#reading this book for my literary studies course

[craqueluring]

Claudia Durastanti, Strangers I Know / NBC’s Hannibal (2013-2015)

"Every crime of yours feels like one I am guilty of. Not just Abigail's murder, every murder stretching backward and forward in time. Freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they are the same. We're conjoined."

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

i. 

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech. 

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air. 

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips. 

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping. 

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door. 

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes.  His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming. 

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught. 

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene. 

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech. 

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming. 

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest. 

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall. 

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death. 

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see? 

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle. 

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly. 

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother. 

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him. 

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound. 

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk. 

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise. 

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all. 

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?” 

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling. 

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out. 

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about. 

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head. 

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface. 

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water. 

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in. 

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

 “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone. 

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error. 

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided. 

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once. 

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch. 

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.  

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory. 

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake. 

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten. 

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter. 

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone. 

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know. 

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to. 

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone. 

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it. 

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death. 

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too. 

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was. 

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed. 

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go. 

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer. 

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know. 

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go. 

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go. 

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone. 

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two. 

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.  

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice. 

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’” 

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you? 

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right. 

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been. 

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare. 

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you. 

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms. 

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater. 

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea. 

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off. 

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature. 

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once. 

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick. 

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck. 

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples. 

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him. 

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker. 

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection. 

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin. 

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down. 

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear. 

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the  arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip. 

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. 

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy. 

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides. 

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed. 

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.  

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow… 

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure. 

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch. 

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd. 

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider. 

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt. 

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold  sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin. 

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans. 

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever. 

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely. 

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other. 

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second. 

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out. 

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him. 

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness. 

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek. 

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world. 

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole. 

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly. 

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again. 

[gailynovelry]

Thinking a little bit about that one "I'm an English major and a professional as opposed to you amateurs" anon. Gonna roast 'em a little bit, but with the intention of addressing a thing we've had in mind for a while.

Real talk, coming from someone who WAS an English major; majoring in English is not necessarily a guarantee that someone is a good writer. For one, you can be bad at your major, full stop. For another, it's not even a guarantee that someone identifies as a writer to begin with. English as a major is pretty broad, and it covers reading too, among other things. There's library science, analytical academia, historical preservation & interpretation (MEDIEVAL MANUSCRIPTS HELL YES), editing, nonfiction trades (often crosses over with STEM majors), marketing (crosses over with business majors), and also book design and typography (<3 <3 <3 our favorite, crosses over with art majors).

Someone can major in English and take a specific minor with the goal of falling into a trade that is not writing literary fiction. In fact, we would argue that most people who get something useful out of their major are the ones that do that.

It's also worth noting that it's possible to be an English major focused on "lowbrow" fiction. There are people who major in English and use the experience towards the end of writing erotica. There are people who major in English with the intent to write genre fiction. There are people who major in English to study the history and social context of fanfiction.

These things are, in fact, worthy fields of study! The realm of the "amateur" is the realm where a lot of cultural conversations and innovations happen!

Expecting English as a major to be a tract specifically for producing acclaimed literary fictionists is not realistic, not how the discipline typically works, and it's certainly not a thing you can use to hold over other writers' heads. It is perfectly possible for people to write good things (professional-grade things even) without ever touching a college course.

I sat through so much bad writing in college. Technically bad, thematically bad, gramatically bad. And I routinely bump into non-graduate authors who write texts, formal and informal alike, that blow my own writing clean out of the water with their quality.

In short, dismissing other people in your general field as "amateurs" who are beneath you is an incredibly unprofessional thing to do.

[chrollohearttags]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫: 𝐡𝐱𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏/𝟑)

extra incentive • c. lucifer

synopsis: your study buddy has always been the laid back type, never really showing interest in anything other than books…that is until the two of you decide to relieve some stress before an upcoming exam.

“You know what they say about the quiet ones. Is it true?” “You’re more than welcome to come find out.”

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content warning: modern/college au, black fem reader, fingering, hair pulling, corruption (ish) kink unprotected sex, oral sex (f. receiving), riding, squirting, choking, nerd!Chrollo, talk of sex/inexperience

word count: 3.8K

this is the first installment to a three part commission from @annie-franny. Thank you so much for your support and entrusting me with this piece! HunterxHunter is my all time favorite show and I’m happy to be writing for some of my favorite characters. Hope you enjoy, love! 💕

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faint raindrops rang outside the windowpane of the fourth floor dormitory..co-ed and co-opted by bright eyed, eager attendees of Yorknew State College. A learning facility of the highest caliber; regarded in the ranks of Cambridge and Oxford in terms of intelligence. Among those in the top bracket of brilliant minds were none other than Chrollo Lucifer. A prodigal genius who came from very humble beginnings and managed to secure a full ride scholarship to the school due to his exceptional educational achievements. Including two award winning literary dissertations on inequality and disproportionate educational opportunities in lower income neighborhoods. A life he knew all too well. Doing so while only being a senior in a vocational school. A man who was as handsome as he was mysterious, leaving many to wonder how he ended up at such a prestigious place. His knowledge only ascended from there and now, he sat as a shoe-in for valedictorian and alongside him was the only person who could probably be considered his equal and quite honestly, one of his only friends.

(Y/N) (L/N), a bright eyed beauty with a kind soul and kindred spirit. Born with an innate gift for reading and all things literature related, you excelled above your peers in no time, surpassing even the most intelligent in every subject. You would spend your lunchtime in the library, grasping every novel, book or composition pertaining to the studies of history; more so specifically your own that the school system refused to teach. Such a curious mind so it came as a surprise to no one when doing college applications, you were among the first to receive an acceptance letter from Yorknew State College nonetheless. Somehow, someway..you and Lucifer ended up intertwining and crossing paths in the campus bookstore. Where a bond formed and you’ve been close ever since, bouncing off ideas, sharing your love of reading and always studying together..hence why now, he was seated in the middle of your floor, cross legged and glued to a textbook as he tapped the back of his pen to the edge of the small table in front of him.

“Damn, Chro. You’re gonna drive me up a wall with that. You’ve been doing it for the past ten minutes.” An obviously irate (y/n) blurting out from the comfort of your bed, knees cradled to your chest with your laptop secured on top of them. You weren’t one to be on edge ever but in comparison to this man, he’d make even the most serene person look mad. Never even getting angry once in all the time you had known him, he truly had the patience of a saint. Oftentimes leaving you to wonder would anything make him tick..

“Oh, I’m sorry, (y/n). Didn’t even realize it. I’ll stop.”

but today, you were both a bit nervous, due in part to a huge assignment coming up in your most important course. One that would determine many things going forward for both of you. More so in terms of personal achievements but important nonetheless. In a frustrated huff, you’d close your computer and slump over, releasing a whiny sigh. “Ugh, I can’t wait for this stupid test to be over. I can’t take it anymore. I feel like I’ve read at least ten different books in the past two days. My head is about to explode.” As dramatic as it sounded, Chrollo most certainly mirrored your sentiments, even if he wasn’t as expressive of it. An exam with over two hundred questions pertaining various works throughout time on random subjects and you’d have to quote excerpts, pick out lines from precise chapters and remember not only the details but page numbers as well. It was so much. “Patience, my sweet (y/n). We’ll knock this exam out of the park and it’ll be done before you know it.”

but luckily you had one another to bounce ideas off of and keep each other accountable. However, it wasn’t lost on you that it was Saturday evening and you were spending it holed up in a room, studying. Normally, it was something that never really crossed your mind. Truthfully, a lot of your peers lacked focus and drive. Not too worried about their failures or fuck ups because they had a silver spoon awaiting them if they couldn’t feed themselves. It infuriated Chrollo and thus, he withdrew even more from his classmates. Isolated and feeling like a loner, he clung to you like a moth to a flame shockingly. So much so, he had eyes for no one else. Even when girls all around campus practically threw themselves at him constantly and had paid them no mind. Dating, relationships, hookups…it all seemed like such a hassle. Trivial things that served him no purpose. He much rather be nose deep in a book, expanding his knowledge than doing anything else. Still, he’d be lying if he said his mind didn’t wander from time to time…

about that girl with these wired rim, round glasses…concealing those dark, deep set eyes. Black coils setting pretty atop your head, skin like honey of the richest variety…needless to say, Chrollo was rather smitten and it wasn’t an honor that he wielded loosely. It took a lot to catch the eyes of the prodigal genius. So when you posed a rather peculiar question, he was a bit nervous to answer.

“Hey, Chro?”

“Yes?”

turning his attention towards you with his signature flat smile..those handsome boyish looks that always caused a flutter or two in your heart. Jet black tufts fluttering on either side of his porcelain smooth face, tied by a headband to keep strays tucked back. Tonight, sporting a hoodie with the school insignia along with a pair of gym shorts covering his lanky frame. It was easy to see why he had everyone’s attention.

