her own above her head, pinning her down as his mouth littered markings on her chest. Her body submits and she absentmindedly arches her back at the aching sensation.

One of his hands daringly dips down the hem of her underwear, as the other firmly held her pinned, and began rubbing circular motions between her wet folds. Her breaths became ragged, and the moans that left her mouth were timid and frail. The trail of goosebumps on her skin was like scattered dots among her skin. He ignored his own aching shaft - but it was okay, her pleasure was his.

His fingers worked wonders - a clear reminder of the practice he received with other women. However, it was different for him this time. The blurred past between them intensified the chemical-induced reaction and it heavily surpassed the average sexual encounter with women he did not know. The room seemed to fade around her as his fingers continued drowning in her slick; furthering her desires and inducing whines and mutters.

“Don’t leave again.” His words are firm and demanding with a mixture of hurt and anger lingering in the air. His pathetic self was tarnished and replaced with an aggressive, winner, personality - a stark contrast to the whimsical boy of the past. His finger dips into her hole, leaving her breathless with no time to respond, and curls around her flesh walls. Bodily fluids gradually increase, shamelessly, coaxing his finger in her own lubricant.

He slides his finger in and out of her whilst keeping a steady grip on her hands. His personality in the bedroom has changed dramatically - thanks to the women that had come along with the fame. He’s learned his kinks, and he’s more than enthusiastic to show you his gradual improvement. In the past, though it was unspoken, he knew he lacked the dominance one might perceive him to have. He was a foolish lovesick boy who was quick to beg and whine for an ounce of her sexual energy - with no complaints from either person.

His aura radiated a dark red color, a symbol of his dominance, while he shamelessly dragged her underwear down to her mid-thighs as he propositioned himself along her entrance. He slides his tip in - a meek whine escapes his vocals and he does nothing to hide it. Their breaths, now synchronized, are ragged and heavy. Her body willingly accepts more of him, urging for his all - and it’s more than acceptable because his shaft twitches at the idea of the fact that she needs more of him.

Her hands attempt to free themselves from his grip, and it only tightens in retaliation; a fair reminder of the strength difference. He starts by slowly thrusting into her, unintentionally but undoubtedly, carrying the weight of mutual sexual desires. Gradually, the passionate thrusts are replaced by aggressive fast-paced ones. One of his hands snakes down to play with her aching bud, subconsciously flaunting his improvements. It was a goal to show her what the new him could do. He nearly pities her, for she met the untamed and mediocre him.

His pace is brutal and his thrusts become sloppy. His breath is heavy; the sweat dripping down his forehead does nothing to help the increasing heat. A knock on his door interrupts them - causing a momentary pause as they share a look. Max locks eyes with her, and his pace increases, earning a shocked glance.

“Max? I know you aren’t feeling all to well, but I thought you’d like me to…congratulate you after a win.” A female’s voice echoes through the door with a laughable attempt at sounding seductive. Like a deer caught in headlights, he falters in his pace, refusing to gain eye contact with the women under him. Her gaze is strong and dangerous - he feels it.

One question flowed through her brain - who the fuck was that? Begrudgingly, she gave into her high as her cosmic orgasm shook the bones of her skeletal system. He gained momentum as his pace quickened, mercilessly abusing her sensitive folds.

“Maxie, are you there?” The foreign woman only seemed to agitate the situation further, and as soon as Max’s current lover felt a gush of warm substance in her, she peeled herself off him, dripping in his semen. She reclothed herself in a way that made it clear she was upset. Clearly, he changed in all the wrong ways.

Panic furls through him - he was put in a terrible situation. Had god truly not been on his side that day?

In a hushed tone yet malice tone, she spat out, “Should I get tested?”

He was in nothing but his boxers- an evident difference between them. “No, don’t leave. Please, I swear if you give me a chance to explain you’ll understand.”

“Fuck you.”

[emilystheories]

ACOTAR if the books were written from Tamlin's perspective

Exploring the nuance that the fandom often overlooks.

The ACOTAR series is told in first-person perspective. Although this allows us insight into the inner workings of certain character's minds, it also means that these accounts can be biased, or lacking nuance. To this day, Tamlin's perspective has not been shared, and I want to attempt to do that.

Please note that although the books were predominately told from Feyre's viewpoint, it doesn't mean that her thoughts and feelings are invalid. I am also not condoning Tamlin's actions (explaining ≠ excusing). These are fictional books; breaking them down and considering different angles is of great merit - even if you don't personally agree.

The story of Tamlin; how it all started.

