#this has been sitting in my drafts collecting dust for unknown reason

[moociaoafterdark]

In "Fear to Tread" Horus manages *somehow* to sneak past the Sanguinary Guard and the Blood Angels in order to investigate why Sanguinius had to leave in the hurry, which lead to Horus discovering the Red Thirst.

Now, Primarchs have commanding, powerful auras, that you can feel in your body, that makes you submit to them, unless you are another Primarch, the Emperor or basically anyone who is too old/too much of a hot shit to give a damn. Even then, you can *feel* their presence. It's how Sanguinius, in the aforementioned scene, felt his brother's presence, without even hearing him come or having to turn around.

There are instances where a Primarch could mute their powerful presence/aura (through psyker shenanigans, of course) in order to become undetected, but the only confirmed ones to do it are Konrad and Corvus, Corvus is especially adept in this.

Now... How the hell Horus managed to sneak past the Blood Angels without being seen? His special quirk is charisma, which doesn't mash well with "being able to slither away undetected". Someone had to teach that guy how to sneak properly.

Corvus sure as hell did not teach him this. Corvus hates Horus' guts for the absolute blunder he did with the Raven Guard ("Phenomenal General my ass, this guy ain't shit!").

Which means... Horus may or may not have spent some time with Curze and the latter taught him how to sneak around...

[mhafiction]

Sparks Fly!

Pairing: Denki Kaminari x Reader

Fluff

Synopsis: Denki has feelings for his childhood friend, and the concept scares him for a moment.

Note: I fear that this is quite ooc...but it was sitting in my drafts, and since his birthday was coming up, I thought it would be nice to break up all the Bakugo fics I’ve been writing. Happy late birthday, Pikachu! (Also i’m sorry the title really has nothing to do with the fic I just like electric puns jdkdjjdk)-K.

Denki Kaminari has no clue how to navigate romance.

Was he quick with a joke? Sure. A bit of a flirt? Definitely.

But when it came to love— actual love, that made his heart stutter and his stomach erupt with butterflies— he was some hopeless case.

Denki likes to consider himself a romantic. He really does. But he can’t help but wonder if someone would actually like him. People just view him as a class clown, or at the most, a fling. Not someone who’d actually be right for a relationship. Hell, he doesn’t know if he’s right for a relationship. So realistically, he’s a bit of a cynic. Or just jaded.

You’re his childhood friend. You knew all that. You knew almost everything about him. You knew he cared more than he let on, you knew that he used jokes because he liked making people smile, and you knew that he wasn’t the most confident.

But for some unknown reason, you didn’t notice his crippling crush on you.

He tried to move past it. Talk to girls, even go on a couple dates, but all the while he only thought about you. Denki tells himself to smother his feelings silently, making sure that one day he’ll look back and laugh at a stupid childhood crush he had when he didn’t know any better.

But every time you smile at him, he’s feelings grow more intense by tenfold. When you grab his hand or lean over his shoulder, he can’t help but feel kind of nervous. UA had separated you two- he was in the hero course, you in support. While he told himself to take advantage of the fact that he couldn’t see you every day, Denki couldn’t help but drop by after class to chat while you worked on your latest project. Which was terrible for his heart, seeing you so passionate and engrossed in your what you were doing. It was so adorable. And he hated himself for thinking so.

“How was your day dude?” He flinched, lost in his thoughts, then jolted up with a grin.

“Ehhh, you know.”

You look up from your project, brushing a stray hair out of your face. Even covered in grease and scratches, he still found you attractive.

“Not really,” you teased, sticking out your tongue. “C’mon, the hero course is probably way more interesting than what I’m doing. How’s it feel, now that you’re finally living your dream?” You lean over the workbench that separates the two of you.

Denki toys with some spare parts. “Almost surreal. It’s like- everyone’s quirk is super amazing. I’ll have a lot to live up to.” You beam warmly, flicking down your goggles.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’ve always been the best at making people smile.” You fiddle with some cables, somewhat preoccupied. Your machine starts whirring. “That’s important, for a hero. Plus!” You spring up, dusting your hands off on your pants. “You’ve got a flashy quirk and good looks! You’re sure to be popular!”

Denki flushes, offering up a wide smile. It hurt hearing you say things like that, when he knew you didn’t mean it- well, you didn’t mean it in the way he wanted you to.

“Yeah. Well, I’ve got to go.”

These feelings for you were nothing new. But it was only recently that he had been able to put a name to them. Which was only more torturous, as he kept internally smacking himself whenever the thought of kissing you passed through his head. It used to be so easy to talk to you. The intrepid duo that shared secrets, stayed up late laughing at nothing til your lungs were sore, came up with silly pranks- why was it so difficult now? All this resulted in the guy becoming rather mopey, sighing softly while gazing off into space, a faraway look in his eyes. His trips to your workshop had become less frequent, til they petered out completely for about a week. He thought it might have helped- but as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Denki found himself staring at your contact number on his phone during the late hours of the night, the white screen illuminating his face. And it wasn’t as if his newfound contemplative nature went unnoticed by his friends.

