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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

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Moonbeam (Ezra x Reader) [smut] {Werewolf AU}

Title: Moonbeam Rating: Explicit Length: 6,000 Warnings: Non-graphic description of bodily injury and smut (cunnilingus, doggy style sex, mentions of masturbation). Reader Details: To the best of my knowledge, there are no references to Reader’s physical details, beyond being a bisexual woman. I tried my best to keep it as vague as possible. Notes: So, this is the second lengthy Ezra fic I’ve written this month, but the only one that will see the light of day. Shout-out to @rzrcrst for pre-reading this for me. Werewolves are my niche and I’m absolutely incapable of writing them without creating the lore around their existence. Ezra exudes big werewolf energy (P.S. Javier exudes big vampire energy) and since I’m not really in a fandom until I write a werewolf AU, I present you all with my very own version of space werewolves. Depending on audience reactions, there might be more of this story to tell.

Taglist:@princessbatears @djarin-junk @absurdthirst @hdlynn @legally-a-bastard @opheliaelysia @heather-lynn @sabinemorans @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @pedrospunk @maybege @chews-erotically @katlikeme @lose-eels @youmeanmybrain @theindiealto @irishleesh93

You had heard the rumors, but never once had you believed that they were true. A werewolf living on a moon? Werewolves were the stuff of fairytales. They weren’t real.

They weren’t real.

But someone who had come before you had clearly considered the potential. Why else had someone thought to set up a cleverly concealed steel trap?

The pain was overwhelming. Worse than anything you’d ever encountered before. You were lucky your leg hadn’t snapped in two — your heavy coveralls were your saving grace.

You howled out in pain as you dropped to your knees, trying in vain to pry the trap off your leg. The sharp teeth had bit through the fabric of your coveralls and the dark stain forming told you everything you needed to know about your future. If you didn’t get the trap off soon, you were going to bleed out.

And then you’d become a smorgasbord for whatever creatures lived on this moon. There had to be something terrifying in the forest that had convinced everyone to believe in werewolves.

“Kriff.” You swore, your arms throbbing with effort as you tried yet again to free your leg from the trap. You dropped back onto your ass, before sinking down onto the soft mossy ground beneath you.

At least the stars were out. You could see them through the bareboned trees as they swayed above you in the evening breeze.

The pain wasn’t so bad at a certain point, most likely because of the blood loss. That would do it. That woozy, tingling sensation that had your vision blurring at the edges.

A branch snapped nearby, sending a dull spike of nerves through you. You hadn’t made a study of the flora and fauna on the moon — but that certainly didn’t sound like a small creature.

“Please don’t eat me.” You mumbled, tilting your head to look in the direction of the sound. The filtered moonlight from the crescent moon above barely illuminated the forest around you and your flashlight was just out of reach.

You heard the sound of another branch snapping under foot, “Hello?”

All men are beasts in their own right, but the man that stepped into your line of view seemed an unlikely candidate.

“I do believe that trap was not set to ensnare one such as you,” He drawled out with a honey-sweet cadence as he moved towards you.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” You offered weakly, trying to sit up as he knelt beside you, but your vision blurred harshly and you sank back onto the ground.

“How fortuitous you are that I take my evening stroll through this very copse of trees.” He mused, effortlessly freeing your leg from the steel trap.

“How—“

“You have lost a considerable amount of blood, little lamb. I would be most obliged to offer shelter and succor. These woods are no place to remain alone. One can never know what creatures fresh blood may attract.”

You exhaled shakily as you stared up at the stars above you. He was right — you’d never make it back to your transport alone on your leg. “Promise not to kill me?” You cracked, tilting your head to look at him.

He flashed you a toothy grin, “I promise.”

“What is your name?” You asked as he hoisted you into his arms, with surprising ease.

“Ezra.” He told you, looking down at you. “And what is your name, little lamb?”

“Ezra.” You repeated softly, resting your cheek against his chest as he carried you through the forest. You gave him your own name, feeling a strange warmth wash through you when he repeated it back in that beguiling tone of his.

“Am I right in my assumption that you are the occupant of the transport that arrived just two nights ago.” Ezra questioned quietly.

“Depends on who is asking.” You jested lightly, “I am. Reconnaissance mission for a mining program.”

“Ah,” His grip on you seemed to tighten. “Another greedy venture to strip the moon of its precious lunaxium?”

“I can only assume.” You glanced up at him, “Above my pay grade.”

“You should leave within the week.” Ezra remarked, keeping his sharp gaze focused ahead of him. “It won’t be safe for you.”

“You don’t believe in that stupid story, do you?” You questioned, “Isn’t that just a tale to keep prospectors from coming here?”

“I once believed that.” Ezra muttered, before falling silent for the remainder of the journey to his humble abode.

You had so many questions for your serendipitous savior, but he tended to your leg in relative silence and then left you to rest in his bed.

From what you could tell, Ezra had fashioned a home for himself out of a crashed transport vessel that you could only assume had been his own at one time. Perhaps he’d been like you once upon a time, a drifter picking up odd jobs and landing in bad situations.

Ezra was handsome. The moonlight hadn’t tricked you into thinking that — in the garish light of his bedroom, he was still just as striking. Warm eyes, long lashes, a mess of chestnut hair with a shock of blonde, and a wiry frame.

How long had he been living on Lykaios? Had his vessel crashed on a wayward venture and he’d had no one to come looking for him? Not that anyone would come looking for you either.

Maybe Shiva. They would’ve probably come looking for your corpse just to get what was owed to them.

It was a damn miracle that Ezra had stumbled upon you. How had he even found you? The woods all looked the same.

Sleep came slowly and fitfully. Despite the shot Ezra had given you, your leg was agonizingly painful if you moved at all. Fortunately, there were books within reach — well-loved, with worn pages. You wondered if they had been Ezra’s to start with, or if he’d found someone’s abandoned transport.

He had excellent taste.

You hadn’t seen a stack of Chaucer since you were much younger. His copy of Canterbury Tales had been opened so many times the spine wilted in your palm.

Ezra announced himself with a short knock, before sliding open the durasteel door. “I expected you to be asleep. You had quite the evening, little lamb.”

“I tried.” You made a note of the page you were on before closing the book and sitting it aside on the bedside shelf. “I got distracted by… your collection of novels.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “I see you’re getting acquainted with my old oppo Chaucer.”

“I’ll have you know, Chaucer is my friend.” You quipped, drumming your fingers against the cover of the book. “It was nice to retrace old lines.”

“He’s an acquired taste,” Ezra tucked his hands behind his back and stepped into the room. “Youth may outrun the old, but not outwit.”

You smiled a little, “Earn what you can since everything’s for sale.”

Ezra chuckled, shaking his head. “And how true that is.” He gestured grandly towards your leg, “But oftentimes it comes with folly.”

“Is that how you ended up here?” You questioned, “I wanted to ask you last night, but with everything...”

He shrugged, dragging over a trunk and perching on the edge of it. “Five years ago I stood where you stand. They were looking for a new form of clean energy — lunaxium seemed like the answer.” Ezra pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, looking away from you then. “This place is filled with hidden dangers. Once you can put weight on your leg, I encourage you to leave.”

“You could come with me.”

Ezra’s gaze snapped towards you, “No.”

Your brows furrowed together, “Alright.”

“I need to change your bandages,” Ezra exhaled heavily as he rose from the trunk, he turned his back to you as he moved to retrieve the roll of gauze from a shelf.

Your eyes widened as you spotted a twisted scar that ran up the back of his neck into his hairline and vanished down the back of his shirt. You hadn’t noticed it last night while he fussed over you.

“Ezra, why can’t you leave?”

Ezra sighed heavily as he sat down on the foot of the bed, drawing your leg into his lap. “It’s home.” He answered simply, unwinding the bandages. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but this—“ He gestured around him. “It’s mine.”

“And you haven’t gone stir crazy after five years?” You questioned, grimacing as he prodded at your wound. “I was gone for two months on a solo mission once and I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to Shiva again. Even if they did rob me blind during liar’s dice.”

“You get used to solitude.” Ezra glanced at you briefly, before turning his attention to the task at hand. He cleaned the area around the wound, before wrapping fresh bandaging around it. “Once or twice a year, someone like yourself arrives and…”

“And the mythical werewolf eats them?” You jested, sinking back against the mattress as he laid your leg back down on the bed.

“Something like that.” He offered dryly, eyeing at you warily. “There’s a full moon in eleven days. I would advise you not to wait around to discover whether or not it is simply lore.”

Your brows knit together and you sat up, arms curled around your waist. “You say that like there’s a chance it is true. You’ve been here for five years… What have you seen?”

“I have things I must attend to away from here.” Ezra said abruptly, “Rest and I’ll return in a few hours to escort you back to your transport.”

Ezra did little to assuage that sinking sensation that told you that maybe just maybe there were werewolves on Lykaios.

“Before you settled here, what did you do?” You questioned, leaning into Ezra’s side as he kept a firm hand coiled around you for support. “Your transport didn’t offer many clues, outside of your exquisite taste in literature.”

Ezra chuckled, looking at you from the corner of his eyes. “I was a harvester. A damn good one, at that. But seasons get hard, tides turn, allegiances bend. Fell into a bit of a snare with an associate and had to dig my way out.”

“I think we’ve all been there before,” You shook your head. “I enjoy gambling. Nasty habit.” You admitted. “I wasn’t meant to be the one to come to Lykaois. My friend — the one I mentioned before — had been assigned to this mission. They lost it in a dicey bet with me.”

“Dicey?”

“What gambler plays honorably?” You countered. “I cheated.”

“And this friend of yours was meant to come here instead?”

You nodded, “Tried to win it back right up until the moment I took off.” Shiva had been furious that they’d lost and even more furious knowing that you hadn’t played fair. “I’ve heard the stories about Lykaois and I wanted to find out if they were true.”

“One shouldn’t go looking for the stuff of myth.” Ezra drawled out. “In my erstwhile profession, I had a certain predilection for danger. It can be damning.”

“Look, I don’t mean to pry, but… is there a reason you can’t leave?” You stopped abruptly, causing him to stumble slightly. “My transport has life support for three. If there’s someone else you’ve got here — if that’s why you don’t want to leave.”

You could feel Ezra’s gaze bore into your skin.

“I’m not leaving.” You told him, when he made no attempt to answer your question. “I’ll take a day or two to rest, but I’m finishing what I’ve started.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Then why don’t you leave?” You pushed back. “If it’s so dangerous, why aren’t you trying to leave?”

Ezra worked his jaw slowly, before looking towards the sky and sighing heavily. “I’m not the only inhabitant on this moon. Some have been here for much longer than me and they…” He shook his head slowly.

You curled your fingers around his forearm, turning to stare at him. “They’re what?”

“Little lamb, be glad you were found by me and not one of them.” Ezra gritted out, holding your gaze. “Consider your luck and leave before it runs out.”

He wasn’t going to relent. Whatever secrets Lykaois held, he wasn’t going to reveal them to you.

“Will you at least let me give you a few of my books?” You questioned, squeezing his arm tight as you used him to support your weight.

“Depends on what you’re offering.” Ezra retorted, “But we need to keep moving. You need to get your leg up.”

Ezra was entranced with your small collection of books. Like a man starved, he snatched up every book — flipping through its pages with reverence. You couldn’t imagine spending five years without getting your hands on a new book.

You thought he would abruptly leave once he had you safely tucked into your transport — but he lingered.

“Nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle. Why not I with thine?” Ezra read, the words falling from his tongue with a richness that your mind had never been able to give them.

“Shelley?” You questioned, tilting your head to try to get a look at the book he was holding.

“Indeed.” He closed the book and held it to his chest. “Our dear friend Percy had quite a way with words. Overshadowed — and rightfully so — by his beloved wife.”

“I haven’t been able to get my hands on Frankenstein. Not since I was maybe fourteen.” You admitted.

Ezra snapped his fingers, “You should’ve spoken up, little lamb. Mary has kept me company on many lonely nights.”

“I will part with Percy,” You told him, hobbling towards him on your wounded leg. “But only if you are willing to part with Mary.”

He hummed thoughtfully, still clutching the book to his chest. “I will have to consult with her.” Ezra told you with a soft smile, “I have no doubt that she is as tired of my company as anyone would be.”

You reached out and covered his hand with yours, “I will let you reunite the couple for just one night. But you have to promise me that you’ll bring me Frankenstein.”

Ezra’s gaze lowered to where your hand was on his, a faint color rising in his cheeks. “Promise me you’ll leave once books have been exchanged.” He covered your hand with his other hand, squeezing gently. “If you stay, I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“Me.” Ezra breathed out, his dark eyes setting on yours. “I will bring you lunaxium that you can take back to whomever hired you. Warn them from this place and forget it.”

“It’s not that simple.” You found yourself leaning into him for support, “I have to complete testing and analysis. Reports. I can’t just take back a lump of lunaxium and hope for the best.”

A growl like sound rose up in the back of his throat, “Then I’ll do the reports for you. I know more than I ever cared to know of lunaxium and this godsforsaken rock. You are not to venture beyond this transport.”

You pulled your hand away from his, “I’ll do as I please, thank you.”

Ezra gritted his teeth, “Do you have a death wish? Now isn’t the time for obstinance. Not this close to a full moon.”

You blinked at him, “Are you…?”

His expression faltered, fingers twitching against the book before he held it out to you, “Keep it and leave tonight. Please.”

“No.” You shook your head, “I want to know.”

“Among these stories,” He gestured to your shelf of books, “I’m afraid it’s an unimpressive tale.”

“I’m always looking to hear new stories.” You told him, grimacing as you put too much weight down on your leg. “Shit.”

“Please sit,” Ezra urged, moving swiftly to curl his arm around your waist as he guided you towards the makeshift sofa you’d made from a weapon crate and oversized pillows.

He sank down onto the opposite end, hands covering his face as he let out a heavy sigh. “Five years ago, I was just like you. Starry-eyed, devil-may-care.”

“Is that how you see me?”

“Yes.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “I came here looking for lunaxium like every ill-fated prospector before me. The rumors, the legend, the myth — they made for a tantalizing adventure.” His expression sobered as he stared straight ahead. “It’s painful. Muscles tear, bones shatter, skin stretches.”

Your heart clenched and your stomach roiled at the thought.

“They say the first was a corruption. There are wolves among us, lurking beyond the trees — fearful in their own right of what looms above them. Someone played with fate and made a monster that even Shelley couldn’t have imagined. Lunaxium has no effect on humans, but it calms the beast for awhile.”

Without even thinking about it, you carefully shifted onto your good knee, letting your leg rest over the side of the sofa as you leaned towards Ezra. “This scar.” You said as you gingerly brushed your fingers over the back of his neck.

He tensed, fingers clenching and unclenching in his lap. “I was attacked on my second night here.” He confessed, exhaling slowly. “Forgive me, little lamb. It has been a right smart spell since I have felt another’s touch.”

“You shouldn’t have to live like that, Ezra.” You whispered, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Isolating yourself… Maybe there’s a cure.”

“I can’t leave Lykaois.” He admitted, closing his eyes as he relaxed under the gentle touch of your fingers. “We’re reliant on the lunaxium and whatever this moon is cursed with. I would go mad.”

“Has anyone ever tried to leave?”

“There are stories.” Ezra turned to look at you. “I appreciate your offer. If it weren’t for what I’ve become, I would accept it without hesitation. But I would rather perish in the solitude of my transport than lose my mind somewhere among the stars.”

You trailed your fingers from his hair, along the curve of his jaw. “I could come back.”

“And put yourself in danger twice over?”

“I put myself in danger every time I venture out on a harvest with a ragtag team that might turn their weapons on me. Life is a risk, Ezra.” You held his gaze as you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip. “I can be your connection to the world you’ve lost. Name it, anything — I’ll bring it back here to you.”

“It’s dangerous.” Ezra seemed compelled by the offer. “The others… they’ve been here long enough to lose what’s left of their humanity.”

“Then protect me.” You brushed your fingers through the hair that fell against his forehead.

“There’s so much I miss,” He admitted, his expression matching the way his voice broke as he held your gaze. “Five years… it’s a lifetime to spend alone.” He curled his fingers around your hand, rubbing his thumb against the center of your palm. “I don’t want you to risk yourself for me.”

“I’m not afraid.” You told him, and as foolish as it was — you weren’t.

Ezra’s gaze flickered between your eyes and your lips and your breath caught somewhere in the back of your throat when he started to lean towards you.

He wasn’t the only one who had gone years without knowing a lover’s touch. You played things close to the chest, avoided anything that could ensnare you — except for him.

For all of his warm charm, there was an underlying current of danger that had you feeling like a moth to the flame. He was a monster. A creature made from a curse you hadn’t even believed in.

“Ezra.” You breathed out, leaning in until your nose brushed against his.

He petted his fingers over your cheek as his breath mingled with yours, “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just my leg.” Your lips were a hair’s breadth away from his, “I think we both need this.”

Ezra curled his fingers around the back of your head as his lips crashed against yours. You groaned against his lips and his tongue took the opportunity to slip into your mouth, curling against yours.

He kissed like a man possessed, desperate and all consuming. He hauled you into his lap like you weighed nothing, his hands clawing at your back, your ass, your arms — anywhere he could reach.

He was starved for a connection like this. You had sensed it in the way he gravitated towards you, the way he lingered, the gentle touches as he mended your leg.

You hissed softly as you shifted your weight in his lap, trying not to put pressure on your leg, but it was hard not to in that position.

Ezra cupped your cheek, drawing your focus to his face as his other hand curled tight around your hip. “Do you trust me, little lamb?” He questioned, waiting until you nodded before he started to guide you back lengthways on the sofa.

You scraped your fingernails over his scalp as you slid your fingers through his hair. His knee slotted in between your thighs as he draped himself over you.

Greedy hands grabbed at the back of his shirt, pulling it up to reveal new skin to touch. He was touch starved. Every brush of your fingers against his untouched skin made him rut against your thigh.

Ezra’s mouth worked down the column of your throat, teeth lightly scraping as his tongue darted out to taste your skin. His own hands sliding under your shirt, skimming over your ribs.

You’d missed the feeling of large, rough hands against your skin. It had been more than a few cycles since you’d fallen into bed with a man. A year, maybe two, since you’d been with anyone at all.

“Ezra.” You breathed out as his mouth moved over your covered breast, his tongue seeking out your nipple through the soft fabric.

His eyes snapped to meet yours, pupils blown with arousal as he let out a ragged breath. “I can smell you.” Ezra murmured, his tongue flicking out to tease the peak of your nipple, the fabric darkened from his mouth. “You’re soaked, aren’t you little lamb?” He questioned, a hand wandering down your side, curling around your thigh.

You felt your chest and cheeks burn with a heady mix of arousal and embarrassment. You were slick. You could feel your underwear clinging to your cunt, desire fueled solely by the man crowded onto the sofa with you.

“In my bed,” Ezra whispered, untangling the hand you had in his hair. He brought your hand to his lips, inhaling deeply before wrapping his lips around your first two fingers.

An unabashed moan escaped you, your hips lifting off the sofa as you ground yourself against his knee. You should’ve been ashamed — he had known that you’d tried to put yourself to sleep by burying your face in his pillow and your hand between your thighs.

Ezra released your fingers with a wet pop, his nostrils flaring as he held your gaze. “You didn’t come, did you? Did la petite mort evade you?”

“Yes.” You whispered, tracing your dampened fingers over his scruffy cheek. “I was so close, but it wasn’t enough.”

He smirked at you as he pressed his knee firmly against you. “May I?”

“Please.” You nodded, sinking back against the sofa as Ezra moved down your body. Skilled fingers worked at the fastenings of your pants, peeling the heavy fabric down your thighs before tossing them aside.

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of you, “Sit up, little lamb.” Ezra told you, sinking onto the ground in front of you. “Look at you.” He drawled as your thighs parted, your injured leg draped over his shoulder.

You gasped quietly as he stroked his thumb over the damp spot on your underwear, barely brushing over your clit — but even that mere touch was enough to make you tremble.

“Did you think of me?” Ezra questioned, peeling the fabric to the side, sweeping his fingers between your slick folds.

“Maybe.” You retorted, biting down on your bottom lip as you watched him lick your arousal from his fingers.

A quiet growl rose up the back of his throat as he leaned in between your thighs. He held your underwear to the side as he lapped at you, his tongue sweeping between your folds.

Your fingers slid into his hair, grip tightening as he traced the tip of his tongue over your clit.

“Do you need these?” Ezra mumbled, tugging at your underwear.

“No. No.” You shook your head, pitching your hips towards him.

Ezra effortlessly tore away the crotch of your underwear, his mouth descending upon your tender flesh. His tongue delved between your folds, thrusting into your slick core. He grabbed at your thigh, holding you steady as he turned his attention to your clit.

You cried out as he wrapped his lips around that throbbing bundle of nerves. He sucked lightly at it, swirling his tongue over it as his fingers pressed into your cunt.

He didn’t let up, his tongue working over your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of you. His fingers were deliciously thick, dragging in and out of you, brushing over that sweet spot within you that made your entire core quake.

Ezra was good.

His name was heavy on your tongue as you shattered, your inner walls clenching around his fingers, thighs trapping his face between your legs.

“I need…” You panted out, breath hitching as he curled his fingers within you. “Fuck!” You shouted, nearly ripping his hair out as you felt a dam break as your vision blurred from the sudden burst of molten desire. Ezra was undeterred, his tongue sweeping up every drop of you.

“More.” You urged, writhing beneath him. “Ezra, please.”

“I might hurt you.” Ezra warned you, dragging his hands down your thighs as he nipped at the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “I don’t… I don’t know if I control myself.”

