#whom i trust completely to give me beautiful visuals

[ennaih]

Not Every Film I Watch In 2024

5. Eileen (2023)

[emerald-notes]

We Are Only Seven - Chapter 4

Fandom: BTS Characters: OT7 (Devil!Namjoon, Demigod!Seokjin, Wizard!Yoongi, Angel!Hoseok, Werewolf!Taehyung, Gumiho!Jimin, Vampire!Jungkook) For a visual representation check these >>> VMinKook & NamJinSope Warning: Mention of battle, blood. Word Count: 1.7k Words

Summary: In a world ruled by humans, the other worldly, non-humans are in hiding. But how long will it last this way?

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 [Complete]

“Give me a good reason to trust you.” Jimin asked defensively.

Yoongi and his new partners had brought the trio in his place. At first, Jimin was reluctant to have come with them. But when he saw what the OHA had in their mind and if it weren’t for them, Jimin would have probably ended up in their laboratory, he finally agreed to go with them.

“Trust requires time.” Yoongi said, “And all I’m asking from you is to give me that time. I swear, everything will make sense at the end. It will all go well according to the plan.”

“Well, your first plan was to summon an angel.” Seokjin said, always ready to contradict Yoongi at any given time, “And look, whom you’ve brought instead.” He gave Namjoon a disgusted look.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said as a matter of fact, “someone who brought the said angel to me at least.”

“Yah, Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called, “Look at this angel, here. His wings are so soft. Oh my God! I want to wrap myself in them.”

Jimin gave a faint smile. Taehyung and Jungkook were busy playing with Hoseok as Jimin was having some serious discussion with the rest. They looked surprisingly happy to have joined the new team. They were trusting the new people so easily. It made Jimin worry a lot.

“Oh my God!” Hoseok imitated Taehyung, “And I want to wrap you in my wings as well. Haha…” They were laughing like kids at this point.

Namjoon shook his head, “Are you sure about the sanity of the members of this team?”

Yoongi sighed, unable to answer. He, himself was losing hope the more time he had been spending with these incompatible group of beings he had collected.

Whatever the reason might be for each of them, they collectively agreed to do whatever it took them to bring the demise of the organization that had been terrorizing their kinds for years. Apart from Seokjin, everyone seemed to have liked Yoongi too, despite of his cold nature. Little by little Yoongi started to explain the complicated, but not wholly impossible, plan to them all.

First, came the question of participations from the members. How and who would perform which tasks were brought into light. Yoongi would definitely serve as the mastermind of the team. Namjoon, Taehyung and Jungkook would be the strength while Hoseok and Jimin would give the team whatever supernatural skills they had to offer.

“What about Seokjin?” Namjoon asked sarcastically.

“What about me?” Seokjin asked, “Ya’ll definitely need a son of Aphrodite on the team. Someone, whose beauty can distract the enemies at dire times.”

“Who needs to be Aphrodite’s child to look beautiful?” said Taehyung, fixing the collar of his shirt.

Hoseok cracked up at this, “No offense, but that was so true.”

“It’s about number.” Yoongi came to his aid, “We need more people in the team.”

“But that doesn’t mean we can allow about anyone.” Jimin said, afraid that they might end up having a spy among them.

“Anyway,” Namjoon said, his voice suddenly serious now, “I think you are not giving us enough information.” The accusation was directed to Yoongi. “Answer this first, if it was about numbers, why were you so keen at finding specifically an angel and a Gumiho?”

All of their attentions were now at Yoongi. “I…” Yoongi stammered, “it’s because…Well, you see. We need some of the superpowers to fight such a horribly powerful Organization as OHA.” Yoongi’s voice rose as he asked the others, “Does any of you have them as good as these guys?” he pointed at Jimin and Hoseok.

Taehyung shook his head, “Even the OHA would agree to the fact that angels and Gumihos are their most desirable preys.”

Even though everyone seemed to be satisfied by the explanation, Namjoon was feeling a hunch. “This guy is definitely keeping some real secrets to himself.” He thought. But he didn’t let his suspicion be known to anyone else.

“You’ve failed again.” Kim Joon-Hwi raged at the guards and the wizards those who were able to have escaped the last fight with the supernatural beings.

“Sir,” one of the guards informed, “They were more in number than we had anticipated.”

Kim Joon-Hwi shook his head. He had been putting up with enough excuses. They were failing him again and again. He was getting impatient now. He wanted to take the matter at his own hands.

“Two years at best.” He screamed at the leader of the wizards, “That’s how much time you had asked from me. And now, 5 years had already passed and you’re progress is getting slower.”

The wizard lowered his head and said, “But we’ve found something more valuable this time, sir.”

“Tell me more about it.” Kim Joon-Hwi relaxed and sat down on his chair.

“There were four more members in their team, sir.” The wizard informed, “Among them was Yoongi.”

“The wizard Min Yoongi?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” The wizard answered, “There was an angel too.”

“An angel?” Kim Joon-Hwi again rose from his chair in excitement.

“An angel and another being with black wings; which we couldn’t identify yet.”

Kim Joon-Hwi didn’t show any interest at the other creatures. He said, more to himself than anyone, “That means, Yoongi had finally found the angel.”

There was a moment of silent. Hesitantly, the wizard asked his boss, “Sir, what do we do next?”

“We don’t.” Kim Joon-Hwi replied. There was a faint smirk visible on his face, “They come to us.”

After hours of discussion on their upcoming mission, they all settled down to have a dinner on the floor, since there was no table available. Jungkook wasn’t eating anything. Instead he kept looking at Hoseok with his big doe eyes full of wonder.

“What are you looking at?” Hoseok asked while chewing on a buttered bun.

Jungkook hesitated, “I’ve always imagined angels wearing white clothes.”

“And we do.” Hoseok responded, “In heaven we wear nothing but white; which goes pretty well with our white wings. But since I came to earth, I’ve discovered all these colorful stuffs people wear. And I absolutely love them. So, I tried them on since my wings are invisible most of the times here.”

Jungkook nodded his head while Namjoon remarked, “Well, you should have been more careful in choosing what colors go well together. Splashing random colors aimlessly at a canvas doesn’t create art.”

“I think they do. People here call them ‘abstract arts’” Seokjin said, “Anyway, I like Hoseok’s style of clothing more than yours. Your aesthetic goes with Yoongi, I believe.” Both Namjoon and Yoongi ignored his attempt at insulting them.

Taehyung asked Hoseok, “So, what are you doing on earth? Mommy told me that angels live in heaven.”

“She’s right!” Hoseok answered. He’s more than happy to explain about his home, “Most of our lives, we live there in heaven. But every now and then, we are send down to earth for a purpose.”

“What’s that?” Taehyung asked, listening attentively.

“Well, one of my friends, an angel, came here before me.” His voice doesn’t sound very happy anymore, “But we’ve lost all contacts of him. So, I’ve volunteered to look at the matter. Hence, they allowed me to come on earth.”

“Did you find him?” Taehyung asked once again.

“Nope!” Hoseok said, “I’ve been searching for him for months. At this point, I believe, he had been taken away by OHA. But I didn’t dare fight them alone. I know how much power they hold over all the people here. That’s why, I agreed to join this team. So that I can finally go back home with my friend.”

“I think we should decide upon where to sleep at night.” Yoongi interrupted when Taehyung was about say something more.

Yoongi woke up early to make breakfast for them all. He was struggling as it was his first time preparing meals for seven very different species at once. He had managed to steal blood for Jungkook from a nearby clinic last night while everyone slept. It was now time to prepare some nutritious protein meals for the rest.

Seokjin came in the kitchen after sometime, “Why didn’t you wake me up? I told you, I’m a very good cook, didn’t I?”

“Please, just go back.” Yoongi said, “I can’t deal with you now.”

Seokjin understood how stressed Yoongi was. He secretly admired him for his attempt to care for the people he had collected for the mission, but barely knew them all. “He is not as cold as he wanted us to believe.” Seokjin thought.

Then, he joined quietly and started to help Yoongi. At first, Yoongi was sulking at his presence. But by the time, they both got comfortable enough to work together smoothly.

“Where’s Hoseok?” Seokjin asked, “I didn’t see him anywhere this morning.”

“Probably sleeping in the couch.” Yoongi said, stirring the soup he was making for Seokjin and himself.

“Namjoon’s in the couch.” Seokjin said.

“Maybe he’s in the bedroom.” Yoongi suggested.

“I slept in the bedroom last night.” Seokjin informed, his voice alarming at this point, “The newbies had joined me too. But not Hoseok. I thought he was sleeping on the floor next to your desk last night.”

Yoongi stopped stirring, his eyes wide, “Yes, he did. Oh my God! Why didn’t I see him when I woke up? Did he escape?”

“We’re not in a prison. Why would I escape?” Hoseok said as he entered the kitchen. He was holding a grocery bag.

“Did you go out?” Yoongi asked earnestly, “All alone? What if something wrong happened? Don’t you know, they had seen us? They know how we look like. They are out there hunting us.”

“Calm down!” Seokjin hold Yoongi by his shoulders as his voice started to raise in panic.

“I’m so sorry. I just thought there wasn’t enough food for everyone. So, I wanted to help.” Hoseok said.

“Is everything okay?” Jungkook came inside hearing all the fuss.

“Nobody has to help me, okay?” Yoongi suddenly burst out, “This is my house. I’ll do whatever is necessary. I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Jungkook got out of the kitchen immediately. Seokjin said, “Oh shut up! We all know that’s not true.”

My Masterlist

Tag List: @bts-ruu​,

[simpforroses]

Exchanging Letters

With @idontlikeiobsesswriting's blessings, I thought to write a response letter of sorts for This Letter, because I am a sucker for letter writing and all things archaic. I tried to follow the etiquette of traditional letter writing that requires one to respond to all points the sender makes, and I kept the signature as {Y/N}, for the sake of integrity for the event--but this would be a hypothetical letter I personally would compose in response. If you want the full reading effect, listen to this while you read, heheh.

Remember, Please Read this First

Dearest Law,

No words in the world can express the depth of what I wish to convey to you, so unfortunately, I too must confine my feelings within the borders of this letter. The time we spent together was the most fun I have ever had, as after being dedicated to my other duties for so long, I thought I was content with forgetting how to care for myself...and how to love...until I met you. Thoughts of you also constantly linger in my mind as I carry on with my everyday life—but if it means that I can feel you beside me when we are apart, I do not mind drowning in my memories of you.

At first, I honestly did not know what to expect when I received an invitation to this competition, since I have never watched nor partook in any of the like, but—though I am a bit bashful to admit—my experience with visual novels and dating simulators helped me through. You are free to tease me for it, but do not think I will not come after your Sora comic collection, haha! But in all seriousness, know that every word uttered and every gesture I made was in all sincerity out of my affections for you. I do not give my heart freely, so I would never encourage a man with whom I held little affections for...but perhaps my sternness is why romance was a hopeless case for me before this came along. I shall not ask why you decided to press on with this game, if you do not know the answer, but I am grateful that you liked me enough to see it through.

When you invited me on that walk in the rose garden, I knew that you were the type to grasp a rose in its entirety with all the thorns, so I felt that if I ever found a rabbit hole to wander into, I could be confident that you would be by my side if I ever decide to traverse into the unknown. Eventually, I realized that despite being a man of a few words, the beautiful tapestries you weave when you speak and write were among the most touching that I have ever seen or heard. My respect for you transformed into love. Your voice is a melody that I would never tire of playing over and over again, the smiles you give when talking about your favorite things make one unintentionally grace my own lips, your thoughtful observations about the world never cease to fascinate me, and I find myself more inclined emerge from my quiet shell when I am with you. I wish to be with you always to guard your heart, just as you have given life to mine—but that is no surprise “Dr. Heart Stealer” (you can render me to pieces for that later haha).

Also, thank you for being vulnerably sincere with me about your thoughts, I promise that the contents of your letter will be kept in complete confidence. I...always expect the bonds I make to be fleeting, as so many people I trusted and cared for often walked out of my life. It was like skipping on broken glass, and I was always left behind, because I cared far too deeply. Therefore, I forced myself to be accustomed to letting go, despite the bitterness. It is difficult for me to use the word “friend” —no less “lovers”—and I cannot recount how many times I had to pick up the pieces of my broken heart to sew them back together again. However, with you, I have hope that perhaps we can both learn to trust again—together. And I do not plan to let this determination nor these feelings go.

Law, I cannot even begin to explicate how much it means to me when you say that I make your days happier, as you deserve all the happiness in the world. You should also know that I regard you in the same breath, as I always find myself elated with excitement whenever I get the first glimpse of you before going on our adventures. Parting always leaves a painful hollowness within my chest, so I only wish that I can stay by your side, if you will have me. Of course, I would be more than willing to sail the seas with you—no—anywhere is fine as long as it is with you...so please, let us write the next chapters of our lives with a steady and confident hand, and carve a path towards our desired happiness.

I remain devotedly yours,

{Y/N}

Tagging: @tsunderedoctor, bc I think you'll like this :)

[wings-of-a-storm]

Alrighty lovely peeps, here is the final part of my thoughts on Victor’s infamous ‘love-triangle’ journey in episodes 9-10 (and why the undercurrent is full of Benji).

MOURNING A LIFE WITH A LOVER ALMOST LOST: HURT AND ANGER

Our first understanding of how Victor is holding up in episode ten is through the visual of the wedding invitation he is holding. It’s a very strong visual with so many connotations -- weddings are romantic, full of love and celebration, and most importantly a lifelong commitment to a loved one. That is Victor’s dream too and one he was working hard on (not necessarily a marriage but certainly a life-long commitment). But the person he wants to work on that commitment with isn’t talking to him and quite likely easing them into a separation.

What is even more of a mockery is the envelope -- Victor and Benji’s names are printed together in gorgeous cursive, like they are a team, a unit, a done deal. It’s almost like how their own wedding invitation might look, if they ever wanted to have one. But it is a dream that only exists on a piece of paper right now.

It is clear in this scene that Victor is feeling a mix of three things: sad, hurt, and anger. The anger is quite clear when he puts the invitation aside with the shake of his head. He’s angry that Benji ditched the wedding commitment last minute, yes, but no doubt a lot of that anger is born from how hurt he is that Benji is seemingly giving up on them. A glance at his unanswered message to Simon where he says something similar confirms it.

This anger is channeled into a practical matter -- the etiquette faux pas of being a last-minute wedding guest now messing up catering. Victor needs to find a substitute plus one (which to be honest feels like a plot device but shh). Enter Rahim, sans Pilal. Once again, Rahim is a welcome friend that Victor knows he will have fun with, be comfortable around, and more importantly experience a nice distraction with again.

Fast-forward to the next key scene, for me: Victor’s fascinating response to hearing Harold’s and Veronica’s wedding vows. Which brings me to:

VICTOR’S DESPERATION FOR SOMEONE TO LOVE HIM ENOUGH TO FIGHT / BUILDING A SAFETY NET P2

Guess what themes happen to be in the wedding vows Victor hears? A) Fighting for a relationship you love. B) Not giving up on someone in the tough moments.

“I know there will be tough days but it's on those days that I vow to love you the hardest” / “I vow to always remember that we are worth fighting for. Forever. No matter what.”

Gee, what an extraordinary coincidence!

And what does Victor do in response to hearing a loving couple voice his own feelings and goals? He looks at Rahim. Or rather, to Rahim. He knows Rahim is a romantic (like himself and Benji are), so he knows Rahim would share those goals too. And Rahim certainly is transfixed by the vows, very much feeling their sentiments too.

Rahim just ticked a box Victor is currently desperate for: someone who looks like they value fighting to beat the odds for the person they love, unlike what Benji is seemingly doing. Victor can project that onto Rahim. In reality, there is no way of knowing what Rahim would actually do in a relationship, but he feels safe right now.

It rather feels like VIctor was trying to distance himself from Benji in that moment and find a sanctuary with someone else who would give him the love and commitment he really needs right now. Like a protective, defense mechanism. He is so terrified that Benji has reached his limit of fight; that this time their argument and Victor’s breach of trust pushed Benji too far and Victor will end up severed from him and alone. With each hour Victor is closer to processing the end of that relationship and is now trying to put up a shield to block the impending tsunami of pain that he really doesn’t want to be hit by.

BENJI MAKES HIS OWN VOW

Victor doesn’t know it yet but we, the audience, get a hint of good news: the romantic vow exchange cuts to Benji staring at a picture of Victor on instagram, clearly missing him. From that piece of storytelling timing, we know what that probably means… (Flashback please to Benji’s declaration of “I don’t think I could give up on you. Even if I wanted to.”)

Benji is fighting. Or trying to.

What seals the deal is the beautiful conversation Isabel has with him -- her promise that Victor adores him and that Victor did actually stand up for Benji to the point of impressing her with his moxy. For a lot of the season, that is so much of what Benji needed -- to know he was worth standing up for, fighting for. Gee, what a familiar theme…

The next time we see Benji, he has come to the wedding reception, after his shift, as Victor’s belated plus one. His appearance symbolizes a promise, a vow of his own that is yet to be said out loud: that he is committed to fighting for their relationship to work.

I found that a really nice piece of storytelling -- that Benji is linked to the wedding vows at Brasstown and then fulfils them (or at least will try to make the sentiment a reality as best he can).

VICTOR’S CROSSROAD

Unfortunately for Benji, Victor does feel a connection with Rahim. New friendship is exciting and thrilling on its own let alone having the opportunity to suddenly slow dance with that person. Lines can get blurred. Plus the atmosphere is completely romantic and Victor has never had the opportunity to experience this particular romantic act before.

Victor and Rahim spend quite some time staring deep into each other’s eyes without even saying a word to interrupt the Moment. Because it is a legitimate moment of intimacy between the two. Which is exactly why Victor doesn’t stop immediately and run straight to Benji as soon as he notices Benji has come to see him. His head is still half in the Moment and it is tricky to extricate himself from Rahim.

That Moment is also why Victor doesn’t keep chasing Benji through the yard after Benji sasses him with his ‘Sure, Jan’ energy after Victor insists Rahim is just a friend.

Consciously Victor thinks he is telling the truth, but his “That was crazy, I’m not allowed to have a friend?” defense had the same energy as S1 Benji’s “I know I didn’t do anything wrong when you kissed me!” before scuttling his ass out of Brasstown with all of his belongings. Hello guilt.

The question is how much is Rahim a friend-cum-something-more. Which is the crossroad Victor finds himself at when Rahim confesses his feelings and kisses him.

We have Rahim who confessed so sweetly and endearingly, who at this moment is comfort and warmth and safety because Rahim isn't going to break up with Victor any time soon. And whom Victor does feel a connection with.

And we have Victor’s relationship with Benji which feels like a dying ember, especially now that Benji is even more furious at Victor and it will be a very hard battle to win him back around again. It won't be a romantic running into each other's arms moment if they were to reunite…

So Victor has a dilemma to figure out now in Mia’s room: does he fight a very hard uphill battle with Benji to win him over (a fight filled with inevitable painful emotions being unleashed), or does he just let it go since that appears to be the trajectory for them... Or does he try exploring things with Rahim where there is a 100% success rate guaranteed in the short-term if he accepts Rahim’s declaration…

If the big theme of this episode is vowing to love someone on their tough days and committing yourself to a relationship worth fighting for (something Victor had been obsessing over even before he heard the wedding vows), it would feel like a strange conclusion for Victor to choose Rahim over the partner who proved he was mutually willing to fight for their relationship against the odds, especially when they have already been tested through tough times and found their way through. (And of course Felix’s visualisation exercise would have reminded Victor of all the qualities he loves about Benji...)

THE WINK OF VICTOR’S PARENTS’ PARALLEL

And finally we have the culmination of an underlying parallel: Victor's parents’ relationship, which also slips into the theme of those wedding vows.

Isabel and Armando, the high school sweethearts who were stuck in a cycle of fighting, fore-sake choosing a new partner with less baggage and instead make the choice to get back together. This doesn’t influence Victor’s decision because he doesn't know about his parents’ progress yet but we, the audience, do know. We can see the underlying parallel there. They are making it work, so so too can Victor and Benji if they keep putting the work in to understand each other better and learn how to communicate.

But that’s just my take on ep 10.

[speechlessxx]

Bring Him Light - iii (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)

Chapter Summary: The reader confronts King Steven. 

Warnings: nothing really... just really wordy. pretty uneventful. 

Word Count: 2.1k

Note: This originally had 4K+ (+ because i’m still writing) but I opted to cut this chapter in half because it felt overloaded. Forgive me.

I hope you enjoy!

Bring Me Light Masterlist

<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->

Tensions quickly rose after that night. Even those without eyes could see that you steadily avoided the king. Any time King Steven entered a room you previously occupied, you found a reason to leave.

Rumors had begun to swirl.

Some told the tale of how you were displeased with the king – displeased with the arranged marriage. You were seen as the fiery princess of York, defiant and headstrong like your king father who was at war with their nation years ago. You were unwilling to settle down even if it meant you would be queen to a respected nation and the wife to a revered king. Your actions proved to be a rejection – a rejection of Brooken, of their king – and the people began to resent you even before you took your place at Steven’s side.

Some spun a story that further supported the rumors you heard in York and even in Brooken itself. Some said you saw the king’s cruelty firsthand and have plans to flee. Perhaps you ignoring the king was a ploy to get him to dismiss you, send you back to York, so that you did not marry him. Some said that the king would kill you for your defiance and instead of giving their king a son, you would give him another widow.

You heard the rumors. Every whisper, every mutter, every side eye and glance – you saw and heard it all. But you paid it no mind. As you did the king, you simply ignored the rumors. It did you no good to entertain them.

The king’s words still hung in the air every time you managed to look at him. The threat still as vibrant. It frightened you. Who was the man that smiled with you, entertained you, commissioned you a bow, and called you my love? Was he the same man in the dungeon – ordering the torture of a prisoner?

You hoped they were different people. That the king was not cruel as the rumors painted him out to be. Were you just naïve?

Visitors have started pouring into the castle. Nobles, royalty alike ready to bear witness to your marriage. It was a promising union. The north finally putting aside their years of discord and hostility to unite for peace – to unite against the Mad King who continued to claim more land. It was a treaty between York and Brooken that was symbolized by rings wrapped around yours and King Steven’s fingers.

You stared on as the servants brought in your throne. “Pivot!”, “Up!  Up!”, “To the right! The other right, you imbecile!” the man in charge ordered around. You chuckled to yourself at the man’s frustrations.

In York, your father’s throne stood tall and proud with intricate designs of red and gold – your house colors displayed proudly. Your mother’s had the same overall aesthetic and elegance but was much smaller – “dainty,” she called it, “as a queen, as a lady should be.” It was a decorative piece made to compliment the king’s seat like how a queen was to compliment a king.