“So Kaminari, you’re rather...quiet these days,” Mina jabs, slumping down onto the couch. The dorms were quiet, with most out and enjoying their Friday evening. Denki, along with his friends, had opted to mill about in the alliance building. Sero nods with agreement, regarding Mina. “Yeah. I can’t remember the last time you cracked a joke.”

Denki blanches, trying to smile for them. “What? It’s not like that, guys! I’ve just been thinking, lately.”

“Thinking? That’s dangerous.”

“Are you alright, Denki?” Kirishima looks up from his microwaved meal, his mouth full. “You really have been sort of strange.”

Denki laughs. Forcefully. “Guys, I’m fine! It’s nothing serious, I’m the same as ever!” He puffs out his chest, flashing a boyish grin. Though, the reception was lukewarm. The cast each other skeptical looks, determined to proceed with caution.

“You know you can talk to us, dude,” Sero pushes, sincerity in every word. “We’re your friends.”

“I’m fine, guys! Really!”

Bakugo snorts, alerting the others to his presence. He looks up from his phone.

“Would you morons lay off him? He’s probably just thinking of that kid from the support class.”

Mina gasps, her demeanor changing instantly. “Y/N? Your childhood friend?” She claps her hands, grabbing Denki and shaking him violently. “Perhaps some sort of romance?!”

Kirishima laughs. “How cliche!”

Denki feels heat rising to his cheeks, feverishly denying their suggestion. “N-No guys!! I don’t- I’m not-“

They all let out a collective “awwww!” And envelope him into a group hug.

“You’re really serious?!”

“You’re too cute!!”

“Come on now, you can tell us the truth!”

This was too much for him. He sinks into the couch, covering his face with both of his hands and releasing an exhausted groan.

“It’s just that... ugh, I don’t even know where to start!” He throws his arms up in frustration. The others huddle up near him, expressions of unshakable anticipation at his next words. He gulps.

“I don’t want to like them...but I do. A lot.” Denki smiles dreamily, picturing your glowing image. “A whole lot...I really don’t deserve them. Y/N is amazing... talented, and pretty, and passionate- and they’ve always been there for me. I only recently realized my feelings, but they make me kind of... scared.“

Bakugo gags. “Barf.” Kirishima elbows him, turning to Kaminari with a look of surprise and wonder.

“Holy cow, you’re in deep!” Denki snaps out of his stupor, his face going redder.

“I’ll say!” Mina has a sinister sort of look on her face. “Now that’s love.”

“You guys, it’s not like it’s super serious. You know, just a passing crush-“

“It’s not like you to get hung up on someone. All that talk about being scared- I mean, it has to mean something, right? And the way you talk about Y/N...I don’t know Denki, sounds pretty serious to me,” Sero mutters, masking his concern with a few nervous chuckles. Denki rises up from his seat, clenching his jaw and rubbing his neck. “I don’t know guys...I’ve just been really confused lately.” Tension fills the air as he sighs, eyes down. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“Are you sure...?”

“It’s rather late.”

Denki brushes his hand on the door handle, turning back to attempt another smile. There’s melancholy in it; a heart wrenching conflict. “I’ll be fine. I just need some air.”

These days, you miss him.

Denki had always been your best friend. The shoulder to cry on, your partner in crime. And yet, you hadn’t seen him for what felt like a month.

What happened?

You bite your lip, shivering in the night air. You had noticed Kaminari being a little too distant, like he had outgrown you. In your head, there was never a doubt that he wasn’t the greatest person in your life.

There was no trouble in reading him. Except now. What you would give for just a second in his head...

You look up at the moon, a softly glowing force in the midst of the pitch-black sky. You had been lingering on your way to the dorms, lost in thought. At least you had finished your project. But there was nobody to celebrate with. Well, ideally it would be Denki, but the guy was MIA. Not answering your calls, giving you short texts that ran along the lines of “sorry, I’m busy training.” It felt like you were being left behind. Maybe that’s for the better.

You clutch your shoulders, trying to generate some warmth. You had sworn to yourself years ago that you’d never tell Denki your true feelings, out of fear that you’d hold him back. Those efforts may have been in vain, considering how much time he flirted with people...but nevertheless. Who were you to complicate things? You laugh bitterly to yourself.This is what you wanted, right? For him to succeed without you as a burden...even if that is true, why do I feel so lonely?

You feel some tears prick at your eyes, then allow them to fall in a thick stream. Lucky for you, the campus was deserted this late. Nobody would see you in such a humiliating position.

“Y/N?”

Shit.

Rushing to wipe away your tears, you feel a familiar hand on your shoulder.

Denki turns you to face him, his face shrouded with concern.

“Were you crying?”

You rub at your eyes more, trying to push out a laugh.

“No! Just some allergies.”

Denki slowly wipes away a stray tear, his fingers lingering near your cheekbone. You feel your face going warm.

“You don’t have to lie to me, I know you.”

You offer him a tired sniffle, lightly punching his shoulder. “Ha.”

The two of you slump down on a nearby bench, enjoying the quiet for a moment. In a way, it was almost as if things had never changed.

“...So, do you want to talk about it?”

You flinch. “Not particularly.”

Denki shrugs, shedding his coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. “That’s fine.”

You breathe in his scent, starting to feel apathetically bold. Just come out and say it Y/N.

“Denki, why have you been ignoring me?”

