#but like.. I COMPLETELY lack the literary skills to pull that off well

[yung-goos]

Horizon | Prologue

"so... I've been meaning to tell you something”

The summer breeze was cool. A pleasant and welcoming feeling, as the day was still hot and humid, despite the sun going down. The lights of the city's skyline begun to bloom, like a line of tall Christmas trees in the distance. The bench they sat on still containing their names they etched-in when they found this spot in highschool, several miles from downtown off the coast of the lake that kissed the cities borders. This was their favourite spot. To hangout. To think. To reflect. To celebrate. To cry. It was one of the only consistent things that they both had throughout their lives.

"Uh huh..."

"I... know I've been gone for some time-"

"You think?"

"...and I know I have a lot of explaining to do"

"Oh really?"

"Look... it's easier if I just... show you"

With an unsteady motion, they lifted the sleeve of their hoody to the elbow, exposing their forearm, and held it out in front of them. And just like that, their skin started to glow. From the fingertips, down the back of their hand, down the wrists, slowly encroaching on the entire arm. The glow contrasting the blackness of their skin, like embers on coal, with a deep yellow-white light, a light many would describe as holy. The pupils and sclera of their eyes enveloped with the same holy light. They looked over to their friend to see them with their hand covering their eyes. The glow dimmed, then stopped all together, returning their skin and eyes to normal.

"Oh. My bad. Should've warned you..."

Silence. Only several seconds or so, but feeling like minutes in the moment. Their friend slowly lowering their hand, revealing a puzzled, yet curious, deeply scared, yet deeply amazed, mouth a little open kind of look on their face. It was hard to tell what they were thinking.

"What just..."

"Yea."

More silence.

"So this was what you were up to?"

"Heh. 'Up to' is one way of putting it"

Their friend then swiftly adjusting their position, turning to directly face them, with their legs crossed in their lap, the expression on their face suddenly becoming stern and serious.

"Everything. Now."

"Right."

And so, they gave them everything, from the last time they spoke. From the inconsistent eating habits, to the overall deterioration of their mental state. From the uneventful days, to yet another melancholic, sleepless night. From the streak of light that suddenly appeared from the sky and seemingly landing in their backyard. To them going to investigate and being greeted by a sphere of light that "just.... floated there". From them pacing back and forth wondering what they should do, "should I touch it?", to them actually touching it. From them describing an experience that would be akin to the likes of hell. The pain that felt like they were being separated cell by cell, atom by atom. Head, body, and limbs contorting to inhuman positions. Head twisting 180 degrees like an owl, ribs protruding and bending in different directions, but somehow not piercing the skin. Limbs bent backwards, sideways, in and out. Feeling so hot like they were being thrown into the face of the sun, yet feeling so cold like they were being submerged in the waters of Antarctica. Not being able to see anything but an empty vast white space of nothing. Wanting to scream the entire time but physically not being able to. From them waking up in the backyard to the morning sun on their face, their skin feeling all tingly. To them thinking if all of that was some bizarre dream, "maybe I started sleep walking or something I don't know". From them beginning to notice strange phenomena, like their light bulb that died and yet still turned on in their hands when they picked it up. To them being freaked out when their vision in the dark seemed to be clear as day when they focused hard enough.

"So that's what it is. Light, right? That's the power you possess?"

"Maybe. I think. Or perhaps energy"

"Energy.... Energy."

Their friend hanging on that word. Slowly saying it over and over to themselves, possibly savouring how that sounds, or thinking of the endless possibilities this power could hold.

"Also think I can't die"

"Wait, what?"

"Yea."

"But... wait... how would you kn-..."

Silence. Letting out a big sigh, they slumped over the bench and put their head in their hand, rubbing their temple with their forefingers and thumb. Their friend placing a hand on their back, gently rubbing it back and forth.

"Hun, why?"

"Just..."

Their head still in their hand, shaking it back and forth now,

"I.. didn't mention the voice"

"Voice?"

"Yea, as I was being skinned and turned inside out. I... wasn't sure if I was hearing it right. I couldn't see anything, that's for sure. It was just... this big empty room... a space... I don't know, a void of just pure whiteness. Stretching as far as I could see. And there was this... voice. It sounded like... I don't know, an alien trying to communicate in English. Like a bunch of incoherent words and syllables mish-mashed together, but if I paid enough attention I could make some sense of it ya know? And then, very clearly, I heard the voice say three things: convert. nine nine. survive."

"Convert, ninety nine, survive..."

"Yea. After I woke up, I was so confused and out of it I didn't think too much of it. But the more I thought about it, about all that happened, those words... the pain. Oh god. The pain. I cannot even begin to describe to you how it felt. God just. The pain. And then I started to think, is this what the voice meant? I'd have to survive this pain again at some point in time? Would it happen more than once? And just. God. I couldn't do that again. I can't do that again. So I just..."

Another sigh. Tears began swelling in their eyes. As they went to wipe them from their face, their friend pulled them in for a hug, using the palm of their hand to wipe the tears away

"Oh, hun."

That warmth. That sensual, intoxicating, tender warmth. The warmth that enveloped you and made you feel safe. The warmth that excited every sense, the warmth you couldn't just feel, but also hear, smell, taste, see. The warmth that many have lost themselves to just for the sake of experiencing it for just a moment. Love. It has been so long since they felt it.

"I'm... sorry I didn't keep in touch with you. I just didn't want you to see me like this. To hear all of this"

"Are you kidding? At the end of the day, my only concern was that you were okay. And like.. My best friend is a fucking superhero. With fucking super powers. Why wouldn't I want to hear about that?"

"Superhero?"

"Yea, what else would you do with all that going on? Be an accountant?"

They let out a laugh from the gut "Yea, maybe. Who knows? I could save the world from potential tax fraud"

"Well you're in luck cuz theres no shortage of fake bitches out here"

They lost themselves amongst the banter and the laughter, the sun finally laying itself to rest in the midst of it all. It was now dark, and being a little ways away from the nearest path with street lights, it was getting hard to see. The holy light once again enveloped their hand

"Come, I'll lead us back"

"Aww see, look at you using your powers for good already"

They couldn't help but crack a smile "Oh stop."

They headed back through the creek that leads to their special little spot, a trodden dirt path that was made overtime by other fellow adventurers trying to take a shortcut to the shore nearby. The cool summer breeze died down, replaced by the symphony of the night. The cacophony of crickets, the soothing rhythm of the stream, the percussion of the tree branches rustling above. It was oddly silent, though, between the two of them. They looked over to their friend, their friend's brows furrowed, face now deep in concentration, staring off into space as if they're looking for something in the air. Their eyes darting back and forth, clearly putting two and two together. About what, exactly?

"Hey, so.."

"What is it?"

"You said you don't die. So like, meaning you're immortal?"

"I... guess so, huh"

"But like... survive. What could an immortal possibly have to survive? You're immortal"

Both of them stopped in their tracks, looking at each other, waiting for the other to give a possible answer.

"So you get it, huh. It's what been at the back of my mind since I came to in my backyard. Though, If it's anything like the pain I had to endure I...I don't know what I might do"

Their friend, not being able to think of an answer either, shook their head and sighed. They continued on.

"Well, I don't know what it possibly could be, or what will happen next, but knowing that someone like you was chosen for this power makes me feel much safer already"

"Really?"

"Of course. Could you imagine anybody else getting this power? The world would be more fucked than we already are"

"Huh... guess you could be right"

"Oh please, you know I am. Just, whatever does happen, make sure you saving my ass first, okay?"

They chuckled, "Of course"

They smiled back, "You know, despite it all, something tells me there's so much good waiting for you over the

Horizon."

#writes #finally think I have the premise and general direction I want to go far #and I'm really just #UGHHH so ready to start actually writing #this is my first attempt at trying to write #so sorry if anyone actually reads this and its bad #writing is by far one of my worst subjects #am sowwy ;-; #from now on tho I'll leave these lil rough drafts in the “writes” tag #ALSO the use of they for both is because I only have a vague idea of gender of the characters in this one bit #like I think I know who they'll be but I like #really wanted to be able to write this section in a way where the characters genders are completely in the air #(spoiler alert: cuz the reveal of who these characters are is relevant to the eventual world building and plot) #but like.. I COMPLETELY lack the literary skills to pull that off well #UGHHH

[caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma]

Map of the Soul, Drabble #2

Drabble #2 - A Prom Dress Fit for a Princess

Pairing: Hoseok x reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut

Word Count: 7K+

Warnings: NSFW 18+ cursing, sexual tension, groping, oral sex (m/f receiving), fingering, suggestive language, protected consensual sex, 

“Why can’t we just have a normal theme for Prom?” you scoffed while looking at the garish poster in the hallway. “This theme is totally isolating people who are planning on going to Prom without dates.”

“Costumes aren’t just for couples, sweetheart,” a warm voice mutters behind you. “Must you make everything into an argument?”

You grinned at the playful tone in his voice, but you couldn’t shake the need to validate your argument. You refused to turn around because you knew that the moment you saw that heart-shaped smile, you’d lose any and all conviction in furthering your point.

“I’m just saying that not everyone is going to fit into this theme,” you continued. “What if someone wanted to go alone or in a group? What do those people do for costumes? The only depictions on this poster are couples. That’s very discouraging.”

“What is so discouraging about Romeo & Juliet?” the voice countered. “That’s classic literature and totally your thing.”

“A poor example, at best,” you snorted. “Unless you’re trying to go for a lame teenage romance gone completely wrong. They would not be my first choice in literary couples.”

“Oh yeah?” the voice challenged. “Name one better than Romeo & Juliet. I dare you.”

“The Little Prince and his Rose,” you argued. “Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy! Shrek and Fiona!”

Suddenly, you were whirled around and into the arms of a very handsome and very annoyed boy who was clearly not happy with your examples.

“There is no way I’m painting myself green,” the handsome boy growled. “There are limits to my love, sweetheart.”

“What are you talking about?” you snickered at him. “You were going to be Fiona. I was going to be Shrek. Haven’t you heard of genderbent costumes, Hobi?”

Jung Hoseok rolled his eyes at you as you burst into a fit of giggles imagining him in a green ensemble complete with red wig and golden tiara. Your giggles ceased abruptly as he tugged you into a nook in the hallway and pressed his lips onto yours. It was a simple kiss, but it was enough to shut you up. Before either of you got any ideas about flaunting your PDA in the middle of the high school, Hoseok pulled away and shook his head in mock exasperation.  You’d been dating for nearly a year and you still knew exactly what to do and say to get him riled up and pouting.  

“You’re always teasing me, sweetheart,” Hoseok whined cutely. “One of these days, I’m going to have to punish you for being so mean to me.”

“I’m sorry, Hobi,” you cooed. “It’s just so much fun to see your feathers all ruffled.”

“No feathers and no sequins,” Hoseok commanded. “Like I said before, I have limits.”

“Fine, then we won’t be Shrek and Fiona,” you relented. “I’m sure we can figure out an amazing costume for Prom. But seriously, honey, the Prom committee should try to make some posters that are more inclusive. Maybe like group or solo costumes?”

“Ok, ok,” Hoseok exclaimed. “I will talk to our marketing person and see if they can make some extra posters. I can’t have the Prom Committee Chair’s girlfriend starting a ruckus over inclusivity.”

“Thank you, my love,” you replied while planting a kiss on his flushed cheek. “Now, let’s get to class. We’re starting a new project in Theatre today.”

Hand in hand, the two of you rushed off to your next class with thoughts of Prom floating around your head. -------------------------------

“This is going to be an amazing project, baby!” Hoseok cheered. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Well, yeah,” you sighed. “But there are just so many options, it’s difficult to choose just one.” 

Your Theatre teacher’s words echoed in your mind and you scrolled through the search results on your phone.

Your next project is to create a Fairy Tale Performance. Choose a fairytale, create your own costumes, props, and design a set. You will be performing for the elementary students in about three weeks and you will be graded on your theatrical choices and how the audience reacts to your performance.

“What about Hansel and Gretel?” you suggested. “I think you’d look cute in lederhosen and I can totally pull off wooden clogs and braids.”

“Ewww, pass,” Hoseok winced. “That would require a lot of set design and we’d have to find a witch. I want something that is just for the two of us.”

“Ok, then what about Rapunzel?” you offered. “It might be fun to make a massive braided wig and drape it all over the stage.”

“What is it with you and braids?” Hoseok chuckled. “No, I think we can do better.”

“Well, then you pick something, Hobi,” you huffed. “I’ve already suggested over a dozen different fairy tales. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Something unique,” he smiled. “Something just for us.”

Hand in hand, you were both deep in thought as you arrived at the community theatre to visit Hoseok’s mother. She was the head seamstress in the costume department, and Hoseok started interning as her assistant the summer before his senior year. Throughout his tenure at the theatre, Hoseok gained invaluable knowledge and skills about sewing, costuming, and all things theatre.

“Hello, Mama,” Hoseok chirped as he popped his head into the costume shop. “What are you working on today?”

Hoseok’s mother smiled softly while running layers of fabric through her sewing machine. Yards and yards of colorful silks and satin were draped across her mannequins and you marveled at the scene before you.

“Hello, my son,” Mrs. Jung replied after lifting her needle and cutting away the excess from the garment she was working on. “I’m prepping costumes for the next musical production that is set to start in about a month. It’s going to be a large cast, so I need to have some starter costumes ready for fittings. What about you two? To what do I owe this honor?

“We have a project for our Theatre class,” Hoseok explained. “I was hoping I could convince my wonderful mother to help me make some costumes.”

Mrs. Jung chuckled slightly and walked over to an empty mannequin to drape the newly sewn garment. She began pinning more pieces to the costume and she motioned in your direction to get more pins, which you quickly brought to her.

“Thank you, dear,” she said while pinching your cheek playfully. “It’s so lovely having someone around who helps me instead of demanding more work in my already busy schedule.”

“Mama,” Hoseok whined cutely. “You know I would do this on my own if I could-”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Jung cheered. “I’m so glad that you’ve finally realized your potential, son. Use whatever you need in the shop, but please try to stay out of my way. Mama has a big production coming up and these costumes are excessively complicated to create. I’m so proud of you, Hoseokie.”

With a pat on his chin, Mrs. Jung was able to help Hoseok close his dropped jaw and she tossed a wink your way as she walked into her supply closet. Hoseok dropped his head in defeat and pouted as he walked toward you.

“I guess we’re on our own, baby,” Hoseok grumbled. “I thought for sure she’d help me out with some ideas.”

“Hobi, didn’t you hear her?” you admonished softly. “She knows you can do this on your own, and besides, she’s hella busy right now. I think we can do this, yeah?”

Hoseok sighed and sank into a seat at the spare drafting table in the costume shop. All throughout the summer, this station was his little creative corner. The two of you had even written your names on the wall by his station, complete with hearts and flowers. You glanced at the empty table and decided to help your grumpy honey along with his creative process. 

You grabbed a sketch pad and several pencils from a nearby shelf and placed them on the table in front of him. When he refused to budge, you took up a pencil and started sketching out stick figures with your amateur drawing skills. Under each figure, you wrote the words “Prince” and “Princess” and looked up at him with your imploring eyes.

“Ok, Hobi, here’s the deal,” you began. “I will be your assistant seamstress if you can design us some costumes fit for royalty. If we’re going to put so much effort into this project, we might as well get more use out of these costumes. Let’s make them so nice that we can wear them to Prom. This will be our couple’s costume!”

“I thought you were against the couple's costumes,” Hoseok challenged. “Weren’t you just giving me grief about this at school, my love?”

“I was challenging the committee’s lack of inclusion, not the couple’s costumes,” you corrected. “Besides, we’re a couple. We should go as a matching pair. Just us.”

Hoseok sighed and pulled you into his arms with a whiny groan. You could actually feel him smiling into the crook of your neck, so you allowed him a little time to get all the exaggerated dismay out of his system. After planting a kiss on your forehead, Hoseok finally relented and grabbed the pencil out of your hand.

“Ok, fine,” he grumbled playfully. “I’ll design us some fairytale/Prom outfits, but I need something to go off of. Break out those books you got from the library and let’s pick our royal pair.”

Mrs. Jung wandered out as you were perusing the books next to the workstation and when she looked over Hoseok’s shoulder to see him sketching out foundational design concepts, she hummed thoughtfully.

Hoseok stopped drawing and tapped his pencil on the table, signaling his slight annoyance at his mother’s hovering.

“Yes, Mama?” Hoseok asked sweetly. “Did you want to say something?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Mrs. Jung assured him. “I was just looking at your sketches. What is your project exactly?”

“We have to perform a fairytale for the elementary students,” you explained. “But we also want to use the costumes for Prom, so I’m trying to find a prince and princess pair for us in one of these books.”

“I see,” Mrs. Jung responded. “Did you find a Korean fairytale then?”

“Not yet,” you replied. “I’m still looking.”

“Really?” Mrs. Jung replied with a tilt of her head. “Then why is Hoseokie drawing a hanbok?”

You stepped over to look at Hoseok’s drawing, and sure enough, there was a figure wearing a stylish hanbok on the page. Hoseok tilted his head in confusion at his drawing and shrugged with a giggle.

“Just drawing what I know, I guess,” Hoseok grinned. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Hobi,” you smiled. “That actually looks beautiful. Do you want me to find a Korean fairytale then?”

“Oh, you won’t find many Korean fairytales about princes or princesses, my dear,” Mrs. Jung explained. “Our culture doesn’t have a Cinderella or a Snow White. It’s a shame, really. You would look radiant in a hwarot, sweetheart, and my Hoseokie would look so dashing in a classic hanbok.”

“Well, maybe they don’t have to be a part of the story,” you suggested. “Maybe Hoseok and I can just dress up as Korean royalty and recite a Korean fairytale like that?”

“Hey, that’s a great idea,” Hoseok beamed. “I could make our costumes look amazing and we can just act like royal storytellers.”

“And then we can wear the costumes to Prom!” you gushed. “Oh, Hobi, it’s perfect.”

“Thank you, Mama,” Hoseok called out as Mrs. Jung made her way back to the sewing machine.