“Why don’t we ever go to any parties? Are we like the only ones on campus reading like an old couple on a Saturday night?” However, it wasn’t something that phased him in the slightest and rather than being offended, Chrollo would just laugh and flip to the next page of his very intriguing novel.

“You’re free to go if you’d like, no one’s stopping you from attending any of them.” Stating so matter of factly without so much as even glancing in your direction. To most, things like that came off as condescending but you knew that he just didn’t show much emotion about anything. If you asked him a question, he’d simply answer it with no motive or malice behind it. It was something that initially frustrated you but that you had now grown to love. As with many things about this enigma of a man. Slouching off of the bed, (y/n) crawled a few feet over to him, slinging an arm around the back of his neck in a flustered huff. “I knowww, but they wouldn’t even be fun without you.” “I couldn’t understand why. I’m not much for gatherings so I’d be nothing more than a wallflower..if anything, I’d be rather boring." That's when you’d probe him with another question, still hanging onto his slender frame..your head resting on his back. With your hands coiling his chest, you could feel his heart racing and obviously, nothing ever got him excited but it was something so different about you. He wasn’t much for affection or physical touch but somehow, he didn’t mind when you held him. You guys were incredibly close and comfortable so it came as no surprise that you’d ask him such a thing with no shame. “…Chro..are you a virgin?”

causing the dark haired man to choke up in laughter. You two rarely ever kept secrets from one another but then again, most information relayed between you guys was pertaining to academics and knowledge. None of this trivial nonsense. However, something must’ve sparked this sudden curiosity about his intimate life. “That’s a bit invasive, don’t you think?” “Just answer the question please.” obvious that you were going to persist on this, he’d release a deep breath and shut his book, turning to properly face you as he gave you his response. “If you must know…no, I am not a virgin.” He was, however, completely celibate until the proper person came along and changed it. Even so, it shocked you and he’d cackle, wondering why your mouth was agape.

“What? Are you surprised?” And as horrible as it sounded to admit, you were a bit taken aback. “A little bit! Just doesn’t seem like it’s something you’d be into. No offense.” You figured him to be completely clueless on the topic of sex but alas, he had been with two people in his young lifetime. Some woman he lost his virginity to and a girl he hooked up with in a one off exchange. Neither time was some profound experience that kept him coming back for more or even drew him closer to the girls. It was just something that happened and it wasn’t something that he had ever pondered on. However, spending the last year or so growing closer to you had his mind wandering. Believe it or not, he was rather smitten with you. The only one to really make him take a second look nowadays. Watching you switch around in those frilly dresses and tight little skirts, looking all cute and bubbly. He’d oftentimes find himself blushing as he watched you part your curls, moisturizing them after wash day. Even offering to help..just because he enjoyed your presence. Carrying your stuff to class and always lingering around, waiting on you to get out as if you were still in high school. How you hadn’t seen it yet was beyond him. Hence why he didn’t do random hookups..you were the sole object of his carnal desires when they arose. Like this current moment.

“None taken. But I have to ask, why the sudden inquisition?..something on your mind?” Questioning so casually with that soft smug smirk on his face. He had to know where this was coming from. Roping a hand around his shoulder blade and collar bone, (y/n) teased his black wefts between your fingertips and giggled. There were a lot of things running through your mind at this point. Things that you weren’t certain you should say out loud…out of fear of rejection or sounding too forward. But since you could trust one another so well…there was no point in hiding it.

“You could say that..I guess what I’m trying to say is..I could use a distraction for a while.” Admitting as you teased your fingertips across his chest. And it didn’t take long for him to pick up the hint you had so blatantly thrown down. Flicking his tongue across his lips, Chrollo ogled back at you for a moment, turning to tip your chin up. It was obvious that there was rising tension between you two that could only be solved one way. That festering desire wasn’t going to disappear unless one of you acted on it.

“So what you’re saying is..” talking so smoothly that in one fell swoop, Chrollo was able to spin and capture you in his grasp, landing both of you on the carpet, his body atop yours and your faces only mere inches apart. “You want me to fuck you? Is that it?” Having never heard him use such brash language. Either way, it was so attractive and sexy. There was a certain glare in his eyes, as if he too had been waiting on this moment. Snaking a hand up your outer thigh, he’d crawl slowly between your parted legs. He wanted you and desperately, all you had to do was give him the say so and he’d dispel any and all preconceived notions you’d had about him. “I mean…I’m simply hoping to test a theory. You do know what they say about the quiet ones. Is it true?” “You’re more than welcome to come find out.”

with that, it was all the declaration you needed. The two of you began engaging in a heated makeout session. Cupping your hands to his face, shoving your tongues into each other’s mouths…trying to peel back layers of one another’s clothing. Swirling them around one another in a flustered haze. Moaning and whimpering whilst things became much more intense. It didn’t take long for either of you to render the other nude or even find your hands roaming all over your entangled bodies…his hands on your hips, running along the seams of your clothing. Sharp gasps elicited by subtle neck sucking; the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin…even whimpering and tossing your head back when he’d glide down to your nipples, faintly licking them just to make you shudder. He’d then work his way between your thighs, glaring up at you with those usually cold, dark eyes; so full of life and lust as he hungrily parted your thighs. His primal instincts took over in an instant. As were your own. “..look at that. So sexy..” in reference to that slick covered slit and swollen pearl protruding through those plump lips. A sight like he had never witnessed before; it was beautiful. “You won’t be mad if I get a taste, will you?” Shaking your head with a slight whimper, anticipating his next move. Mere seconds later, you’d find him greedily feasting on your soaked sex. Flicking his tongue so delicately throughout the sensitive area; teasing the clit, sucking on those folds and leaving soft kisses on that pretty pussy of yours. “Haah!—ahh, Chro! Fuck!..” crying out in a fit of pleasure, sandwiching his head between your hands. Curling your fingers through his soft hair, gently tugging at them but trust, he needed no assistance. “You taste so sweet, my love.” Not with the way he was sloppily spitting and lapping on your cunt. He was so skilled and intricate with the way he did it, you were sure you’d be seeing stars. “Mmmm! Ahh..” making all of those pitiful babbling noises that were only further fueling his desire to devour you. Fucking you tirelessly with his tongue. Feasting until your legs began to shake violently and those sweet nectar-like fluids could no longer be contained and you’d find yourself coming on his tongue..squirting from his impeccable oral. You’d cover your face, in half embarrassment and shock as it riddled your body. “Don’t be shy now, let me see that pretty face..” It wasn’t until he came up for air, his hands softly groping at your breasts did it really dawn on the two of you what was transpiring. But it was a tad bit too late to back out now. Instead, he’d shift to his side midway, propping your smaller frame up on his thigh as to balance you against it. That docile demeanor seemed to dissipate before your eyes and a side you’d never think to see began to awaken..one you’d like very much.

“You see, my sweet (y/n)…what I lack isn’t knowledge, not by a long shot. But experience..experience with the right person.” declaring so sweetly as he stroked the side of your face to help you calm down from your climatic high, only to induce another. Working those pale, slender digits between your jaws and whirled them around. “See..I know things that would make your body tick. Things that would send you into shock and make you cry my name out to the heavens. I would make love to you in ways that would cause your soul to erupt into flames. Every little movement, I’d make certain you fell deeper for me..so addicted that you won’t even dream of another man touching you..alas, I never found that person.” was a mere taste of what I’m capable of.”

all the while he was speaking to you, filling your ear and head with perverse thoughts, Chrollo’s opposite hand snaked around your throat and his eyes averted downward. By now, you were a drooling mess…letting that trail lube your already dripping folds as he shoved those same digits inside of you..working them around. “Hnghh!” “Shhh..just relax.” But he wouldn’t be the only one at work. Soon, he’d instruct you to grasp at his exposed member and coil your fingers around his shaft, slowly working it over. Not for nothing, but he wasn’t lacking in size either..girthy and thick but long also. That pink tip emitting pearlescent white precum. You were so needy and impatient, wanting to feel him right away but it wasn’t plausible. He doubted that you couldn’t even take it…

“That is until now. Until I met you, (y/n). I’ve dreamed of this moment and having you all to myself..now I’ve gotten it.” grunting into your ear, sucking on his teeth as you continued to massage him between your fingertips. Neither of you could maintain this charade of teasing much longer so with one final kiss to your temple, Chrollo hoisted you up ever so slightly, barely breaking the contact of your skin and gave one last command:

“Go ahead, put it in yourself.”

something about that primal energy he was tapping into really turned you on. Making you yelp while you worked yourself down to his aching tip. Pulsating as it split you open..causing you both to audibly gasp once it met the silky warmth of your insides. He had to all but restrain himself from hammering up into you but it had been quite some time since he felt a sensation like this one. “Mmmm…God, you’re so tight. But don’t worry..I won’t go too fast. We’ll take our time until you can fit all of me. We won’t rush it.”

talking you through those movements his palms placed to your hips and your back to his chest. It was while you were becoming one and getting acclimated with those strokes did he begin to buck upward very gently; meeting you halfway while giving you steamy, sloppy tongue kisses. You couldn’t stop moaning into his open mouth and he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He wanted to squeeze on those beautiful breasts, pinch your nipples between his fingertips and especially, massage that swollen clit. Although, he’d save that last one for the right moment. You’d more than likely come entirely too quickly. So he’d settle for giving you affirmations to keep you going. Bouncing up and down on his dick, trying to eventually make it disappear inside of that pretty pink flesh. But as it stood, you could only take it about halfway to the hilt. Sounds of squelching and colliding flesh filled your tiny room and right there on that floor, your bodies clashed in heated ecstasy and bliss. Eventually, he was able to push it in a bit more before you found an established rhythm. “Keep going. Yes..you’re doing so good. Riding me like this…and you’re creaming all over it. Are you going to milk me too, sweetheart?” Cooing whilst sucking on his teeth, tossing his head back in pure pleasure. That pussy was something special and he wanted to savor it for as long as possible.