You focus on the ground, never daring to meet his face. Your words are a broken-hearted whisper, and you begin hiccuping through tears again. “It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but... I miss you.”

Denki stumbles to hug you, pulling you close to his chest. You feel his heartbeat, as well as a small shudder of tears.

“Y/N... I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

You hug him back. “No. I am.”

Suddenly, he laughs, breathing into your hair. “I guess we’re both idiots, huh?”

You pull back, gripping his hand. He sighs, and you notice how tired he looks. “Y/N...I guess I’ve been avoiding you because I like you.” He flushes, a shade so bright it almost glows in the dark night. You blink, somewhat flustered as you watch him look away, just focusing on your hand holding his.

“Denki..”

“I don’t expect you to like me back or anything! We’re childhood friends, so it’s only natural-“

“Denki-“

“And I mean, you have your own life, too. You might not even want to date a hero or-“

“Denki!”

He freezes, finally meeting your gaze. You blush. “We really are idiots, huh?” You murmur, drawing closer to him. “I like you too. I have for... God... Since middle school?” He stutters, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

He softens, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it gently. He gives you one of his signature smiles- something you haven’t seen in a long while- and you lean in to kiss him, a sweet and loving peck on the lips, which he doesn’t expect. When you draw back, meeting his eyes, the way they sparkle is truly something to behold.

“Denki?”

“Oh my god.”

“Are you-“

“We kissed!”

“Hah! Yeah, we did.”

“Oh my god.” He grabs your shoulders. “Are we dating?!”

“I- I think so.”

His grin widens, akin to a Cheshire Cat. He gives you a coy wink, suddenly bursting with giddiness and confidence.

“I guess we just have...a spark.”

“...Oh my god.”

“What?”

“How am I attracted to you.”

“Hey!” He pulls you close to him, rubbing your hands to make sure they’re warm. “I don’t know either,” he hums, stroking your head. “But I’m sure lucky you do.”

[lovestrucked-again]

Ship Of Theseus

Fic Masterlist Jung Jaehyun | Fluff | College AU Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: A young woman, Y/N, picks up a book left behind by a stranger at her university library. Inside it are his margin notes disclosing a reader entranced by the story and revealing his own personal stories as a disgraced college student. Y/N responds with her own notes leaving the book for the stranger, and so begins an unlikely conversation that plunges them both into the unknown. While searching for the mysteries of the author, the two individuals are forced to face crucial decisions about who they are, who they might become, and how much they’re willing to trust one another with their passions, hurts, and fears

The aisles of the library had slowly become a way of collecting dust. Spider webs wove loosely around books, dirtied shelves, and stands, busted lamps hung from the braided wires that were embedded into the cracked ceiling. Dust floated lazily in the air causing a few students nearby a difficult time breathing, and every step put more of the particles into the air. All that was heard were the faint chirps of birds outside, the scurrying feet of invisible rodents, and the rustling of papers catching the draft.

You ran a finger across the spines of the books as you walked through the empty aisles, studying the faded colours, the fonts, the titles and thinking about how long the books may have been untouched for months, perhaps years. For the past few weeks you’ve been trying to locate a book. You had chased after this one available copy of the book all over the state, inquiring about book loans and finally requesting it to your local university library. You hadn’t gotten any calls yet but the habit you had of wandering the lonely aisles during your free time had bought you back.

Before your able to reach the end of the aisle you’re currently strolling through, your finger stops, pausing at a unique font on a spine of a book. Hm this looks interesting. You think to yourself, pulling the book out of its stiff position and attempting not to knock the other books off the shelf. You flip open the front page and then the back, looking for a blurb or short synopsis, but there isn’t one. The book was old and heavy, most likely left unwanted amongst the shelves.

After debating a little whether the book was still worth reading or not, you decide to try a few chapters considering you had nothing else to do anyway. Taking a seat in the corner of the room you were in, you brush the back of your fingers against the hardcover, noticing the outlines engraved Ship of Theseus – V.M Straka.

You take out the notepad from your bag clipped with the pen in the binder. A habit you had made from reading over the past years was to always take down important details, symbols or lines just to easily recall the story plotlines. You flip through to the first page and start your reading. However, as soon as you’ve made it past the title cover, a faint scrawl within the first chapter declares the book has once been touched. You notice the messy handwriting spread over the page. From there the words appear and disappear quickly as your eyes flutter across the pages, picking out any marks littering the across the pages.

One of the pages forces you to pause as you stare at the open book in awe. Whoever wrote in this book must have been analysing this in depth. The margins were scribbled with pencil and phrases were underlined with their interpretations explained. One of the phrases in particular clicked with you, “What begins at the water shall end there, and what ends there shall once more begin.” UNK: This is what happens: Men become lost; men vanish; men are erased and reborn. 

What a strange way of understanding you think to yourself, continuing to read the rest of the chapter.

After reading a few chapters in, the people around you begin to move and the sounds of chatting becomes distinct. A low volume announcement is made, signalling the last 10 minutes of the opening hour. As much as you wanted to take the book home and continue reading, the thought of perhaps ‘stealing’ it away from someone clouded you with a guilty feeling. I’ll just come back another day and finish it, you think to yourself.

