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Your character doesn't need to be likeable. They need to be legible. The reader needs to understand every decision they make even when it's wrong, even when it's ugly, even when they want to shake them. Likeable is easy and forgettable. Legible is what makes someone stay with you for years. Make the logic of every bad choice visible. The reader doesn't have to agree with it. They just have to follow it.
No one in the elite school trusts him. In fact, they fear him. So when a girl dressed in all black asks him for help in a case that could finally make him trustworthy again, he says yes, against his better judgement.
After all, he is already a monster.
I'm back guys! Enjoy.
Wednesday's highly anticipated arrival came on the day Silas most dreaded: a visit with the ever-so-lovely Dr. Kinbott. Which meant that he couldn't get Enid's request out of the way immediately, and that gave him more anxiety than he would like to admit.
Wednesday's highly anticipated arrival came on the day Silas most dreaded: a visit with the ever-so-lovely Dr. Kinbott. Which meant that he couldn't get Enid's request out of the way immediately, and that gave him more anxiety than he would like to admit.
It's not as though he hadn't heard of Wednesday, though. And not just through Enid. If he really believed all the rumours floating around about her, he'd believe that not only had she killed a boy, but also gutted and quartered babies for sale to the black market, and she skinned her victims before consuming them under a blood moon.
She had only just arrived, and she already had a reputation to rival his own.
Nevermore loved a good story.
Dr. Kinbott herself was making it harder and harder for him to resist the urge to tear his hair out.
"Silas, you need to work with me here."
"…What more do you want from me? A blood donation?"
Valerie Kinbott sighed and closed her notebook, leaning forward slightly. Silas met her gaze, refusing to back down. His nails dug into the scratchy fabric of the couch he was sitting on, looking for purchase on anything to keep him calm.
A loud rip tore throughout the room, and Silas flinched.
His claws. They'd torn cleanly through the cushion, cutting deep into the padding of the couch.
…When had he clawed out?
"The fact that you are reacting this way," Valerie continued, unfazed, "means that this still scares you. You are afraid of facing your truth, Silas."
Silas growled, then drew his lips tightly over his teeth to stifle it.
"I'm not scared. It's been six months of coming to your office, Valerie." He hissed. "Why would I be scared?"
He hoped Dr. Kinbott would let him go. A heat was building up in his temple, right above his ears. He needed to go.
Valerie blinked at him, then picked her notebook back up, flipping the pages. "You're still aggressive."
"I haven't hurt anyone." Silas snapped. His patience was wearing thin. The heat was getting worse.
Dr. Kinbott studied him with the quiet attention of someone who knew that she had her prey cornered. This must be like a game to her, Silas thought, his mind laced with desperation. A sick game. She just wants to be right.
"Then let us talk about your mother."
The searing heat exploded into a blinding flash behind Silas' eyes, and he gasped at the wave of pure rage that flooded through him, all his rage and the anger of something more powerful than he was.
Quickly, he grabbed his book from the table, muttered a quick "I'm done." to Dr. Kinbott, and left the office, stuffing the book into his camera bag in a blind panic.
She watched the door slam shut, then sighed, crossing something out in her notebook.
Nevermore was a strange place, made stranger by the fact that the institution was one meant to confine teenagers. Principal Weems would correct him, probably. Say that it was meant to nurture teenagers, the best minds of the age, the cream of the crop, the best that the dark underbelly of the outcast world had to offer.
Well. As dark as the minds of the 'geniuses of Nevermore' were, the strangeness did not stem from the darkness that inhabited every soul on the grounds. It came from the fact that they were just that. Teenagers. Silas knew that better than anyone: how even the cold stare of a werewolf on the hunt could not hold a candle to the vindictive fury of a teenager who had vengeance pumping through their blood, seeping into their flesh, their bones, their very being.
The furious teenager inside Silas was losing the battle to the wolf. And fast. His blood ran hot, roaring in his ears. He was meant to be walking briskly away from the town and heading towards Nevermore, but the way the road was rushing past told him that along the way, he had stopped walking and was now running. The last, abandoned stretch of road that cut through the woods leading to the school was now a playground. The thing inside him wanted to play.