“Yes, ‘wanna make you come for me…fuck!” Whimpering so pathetically and sweetly, it made his cock twitch..that throbbing, continuing to fill your flesh. By now, the two of you had established a synchronized rhythm and pace. (Y/N) riding him, rolling your hips and subtly shaking your ass; standing atop your tiptoes even, when he fucked you. “Ooh, just like that. Look at how nicely you’re taking me now. Opening up so good..” now gripping the thick of your plump ass, now starting to thrust upward. He was enjoying your little tricks and show but he couldn’t hold back any longer. Having not been releasing pent up energy or realizing that he needed to, Chrollo was coming undone by the second, rutting his hips into you with that firm grip. “You don’t have to hold back, sweetheart. Come..make a mess of me. Let it all out..” with that affirmation, you’d release every drop of your sweet, squirting cum..as well as any stress or agitation in your body. Those much needed endorphins rushing through your systems. Spent and out of breath, you’d collapse against one another right there on the floor..panting and laughing. You couldn’t remember the last time either of you had felt this good.

“That was…something.”

“Yes it was..”

most certainly agreeing on that front. Something that was beneficial for the both of you. Now he felt as if they were able to conquer anything after that. And so did you!..clutching your arm, he’d gently caress it and kiss your forehead. “Well I suppose that’s one way to clear your mind.” Making the joke as he turned to face you, staring at you in a way he’d never stared at anyone in his entire life. Because in all honesty, he had never shared a connection like that with anyone. He’d never been one for a relationship or even casually hooking up..his sole focus was academics but after this? He felt as if he could make an exception for his favorite person perhaps. Clasping your fingers together, Chrollo made another declaration, one you couldn’t refuse. “I don't know about you, but I’m ready for this test now. My head is ten times more clear than it was.” “I’m glad to hear it. Tell you what…pass it and I have much more where that came from.” Just then, your features illuminated with a sparkle he had never quite seen in those beautiful eyes of yours..

“Mmm..I don’t think that’ll be much of a problem.”

giving you all the extra incentive you need.

[regulusrules]

Yo, I saw your post about orientalism in relation to the "hollywood middle-east" tiktok!

How can a rando and university dropout get into and learn more about? Any literature or other content to recommend?

Hi!! Wow, you have no idea how you just pressed a button. I'll unleash 5+ years on you. And I'll even add for you open-sourced works that you can access as much as I can!

1. Videos

I often find this is the best medium nowadays to learn anything! I'll share with you some of the best that deal with the topic in different frames

• This is a video of Edward Said talking about his book, Orientalism. Said is the Palestinian- American critic who first introduced the term Orientalism, and is the father of postcolonial studies as a critical literary theory. In this book, you’ll find an in-depth analysis of the concept and a deconstruction of western stereotypes. It’s very simple and he explains everything in a very easy manner.

• How Islam Saved Western Civilization. A more than brilliant lecture by Professor Roy Casagranda. This, in my opinion, is one of the best lectures that gives credit to this great civilization, and takes you on a journey to understand where did it all start from.

• What’s better than a well-researched, general overview Crash Course about Islam by John Green? This is not necessarily on orientalism but for people to know more about the fundamental basis of Islam and its pillars. I love the whole playlist that they have done about the religion, so definitely refer to it if you're looking to understand more about the historical background! Also, I can’t possibly mention this Crash Course series without mentioning ... ↓

• The Medieval Islamicate World. Arguably my favourite CC video of all times. Hank Green gives you a great thorough depiction of the Islamic civilization when it rose. He also discusses the scientific and literary advancements that happened in that age, which most people have no clue about! And honestly, just his excitement while explaining the astrolabe. These two truly enlightened so many people with the videos they've made. Thanks, @sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog

2. Documentaries

• This is an AMAZING documentary called Reel Bad Arabs: How Hollywood Villifies A People by the genius American media critic Jack Shaheen. He literally analysed more than 1000 movies and handpicked some to showcase the terribly false stereotypes in western depiction of Arab/Muslim cultures. It's the best way to go into the subject, because you'll find him analysing works you're familiar with like Aladdin and all sorts.

• Spain’s Islamic Legacy. I cannot let this opportunity go to waste since one of my main scopes is studying feminist Andalusian history. There are literal gems to be known about this period of time, when religious coexistence is documented to have actually existed. This documentary offers a needed break from eurocentric perspectives, a great bird-view of the Islamic civilization in Europe and its remaining legacy (that western history tries so hard to erase).

• When the Moors Ruled in Europe. This is one of the richest documentaries that covers most of the veiled history of Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain). Bettany Hughes discusses some of the prominent rulers, the brilliance of architecture in the Arab Muslim world, their originality and contributions to poetry and music, their innovative inventions and scientific development, and lastly, La Reconquista; the eventual fall and erasure of this grand civilization by western rulers.

3. Books

• Rethinking Orientalism by Reina Lewis. Lewis brilliantly breaks the prevailing stereotype of the “Harem”, yk, this stupid thought westerns projected about arab women being shut inside one room, not allowed to go anywhere from it, enslaved and without liberty, just left there for the sexual desires of the male figures, subjugated and silenced. It's a great read because it also takes the account of five different women living in the middle east.

• Nocturnal Poetics by Ferial Ghazoul. A great comparative text to understand the influence and outreach of The Thousand and One Nights. She applies a modern critical methodology to explore this classic literary masterpiece.

• The Question of Palestine by Edward Said. Since it's absolutely relevant, this is a great book if you're looking to understand more about the Palestinian situation and a great way to actually see the perspective of Palestinians themselves, not what we think they think.

• Arab-American Women's Writing and Performance by S.S. Sabry. One of my favourite feminist dealings with the idea of the orient and how western depictions demeaned arab women by objectifying them and degrading them to objects of sexual desire, like Scheherazade's characterization: how she was made into a sensual seducer, but not the literate, brilliantly smart woman of wisdom she was in the eastern retellings. The book also discusses the idea of identity and people who live on the hyphen (between two cultures), which is a very crucial aspect to understand arabs who are born/living in western countries.

• The Story of the Moors in Spain by Stanley Lane-Poole. This is a great book if you're trying to understand the influence of Islamic culture on Europe. It debunks this idea that Muslims are senseless, barbaric people who needed "civilizing" and instead showcases their brilliant civilization that was much advanced than any of Europe in the time Europe was labelled by the Dark Ages. (btw, did you know that arabic was the language of knowledge at that time? Because anyone who was looking to study advanced sciences, maths, philosophy, astronomy etc, had to know arabic because arabic-speaking countries were the center of knowledge and scientific advancements. Insane, right!)

• Convivencia and Medieval Spain. This is a collection of essays that delve further into the idea of “Convivencia”, which is what we call for religious coexistence. There's one essay in particular that's great called Were Women Part of Convivencia? which debunks all false western stereotypical images of women being less in Islamic belief. It also highlights how arab women have always been extremely cultured and literate. (They practiced medicine, studied their desired subjects, were writers of poetry and prose when women in Europe couldn't even keep their surnames when they married.)

4. Novels / Epistolaries

• Granada by Radwa Ashour. This is one of my favourite novels of all time, because Ashour brilliantly showcases Andalusian history and documents the injustices and massacres that happened to Muslims then. It covers the cultural erasure of Granada, and is also a story of human connection and beautiful family dynamics that utterly touches your soul.

• Dreams of Trespass by Fatema Mernissi. This is wonderful short read written in autobiographical form. It deconstructs the idea of the Harem in a postcolonial feminist lens of the French colonization of Morocco.