“The library will be closing in 5 minutes, please make your way to the counter for any final borrowing. Thank you.”

As you stand up and gather your belongings back into your bag, you stare at the page open in front of you, the scribble pencilled into the sheet leaving behind a meaning of the original text you could never think of. You decide to leave a note of your own on the cover page, letting the anonymous know that you've seen it.  

Y/N: Hey – I found your stuff while I was looking around in the aisles. I read a few of the chapters (with your notes as well) and not going to lie but its impressive. Felt bad for stealing the book from you since you obviously need it for your work. I’ll have to get my own copy.

You decide against leaving your name, preferring to remain unknown.

_______

A few days later and your back inside the library weaving between the shelves, humming to a song playing through your earphones. Without realising it, you’ve managed to make your way back towards the “S” section. Maybe I should finish reading that book. You pull the book out of its placement and walk back towards an empty area.

Satisfied with your seating area and finally settled into a reading mode, you flip to the cover page to see if your note still remains. However, being a little startled to see an unknown handwriting underneath your own, you gasp a bit too loudly and the students surrounding you all turn. You mumble a quick apology and the heads turn back leaving you to face the shock.

UN: If you liked it, you should finish it. I need a break anyway. (leave it on the last shelf in the south stacks where you’re finished).

How nice, you think to yourself smiling. You turn over through the pages, attempting to find the last page you were on from the other day. The announcement rings just as you’ve managed to finish through the halfway mark and you sigh in relief, stretching your legs and arms out. Before you pack away your belongings you pull out the same pen you used previously and leave another note on the cover page.

Y/N: Thanks! Read through to the halfway mark in one sitting, haven’t read such an amazing book in a while (I’m an art major). Loving all the mystery – the book, all of it. I really needed an escape.

________

The next day you find yourself back at the library, taking the familiar route towards the aisle in anticipation with a nervous kind of energy tingling inside. The feeling swept through you like electrical sparks on the way to the ground, gathering in your toes as you approached the shelf. The night after you had seen a reply was a struggle for you to sleep. You were curious about the anonymous person, wondering about their gender, their major, their reason for such interests in this book. But before you knew it, the book was back in your hands and the conversational texts open in front of your eyes.

UN: Dear undergrad art major, if you thought it was an ‘escape’, you weren’t reading closely enough. Want to try it again?

Huh. What an asshole, you think to yourself taking a seat on the floor instead and pulling out a pen from your bag preparing to scribble out a rather petty message in return.

Y/N: Dear arrogant, I made some notes in the margins too so you can see just how closely I read. But what do I know? I’m just an art major. Don't bother leaving the book for me. Good luck with your work. Oh and by the way, you missed something important about Straka.

I bet you this must be a guy, I should’ve known, look how messy the handwriting is, and look how rude he is, you reason with yourself, annoyed at how excited you were from before. And with that you slam the book shut, not even the slight bit concerned about bothering others, stand up to place the book back in between the shelf, and storm off back home.

- - - - -

I guess this is a little confusing and its more of an introduction to the concept and how everything will work. I wanted to do coloured text for each person but couldn't figure out how so if this is still too confusing let me know. Please feel free to leave feedback :)

[sayingthesamethings]

Magic Shop (Part 3)

Pairing: Poly!BTS x Witch!Fem!Reader

Summary: Underneath the concrete and pavement, between the towering buildings, Seoul is thrumming with magic. Too much magic. It’s become a hot spot for magical beings seeking to feed off of such intense energy. BTS is unaware of such dangers until they come across a witch trying to manage the mischief of other magical creatures while creating her own trouble.

Warnings: Language

Author’s Note: I’m so sorry that it took this long for part three! It’s much shorter than I would’ve liked for it to be, but I really struggled with this transition for some reason. Thank you for being so patient, and please enjoy this part!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

(Name) pinched the bridge of her nose and watched as the boys tried, multiple times, to open the door. Growing tired of their futile attempts, she sat on her cushioned stool to continue with making her concoction.

“I’m going to save you all some time and let you know that it won’t open,” she announced as she absentmindedly twirled her finger in the air to command the grinding stick to continue mixing the contents of the medicine bowl.

“(Name),” Namjoon warned. (Name) pursed her lips and continued to searched through her sealed vials full of different colored liquids. “(Name),” Namjoon called shortly.

Relenting, (Name) threw her hands up. “What?” she cried. Namjoon raised a brow before motioning to the door wordlessly. “I panicked, okay?”

“You panicked and locked us in the room with you,” Yoongi summarized.

(Name) shrugged. “And also created a temporary pocket dimension, but yeah. That sounds about right.” The members of BTS began to panic.

“Are you magic?” Hoseok asked in fear. (Name) ran a hand through her hair and roughly sighed.

“No, I’m not magic. I use magic. You would call me a witch,” she corrected.

Quietly, Jungkook commented, “But magic’s not real.”

A hot anger welled up in (Name)’s chest. The hackles on Jaewon’s back raised as he bared his small fangs. There was a sudden drop in temperature that the group of men couldn’t ignore. A few of the members were quick to catch on and roughly nudged the maknae from several different directions.

“Well, Jungkook. I can assure you that magic is very much real.” (Name) fell silent as she took a moment to recollect herself and take a few deep breaths.