The warm tang of blood filled his mouth as his fangs nearly bit his tongue in half, and the creature inside him growled pleasantly, feeding off of his despair. It must be. Otherwise, there was no way it would keep doing this, keep taking control when it knew he desperately needed it. The creature hated him, and he hated it back. More than it knew. More than could be put into words.
The part of him that was still in control wondered if that was all he was full of. Hate.
In his haze, he noticed the clock on Iago Tower, its arms forever stuck at 7:35, and he forced himself to slow down. The immediate pain that sung up his spine from the action alone pushed a harsh whimper past his lips and a dribble of blood down his chin. This was a game of minds, and Silas was good at those. And fuck all if he was about to let the thing inside him ruin his life yet again.
It took several pained minutes for Silas to find the path through the woods that led straight into the grounds of Nevermore, and right to Xavier's shed.
If he was lucky, the Psychic wouldn't be around, and he could sneak past.
He was immediately proven wrong. It was Xavier's mop of long brown hair that greeted him first, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. And it was his exasperated, panicked voice that grated his ears, too, making him growl. Silas sank to the ground, exhausted, his head throbbing.
"What the actual fuck, Silas, you're bleeding."
Silas coughed.
The evening sun filtered through the tips of Xavier's hair, making it look like he was wearing a golden halo of light. It was an observation that Silas wished he hadn't made. It brought up feelings too complicated to think on.
Xavier, once, had been used to Silas' highs and lows, especially the break outs. But that was once, not anymore. And admittedly, they hadn't been as bad as this then. Never bad enough to force him to mutilate his own tongue. Never bad enough that he had lost control.
The concern in Xavier's eyes as he helped Silas up and wiped the blood off of his chin was something Silas forced himself to ignore.
"Was it Dr. Kinbott?" Xavier murmured, eyes set forward as he draped Silas' limp arm over his shoulder and started for the infirmary.
Silas merely grunted. Xavier shot him a quick sideways glance. "Right. You bit your tongue. Don't talk."
More out of irritation at the whole situation than out of lack of pain, Silas forced himself to talk. "It'll heal."
It wasn't a lie. The muscle in his mouth was already mending itself, sealing itself closed slowly but surely. He'd be fine eventually. Silas hated everything about being a werewolf, but swift healing was definitely a perk he'd keep if he had the choice.
Xavier's slender frame was definitely a deceptive map of frailty. He managed to support Silas' weight the entire way to the infirmary, silence pressing in all around them with an intensity that reminded Silas of a pressure cooker. The path to the infirmary was deserted; nearly everyone was at dinner or preparing for the Poe Cup. He vaguely wondered how Enid's boat was doing, whether it was coming along well. Maybe he'd check later, when no one was around to stare at him.
Silas focused on the way the evening sun was reflecting off of the cobblestone and cursed under his breath: he'd lost time again.
He'd left Dr. Kinbott's office at 2:00 pm.
"Xavier," Silas rasped, "What time is it, exactly?"
Xavier didn't look at him. "A little after 6:00."
Four hours missing.
He'd had missing slots of time longer than that, but four was a lot. That was four hours during which he could've done anything. Four hours between Jericho and Nevermore, which was just a 25-minute walk. His head hurt.
Xavier said nothing when they got to the Infirmary, just helped him onto the bed and sat by as Silas slowly took off his shoes and lay down on the narrow bed.
Xavier stood up and turned to leave. Silas could've thanked him. He didn't, just watched the door silently swing shut behind him.
The nurse wasn't around, so Silas lay there, head swimming as the many little cuts and bruises along his body that he didn't remember getting healed and sealed shut.
He wondered about the lost time, what could have happened in those four hours since Dr. Kinbott accidentally set him off. He hoped he hadn't hurt anyone, which was highly unlikely, because there was never anyone in the woods surrounding Nevermore. The thought haunted him, plagued him, and toyed with him until he drifted off. When he woke, it wasn't the nurse's concerned voice dragging him out of the sea of restless sleep. It was the gravelly voice of Sheriff Galpin and the cold press of handcuffs to his wrists.