• Scheherazade Goes West by Mernissi. Mernissi brilliantly showcases the sexualisation of female figures by western depictions. It's very telling, really, and a very important reference to understand how the west often depicts middle-eastern women by boxing them into either the erotic, sensual beings or the oppressed, black-veiled beings. It helps you understand the actual real image of arab women out there (who are not just muslims btw; christian, jew, atheist, etc women do exist, and they do count).

• Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. This is a feminist travel epistolary of a British woman which covers the misconceptions that western people, (specifically male travelers) had recorded and transmitted about the religion, traditions and treatment of women in Constantinople, Turkey. It is also a very insightful sapphic text that explores her own engagement with women there, which debunks the idea that there are no queer people in the middle east.

---------------------

With all of these, you'll get an insight about the real arab / islamic world. Not the one of fanaticism and barbarity that is often mediated, but the actual one that is based on the fundamental essences of peace, love, and acceptance.

[marimayscarlett]

We need some scientific studies into claims that Richard Zee Kay might be a vampire. 👩‍🔬

Hi Hello 🦇

Well, let's see. For maximum professionalism let's put together a vampire-traits checklist for further research...

First of all, a trait which a lot of vampires possess in different literary or historical sources - unbelievable attractivness and knowing how to use it: check ✅

wearing a long cape or coat, preferably in black: check ✅

acting quite dramatic and pretty self confident: check ✅

[gif on the right by richardzk]

hypnotic powers over his victims/the audience: check ✅

Photo by © Christian J. Weber @ lifad_switzerland

Of course, Vampires are prone to biting and preferably go for the neck: check ✅

for some vampires, long nails are a must: check ✅

and finally, some vampires long for an eternal companion. They can be quite enticing and loving if they want to seduce someone or win someone over they're interested in: check ✅

So, while the results are still pending, I think there's a good chance that Mr. Kruspe might be something more than just a handsome and successful guitarist 🤔

My references (always very important to quote these when it comes to scientific research): excessive binge watching of The Vampire Diaries, consuming every bit of Dracula media and lore, reading scientific non-fictiontal books about vampire lore in Europe, reading every damn vampire book I come across and daydreaming about Lestat de Lioncourt daily

[shredsandpatches]

So this afternoon while I was waiting for some files to transfer I read the Google Books preview of Magus by Anthony Grafton, a new book (it seems sort of scholarly/popular crossover) on the cultural significance of the magician in Renaissance Europe, and of course, as one might expect, the intro chapter focuses on the Faust legend as a case study. It looks like a pretty good book but I mostly wanted to share this anecdote related in it, which I hadn't seen before (the footnotes, alas, were cut off, so I'm not sure of the source; it's not in the English Faustbuch which iirc is a pretty direct translation of Spiers 1587) but is instantly one of my favorites:

Once, at a gathering of scholars, Faust offered to conjure up a bunch of lost classical plays, so that the scholars might copy them down. The scholars were, of course, tempted--who wouldn't want to recover lost knowledge? But then they concluded that, while the plays were in whatever sort of textual afterlife lost classical plays go to, demons could have tampered with them, and who knows what kind of ungodly things they could have put in there? And so, displaying a truly frightening amount of willpower, they respectfully declined.

I love that so much: the focus on lost classical knowledge as a site of temptation, the idea of dramatic/literary texts as something that can be summoned, the idea that surviving texts by classical pagans are totally fine but lost ones are vulnerable to demonic tampering--I also love versions of Faust who are (or at least were at one point) actually serious about scholarship on some level. I think Marlowe (a Cambridge man) was the first to really get into that idea, of Faustus as a legitimate but discontented academic, and I think he would have liked that story. He did make his Faustus ask:

When I was doing my first Master's degree I studied Doctor Faustus with the late, great Renaissance drama scholar David Bevington, at a point in my life where I was trying to treat serious undiagnosed depression with observant Catholicism, and his empathetic treatment of the play has always stayed with me. He asked us: can any of us say we wouldn't be at least a little tempted? And I've always remembered that.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

genuine question, where did the monthly romance novel thing come from? because you don’t seem to enjoy most of them 😭

okay, so, last February I had a hair-brained scheme to read, like, six romance novels in February so that I could "review" (strong word for my usual reading roundups but whatever) like a booktuber. to be clear I wasn't under the impression that anyone would really enjoy this but me and my beloved @dykerory, but I do a lot of things to entertain an extremely small audience and it's never stopped me before.

I was also genuinely interested in tackling a low-stakes project like that. I've never been a romance reader but I wanted to make sure I wasn't missing anything, which is why I initially planned to check out some big names and well-reviewed titles to get a sense of what the genre was all about. trust me, I wouldn't have put Red, White and Royal Blue on the list if I wasn't trying to do as thorough a study as possible in such an abridged amount of time.

anyway, I decided to get an early start and read the first book I'd picked out, a buzzy wlw romance that was getting a lot of positive buzz - Mistakes Were Made, by Meryl Wilsner, and boy howdy that mistake WAS made! the thing I realized immediately was that reading six romance novels back to back to back was definitely possible, since they're generally extremely short and not particularly rigorous, but in terms of content? oh, man, ingesting that much romance novel in a short period of time would make my brain stat dribbling out my nose.

so I amended the terms of my own completely non-binding contract so that I'd have to read twice as many romance novels over the course of an entire year, giving myself WAY more time to really explore what was big in the genre and try to really figure out the appeal.

and uuuh I really like it! they're quick and they're fun and they make for a really nice break in between the other kinds of books I rea. I like a lot of hefty nonfiction and dense-ass speculative fiction and moderately harrowing literary fiction. a romance novel makes for a nice little palate cleanse, like going for a little walk in the middle of a workday to break up the monotony. and even when I don't enjoy the story itself, the experience makes me better at recognizing and critiquing what I do and don't like in a romance novel and in a story generally. I genuinely do feel like I'm succeeding in my goal of learning a lot about the genre and its conventions, and understanding the appeal it holds for so many readers. I learn as much reading a romance novel as I do any other work of fiction.

also, I don't know how else to put this, but I'm a recreational hater and I loooooove poking the shit I don't like to figure out what makes it tick. I watched all 4.5 seasons of Gotham out of pure bile fascination, come on. this IS positive enrichment for me and I wouldn't do it otherwise.

[queenlucythevaliant]

Coming Home

i. Shasta heard a story once—he could not remember where—in which two brothers lived on an island covered in gray soot. Everything on the island was colorless except the brothers, and every day they looked at each other to remind themselves what color looked like. Shasta didn’t remember how the story ended.

ii. “Home” was not a thing for which he had context. Neither was “Brother.” “Father” meant only cruelty and neglect. And yet, Shasta was home now. His brother pulled him into mischief by his elbow and his father asked after his studies at supper. It reminded him, now, of that story from long ago. He was trying to see the world in color, having known only gray soot all his life.

iii. Had he ever seen a violet like the alpine glow off the mountains at dusk?

iv. Shasta went out walking sometimes, trying to understand it. The grass withered and turned brown, and the frost came swiftly behind. It crunched underfoot the way sand did not.

iv. “Father,” Shasta would say, “What color do you say the ice is?” “What color do you think it is, my son,” the king would reply.

v. The ice was many colors. White snow on the ground. Blue where frozen lakes reflected the sky. Faintly green where it hung in icicles from his window. Gold when sunlight passed through it.

vi. Long ago, Shasta had been born the Crown Prince Cor. He’d been born to all of this, to home and father and brother, even if he’d never known of it till now. These were Cor’s tall green trees. These were his violet mountains. This was his family, and his colorless wind that nipped the nose whenever he stepped outside.

vii. And yet sometimes, even years on, Shasta would wake expecting to hear the sea.

viii. He asked Aravis once if she knew the story of the two brothers on the island. She nodded, “Of course. It is from a literary epic in which a bride cleverly tells her husband a story each night in order to postpone her own murder. But how,” here she raised an eyebrow, “did you hear of it?”

ix. Cor (Shasta) shrugged wordlessly, a little embarrassed. He made Aravis give him the name of the story, then turned and scurried off to find the court librarian. “Can you find a book for me?” he asked.

x. He was learning to read, you know. It was difficult. What a strange world, in which the illiterate sons of fishermen must learn to become kings.

xi. One day, during one of his walks as spring was arriving and all the ice was beginning to melt, Shasta (Cor) stood at the edge of a cliff and saw a rainbow arch across to the other side as though it were a bridge. It felt, obscurely, like a promise. 

xii. Cor was clumsy-footed and uncertain, but Aslan kept him back from the ledge. He'd build a bridge for Shasta to cross into his verdant, mountainous home. The Great Lion stood fast at every cliff, to make certain that Cor would not fall. 

xiii. Aravis found him in the library, struggling over the thick tome which contained the story of the two brothers and their colorless island. The language was more archaic than he was used to, and some of the letters were drawn with flourishes that got in the way of reading.

xiv. But then, Aravis sat down beside him and said, “Would you mind if I read aloud? I did so love that story as a girl.” She did not seem to be making fun of him, so Shasta handed her the book and settled in to listen.

xv. At the end of the story, the brothers escaped the island to a land where the sky was blue and grasses grew tall and green beyond the desert.  