Taehyung leaned over to whisper in their youngest boyfriend’s ear, “How else is she moving the stick, Kookie?” Jungkook shuffled awkwardly and looked to the ground.

“You can even ask Namjoon. He would know,” (Name) passively commented. The six men turned to their leader, who held his hands up in defense.

“How was I supposed to know?” (Name) rolled her eyes.

“How else would you be able to slip right by a crowd of fans without anyone stopping you?” she retorted as she grabbed the correct vial containing a silver liquid.

Jin slapped Namjoon’s arm and nagged, “I knew you were up to no good!” Jimin’s eyes darted between the eldest and the witch calmly mixing.

“Uh, Jin-hyung. I really don’t think that’s the problem right now,” Jimin said as he shuffled closer to Jin and Namjoon.

(Name) raised a brow. “What would be the problem then?” The room fell into a tense silence as she finished making her drink and poured the bowl into her mug. There was steam rising from the cup despite the fact that (Name) had not touched a heat source the whole time she was making her drink.

“Well, you kinda locked us in a room,” Hoseok offered hesitantly, still a bit on edge from being pulled into the room and the door slamming shut by an invisible force.

(Name) bashfully took a sip from her mug and replied, “Sorry. I didn’t want you guys running out yelling about how I’m a witch. That would be bad for our shop.” She pet Jaewon, still on edge, and sighed. “You have to at least let me explain.”

Jimin looked at (Name) through his bangs and quietly asked, “You won’t hurt us?” She nodded.

“I told Namjoon earlier. I can’t hurt you as long as he wears that ring,” she answered. With a shrug, she included, “Not that I hurt civilians in the first place.”

“Wait, you didn’t say that,” Namjoon interrupted. (Name) tilted her head to the side and hummed in contemplation.

She said, “Huh. Maybe I didn’t.” She shrugged halfheartedly and brought her mug to her lips. “Yeah, that ring you’re wearing is enchanted with a binding spell.” Not entirely caring about their reactions, she took a long sip.

Namjoon jumped and checked his hand. He didn’t remember slipping the ring back onto his finger.

Jin echoed, “A binding spell?” The female took a moment to swallow before answering.

“There are multiple variations of a binding spell,” she assured, as if that was supposed to make sense to the group of idols.

When (Name) showed no signs of explained further, Jin spoke up. “And that means?” (Name) set her mug down and allowed Jaewon to hop off her shoulders to curl up on the counter.

“The spell on Namjoon’s ring is a two-way spell,” (Name) began with small hand motions. “A binding spell that works two ways is primarily focused on the flow of magic from one individual to another.”

“So why is it called a binding spell?” Taehyung inquired.

(Name) responded, “Well, the original spell’s intent was close to slavery, but that's the one-way version of the spell. Scholars have only just recently drafted the two-way version in hopes to replace the misuse and abuse of the original spell. Nowadays, the original is only used for detaining.”

“That still doesn’t explain why it’s called that,” Taehyung huffed.

“Eh, there’s an argument that the spell hasn’t changed enough to call it original and warrant a new name,” (Name) answered.

Namjoon frowned. “What does all of this have to do with the day we met?”

“Because I gave you my ring, I was able to project my magic and create a basic illusion spell on you.” (Name) patiently waited for the information to soak in for the men by flipping through her spell book. “Jaewon, can you rewrite the page on tupple plants? I need to change the description.” She swirled the contents of her mug and commented, “Thank you, by the way, for letting me test the spell and ring on you. It’s hard to get someone to try stuff out for me.”

“You were testing a spell on him?” Yoongi scoffed in disbelief.

(Name) stared at the rapper in thought before saying, “Oh. Sorry. For you know, not asking.” Yoongi made a sour face.

“Do you ever ask someone before fucking with their lives?”

“Yoongi,” Jin warned.

Jungkook argued quietly, “Suga-hyung has a point, hyung.”

“That doesn’t mean he needs to swear!” Yoongi rolled his eyes at the eldest.

He said, “Who knows what she’s been doing the whole time Joon’s been wearing that damn ring?”

(Name) frowned, a little more that offended. “Namjoon, are you upset?” The others stopped arguing and looked to their leader, who was staring back at the witch with his lips pressed into a firm line and his brows deeply furrowed.

Was he upset?

Namjoon had to ask himself the question mentally. Trying to sort his emotions out, he identified his immense fear of the unknown factor surrounding (Name). She was a walking enigma. Even so, there was an undeniable interest for something he couldn’t quite place. Curiosity, even. Towards magic, perhaps?

But no, not anger. He couldn’t find any trace within himself.

As if she could sense this, (Name) grinned. She set her mug down and crossed her legs.

“I didn’t think how I got him out of the situation mattered,” she excused with a shrug. Jin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He agreed to the terms I set, and I worked my magic,” she stated with a pause after. Her lips twitched upwards. “Literally.”

Jin said, “While I appreciate getting Joon out of trouble, there is a problem with using magic on him.” (Name) rolled her eyes with a huff.

“Okay, so I see that there’s a ‘problem,’” she generalized while eyeing the on edge, younger men. “Well, this is awkward.” She pulled a clean medicine bowl in front of her and began tossing brightly colored leaves and odd shaped fruits in.

