#faith based poetry

[raverave25]

Sometimes I sit and think about the grace of God and it really does just blow my mind. Like, this God that created everything good and everything perfect and everything beautiful and the moon and the sun and the stars and the clouds and the wildflowers and the rain and dancing and singing and colors and art and so many things out of control, and He's not scared of me messing any of it up.

He just wants me to see Him in it. And see the beauty of it. He's somehow never scared of the pain I cause and that is such love. To know someone's ability to destroy and still give them the chance to create.

[angel-inbloom]

hello✨ my name is KJ (she/they, 26) and i’m using my tumblr again and would like to find new people to follow. mainly looking for my art & herbalism girlies 💚 also enjoy perfume, video games, skincare, fashion n stuff like that, like this post pls so i can follow!

i’ll mainly be posting mostly my own photography, poetry, and art so feel free to follow 🫶🏻 i just released my first poetry book and i have my own apothecary :)

[shirahchante]

Embracing Consequences: The Power of God’s Presence and Dreams

In a world that often presents challenges and uncertainties, drawing near to God can provide a sense of comfort and guidance. Welcome to this conversation about a recent episode of Teens Draw Near to God podcast, where I, your host Shirah Chanté, guide listeners through profound reflections on relationships and self-discovery, aimed at teenagers, parents, and youth mentors. The Importance of…

[99pansy]

ss/mayo blogspot lore + frerard theory

hi I'm about to drop some insane lore that I don't think a lot of mcr fans/frerard theorists know about. this isn't discussed often so I figured I should write about it here before all the evidence is lost to time.

this is probably gonna be a long one so buckle in! i have gathered as much evidence here as possible but there's no way to be certain about anything. i'm trying to maintain as much journalistic integrity as i can throughout this post (also trying super hard not to insert my opinion too much) because i think a lot of this speaks for itself.

so i have a pretty significant frerard theory but i have to give a lot of backstory and documentation for it to fully make sense. this will not be in chronological order (to best suit the narrative) but i hope it makes sense

many people know about frank's F.T. Willz endeavors which have been proven as him in recent years. however, "ss" or "shitsubou shita" was another blog he had before this which is not widely known

around 2007, there was a major theory in the fandom that gerard and frank were running secret blogspot accounts where they'd post journals, poetry, etc. frank's account was iamthemodernprometheus.blogspot.com and gerard's supposed account was its-mayonaise.blogspot.com. both accounts are still up, though i'm not sure if any posts have since been deleted. this probably sounds crazy so i'll explain everything!

evidence for frank as SS/shitsubou-shita/iamthemodernprometheus

i strongly believe this was frank's personal blog, but you can come to your own conclusions based on this info

frank's supposed original blogspot handle was "shitsubou-shita." once fans realized this was his account, he deleted it pretty much immediately. you can read some fan discussion about the fall out from this in a comment thread here. this comment thread will be linked a few times in this post because most of the screenshots on this post originate from there.

apparently *frank* was posting some very personal thoughts/feelings on this blog that he did not want to be discovered. i'll go over some of the deleted posts in a minute, but first i need to give more a little more context.

at the same time the blog is found, someone comments "your fired" on a recent post. apparently some fans thought the comment looked strangely out of place, and it was one of the last comments left before the account's deletion, on one of the final posts made.

this will be relevant later on, and we'll get into the account's posts soon.

my theory is that someone on the "inside" could have found his personal blog and tried spooking him, which could have been the final straw for him. or, the account being deleted could be completely unrelated to the weird comment. all of this can be found here (same link i posted previously)

months after deleting their blog, shitsubou shita begins posting under a new url "iamthemodernprometheus" (but still under the pen name "shitsubou shita" or "ss" as fans called him)

in his new blog, and similarly to F.T. Willz years later, he still leaves plenty of crumbs for fans to figure out it's him. screenshot sources are below

latin heading: his page had a latin heading that when translated, reads "keep the faith"

bio on blogspot: "industry - chemicals", and "you dont stop playing cos you get old…you get old cos you stop playing" both sound suspiciously personal to frank

his url choice: "the modern prometheus" is the full title of mary shelley's frankenstein. frankenstein is a character that frank has always deeply resonated with due to his namesake, love of horror, and being born on halloween

spelling of wierd: SS and frank both spell "weird" as "wierd"

i think he enjoyed the mystery of having a secret online persona, which eventually led to the creation of F.T. Willz in 2008. it seems like wanted to leave just enough evidence for people to suspect it was him, but not enough to prove it.

here are some snippets of 2007 era discourse about the identity of "ss" and their deleted blog. you can find all of these comments and more context here. this was around the time gerard got married and fans felt like the dynamic on stage was different, and they were concerned about the future of the band. it's a LOT to go over so i would advise reading the comments if you want more perspective

on the next page, an anonymous comment is posted which fans immediately begin to speculate is SS (frank). again, if you click the link you can get way more context than i'm able to provide here.

this insinuates that SS frequented the comments on mayo's blog, which i don't think he would have done without believing/knowing mayo is gerard

there was a lot discussed in this thread including pretty solid evidence that frank/ss wrote the ancient and historic "eliza post"

if you are not aware of the eliza cuts drama, that's a totally different and equally as insane rabbit hole you'll have to research on your own

tldr; she is gerard's mentally unstable ex-fiance who he was engaged to very shortly before lindsey

gerard and eliza got engaged on may 22, 2007 (the last show of the black parade tour) according to this reddit comment.

the "eliza post" went up on june 4, 2007. here is the post in its entirety:

"Hi I felt I had to write to you guys to allay some of your fears regarding the rumours and speculation surrounding Gerard and Eliza and the future of the band. This is the only time I will ever post. I will not be able to respond to your comments or enter into discussion or debate on what I'm about to say. We are aware that this is one of the most popular message boards for MCR fans and we know you guys are the most dedicated and loyal fans in the world. It saddens me to see such division amongst the fans over one woman. If it's any consolation, you guys are not the only ones affected. She is merely tolerated by both band and crew. Believe me, nothing anyone can say will change his mind. She's been the cause of numerous conflicts and while we dont have to like it, we have to accept it, at least for the forseeable future. From day one this woman has had a hidden agenda - her manipulation knows no bounds. Some of you may find this difficult to believe but I assure you I have personally witnessed the two sides of this woman. Her so-called 'good deeds' are nothing more than PR exercises for his benefit. But he does not see what goes on behind closed doors. We have tried to draw his attention to her blatant self-promotion and diva demands. This is a prime example of love being blind. His feelings for her do run very deep. Her feelings for him, however, are questionable at best. Many people believe, including myself, that he is being used as nothing more than a stepping stone. It's disheartening to see someone you care about and have worked with for a very long time change as a person, becoming more detached and causing the group dynamic to change as a result. There have been conflicts and differences of opinions and compromises have had to be made She does not accompany the band on the European legs of the tour. Since being on this current European leg, he seems much happier which suggest she doesnt make him as happy as he thinks. Despite being asked more than once to remain discreet, she blatantly disregards his wish to keep his personal life private by continually fuelling the internet hype. The band has always been about the music and the fans. This will not change. MCR have never endorsed any type of clique as it encourages and promotes the kind of high school mentality that MCR have always fought against. Your continued support is appreciated and rest assured this woman will have no adverse affect on the band and the music. For obvious reasons I am remaining anonymous. Eliza, we know you trawl these message boards and you probably know who I am - but I'd like to see you try and prove it!!!"

it's clear that whoever wrote this had a very strong distaste for eliza and was deeply troubled by the idea of gerard marrying her. based on the language used and style of writing, i strongly believe frank wrote this post. i'll be circling back to this in a minute, because i have a little more to go over.

for more evidence that SS is frank, we can reference this reddit comment made just 9 months ago by someone heavily involved in the blogspot community at the time, kapunua. their username on this post is "ReallyKapu."

if you read through the comment links I provided earlier, you may see their name pop up. they are also mentioned by name on the "iamthemodernprometheus" blog. if you also search "kapunua mcr" on google, you can verify their involvement in the blogspot community at the time.

kapunua is also mentioned in its-mayonaise's post here (no screenshot provided for this one, its just a small mention)

there's also a screenshot of a different comment kapunua made about 9 years ago with similar information. i found the screenshot here.

evidence that "mayo" is gerard

as mentioned in the post above, mayo often used british english syntax in his posts. he also posted about some pretty juicy stuff including a blowjob poem (you can seek that out yourself)

using british english isn't out of the ordinary for gerard. he often used an accent on stage during this time. moreover, he is a writer who has written multiple characters with this type of accent, showing he has a certain appeciation for it. i think his persona for the "mayo" account could been a sort of character he put on to disguise his idenity.

if you decide to view mayo's blog, you'll see each post has nothing but comments from mcr fans exclusively. i find it very interesting that the writer of its-mayonaise never bothered to make a post saying "hey, btw, i'm not gerard" in the 4 years this blog was run for

we have somewhat less definitive evidence that gerard is mayo. however, it is clear that at the very least, they had to have been someone involved with MCR or their crew at the time.

mayo makes a post alluding to their identity here, which you can find in the first screenshot below. this section sounds a lot like something gerard would write:

"I have been asked to reveal myself to you. You all know me. I am whoever you want me to be, I am an artist, a poet, a singer, a motherfucker, and a contradiction, a mouthpiece, a friend, and an enemy, a brother, an informant, a whipping boy, a basket case, a queen, and a criminal...(credit to John Hughes.)"

there are THOUSANDS of comments, many of which speculate the identity of mayo on each of his blogspot posts. you should definitely do your own detective work and see what you think, because there is far too much info to go through here.

a frerard theory

as i previously mentioned, frank had deleted his original blog for shitsubou-shita in late september. however, prior to this, he made and then deleted some particularly turbulent and questionable posts

for context, the frerard fight happened on august 22, 2007, and gerard and lindsey got married on september 3, 2007 (just four months after gerard was engaged to eliza)

gerard and lindsey are married on the last night of the projekt revolution tour.

mcr takes a break for one month after this, where we can probably safely assume that freshly-married gerard and frank did not plan on seeing one another.