“Forget about my leg,” You tugged at his hair. “And fuck me.”

Ezra squeezed your hip and barked out, “On your knees.”

You waited until he let go of you before you gracelessly flopping over on the sofa, knees planted firmly on the cushion as you grabbed at the metal shaft that made up the back of the sofa.

“You smell so fucking good like this,” Ezra breathed out, hands sliding over your bare hips as he crowded close to you. “It’s been so long.” He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Same.” You laughed breathlessly, reaching behind you to grab at his hair. “I don’t break easy.”

“You’ve never fucked a werewolf before.” Ezra murmured, curling his fingers loosely around your throat, keeping you pinned back against his chest as his cock slid between your oversensitive folds. “Have you?”

“Not yet.” You gritted out, curling your fingers around his forearm, thankful that he was able to keep you upright. He was strong, but the fingers wrapped around your throat were gentle.

The head of his cock caught against your entrance and Ezra’s hips bucked forward, pressing into you.

You moaned, completely caught up in the sensation of his thick cock filling you. The stretch was just this side of too much — especially in this angle.

Ezra pulled back, his cock nearly slipping from you entirely before slamming back into you. His thrusts were brutal — all that strength and power that was hidden in his wiry build. He was reaching spots no one else had ever hit.

He released his tight grip on your hip, slipping his hand between your thighs to stroke your aching clit. You clenched around him in response, making him feel even thicker as he drove into you. Again and again.

Your nails bit into his forearm, leaving crescent moon shapes in his skin as you clung to him. You were so close, perched right on the precipice of another orgasm.

“Come.” Ezra’s fingers curled around your jaw, his lips close to your ear. “I want to feel you come. The sweet clench of your cunt around my cock.” He mouthed a row of kisses down your neck, growling against the crook of your neck as your body obeyed him.

He didn’t relent, even as your body pulsed around his cock. “Fuck.” He grunted out, his teeth scraping your skin.

“Ezra.” You moaned out, your eyes falling closed as you basked in the overwhelming sensation of him fucking into you.

His grip loosened at your jaw as he started to slide out of you, but you reached behind you, grabbing at his ass — desperately trying to keep him right there.

Something snapped. Some frayed cord of control that he had been clinging to.

You grabbed at the back of the sofa for support as he roughly grabbed at your hips. He bottomed out once, twice, three times before he growled out your name and came.

Ezra curled his arm around your waist, keeping you pinned to him as he rearranged the two of you. He kept the softening length of his cock buried within you as he sank down onto the sofa with you resting back against his chest.

“You’re very strong,” You mumbled, scratching your nails through the hair on his forearm as you looked down at the arm he had tightly curled around you.

He huffed, a throaty chuckle escaping him as he rested his forehead against your shoulder. “One perk of this damnable curse.” He brushed his thumb over your stomach gently.

“Is the sex a perk too?” You questioned, closing your eyes as you leaned back against him. “Because, I’m not sure I want to leave at all now.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Ezra kissed your shoulder. “I’ve kept my distance. From the others.” He sighed heavily. “You don’t want to become like me, little lamb.”

“I never said that I do.” You pointed out.

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” He shifted beneath you, whispering a quick apology when you whimpered at the movement.

“I’m okay.” You promised, trailing your fingers up the side of his thigh. “Overwhelmed.”

“Two days.”

“Hmm?”

“You can safely stay for two more days, but then you must leave. It gets harder to maintain this the nearer we draw to the full moon.” Ezra told you, nuzzling at the crook of your neck.

“Two days.” You agreed solemnly.

Ezra returned just after nightfall with a stack of research notes and his well-loved copy of Frankenstein.

“Did you know she dedicated herself to getting her husband’s works published.” You mused, looking up from the notes on lunaxium to watch Ezra as he consumed Percy’s book of poems.

“Hmm?”

“Mary.” You explained. “As accomplished as she was, she also worked to ensure her husband’s writing would be read.”

“Indeed.” Ezra tucked the red ribbon into the page he was reading and sat it aside. “I believe their romance blossomed on her mother’s grave, no? A rather odd pair.”

“His works are dreadfully romantic, for such a macabre couple.” You pointed out, flipping over another page of notes, copying down a comment on your own notations.

“The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?” Ezra recited, drumming his fingers against the cover. “I had forgotten that was dear Percy.” He sank back against the wall, pushing fingers through his unruly hair. “I miss the sea.”

“I’d bring it back in a bottle if I could.” You told him, chewing on your bottom lip. “I meant what I said before. I can come back.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, moonbeam.” He let the word slip off his tongue like it was sugar-sweet. “You will grow bored of the to-and-fro.” He pursed his lips. “Though I am much appreciative of the offer. You should go back to your friends.”

“I have one friend in this galaxy Ezra and oftentimes I’m certain they want to ring my neck.” You shook your head. “You deserve to have a friend too.”

“I will never be able to leave,” He reminded you. “And you can never stay.”

“There’s still an in-between.” Your brows rose hopefully. “A new moon, perhaps? When the moon is there, but not visible.”

“You’re persistent.”

“I’ve been told that before.” You smirked a little. “What would you like me to bring back when I return after the full moon?”

Ezra exhaled heavily, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I would be forever indebted to you if you might get your hands on a copy of War & Peace. Dreadfully long, but I hunger for some longevity in my literature.”

“Done.”

He snapped his fingers, “Cheese.”

You arched a brow. “I have cheese.”

“Real cheese?” Ezra corrected. “That wretched aero cheese is nauseating.” He blanched, watching you as you rose from your seat.

You hobbled out of the room, into the corridor where the hyperfreeze unit was mounted in the interior wall beside the coolant system. You returned moments later with a block of Reggianito.

“You’re in luck.” You said, sinking down onto the floor beside him. “I have a hook-up on Sector Block G7.”

Ezra broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth, sinking back against the wall with a satisfied moan. “It will be safe for you to return in a fortnight.”

You slapped his leg playfully, “You’ll let me return if I bring cheese?”

He grinned and continued. “If you come then, you’ll have a fortnight to stay, should you choose to.”

“That should give me enough time to find War & Peace for you and settle my debts.”

Ezra took another bite of cheese, before passing it back to you. “Do they still make those honeysticks?” He questioned. “Little tubes with honey collected from…” He squinted, “I can’t remember the planet.”

“I can look.” You wrapped the cheese back in the cloth, before sitting it aside. “How will you be when I return?” You questioned.

“A little worse for wear,” Ezra shrugged a shoulder, resting his hand on your thigh. “The lunaxium helps.”

“Is it… is it like a drug?”

“I suppose.” Ezra dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “There’s this hunger,” He explained, knocking his fist against his sternum. “This clawing sensation. It gets worse closer to the full moon. I lose my mind.” He shook his head. “I tried to wean myself off two years ago. Just to feel something.”

“What happened?” You rested your hand over his.

“It triggered the beast.” He answered with a frown. “Middle of the cycle and violent.” Ezra tilted his head to look at you. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You shook your head slowly, interlacing your fingers with his. “Maybe this will be good for you. Help you keep your humanity.”

“How so?”

“The others, the ones that were already here.” Your brows furrowed together as you turned to stare at him, “Did they lose their humanity because they lost touch with other humans?”

Ezra blinked, “You, moonbeam, are a clever one.”

“I read a lot.” You smiled at him, “And you’re in luck — I have always loved monster stories.”

#pedro pascal x reader #ezra x reader #ezra (prospect)#ezra (prospect) x reader

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madamhatter · 2 years

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hi soar i just wanted to drop in and say 1. TUNGLR U BINCH HOW HAVE U NOT NOTIFIED ME OF TWO (2) POSTS WITH MY URL ON EM!!!!! SMH!!! and 2. i already say this a lot but I NEED TO SAY IT AGAIN!!! I LOVE YOUR SOPHIE SO MUCHHH AAAAAAAAA like!! i never read the book but you made me love sophie so so much... she's so fleshed out and multilayered and i love reading more abt her and how her magic -cough- curses😳⁉️ -cough- works and her internal thoughts and just how she views herself and and!!!! I JUST LOVE HER SM OKOK 😭😭❤❤ your sophie has such a special place in my heart and gotdamn do i admire your sophie so much bc you have?? given her sooo much life and seeing all the great verses and ideas you have for her is just so cool and inspiring! and your writing?? ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS i feel like i'm snuggling up in a bunch of blankets + a warm cup of chamomile in front of a fireplace when i read ur writing.. it's such a nice vibes that's so sweet and comforting to me 🥺 like u!!! AND I'VE YET TO EVEN MENTION HOW GREAT OF A FRIEND YOU ARE!!! HOW I LOVE TALKING AND JUST SCREAMING AT UUUU ugh!!! point is!!! i care u sm soar and sophie and i hope u know that 💞💞 also yes i was stalking ur blog a lil bit hehe sowwyyy!

TOO MUCH LOVE----! O.H.K.O. !!!

Joking aside, Lynn, why do you spoil me so with such kind and sweet words?! I've been writing this girl for almost seven years since she was among the first five muses on I had on this platform. The little sprouting Sophie has grown a lot throughout the years, but a lot of the past continues with her.

It really much means the world to me that Sophie is able to leave some impact/impression on people. Really, as a writer, that is all we really want: something that causes reaction and helps bridge the understanding of written intent/emotion/etc. between writer and reader. In spite of all the chaos she unintentionally attracts, and even with her slips of somberness, Sophie is a lovely lady and I'm glad you see that! ;A;

As for YOU, thank you for being an equally, if not more, supportive and wonderful friend that screams back at me with all the ideas we have!! We have been able to bounce off so many ideas for these two MC losers and draw some many comparisons/contrasts that the planner in me goes "heehoo." ESPECIALLY when we consider F/E with Hakuno and Alter Ego!Sophie and the subsequent tragedy of wanting to live. . . . :^)

I stated it before but I have been often lost in the side games in the Fate-verse and after being exposed to Ha.kuno for so long, she has now infested a big brainworms for Miss Kish.inami. And I already have plans for playing F/ER whenever there is a blasted release date announced for it!!

SPEAKING OF BRAINWORMS--

I cannot WAIT for Hak.uno to get thrown into TWST that way I can continue the Ka.lim/Ha.kuno propaganda that literally started last night and has not left my brain. I rub my little grubby hands like I am a fly.

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cxmetery-gates · 3 years

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OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER SIX: PICKUP TRUCK THOUGHTS

SUMMARY: Lynn takes a moment of solitude to put things into perspective, all thanks to a friend’s truck and some clouds. WORD COUNT: 2.8k NOTE: Not me falling of the face of the internet for a couple months. Whoops! WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

"YOU REALIZE IT'S A SERIOUS problem at this point, right?"

"At least it's not crack."

The two familiar voices catch both mine and Gabe's attention. With the doors open, legs sprawled out wherever they're comfy, and some early 2000s alternative music jamming from the speakers, we genuinely look like high school delinquents. All we're missing is a cigarette hanging from our lips.

My back aches as I pry my upper half to sit up straight, a chorus of popping following my movement. I brightly grin at River and Ellie and my feet reach the black pavement. It appears Ellie just rolled her eyes at River's sassy remark. I begin to ask what they were talking about before I notice something being shoved back in the boy's backpack: his new Obi-Wan Kenobi lightsaber. Part of me isn't surprised, but the other half is wondering what reason he has to carry it around at school. Regardless of the reason, we all have our quirks: it took me until the eighth grade to leave my replica of Harry Potter's wand at home.

Geeky things, I guess?

I can only guess what River was telling Ellie when it comes to his devotion to Star Wars. There isn't an existing number to count how often River and I find ourselves on the topic of space battles and the Skywalkers.

"What's up, friendos?" I ask as they draw closer. A sudden chilly breeze lifts my hair and bumps along my skin. It's almost a frustrating sensation, it being the middle of August. It looks like I'm the only one who feels it, as my teeth are the only ones that chatter. Since my arms are tightly holding each other, I barely have time to react to Ellie's next reaction.

Ellie drags her feet dramatically until she goes limp in my arms. "I wanna go home and sleep."

I stumble back at the weight added, wriggling my arms to hold her steady. The last thing I need on the first day of school is a concussion. "Christ— well maybe if you get off, we can take you home."

River piles his backpack into the back of Gabe's truck, the loud thump startling Ellie, and looks at us with a confused stare. "Weren't– Weren't we supposed to hang out today?"

The girl in my arms rises to her feet, groaning. "Shit, I forgot. My mom said she wants me back home after school as soon as possible. You know, groundings and all."

"Next time, don't get into an accident." Gabe sends her a smirk.

Ellie narrows her eyes and mocks his response, crossing her arms and leaning on one leg. A small chortle parts my lips as I lean up against the truck next to River. After her bickering, Ellie continues. "Go get ice cream or something in my memory. I just have to get back before I'm killed, which should be any day now."

"I call your funeral playlist," I reply. Looking up while my fingers stroke my chin comically, I add, "A ton of 80s pop with a dash of Gaga?"

Booping my nose, Ellie smiles. "You know me too well."

We all file into Gabe's small truck— well, almost all of us. Since the truck is a three-seater and police like to patrol this area, there is always a sacrifice who gets to claim the back of the car. This time, it happens to be me. Once I was lying flat on my back, a blue tarp was pulled over my body, coming right above my nose. Oh, the perks of old, short pick-up trucks roaming a town with endless police...

Sliding open the window, Gabe's voice calls out. "You good back there?"

"Yeah, I'm fucking peachy," I reply.

There's the sound of laughter before the engine kicks on. At that moment, my paranoia starts to kick in, starting with my heart beating fast in my chest and palms getting sweaty. Not once have any of us gotten caught, but I can't help but think the day we are, it's my ass going to jail. I've never bothered to look at the laws relating to seat belts in other states, but here, the law is highly enforced. Not only would I get fined and definitely put into a cell, but I have no doubt Gabe would endure the same fate.

Nice way to put yourself in one of these states, I chastise myself.

I almost groan, but I can't be sure if I'll cause one of the friends up front to worry. So, I exhale and inhale rhythmically like I was taught. Looking straight ahead, all I can see are blue skies and puffy white clouds. Occasionally, a tree or two will enter the scenery. I'm barely blinking as I try to put shapes to the clouds, some more impossible than others. Despite having an imaginative mind, the figures aren't creating a picture for me to follow.

I like to remember how easy it was as a child to create something out of nothing. An empty napkin roll wasn't just cardboard; it was a telescope that needed color. Our dolls weren't acting on our behalf; they were doing it themselves and showing us their lives. Every cloud wasn't just a random array of water droplets but rather, a visual story to be told. I want to know what causes all of us to lose that form of innocence. Ways of thinking like pessimism or optimism, that's easy: once too many shitty things start to happen more than the good, one is likely to form a biased view or vice versa. But, why do we stop playing with imaginary friends? Or act out intense battles on the playground? Even the smallest blip of innocence, like cloud-watching, becomes warped.

Sometimes, it's easy to pick out that moment in our own lives where we find ourselves becoming grown-ups and leaving childhood behind, but the shitty part is that it isn't just me or Ellie, River, or Gabe who go through trials. It's not just the kid who loses a parent or the girl who was taken advantage of. Everyone has their wars. And in the end, we lose, becoming a part of the system that inflicts these damages.

These damages I speak of tear us apart. They mold us into shapes beyond recognition. No longer a funny shape or a distorted animal in the sky, but dark, heavy, and so close to bursting. And when we finally let go, after all the waiting and rolling, we seem to explode, leaking and oozing our pain, our torment, us. And when it's over? What's left? I guess there are two options: remain on the ground to seep into further nothingness, or rise once more, only to break again, again, and again. But life is such torment and full of trials, is it not?

Funny how staring at a cloud can put life into perspective.

My brain is overrun by these thoughts that I don't even realize Gabe's truck is rolling to a stop. I finally take notice when car doors swing open then shut.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," River says leaning over the side of the truck to get a look at me.

Rolling my eyes with a grin, I swat at his shoulder, which misses as he recoils. "Shut up, loser." I sit up, tossing the tarp to the side as I move to stand. River smirks and offers his hands to help me down. Without hesitation I take them, swinging one leg over the side and the other following before I made a short leap to the ground. Because neither of us apparently can avoid embarrassment, we're both holding each other's hands after I land. A rosy blush spreads across his entire face— no doubt mine as well— before I take the initiative to lean backwards, focusing on Ellie who crawls from the side door.

"Speaking of losers," Gabe sighs. I can't help but feel the reddening in my cheeks, assuming this asshole is talking about River and me, but I notice he's looking at Ellie, now swinging her backpack around one shoulder in her driveway.

She notices that all of us are looking, causing her to freeze. "Why does everyone hate me today?"

I smile bringing her into a goofy hug. "We just miss you. Don't get into any more accidents, please?"

"Yeah, yeah," she snorts, hugging me back to the best of her ability, considering I have her arms pinned down at an odd angle. "Alright, leave my driveway before I actually get you guys killed."

Gabe, River, and I say our goodbyes before filing into the white truck, heading God-knows-where as a worn-down engine sparks to life. Looking over at River, who sits to my right in the passenger seat, I send him a glare that he doesn't see since his eyes are focused on what lies beyond the window— or lack thereof.

While his hair barely covers his neck, mine flows down to my mid-back, meaning having windows rolled all the way down and speeding down a highway won't lead to the best outcomes for my hair. But I can't complain too much: River's hair going crazy in the wind is both cute and a bit funny. A small smile graces my features before a thin lock of hair enters my lips.

Glancing over at the driver, I notice how only locks of hair toward the ends move slowly despite the windows rolled all the way down, as if the strands are wearing a shield against the wind. I wonder how Gabriel keeps his hair so still before making the dumbfounding realization that he wears that beanie 24/7 and who knows how long he goes without washing his perfect hair. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen the boy without the hat. I guarantee no one would recognize him without it.

"So, where are we heading?" Gabriel asks when we reach the stoplight before entering the populated part of town.

I exhale, leaning my head on the headrest of the seat. "Well, I for one could go for something frozen. Maybe a burger, too."

"Didn't you just eat lunch?" River asks, humorously smiling in my direction.

"And had coffee literally less than an hour ago," Gabe adds.

Sending a blank look to River (whose smile widens) then over to Gabe, his eyes never leaving the stretch of road ahead of him (at least one person in the group can do that), I huff, my eyes shutting closed and I bring my shoulders up into a shrug. "I don't know what you both have against me and my food and drink consumption, but you better knock it off."

There's a small hum of laughter to my right, sending a slight shiver down my neck. "If we left you alone for a week, there's no telling how much you'd put in your system," River tells me as if I don't know that already.

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, Bob and Jillian, I don't need you to berate me."

══════════════════

Twenty minutes later, the three of us find ourselves outside a burger joint. In one hand, I have a burger waiting to be devoured and in the other is a frozen strawberry lemonade. Nothing says summer like this combination. We're sitting the parking lot eating our meals, more specifically in the back of the truck. From my phone, I have a playlist plainly called "Chill" playing from the nearly-blown speakers.

"I never thought food could taste so good," I moan as the burger slides down my throat.

"You're acting like you haven't eaten in a week."

Sending Gabe an eye-roll, I reply, "It might as well have been."

There's a moment of silence before River brings up a topic not discussed in a couple weeks. "Do you guys wanna come over and jam for a bit sometime this week? We haven't done anything in a while."

One summer a few years back, the trio of us learned we can play different instruments. I have been playing the guitar and drums since I was younger, thanks to a musically gifted grandfather. Gabe and River both had a knack for guitar too, though Gabe had more experience with the bass guitar and River had some training with piano. While our jam sessions are nothing too serious, as none of us want to be in a band or write our own songs, it's become a fun and stress-reducing way to hang out when silence would otherwise fill the atmosphere. The last time, we figured out how to play the theme songs of our favorite movies using a ukulele and bongos. It was something I didn't need to hear, but I'm glad I did.

I nod my head. "Yeah, we can this weekend if we aren't being drowned in homework by that point."

Gabe also agrees with a nod, his mouth full of fries. "It's a maybe from me: Mom might need to borrow the truck since hers is wearing down."

River turns his dark brown eyes over to me, capturing an embarrassing scene as lettuce pokes between my stuffed lips. Great. "Well, I guess I can hang out with you if someone can't show."

While I playfully punch his arm, I send a look over to Gabe who hides a smirk in his straw. He catches me looking as River goes on about one of his classes. Sending me a wink, I narrow my eyes knowingly: his mom just got a brand new truck. Mr. Matchmaker goes back to this food, making a statement on how hot River's finance teacher is, causing the boy to make a very uncomfortable face.

Despite the long talks we shared in the back of Gabe's truck, I find myself zoning out hardcore once again. I can't figure out why exactly my mind had wondered, but I do know where. My thoughts go back to Trinity's face, remembering how she would sit next to me against the side of the truck the very few times she decided to make time for my friends. There's a ghost of warmth in my palm like fingers squeezing when the short snippet of a memory expels from deep inside my mind. I don't know why I thought of it. It just appeared, causing a droplet of woe to fill my gut.

Like my friends have told me before, I need to let this go. There's no use in holding on to something, or rather someone who isn't coming back, especially someone who was never good for me in the first place. Glancing up, I spy on River munching and talking with Gabe. A blush covers my cheeks when I remember how utterly embarrassing it was when I broke down in front of him over a stupid girl. He told me there are worse things to worry about.

"Like climate change?" I asked, sniffling into a pillow. I hope he washed it after that encounter. Hell, he needed to lysol everything down after my mopey ass walked through the place.