It didn’t seem as if Brooken shared the same ideal. You didn’t know this, but King Steven believed that a queen isn’t just an accessory or a figurehead or a birther of heirs. He liked to believe that a queen was an equal to a king – that they were partners working together to make their kingdom great.

And it was made visual by the elegant bronze thrones whose heights were equal. They were tall and daunting. Terrifyingly beautiful.

“Do you like it?” You nearly jumped out of your own skin. Steven had snuck up behind you while you were lost in your admiration. You made an attempt to walk away, but he grabbed your upper arm gently and prevented you from fleeing. He leaned in and whispered, “we need to welcome our guests.”

“I believe that is your duty as king.” You simply responded. You tugged your arm out of his grip and with servants, lords, and other witnesses around you both, he let you go without struggle.

“I believe as Brooken’s future queen, it is your duty as well.” His voice was low. You couldn’t quite make out where his tone was. Was he angry? Was he teasing? You weren’t sure. It seemed as if Steven had a hidden talent for acting. One second he was charming, kind, and laughing with you the next he would probably snap at you, send you away to the dungeon to get your teeth ripped out. “And I’ll introduce you to the nobles you do not know. Acquaint yourself with your people.”

You wanted to retort that Brooken’s people were his people not yours – that York was your home and its people were your people. But you decided to remain silent and nod because he was right. As Brooken’s future queen, it didn’t matter where you were born or where you grew up or what blood ran through your veins. Upon your marriage, Brooken’s people will become your people too.

»————-　⚜　————-««

As the last of the guests left, Steven ordered everyone in the throne room to leave. Everyone slowly started to file out and you were making your way through the doors as well when he grabbed your hand and asked you to stay. You glanced over at Natasha, whom you confided in of what you heard in the dungeon, who gave you a reassuring nod.

“I know what you heard.” He muttered as soon as the doors shut. You glanced around the room. You were completely alone with the king. You felt a chill go through you. You didn’t like his tone, but you weren’t a pushover. You were a Stark.

So, you stared at his eyes, your voice strong like you, and said, “Does the man still have his teeth?” You cocked your head to the side. That caught him off guard.

He assumed you would deny it. He prepared for the confrontation. He imagined you’d argue that rose was a popular scent among women because of literature that described their heroines with that very scent. He’d counter and tell you that servants admitted to seeing you flee. He wasn’t prepared for you to come clean.

Steven raised his brows at you, amused. “This isn’t a joke, Steven. What does that man know that you need to? And would it kill you to show compassion to someone whom you’ve already imprisoned? He begged water and you denied him that. Perhaps if you listened to his needs, he’d provide you with the intel you’re desperate to know. Perhaps if you showed a little restraint instead of playing a power card like a king and listened like a good man would, then others wouldn’t paint you with such cruelty.”

“He’s a traitor. I needed him to tell me who else in my court, in my country that plot for my downfall.” You weren’t expecting that… Of course, you knew that others plotted against their monarchs. It’s how King Thanos gathered support and was able to infiltrate countries in the rate he does.

The king seized your hands, catching you off guard. His thumb gently grazed the finger where your wedding ring would be placed in two days. “I want to wash the toxicity away from my country, my court. I want to quash the unrest. I really do. I want my kingdom to be happy, stable, to flourish. I want to do it with you by my side. I trust you. And I understand this marriage isn’t what you may have wanted, but I want us to grow to tolerate one another, to find happiness in one another. I apologize if I frightened you. I understand my reputation on the battlefield is rather… unwelcoming.”

“It’s frightening, yes,” you agreed with a nod and swallowed. “I think I do need to stop listening to servant gossip. I apologize for my part in our current unhappiness. I do want that though. I may be of York and a Stark, but I do want Brooken to be successful, to be great. I want happiness and I want love. Two things I thought that I will not get in this marriage.”

“We might not be at the current position to love each other. We have only met nearly weeks ago.” He agreed.

“But perhaps, we can grow to it. We will be bound together for eternity soon after all.” You offered him a smile, one that he returned.

He was relieved to hear you say that you two were on the same page. It was refreshing. Steven glanced down at your lips. Your smile as enchanting and beautiful as you. He wasn’t sure if it was an overstep, but the glint in your eyes told him it might not be. So, he took the chance and pulled you closer to him.

You gasped as you lost your footing and crashed against the king, but he held you up and flush against his body. You stared up at him in surprise. His smile was still there. You wondered if the reason why he never smiled in his portraits was because the artist would be distracted. His smile was hypnotizing. You could stare at him forever.

And slowly, he leaned in. You remembered how he was with a bow and arrow. Quick, precise, confident. The man leaning down towards you was unsure – his movements slow but deliberate. He was so close that you felt his breath on your face. You held yours in.

“What are you waiting for?” You whispered.

He smirked. Outspoken and amusing. He would never get tired of you. Steven leaned in, closing the gap between your lips. Your eyes fluttered close, as did his, as you both moved in unison.

You found your footing again, balancing yourself and melting into him. A bit shy and inexperienced – this was your first kiss after all – you tried to pull away, but Steven’s hands gently cupped your cheeks and held you in place. He grew intoxicated by your scent of roses, quickly becoming addicted to the taste of your lips. He felt a fire igniting within himself, the embers spelling out your name. You both got lost in the passion that neither of you expected to be there.

Suddenly, a cough caused you two to quickly separate. Wide eyed, you turned and saw your father’s entertained smirk. You blushed and looked down, curtsying to your king father.

“Tony.” Steven greeted. He wiped his lips as subtly as he could, but the older king saw it as did the queen at his side with a similar expression with her eyebrows raised. “You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”

“I grew impatient. Made our driver go faster.” Your father smirked as he turned to you. You bit on your lower lip as your eyes wandered around the room. “Did we interrupt something?”

“No.” You and Steven said in unison.

Your father had a knowing smirk on his face. “Daughter, you look lovely. I take it you’re enjoying your time in Brooken?”

“Yes, father,” you nodded. You nearly rolled your eyes at his teasing.

“My love, stop teasing.” Your mother chastised, slapping his shoulder. She opened her arms for you and you gave her a smile as you accepted her hug. “I told you.” She muttered in your ear low enough so only you heard it. You blushed even more as you pulled away from her and stood at Steven’s side.

“I’m sure the journey was tiresome. Shall I call for a servant to escort you to your rooms?” You asked, forcing a courteous smile. Your mother smiled and nodded. “Mother, is Morgan and Harvey with you?” You were eager to see your younger siblings – and honestly quite relieved that they hadn’t witnessed yours and Steven’s moment.

Her smile quickly faded as she glanced to your father, wordlessly asking him to help. The York King simply waved his hand and shook his head. “Morgan’s far too young to be traveling right now.” You found that odd. Your mother wouldn’t have simply left her months old infant in the care of the nannies. She would’ve wanted to supervise and micromanage them as she did with Harvey and undoubtedly with you. “And Harvey’s …” He paused for a moment. “Your brother’s exhausted from his constant training. We decided it was best if we left the children in our castle.”

“Of course.” Steven nodded. “Please,” he smiled and motioned for the doors. He offered you his arm which you smiled and took as you both led your parents out of the throne room and into the corridors. You asked one of the servants who passed by to escort the other pair to their chambers. After your parents left you two once again, Steven took your hand and brought it to his lips. “Two days.”

“Two days.” You agreed with a nod.

[sombreboy]

Mused obsession (1)

Written by @sombreboy​ as Jungkook & @chimoona​​ as Jimin Banner by @carly-bean-blog​​

[ masterlist ]

⇢Explicit (18+) ⇢Pairing: Jungkook & Jimin ⇢Genre: yandere, smut, mxm ⇢Word count: 7.4k ⇢Ch.warnings: (Does sexual tension count?) None.

Industry famous Jeon Jungkook of GJK photography takes an interest in a model and up-and-coming fashion designer, Park Jimin. After an opportunity to study the man behind his trusty lens, he thinks he may have just found his new muse.

Jimin shifts in his chair to find a comfortable position. He’s about half an hour into hair and makeup and already itching to get in front of the camera. It’s day one of promo shots for a clothing line he’s actually passionate about—his own. He’d come far in his career, gaining traction for his unique look and alluring personality. Now it was time to get the recognition he deserved, as a model and a visionary. He powered through a couple solid years of being a nobody, doing whatever gig got his foot in the right door. Today is the beginning of his new chapter, a rebranding milestone. He only hopes he has the right crew to make his vision a reality. 

Jungkook is a famous photographer, widely known for his brand name ‘GJK’ within the industry. Having a photoshoot with him was rare to come by, not because he is difficult to reach, but because he is extremely picky with whom he works with. Only the best of the best gets his lens pointed at them, and it just so happens, Jungkook found Jimin among many possible clients to work with.

The fashion itself wasn’t exactly what Jungkook cared for, but he had to admit that it was eye catching, fresh, and modern. However, what truly caught JK’s eye was the man behind it all, Park Jimin. He looked deeper into who this man was, and was impressed with how he’d worked his way up from nothing to where he’s at now, Jungkook himself being a large stepping stone for the young man.

Kook could see himself in him in a way, having worked his way up by being dedicated to his hard work, and at his young age—being known as the highest profile photographer in the industry.

He’s busy, setting up the studio lighting, making sure his camera is in place before roaming the room, one hand held out as his staff brought him his banana milk. A guilty pleasure. He hates coffee—but loves overly sweet drinks.

‘‘Where’s Jimin? Shouldn’t he be here by now?’‘ JK glances at his staff, who bows in apology and makes their way to call for the model that it was time.

Jimin’s heart pounds in his chest at the shaky sound of his name being called by a spooked PA. 

“Showtime, Sir,” she mutters. “Mr. Jeon doesn’t like to be left waiting.” 

The makeup artist snaps to attention and gives a final spot-check for imperfections while the hairstylist fluffs his soft hair for a “just woke up” look. 

“Who’s running the show here?” Jimin asks quietly, feeling a little cocky, but not enough to ever say it in front of the high-profile photographer. The man makes him nervous, he hates to admit. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around how he scored Jungkook for his promo shoot, but didn’t think to ask out of fear he would back out. Jimin admires Jungkook’s tenacity and work ethic, despite being the younger of the two. He had to make sure everything was perfect, knowing very well how he liked his subjects to be of visual perfection and grace. “Please tell him I’m on my way.”

Jungkook sighs when the PA comes back with the news, sipping his artificial drink with one hand firmly placed on his hip. His eyes roam the room, making sure everything is the way he wants it. Normally, the staff would do the work, but being picky as he is, he prefers to set everything up himself. That way, if something wasn’t up to par, it was all on him.

‘‘Alright everyone, when he arrives, you know the rules. I want utter privacy.’‘

Jimin steps into the studio, dressed in his first look—a clean form-fitted blazer and tight black jeans, paired with genuine leather ankle boots. He didn’t want gaudy accessories but couldn’t resist slipping slim silver rings over his delicate fingers to match his signature silver hoops. His public persona until this point has been very bubbly and light—the typical boy next door. Now he wants to flip the industry on its head and feature an aesthetic of dark neutrals with metallic accents.

He was too busy smoothing over his blazer as he approached Jungkook to realize it was just the two of them. When he looks up, he notices just one set of eyes staring back. No PAs, no stylists. Just the undivided attention of Jungkook as he sipped his sugary milk. 

“Oh—uh...hello, Jeon. I appreciate you taking on this project at such short notice,” he nods politely, reaching out a hand to shake. “Is the staff off for lunch? Will they be returning?” 

Jungkook glances down at Jimin’s delicate hands, observing the small rings adorning them. He was a man of detail, taking notice of every single piece the elder was wearing, the colours, even how every strand of his hair was placed. Letting his gaze dissect the man for a moment, still sipping his drink, he finally releases the straw with a pop as he reaches out to take the smaller hand in his. Call him rude, or maybe socially awkward, but instead of a normal handshake, he simply pulls the hand closer to his face to inspect the jewelry.

‘‘No, I asked them to leave.’‘ Jungkook simply states before releasing Jimin’s hand, ‘‘I prefer to work with my clients in privacy.’‘

Jimin swallows audibly, watching the photographer as he inspects his hand. He didn’t find it odd that he was engrossed in his appearance, however, a shiver ran down his spine at Jungkook’s reply. A new wave of anxiety washes over him at the revelation they were alone and would remain that way for the duration of the shoot. 

“I, uh, I see,” he says, eyes roaming over the younger’s meticulous setup. “You never cease to amaze me, Jeon. You think you can handle this all on your own?”

With one eyebrow raised, Jungkook tilts his head as his eyes travel back up to meet Jimin’s.

‘‘Do I think I can handle this on my own?’‘ He repeats softly, a smile pulling on the corners of his lips. He brings the straw back into his mouth before motioning with his hand for Jimin to follow him onto the set, pointing towards the spot which he wants the elder to stand on. He turns around, waiting for Jimin to follow his silent instructions.

In the back of Jimin’s mind he couldn’t help worrying how it would all turn out. He has a lot riding on this, yet he knows Jungkook is a man of his word. His portfolio is anything but defamatory and unprofessional. He truly is an artist of taste. On top of that, Jungkook’s calm and nonchalant attitude was surprisingly alluring, easy to follow. 

“I hired you for a reason,” Jimin replies, belated, “I trust your judgement.” After stepping on his marker, Jimin takes in the ironed backdrop and pristine lighting structure. Jungkook seems to be more than prepared without assistance, which puts him at ease. 

Jimin falls into his role of model, standing in contrapposto with his shoulders held back proudly. “How would you like me?” he asks, staring into the photographer’s dark umber eyes. They caught him by surprise, how focused they were on his every movement.

Jungkook’s eyes never wavered from him, observing every single movement of his. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t entranced by the elegance that oozed off of the elder. His movements were so delicate, as if every step had purpose. It made him smile.

‘‘Just stay like that.’‘ Kook threw his finished drink to the side before getting behind the camera, able to properly focus on every detail through the lense as he adjusts his angle. The man in front of him is photogenic, that’s for sure. He’s gorgeous. Before Jimin was even ready for the shoot to begin, the sound of the camera going off a couple times echoed; JK withdrew a bit to check how the first series of photos turned out with a content expression.

This is one way that he likes to do it to warm up, to see how the model would react to his sudden actions. Would they be anxious? Would they get mad? Or something completely different?

Jimin pushes his hair back with his ring-clad hand, getting lost in the moment. It’s flattering to see just how eager Jungkook is to begin. Granted, his rapid test shots are more than he’s used to. He’s always ready to adapt to a new situation. 

He runs through his series of standard poses, leaning into them harder because it seems to please the younger man. If he’s enthusiastic about the process, Jimin is positive it will shine through in the final product. 

“How is it turning out?” 

Jungkook removes the camera from the tripod stand he originally intended to use, staring down at the screen on his camera while flipping through the images,

‘‘It’s okay.’‘ He nods to confirm his own words, checking before bringing the camera back up in front of his face and snapping another photo of Jimin while he was speaking. He went back into his own world of checking his latest photograph, a nodding hum in thought as he stared at it. 

‘‘The camera loves you.’‘ 

As Jungkook thought, this man truly was photogenic, and the fact that he knew how to be on camera only made the photos more beautiful. Even if he wasn’t prepared for his latest shot, it turned out to be his favourite photo of them all. His eyes fell back on the elder before he spoke. 

‘‘Grab that chair and sit on it, please.’‘

The flash of Jungkook’s camera caught Jimin off guard while he was mid-speak, but it must have turned out well. It brought a smile to Jungkook’s face as he stared down at his display screen, endearing bunny teeth peeking out from his rosy lips. He must be going for a specific style, trying to capture the feel of his clothing in a candid moment. 

God, he really is a genius. 

At Jungkook’s command, Jimin pulls over a chair and sits on it, draping his arm over the back casually.

Jungkook approaches by a few steps, crouching on the floor as he points his camera towards Jimin. This time he gives him an opportunity to be ready for the photo. However, before snapping the photo, he whispers out a few words with his sweet voice.

‘’You’re a beauty,’’ –To trigger a reaction, whether it might be a smile, a face of shock, or a pair of furrowed eyebrows, he loves to spur expressions that weren’t simply a model’s pout. Of course, he would need a few photos like that, but this part of his session was his favourite. It was like a little game, and Jimin was fun to play with so far.

Jimin’s nerves skyrocket as Jungkook compliments him. He’s used to photographers giving praise, but this felt very intimate as the younger’s voice was sweet and seductive. Then again, he probably just read the gesture incorrectly. Jimin is beautiful and he knows it well. It shouldn’t feel odd to hear those words pass Jungkook’s lips. Jimin stares back at him wide-eyed, mouth parted, trying to calm his nerves. 

Why is Jeon making him so nervous?

“Uh, t-thank you,” Jimin replies weakly. He looks around the room to read the crew’s expressions but is quickly reminded that he’s all alone, aside from the man on his knees, just a short distance away now. “That’s kind of you to say,” he confesses, cheeks warming. He swivels one of the silver rings around his finger until he can focus again. He’s probably reading too far into it.

Jungkook takes note of every little detail of Jimin’s expressions, movements, even the small stutter rolling off his plushy lips. It’s cute, he was definitely worth his time. He inches closer, getting a nice low angle of the beauty. The way the light bounces off the apples of the elders cheeks truly come into view, along with his small hoop earrings shining.

‘‘I bet there’s not a single angle you can’t pull off, Jimin.” He uses the model’s name casually, as he normally would any other client. But this time it felt a little more intimate, the way ‘Jimin’ felt on his tongue as he worded it out. He never wanted to stop saying it. However, there’s a job that needs to be done, whether he wants to play or not, so he continues to find various angles before standing back up. ‘‘Good job, now, let’s move on to the next look. Your stylists are waiting.”

Jimin hurriedly walks to the back room to change, a sigh of relief escaping his chest to see that the next outfit was laid out and ready. On his lean frame, it looked devastating. Head-to-toe worn black leather with silver trim and sparkling crystal accents, pulled together by a thin raw leather choker. “I almost want to steal it off your body,” the makeup artist comments, “it’s not fair you look this good!”

Jimin smiles back, fluffing his hair. “Maybe after the shoot. We need to get it on camera first.” 

The artist dabs a pretty red stain on his plushy lips and gives it a little gloss to shine under the lights. “He’s perfect,” the lead stylist confirms, waving off the others. She prompts him to enter the studio alone, which he does with confidence. 

His boots click on the hard floor, announcing his presence. He found himself expectant of how Jungkook would react.

Jungkook changed up the lighting a bit, dimming it ever so slightly to get a darker effect, knowing Jimin’s next theme would be something a little sexier. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was just how well Jimin would pull off the look. But then again, he really should’ve been.

Kook’s eyes widen momentarily as he sees the elder stride in; the echoing sound of his boots giving his aura an amplified effect of power. It’s such a contrast to the previous outfit.

“Wooow,” Jungkook can’t help but let his jaw fall open with a smile, not hiding how impressed he is with the look, clapping his hands together in a childish manner, “I like it, I like it!..” His hands remain clasped, approaching Jimin to circle around him, inspecting everything from the diamonds to the small choker on his neck. Without hesitation, he reaches out to brush his fingers against the material.

Jimin hadn’t put much thought towards the banana milk, but the animated way Jungkook clapped at his arrival just added to the photographer’s rare childlike mannerisms. It counterbalances his stern professional side and warms Jimin to see. 

“My photographer approves?” Seems so, especially by the way the younger’s long fingers graze his choker, tickling his neck with goosebumps. “I’m pleased I could deliver.” His eyes scan the dim room to find his mark. “Where would you like me for this portion?”

Jungkook’s eyes subtly fall on Jimin’s lips—the glossy red looks really, really pretty on him. He was pretty sure Jimin could be a doll, prettier than every single male and female he’s ever worked with. A joy for his camera lens. 

Withdrawing his hand from the choker, he delicately grasps onto Jimin’s wrist with one hand and his camera in the other before he guides him towards the second area of the studio, prepared for the darker theme. It was prepared by a large window ledge, painted in black like the walls around that specific area to give it a gothic vibe. This was also the very reason he’d chosen for the shoot to be done late in the evening, as he did not want any sun from the outside while doing this certain photo. Call him meticulous, but he just wanted things to be done his way.

“Sit on the ledge.”

Jimin allows Jungkook to guide him by the wrist, gradually becoming comfortable with the tactile way he likes to work. Jimin does as he’s told and sits, crossing his legs to rest an elbow to his knee. 

“This really goes beyond what I expected, Jeon,” he says, neck craning to take in the entire scene. “Do you put this much detail into all your projects or am I just a special case?” He smiles at the younger, trying to lighten the mood before he transitions to his dark persona.

Jungkook brushes his dark locks away from his eyes, bringing the camera up to check the scene through his lens.

“If you’ve seen any of my work, you’d know.” He says with a low voice, aiming to keep the elder on his toes with his comments. Kook knows he’s of a higher profile, and sometimes that makes people act cautiously around him—he finds it hilarious. 

He snaps a few shots of Jimin, satisfied with how effortless his beauty is. These photos are almost erotic, and that was just by looking at his face.

“Slide the leather jacket down your shoulders and keep it that way,” Jungkook instructs once more. He had simple requests, but they changed the entire photo.

Jimin smirks at Jungkook’s comment. 

Cocky, isn’t he? 

Of course he’s familiar with his work—he’d be living under a rock if he wasn’t aware of Jungkook’s tastes. His change in attitude catches Jimin’s interest and pushes him to deliver facial expressions and casual poses he’s recognized as the photographer’s preference, using his knowledge to his advantage. When he’s asked to bare his shoulders, he does it seamlessly, letting the fragrant material rest against his biceps. 

There’s something about this outfit that brings out his confidence tenfold. He hasn’t even seen the photos but he can already hear the positive reviews from competing fashion critics. In this setting he feels now more than ever that it’s his time to shine. 

“Is this edgy enough?” He asks, knowing Jungkook would be the right one to judge. With affirmation shining in his eyes, Jimin is ready to show the world what he’s capable of.

“Bite your lip.” He instructs again, a smile on his lips as he manages to get some really, really, gorgeous shots. 

This guy is ethereal. 

As the elder did as instructed, it sort of did give Kook a sense of…power. He’d never actually admit it though, it would be unprofessional… But, he likes this. He hasn’t enjoyed a photoshoot as much as he’s enjoyed this one—probably ever. He really doesn’t want the session to end.

But like any other, it was bound to happen. 