“For what?” Mrs. Jung smirked. “I didn’t do anything.” ------------------

After a few days of sketching, Hoseok finally had two amazing designs prepared for your costumes. His traditional hanbok had a few modern embellishments and he was planning all sorts of accessories to accent the outfit completely. Additionally, Hoseok scoured Korean history books for images and designs for a proper hwarot that only a Korean princess could wear. Side by side, the outfits were going to look phenomenal, and you were so excited to start making them.

Hoseok already had his own measurements, and you were eager for him to take your measurements so he could start pulling fabric for your gown. Mrs. Jung set aside several bolts of colorful fabric that Hoseok noticed were reflecting the colors of the Korean flag. Bold royal blue silk and vibrant red brocade joined piles of black satin, gold ribbons, and delicate strands of beads surrounding Hoseok’s workstation.

You arrived at the theatre after your marching band rehearsal, and you hoped that Hoseok didn’t mind that you were dressed in shorts and a baggy T-shirt. Once you entered the costume shop, your worries were allayed when Hoseok handed you a simple muslin tunic to put on.

“You’re going to have to wear this under the hwarot,” Hoseok explained. “I’ll be able to get better measurements this way. Don’t worry if it’s loose. The other garments will layer over it.”

You slipped away to the dressing room to change and when you returned, Hoseok was nowhere to be found. You wandered around backstage and eventually came across the empty stage with the ghost light shining brightly across the theatre. Light classical music could be heard from the backstage area, and you couldn’t help swaying and spinning in time with the music.

As you made your way across the stage, you imagined you were performing for a packed audience and your movements increased dramatically. You fictionalized a ballet where you were seeking out your lost love, and you focused on the ghost light stand as your absent prince. You ended your impromptu performance by embracing the ghost light and were startled by sudden applause emanating from the wings.

“Bravo, princess,” Hoseok called out. “Magnificent!”

You swiped at your burning cheeks and pranced into the wings to bury your face into his shoulder. As embarrassed as you were, Hoseok knew better than to tease you for too long. You pulled back and pouted at his brilliant smile, which prompted him to assault your face with a dozen kisses. You giggled at first, but the lighthearted feeling in your chest shifted into something steamier as Hoseok nipped at the sensitive spot on your neck. You pulled him back behind the curtain and proceeded to devour his lips hungrily.

You half expected Hoseok to put a stop to your lustful advances, but there was something different about Hoseok now. His hands were not resting tentatively on your hips, but were grasping at your skin and sliding back against your ass. His hips refused to keep their distance, instead choosing to grind against your stomach, revealing a hearty erection. His voice lacked any of the whiny nature you usually heard, but instead housed a deep growl which sent shivers down your spine.

“Hobi,” you whispered. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s this slip you have on, princess,” Hoseok explained while nibbling on your ear. “It’s practically sheer under those lights. You have no idea how incredible you looked dancing around like that.”

“Oh yeah?” you gasped as he reached up to fondle your breast. “Did you like what you saw?”

“You have no idea,” Hoseok groaned. “It was so hot. I just want to keep touching you. Maybe unwrap you like a birthday present?”

You moaned lightly at his suggestion and reached between you to grip the stiffness pressing against your stomach. Hoseok’s hips shot forward and he stilled completely in your arms.

Before he could refuse, you reached in and took a hold of his hardened length and began stroking it slowly. Hoseok braced his arms against the wall and huffed out a groan at your ministrations. Sensing that this needed to be something quick, you dropped to your knees and wrapped your lips around the strained head of his penis. Hoseok’s moan was muffled as he buried his face into arm, and he restrained his hips from thrusting forward as you brought him to his climax effortlessly.

Hoseok still marveled at your insistence of swallowing while going down on him, but he respected your decision. Who was he to argue if your main concern was cleaning up an unnecessary mess? Hoseok helped you back to your feet and sought out your lips, not even caring that he could taste his own cum in your mouth. As hot and heavy as things were getting, one of you needed to get a grip on the situation before you got busted.

“Shit,” Hoseok breathed out while leaning his forehead against your own. “We can’t do this, princess.”

“I know, Hobi,” you sighed out airily. “You’re right. We shouldn’t be fooling around in the theatre. Your mom would kill us.”

“I mean, yeah, you’re right, she would,” Hoseok chuckled. “But I meant that I’m still not ready to go any further.”

“Hobi,” you replied with worry. “I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything, my love. I told you I would wait and I meant it.”

“I know,” Hoseok grumbled. “But a few more minutes of this and I won’t be able to control myself, so we need to stop.”

"Oh, yeah?" you smirked. "What happened to all that self control of yours? Did you lose it somewhere?"

"Yeah," Hoseok sighed while gripping your hips. "It went out the window when I saw you in this slip, princess."

You pressed one last kiss to Hoseok’s lips and you straightened out your clothing before heading back to the costume shop. You both stopped at the bathroom to freshen up and then strolled back to the costume shop hand in hand.

The rest of the afternoon was ripe with sexual tension, and every time Hoseok’s fingers danced across your skin as he took your measurements, you fought the urge to shiver or whine or make any kind of sound that would sound sensual in any way. Hoseok was also struggling while on his knees in front you, inhaling the faint smell of your arousal through the thin muslin.

After that sexually charged work session, you and Hoseok agreed to go out for dinner, but first, you both ended up in the backseat of your car with your legs over his shoulders and his tongue buried in your dripping cunt. Several orgasms later, you were both satiated and decided to end the night with a quick bite to eat at your favorite drive-in restaurant. While you were stealing some of his curly fries, you noticed a pensive look on Hoseok’s face.

“What’s the matter, Hobi?” you asked. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah,” Hoseok stated unconvincingly. “It’s fine.”

“Hobi,” you sighed. “What is it? You can tell me.”

Hoseok's shoulders sagged as he put his half-eaten burger on the dashboard and turned toward you in his seat. You followed his lead and did the same, apprehension clouding your mind as you took in the furrowed brows on your boyfriend’s face.

“Are you happy with me, princess?” Hoseok murmured quietly. “Are you sure that I’m enough for you?”

“What are you talking about, Hobi?” you blurted out. “Of course, I’m happy with you! I love you so much, and I can’t imagine my life without you.”

“I know you love me,” Hoseok pouted. “And I love you too, but sometimes, I feel like maybe you wish I could give you more. I know we’ve already talked about this a lot, but it still bothers me when I pull away from you like I did earlier.”

“Baby,” you cooed. “Have I ever given you any indication that I’m not totally satisfied in our relationship?”

“No,” Hoseok admitted. “But I know you’re used to more than what I’m giving you. I know you and Taehyung were very active, and I feel like I could never measure up to him. I mean, you guys call each other soulmates. How am I not supposed to wonder whether he could give you more than I can?”

You leaned forward and cupped Hoseok’s face with your hands. The distress on his face was unbearable and you resisted the urge to plant a million kisses on his face so that you could assuage his grief.

“Soulmate or not, Taehyung is not you,” you reminded him. “I love you, Jung Hoseok, and it doesn’t matter that you’re a virgin and I’m not. You are all I need, and you have nothing to prove to me or anyone else. Just be you, Hobi. That is more than enough for me.”

Hoseok took a deep breath and nodded as best he could with his face squished between your palms. You smiled at the glimmer of hope in his eyes and you prayed that he believed the truth of your words. You leaned in to press a kiss onto his lips and when you pulled away, his face broke into a vibrant smile. The glassy look in his eyes confirmed that he was on the verge of tears and you hated that he was torturing himself unnecessarily. You grabbed a napkin and tried to dab at the corners of his eyes, but he wrapped his slender fingers around your wrist

“I’m ok, princess,” Hoseok assured you. “I’m just so happy that you feel that way. I know I get a little insecure about our physical relationship, but you never fail to make me feel so loved and wanted. Thank you for that.”

With a kiss to your wrist, Hoseok released the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders in a long exhale. He took the napkin from your hand and dabbed at his misty eyes comically to drain his lashes of the tears he’d been holding back. You couldn’t help but laugh at his attempt at comedy in the midst of your serious discussion, but that was your Hoseok.

Such an amazing person. How did I get so lucky? ------------------

“Can you hand me that black ribbon, princess?” Hoseok called out from behind the mannequin. “The velvet one, not the satin one.”

You grabbed the three black ribbons that looked like velvet and offered them to Hoseok, who was kneeling and pinning ribbons to the back of his hanbok. He looked up at you and grinned at the options you displayed in your hands. After grabbing one of the spools, he shook his head and started pinning more ribbon to the flowing fabric.

“Do we need to review fabrics again, princess?” Hoseok joked. “Didn’t we cover this over the summer?”

“Hobi,” you groaned. “A lot of these ribbons look the same. How am I supposed to keep them all straight? That’s your job.”

He simply chuckled and snipped the ribbon on the spool before pinning the last bit of ribbon on the edge of the hanbok’s hem. As he stood, he examined the other bits of fabric and ribbon pinned to his creation and hummed in satisfaction. He emerged from behind the mannequin and set down his sewing supplies on the workstation. After pulling you into a back hug, he leaned his head on your shoulder and sighed happily.

“So, what do you think, princess?” he questioned playfully. “Do you like it? Is this what you imagined your prince wearing?”

You dragged your gaze across the bold colors, the clever embellishments, and the hint of modern flair that Hoseok managed to imbue into his creation and you were astonished. You knew he was skilled, but this latest creation was beyond anything you’d expected. His hanbok was worthy of being displayed in a museum; such intricacy, such craftsmanship, such finery.

“It’s perfect, Hobi,” you exhaled. “You truly are a master at this.”

“I’d say so,” piped up a voice from the corner of the room.

You and Hoseok turned to look over at Mrs. Jung who was hanging up another one of her prepped costumes on a hanger. It was magnificent and you were dazzled by the brilliant green and yellow accents she’d applied to the blue skirting. She brushed away a few wrinkles and stepped forward to look at her son’s garment.

“The line work is very good, Hoseokie,” she complimented. “I like how you took the original design and made it your own. A lot of heart went into this, I can tell. Well done, my son.”

“Thank you,” Hoseok beamed. “I can’t take all the credit though. I had an amazing teacher.”

Mother and son smiled brilliantly at each other before stepping forward for a tight hug. Mrs. Jung pulled a handkerchief from her apron and gently dabbed at her eyes. Hoseok cleared his throat awkwardly and sniffled slightly before lifting his mother’s free hand into his own. Their eyes met and glowed with affection and unbridled respect.

“Eomma,” Hoseok addressed his mother kindly. “Thank you for teaching me everything. I only hope that I can reproduce a fraction of your passion and talent. You inspire me to do great things, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all of the time we spend in this shop together.”

“Jung Hoseok,” his mother smiled. “It is not your talent which brings me pride. It is the dedication to your work which makes me happy. You’re an artist, son. I only sought to nurture the skills you already possessed naturally.”

Hoseok kissed her hand and she ruffled his hair before going back across the room and into the storage closet. You grabbed another tissue and dabbed at the tears which manifested while watching the tender moment between mother and son. Hoseok smiled softly at your emotional reaction and pulled you into his arms to soothe your tears.

“There, there, princess,” he said sweetly. “You don’t have to cry on my account.”

“I’m not,” you pouted. “That was just incredibly moving. You and your mom are #LifeGoals. I don’t have that kind of relationship with my mom.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok agreed. “But you do get all mushy and sweet with your dad. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

“I guess you’re right,” you relented. “I don’t know how you’re going to be able to finish my outfit. This one took you quite some time to complete and it isn’t even sewn together yet. Are you sure we didn’t take on too much, Hobi?”

“Not to worry, princess,” Hobi grinned. “Your hwarot was done yesterday.”

Hoseok stepped around you and pulled a sheet off of the mannequin behind you. You gasped at the glory he revealed and reached out a trembling hand to run your fingers across the royal blue satin of the bodice.

“Oh, Hobi,” you whispered. “It’s breathtaking.”

You explored the various folds of blue fabric, the silver brocade accents, the black ribbons sewn into the bodice creating a fitted curvature that stepped away from traditional and spoke of a modern interpretation of the original design. The hwarot he’d sketched originally was an exact replica of the designs in the history books, but this new iteration was unique and fresh while still maintaining the original structure of the gown.

“How did you come up with this design, Hobi?” you cooed. “It’s amazing.”

“Well, I started out with the original design,” Hoseok explained. “But honestly, I just kept thinking about you in that slip dancing around the stage. I couldn’t get your curves out of my head, so I decided to highlight them a little with those lines on the bodice. You were my inspiration, princess.”

You blushed under his praise and stepped behind the hwarot to look at the intricate lacing on the back of the bodice. The collar of the hwarot remained intact, but there was a large section under the collar that was left open. The bodice started lacing just above where your bra line started and continued down to the hip line before billowing out thanks to the petticoat underneath.

“This is the most incredible costume I’ve ever seen, Hobi,” you gushed. “I can’t get over how gorgeous it is.”

Hoseok reached over and took your hands into his own before kissing the tops of both. You smiled as brought you closer to him, pulling your hands to his chest.

“A gorgeous gown for my gorgeous princess,” Hoseok grinned. “The only thing more beautiful than this gown is you, my love. I can’t wait to see you in it.”

With a final kiss to your forehead, Hoseok stepped back to his hanbok and began pulling it off the mannequin so he could start sewing everything together. You changed into your muslin slip and Mrs. Jung took a few moments to help you into the completed hwarot, much to Hoseok’s pleasure. The compliments and praise showered upon you and Hoseok brought unimaginable joy to Mrs. Jung and she quickly excused herself once again to dab away the tears from her face.

After both outfits were sewn together and a final fitting took place, you and Hoseok gathered your things and gave Mrs. Jung a heartfelt goodbye. Your presentation was less than a week away and Prom was happening immediately after that. It was time to get ready to premiere Hoseok’s greatest creation. --------------------

“You guys were amazing today,” Hyejin gushed. “The kids loved your presentation. My little brother was talking to all of his friends about it.”

“Thanks,” you cheered while carefully arranging your hwarot into its garment bag. “It was so much fun. Hobi is such a ham. He was a hit as the goofy prince.”

“And you were the envy of every girl in our class,” Hyejin sighed. “That dress is absolutely gorgeous. I still can’t believe that he sewed your outfits himself. The man is crazy talented.”

“Tell me about it,” you giggled. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” came a voice from the hallway. “Are you talking about me, princess?”

Hoseok appeared with his garment bag and another tote full of accessories. As you finished packing up your gown, he collected the various props you’d placed on the desk.

“I was talking about you, my prince,” you cooed. “You were incredible today.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he beamed while bowing with a red plush dragon in his hand. “If I was incredible, then you were superb, princess. The kids loved you and I can confidently say that we aced that presentation.”

“Well, I’ve gotta head to practice,” Hyejin announced while gathering her things. “I’ll see you guys at Prom tomorrow.”

You both said your goodbyes to Hyejin as she skipped out the door and you zipped up your garment bag after folding the last yard of fabric inside and securing the hanger. Hoseok placed the last bauble into his tote and zipped it up as well. He looked over at you and opened his arms comically.

“Come here, princess,” he demanded. “Give your prince a hug.”

You leaned into his embrace and the two of you just held each other for a few moments, allowing the excitement of the afternoon to dwindle into a pleasant buzz. You leaned your head back to look into Hoseok’s face and the two of you smiled as your eyes met.

“I’m so proud of you, Hobi,” you said. “You never cease to amaze me. I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”

“I’m the lucky one, princess,” Hoseok corrected while tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “I get to have this incredible, beautiful, sexy girl in my life. You make me feel so loved. I just wish you could understand how much you mean to me.”

You shook your head at his sentiment and kissed his lips. As you pulled away, he continued to look at you like the answers to the universe were in your eyes.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, you giggled and booped him on the nose before turning to gather your things. You turned to see Hoseok staring at you fondly with hooded lids and a devious smirk.

"What, Hobi?" you pried. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason," Hoseok shrugged. "Just thinking about how beautiful my princess looked in that gown. I can't wait to see you in it tomorrow at Prom."

"Well," you teased while pinching his cheek playfully. "I will make sure that I am very careful when I get dressed tomorrow. I want to look extra special for my prince."

Hoseok waited until you were almost to the door before he reached over to grab his bags.

"You be careful putting it on," he murmured quietly, just out of earshot. "I'll be careful taking it off."

You missed the mischievous smirk on Hoseok's face because as soon as you turned around, it was replaced by a glowing smile.

"Let's go, princess," Hoseok chirped. "I have a lot to do before tomorrow and so do you."

Hoseok placed another lingering kiss on your lips and headed down the hallway next to you.

It's time. ------------------

The lights were flashing and the music was pulsating throughout the ballroom. After posing for your Prom portraits and making the rounds to all your friends, you and Hoseok were seated with a random assortment of refreshments.

"Isn't it wonderful, Hobi?" you gushed. "You and the committee did an amazing job. Everyone looks so good in their outfits!"

"Not as good as you look, princess," Hoseok commented. "Not one person holds a candle to you tonight."

'It's all because of you Hobi," you exclaimed. "You created a masterpiece when you made these outfits."

"Only because you were my Muse," Hoseok purred. "Care to dance, princess? Let's show off my inspiration to everyone."

You nodded enthusiastically and took his hand as he escorted you to the dance floor. The music transitioned into a thumping R&B tune and Hoseok pulled your arms around his neck as he swiveled and gyrated his hips to the sultry beat. You hummed with satisfaction as his thigh pressed in between your legs, mere inches from your center.

You were both sweaty with exertion and when the R&B groove gave way to a slow melodic love song, you both breathed a sigh of relief.

"Whew," you breathed out. “That was fun, but I need a minute to catch my breath.”

“Already, princess?” Hoseok teased. “I thought you’d have more stamina than that.”

You pouted and smacked his arm playfully and his giggles filled your ears deliciously. With the multicolored lights bouncing across the dance floor and the light dusting of imitation fog, you twirled around the dance floor with your handsome prince. He spun you around once again and you couldn’t keep yourself from smiling at his sparkling eyes and buoyant smile. When the song switched to another slow song, you sighed happily and leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Once more around the ballroom, princess?” Hoseok asked sweetly. “Or are you done making everyone else jealous with your unparalleled beauty?”