Taehyung looked between Yoongi and (Name) before hesitantly speaking. “So what happens now?” The witch hummed in contemplation without taking her eyes off of the bowl in front of her.

“Oh, that’s easy.” Placing everything down gently, (Name) stood up from her stool and brushed off her clothes as if she had been sitting there long enough for dust to collect. She cleared her throat unnecessarily and called, “Jaewon. A little help, please.”

The ferret opened a single eye to glower up at his owner. (Name) returned the narrow look to which the ferret huffed at and reluctantly rose from his resting position. Jaewon effortlessly leaped the distance from the counter top to (Name)’s shoulder, now appearing alert.

The leather bound book rose from the counter. (Name) levitated it in front of her, and began chanting.

To time alone are memories lost, Forget me not and pay the cost

The air began to physically shift and chill. As if the weather outside had suddenly changed, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass of the windows began to dim at an alarming rate. The wind originating from apparently nothing picked up to the point where the members of BTS had to shield themselves.

Forsake my being and all that it is, For I am a moment you shall not miss

At the center of the vortex, (Name) levitated a few inches from the ground. The gems of her necklaces and rings glowed eerily. A wave of dizziness enveloped the idols, and they were beginning to feel the room sway.

Their visions swam and became murky. Despite the wind kicking up around them, (Name)’s voice rang as clear as day. 

Time shall flow just as it has, And in time this too shall pass

“...oys? Boys!” their manager, Sejin, yelled. They jumped and glanced around wildly. The filming crew were close to packing up, and almost all of the makeup and design team had left.

“Oh,” Namjoon mumbled and rubbed at his eyes. “Manager-hyung, what’s wrong?”

The older male huffed and crossed his arms. “Were any of you paying attention to what I was saying?” Namjoon’s jaw dropped, and he looked to his boyfriends for assistance, but they were just as confused as he was. “I’ll take that as a no. We’re all done here. Take your drinks with you to the van,” he instructed as he adjusted the coat hanging over his arm.

The male idols had to shake off and blink away the dream like trance they found themselves in.

“We’ll be right there, hyung,” Jin, being one of the first to recover, said with a small smile. Sejin hummed with a nod before motioning for them to follow. The idols reluctantly did as they were told and scurried towards the entrance.

Namjoon stopped before the door and motioned for the others to stop as well. He turned towards the counter and bowed, to which the rest of the group followed.

“Thank you for your time,” he announced, and the others echoed.

(Name) smiled from where she was leaning on the counter and offered a flirty wave.

“We hope to see you again!” she cheered. The bell above the door chimed one last time before the shop’s lively atmosphere abruptly died. (Name)’s gaze never left the door, and a slow, methodical hum buzzed through the air.

Jaewon slowly crept out from his hiding place underneath the counter and curled up across (Name)’s shoulders. The ferret looked at the witch quizzically.

“I’m gonna miss them,” (Name) sighed wistfully. Jaewon narrowed his gaze. Catching her familiar’s lack of amusement, (Name) wholeheartedly laughed, even going as far as throwing her head back. “So what if I’ll see them soon?” she retorted before bringing her mug to her lips. Before drinking the rest of her concoction, she grinned wickedly.

“I can’t wait to play again.”

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Enduring Voices: The Legacy of Nat Hentoff

There have been dozens of obituaries for Nat Hentoff over the past week. He was memorialized in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, and anywhere else a person could hope to be, with obituaries detailing his intellectual prowess and expertise on a myriad of subjects. Despite the plethora of responses to his passing, I cannot help but wonder how he is going to be remembered, and indeed if he is going to be remembered in the long run. Hentoff was a producer, not a star, nor even the type of director who gave himself an occasional cameo. History is not much good for remembering producers, despite the fact that no shows go on without them. Hentoff wrote himself out of many of his works and used a light touch in his interviews in order to focus entirely on the people he interviewed: their stories, their lives, their voices. This is what makes those pieces so rich. It’s why his subjects trusted him. He was a good listener. One of the best, it seems.

I dwelled on the “elegant riffs and the sweet harmonies” in the Times obituary: “the legendary jazz writer and civil libertarian who called himself a troublemaker and proved it with a shelf of books and a mountain of essays on free speech, wayward politics, elegant riffs and the sweet harmonies of the Constitution died on Saturday [at age 91] at his home in Manhattan … surrounded by his family members and listening to Billie Holiday.”

Hentoff worked at the Village Voice for fifty years, alongside a handful of agile writers populating their independent America with flair, teeth, and supple sentences. For my cohorts and me, they changed journalism.

Hentoff’s art was to highlight the art of others and he was so successful that he is in danger of being left out of the stories he stepped aside to make room for.

Any way you want to look at it he was prolific. There are many strands of Nat Hentoff, which, in both scope and depth, are hard to wrap your head around.

Known for books such as Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya (with Nate Shapiro) and The Jazz Life, his big themes (section titles of The Nat Hentoff Reader, 2001) include the condition of liberty, the passion of creation, the persistence of race, and the beast of politics. His lesser-known books are as rich and illuminating as his best known. These include Peace Agitator: The Story of A.J. Muste; a spirited and heterodox biography of Cardinal O’Connor, to whom Hentoff warmly referred as “my friend the Cardinal”; and (a personal favorite) his understated, rough-cut Young Adult novel Jazz Country, billed on the dust jacket as, “the story of a white teen-ager’s struggle to make it in the black man’s world of jazz.”