It’s late. So, Jungkook finishes off his last closeup of the choker part of his outfit before letting his camera fall, caught by the band attached around his neck. His eyes are glued to Jimin, a content sigh pushing through his lips, 

“That’s a wrap. We’re done for today.”

~~~

Back in the dressing room, Jimin peels himself out of his clothing, reflecting on the day. He’s positively elated by the way everything turned out, desperate to get on to the next set and see what Jungkook prepared for him. After experiencing the younger’s 5-star treatment, he knows he made the right decision in hiring him. A seasoned photographer like Jungkook was exactly what his team needed. He only hopes the feeling is mutual, and gets a sense that perhaps it was. 

“You’re a beauty”— Jungkook’s own words repeat in his mind over and over, making his heart throb at the memory. The praise meant a lot coming from his lips, not only because of his prestige but because he too was incredibly beautiful. It probably wasn’t the wisest thing to think of his photographer, but he couldn’t help noticing. Tonight, he doesn’t think he’ll get much sleep, too excited for the next round.

The feeling is indeed mutual, Jungkook feels so satisfied with how his photos turned out, unable to contain the way his body almost vibrated with excitement while he was seated in the studio. 

The staff slowly came back, breaking his previous privacy to ask how the photoshoot went. All Kook gives them is a wide grin, which definitely serves as more than enough of a response—considering the way he’s always been quite the odd guy.

Everyone slowly starts to wrap up and go home for the night, however Jungkook remains at the studio, already preparing for the morning by taking down the current setup. Everything is done with Jimin in mind. He won’t be able to sleep anyway, rarely does—if the dark circles adorning his eyes are anything to go by. 

Some would say it suits his look.

~~~

The next morning, Jimin started his day like any other, but with more urgency. He took a brisk shower and awakened his smooth skin with a coffee mask and soothing cream. There really was no room for error, and Jimin felt the pressure mounting, knowing that the studio was already set and waiting for his arrival. It didn’t help that his morning copy of Fashion Times magazine had the largest photo of Industry Genius Jeon Jungkook staring deadpan into the lens as if to say “My time is money. I’m waiting.”

~~~

Having a session during the evening and continuing the following morning could be seen as hectic, but to Jungkook, it’s perfect. He can’t imagine having to wait longer than necessary to work with Jimin again.

Slowly, staff came early to help with the rest of the preparations—not that it needed much, Kook had done it all by himself during the night. 

He starts his routine with a drink—the sugary mixture—his favourite way to start off the morning as the PA places it in his hand.

“Jeon, did you even get any sleep? Your eyes…” The PA hesitantly asks, worried for his health more than anything.

“I’m great,” Jungkook ignores the question, a content smile on his face as he brings the straw to his mouth. He gives a thumbs up towards the PA, “Thank you for the drink… Also, when is Jimin coming?” He glances down at the expensive clock adorning his wrist. He was getting impatient, even if Jimin technically had time left to get ready.

Jimin appeared at the makeup artist’s station fresh-faced with an iced Americano and fluffy hair. He sat and let her work her magic as he caffeine reinvigorated his muscles. 

His first look was going to be on the soft yet sultry side—eyes framed with a slightly smudged layer of eyeliner and wisps of peachy pink eyeshadow. It would compliment the lighter spectrum of his collection, with touches of stark white juxtaposing the reoccurring dark neutrals and metallics.

In his mind it represents his old self and the self he hopes to be. The patterns and shades don’t clash—they create depth to his character. He can hear the wardrobe stylists fawn over his first outfit as they steam the fabric to perfection, giving him the boost of confidence he needs to approach Jungkook’s set. If yesterday was any indication of the photographer’s commitment to the project, Jimin was in for a shock. 

Jungkook is on his second drink by now; the sugar is very much needed after all the hard work he spent figuring out the set for the first outfit. To start, he wanted to keep it plain and simple, a metallic background to put the focus on Jimin entirely. But– no, it wasn’t good enough. Now, the idea he went for wasn’t revolutionary per se, but the way he set it up could be. He prepared a separate, smaller room by decorating every single inch with mirrors in different angles. Ceiling? Mirrors. Walls? Mirrors. Floor? You got the jist of it. Mirrors.

Kook had an additional idea, but he wasn’t sure whether or not to go for it yet. He wanted Jimin to shatter the glass– but he wouldn’t make the elder do it if it was deemed too much.

The younger was excited, anxious to see how Jimin would pull off his next look. It was almost unhealthy, the way the JK already felt like there was nothing else he could think of than Park Jimin and his beauty.

‘‘Noona!’‘ Jungkook whined as he strolled out of his mirrored room to find the staff, ‘‘Time?’‘

The way he whines is almost childish, however, the PA used to it. She knows this means his patience is running low, but merely out of excitement. His dark circles indicate hard work, and he wants to finish what he started.

“He’s on his way, Jeon.”

Just then, Jimin’s familiar footfalls echo off the studio walls. 

“Just this way,” another PA instructs him, bringing him into Jungkook’s view. “Follow him into the mirrored room. That’s where you’ll begin.” Jimin nods and follows him into the small room, intrigued by her words. He wasn’t sure what she meant, but it really was a mirrored room—top to bottom, mirrored fragments, deliberately placed. 

“Oh my—“ It was all he could muster, overcome with wonderment, seeing every angle of himself in the blink of an eye. “H-how did you—“ He turns to face his photographer and instantly notices his sleep-deprived state. His shining doe eyes narrow under dark lids, still alert despite his lack of rest, but visibly affected. Did he sleep for even a minute last night? 

“Jeon, I’m breath-taken, honestly. This is just absolutely stunning.” He can’t stop looking at Jungkook as he inspects the room and can’t decide whether to comment on his appearance or carry on. He decides the latter, respecting his process.

Jungkook’s smile widens at the praise, his bunny-like front teeth on full display, nose scrunched up, “Thank you.”

He moves to shut the door behind Jimin before placing his hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the wall. Kook’s eyes wander over the puzzled pieces of glass, doe eyes sparkling at the sight. He turns his attention towards Jimin, his smile falling back into a more neutral expression.

“This is a very special shoot, Jimin. This will be the breakthrough concept. But you have to trust me…” Kook pauses to sip the last of his drink, shaking it lightly to confirm that it was indeed empty. “Do you trust me?”

Jimin nods. The words ‘breakthrough concept’ is exactly what he wanted to hear. He’s dying to know what the visionary has in mind, and almost thinks to order a banana milk for himself to keep up with his pace. 

“I trust you,” he confirms. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Jungkook’s hand reaches to brush a stray hair away from Jimin’s forehead, putting it properly in place before grabbing the camera that was hanging around his neck.

“Okay. First, I need you to look at the ceiling, at yourself, with sadness and frustration.” He takes a few steps back, angling the camera to his liking. “Then, you can improvise if you’d like… A few of these shots are needed. When we’re done, we will move on to the climax of the concept.” He peeks over his camera to make sure Jimin is keeping up with his instructions—a smile on his lips growing when, of course, Jimin kept up. He was made for this and followed Kook’s orders perfectly.

There’s not a moment of hesitance from Jimin as he falls into a rhythm. It was odd at first, looking at himself, seeing his own expressions as they formed on his face. Sadness, frustration, shock, anger—it was all for the climax he patiently awaited. 

He caught Jungkook’s pleased smile in his peripheral and knew his plan was falling into place. As odd as the photographer seemed, he exuded a sense of comfort and understanding that Jimin hadn’t felt in any of his other partnerships. 

He discovered exactly what Jimin wanted with very little direction, almost expounding upon a base concept and unfurling it like a flower. Jimin got on his knees, arched his back, contorted his body to discover disjointed versions of himself that made the clothing pop. When he was finished, he looked up at Jungkook with tiny droplets of sweat gliding down his bare neck. 

“How did I do?”

Jungkook almost had a dumb look on his face. He was in such deep focus, observing the small droplets of sweat glistening on Jimin’s flawless skin. His grip tightened around his camera without realizing, veins popping underneath his tattooed skin.

“Beyond expectations,” He finally replies. His tone might’ve seemed too neutral, but he meant it. Slowly, he starts walking towards the door to leave the room, but before he does so, he glances over his shoulder at the elder.

“Short breather. I’m gonna grab what we need for the next part. ...Want something to drink?”

Now was his chance—“Banana milk,” he replies, breathlessly. He had never tried the stuff. Never had the desire. However, the way the younger sucked it down made him more than curious to try. “I’m parched.”

Jungkook nods, a little surprised that Jimin would want banana milk. It’s a very sweet drink, and every single one of his staff often questioned how he could drink such ‘pure artificial sugary crap’—of course, not to his face.

He left the room, leaving Jimin by himself for a few minutes as he approached the mini fridge placed in the middle of the mess of his things, filled with his favourite beverage. He grabs two, whistling casually while grabbing the prop he needed for the next step in his photoshoot...A sledgehammer.

This was going to be the best part of it all.

Jimin stands to his feet and walks over to one of the mirrored walls. He dabs at his glistening sweat, readying himself for the grand finale. He almost stepped away to ask for a touch up from the makeup artist but heard Jungkook approach the doorway. A chill of excitement cooled his burning blood at the sound of a metallic clang.

Jungkook waltzes in with a smile, the two beverages in his hand and a sledgehammer in the other. His muscles strain, veins popping on his lower arm as the muscles flex. He carefully places the tool on the floor, letting it lean against the wall before approaching Jimin, handing him the banana milk.

“I’m surprised you asked for this drink, anybody else would simply ask for an iced americano.” But he was pleasantly surprised, nonetheless, curious as to what the elder would think of his favourite thirst quencher. He didn’t pay attention to how it probably looked when he walked in with a...hammer, but he surely will be anticipating the response when he finally asks him what to do with it.

Jimin swallows his first sip and shivers when the artificial flavour hits his taste buds. 

“It’s great,” he lies, “love this stuff.” 

He took another sip and let the creamy liquid pool in his mouth, beginning to savour the sweetness. It would take some getting used to, but he was already beginning to feel the effects. Just like the photographer, it grew on him. 

He’d become so engrossed in the beverage that he didn’t even process the sledgehammer Jungkook heaved into the room. In fact, he was a little too distracted by the younger’s strength to notice what he was carrying. The way his muscles flexed did not go unnoticed by the model. Not at all. 

“Wha—,” He chokes, swallowing another mouthful. “What’s the hammer for?”

Jungkook was emptying his drink at an inhuman speed, the slurpy noise of him sucking the straw until every last drop is gone serving as a childish reply until he puts it to the side with a lopsided smile,

“That depends if you’re willing to do it,” He counters, keeping the mystery for a mere moment. He’s intrigued, excited to see what Jimin would do about it. He seems strong enough to handle it, but just in case he’d picked a slightly less heavy version of the tool. Kook approaches the hammer once more, picking it up with one hand before bringing it over to the elder,

“I want you to hold it up, like this,” He grabs the hammer with both hands, demonstrating the motions of swinging the tool, ‘‘And shatter the mirrors!’‘

He turns back to Jimin, offering the sledgehammer for him to take.

“It will be extraordinary. What do you say?’’

Jimin takes the tool into his hands, feels the weight of it, turns it over and inspects it closely. His upper body strength isn’t matched to Jungkook’s but the hammer is light enough to swing, even for him. It seems a little dangerous, but what kind of impact would this project have if it didn’t involve a bit of danger? Jimin took a couple practice swings to make sure he was capable. Once he’s comfortable with the motion, he smiles at the photographer for confirmation—“Get ready, Jeon.”

He’s almost vibrating with sugar-fueled energy, harnessing it to throw the first blow. He jumps back and watches the mirrored shards fly across the room. It’s…liberating. He starts to feel weightless, drunk on power as he swings the hammer, posing between blows. Down to the floor, against the wall and back down to the floor. He demolishes the room until he’s completely exhausted, on his knees, sweat gleaming off his angelic face.

Jungkook didn’t utter a single word throughout, merely fixated on the moment, snapping image after image of the scene unfolding in front of him. He was in complete awe, as if in a trance. Jimin was absolutely perfect for this, and it went beyond his expectations, above anything he could’ve ever imagined. The glass flying as it shattered, surrounding Jimin like glitter—sparkling due to the flash of Kook’s camera.

As Jimin sank down to the floor, this was the absolute perfect ending to the collection, the elder shining in sweat, cheeks glistening with his eyes closed, a complete divine angel captured on camera. Jungkook had to put his camera down when he was finished and adore the scenery with his bare eyes, roaming the room with his gaze until they fell back on Jimin with a lopsided smile.

“Felt good, didn’t it?”

It felt...he feels... Jimin can’t put it into words. His hands shake from the adrenaline coursing through his veins; heart beating in his ears. He wants to feel like this every day—high on endorphins, full of courage. He nods in agreement, eyes still closed. 

“You’re a fucking genius, Jeon Jungkook.” That’s how he felt. Every bit of effort the younger put into this project only made Jimin more drawn to him. 

When he pushed him out of his comfort zone, it only solidified an inseparable bond Jimin began to feel forming. He opens his eyes and looks up at the photographer, matching his smile with a dazzling one of his own. 

“May I see the photos?” If they turned out as well as he imagined they would, there’s no way he’s letting him go.

Jungkook smirks at the praise, approaching the elder as he towers above him, eyes still just as fixated on the blonde. From this angle…Jimin is almost delicious…no, he definitely is. Shrugging his thoughts away, he offers a hand to help the man below him to get back up on his feet.

“Follow me then, we can sit outside of this room, because—well, glass.” He smiles, guiding Jimin with him with one hand, camera in the other to guide them towards the couch that had served as a prop. He slouches down on the soft cushion without second thought and pulls the camera up, flipping all the way back to the very beginning where Jimin had just walked into the room—photos that weren’t part of the shoot. Just, the look of wonder and awe in the elders' eyes was too good not to capture. “Come sit.”

Stick tacky with sweat, Jimin pulls off his jacket and slings it over the couch arm. He takes a seat next to Jungkook and leans in close to see the screen. His heart rate maintains a strong pace as he’s a little distracted by their proximity. He focuses his attention as the younger begins flipping through the camera and gasps, gawking at the shots of him walking onto the set. 

“I didn’t even think of doing a behind-the-scenes!” Even off-set, the photo composition is pure art—light illuminating his face and clothing stunningly. He leans in closer to see the fine details, balancing his hand on the younger’s firm thigh. 

Jungkook presses his lips together tightly—Jimin wasn’t supposed to see those photos. Honestly, they were more for him than the actual shoot. He just really likes the way Jimin looks when he’s not aware of the camera...

“Yeah,” He breathes out, pretending that they were indeed for the shoot, relieved that the elder did see them as behind-the-scenes.

Once Jimin got closer, feeling his petite ring-clad hand on his muscular thigh, Jungkook’s breath stopped. He let Jimin look through the photos, mindlessly flipping through them for him. Kook’s focus was somewhere else entirely—fixated on how beautiful Jimin was this up close. 

Jungkook inhaled deeply through his nose, catching the scent of the elder; sweet, with a hint of the musk of a tiring session. It was stirring something inside of the younger that he knew was already there, an interest...A very intense interest.

“Jeon?” Jimin grips his thigh to get his attention, pressing his rings into the taut muscle. “Hey,” he laughs, eyes narrowing to focus on the screen, “Slow down, yeah?” 

Jungkook was cycling through the photos a little too quick for him to keep up. All Jimin could see was the first flash of his garment or a close-up of his face before they were onto the next set.

Jimin looks up at Jungkook and notices he’s barely even looking at the screen. His eyes keep wandering to Jimin, looking him up and down. Jimin’s eyes flick to his, then down to his lips which are bitten raw and parted. Jimin wets his lips at the sight, becoming all too aware of how close he is and how hot he feels under the photographer’s gaze. 

“Jungkook…what’s wrong?”

Jungkook’s dark eyes quiver as they meet Jimin’s, blinking hard once, then twice until he’s brought back down to reality. 

How is it that he is so enchanted by this man? It’s ridiculous. 

Kook bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the blonde’s rings digging into his thigh did nothing but feed into his growing infatuation with the man. Because that’s what this is, right? Infatuation? It must be.

“N-nothing, nothing’s wrong…” He stutters out his words, gripping onto his camera as he skips to the last scene, trying to avert the question any further. The images are of the mirrors surrounding the angelic model just moments before he shattered them. Kook leans in closer to Jimin to show him properly, his own smile growing at the perfect visuals. “What do you think of these?”

Even in their raw format, Jimin falls in love with the photos. The multi-dimensional element that the mirrors provided made it look as if he was appearing and disappearing at the same time. It wasn’t until he began smashing the mirrors that Jimin came into focus as one complete person, surrounded by fallen shards. 

“They’re absolutely perfect,” he breathes, catching a glimpse of Jungkook’s shimmering eyes. His lithe body presses against Jungkook as he studies the final shot. He feels him inhale sharply at the contact, tensing even more. 

Based on how intimately the photographer captured him in those last moments of their set and how he stuttered earlier, Jimin gets the sense he may be teasing the kid. It wasn’t his intention; he can’t help the way he looks. He also can’t help the way Jungkook looks—childlike innocence, masked by deep lust. 

“Do I make you nervous?” Jimin asks, plump lips curling to a timid smile.

The grasp around his camera tightens, and he’s sure that if the material wasn’t of such quality, it would burst like an apple in his hands. A short breath pushes through his lips; a breath he wasn’t even aware of holding until Jimin’s smile forced it out of him,

“No…” Jungkook isn’t nervous, but he won’t easily admit his growing attraction to the elder. Flustered, perhaps? Or, something like it...

To continue to avoid the question, he turns off the camera and shuffles away a bit, giving himself the much needed space between their bodies. It’s too much, he isn’t used to feeling this gravitation towards somebody else.

“Good,” Jimin replies, smiling wider and straightening his damp white shirt. “You’ll need to have nerves of steel if you’re going to accompany me to my mini fashion show tomorrow.” He nips his bottom lip at how cute the photographer is being, shying away so quickly after his question. “I do hope you’ll come, it wouldn’t be the same without the infamous Jeon Jungkook.”

Jungkook straightens his posture, head turning to look at Jimin with raised eyebrows. Oh, right—he was informed about this, but he had almost forgotten. But only because he was informed about this before even meeting the angelic man next to him. Now, he definitely wouldn’t miss the chance of seeing this show,

“I’ll be there,” He simply confirms with a small smile. Before he’s able to say anything else, his PA approaches, telling the two of them that it’s time to wrap up. 

It was done, their partnership was done. Now, it was fine for the real work, Jungkook had to perfect the photos before sending them in. Even if, in his own opinion, they could be used in their raw state, he knows there are pieces that need to be polished into his perfection. 

He turns to Jimin once more as he stands. “You did great...It was a pleasure working with you.” 

And he hopes—no, he knows he has to do it again.

~~~

Later that evening, Jimin fusses over prep for the following day, moisturizing his flawless skin and pressing his suit for perfectly clean lines. It was going to be a short show, but the turnout was predicted to be A-class. The industry’s most trusted brand ambassadors secured seats to the event, not to mention a handful of fellow celebrities. He had to be fully prepared to present his line with passion and charisma—practicing in front of the mirror until he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

When his body couldn’t keep up with his mind, he flopped onto his bed half-clothed, drifting to sleep. Running the promo shoot and fashion show back-to-back was a tiring and somewhat unrealistic undertaking, but so was the rest of it. 

He wonders as he drifts to sleep, if perhaps the photographer would like to finish what they started. Maybe then he’d get to know the man behind the lens. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook was finally able to go home for the first time in days. It’s just the way he is, completely indulged and tunnel-visioned on work until it was finished. There’s nothing else that can possibly exist in his world until he feels satisfied. Now that this part of the job is over, he feels...empty, in a way. 

He wants to work with Park Jimin again. Just the thought of any other client seemed dull in comparison. 

After a long, well needed shower, he lays down in his grand bed and stretches his body out like a starfish with a content groan. 

The next morning he stood by his closet, humming in thought. He was definitely not going to miss out on Jimin’s fashion show, especially not when he was a big part of the upcoming collection. Not to mention, Jungkook knew that his presence would draw attention, and he wanted that. He wanted Jimin to get more recognition, and what better way to support this by simply showing up?

Jungkook figured he wanted to bring his camera. He surely could get some fantastic shots of Jimin—and the show! He took a long time of considering what to wear, almost texting his PA for help, but opting to simply do it himself. He ended up with...well, the obvious if Jungkook were the one picking his own outfit: Black dress shirt, black dress pants, black shoes—topped with a black suit jacket, embroidered with patterns of sparkling threads to give it a little dazzle.

He nodded, satisfied with what he saw, ruffling his mess of a hairstyle—dark curls flowing freely as he received the call that his car had arrived.

He couldn’t wait to see Jimin...

...and Jimin couldn’t wait to see him either. 

© sombreboy 2020. Do not repost, edit or translate.

[kazuzuha]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ part three

part one ; part two ; part four ; ...

this work is protected by copyright. copyright © kazuzuha ™ 2021

It took me another two years to find a new goal and remember my past one - the latter being that of me exploring the world, meeting new people, seeing the archons, eating new foods, feeling the wind of the highest mountains in Teyvat...

Interestingly, this goal that I had forgotten coincided with the one I had now; running away.

That was all I had in mind in the time gone by, all that truly kept me breathing in that suffocating place. My own mindset was an opposition to my mother’s, her traditional perfectionism trying to mold me into someone flawless, yet, not better than her. My own set of unbearably high standards wore me down, then were further pushed by her hand which ignored the fact that our pressures came from the same place. But I knew. I knew. 

It was at fifteen that I fully understood that knowing you are in an unhealthy situation does not call upon the Archons to help. 

Father was not around, busy with climbing ranks and taming the snowstorms. If he knew of my ambition, he would have agreed to that marriage proposal I had been given years ago, suspiciously immediately after the Tsaritsa’s interest in me was expressed. It was not that my father did not love or care for me; the opposite stood true. However, he was unaware of how deeply the mental scars inflicted by my mother ran. She was a good wife, a great wife for a Snezhnayan especially. But she was not a good mother. All I had tried to explain, he had already known of, but from a completely different perspective; words convoluted, actions exaggerated - after years of hearing second-hand stories about his child, his image of me became exactly what my mother intended. Therefore, hoping and begging for his help would be redundant. I had to get away on my own two feet.

That being said, I still needed outside help and financial freedom. I made acquaintances amongst my peers, though being taken into a circle of Snezhnayan kids was a difficult task; due to my family’s high standing and my mother’s foreignity, I was either avoided or sneered at. No one dared say much, but those that did were not speaking in welcome. The odds would be stately against my success, if it were not for my observance. Most children were homeschooled and the only way to meet others my age was at a very occasional party or in organised training. There were certain aspects that I saw were well accepted in their eyes; strength, resilience, beauty and charm. I trained in strength, my mind forced resilience, the beauty and charm part could be subsistuted by wealth and social standing. It should have worked. Unfortunately, I did not consider my gender.