Tamlin grew up in an extremely violent and abusive household - the extent of which largely remains unknown to the readers. We do know that his parents did not love each other, and that his father and two older brothers were canonically worse than Lucien's (and we know how bad they are).

Tamlin's father was even friends with the King of Hybern and Amarantha; two of the most insidious individuals in Prythian. In fact, Tamlin's father would regularly drag him along to visit them. It was during these visits that Amarantha grew to desire Tamlin, presumably when he was still rather young.

Amarantha then continued to sexually harass Tamlin for centuries. As readers, we do not know exactly what Amarantha did to Tamlin during that time; he is yet to open up about it.

An unlikely ruler.

Tamlin never wanted to rule the Spring Court. He stated that if he did, his brothers would have killed him "before he could reach adolescence." As a result, his only choice was to join the brutality of the army.

Instead, what Tamlin actually wanted was to become a travelling musician, spending his days playing the fiddle.

However, when Tamlin's entire family was (justifiably) murdered by Rhys and his father, he was forced into the role of High Lord of the Spring Court. Unlike Rhys, Tamlin had no friends or Inner Circle to help him, or to offer him support.

Although Tamlin rightfully shares the blame in what happened to Rhys's family, we still never received his version of events. Many have theorised that Tamlin was tortured by his brothers and father for the information about Rhys's family (as at this point, Tamlin and Rhys were best friends); I believe this to be likely.

Whatever the circumstances, one thing was now clear - Tamlin was entirely alone.

A reign ravaged by Amarantha.

Despite the circumstances, Tamlin does his best to rule the Spring Court. Although he is still largely inexperienced, he is vigilant about not following in the footsteps of his abusive father and brothers.

However, his efforts are halted when Amarantha, the woman who has relentlessly sexually and romantically pursued him for years, curses his entire court, and turns his heart to stone. Tamlin is forced to watch all of his companions and court advisors either die, or suffer tremendously, as a result of the curse.

Despite this, Tamlin does what he can for his people - even those outside of his court; offering shelter and employment to countless refugees.

In fact, when one of Tamlin's civilians was killed by Amarantha, he carried the faerie in his arms and into the gardens. He then buried the faerie with his own hands; "a High Lord, digging a grave for a stranger."

Meeting Feyre; the beginning of the end.

By chance or fate, Tamlin met Feyre Archeron. She was the first person he had ever loved in 500 years - the only one to make him feel "less alone."

Tamlin brought Feyre's family out of poverty and healed her father's leg. He rebuilt the art gallery for her. He was the first person to recognise the sacrifices she had made for her family. Most of all, Tamlin fell in love with Feyre in her human form - exactly as she was, with no mating bond to biologically pull her to him.

Prior to the events of Under the Mountain, Tamlin tells Feyre that he is "not her jailor." He tells her that she doesn't need a "keeper," as he kneels before her, and dedicates a song on his fiddle to her.

So, what changed?

Under the Mountain.

Amarantha happened.

Tamlin was forced to witness the woman he loved be brutalised and tortured. Knowing Amarantha was in love with him, Tamlin is powerless to help Feyre; to make his feelings known, means instant death for her. It is why Tamlin gets on his knees and begs Rhys to keep Feyre's identity a secret.

However, Feyre is ultimately killed. She was only brought into this situation because of Tamlin; he is riddled with guilt and despair.

Yet, by some miracle, Feyre is resurrected. Tamlin now has the chance to protect Feyre, to save her, in all the ways he was unable to before.

However, he goes overboard. He becomes possessive and controlling. Despite promising Feyre that he was not her "jailor," he locks her in the manor. He shuts Feyre out. The trauma only festers - for both of them.

Tamlin's behaviour was abusive. Feyre had every right to leave, and she was far better off for it.

Readers react (but, is it fair?)

It is for the above reason that Tamlin is one of the most hated ACOTAR characters. That hatred is justified.

But, where is that same hatred for all other SJM characters who behaved just as badly as Tamlin? Or, those who behaved even worse?

Rhys is still the character who:

Drugged Feyre and made her dance provocatively Under the Mountain (until she threw up). Rhys later admits he did this in part to make Tamlin jealous.

Twisted Feyre's broken arm to enforce consent.

Kept a 24/7 shield around her (the same sort of action Tamlin is criticised for...).

Refused to tell Feyre that her pregnancy would likely be fatal (despite their 'no secrets' promise); stripping her of the autonomy to make decisions over her own body.

Then, threatened to kill Nesta when she revealed this information.

And I hear you - "Rhys was just trying to protect Feyre!" Yet, wasn't that Tamlin's motive too?