You nodded against his shoulder and he waltzed the two of you into a shadowy corner of the dance floor. You were in the midst of soaking up this romantic moment when Hoseok’s hands began to wander into the silken folds of your gown and your breath hitched when his fingers found your center.

“Hobi,” you squeaked. “What are you doing?”

“You look incredible in that gown, princess,” he breathed out huskily. “I can only imagine how you’d look without it on.”

Your eyes widened significantly and you pulled back to look at Hoseok’s face. Full blown lust was darkening his gaze and the dimples around his lips deepened as he grinned. You’d seen your boyfriend aroused before, but this was something else entirely.

“Hobi,” you exhaled shakily. “What’s gotten into you?”

His smile softened and he leaned in to kiss your lips gently, raising a hand behind your neck to hold you in place as you shared the sweetest collection of kisses he had to offer.

“Princess,” he murmured against your lips. “This past year with you has been one of the happiest of my life. I can’t even remember what my life was like before you were in it.”

“Oh, Hobi,” you shivered. “You make me happy too. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too” Hoseok whispered into your ear. “In fact, I love you so much that I might have built up this impossible image in my mind that you are untouchable and precious. So precious that you will break if I push you too hard.”

“I’m not a delicate little flower, Hobi,” you grumbled. “And you haven’t been pushing me at all. If anything, I feel like I’m the one pushing you sometimes.”

“Absolutely not,” Hoseok snapped. “You’ve been nothing but patient and understanding, and I am so grateful that you allowed me to come to terms with my virginity on my own.”

“Hobi,” you whined. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin. I already told you that. We don’t have to do anything just because I have before. I just want to be with you. That’s all I need.”

“I know,” Hoseok sighed. “And it only makes me love you more.”

Hoseok punctuated his statement with another kiss to your lips, lingering on your bottom lip and nibbling on it hungrily. You were thankful for the lack of lighting in this corner and the excess fog collected around you. You didn’t want to get kicked out of Prom for making out with your boyfriend on the dance floor.

“I know this is going to sound totally cliché,” Hoseok murmured against your lips. “But I really want to make this prom night memorable. I think I’m ready to make love to you, princess. Will you let me show you just how much I love you?”

You shivered with excitement and took a moment to fully appreciate the look on his face, your thighs clenching at the unbidden desire pulsing in his dilated pupils, and you bit your lip with anticipation.

“Yes, Hobi,” you smiled demurely. “I’m ready.”

Before the music could stop playing, you wandered back to your table to gather your things. After a quick stop at the bathroom, you walked back into the parking lot toward Hoseok’s vehicle. Your options were limited since you were both still high school students living at home, so Hoseok made a split second decision and drove toward the coast. --------------------------

“Hand me that other blanket, princess,” Hoseok instructed. “Go ahead and take off your shoes. You can leave them in the front seat.”

As Hoseok laid yet another blanket in the back, you thanked the gods for his SUV and the seats that folded down to a nice level plane. After layering a few fluffy blankets from your last camping trip, there was a nice layer of comfort for you both to lay on. Once you discarded your shoes and accessories, Hoseok was careful to undress and hang his outer layers across the back windows. He helped you do the same and stretched your gown across the front seats so that you were tented in with the vibrant colors of the Korean flag.

Hoseok’s undershirt and boxers were clinging to his body with perspiration, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from roving across your own body covered with that simple muslin slip. With practiced precision, he reached down and ran his fingers from your exposed ankle all the way up to the slit across your thigh.

“I’ve been waiting to touch you in this slip since that day I caught you dancing in the theatre,” Hoseok admitted. “You were so intoxicating in that spotlight, your curves clearly visible under this thin material for my eyes only. I think I fell for you all over again that day.”

You shuffled closer and placed your hand on his cheek, shivering when his palm slid further up your thigh to your hip.

“I fall for you every day, Hobi,” you replied. “I feel so precious and desirable when I’m with you.”

“You should always feel like that,” Hoseok insisted. “Because that’s what you are, princess. Precious and the only thing that I truly desire.”

As soon as those words left Hoseok’s lips, he pulled you closer so he could devour your lips, his hand tangling into your hair while the other pushed your slip up further. In between heated kisses, you both began discarding your remaining articles of clothing until you were both left completely bare, grinding against each other in search of friction.

“Wait, princess,” Hoseok gasped as your hand wrapped around his stiff length. “Let me get the condoms.”

Hoseok reached between the seats and pulled out a 12-pack of condoms from his tote. Your eyes widened at the extra large pack, and you gawked at the open box that was clearly only half full.

“Umm, Hobi,” you queried. “What happened to all the other condoms in that box?”

“Oh,” Hoseok grumbled. “I wanted to get some practice putting one on and it took a few tries to get it right.”

You giggled at his embarrassment and kissed his flushed cheeks. Once the passion reignited, you were both fumbling with the foil square, trying to get it open and onto his swollen dick.

“Hold on, princess,” Hoseok groaned. “I want to make sure you’re ready for me.”

Hoseok shifted further down and latched onto your hardened nipple while dipping his slender fingers into your flooded depths. After stroking your clit and inserting not one, not two, but three fingers into you, Hoseok shuffled his body in between your legs and then paused. His heavy breathing was either a product of his passion or his lingering anxiety. You were about to reassure him that there was no need to rush, but he started rubbing the tip of his penis along your folds and you lost all sense of reason.

“Fuck, Hobi,” you moaned. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” Hoseok groaned. “In fact, I think I want more, princess.”

Hoseok shifted his hips forward and slipped into your hot center, earning him an even louder moan from you. You arched your back and encouraged him to thrust even deeper into you, which proved to be his breaking point.

“Shit,” Hoseok growled. “This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. How the fuck did I go so long without doing this with you, princess?”

He pulled back and slammed forward with more force and the high pitched “Hobi” you released made him grin.

“That’s right, princess,” Hoseok encouraged. “Let it all out. Tell the world who’s making you feel this good. Tell them who you belong to.”

Once the initial shock wore off, Hoseok found that his body and yours were a perfect fit. The more he gave, the more you took, the two of you fitting together like puzzle pieces, his hips continuously snapping into you, his hands gripping your ass and shoulder for leverage, your nails digging into his back with delicious licks of pain, your legs wrapped around his waist, your voice begging for more.

He was so enthralled with you, and he completely ignored any indicators that his body was heading toward any type of climax. Usually, he’d blow his load after you’d blown him for a few minutes or after you’d given him a short hand job. But now, he unearthed a mountain of stamina and only your cries of pleasure captured his attention. There was no way you were ending this night until he’d given you several orgasms. His own pleasure was shelved to serve you and nothing else mattered.

Once you were both sated, you cuddled against his sweaty chest trying to catch your breath after so much exertion. Hoseok trailed his fingers up and down your back and continued to kiss every inch he could reach. You never felt so revered or loved before.

“This really was the perfect evening,” you commented. “I wish it could last forever.”

“Forever?” Hoseok inquired. “Is that what my princess wants? Then that’s what I’ll give her.”

You hummed your assent and lifted your head to kiss him again. The hazy look in his eyes was a testament to his love and you thanked the gods for blessing you with such an amazing man in your life. The night was indeed memorable and you were somewhat disappointed when you had to put your clothes back on so he could take you home.

“Come on, princess,” Hoseok coaxed. “Our parents will kill us if we stay out all night. We’re already going to be late as it is.”

“I know,” you grumbled while pulling on your underwear. “I just feel like I won’t get many more of these nights with you. You’re graduating in a few months and then you’re leaving me to go to college.”

“Don’t say it like that, princess.” Hoseok admonished. “You only have one more year left and then you’ll be doing the same. There is a lot of time between now and when I have to leave. We’ll figure something out.”

“You promise?” you pouted.

“I promise,” Hoseok chuckled as he kissed your pouty lips. “Now, let’s get you home.”

You drove off away from the coast with the windows down, trying to air out the smell of sweat and sex from his vehicle. Once you pulled back into town, you raised the windows so you could fix your hair. If anyone saw you walking in with “sex hair,” you’d never hear the end of it. You took another glance at Hoseok, eyeing the flush of color dusting across his face after your sexual escapade, and you smiled.

Such a handsome prince. I hope nothing ever pulls us apart. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle that.

You pulled his hand into your own and looked out at the flashing landscape. Prom night may have been cliché, but no one could convince you that it hadn’t been perfect.

Author’s Note: Just a little drabble for the biggest ball of sunshine in the world! Thank you to my lovely soulmate @xxxille-girlxxx for helping me beta read this. Enjoy a little slice of hope with me ^-^

MAP OF THE SOUL MASTERLIST

@caught-in-a-seesaw-stigma‘s MASTERLIST

#Map of the soul #bts drabble #Jung HoSeok #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts au fic #BTS au #bts angst #prom #hobi smut

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

(1) Hi Em, I'm writing to ask for your opinion on my MBTI. 40s, woman in PNW, freelance creative who writes and edits fiction all day. This is a second career after training in health care that I chose based on an MBTI® test I took while dithering in my last undergrad semester (I took an extra year to complete a degree that I found fascinating—interdisciplinary studies—but was not as useful in practice as the prospectus claimed).

(2) I'm high risk for Covid so quarantining since February, but my life has changed little. I WFH, and I do most of my communicating via the internet; I have been active on message boards and listservs since the mid-1990s, and I felt like the internet was the first place I could speak my mind and talk to people with fellow esoteric interests. Vastly prefer to communicate via written word over speaking because I like to have as much time to compose an argument as possible.

(3) I am not great off-the-cuff unless well-versed about the topic; then I can improvise, taking off on random tangents that I end up apologizing for when I realize I've floated off into talking about something I'm interested in, but not really related to the topic at-hand. I feel very at ease when I can go into a new situation and take skills and knowledge into a new context because it feels like a brand new experience even when I am using an old skill-set. An example, possibly not great:

(4) Poetic devices fascinate me; while they're typically found in form poems, I love to puzzle over how to use them in fiction in a subtle way that calls attention to word play, arrangement of the words on the page, the sound of the word order and what subtext they all convey when working as a whole within prose, which is often more informative. Literary style via grammar and structure are essential to my work philosophy, and I've been called pretentious / intense when arguing their importance.

(5) I tend to over-prepare via research with the subconscious plan that I can practice living via a simulacrum in order to do it really well when I go out. This is not actually the case, but it's taken my entire conscious life to get it, and even then, my therapist pointed it out for me to consider. I tend to plan great extraverted experiences with a lot of excitement but then I often putter out before taking any action, but it's usually more disappointing to the other people involved

(6) myself when things fizzle out.  In decision-making, I think I make the most logical choice, but I expect that the majority of people think so. I've pulled myself back from life decisions that I thought were too illogical only to regret not doing what I originally thought was the best choice for me. Example: choosing an MSW program over an MFA program because I needed a solid career that could be easily sought in most areas of the country. I did not think about how I run—sometimes, literally—

(7) situations and most people in ICU care are experiencing trauma, so they're not rational people looking for the most logical choice.  In the lowest points of my life, I pretty much enter a catatonic state where I drop out of life, and spend time I don't have on taking apart my favorite novels to see how they work and why with the intention that it will help me with my current project. I get paranoid that I've made mistakes with people that I'll never be able to make up for, and I need

(8) a lot of reassurances that I am not stupid. I sleep and snack, ad nauseam, while dwelling on how everyone hates me because I am a selfish asshole. Thank you for your time (and I hope I didn't just waste it). I really enjoy your blog, and appreciate the time you take to help strangers out in your free time.

----------

So I think there might be something missing between part 6 and 7? Feel free to ask me.

Based on this you definitely sound like you’re on the Si-Ne axis and probably Ti-Fe but I’m not totally positive on how they fit together. The examples are good but some happen to have a few potential causes. My guess is INTP.

From this, it sounds like you made a lot of decisions sort of...externally, for lack of a better way to put it? It also sounds like you were somewhat indecisive when younger, and I definitely think interdisciplinary studies sounds like it would particularly attract high Ne users. The part about using poetic devices in prose also isn’t going to be limited to a high Ne user, but that definitely sounds like something that a high Ne user would be particularly attracted to - taking something from one context and putting it in another, and the general blending of ideas.

The Ti-Fe comes more from first, suspecting high Ne in the first place, and then the emphasis not just on logic (I agree most people perceive themselves as logical) but on taking things apart to see how they work, and the focus on poetic and argument structure.

I think some of the preparation elements come from the fact that at this point you’d have pretty good Si, and because some of what you said sounds extremely like enneagram 5 (which also points to high Ti) - “ I tend to over-prepare via research with the subconscious plan that I can practice living via a simulacrum in order to do it really well when I go out” is pretty much the fundamental struggle of 5.

#mbti #enneagram #enneagram 5 #intp #Anonymous

[this-isnt-magic]

you always talk about casting spells and looking for unfalsifiable proof afterwards, so i was curious what have been occasions in your personal practice or just any examples you could give of casting a spell and being proven 100% right that it worked?

In terms of operative magic specifically, here are a few from recent years:

Target A was extorting Friend B for a large sum of money. He had been hounding him daily asking for the money which B absolutely did not want to pay and frankly had no reason to owe. B asked me to make A forget about the money. Within two days of the ritual, not only did A completely forget him calling B, the cash, and the original situation that arose that made him go after him in the first place, he also randomly sent B the same amount he had been asking for over PayPal just because he felt like he owed him money, though he couldn’t remember why. He never contacted him again. 

Someone had been harassing a good friend of mine. Through a series of well-timed curses taking advantage of immigration bureaucracy, his own lawyers and closest confidants within the system began to ignore him past every deadline and he was unable to renew his visa. Needless to say, he was Hot Footed out of the country. The list of residual misfortunes that waited him upon his return is extensive.

I had an extremely specific list of characteristics, personality traits, ambitions, qualities, etc. in a romantic partner which I included in a petition to draw an ideal lover. I met my now-boyfriend out of the blue shortly after enchanting it under the guidance of a guardian spirit and the archangel of Venus, and he checked off every single one.

I have also repeated this working for a friend, who met his now-wife the week after. They now have two children as well. 

I conjured a demon to bring me the monetary resources and personal connections to knowledgeable and powerful adepts of a particular tradition I knew was obscure and difficult to initiate into, whose personalities I would get along well with, respect, and genuinely care for. When the individuals were made known to me, I confirmed their validity with a corresponding angel. I have since then become close friends with these people and have learned secrets and ingress far beyond what I had initially even hoped for. 

An abusive landlord was trying to evict a friend of mine who lives in Nigeria. He had hired men to intimidate him and tried to bribe other individuals to testify against him as well. My friend asked me for help, and I began my court case work, targeting the judge, the landlord, the landlord’s lawyer, and my friend’s lawyer all separately. The landlord didn’t show up for all three court hearings, his own lawyer began to give advice to my friend and advocate on his behalf, the hired thugs disappeared, and the case was decided massively in my friend’s favor. 

I personally do a lot of weather magic, which is a really easy way to test for results. I check to see report so I know what’s likely to happen, and then do something radically different. Pulling hail in the summer, sudden rain, precise winds up to a desired strength, etc. are all possibilities to practice with. 

There are a lot of asks floating around this blog that essentially repeat the same question: what is the most powerful spell for X goal? I would offer that it is more helpful to consider operative magic along a spectrum of factors far beyond recipes. The actual structure and technique of the ritual is one aspect, but so is the divination done prior to working magic to see potential outcomes and how they would change if you adapted the spell differently; which targets you focus on and how (who do you charm, who do you curse, who do you bless, what do you do to which area first and in which order?); the physical links you have (hair, nails, spit, etc.); and most importantly the relationship you have with the spirits you are relying on. 

If a stranger asks me for $500 on the street, I’m not going to give it to them. But if my best friend did, I happily would. Look at who you already have relationships with and ask them - if you needed to manifest this result, how would you do it? I would caution anyone from shopping around for different spirits for every single ritual, and similarly to not over-assign roles to spirits. You can conjure for money using every single planet, not just Jupiter. Sol can make you outshine all your competitors for the job, garbing you in brilliance so bright only you remain visible in the eyes of those who have the power to award you what you seek. Venus can sweeten all parties to your favor, while Mars grants you victory and expels all opponents. Absolutely do explore other spirits and powers you’re interested in cultivating working relationships with, but do not forget how nuanced and deep your existing alliances go. Always divine on what you are missing, what information you need that you lack, how your working would be improved upon, etc. Where is there room for what you are looking for? Oftentimes I’ve enchanted directly for the financial success and prosperity of my bosses and academic advisers, so that the new money and grants they received would both relieve them of stress (making them more useful for me in the long run) and have more resources immediately on hand to pass on to me in the form of raises, new opportunities, projects, travel funding, and so on. 

Now with that out of the way (and I’m aware I’m giving way more than what the OP was asking for, but I do hope it will be helpful for people!) - there’s an implication in questions like these that relates to more than just verifying spells, but rather about proving that magic itself is real and tangible. I would offer that the possibilities of spirit contact described in both literary grimoire magic and among traditional oral lineages of witchcraft and sorcery are most definitely not being exaggerated in their testimonies. What follows are examples I have either personally seen or facilitated through conjuration:

A spirit manifesting visibly so that everyone in the room could see and hear it. It could also catch objects thrown at it and suspend them in the air plainly for all to see. 

A spirit physically manifesting an object from thin air that I to this day keep as a powerful amulet. It can move on its own and never rusts or tarnishes. 

A spirit manifesting to fill the sky with its body, with numerous witnesses who did not believe in any kind of non-physical entities witnessing it. 

Spirits manifesting as physical, concrete shadows that could be picked up with the hands and manipulated plainly for all to see. 

Within the context of mounting/spirit possession in ATRs, mounts (or horses, aka possessed persons) when incorporated with spirits have: spoken languages fluently they have no knowledge of but which the spirit speaks; been cut with knives/stabbed/had their hands placed in boiling oil/hot peppers rubbed on their orfices and so on without any injury, pain, or wounds/blood; defied gravity; suddenly healed major diseases and illnesses; caused all the animals in the room to die suddenly at the same time upon possession, physically transformed in skin and eye color; and more.