After beating a boy twice my size in combat, I was not revered as I had previously expected. I was not suddenly accepted into a friend group, was not offered the bitter alcohol they hid under their shirts. I was a foreign girl they could not touch, could not win against. And that pissed them off. The spreading of rumours seemed like a simple childish act at first, but the way people began to view me was set in stone before they even met me, painting me as unattainable, arrogant. A sense of déjà vu made me realise that I was once again losing an exit out of this place. But I was a quick learner.

Instead of my peers at the training grounds, I looked elsewhere. Tagging along with my father under the pretense of learning his strategies, donning my most modest dresses and tint on my lips, I met the younglings of aristocracy. They recognised my situation as their own, shunned for being better than everyone else. The mindset of superiority deeply ingrained in their small heads made it laughably easy to appease them and get piles of information that I made sure to memorize. My graceful actions, soft-spoken words and dainty visuals… all crafted to fit the perfect standard of a young girl beloved by the Tsaritsa. 

Manipulation was effortless to replicate and after shedding a false tear over an acquaintance’s loss of a parent, the apprehension of the lack of my care about using others sent shudders down my spine. I hated it. I hated being forced to do the same I had been an object of. Most of all, I was horrified by how good I was at it. A secret account provided by a lovesick fool who turned out to be the son of the main manager of our biggest bank. Five sources of income through illegal trade business from Fontaine. A shy girl who wished for one good friend, the daughter of the biggest weaponry corporation, owning over fifty industrial factories in Snezhnaya alone. In less than two years, I was the biggest shareholder of two major companies. 

All I needed was a good public reason to leave and never come back - if I had run away in the middle of the night, the powerful people around me would send hundreds behind me without a second thought. The only ones who can facilely leave are the Fatui - Tsaritsa’s dogs - and, of course, her Harbingers. I have seen my fair share of Fatui, especially when I was still dealing with the mess that was the illegal trading with Fontaine’s machinery. They were soldiers, but they were also people; until you gave them enough power to be drunk on. As for the Harbingers, two of them I had met on multiple occasions; the man I had momentarily seen at Tsaritsa’s side on that balcony was presented as Dottore, or Doctor, though his unhinged expressions pointed to him being a rabid predator, not a healer. He was a shadow; never seen, but always… there. The second Harbinger was my father’s old acquaintance known by the title La Signora, or more favourably, The Fair Lady. As a visionless female aristocrat, I was expected to marry quickly and provide many future soldiers to the armies of Snezhnaya. When I was younger I did not understand the disgust and abhorrence I felt at the thought of my set future. Without dreams, I only wandered. It was not surprising that I began to look up to the notoriously powerful Signora, especially since the silver shade in our eyes was of the same empty shine. Fascinated by her bold disobedience of our land’s customs, I caught myself imitating her walk; young and impressionable, sure, but I also knew that without a Vision, I would never be able to stride as freely as she could. 

That is why I spent so much energy and time on getting Mora. In complete honesty, I could have left Snezhnaya a year into my socialisation. In only a few months, I had enough financial security to start a business in the faraway Liyue which flourished past my expectations. Despite resigning myself to using others, the human mind sometimes cannot help but create bonds of affection to others and so, after the first time hearing “comrade” or the late-night conversations with a painfully vulnerable and lonely teenager, I could not help but want to stay longer, although merely subconsciously. I began finding reasons to stay; perhaps visiting Liyue to oversee my business after a scandal was not a good enough plan to leave, perhaps I should save just a bit more before I go on a long journey, what if the branch deal suddenly fails, I need to manage this project myself… The excuses piled up, my very few friendships strengthened and then, I thought; living here for the rest of my life would not be the worst. This idea was proven wrong time and time again, the glares like daggers in my back, enviness of others putting poison in my cups, the bloody display of the rare bunny I was gifted by a prominent and popular merchant, my mother’s slap at the word “Liyue” leaving my mouth.

I was woken up by news of the forgotten childhood marriage proposal being reconsidered.

“My clever girl is all grown up now!” my father spoke loudly, his fork sounding on the golden plate as the guests around him followed his proud tone with interest. Turning to his closest comrade, another one of Tsaritsa’s most trusted, he spoke as if confiding a secret though all invitees could hear him clearly: “Nobody is ever going to be good enough for my dove, but I’m considering accepting that proposal. They’d make a good match, both of their heads full of coins.”

Booming laughter ensued as my smile froze on my lips. He had never discussed this with me beforehand, so why now?

As if he had read my thoughts, Father’s eyes found mine, his bright and naive, sure that I would simply go with it as I had with everything until now. I decided to keep the illusion intact and made myself smile wider. 

“Girlie that plays with coins, hah! If that’s what he needs to tie him down, I’d get on my knees myself,” the other man spoke, raising his glass towards me and eliciting another round of hollers. 

Not one to stay quiet in rage, I spoke with a light, pretty tone: “Sorry to say this old man, but I’d prefer for the man to kneel down for my hand himself. Your legs might just give out from how long you’d have to be begging on the ground for him.”

The hidden jab of my not even knowing who the man proposing was went past their ears.

“As expected!” the man yelled over the ear-wrenching laughter, slapping my grinning father on the back, while another man, whom I recognised as my only female friend’s absentee parent, spoke up; “She’s really your kid, through and through. Shame you didn’t make a boy, too, with that spunk he’d be one of Tsaritsa’s best warriors by now.”

“No kid of mine would be any good as a soldier,” Father countered, the alcohol in his glass disappearing. “Us Silvers use our heads.”

After he playfully headbutts his comrade, the conversation moves elsewhere and I take my leave. Again, I find myself on the balcony, heaving deep breaths, desperately trying to calm my racing pulse. Vaguely, I think about my wild expression and how others would react if they chanced upon me at this moment, but my unbearable fear does not allow for a stoic attitude. 

Ah, right, I wanted to run away.

It is needless to say that I got my plans in order just that night.

I only let my closest friends know of the finality of my departure, sent a personal letter to the Tsaritsa and prepared an entourage of people who wanted to permanently leave Snezhnaya as well.

Tsaritsa’s reply was swift and curt; a permit to leave for business. There was not any mention of a permit to return, but that was exactly what I had been looking for.

I mentioned my journey East to my parents at a rare shared dinner, as if passing news. My mother would have dragged me by my hair if we had been alone; having my father present was imperative. With my mother’s forced silence, I explained that, due to the scandal - which I had painstakingly created myself - I wanted to take charge of the business in Liyue Harbour for three months until I found a capable enough manager to take over the decision-making.

“It is unsavory for women to make the main decisions in a business,” I sighed, massaging the side of my head as if troubled by this gravely. My father nodded, sympathetically, while my mother coldly glared at my theatrics. It was not her that I needed to convince, anyway; she would follow whatever her husband decided. Holding Father’s hand, a physical contact of seldom, I continued: “I want to get this over with quickly, that is why I am going myself. After all, the marriage should not be put off for too long, should it? You told me a few days ago that you wanted a grandson, after all.”

I left three days after that.

The tearful farewells were done in secret, only polite nods were given in the public eye. More people have come to bid me a good journey than I would have expected, my ties reaching further than those of the usual Snezhnayan. I decided to speed up my leave before anyone else could notice.

White mountains and the creaking of snow beneath the heavy feet slowly turned into browns and greens and sloshes of mud. We stayed the night at a guesthouse in Fontaine, the waterfalls washing away the prints of our path. I wished I could have run away immediately, but arriving at the Liyue headquarters was a necessary evil to maintain our facade; if we did not send word, it would have been no different from an escape without planning. 

The warm water felt wonderful against my cold skin, accustomed to the harsh weather of the land of Cryo. It was a few hours after sunset and only the sounds of nocturnal butterflies were present. The unchanging moon shone down, reflecting its light into the lake, its shape sometimes a copy, sometimes a caricature. 

TBA

[muwitch]

Why the Fullbringer Arc is an important plot milestone - 2

the continuation of this post and I’m bak on my bullshit~ remember my brain will jump to things

also CFYOW spoilers

so part 2/?

key figures and themes of the arc

So last time I said that ppl disliked the majority of new characters because, as opposing to the ones we grew familiar with, the arc was differently paced and so we didn’t have time at large to form some sort of solid connection to them.

And here the magic happens, because we do not have time to get attached to the characters and they seem to be faded against the background of all the others.

But apart from COMPARISON Fullbringers are quite an independent unit that focuses not on how much reiatsu you have, but on skill

In the Can't fear your own world novel the origin of Fullbringer power is revealed and it’s shown how actually universally badass those powers are, take Tsukishima for example, who grows a tree in a second to ward off lightning, simply adding himself to the past. Atomic.

For living people even just getting close to the level of those with whom they fought (three captains and three leutenants) and not dying in the first moment (except u Giriko) is a great achievement. For people who are not Ichigo Kurosaki with a family tree rivaling GoT of course. 

There is another important motive associated with fullbringers, which I mentioned above, and this is LONELINESS. And it's served so brilliantly that I'm going to die now.

If you look and read carefully, it becomes clear that even the fullbringers gathered together are unusually, exasperately lonely. (See the cover? They reach out but never do truly connect) This is the curse of their power. This is their main weakness. This is their unusual humanity and kinship with the Hollows.

This is also why, but that’s my guess, their whole presentation is very lacking, to show how they fall out of everyday life and proper sozialising, so even we, as readers, cannot properly connect to them. Same reach out, but not hold symbolism. Or I am giving too much credit, we just don’t know?

Even the one who has assembled the whole group, Ginjo, is an even lonelier person who has terrible trust issues, who survived betrayal and persecution, and everything that he once believed in was set upside down. And even knowing what kind of person he is, fullbringers, driven by loneliness, followed him. (Though, we must admit, he weilds his words well and rolls +20 on persuation)

Because, although for a short time, he helped them to bear the burden of this loneliness.

Needless to say, the entire initial situation with OG fullbringers happened not only bc of some noble meddling, but also due to the fact that Ginjo gathered people to TAKE POWER FROM THEM SO THEY COULD LIVE A NORMAL LIFE

Ironically enough, each Fullbringer posesses a piece of SOUL KING, which is the source of their power and lures Hollows to pregnant mothers, which is such an important piece of information it makes me mad it was only explained in CFYOW. 

Although it is understandable why Kubo chose not to focus on it during the arc. My take is he planned to show the importance of Fullbringers and their origins during TYBW, but we all know it didn’t happen.

Another common theme that follows from the previous two is PTSD, which unites the characters and key figures of the arc, and the paths of experiencing trauma constitute another conflict, where Ichigo overcomes it through friends and the return of strength and motivation, as opposed to Ginjo, who choses destuctive way to handle his own trauma.

In short flashbacks shown during “Pray for Predators” chapters, we can also clearly see PSTD practically in every person’s past. Each of Fullbringers go about it differenly, most proactive being probably Riruka and most reactive being Tsukishima and Ginjo. Which is also symbolically shown that people, who can go own with their lives and finally integrate into society stay alive. Those, who cannot, go to SS and are set into new path by more drastic measures.

I will surely attribute to the pluses how Kubo shows Ichigo's PTSD, literally in 3-4 chapters showing how he cannot, like Remarque's hero, settle in peacetime, because he constantly catches triggers, for example with his substitute badge.

Through Ichigo’s thoughts is shown how he merged with his position as a substitute shinigami and constantly thinks in categories that are not very applicable to his normal life, which he seemed to have dreamed of for 16 years And now he actually got it, but absolutely does not know what to do with it.

Kubo skillfully fuels PTSD and Ichigo's anxiety which is why he is being swayed by Ginjo's words correctly spoken at the right time.

 Example: Karin speaks of his brother, they say he always fought to protect  Ginjo fuels Ichigo’s doubt , saying he must act to protect his family

Accordingly, the theme approaches the climax for a push into the plot at the time of the attack on Ishida, Ichigo gets a punch in the gut twice: first from Ishida himself, who, with his unwillingness to tell things, pokes Ichigo into his helplessness and excludes him from the circle of trust, which IS the last blow 

And then from Ishida's father, who by his behavior shows that Ichigo's efficiency now amounts to zero, so much so that he cannot even protect Orihime while she walks home, which is why he runs away in frustrated feelings, realizing the message. So this intro is absolutely veritable and ingenious.

And so that you understand how desperate Ichigo is, if not yet, then here is a panel where FATTEST visual forshadowing happens. And here is an absolutely genius moment to understand that Ichigo is not a child but a teenager with all that it implies

He may be battle-hardened, but this is a 17-year-old living boy with trust issues, and if we remember that through his manager's lips we are given a direct hint that Ichigo is still immature in a way, so the meaning of this arc as a stage of Ishigo's psychological maturation becomes clearer.

Just look at the face he has when Ginjo promises to return his powers (not to mention the hysterics after that) Is this a healthy person's face?

And here my hands are literally itching to start talking about Ginjo, because to give an antihero who, in addition, will have a much closer dynamics with Ichi than Urahara, plus for the duration of the arc  will act as a mentor and father figure, this is just genius. Don’t @ me.

But the next plus, which will then bring us further, and this is THE Forshadowing 

Everywhere, just everywhere, starting from the very first pages.

And Kubo still confuses us in the course of the narrative, but my god, when you re-read, Easter eggs are crammed almost in every chapter and I think its beautiful. Both verbal (Ginjo is such a bad actor that he has to change his memory badumts) and visual

The plus that I mentioned earlier is 100% more lively dynamics between Ginjo and Ichi, because both are people and in fact, there is much more than it may seem at first, that brings both together. And the friendly connection that they establish with each other in this arc still not 100% false placeholder. (Which is easily spotted by the way Ginjo adresses Ichigo through the arc especially last chapters). 

And at the same time, they are in many ways the antonyms of each other, in age, color scheme, design, even names and also in what gives them motivation, in how they react to this or that event. For example, Ichigo is quite an emotional guy and puts his soul into everything, so to speak, then Ginjo, for example

Plus, the latter is not only skillful manipulator, but also embittered. And through such contrast, with generally the same input data, Kubo shows us that there is always a different path, leading to the topic choice, and where each specific one can lead a character.

Which absolutely doesn’t stop Ichigo from familirizing himself right off the bat and the two of them have comedy gold moments from the start. It is more lively, than being set against 300+ y.o. Urahara (whom I love as a character).

And, cross my heart Isshin is a great character, but he’s got that father of the year award, and Urahara can only give like a little itsy bitsy of information at a time only if it benefits him or a bigger picture, so the mentor’s role goes to Ginjo, which is well earned as he is technically the First Substitute. 

Ginjo is a mentor, a guide, and the main antagonist of the arc, which in itself is an unexpected and interesting combination within the framework of  Bleach. Here is a living example, in the moment of training he can go so far as to help Ichigo overcome his psychological barrier by simply and cruelly breaking him.

Which he does in the most painful way, through the trauma and inability of Ichigo to protect his loved ones. And from the reaction of the latter, childish and naive, his immaturity can be clearly seen (see the previous points). Although we do not know this yet, Ginjo is constantly trying to teach Ichigo one lesson that he himself learned the hard way. 

Combining this with such an important praise for a teenager and faith in Ighigo’s powers, which Ichigo was deprived of for 17 months as soon as he lost his powers as a shinigami ( all relatives are trying to isolate him from this, no one believes that he can and is able to stand up for him). This is another plus of the arc, namely the whole depth of the betrayal that Ichigo experiences when the cards are revealed.

Maybe the quincy arc would go completely differently, if Ichigo felt Ishida's betrayal or reacted to the truth about his mother in a different way. Did Ginjo not temper/prepare Ichigo in the way he did, did he involuntary not strengthen Ichi internally... Who knows how Bleach would end in general.

 This is to the question of the importance of this arc yes 

P.S  Strengthening the body also benefited Ichigo.Friendly reminder that he fights in his physical body for the entire arc except the end.

And the training episode immediately appears in a different light, right? 

And in my next hot take I will focus on another really important thing which is salvation and my own bitterness of why didn’t Kubo explore the whole SS thing and now we have to fee ourselves

[lihikainanea]

Tarot + Oracle decks used by the HWIC.

A sweet nani recently asked me to list the Tarot and Oracle decks I use, and to name my favourites. I thought that was a really great idea. Let me know if any of you have these decks, or if you end up getting them.

They’re under the cut, complete with pictures. My top decks are:

Tarot:

1) Wheel of Fortune 2) Wizard’s Tarot 3) Anima Mundi

Oracle:

1) Moonology

Here we go, kids!

Tarot Decks

1) The Mythic Tarot

One of my oldest decks. This is a great deck for beginners, because it is very visual and you can decipher the story from each card. If you’re just learning what the Suits mean and what the cards mean, this is a great deck to start out with. I don’t use it much anymore, but it’s a great starter.

2) The Gilded Tarot Royale

I really love the illustrations on this one, and the way the cards feel. I can riffle shuffle them without them getting all bent out of shape. This deck is also great for beginners, because the expressions on the characters is very clear and the cards are very intuitive. It’s easy to both understand their base meaning, and to assign your own meanings to them. Also, bonus points because the back of the deck is uniform--meaning you have no idea if the card is right side up, or upside down. If you read reversed cards, this is a great deck.

3) Native American Tarot Deck

I bought this after a reading at Earth Odyssey in New Orleans. It’s definitely a bit more of an advanced deck--it doesn’t use the traditional Suits (Cups, Wands, Pentacles and Swords are swapped for Vessels, Pipes, Shields and Blades) and the Major Arcana are completely different. I love this deck, but I don’t think it’s mine. There’s a fable amongst readers that the deck that is meant for you, the deck that is yours, will be given to you. I think I was meant to buy this deck to give to somebody else to whom it belongs.

4) Anima Mundi 

A favourite. This deck is just so incredibly beautiful. The card stock is incredible, so thick that I can’t riffle it, but its sturdy and strong. This is an independent deck that gained an immense amount of popularity, likely due to the fact that it’s stunning. This is a bit of a harder deck--your intuition needs to be established and you need to have trust in it. The creator--in my opinion, anyway--really nailed the images, and their corresponding meaning of the cards. If you’re looking for a deck that takes you to a deeper level, this is it. When you read through the guidebook you understand why she chose the images she did for the cards, and how they stray from traditional imagery. It gives you a deeper meaning to it all. The deck is animal-based, and in fact the only human in the deck is the Devil--which, again, deeper meanings. A beauty, but for more intermediate readers I would say.

5) Deviant Moon, Borderless

I love the weird, macabre quality of this deck. I find the images to be oddly intuitive, too--if you take just a second to actually look at them, you’ll decipher the meaning of the card quite easily. These cards are hard for me to shuffle because they’re long and thin, not quite the usual size for a deck. They’re a bit softer and a little flimsy, but if you’re into weird imagery--this is a great deck. It had good energy from the start with me. I don’t use it too often in readings because people are a little shocked or put off by the images, but I dig them.

6) Wheel of Fortune

Hands down, my most beautiful deck and by far my favourite. I can’t even EXPRESS how beautiful this deck is, from the matte black finish to the copper gilded sides to the hand painted images to the way it’s presented, in its own beautifully gilded box. I can’t deal. I often carry this deck on me in my purse, just to be around it. It’s just....it’s so fucking beautiful. The cards are thick and sturdy, the back is matte and gilded with copper. The original designs are paintings from the artist, that she superimposed on the cards. This is an independent deck (I’m usually not a huge fan of independent decks) and honestly, the creator could have charged 10x the price and I would have paid it. It’s just incredible in every sense of the word, and carried great energy.

7) Modern Spellcaster

This deck is similar enough to the Gilded Tarot to not justify buying both, but I don’t know I’m impulsive and I really like this deck. The images are awesome and colourful, and it just spoke to me so I bought it. But because of the design on the back, you know when a card is reversed in the deck--it’s not a huge deal, but it can be annoying if you read reversed cards. Again, this is a great beginner deck--the expressions are clear, the card stock is great to get a good shuffle going, and the images tell the story. I like to “clarify” a spread--so I pull from one deck, and then use another full deck to get more insight on the drawn cards. It helps to have two similar decks for that.

8) Wizard’s Tarot

Look, real talk, when I pulled this deck from the box, I fucking hated it. I HATED it. I hated everything about it. The design on the back is so fucking obnoxious and loud, I thought the images were hokey and tacky and just so goddamn cringeworthy. I shuffled it once, laughed like hell at how bad it was, and promptly shoved it back in its box with full intent to return it after my trip. I went away for a week, but like, the entire time I just...I couldn't stop thinking about this deck. I don't know why, it was just on my mind a lot. So when I got home I took it back out of its box and did a reading--and goddamnit that reading was SO fucking bang on, that I thought....okay, whoa. A few days later I did another pull--and THAT reading was so fucking accurate. So then I thought alright you bastard, you’re mine. This deck is now one of my absolute most trusted--when I need no bullshit and no sugarcoating, when I need bulletproof insight to a situation I’m all fucking confused about, this is the deck I pull from. It never lies to me.

Oracle

1) Moonology

Oracle cards can be a love/hate relationship, they require a lot more intuition and ability to assign meanings that you trust in. I don’t read Oracle cards on their own--I do a daily pull for the vibe of the day--but otherwise, I use them to gain insight on my Tarot spreads. I am very, very attached the the moon and this Oracle deck is my favourite--it is clear, it provides words and mantras to meditate on, lessons to absorb.

2) Nocturna 

My most beautiful Oracle deck--but this one is definitely for more advanced intuitive readers. I love the concept that this deck was based on--the night, and all of its happenings and creatures. The cards are visually stunning, the deck is gilded in gold on the sides and it shuffles like a dream. There’s a handy guidebook that comes with it, but you also need to be able to decipher your own meanings for it. The Fireflies card, for example--a full black card just speckled with some dots of gold--can mean anything from a longing for easier times, a loss of or return of innocence and naivety, or a reminder that even in the darkest of situations, light can still be found if you look for it.

3) Earth Power

My wanderlust soul was drawn to this deck, and I picked it up in New Orleans this year. I like that it hones in on the power of the universe we feel when we are in very significant places--there’s an energy that is undeniable. The cards provide mantras and words to keep in mind, which I like. The cards are real sturdy and laminated--but shuffling them is kind of a nightmare, because they stick. But they’re beautiful, they’re easy to read, and they're great for a daily draw.