i think this was very troubling for frank for many different reasons. gerard had just freed himself of the eliza situation and here he was making the same mistake again. he was on the verge of losing his dearest friend yet again, and i believe that despite his best efforts, he could not get through to gerard.

obviously, gerard and lindsey are still married to this day. however, many fans might be aware of what happened between her and mikey. there's also a lot of other questionable information about lindsey circling the web, but that's a different story for another time.

weeks later, similarly to the eliza situation, shitsubou-shita makes and deletes the following posts on his original blog (this was prior to the creation of iamthemodernprometheus):

Friday, September 21, 2007 Abandon hope, all who enter here... What the fuck happened? Why didn't I see this coming? I made a point to keep out of it this time, but at what cost? I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place, it's a lose/lose situation. I've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways? What's with the double standards? People are starting to notice. I'm not talking about kids, I'm talking about people in their mid 20's and 30's. People with life experience who can see the cracks starting to show. What am I supposed to say? I just dont have the answers. How can I reassure them when I need reassurance myself?

he says "i made a point to keep out of it this time" which seems like a reference to the situation with eliza i mentioned previously. he alludes to the idea that fans are beginning to notice the band's dynamic is not the same anymore. this was specifically around the time when "frerard" moments came to a pretty abrupt end.

he says "i've always been honest with you, shouldn't that work both ways?" which can be interpreted in a few different ways. he may feel deceived due to his best friend's sudden marriage. however, the intensity of the language used in this post shows he probably had some very intense feelings toward the situation.

it seems like the writer was having a considerably difficult time coping with these feelings. a day later, this post is made:

Saturday, September 22, 2007 Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Bullshit. I've always been a smart ass, even as a child, although my mom would prefer to use the term precocious. I've always had trouble keeping my mouth shut, I'm an open book, completely ingenuous - secrecy and circumvention are not my style. But then I've never experienced extreme paranoia. So I'm writing this blog. I know you will never read it, I wouldn't want you to. Not everything is about you. This blog is for ME, a perverse catharsis, I need this right now to preserve the small amount of sanity I have left. A blog fuelled by disappointment, frustration, confusion and dejection. I am not laying the blame at your door. The burden of blame is mine. I didn't speak up soon enough. I didn't want to rock the boat, I've been there before. I didn't want to fight or endure days of being given the silent treatment. Its not fair on the others. Why do you always make everyone feel like they have to take sides? If I had been a better friend, I would have stepped in regardless of the consequences. I acted selfishly because I didn't want to lose you, but ironically, I may have lost you anyway. I meant every word I said at the diner and although I didnt show it, your smirk and glib response hurt me more than you will ever know. I don't know who you are anymore. I cant seem to find the right words. Nothing I say seems to reach you. You are wrong. I DO care. I love you. I refuse to give up on you and I refuse to let you push me away. I am going to fight for our friendship, you aren't the only one with a stubborn streak. We are in this together, for the long haul, I promise. I want my friend back. I miss him.

it seems like whatever the writer is feeling toward the subject of this post goes beyond the boundaries of a typical friendship. the final paragraph says everything we need to know.

we can assume that based on this post's mention of meeting a diner, that frank and gerard likely met up during their month-long break to talk about the way things went down

lastly, i know there's at least one interview floating or blog post around where frank says he was a difficult teen and a pain in the ass as a kid, but i can't find it right now. if anyone has the link to that i would love to add it here, because i remember it sounding pretty similar to that first paragraph.

Sunday, September 23, 2007 Is the pen really mightier than the sword? And so you continue to blog, as do I. The difference is, I am not hurting anyone. I'm just trying to gain some perspective while you are publicly making a fool of yourself. Your words are hungrily devoured and dissected by the masses, you seem to revel in the chaos and controversy. At the moment your identity is pure speculation, but have you thought about the consequences if anyone was able to prove your identity? Not just for you, but for all of us? Have you lost your mind? How can you be so selfish? You have become a self obsessed megalomaniac. I know what I get out of writing my blogs - but what do you get out of writing yours? Do you even bother to read the comments? Some of those comments break my heart. These aren't just nameless, faceless strangers, these are real people with real lives and real feelings. These are the people that allowed us to bring our music into their lives. These are the people that we see on tour, the people that wait outside for hours in the cold and rain just to meet us, the people that write us letters and make us scrapbooks, the people who care enough to bake us cookies and brownies, the people that send us birthday cards and bizarre, crazy ass gifts, the people that have given us their love and support, the people that cheer us on, the people that made us. Why are you so hellbent on destroying not only yourself, but everyone who loves you? You wanna see how far down I can sink? Your mom called last night - and I lied to her. After everything she has done for us, I lied to her. How do you think that made me feel? Do you even care?

this last post, for me, solidifies the identities behind each blog. it is so clear through the details in this post. to me, it seems like frank was hurting so bad, and in such a vulnerable place, that he completely let his guard down and made this post.

the mcr lyric included "You wanna see how far down I can sink?" is undoubtedly mind-boggling and speaks volumes to how carelessly obvious frank was (maybe intentionally?) willing to be

there's so much to unpack in this post and i honestly can't even begin to wrap my head around it. i would love to hear anyone's opinion!

later in the post, it seems clear that he is referencing the iam-mayonaise blog and gerard's seemingly wreckless posting. but mostly, i think he was lashing out due to pain of betrayal after losing the closest person to him and someone he deeply loves not once, but twice.

again, it's hard to believe how obvious he was being here, but i really think it was a result of the pain/suffering he felt

if you scroll back up to the first screenshot of this post, you can circle back around to when he removed his entire profile after making this final post, eventually rebranding to "iamthemodernprometheus"

the its-mayonaise account makes this post on september 30, seemingly as a response. the title could apply to frank, who as we all know, was gerard's best friend and right-hand man. the rest of this post can be interpreted in many different ways, so you can make whatever you want out of it:

however, the last paragraph does give me pause... i would love to see/create a full analysis of this post, but i'm trying to stick to facts here so you can form your own judgement

after gerard's wedding and mcr's month long break, they play two shows in mexico (oct 4 & 7, 2007) and then the hoboken show takes place, where frank yells "lie to me" during i'm not okay and seems very low energy and unlike himself

i believe things gradually improved between them after this point, but i'm not sure if their connection was ever completely the same.

conclusion/my opinion

coupled with all of the other available evidence about gerard/frank's tumultuous friendship/relationship/situationship, i think this information strongly alludes to the idea that at the very least, frank had some very intense feelings for gerard that were not fully reciprocated. i would love to hear what anyone else's opinion is on this topic, because it definitely isn't discussed often

i think it's completely heartbreaking (especially with everything else we know) but i do think their incredible connection is a massive contributing factor to mcr's legacy

if you notice any inconsistencies in this post or have any questions, please send me a message! i want to keep this as consistent, comprehensible, and well-sourced as i can!

lastly please follow me if you liked this! i spent months researching and compiling sources for this post and i would so appreciate it <3

[viadescioism]

Kwanzaa:

Kwanzaa, an annual holiday celebrated primarily in the United States from December 26 to January 1, emphasizes the importance of pan-African family and social values. It was devised in 1966 by Maulana Karenga, Inspired by Africa’s harvest celebrations, he decided to develop a nonreligious holiday that would stress the importance of family and community while giving African Americans an opportunity to explore their African identities. Kwanzaa arose from the black nationalist movement of the 1960s and was created to help African Americans reconnect with their African cultural and historical heritage. The holiday honors African American people, their struggles in the United States, their heritage, and their culture. Kwanzaa's practices and symbolism are deeply rooted in African traditions and emphasize community, family, and cultural pride. It's a time for reflection, celebration, and the nurturing of cultural identity within the African American community.

Kwanzaa is a blend of various African cultures, reflecting the experience of many African Americans who cannot trace their exact origins; thus, it is not specific to any one African culture or region. The inclusiveness of Kwanzaa allows for a broader celebration of African heritage and identity.

Karenga created Kwanzaa during the aftermath of the Watts riots as a non-Christian, specifically African-American, holiday. His goal was to give black people an alternative to Christmas and an opportunity to celebrate themselves and their history, rather than imitating the practices of the dominant society. The name Kwanzaa derives from the Swahili phrase "matunda ya kwanza," meaning "first fruits," and is based on African harvest festival traditions from various parts of West and Southeast Africa. The holiday was first celebrated in 1966.

Each day of Kwanzaa is dedicated to one of the seven principles (Nguzo Saba), which are central values of African culture that contribute to building and reinforcing community among African Americans. These principles include Umoja (Unity), Kujichagulia (Self-Determination), Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility), Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics), Nia (Purpose), Kuumba (Creativity), and Imani (Faith). Each family celebrates Kwanzaa in its own way, but Celebrations often include songs, dances, African drums, storytelling, poetry readings, and a large traditional meal. The holiday concludes with a communal feast called Karamu, usually held on the sixth day​​​​.

Kwanzaa is more than just a celebration; it's a spiritual journey to heal, explore, and learn from African heritage. The holiday emphasizes the importance of community and the role of children, who are considered seed bearers of cultural values and practices for the next generation. Kwanzaa is not just a holiday; it's a period of introspection and celebration of African-American identity and culture, allowing for a deeper understanding and appreciation of ancestral roots. This celebration is a testament to the resilience and enduring spirit of the African-American community.

"Kwanzaa," Encyclopaedia Britannica, last modified December 23, 2023, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Kwanzaa.

"Kwanzaa - Meaning, Candles & Principles," HISTORY, accessed December 25, 2023, https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/kwanzaa-history.

"Kwanzaa," Wikipedia, last modified December 25, 2023, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwanzaa.

"Kwanzaa," National Museum of African American History and Culture, accessed December 25, 2023, https://nmaahc.si.edu/explore/stories/kwanzaa.

"The First Kwanzaa," HISTORY.com, accessed December 25, 2023, https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/the-first-kwanzaa.

My Daily Kwanzaa, blog, accessed December 25, 2023, https://mydailykwanzaa.wordpress.com.