[adarkrainbow]

A reaction to reactions - about Pierre Dubois

I made a long time ago (at least considering the short life of my blog) a post about Pierre Dubois, an introduction post about the man so that my other posts about various content of his made sense. You can find it here. Recently this post got a lot of reactions, which I'm glad of course! But there's too many, through reblog-texts or flowing texts, for me to anser all of them at once easily. So I'll make this post to answer everyone in an easy way (or rather "react" and talk further, since I'm not here to "answer per se").

First, @a-book-of-creatures had this to say which I have to agree with but expand upon:

I have so many strong feelings on Dubois. When I started doing research on folklore I used him as a reference because his books were the only thing I had available, but as I found actual research I realized just how unreliable he is.

Probably the best thing would be to regard the books as folklore fanfiction and use them as stepping stones to find better things.

And this sums up why people get Dubois' books and work by the wrong end. You are absolutely right - Pierre Dubois' works are not reliable as resources about folklore and legends and myths. But that's because they do not have to, and they do not have the purpose to be. And here is why I say people take Dubois by the "wrong end" - too many people consider Dubois as a folklorist in the scientific, profesionnal sense of the term. Which Dubois is not. There is a reason why Dubois and those that promote it all insist on his job being "un elficologue", "an elficologist" - a clearly made up and fanciful word with no degree or diploma needed. This is not to pretend Dubois is a new type of folklorist - this is to clearly point out that he is rather someone extremely passionate and informed about elves, fairies, lutins and the like, and who spends his entire work writing about them. But he isn't part of any serious or scientific study of folklore, and that's where people get very confused.

Dubois is an author and a collector, a folklorist and a hobbyist, but he is no researcher as in "archeologist". This is why looking at not only his life and interviews but also the prefaces and introductions and postfaces on his various books - where he talks of his life, how it interweaves with his work and his opinions on several other names - is much needed to understand his approach and angle (but unfortunately too many jump out of those para-texts to just read about the fairies and elves).

Dubois did not went to university, did not have diplomas - to my knowledge. He keeps repeating everyhere all about his childhood among manual workers - his father worked in a factory and he was part of those poor factory-towns. I mentionned it before, about how his father reproved and dislike his interest in things like reading or literature. So he did not find out about mythology and folklore by a scholarly or professional mean - he rather had to make himself up, and stayed with an approach through any and all kinds of books he could find about. And the problem is that back in the 20th century, most of the professional study books we have access to today where no disponible in libraries and bookshops like that - they were niche things for university-people and high-ups of the thinking world. Dubois devoured the content of numerous libraries - but this meant he read literature, and poets, and fairytale collections, and outdated books about folklore and legends, and this was his approach to the fairy-world and this is the kind of feeling and ambiance he tried to give back through his books.

In fact, Dubois does not hide his lack of interest for any actual scientific, literary or current folkloric study. In general he is not a man of science - the same way he seems to have gotten a disdain for all too modern technology thanks to his own life in a community dominated by the 20th industries in the shape of the crushing factories, and thus always preferred the countryside, the forests, the ruins, he also has no interest in making books that could be used by universities or for reading expert's books on fairy-folklore and their evolution. Because he has the approach of a storyteller, of an author, of a poet, in the line of all those that either collected all the pieces of fairytales and folklore they could find without questionning or doubting them ; or that either knew of folklore and wrote fairytales, but still wrote them in a slightly edited and reshaped way. I mean for example one of his favorite books is Les contes d'un buveur de bière, which is a compendium of fairytales inspired by the folktales of Northern France - a folklore the author was very intimate with - but is still not traditionally listed among fairytale collections like the Grimm's because they were slightly rewritten in a more literary and modern style, with a few modifications and meta-references in the text. A bit like Andersen's fairytales if you want - they are still folkloric tales with folkloric background and inspirations, but they are a bit too literary to be considered fully "folkloric" tales. And this is the same approach Dubois has to it all.

Through his books, Dubois wanted (and managed) to translate and convey his own experience and feeling of going around France, checking everything about fairies in every library he could have, asking countryside folks from all regions what they knew about folklore or fairytales - an effusion, a boiling confusion, a sprawling chaos of so many things all at once, side-by-side, so different and varied, and yet all tied by these common links, these similar motifs, these evocations and cousin-ship. This shows for example in his various invented genealogies and "species evolution" in his books - fanciful pseudo-scientific inventions, they are not meant to be reflective of actual historical evolution of legendary figures, but rather convey the relationships and echoes he himself perceived when putting all the books and references side-by-side. His view on myths and folklore as a whole isn't the one of a scientist who tracked down a genealogical tree ; but of an everyman who read and saw everything and points out the links and references he perceived just as a reader.

Of course, this makes his work absolutely non-professional and useless in any serious folklore research (or almost as we'll see later)... But it is also the reason why it made his work so successful, and why he is an unavoidable name today. Still in a recent compendium about the evolution of the fantasy genre, he was evoked as one of the great names of fictional fantasy in France, but put on the same way as Tolkien - not because he was a scholar like him, but because his reinvention of traditional folklore and legends will be as impactful and inspiring as Tolkien's own reinvention of elves and orcs and dwarves. Dubois's books are educated entertainment and scholarly fun - but not a scholarly study, if the nuance makes sense. Imagine this as a bit more extreme version of Neil Gaiman's own fairy-books, like Sandman or Stardust or Coraline. And one has to put themselves back into the context of 80s and 90s France and imagine this situation.

For a long time, all encyclopedias of supernatural creatures and folklore were just these dry, scientific, university-like books not meant for regular audiences - and if there were books for your random Joe, they were oversimplified, childish things. And then comes Dubois's "Encyclopedias", which on top of having this extensive enormous collection of so many tidbits of folklore and lore nobody heard about, makes it a fun and entertaining read by bizarre illustrations, by mixing factual descriptions with folktales, by talking about the weird little habits of these creatures like what baked goods they like to cook or what underwears they wear or how they participated in said historical event... This was a revolution because it was a fun, entertaining and poetic read, a book that went beyond simply dryly listing endless variations, but rather used the encyclopedic knowledge to build an entire sprawling world of inter-connected entities, with a full epic history and all sorts of strange civilizations hidden right behind the garden's wall... This was and always has been Dubois' intention and he is clear about it in his text - revitalize the passion and interest in fairytales, make people interested in folklore and legends again, make people consider that maybe there is something interesting in the old-storytellers knowledge... Again, Dubois came from this very industrialized and modern side of France, marked by the World Wars, not caring about literature or magic or folklore, and where all good fairy-related books were pushed back in the dusty and moldy cellars of libraries. Dubois' prime interest was always to make this whole thing revive, in one way or another - and just like so many previous folklorists (even the Grimm themselves) who rewrote, and reshaped fairytales and folktales and invented things to make folklore live on, so did Dubois, in a more extreme way than his predecessors...

That's his own advice for how to become an elficologist - and he keeps insisting upon it when he talks about what people have to do if, like them, they want to become a searcher of fairies or elves. Go outside, walk among natural landscape, go into remote villages, search in old books and grimoires, do not reject anything (except too scientific and materialistic approaches and non-believers), mingle among those that live the folklore, and yourself get lost in the wonders of the overlooked countryside. This sums up very well what was his angle, and why he is located at this strange edge where he can't exactly be pin-pointed. When, in his books about seasons, he keeps referring to the embodiment of winter as "La Vieille", The Old Hag of Winter, the Elderly Witch of the Dead Season, the Queen of Cold and Darkness - he is establishing a fact that comes from looking and comparing European traditions. There is an habit and tradition of depicting the winter as a hag, as a divine crone, under a witch-like figure or monstrous woman. This is attested, and as such Dubois does what he does best, bring the essence of a comparative tradition (Dubois is much more comparative mythology than anything else). But on the bad side, it comes at costs of confusing and fusing together all the various female "winter hags" together ignoring their individual traits. That's always the win and lose of Dubois.