"Silas Sinclair. You are under arrest for the suspected murder of Ethan Hanson."
Silas shot up from his sleep, immediately panicking, head snapping side to side, eyes landing on the lit doorway, where the silhouette of Principal Weems stood, her shadowed face void of any emotion, hardened eyes fixed on the Sheriff as he snapped the cuffs around his struggling wrists.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," Sheriff Galpin said, stepping back as two constables hauled Silas, writhing and twisting, off the bed. He glanced up, searching the grim faces of those around him, cold horror dropping like a dead weight into his stomach.
"Don't fight it, son." The Sheriff said, voice cold.
sometimes I’m reminded that there are still people who don’t know ao3 was literally created by incest shippers — and the site’s sole purpose is to 1. be completely against censorship and 2. host all kinds of dark, taboo fics that are banned on other platforms — and the first ever fic that was posted on ao3 was a fic about an incest ship from supernatural.
you are in the house that was created by freaks. for freaks (affectionate). every disgusting thing you can think of is rightfully allowed and welcomed on ao3, because they are exactly the reasons why ao3 was created in the first place.
ao3 was created because its creators got tired of censorship, they got tired of dark and taboo fics getting banned on pro-censorship platforms, and they wanted a place that was safe for ALL FICS THAT WERE DARK AND TABOO.
ao3’s main principle is being against censorship and being proship / profic.
there are some things in fiction that make me uncomfortable, but instead of shaming people who are just minding their own business and not harming anyone in real life, I choose to curate my own internet experience by blocking/muting what I don’t want to see. ao3 has excellent tagging system, so instead of being a bitch, use their tagging system properly and you won’t see the things you don’t want to see.
it’s your job to curate what you see. it’s not other people’s jobs or responsibilities to censor themselves for your personal comfort. the world does not revolve around you.
also you cannot censor “only the things you personally hate” without expecting everything else, that isn’t of conservative beliefs, to be censored too. because censorship is a slippery slope and a fascist tool. I promise you there are people who think “why do tags for queer love even exist on ao3? they’re grooming children”.
if you allow the things that you hate to be censored — because someone with enough power gets to control what other people can and cannot create/consume, it will not stop at the things that you hate.
today is my One Year Anniversary of being an atiny. here's everything i know
all them bitches gay
at any given point in time you, as an atiny, can go to sleep and wake up and there will be a new 45 minute video in eyeball quality definition wherein the members of ateez have accomplished levels of insanity previously unthought of. and you just have to accept this
there sure is lore. it's there. they sure do have lore
it kind of tracks that jeong yunho is catholic because there's something inherently deeply evil about him that can only be explained through the ancestral history of schisms and the fact that i think the catholics make you get on your knees to take the jesus cracker. he also has a foot fetish
no matter how hard i try i will never kiss as many boys as jung wooyoung
i cannot stress this part enough. wooyoung's mom and san's mom hang out all the time. san's dad cried when wooyoung got injured. san's dad sent wooyoung's older brother a congratulations card once. wooyoung says san's hometown is his favourite place. wooyoung calls san's dad on his birthday and often enough that it's not out of place. this isn't a fucking joke.
choi jongho should be in a girl group and/or choi jongho should be the romantic lead in a BL and/or choi jongho should be left alone to watch his programs and drink his terra in peace.
they made kang yeosang in the same factory they made the powerpuff girls. i'm fairly certain he's had conversations with shooting stars. the witch that cursed him to human existence forgot about him for a while and is now too embarrassed to take it back. he knows things i can never know and has seen things no one else will ever see. i will protect him with my life
i think these guys make music and tbqh it bangs? has anyone ever listened to it
princess diana and song mingi would have been best friends
every time my decades' worth of mental health treatment and psychiatric regime prevents me from having a manic episode, that energy transfers onto kim hongjoong instead
Do It For Park Seonghwa
there is no twink death like the twink death of choi san
somewhere in south korea, there is a team of editors who has to sort through footage of ateez very consistently. their job is to find footage they can actually use to make content. it is unimaginably difficult. every day, an editor suffers. and for just 10 cents a day--
at the end of they day, they're just 8 guys. 8 friends who are living their dreams together. 8 men who love each other so deeply that, even when they think of doing things alone, they always think about each other. 8 men who signed on for another decade of work. 8 men who want to do this for the rest of their lives. 8 men who say they want to be together in every life. i'm normal about this.