Not every working requires physical spirit manifestation. Not every magical goal requires the same amount of effort. But it is always possible to push deeper, as we are inclined to do. For as occultists, we pursue the hidden, especially what is hidden from us, no matter how practiced we are. That hunger for knowledge and ingress into the unknown defines magicians of all skill levels. Whether you end up initiating into a living tradition or working a grimoire that promises visible spirit manifestation by the book, there are myriad ways of discovering just how viscerally tangible and “real” magic is for yourself, if you’re willing to put in the time and exercise the diligence and cunning for it. 

- Mod D

#magic #witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #grimoire #grimoire magic #sorcery

[tossertozier]

So, I’ve seen a lot going around about Eddie and Myra and what people are and aren’t saying and this is my meta and my full take as my tags were quoted in the post I believe what started it all.

The original post is by kaymcalls, who I, in my personal opinion, believe is getting unfair hate and backlash on their blog. This is my personal opinion. This is a link to the post with comments by dear-wormwoods

Because we respect people’s right to their own opinion and analysis, there is a rebuttal post I feel it important to link by wondefuleds, displaying a different view point. 

I’m going to argue my point in this meta. Overall, I urge people to remember that this is a literary analysis and nothing greater. People have their rights to their own perspective above all else, and you have a right to yours, even if you greatly disagree with me. Please respect everyone’s right to see the world, read books, and understand relationships the way they do.

My point is neither Eddie nor Myra is abusive. There is no power imbalance present in their relationship. They are trapped in an emotionally manipulative, loveless, toxic marriage.

We open on Eddie fastidiously looking over his medicine cabinet, and packing a bag. There is a lot of discussion on the medications he takes, which are, for reference, a lot of sedatives.

Myra comes up the steps and demands to know what he’s doing. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request.

“‘Myra Kaspbrak was huge. She had only been big when Eddie married her five years ago, but he sometimes thought his subconscious had seen the potential for hugeness in her; God knew his own mother had been a whopper. And she looked somehow more huge than ever as she reached the second-floor landing.” There is a lot of fatphobia in our first description of Myra, which is in Eddie’s point of view. He is demeaning her based on her physical appearance in his mind.

“I have to go away for a while,” Eddie said.

“What do you mean, you have to go away? What was that telephone call?”

“Nothing,” he said, fleeing abruptly down the hall to their walk-in closet. 

And then:

“What’s this about, Eddie? Where are you going? You tell me!”

“I can’t tell you.” 

Eddie is being completely unreasonable. This is not how a married adult behaves. There’s independence, and there’s disregarding your partner entirely. 

Myra’s POV tells us: “she stood there, watching him, trying to decide what to say next, or what to do. The thought of dumpling bundling him into the closet and then standing there with her back against the door until this madness had passed crosses her mind, but she was unable to bring herself to do it;”

This is a fire vs fire fight. This is a lack of communication skills vs a lack of communication skills. Neither of them know how to talk to each other, at all. Myra tells us she has no idea what to do because this behavior is so unlike him, like she walked in on her furniture levitating. Does it justify her thoughts? 

No.

Instead, she makes up an excuse as to why he can’t go, for Al Pacino’s autograph, and he tells her she’ll have to get it herself. This isn’t an unreasonable request, but they are dancing around the topic at hand, they are not talking about where Eddie is going and why, they’re talking nonsense. Because they can’t communicate. Because they’re toxic for each other.

Let’s be realistic: eddie hasn’t even specified if he’s coming back. Myra has a right to be terrified. Eddie has a right to not want to dispel all of the childhood trauma that’s coming up for him at the moment. Neither of them communicate this to the other.

“Her face full of perplexity and terror, and he might have felt sorry for her if his heart had not already been so filled with terror for himself.”

He’s not scared of Myra. He’s scared of Pennywise, and returning to Derry. He’s failing to recognize, understand, and validate her emotions because he is so focused on his own. 

His wife is sobbing, and he completely ignores her and walks by. He doesn’t say anything. Not where he’s going. Not if he’ll come back. He doesn’t answer her questions, which are: are you in trouble and who was that on the phone? This is emotional manipulation. It is being a bad partner. 

Eddie realized he has more than enough time to make his train, and only then, does he think “Nine twenty. Plenty of time to talk to her, plenty of time to be kind.”

Eddie thinks he’s going off to die, and he is only considering being kind, in his own words, to his wife when it’s convenient. He thinks about the sound system he bought for her, criticizing her, and then thinks to himself “that wasn’t fair, and he damn well knew it.”

I think it’s a good metaphor for their entire relationship. He pulls these false equivalency for her… he blames her for his deep unhappiness which permeates every page of this chapter. He rhapsodizes about the similarities between his mother and Myra “they could have been sisters. The resemblance was that close.” He talks about only the physical resemblances for the longest time.He talks about how he fantasizes about breaking it off. 

But then he talks about their psychological resemblance:

“It was Myra herself who had ended up tripping the scales away from independence. Myra had condemned him with solicitude, nailed him with concern and chained him with sweetness. Myra, like his mother had reached that final, final insight into his character: Eddie was all the more delicate because he sometimes suspected he was not delicate at all. Eddie needed to be protected from his own dim intimations of bravery.”

Here’s the difference between Myra and Sonia in this passage to me:

Eddie is an adult. Eddie has free will, and he damn well knows it. He isn’t saying Myra won’t allow him to leave his house. He is saying he is addicted to her care over him. That he, personally believes, needs that level of care. It isn’t her words that have power over him, it’s her actions. Things she does like

taking out his rainboots when it’s raining

buying healthy cereals

These are normal things to do for your significant other. The reason they are not normal is because Eddie, yes Eddie, has been convinced  he is incapable of functioning without someone to care for him. This is, in large, not his fault, as the victim of childhood trauma. It’s also not Myra’s.

He goes on to say: “a hog she was, but she was a sweet hog, and he loved her, and there had really been no chance for him at all. She had drawn him to her with the fatal, hypnotizing snake’s eye of understanding.” He does not love this woman. He loves the care she takes of him. That’s a horrible marriage to enter yourself into. 

And he knows he’s wrong. He says he’s wrong. He knows he has built himself this cage and it’s based on the fact that he never faced down his childhood head on. That is his cross to bear. 

“Maybe this isn’t home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.” He knows he has never had a true home because he has not found it within himself.

Now: is Myra wholly innocent? 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

To know there is trauma in someone’s past that makes them vulnerable to a certain behavior, and to exploit that? Is emotional manipulation. They are both using the other to get what they want out of the relationship. Hence, it is mutually toxic.

“Tears has been more than a defense for his mother, they had been a weapon. Myra had rarely used her own tears so cynically… but, cynically or not, he realizes she was trying to use them that way now… and she was succeeding.” 

Eddie says Myra doesn’t have a particular track record for using tears as manipulation, and thinks that, regardless of whether she is cognizant of it, she is doing so now. Again: Eddie has not even said where he is going. She doesn’t even know if she is coming back. Again, I think this is Eddie, because of his trauma, which again: not his fault, but this is Eddie being unfair to Myra because of how he regards her. She has a right to cry at that moment. He can’t see her tears for anything other than the direct impact they are having on him, because he is used to emotions being a currency, because he is used to performative behavior. He is putting these things on Myra, and he knows that she probably isn’t being intentionally malicious, but cannot manage to make himself fully make that distinction. 

He holds his promise to the losers club of greater importance than his promises to her. That is his decision to make, but I think the least he could do is explain himself.

He then does not answer the questions she keeps repeating, but instead, tells her what she is going to do. They’re not addressing the question, they’re not addressing the problem, Myra is still sobbing. This is some of the worst communication skills I’ve seen in a relationship.

(Wailing)“there could be an accident… there probably will be an accident… Eddie… Eddie, you have to stay home…” this whole, there probably will be an accident, thing is textbook manipulation. She’s not getting what she wants from him, so she resorts to disaster scenarios. Because they’re not communicating what they want and need from each other.

However, Eddie replies: “For God’s sakes! Stop it!”

“I hate it when you shout at me, Eddie,” she whispered.

“Myra, I hate it when I have to,” he said and she winced.

Holy SHIT: no. I shouldn’t have to tell y’all why this is bad. This is BAD. Like I said… this is a fire vs fire fight. He is taking out his fear, his personal need for vindication in this fight against the dark, out on her. In response to her trying to manipulate him. They are BOTH toxic.

I’m gonna repeat: He holds this promise to the losers club as greater than any promise he made to her.

He thinks:

“Dear God, if You are there, please believe me when I say I don’t want to hurt Myra. I don’t want to cut her, don’t even want to bruise her. But I promised, we all promised, we swore in blood, please help me God because I have to do this… there you go, Eddie, you hurt her again. Why don’t you punch her around the room a few times? That would probably be kinder. And quicker.”

I can’t even with this passage. He knows. He knows how badly he is emotionally hurting her. He does not love this woman. He would resort to violence if he had to. There is no love in that.

They are so upset with each other, because they married someone to fill a purpose in their life, and not because they loved them. 

He gives her instructions on driving, and does not give her any information. His cab arrives.

He, again, refuses to give her any information. Again, she resorts to similar tactics to his mother, to try and manipulate him into staying. “‘You’ll get sick,’ she said desperately.” This is so bad. She tugs on him to make him stay. This is very bad. However, she doesn’t know where he’s going or if he’s even coming back.

For all she knows, her husband could be leaving her.

For all Eddie knows, he could be leaving her.

And then finally: finally, Eddie tells her something. He communicates! And you know what else he does? He lies to her.

‘“I’m going, but I’ll be coming back.’ Oh but that felt like a lie.” 

Eddie then, as she screams over the length of the trip, only then: considers her emotions as real, considers her emotions not only to the effect they play on his.

“Not angry at him, only terrified for him, and coincidentally, for herself.” 

And then:

“Was that what he meant? That he had finally decided it was all right to love her? That it was all right even though she looked like his mother…” 

this is a loveless marriage. Eddie never even considered her okay to love. I don’t think anyone is disputing that. But they’re both perpetrators of this emotional web that keeps them tangled in each other. They’re both responsible. there is not a power imbalance between them, just horrendous toxicity they both simultaneously feed into and rely on. 

Eddie, again, tells Myra to stop having her emotions, and asks her for a kiss. He tells her not to be afraid, tells her he’ll call if he can, and he leaves her. Forever. Eddie never comes home.

They never say goodbye or I love you, because Myra didn’t know it was goodbye, and they didn’t love each other. 

#myra kaspbrak #eddie kaspbrak #now PLEASE stop being rude to kaymcalls #and DON'T be rude to wonderfuleds either #come be rude to me #i can take it

[weepretzels]

why aren’t we careful readers? why aren’t we careful writers?

everyone has opinions about stories, everyone is clamoring about what a story should or should not contain, and I see quite often a confusion between what is produced singularly and what is produced for the thrill of the average reader; in their assessments other readers are looking for keywords to check off on their rubrics, their pre-assembled requirements which, like a glass box, expect every story that meets the definition of “good” to fit perfectly inside; people are looking for “tension,” people are looking for conflict and resolution, people are looking for action, for excitement, people are looking for something that makes sense to them, something tied up neatly, something explicitly resolved. I’m seeing a decrease in the number of readers who are willing to engage with what’s on the page more than they are willing to interact with who they are as a reader; is workshop pedagogy to blame for this “story by committee” attitude of the contemporary reader, who demands a story be what they want it to be, and if it fails to, deem this some failure; why can’t we look at what is on the page, why can’t we take it for what it is, why do stories need to hit these keywords like tension or resolution, and what’s more, why isn’t anybody able to slow down, why can’t anyone stay with a slow story, a story that builds through dialogue or exposition, a story that meanders, a story that pulls strings together lithely to come to an emotionally smart ending? a lot of these stories I’m reading are far from perfect, but I’m disturbed by other readers being unable to grasp things that aren’t explicitly enumerated on the page, I’m disturbed by this desire for a story to be loud, I’m disturbed by these other readers’ lack of criticism of characters, especially women, that fall into well-worn roles, into women that are pitted against each other for their beauty or their “lack” of it, I’m disturbed by the number of pieces coming in written by men about some ethnic woman who induces a sexual and spiritual awakening in the male narrator and I’m disturbed that these narrators think this is love, I’m disturbed that other people working in the publishing industry aren’t able to read all these different kinds of stories equally, that there’s an explicit bias in all their decisions, that they’ll pass along a story up the chain because it ticks all the genre convention’s boxes, I’m disturbed that they send stories up the chain that completely strip women characters bare of any personality or characterization other than their relationships to men. I’m disturbed that everyone has opinions about what a story should be but so few have the patience to actually read what is on the page in front of them, especially, and really only, when that story is quiet, when that story is operating on nuance, when that story is about women and their emotional connections, when that story makes you patient. like Willa Cather said, we have to first distinguish between what’s produced for the masses and what is produced as art. the masses want change, they want to be shocked and they always want something new. i think literature as art is all of these things, but in a timeless way, in a purposefully crafted way, in a patient way. and i think literature as art shows up on the page. everyone who thinks Hemingway’s philosophy of the iceberg in fiction is the way to go has probably only ever read hills like white elephants. they’ve never read big two-hearted river. this man waxes on. people think they get to have an idea for a story, write that idea down on the paper, and then submit it to a literary magazine and it’s going to get published. where’s the part where you waxed on? where’s the part where you crafted this story with your own two hands? where’s the part where you made this something? i always write in my comments for stories that aren’t cutting it, “the writing isn’t doing that much work.” what i mean is that the writer had the idea but didn’t put it on the page. we sometimes have to be explicit, we sometimes can’t rely on implying everything, we can’t sprinkle clues through the pages like breadcrumbs and expect the readers to do all the work. why write the story if you’re not even going to say what it is you have to say? why dance around the themes and the impact? PUT IT ON THE PAGE. and make it interesting, give it texture, give it energy. do everything on purpose. and EDIT. go back and read it and if it’s not doing anything, take it out. if it’s not doing enough, write more. don’t rely on a surprise ending; a thoughtful and perceptive reader has seen it coming. and just because you’ve written it doesn’t mean it’s ready to be published. there are some things you have to finish a draft of and then put it in the bottom drawer for a while, to draw back out again when they’re ready. you know how your first love is something you want to keep more than you can express but you don’t have the skills yet to keep it? you don’t have the relationship experience or the maturity to make it last? i think as writers we have to let ourselves mature enough to be ready for certain stories. you need to write. get it on the paper. but have enough discernment to know when something is bigger than you, to know when something is more powerful than you can handle right now. and then go back to it later. we can blame my mars in taurus for this, maybe, or my cancer sun, but you have to be patient. if you’ve finished a piece, you’ve edited it and worked on it, share it with someone you trust, and then wait a couple weeks before you decide what to do with it. and you have to keep reading. as someone working in the publishing industry i can’t tell you how many submissions i read where i can spot the TV tropes from the first paragraph. the media you consume will inevitably show up on the page. if you want to write literary fiction, you can’t spend all your time watching TV. read a goddamn book. read the book that your writing professor wrote. read first novels and most recent novels. read short stories, contemporary ones and not that raymond carver shit. read what is new and contemporary. and journal. write your own life and your own lived experience. don’t try to copy what someone else has already done. i can tell you the industry is looking for the fresh, fresh takes on old stories and characters is fine, but something i’ve completely never seen before, that is more stunning, that is a piece i’m going to pass on right away and even email the editors about. you have a story in you that nobody else can write. why would you write an imitation when you can write something new? it might not be in the form you always thought of yourself writing in. i thought i’d publish short fiction for the longest time, and i’m just now figuring out that auto-fiction works a lot better for me. go to therapy. i mean it. learn about yourself, put time towards yourself, find out what drives you and what matters to you. your writing will only gain from any effort you put into your own self-care. be patient and know that when you start a story, you’re going into it for the long haul. you’re going into it for the first  draft, that pulse of adrenaline and pride as you hold the first printed copy hot off your home printer in your hands, you’re going into it for the several revisions after that ,you’re going into it for the inevitable overhaul at some point down the line, and you’re going into it for the waiting, for the time it’ll spend in the bottom drawer as you mature and become ready for it. you’re going into it for that moment, months or years from now, when you’re holding the latest copy in your hands, hot off your home printer, and you just know that it’s ready, and complete, and even perhaps the very thing you were born to write. what makes you a great writer is what makes you you. if you can learn to accept this, then i believe you’ll become a better reader, too. what if we looked at every story that came across our workshop table with the same respect we paid every idea we took the time to write down ourselves? we’d have a lot fewer rubrics, a lot more patience, a lot more curiosity, a lot more willingness to set aside our own desires and expectations for others’ work, a less entitled eye, a kinder and gentler perspective, and perhaps a return to the essentials: good writing takes numberless forms and tells numberless stories. if we had the patience and discipline, we might even be good enough readers to recognize whatever kernels of skill and goodness are in the manuscripts we come across and to build up from those, whatever they might be. if we were patient and disciplined enough, we’d stop producing imitations, we’d stop writing “stock” or cliche or stereotype. we’d get out of this mindset of “everything has to be what i want it to be” and “what can i learn from the best possible version of this story?” being a discerning and patient reader will also teach us when to abandon certain ideas and when to go for others. i see so many stories that lack focus and in the end, end up saying nothing at all, or end up saying something that other authors have said many times before. read outside of your comfort zone, push yourself to be patient, dedicated, and open. and slow down and actually read the manuscript in front of you. sit on your hands if you’re tempted to go after it in red pen—markups are a second-read privilege. SLOW DOWN AND READ THE STORY. SLOW DOWN AND WRITE THE STORY, PUT THE STORY ON THE PAGE, DON’T TAKE SHORTCUTS, DO THE HARD WORK, FOLLOW THROUGH. 