4) Shaman Wisdom

A very advanced deck. Real talk, even I have trouble deciphering these cards sometimes. For example, this card here? it says Birch--Feminine, Ease, Venus, Water. That’s it. I don’t really know what to make of these without the guidebook, which does a good job explaining--but I don’t like using the guidebook. Much like the Native American tarot, I don’t think this deck was meant for me.  I bought it because it featured a wolf on the box and the wolf is one of my totems. I saw this deck right after a reading done on me when I was pretty supercharged so I took it as a sign, and it probably was. But despite my best efforts I just haven’t really bonded with this deck, and that’s alright. It means it’s not mine, but that I will find the person it belongs to.

[buzzdixonwriter]

My Five Most Influential

Someone asked:   Who are the most influential writers in your life?

Good question.

The broad answer is that one gets influenced many different ways by many different sources.  I enjoy poetry and song lyrics because they find ways of conveying the strongest emotional content in the most concise manner, music brings a sense of dramatic rhythm and fulfillment, the visual arts suggest ways of subtly adding many insights to a single strong idea, etc., etc., and of course, etc. (and that is also an example of a creative influence in my work).

But…to boil it down to those whom I most consciously made an effort to emulate, we find ourselves facing five creators that primed the pump.

This is not to say others whom I began following after them didn’t wield a lot of influence (thanx, Ernie, Bert, Jack, Bob, and Hank!) but these are the foundation of everything I’ve done in my career.

(And to those who notice a lack of diversity, I know, I know…but to be honest I have to acknowledge the truth, and the truth is for whatever reason, by chance or by choice, by fate or by fortune, these five dominated my sensibilities.  I trust that I’ve grown and expanded my horizons since then, but they’re the hand I got dealt.)

. . . 

Carl Barks

I loved ducks as a kid and my grandmother and aunt would always bring me a passel of duck-related comics when they came to visit.

There were some Daffy Duck comics mixed in there but while I know I looked at and enjoyed them, none of them stick in my mind like the Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories of Carl Barks.

Typically my grandmother would read these comics to me and I’d imprint the dialog and captions in my brain, replaying them as I looked at the pictures over and over again.

Barks never wrote down to his audience, and his stories covered a vast array of genres, everything from straight domestic comedy to oddball adventures to screwy crime stories.

Donald and his nephews encountered dinosaurs more than once (another big favorite of mine), and Uncle Scrooge setting out to explore the asteroid belt in order to find a new home for his fabulous money bin was another tale I loved literally to pieces, but A Christmas For Shacktown remains my all time favorite graphic novel.

I’ll concede there are better graphic novels, but none of them warm my heart the way that Christmas story does.

Barks showed it’s possible to combine heart (not to be confused with sentimentality or =yuch!= schmaltz), vivid characters, and strong, intricate narrative.  His plots where typically filled with unexpected twists and turns but his characters were always deeply involved in them, not just along for the ride.

He’s one of the greatest storytellers in the 20th century, and his work remains timeless enough to last for several centuries to come.

. . . 

Ray Bradbury

The first Ray Bradbury story I remember encountering was “Switch On The Night” in its 1955 edition, read to my kindergarten class towards the end of the school year.

This would place the event sometime in the spring of 1959.

“Switch On The Night” captivated me because it was the first story I’d ever heard that showed what could be seen in the dark that couldn’t be seen in the day.

Even as a child, it made me realize the night wasn’t scary, but contained wonders and insights we miss in the harsh glare of day.

I don’t recall if the kindergarten teacher told us the name of the author, and if she did it didn’t stick, but boy howdy, the story sure did!  Did it open the doors of the night for me, or was I already inclined to be a night person and it simply confirmed that as a valid identity?

I dunno, but I’m typing this right now at 12:24am.

And the thoughts Bradbury planted in little Buzzy boy’s brain stayed and grew and flowered, as you can read in my poem, “The Magic Hours Of The Night”.

The next time I encountered Ray Bradbury’s writing was in grammar school, certainly no later than junior high.  I was already interested in science fiction by that point, and had read “The Pedestrian” in one of my school English books (we weren’t taught the story in class; the teacher skipped over it for whatever reason but I read it anyway then re-read it and read it again and again).

Anthony Boucher’s ubiquitous 2-volume A Treasury Of Great Science Fiction was in my grammar school library and in it was Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” (which I would later learn was one of his alternate Martian Chronicles and a crossover with Fahrenheit 451) and in that story he offered up a veritable laundry list of outré and outlandish fiction to be tracked down and read, authors to dig up and devour.

Oh, man, I was hooked.

So of course I began looking for all the stories and writers Bradbury listed in his short story but I also began looking for Bradbury’s own work and before you could say, “Mom, can I get a subscription to the Science Fiction Book Club?” I’d read The Golden Apples Of The Sun and A Medicine For Melancholy and R is For Rocket never once dreaming that at some point in the future the roadmap Ray plopped down in my lap would eventually lead to us being co-workers (separate projects, but the same studio at the same time) and friends.

There is a beautiful yet deceptive simplicity to Ray’s work, and even though he wrote his own book on writing (The Zen Of Writing) that has lots of good insights and professional tricks & tips, he himself wasn’t able to explain how he did it.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a good Ray Bradbury parody.

I’ve seen parodies that clearly are intended to evoke Ray Bradbury, but only in the same way a clumsy older relative might evoke Michael Jackson with a spasmodic movement one vaguely recognizes as a failed attempt at a moonwalk.

But, lordie, don’t think we didn’t try to emulate him, and while none of us fanboys ever came close, I think a lot of us did learn that less is more, that the right word carries more impact than a dozen paragraphs, and that there’s magic in even the most ordinary of things.

And of course I discovered the film and TV adaptations of his work, and in discovering them I also discovered that there are some things that just can’t be translated from one media to another, and that the light, effortless appeal of Ray’s work on the page (paper or pixel) can at best be recaptured with a good audio book reader but even the best dramatic adaptions -- even those by Ray himself -- are cold dead iron butterflies compared to the light and lively creatures flying about.

So eventually I stopped trying to write like him, and instead picked up the valuable lessons of mood and emotion making an impact on a story even if the plot didn’t make much logical sense.

Decades later I would become a fan of opera, and would learn the philosophy of all opera lovers:  Opera doesn’t have to make logical sense, it just has to make emotional sense.

Ray Bradbury, opera meister.

. . . 

H.P. Lovecraft

As noted above, Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” tipped me to numerous other writers, first and foremost of which turned out to be Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

Okay, before we get any further into this, let’s acknowledge the woolly mammoth in the room:  H.P. Lovecraft was a colossal asshat racist.

He was a lot of other terrible things, too, but racist is far and ahead of the rest of the pack.

It’s a disillusioning thing to find people one admired as a youngster or a teen later prove to have not just quirks and eccentricities and personal flaws, but genuinely destructive, harmful, and offensive characters.

I’ve posted on that before, too.

How I wish it were possible to retroactively scale back that hurtfulness, to make them more empathetic, less egregiously offensive (in the military sense of the word), but that ain’t so.

We have to acknowledge evil when we see it, and we have to call it out, and we have to shun it.

Which is hard when one of its practitioners provides a major influence in our creative lives.

Here’s what I liked about Lovecraft as a kid:  He was the complete opposite of Ray Bradbury.

Bradbury’s instinctive genius was in finding the right word, the simple word that conveyed great impact on the story, drawing the reader into the most fantastic situations by making them seem more familiar on a visceral level.

Lovecraft achieved the exact opposite effect by finding the most arcane, bedizened, baroque, florid, grandiloquent, overwrought, rococo verbiage possible and slapping the reader repeatedly in the face with it.

If Bradbury made the unreal real, Lovecraft made the weird even more weirder.

And let’s give this devil his due:  The Strange Case Of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dunwich Horror are two masterpieces of horror and serve as the bridge between Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King, not to mention his creation of Cthulhu and other ancient entities existing beyond the ken of human knowledge…

…oh, wait, that’s where the story simultaneously gets messy yet provides a convenient escape hatch for fans.

While Lovecraft created Cthulhu, he did not create the Cthulhu Mythos.

That was primarily the invention August Derleth, a writer / editor / agent and H.P. Lovecraft’s #1 fanboy.

Lovecraft had some loosely related ideas in his stories and several themes he revisited repeatedly (in addition to racism).

He also had a circle of fellow writers -- including such heavy hitters as Robert “Psycho” Bloch and Robert E. “Conan” Howard -- who picked up on his ideas and, as way of a tribute, incorporated them in some of their stories.

Derleth took all this and Lovecraft’s unfinished manuscripts and short ideas he jotted down and turned it into a whole post-mortem industry, linking all of Lovecraft and other writers’ tales.

And he did a damn fine job of it, too.

So much so that the Cthulhu Mythos has taken on a life of its own, and pretty much anybody can play in that cosmic sandbox now (including Big Steve King and a ton of Japanese anime) and so Lovecraft’s works have an enormous influence on pop culture…

,,,but Howard hizzowndamsef can be -- and is -- cancelled.

Derleth and various biographers downplayed Lovecraft’s virulent racism for decades, and I don’t think Ray Bradbury was ever aware of the scope and tenor of Lovecraft’s bigotry when he name checked him in “Pillar Of Fire” and other stories.

In a similar vein Bradbury didn’t know -- because thanks again to overly protective literary executors, nobody knew -- just how big a racist asshat Walt Whitman was, either.  It is one thing to call shenanigans on a Bill Cosby or a Harvey Weinstein or a Donald Trump because their egregious behaviors were noted long before they were held accountable, but quite another to do so on a creator who died while hiding their most awful behavior from thousands if not millions of fans who felt inspired and uplifted by their work.

It’s one thing to call out a contemporary bigot and not support them by not buying their work, it’s quite another when their bigotry has been shielded from view and fair minded, decent people have used their work to draw inspiration into their own creativity.

Of course, I had no way of knowing all this when I was in junior high and seriously began tracking down Lovecraft’s work.  

He possessed a flair of the horrific and unearthly that to this day is hard to match (but easier to parody).  He was a tremendous influence on my early writing (truth be told, I zigzagged between Bradbury’s stark simplicity and Lovecraft’s overarching verbosity, giving my early oeuvre a rather schizophrenic style) and the ideas he sparked still reverberate to this day.

If only he hadn’t been such a giant %#@&ing asshat racist …

. . . 

Harlan Ellison

In a way, I’m glad neither Harlan nor his widow Susan are alive to read this.

I cherished Harlan as a friend and greatly admired his qualities as a writer.

But damn, by his own admission he should have been thrown in prison for aggravated assault on numerous occasions (he was courts martialed three times while in the Army).

We’re not talking about arguments that spiraled out of control until a few wild punches were thrown, we’re talking about Harlan by his own admission stalking and ambushing people, knocking them unconscious or causing grievous bodily harm.

We’re talking about sexual abuse and humiliation.

We’re talking about incidents he admitted to which if true put people in life threatening situations.

And yet ironically, in a certain sense Harlan (a bona fide Army Ranger, BTW) was like the U.S. Marine Corps:  You’d never have a greater friend or a worse enemy.

I became dimly aware of Harlan in the late 1960s as I started diving deeper into literary sci-fi, transitioning from monster kid fandom to digests and paperbacks.  Harlan first caught my attention with his macho prose (years later a similar style also drew me to Charles Bukowski) in stories like “Along the Scenic Route” (a.k.a. “Dogfight on 101”) in which Los Angelinos engaged in Mad Max motor mayhem but soon it became apparent the macho posturing was just a patina, that the heart and soul of much of the work reflected great sensitivity and often profound melancholy (ditto Bukowski).

Harlan was a fighter, and again by his own admission, he acknowledged in his later years that he was not a fighter because his cause was just, but rather sought out just causes because he knew he would be fighting regardless of his position, yet possessed a strong enough moral compass to point himself in the direction of a worthy enemy…

…most of the time.

He hurt and offended a large number of innocent and some not-so-innocent-but-certainly-not-evil people.

He also helped and encouraged a large number of others, people who had no idea who he was, people who had no way of adequately reciprocating his kindness and generosity.

He defended a lot of defenseless people.

He also mistakenly defended a lot of terrible people.

If someone tells me Harlan was a monster, I’ll agree:  Monstre sacré.

What made his writing sacred was that no matter how outlandish the situation, Harlan dredged up from the depths emotions so strong as to be frightening in their depiction.

Skilled enough not to lose sight of humanity, outlandish enough to conjure up ideas and emotions most people would shy away from, Harlan hit adolescent Buzzy boy like an incendiary grenade.

Unlike my first three literary influences, Harlan was and remained active in the fannish circles where I was circulating at the time.  He regularly wrote letters and columns for various fanzines, including a few I subscribed to.

In a literary sense he stood, naked and unashamed, in full view of the world, and that willingness to go beyond mundane sensibilities is what made his work so compelling.

He certainly fired me up as an adolescent writer, and proved an amalgam of Bradbury and Lovecraft that got my creative juices flowing in a coherent direction.

I don’t think I ever consciously tried to imitate him in my writing, but I sure learned from him, both in how to charge a story with emotion and how to fight for what’s right regardless of the blow back.

I loved him as a friend.

But, damn, Harlan…you could act so ugly...

. . .

H. Allen Smith

Who?

Most of you have never heard of H. Allen Smith, and that’s a damn shame.

I’d never heard of him either until I stumbled across a coverless remaindered copy of Poor H. Allen Smith’s Almanac in a Dollar General Store bin in Tennessee in the late 1960s (it was a memorable shopping expedition:  I also purchased Thomas Heggen’s Mister Roberts and Let’s Kill Uncle by Rohan O'Grady [pen name of June Margaret O'Grady Skinner]).

Reading Smith’s editorial comments (in addition to his own essays and fiction he edited numerous humor anthologies) I realized I’d found a kindred soul.

Smith had a very conversational tone as a writer; his prose seemed off the cuff and unstructured, but he slyly used that style to hide the very peculiar (and often perverse) path he led readers down.

He sounded / read like a garrulous guy at the bar, one with a huge number of charming, witty (and delightfully inebriated) friends in addition to his own bottomless well of tall tales, pointed observations, and rude jokes.

Of all the writers mentioned above, that style is the one I most consciously tried to emulate, and one I seem to have been able to find my own voice in (several people have told me I write the same way I talk, a rarity among writers).

Smith was hilarious whether wearing an editor’s visor or a freelancer’s fool’s cap.  If you know who H. L. Mencken was, think of Smith as a benign, better tempered version of that infamous curmudgeon (and if you don’t know, hie thee hence to Google and find out).

Compared to my other four influences, Smith didn’t need to add the fantastic to his fiction:  The real world was weird and wacky and whimsical enough.

A newspaper man turned best selling author, Smith became among the most popular humorists of the 1940s-50s-60s…

…and then he died and everybody forgot him.

Part of the reason they forgot is that he wrote about things that no longer seem relevant (TV cowboys of the early television era, f’r instance, in Mr. Zip) or are today looked upon askance (and with justifiable reason; the ethnic humor in many of his anthologies may not have been intended as mean spirited, but it sure doesn’t read as a celebration of other cultures, viz his succinct account of an argument following a traffic accident between two native Honolulu cabbies rendered in pidgin:  “Wassamatta you?”  “’Wassmatta me’?!?!?  Wassamatta you ‘Wassamatta me’?  You wassamatta!”).

I’m sure I picked up a great many faults from Smith, but Smith also had the virtue of being willing and able to learn and to make an effort to be a better person today than he was yesterday, and better still tomorrow.

I’ve certainly tried applying that to my life.

Smith’s style was also invoked -- consciously or not -- by other writers and editors, notably Richard E. Geis, the editor of the legendary sci-fi semi-prozone, Science Fiction Review (among other titles).  Smith died before I could meet him, but while I never met Dick Geis face to face we were pen pals for over 40 years.

Geis certainly sharpened specific aspects of my writing style, but the real underlying structure came from H. Allen Smith.

Smith’s work is hard to find today (in no small part because whenever I encounter one in the wild I snap it up) but I urge you to give him a try.

Just brace yourself for things we might consider incorrect today.

. . . 

So there’s my top five. 

With the exception of Carl Barks and Ray Bradbury, none of them are without serious flaw or blemish (though Smith seems like a decent enough sort despite his fondness for X-rated and ethnic humor).

In my defense as an impressionable child / teen, I was not aware of these flaws and blemishes when I first encountered their writing (primarily because in many cases efforts were made to hide or downplay those aspects).

The positive things I gleaned from them are not negated by the negative personal information that came out later.

I can, for the most part re the more problematic of them, appreciate their work while not endorsing their behavior.

Ellison can only be described in extremes, but his fire and passion -- when directed in a positive direction -- served as a torch to light new paths (his two original anthologies, Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions, pretty much blew the doors off old school sci-fi and belatedly dragged the genre kicking and screaming into the 20th century).

Lovecraft I can effectively ignore while finding entertainment value in the Cthulhu Mythos.

But I must acknowledge this isn’t the same for everyone.

For example, as innocuous as I find H. Allen Smith, if a woman or a member of a minority group said, “I found this in particular to be offensive” I’d probably have to say, yeah, you’re right.

But I can still admire the way he did it, even if I can no longer fully support what he did.

. . . 

By the time I reached high school, I’d acquired enough savvy to regard to literary finds a bit more dispassionately, appreciating what they did without trying to literally absorb it into my own writing.

I discovered for myself the Beat generation of writers and poets, the underground cartoonists of the late 60s and 70s, Ken Kesey, Joseph Heller, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. LeGuin, and a host of others, some already alluded to.

Some, such as the Beats and Bukowski, I could enjoy for their warts and all honest self-reflection.

Yes, they were terrible people, but they knew they were terrible people, and they also knew there had to be something better, and while they may never have found the nirvana they sought, they at least sent back accurate reports of where they were in their journeys of exploration.

By my late teens, I’d become aware enough of human foibles and weaknesses -- every human’s foibles and weaknesses, including my own -- to be very, very cautious in regarding an individual as admirable.

While I will never accept creativity as an excuse for bad behavior, if a creator is honest enough and self-introspective enough to recognize and acknowledge their own failings, it goes a long way towards my being willing to enjoy their work without feeling I’m endorsing them as individuals.

It’s not my place to pass judgment or exoneration on others bad behavior.

It is my place to see that I don’t emulate others’ bad behavior.

Every creator is connected to their art, even if it’s by-the-numbers for-hire hack work.

Every creator puts something of themselves into the final product.

And every member of the audience must decide for themselves if that renders the final product too toxic to be enjoyed. 

    © Buzz Dixon

[stanislavpeace-blog]

Why does man leave reality

We understand that in reality people are confronted with various technologies and practices. We reveal internal forces, excluding the laws of society.

The world is you, the universe is your brain, and you create your reality personally, attract, promote any events, kill yourself, give meaning to things around, everything that is around has exploded from your head.

We regard any techniques and practices as the withdrawal of a person from himself, when he begins to engage in them, the same meditations, the person runs away from himself, it is easier for him to be in lower dimensions. Further I will explain why they are lower dimensions. It’s easier for a person to fall out of reality, to practice any kind of hypnotics, immersion, and so on, because he runs away from himself, lies to himself, it’s easier for him to live there, somewhere below, having any friends - higher me, mentors, anyone.

I studied the texts of immersion - these are standard texts of hypnosis, you do not have to separate out any regressive hypnosis, and so on, in essence it is the same thing. We take as a basis the technique of immersion in the text. I began to study it in stages. When a person visualizes different stairs, the same elevator, people think that they are going up, in fact not, people are going down, into lower dimensions. The lower dimensions are the same worlds, but from the perspective of plus and minus, with a negative charge, the worlds of dark, gray, at least someone we call them, for example demons. There are also possibilities of consciousness, when a person himself can create a demon, he himself can draw a larva from any world, and at least anything.

This is the idea of our channel, this is the idea that we speak and convey. If you believe that you have low energy, you have some kind of parasites, that is, two options, either you will create them yourself with your consciousness, or you yourself will attract them, you let them into yourself, that is, believe that low vibrations or something else. Therefore, we draw your attention to the fact that various psychics, magicians, sorcerers, shamans, they contribute to the fact that a person believes in any one particular model.

The same sleeper, for example, can tell a person that you have a larva there there, so many hertz, such a demon, and so on ... A person based on the fact that he trusts these people, or he’s all himself will create, or it will pull everything to itself, let it in. Everything is always taken from the head of a person from his capabilities, in simple terms, not in the words of practices or techniques, we all already perfectly understand that any diving, hypnotizing is the same dream.

I will give a simple example, the Kama Sutra - there are possibilities of the human body for some action and there are actions that are presented from a slightly different angle, the same thing, but it is only for sale. In the same way, any other practice of pseudo-spiritual development. The first factor is the person’s self-programming, that he is not spiritually developed or not developed at all, the same reality transference — the person’s ability to modulate his reality, reality transfer is called - Zeland’s reality transfer, that is, he is again sold to the person himself, he himself buys himself.

This is because a person runs away from himself, he does not want to answer for himself for his life, body and for what is around him, what he pulled created, created, and therefore people jump into various spiritual practices, techniques and centers . Often, they simply look for people who will be responsible for their lives. That is, I went to such and such a spiritual center, it got worse for me there, thus, they shift, for example, problems that they created for themselves.

But this is our ideology, this is our point of view, which is not unlike the point of view of hypnotists. That is, if you explain to them that when you read the texts, you plunge down, you plunge down a person, and you still believe him, this person works, finds the etheric bodies of other people, if he is really able to move his consciousness, if he really is a man, for example, or maybe it’s not a man at all, then in this way the etheric body of people goes simply down, this is a conveyor.

When I looked at this whole situation, where it came from, how it was modeled, representatives of various dimensions simply explained to me that they all want to eat, they all want to eat and for them the soul is just like energy. I made the most usual message with the question, what lesson should I learn, what should I understand from the whole simulated situation. With people who are engaged in various techniques, hypnosis, chineling, meditation, they constantly jump out of reality, are downstairs, they feel good there, they drag people there, it’s useless to say that you already have it in your head, that you don’t need anything at all.

I believe that people who sell any technique or practice, teach something, are not completely conscientious, because they sell people their own capabilities, or concentrate their attention at one point, saying that they need it. I live breathing and thinking, but, for example, without some meditation, I find myself doing it wrong. They find ways where it’s subconscious to push a person, because it’s easier for people not to see their reflection, to go somewhere in the light, somewhere in the light forces, while you also feed, you are still able to create them and in general they should ask how they live, and not you.

I don’t touch the classics of the genre - communication with souls, the souls of great people, the concepts of the astral plane, these are all wanderings in the astral plane, these are the most common dives into lower dimensions. We often say to many people that when you turn to some of the same cleansing, it's all a matter of self-hypnosis. Each person is able to cleanse himself, this is the transfer of responsibility to other people, when a person thinks, yeah, they cleaned me up, I don’t need anything else in my life, this is self-hypnosis again.