River smiled warmly at me, pulling me into a giant bear hug. Sometimes, I want to ask for one of those hugs again. "I was going to say people who like pineapple on pizza, but climate change is also a concern."

I remember crying not a second later, but that was due to the thought of polar bears facing extinction.

Contrary to knowing how wonderful my three best friends are, I'm also aware that there are certain things I can't share. I don't want to overbear them with my problems that should have been solved months ago. The fact that I'm still getting small flashbacks and thoughts of her is pathetic, and I'm aware of that fact. On the other hand, it isn't like my group of friends will give up and leave if I spill my guts, right? I shouldn't be scared of expression my thoughts, feelings, and emotions to my closest friends. And yet, here I sit, undecided on what to do.

Christ, do I need to get my priorities straight.

When my eyes break away from their trance, all I see is Gabe and River entering a heated discussion, about what I'm not sure. With my thoughts still in a bit of limbo, I'm shocked back to reality when they both leap from either side of the vehicle, rushing to pull items from their bags.

Under any other normal circumstance, it would be concerning to see two dudes arguing one moment then reaching into their bags the next. I'm willing to bet the next logical calculation for a stranger would have been to get away, fearing the queue for guns or knives. But I know these losers. Even if they are fighting or wanting to kill each other, there is only one way they can settle their differences.

"Soon, you will see the way of the Jedi," River exclaims while thrashing his blue lightsaber through the air.

"Shut the fuck up, you nerd!" Gabe flicks out a red lightsaber, taunting the other.

"Oh, my God," I say with no emotion in my tone, watching as red and blue shamelessly slash at each other in battery-produced light in a burger joint parking lot.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

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#obsessive teachings #dark!tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston x ofc #teacher!tom hiddleston #loki #high school #stalking #obsessed love #obsessive #dark!fic

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ryansfabray · 4 years

Text

Sex On Fire | Myan

Who: Ryan Fabray-Lynn and Mike Chang ( @dommikechangjr )

What: Smut

When: Aug. 24

Where: Mike’s Suite

When Ryan had asked for some time with him, Mike certainly wasn't going to say no. She was still one of his favorite people at the institute and he couldn't see that changing. He was a bit surprised that Ryan had been so open about certain things that she was dealing with, considering the fact that Ryan liked to keep things like that close to the chest. He couldn't blame her for that though, it could be challenging to be vulnerable. Hearing the knock on the door, Mike opened it up and offered a smile. "Hey gorgeous. Fancy meeting you here."

Ryan was feeling a little out of sorts. She was feeling claustrophobic and stuck at the institute and living in a crammed apartment with two other boys was not helping her mood. Not that she would trade her current place in life with anything else. She cared about Nate and Silas, they were her family. But it was possible to have too much of a good thing. She was happy and content. But her room was too small and her bed often felt empty. Ryan smiled at Mike's greeting and pressed herself into his embrace before stealing a chaste kiss. "Hey, handsome. Thanks for letting me come over. I'm excited for what the night has in store."

The kiss to his lips was a welcomed one and he nodded encouragingly, closing the door once she had stepped inside. "I'm looking forward to it as well. This felt like a long couple of days waiting for Monday to arrive." Mike expressed, drawing her further into the suite. "Did you have a good weekend?" Mike trusted that being with Nate was what Ryan wanted, believed that he was happy; but he also knew that space could be a good thing. And he was happy to offer her a space when she needed one, especially because he was selfishly excited to get to spend some time with her.

This killed two birds with one stone for Ryan. Some time away as well as some much needed alone time with Mike. Outside of Nate, he was one of two people she trusted enough to submit to and it meant a lot to her that even then, the way he treated her didn't change. "My weekend was fine," she answered with a shrug before moving further into the room. She pulled him behind her by the wrist and pushed him onto the couch once they reached the living room. She then straddled him and proceeded to kiss his neck. "How about you? Hos was your weekend?"

"That's good to hear." Being pushed on the couch by the blonde wasn't a surprise, she tended to be a bit more dominant, even in the small moments. And he didn't mind. His hands found Ryan's waist as she straddled him, squeezing lightly as she kissed his neck. "It was pretty good. We won our game which is always a good feeling. And I worked a bit so I can't complain too much. Plus I signed up for classes so I don't have anything to worry about this week." He slipped his hands under her shirt and let his fingers rake over her back.

Of course Ryan cared about how Mike's weekend went, but she was more so trying to see if she could break his concentration. When the kisses to his neck weren't enough, she pulled back so she could pull off her dress. Then she dropped to her knees and started to pull at his belt and jeans. "Congratulations on y'all's win. I heard it was a good game." She opened his fly and pulled his flaccid member from his boxers. "And what did you do on your day off today?" She asked, pulling the tip of his cock into her mouth.

He watched as she pulled her dress over her head and tossed it aside, licking his lips. She was so beautiful. He smirked as she got to work on his pants, helping wherever she needed him to, but more than happy to let her have her way with him in that moment. Ryan had wanted their night to be just them and that's what she was going to get. No scene, just the two of them enjoying their night together. "Thanks, Ryan. We fought for it, that's for sure. At the question, he shrugged, humming as warmth wrapped around a small portion of his cock. "Not too much. Did some laundry, worked out, showered." Mike said, pushing some hair away from her face.

There was a small reaction, but not enough to satisfy Ryan. So she took it up a notch, moving down to envelope him completely in her mouth, the tip of his tongue pushing against the back of her throat. She cupped his balls and massaged them as she moaned around his cock, only pulling back to take in some air. Then repeated the action one more time. Drool dripped down her chin and she flashed him a smile with her eyes, the connection of their eyes sending a shiver down her spine.

"Fuck." He breathed out as his cock met the back of her throat, his legs tensing as she toyed with his balls. Seeing the drool dripping from her mouth was hot as hell. He wiped her chin with his thumb, a caring motion that he couldn't stop himself from making. He wiped it along the leg of his pants and then let his hand rest on the side of her head. He lost his breath for a moment when Ryan's eyes focused on his own and he was unable to look anywhere else. Not that he would want to. She had all of his attention.

There it was. Ryan smirked around his member, relishing in the thrill she got from getting him to break. Even if it was just a little bit. However small the motion was for him to swipe at her chin, it stood out to her and would stay with her in an affectionate way. Once he had his eyes on hers, there was no breaking that connection. She couldn't look away, even if she wanted to. Then suddenly that connection wasn't enough. So Ryan stood, up, her eyes on his the whole time, only breaking the eyes contact to grab a condom where she knew he stored them in the side table. Tossing it at him, she resumed the connection and moved to peel off her bra and underwear.

Ryan was special. He had known that about her since had met her the year prior, and even though they had fallen out of touch when he had left the institute, he hadn't forgotten...and he would do his best to make sure that didn't happen again. He chuckled as she tossed the condom at him, amused and also entranced by the lack of talking. There was no need for it in that moment. They both knew what was happening and they were both on board. He pulled his shirt over his head and then pushed down his pants and boxers fully. He opened the condom and slipped it on, before reaching for Ryan to draw her back onto his lap.

Ryan matched Mike's amusement with her own as she finished stripping completely. She had just performed all weekend, so she couldn't quite break the habit of doing so teasingly, even shaking her hips to het her underwear to drop. "Have I told you today how fucking sexy you are?" Mike sitting there on the couch with his cock hard for her was a sight to behold and she savored the sight before moving to straddle him once more. "I mean really fuckin' sexy." A little bit of her accent slipped out as she nipped at his ear and sank down onto him. "Fuuuuck."

Ryan was always a sight to behold, but there was something about her when she was performing. Didn't matter what she was doing, she lit up when she was performing. It's why it was so clear that being on stage was what she was meant to do. An eyebrow arched in response when she commented on his appearance. He knew that he was attractive and he worked hard to stay in shape, but it never hurt to hear that it was appreciated and noticed. As she sank down on his cock, a moan was pulled from his lips, his hands moving to cup her ass. "So are you, Ryan. Fucking stunning."

Mike always did a good job of watching Ryan when, whether she was performing or not. When she was with him, his eyes were always on her and she loved that. It did wonders for her ego but it also showed her how much he cared about her. Actions always were more important to Ryan than words. And there was one action that topped them all, the intimacy they shared. She looped her arms around his neck as she adjusted to his size, slowly moving as she leaned back to capture his lips in a searing kiss. Their teeth clanked and tongues swirled as she tried to match the momentum of her hips.

As she eased down his cock, one hand moved up and down her back. She felt so good around him. The kiss that she pressed to his lips was anything but soft, but it somehow still felt incredibly intimate. One moved to her waist to help the momentum, as his other hand reached up her back and gripped the back of her neck. His hips began to press upwards, causing her movements to be excentuated by a firm thrust.

There was a mixture of soft and hard, of slow and fast every time she was with Mike. Like he brought the best of both worlds with him. Not only had he allowed her to Dom him in the past, he was one of the very few people at the institute who she allowed to Dom her. And here they were acting as is marks and the system didn’t even exist. It wasn’t as if she had anything against the system, it was just nice to be herself for a while. She pressed her hands into his shoulders so she could get more leverage, bouncing her tight little body in his lap, their thought slapping together sounding off the rhythm they had found. Her thighs were strong from hanging from a pole and she could have continued like that for hours but she wanted him in as many ways as possible. So she stood and bent over the couch beside him. “C’mon handsome, don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Spending time with Ryan always felt like a breath of fresh air. They got along well and he cared about her a lot, and so when she said that a night at his place without marks involved was something that she needed, he was happy to give it to her. Not only was it enjoyable for him, but she had been so great with him, it was easy to allow it. When she got off of him, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. He was definitely confused, at least until she draped herself over the couch. He moved behind her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as he lined his cock up with her entrance and pressed forward. It didn't take long before his hips recalled the pace they had set earlier and the sound of skin meeting was the only thing that could be heard beyond moans and gasps. "You feel so damn good, Ryan."

If Mike had caught on any slower, Ryan would have yanked him closer to continue what they had already started. As soon as he realigned himself with her, she reached back to grasp at his side while her head leaned back on his shoulder. This new angle was exactly what she was craving. "Fuck yes! You feel amazing, Mike. Fuck." She turned her head to sloppily kiss the corner of his mouth before dropping her head back to the couch. "Harder, Mike. Faster. Fuck me until I'm screaming your name."

One hand slipped up to cup her breast, firmly palming it in his hand. The sloppy kiss to the side of his mouth drew a grin from him as she dropped her head against the couch. "Fuck, Ryan." He gasped as his hips moved more quickly and more firmly. His other hand was gripping her waist tightly. Her sounds and her voice as she was being fucked into were some of the most beautiful sounds in the world. His lips pressed against the back of her shoulders again and he breathed heatedly against Ryan's skin.

Ryan squeezed around him with every thrust. It was easy to relinquish control with Mike and she did that, allowing him to pleasure her in a way only her knew how. Her skin was hot and her orgasm was approaching, but she held it off, wanting to savor this moment for as long as she possibly could. Even if she had every intention of fucking more than once tonight. But this felt too good. So she held off as long as she possibly could. “I want to ride you," she growled as she looked back to catch his gaze.

Every squeeze of her walls around his cock brought him closer to the edge. The change from position to position was something that he was enjoying very much. It kept their time together fun and exciting. He groaned and slipped out of her again, this time laying down on the couch. "C'mere." He reached for her and drew Ryan on top of him. "You look good up there."

Ryan was a pro at this and it really didn't take long for her to sink back onto his cock and find their pace. The muscles in her thighs burned again in the most delicious way. Her fingers curled into his chest, scratching the surface and she moved faster and faster on top of him. It was easy to get lost in the moment, but as soon as she looked down and caught his gaze, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. And there they remained. "It feels good up here," she retorted, before biting down on his shoulder. In this position, she could move her hips at lightning speed and that's what finally brought her closer to the edge. "I'm gonna cum baby, all over your cock. You gonna cum with me, hm?"

As she sunk down on his cock, he let out a soft groan, dropping his head back against the arm of the couch. "Fuck, yes. Just like that Ryan. So good." She was so beautiful on top of him. The sound of her calling him baby was something that he hadn't been expecting and was also something that caused a shock of pleasure within him. "Gonna cum, gorgeous. You're going to feel so fucking good cumming around my cock." He breathed out, hands finding her ass and gripping it tightly. "Cum with me, Ryan." With a few more movements of her above him, he felt himself hitting his peak.

Ryan really wasn't thinking about what she was saying. It was all just responsive and reactive. She was comfortable enough to let go of her senses and just express the first thing that came to mind. There wasn't many people she could do that with. All that consumed her mind was her impending orgasm. It reached out and completely took over her entire body, starting at her core until it was exploding throughout her body. The trigger was his words telling her to cum with him and as soon as they reached her ears, she was shuddering above him, pulling him close as her teeth locked into his shoulder, her muffled moans ringing in his ear. "Fuck."

The feeling of her teeth against his shoulder caused a sharp gasp and a firm thrust of his hips to accentuate how good it felt. He slipped his arm around her a bit more firmly as she came down from her high, kissing her head. He took a few moments for both of them to just relax and breathe before squeezing her hips lightly. "Now, I'm far from done with you for the night, but do you want something to eat or drink?" Mike questioned, pushing a few strands of hair away from her face and turning his head so he could see her as best as possible.

Ryan climbed off of him and flopped down onto the couch beside him, draping her legs over his lap and laying her head on his shoulder. "Mm. Is that a promise? Cause I was counting on it. I want to fuck you at least three more times tonight." She smiled up at him and kissed his neck. "I'm thinking maybe we can order in some Breadstix?" She asked before kissing his jaw, then the corner of his mouth. "I think we're going to need a lot of carbs if we plan on going all night, hm?"

He wrapped his arm around her as best as he possibly could and offered a smile, kissing her forehead. It was soft, softer than he usually was with Ryan in these situations, but it felt right. "It's definitely a promise. I need to taste you. And I need to fuck you against the wall and in bed...there's more than a few places you and I need to christen in this suite of mine." The kisses from her against his skin were a little more distracting than they should have been; but she was the only person and thing that was to have his attention that night so he supposed it was okay. "Breadstix sounds perfect. Definitely need some of those garlic stix."

Ryan quirked an eyebrow and offered him a smirk. "Oh you need to do all of that huh? Well then we better not waste anytime, hm? Cause I'm sure we could fuck at least twice before the food get here if you order now and come meet me in the shower." She pushed herself up from the couch and sauntered in the direction of his master bathroom. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I would hate to get started without you." Then with that, she disappeared down the hallway.

#mike #para: mike #para: sex on fire

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drippinl0ve · 5 years

Text

because of you

—student!jaemin x reader au

summary: a certain popular soft boy has kept his eyes on you, as he tries to establish a bond by using your favorite books.

word count: 1.8k

genre: fluff, confession

warnings: slight profanity and a bad story overall

so to start off, jaemin was the ladies man at school

girls pretty much swooned over him and he had a reputation of leading girls on and breaking their hearts with his kindness

anyone with half a brain would learn not to fall for his act, specifically you

you were curious about him in second grade

he genuinely seemed like a nice guy with good intentions towards you and of course, you thought he had a crush on you

come on, it was the second grade

you naturally ended up crushing on him too

that is until some girl named sara said that he had a crush on lynn

so you said screw jaemin na and moved on

although a part of you still hasn’t gotten past that crush yet

well now you're in high school

you're labeled as the girl who doesn't like jaemin na and can be found alone in the library every day

though the general public does think you're smart so at least you have that going for you

idk man you just kinda live your life

recently during your junior year, the library has gotten a lot more crowded

its lowkey aggravating because it’s so freaking loud now

you're just trying to enjoy your reading and homework !!

a couple weeks later on an especially loud day, you asked the girl next to you what all the commotion was about

she pretty much told you jaemin freaking na has decided to make the library his new regular spot to hang out

out of all of the mf places...

and of course, he draws in the big crowds of people

you sighed, knowing there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, so you merely grab the book everything i never told you and try to read as much of it as you can before the bell rings

you end up only getting to page 28 but you figure you can come back and read it tomorrow

you know that checking it out will serve no purpose as you only get time to read in the library during lunch and it’ll just be extra weight to carry around so you figure you might as well leave it here for next time

besides, its 2019 and every teen hates to read

so you leave it there to come back to it the next day

but WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT

the book is g o n e

you search on the neighboring shelves but it is nowhere in sight

you act on your last resort and ask the librarian where the book could be

she lets you know it was checked out directly after school yesterday

what are the odds of the exact book you were reading to be checked out the same day, out of every book???

you brush it off and blame your luck

you decide to pick up the perks of being a wallflower which will have to suffice until you get your first book back

you've already read this book so you just start it back up again, making a mental note that you're on page 34

you place the book back in its appropriate spot and continue on to your next class

but what do you know

THE NEXT DAY IT’S GONE

along with everything i never told you

you think this is someone’s low blow way of tormenting you

you heave out another sigh and decide to pick up everyday and retreat back to your small reading nook, escaping the immense crowds of wannabe girlfriends and best friends of jaemin na

you place the book back on the shelf and continue to trudge on with your day

but unbeknownst to you, jaemin’s been keeping an eye on you

he really only moved where he’s at during lunch so he can be in your presence more

and he really wished he didn’t attract the mass

but even though he was preoccupied in the library, he always caught a glimpse of what you were reading

he’d always mentally smile to himself when he remembered how you always enjoyed silent reading time in primary school

he thought you were like the cutest ?? so unphased from the surrounding drama and gossip in the realm that was high school

you were always too preoccupied to notice the boys who’d seemingly try to get closer to you

but, he knew you were different than the girls who swooned over him

you were independent and had your own agenda, one that was not going to change over a mere boy

and he liked that. afterschool, he’d immediately rush to the library to pick up the book you were reading for that day

this was the only way to avoid getting swarmed with people and question

she quickly checked out whatever book your hands had graced earlier that day and took it home to read

he wasn’t big on reading, but the books you chose were always miraculous

not only was your selection great, but he’d also imagine the two main characters as the both of you

he liked to learn what you were interested in, and the books gave him a small opportunity to learn

he was on to his third book, as he was simultaneously reading all of then at the same time to keep up with you

he would shove the books in his school bag, hiding them from the masses who would only bombard him with questions about what they were for

but he wanted to keep the books a secret like it was your guy’s own personal secret

but one day at lunch, when all the boys were ganging up on him to get some random girl’s number at lunch to see if he could, he set his bag down in the corner of the library

he didn’t really care to get the girl’s number in the first place, sure the boys were right and she was pretty

the only problem being, the girl wasn’t you

he didn’t mean to hurt girls the way he did, they just took his niceness as flirting

literally, right now all he has to do is politely ask for the girl’s number and he’ll get it

and no matter how many times these girls have gotten hurt, they keep thinking he’s changed for them and that he secretly loves them

pretty much the girls are just falling for his soft boy aura and not necessarily who he actually is

ok now back to the present

there you sat in the corner of the library

the masses had already swarmed in and you found it difficult to get around them when they pretended like you didn’t even exist

but you did it nonetheless

you actually had chemistry homework to work on today, but at the corner of your eyes you spot a baby blue backpack

it seemed unabandoned

and if you were to give it to the librarians to keep until someone picked it up, you should at least see if there is a name on a paper somewhere inside so you can just return it yourself

you unzipped the bag, which was mediocrely clean on the inside, and pulled out the first paper you could see“jaemin na” it read you roll your eyes and scoff, planning to give it back to him as he was in the library too

but then something caught your eye

the neon green binding of the perks of being a wallflower

upon closer inspection, every book you have picked up recently was crammed into this backpack

“holy fucking shit, jaemin na”.

you devise a plan

you casually pick up a book to read for the rest of the lunch period, then casually put it back as if it was a normal day

you return the backpack to the librarians anonymously, who give it back to jaemin before the lunch period ends

if the librarians say someone comes rushing in to check out your beloved books after school, you were just going to merely sit and wait to catch them in the act

after school, you sit calm and collectedly at one of the desks that have a good viewpoint of the library’s shelves

jaemin na was going to be confronted and you were ready to ask him why he is taunting you like this

soon after, you see someone pace fast around the library, finding the shelf you placed the book in

an immediate relief overwashes him as he realizes the book is still there

but, then he leaves to check out, only to see you standing there with your arms crossed blocking the exit

“what do you think you’re doing with that book”, you say trying to seem intimidating

he makes up some lousy excuse that they are reading it for english but you don’t buy it

you scoff and confront him for his stupid idea of a prank

but suddenly confusion takes on his face and you let down your guard

maybe it wasn’t a prank and you guys just genuinely like the same books?

“its not a prank?”, jaemin replies, confused as to where you got that idea

“every time i borrow a book from the library, i see you with the exact same book the next day”, you bluntly argue, “every afternoon, the book i was reading at lunch gets checked out and i found them all in your bag today before i turned it in into the lost and found”

he gulps. he has been caught.

“y/n, there’s a good explanation for that...”, he trails

“mmhm”, you sarcastically nod and put your guard back up

he would’ve found your sarcasm cute if he wasn’t in this moment

“y/n”, he sighs before continuing, “i’ve been checking out these books because you, like, h a t e me and this is the only way for me to get some sort of connection with you”, he spurs out. “i get these books because of you, because i like you y/n l/n”.

your guard has once dropped again and the feelings of your second-grade self are spurring back

someone went to all that trouble for you ?? specifically, jaemin na went through all that trouble for you ?

you could feel your cheeks flush, unable to form a response

here was the school’s cutest boy that girls fawned after, and he genuinely just admitted to having a crush on y o u ??

ok so i think you get it, you’re shocked

jaemin notices your reaction and demands you don't have to answer anytime soon with how you feel

but he also insists that he takes you out to dinner the coming friday so you guys can get a chance to properly form a connection

and, of course, your second-grade self is screaming “yes”.

the end

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Fall in Time, Ch3 (Branjie) - Somesilverreply

A/N: Thanks again for your support! <3

Note: I’m basing the auditions Brooke attends off of the annual Unified auditions that aspiring BFA musical theatre/acting students go through which I’m very familiar with, but I’m not certain the recruitment for BFA dance programs are the same.