Maulana Karenga, Kwanzaa: A Celebration of Family, Community and Culture (Los Angeles, CA: University of Sankore Press, 1998), ISBN 0-943412-21-8.

"Kente Cloth," African Journey, Project Exploration, accessed December 25, 2023, https://projectexploration.org.

Expert Village, "Kwanzaa Traditions & Customs: Kwanzaa Symbols," YouTube video, accessed December 25, 2023, [Link to the specific YouTube video]. (Note: The exact URL for the YouTube video is needed for a complete citation).

"Official Kwanzaa Website," accessed December 25, 2023, https://www.officialkwanzaawebsite.org/index.html.

Michelle, Lavanda. "Let's Talk Kwanzaa: Unwrapping the Good Vibes." Lavanda Michelle, December 13, 2023. https://lavandamichelle.com/2023/12/13/lets-talk-kwanzaa-unwrapping-the-good-vibes/.

[arjwrites]

In The Stillness (To Love is To Hurt)- Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: A glimpse into the ways you've impacted Dean.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, brief reference to sexual activity. Fem!Reader <3 (but like barely)

A/N: Hi!!! This story is a product of me wanting to try writing a one shot in the kind of writing style I use in my personal works! I write a lot of poetry and drabbley stuff outside of this blog and I felt like some of it would pair well in a one shot like this, based largely in narration rather than dialogue. I am worried it might veer a little bit too far into poetry territory in a few spots- I want to make sure it retains its clarity. Let me know what you think!

There were very few moments of true stillness in Dean’s life. Part of him was always moving somehow- legs carrying him to and from danger, hands absentmindedly cleaning guns and filling shotgun shells with salt, or perhaps the most restless of them all, his mind, always racing and always bearing the weight of the world. Dean’s brain was a machine, programmed all his life to carry out a list of simple tasks. Follow orders, protect Sammy, kill the monster, save the world. While the true meaning of these functions had changed wildly over the years, they always manifested in the worries that kept him up as he lay in bed at night, or ate at his soul during long, quiet stretches of the road.

There was nothing that could completely shut Dean’s thoughts off. Many of his younger years had been spent with a drink in his hand or a girl on his arm, picking his poison and hoping if he tried it often enough, it would become his antidote. Sure, these things sometimes helped, but only ever briefly- he would always wake in the morning, mind racing, head pounding, and searching for a quick getaway. These things were just another excuse to fill the gaps between cases, to keep from ever being still. 

Dean was always running from the quiet. When there wasn’t a task at hand, there needed to be something to fill the space. If he lingered in his own mind for too long, he would close his eyes and his thoughts would take off, always landing somewhere where Dean should have been better. Somewhere he should’ve cracked the case sooner or saved the day quicker or protected someone- usually Sam- better. And sometimes, he could swear he felt himself strung up in the pit again, all of the suffering ever inflicted upon him concentrated in the knot that formed in his stomach and pulsing through his body via the racing of his heart. But Dean could never let his mind wander that far, because that far was dangerous. So he kept busy, kept compacting the memories and tucking them away in unlabeled boxes in his head in hopes that he would misplace them. Besides, the wars of the world took precedence far above the violence waging in his own head. It made sense to keep busy. 

Dean had been a soldier for years, but the most difficult battle he ever fought was against his own feelings. When you stumbled into his life, magnetic and miraculous, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He knew if he kept you close, his heart would force him to love you, his duty would force him to protect you, and his fear would force him to bear you as yet another burden. Another person in his life for him to love and to lose. In a desperate act of preservation- both for himself and for you- Dean fought tooth and nail to keep you at bay. He holed himself away at the brink of the darkest corners of his mind. But your warmth and light radiated through the cold world he had made for himself, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. And he couldn’t help but fall. Like much of his life thus far, he had been given no choice in the matter. He felt like you were his destiny. 

Dean didn’t believe in much. He had no faith in religion or philosophy or science or himself. Nothing in his life thus far had ever made him feel at peace with his pain and his mortality. The world was chaotic and terrifying and there was no such true thing as heaven or holy or even good. But then there was you. Dean worshipped you, prayed to you, heard your word like gospel. You were the God he had always denied himself. You made sense of his suffering and lit the path to his salvation. It was always for you.

“To love, is to hurt,” you had told Dean one day, and he had looked back at you as if you had three heads. Though he hummed in tentative response, studying your words and the way your mouth moved to create them, he couldn’t bring himself to agree- and yet, he couldn't ask what you meant. He feared that he wouldn’t like the answer. 

You would say these things to Dean from time to time, sharing tidbits about love, life, things you had learned in your years and carried with you wherever you went. It felt nice to have something to offer to him in exchange for the labor of loving you. His responses were often full of praise and piety as he kissed down your body in a practiced map of places, rhythmically, as if speaking in a secret language that only you two could decode. 

Dean loved you during late nights and early mornings when you were your most peaceful and soft. In these moments he would look outside to see the silent moon or the rising sun, and smile to himself- as if it had been you who hung them there, just for him. Dean loved you on the drive home after finishing a hunt, when he kicked Sam to the back seat just to have you close, to feel your fingers bless his knuckles with your touch as he gripped the gear shift and hummed along with a melody. The lyrics never mattered anymore- to him, every piece of music was a love song he wrote to you. 

Dean would watch you. He took you in like a piece of art- one he had waited in line for years to catch a glimpse of, just to be told that he could take the exhibit home. All the velvet ropes had fallen and the warning signs were painted over. Please, do not touch the art. And so he would. His fingertips would trace over your brushstrokes and he would compliment the artistry, always grateful to have been given a closer look. 

Your gravity was enough to pull him in from wherever he wandered, though he never wandered far if he could help it. It felt as though you were what rooted him to time and space. Early in your relationship, silence was rare, but in times when the two of you would sit and share slices of it like an orange, he swore he could hear the buzzing of your life force. After a while, he could hear his own, too. And eventually, he would revel in the way your energies would harmonize and dance around each other in a well-rehearsed routine, swirling together and swaying to their own silent rhythm- two beings in love and intertwined in their own right. 

He was scared to lose you- of course he was. He would beg for you to stay behind on hunts, or fling himself between you and the monsters you’d encounter. But in some ways, Dean felt you were most likely invincible. You were made of sunlight and stardust, how could anything kill that? And he felt you were too tied into his life to ever lose you- as if he had already peered through a window into his future and seen you in it, waving back at him. You would be there, he didn’t have to worry. It was a feeling that was so strikingly out of his nature that it grabbed hold of him and didn’t let go. He told you about this feeling once, and it comforted and worried you all at the same time. But the next hunt rolled around and he remained your fierce protector, taking on many of the injuries that would’ve befallen you had he not stepped in. As you stitched him up in a peaceful quiet, he mused- 

“I think I’m starting to understand that whole “to love is to hurt” thing. You laughed. Dean beamed. The hunting, the fighting, the saving the world. All of it was worth it. He would do it all, just so you would patch him back up afterwards with a kiss and a smile. Sometimes you would play soft music and hum to him- in these moments, he would close his eyes and if he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought he was in heaven. If it was his heaven, why was he in pain? As he watched you work, he came to an easy decision. He would cut himself open, over and over again for eternity, just for the chance to see your eyes narrow in focus and your mouth purse in concentration as your nimble hands worked to stitch his wounds. Just to feel the vibrations of your lips as they planted a kiss to his cheek mid-melody. He felt his pain was an offering that you rewarded with your presence, and it was an exchange he would happily make throughout his life and far beyond his death. 

Dean cherished the moments when the world outside his door faded into insignificance. You were the master switch that shut off the chaos, leaving him to bask in the warmth of your body and soul. But it took a while for Dean to realize the indelible mark you had left on him. He hadn’t spent more than a moment without you since you had first met- a hunter’s life didn’t leave much room for privacy, but that worked to his advantage in the early days. But you had left for a night, having to take care of a family obligation, pressing him a tender kiss and a don’t miss me too much as you rolled out the door that afternoon. And that night, tucked into your side of the bed in an effort to feel closer to you, Dean couldn’t sleep. Things that hadn’t crossed his mind in years went racing back and forth, round and round on a track until he couldn’t breathe- as if they had been chasing him every lap. When he closed his eyes, all of the memories he had stuffed in the closet and under the bed had spilled into a great big room and he was buried in the rubble. And when he opened his eyes and looked out at the moon, it seemed distant and cold, like it belonged to someone else. So he picked up the phone and called you, his body softening at the sound of your voice and falling asleep to the murmur of your words. He woke early, busy researching a case with Sam, but in a brief moment of stillness in the morning, he realized this was what she really meant. I get it now. Thankfully, you were home by dinnertime with a slice of your grandmother’s pie and a few crazy family stories to tell. Dean practically floated to you and wrapped you in a hug you had to beg him to release you from. 

It hadn’t been until your absence that Dean realized how much still lurked below the surface. While your presence gilded every facet of Dean’s life with a warm, glowing gold, he still hurt, ached, withered when you were gone. And it wasn’t until this realization that Dean understood the labor it was to love him. And it made him want to be better. 

The first time Dean opened up to you was a rainy spring evening. Then again one summer afternoon. He spent August feeding you breadcrumbs from his childhood. And he told you about his time in Hell in late October. You remembered this because you had looked out the window and resonated with the way the leaves trembled and fell from the trees. You raised a shaky hand to his cheek and wiped a tear and swore to Dean that he would never go through that pain again. And Dean, who had just relived each excruciating moment all over again, just for her, spoke. 

“I- I get it now. To love is to hurt because it forces you to be better. And it hurts because you take on a whole second person’s pain, wanting to spare them from it. And to love is to hurt because-”

You raised a finger to his lips and then replaced it with a kiss. And you smiled. And you leaned into his chest. And you let things be still. And so did he. 

[aelenist--writng--process]

Religious Questions in your fantasy story

Let’s return to the questionnaire format. Here are some thoughts I consider when creating a religion.