#i literally HATE the other reader assigned to the same submissions as me #he misreads stories all the time and has absolutely no patience for stories that don't have the traditional story arc in them #he also throws around keywords like tension and resolution etc #he will straight up just MISS THE POINT or actually get details wrong #i read his comments like what the fuck are we reading the same manuscript #the only stories i have seen him upvote are ones in which the women characters are depicted as having no other characterization than their #relationship to the men in their lives and the men are fucking other women and there's jealousy and anger between the WOMEN and #i read a story i liked earlier today and i couldn't upvote it because it was a bit incoherent but i was like i bet russell would have hated #this story because it's about four women and sure enough he called their discussion aimless banter they were LITERALLY TALKING ABOUT THEIR #FRIEND WHO HAD DIED? AND SUMMONED HER SPIRIT TO APOLOGIZE TO HER AND MOURN HER DEATH TOGETHER?????? #YEAH YOU ARE A GREAT FUCKING READER #i hate him i hate him i hate him i don't trust him how did he get the same job as me #he also has published a book lol i am really curious maybe he's a way better writer than reader #cause he SUCKS AT READING!! #anyway this rant has been building up in me since i was born in 1992 #here u go #if u read it i love you

[how-to-survive-a-factory-tour]

How to Survive a Factory Tour - Chapter 9

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

PREVIOUS

—————

“What the heck are those?” My curiosity is sparked by the unusual sight, and I stand, walking over to the river bank. There, on the other side, stands a person. But they don’t look like a normal person… Not at all...

“What are you looking at?” Roman asks as he, Patton and Virgil come and stand by me. I point across the river to where the strange person is picking sweets from a bush.

“Woah, it’s a little person!” Patton gasps. “They’re so small…”

“Somehow even smaller than you, Logan. Didn’t know that was possible.” I shove Roman’s arm at this comment. “Ow, hey, I was kidding!”

We continue to watch the unusual person work. As time goes by, we notice more and more around the room, all harvesting various sweets and chocolates. They are most peculiar… They’re all about the size of a large doll. No higher than my knee. Ethan comes over and joins us after a bit, curious as to what we’re all staring at. Then Wonka comes over. “Ah, I see you found the Oompa Loompas!”

“The what?” Roman turns to him.

“Oompa Loompas. They’re my workers. They come from a country called Loompaland, and island just off Madagascar-“

“There’s no such place,” I cut over.

“Yes there is.”

“Mr Wonka, I got an A** in my geography GCSE-“

“Then you’ll know all about it. And, oh, what a terrible country it is.”

Wonka proceeds to tell us all about this supposed ‘Loompaland’. Apparently, he went there to discover new flavours for sweets, but he instead found the Oompa Loompas. They were starving, and were often the prey of (likely fictional) creatures called ‘Hornswogglers’, ‘Snozzwangers’ and ‘Wangdoodles’. So, Wonka helped them by offering them work in his factory in exchange for cocoa beans. They agreed and here they are.

If this completely absurd story is true, the connotations to the slave trade are too prominent to ignore. The Oompa Loompas were even shipped to America on a boat, packed together. Unfortunately, I am unable to inquire about this as Virgil speaks up.

“They were mentioned in the book… The whole story of how you got them is described exactly the same… Mr Wonka, how much of the book about the original tour is true?”

“It’s 100% factual.”

“Bullshit. There’s no way all that could happen in real life.”

“Indeed it can, my boy, and indeed it did. Augustus Gloop fell in this very river, and got sucked up those very pipes. The pipes lead to all the different rooms in the factory where chocolate is required. All the chocolate comes from here so that it is mixed by waterfall. It’s very important it is, as that’s what makes it so light and delicious.”

Virgil still doesn’t seem convinced. “But Violet… there’s no way she-”

“True.”

“Veruca never could have-”

“True.”

“But Mike-”

“True.”

Virgil’s silent for a moment. “... What about Charlie? At the end of the book, he wins the factory and he and his family move in. If it’s true, then where is he?”

Wonka doesn’t respond. But his face… he looks almost solemn. Only for a second, however, before his bright demeanour returns. “Oh, look! Here she comes!”

“Here who comes?” Roman asks.

Wonka points to a tunnel on the wall that the river flows through. Cutting through the melted chocolate is a large pink Viking-style boat. “Our transportation to the next room!”

Figuring I shouldn’t cross-contaminate food items between rooms, I take the gum I had been chewing out my mouth and stick it to a tree as the boat pulls up. Patton sees me and puts down the large gummy bear he had been eating.

The boat comes to a stop by the bank where we are all standing. Oompa Loompas are sat in rows, five per oar. As they all look at us, they all start laughing and giggling.

“What do they find so humorous?” I ask.

“It’s probably nothing,” Wonka shrugs. “They’re always joking and laughing about things. Now, come on, hop in!”

Wonka sits at the back of the boat, Roman and Virgil sit in the row in front of him, while Patton, myself and Ethan sit in the row in front of them.

“Onward! Set a course for… Hmm, where would you all like to go?”

“Ooh, is there a room with cookies and cakes?” Patton asks, legs swinging excitedly.

“I know just the place. Set a course for Dessert Island!”

The Oompa Loompas push the boat away from the bank, and start rowing us down the river.

“Here.” I turn and see Wonka has five cups and is scooping up cups of melted chocolate from the river, before he hands them to each of us. We all thank him, and I take a small sip. My sweet tooth takes over my knowledge that chocolate is very unhealthy, and I drink the rest in a few more gulps.

I hear a giggle beside me. “Lo, you got it all round your mouth.” Patton lifts the sleeve of the hoodie tied over his shoulders and wipes my mouth with it.

“Thank you, Patton…”

“No problem, Lo!”

I hear Roman whisper “I ship it” to Virgil behind me. What does that mean? He’s shipping an item of his from home to his hotel room, I’m guessing. In which case, his grammar was deplorable.

My thoughts are pulled away from Roman’s lack of literary skills when Patton lets out a content sigh. “This is nice, huh? Just drifting gently along a river…”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is rather relaxing.”

And, I can only assume, romantic. Would this be a good time to take Roman’s advice and try and confess my feelings to Patton?

I take a deep breath. Here we are, this is it. I just need to tell him how I feel and hope he reciprocates…

“Patton?”

“Yeah, Lo?”

“Um, there’s something I need to-“

“Dark tunnel incoming!” Ethan’s voice calls, cutting me off. We all turn to see we’re heading right towards a pitch black tunnel.

“Faster!” Wonka calls, and as we near the tunnel, we start to speed up. Then, as we enter, there’s a jolt, and suddenly we’re moving faster than a car on the motorway. I can only assume the Oompa Loompas are rowing quicker than should be humanly possible, as it’s too dark to see anything.

“How can they see where we’re going?!” Virgil calls.

“There’s no knowing where they’re going!” Wonka replies, hooting with laughter.

“There’s no earthly way of knowing

Which direction they are going!

There’s no knowing where they’re rowing,

Or which way they river’s flowing!

Not a speck of light is showing,

So the danger must be growing,

For the rowers keep on rowing,

And they’re certainly not showing

Any signs that they are slowing!”

“Well, this is great. Our tour leader’s gone crazy,” Virgil says.

“I haven’t gone crazy! Oh, by the way, hold on tight!”

“Hold on ti-?” My question’s cut off as we suddenly plummet, my voice being replaced with a scream. Luckily, my scream is dwarfed by Roman, who lets out a screech so loud I worry Virgil was deafened.

As we dart down, my hands hold the bench of the boat in a death grip, and I feel a pair of arms wrap around my waist.

“Switch on the lights!” Wonka yells, and suddenly the tunnel is flooded with bright coloured lights. I look down to see Patton is the one holding onto him, and my face heats up.

But then, with a loud splash, we reach the bottom of the drop, straightening up and slowing down.

Patton opens his eyes that had been closed tightly in fear, and looks up at me. He immediately lets go and leans back. “Oh, I-I’m sorry! I, uh… I just got scared I was gonna fall out…”

“It’s, um, it’s quite alright, Patton…”

We continue to gently flow along, the current carrying us past many doors with different room titles. One of them catches my eye and sparks my curiosity.

“What’s the ‘Inventing Room’?”

“That is where all my new and unfinished inventions are created and completed. If you’d like, we can head there after Dessert Island.”

“Don’t you mean ‘desert’?” Roman asks. “You keep pronouncing it wrong.”

“I know what I said,” is Wonka’s only response.

We float on for a couple more minutes, when Patton giggles.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just the lights, they’re making us all look different colours,” Patton explains, currently doused in yellow light. “You’re this bright reddy-purple.”

And he looks gorgeous, like he’s bathed in sunlight...

No! Shut up, gay thoughts, now isn’t the time! That flume killed the romantic mood, the moment’s over.

The boat starts to slow and veer closer to the wall. It comes to a complete stop outside of a door.

Wonka steps out and the rest of us follow. Once we’re all on dry land, he turns and opens the door labelled ‘Dessert Island’.

—————

NEXT

Taglist: @i-have-n0-idea-what-im-d0ing @clone-number-1 @pumpkinminette @why-should-i-tell-youu2

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides logan #sanders sides patton #patton sanders #sanders sides virgil #virgil sanders #sanders sides roman #roman sanders #sanders sides deceit #deceit sanders #willy wonka #sanders sides au #au #charlie and the chocolate factory au #fanfic #fanfiction #logicality #prinxiety

[magicallygrimmwiccan]

The Opposite of Love (Indifference) Chapter II: It’s Better To Feel Pain (Than Nothing At All)

“If this is to be my wardrobe for the near future,” Logan growled, “then I demand all photographic evidence be burned upon completion of this period.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Virgil drawled, rolling his eyes. “Besides, Dee thought you’d need a break. And what better way to make you take a break-”

“Than to make sure there were no traces of my royal wardrobe, yes I know,” Logan sighed, holding up a pink turtleneck sweater. “I still do not appreciate this.”

“Aw, I think you’ll look downright adorable,” Virgil teased. “Besides, it’s more comfortable than your regular clothing, you have to admit.” Logan grumbled in complaint but ultimately agreed. The sweaters all looked much softer and more pleasing than his usual silken attire, and the purple cargo shorts looked to be much less restrictive than his typical trousers. He had always had a weakness for knee-high socks, and Converse made him extremely happy as well.

(He sincerely hoped that Virgil would not remember that this was the outfit they had first met in. Logan would possibly die of embarrassment if Virgil recalled that little detail. Dee had surely given him this wardrobe on accident, and Logan was determined to never let Virgil know the true implications of what this outfit symbolized.)

“Well… I suppose it could be worse,” Logan sighed. “And seeing as my current outfit is ruined-” He was fairly certain Virgil had done that out of spite. “- I must change. Please exit the room.”

“Sure thing. When you’re done, I managed to find some books you might like.” With that, Virgil left, leaving Logan alone in a strange room in a weird house in the middle of nowhere. He let out a shaky sigh and began to undress, choosing to leave his binder on. Yes, it had been on for four days, but he wasn’t feeling any pain or difficulty breathing. He would be fine.

Logan exited his room after a minute or two, only to be faced by a glaring Virgil again. “Yeah, go take off that binder, mister.”

“What? It-”

“It has been on for four days, Logan, so go take it off right this second.”

“How-”

“Dee told me. Take it off and leave it off for a week or I make you.” Logan was going to give Dee a stern talking-to about privacy once he got back to the palace, but for now, he was unwilling to see what Virgil meant by “making him”. With a sigh, he walked back into his room, wriggled out of his binder, and took a moment to breathe before heading back out to Virgil. Virgil nodded in approval before carefully taking his elbow and leading him to the living room, supporting his still-shaky legs.

Logan gasped as he saw the pile of books awaiting him on the coffee table. “Are those all for me?”

“Yeah, I’ve been collecting old books for a few decades now. Figured I should try and preserve as much of the past as I could, ya know?”

“Virgil, this… this is lovely, thank you,” Logan said, turning to face the vampire with a small smile on his face. “This was quite kind of you.”

Virgil shrugged. “Not really, but okay.”

Logan let out a sigh but ultimately put the issue to rest, moving forward to inspect the books further. Dante’s Inferno, Frankenstein, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, all literary classics, all ridiculously hard to find now in their original book forms. How Virgil had managed to find these was a mystery Logan didn’t care to solve, as he was far too happy just getting lost in the books in front of him.

“Oh I guess I’ll just… leave you,” Virgil mumbled, stepping back and vanishing into the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients to make a kickass lasagna while Logan buried himself in books behind him.

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

Virgil woke up only a day after the Book Incident (that plan had worked too well) to the smell of smoke wafting through the house. He bolted upright and dashed out into the living room, clad only in the tank top and skinny jeans he’d fallen asleep in.

“Logan?!” he yelped, nose burning from the scent of smoke. Coughing answered him and Logan emerged from the kitchen, fanning his face and looking at Virgil with red-rimmed pink eyes.

“My apologies, I accidentally set fire to the ravioli I was attempting to boil,” Logan coughed, smiling shakily at Virgil. “Um… I turned off the stove before anything too bad happened?”

Virgil groaned and pushed past Logan into the kitchen. “Stay out, sugar, you’re liable to melt. I’ll handle it.” His eyes widened as he took in the disaster before him. How had Logan managed to also burn the water?! The sauce he could understand, as making brown butter took skill and sage burned quickly if the heat was too high, and the ravioli he could also kind of comprehend, but the water? How was this man such a disaster?

“Logan… I think you’re officially banned from the kitchen,” Virgil announced.

“That is quite fair,” Logan called back. “Would you like help cleaning up?”

Virgil was about to answer when the sauce finally exploded, covering him from head to toe in sage butter. He stood, frozen, for a solid minute, before he forced himself to reply.

“No. No I would not.”

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

Virgil would like to go back and ask his past self exactly how oblivious he had been for thinking that Logan would actually sleep once removed from the situation with the Ice Queen. Because Logan, Virgil was slowly realizing, was not only stubborn and stupid and lacked an understanding of the definition of self-care, but he was oblivious to his own body’s needs.

It had been a week since Virgil and Logan had moved into this little tree house in the middle of nowhere, and Logan had only slept twice in that entire time there. Once when Virgil had dragged him in, and once the afternoon of the Cooking Incident. It was frankly getting ridiculous, and Virgil was about two seconds away from tearing his hair out in frustration over the stupid prince he was currently babysitting. Logan needed to go to sleep right this goddamn second or Virgil knew he was going to fucking scream.

“Are you quite alright, Virgil? You look tense,” Logan observed, looking up from the copy of The Great Gatsby Virgil had managed to find for him. Virgil grit his teeth together before leveling Logan with a harsh glare, allowing all the anger and frustration and possible-worry over the prince’s health bubble up and heat his gaze.

“No I am not alright,” Virgil hissed. “You are being an idiot who isn’t sleeping and it is getting on my last. Nerve.”

Logan blinked, thoroughly confused. “Oh… well, that is, quite frankly, none of your business, Virgil.”

Virgil gay-up hissed like an irate cat and shot to his feet, marching over to tower over Logan. “Go the fuck to sleep, bitch.”

“No.” Logan met his glare with a steady gaze, not even flinching. Virgil let out a sound that totally wasn’t a scream as he began to pace around the living room, muttering to himself. What would make Logan go to sleep? What was a fool-proof plan for success? Virgil needed one now, and short of continuously knocking Logan out, something both Patton and Roman would take issue with, Virgil had no answers.

“Well, have fun with… whatever it is you are doing. I will be making more coffee in the meantime,” Logan called, beginning to stand. Virgil froze, an evil smirk crossing his face. Oh. This was perfect. The perfect solution to his dilemma. How had he not thought of this before?

“You’re not getting more coffee,” Virgil laughed, strolling into the kitchen and ignoring Logan’s indignant noises. “You’re not getting more coffee until you sleep.”

“That- you can’t just do that!” Logan squeaked. “You are not in control of my actions!”

“Ah, but I can hide the coffee machine.” Logan’s face paled and he stared at Virgil with wide, pleading eyes. Virgil ignored him, however, and simply unplugged the machine from its spot, picked it up, and carried it into his room, ignoring the pleas to stop.

He kicked his door shut, shoving his bass in front of the door to keep Logan out, and floated upwards to hide the machine in the top of his closet where Logan would never find it. There. Boom. Problem solved. He was a genius.

Virgil left his room, only to run straight into a frantic Logan, who grabbed his hoodie and pulled him down to stare directly into his eyes, all the hatred of a thousand suns burning into Virgil’s soul from those eyes.

“Give me back. My coffee machine,” Logan absolutely growled, jaw clenched so tightly Virgil was surprised his teeth weren’t cracking under the strain.

“Nope,” Virgil replied, popping his p and watching with great pleasure as the fight drained from Logan’s form. “Not until you go to sleep, hulwaty.”

Logan sighed, biting his bottom lip. “... are you sure I cannot convince you?”

“Yeah. Now, to bed. Chop chop.” Logan sighed and trudged to his room, practically slamming the door behind him. Virgil smiled sadly at the door before going back out to the kitchen, making sure to close his own door behind him. It was for Logan’s own health, he told himself, regardless of how those sad eyes on that sad face had stabbed into his soul. He was going soft. The thought, he realized, did not horrify him as it once might have. Virgil promptly decided to not analyze this thought further and began to prepare another vegetable stock for another soup. He might as well take advantage of this free time while Logan slept, right?

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

Yeah, Virgil really was going soft. Too soft, in fact, as he was more concerned about Logan sleeping than he was about his own health. It was a problem. Virgil had always either not given a single fuck about someone or cared far too much to be healthy, and it looked like he had switched modes for Logan in less than a week. Damn it.

He hadn’t slept in three days and he swore he could feel it in his toe bones (metatarsals and phalanges, Logan had told him at one point). Virgil was stumbling around the house, utterly exhausted yet also refusing to sleep. Logan still hadn’t gotten his coffee maker back, as he only slept after Virgil reminded him he held the precious machine hostage and Virgil was terrified to think about the lack of sleep Logan would get if he gave it back now.

Of course, this left Virgil monitoring Logan so much that his own sleep was left behind, a fact that he was realizing made him a flaming hypocrite. This, however, did not escape Logan’s notice; he was just far too nice to comment on it, Virgil realized.

“Hey, darling,” Logan murmured after 3 sleepless nights for Virgil, carefully draping a soft fleece blanket over his shoulders. “You’ve done enough. Time for you to rest.”

“No,” Virgil slurred, weakly shaking his head despite his body insisting on listening to Logan. “No, you… you won’t sleep if I do. Gotta take care of you.”