Read on AO3 here.

When Brooke Lynn Hytes was 17 years, 11 months, 3 days, and 1 minute old, she met her best friends.

But she didn’t know that, yet.

She had grown up in Canada, a small suburb outside Toronto with her mom. Her father hadn’t been around much, so she and her mother lived a quiet, conservative life that consisted of pancakes every morning (except Sundays) and dance recitals.

Brooke had known, from the time she was a little girl that the States was where she needed to be if she was going to be a ballerina. Canada had beautiful professional ballet, of course. Much to her mother’s dismay, however, she had her sights narrowed in on exactly what she wanted for herself and her life.

After some convincing and a little extra work around the house, she and her mother embarked on what Brooke remembers as The Great Audition Tour of 2003. She remembers riding in a plane for the first time, seeing New York City for the first time, and the way it all made her feel so small in a five-foot-eleven frame.

It’s day three, or four, she’s so blindingly exhausted from her anxious stomach keeping her up all night every night to the physical trauma of college dance auditions. She was practiced, she was trained, of course, and her mother made sure her shoulders never fell even for a second as they felt the illustrious buzz of New York when they walked through the city.

“Sit up, Brooke Lynn, you never know who could be watching,” her mother repeated like a mantra as they sat for breakfast each morning. She was always on.

But in the third hour of her fourth (she’s pretty sure) day of auditions, Brooke let out a laugh as she heard the murmurings of the girls beside her.

“I swear to God, I was holding relevé, and it was so fucking loud,” she heard one girl say, blonde and petite, looking almost like she belonged in a beauty pageant against to the stripped away anonymity of the black leotard, pink tights combination that painted the room.

“You farted?!” the other girl, as tall as Brooke but enviably slender with uniquely beautiful features, laughed incredulously, earning a small hit to the leg as the pair leaned over into a side stretch like a seasoned pair of synchronized swimmers.

The other blonde looked around, checking for any onlookers when she locked eyes with Brooke, giving a minuscule smile she tried to hide in the crook of her elbow mid stretch.

The girl looked embarrassed immediately, Brooke instantly correcting her expression.

“I’m so sorry you had to hear that, sis,” the blonde said with a chuckle, the girl beside her still stifling a laugh.

“It happens to the best of us,” Brooke shrugged, unsure whether or not she was safe to join in on the fun. She pressed her luck, happy to feel some of the pressure release from her shoulders for the first time in weeks.

“At least it wasn’t a silent but deadly,” she tried, immediately sending the other two girls into a fit of giggles, careful not to draw extra attention from the fellow auditionees (but failing, somewhat).

“I’m Alyssa, this is Yvie,” the blonde told her.

“Oh, I’m Brooke, are you guys friends?” she smiled, placing a careful strand of her bun that had fallen into her face behind her ear.

“She’s stalking me,” Yvie told her, completely deadpan.

“I am not, I’m not a stalker,” she turned to Brooke, “We met in our hotel night one, and we’ve just kind of hit it off this weekend. You been here all four days?”

Brooke nodded sheepishly before adding with a cautious drop in tone, “Unfortunately.”

“Tell me about it. I literally feel like I could stick my leg in a subway door and it would snap in half,” Yvie added, moving into a middle split with little to know extra effort required, her voice unwavering.

“Well, we got you, you’re one of us now,” Alyssa grabbed her hand with a smile, sharing a knowing glance with Brooke before they heard the boom of the microphone over the loudspeaker, instructing the hundred-plus girls in the room to rise.

That night, after the penultimate day of auditions was completed, Brooke nervously told her mother she had other dinner plans for the evening, that she had made friends. She looked at her mother carefully, expecting the reprimand or warning she’d grown accustomed to. Instead, she was greeted with a half smile, a light touch on the back, and a simple, “Be careful.”

Brooke had spent every night of that trip bee-lining for the hotel by 9:00pm, showered, practiced, and ready for the early AM wake up call. She had barely seen the city, and by the second or third day had begun to forget she was in any place that wasn’t the blinding white walls of a dance studio.

But that night, as she felt the soft red glow of Times Square, authentically American street hot dog in hand with her new American friends, she felt the most prepared she ever had all week. They spent all night running around the city, dancing in subway cars and calling Brooke “Canada” whenever she pointed out something that made the girls giggle. She had friends back home, of course. But not like this. Not so unabashedly carefree and naive.

So when they all tentatively sent each other MySpace messages as they opened their acceptance letters and found that all three of them were accepted to their number one choice school, it felt like pure magic radiated through the computer screens in all three ends of North America.

Alyssa and Yvie were her closest confidants, her mirrors, and her worst critics all at the same time. They were there for her through the trauma of her injury and did their best to remind her of who she was whenever they got the chance, even though Brooke hadn’t done so much as a twirl since it happened. Alyssa had worked with her on and off for years at Ballet D’Amerique, and now was working as a dance instructor in New York, while Yvie had been successfully working in Vegas shows for years, creating the perfect excuse for a girl’s trip weekend there every year.

They’d all changed, naturally. Brooke’s gentle, cold exterior she adorned now was different from the softness of her bright-eyed college days, but leave it to Alyssa and Yvie to bring out the parts of her she needed constant reminding were there.

So when Brooke Lynn Hytes was 33 years, 3 months, 19 days, 7 hours, and 7 minutes old, sitting on her red line train, the familiar whirl of the Chicago transit easing as the train car rose above ground, she pulled out her phone once again.

She’d contemplated calling them in her office earlier that morning, but that desire dissipated the second she’d shoved the flyer into the depths of her purse, as if it had some Mary Poppins transfigurative ability to make it cease to exist. But as she sat now, foot incessantly shaking as she sat cross-legged, uncomfortable and cramped in her seat, the air full of post-work bliss on a Friday evening, her heart never stopping to catch up to her breath in their ongoing footrace, she texted them.

To: Yves and Lyss

B: I have a problem.

Y: ugh i’m about to go on :((

A: Hi how are ya to you too, Canada!! B: Sorry I know it’s been a while.

Y: i miss you bitches.

Y: got some mad D last night. forgot to text, sorry bout that

Y: he reminded me of greg from freshman year. but like.. not as high

B: Ew.

Y: sorry brooke catch me up later, dollface, i love you

A: Weed Greg!! haha

A: Brooke, call me bitch!!

Brooke cracked a smile and let it melt into the phone, calming the repetitive movement of her leg. With a sigh she reached into her purse the best way she could, shocking her body when her finger caught the edge of the flyer like it was begging for her attention. She grabbed her headphones, gingerly popping them into her ears as she moved to FaceTime her friend, forever thankful for the excuse to hear her friend’s voice.

“Okay, what’s the tea bitch?” Brooke heard suddenly, acutely aware of the burning glances in her direction.

“Shit, hold on,” she fumbled with the bluetooth, mouthing a few “sorry’s” around her as if anyone had given any real mind. It was the Chicago transit, she was hardly what anyone was looking at, and although Brooke was hardly one of the warm and gentle souls her home country had been known to produce, apologizing was a knee-jerk reaction she couldn’t shed.

“I don’t even feel bad for you, Miss Airpods,” Alyssa scuffed, before smiling at her brightly, simultaneously distracted but fully attentive to Brooke at the same time.

“What’re you up to?” Brooke asks, before paying closer attention to the shadows in the mirror evidently behind her. “Wait, Lyss, are you teaching right now?”

“Yeah, they’re taking a little juice break, it’s fine, what’s up? No time for the how was your day blah blah bullshit let’s go!”

Brooke shook her head gently with a heavy side of you’re nuts , and I love you , before breathing out a sigh that’d been trapped in her for hours.

“So I turned away another dancer today, and I don’t even know why, she just… made me feel… I don’t know.”

“ - Horny?” Alyssa finished, Brooke laughed, looking around her on the off chance of another headphone malfunction.

“No, I don’t know, just… weird. Like I suddenly wasn’t me, anymore. And not in a bad way, which is worse. And then she invited me to see her show tonight, to watch her dance, and it’s like part of me knows I should stand my ground because we’ve already gotten so many new dancers this month from other agents in the office and I already said no and what kind of talk will there be if Ice Queen Brooke Hytes is seeing little dance shows around the city like she has nothing else to do with her Friday night, which by the way, she doesn’t because she hasn’t gotten laid in like, 3 years, and lives alone with her fucking cats but no one can know that or else no one in the industry will take me seriously because I’m not even a dancer anymore so what do I even know and what the fuck do I do,” Brooke realizes she’s not even looking in Alyssa’s direction when she finishes with a huff, feeling the unfamiliar slump of her shoulders.

“Okay, Canada, breathe for me baby,” she looks at her through the glow of the screen, her eyes piercing her from miles away. She waits till she has Brooke’s eyes before telling her sternly, “you are a dancer. And a beautiful one at that. So don’t you think for a minute that part of you has gone away. And secondly, bitch, you need to get laid. Go fuck this girl, please, for my sake,” she gives her a knowing glance.

Brooke takes a breath, doing her best to muster a smile. “I don’t know her. And I certainly can’t do that. Can your kids hear you saying all this?”

“Their moms are still paying me, so it really doesn’t seem to matter all that much, do it?” she laughs. “Listen sweetie. It’s gonna be fine. Just sneak in the back, pull out one of your Gi-von-bur-berry-froo-froo sunglasses I know you have all incognito like. That way she doesn’t gotta see you there. And please report back, okay?” Alyssa turns her head to face to the side of the camera, looking out at her class and raising her voice. “Brooke should go, right girls?”

Brooke couldn’t help but roll her eyes with a laugh as she heard the thundering chorus of “yeah!” in only a way six-year-olds can.

“See bitch? I gotta go, but I love you honey,” Alyssa blows her a kiss, winking as she ends the call, Brooke feeling the lingering click of her tongue as she stares at the homepage on her phone, once carrying her best friend inside of it. She looks up, taking the headphones out, and feels the screeching halt as the red line stops at Fullerton, a few blocks from Brooke’s high-rise apartment. She can feel the soft carpet of her bedroom phantom-brush against her feet as she wills herself to stand, but locks her knees as they’re set into place, the train going as soon as it stops past the comfort of her little corner of Chicago.

Her legs were moving before her mind was, like her body knew what it needed before she did (it always had), and she found herself clutching the flyer as she stood in front of the advertised address.

The building was hardly anything to look at, in fact Brooke had done several double takes before finally deciding that yes, this was the place, but it was in high contrast to the modest theatre she had been expecting. It almost gave off a thick air of mystery and palpable intrigue, and Brooke braced herself as she slipped on the sunglasses and walked in.

She walked down a narrow hallway lit only by a small red exit sign, the only noise coming from the reverberated click of her heels and the muffled pre-show music and murmuring in the background.

After turning a corner she guessed was where she needed to be, entering a maze she was far too lost in to begin with, she barely registers a girl in a less than decorous bodysuit collecting donations, her eyes growing wide as Brooke drops in two one hundred dollar bills like they’re pennies in a fountain, her eyes locked ahead of her as she enters in the performance space. It’s a typical Chicago, rent-by-the-hour black box space, modestly filled with decoration and filled with rows of seats. Brooke’s thankful for the crowd that’s generated already, carefully slipping into an inconveniently placed (but conveniently for Brooke) stage left corner seat that slips out of the glow of the followspot on stage. She curses her deep-seated punctuality as the time of 8:48pm glows on her phone screen, and slips off her sunglasses, looking around casually. As she takes a breath, she’s finally aware of her surroundings, and namely who she’s surrounded by. She’s known growing up in the entertainment world that oftentimes small-venue performances such as these generally are only put on for resume building and so that people like Brooke can attend. On any given night you could have three people to a full house and it’s all considered normal. But as Brooke looks around to the people that surround her, she’s overcome by the unlikely undercurrent of excitement in the air.

There’s a fog machine intermittantly blowing the thick clouds into the already-stuffed room, and Brooke’s thankful for the particular blanket to her lungs giving her something to drown in.

Of course it’s popular, she thinks, I’d want to see Vanessa too .

She sees people of all walks of life, but a dedicated concert-like mosh pit of men surround the stage itself, and Brooke has to bite her tongue at the lack of etiquette. She knew this wasn’t a ballet performance, but it sure as hell wasn’t a display at the Chicago Zoo.

Her phone buzzes in her lap, giving her the reminded to silence it, the timing glowing 8:59pm as she takes one more glance at her notifications, quickly opening one from Alyssa to ground her.

From: Lyss

A: Bitch you’re motha fuckin Brooke Lynn Hytes, just like your momma say (maybe not the motha fuckin part) but you got this!! You’re gonna be just fine. That bitch is lucky she gets to be eye-fucked by you. ;)

Brooke smiles, slipping it into her void purse but this time so she can save it for later.

The lights begin to dim, and her stomach flips like it did before a dance recital, as if she were one of Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the ding of a bell.

With another gratuitous gust of fog, three girls come out in the dim, low lighting as the soft bump of a familiar jazz tune begins to play. There’s a few faint whistles of recognition from the audience, but nothing matching the energy of the pre-show volume they’d been living in before. Brooke recognized the song from one of her freshman dance classes, feeling the shadow pain of her teenage pointe shoes as she sees the figures enter the stage, each of the girl’s faces concealed by a Bob Fosse inspired black-brimmed hat. They’re snapping along to the rhythm, clad in full trench coats with the peak of a fishnet tight peeping out below the hem as they straddle individual bar stools. While it was a departure from her traditional eye, it wasn’t anything groundbreaking. They were in Chicago, after all, and Roxie Hart’s name had been spilled far too often for Brooke’s, and just about every talent agent’s in the city’s liking.

She cranes her neck, still not completely able to make out which one was Vanessa, the black of the coats swallowing the figure of the dancers. They’re all talented, clearly limber albeit a little traditionally stiff in style. As she watches them move from jazz kicks to jazz squares she’s hit with the sudden pang of realization that there’s no way she’ll be able to sign this girl, and she’s even thinking about leaving at intermission because the thought of lying to the poor girl when she gets that follow up email a week later is simply too hard to stomach and oh -

Oh.

First she hears it, then she sees it: the deafening beat of the bass, the inharmonious uproar of cheers and applause, the soft thud of the trench coats hitting the ground.

Any doubt she had finding Vanessa was relieved in an instant as she stepped out to take center stage, a mass of hands clawing at her feet, revealing her glowing skin in the flashing club-like trance of lights, wearing nothing but a small red bodysuit, dangerously sheer and lacy along her mid section. The girls behind her were wearing similar ensembles, coated in black and white, but Vanessa stood front and center, moving her hips impossibly slow and tantalizing to the beat. Brooke doesn’t know the song, and it doesn’t matter. The music radiating from the delicate trace of Vanessa’s inner thighs as she moves into the splits, and effortlessly steps out of them and into her next move and her next move and her next move could move mountains. The men in the front now suddenly became Brooke’s kindred spirits as she watched them wave one’s at her, swallowing back a bitter taste in her mouth as she watched in slow motion: Vanessa grabbed one of the men’s hands, sensually pulling him on stage, her finger light touches making it evident he was doing all the work to hoist himself up.

Vanessa looks powerful, endearing and dominating at the same time as she pushes him down into the stool, his eyes locked on her like he suddenly didn’t know how to use words anymore.

Brooke wasn’t sure she did either.

She works her magic on him like its a practiced spell, bending, arching her back, all while flawlessly executing technique Brooke’s Ballet D’Amerique troupe couldn’t dream of doing. Brooke swears she feels her breath leave her body as she leaves him high and dry after moving to kiss him on the lips, lingering enough to make the whole room want her more than they already did (if that was even possible) before moving away with a snap, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb as she walked away, finishing her number.

The millisecond between the end of the song and the audience reaction is tangible - Brooke swears she can feel everyone’s heartbeat in tandem before it’s simply too overwhelming to handle. She doesn’t even notice when she’s on her feet, slipping into the group-think of the crowd and losing herself in the moment.

Vanessa looks out at the crowd, smiling, blowing kisses, absolutely eating up every drop of praise the audience has to give her. Brooke, in any other given moment would be shaking her head, feeling herself collapse, feel terribly inadequate, or any delectable entree featuring all three.

But she was mesmerized. Vanessa’s eyes were sparkling under the harsh lights, the red of her costume so commanding it’s like she was daring the crowd to stop.

Her eyes scanning. Her eyes.

Fuck.

It’s brief, but it’s enough. Their eyes meet, and Brooke’s body once again has her moving, anywhere, far, far away, thanking her photo-oriented memory as she once again navigates the delicate maze of the building that’s now become her sacred alter.

She doesn’t stop until she feels the rush of cold air, the whirling of the red line train, and the soft carpet of her bedroom.

Brooke clicks off her phone by her bed, the familiar glow softening for the night.

But no sooner than she sets it down is she ripping it from its resting spot, eyes glazing over the email she hadn’t dared believe would come so soon.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Ms. Hytes,

I’ll see you Monday?

Xo,

Vanessa

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #slow burn #lesbian au #eventual smut #fall in time #somesilverreply #tw mention of injury #concrit welcome

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blastthechaos · 5 years

Text

Lincoln Casagrande - Chapter 4

Lincoln laid lazily in Bobby's bed, his gaze on the ceiling, blank.

He had spent the last few days giving people information about the funeral to tell them to come, due to how big is family was and how many friends they have it certainly took a while, luckily he was helped by Ronnie and Bobby.

They didn't deserve to be dragged into this, but they insisted on helping him.

The people he met were saddened by their deaths but wishes a good and long prosperous life to him, while the worse ones just acted distant from him.

Eventually they finished and now in a few more days the funeral will be held.

He honestly didn't what to do with his life now, he still didn't went back to school given that all of his notebooks have been burned down by the fire so he had to start from scratch, plus given how he's been he was in no condition to go back to school, at least that's what the school personal, his grandfather and the santiagos said to him, so he didn't have another option did he?

Ronnie Anne was helping him getting on day though, so he was at least learning something.

From what he heard, Ms santiago was actually talking with his grandfather about something, but he couldn't tell what it was.

He let out a sharp breath.

He wanted to think on something to do, anything to not make him think of the tragedy, to distract himself and do something with his time instead of laying around here uselessly.

He idly began remembering what he talked about with his family friends until one stood out.

"What is that thing you're making Ms Rose?" He asked with a lack of enthusiasm.

Amelia Rose was an older woman with red hair who was a friend of his mom, right now she was knitting a red handkerchief that was the same color his mom used to wear.

Amelia noticed his lack of enthusiasm, but didn't hold it against him given the circumstances.

"Well, what i'm making his something special and a bit silly but...when i lose someone dear to me, i make a piece of clothing, accessory or something to wears in their favorite color, then wear it as a sort of memorial to them, i did the same when my husband died" She said pointing at the black and red scarf she was wearing.

"Oh, well i don't think it's silly at all...i think it's pretty cute"

"Thanks Lincoln, you're a real sweetheart...say, wanna read some ancient books with me?"

"Thanks for the offer but i'll pass, maybe some other day"

He thought about it for a bit, he was somewhat good with knitting due to picking up from his sister Leni...alright.

Let's get to work.

"So you want to do that with the last of my grandchildren?" Asked Albert.

Maria sighed.

"Look Albert, i was just making a suggestion, i just feel the kid needs someone to take care of him and he would be more comfortable with us" Said Maria.

Albert took a sharp breath.

"Look, it isn't that i don't trust you or your family, the problem is you are considering moving in with your family to the city and that's hours away, i'm not really comfortable having Lincoln so far away, plus i still have to talk it with Ruth and Lynn's side of the family, also there's the matter if Lincoln is comfortable with it"

"I know that, but i believe we can find a way to make it work, we can visit you and Ruth in royal woods occasionally...or you can move close to us, it's up to you"

"I doubt Ruth would want to move out of here and i don't want to leave my friends behind, but we see what we can do…"

"Ok, i'll talk with Lincoln and see what he thinks"

"So did you talk to your children about this?"

"...Oh look at the time, gotta hang, talk later!" and she hung the call.

She breathed in and out.

What? She wanted it to be a surprise so when her two chlidren got a taste of what is like to live with her family they would be okay with it, not the best of plans but it was something...right?

She then started calling someone.

"Hello?" Asked the voice in the other side of the phone.

"Hello...dad"

Bobby let out a groan once he finally arrived home, it was a long day at school and also a long day at work, not to mention he was still feeling in the dumps for the death of Lori and the loud family.

But well, he was still trucking on, he had to, for his sister his mom and his foster little brother.

Speaking of the last one, when he entered the house he noticed Lincoln was there...knitting something.

"Hey little bro, are you ok? What are you doing?"

Lincoln turned to Bobby, he didn't seem as sad now as he was before, only a blank look in his face.

He guessed that having something to do now actually helped him think on something else, he was grateful for that, still he was surprised by him knitting, not because he thought any less of him for it, he was just surprised that he could knite.

"Well i am...a little better, I'm just knitting" His voice seemed blank, not exactly monotone but...

"That's cool, didn't know you could knite"

"Kinda picked it off from Leni, i'm obviously not as good as her though"

"Well it's still pretty good from what i can see, it doesn't look like something easy to do"

At least from what he guessed, what Lincoln was knitting was seemingly a bandanna of multiple colors:teal, aquamarine green, purple, yellow, red, black, blue, pink, regular green and lilac. the colors were actually well done and transitioned well into each other.