1. What are the fundamental tenets of your religion?

These are essential. I’ve read many fantasy religions with detailed descriptions of temples, holy days, and rituals, but they often lack depth. What does this religion stand for? If a typical follower were asked to summarize their faith, would it be about sacred days and ornaments? Probably not, unless the faith is more respected during times of crisis than in daily life.

Often, fantasy religions default to models based on Christianity or Wicca—either focusing on forgiveness and love or on nature and agriculture. This doesn’t always make sense. For instance, a desert-dwelling people likely wouldn’t revere nature in the same way as a rural community would. Think about logical principles for your world. How do the inhabitants survive? Which gods do they believe are responsible for their well-being? What practical tasks could become religious rituals?

2. What are the relationships between the gods?

Many fantasy gods feel flat because they are created in isolation with stereotypical personalities. A goddess of fertility, for example, is often portrayed as calm and nurturing. What relationships do these gods have? Study mythologies to see how gods interacted. For instance, why was Apollo associated with poetry, medicine, and prophecy? These connections are complex and can enrich your narrative.

Even in a monotheistic setting, people will create stories about their gods. Explore how divine legends accumulate around a central figure.

3. How do gods interact with mortals?

In too many fantasy novels, gods interact in ways that bore the reader. The classic notion is that gods are so powerful they can solve everything with a wave of their hand, which leads authors to keep them distant. This is based on flawed assumptions about their power and influence.

Gods can be portrayed in various ways—distant, intrusive, or even indifferent. The key is consistency. If gods are distant, rituals and prayers should not yield visible results.

4. How does your religion handle apostasy, heresy, and non-believers?

Unless a religion is truly global, there will be issues with heresy. Historical conflicts show that religious wars can be brutal. Often, fantasy authors depict one religion as "good" and another as "evil," leading to cardboard characters and simplistic narratives. And where are the atheists and agnostics? Characters who don’t believe are rare in fantasy, yet many worlds should have them, raising questions about their silence or indifference.

Religion can be a deep source of conflict in fantasy if handled thoughtfully. Unfortunately, many authors simplify these complexities.

[hussyknee]

Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani records the lives of a number of individuals including one named Tuways who lived during the last years of Muhammad and the reigns of the early Muslim dynasties. Tuways was mukhannathun: those who were born as men, but who presented as female. They are described by al-Isfahani as wearing bangles, decorating their hands with henna, and wearing feminine clothing. One mukhannathun, Hit, was even in the household of the Prophet Muhammad. Tuways earned a reputation as a musician, performing for clients and even for Muslim rulers. When Yahya ibn al-Hakam was appointed as governor, Tuways joined in the celebration wearing ostentatious garb and cosmetics. When asked by the governor if he were Muslim Tuways affirmed his belief, proclaiming the declaration of faith and saying that he observes the fast of Ramadan and the five daily prayers. In other words, al-Isfahani, who recorded the life of a number of mukhannathun like Tuways, saw no contradiction between his gender expression and his Muslimness. From al-Isfahani we read of al-Dalal, ibn Surayj, and al-Gharid—all mukhannathun—who lived rich lives in early Muslim societies. Notably absent from al-Isfahani’s records is any state-sanctioned persecution. Instead, the mukhannathun are an accepted part of society.

...

Far from isolated cases, across Islamic history—from North Africa to South Asia—we see widespread acceptance of gender nonconforming and queer individuals. - Later in the Ottoman Empire, there were the köçek who were men who wore women’s clothing and performed at festivals. Formally trained in dance and percussion instruments, the köçek were an important part of social functions. A similar practice was found in Egypt. The khawal were male dancers who presented as female, wearing dresses, make up, and henna. Like their Ottoman counterparts, they performed at social events.

- In South Asia, the hijra were and are third-sex individuals. The term is used for intersex people as well as transgender women. Hijra are attested to among the earliest Muslim societies of South Asia where, according to Nalini Iyer, they were often guardians of the household and even held office as advisors.

- In Iraq, the mustarjil are born female, but present as men. In Wilfred Thesiger’s The Marsh Arabs the guide, Amara explains, “A mustarjil is born a woman. She cannot help that; but she has the heart of a man, so she lives like a man.” When asked if the mustarjil are accepted, Amara replies “Certainly. We eat with her and she may sit in the mudhif.” Amara goes on to describe how mustarjil have sex with women.

...

Historian Indira Gesink analyzed 41 medical and juristic sources between the 8th and 18th centuries and discovered that the discourse of a “binary sex” was an anachronistic projection backwards. Gesink points out in one of the earliest lexicography by the 8th century al-Khalil ibn Ahmad that he suggests addressing a male-presenting intersex person as ya khunathu and a female-presenting intersex person as ya khanathi while addressing an effeminate man as ya khunathatu. This suggests a clear recognition of a spectrum of sex and gender expression and a desire to address someone respectfully based on how they presented.

Tolerance of gender ambiguity and non-conformity in Islamic cultures went hand-in-hand with broader acceptance of homoeroticism. Texts like Ali ibn Nasir al-Katib’s Jawami al-Ladhdha, Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani, and the Tunisian, Ahmad al-Tifashi’s Nuz’ha al-‘Albab attest to the widespread acceptance of same-sex desire as natural. Homoeroticism is a common element in much of Persian and Arabic poetry where youthful males are often the object of desire. From Abu Nuwas to Rumi, from ibn Ammar to Amir Khusraw, some of the Islamic world’s greatest poets were composing verses for their male lovers. Queer love was openly vaunted by poets. One, Ibn Nasr, immortalizes the love between two Arab lesbians Hind al Nu’man and al-Zarqa by writing:

“Oh Hind, you are truer to your word than men. Oh, the differences between your loyalty and theirs.”

...

Acceptance of same-sex desire and gender non-conformity was the hallmark of Islamic societies to such a degree that European travelers consistently remarked derisively on it. In the 19th century, Edward Lane wrote of the khawal: “They are Muslims and natives of Egypt. As they personate women, their dances are exactly of the same description as those of the ghawazee; and are, in like manner, accompanied by the sound of castanets.”

A similarly scandalized CS Sonnini writes of Muslim homoerotic culture:

“The inconceivable appetite which dishonored the Greeks and the Persians of antiquity, constitute the delight, or to use a juster term, the infamy of the Egyptians. It is not for women that their ditties are composed: it is not on them that tender caresses are lavished; far different objects inflame them.”

In his travels in the 19th century, James Silk Buckingham encounters an Afghan dervish shedding tears for parting with his male lover. The dervish, Ismael, is astonished to find how rare same-sex love was in Europe. Buckingham reports the deep love between Ismael and his lover quoting, “though they were still two bodies, they became one soul.”

...

Today, vocal Muslim critics of LGBTQ+ rights often accuse gay and queer people of imposing a “Western” concept or forcing Islam to adjust to “Western values” failing to grasp the irony of the claim: the shift in the 19th and 20th century was precisely an alignment with colonial values over older Islamic ones, all of which led to legal criminalization. In fact, the common feature among nations with anti-LGBTQ+ legislation isn’t Islam, but rather colonial law.

Don't talk to me I'm weeping. I'm not Muslim, but the grief of colonization runs in the blood of every Global South person. Dicovering these is like finding our lost treasures among plundered ruins.

Queer folk have always, always been here; we have always been inextricable, shining golden threads in the tapestry of human history. To erase and condemn us is to continue using the scalpel of colonizers in the mutilation and betrayal of our own heritage.

[beloved-of-john]

it is absolutely not necessary to believe in a literal body resurrection to be Christian. this literalization of important stories does not make things more real.

for many people a literal body resurrection and a literal general resurrection of the dead are very definitely non sensical.

we are not bound to the 4th century worldview. the way Christians have understood Christianity has always been subject to evolution. the creation of the literal bodily resurrection you can see evolve in the new testament

Paul and Mark have no bodily resurrection. Matthew has visitations but in a way similar to the theophany @ sinai, a coming down from heaven.

John and Luke as the latest gospels have mixed aspects of their experience. experience that indicate a bodily resurrection tradition was. beginning by then.

I have to respectfully disagree. If you don't believe Jesus was physically raised from the dead then you are not believing the gospel. If a literal bodily resurrection is non-sensical, how do you deal with the raising of Lazarus? Do you pick and choose which of Jesus' miracles to believe in? Biblical literalism is not necessary in all cases, many parts of the Bible are written like poetry or literature to give us a better understanding of God, like the creation stories in Genesis, but this is not the case with accounts of Jesus' life. The gospels repeatedly ask you to believe the seemingly unbelievable. I'm not going to quote a load of scripture at you, but the New Testament does not support your view on this.

It is necessary to believe in the bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ as a Christian because God conquering human death is the foundation of our faith. Otherwise, what makes Jesus different to Elijah, who was taken up to God? The physical resurrection cannot be extracted from the belief of Jesus as our saviour. Plus, the Bible explicitly shows us that Jesus' physical body is resurrected, with Thomas touching Jesus's wounds still present on his body from the crucifixion.

Also, you imply that you believe Matthew and Mark to be true over Luke and John, because they came later and due to reasons of plausibility? Do you believe the gospels are divinely inspired or not? Don't get me wrong, you can be both a religious scholar and a Christian, but to be one doesn't make you the other. Being a Christian requires belief.

Also *out of breath* the Nicene Creed. God give me strength why does everyone think they just know better. It contains everything mandatory to believe to be a Christian.

"For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered death and was buried, and rose again on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father."

Died -> buried -> rose -> ascended, not died -> buried -> ascended. There is no ascension without resurrection. The literal belief in THE key foundational concept of Christianity does in fact make things more real. Otherwise what is your faith based on?

[bloogers-boogers]

Lucifer: *kneeling down infront of Adam as he takes a small box out from his pocket*

Charlie gasped in realization of what is happening, covering her mouth with both hands, while the others snapped their heads to know what was going on.

Adam blinks dumbly while staring at Lucifer.

Lucifer, suddenly nervous by all the attention: ehem *clear throat as he pulls on his bowtie* Adam, it's been a pleasure being tied to you by all means of a very intimate relationship-

Adam: what class of shit is this? Nerd poetry in the hotel? It was already lame with all those songs

Lucifer: Adam, please. I'm trying to be romantic here. EHEM *clears throat once more but with much more intensity* I've fallen so deeply in love with you, that I've grown blind to your stupidity

Adam, immediately blushing: *stammering * f-fuck you!