“Oh, love,” Logan murmured, gently pulling Virgil to his feet. “If that is what concerns you… I can sleep with you, just to make sure we both get some rest. Is that alright?”

“I… I guess. Promise you’ll actually sleep?” Had Virgil been more aware, he would have flinched at how vulnerable he sounded, but as it stood, he didn’t have the brain capacity to care.

“Of course,” Logan soothed, guiding Virgil to his room. “Now, let’s have a nap, shall we? We’ll both feel better after, I imagine.”

Virgil didn’t even complain, simply stripping down to a T-shirt and boxers before collapsing onto his bed, pulling a Logan who was clad in a too-large sweater and tall socks to his chest. He drifted off in the space between one blink and the next, the last thing he remembered being the sweet scent of Logan drifting into his nose as pink hairs tickled it.

Afterwards, both of them agreed to get sleep each night, and the coffee maker was restored to its usual spot on the kitchen counter.

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

Logan sneezed for what had to be the fifth time in the space of twenty minutes, groaning as his stuffed-up nose decided to torture his brain again. He had only gotten sick once before in his life, and he never wanted to ever again as long as he lived. This was torture.

“Logan, I made you chicken noodle soup, and I expect you to eat it all,” Virgil called, strolling into the living room. He held a tray in his hands, laden with a large steaming bowl and a small glass of apple juice, a severe look painted on his face. Logan groaned but forced himself to sit upright to receive Virgil’s lovely efforts.

“My thanks, Virgil,” Logan groaned, wincing at his stuffy-sounding voice. “I still apologize for falling ill.”

“Hey, none of that. You haven’t spent extended time out of the palace for ages. It makes sense.”

“Still, you should not have to deal with me.”

“My bedside manner is shit, but I’ll still take care of you. Now eat your damn soup,” Virgil huffed, sitting down on the couch at Logan’s feet and giving a look that could almost be construed as tender. Logan took the tray and began to slowly sip at the soup, glancing up at Virgil every so often. The vampire king simply watched him with a steady expression. Not a cold form of steady by any means, Logan realized. No, this was a steady that spoke of care, of tenderness, of passion and love and promises of safety. Logan had never felt safer in his entire life than he did there, on that couch, Virgil watching him as he drank his chicken noodle soup.

(Something stirred in Logan’s stomach, at that thought, and he brutally shoved it down. Now was not the time for feelings.)

“Good. Now drink your juice, and I put some pills to help on the tray as well.” Logan found them quickly and downed them with the apple juice in two gulps. Virgil smiled at him and leaned over, gently ruffling his hair. “Now go to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Logan settled back down and Virgil grabbed the tray, retreating to the kitchen. The candy prince yawned, fighting to stay awake until Virgil returned, but he quickly lost the battle at the soft sound of Virgil’s soothing humming as he fell into a deep, dark, comforting realm of dreams.

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

When Virgil inevitably fell ill merely two days later, Logan tried to reciprocate the care. He burned the soup and spilled the juice twice, causing Virgil to laugh and Logan to blush furiously. They eventually get things to work, and Virgil began to feel better in no time, and the two of them agreed to never bring up The Great Chicken Soup Catastrophe ever again.

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

“So, I just… do this?” Logan asked for the tenth time, gently poking the pasta dough in front of him. Virgil nodded, too focused on his own pasta dough to correct the fact that Logan shouldn’t be poking it but should, in fact, be shaping it.

“I mean, you should be shaping it, not poking it, but yeah.” Virgil finished shaping all of his dough and turned to help Logan, snorting at the comical sight of Prince Gumball, covered in flour, staring in horror at the dough in front of him as if it were about to attack him.

“What do you mean shaping it? Shaping it into what? How do I do that when it sticks to me whenever I touch it?” Logan looked utterly lost and baffled. It was adorable. Virgil couldn’t help the small snort he let out before he shuffled over, gently picking up Logan’s dough before beginning to shape it for him.

“I think that might just be the fact that you’re made of gum, nizarat,” Virgil answered, hands expertly pinching and tucking and folding and rolling until all of Logan’s dough was in the perfect shape to make their dish. “Either way, there you go.”

“Thank you, Virgil,” Logan sighed, looking quite relieved to have this over with. “Now, what is the next step?”

“Now, we get to drop these into the boiling water,” Virgil replied, pausing when he saw Logan pale and step back a bit. “What is it?”

“Uh… is it liable to splash?” Logan inquired, staring at the pot in fear. Virgil mentally slapped himself for not considering that someone made out of sugar would not handle being hit with water well and sighed.

“It… it might. I can do all of this if you want?”

“That would be wonderful, Virgil, my thanks,” Logan replied, retreating to deal with finding the perfect dishes to plate their pasta on. Virgil sighed and went back to making sure the pasta didn’t overcook, listening to Logan’s quiet curses as he tried to find matching dishware in the cupboards.

“It doesn’t have to match, Logan,” Virgil called, voice tinged in amusement.

“Yes it does,” Logan insisted, and Virgil could just picture his puffed-out cheeks and slight glare. “If they do not match, then the presentation is wrong. And if the presentation is wrong, the meal is ruined.”

“You have to lighten up some times,” Virgil laughed, dumping the pasta into the sauce to finish cooking it. “You can’t always make everything perfect. Sometimes, you work with what you have.”

“That seems like a very… strange way to live,” Logan mumbled back. “Should you not strive for perfection in all that you do?”

“Sometimes, your best is good enough.” Virgil shrugged, bringing the pasta over to the table, before dishing it out into the bowls Logan had found with a carving fork. “And honestly, I’d be exhausted trying to be perfect every hour of the day. I’d much rather be the mess that I really am.”

Logan hummed, looking thoughtful, but didn’t say anything, simply nomming on his pasta with wide eyes. “This is delicious, Virgil. Thank you.”

“You helped make it, dude.”

“Thank you anyway.” For teaching me, for the advice, for accepting me for who I am even though you have every reason not to… Logan didn’t need to say all of that. Virgil knew.

“Of course, Logan.”

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

Logan secretly liked Saturdays in the house with Virgil, although he would never admit it on pain of death. Virgil would do some baking early in the morning and leave the basket of treats on the table throughout the day for the two of them to snack on. Logan would spend the morning sewing, knitting, and doing puzzles while Virgil cleaned (the vampire was, surprisingly, a neat freak, something Logan had only just now remembered). They would then have a light lunch of sandwiches before retreating back to their own quiet activities, Logan typically reading in the afternoon while Virgil sketched. The soft quiet soothed them both, and it became something they both looked forward to at the end of the loud week.

On one such afternoon, Logan finally decided to move closer to Virgil during their afternoon time. They’d been in the same house for a little over a month now, and Logan hoped that this meant he was allowed to sit on the same couch as Virgil without it seeming weird.

“Logan? What the fuck are you doing?” Virgil asked, looking up as Logan sat on the other couch cushion. Logan froze, turning to look at Virgil. Should he just go back to the loveseat?

“Um… I figured I could… sit here today?”

Virgil let out a soft sigh and stood, Logan’s heart climbing into his throat. Oh, he had messed this up, hadn’t he?

However, instead of leaving, Virgil simply turned around and lounged against Logan, his feet propped up on the other armrest. “Well, then, I guess we’re doing this today.” Logan let out a quiet sigh of relief and turned back to his book, allowing Virgil to continue his drawing in their usual silence.

Eventually, however, Virgil’s weight began to press more and more into Logan’s shoulder, and he glanced over to see what was going on. He had to stifle a giggle, however, as he saw the vampire’s closed eyes and slack face, his theory confirmed as he heard a light snore as well.

“Well, this simply can’t be comfortable,” Logan murmured, carefully shifting Virgil off of his shoulder and into his lap. “That should be better.” By some miracle, the sleeping vampire did not wake, simply shifting position once in Logan’s lap. Satisfied with his work, Logan turned back to his book, not intent on moving until Virgil woke up. He clearly needed this nap, and it would take a crueler man than Logan to take said nap away from him.

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

When Virgil woke up four hours later to find Logan passed out, he simply chuckled, placed a blanket around Logan’s shoulders, and went back to sleep.

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

“Logan! Come on!” Virgil called, already halfway down the ladder to the ground. Logan carefully followed, bundled up in a thick turtleneck sweater, a scarf, and a woolen peacoat. Virgil was only in his usual hoodie and flannel, apparently unbothered by the crisp chill in the air.

“Not all of us wish to risk our necks climbing down recklessly,” Logan shot back, clinging tightly to the rickety ladder as he descended. “Plus, I do not see the appeal in jumping in piles of dead foliage.”

“It’s a fun thing to do,” Virgil answered, “and you need to stop being so overcautious. Let loose every once in a while!”

“I do ‘let loose’, just not when I could be harmed doing so.” Logan finally reached the ground and carefully stepped down, the leaves crunching around him.

“You’re boring,” Virgil declared, already kicking leaves into a pile. “Come on, I wanna get this pile to be a decent size.”

Logan reluctantly began to help Virgil curate the pile of dried leaves, wincing as he accidentally touched a few wet ones. He quickly dried his hands before it could affect his skin too much, ignoring Virgil’s snickering.

Soon enough, they had amassed a pile of red, brown, orange, and yellow, about three quarters of Virgil’s height and with a radius of similar size. Virgil was grinning wickedly, causing Logan’s stomach to clench in anxiety. That facial expression spelled trouble, and Logan did not need more trouble in his life today.

“So, you want to go first or should I?” Virgil asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Logan shook his head quickly and stepped back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Oh, no, no, I do not think it wise to-”

“You then!” With that, Virgil picked Logan up, ignoring the screeches from the candy prince, and chucked him onto the pile. Logan screamed and curled into a ball just before colliding with the leaves, eyes flying open in surprise as he did not feel cold, hard ground colliding with his side.

“Yeah, the leaves cushion your fall if you get them high enough,” Virgil answered his unasked question. “You didn’t think I’d let ya get hurt, did you?”

“I… I am not sure what to believe at this moment,” Logan muttered. Virgil sighed and helped him out of the pile, brushing leaves off of him.

“Yeah, well… can you at least believe that I won’t let you get hurt? I might not be a good person, but I’m not a dick.”

“Of- of course, I never meant to make you think-”

“No, Logan, relax!” Virgil exclaimed. “I didn’t- oh gosh, people just tend to think I’m evil, but even I have standards!”

“Of course you do! How can people think you’re evil? Yes, you can be overbearing and infuriating and far too unprofessional, but you are kind, and sweet, and you try your best to help people, and that is not something to be demonized or forgotten simply because of your vampiric nature!” Logan’s cheeks were puffed out in fury by the end of his rant, fists clenched at his sides. “And I will personally fight anyone who says otherwise!”

“Whoa, slow down, shorty,” Virgil chuckled, ruffling Logan’s hair. “No need for fighting. I can defend myself, thank you very much.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I don’t find it worth my time,” Virgil answered, shrugging. “Not everything in life needs to be met with energy.” Logan’s muscles relaxed and he stared at Virgil, eyes wide.

“Anyway, help me get these back in a pile? I still wanna jump in them.” Logan nodded, and the two remade the pile in record time, this time with Logan standing back and watching Virgil bellyflop into the pile with a large grin on his face. Something warm stirred in Logan’s stomach at the sight and he let out a small giggle, just happy to see Virgil happy. Oh, he would regret this later, if the numb sensation in his fingers and nose and toes was any indication, but for now, Virgil was happy, and that was all that mattered to Logan.

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

A couple days after the leaf pile, Virgil was wandering around at 2, unable to sleep, on his way to get cocoa, when he was stopped by the heavy sound of whimpering coming from Logan’s room. His eyes narrowed, he stalked forward, gently pushing the door open to peek inside and make sure that everything was alright. His eyes shot wide, however, when he saw Logan’s state.

The candy prince was tangled up in his blankets, clawed fingers grasping at the air as if reaching for someone or something. Sweat beaded on his face and tears stained his cheeks, breaking Virgil’s already broken heart even further. His whimpers stabbed Virgil even further, locking his muscles in place as he bore witness to this horrifying, heartbreaking sight. The strong, untouchable, perfect prince, falling to pieces in his dreams in the middle of the night away from all his loved ones.

“No, Virgil… no, please, no, I’ll be good, please stop,” Logan begged, curling in on himself.

Virgil’s muscles finally unlocked and he lunged forward, falling to his knees beside Logan as he began to frantically try and wake him. “Logan? Logan can you hear me?” Logan’s only reply was to twist away from Virgil’s voice, curling up even tighter, possibly defying the limits of his spine. “Logan I need you to focus. You’re having a nightmare. Nothing is wrong. You’re okay. I just need you to wake. Up.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’ll be good please don’t hurt them, please don’t hurt him, I’ll do whatever you want-” Logan whimpered. Virgil let out a growl and grabbed Logan’s shoulders, pinning them to the bed. Logan let out a cry and began to thrash around. Virgil let out a frustrated groan and swung himself onto the bed, sitting on Logan’s hips to keep him restrained.

“Logan! Wake up!” Virgil yelled, shaking Logan’s shoulders in punctuation. Logan whimpered and thrashed some more, leaving Virgil at a loss. He needed to wake Logan up, but the prince wasn’t listening, what should he do-

“I’m sorry don’t hurt them… Virgil-!” Virgil let out a short sob and shook Logan harder, on the verge of tears himself. He wanted to help, he needed to help, but how could he?

“Logan! Wake up!” Virgil screamed, releasing a hand and patting Logan’s cheek. Logan’s eyelids flickered at that, giving Virgil hope, and an idea. Muttering apologies, he drew back his hand, and, with only half the strength possible, he slapped Logan across the face. The candy man shot upright at that, gasping and coughing, and Virgil instantly shifted to caretaker mode, taking Logan’s face in his hands and making sure he was calming down from the panic attack.

“V-Virgil?” Logan asked after a minute. “Did you… slap me?”

“Sorry, habibi, it was the only thing I could think of,” Virgil whispered, thumbs stroking Logan’s cheekbones. “Are you okay?”

“N-not particularly,” Logan mumbled. “But I cannot remember what the nightmare was about.”

“That’s more than okay, Logan. Let’s just work on making sure you’re okay,” Virgil soothed, wiping away the tears littering Logan’s cheeks. “What do you want from me to help you feel better?”

“Hot chocolate or tea… and could you tell me a story? I know, it sounds childish, but-”

“But nothing, Logan. If that’s what you need to feel better, than I’ll go do that right now. Will you be okay if I leave you?”

“Could I come with?” Virgil had never heard Logan sound so… broken. He could confidently say that he Did Not Like It.

“Of course. Let me just get off of you and help you get untangled.”

They did not sleep for the rest of the night. Virgil made mug after mug of tea and hot cocoa, and although Logan calmed down by 3:15, he was terrified to enter the land of dreams once again, and Virgil had too much of a heart to leave him. Both of them would definitely suffer the next day, but neither of them could bring themselves to care in that moment. They told stories of far-away kingdoms, of lonely faeries, of a young boy with too many expectations on his shoulders, and came to an understanding.

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

When Logan knocked on Virgil’s door the next night, blanket clutched tightly around him, and muttered that he was scared, Virgil allowed him in to sleep with him. Logan fell asleep with no issues this time, surrounded by security, and slept with no nightmares through the night. Virgil counted this as a win and started sleeping with Logan more often, just in case. It worked.

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

“Hey, Virgil?” Virgil looked up from his sketchbook to find Logan looking at him over the top of his book, eyes shining with a curiosity not seen since they were about 20 years old.

“Yes Logan?”

“Roman says you play the bass.”

“I do indeed play the bass. Roman thinks I sound wonderful.”

“Why have I never heard you?” Virgil paused, frowning, turning the question over and over in his mind. Had he really not played for Logan before? With a start, he realized that yeah, he hadn’t. Oh, sure, the reason was that they’d hated each other for so long, it would have been weird to play for him. But they’d been here for about 5 weeks now, and he still hadn’t played for Logan. That was a crime and must be rectified.

“Guess I’ve just never played while you were around. Lemme fix that. Hold on.” Virgil set aside his sketchbook and floated out of his seat and down the hall to grab his bass. He floated back, taking in Logan’s softly curled position in the soft lighting of the candles, and began to set up, taking a moment to tune each string before strumming a perfectly tuned A chord.

“So. Any requests, pretty boy?” Virgil asked, smirking. Logan simply rolled his eyes at the flirting (was that a slight blush? Virgil dismissed the thought as a trick of the light) and thought.

“Play me whatever you would like to play,” Logan decided, setting his book down and folding his hands on his lap. “I assure you, I would love to hear it.” Virgil nibbled on his bottom lip for a second, thinking, before an idea came to mind.

“Okay, this is… this is from a band that a lot of people don’t realize that I like because it’s not emo, but… I think you’ll like it.”

He began to strum, humming along with the opening, hoping that he wasn’t about to make a mistake, and began to sing.

“She'll lie and steal and cheat And beg you from her knees Make you thinks she means it this time He'll tear a hole in you, the one you can't repair But I still love him, I don't really care”

Logan simply stared, eyes wide and sparkling with wonder. Virgil smiled shakily back at him and continued on, a little embarrassed since no one usually was around to hear him sing. Well, except for Roman.

“When we were young Oh oh, we did enough When it got cold Ooh ooh, we bundled up I can't be told Ah ah it can't be done”

Logan’s soft smile had vanished, but Virgil was just getting into the swing of things and couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

“It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all The opposite of love's indifference So pay attention now I'm standing on your porch screaming out And I won't leave until you come downstairs”

A single tear slipped down Logan’s cheek while Virgil furiously blinked back his own. He was not crying today, no sir.

“So keep your head up, keep your love Keep your head up, my love Keep your head up, my love Keep your head up, keep your love”

Logan sniffed, and Virgil raised his head to look right into the other’s eyes, his own eyes dry only through self-restraint. His voice turned soft, tender, full of nothing but understanding. He didn’t want Logan to misinterpret the next lines.

“And I don't blame ya dear For running like you did, all these years I would do the same, you best believe And the highway signs say we're close But I don't read those things anymore I never trusted my own eyes”

Logan was freely crying now, and Virgil wasn’t faring much better, his voice finally getting a little choked up as he started the chorus.