He also had two cloths tied in his wrist, one salmon colored and the other dark green.

"Thanks, it was a bit hard at first and i did a few before as practice, but i like how this one is turning out, i just want to get it right"

Ah, so it wasn't his first attempt, now that he noticed, his hands look like they were poked by the needle a few times.

"It's okay, no one gets that good on their first attempt, i'm kinda curious about why are you knitting a bandanna and why you choose those colors"

Lincoln looked thoughtful for a time, then he answered.

"Well I...i thought of making this as some sort of memorial towards my sisters, the colors I choose where they favorite colors"

"...Oh, I'm guessing the things you tied around your wrist are for your parents"

Lincoln nodded.

Bobby smiled.

"Well i think it's very sweet from your part"

Although it was hard to notice, Bobby could see a smile forming on Lincoln's face, barely.

Then he started to think of something, he still wasn't coming back to school and he when he was doing something he was able to take his mind of things…

"Lincoln"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever wanted to draw?"

"Well yeah, one of my dreams before all this is drawing for Ace Savvy, why?"

Bobby smiled.

"Then i got something to show you"

"I'm telling you Ronalda, you really gotta stop threatening every school student you come across"

"But mom, i have a reputation to keep, plus I hear them talking smack about you and Bobby...and me"

"Look, i can tolerate what they say to me and you should either, getting violent won't solve anything"

"I think what you are getting it wrong, violence actually solves everything"

"You are starting to worry me with each passing day, i swear i remember when you were...well you where pretty serious, but you actually were sweet with people"

"I still am"

"With more people than just Lincoln, Bobby and me"

"What are you talking about? That's how I always been"

Maria arqued an eyebrow at this.

She was returning Ronalda from school, today she was allowed to have a free day and decided to spend some time with her daughter, she just got in trouble at the last bell and she had to stay through the same thing with the director huggins, honestly after getting into the same thing over and over again the three felt like they didn't care about this, just rinse and repeat, it was luck that Ronnie wasn't expelled after this, she happened to have good enough grades on her own despite what her rough attitude may let you to believe.

Anyways, today she had to make an special announcement.

The two entered the house and was surprised to see Bobby teaching Lincoln how to draw.

"Easy there, don't stress yourself"

"Ok i'm trying"

Maria and Ronnie were actually surprised, they knew Bobby was good at art but he wasn't actually all that interested in that, so it was nice to see him teaching Lincoln how to.

Lincoln and Bobby noticed the two.

"Oh hey, how was your day?" Asked Bobby.

"Eh, the usual, by the way Lame-O, what's that you're wearing?"

"This?" He said pointing to his new bandanna and cloths. "It's something I made myself, I tell you later why"

Ronalda shrugged, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

"Gotta say Bobby, it's nice of you to teach Lincoln to draw"

"Thanks, I figured Lincoln would like it, right bro?"

"Yeah"

Maria had a smile on her face, it was nice that her children got along with the last remaining loud, he didn't even look as sad as before, granted it was still far from his usual self.

Then again, it's probably hard for him to get back to normal after this, perhaps even after he grows up and makes a new life out of himself, he probably won't be the same as he was or could been had this hadn't happened.

But enough about that.

"Well, I have an special announcement to make, it can be hard to swallow though but I need you guys to listen"

The three started listened closely.

"Well, first off, this may be hard but...we are moving...with my family...to the city"

The three were frozen, not a single reaction out of them...in fact it looked like they weren't even breathing.

'...Well might as well take it all at once'

"AlsoIsPossibleThatLincolnMayBeAdoptedIntoOurFamilyAndHeProbablyWillComeWithUs" She said ligthnign quick.

The three didn't even move an inch, Maria was kinda afraid she broke them.

Then the three fell to the ground.

#The Loud House #TLH #Loud House #Fanfic #Fanfiction #TLH Fanfic #Loud House Fanfic #Lincoln Loud #Bobby Santiago #Ronnie Anne Santiago #Maria Santiago #Lincoln Casagrande AU

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youshi56 · 2 years

Text

Good morning once again:

I am sharing as an opportunity for others who may have or going through the process of transformstion/healing, wholeness/holiness as I stated often times understanding semantics the same process with different wording understanding achieved the same goal allowed people to truly begin to heal. Belo is a video that I often would listen to before I would sit and write. So with that I will close.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taZFyM9MljM&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Psalm 23 years ago as I reflected on :Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies" because abuse is so traumatic my enemies became my feelings and emotions although they weren't my enemy experiencing some of them were very frightening in not understanding. I began to ask the Lord to prepare a table in the presence of my feelings and emotions; the table He prepared was the understanding of post traumatic stress, how it could happen, when etc.

When we understand the table God prepares is at times understanding needed regarding ones own particular situation or circumstance one becomes empowered In Him.

Now as I read Lynne Nichols book "In His Hands" I find it so refreshing the honesty. Now I also love how God uses different writers to bring things to memory in a time for deeper healing. If you have never experienced abuse it will give another the opportunity to hear and see the struggles and strength and courage it takes to break the cycle. She shared a song that touched her at particular moments in time and how somethings can't be repaired together. One of the songs she shared was I will always love you. When people get to the point in recognizing things work together when people are walking in the same direction taking responsibility for their actions and reactions and stay true to themselves they can walk away in love recognizing the love they had that the absence of healing in the other was and often is the problem. When people realize it isn't their job to heal the wounds. You get to a place where you understand because of life choices a person makes until they seek help will continue in those choices.

Lynne also shares how she will not allow herself to be manipulated into doing anything against who she is and will follow her instincts.

Since my divorce many years ago I have had a few brief relationships that in following my instinct ended. And I suppose for years the anger I felt toward myself in not following my gut instinct before I married in understanding the importance of following my initial instinct even in the absence of others understanding.

See years ago I used to hear God hates divorce and I approached Him on it and I needed to understand. God sees the struggles and things that go on in marriages and what God hates is what brokenness and lack of healing does in the lives of people and the pain and suffering people endure and think He expects them to live in that. God hates the things that often happen in divorce but God intended marriage to be an expression of love toward one another for husband's and wives to cherish one another. And God knew the absence of healing would bring about situations and circumstances that in not understanding that would disrupt people's relationship at times causing extreme pain and anguish.

And the absence of understanding present circumstances and situations could draw up feelings locked inside and the absence of people seeking healing they needed and or the absence of information people needed to begin to understand and heal placed people in continual victim roles and or abusive roles. Often times due to that fact some marriages couldn't be restored.

The absence of emotional and moral support and understanding often placed people in positions of feeling alone and helpless and the absence of understanding the reality people experienced in Christ and or ones inability to understand the reality of Him as a source of help placed people who in not finding the understanding they needed in the church forced to seek help outside the church and of course when that help doesn't recognize or hasn't experienced Christ often draw conclusions that need not be drawn. And yet I have found in my personal life many things I experienced In Christ even the church didn't understand and or never expected me to experience it.

Breaking the cycle is coming to terms with the many things that affected our lives and making a stand in love if others choose to continue we will no longer accept that as part of our life or what God intended. We will no longer be silent as a way for healing and helping other who have felt so alone know they are not.

Change and seeking change is a choice. And that is really what breaking the cycle of dysfunction is all about. One can only seek change for themselves, their actions and reactions. One can offer insight and understanding that has help them but they can't do another's inner work or make that choice for another. And when others are seeking and making those same choices the evidence becomes alive in them.

A few years ago someone told me that God had told him I was the one and ask God in regards to him and I. I told him that I wasn't saying God didn't tell him that all I was saying until God confirmed that to me I was and am content single. A song that was played on the radio began to speak to me so of course I approached God on it which apparently others don't understand they can do. The song was a man holding on to a woman letting go. So as the song played I quietly spoke to God saying not sure why this song is speaking to me you know God I am alone. The message He gave me through that song was some people choose to hold onto their way of thinking I was a woman who let it go.

In Lynne's book "In His Hands" she goes on to share many of the feelings and emotions and fears people who have been abused feel when in a loving relationship and wanting to give herself completely and the struggle or fear of not being able to.

And see these are legitimate things one feels and think about that others sometimes aren't aware of.

My own life until I could effectively deal with things that concerned me and pain I had endured and to have someone enter my life who did not understand or comprehend would inevitably end with me ending the relationship. By following my instincts in regards to certain things it has allowed me to continue in my healing without additional wounding.

In AA when a person starts one of the things they recommend is a person refrain from personal relationships of the opposite sex for the period of a year to give themselves opportunity to grasps and lay a hold of the tools and understanding they need. Although I was kicked out of the AA group because I wasn't an alcoholic or alcohol wasn't or hadn't become my way of coping or my addiction to not recognize or understand the improper foundations in growing ultimately caused dysfunction ways of coping range from eating disorders, perfectionists, drugs, alcohol, workaholics etc. These are the things that people initially work through relearning new ways of handling things, situations circumstances etc. I did however purchase material and other books that aided and helped me respecting their request to leave the group. But I believe if every person took a year and refrained from entering into a relationship and devoted that year to understand and grasps material important for them the healing that begins to take place is in taking back the control in your life. That form of control is in empowering yourself and educating yourself in regards to understanding things a person (or you are) experiences and for many that included things they had experienced in God.

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paulbenedictblog · 4 years

Text

%news%

New Post has been published on %http://paulbenedictsgeneralstore.com%

Usa today The coronavirus has Americans stockpiling toilet paper and hand sanitizer. Why are we so afraid?

Usa today

With support from the CDC, we answer just a few of Google's most searched questions on the coronavirus crisis. USA TODAY

Coronavirus has the world on edge.

The outbreak is now a global pandemic, and 7 weeks after essentially the well-known U.S. case became announced outdoor of Seattle, the different of of us within the U.S. now identified to be infected with the new stress has surpassed 1,000, with 38 slow. And the numbers preserve climbing.

Wing to waft, gigantic public gatherings and predominant events occupy been canceled. Employees occupy been told to do enterprise from house, universities occupy moved all courses online and traditional colleges occupy closed for sanitizing. The stock market has seen meteoric crashes. Declarations of emergency are being proclaimed and New York has deployed the National Guard.

Because the different of confirmed circumstances of sickness attributable to the coronavirus grows, so too does the nation's collective uncertainty. Psychologists and public successfully being consultants notify public fright is excessive, and it's largely fueled by a sense of powerlessness.

"After we really feel, 'Oh my God, there is a brand new boogeyman available within the market,' it comes with extra difficulty," said David Ropeik, an authority on threat communique. "After we don't mark one thing that leaves us feeling like we do no longer know the entirety we occupy now got to snatch to protect ourselves and that equates to powerlessness, vulnerability."

Coronavirus, defined: All the pieces to snatch, from symptoms to straightforward guidelines on how to space up

The spread of the new coronavirus is no longer correct a public successfully being crisis. It be a global tournament pervading virtually each aspect of of us's lives, causing them to difficulty no longer best about getting unwell themselves, nonetheless about grandma, what to enact with out-of-college children and by surprise significantly stunned 401(k)s.

Uncertainty about the nature and trajectory of the threat exacerbates a sense of no longer being in regulate.

"It be a new, unknown sickness, we do no longer know how severe it'd be and we do no longer know how concerned to be," said Lynn Bufka, associate govt director for be taught and policy at the American Psychological Affiliation and an authority on fright, stress and cultural points. "The belief that that we are in a position to with a microscopic of luck minimize transmissions by if truth be told fair correct hand-washing feels insufficient. It be nothing new. And how will you perceive whilst you might perchance presumably perchance well occupy accomplished it successfully sufficient?"

It be why many of us are speeding out to bewitch bathroom paper, face masks, disinfectant and hand sanitizer. It makes them if truth be told feel they're at the least doing one thing, she said.

Managing the outbreak: A self-quarantine appears brutal must you are no longer unwell – nonetheless it if truth be told is for the simpler fair correct

Usa today Fright of the unknown

Section of what drives feelings of fright is a scarcity of records. The virus is new and there remain many questions on the sickness it causes. Most of us haven't had it nor enact they know somebody who has. Experts notify that matters.

"We mark the flu, we occupy now got inner most expertise with it, that makes it much less frightening," Bufka said. "We know what to assign aside a query to with one thing like that. As other folks we are in a position to read records, hear records from others and bewitch all that in, nonetheless inner most expertise makes a incompatibility."

Compile day-to-day coronavirus updates for your inbox: Be half of the Coronavirus Gape

Even as confirmed circumstances of the virus amplify, the more of us learn, the simpler they'll if truth be told feel.

"We now occupy stuffed in just among the blanks," Ropeik said. "We know who this affects. We know how it spreads. We know who is more inclined and who is much less inclined. That records is disinfectant."

I preserve telling of us yeah i ain’t frightened of the coronavirus. I’m be alright. What I forget is there are fogeys and grandparents who it essentially affects. The spread of this puts their successfully being in threat and that’s what scares me. Already misplaced my pops n i ain’t tryna lose nobody else.

— Yultron (@yultron) March 10, 2020

Usa today A looming threat

David Clark, a clinical psychologist and creator of "The Runaway Mind," said public difficulty might perchance be heightened thanks to "looming vulnerability."

"When a threat or threat is gradually drawing approach it tends to be more ugly to us, then, shall we embrace, if threat occupy been to appear all of a unexpected," Clark said of the hypothesis. "We started off with media experiences from China which perceived to be very distant to us, no longer a particular threat, nonetheless then over the weeks we survey this encroaching, getting nearer and nearer to house."

Now it's within the U.S., nonetheless no longer necessarily in all people's negate or community. As it expands, of us remain anxious about if and when it might perchance well most likely contact their lives.

Usa today Lots of of us, varied reactions

No longer all people reacts to epidemics the identical methodology. Some of us are cautious — washing their hands for the time it takes to dispute two gay birthdays. Some best one round. Others are stockpiling food and remedy as if an apocalypse is forthcoming.

🙋‍♂️- no longer anxious for my inner most successfully being.

I'm anxious for my dad with halt stage Alzheimer's in assisted residing in a county with 5 circumstances and 1 death. I assign aside a query to this can lickety-split be conscious the envitable.

I'm anxious for our microscopic corporations, like the place my son chef's & is seeing slack down

— CA Enthusiast (@CAEdge) March 7, 2020

Clark says when records is mixed, of us can gather to focal point on the coolest or the execrable.

The very fair correct records is, for most of us, the sickness attributable to the coronavirus is in overall gentle and the flu-like symptoms of fever and cough don't closing prolonged. The execrable records is the virus is new, highly contagious and like minded now there is no longer any vaccine. The aged and those with compromised immune programs or power ailments can develop to be very unwell and in some circumstances die.

Whether or no longer of us fixate on the coolest or the execrable has a lot to enact with who they are.

"There are those who are particularly interested by sickness, disease — they if truth be told feel a heightened sense of their score mortality," Clark said. "They're paying more attention to the execrable records aspect of the messaging and potentially having a harder time processing the coolest records aspect."

Purchasers shy about coronavirus are stocking up on bathroom paper, hand sanitizer and affords despite the incontrovertible truth that supply chain consultants notify there's no need. Storyful

Usa today The look of mixed messages

That execrable records/fair correct records dichotomy can catch of us if truth be told feel as despite the incontrovertible truth that they're getting mixed messages. Stories notify most those who contract coronavirus expertise symptoms corresponding to the flu. Then of us read tales about the National Guard helping with quarantine containment.

If the threat to most of us is gentle to life like symptoms, why does it if truth be told feel like the enviornment is shutting down?

"They're looking out to tamp down the infectivity curve," Ropeik said of public successfully being officers. "Deem of it like the head of a expansive wave. They're looking out to withhold it from going up too sharply. If it goes up too lickety-split and too excessive, the those who need successfully being care will likely be crowding hospitals , making it no longer doable for everyone who desires it to acquire care."

There are aged of us, of us with power situations, of us with suppressed or compromised immune programs, of us residing paycheck to paycheck who completely CANNOT manage to pay for to acquire unwell like minded now. Their lives literally depend upon community contributors making RESPONSIBLE picks.

— Sam Dylan Finch 🍓 (@samdylanfinch) March 10, 2020

As President Donald Trump sought to reassure nervous American citizens, just a few of his public statements additionally contradicted public successfully being officers. He drew if truth be told intensive fireplace closing month for suggesting at a rally that the virus would bewitch care of itself as spring approached.

"It appears as if by April," he told supporters on the eve of the presidential predominant in New Hampshire. "You know in theory, when it gets fair a microscopic hotter, it miraculously goes away; hope that's fair correct, nonetheless we are doing expansive in our nation."

This week Trump's remarks took a marked turn, when he said that the epidemic "blindsided the enviornment," that the difficulty became "no longer our nation's fault" and that a "very dramatic" stimulus became well-known to stanch plummeting markets.

Coronavirus response: President Trump restricts 'all commute' from EU to US

Usa today The feature of the media

Health consultants notify the media has a well-known feature to play. It must dispense like minded records without being sensational, and must steer clear of exploiting of us's fears. A blog post from the Poynter Institute, which trains journalists, notorious that announcing "deadly virus" might perchance additionally be deceptive, since the virus is no longer deadly for most of us.

Of us might perchance aloof additionally limit their media exposure, consultants notify. They caution in opposition to learning about coronavirus obsessively and counsel getting well-known records and transferring on.

"The real thing is to search out some depended on sources, the outlets which might perchance be offering like minded records, and be cautious about social media," Bufka said. "You don't desire to be consistently attempting to web records."

Deem it’s time to silent Coronavirus. There’s a skinny line between being conscious and residing in fixed difficulty and fright.

— The Rich Auntie✨ (@tiadoesvegan) March 11, 2020

Bufka says in times of uncertainty, of us might perchance aloof are trying for emotional balance. Withhold routines. Internet somebody who can support test fears and concerns. Don't talk recurrently to the buddy who's in a frenzy about it — difficulty, consultants notify, is contagious.

We’re all impacted by coronavirus. Fright. Fright. Paranoia. It’s in each single location. I’m battling these toxic feelings by doing at the least one thing day after day that brings me joy. On the present time, it’s dancing in my room 😅(Bollywood trend, thanks #Muqabla). What provides you joy? Display veil me! #JoyFightsFearpic.twitter.com/2Y8ARNGKKd

— Will Ripley (@willripleyCNN) March 8, 2020

Usa today Why it will likely be OK that all people is shopping for bathroom paper

There might perchance be no real purposeful motive to refill on bathroom paper, nonetheless it might perchance well most likely catch of us if truth be told feel fair a microscopic bit in regulate of a glean 22 situation rife with unknowns. Ropeik says that's well-known, because of the fixed difficulty might perchance catch of us more liable to the very thing they difficulty. Prolonged interval of time stress is identified to weaken the immune device.

"The more shy we are, the more inclined we are to this disease," Ropeik said. "The much less shy we are because of the we bought bathroom paper, silly is that appears, the more we occupy now reduced our difficulty and minimized the results on our immune device."

Oops: Family says they bought 12-year supply of loo paper

Rationing: Goal, Walmart limit purchases of sanitizer, disinfecting wipes, bathroom paper

Alia E. Dastagir is a recipient of a Rosalynn Carter fellowship for mental successfully being journalism. Note her on Twitter: @alia_e

Read or Half this chronicle: https://www.usatoday.com/chronicle/records/successfully being/2020/03/12/coronavirus-difficulty-psychology-powerlessness-bathroom-paper-sanitizer/5010095002/

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cardamomoespeciado · 4 years

Text

What happens when a person "dies by aging"?

Gizmodo Japan

What happens when a person "dies by aging"?

If I couldn't die.

Some people are trying to solve the problem of "death." They, when they succeed, may remind me when I was 900 years old to re-read this sentence and miss how I wasted the first 100 years of my life, Daniel Kolitz of Gizmodo. The reporter writes.

However, even if it is resolved someday, tens of thousands and hundreds of millions of people will still die. Some will die of illness, while others will die of an accident. Some people die by the so-called "aging".

While I was playing Hinatabo on the porch, I took a breath before I knew-"I die of old age" has a much more calm image than other deaths.

But what does it really mean to be old and die?

The "Giz Asks" series, where experts answer all questions. This time, we asked four people what it means to "die due to old age".

Body wear, illness impairs physical activity and leads to death

Elizabeth Dzeng (Assistant Professor, School of Medicine, University of California, San Francisco)

"Dying due to old age" is an expression often used around us. However, in reality, no one died of "aging". There is always a leading or new illness that causes death. It is unlikely that a death certificate will say "age". Thus, apart from the cause of death, heart failure due to some infectious disease, underlying disease such as heart attack or cancer is more likely.

For example, when a blood clot develops in the lungs, it becomes unable to send sufficient oxygen to the brain and body, resulting in heart failure. In this case, it does not matter whether the person is young or old. Illness and the symptoms caused by the illness interfere with the physical activity of the body, leading to death.

However, the same illness can cause different symptoms in older people. As we get older, our bodies wear and get damaged. So you can't fight illness as you did when you were young. Of course, a young person can and will die of a heart attack or pulmonary thromboembolism in the same way. However, older people have different body reactions to illness.

Let's take pneumonia as an example. Older patients may not have the initial symptoms that are usually present during infection. If the patient has diabetes, they may develop symptoms of hyperglycemia, and if they have dementia, they may have unstable psychological states or suddenly lose their ability to do what they normally do. .. Even if such symptoms occur in an elderly patient, it is difficult to immediately determine the pathology that causes them.