Lucifer *opens the box revealing a beautiful golden snake ring with a green gem in its eyes*

Adam, exhales air with widened eyes.

Lucifer: what I'm trying to ask you is... would you give me the honor to be your husband, to love and cherish you for the rest of our eternal lives. Would you marry me, Adam? *a bunch of roses summoned from the ground with flames around Adam and the lights darkened only letting Adam steal the spotlight*

Charlie was wiping tears of joy as she watched the two from her seat next to the bar. She was a emotional wreck like Lucifer.

Adam blinks while processing everything.

Adam, says simply: no.

It took awhile for Lucifer to process Adams words before having to process his rejection, his heart sunk: No?

Adam, shrugs: No. I'm married, I cannot marry again unless I get a divorce those are the rules

Lucifer stands up immediately, absolutely confused and offended: YOU'RE MARRIED!? But! But- but Eve- she's gone, she left you! You said-

Adam, stops him with one hand in the air, correcting him: not Eve. To somebody else. Well something else

Lucifer lifts a brow even more in confusion: whaT? What do you mean by that?

Adam: yeah, it's kinda like a crazy story. So me and Lute once crashed into the archangels base and let me tell you it was scary as hell. We thought we were gonna get caught, so like, we were like really sneaky about it and somehow me and Lute split up and we got lost, that place is HUGE. But yeah, I entered this weird looking door that had a really intense shimmer around it and I went in and one thing lead to another and I got married to Michael's celestial goat

Lucifer: WHAT

Adam: I know, I know. Crazy stuff. Anyways, yeah, Michael caught us, obviously because his goat was involved here, took us to Sera. Scold the shit out of the three of us and he did try contacting God to brake our holy union but nope, nothing. So I'm stuck married to that goat until one of us dies DIES, like actually die.

Lucifer, still processing.

Lucifer: no fucking way a goat is preventing ME from marrying you!?

Adam: yes way. I told you I'm a man of my faith I cannot marry you until I'm single again

Lucifer: but you would marry me if you were??

Adam: uh duh? We've been together for over two years now, I think it's kinda official at this point

Lucifer poofs away as he summons books about how to brake heaven barriers

[hoseoksluna]

A MILLION YEARS AGO | jhs

pairing: idol!boyfriend!hobi x f. reader 

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 4.6k

summary: when your faith in your healing wavers, hobi is there to go the extra mile for you.

taglist: join | playlist: million | cp: wattpad, ao3 | discord: join

warnings: near car accident, confusion in the body, iffy feelings towards an ex, seeing an ex for the first time in million years, being mistreated, religion, praying, oc smokes, hobi is the perfect boyfriend that i wish i had, oral sex (f. receiving), raw sexual intercourse.

note: i'm crying as i'm writing this because i'm so sad, but i promise this healed me more than i expected. as you know, i write little fics whenever something happens to me—and this is based off what happened yesterday. me and my cousin sat down at our smaller family event (not the one we had on friday, if you follow me on twitter), and she asked me if i were healed. and she told me about what she saw. i think it's meant to move me somewhere forward, otherwise i would've never got to see his face. i don't know. i hope you like this little fic, you know i had to write it out like i smoke out my feelings. i'm proud of this work in terms of the way it's written. think i kinda killed that. i love you guys. and i miss you, terribly. i love you.

side note: sorry for my vulnerability. a smaller side note: this is also for my baby @hoseokkie-caeks. i promised i would write a hobi one shot after berries, and here i am. <3 i love you, baby. miss you.

The night was dark. Too, too dark. 

I sensed it swathing my bones long before I glimpsed at something I should and shouldn’t have—or rather someone, to be proper. 

The trees remained unmoving, despite the summer breeze drifting through the macrocosm that unfolded with each and every footfall I shared with my beloved beside me. Hand in hand, we walked leisurely through streets that were prosaic until our energy imbued them with our intimate poetry. White swallowing, little by little, the dark. There was no one and everyone around us, but we didn’t see them; we merely saw each other, for we were in love and we deserved to be so. Hoseok after his hard, agonizing work regime and unfair treatment from his management and… the whole world essentially. Me after the way I had been treated, handled, tossed aside by the person I found inside the screen of a phone—inside a world that once used to be mine, but now is nothing but foreign. 

Million, million years ago. 

The stars were aligned just right, stringing together a shape of the wholeness and the throb of my heart, and we sat down to eat dinner with one of my closest friends that came to town—one me and Hoseok have settled in within the precious, year-long break that burst open in his work life. Hobi didn’t want to see people, at least not those who didn’t bear familiar faces, and I didn’t want to see the city, so it was the most fateful of compromises, most perfect of the kind that was naturally threaded between us; a conjoined idea that blinked within our brains at the same time. And the laughter that followed after we voiced it out at the same time, the long kiss that spread roots inside the pillows of our lips—to this day, it is a fond memory, or perhaps something beyond that, that embraces me at night before I enter the realm of dreamland, tugging me closer into the snug heat of Hoseok’s safe place that I regard his body to be. 

Though before we arrived, I gazed up at that constellation of me through the windscreen as Hoseok’s car began to make a strange noise that unnerved him. I prayed for its rightness to be true and I prayed for our safe travel, as short as it was. According to our previous plan, we were supposed to wait for my friend, Hyun-Ae, and her boyfriend, Do-hyun, outside of the restaurant because she had a strong yearning to jump into my arms upon seeing me. My excitement for that to happen ripped my eyes away from the nightly heavens, searching for her in the dimmed lights of the mutely lively building, in the shadowed greenery surrounding it, near the trees that didn’t move, yet my hair did. 

Strange, that dark energy. 

I hoped she was peeing somewhere, where the light doesn’t reach. She invariably had a tendency to chug everything she drank and her bladder paid for it each time—but this time, she wasn’t squatting by a bush. 

She almost didn’t get to me at all. 

A driver, merely minutes away from entering our town, nearly swerved wrongly into the traffic lane that Do-hyun was driving through, yanking away the stars from the canvas of the heavens. He had to pull over and take deep breaths in order to stabilize his mental state as the thought of almost getting in a car accident with her being in the passenger seat triggered his long-fought panic attack. And because the woods at the beginning of our secluded town doesn’t have any service, we waited for them for half an hour without any knowledge of their whereabouts. 

I bit my cuticles until they bled. Until Do-hyun’s lungs were lifted of its heaviness with Hyun-Ae’s help, his breathing evened out, and he was able to get behind the wheel and cross the distance. 

Upon hearing what obstacles stood before us, I didn’t understand it at first. Hyun-Ae’s yearning was gratified, we hugged until our necks ached and our arms quivered in our stifling, long-coming hug with her legs wrapped around me, ate the food we always ordered when we were together and not apart while she filled me in—but I didn’t perceive the darkness for what it was until that very last detail. 

One she wouldn’t provide until I promised her, a million times, that I was fully healed and ready to hear it. I didn’t know what she was about to uncoil, sitting beside me as she was, with her hands in her lap. But I should’ve known that those obstacles were put in our path for my preparation. 

Hyun-Ae hinted, before she began articulating her discovery, that it was about my ex-love. I stiffened a little, taken aback. I downed a shot of the spirits that we had left. And I was being tugged in two different directions, thrown to and fro, asked by the lawlessness of life to choose. 

Stay back and not go further—not let her tell me because Hobi doesn’t know the specifics about my last situationship. 

Ask her to hold my hand and give her the consent to proceed as my curiosity was piqued and my wound was healed, a million years ago. 

And in the short dwelling of the manhandling, my spirit of inquiry crowned, my fatal flaw. I chose the latter—because why would I not? I carry my heart in my chest for my beloved beside me proudly, for his waters mine with the fulfilling streams of his laughter and sound effects, gentleness and devotion. He has grown and nurtured monsteras within its past mutilated chambers—and the longer he cradled my life and made it his own, made it his endeared responsibility, the more healing flowers of wild, undomesticated origin bloomed against the verdure. The pair of us—Hobi, the elegant leaves with its perforation symbolizing the dimples above his mouth when he smiles; I, the chamomile that has the gift to make better, but everyone mistakes it for a daisy, tossing it aside. 

Everyone but Hobi, the worker who cultivated it in me. 

And caught in the snare of my pride, I wanted to know if my ex-love still remained in the exile of his emotional unavailability, fucking everything that walks on his solitary Pluto planet while I made love to the Sun three times a day, minimally. 

Hyun-Ae gripped my hand with her lukewarm, refreshing touch as she told me that he was dating someone, fundamentally poisoning the girl with his ways like he did to me. That she didn’t understand what I had seen in him as he looked worse than ever before, a characteristic of the unhallowed set deep within his eyes. My lungs refused to inhale any particles of air; they must’ve taken a break from their work in order to process, at their own time, the information that was given to them. The male who pretended to date me while I edged his planet for years, laboring myself in order to heal him with my prayers and words because I believed him after he said he loved me, but he needed to get right first. Needed to unload his baggage and bandage up the slashes across his heart from his previous relationship. 

All sweet nothing without an ounce of genuineness. He took pleasure from the way I stayed around while he hurt me again and again by entertaining other girls, my feet indented in the soft soil of the planet. It was a form of compensation for him. A some sort of merriment—and madness, unmitigated madness for me. 

I lost my mind, standing upon that edge. And I had to get off in order to find it again, my hands outstretched beyond me—held by the invisible fingers of God while he taught me how to walk again, how to walk in a gravity-filled space of greenery, the rainbows of colors, the rain and the sunlight like a baby. 

And I did. 

I walked until my feet stopped in front of Hobi’s.

At first, I felt a sheer wisp of happiness for the guy that he managed to make such an immense step in that direction, however it flickered in me for mere seconds, replaced by a doom of nothingness that began to swim in me. Heavy, heavy nothingness that felt cosmically peculiar—and my body urged me to go outside and smoke it away.  