They themselves created some kind of problems or these problems were imposed on you from outside, and then they themselves removed. These are human capabilities. And a lot of the information that we voice and speak really people understand. They understand that they always knew this, but it was easier for them not to think about it, not to look in their reflection, not to accept themselves, not to be their own god, their own guru, and so on.

The conclusion that I made while studying various spiritual centers, techniques, practices, representatives of hypnosis and chineling, meditation, is based on the fact that they initially lacked love, that same attention, honesty with themselves, so they left this reality, somewhere crawling down below, under various pseudo names, nicknames, names of their centers, in this way attract people, attract their attention, feed on their love. On the one hand, this is parasitism.

Talking with these people, the representatives whom I have listed is very difficult, it's like talking to zombies, you can imagine how to revive a person. Therefore, we thought, consulted inside the project, and decided that we would develop something, some kind of shock therapy, after which people whose brain was knocked out would be driven back. Trainees who are in their own hypnosis created this hypnosis themselves, and they float somewhere.

Using the information that we can transmit, they will also be on the rails of life. Perhaps this will be a specific package of information. Perhaps this will be a list of certain consecutive lessons while we think about how to do this to shake the minds of especially trainees, who firmly sit in various techniques and practices, who firmly sit in spiritual centers, so that people stop spending their personal time watching any then the video, in search of certain information that is always embedded inside, learned to work with those tools, their unique codes that are stored in them.

And they stopped giving out their potential. We think about it, I won’t be able to say how it will look right now, because everything is always individual, there is nothing collective, I hope that something will come of it.  

People live and enjoy life. Travel, meet sunsets and sunrises. Raise children. Show all the beauty of the earth. Be kind and attentive. This is your spiritual development. Thank.

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[ashandboneca]

Crafting Pagan Ritual

ED: This is a very old piece of mine probably written more than 10 years ago, written when I practiced a very Wiccan-centric path. It was a class I taught to beginners. I feel it still may be helpful for those who run public ritual or are exploring ritual creation.

What is ritual?

A ritual is a set of actions, performed mainly for their symbolic value. It may be prescribed by a religion or by the traditions of a community.

It is driven by a mindset – to celebrate a holiday/season/special day, to create and execute a spell, or to honour a deity (or other spiritual guide or being). Normally there are certain parameters that are established (a circle, a boundary), and certain actions taken, depending on tradition and personal beliefs. It can celebrate a rite of passage (a birthday, for example), and usually has lasting traditions (birthday cake, candles, presents) that can be repeated year to year (month to month, etc).

Really, let’s be frank; a ritual can be anything.

For me, a ritual (in a spiritual sense) is a space to create a psychological mindset so that I can focus on my intention, and get my purpose done.

When do I create ritual?

You create ritual to celebrate an occasion, to mark a holiday, to honour a deity, or to raise energy for an intended purpose.

A ritual can be as simple as lighting a candle and saying a prayer, or as complicated as a mystery play with multiple participants, costumes, and several songs. It is dependant on what you choose to involve, and whom (if) you choose to involve.

Purpose: The Necessary Ingredient

I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH.

Without a purpose, you do not have a ritual. A ritual without purpose is like a ham sandwich without ham – sure, the bread, mayo, and mustard are edible, but they are not as good, as nourishing, or as satisfying without the ham. In fact, they suck. You can attempt to do a ritual for any old reason – but trust me, it will go nowhere fast without a clear purpose.

Purpose gives you something to focus on. An example: Beltane is May 1. I may decide to do a ritual to mark that passage in the wheel. So – I could say ‘my purpose is Beltane!’. Or, I could go one better, and say 'Hm. Beltane is often associated with fertility – my purpose is fertility!’ Or, I could go even deeper – my purpose could be the specific gods/goddesses (Demeter, Green Man, Hathor) associated with that holiday – so I could be petitioning for their help. My friend Sally could be trying to have a baby – I could use her as a focus for my purpose.

You want to have a clear purpose, and you can narrow the focus as much as you like. However, I have found that in larger, more public settings, it is better to have a focused purpose that is more general – more along the 'fertility’ option. The other participants may not know Sally, or perhaps they want to focus on their own fertility. It still gives the ritual a structure and a place/concept to direct the energy, but it allows it to be more accessible for the general populace.

Psychologically, the purpose gives our minds a place to go to – and allows our imaginations and visualization capabilities to fill in the blanks. It helps us to figure out how we want to picture the energy, and how exactly we want to send that out to the universe. Piggybacking on the Beltane example, I often visualize fertile energy as green energy starting at my sacral chakra. It gives us the freedom to work with the energy as we want, but allows us to work towards the same goal.

In personal ritual, it is just as important to have a purpose. Being in ritual headspace all the time is exhausting – if you are working a spell or honouring a deity, you want to conserve that energy so you have no issues raising it when needed. It would be the equivalent of going to a mall with no purpose – not to shop, or browse, but just to wander aimlessly for hours and hours. You end up tired and cranky, and that bleeds into your ritual work.

An example: One year, I decided to do a ritual. No real reason, just wanted to do one. So I cast my circle with my wand, and just…. sat there. I didn’t have a purpose, so I had no focus. I ended up just sitting there, stewing about something that had made me angry earlier, and that energy just got supercharged. I got angrier and angrier, and ended up channelling so much of this into my wand that it snapped!

My Magic Formula

To be fair, this is a pretty old formula. I just molded it to fit my needs.

This is a classic example of the visualization of plot. As in, a literary device.

Almost any ritual can be slid into this formula – it represents any purpose, and gives a clear beginning, middle, and end. A ritual is simply a story being told in a poetic way to illustrate a purpose. This graph is your best friend.

Building ritual from a skeleton

Let’s break it down simply.

The introduction: This is where you set your stage. You decide if you want a circle to create sacred space, and how to do that. Some people prefer the 'hand to hand I cast this circle’. Some prefer taking their pointy tool of choice (finger, athame, or wand) and going around the outside. Some people hand a ball of yarn around so that it is a physical representation of the circle.

You also decide how to call your quarters. They can be as simple or as flowery as you like. They can be creative – a few rituals we have done word association.

Decide on what gods/spirits/beings you want to call into your space. This will be relevant to your purpose. Make sure the beings get along – don’t call opposing entities to work together in cohesion – I guarantee it’s not happening.

Direction: This is simply your statement of purpose. It can be as simple as 'we are here today to celebrate Imbolc’ or as complicated as “We gather here on Brigid’s day to celebrate the turning of the wheel. We have come to honour the gradual warming of the earth, the persistence of the coming spring, the waning of the ice and cold of winter’s grasp. At Yule we honour the gifts of darkness, and today we honour the gifts of the light.” This is the statement that puts the celebrants (or yourself) into ritual headspace.

I also like to explain any activity that will be done, and why we’re doing it. Like, if we’re going to be singing a chant, I pass out sheets with the words, or teach people the words, so we aren’t stumbling when the critical point arrives.

Rising Energy: This is when you are … well, raising energy for your purpose. You’re chanting, singing, meditating, whatever. The point is that your focus is on the purpose, and you are channelling life into that.

Climax: The release of energy into the universe. Pretty self explanatory.

Denouement: The falling action – the part of the ritual that is essentially used to help people ground. Often, people will serve cakes/ale, or hold a meditation, or simply ground.

Completion: The end of the ritual. You thank your deities, dismiss your quarters, take down sacred space, and thank the participants.

These terms make up the skeleton of a ritual – they are key points that keep the ritual cohesive. This ensures a clear beginning, middle, and end. Use these key points to initially create your ritual, and fill in the rest as you go along. I find writing out (and blocking it) is extremely helpful.

Example:

Samhain, 2006

Altar is decorated with black cloth, scattered leaves, gourds, acorns, apples, and black and orange candles. In two candleholders, there are taller black tapers. A variety of breads and fruits for feasting on a pentacle. A lit black pillar and unlit white pillar sit near the tall black tapers candles.

Intro: Outline your circle with bird seed and salt. Cast the circle (using athame) and call Quarters (simple calls)…… invoke the Crone aspect of the Goddess by lighting the black Goddess candle… invoke the God by lighting the black God candle.

Direction: Explain the significance of the holiday (using script). Set the scene using props (apples, boline). Statement of purpose (the honoured dead, those who have passed, death as a cycle). Explain myth of Persephone.

Rising Energy: Bless the food. Begin chant (likely Hoof and Horn). Have drummers to keep beat. Slowly chant faster.

Climax: Send energy to focus. Have everyone raise their hands and shout.

Denouement: Snuff black pillar (old year). Light white pillar (new year). Pass around blessed food to enjoy.

Completion: Thank God/ess. Dismiss quarters. Drop circle (using athame). Hand out leaves to participants.

Meat : Now safe for vegans

Now here comes the actual work of the ritual writing – the meat. By meat, I mean all the decisions that need to be made about what is in the skeleton. So you’re going to call the elements – how are you going to do this? Is it freeform, or will you have a script? This is where you write that script. You need to block out everything, down to where people are standing and what people’s jobs are.

This part can take research. It can be really easy if you are writing for yourself – most of the time you can do it freeform, or read it off a paper. In a larger setting, this can be a challenge. I will get into the type of people you need in a later section.

The script gets written – depending on how eloquent you are (or how eloquent you want it to be), this can be a challenge. If you need someone to pass things around, or need someone to perform a specific task or chant, that has to be included here.

Think of it this way: you’re making a sandwich. You have decided on the type of bread you want, and the condiments you want – what do you want to be the main part of the sandwich? Is it ham, beef, sprouts? Do you want to shaved, cut, or raw? What kind of cheese do you want, if you want it? Aside from the purpose, this is the most important part.

Drama: why it is necessary (and not the crummy type)

It’s all well and good to write out a beautiful ritual, but actually running it is another story. Any great story or play is going to have drama, and you had better sure you have some as well.

When you are looking for other participants to play parts in your drama, you need to be sure that you are choosing the right people. Can these people read with passion and conviction, or do they have the stage persona of a wet dishrag? With encouragement, anyone can show promise – but when you are running a ritual for other people, it is very important your ritual has a good flow and is suffused with enough passion and zeal. Nothing wrecks a mood like a quarter-caller who reads with the passion of a banker’s box. Practice your ritual before the big day – DO NOT leave it until the last minute. You want the ritual to feel confident and effortless, so people should know exactly what they need to do and when. Being unprepared shows in your ritual – you are directing the energy, and you want to keep the revellers on point. Having everyone read through their parts a few times so they don’t stumble over words or lose their place in ritual will keep the energy flowing – but most importantly, it will keep everyone in what I call 'ritual mindset’.

Ritual mindset is the psychological state we enter when we enter a ritual. Many things can effect this – sounds, smells, visuals. I knew someone who would instantly go into a meditative state when he smelled benzoin. This is why there are people in robes, a decorated altar, drummers and bell ringers. All of these are tools to keep you focused and intent on what needs to be done. I have written about this in my past article The Importance of Ecstatic Ritual.

Every religion has it’s own pageantry – paganism is no different. Catholic priests wear ritual robes and often carry censers of frankincense and myrrh up the aisle of the church – Jewish men wear the yarmulke as a pious custom. These 'costumes’ are ways to differentiate the religious leaders from the flock – in paganism, we often wear these clothes to symbolize the shedding of the mundane and stepping into sacred space. This is not to say that I would not have the ability to lead a sabbat ritual in jeans and a t-shirt; I certainly could, but would people seeing me, in jeans, automatically think 'ritual’? Doubtful.

Sometimes, donning ritual jewelry, a robe, a cloak, or even all black clothing is enough to non-verbally communicate 'we are in a sacred space’.

The fear: or how I stopped worrying and learned to love the Gods

Here it is – you’re standing in front of a group of 5, 10, 30 people. They are looking at you expectantly. You’re pretty sure if you could, you’d pass out from fear. Rhi, you ask, how do you get past this?

Honestly? I am a pretty shy person, and every ritual is a challenge for me. I find it hard to speak in front of people, and I have screwed up so many times in ritual from fear and nervousness – I can’t even count. You are your own worst critic – nothing is ever expected to be perfect. The god/esses are not going to judge you because you said south when you meant north. I also find laughing it off, or a little self depreciation works just fine. “Oh, ha, I had a dream I visited Australia last night – still running in Aussie headspace!”

Mistakes happen. We are all human, and any other expectation is unrealistic. Just focus on having fun. If you’ve done a few runs of the ritual, you should be comfortable enough to lead with little issue. Every ritual is a celebration, and if you spend the time worrying about every little thing, you’re throwing the wrong energy out there.

A Final Note

I have been involved in the community in the past, running and assisting in public rituals. Community was always my focus, and it is my goal to make people understand how much work goes into a ritual, but also how easy it can be to create the ritual, either for personal or public use.

Please note that this article is based on my own experiences and methods. If something does not work for you, or if you disagree with my opinions or thoughts, that is okay! It is all about giving you a basis so you can learn to create and nurture your own methods!

[morgemuffel]

MALEC. ➰FORGET. EASIER SAID THAN DONE. (aku cinta kamu)

This story takes place after the episode 3Bx18

-> Let's have a look on a deeply sad Magnus after Alec broke up with him. His best friend Cat is not available and he needs someone to talk to. Painful memories of him and Alec are haunting him and a homeless man gives him a lesson in life.

I remember the pain very well, which I went through a few weeks ago when I collapsed because of Lorenzo's magic. I thought I had reached the peak of my pain tolerance. Such an enormous pain that led me to experience my deepest desires. I had this dream, this idea of a perfect life with Alec. We sat at the table ate waffles were joking about crêpes laughing and dancing. A dream quite obvious. Dazzle, deception I would have many names to call it. Never again, I had sworn after Camille. Never again would I open myself, make myself so naked and vulnerable towards another person. Over 400 years old but I never learn. I'm not worth being loved. Not even my mother loved me enough to stay with me. How could I assume that it would be different with Alec? Maybe because he had said so? Because after all these years of incompleteness he gave me the feeling of finally being whole and complete? Because he made me feel like I was the only important thing in the world, the only thing that matters? And even worse, all these things I do have for him. Even now while I'm sitting here and still can't believe it, can't understand it and don't want to understand it. Even now I know that the love for him and thus the associated loss will be my end. A life without Alec surpassed every imaginable pain. "Stay with me" I had whispered desperately. And I thought I knew pain, I knew loss. But as Alec walked through that door, the memories of us shattered into thousand pieces and pelted down on me like dangerous shards of glass. I can clearly visualize the splinters above me. As if they were real and every single one of them wafer-thin and razor-sharp, shoots down on me and right through my heart. My heart that doesn't seem to beat any longer, because there is no reason for it to beat anymore and even worse there is no one there for it to beat for. Magnus sat huddled up on the floor in Maryse' bookstore. He was replaying the past situation over and over again in his head. And tried to figure out when the exact moment must have been when Alec realized that the relationship was no longer working for him. Was it already after his collapse at the institute in his office last week or after the failed dinner yesterday or even before? He knew that he wasn't an easy Person and his personality wasn't simple either. As well that his losses had entirely thrown him off track. Magnus trembled with anger and the tears flowed down his face hot and salty. At first he was angry at Alec because he had left him and then at himself because he knew that this time it was his fault. His depressive mood fluctuation, the constant self-pity and not to forget his slightly exaggerated alcohol consumption had teared the couple apart. He took a deep breath and stood up to put on his jacket. He had to get out of here because he didn't want to accidentally fall asleep and still lie here like a bunch of misery, when Maryse comes back tomorrow to open the store. "You're part of the family." he heard her voice in his head. Every single word was a sting in his heart and the pain it caused almost strangled the air out of him. Alec was everything he had ever wanted, his one true love, his home, his safe haven and his soul mate. And now he was gone, forever. Magnus left the bookstore and locked the door behind him. He hid the key in the large flowerpot next to the front door. But where should he go now? His first instinct was to go to the next best bar, but then it occurred to him that his drinking was a reason for his new single existence and he decided to discard this idea. So he wrote Cat a text message to ask if she would like to eat two or three cans of ice cream with him later and just started to walk in no specific direction. Without knowing it he suddenly stood in front of a big rusty heart made out of metal with the capital letters L O V E beside it and the next memory of him and Alec appeared. His smiling face as he proudly presented Magnus the lock he bought to implement the European tradition in New York. Their trip to Paris had inspired him to place a symbol of their love here as well. A symbol of their eternal love, "Aku cinta kamu", Magnus heard himself whispering before he shrugged from the touch on his shoulder and the memory faded away. He turned around to identify the person and saw a scraggy man in a dirty checkered shirt and a much too-short dirty pair of trainer pants. Clearly a homeless person. Magnus looked at him expectantly with his face smeared with tears.  "I noticed that you weren't doing very well..." he began to speak hesitantly. "Maybe you would like to feed the pigeons with me... that calms me down most of the time when I am sad... and I have a half of sandwich left that I would share with you... if you like? You look so sad..." the homeless man said with a throaty smoky voice that was actually much too deep for his stature. Magnus was visibly irritated but wrested to a smile as he nodded and followed the man to the nearest bench. Cat still hadn't responded to his message, probably she had a late shift. And since Magnus urgently needed someone to talk to, he decided to trust this stranger man with his sorrows. Of course a censored version without shadowhunters, warlocks and vampires. The cool October breeze blew passt the two of them and they sat there for a while and remained silent. Bob the homeless man fed the pigeons with some grains and breadcrumbs. As he broke the silence. "I wasn't always homeless, you know," he suddenly spoke. "I had a great job, a lot of money, a beautiful house, my wife and kids... But when the children grew up and moved out and my wife died cause of her illness a year ago and I was suddenly alone, I realized that all these material things were worth nothing to me. He looked at Magnus to see if he was listening to him and nodded as he continued speaking. "For some reason we all define ourselves more and more by status symbols and forget that it's the little things that really count. Like spending unforgettable moments with your loved ones." Again he looked at Magnus who slightly blushed under his examining gaze. "Every day I try to give something back to the people around me. I help in the soup kitchen or clean the streets in winter and so on. They are small things but they fulfill me. Some people look at me and see a disgusting homeless person, but why should it bother me how others see me as long as the people whom opinions really matters, know my story and love and appreciate me? Love is the only true currency and once you have found it you don't need anything else. He paused and looked into the void when he asked: "Do you believe in magic and the magic behind love? The Has-been-warlock thought about the question and although Bob didn't know that Magnus is, was a centuries old warlock, and belonges to the shadow world. Magnus still felt as if the homeless man could completely see through him. Magic, yes he believed in magic and he thought he was missing his and the immortality and that he'd be nothing without it. But the truth is Bob was right. There is another kind of magic. Magnus chose his words with caution as he replied. "I thought I had everything, too. A great job, a great home, magic... well..." He cleared his throat and continued: "The love of my life I mean, but he left me and it is my fault. He faltered as he spoke and Bob didn't urged him to speak any further. Instead he continued: "I have learned to renounce, because I can and not because I have to. What does the well paid job mean if you don't have anyone you can share the money with? Or worse, what use does money have if you're lonely at the end of the day? We don't live forever and the time we have should be used sensibly. I miss my wife every day, but I know that the time with her was magical and when your girlfriend..." he broke off when he saw Magnus raising his eyebrows. "Your... boyfriend...?" he asked hesitantly and Magnus nodded half-heartedly. "Probably more my ex-boyfriend now" he murmured embarrassed. Bob looked at him insistently as he began his speech again. "If your boyfriend is really the love of your life you should ask yourself if you want to fight for your relationship or try to forget him and guide your time and energy into a meaningful direction. A dove sits on my lap as I open my eyes. It's already dark and Bob has left, if he was even real... and I didn't just imagine the whole conversation. I'm not sure cause I'm holding an empty tequila bottle, wrapped up in a paper bag in my hand and my head is humming. So much for that no more alcohol statement before. Alec's face appears again, his loving smile... God my soul hurts and it's hard to think clear. I have to shake away the thoughts of his perfect face. Fight for us or guide my energy into a meaningful direction Bob had said. I had fought, hadn't I? I literally threw myself at him when he was about to leave me. Begged him to stay, kissed him and tried to show him that I was still the same. That I love him and need him. But he didn't care, he left and I can't and don't want to forget him. Or can I? I always kept telling myself that the pain after a break up is part of the process to forget, it's there to learn from your mistakes. But a life without Alec and knowing that he left me literally tears me apart and I only know one person who can take all those bitter-sweet memories away from me. Yes maybe I'm a coward, maybe that makes me hypocritical and weak but I don't want to stand on a bridge again and... I just can't live with the memories. I need to talk to Jem Carstairs and ask him to erase my memories of Alec.

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 3 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: Y’all, wow, your response to this fic is continually amazing, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I feel so inspired to continue with it, I plowed through this part as soon as we got back from Brooklyn today. Despite my dislike for DC (I’ve spent a lot of time there and it drives me nuts) I’m becoming an expert in high-end DC businesses (tailors, florists, restaurants) thanks to this fic! There’s a lot of logistic details I needed to get through in this part, so pardon its plottiness, I PROMISE we are getting back to the smut very soon. Madeline Stone, Mackenzie’s mom, a character I invented for this fic, is basically Carrie Fisher if she were a journalist (and still alive :’( sobbb) in my eyes, so think of her as Carrie, visually and temperamentally. I think I’ll keep switching between POVs as the fic goes on, so Part 4 will be from Kenzie’s perspective, 5 from Duncan’s, etc etc. Wait till you see what Duncan’s gonna do with all those roses.

Duncan stared from the window of the backseat of his private car, out onto the National Mall where Sunday tourists were snapping photos of the Washington monument with their smartphones, children screaming and running, blue sky mirroring his blue gaze, clouds skirting over the bright May sunlight, clouds passing over his eyes; the clouds of his thoughts, the darkness of them, whirling in his mind. 

He still felt dizzy and disoriented from the last 15 or so hours; felt the cold quelling in his heart that he couldn’t push down entirely, trying to convince him that Mackenzie had indeed been a very vivid, very beautiful, very soft figment of his imagination. He stretched his fingers absently, longingly, trying to trap the memory of the feeling of her small hand in them; trying to recall as clearly as he could the soft ache of her lips against his mouth. God, if only he could bottle feelings into tight containers, safe and hidden to open when he wished to breathe them into his lungs; if only memories, however recent, could be recalled into reality whenever you wanted them to be. He wanted to recall every tiny detail of her; her cascading, shimmering hair, her impossibly deep eyes with their long lashes, her small mouth and her dazzlingly sincere smile, her throat with its quartz, the jewels of a goddess, the round hardness of her nipples in his lips, the sweet scent of her down between her thighs, the ridges of the outline of her ribs under his hands, a map he wanted to memorize in minute exhaustion.