My own hope is that some day there will be a well-selected collection of Hentoff’s music writing, that will stand side by side with such classics as Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, a fellow writer and traveler who chronicled his own towering century.

For those less familiar with Hentoff, he may be one of the best-known Zelig figures that you’ve never heard of. Witness Hentoff taking the stand in Lenny Bruce’s obscenity trial, and placing himself in the line of fire, as William F. Buckley berated the specter of Black Power on his TV program Firing Line. As Camera 2 turned to Hentoff in the latter, he matter-of-factly explained that the truth of Black Power is that it did “not exist as yet,” which is why black people and groups such as the Black Panthers were organizing under its banner. Aboard Bob Dylan’s bus for the Rolling Thunder Revue tour with Joan Baez, listening to Allen Ginsberg holding forth; on the go again on a chilly night in April 1955, backstage among the 40-plus musicians at Charlie Parker’s memorial concert at Carnegie Hall, which Hentoff co-produced and to which he contributed program copy; or in the studio with Cecil Taylor and Abbey Lincoln producing the album We Insist! Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite.

Though I did not always share his opinions and positions, I respected, even lionized Hentoff. He had an unabashed sense of rabidity about what he was here to do, and how to keep on doing it. I was not alone. David Lewis asked the poet Amiri Baraka what Nat Hentoff’s reputation was among jazz musicians. Baraka shook his head and laughed, “I don’t know, what’s the reputation of the Bible in Church?”

From the age of 15, as a muckraker for the mimeographed Boston City Reporter, where he wrote about anti-Semitism, to articles drafted the past few months (see his June 2016 article “Trump’s Dangerous War on Press Freedom,” as timely as it is distressing), Hentoff never stopped.

Some of the Hentoff tributes over the past week focus on his political writings, others on his jazz criticism. He himself understood that his articles, books, and producing were interconnected. Both politics and American creative music are share the clear-eyed goal that the fight for freedom never ends. For writers and musicians like myself, certain of his most powerful books are emancipations.

How did Nat Hentoff become Nat Hentoff? In his memoir Boston Boy, one exchange becomes a central trope of his identity: I was twenty, sitting at the bar in a struggling Boston jazz club, alongside Duke Ellington’s longtime tenor saxophonist — the large, often volatile, Ben Webster.… Ben had just finished a set with an earnest but stolid local rhythm section, and he had lifted them, as if in a huge fist, into a groove that at least approximated swinging. “You see,” Ben said, triumphant: “If the rhythm section ain’t making it, go for yourself.”

That principle of Ben’s music and his life, which were the same, has stayed with me. If I’m to have a headstone, I’d like that to be on it.

In Jazz Country, another elder black musician explains to the young white protagonist that you don’t have to play jazz to swing, you can “swing in other ways.” And that was Nat’s own story of how he translated he values of music and the Jazz life into his own writing and worldview. It is more than an honorific gesture that he was the first nonmusician to be recognized as a Jazz Master by the National Endowment for the Arts.

He said one of his favorite Ellington songs was “What Am I Here For?” It always struck me as a strange choice. I like a few versions of the song, but never felt moved by it. Still, I’d give it a close listen, trying to hear what Nat heard it in. As it turned out, the song held a private meaning for him. His autobiography Boston Boy provides a clue.

At age 15, he still didn’t know what he was here for, but he began to find out when he was recruited “as apprentice journalists for a muckraking newspaper — actually a four-page mimeographed sheet — the Boston City Reporter.” He reflected, “The only payment was that for me, it put a personal pulse, a rhythm, to Duke Ellington’s song.”

Hentoff took the song and question to heart. He knew enough to know that the question has no one answer, but that, in any case, the lived life is its expression.

For Hentoff listening was as essential as food, clothing, and shelter. It was basic need, and yet listening and “being there” were starting points; you then had to “make it” in the moment. This meant allowing conversations to go in unexpected directions. More than once Hentoff quotes cornet player Bix Beiderbecke, who learned to play by ear, obsessively listening to records: “That’s one thing I like about jazz, kid. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Do you?”

*

Strange as it may sound for a writer of his accomplishments, Hentoff believed that his most lasting achievement would not be one of his books, but in fact a television program that he helped produce one Sunday afternoon in 1957.

CBS asked Hentoff and Whitney Balliett to create a jazz program for the network. They selected the musicians and worked with them on the numbers to be played. The line-up included Billie Holiday, Coleman Hawkins, Lester Young, Ben Webster, Jo Jones, Roy Eldridge, Gerry Mulligan, Mal Waldren, Milt Hinton, Osie Johnson, Vic Dickenson, Doc Cheatham, Danny Barker.

The show, The Sounds of Jazz, exemplified Hentoff’s light touch. The bare studio would be the stage. Against protocol, the cameramen were told “not to worry about being caught in someone else’s shot.” According to Hentoff, in his introduction to Listen to the Stories: Nat Hentoff on Jazz and Country Music (1995), permission was given for the cameramen to use their judgment on any “particularly arresting shots” and “not wait for the control room” for directions.