i'm going to be trapped for the rest of my fucking life
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i get that americans love their cultural imperialism, but it really does piss me off that june is “international” pride month just because something happened in the united states.
in aotearoa, june isn’t our pride, it’s theirs. marsha p johnson and sylvia rivera are their historical figures, not ours. the phrase that “you owe your rights to Black trans women” is true there, but here we owe our rights to (mostly) Māori historical figures. i have the freedoms i do because of the legacy of an entirely different set of people operating in an entirely different context at entirely different times.
But because of american cultural imperialism, most queer people in Aotearoa don’t even know our own queer history. Carmen Rupe, Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, the Dorian Society, Gillian Laundon, Georgina Beyer, and the Wolfenden Association are some of our queer history. We should know their names! we should know what they did for us! but because of the power of the american imperial machine, we don’t.
our national pride month should be july, the month that the Homosexual Law Reform Act passed in 1986. our two largest cities hold their pride festivals in february and march, respectively. american queer history has very little (or nothing, depending on who you ask) to do with our queer history. anecdotally, from my own queries, queer youth in aotearoa know more about american queer history than our own.
anyway, happy pride, americans. i’m truly sorry that most of you don’t see the negative impact your nation’s culture has on the rest of the world. and to the rest of the world reading this, try searching for your own country and culture’s queer history, don’t accept the american narratives as your own. we deserve our own histories divorced from the cultural hegemony of the USA.
No one in the elite school trusts him. In fact, they fear him. So when a girl dressed in all black asks him for help in a case that could finally make him trustworthy again, he says yes, against his better judgement.
After all, he is already a monster.
*******
Hi guys!
This is my first fic ever on Tumblr! Whooo!
I got this fic idea from @starcourtdaydream
She made the amazingggg moodboard too! So make sure to check her out!
And I couldn't be prouder that I'm starting this during Pride Month. Happy Pride!
*******
Silas was used to being ignored.
Feared, even.
After what he had done, and after everyone had realised what he could do, he didn't expect anything else.
So what Enid was saying, doing, even, made no sense.
"Listen to me, Silas, for once. Please. Just once. You're the only one that can talk to her. Maybe she'll respect you, or something."
The clearing near the woods was quiet enough and so eerily beautiful that no one ever came by. That was convenient, because Silas wanted to be left alone. This was better than the wide berth everyone at school gave him.
He stared at Enid.
"Please, please, Silas. Please." Enid begged.
He put his camera down on the rock next to him.
"So let me get this straight." He started.
Enid shuffled.
"We've been in school for... what? Six weeks now? You haven't talked to me. Even once." He pointed out.
"You know I–" Silas put up a hand.
"And the first time you talk to me, it's because you want me to ask some girl whether she killed a boy."
There was an awkward silence.
Enid opened her mouth, then closed it, her dyed hair fluttering faintly in the wind.
"Silas... I'm sorry. But you know I can't... people will..."
Silas sighed. "They already know I'm your brother, you know. But if you don't want to speak to me, Enid, just tell me to my face."
He watched as her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, her blue eyes flashing with guilt. It was probably for the better. Having a brother like him was enough to put her already shaky reputation at risk, and she had worked so, so hard to get people to focus away from the fact that she hadn't wolfed out yet.
She never said it out loud, but Silas knew.
It didn't make it hurt any less.
"...I'll do it."
Enid perked up. "Really?! Thank you so–"
"I'm doing it for your vlog. That's all."
"Oh."
Silas picked up his camera, slinging it over his shoulder by the strap and ruffling his hair.
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