I already evoked it before, but in terms of fairytales for example, while Dubois is a massive fan and praises the brothers Grimm, and traditional French fairytale collectors, and other "folkloric collectors" like them, he strongly disdains and rejects the literary 17th-18th century fairytale writers a la madame d'Aulnoy, and also Perrault (though he does admit his work as part of France's national culture, though still heavily criticizing it). That's because on one side, Dubois had contact with folklore through actual village-people and countryside-folks and other fairytale collectors who like him did a tour of France's remote areas ; meaning he of course disdains those that rewrote fairytales in a too "distant" and "far-away" and "folklore-killing approach" - Dubois rewrites too fairytales heavily, but he rewrites them with the intention of staying faithful to the folklore and bringing out its "essence", which might seem paradoxal, but makes sense when you take this angle. He is the kind of guy who will hate on Perrault for cutting off the part of Little Red Riding Hood where the wolf makes her eat the grandmother's flesh and blood ; and will for example not mind at all expanding on this detail by describing a lush feast of the grandmother's corpse turned into various dishes while evoking all sorts of vampires and ghouls when describing the consumption of the meal... On the other side, this also shows something very true and clear about Dubois - he is filled, imbued with and a carrier of the strong 19th and 20th century fairytale and folklore theories that are now recognized as wrong and outdated. He is clearly a "product of his generation" - and I evoked it with the Sleeping Beauty theory. He is the first contact I had with the theory that Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood and Donkeyskin were all embodiments of an old literary solar-myth and all symbolized the sun or summer threatened or devoured by night/winter before returning to life. I thought he had made it up in his usual "poetic comparative mythology" kind of way, but then I discovered it was an ACTUAL theory that had been claimed and held by numerous folklore and mythology experts and was accepted during most of the 20th century - when Dubois made his own research - before being debunked at the dawn of the 21st century. Dubois doesn't want to actively misinform people, he just shares what he received, what he knows and what shaped him, and as such he is a most important testimony of how folklore was received and perceived up until the mid 20th century.

In many ways he is the Robert Graves of folklore - interesting, poetic, influential and inspiring in his treatment of mythology/folklore, but highly unreliable, misinformed, biased, and ultimately not a serious source for modern research. In fact, it was thanks to Dubois' works that a new wave of (more reliable and serious) fairy encyclopedias, monster encyclopedia and other folkloric compendium started to be released in the early 2000s - aimed for regular people, while still being well-informed like a university work. Dubois clearly launched a new wave of interest and fashion for fairytales - and all the reblogs' affirmations that Dubois' books had shaped them or fashioned their care in one way or another is proof of that (@it-is-phlump oerfectly translates my own perception and reception of Dubois' books, which shaped my childhood, and even though you are mad at him for being so unclear and confusing and unscholarly, you can't be mad because he brings you a whole fascinating poetic and truly "fae" world). Dubois has the same aesthetic credits as for example what Del Toro did with Pan's Labyrinth and the Hellboy movies and more - make people rediscover the magic, eerie, eldritchness, monstrousness, marvels and oddity of what fairies and elves are about. Creature an aesthetic and a world that would produce later works such as for example the excellent Changeling the Lost. But the same way Guillermo del Toro's movies or Changeling the Lost cannot be taken as serious folkloric sources...

With one nuance.

Still going on from @a-book-of-creatures comment, but also @feyariel reblog - about the sources and inventions of Dubois. Dubois has one STRONG interesting thing which makes him a fascinating resource of folklore study - or literature study. His own sources. Dubois invents a lot of things but he does not invent everything - if he presents one specific creature, it means he read or saw about it. He doesn't invent the creatures, he invents the lore about them or fills in the gap of his own sources. I am pretty sure he did not invent the Pillywiggins, because again he doesn't like inventing things - but if you can't find anything about them, it means that either his sources are lost, either his sources might have been literary more than folkloric. And here's my point.

Have you looked at the HUGE bibliographies at the end of each of his volumes? Dubois does NOT want people to stay in the blind about folklore or to be unable to find the same things he did, and he has THOUSANDS of books listed at the end of most of his books about fairies or ghosts or seasonal folklore. But here's the problem - his bibliographies are a confusing treasure.

Dubois, as I said before, did an extensive and complete tour of all the libraries he could find during his travels through the French countryside (so not university-only, higher-up libraries, but the bulk of village and small towns or province towns libraries of the mid-to-second-half 20th century). He collected all sorts of books from bookshops, and as such he read so many books he used for his own works... Many books which today are actually rare or lost books. Sometimes there are books in his bibliographies with clearly no research result when you try to find them today, and you might be led to think "Oh he made it up". But then you see by their side some books who, as it turns out, also lead to no research result, but because they are rare old books, out of print and that you can't find anywhere except by extreme chance... This already puts in perspective some things - he explored the depths of old libraries and private collections, but this means he also likely came among some very rare or old books that are unreachable today or completely lost. Or that are overlooked by people today...

It doesn't help however that in his research, he didn't split things at all. I mean he clearly got better with time at bibliographies - his most recent ones are much clearer than his older ones - but he still mingles and mixes things together, and especially literary and truly folkloric things. You will find Poe's work alongside the Grimm in his bibliographies, and among true beings of folklore in his Encyclopedias he places the literary inventions of Jean Ray or Andersen... Dubois is again, a "random Joe" in this aspect because his bibliographies were literaly him just noting every reference he had, every book title he saw, every author he read about, and putting it together in a list, but without a scholarly rigorism or without questioning his sources. This led for example to another problem of his sources - referential mistakes. A very prominent case happened with the story he collected of the "Ogress Queens" that I talked about here. He collected the tale right in his collections of witches and ogresses - but he made a mistake when giving the name of the source. He wrote the "abbot of the chapel of Apchier" - when in fact, the author full name was "Alix de La Chapelle d'Apchier". Very clearly, when he took his note down, he miswrote the author's name, or he misremembered it, and so confused "Alix" with "abbé" (abbot) and misunderstood "la chapelle" as an actual title instead of a family name... A typical error showing that, once again, it is important to stress out Dubois does not have a scholarly training or treatment or his sources. He is just a guy who reads a lot of everything, and tries to collect everything, and share all he finds, but with a carelessness typical of someone in a non-scientific approach. It is just like how when you write down a reference you spot on a piece of paper, later you type it down but since you carelessly wrote it down, you confuse an "a" for a "o" or "e" and thus mispell the name.

But this carelessness is balanced by, once again, the fact he gave a great care and love for many authors and books overlooked or forgotten, either in his time or by today's time. Again, I evoked the case of the Ogress Queens - this tale, even though wrongly credited, allowed me to discover the works of Alix de La Chapell d'Apchier". Take again Alix de la Chapelle d'Apchier - if it wasn't for Dubois I would have NEVER heard of her work or book of fairytales, because again as located halfway between folkloric and literary tales, she is overlooked and forgotten by both sides. Another example would be Jean Ray. Very recently, a few years ago, Jean Ray was rediscovered by the French book-industry and reprints of his clasic tales appeared on the shelves of every library (around the same time French edition re-discovered Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea series) - but before that, Jean Ray was completely ignored, talked about by nobody, forgotten by everyone... At most people remembered "Malpertuis" but couldn't tell anything else done by him. And yet Pierre Dubois kept referencing him and claiming his love for him and putting tales of his in his own compilation of stories. In fact maybe it was him pushing forard so much the Belgian author that led to the French printing industry "rediscovering" him... Who knows?

In conclusion... Yes, there are many reasons we can be angry at Dubois and reject his books - but there is just as many reasons for us to adore him and buy and reference his works. Ambiguous, polarizing, unperfect but still proving great efforts, a deep passion and having marked cultural and literary history, Dubois is one of those men who are not be taken as a serious source and should not appear in actual fairytale studies (except as a passing reference - for example I evoked him briefly in my paper about ogres) - but who should not be forgotten or ignored due to the importance and impact he had on the reception of fairy folklore, elves legends and other dwarves myths. Again, a bit like Robert Graves with mythology - it can be read as an entertaining side-read, and it has to be considered due to all the movements, theories and groups it spawned, and it was part of the reception of mythology for a time, and it highlighted all sorts of important points - but we still gleefully point out the innacuracies and use it as a source of inspiration and comparison more than any serious reference or resource.

Or rather... A better comparison would be the Dictionnaire Infernal by Collin de Plancy. His compendium of demons and devils is a load of bullshit, with so many invented, excentric, unserious things, and that is no serious resource of information... And yet it marked the history of literature and art, and yet it is still invoked and used today, and yet people keep referring it as a source of demonology.

Overall it reminds me of this question and subject that is sometimes brought up... What is the best way to make folklore live on? For some, it is collecting all folklore and folktales we have, and printing them, keeping them exactly as they were, with no edition, but just side-commentary and explanations, and keep these bits as immobile and frozen as they were before. And for others, like Dubois and the like, the best way to maintain folklore is rather to make it alive again, collect it yes, but also allow ourselves to twist it a bit, to retell it, to link various folktales and unify the various legends and myths in one whole show, and extend it into new stories and new tales. Of course there is no right or wrong answer here, both approaches are needed - we need true folklorists who will collect folklore as it is and bring it in its original truth, as much as we need author, artists and poets who will make pieces of fiction out of this folklore and spin new tales out of these old ones. But it is still a strong debate, and people that keep blurring the lines between the two are often not very well-received - for good or bad, right and wrong... And Dubois is clearly one of those very polarizing figure, with as much blame as praise. However it cannot be denied that he did a bit what Walt Disney did in America - revitalize and bring under a new and fresh form a fairy-world to an audience that was massively uninterested and unknowledgeable about folktales and folklore. Starting once again a love for fairies.