There are people on the street who want to die while sleeping, but this is a phenomenon that cannot be limited to a specific pathology. People who take their breath while asleep may just have their cancer and infections worsen while they sleep, rather than by chance.

Another important thing is that people with extremely serious medical conditions, such as end-stage cancer and congestive heart failure, may choose a more “natural death”. Rather than receiving active treatment at the hospital, they may choose palliative care to help ease their suffering.

Die with terrible pain, that's a natural death

Jessica Humphreys (Assistant Professor, School of Medicine, University of California, San Francisco, specializes in palliative care)

People often say, "When I grow old, I want to die while sleeping." But all people die the same way. The heart stops. That is the end.

When you write a death certificate, you must write down the cause of death, but rewind to the fact that pulmonary thrombosis occurred before cardiopulmonary arrest and cancer was diagnosed before that. I will. For the students I took care of, what was the cause of death in this way? What happened before that? I ask you to ask.

As a doctor specializing in palliative care, all the patients I am in charge of have serious illnesses and many are nearing death. My job is to explain the process leading to death to the patient and then help them survive that process.

The word "nature" makes you feel calm. If the death process is "natural," you don't have to be aware of it or think about it. But in reality, the process of death rarely goes "naturally" in this way. A healthy person with no medical history suffers from a sudden heart attack for one night's sleep. This is extremely rare. (Although the phrase "die while sleeping" is often used, I didn't see the person directly up close to see if he actually died while sleeping, or if he was awake when he died. As far as it goes, it's very difficult to judge.)

A typical example of "natural death" in the United States is as follows. Someone will find some health problem and treat you to improve it. The treatment that tries to alleviate the suffering as much as possible and keep lives alive is void, and eventually it will turn into a losing battle. There is a change of direction, and the emphasis is on how to spend the best time to the end.

Only one supplement. I have a lot of work in Uganda and India, but I felt that "natural death" is very painful and extremely painful in most countries of the world. In most parts of the world, powerful analgesics like opioids are unavailable. In a sense, dying “naturally” for humans means dying in great pain. So we must strive to eliminate that suffering as much as possible.

"Risk" increases

David Casarett (Professor, Duke University School of Medicine, Chief of Palliative Care. Author of "Shocked: Adventures in Bringing Back the Recently Dead" and many others)

Want to die due to old age? …It's impossible.

It is a popular idea that many people want, because it is a beautiful view like a picture, and it is a common wisdom that "dieing due to aging" is a popular idea. Many of my patients are aiming for it. Just like a downhill skier who draws a slalom, he vividly avoids one life-threatening pathology, and avoids heart failure, prostate cancer, pneumonia, and eventually the new coronavirus. Everything is hoping to eventually die peacefully by "aging".

However, it is impossible to die of old age. As I get older, my heart beats slowly, and finally late last night I can't stop. Aging increases the risk of illnesses such as cancer and dementia, some of which can be fatal. However, aging itself did not cause death.

My grandmother passed Tianju at the age of 103. Although my body weakened with age, my sharpness was still alive until the end, and I could read through one book a day. I was so pinsching that I read the novel I wrote to the end.

Such grandmother did not die of old age. Due to aging and frailty, the risk of hip fracture increased, and in fact, he did. Although he survived the high-risk surgery in a very good condition, he finally entered the demon register due to a seizure.

It is true that he was physically and psychologically exceptionally healthy, and although he died at a very old age, his grandmother did not die due to old age. Her cause of death was a series of unfortunate events that happened to occur in quick succession, putting her older body at greater risk.

Here comes an interesting question. What cause do you want to die for? If you are sensitive to your cholesterol, you may not have a heart attack, and if you are eating raw vegetables, you may not have colon cancer. If you're away from cigarettes you probably won't have emphysema, but what could be the cause of death? What will remain? (I am grateful to my teacher, Dr. Joanne Lynn, for asking this question 20 years ago. I have not reached a personal conclusion yet.)

Where do we go after all the deadly illnesses that modern society throws at us? One answer to that question would be my grandmother. She lived right. He maintained a healthy lifestyle and kept a gentle and gentle temper regardless of the ups and downs of his emotions. All her way of life was right, but the right way of life is effective only to some extent. Eventually life takes the lead, causing falls, heart attacks, pneumonia and death.

Let's add one more thing. I said that I wouldn't die of old age, but it's not uncommon to die of old age. This difference should be well borne in mind.

Many people who live to old age maintain their mental and physical functions until they die. And many-maybe most-fall asleep and suddenly die. Of course, if you were in your twenties, you wouldn't want to reach this end. It's too sudden and I don't have time to prepare.

But if you've been living on this earth for a century, and if you had one or two frightening near-death experiences before, and you're ready to say goodbye I think it's probably a good thing to die while sleeping.

That's probably the biggest difference between people who have succeeded in natural life and those who did not. People who live up to their 90s are not afraid of death. Because I have done everything I have done, and I have done everything I have to say. It may have been ready for many years.

As a palliative care specialist, the older you are, the less likely you will be to flutter at the end, the less likely you are to seek aggressive treatment or long and painful chemotherapy. Accept death and die quickly. If something means "dying in old age," it means that we are prepared to accept death and say goodbye.

Body function is lost at "constant speed"

Allen Andrade (Assistant Professor, Mount Sinai Medical University Elderly and Palliative Medicine)

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommends doctors not use expressions such as "die from old age" or "natural death." The reason is that these words are of little value to the medical community.

In the past, the cause of death could not be identified from a series of things that occurred before death, the unnatural death such as murder or suicide was not suspected, or the prosecutor or coroner was the cause of death due to limited resources. It was a word used in a broad sense when an investigation could not be performed to identify

But these words are still popular with the general public. It gives the impression that death wasn't unexpected or traumatic, and keeps away from the difficult to talk about the cause of death. This is because we all want to be “young and healthy” for as long as possible, and we want to avoid long-term suffering from serious illness. Like birth, death is a sentinel event in life, and is a theme that many people want to avoid because it is extremely emotional.

Interestingly, many do not delay death itself, but fear the process of death. Many who die without relying on life-supporting devices such as ventilators will experience the same death. The main difference between dying is how quickly the body stops functioning. Some people live for weeks to months, some die for days to weeks, hours to days, and minutes to hours.

People with a time frame of a few weeks to a few months lose their physical functions at a constant rate, and remain seated or bedridden to get the people around them to take care of them. People who live for a few days to a few weeks will gradually lose their focus, become unaware of what's going on around them, and lose interest in eating and drinking. People who die within hours to days do not know what is happening in their surroundings, and gradually become difficult to swallow, and their breathing becomes rough and they become fatigued as if they were sprinting. And those who die within minutes to hours are already unconscious and breathe irregularly.

In summary, death is a natural process and largely peaceful. Depending on the length of the dying process and the causes of death, you may experience symptoms such as breathing disorder, pain, and delirium just before you die. You can make your time as high quality as possible.

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newyorktheater · 5 years

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“Fairview,” winner of the 2019 Pulitzer Prize for Drama, began Off-Off Broadway.

“Small theaters” play a large role in making New York City the world’s cultural capital, according to “All New York’s a Stage,” a report issued this week by the Mayor’s Office of Media and Entertainment that looks at the cultural and economic impact of Off-Broadway and Off-Off Broadway, a “sector” (in policy-speak) that is made up of “748 small venue theater organizations” that generate “$1.3 billion in total economic output” annually. They also generate much of the theater world’s cultural heat these days. One example: Some dozen Pulitzer Prize winning plays originating in NYC’s small theaters, including this year’s winner “Fairview” above (Soho Rep), 2016’s “Hamilton” (New York Public Theater), 2015’s “Between Riverside and Crazy” (Atlantic) and 2014’s “The Flick” (Playwrights Horizons.) One arresting fact: The majority of staff of these theaters are volunteers. Here are some charts from the report:

Thanksgiving Week Broadway Schedule

including 15 shows adding performances today!

The Week in New York Theater Reviews

Ronete Levenson (Sue), Lindsay Rico (Paula), Helen Cespedes (Emma), Jennifer Lim (Cindy)

Fefu and Her Friends

Fefu picks up a double-barrel shotgun and shoots at her husband near the beginning of “Fefu and Her Friends,” billed as a modern classic and written by the beloved avant-garde playwright Maria Irene Fornés, who died in October 2018 at the age of 88. “It’s a game we play,” Fefu explains matter-of-factly to her friends, putting the gun back against the drawing room chair. “I shoot and he falls. Whenever he hears the blast he falls.”

For the first time in 40 years, Off-Broadway theatergoers can actually hear that gunshot blast too, thanks to a Theater for a New Audience production, directed by Liliana Blain-Cruz, that is itself a blast….for much of the time. For the rest of the time, it’s…..well, to quote the director herself on her reaction when discovering the work of Maria Irene Fornés: “Oh my god. I don’t understand anything that’s going on, but I love it.”

The Half-Life of Marie Curie

Marie Curie won the Nobel Prize twice, but she was also a woman; so the Nobel committee asked her not to show up at the ceremony. We learn the specific reason why early on in this well-intentioned, workmanlike play by Lauren Gunderson about the friendship between two world-class women scientists who lived a century ago.

Samuel H. Levine as Adam, Kyle Soller as Eric, Kyle Harris as Jasper, Arturo Luís-Soria as Jasper2, Jordan Barbour as Tristan, and Darryl Gene Daughtry Jr. as Jason1

The Inheritance

“The Inheritance,” a long, ambitious play about three generations of gay men in New York, pays homage to two masterpieces, without being one itself. Yet the play by Matthew Lopez, making his Broadway debut, is both sweeping and intimate, sophisticated and raw, a weepy that is often funny. Several performances are transporting, including two actors making their Broadway debuts, and an actress who made hers 67 years ago. There are swoops into intellectual brilliance, such as when one of the characters elaborately compares America to a body, its democracy to a body’s immune system, and the current president to the HIV virus. There are dips into nudity and raunch. There is insight and debate and uplift. Does “The Inheritance” need to be nearly seven hours long and in two parts to achieve all that? The short answer is no. But there’s so much here that’s so wonderful that it’s worth it to those with the stamina.

A Christmas Carol

Who knew that “A Christmas Carol” could be so dangerous!

The assaults begin even before the first line of dialogue in the new, charming if overlong, and extraordinarily well-designed Broadway production of Charles Dickens’ 1843 classic, starring Campbell Scott as Ebenezer Scrooge and Andrea Martin and LaChanze as Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present. Cast members on the stage dressed as 19th century English blokes and birds throw clementines and cookies to (at?) the audience…vigorously.

“I’m suing,” said somebody sitting behind me, in a straight-faced impersonation of Scrooge, after he was hit by one of the packages of chocolate chips. “Are you an attorney?”

Evita

It’s surely pointless, four decades and two billion dollars after its debut, to rant about Evita, and silly to blame Andrew Lloyd Webber’s theatrical canonization of the amoral historical figure Eva Perón as paving the way for the elevation of another media personality remade into a dictator-loving populist. Still, this core problem I have with the musical stops me from fully embracing its revival at New York City Center, even as I acknowledge that the singing in this production is gorgeous, the orchestra lush, the choreography fun, and the story reinterpreted in some bold and intriguing if not always effective ways.

Two adaptations of novels by Édouard Louis:

James Russell Morley and Oseloka Obi on the video

The End of Eddy

Parts resemble a book report for school, but won’t be mistaken for a story hour because of the inventive stagecraft and the rawness of the stories — relentless bullying, deadened people in a dying factory town, his sad and funny efforts to ‘be a man,’ his sexual experimenting.

History of Violence

An examination of trauma; that in any case is the most consistently insightful aspect of the adaptation…. committed performances by the four-member cast…but the production ultimately felt more like an exercise in stagecraft rather than a pointed exploration of history or violence.

The Week in New York Theater News

Grammy Award nominees for best musical theater albums: Ain’t Too Proud, Hadestown, Moulin Rouge, plus the incidental music from the play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. The 62nd annual Grammy Awards will be held on January 20, 2020.

Ephraim Sykes in Newsies

Motown’s Ephraim Sykes as member of The Temptations, Berry Gordy Jr.’s brother, member of the Jackson 5

Ephraim Skyes as Seaweed J. Stubbs —

Ephraim Sykes as David Ruffin

Ephraim Sykes will star as Michael Jackson in “MJ,” the musical slated to open on Broadway beginning the summer 2020. A thrilling performer, he’s had an increasingly high-profile career: Memphis,Newsies,Motown,Hamilton, Hairspray Live, and Tony-nominated for his role as avid Ruffin in Ain’t Too Proud: The Life and Times of the Temptations.

He is now both performing in Ain’t Too Proud and rehearsing for MJ. How can he do this? “I always say just a bunch of prayers, and drink as much coconut water as I can find,” he told Essence.

Lynn Nottage, the Pulitzer Prize winning playwright of “Ruined” and “Sweat,” is the book writer for MJ the Musical. In a mutual interview in Vogue magazine between Nottage and Slave Play playwright Jeremy O. Harris, he brings up MJ:

Can I ask you a question about Michael Jackson? How do you contend with the weight of that history?

We all, on some level, recognize the complexity of Michael Jackson. For many years, he has occupied a very specific space.

Going into this moment, when there’s such a spotlight on him, and such decided opinion on it now around what we should do with that history…

Cancel culture is the dominant culture in this moment. But my guiding principle is that you have to sustain the complexity. I really feel as an artist that writing this piece is me trying to process my complicated feelings about someone who I idolized from the time I was five years old. To reconcile that with that person who, in the media, was quite complicated. I can’t simply cancel that person. I have to, as an artist, lean into that complication—that is what I’m investigating by doing this. And I think that the easy thing would be to say no and run away. But for me the more interesting thing is to lean into it and try to figure out personally how I feel.

Separately, John Logan (Moulin Rouge the Musical, Red, The Aviator) has been hired to writea movie script about Michael Jackson.

Patrick Stewart’s one-man version of “A Christmas Carol” will be presented for two nights only, Dec 11 & 13 at Theater 511 to benefit City Harvest and Ars Nova

“Soft Power” will release a cast recording in Spring 2020.

They grew up at Boston Children’s Theater. Now They Look Back with Alarm

“a group of 17 former students who sent a letter to the theater’s board late last month, detailing a range of negative experiences with [Burgess Clark, the director of Boston’s Children’s Theater]; three alleged that Clark had kissed or touched them inappropriately. Beverly police are investigating; no charges have been filed. A group of older alums sent a second letter describing their own disturbing encounters. Burgess has resigned.”

Rest in Peace

Michael J. Pollard in Bye, Bye Birdie

Michael J. Pollard in “The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis”

Michael J. Pollard in “Bonnie and Clyde”

Michael J. Pollard, 80, best known for TV roles (“The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis”) and his Oscar-nominated part in the movie “Bonnie and Clyde”, was also a 5-time veteran of Broadway, such as the original Hugo Peabody in “Bye, Bye Birdie.”

Small Theater is BIG in NYC. Ephraim Sykes is Michael Jackson, Lynn Nottage answers why she’s taking on MJ. #Stageworthy News of the Week "Small theaters" play a large role in making New York City the world's cultural capital, according to

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mrmichaelchadler · 5 years

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Brian Tallerico's Top Ten Films of 2018

It’s that time of year when critics take a look at dozens of different pieces of art and try to put them in the same box. There’s something inherently odd about pitting films against each other, but it’s also a way to draw attention to things you love and want to share with more people. It’s often a way to consider themes in art, but I was struck more this year by what my top ten says about my personal taste more than overall motifs in the world of moviemaking. I spoke to Barry Jenkins earlier this month, and he commented on how he’s attracted to what he calls genuine filmmaking. That’s clearly a through-line in my picks too, none of which were made purely to garner awards or fatten wallets. They are deeply personal films from masterful filmmakers, across the spectrum of genre and style. What do Boots Riley and Debra Granik have in common other than a deep passion for what they do? They share that passion with us, and lists like this, at their best, amplify it just one step further. I saw around 250 films released this year. This list could be different with rewatches or even just over time. It’s always subject to change. But, as of today, these were my favorites of a very good year:

Runner-ups: “Black Panther,” “Blindspotting,” “First Man,” “First Reformed,” “Hereditary,” “Lean on Pete,” “Mission: Impossible - Fallout,” “Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse,” “Wildlife” and “Zama”

10. “Sorry to Bother You”

It’s the rare film that can feel both completely current and ahead of its time. Boots Riley’s incredible social satire, anchored by a performance from Lakeith Stanfield that is only getting a fraction of the year-end attention it deserves, is the best debut of the year (and it was a strong one for debuts with this, “Hereditary,” “Minding the Gap,” “Eighth Grade,” and more). Riley’s film echoes his music in its blending of different styles and influences into something that feels both defiantly new and classically funky. It is often hard to tell when you’re in a year what movies from it that people will be watching five or even ten years from now. I would bet money they’ll be watching this one.

9. “You Were Never Really Here”

Lynne Ramsay’s award-winning “thriller” (the quotes because there’s not really one genre appellation that feels like it captures everything this movie does) is such a perfectly calculated work of art that it’s easy to take for granted the first time you see it. Every choice here has been carefully considered by a master craftsman, but that attention to detail is offset by an organic, emotional, borderline dangerous performance in the center from Joaquin Phoenix, doing what I consider the best acting work of the year. Phoenix is mesmerizing, capturing a man who has to access his trauma to do his very unusual job, and someone who dives deeper into his own nightmarish abyss each time. It’s a challenging, unforgettable film, and a testament to the overall quality of the year that it’s this far down the list.

8. “Shoplifters”

Hirokazu Kore-eda is one of our best living filmmakers, a man who personifies the Ebert principle of cinema as an empathy machine. He makes movies about real people, using them to encourage conversation about complex issues like masculinity, justice, and the definition of family. His Palme d’Or-winning latest is arguably his masterpiece, a film that reconsiders so many of his previous themes, but also works purely as heartbreaking melodrama. He spends 90 minutes getting his viewers deeply involved in the life of a family on one of the lowest rungs of society, and then challenges how we feel about them with stunning revelations in the final act. Directing some of the best performances in his catalog (Ando Sakura’s work here may be the most underrated of the year), this is an example of a master working at the top of his form.

7. “Annihilation”

What’s the cinematic equivalent of an earworm? You know those songs, or even ad jingles, that burrow their way into your brain and don’t go away? You think of them at random times, humming them to yourself without even knowing you’re doing so? Alex Garland’s latest is the movie version of that, a movie I saw early this year that will not go away. The images, the themes, the faces, the horrors—there’s something about "Annihilation" that has lodged itself in my memory in a way films rarely do. Part of the reason for that is how open the film is to interpretation, relying on imagery instead of plot twists. Those are the movies that last. We may remember a line or some shocking twist from films we like, but it’s the images from the movies we love that sneak up on us. “Annihilation” will be doing so for decades.

6. “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs”

I smile every time I think of Joel and Ethan Coen’s latest Western anthology, which is somewhat ironic given it’s a movie about death. Maybe that’s part of the game. After all, the final segment in Netflix’s film is about bounty hunters who distract their targets with stories. We’re all just distracted by the stories of life, many of my favorites told by the Coens, on our way to shuffling off this mortal coil. These stories work on their own or taken as an entire piece, elevated by the Coen’s incredible attention to detail in every element of the production, including Bruno Delbonnel’s stunning cinematography, one of Carter Burwell’s best scores, and a simply perfect ensemble. I wrote more about the excellence of this film here, and I’m still smiling.

5. “Widows”

Every once in a while, there’s a movie that gets dismissed as pulp by the critical Illuminati. What’s funny is those pulp movies more often find their way into the cinematic firmament than the most buzzed Oscar bait. I'm not worried about the future of "Widows." It didn’t help Steve McQueen’s masterfully entertaining and enlightening examination of corruption and agency in Chicago that it was horrendously advertised, leaving viewers who might like it at home and those who probably wouldn’t angry in their theater seats. Suffice to say, “Widows” was mishandled, but I am as confident in anything on this list that “Widows” will find a loyal, devoted audience over time. Great movies always do.

4. “Burning”

My top 2-4 are relatively interchangeable, all films that did what is so much harder and harder to do every year—broke through our increasingly diffused attention span. With the amount of distractions in this tech-heavy world, it’s getting more difficult even for film critics to “give themselves over” to a movie. For me, I’m often distracted by the other work I have ahead of me—pieces I have to write or editorial duties at this site. Our brains seem to increasingly be asking “what’s next?!” And so there’s something breathtaking about a movie that is powerful enough to push out the “next” with the “now.” Lee Chang-dong’s masterful thriller does exactly that, weaving a mesmerizing tableau for over two hours and then throwing you back into the world, dazed and marveling at what you just watched.

3. “Leave No Trace”

I had a similar reaction to Debra Granik’s poignant drama when I saw it in Sundance. All the other films in Park City faded away as I became deeply invested in the lives of two strangers. Granik’s compassion for these two people is contagious. We feel for the young Tom (Thomasin Harcourt McKenzie) and her PTSD-afflicted father Will (Ben Foster) in ways that is rare in cinema. We want Tom to be happy. We want Will to find stability. We want them to be their best selves, and yet Granik doesn’t even remotely judge Will for his trauma or Tom for her increasing need to leave him. It’s that rare subgenre of the character study that isn’t designed to make some grand statement about all of humanity but fully capture the lives of the people in its center. Will and Tom feel real. We know them and we root for them. And we don’t forget them.