He thought of her wearing his tee shirt, the fall of her damp hair over her shoulder, the way she stared at her plate, a light blush on her cheeks, her look of doubt as she stared into his eyes, disappointment and sadness flickering there as she stood up, saying she would leave; he thought of how his heart had lept in his chest in horror at the thought; the idea of her leaving, of her vanishing into the void of the world when he’d finally just found her this way, when he had held her in his arms so entirely, had made him want to scream. He would have begged her to stay if need be; would have gone on his knees and kissed her fingers and fucking begged. The knowledge of this shook him to the core; when and how and whereby could this small gold goddess, stepped out of the ether itself it seemed, make him feel so entirely unraveled, unhinged? He shook his head lightly, closing his eyes, bringing his hand up to his chin and over his lips again, the way he always did when he was troubled in thought, lost in confusion. He didn’t know how, he didn’t understand any of this, but he knew one thing: he knew he couldn’t wait to see her tonight, the thought of seeing her again was bringing that warm-water-over-a-glass-cascading-into-a-black-hole feeling into his veins again, filling him up, causing his nerves to tingle, the back of his skull to vibrate with sensitivity. He felt overwhelmed in the feeling; the memory of their bodies pressed together in ecstatic sensation, that hidden brightness inside her eyes, her voice moaning his name, her little mouth around his cock, god, god, Mackenzie.

Madeline goddamnfuckingshitfuck Stone’s daughter.

He still couldn’t believe that; it was as if there were a brick wall in his mind that was preventing it from really settling, really sinking in. Annette Shepherd and Madeline Stone had once been classmates at Georgetown University; but it wouldn’t be accurate to have ever called them friends. While Annette had chosen the path of power wherever she could find it, Madeline had channeled all her energies into journalism and feminist theory, earning her a Pulitzer at 23; a feat that gained her worldwide notoriety and a permanent position with the Washington Post, a position she’d kept through a pregnancy (Mackenzie, Duncan thought, hand still wrapped around his chin, and his mind moved unbidden to the feeling of her velvet dress under his fingers, the dip of her neck between his lips, the moans of ecstasy falling from her lips as his mouth worked at her clit), two divorces, bipolar disorder, and a benign lump in her breast.  Madeline Stone was un-fuck-withable, had written candid bestselling memoirs about her mental health struggles and her failed marriages and love affairs, as well as two bestselling books on feminist theory that were now considered essential literature in college women’s studies courses. She was a hero of modern feminism; a powerful force in Washington, as revered a figure as Gertrude Stein, a hero to millennial women. 

And oh, how Annette Shepherd hated her. “Fucking Medusa,” she’d called Madeline once in Duncan’s presence, the words slipping between her teeth in a hiss. “High on her femdom shit looking down on the rest of us. A thorn in my fucking side, splashing her harlotry all over my fucking city.” Stone and his mother had had several very public arguments on C-SPAN and CNN; in one, Madeline had called Annette “an absolute viper of white, privileged, colonizing complicity,” the clip of which had made the rounds on YouTube to the tune of 1 million views when Annette had stormed out in a fury.

He imagined the look of cold shock on his mother’s face at the theoretical admission from him that he had slept with Madeline Stone’s daughter last night; imagined the blood draining from her cheeks and the twist of her mouth if she knew a modicum of the truth of his thoughts. Those thoughts were still swirling in his head, glowing and fervent and warm and tender, thoughts that pulsed with longing, with desire. If Annette Shepherd knew that not only had her son and Madeline Stone’s daughter fucked each other’s brains out last night in a frenzy of lust, but that her son, her fierce pride and joy, whom she trusted implicitly and demanded complete loyalty from, was, dare he say it, dare he even think it, already, somehow, insanely, and with total abandon, falling hopelessly in love with Madeline Stone’s fucking daughter.

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, biting his lip. “Fuck me.”

“Okay,” the memory of Mackenzie’s voice rang in his ears, echoing through the recent past, her invisible lips brushing his ear. “I’ll fuck you, baby. I’ll fuck you so good.”

He shivered, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingling and standing on end, goosebumps rising on his arms under his immaculate black cashmere sweater. He hooked a finger around the band collar of the perfectly ironed shirt under the sweater, feeling too hot. God damn, but I really don’t care deep down, I really don’t, still. Even if Mom started to spit fire. I don’t think I could stop. I have to see her again. What’s happening to me? Who is this girl, how am I feeling this way? God, I need a drink. What the fuck time is it?

He glanced at his watch; today it was the round black Movado he usually wore on regular days. 11:24 AM. He was shocked to see his hands were shaking a little; the bourbon and too much coffee, he insisted to himself. But he thought of her mouth again, her soft little hands on his cock, and he knew better.

He thought back on how they’d parted.

--------

He’d thrown her underwear into his silver, round Miele dryer; it took an average of ten minutes for it to dry practically anything, but for the first time since he’d bought it he wished it would dry slower; he had hated to stare at the thought that soon she’d be leaving, the smell of her lingering on his old Led Zeppelin tee, vetiver, geranium, roses, the heady smell of her already ground into the lining of his skin, haunting, bittersweet. She’d gone back into his room while he was at the dryer, slipped on her little velvet dress, her hair mostly dry now; he noted with a sad, low thump of his heart that the tee she’d worn was folded neatly on his nightstand as he went into the bedroom, gazing over her and the bed where they’d embraced so unforgettably a few short hours before, gold light all over her body, and he’d gone up behind her as she leaned to fix the hem of her little dress, wrapping his arms around her hips, bringing his hands up tenderly around her arms, pressing his face into the crook of her ear and jaw. She had sighed; the sound of it slinging bursts of light along every nerve of his body.

“Give me your phone number; please?” He’d reached his head forward a little, lips brushing her cheek, which was cool and smelled of the jasmine soap from his shower. She’d let out a little burst of a laugh, a sort of ha!, as if at the silly reality that they had been wildly intimate and didn’t have each other’s phone numbers yet; he silently agreed that modern life was constantly bizarre, but didn’t move his arms from her body; he felt loathe to.

“I’ll leave it on the nightstand with a receipt for my fee,” she joked.

“You know, I should have known you were Madeline’s daughter. She can’t stand to be serious either.”

Her elbow jabbed him softly in the stomach and he let out a little choke of laughter. She turned around, her face held up to him, the sunlight glowing around her head from his tall bedroom windows, dark damask curtains pushed aside, like a halo, this angel, angel baby, his mind murmured in a rush, and he was struck with a terrible tender feeling of longing; their lips connected, soft, suddenly reverent; and Duncan felt as though the air was abruptly sucked away from the sphere of matter that surrounded them. I could kiss this girl forever, forfuckingever, everlasting, his hand came up and buried itself in her hair again, holding her mouth against him, insistent. And he was overwhelmed again, again, again.

“Let me give you one of my jackets to wear home,” he had insisted. “It’s chilly today.”

She had smiled sweetly at him, her hand coming up to her mouth absently, biting her nail shyly. “I don’t need to, Duncan--”

“I want you to. I want you to wear my jacket. Please?”

She’d nodded, the blush spreading over her cheeks, and he wanted to cover her face with tender kisses, he ached to hold her face in his hands again, but he resisted with all his might; she might not want to be touched so much, and he was loathe to do anything she didn’t want. God, she looked so beautiful in this light; ethereal in a way that was different from the night before, like a Bouguereau to last night’s golden Waterhouse; he imagined flowers in her hair suddenly, imagined her dancing with sunlight on her shoulders, and he felt lost in her, speechless, thoughtless, struck dumb at her wondrousness.

He’d wrapped a black wool Brooks Brothers’ cardigan around her small shoulders; his favorite cardigan, he silently admitted to himself, warmth pooling in his mind, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks, this is lovely,” she’d whispered, and he loved how big it was on her small frame, loved the way its hem fell behind her knees, the arms falling past her fingers, enveloping her.

“Let me get your underwear,” he’d whispered with a mischievous grin, and she’d smiled and nodded, her little fingers playing with the zipper on his hoodie. He’d brought them back to the bedroom to her with her clutch which he’d retrieved from the floor by the front door where she’d discarded it the night before in their passionate distraction; he turned away modestly as she stepped into the panties, but he felt her hand on his arm and turned back around; she roughly pulled his face down to hers, her tongue slipping into his mouth, thrilling him, and she had said “Duncan, you’re wonderful,” and he’d shook his head a little without pulling his mouth away, whispering “fuck, Mackenzie, you fucking are,” into her. She pulled away and he felt empty and too full at once, leaning toward where she had been, and he saw the way her eyes glinted with approval, happy with his obvious want.

“Phone numbers.”

She’d taken his sleek black iPhone from his hands, swiftly opening his contacts and typing in a new entry with fast fingers; she turned it around and presented it to him, that luminescent smile playing around her mouth; Kenzie Stone, she’d typed, digits below. “Kenzie,” he verbalized. “I love that.”

“I’d call you Dunc, but I don’t know if it has quite the same ring,” she giggled, and he was lost again for a moment in her dancing gaze. He laughed; he saw her grin widen. She liked to make him laugh, and that invisible hand squeezed around his heart again. He pressed the ‘call’ button; Mackenzie unbuttoned her clutch and pulled her phone out (which was on silent, though Duncan could see it vibrating in her hand), smiling at the phone number on her screen. “Infamous Playboy and Cutthroat Duncan Shepherd,” she said aloud as she typed, hiding the face of her phone from him; he snorted and pushed it down to gaze at what she’d written; just “Duncan Shepherd”, thankfully. “I’m not a fucking playboy,” he said, hand coming up to her arm, pulling her close with just a hint of roughness. “You have a fuck shower,” she countered, smirking, gold rings dancing in her hazel gaze, her sweet breath grazing his neck as he pressed her to him. 

“Well, thank god for that, now that you’re here,” he hummed, mouth hovering over hers, relishing the softness of her skin under his grip. “That investment finally seems to have been worth it.” He captured her mouth, hand holding her neck gently once more, and she seemed to melt into him and the sun emerged from behind a cloud in that moment and bathed them in radiant splendor, a heavenly glow akin to the brilliance of daylight skewed in stained glass and there with her wrapped in his arms beside his bed, he thought this moment could be my last and I’d die happy, here with you, Mackenzie Stone.

-------

“Can I pick you up at 9?” He’d asked, an uncharacteristic shyness creeping into his words again, still taking him off guard though it had happened so often over the past 12 hours, his hand coming up behind his curls, absent-mindedly, self-consciously. He suddenly felt like he was 16 again, asking a girl to prom, but with a whole undercurrent of intensity that prom never brought on to any teenager in all human time; the weight of destiny was pressing on his psyche, he could feel it, and it was intoxicating and terrifying. “It’ll be my private car.” She was stepping into her strappy heeled sandals, about to lean down to tie them again when he kneeled to her as he had last night, wrapping them expertly around her tiny ankles, tying them in double-knots. He looked up at her from where he knelt before her, and he could see the reticent rosiness of her expression as she gazed down on him there, a sort of satisfied apprehension in her eyes. I’d do this for you every day, he thought. I’d kneel to you always.

“Okay, sure,” she said, her quiet voice ringing across his immaculate wood floors and stone countertops and in the empty space of his penthouse, filling it with her energy. “Yes.”

“Kenzie,” he said.

“Duncan,” she replied, her hands fumbling against her clutch, nervously.

He stood up, his height towering over her once more, her small frame outlined against his much larger one, and he thought of the way she fit against him, folded into his arms, the feeling of their bare skin against each other, a haze of desire washing over him again.

“I can’t wait to see you again. This has been…”

“So amazing,” she finished, boldness bleeding into her eyes as she looked up at him. “This was so wonderful.”

“Yes.” His hands found one of hers, grasping it tightly, reluctant to release her. “I feel exactly the same way. I...I don’t think anyone has ever made me feel this way before. You’re--”

She’d hushed his mouth with a hot, fervent, lightning-quick kiss. His words had bled into a groan into her, and he’d tried to grasp her, but she’d flitted away from him then, out the door, and she was running down the hall to where the elevator flew open to receive her, as if by some strange magic, and she’d called out “I’ll see you tonight, Duncan Shepherd,” over her shoulder, and oh, fuck, how his heart had ached to see her go, his cardigan wrapped around her, her hair shining in the warm light of the hall, the smell of her lingering all over him with a terrible ache, and he felt a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere fall over him; the wind of fate, closing in, claiming its prey.

-------

Duncan’s driver pulled up to his mother’s opulent four-story home, the vast Colonial-esque mansion he’d grown up in, and he pressed a deep, apprehensive breath out of his lungs, hands raking along his thighs. His mother was good at needling his moods out of him without him saying anything; clearly she would notice his strange temperament and question him about it. He needed to steel his nerves against Annette Shepherd’s almost supernatural second-sight.

“Samuel, I won’t be long,” he said to his driver, a handsome older black man of indecipherable age with a shiny bald head and a closely-cropped white beard and rectangular glasses. Samuel had been working for the Shepherds for over 30 years; he was faithfully discrete, as any employee of the Shepherd family was required to be. Duncan trusted him implicitly.

“Right, Mr. Shepherd,” Samuel replied, staring at him through the rear-view mirror. “Are you feeling alright today, Mr.Shepherd?” Samuel was unfailingly loyal, but he was also extremely observant. Duncan hesitated. Samuel had the night off yesterday; hence Duncan arriving at and leaving (with Mackenzie, oh Kenzie) the party via Uber. He wondered how much he should tell Samuel about her. He’d have to say something; they’d be picking her up tonight, after all.

“I met someone.”

He saw Samuel’s eyebrows raise in the mirror, a small smirk coming into the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, now. When do I get to meet them?” Samuel was aware that Duncan had had intimate relationships with other men before--a fact Annette still was not factually aware of, though he sometimes wondered if she knew and just didn’t want to acknowledge it-- and Duncan silently appreciated the discretion of his word choice. His bisexuality was one of those things Samuel was silent as the grave to his mother about, though he knew its reality quite well.

“Her. Tonight. I made reservations for Le Diplomate. And I need to stop at English Rose Garden after I’m finished with Mom.”

He could see Samuel grinning at him, his happiness and interest immediately obvious.

“Whatever you need, Mr. Shepherd. I look forward to meeting her.”

“Samuel...she’s wonderful.”

“I can tell that much just by looking at your face.”

“Believe me, anything I say would not be enough to describe her. Just wait.”

He opened the car door, taking a deep breath again. Into the lion’s den.

He quickly ascended the three wide front steps and turned the embossed gold knob, stepping through one of the opulent double doors that led into the entrance hall of the Shepherd mansion; “Mom?” he called into the house, eyes searching. “Mom, where are you?”

“Up here, Duncan,” he heard her silky voice call; he took the winding white staircase with its familiar gold-lined banisters (the left side of which he’d crashed off of when he was five years old, breaking one of his front teeth) two at a time, towards where he knew the exercise room off her office was; as he entered the room she glanced up from where she was walking quickly on her Peloton, sweat glistening from her forehead, her perfect hair swatting from side-to-side in an impossibly neat ponytail. She hit a button to slow the machine down, stepping off it with a sigh; grabbing a white towel slung over the side, pressing it to her slender neck.

“So, what do you have for me, darling?” She asked expectantly.

“Senator Howell will do everything in his legislative power to press the bill through, but of course, it’s Claire who we have to press hardest once it gets to her,” he replied in clipped, business-like tones, the kind she preferred he use with her, the kind she’d taught him to use for leverage since he was in middle school. “Uncle Bill can do more there than I can, but you know that.”

He bit his lip; a vision of Kenzie’s eyes had passed through his mind, and he rubbed his hands together absently, his right thumb pressing into the palm of his left hand to quell any shake that tried to threaten his voice.

Annette looked at him with satisfaction for a moment, and then her eyes clouded with concern--concern for the bill no doubt, Duncan thought bitterly, she thinks my obvious discontent has something to do with that, not with the angel who fell into my bed last night.

“What is it, Duncan. Tell me.”

“It’s nothing. I just didn’t get as much information out of him as I wanted, that’s all. I wanted confirmation of all of his PAC donors, but he only gave me two.”

She gazed at him and Duncan tried to keep his expression neutral. His mother was just too damn good at getting things out of him. He was reminded of a time when he was a boy when he’d stolen Valium from her purse and had lied to her when she had asked, though he knew that she knew he’d taken it. The dark cloud that went over her expression was one he’d never forgotten; you either told Annette Shepherd the truth or you paid dearly. His mother never hit him; her anger was far deeper than that, her grudges unshakable and unrelenting. He’d learned that day that it simply wouldn't do to lie to his mother. And yet here he was, on the edge of doing so for the first time since he was a child.

She seemed to be about to ask him something else, but her gaze shifted indecipherably, and she moved the conversation somewhere else; from what he couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t convinced her. She knew already he wasn’t telling her something.

“Fine. I’ll see that paunchy fuck at the Gala. I’ll make him tell me the rest. We have evidence of his mistress in Clarendon, but we only got confirmation last night after the party had already begun and I was tied up with the cable coverage. It’ll be the leverage we need. The bill will be on Claire’s desk by the end of the week for certain. Your uncle won’t accept anything less.”

Duncan rolled his eyes, “Oh, of course, because Bill Shepherd’s will is the will of God.”

“It might as well fucking be, Duncan.”

She looked at him strangely again, and Duncan tried to maintain his composure. His mother’s eyes had always made his blood run cold when she looked at him like that. His stomach turned over. Madeline Fucking Stone’s daughter.

“What are your plans tonight, dear?” She toweled her neck again, throwing it back over the side of the Peloton rail.

“I have some information to go over with Melody for the next show,” he rambled, “and I need to look over that report Seth was compiling.” More lies, he thought with a nervous edge. If she asks Seth about the report my cover’s blown, he gave it to me two days ago.

“Fine, dear. Let’s have dinner tomorrow. I miss my boy.” She came up to him, hands pressing into his shoulders, smiling her familiar smile, somehow both warm and terribly cold at once, her eyes two orbs of void, staring into him, deciphering him. Always knowing.

“Of course, Mom.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and he saw the strange expression come over her face again as he brushed against her. Oh god, she smells Mackenzie, he thought.

“That’s an interesting scent,” she murmured into his ear, unnerving him with her confirmation of his fears. “Vetiver, is it?”

“I’ve always liked it, thought I’d try something different.”

“I don’t think it suits you,” she replied in a low voice. The edge in her tone made a cold sweat break out under his shirt, clammy on his skin. She turned away, stepping back onto her Peloton, hitting a few buttons, putting her earbuds in, looking down to the screen, her attention sliding off him like water in that familiar way. He knew that was his cue to leave.

----

At the florist Duncan bought three dozen roses, dark red like the roses that had lined the balcony last night when he’d seen her standing there in her little black velvet dress, her hair shining like starlight, her face gazing into the distance like Artemis bathed in a pool of moonlight, surrounded by her does and hounds. He had an idea, and he was determined to get Kenzie to stay the night again tonight, any work to be done tomorrow in the cold grey light of Monday be damned. He would do anything and everything he could. He’d woo her for as long as it took. Kenzie, Kenzie, Kenzie, he thought in a daze, thought of her hands and her ankles wrapped in the heeled sandals, the curves of her hips (god, I got to see what they look like, they’re fucking gorgeous), the tiny crystals dangling from her ears, the delicate rise of her breasts, the hairless moisture between her legs in the glow of the lamplight over his bed.

His heart was shaking; god, this feeling was so strange, so different from anything he’d ever felt for another person before; now that she wasn’t in front of him in the flesh, he did truly fear he’d dreamt her. But the smell of her clung to him like a dream that he couldn’t shake off. Even his mother had smelled it. And oh no, his mother, who definitely knew he wasn’t telling her something. He didn’t know what in the fuck he’d do about that; he couldn’t imagine a scenario where his mother’s face wouldn’t take on the pallor of death. Madeline Stone. I fucked her daughter, I kissed her daughter’s neck and kissed her clit and I kissed her mouth two dozen times in rapture and I’m enchanted with her, I think I’m in love with her and I’m seeing her again tonight and I can’t think of anything else, she’s all I can think of, I want to call her right now and beg her to come to bed with me again, beg her to let me press my mouth into her body again, and I’m not fucking sorry, not sorry at all, not at all, at all--

“Samuel, Geoffrey Lewis please.”

“Of course, Mr. Shepherd.”

Tailoring was an area of comfort for Duncan. If his clothing was well-tailored, he felt more confident in everything. And he felt in dire need of courage tonight. The idea of seeing Kenzie again was filling his blood with a razor’s-edge of sensation, and everything had to be perfect. It had to be perfect because it was for her.

[justgenlockthings]

gen:VIEW Episode 1 “The Pilot”

You had RevieWBYs (from my other blog), now you get gen:VIEWs.

gen:LOCK was something I don’t think any of us quite trusted would be a good show. It wasn’t because there was anything in the marketing that suggested it would be bad, it was just we didn’t know anything about it. RT did a pretty poor job of convincing people it was worth watching for reasons beyond the fact that they’d somehow got Michael B. Jordan and friends to voice the main characters. Still, let’s be honest, that was always gonna make us want to check it out at least. And Rooster Teeth seemed to trust people would like it, despite (or perhaps in spite of) the increasingly vocal hate train that was chugging along right up until the final hours before the premiere.

It is clear to me that, much like many of Rooster Teeth’s other shows, gen:LOCK episodes are designed as singular parts of a cohesive whole, so I’m gonna try to avoid in these reviews addressing “The story needs this” as other, more experienced reviewers have said, because I acknowledge that this isn’t quite the complete story. gen:LOCK was created and released in the era of streaming television, where the whole thing will likely eventually work as a complete movie, so more than likely things that I think the story needs will be addressed later on. Nonetheless, it is still released in serialized installments, so if I feel the story does need something at a certain point, I will use how previous episodes were setting it up as evidence. However, I’m gonna try to avoid making too many story predictions in these reviews, because that has come to bite back many reviewers in the foot only an episode later (coughEruptionFangcough). Overall, my main interest is in evaluating how an individual episode is keeping me invested enough in the show to come back next week and find out more. Once we get to the end of the first season, I’ll go back and evaluate the complete story.

So. How was the first episode of gen:LOCK?

TL;DR It’s Actually Really Good

The opinions stated by Achievement Hunter, who previewed the show a few months early, included remarks that they couldn’t believe gen:LOCK was made by Rooster Teeth, because the quality of the animation and editing was on par with a Hollywood production. I didn’t quite believe that could possibly be the case until I sat down and watched the episode. I did a complete double-take: this was a Rooster Teeth production? The dialogue was snappy, the animation was beautiful, the sound design was incredible, the voice performances were...well some were better than others, but you could tell some of these were celeb voice actors.