But my mouth spoke first. 

Who is she? Show me. 

Hyun-Ae narrowed her chocolate pools at me, her brows furrowing until they darkened. Then, they flicked towards Hobi beside me and I followed her gaze—he was preoccupied with a heated conversation with Do-hyun and he didn’t hear a word shared between us. Hyun-Ae lowered her voice, nonetheless. 

So you could compare yourself to her? No fucking way. 

But I pushed. Driven by that nothingness in me, I desired to feel something. Hurt, pride—anything that would stir my body and give it what it asked. It was used to feeling great clouds of negative emotions in terms of the male, and now it was searching for it, in spite of the million years that have flown by since. And to shut me up and distract my mind from wanting the wrong things, she showed me a picture of him. 

And upon seeing that dark characteristic of his eyes, gone, hollow and dead from the laws and the ghosts of the Pluto planet, my stomach clenched and I averted my gaze. My body rejected him—I couldn’t look at him for more than two seconds. 

My good, smart body. 

I fell into quietness, more gravely than the one this town was weaved with. Hyun-Ae’s eyes returned to their original round size, softening on me, and I held her hand tighter. I needed, vehemently, to smoke the descending nothingness away, and when I asked her to go outside with me, Hobi reached the conclusion of his conversation. Wrapped his slender fingers around my arm, tender sound effects, only for my ear to hear, slinking inside as he rubbed his nose against the place right beside it. 

You wanna go smokie smokie? Hobi asked, gliding his fingers down my arm until he reached my wrist, the belly of his index tracing the blue and violet ‘V’ shape of my veins upon my left arm. 

He grounded me. 

I nodded, my smile natural, my love for him abounding, and Hyun-Ae encouraged me to go, gently slapping the side of my bum. And so I went, hand in hand, with him.

Our inherent, pristine characteristic. 

Hobi stole my lighter once I fished it out of my purse. He didn’t smoke, but whenever he joined me, he thought it gentlemanly and proper to light up my cigarette for me. It’s the least I can do, he had explained and I had kissed him so hard for it that he blushed. 

It’s what he does now, flicking his thumb upon the spark wheel until the small flame erupts and bathes us in a delicate, orange tint. I hold the cigarette steady between my lips with my two fingers and Hobi draws closer, appeasing my inner need. Waits for me to take that first drag before he prepares me for the rush of his enormous affection by heating the small of my back with his palm, rubbing the sensitive place. It’s something that I’ve learned he likes to do; take things slow so I open for him like a bud of flower. It gives him pleasure, the laboriousness of the process and the following harvesting, the dampness of my dew the evidence of his success.  

It’s extremely attractive because he does it more for my sake than for his own. 

He lets me take another drag, our visual connection a string stouter than the constellation up above, and I feel myself, nonvocally, giving over that heaviness of the nothingness with each exhale. I decompress and Hobi can see it, joining his other hand to my loins and dipping his head to my neck. He scatters tiny, weightless kisses upon that tenderness of me and I am lulled by his enticement, soothed and sleep-drunk, his pheromones and the cedarwood of his fragrance unfettering me. 

I want to take him to bed. 

And I tell him, innocently, with my hands that clenched the muscles of his arms rounding towards his pecs and lowering to his abdomen, the ivory smoke following my movement, but never touching him. Hobi knows this is my language of sensuality and his mouth parts as he feels the words. 

“We should go.” 

He lifts an arm and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his fingers lingering upon the shell of my ear—his private obsession. His endeared eyes study my features for a fraction of time before he leans in and peppers a singular kiss to the button of my nose. “Why are you sad, muffin?” 

The trees towering behind him move in a daze at last, but it’s a blurred swaying motion that merely divulges to me that the obstacles, the preparation and the dark energy have been conquered. And it helps me to speak a little. 

“Hyun-Ae told me something I didn’t really expect to hear. Can I tell you on our way home?” 

Hobi nods, cradling my cheek, and I melt. 

“I can leave the car here and we can walk home. And in the morning, we can go grocery shopping in the city.” 

I liquefy in his hold and I finish the last of my cigarette, kissing him feverishly and reciprocating the kisses he left upon my neck, sinking our domesticity into the column of his throat while he holds me and I drip into the fullness of him. 

When we return to the restaurant, Do-hyun is by himself, informing us that Hyun-ae has gone to pee. The familiarity solidifies me and I sense upon me a moonlit energy of joy that cleanses me of the past. Hyun-ae perceives it long before I open my mouth and she jumps into my arms, telling me how she’s proud of me. We say our goodbyes, promise that we’ll see each other soon, and Hobi pays for the whole table, calming every inch of me. 

I pray as we watch them drive off. I pray for their safe travel into the city and I pray over our car. 

We walk through our miniature, unlit version of the city, breathing in the purity of the air, listening to the rustling of the leaves being fondled by the breeze. Hobi mimics the act of love, rubbing his thumb over my hand, and I feel at ease when I tell him about my first love, chain-smoking just to help me infuse poetry into my words. 

With each detail, I forget it has happened to me as I unattach myself from it, consider it an element of the past that no longer has anything to do with me. Hobi lets me speak, doesn’t interrupt me, though I notice that as I venture into the brutality of the pain I waded through, his teeth grit and his jaw clenched, the preceding flush of his cheeks withering and falling beneath his skin, pallidness blanketing it in ashen gray. And it pushes me further into my process of letting go and forgetting for another million years to come. 

He stops in the middle of the road once I finish the story. Gives me a mournful look that penetrates me so deeply that I mourn, too. His hands find my forearms, my shoulders and my clavicles. Prepare me for the treasure of the most sympathetic of hugs I have ever received in my life and I loosen up in his strong hold, bury my face in his black-clothed chest as his palm holds my head to him. And he kisses my crown, kisses my temple; strengthens me when he squeezes me until I can’t breathe and I grasp that he is cleansing the pollution of the monstera leaves and the chamomile petals. 

And then he begins to speak, dampening me with a fresh layer of hydration. 

“You had to walk through hell in order to find me and I shall spend my lifetime bringing heaven to you. I swear on my life, muffin,” he says, for the entirety of the peripheral corn fields and the trees to hear, as he cradles my face and makes me look at him. My vision blears as I regard him more as my savior than I ever have before, nodding my head in agreement as my eyelashes flutter, the finality of calmness settling down in me like we did in this town. “You’re mine. You were mine when you were with him, which is why fate didn’t allow him near you. Mine to find, mine to take care of, mine to love, kiss and dance with. Mine. You’re gonna keep blooming in my hands and you’re no longer gonna pray for him, you’d done enough of that already. You’re only gonna pray for yourself.” 

This, I disagree with, dissolving sugar personified. 

“No, I’m only gonna pray for you.” 

Hobi pouts, his mouth rounding downwards, and his thumbs rub my cheeks, smearing my makeup—and I don’t mind. It’s always been his to ruin. He presses his nose and forehead to mine, breathing with me as the breeze swishes past. I slip my hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin, and Hobi sighs against me. Withdraws a tiny bit and steals the breath he gave me. 

“Teach me how to pray for you.” 

I’m so struck with awe, wonder and my genuine love for him that I cannot speak, my lung failing, though differently this time. They swell up with the essence of my feelings for him, my devotion and my besottedness that my eyes well up before I can halt their rivulets. No one has ever prayed for me, certainly not a male I loved and looked up to. I spent years having my empty prayers echoed back to me and now the love of my life, my eternal beloved one, asks me to teach him how to pray for me. 

Only the omnipotent Listener of my prayers could make this possible for me, and before I know it—my mouth gives my beloved the instructions, the contents of my knowledge that I learned along the trajectory of my somber, otherworldly life and then he’s whispering the voice of his heart into my ear. 

“Dear God, please give my muffin the strength not to be pulled back into the life she had before me. Make sure she’s not influenced by it either. Take her burdens and give them to me because I can bear them. Relieve her heart and make her happy. Use me to do it.” He withdraws and drags his thumbs across my eyelashes, asking me to open them and I do. Once he has my attention, he seeks my guidance. “What do I say now?” 

I huff a soft laugh, endeared. Kiss the edge of his hand. “Say thank you and amen.” 

Hobi grins and the Sun peeks through the night. “Thank you and amen.” 

My laughter gains volume and he wraps his lips around it, shushing me, kissing me madly, and I bury my fingertips into his short hair, reciprocating the different, different madness and expanding it. Weightlessness seizes me and I don’t feel my limbs, stupefaction firing me with enthusiasm and then tongues clash and the kiss gains a verve that forces me to collide my body with his and— 

And then we’re dancing. 

To a slow song he begins to hum with the deep raspiness of his voice. Our bodies are one, singular, intertwined as we move to the rhythm of our unified heart and I weep. 

I weep in my joy. I weep in my contentment—and I weep in my love for him. 

He touches my back all over, cupping my hair as if it was water, leading our bodies in the dance, and there’s no one around us, no cars coming, no animals to watch us—only the trees, the fields, the buzzing of cicadas and the breeze and the moon up above. And then he’s twirling me until I’m dizzy and my soft laughter reverberates through the spaciousness of the road that is ours at this very moment. And the Sun beams at me, my Sun, as he pulls me close and continues to dance with me. I feel the jealous shafts of the light of the moon digging into my back that I soon forget about because his lips pursue mine and I dwindle away into his magnetism. 

His hands, his pheromones and his cedarwood fragrance take me to his bed. 

And he’s feasting on me like the dessert he didn’t get to have at the restaurant, bent over as I am over the foot of the bed, my dress bunched in his fist over my loins and my panties pushed to the side. My hungry beloved, my parched Sun, nuzzling his face in my femininity while I drip my dew and moan his name for him. Sucking my clit, he keeps me hovering on the cusp of my orgasm and I tremble in my vulnerable position—face planted on the bedding while the lower half of my body is raised in the air for him. And once my throat begins to let out whimpers and incoherent pleas, he draws back, closes his body over mine until his lips explore my ear and there, there he teases me. 

“What was that, my little muffin?” 