A seemingly minor detail, Hentoff relates that the musicians were “told to dress as they would for a rehearsal,” which meant that Holiday would not wear a dress and “most of the musicians wore their hats.” The details of the set up reveal Hentoff’s process in action. You can see the musicians sharing stories in their own private language in a small intimate setting.

The session’s moment of truth is Lester Young’s one course solo on “Fine and Mellow,” sung by Billie Holiday. Hentoff’s telling of it gives me the chills:

When The Sounds of Jazz was on the air, we in the control room were moving in time to the music until something happened that nobody had anticipated. It was an epiphany, a wordless remembrance of things past between Lester Young (“Prez” she [Holiday] had nicknamed him long ago) and Billie Holiday (“Lady Day” had been his name for her).

They had once been very close, but for reasons unknown they had grown far apart. During the week before airtime they had avoided each other. And Lester Young, sick and weak, had to be replaced [on an earlier part of the show] on the big-band numbers. All he had left was Billie’s number. I told him before the show started that he didn’t have to stand up for his solo; he could stay seated.

Billie was seated on a stool … She began to sing. In the control room we leaned forward. The song “Fine and Mellow” was one of the few blues in her repertory. She sang about trouble long in mind, with some kicks along the way. Her sound was tart, tender, knowing. And she was sinuously swinging.

It was time for Prez. He stood up and played the sparest, purest blues chorus I have ever heard. Nodding, smiling, Billie was inside the music. Her eyes met his. It was as if they were in another, familiar place, a very private place. I felt a tear, and so did [CBS producer Robert] Herridge.

As I dwell on Hentoff’s life and work I keep thinking how much poorer the history of jazz would be without him. I think about his liner notes for John Coltrane’s Giant Steps or his exceptional “Dizzy in the Sunlight” portraits of Dizzy Gillespie — more essays than I can name here. Hentoff wrote in such a way that we felt we were hearing something for ourselves when we were in fact hearing it through Nat’s scrupulous ear.

As Hentoff developed as a writer his questions became deeper about the person and deeper still about the bigger picture of one’s own life.

He was an early commentator on the cultural and racial politics of jazz, critiquing the white culture of jazz critics and even DownBeat magazine while he worked there. According to scholar Nichole Rustin he “was perhaps the most articulate white critic on the subject of race and its attendant discourses of power, agency, and class within jazz culture and on the national scene. Black musicians felt that they could trust Hentoff because of his deep knowledge about jazz history and its practitioners, and his respect for their ideas.”

If Hentoff is the voice of jazz writing, as he has been called, it is because he always allowed the voices of the musicians to take the lead. A typical Hentoff piece seems to tell you everything you need to know: a note or two from Nat, a quote or two from the musician, and then you’re off, on your own to immediately search for the music.

Here are the lead paragraphs for Hentoff’s “Every Night, I Begin Again.”

In the Ellington sense, Hank Jones is serenely beyond category. If I owned a nightclub, I’d give Jones a lifetime contract. Unlike some musicians who memorize attractive “licks,” as they used to be called, Jones is a true improviser. He is “the sound of surprise,” to use Whitney Balliett’s phrase for jazz as it ought to be.

Furthermore, Jones is a melodist, a lyrical storyteller. “In a way,” he [Jones] told me recently, “I have a singing approach to the piano. I play very long lines that connect with each other to tell a musical story. The sentences become paragraphs, and as for the colors — well, the harmonies are what the lines are built on.”

In many ways Hentoff’s significance has been acknowledged, and in others it has not been. Hentoff’s 1957 review of Thelonious Monk’s Brilliant Corners and his startling interview “Just Call Him Thelonious,” both provided a much needed window into Monk as a person, musician, and composer at a critical moment in Monk’s life and career.

A favorite line from Hentoff’s introduction to his interview with Monk, is “When he has something to say, he says it in his music.” Indeed, Hentoff’s critical evaluation of the pianist proved decisive.

I do not wish to overstate Hentoff’s significance, or the role he played in such critical receptions, yet it would be wrong to understate them too. It’s a hedge for other writers or historians whom might just wish to rush directly to the gold of the quotes and miss the alchemist in the shadows of such brilliant corners.

In high school my best friend’s father, who was an encyclopedia of American music, told me that when he first heard Monk he thought he was playing chopsticks. Later I came to admire his honesty about how he heard Monk. We want to believe that we can see and hear the most vital art and its contours, mysteries, and wily beauty, but more often than not trusted guides are needed.

In the end, so many of the people whom Hentoff interviewed said things to him that they either couldn’t or wouldn’t say to anyone else. This is the power of listening, but these conversations grew out of real relationships and mutual trust. And so it is, his interviews, conversations, and many books, starting with Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of Jazz by the Men Who Made It, are a cultural treasure and inheritance. Hentoff never needed or wanted to be center stage, and that may have been the right-sized understanding of the role of a critic, and especially a white critic, in the jazz world. For me, Hentoff stands as one of the greatest sidemen in the history of jazz.

The post Enduring Voices: The Legacy of Nat Hentoff appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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