[yuurei20]

Riddle Info Compilation part 2: Upbringing (pt2)

At the beginning of Book 4 we see a very subdued Riddle (Grim describes him as “kinda defeated”) in the Hall of Mirrors.

Ace explains that Riddle is not enthusiastic about going home due to “an extreme case of helicopter parenting waiting for him.”

Trey reminds Riddle that he is not allowed in Riddle’s house and thus cannot bring him any cakes, but encourages him to visit his parents’ bakery, assuring him that Chenya will probably be visiting as well.

Riddle says, “I think…I’m going to try talking with Mother some. I don’t know if she’ll listen, but even so.”

In Book 5 it is revealed that Riddle was ultimately not able to escape his home to Trey’s family’s bakery during the vacation.

We learn a little bit more about Riddle’s upbringing during Spectral Soiree when he tells Ruggie and Ortho that he has had “no exposure to the comic books and video games the rest of you enjoy.”

Riddle says that his opinion is “entirely grounded in reality” as a result, and that he has “never had much interest in watching or reading escapist fare. Ah, but I have read a great many autobiographies. By the time I was your age, Ortho, I was already reading medical dictionaries.”

Ortho comments that “there are studies that show consuming entertainment media is essential for well-rounded emotional development,” and Ruggie points out that Ortho—a robot—is worried about Riddle’s emotional growth.

Riddle accuses them of ganging up on him, saying it is none of their business.

Riddle insists that while he is not up to date on popular culture he has “read all the classics that are foundational for a literary education. Treasure hunting? Adventure? There’s no point in bothering with stories that have no lesson to learn.”

Ruggie reacts with surprise, as treasure hunting “is like solving a puzzle,” but Riddle seems confused.

We learn during Book 6 that Riddle didn’t have a TV in his home growing up, and he first tries to opt out of the video game that Ortho encourages him to play on the grounds that his mother has told him that “video games are addictive and can hurt academic performance.”

Idia mocks him for blaming games for his own lack of self control, leaving Riddle momentarily speechless.

Riddle takes offense, insisting that his grades would never drop just because he happened to play a video game, and Idia successfully provokes him into playing the game in order to prove it.

Vil comments that Riddle playing right into Idia’s hands is “embarrassing to watch” and Azul says, “Riddle’s very bright, but has zero resistance to trolling.”

Later, Riddle says that he has spent most of his time learning magic ever since he was born, receiving specialized magical training lessons at three years old.

Azul says he must have been quite the prodigy but Riddle explains that he can’t be certain if he ever had any special talent to begin with since his mother “apparently went to every possible length to ensure I’d be an exceptional mage, starting from when I was in the womb.”

Riddle says that grade skipping isn’t really done in the Queendom of Roses, and the private school he attended prior to NRC didn’t allow it,1 which is why he never did so.

He explains, “Besides, you have to be at least 24 to get a medical license in the Queendom of Roses. So I doubt my parents saw much point in me skipping a grade or two.”

Riddle’s education also included dance:

He explains that “social dancing is part of gentlemanly etiquette” and that he has “mastered it, of course.”

He offers to lead Ortho and Ruggie in a dance to thank them for what they taught him during Spectral Soiree, but Ruggie turns him down in favor of the buffet.

We also see Riddle waltzing with a ghost, and then with Vil.

Riddle explains, “I’ve had an interest in social dancing since I was a child. I learned it from my mother, as part of my rigorous education.”

Riddle says he knows how to behave in formal situations and will occasionally call out other characters for poor etiquette, such as when Silver falls asleep during a party and when he scolds Heartlsabyul students for holding conversations in the entrance to the dorm.

[siena-sevenwits]

Areas in which I want to buff up my reading in 2024

Non-fiction - most especially I want to indulge in some factual works that don't relate to classes I am teaching. But also I'd love to read a couple of full books relating to niche areas of what my students are studying, so I can beguile them with awesomeness that doesn't show up in more general works.

Spiritual works. This year I did significantly better at keeping up with scriptural reading and the odd spiritual work, but I would like to strengthen this area.

Literary classics. These featured semi-regularly in my reading this year, but I tend to pick ones I find easy to get into, like Greek tragedy or nineteenth century girls' classics. I'd like to pick at least one or two classics that I really have to push myself to get into, however. I used to have much more stamina for this kind of thing (classics constituted the bulk of my reading in my teens and early twenties!), and it was very rewarding upon a time. Gained some favourite books from it. This is an important step in the recovering reader process. I just have to find some great literary classics that appeal to me but also daunt me.

Re-reads. I think it would do me good to make more of a point of revisiting some old, well-loved works. I used to be such a re-reader, but I haven't done nearly as much of it since I began my recovering reader project.

Works in Latin and French. I studied both in my younger years, and let them grow rust-ish. I want to sit down with some translated children's books I am already familiar with in English, and respective dictionaries, and see what comes of it. (I'm already in progress of reading "Familia Romana," but that doesn't count.)

Original works by my talented writer friends

And of course, more, more, more fantasy, works for children and young people, historicals, and plays! I don't need to make any concerted effort for those, but I want even more!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Phullo there, I’d like to ask you a question! I hope I won’t be such a bothersome.

So, I’m planning to write a story about Laughingstock and since I find your storytelling very pleasing I figured it’d be a great idea to ask for your advice about the writing!

My Idea in general for this story is just Howdy taking a day off from working in his bodega. And basically, he’ll be just wearing normal clothes.. shocking truly.

And thennn, Barnaby and Howdy accidentally stumbled into each other’s path. They later then of course had a very long conversation that lasted until evening maybe.

Of course there’ll be some fishy moments like them looking at each other with goggly eyes and other cheesy romantic nonsense- but it’s just mainly them having their usual conversation with a ‘couple’ of jokes here and there. It’s supposed to be a sweet memory for them to remember basically.

So, what I’m really trying to ask you for is- how the heck do you start a story exactly and not make it into just the dialogues? Like, I want my story to be kind of long but I’m afraid it’ll be just them, y’know, talking and I really don’t want it to be boring.. therefore, I really need your help.

I am so sorry if it’s such a bad timing considering the fact that you just had an interview which I am very proud for you for that! Even if it didn’t go as expected at least you did good half of it.

Soo, yeah! I’d very much appreciate your advice and I am sooo sorry that this was soo long!!! And again, a bad timing too.. but hey if you got any time, please consider answering. Thank you..

Also any response yet? On the interview of course.

hmmm... in my experience and Knowledge Accumulated Over The Years via reading And writing... the best place to start is to just drop in. no story introduction, no "it was a dark and stormy night", just Start. it sounds like your story begins with Howdy taking the day off, so maybe kick off with him getting ready / choosing an outfit, or w/ him reflexively almost opening the store before he stops and chides himself for almost forgetting that he's taking the day off

to combat the dialogue, maybe detail him leaving the bodega to go into the neighborhood. what does he see? hear? feel both physically and mentally? is there anyone else out and about? set the scene! ive been struggling with this too lately since i haven't seriously written in a while and i haven't been reading actual books

WHICH! IMPORTANT TANGENTS!! read well-written books, Not fanfic! im not saying dont read fanfic ever or i'd be the world's biggest hypocrite, but also read actual books. it's important to study how published authors write, how stories are structured, dialogue and action. because these books have more often then not gone through a Rigorous screening process. multiple drafts, beta readers, publishers reading it with great scrutiny before agreeing to publish - of course there are exceptions, but a lot of books are the highest quality they can be, and will outshine most fics. because, and i say all of this as good things, fics are unregulated. most dont have beta readers. a lot are from amateur authors new to the scene. there will be spelling mistakes, weird grammar & sentence structure, etc - most fics have Entirely different writing styles from each other. so if you only read fanfic, That is what your brain will learn, and it's gonna be harder for you to write. published books have less variation in styles, and the styles are subtler. there's less spelling mistakes if any, so your spelling will improve. your internal vocabulary will expand. even if you don't consciously study what you read, your brain will pick up on & internalize patterns, how action works, how dialogue works, how to structure a story, all that good stuff. if you want, i can recommend well-written books! i've been an avid reader since... like, ever. i've got recs galore! you can tell me your preferred genre & literary interest and i'll probably have something for you! and if you're not big on books, well... get out of your comfort zone lmao, books are fucking awesome and i guarantee there are plenty out there that you would love.

and when you're writing dialogue, intersperse it with little actions or the main povs' internal dialogue. if there's a natural lull in the conversation, explore that lull! what do the characters do in this moment? what's going on around them? sprinkle bits of setting in so that your reader knows where they are and what's going on.

plus, exploring the non-dialogue sections of your story can, and often will, spark inspiration in your brain for scenes and actions to fill out the story if you want it to be long (but also! if you just want to write the scene of their conversation, that's the beauty of fanfic - there's no requirements. do whatever you want lmao). when Howdy is going into town, maybe Wally calls him over for a quick pose - does Howdy say yes or no, and how does that decision change the story? maybe Julie invites him to join her in a game, or Eddie stops to talk to Howdy about him being out and about. maybe there are some complaints over the bodega not being open. what's the lead-up to Howdy and Barnaby running into each other? do they literally run into each other? what happens when they do? those are just a few possibilities of many!

remember, when you're writing, you're that story's god. you can do literally fucking anything. you decide what the characters do, where they go, what happens in their world. that mindset should help you bolster the plot instead of just "these two characters have a conversation", yk?

i hope this helps!