I whine, grinding my ass into his groin, and he hums. It takes me back to his song and I apperceive that it is the only thing I ever want to be pulled back to. Reminiscent of it, his song is blackened by eroticism, by his enormous arousal, drenched by my dew and I need him. While I feel God, the Listener of my prayers, to be a glaring light in me, I need my beloved Hobi to be interwoven with it. 

“I want you inside me. Please, I need it,” I beg, twirling my hips against his hardness like he twirled me in the middle of the road and Hobi sucks in a breath, exhaling it in the form of a whimper and I stoop in my heady longing. 

Abruptly, he plops me onto my back and yanks my panties away. “I’m gonna marry you, you know that?” 

I can only whisper my overwhelming agreement, my bones and my muscles too overcome with elation to do anything else. I would marry him tomorrow if I could. Go grocery shopping with him in the morning, unload it at home, put on my white silky dress and go to church with him by midday. Spend the rest of the day celebrating our union in bed, round after round until we get so exhausted that we submit to slumber, dreaming of our wedding, reliving it. 

He takes off my dress, kisses my forehead, ruffles my hair around me, his thumb dragging across the skin beneath my lower lip as if he was fixing my smeared lipstick for the special day, getting me ready, and I change my mind. I would marry him right now if I could.  

And I tell him. 

“I would marry you right now.” 

His eyes wet, casting a glimmering light upon my naked form, and a paroxysm of his joy gushes out of him and onto me. Hobi tickles my tummy with butterfly kisses, holding me down with his strong hands that he soon pins above my head, leveling with me, my dew drying on his face—yet he still glistens. Glistens with a gleam of bliss that washes over me. 

“Then, let’s get married,” he murmurs, and seizes my lips with his own, kissing me so roughly that I instinctively open my legs for him, the heated pressure in between unbearable. And then he holds my wrists in one hand while the other unbuckles his pants, fisting his length and tugging on it. My favorite sight. He guides it to my sopping hollowness and with one hard thrust, that he knows I am wholly enraptured by each time, he sheathes himself inside me all the way, completing me. Rests at the delicate touch of our mounds. “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve and then I’m gonna take you to church.” 

And he gives it to me. Doesn’t pull out fully, but pounds me into the mattress. One hand gripping my wrists together, the other my jaw—ascertaining that my attention doesn’t fluctuate but remain fixed on him, on the twists of his features, on the guttural moans, his pheromones and his fragrance that trickle out of him and dunk into me while I struggle to take it all. 

“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, kissing my cheek and breathing against it, slowing down his strokes that scramble my brain. The tip of his cock grazes my cervix and I lose, I lose my identity. 

My eyes flutter and he pries my mouth open with his thumb, providing me something to focus on as I intuitively suck on it, keeping my head afloat enough to answer. 

“No, it’s just too big.” 

Hobi hums, rewarding me with a peck on the mouth and the gradual speed of his thrusts. “You can take it, muffin. I know you can. You’ve shown me before.” 

The praise, the belief in me—it all crests in lowest part of my sexuality and again, I edge around the cusp of my orgasm. Beads of perspiration line his forehead, soaking his hairline and he’s a sight to die for, the final piece to the fulfillment of my release. Blush reddens his cheeks, his irises enlarged and digging into mine. He doesn’t falter, continuing with his fast rhythm and I moan out poetry lines that make him squeeze his eyes shut. 

“I’m gonna come for you.” 

He groans. “Uh-huh, come for me, muffin. Give it to me. Show me again how well you can come on my cock. Yes, yes—”

Pluto bursts and ceases to exist. I come so vehemently that my spine arches off the mattress, colliding into Hobi’s chest. I shun out all constellations, all planets, the entire universe collapsing under the weight and gravity of my orgasm and our own marble, green, yellow and white with no one around but us, is called to creation with the bloom of Hobi’s own climax. 

He stuffs me full, my hollowness and my mouth, kissing me so hard that I become dizzy all over again. Moans my pet name as he shoots out his ivory love for me, fucking into me sluggishly while the twitching of his cock enamors me even more. I swallow his voice, swallow his grunts and little curses. My iridescent, entranced spasms caused by his exuberance prolong until I don’t know where my head stands, where my legs are wrapped around or what body part of his my hands clench. 

My savior, my beloved, linked to me for all eternity. 

This must have been our wedding because I shall never be the same again, my mind and my heart swept clean and filled with brand new oxygen. I no longer remember what happened prior to our love-making and when I share that with him, Hobi is possessed with the need to do it all over again. 

And he does, a million times over, until he marries me in the church of our town, with Hyun-Ae and Do-hyun present, mine and his parents and his sister with Mickey. 

A wedding most perfectly extraterrestrial, on our own Hope planet, with nothing hurting, with no thoughts resurfacing. 

Me and my beloved, me and my savior, me and my Sun. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild ,  @jjk7k ,  @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah , @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[gemsofgreece]

Hi! What could be a good english version of The Iliad, like the most faithful translation of it? xx

Hello! I have read the Iliad only in the prototype and modern Greek renditions. So in order to answer this I started with a plain search on the web for the most famous English translations. I see Lattimore (1951) and Fagles (1990) being frequently recommended. I ended up finding however a fantastic post on Reddit by some good soul who decided to analyze in depth all the modern English translations. OP provides the first paragraph of most of these translations in order to back their commentary. As a result I was able to read them as well. So I will add the link to their post in the end of my answer but in the meantime I decided to also provide my own opinion alongside theirs. Granted, my evaluation is based only on the first paragraph but we know writers and translators strive for the best in the opening paragraph so hopefully my conclusions will be more or less safe. Let alone that the opening paragraph of the Iliad is famous, it’s the invocation of the Muse, so certainly the translators were trying their best. Please note I am only judging the translations for which OP provides the first paragraph.

Lattimore (1951)

Deviations counted: 3

Style: poetry

Other notes: A little difficult to read but there is something old-school about it I like. Despite its deviations, it tried to keep other elements most other translators failed to.

Reddit OP opinion: They did not like Lattimore, they think he’s overrated.

Fitzgerald (1974)

Deviations counted: 8

Style: poetry

Other notes: God forbid.

Reddit OP opinion: They like it but admit it’s not very faithful to Homer.

Hammond (1987)

Deviations counted: 3

Style: prose

Other notes: It sounds more humble than Lattimore’s pompous translation, however it is easy and readable without deviating much from the original.

Reddit OP opinion: We agree.

Fagles (1990)

Deviations counted: 7

Style: poetry

Other notes: Why is this one of the two most popular translations? If you have to pick one of the two all time classics, I definitely recommend Lattimore between the two. But my favourite so far remains Hammond.

Reddit OP opinion: They reject this for the same reasons as they did with Fitzgerald.

Murray & Wyatt (1999, latest revision, 1924, original)

Deviations counted: 7 (fewer in the original)

Style: prose

Other notes: OP provides the original version and some older revisions and they are significantly better than what you will likely find in stores now. The original is in an older style of English.

Reddit OP opinion: That was the point they were making: unnecessary revisions for the worse. They say the old version is out of copyright so maybe you can find that one.

Merrill (2007)

Deviations: 8

Style: poetry

Other notes: It’s poetic but not beautiful enough and certainly not very faithful to the original.

Reddit OP opinion: Somehow they seem to like the opening paragraph but then makes notes similar to mine regarding the rest of the poem - I’d argue it’s evident from the very beginning.

Kline (2009)

Deviations: 6 (7-1)

Style: prose

Other notes: I removed one penalty as a bonus for being the only one so far to translate the “for thus was the will of Zeus brought to fulfilment” line decently. Overall decent, the deviations aren’t too annoying.

Reddit OP opinion: They consider it average - not too good or too bad - and they say it is free to read online. Both they and I prefer Hammond still.

Verity (2010)

Deviations: 6

Style: prose pretending to be verse

Other notes: Interestingly, Verity deviates in easier lines and nails the ones nobody did.

Reddit OP opinion: They love this one.

McCrorie (2012)

Deviations: 5

Style: poetry

Other notes: He goes for an epic style and I do not dislike it. He uses unusual English versions of the characters names though (ie Akhilleus, Aides). I don’t mind but it could confuse you.

Reddit OP opinion: They say their rendition overall is inconsistent and claim some of their choices sound bad in English. I did not really find the examples they gave problematic or bad, but maybe it is because in Greek those sentences sound better and McCrorie was going for a Greek voice, which is why it did not feel jarring to me like to the OP. We disagree in this one. I still prefer Hammond though.

Green (2015)

Deviations: 4

Style: poetry

Other notes: It is pretty faithful but I can’t say I find anything impressive about it.

Reddit OP opinion: They love it.

Alexander (2015)

Deviations: 3

Style: poetry

Other notes: She gives a very loyal translation, however lacks a bit in style, it is a little plain for poetry.

Reddit OP opinion: They like it a lot.

Nurcombe (2020)

Deviations: 6

Style: poetry

Other notes: Nothing particular to remark.

Reddit OP opinion: They find it a loyal translation (which maybe it is, because the deviations are six yet not very significant) but think it’s lacking in its poetry. Maybe this is why I found it unremarkable.

Wilson (2023)

Deviations: 9

Style: poetry

Other notes: We Greeks have talked before about Wilson taking too many liberties and her translation of the first paragraph proves it once more. She adds stuff of her own in there.

Reddit OP opinion: They comment on the loose translation but overall like her style of poetry.

In conclusion, my opinion is:

If you want easy, very readable and accurate prose, pick Hammond.

If you want accuracy and one of the all time classics and don’t mind the occasionally challenging poetic read, pick Lattimore.

If your main concern is accuracy and can go for older, harder, more epic sounding prose, try to find the original Murray or at least one of the old revisions but skip the most recent ones.

If you don’t mind a hard poetic read, maybe even odd in English (as stated by the English reader) because it attempts to get close to the Greek poetic voice, even at a paradoxical occasional expense of word for word accuracy, give McCrorie a shot. I don’t know if this made any sense lol I mean that even when he is not extremely loyal word after word, there is a feel of attempted Greek voice throughout his text. In other words, if you want a wildcard, give it a shot. But it could be alienating to an English reader, I don’t know.