2. “If Beale Street Could Talk”

I couldn’t possibly capture why I love Barry Jenkins’ adaptation of James Baldwin’s “unfilmable” novel more completely than Odie Henderson did in his brilliant review, so just read that first. My top two films of the year—and this clearly reflects a personal preference in what I’m looking for lately—blend the lyrical and the realistic. The story of Fonny (Stephan James) and Tish (KiKi Layne) is tragically real in its injustice and examination of broken dreams. And yet there’s also a poetry to Jenkins’ filmmaking that’s simply beautiful. There is poignant tragedy here, of course, but there’s also overwhelming joy. The joy of a family, of love, of hope, and of filmmaking artistry. It’s the rare movie that I feel will shift ever so slightly every time I watch it, offering me something new to appreciate and adore.

1. “Roma”

That last sentence also holds true for Alfonso Cuarón’s masterpiece, the best film of 2018. So many movies lately feel like they “take” from their audience, whether it be with lazy filmmaking or CGI extravaganza that leave you more exhausted than exhilarated. “Roma” gives and gives. I put so much of myself —what I value in both film and criticism—into my review that I’m not sure what else I could say other than I walked out of this movie on a high that films rarely give me any more. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the state of the form or just getting older and busier, but that “spark,” that “movie magic” doesn’t come along like I wish it would as often as it did when I was younger. I was floating after “Roma.” I still am.

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biometricbits · 6 years

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Notes On "Camp"

by Susan Sontag

Published in 1964.

Many things in the world have not been named; and many things, even if they have been named, have never been described. One of these is the sensibility -- unmistakably modern, a variant of sophistication but hardly identical with it -- that goes by the cult name of "Camp."

A sensibility (as distinct from an idea) is one of the hardest things to talk about; but there are special reasons why Camp, in particular, has never been discussed. It is not a natural mode of sensibility, if there be any such. Indeed the essence of Camp is its love of the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration. And Camp is esoteric -- something of a private code, a badge of identity even, among small urban cliques. Apart from a lazy two-page sketch in Christopher Isherwood's novel

The World in the Evening

(1954), it has hardly broken into print. To talk about Camp is therefore to betray it. If the betrayal can be defended, it will be for the edification it provides, or the dignity of the conflict it resolves. For myself, I plead the goal of self-edification, and the goad of a sharp conflict in my own sensibility. I am strongly drawn to Camp, and almost as strongly offended by it. That is why I want to talk about it, and why I can. For no one who wholeheartedly shares in a given sensibility can analyze it; he can only, whatever his intention, exhibit it. To name a sensibility, to draw its contours and to recount its history, requires a deep sympathy modified by revulsion.

Though I am speaking about sensibility only -- and about a sensibility that, among other things, converts the serious into the frivolous -- these are grave matters. Most people think of sensibility or taste as the realm of purely subjective preferences, those mysterious attractions, mainly sensual, that have not been brought under the sovereignty of reason. They

allow

that considerations of taste play a part in their reactions to people and to works of art. But this attitude is naïve. And even worse. To patronize the faculty of taste is to patronize oneself. For taste governs every free -- as opposed to rote -- human response. Nothing is more decisive. There is taste in people, visual taste, taste in emotion - and there is taste in acts, taste in morality. Intelligence, as well, is really a kind of taste: taste in ideas. (One of the facts to be reckoned with is that taste tends to develop very unevenly. It's rare that the same person has good visual taste and good taste in people

and

taste in ideas.)

Taste has no system and no proofs. But there is something like a logic of taste: the consistent sensibility which underlies and gives rise to a certain taste. A sensibility is almost, but not quite, ineffable. Any sensibility which can be crammed into the mold of a system, or handled with the rough tools of proof, is no longer a sensibility at all. It has hardened into an idea . . .

To snare a sensibility in words, especially one that is alive and powerful,

one must be tentative and nimble. The form of jottings, rather than an essay (with its claim to a linear, consecutive argument), seemed more appropriate for getting down something of this particular fugitive sensibility. It's embarrassing to be solemn and treatise-like about Camp. One runs the risk of having, oneself, produced a very inferior piece of Camp.

These notes are for Oscar Wilde.

"One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art."

Phrases & Philosophies for the Use of the Young

1. To start very generally: Camp is a certain mode of aestheticism. It is one way of seeing the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. That way, the way of Camp, is not in terms of beauty, but in terms of the degree of artifice, of stylization.

2. To emphasize style is to slight content, or to introduce an attitude which is neutral with respect to content. It goes without saying that the Camp sensibility is disengaged, depoliticized -- or at least apolitical.

3. Not only is there a Camp vision, a Camp way of looking at things. Camp is as well a quality discoverable in objects and the behavior of persons. There are "campy" movies, clothes, furniture, popular songs, novels, people, buildings. . . . This distinction is important. True, the Camp eye has the power to transform experience. But not everything can be seen as Camp. It's not

all

in the eye of the beholder.

4. Random examples of items which are part of the canon of Camp:

Zuleika Dobson

Tiffany lamps

Scopitone films

The Brown Derby restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in LA

The Enquirer

, headlines and stories

Aubrey Beardsley drawings

Swan Lake

Bellini's operas

Visconti's direction of

Salome

and

'Tis Pity She's a Whore

certain turn-of-the-century picture postcards

Schoedsack's

King Kong

the Cuban pop singer La Lupe

Lynn Ward's novel in woodcuts,

God's Man

the old Flash Gordon comics

women's clothes of the twenties (feather boas, fringed and beaded dresses, etc.)

the novels of Ronald Firbank and Ivy Compton-Burnett

stag movies seen without lust

5. Camp taste has an affinity for certain arts rather than others. Clothes, furniture, all the elements of visual décor, for instance, make up a large part of Camp. For Camp art is often decorative art, emphasizing texture, sensuous surface, and style at the expense of content. Concert music, though, because it is contentless, is rarely Camp. It offers no opportunity, say, for a contrast between silly or extravagant content and rich form. . . . Sometimes whole art forms become saturated with Camp. Classical ballet, opera, movies have seemed so for a long time. In the last two years, popular music (post rock-'n'-roll, what the French call yé yé) has been annexed. And movie criticism (like lists of "The 10 Best Bad Movies I Have Seen") is probably the greatest popularizer of Camp taste today, because most people still go to the movies in a high-spirited and unpretentious way.

6. There is a sense in which it is correct to say: "It's too good to be Camp." Or "too important," not marginal enough. (More on this later.) Thus, the personality and many of the works of Jean Cocteau are Camp, but not those of André Gide; the operas of Richard Strauss, but not those of Wagner; concoctions of Tin Pan Alley and Liverpool, but not jazz. Many examples of Camp are things which, from a "serious" point of view, are either bad art or kitsch. Not all, though. Not only is Camp not necessarily bad art, but some art which can be approached as Camp (example: the major films of Louis Feuillade) merits the most serious admiration and study.

"The more we study Art, the less we care for Nature."

The Decay of Lying

7. All Camp objects, and persons, contain a large element of artifice. Nothing in nature can be campy . . . Rural Camp is still man-made, and most campy objects are urban. (Yet, they often have a serenity -- or a naiveté -- which is the equivalent of pastoral. A great deal of Camp suggests Empson's phrase, "urban pastoral.")

8. Camp is a vision of the world in terms of style -- but a particular kind of style. It is the love of the exaggerated, the "off," of things-being-what-they-are-not. The best example is in Art Nouveau, the most typical and fully developed Camp style. Art Nouveau objects, typically, convert one thing into something else: the lighting fixtures in the form of flowering plants, the living room which is really a grotto. A remarkable example: the Paris Métro entrances designed by Hector Guimard in the late 1890s in the shape of cast-iron orchid stalks.

9. As a taste in persons, Camp responds particularly to the markedly attenuated and to the strongly exaggerated. The androgyne is certainly one of the great images of Camp sensibility. Examples: the swooning, slim, sinuous figures of pre-Raphaelite painting and poetry; the thin, flowing, sexless bodies in Art Nouveau prints and posters, presented in relief on lamps and ashtrays; the haunting androgynous vacancy behind the perfect beauty of Greta Garbo. Here, Camp taste draws on a mostly unacknowledged truth of taste: the most refined form of sexual attractiveness (as well as the most refined form of sexual pleasure) consists in going against the grain of one's sex. What is most beautiful in virile men is something feminine; what is most beautiful in feminine women is something masculine. . . . Allied to the Camp taste for the androgynous is something that seems quite different but isn't: a relish for the exaggeration of sexual characteristics and personality mannerisms. For obvious reasons, the best examples that can be cited are movie stars. The corny flamboyant female-ness of Jayne Mansfield, Gina Lollobrigida, Jane Russell, Virginia Mayo; the exaggerated he-man-ness of Steve Reeves, Victor Mature. The great stylists of temperament and mannerism, like Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Tallulah Bankhead, Edwige Feuillière.

10. Camp sees everything in quotation marks. It's not a lamp, but a "lamp"; not a woman, but a "woman." To perceive Camp in objects and persons is to understand Being-as-Playing-a-Role. It is the farthest extension, in sensibility, of the metaphor of life as theater.

11. Camp is the triumph of the epicene style. (The convertibility of "man" and "woman," "person" and "thing.") But all style, that is, artifice, is, ultimately, epicene. Life is not stylish. Neither is nature.

12. The question isn't, "Why travesty, impersonation, theatricality?" The question is, rather, "When does travesty, impersonation, theatricality acquire the special flavor of Camp?" Why is the atmosphere of Shakespeare's comedies (

As You Like It

, etc.) not epicene, while that of

Der Rosenkavalier

is?

13. The dividing line seems to fall in the 18th century; there the origins of Camp taste are to be found (Gothic novels, Chinoiserie, caricature, artificial ruins, and so forth.) But the relation to nature was quite different then. In the 18th century, people of taste either patronized nature (Strawberry Hill) or attempted to remake it into something artificial (Versailles). They also indefatigably patronized the past. Today's Camp taste effaces nature, or else contradicts it outright. And the relation of Camp taste to the past is extremely sentimental.

14. A pocket history of Camp might, of course, begin farther back -- with the mannerist artists like Pontormo, Rosso, and Caravaggio, or the extraordinarily theatrical painting of Georges de La Tour, or Euphuism (Lyly, etc.) in literature. Still, the soundest starting point seems to be the late 17th and early 18th century, because of that period's extraordinary feeling for artifice, for surface, for symmetry; its taste for the picturesque and the thrilling, its elegant conventions for representing instant feeling and the total presence of character -- the epigram and the rhymed couplet (in words), the flourish (in gesture and in music). The late 17th and early 18th century is the great period of Camp: Pope, Congreve, Walpole, etc, but not Swift;

les précieux

in France; the rococo churches of Munich; Pergolesi. Somewhat later: much of Mozart. But in the 19th century, what had been distributed throughout all of high culture now becomes a special taste; it takes on overtones of the acute, the esoteric, the perverse. Confining the story to England alone, we see Camp continuing wanly through 19th century aestheticism (Bume-Jones, Pater, Ruskin, Tennyson), emerging full-blown with the Art Nouveau movement in the visual and decorative arts, and finding its conscious ideologists in such "wits" as Wilde and Firbank.

15. Of course, to say all these things are Camp is not to argue they are simply that. A full analysis of Art Nouveau, for instance, would scarcely equate it with Camp. But such an analysis cannot ignore what in Art Nouveau allows it to be experienced as Camp. Art Nouveau is full of "content," even of a political-moral sort; it was a revolutionary movement in the arts, spurred on by a Utopian vision (somewhere between William Morris and the Bauhaus group) of an organic politics and taste. Yet there is also a feature of the Art Nouveau objects which suggests a disengaged, unserious, "aesthete's" vision. This tells us something important about Art Nouveau -- and about what the lens of Camp, which blocks out content, is.

16. Thus, the Camp sensibility is one that is alive to a double sense in which some things can be taken. But this is not the familiar split-level construction of a literal meaning, on the one hand, and a symbolic meaning, on the other. It is the difference, rather, between the thing as meaning something, anything, and the thing as pure artifice.

17. This comes out clearly in the vulgar use of the word Camp as a verb, "to camp," something that people do. To camp is a mode of seduction -- one which employs flamboyant mannerisms susceptible of a double interpretation; gestures full of duplicity, with a witty meaning for cognoscenti and another, more impersonal, for outsiders. Equally and by extension, when the word becomes a noun, when a person or a thing is "a camp," a duplicity is involved. Behind the "straight" public sense in which something can be taken, one has found a private zany experience of the thing.

"To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up."

An Ideal Husband

18. One must distinguish between naïve and deliberate Camp. Pure Camp is always naive. Camp which knows itself to be Camp ("camping") is usually less satisfying.

19. The pure examples of Camp are unintentional; they are dead serious. The Art Nouveau craftsman who makes a lamp with a snake coiled around it is not kidding, nor is he trying to be charming. He is saying, in all earnestness: Voilà! the Orient! Genuine Camp -- for instance, the numbers devised for the Warner Brothers musicals of the early thirties (

42nd Street

;

The Golddiggers of 1933

; ...

of 1935

; ...

of 1937

; etc.) by Busby Berkeley -- does not mean to be funny. Camping -- say, the plays of Noel Coward -- does. It seems unlikely that much of the traditional opera repertoire could be such satisfying Camp if the melodramatic absurdities of most opera plots had not been taken seriously by their composers. One doesn't need to know the artist's private intentions. The work tells all. (Compare a typical 19th century opera with Samuel Barber's

Vanessa

, a piece of manufactured, calculated Camp, and the difference is clear.)

20. Probably, intending to be campy is always harmful. The perfection of

Trouble in Paradise

and

The Maltese Falcon

, among the greatest Camp movies ever made, comes from the effortless smooth way in which tone is maintained. This is not so with such famous would-be Camp films of the fifties as

All About Eve

and

Beat the Devil

. These more recent movies have their fine moments, but the first is so slick and the second so hysterical; they want so badly to be campy that they're continually losing the beat. . . . Perhaps, though, it is not so much a question of the unintended effect versus the conscious intention, as of the delicate relation between parody and self-parody in Camp. The films of Hitchcock are a showcase for this problem. When self-parody lacks ebullience but instead reveals (even sporadically) a contempt for one's themes and one's materials - as in

To Catch a Thief

Rear Window

North by Northwest

-- the results are forced and heavy-handed, rarely Camp. Successful Camp -- a movie like Carné's Drôle de Drame; the film performances of Mae West and Edward Everett Horton; portions of the Goon Show -- even when it reveals self-parody, reeks of self-love.

21. So, again, Camp rests on innocence. That means Camp discloses innocence, but also, when it can, corrupts it. Objects, being objects, don't change when they are singled out by the Camp vision. Persons, however, respond to their audiences. Persons begin "camping": Mae West, Bea Lillie, La Lupe, Tallulah Bankhead in Lifeboat, Bette Davis in All About Eve. (Persons can even be induced to camp without their knowing it. Consider the way Fellini got Anita Ekberg to parody herself in

La Dolce Vita.

)

22. Considered a little less strictly, Camp is either completely naive or else wholly conscious (when one plays at being campy). An example of the latter: Wilde's epigrams themselves.

"It's absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious."

Lady Windemere's Fan

23. In naïve, or pure, Camp, the essential element is seriousness, a seriousness that fails. Of course, not all seriousness that fails can be redeemed as Camp. Only that which has the proper mixture of the exaggerated, the fantastic, the passionate, and the naïve.

24. When something is just bad (rather than Camp), it's often because it is too mediocre in its ambition. The artist hasn't attempted to do anything really outlandish. ("It's too much," "It's too fantastic," "It's not to be believed," are standard phrases of Camp enthusiasm.)

25. The hallmark of Camp is the spirit of extravagance. Camp is a woman walking around in a dress made of three million feathers. Camp is the paintings of Carlo Crivelli, with their real jewels and

trompe-l'oeil

insects and cracks in the masonry. Camp is the outrageous aestheticism of Steinberg's six American movies with Dietrich, all six, but especially the last,

The Devil Is a Woman

. . . . In Camp there is often something démesuré in the quality of the ambition, not only in the style of the work itself. Gaudí's lurid and beautiful buildings in Barcelona are Camp not only because of their style but because they reveal -- most notably in the Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia -- the ambition on the part of one man to do what it takes a generation, a whole culture to accomplish.

26. Camp is art that proposes itself seriously, but cannot be taken altogether seriously because it is "too much."

Titus Andronicus

and

Strange Interlude

are almost Camp, or could be played as Camp. The public manner and rhetoric of de Gaulle, often, are pure Camp.

27. A work can come close to Camp, but not make it, because it succeeds. Eisenstein's films are seldom Camp because, despite all exaggeration, they do succeed (dramatically) without surplus. If they were a little more "off," they could be great Camp - particularly

Ivan the Terrible I

. The same for Blake's drawings and paintings, weird and mannered as they are. They aren't Camp; though Art Nouveau, influenced by Blake, is.

What is extravagant in an inconsistent or an unpassionate way is not Camp. Neither can anything be Camp that does not seem to spring from an irrepressible, a virtually uncontrolled sensibility. Without passion, one gets pseudo-Camp -- what is merely decorative, safe, in a word, chic. On the barren edge of Camp lie a number of attractive things: the sleek fantasies of Dali, the haute couture preciosity of Albicocco's

The Girl with the Golden Eyes

. But the two things - Camp and preciosity - must not be confused.

28. Again, Camp is the attempt to do something extraordinary. But extraordinary in the sense, often, of being special, glamorous. (The curved line, the extravagant gesture.) Not extraordinary merely in the sense of effort. Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not items are rarely campy. These items, either natural oddities (the two-headed rooster, the eggplant in the shape of a cross) or else the products of immense labor (the man who walked from here to China on his hands, the woman who engraved the New Testament on the head of a pin), lack the visual reward - the glamour, the theatricality - that marks off certain extravagances as Camp.

29. The reason a movie like

On the Beach

, books like

Winesburg

Ohio

and

For Whom the Bell Tolls

are bad to the point of being laughable, but not bad to the point of being enjoyable, is that they are too dogged and pretentious. They lack fantasy. There is Camp in such bad movies as

The Prodigal

and

Samson and Delilah

, the series of Italian color spectacles featuring the super-hero Maciste, numerous Japanese science fiction films (

Rodan

The Mysterians

The H-Man

) because, in their relative unpretentiousness and vulgarity, they are more extreme and irresponsible in their fantasy - and therefore touching and quite enjoyable.

30. Of course, the canon of Camp can change. Time has a great deal to do with it. Time may enhance what seems simply dogged or lacking in fantasy now because we are too close to it, because it resembles too closely our own everyday fantasies, the fantastic nature of which we don't perceive. We are better able to enjoy a fantasy as fantasy when it is not our own.

31. This is why so many of the objects prized by Camp taste are old-fashioned, out-of-date, démodé. It's not a love of the old as such. It's simply that the process of aging or deterioration provides the necessary detachment -- or arouses a necessary sympathy. When the theme is important, and contemporary, the failure of a work of art may make us indignant. Time can change that. Time liberates the work of art from moral relevance, delivering it over to the Camp sensibility. . . . Another effect: time contracts the sphere of banality. (Banality is, strictly speaking, always a category of the contemporary.) What was banal can, with the passage of time, become fantastic. Many people who listen with delight to the style of Rudy Vallee revived by the English pop group, The Temperance Seven, would have been driven up the wall by Rudy Vallee in his heyday.

Thus, things are campy, not when they become old - but when we become less involved in them, and can enjoy, instead of be frustrated by, the failure of the attempt. But the effect of time is unpredictable. Maybe Method acting (James Dean, Rod Steiger, Warren Beatty) will seem as Camp some day as Ruby Keeler's does now - or as Sarah Bernhardt's does, in the films she made at the end of her career. And maybe not.

32. Camp is the glorification of "character." The statement is of no importance - except, of course, to the person (Loie Fuller, Gaudí, Cecil B. De Mille, Crivelli, de Gaulle, etc.) who makes it. What the Camp eye appreciates is the unity, the force of the person. In every move the aging Martha Graham makes she's being Martha Graham, etc., etc. . . . This is clear in the case of the great serious idol of Camp taste, Greta Garbo. Garbo's incompetence (at the least, lack of depth) as an

actress

enhances her beauty. She's always herself.

33. What Camp taste responds to is "instant character" (this is, of course, very 18th century); and, conversely, what it is not stirred by is the sense of the development of character. Character is understood as a state of continual incandescence - a person being one, very intense thing. This attitude toward character is a key element of the theatricalization of experience embodied in the Camp sensibility. And it helps account for the fact that opera and ballet are experienced as such rich treasures of Camp, for neither of these forms can easily do justice to the complexity of human nature. Wherever there is development of character, Camp is reduced. Among operas, for example,

La Traviata

(which has some small development of character) is less campy than

Il Trovatore

(which has none).

"Life is too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it."

Vera, or The Nihilists

34. Camp taste turns its back on the good-bad axis of ordinary aesthetic judgment. Camp doesn't reverse things. It doesn't argue that the good is bad, or the bad is good. What it does is to offer for art (and life) a different -- a supplementary -- set of standards.

35. Ordinarily we value a work of art because of the seriousness and dignity of what it achieves. We value it because it succeeds - in being what it is and, presumably, in fulfilling the intention that lies behind it. We assume a proper, that is to say, straightforward relation between intention and performance. By such standards, we appraise

The Iliad

, Aristophanes' plays, The Art of the Fugue,

Middlemarch

, the paintings of Rembrandt, Chartres, the poetry of Donne,

The Divine Comedy

, Beethoven's quartets, and - among people - Socrates, Jesus, St. Francis, Napoleon, Savonarola. In short, the pantheon of high culture: truth, beauty, and seriousness.