[ladyriot]

Can I just say the writers did something so interesting in making Maura's favourite book Anne of Green Gables? And especially in bringing it up in this episode (5x12, yes I'm watching this show very fast; sue me, it's the weekend). The undercurrent it gives knowing that story while watching this one blows my mind.

So in this episode, Maura has to connect with her own childhood to access a connection with Jack's daughter and it so clearly digs up some things for her. She wants to impress her.

If you can't tell by my spelling alone, I'm a Canadian. And I studied English in university, so of course I've looked at this book in academic context before. Anne of Green Gables is something that gets analyzed as queer, as neurodivergent, and as trauma narrative. And oh my gosh is that interesting in the context of a character like Maura.

Maura who, like Anne, has a lonely childhood where she feels unwanted. Anne whose upbringing as an orphan is really tough with early guardians who only see her value in what she does for others and not who she is herself. Anne who combats that loneliness and darkness in part by trying to be unique, who loves flowers and beautiful things and wants nothing more than a specific cut of dress she's never had before and to be liked and wanted. Anne who creates this rich inner world and daydreams all the time to avoid the realities of her life (anyone remember Maura's wedding fantasies?). Anne who gets mocked and teased at school, but also has an imaginative side that draws in a whole host of friends too. I can see Maura wanting that part, seeing a beacon of hope in her because she's different but she's loved.

And, oh, could I go on. Anne whose trauma and neurodivergent traits have her constantly assuming her new guardians don't want her every time she makes a mistake or makes a mess of things, who constantly sees herself as bad, who can so easily see herself as trouble, as someone who only gets to ruin things and doesn't get to have things (some possible rejection sensitive dysphoria in that). Uh, big Maura vibes. I talk just a little about Maura being similar in this post here, but I could go on with that too.

Maura is still insecure. She still immediately assumes people won't like her, that Jack's daughter won't like her. That nobody wants her for real or for very long or when she can't give them something. She talks about being a weird kid in this episode. She tells Allie this:

I've seen literary analysis suggesting Anne might have possible ADHD, possible autism or cptsd. Maura, are you sitting over there and relating? Anne socializes differently. Anne gets caught up in all sorts of trouble because she thinks and acts differently, interacting with the world in a way unlike she's always expected to by others. Anne goes on long winded asides, giving stories to nature and ordinary things to the annoyance and/or affection of the people around her. She's constantly seeking out "kindred spirits" who get her even though she's different... like Maura does, like Maura probably wanted very much when she was young and reading this. Like Maura probably still does as she goes on her 'joy of science' asides.

And, Anne's often read as queer due to her almost overly dedicated friendship with Diana. For instance, Anne goes into this melodramatic tirade when Diana's parents don't want them spending time together after an accident with alcohol, with an over-the-top apology and very very mushy goodbye. They refer to each other as "bosom friends" and hold their friendship above all their others in a way that often reads queer. Now come on, this is Rizzoli and Isles, Jane and Maura. If you don't want me to read Maura as queer, Anne of Green Gables is the worst story to say is her favourite. And the worst story to bring up in this episode.

This is such an interesting choice for the storytelling to take. I just can't let it go as coincidence. I just take it as confirmation that Maura saw herself in all these aspects of Anne's character. Which, all in all, makes the end of this episode even more cutting. This is Maura watching her bosom friend, her kindred spirit, her Diana jump off a bridge and leave her alone.

And oh my god is that compelling.

[somerabbitholes]

heyy can you recommend me some books for light reading cuz i have so much to study now but i still want to read something for stress relief

hi! these are my favourites for light reading —

intimations by zadie smith: six essays written during early pandemic; it's a short swift take on things happening then, weirdly comforting now

rain in the mountains by ruskin bond: stories and essays about writing, living in the mountains and so on. also check his notes from a small room, which is more about writing; but also, just pick any ruskin bond really

the anthropocene reviewed by john green: essays from the podcast that are about being human at an individual and a larger communal level; really really well done

a man called ove by fredrik backman: about a really grumpy old man that follows him over the course of three weeks and really just builds a character portrait of him. this is light reading because it's wholesome and the sweetest thing really, but it is also not light (for me) because everytime i read backman i just obsessively let the books consume me. anxious people is also same.

good omens by neil gaiman, sir terry pratchett: this is one of the funniest and the most wholesome-est books i've read; follows an angel and a demon working together to stop the apocalypse; they both share one brain cell between them, and i love them for that; also check gaiman's coraline (be warned, it is creepy); and pratchett's small gods

the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy by douglas adams: this is the first part, and i would totally recommend them all; it starts with the earth being demolished to make space for an intergalactic highway, only one human escapes, he hitches a ride on a spaceship nearby; utter chaos of a book (affectionate), also very funny

round ireland with a fridge by tony hawks: it's a travelogue, where hawks takes a trip around the perimeter of ireland with a small fridge after losing a bet; it's absurd and engaging, and wild that this really happened

shadow of the wind by carlos ruiz zafon: it's a very very cool literary mystery/thriller that follows daniel, who works in his father's bookshop and who discovers a book by an author no one seems to have heard of and around whom there are only rumours and more mysteries. he starts digging into the author and his work and, as happens with thrillers, it turns into a lot he doesn't expect

i hope you find something you like!

[nanowrimo]

30 Covers, 30 Days 2023: Day 3

Day 3 is here and it feels like things are just heating up. Today's feature is Code 51 by Jill Chapman, a Young Adult novel full of mystery. This novel cover was designed by the amazing returning artist, Cookie Redding!

(For those of you who don’t know, 30C30D stands for 30 Covers, 30 Days in which 17 Wrimos and 5 YWP Participants get the chance to win a professionally designed cover! The rest of the days are being filled by community features. We’ll be posting a cover a day throughout November, so make sure to check them out!)

Code 51

Jacqueline Kolby wants to get through her senior year in high school to get on with better things. She doesn't want attention in or out of class from anyone. Jac, as her friends call her, ignores headlines and surely doesn't want to be one. However, when an arsonist seems to target her family, staying in the background isn't possible anymore. Jac's dad gets burned in a barn fire after several of their corn fields are razed. Now she's had enough. The police and fire marshal don't have any suspects. Her mom is busy caring for her dad while her grandpa mourns the recent loss of her grandma. Jac and her two friends set out to solve the mystery before anyone else gets injured. Who would want to hurt her family? Why now?

About the Author

Jill resides in Southern Indiana with her husband of forty-five years. They enjoy their country lifestyle and visiting with their children and grandchildren. Her life centers around her family and her yellow lab, Indy. She is an avid movie watcher and loves Mexican food and watercolor painting. 

She has published a middle-grade mystery series titled The Bomb Squad. Code 51 will be her first venture into young adult mystery/suspense books.

Jill’s interest in books began in childhood when reading provided a wonderful outlet for her wild imagination. She loves to tell stories about her life experiences with humor mixed in to convey the sense of adventure she feels daily. Jill says her life is like a good plate of nachos, a tiny kick of spice, and a whole lotta cheese.  

About the Designer

Cookie Redding is an artist, designer and lecturer with the School of Visual Arts at the Pennsylvania State University and teaches courses in the Digital Art and DMD Programs. Her work encompasses the art and design world, with a focus on multiple media forms of expression.

Redding's influences are from a diverse array of disciplines spawning from the classics and antiquities, to history and tech. Her explorations integrate these elements into a study of symbols. The imagery she deals with within her work is a study from the beauty of words and by being within nature. Her explorations show how the literary world meets the natural work with color and texture. Check her out on Instagram and Facebook!

Cover Design Process:

This year. we gave designers the optional prompt to explain their design process for the cover! Here's Cookie's:

My process typically starts with some sketching, brainstorming and listmaking. Then I start to hone my composition concept while also searching for imagery that would be ideal for the cover. I went through around 8 iterations and then my concept adjusted a bit to include the grid--that's when everything fell into place! Thanks so much for letting me be a part of 30 Covers 30 Days again--it's the highlight of my design year!