"Surprise” is the emotion I had throughout the entire episode. Surprise at how high quality this show was in comparison with previous Rooster Teeth productions. Surprise at how well they built the world while still leaving some open details to be expanded on in later episodes, especially the still vague Polity-Union conflict. Some called the vagueness of that frustrating, but in terms of this episode I felt I saw enough that gave me the basic information for what the backdrop for this show will be.

The fact that I really got invested in Julian and Miranda as characters from the first episode caught me off-guard, because RT’s more recent ventures have usually taken a slow burn to get us invested in the story (Nomad of Nowhere being the clearest example). I thank the rollercoaster of emotions this episode put them through. From domestic to romance to action to tragedy to reunion, this episode established a strong relationship from the beginning that had to deal with the consequences of war. Their reactions to what was going on were believable: Chase sacrificing himself in the name of saving his family (whom we’d already gotten a chance to become invested in the opening scene), Miranda going from friendly to cold and distant due to a war that killed her boyfriend and so many of her squadmates. I assume we can thank the higher budget and thus the longer runtime for this episode for having the time to do all that, because if this were any of their, uh...other shows, they most likely would have rushed things way too quickly.

This episode also subverted what few expectations we had story-wise, but in a manner that didn’t seem disruptive at all. Lindsay Jones’s character was one of the early ones announced, and to see her go so abruptly was quite a shock. I thought Michael B. Jordan’s line read for “RAZZLE!” could’ve been better, but the build-up to her death got us invested in her character: she was a skilled combat pilot, she remained cool and collected in the heat of battle, and she flew a fucking plane backwards. Her death shocked not just because they killed one of their in-house personalities, but because we had been following her through quite a bit in only ten minutes. Likewise, the fact that Miranda Worth ended up being our POV for most of this was a surprise. Marketing for this show had only referred to her as “Julian’s love interest,” which is not exactly a flattering description of female character, and in a trope-conscious media industry generally spells fridging, killing her off in the name of Chase’s development. So, to apparently kill off Chase in the name of his development, and then have Miranda develop from it, was a pleasant subversion. I caught myself thinking “They killed off Michael B. Jordan because they couldn’t afford him!” before realizing “Wait, he’s an executive producer for the show, of course they could afford him.”

I can’t say I was surprised by Chase’s mech showing up in the Union ambush, since I’d already seen enough of the previews to know he had more appearances, but the moment was really beautifully done to the point that I felt pretty hyped. From Miranda giving herself up to potentially dying protecting the citizens, to Chase’s voice over her radio, and her realizing but not quite comprehending he was in the mech. I almost felt how much pain losing Chase had inflicted, and how much more painful it will be to know he’s been alive this whole time. Especially beautiful was the brief shot at the end of the episode where Chase and Miranda are looking at each other as though they are the only people in the room, and the lights fade on everyone else to the point that it’s literally the case. The emotional lovers’ reunion. The idea of seeing the dead come back to life. The painful conversations that are gonna have to happen because of it. I honestly didn’t care that I’d long ago realized Chase wasn’t dead, because I cared that Miranda was learning it now.

The other emotion I felt was relief. The framerate had been one of the biggest sources of criticism prior to release, with some taking it as a sign that gen:LOCK was lazily made. But I quickly discovered it was pretty easy to get used to the framerate, and that it didn’t distract me from the rest of the show. I shouldn’t have worried: the framerate was purely a style choice in how they rendered it, not a sign of incompetence. If people are hung up on the framerate though, well, I can understand that. It’s not particularly pleasant to look at at first, but there’s enough going on in the show that it shouldn’t bother you after a few minutes.

Now, to be frank, even though it didn’t bother me, the episode could’ve benefited from a little more insight into the Union-Polity conflict. To have such a major battle without quite knowing what the characters are fighting for has the potential to make the entire conflict feel hollow. But it has to be acknowledged: the Union-Polity conflict is mostly designed as the backdrop for these characters, so I can forgive it not being expounded upon in the first episode considering Julian and Miranda’s relationship is so prominent here. There’s still enough cool stuff going on in this episode that I can forgive a slight lack of storytelling focus, because goshdarnit I do love well-done spectacle.

Conclusions

If the teasers, trailers, and intro hadn’t quite sold me yet that gen:LOCK was gonna be a good show, the first five minutes of this episode completely won me over. This was unlike anything I’d ever seen before (not much of a mecha anime viewer), but especially not from Rooster Teeth. It had everything I could want from a show: good dialogue, strong characters, cool fight sequences. This was a show I could support. This was a show that I was gonna keep coming back to watch every week.

This was the show that had a second episode I needed to watch once I got back from a meeting at the school library with my final project team.

P.S. That intro though. Such a good hype song, and some really stunning visuals. I watched it the night before the premiere, and it was enough that I thought “Hey, this might not be a bad show after all.”

[hpconsentfest]

That’s  a Wrap!

It’s been nearly 7 months since the idea of a consent themed fest was born from a discussion in the Drarry Squad discord. It’s been said before, but it bears repeating: when we the mods first began planning the fest in earnest we discussed how 5 ficlets would be a success (and that’s with two of us writing!).

After just over 6 weeks of posting, the HD Consent Fest AO3 collection hosts:

-55 different writers and artists, including 11 who identified themselves as writing in a fest for the first time

-56 submissions

-50 fics

- > 800,915 words (words embedded in comics and graphic novels not counted); average word count = 16018

-6  beautiful works of visual art, including 2 comics and a graphic novel

And these stats don’t even account for all the HYPE that followers of the fest shared—keeping the fest buzzing on AO3, tumblr, and discord via recs, chat, comments, kudos, likes, and reblogs.

Needless to say, mates, we are chuffed. You have done more than blow away our wildest hopes; you have strapped them to a rocket and shot the rock into outer space.

To everyone who submitted fic or art or both, we are staggered, humbled, and beyond grateful for all of the thought, energy, time, love, and sweat you poured into your submissions.

To everyone who read along, whether you read something every week or looked at even 1 work—thank you.

Finishing posting feels not unlike crossing the finishing line after a marathon: we’re high on fandom endorphins, elated, excited about what this community accomplished together and how much fun we had doing it, but we’re also ready for a nap!

Below is the Reveals Master List. We encourage everyone to lavish these fan work creators with love!

ART:

Breaths Against Skin by @carpemermaidtales/ carpemermaid,  Mature Summary: Harry has picked up a habit of breathing "May I?" against Draco's skin.

Can I Kiss You? By @ano-ka-ba /anokaba, Mature Summary: can I kiss you?

Harry: *staring longingly at Draco's thighs*

Draco: *raises eyebrow, reaches for Harry's glasses*

Harry: *finally drags eyes up*

Draco: *pulls towards and wraps legs around*

Harry: *grabs bum*

Suits and Serenity, by @illuminatedweasel, Teen Summary: “You looked hot out there today.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Mhm, can I kiss you now?”

“I thought you’d never ask”

Worth In the Wait by @sailorslash /SailorSlash, Teen Summary: A short comic about the night of Harry and Draco's wedding.

You're the only exception and I'm on my way to believe it. By @mea-momento/mea_momento, General Summary: While stuck in a convoluted fake dating plot, the boys have to keep checking with each other for consent to do things like pretend to kiss in public for the sake of their ruse.

ART & FIC:

It's a Plan by @torrancelim /Marshview, Teen Summary: Harry and Draco are in a relationship, but Draco was raped in the past, and cannot kiss Harry on the lips or have sex. He does enjoy forehead kisses, cuddles, and showing affection. Harry understands, and gives Draco the kind of love and support Draco needs.

The Shetland Demon by @owlpostart/Owlpostart (Charlotte_Bird), Mature Summary: Draco Malfoy of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has been sent to a remote Scottish island to handle the post-mortem and clean up of a washed up magical beast. The Scottish Auror office have also sent one of theirs, Harry Potter, somebody Draco hasn’t seen in several years, but with whom he shares a romantic history. Draco quickly finds himself slipping back into old habits while struggling to maintain his own agency and professionalism. Is it the beast’s malevolent influence or genuine yet long buried affection for Harry that’s behind their slide back into physical and emotional intimacy?

FIC:

5A by @neveranygoodupthere/neveranygoodupthere, Mature Summary: It’s his twenty fifth visit to the flat. A posh spot in midtown Manhattan with updated appliances, rooftop access, and a snooty doorman. A spot that five years ago would have been inconceivable to its resident. But war and death and time all wreak their changes.

About Time by @reginaagr0na/LadyOfTheAttic, Teen Summary: Harry opens his big mouth and must pretend to date Draco Malfoy to keep things from blowing up in his face even further.

Arseholes by@postjentacular/postjentacular, Explicit Summary: In which words and actions don't mean the same thing.

Asking For It by @gold-from-straw/Lynds, Teen Summary: Fill for post 109 on the Consent Fest: Draco tells Scorpius about his own experience of sexual abuse when teaching him about consent, and becomes involved with helping other parents teach their children about consent, and dealing with lad culture.

Beautiful Eyes and Dark Blue Skies by @foularcadebanana/Yesimawriter, Teen Summary: Everybody knew about the rivalry that brewed between the two kings living in neighbouring kingdoms and not much changed after one of them died. This surely meant that when their children met at the age of sixteen, both princes and heirs to their respective thrones, they would develop a deep all-consuming hatred for each other as well. Surely they would not happen to like one another. Surely not.

Bed Music by @lower-east-side/LowerEastSide, Explicit Summary: The new call-in sex advice show on the WWN is Very Inappropriate, Harry thinks. But he finds himself spending more and more time with Malfoy anyways. Will Draco be able to convince him of the necessity of open discourse on sex, consent, and intimacy? And what are the Greengrass sisters plotting? Caller, go ahead!

Bloody Tease by ENCHANTED_JAE, Explicit Summary: Draco wants to be sure that Harry is willing. Very, very sure.

Brick by Brick by @agentmoppet/agentmoppet, Explicit Summary: There’s something between the two of them, something that builds beneath the smoky lights of the club and grows stronger during midnight conversations held on a rooftop high above the streets of London. But Draco wants to wait.

Cherished by @acciotomriddle/leontina (Leontina), Explicit Summary: Ever since Draco was turned into a vampire he hasn’t touched Harry, and Harry desperately wants to know why. When they finally turn, surprising revelations are made.

Cold Like Fire by @queenofthyme/QueenofThyme, Mature Summary: Head Auror, Harry Potter, had no problem with mandatory consent training for his team. He’d actually been looking forward to it, that is until he discovered who the teacher was. Now, he had no idea how he was going to get through the training without throwing a hex at Draco Malfoy. Or a punch.

Come Inside by @vaguedisclaimer-ao3/VagueDisclaimer, Explicit Summary: “Can I come inside you?" Harry asks, his voice a breathy whisper.

And Draco nods, just once, ever so slightly, biting his plump bottom lip and looking deeply into Harry's eyes.

At least, that’s how Harry imagined it going.

Communication Is Key (For A Happy Ending) by @articcat621/articcat621, Mature Summary: Draco can tell that there's something on Harry's mind.

A Day in the Life by @unadulteratedstorycollector/unadulteratedstorycollector, Explicit Summary: Harry and Draco have been together for years. They have a great sex life. Great and perfectly normal. Sometimes they have sex, sometimes they don't. Sometimes it takes a little persuasion... but not really that much. Ok, barely any.

Everything That Happens is From Now On by @thusspoketrish/trishjames, Explicit Summary: After surviving a brutal assault, Draco tries to navigate the tumultuous waters of his mind, and embrace a bit of love and trust in his life. After all, the smallest steps forward can begin to heal the most fractured of souls.

A Gift for Draco by @norelationtoatticus /SquadOfCats, Explicit Summary:Though their new relationship is going well, both Harry and Draco have trouble communicating and are holding back from taking things to the next level–both emotionally and sexually. When Harry decides he is ready for more, he stumbles over how to start the conversation, but figures out a plan with the help of his friends. He comes up with the perfect Valentine’s Day gift to show Draco trust, commitment, and desire: sexy pictures of his naked arse. Thankfully, Pansy Parkinson has a camera and is willing to help…

A Hag, a Hex, a Tale of Redemption by @aibidil/aibidil, Explicit Summary: A fuck-or-die fairytale in which Draco Malfoy lives a despicable and unapologetic life — that is, until he’s cursed to die unless he can fall in love with and fuck Harry Potter.

Have Me Then by crazyparakiss, Explicit Summary: In Draco’s world, women are expected to be demure, non-lusting creatures. They are expected to be devoted while their husbands cater to base desires with women of the evening. All passions they are permitted lie between dusty, well-worn pages of romance novels. Draco doesn’t want to be that woman, but as she spends her days—unfulfilled—in the arms of a boring lover she dreams of more. Potter is so much more than she could imagine.

Highly (in)Compatible by @callingdrarry/gracie137, Explicit Summary: Draco’s been shagging The Prat Who Lived on and off for a few months when his soul mark starts to change. Draco’s had to accept a lot of adjustments to his life, but accepting that Harry Potter could be his soulmate is one step too far. It can’t be true? Can it?

I Don't Want This to Be a Mistake by @maraudersaffair/maraudersaffair, Explicit Summary: Consent can be tricky when Harry is Scorpius’ professor.

In the Ways That Matter by @FleetofShippyShips/FleetofShippyShips, Mature Summary:  Falling asleep with Harry Potter mid-argument, while completely pissed, was something Draco could never have predicted happening when he returned for his repeat seventh-year at Hogwarts. But it happened. And then it happened again. And again. At some point the alcohol was gone, and they were just falling asleep side by side night after night, escaping nightmares together.

It isn't anything more than that, even if sometimes it really feels like it is.

It's Been Draco For Awhile by @oceaxereturns/oceaxe, Explicit Summary: What harm can a love potion do if you're already in love?

In which Harry finds out that it's not a love potion but it can do quite a lot of harm, and Draco finds out how fiendishly difficult it is to fend off his flatmate's advances when all he wants is to give in to them.

just drink this and we can do whatever you want by @must-love-drarry/Juh_Nunes, General Summary: Harry was tired of people trying to dose him with love potions, so he decided to create a charm to counter it. Now he only need to test it, unfortunately (or not) it doesn’t work as he was expecting.

Kiss Me on the Mouth (and set me free) by @nerdherderette/PalenDrome (nerdherderette),  Explicit Summary: Finding a partner to sate his needs has never presented a dilemma for Draco. That is, until he encounters the fit and willing Head Auror.

Luck Is What You Make It by @starlillie/starlillie, Teen Summary: Liquid Luck. Warning! May cause giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence.

Draco should really read the labels on these things.

The Magic Cat by dot_the_writer,  Explicit Summary:  When Harry sees Draco Malfoy with painted nails and wearing an oversized jumper covered in cat fur, his obsession from school comes back in full force. Featuring supportive friends, cute cats and lots of Harry figuring out what he wants.

Malfoy’s Anatomy by @novareblogs/Novaa, Teen Summary:  Healer interns are nothing short of a bunch of little children running around with wands and severed limbs, having inappropriate sex in inappropriate places. What's the worst that could happen, really?

Missing-him-thing by @thealmostrhetoricalquestion/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion, General Summary: "Did you miss me?" Draco asks.

He’s teasing. Teasing and amused, and he doesn’t mean it, doesn’t expect a serious answer, or an answer at all, so Harry feels quite within his rights to shove Draco away, scoffing. Draco laughs, and it’s not the snide, mocking sound from their childhood, the laugh that used to make rage bubble in every delicate vein, as fierce and forceful as dragon-fire.

Did you miss me?

Every damn day, Harry doesn’t say.

(Harry and Draco teach their kids about consent, and fall in love along the way.)

Mixed Drinks and Crossed Wires by @korlaena/ korlaena, Explicit Summary: Draco is a handsy drunk. Harry is okay with it, really. They’re friends, so it doesn’t mean anything.

Oblivious by @gregqoyle/lealamalfoy, Explicit Summary: One potions class leaves Harry questioning everything. And it seems that there is only one other person that seems willing to question it too.

Orbit by @henrymercury/HenryMercury, Explicit Summary: "The classical problem of celestial mechanics, perhaps of all Newtonian mechanics, involves the motion of one body about another under the influence of their mutual gravitation."

*

They don't like each other. They're not friends. There's not even a ceasefire of any sort because they're fighting as much as ever—but there's definitely something different about it. An added layer of self-awareness they don't dare identify, but which colours every Scared, Potter? and Do your worst; each You wouldn't dare and Then prove it.

Perfectly Imperfect by @astronomicalblaise/pansypxrkinson, Teen Summary: What is going on with Potter? Draco doesn’t know. He’s too busy worrying about Salazar and choking on Pansy’s cucumber sandwiches. Now Potter’s owl is out for blood and Blaise has to be stopped.

All things considered, it’s hard being an investigative journalist and a crazy person at the same time.

Proper by @violetclarity/violetclarity, Explicit Summary: Draco sighs. “What kind of absolute twit has the chance to have sex with the Chosen One and can’t go through with it?” // In which Draco studies with Gryffindors, learns a new spell, and navigates the difficulty of being in a not-so-casual secret relationship with his childhood nemesis.

Purity Control by @frnklymrshnkly/frnklymrshnkly, Teen Summary: In which Harry tries to ignore his trauma with fantasy Quidditch but Malfoy's Thereness is distracting and all his classmates want to talk about is unicorns, virginity, and Muggle music.

Say The Words (Say Them Out Loud) by @goldentruth813/GoldenTruth813, Explicit Summary:  When Draco gets assigned as the Auror to guard Harry Potter day and night, he is sure nothing good will come of it. But as the days go on Draco is forced to evaluate himself and things he thought to be true about Potter and relationships. Sometimes it's not love at first sight. Sometimes, first, it's miscommunication and misunderstanding. A story in which Harry and Draco learn to accept the things they want from themselves and from each other.

Show Me by @bangyababy/bangyababy, Explicit Summary: On Harry and Draco's anniversary, they decide to try something new, but Draco won't do anything he isn't 100% sure Harry wants. So Harry tells him, every step of the way.

Silenced by the night by @parkkate/parkkate, Mature Summary: After a spell goes horribly wrong, Harry has to deal with the loss of his eyesight. It’s such terrible timing, too, because how is he supposed to find out what Malfoy has been up to in the Room of Requirement? It’s not like he can ask the git, not only because it’s Malfoy, but also because the Slytherin has suddenly lost his voice. While they’re both trapped in the hospital wing, however, Harry discovers there’s so much he didn’t know about Malfoy, and it’s highly intriguing, but also a bit alarming. Where did all these confusing feelings come from all of a sudden? And what is Harry going to do about them?

Start a Revolution (From My Bed) by @untilourapathy/untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte), Teen Summary: Harry’s coming of age starts at breakfast. A peek into the lives of the Eighth Years as they become bona fide feminists over jam and croquet. Featuring the fear of growing apart, Blur and a pink cravat.

the strength in letting go by @candybarrnerd/icarusinflight, Teen Summary: Some relationships will end. This is something that everyone should be aware of, and there is no shame in ending a relationship. These things happen, and certainly, no one should stay in an unhappy relationship. We don’t want to have people learning to maintain their suffering here—only fix what can be fixed.

In which Harry and Ginny seek counselling when their marriage is on the rocks—it just doesn’t work out quite like Harry’s wanted it to.

Teach Me by @xxthedarklordxx/XxTheDarkLordxX, Mature Summary: "If you can’t learn Occlumency, then you can’t become an Auror.”

No. All of this couldn’t be for nothing. Harry hadn’t spent so much time proving himself, proving that he was more than just a famous name for all of this to go to shite. “This can’t be the end.”

"I have someone in mind that could teach you if you are willing, but I can't guarantee he will teach you, especially considering your... past."

"You don't mean Malfoy, do you?"

Team Slytherdor by @gingertodgers/GingerTodgers, Teen Summary: Rolanda Hooch takes the Slytherdor Quidditch team to the Sheffield Central Travelodge for some team bonding.

Tell Me How You Like It by @phd-mama/phdmama, Explicit Summary: It's a beautiful sunny day, and when Ron is laid up in the common room with a broken ankle, he gets more of a glimpse into his best friend's private life than he ever might have wanted!

Ten Thousand Reasons Why Not by @lqtraintracks/lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill), Explicit Summary: Harry and Draco are stand-ins for the usual witch who gives the workplace harassment and sexual consent talk to the Auror trainees. Or, a little tale in which Harry consents to be sexually harassed by Draco Malfoy.

That's What You Get For Waking Up by @alpha-exodus/alpha_exodus, Explicit Summary: Draco wakes up in the morning hungover and with someone in his bed. He never could've dreamed it would be Harry Potter.

To Hear You Say It by @drarrymylove/jeni_andtheafterthought, Explicit Summary: Hogwarts has put together an eighth year in order to allow all students a chance to complete their N.E.W.T.'s.  Harry and the other "eighth year" students come back to a much different Hogwarts.  Harry could get used to a new dormitory, harder classes, even his new roommate.  He could even get used to all the new rules and expectations.  Making is bed? How hard could it be?

Trapped by @foularcadebanana/Yesimawriter, Mature Summary: Harry was stuck in an enclosed space with no way to get out, and he just happened to have been stuck in there with Malfoy.

Treat Your Body Like A Temple by @rose-grangerweasleyisbae/donnarafiki, Mature  Summary: It hadn't been easy, and it hadn't been fast, but after many years Harry had finally gained Draco's trust. Now he woke up next to him every day, and he knew just the way to show the Slytherin how grateful he was for that.

We Sleep In Pairs by @protegototalvm/darkestbliss, Mature Summary: We do not blame flowers for their death. But when Draco’s magic dies after the War, he struggles to forgive himself, and it’s going to take far more than striking up a companionship with Harry Potter for him to heal.

When Nightmares Lead to Day Dreams by @drarryismymuse/Drarryismymuse (Hatchersn), Explicit Summary: Harry Potter didn’t want to return to Hogwarts for 8th year, concerned that the castle held too many terrible memories. Lacking any other plan, though, he agreed. He soon discovered how right AND how wrong he was.

Wing It, Baby! I Want to Fly with You by @sliceosunshine/ SliceOSunshine, Teen Summary: Harry finds him in a ditch. He never expected the life of a Superhero to be easy. But showing your enemies mercy is so hard

Still looking for more great HP fanfic? The following fests are or will soon be posting:

HP Horror Fest/@hphorrorfest (Posting April 30 - May 13)

HDS Beltane/@hdsbeltane (Posting starts May 1)

HD-Remix/@hd-remix (Posting starts May 28)