36. But there are other creative sensibilities besides the seriousness (both tragic and comic) of high culture and of the high style of evaluating people. And one cheats oneself, as a human being, if one has

respect

only for the style of high culture, whatever else one may do or feel on the sly.

For instance, there is the kind of seriousness whose trademark is anguish, cruelty, derangement. Here we do accept a disparity between intention and result. I am speaking, obviously, of a style of personal existence as well as of a style in art; but the examples had best come from art. Think of Bosch, Sade, Rimbaud, Jarry, Kafka, Artaud, think of most of the important works of art of the 20th century, that is, art whose goal is not that of creating harmonies but of overstraining the medium and introducing more and more violent, and unresolvable, subject-matter. This sensibility also insists on the principle that an oeuvre in the old sense (again, in art, but also in life) is not possible. Only "fragments" are possible. . . . Clearly, different standards apply here than to traditional high culture. Something is good not because it is achieved, but because another kind of truth about the human situation, another experience of what it is to be human - in short, another valid sensibility -- is being revealed.

And third among the great creative sensibilities is Camp: the sensibility of failed seriousness, of the theatricalization of experience. Camp refuses both the harmonies of traditional seriousness, and the risks of fully identifying with extreme states of feeling.

37. The first sensibility, that of high culture, is basically moralistic. The second sensibility, that of extreme states of feeling, represented in much contemporary "avant-garde" art, gains power by a tension between moral and aesthetic passion. The third, Camp, is wholly aesthetic.

38. Camp is the consistently aesthetic experience of the world. It incarnates a victory of "style" over "content," "aesthetics" over "morality," of irony over tragedy.

39. Camp and tragedy are antitheses. There is seriousness in Camp (seriousness in the degree of the artist's involvement) and, often, pathos. The excruciating is also one of the tonalities of Camp; it is the quality of excruciation in much of Henry James (for instance,

The Europeans

The Awkward Age

The Wings of the Dove

) that is responsible for the large element of Camp in his writings. But there is never, never tragedy.

40. Style is everything. Genet's ideas, for instance, are very Camp. Genet's statement that "the only criterion of an act is its elegance"

is virtually interchangeable, as a statement, with Wilde's "in matters of great importance, the vital element is not sincerity, but style." But what counts, finally, is the style in which ideas are held. The ideas about morality and politics in, say,

Lady Windemere's Fan

and in

Major Barbara

are Camp, but not just because of the nature of the ideas themselves. It is those ideas, held in a special playful way. The Camp ideas in

Our Lady of the Flowers

are maintained too grimly, and the writing itself is too successfully elevated and serious, for Genet's books to be Camp.

41. The whole point of Camp is to dethrone the serious. Camp is playful, anti-serious. More precisely, Camp involves a new, more complex relation to "the serious." One can be serious about the frivolous, frivolous about the serious.

42. One is drawn to Camp when one realizes that "sincerity" is not enough. Sincerity can be simple philistinism, intellectual narrowness.

43. The traditional means for going beyond straight seriousness - irony, satire - seem feeble today, inadequate to the culturally oversaturated medium in which contemporary sensibility is schooled. Camp introduces a new standard: artifice as an ideal, theatricality.

44. Camp proposes a comic vision of the world. But not a bitter or polemical comedy. If tragedy is an experience of hyperinvolvement, comedy is an experience of underinvolvement, of detachment.

"I adore simple pleasures, they are the last refuge of the complex."

A Woman of No Importance

45. Detachment is the prerogative of an elite; and as the dandy is the 19th century's surrogate for the aristocrat in matters of culture, so Camp is the modern dandyism. Camp is the answer to the problem: how to be a dandy in the age of mass culture.

46. The dandy was overbred. His posture was disdain, or else ennui. He sought rare sensations, undefiled by mass appreciation. (Models: Des Esseintes in Huysmans'

À Rebours

Marius the Epicurean

, Valéry's

Monsieur Teste

.) He was dedicated to "good taste."

The connoisseur of Camp has found more ingenious pleasures. Not in Latin poetry and rare wines and velvet jackets, but in the coarsest, commonest pleasures, in the arts of the masses. Mere use does not defile the objects of his pleasure, since he learns to possess them in a rare way. Camp -- Dandyism in the age of mass culture -- makes no distinction between the unique object and the mass-produced object. Camp taste transcends the nausea of the replica.

47. Wilde himself is a transitional figure. The man who, when he first came to London, sported a velvet beret, lace shirts, velveteen knee-breeches and black silk stockings, could never depart too far in his life from the pleasures of the old-style dandy; this conservatism is reflected in

The Picture of Dorian Gray

. But many of his attitudes suggest something more modern. It was Wilde who formulated an important element of the Camp sensibility -- the equivalence of all objects -- when he announced his intention of "living up" to his blue-and-white china, or declared that a doorknob could be as admirable as a painting. When he proclaimed the importance of the necktie, the boutonniere, the chair, Wilde was anticipating the democratic

esprit

of Camp.

48. The old-style dandy hated vulgarity. The new-style dandy, the lover of Camp, appreciates vulgarity. Where the dandy would be continually offended or bored, the connoisseur of Camp is continually amused, delighted. The dandy held a perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils and was liable to swoon; the connoisseur of Camp sniffs the stink and prides himself on his strong nerves.

49. It is a feat, of course. A feat goaded on, in the last analysis, by the threat of boredom. The relation between boredom and Camp taste cannot be overestimated. Camp taste is by its nature possible only in affluent societies, in societies or circles capable of experiencing the psychopathology of affluence.

"What is abnormal in Life stands in normal relations to Art. It is the only thing in Life that stands in normal relations to Art."

A Few Maxims for the Instruction of the Over-Educated

50. Aristocracy is a position vis-à-vis culture (as well as vis-à-vis power), and the history of Camp taste is part of the history of snob taste. But since no authentic aristocrats in the old sense exist today to sponsor special tastes, who is the bearer of this taste? Answer: an improvised self-elected class, mainly homosexuals, who constitute themselves as aristocrats of taste.

51. The peculiar relation between Camp taste and homosexuality has to be explained. While it's not true that Camp taste

homosexual taste, there is no doubt a peculiar affinity and overlap. Not all liberals are Jews, but Jews have shown a peculiar affinity for liberal and reformist causes. So, not all homosexuals have Camp taste. But homosexuals, by and large, constitute the vanguard -- and the most articulate audience -- of Camp. (The analogy is not frivolously chosen. Jews and homosexuals are the outstanding creative minorities in contemporary urban culture. Creative, that is, in the truest sense: they are creators of sensibilities. The two pioneering forces of modern sensibility are Jewish moral seriousness and homosexual aestheticism and irony.)

52. The reason for the flourishing of the aristocratic posture among homosexuals also seems to parallel the Jewish case. For every sensibility is self-serving to the group that promotes it. Jewish liberalism is a gesture of self-legitimization. So is Camp taste, which definitely has something propagandistic about it. Needless to say, the propaganda operates in exactly the opposite direction. The Jews pinned their hopes for integrating into modern society on promoting the moral sense. Homosexuals have pinned their integration into society on promoting the aesthetic sense. Camp is a solvent of morality. It neutralizes moral indignation, sponsors playfulness.

53. Nevertheless, even though homosexuals have been its vanguard, Camp taste is much more than homosexual taste. Obviously, its metaphor of life as theater is peculiarly suited as a justification and projection of a certain aspect of the situation of homosexuals. (The Camp insistence on not being "serious," on playing, also connects with the homosexual's desire to remain youthful.) Yet one feels that if homosexuals hadn't more or less invented Camp, someone else would. For the aristocratic posture with relation to culture cannot die, though it may persist only in increasingly arbitrary and ingenious ways. Camp is (to repeat) the relation to style in a time in which the adoption of style -- as such -- has become altogether questionable. (In the modem era, each new style, unless frankly anachronistic, has come on the scene as an anti-style.)

"One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing."

In conversation

54. The experiences of Camp are based on the great discovery that the sensibility of high culture has no monopoly upon refinement. Camp asserts that good taste is not simply good taste; that there exists, indeed, a good taste of bad taste. (Genet talks about this in

Our Lady of the Flowers

.) The discovery of the good taste of bad taste can be very liberating. The man who insists on high and serious pleasures is depriving himself of pleasure; he continually restricts what he can enjoy; in the constant exercise of his good taste he will eventually price himself out of the market, so to speak. Here Camp taste supervenes upon good taste as a daring and witty hedonism. It makes the man of good taste cheerful, where before he ran the risk of being chronically frustrated. It is good for the digestion.

55. Camp taste is, above all, a mode of enjoyment, of appreciation - not judgment. Camp is generous. It wants to enjoy. It only seems like malice, cynicism. (Or, if it is cynicism, it's not a ruthless but a sweet cynicism.) Camp taste doesn't propose that it is in bad taste to be serious; it doesn't sneer at someone who succeeds in being seriously dramatic. What it does is to find the success in certain passionate failures.

56. Camp taste is a kind of love, love for human nature. It relishes, rather than judges, the little triumphs and awkward intensities of "character." . . . Camp taste identifies with what it is enjoying. People who share this sensibility are not laughing at the thing they label as "a camp," they're enjoying it. Camp is a

tender

feeling.

(Here, one may compare Camp with much of Pop Art, which -- when it is not just Camp -- embodies an attitude that is related, but still very different. Pop Art is more flat and more dry, more serious, more detached, ultimately nihilistic.)

57. Camp taste nourishes itself on the love that has gone into certain objects and personal styles. The absence of this love is the reason why such kitsch items as

Peyton Place

(the book) and the Tishman Building aren't Camp.

58. The ultimate Camp statement: it's good

because

it's awful . . . Of course, one can't always say that. Only under certain conditions, those which I've tried to sketch in these notes.

The sensibility of an era is not only its most decisive, but also its most perishable, aspect. One may capture the ideas (intellectual history) and the behavior (social history) of an epoch without ever touching upon the sensibility or taste which informed those ideas, that behavior. Rare are those historical studies -- like Huizinga on the late Middle Ages, Febvre on 16th century France -- which do tell us something about the sensibility of the period.

Sartre's gloss on this in

Saint Genet

is: "Elegance is the quality of conduct which transforms the greatest amount of being into appearing."

#research

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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Before the invention of clothing, agriculture, and even the wheel, our ancestors were playing with fire.

How do we know this? In 2012, archaeologists announced they had uncovered traces of ash, burnt twigs, and animal bone — evidence of a controlled fire — while excavating a cave in South Africa. Those tiny fragments were more than a million years old and likely the handiwork of Homo erectus, a species that predates Homo sapiens (i.e., you and me).

Not only did this evidence suggest our ancestors invented campfire before they invented anything else (perhaps with the exception of stone tools), it also revealed that making fire was one of the very first activities to get us working together.

Yet this incredibly ancient practice of campfire making still remains mystifying to many of us humans. A few months ago, a group of friends and I shared a laugh around a campfire realizing none of us — college-educated adults — could explain what, exactly, fire was.

Considering fire’s importance in human history — and that it’s still how most of the developing world keeps warm and cooks food — we really should understand it.

Here’s a science-backed history and guide to the ancient practice of building a campfire, from its importance for human evolution to the chemistry of how it burns to this age-old fuel’s impact on our health and our environment.

Mathias Erhart / Flickr

“Campsites are in essence nests made by human beings,” the biologist E.O. Wilson writes in The Social Conquest of Earth. And nests are the first step to becoming a species whose members look out for one another. The earliest humans “raised young in the nest, foraged away from it for food, and brought back the bounty to share with others,” Wilson writes. The campfire is the origin of community.

It’s also possible that fire aided our cognitive development. In the book Catching Fire, biological anthropologist Richard Wrangham argues that campfires — and the subsequent invention of cooking meat and eating it — were the catalyst that allowed our ancestors to develop big brains. “The extra energy [in the cooked meat] gave the first cooks biological advantages,” Wrangham writes. “They survived and reproduced better than before. Their genes spread. … There were changes in anatomy, physiology, ecology, life history, psychology, and society.”

In these early days, it’s likely our ancestors didn’t actually know how to start fires. They only knew how to maintain them — after a lightning strike or spontaneous conflagration of brush got one started. Anthropologist Christopher Dana Lynn writes in the journal Evolutionary Psychology that inability to start fires put even more pressure on early humans to cultivate ingenuity and tolerance for one another:

The inability to start fires would have required groups to coordinate activities to access and maintain them. This continual cooperation would have put pressure on cognitive capacities for social tolerance, conceiving of others as collaborators in future cooperation …

Dana Lynn also hypothesizes that we may be instinctually comforted by fire; he found some preliminary evidence that suggests blood pressure lowers when we’re around it.

Fire would also lead to inventions like the steel mill and the steam engine, which would allow humans to literally reshape the world to their likings.

“Fire is the one [invention] that made us,” Adrian Bejan, a thermodynamics professor at Duke and the author of The Physics of Life, a new book on technological evolution, tells me. “Without fire you and I would be nothing today.”

rahul rekapalli / Flickr

When you look at flames, you are seeing the results of a complex chemical reaction called pyrolysis. You’re seeing wood turned into gas, gas ignited by heat, and light from the excitement of electrons.

Here’s another way to think about it: The entire process of a fire is about tearing a log into as many pieces as possible. The tearing releases chemical bonds, expending energy as heat and light.

But anyone who has tried to ignite a whole log with just a single match knows that it takes a lot to get a fire going. You can’t do it with a single match or spark from a piece of steel on flint.

You have to take a tiny bit of energy and transform it into a self-sustaining reaction. Each component of the wood has to absorb enough heat to begin the pyrolysis process.

Here’s how it goes: As plant fibers heat up, the plant’s tissues — mostly made out of a molecule called cellulose — start degrade and break down. As the tissue gets hotter and hotter, water is driven out of the cells, and they then break apart, forming volatile, combustible gases, “just like a burner from your stove,” John Bailey, a professor who teaches fire science Oregon State, tells me.

Igniting those gases releases some energy, which then can be used to break down more cellulose and generate more combustible gases and heat.

Here, from the textbook Bioenergy: Biomass to Biofuels, is a breakdown of the stages of pyrolysis. It starts with the evaporation of water out of the wood and ends with the combustion of wood gases. Bioenergy

All of this needs to be done in the presence of oxygen, as fire is an oxidation reaction. (The oxygen bonds with the carbon in the wood to form carbon dioxide, and releases heat and water along the way.)

The ignition of the gas continues the process of breaking down that log further and further. Inside that gas are actually hundreds of carbon-based compounds. Some of these form soot and then are broken down further in the flame. If a fire burns perfectly, the log will break down all the big molecules into carbon dioxide and water vapor.

But why does this process create light?

It comes from the electrons releasing extra energy — going from an exited state to a less excited state. (You know how metal glows when it’s heated red-hot? The same thing is happening in the flame, but instead of metal, it’s the tiny particles of soot absorbing the energy.)

Here, via the YouTube channel Distort, is a very cool look at how pyrolysis occurs in slow motion.

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Building a campfire only takes three ingredients.

Fuel: Twigs, paper, branches, logs, etc.

Oxygen: Free and always available!

Heat: A match should do the trick.

These three are called the “fire triangle,” and if they are kept in balance, a campfire will burn evenly and thoroughly. But if they are out of whack, the fire will sputter and fail.

Wikimedia Commons

Here are some general rules to get a good campfire going.

1) The first rule of building a campfire is to start small.

You may be tempted to start with big branches if you have a big fire in mind. But remember, a match or a lighter contains only a tiny speck of energy — just enough to bring small branches, pine needles, or other kindling to the critical temperature at which pyrolysis can occur.

As a campfire builder, it’s your job to coax that tiny bit of energy into growing, slowly and thoroughly. So start with some very dry kindling, some pine needles, and crumbled-up bits of your least favorite daily newspaper.

Also remember: Large pieces of wood have to absorb a lot of energy before they ignite. If there’s too little heat in the fire, they won’t catch. Too much wood will smother the flame from oxygen as well.

2) Use the driest branches you can find.

Be sure to find the driest pieces of wood for your campfire, as it will take extra energy to get wet pieces of wood to start burning. “If the moisture content is too high, an appreciable amount of energy is necessary to vaporize the water, reducing the heating value of the wood as well as decreasing combustion efficiency, which in turn increases smoke formation,” the journal Chemosphere explains. Wet wood will also produce more smoke, which is bad for your health and environment (more on that below).

“There are many stupid ways of making fire, but there’s one special way of making it which needs no explaining, because everybody knows it”

When the fire is hot enough — when there’s an inch or two of hot, glowing coals on the bottom — it won’t matter if the fuel is a bit wet. “If you build up a nice bed of coals, you’ve got the fire getting progressively bigger, you’ve got this big generating heat source now, then you can lay that big piece on there,” Bailey says.

3) Start with low–density wood.

The best woods to get a campfire going are something light, like pine or cedar. These will ignite the fastest. (Pine also has a lot of resin, which makes for nice crackles when in a fire.) Then move on to denser woods, like oak. These take a lot more energy to start burning and will burn longer.

When it gets going, a fire is like a living thing. It needs to be fed, sustained, and looked after, or it will die.

4) The best shape for a fire is one that’s as tall as it is wide.

You can find plenty of diagrams for building campfires: teepee designs, log cabin designs, elaborate plans for digging underground air-intake vents. But really, all these designs come back to one basic rule: Build a fire that’s as tall as it is wide.

This rule comes from Bejan, who thought of it while watching a mound of charcoal ignite in his backyard grill. He realized when a fire is built into a pyramid shape, it will burn the hottest for the longest amount of time. It’s the perfect trade-off.

Duke

“If the shape of the fire is extremely flat, shallow, then the fire does not draw [oxygen],” Bejan explains. “A flat fire means a puny, puny fire. The extreme is to have a skinny, stick-like pile. The skinny stick is burning all right, but it is so skinny, it’s surrounded by cold air; therefore, it is a cold fire. That, too, is a bad design.”

In the middle is “a very special shape where the cone is not too shallow, not too tall, and the answer is the base is as wide as it is tall,” he says.

Bejan published this finding in the journal Scientific Reports. To him, the universality of the fire shape is evidence that humans have an innate sense of physics. “There are many stupid ways of making fire, but there’s one special way of making it, which needs no explaining, because everybody knows it,” he says. That’s universal across human cultures, stretching far back to the beginning of time.

Yes!

If a fire burned perfectly, the log would be completely torn down into carbon dioxide and water vapor.

But most fires do not burn perfectly. And as a result, wood smoke contains a lot of pollutants: chemicals like benzene and formaldehyde, as well as fine particles that can irritate lungs and eyes. As Brad Plumer has explained, indoor air pollution from wood smoke is the deadliest environmental hazard on the planet.

But the hotter a fire burns, the more these toxic chemicals can get broken down into simpler, safer ones. Burning dry wood also helps keep these pollutants to a minimum. But no matter what, “you’re going to put out a lot of pollution when you burn a campfire,” Lisa Herschberger, an environmental research scientist with Minnesota’s pollution control agency, says. “I would stay upwind of it.”

Fine particles from the smoke and soot can be smaller than 2.5 micrometers — tiny enough to lodge themselves into the crannies of the lungs.

“The biggest health threat from smoke comes from fine particles,” the Environmental Protection Agency warns. “These microscopic particles can get into your eyes and respiratory system, where they can cause health problems such as burning eyes, runny nose, and illnesses such as bronchitis. Fine particles also can aggravate chronic heart and lung diseases — and even are linked to premature deaths in people with these conditions.”

The particles from wood smoke also can contribute to smog and haze. In Minnesota, for instance, where recreational outdoor fires are popular, Herschberger says recreational wood smoke accounts for around 5 percent of all the fine particles released to the air. “I call this a sizable contribution to air emissions,” she says.

In terms of carbon dioxide emissions, wood smoke can be carbon neutral if the wood you burn is replaced by new growth. “But it’s not a slam dunk,” Herschberger says. “It will be really important [for emissions] to learn how that wood was grown, how it was transported. It takes knowing the whole life cycle of the wood to know if you’re ahead or behind [on carbon emissions].” Burning dead wood also releases what’s known as black carbon, or soot, which has a greater warming impact than carbon dioxide alone, she says.

Another danger is when fires grow out of control.

On the small scale, fire is predictable. “If you build exactly the same pile of kindling and had the same temperature, you would get literally the same fire again. It’s just physics and chemistry,” Bailey says. But when it sparks into a forest fire, it’s an entirely different beast.

“The fuels get very complicated, and the temperature, wind speed, relative humidity varies,” he says. “Then you just have random stuff: a gust of wind, a pine cone rolling down a hill, a little stream flowing through an area. It makes fire on a mountainside absolutely magical, unpredictable.”

(Like dark magic? “The more you’re fascinated by fire, the more it moves from the dark to the light,” he says.)

With ongoing drought, climate change, and, ironically, a history of fire suppression, forest fires in the Western US have been growing bigger and more destructive over time.

A lot of these fires are started by lightning. But as Smokey the Bear has cried for decades, you can help prevent forest fires.

Bailey offers a few commonsense suggestions:

Don’t leave a fire unattended. Put out fires with water, or smother them completely before heading out of a campsite.

Don’t park a car on dry grass. Car underbodies can get hot enough to ignite fires.

Be aware of fire hazard warnings before lighting a fire in a forest.

monnibo / Flickr

A marshmallow is made up of gelatin and sugar. Sugar burns at around 350 degrees Fahrenheit. A campfire can top more than 1,000 degrees. That’s why it takes Jedi concentration to heat a marshmallow over a flame (but not too close!) so it oozes instead of cinders.

Original Source -> Campfires, explained

via The Conservative Brief

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