“When we were young Oh oh, we did enough When it got cold, Ooh ooh we bundled up I can't be told, Ah ah, can't be done”

Logan sniffed again, wiping at his cheeks, and Virgil broke eye contact to stare down at his bass as he finished the song.

“Keep your head up, keep your love Keep your head up, my love Keep your head up, my love Keep your head up, keep your love”

He quickly finished out the song, softly strumming the final chord and waiting for the sound to clear from the air, before he raised his head to meet Logan’s eyes.

“Virgil… that was gorgeous,” Logan whispered. “Whoever that was for… they’re very lucky to have you love them.”

Virgil let out a little laugh. “Yeah. Yeah they’re great.” He wasn’t going to deny it anymore. That song was for Logan, and only Logan. “But, let’s go with something a bit more upbeat.”

“Of course,” Logan answered, grinning back through the drying tears. “Whatever you’d like.”

Virgil strummed at his instrument, a smile lighting his face as his fingers slipped into a familiar pattern without thinking. “How about…”

“We've waited so damn long, we're sick and tired I won't leave any doubt or stone unturned…”

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

“Why are we out here, Virgil?” Logan asked softly, shivering in the light night wind cutting through his sweater. “It is freezing.”

“We’re stargazing,” Virgil answered. “I figured, might be nice. It’s a clear night and you like stargazing.”

“That is true,” Logan acknowledged. “But we could also stargaze indoors.”

“But outdoor is better,” Virgil insisted, turning to look at Logan with an intensity he’d never seen before. “Just… trust me?”

“There is something special tonight, isn’t there?”

“... yeah.”

“Then we’ll watch.” Logan settled down on the blanket Virgil had laid out, watching the sky for something special. Virgil sat next to him, placing his hand atop Logan’s. Logan did not move his hand away, simply turning to smile at Virgil briefly before turning his eyes back towards the sky.

The two did not have to wait for long, as a shooting star streaked across the sky mere minutes after they had arrived.

“Quick, Logan, make a wish.”

“Okay.”

“What did you wish for?”

“I can’t tell you, or it’ll never come true,” Logan murmured, staring at the grass. Virgil chuckled and stood, stretching out his arms.

“I guess. Hey. I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Logan’s eyebrow raised slightly. Virgil’s ideas so far had ranged from spectacular to disastrous, and Logan did not wish to partake in another disastrous one.

“Dance with me?” Logan’s brain sputtered to a stop.

“Virgil… Virgil, I do not dance.”

“I’ll teach ya! Come on.” The vampire held out a hand, grin somehow both soft and confident. “Do you trust me?”

“I suppose,” Logan answered, taking the proffered hand and standing. “Although, I must warn you that I am certain your poor feet are about to be trampled.”

“I can live with that,” Virgil laughed, placing his right hand on Logan’s waist and taking Logan’s right hand in his left. “Now… just follow my lead.”

And there they danced, under the bright silver moonlight, for hours. Not a soul dared disturb them up on that hilltop, the stars the only witnesses to this baring out emotion. Toes were stepped on, frustrated tears were shed, and laughter was sounded, but above all, two became one that night. Wrongs were forgiven. Slights, given apology. These two disparate souls, whom no one thought could ever be anything resembling friends, proved everyone wrong. They were not just getting along. They were not just friends. Here, in this moment, they knew: they were in love.

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

Virgil was just finishing up watering the little tree he’d dragged inside a couple weeks ago when a knock sounded at the door. He paused, a small frown crossing his face. The alarms hadn’t gone off, so it wasn’t the Ice Queen. It was too loud to be Dee. Therefore, it had to be Roman or Patton, which meant… the Ice Queen had been dealt with! Virgil jumped up and practically sprinted over to the door, throwing it open with a large smile on his face.

“Patton! Roman!” he cried before his brain could register who exactly was at the door. He was rewarded for his slow brain with a harsh blow to the head, one that would have killed him had he not been practically immortal. As it was, Virgil crumpled to the ground, instantly unconscious from the blunt force trauma delivered to his skull. Logan jumped, staring in horror at the limp body of the vampire king, not thinking to run away. Slowly, the intruder stepped inside, Logan’s breath catching in his throat as he saw who exactly it was.

“You really should put more work into your alarm system, Logie,” the Ice Queen giggled, fangs bared in a wide, manic grin. “Is that any way to greet your ruler?”

“You are not my ruler,” Logan managed to stammer out, slowly setting his book aside. He stood from the couch, forcing himself to meet the Ice Queen’s eyes despite his discomfort doing so. It would not do for him to show weakness now.

“Oh, really? Last I checked, you are a Prince, and I am a Queen.”

“I am my own monarch, thank you very much,” Logan shot back, starting to slowly inch backward. The Ice Queen noticed and chuckled, her laugh inexplicably sending a sharp paralyzing chill down Logan’s spine.

“You’re cute.” Her smirk turned into a leer and she stalked closer while Logan remained rooted in place. “It’s almost like you think you have any power here.”

“I… well, last I checked, I do.”

“Cute.” With that, she held up a spray bottle and released a stream of blue-white gas into Logan’s face. Logan coughed and stumbled back, his legs finally working, but it was too late for him. His head began to swim as his vision filled with blue-white mist. His ears rang with a high-pitched drone and his legs buckled, sending him sprawling on the floor.

“What did you do?” he tried to mumble, but his tongue would not cooperate. The Ice Queen seemed to understand him anyway and she laughed, stepping closer before squatting down.

“Oh, Logie,” she crooned, running a cold bony hand through his hair. “Does it matter?” He tried to form an answer but found he couldn’t, thoughts swimming away as his mental fingers brushed them. “Because when we get home, you’re not going to be leaving my castle for as long as you live, which is a very long time indeed.” With that, she slung him over her shoulder and walked out the front door, Logan not able to put up any semblance of a struggle. His thoughts felt like wading through taffy and his limbs felt like they were composed of cotton candy. He doesn’t quite remember anything, not registering anything but the jostling of his body as the Ice Queen walked a bit before teleporting to her castle, the portal’s lights officially ripping Logan’s consciousness from him as he ceased to process anything.

#big bang 2019 #adventure time au #enemies to friends to lovers #oh my god they were roommates #sorry not sorry

[voltron-origin-blog]

Voltron Quintessence and Altean Alchemy.

Altean Alchemy is magic. So is Quintessence. Alright now that we have that established I am going to discuss how the use of it in Voltron was poorly handled. Before that I'll do my best to give background on magic itself. We have for the most part 5 magic paradigms and generally two types of magic systems. I will mention that these ideas are pulled heavily from two of my favorite literary youtubers Hello Future Me and Overly Sarcastic Productions. So please watch them for great writing advice.

Magic usually has two general types of systems when actively used as said by Hello Future Me. There's a soft magic system and a hard magic system. A soft system is like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings. Its mysterious and powerful but hard to grasp. He has magic and uses it but for the most part it doesn't play a main role in the story and is never explained about how it works and what is does. The magic doesn't have any boundaries that we know but because it doesn't play much role in progressing the story we don't feel it becomes the mcguffin that solves all the problems a story would have. A hard system would be more like Avatar the Last Airbender and its bending. It has a clear and well defined set of rules that establishes what it can and can't do. Benders can only bend their element or a version of their element which means an earthbender can't bend water and a waterbender can't bend fire. The bending itself requires the flow of chi in your body to be unobstructed. And the amount you can bend is usually dependent on your skill. Now these two types of systems aren't in my eyes completely black and white for the most part it's more like a spectrum. An example is that we can see Harry Potter has rules in place but for the most part the limitations of its magic system aren't so clearly defined. That means we can bounce between them I believe. As for paradigms I believe Overly Sarcastic Productions said it well in 1. Magic is Science. 2. Magic is divine. 3. Magic is a rare talent. 4. Magic is a force of nature. 5. Magic has ironclad rules. The magic is science is pretty much what it says. It is more similar to the idealized idea of alchemy and usually has concrete rules that can be defined but can be left ambiguous to leave it mysterious. The magic is science is usually divorced from actual science being a field of study all on its own. Thinks books, alchemical symbols, and experiments. Magic is divine falls under the category of being gifted magic by either some evil deity or some divine being. The person using it can have caveats in using magic like a pure God taking magic away from you for being a dick. Magic is a force of nature is more like it's a part of the universe and it can only be carefully used lest it mutate or destroys everyone. It has potential in being similar to something radioactive like plutonium. If used in small doses can help immensely. Use it too much and we get the aforementioned problems. Its danger is why it makes it hard to use in a story. Magic has ironclad rules falls very much in that hard magic system. It has incredibly limited set of things it can and can't do. This paradigm means the way it can affect the story is limited as well. Think Full Metal Alchemist when you think ironclad rules. If you watch the videos they go into great detail about this and much of what I just wrote came from them. The subject I'm trying to focus on though is Voltron itself and how it relates to magic.

When you look at the systems and paradigms I mentioned you get the sense Voltron has a lot in common with them. Altean Alchemy is like Magic is Science where it's a field of study all it's own and has distinct traits that seem to separate it from science. Quintessence is like magic is a force of nature where it can heal terrible injuries, like Keith's hand in his first fight against Macidus the druid, when used in small amounts but too much can destroy universes and create monstrous abominations. The white lion is similar to a divine being who grants magic to those who follow the path of knowledge. And the whole thing resembles more of a soft magic system in our lack of understanding and the mysterious nature of Altean Alchemy and Quintessence. To be honest looking at it now through this lens can do a lot to make you wonder what the hell were the thinking? It's like they couldn't decide on one format so they just said let's do them all. Anyways I'm getting off topic you see the problem I have is that this magic they have in play creates a disconnect story wise. You see when having a soft magic system as they tried to do it creates problems when you solve many of the conflicts using the magic of the soft system. It feels very much like a wizard swooped in and solved your problems which can cheapen the conflict of the story. That's why Gandalf for the most part never used his magic to solve middle earth's problems. Voltron however used magic constantly to not only solve problems but to progress the story. Allura saved a Balmera using Quintessence. How? Space magic. Allura absorbed Hagar's magic and destroyed the Komar. How? Space magic. Keith used Quintessence sensing abilities to kill Macidus. How? Space magic again. Are you getting my point? Far too often we were getting conflicts solved by a system of magic that we had no understanding of. It's one of the reasons why people are still aggravated over humans from earth SOMEHOW creating another Castle of Lions. You see a story's ability to solve problems using magic relies entirely on the audiences understanding of the magic. If the audience has no understanding of the magic in play then the conflicts being solved by it makes the audience feel cheated. That's why looking back at it all I still feel disconnected with how they solved problems. Even to the end it didn't make sense to me. When I talk about the end I think of Allura's infamous death to save all universes. I still don't understand why she had to die. I still dont understand the point of her dying. And to be honest it feels contrived which only strengthens my belief that what they did was wrong on so many levels. Point being is that a successful story doesn't have a soft magic system that solves all problems leaving its audience scratching its head wondering just one question. What the hell happened??????

*If you plan on watching the videos I reccomend starting at the bottom and working up.

#voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #quintessence #Altean Alchemy

[filthybonnet]

Hi I'm from the stream, sorry to harass you this late, but get to this whenever you want....So I wanted to know your thoughts on Raoul, if they're brutal the better, I (think?) should mention I ship R/C but idc about people criticizing or ranting about it lol

Yay! I’m glad you came by! Note I’m talking about book Raoul and I come at it from a literary/gender studies stand point (I majored in literature and gender studies so I can’t help but look at books through these filters, especially well written classics).

He’s very belittling and dismissive of Christine’s feelings and experiences. When she tells him about her Angel of Music he laughs. When she comes back wearing Erik’s ring he has no respect for the idea that she can choose who she wants to love and marry and that it is none of his business. His main concern when she comes back from her fortnight with Erik is is she still pure (i.e. is she still a virgin). He wants to marry her and is going to give up a lot to do so, she better be a virgin. He keeps pushing her for to give more than she is comfortable. Christine is very happy that their secret engagement will only be a month: it will make him happy and then he’ll be off on his next military order before a wedding can actually take place. She can then go back to her music and remember their happy time together. But this isn’t good enough for Raoul, he doesn’t respect her wishes to keep it quite. He takes a big ad out in the newspaper. His whole air is that he knows what is best for her own good. He’s in love with the ideal of Christine based on the girl he knew in the past and what he thinks she should be. And for me it just came off as a complete asshole.

Now I’m not letting Erik off the hook. I love Erik and I do cut him a bit more slack because he’s lacking the proper social skills and coping mechanisms. He at least understood Christine; she loved and lived for music and he gave her that. Granted his methods were a little creepy, unorthodox and slightly manipulative but as I said for a bit I was willing to let a few things slide. I should also say I’m a sucker for Byronic Heros and he’s totally one. When we come into the story, Christine and Erik’s relationship is established, I fully believe things with them would have progressed but it was Raoul and his “I know what’s best for you and that creepy sewer guy who has been nothing but kind if not a little weird isn’t it” who ruined this.

However, “Marry me or I’ll blow up the opera house” is a bit of a deal breaker. It’s like I’ve cheered for some weird shit in novels, like I said I love my Byronic Heros, but Christine didn’t deserve that kind of pressure, Erik. You claim to love her. Like where do you go from there?

That’s just off the top of my head. I could pull my novel out later and get into some better theories about the frame narratives and Christine’s autonomy. But I think this is a good general blanket of my feelings on Raoul. Feel free to respond. I’m always up for a good conversation. Thanks for coming by! I had a lovely time in that stream!

#the phantom of the opera #raoul de chagny #christine daae #gaston leroux #literary thoughts #gothic literature

[steampunkthaumaturge-blog]

My boi Amsen: 2, 3, 11, 13, 17, 18, 34, 35, 38, 43, 50

2) What is one of your character’s biggest insecurities? Are they able to hide it easily or can others easily exploit this weakness?This kind of stems from myself as a person (as every character is, at least partially, a representation of their creator), but it affects Amsen a great deal more than it affects myself. I (and by extension, Amsen), suck at improv in the sense of theatrics. While I have somewhat come to terms with it, Amsen feels that he lacks a skill vital to being a true entertainer. All of his material must be meticulously prepared in advance and practiced nearly obsessively for him to feel confident in anything that he does (which doesn’t get represented well, but honestly isn’t an entertaining or interesting process anyways). Amsen hasn’t quite come to terms yet that it’s okay to have to rely more on practice and rehearsal than other entertainers. Cunning and quick-wit are impressive, but so is perfect delivery through incredible practice. Amsen needs to learn that still.3) What would be their favorite physical trait about themselves?The fact that he has both red hair and green eyes (marty-stu over here)11) What is something that would make your character fly into a rage?Amsen is a very relaxed and carefree person, and very little, if anything, would make him fly into a rage.However, I have the feeling that having the trust that he offers to people being used would make him fly into a rage. Amsen is a helper, and wants to see everyone he cares for succeed and thrive at anything they put their mind to. However, there are people who we misjudge and take us for granted. We all have experienced the person: We offer help to them, they accept it, and they completely cut off the relationship after they reach their goals. I think that would shatter some of Amsen’s optimistic outlook on life, and possibly open up a feeling that he’s never truly experienced before: unbridled anger.13) What are your character’s sleeping habits? Heavy or light sleeper? Blanket stealer? One that always rolls onto the floor? Pushes their lover onto the floor? Sleep talker or walker?Amsen would be a heavy sleeper who thinks he’s a light sleeper. I don’t think he would move much in his sleep, but he probably dreams more fantastical dreams, and possibly more often, than the average person. Anything he thinks would be good inspiration for his passion as an entertainer, he probably writes down in a dream journal.17) Does your character have dreams of getting married and/or having children?Amsen’s a dreamer, and he has definitely dreamed of this. He understands that his vocation as a bard pulls him to the different corners of the world, but I can easily picture him settling down, having a family, and telling his kids all the wonderful stories he came up with and experienced during his travels. He’d probably tell them to be whatever they wanted to be, but to think well about their choice. 

18) What kind of home would they want to live in? Where would they place this abode?Amsen would probably be happy settling down just about anywhere. However, after his adventuring days are done, he’ll either settle down in his favourite settlement, or it would depend on who he decides to spend the rest of his life with.34) Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)Amsen’s favourite meal is a home-made evening meal. Partly because the food is prepared with a level of love and care not present in food eaten elsewhere, but also because of the intimacy of eating together with loved ones.As for specific foods, probably something relatively simple and homey. Potatoes, cheese, bread and vegetable soup, and probably a small piece of pork for the protein.35) Is your character afraid of death? If they got to choose how to die, how would they want to go?It is said that people die twice: Once, when your physical life ends, and twice, when the last person’s memory of you fades into the ethereal. I don’t think Amsen is afraid of death, as he is confident in his afterlife. However, I do believe that he finds the thought of the memory of who he is, and the mark he will leave on the world (no matter how small), deeply concerning.38) What kind of weather does your character like? Cloudy skies, rainy days, sunshine, etc?Amsen likes every type of weather for the many different qualities each has. Storms are powerful and mysterious. Snow is beautiful. Sunshine is joyful. However, the best weather to live in is light overcast with a small breeze to keep things light, but cool. Bonus: Naturally, his favourite season is Autumn for this very reason.43) Does your character have a switch that changes aspects of their personality whether they are around friends, family, etc. Is there someone who gets to see their true self?Like everyone, Amsen has a mask that he puts on in front of people. This mask does represent himself well, but he has secret bits that perhaps peak out every now and then. I don’t think he’d reveal these secret personality pieces in full unless it was with someone he trusts wholeheartedly. I don’t know when/if that will happen, but it’s a possibility.

50) If your character confessed love to their crush, boyfriend, girlfriend, etc, what would they say?Short answer: Depends on who it is.Long answer: His number one thing would be to emphasize how much he trusts the other person, and how comfortable he feels with the other person compared to everyone else. He would reassure to this person that he loves his friends, but this person has a special place in his heart and mind. He’d probably have something prepared in advance in the form of some sort of literary style such as poetry, but probably give up on it before saying it or get halfway through it, think it was stupid, and just confess his feelings ad-lib from there.