This double standard exists for most other SJM characters:

[TOG Spoilers] Rowan, one of the most powerful fae warriors to ever exist, punches Aelin, a 19 year old who is newly discovering her fae abilities, so hard in the face that she hits a wall and bleeds. He then tells her that she should have "died long ago". Tamlin never directly laid his hands on Feyre. Yet, Rowan does, and his behaviour is always excused (and even romanticised). What's more, is that his relationship with Aelin is one of the most highly regarded.

[TOG Spoilers] We then have Manon who committed literal mass genocide for centuries (and delighted in it), even killing her own sister in the process.

There's Azriel who has a twisted affinity for torturing people.

Nesta who was verbally and emotionally abusive towards Feyre throughout their childhood.

Don't get me wrong, I love all of these characters. They are nuanced, morally grey individuals; this complexity is what makes SJM books so great.

Yet, why does this same nuance rarely exist for Tamlin?

Considering the events from Tamlin's perspective.

Readers criticise Tamlin for collaborating with Hybern to 'get Feyre back.' However, from Tamlin's perspective, Rhys was the person who willingly served Amarantha for the past 50 years. Tamlin also believed Rhys's facade that he was the insidious dictator of the infamously cruel Night Court. What's more, Tamlin is also aware of Rhys's mind control powers. So, when he receives a vague letter from Feyre (who as far as he knows, couldn't read and write), of course he is suspicious.

Tamlin truly believes that Rhys has kidnapped Feyre, and that she is in danger. In order to rescue her, Tamlin pretends to work with Hybern. He jeopardises the safety of his civilians, puts his entire court at risk - all to save the woman he loves.

If Rhys sacrificed the Night Court to save Feyre, we would deem it an act of true love. So, why do we condemn Tamlin?

What's more, both readers and characters blame Tamlin for the King of Hybern's actions; that Elain and Nesta went into the Cauldron because of him.

However, as soon as Tamlin realised Hybern's true plans, he blew his cover in an attempt to stop the King. He was the ONLY character who lunged for Hybern in an attempt to save Elain (whilst everyone else stood there in shock).

Shortly after, Tamlin realises that Feyre left him willingly. That she is with Rhys, and they are mates. Then, Lucien, Tamlin's only friend, leaves for the Night Court too.

To top it all off, in an act of revenge, Feyre orchestrates for the downfall of the Spring Court - an action that risks the lives of countless innocent civilians. As a result, Tamlin now has no one. No court.

Tamlin has nothing left.

Tamlin's choice.

If we are all being honest with ourselves, most people in Tamlin's position would feel immense resentment. Many would resort to revenge, just as Feyre did. However, Tamlin never takes this path - he never gives in to the hatred and bitterness that could so easily consume him. He chooses otherwise.

Not only did he turn the tide in the war, saving Feyre and Elain's life;

Not only did he resurrect Rhys - the man who took so much from him;

But above all else, he wished for Feyre to "be happy."

Yet, despite all of this, although most other characters got their happily ever after, Tamlin now roams around the decimated Spring Court. He stays in his beast form, as if he doesn't even feel worthy of being fae - of his humanity. Tamlin is depressed, and very alone. He has always been alone.

To me, his character can be summarised by this quote;

"I sat with my anger long enough, until he told me his real name was grief."

Tamlin's redemption.

Some believe that Tamlin deserves no redemption. That instead, he is better off dead. However, I think that sends a rather grim message to the myriad of people who suffer in the same way that Tamlin does.

To those who externalise their pain, rather than internalise it. To those who were never shown love as a child, and therefore struggle to display it as an adult. To those who were hurt by the people they trusted most, so they hurt others in return. To those who still hold onto guilt over their past. To those who try to be a better person, but still feel like a failure deep down.

That doesn't mean that Tamlin's past actions should be excused, or even forgiven, But, just like every other character, it does mean he should have the chance to heal.

In her most recent interview, SJM says it herself; that no character is doomed to be an "asshole" forever, and that any day you could choose to wake up and be a better person - to live a better life.

A fairytale ending.

Ultimately, ACOTAR was inspired by Beauty and the Beast, and Tamlin is the perfect personification of the Beast. Not just for his shapeshifting form, as we came to believe in the first book. But rather, just as the Beast in the fairytale was a man haunted by his past mistakes, so too is Tamlin.

Yet, as the tale goes, the Beast's once hardened exterior begins to melt away, and he is able to look towards the world with kindness. To love again. To love himself. When this happened, the enchanted rose came back to life.

I believe this foreshadows what will occur with Tamlin in future books. As he begins to heal, to find his place in the world, he will blossom.

And, so too will the Spring Court gardens around him - vibrant again, once more.