[annavolovodov]

So I read Keep the Home Fires Burning Part Two and I have a few thoughts...

...and when I say a few I mean 2825 words worth. You can probably guess whose storyline most of them are on.

The thing is, the vast majority of this instalment was incredible with two character’s storylines in particular standing out as real highlights for me. Yet the fact that the quality of the rest of the book is so high makes those chapters so glaringly disappointing.

Spoilers under the cut!

Starting with the positives and one of my two favourite characters in the books so far - Pat. Her scenes have been utterly engrossing and I am so, so proud of the way she’s developed since 1x01. She may still be stuck with Bob but she sure as hell won’t let herself be trapped by him. She knows her worth and she’s biding her time.

As I predicted, Pat’s using the Mass Observation columns as an outlet to keep her sane. Since we know she has a literary background and has worked in publishing before, I am PRAYING that the observations she’s been detailing of her life will take off and the series will end with her as a hugely successful writer. Think about it: would it not be the ultimate vengeance against Bob, for her to achieve what he lacked the skill to? Of course I would love Bob to die but that  seems a tad contrived for Home Fires and forcing him to watch the woman he’s abused for years moving onto bigger and better things would be both a satisfying victory for Pat and would fit with the tone of the show.

Side note: I find Pat’s insistence to stick solely to the truth when writing to be an interesting contrast to her husband’s technique. Bob has a tendency to overdramatise aspects of his life and portray himself to be heroic and exciting when in reality, he’s the exact opposite. There’s probably a good meta in there for someone smarter than I am.

I can’t forego a mention of Pat’s quite frankly iconic dragging of Bob for almost a whole chapter. The revelation that she almost straight up murdered him a couple of years ago was unexpected but totally relatable. And some of the quotes from her writing?

“In my experience, men often like to sit around talking about doing great things, but it’s the women who get on and do them.”

“It makes me ashamed that we can be at war with fascist Germany yet exhibit the same base impulse to discriminate against people who simply don’t look like us.”

Pat is a great character.

AND THAT CLIFFHANGER. MAREK’S BEEN WRITING TO HER. HE’S ALIVE. THEY WILL BE TOGETHER AGAIN. FUCK YOU BOB.

As for my other favourite? Erica has been an unexpected highlight in the novels. Of those involved in the crash, I was pretty certain she’d make it. She never quite acquired her own storyline in the show, instead largely popping in and out of others plots as needed. I already had Will marked for death since he'd be killed off sooner or later with his illness so it was a nice surprise when he made it out (after saving Vivian!!! I still cry).

Or at least I thought it was a nice surprise right up till we found out his cancer had worsened and he had mere weeks left to live. When Dr Mitchell explained to Erica and Laura that he was nearing the end? When they went home and Erica decided she had to shoulder the burden and remain strong for the girls? Erica finally breaking down whilst the women of the WI held her? I full on sobbed at every single one of those scenes.

I think a lesser series would’ve killed Will instantly when the spitfire hit the house for the sake of drama and words can’t express how grateful I am that Home Fires didn’t, instead choosing to leave us with a poignant and painfully relatable exploration of terminal illness and grief.

I did appreciate the touches of humour in the Campbell’s storyline. Will literally pulled a “Surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you saw the last of me” on Erica like 70 years before the meme was invented. Incredible.

Dr Rosen is... intriguing, I guess. I don't dislike her. I think she has potential, even though I’m sceptical at the addition of yet another character when we have mains from S1 who have yet to make a significant impact in the book.

OH AND THE BATTLE OF WILLS BETWEEN HER AND MIRIAM??? The sort of content I paid 99p for. Poor Erica, getting caught in the middle of that. There were many great lines in this book, but I think this might just be my favourite:

“Erica felt a sudden rush of adrenaline, knowing Dr Rosen might get away with a comment like this with some patients, but not with Miriam Brindsley - a woman the rest of the village knew could single-handedly hold off a horde of invading Nazis with a gutting knife for a solid half-hour.”

If that doesn’t sum up Miriam as a character, I don’t know what does.

Speaking of the Brindsleys, do you know how satisfying it is to see them alive and flourishing after spending 15 months mentally preparing yourself to lose at least one of them?

I do.

I mean, they still have a huge target on their backs (Mim’s words in part one about how they’re blessed and are defo making it through the war? Yikes. An omen if ever I saw one) but considering their lack of page time I’m gonna gamble that we can quit worrying about that until Book 2 at the very least.

Moving on, I really did not go into this book expecting to care so deeply about Frances and Noah’s growing relationship yet here we are. Frances excessively calling to check on him every day was adorable. And this entire exchange with the head teacher was legendary:

"Frances didn't want to have an argument. She never wanted to have arguments with all sorts of people she eventually had arguments with; it was simply in her nature to be more challenging of other people's positions than they were used to. It put them on the defensive, and an argument would inevitably ensue. ‘I don’t wish to be confrontational –‘ There was a sudden snort at the other end of the line. Like the sound of someone choking on their tea, perhaps.”

I laughed.

However, despite the many, many positive aspects of this most recent instalment, there is one storyline in particular that singles itself out as Home Fires’ most glaring weak spot.

Of course, I’m referring to Teresa’s story and the awful place she’s currently occupying in the narrative.

Back when the whole Nick debacle began mid-S2, I figured I might as well give it a chance and see where it went. Simon Block was adamant on Twitter that Teresa’s endgame was not a man and what would be unfurling over the coming episodes was a historically accurate depiction of the trials lesbians faced during such time periods. It wasn’t ideal, nor was it what I expected for Teresa based around the promotional material released for S2, but the show hadn’t let me down yet.

And so I have waited, I have given it a chance, and based on the back half of S2 and the two instalments of KTHFB available so far, I am SO disappointed in what Simon Block has done with Teresa. Sure, things may improve in future novels, but right now I’m not sure I can adequately explain how much I hate this goddamn marriage.

Simply put, it is totally unnecessary. Every single aspect of it. Teresa’s chapters in Part Two were awful. I’m pretty sure we’ve established at this point that she is not into men. We do not need to read about her trying and failing to repress her attraction to women whilst having sex with Nick. Even if we absolutely unavoidably had to hear about Nick and Teresa’s sex life, we do not need aforementioned sex scene spread across the whole chapter.

I know this might be hard for Straight Guy Simon Block to understand, but I’m pretty sure exactly zero lesbians are going to want to read about a lesbian character who is struggling with compulsory heterosexuality having sex with a man. I’m bisexual and I found it sickening so God knows how that chapter is going to make lesbians feel. I strongly suspect that some are going to find it triggering, and if the storyline is triggering to the group it is supposed to represent you really have to ask yourself why you are even bothering to write the representation in the first place.

Teresa’s arc in the books so far has consisted of getting married, blaming herself for the crash because she feels like she isn’t taking the marriage seriously (seriously what the fuck was this???), Teresa having conflicting feelings about Annie, Teresa stuck at home worrying about her marriage, Teresa feeling awful whilst having sex with Nick, Teresa worrying about having children, Teresa having more conflicting feelings about Annie and Nick... Do we see a pattern here? Do we get any meaningful scenes of Teresa at school? Do we get any meaningful scenes of Teresa with her canonical close friends Alison and Steph, who she spent S1 and S2 building strong relationships with? Yeah, she occasionally gets a throwaway line in a group scene at a WI meeting, but what does Teresa really get to do outside of being emotionally tortured about her marriage? The change in format to the books has led to characters being isolated in their individual stories whereas the series could allow them to interact more freely, but it genuinely feels like Teresa is stuck in some sort of heterosexual hell and is allowed no reprieve.

And all of this feels completely divorced from S1 and the first half of S2??? S1!Teresa didn’t appear to have any sort of desire to marry a man in order to cover up her sexuality. From the limited screen time we had with them, the main reason the relationship between Teresa and Connie failed seemed to be due to interference from outsiders (aka the headteacher that blackmailed Teresa) and the simple fact that Connie and Teresa wanted different things. Nothing in the series suggested that Teresa was unsure or struggling with her sexuality. Nothing. When the synopsis for 2x04 came out and mentioned Teresa would be asked on a date, everyone immediately assumed it was Annie involved. The prospect of it being a man never crossed our minds because it just seemed so ridiculous.

Another aspect I’m struggling to comprehend is why Alison pushed Teresa towards Nick. There’s no logical explanation for this. Alison knew about Teresa’s sexuality. Alison was fine with it and explicitly wanted her to stay because - and I quote - she “enjoyed having her around”. So how on Earth did we get to this point, with Alison encouraging Teresa to marry a man she barely knows and can never love? The fuck did that come from? The reasoning was murky enough in the show but it’s even worse in the books. Chapter 17 is essentially Alison sitting alone in her house feeling depressed, missing Teresa, lowkey regretting telling her to go but consoling herself because “at least Teresa is in a happy marriage now” or whatever...

In what universe does any of this make sense?

Yet another person being screwed over by this whole shitshow is Annie. Marek was also introduced in S2 as a love interest for Pat yet he’s somehow obtained significantly more screen time and development than Annie. Despite appearing in four episodes and two instalments of the book I feel like we (and Teresa) barely know her, which is absolute bullshit if they’re seriously intending for her to be Teresa’s endgame. They’ve had three conversations! Any romantic relationship between two women should get equal, if not more focus than the hetero ones especially if they’re the only f/f romance on the show. One of the central themes of Home Fires is relationships between women so I cannot understand why the ball has been so spectacularly dropped here. It’s not fair on Teresa to get all this suffering and a half-baked romantic subplot, it’s not fair on Annie to be essentially non-existent as a character beyond her possible relationship with Teresa and it’s certainly not fair on any wlw reading/watching, desperate to see themselves represented and being given scraps.

Even if Teresa's marriage is over soon (which I'm not holding my breath about), I can't see how she'll get a happy ending with Annie in the village. I highly doubt Nick would be okay with her continuing to live with him whilst she was in a relationship with Annie. Getting a divorce and moving in together would arouse a ton of suspicion and defeat the purpose of Teresa’s marriage in the first place. The only way for them to be able to live as a couple would involve moving away and starting afresh... Exactly what Connie proposed in S1, only for Teresa to turn down because she’d feel much more comfortable living a quiet life in the village than going off to a strange place. Having her suddenly change her mind now after clearly explaining her decision to Connie would result in everything post-1x04 feeling utterly redundant.

I just... this whole plot was totally avoidable. It didn’t need to happen. In a more logical universe:

After the First Aid course, Steph notes Teresa’s discomfort at the casual homophobia, and when coupled with her Meaningful Look at Annie as she cycled away, Steph promptly puts two and two together (remember Steph noticing how quickly Teresa wanted to get away after that comment? Remember the close friendship Steph and Teresa have? Simon Block sure doesn’t).

Once she hears about the impending wedding, Steph gently asks Teresa if she’s sure she wants to do it. Teresa half-heartedly assures her that she loves Nick, so Steph - because she’s a good friend and this show is supposed to be about women helping each other - decides to go and speak to Annie.

Annie and Steph end up staging an intervention and in an important and touching scene, tell her she deserves better than having to hide herself in a marriage to a man.

Teresa, feeling supported and loved by her friends, calls off the wedding.

Nick fucks off and becomes irrelevant.

Steph and Annie’s intervention forces Alison to consider why she pushed Teresa away (spoiler alert: it only really makes sense if it was because she was trying to push away feelings of her own).

Teresa, Annie, Alison, Steph and later Joyce start a wlw group during which they talk about how gay they are and how straight people suck. Nothing bad happens to any of them ever.

See how easy that was? The evils of heteronormativity are depicted in a way that doesn’t cause a lesbian to suffer for months trapped in a horrible loveless marriage.

I really can’t express how disappointed I am in this storyline. Home Fires has handled numerous other sensitive topics well but this marriage plot is an absolute mess right now. I do apologise for going on such a rant about it and I hope my comments make sense. As a bisexual, I’m not as qualified to speak on this particular matter as others in the fandom may be and I hope I’ve not stepped out of turn, but I felt that something needed to be said about what’s happening with Teresa right now and I wasn’t sure if anyone else was going to say it.

Miscellaneous things I’m not going to elaborate on because this is far too long already:

I badly miss Sarah, the Farrows, the Brindsleys, Claire and Spencer, and everyone else who is currently out of rotation. Hope you’re all doing well, folks.

Also missing some of the best dynamics of S1/2. As mentioned earlier, everyone is kinda stuck in their own bubble interacting with the same people over and over again. I particularly want more Frances/Joyce, Teresa/Alison and Teresa/Steph interactions.

Of all the random secondary characters in the show, of course it’s Mrs Talbot who returns for the books. I groaned when I saw her name.

Maybe in some ways I’m glad the show got cancelled because at least I don’t have to witness the Teresa/Nick sex scenes with my own eyes. It was bad enough having to read it thank you very much.

If you’ve made it this far you deserve a medal for your stamina and, as ever, my inbox is always over if anyone else wants to discuss/theorise/rant with me.

See you all again on September 21st for what I’m sure will be another 2000+ word rant!

#home fires #home fires itv #itv home fires #home fires spoilers #spoilers #keep the home fires burning #keep the home fires burning spoilers #seriously this contains all the spoilers #also I hope it makes sense #its 2:25am ive spent five days on it and I can't look at it any longer #@ simon block: why. why are you doing this. #why are you ruining an otherwise good book with this shitty plot #anyway goodnight/morning everyone I hope at least one person reads this + I hope no one on mobile accidentally gets spoiled

[barbecuedphoenix]

♦, ✕, ☮. I would prefer answers from all the three of them for each question. If it's not possible (what is absolutely ok, I'm aware you are not oblige to anything anyway xD), my request would be to you to choose which character answer which question, in a way to have the most interesting answers.

Always happy to oblige. With a wickedly-long post. ;) 

♦ - Whatis one thing about them that they are most proud of?

Zee: She’s proud of her natural investigative streak and relies on itheavily: when presented with a problem, Zee automatically cuts to the crux ofit, and has a sharp eye for discrepancies or holes within the known facts. It’sa skill that serves her well in food science, journalism, and (later) espionage…though not so well in other areas of her life. Like breaking the ice at parties andreunions. Or first dates. But that’s how she learnt to joke and rattle off anecdotes, mostly tosmooth out the defensive expressions people give her. She’s here for a drink, not an interview; she swears.

Najat: She believes that her ability to keep her cool is her greatest asset.Detaching herself from the immediate crisis, focusing on her breath and thevisual details of the present, and then examining her emotions objectively arepart and parcel of a very hard-won skill that took her years to master. But shecan now diffuse her own anger and fear within moments, even in the midst of aharrowing meeting or nerve-wracking surgery… which is what landed her in somany leadership positions over the years. Somewhat to her confusion.  

Anna: She prizes her ability to pull together her focus and all her body’spersonal reserves into a single, metaphorical spearhead: prepared to do, ordie. It was a mental trick she picked up as a competitivegymnast to execute explosive, death-defying maneuvers before an audience ofhundreds, but she continues to apply it years after leaving the mat wheneverthere’s an arduous physical and mental challenge to perform. Like charging intothe thick of a sorcerer’s lightning storm. Or serving back to a foreignemissary she suspects is trying to hoodwink her. Needless to say, Anna tendsto scare people.

✕ - How do they handle rejection?

Zee: Not well at all; Zee is often her own worst critic. (She’s trying,though.) She is always quick to smile and assure the other party that sheunderstands their decision, that there are no hard feelings. But track herseveral hours later in the day, and you’ll find her staring vacantly at herdesk or out a window, very silent, seesawing her pen between her fingers,wondering what she did wrong, and how wasn’t she good enough? She won’t beable to rest until she either a.) does a complete mental reboot by diving intoanother project, b.) rationalize why that opportunity isn’t for her, or c.)plot a viable way to try again.    

Najat: For the most part, rejection rolls off her like water off a duck’sback. Part of it is because Najat is neither materialistic norrabidly-ambitious; she’s happiest with a minimalist lifestyle (and a schedulethat’s remotely kind to her). But her legendary calm can be attributed mostly toher philosophical views on success, or lack of success: when one door shuts,another one always opens. She just has to keep moving to find it. Life doesn’tend when one person tells you ‘no’.

Anna: As a girl, waiting for someone’s approval—for either victory or defeat–routinely made her sick. But nowadays, she has swung to the other end of thespectrum: she hasn’t sought popular approval for years, and considers it nohuge loss if she fails to get it. (In fact, winning general acclaim now makesher a bit uncomfortable; what did she do to receive this?) Anna is aware that it’s impossible to please everyone, soshe directs her energies to her own niche priorities and interests, working herway up by her bootstraps if necessary and paying attention to the opinions ofonly a few, trusted folk. And to hell with everyone else.

☮ - Dothey have an idol or someone they look up to?

Zee: Once upon a time, she had a professor whom she looked up to when shewas still a food science major: he was (in her opinion) a latter-day Renaissance man wholectured, led research studies, hiked cross-country as a hobby, sang, and wrote inhis spare time. In fact, he was the first one who showed her it was possible tocombine both literature and the sciences in one occupation. But if you ask Zeeabout those days, and why she left her initial major, she quickly changes thesubject.

Najat: She had always looked up to her mother: the fearless woman who crossedto Paris with three kids and only a few hundred Euros to her name, intent onresuming her law degree and building a new life for them there. And succeeded. Herdeath, naturally, was a blow to Najat, but she still thinks of her mother andwhat she would do whenever current circumstances start to look suspiciouslylike the early days in her childhood. As in, whenever she’s up to her neck, andpeople are looking to her for a solution.

Anna: She actually has a number of idols—from athletes to artists to activiststo even literary characters. Back when she was a gymnast, she was encouraged toread up on past legends in the field, and she never gave up this habit even aftermoving on, still looking for that ‘ideal character’ to draw inspiration from. Thecommon theme running through her myriad idols’ stories is overcoming socialexpectations and (especially for her athletic role models) health or body imageissues. Back in the human world, Anna kept collages of these famous faces onher laptop’s desktop, and worked tongue-in-cheek references to them in hersongs.

#blog milestone #200 followers #Q&A #Eldarya #OC: Zephania #OC: Najat #OC: Anna