Having said all that, again, I could only judge from the first paragraph and some notes by the Reddit OP. I am adding now their in-depth analysis. OP’s favourite for fidelity and style was Green.

Of course, if someone here is fluent in Greek and well acquainted with the English translations, please help us out.

[damazcuz]

I don't think people responding to the scrambled "uh oh, we got caught" Tumblr AI announcement with "just nightshade and glaze all the art you post guys! it's your own fault if you don't do that small step! It's ok we'll get through this!" are Getting It:

Everything has already been scraped, including the account you haven't been able to access since 2015. Yes even the private, locked sideblogs of all your old art. Did you glaze it? did you nightshade it? in 2015? can you log in and check? no? Opted in.

This also includes any writing, creative or otherwise, posted to Tumblr. Did you nightshade the poetry and fanfiction you posted to Tumblr on your old account in 2018? why not? not a plan-aheader huh? Opted in!

It's opt in by default and by design. People who left Tumblr ages ago will likely not hear about this and won't know to regain account access and opt out. People who have died won't be able to log in and opt out. People who deleted past accounts or sideblogs won't be able to log in and opt out. People whose content is reposted here from Pixiv or other external sources by unrelated third parties won't have any way to say "hey half of that blog is MY stuff. Opt ME out."

Sorry. They just have everything ever put on the site. And you didn't opt out in 2015 when you lost access to your login email, so it's included. This is on purpose because they don't WANT people to be able to opt out, they want people to stay opted in saying "well my art sucks so I'm poisoning the data model 👍" while posting jokes and creative writing, they WANT you to say "well I'm unaffected" and keep posting photos and text and stuff. Midjourney wants that and Tumblr wants to do anything it can to satisfy Midjourney and scrape some cash out of that deal.

I'm sorry because I love this place too, but genuinely the decisions being made here are business decisions being put into place by a company trying to squeeze the last drops of blood out of a stone. Tumblr is not your friend. Staff is not your friend. Automattic is not your friend. The CEO has hopefully PROVEN he is not anyone's friend. This is a business first and a product that they are selling, not to you and me, but to advertisers and partners. Tumblr will ensure that Tumblr users see their ads and supply them data.

Frankly I do not trust this company or this website and I cannot in good faith just believe that they're going to look at my opt out checkbox and say "okay! ^_^ we will remove everything Dama has ever said or done from our AI scrape. we promise to do it!" and then actually do it. They already have the data. They can just claim that whatever is produced through machine learning based in part off of my data is unrelated, came from other sources, etc. I do not have trust in this website. I don't see how anyone could at this point.

I feel like I'm watching a trainwreck from the inside and no one wants to get out of their seats and try hopping off into the safe grassy field. Wait, they say. Let's see if the train just climbs back onto the tracks, they say. The fire and explosions are all part of the process, they say. Eventually people will stop panicking or dying and it'll be a smooth ride, they say. Just look at how bright the horizon is.

[lvrboy-inc]

<< ✩ >>

sum • A gluttonous artist Suguru and a muse whose value lies at the end of said artist’s brush. Wrapped up in an entanglement of web spiraling ever down into the world of raw artistry.

pov • m!reader

wc • 7.2k

details • Suguru x reader, Satoru Gojo, Shoko Ieiri, Kento Nanami, nepotism, social hierarchy, multi-part series, ongoing, heavy themes, mlm, smut, jjk fanfics, x reader, art college au timeline, poetry.

Color of Eternity • Hex

Swatch #081B45

————

How do you define the word..muse?

To visualize a muse in the eyes of everyone else, of all 8 billion walks of human life on this Earth—you’d come full circle in a matter of milliseconds. In that split moment, you would see that the root of motivation, drive, passion, pursuit and ultimately undying faith is never one singular thing.

No, a muse is..is a concept. A paradigm of something, someplace, someone, that gives your life meaning. That gives every step you take a purpose, makes you feel worthy of each inhale and exhale leading to an inevitable demise. All blissfully hopeful that it’ll have all been worth it.

That you have lived out your life through your muse, dedicated, bled, sweat, and cried your everything into having that sliver of a chance to recreate something that no mortal bounds can ever really capture—emotion.

Not in its entirety, at least.

Take Suguru Geto, for example:

A prodigy of the visual arts. All walks of media and textiles, ranging from photography and all the way up into sculpting with nails and hammers—he had it all on his lengthy résumé. It was what ultimately drew you in about him. 

To say he was gifted couldn’t respectfully cover the way he was renowned in the art community, wholly. It was arranged for him from birth and by what some call an angel’s touch, art graced his natural instincts. His parents, who were nothing short of aristocrats if they were limited by a democratic government. 

So, with that sort of generational wealth, names, titles and overall reputation—it was no surprise that the family poured all of their investments into making him the best. To make him earn his namesake and paint the world the same violet as his deep pools of irises. 

And boy, did he do just that. 

Working tirelessly, day and night on lesson to lesson enrolled by his parents. Repeating the lines over and over, erasing and drawing again, just to draw up the same thing but better each and every single time. 

Until his hands would cramp, until his pencils would run into nubs, until the paint on the walls dried, until he memorized the dimensions of each page by one simple glance at the edges, until he could properly name any hex code based off look alone, until he could tell the type of hair used for each imported brush.

He became the best. Going on to win several academy awards, graduating from the same Ivy League art college with valedictorian and top marks twice—both in entirely different artistic fields. Suguru was nothing short of a God in the art world. Having traveled and seen national level organizations for his works.

But…the exact definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over..and over and over again, expecting a different result each time. 

Having the teachings of art cultures, etiquettes, techniques, customs for countries all across the globe is no small feat. Climbing up that hill, finding out how these different fragrances of creativity are all made, how they smell, how they taste, how they operate, how they bend, break, mold—that was the easy part. That was what he had mastered and conquered. 

All of that achievement and empty, blanking copy paste can never replace finding out..why they do.

Why the cathedral’s architect lives on inside, designing the same structures repeatedly to watch them all mortalize and be gazed upon by the masses of lamb. Why the photographer runs through miles and miles of film each and every day—thousands of prints and hours in that blasted red room, watching the ink settle and make a home out of the light-sensitive paper. Why the painter works with broken brushes and stale paint, just to get the last blank space filled in on the canvas:

Suguru doesn’t have that.

Outside the glitz, the glamour, the initial feeling and rushes of euphoria he drew from that love, that pure adoration that came of his first years exploring and honing his art—there was an ever-present and ever-nearing null that marred his every artistic act.

Dull and gray should never be integrated into an artist’s vocabulary. How could someone who knew color theory like scripture possibly see…monochrome in the very blendings of oil and acrylic that he so adored..?

Had it been the childhood bubble bursting too fast? Being tossed into the jaws of harsh critics, of being taught art in languages he could barely comprehend, his parents..oh, that’s a story for another time. 

All this is to say…he lacked what all artists subconsciously create in their minds, from the moment they give their first swipe of a pencil, stroke of a brush or hell, even chip at a stone—a muse.

Not to quote history but..that’s where you came in. 

In all actuality, you’d entered the narrative before you even knew you were a part of it. 

All those years ago, you too had paid a visit from your neighboring college, volunteering to be a model for the Ivy League. You’d already stood in once, for a day and you were just simply perfect for the job. A natural melt to your skin, making every limb and crevice seem all the more enticing and alluring to any naked eye. 

The talk of the campus you were, everyone couldn’t get the, “model from the 3D painting wing,” off their lips for what felt like forever—even after you’d taken your leave to drive that hour back to your own college.

Well, that school basically lapped at Suguru’s feet. Akin to that of Mr. Water to Wine himself—the students would go out of their way to appeal to his outwardly business-casual and oh-so drawing charms. Everyone wanted to be all up under Suguru. 

However comma, there were possibly two other people who could rank up anywhere close to him in his artistic prowess and popularity. 

Satoru Gojo—a sculpting major whose skills matched Suguru’s easily, if not surpassed at times. Hands of magic and pure precision that had quite literally gone into designing the statues that stood there present day—a parting gift from their now-alumni. 

Then, there was Shoko Ieiri, a woman as sharp and witty as she was cunning and cutthroat. Also the head of the photography and cinematography majors. Dual-enrollment was certainly a perk when it wanted to be—earning her advanced education programs but the ability to cater both specialities separately and furthermore, integrate them together. 

Closer than anything, Satoru was the one who inevitably came barreling into Suguru during passing hour, calling him up to rapt attention as he spewed out the rumors that everyone’s been simply buzzing about. 

“Yeah man, he’s like, totally your type. I think he was jus’ visiting or somethin’ because uh..no one’s seen him around campus,” the albino-haired man relayed, arm lazily slung over his friend’s shoulder as he pulled an elongated frown. “Total bummer—I got to see him ‘n you didn’t~” sing sang.

Suguru only shrugged off the words and failed to remove the latch that Satoru had on his shoulder whilst they stalked through the open courtyard. “Please. You think every model we get is hot, Satoru,” he reasoned to his smug-lipped companion. “What’s the big deal with this one? Oh no wait, let me guess, he blinked your way?” 

No amount of prestige could really conceal entirely the fact that Satoru was..well, a dog. A sly dog. So any sort of evaluation that he gave based on looks alone had to be at least some type of true. Not like Suguru’d admit that out loud. With Satoru’s ego? He’d never hear the end of it. 

“No dude, seriously. I think you should go for it. You’ve got daddy’s money for days,” Satoru drawled, pressing an index from Suguru’s chest and down in a way that made the raven swat his hand away. “I’m sure you could find ‘n get that cutie to come pay your studio a visit.”

Getting to the glass doors of the next wing due for lecture, Suguru simply shrugged, finally getting Satoru off him as the door threatened to close on the more flamboyant of the two. “Yeah, sure. I’ll ask a random art student, ‘Come back to model for my school again, I didn’t get to see you the first time’ and he definitely won’t consider a restraining order.”

“Maybe if it comes from Suguru Geto instead of just Suguru, then you might have a better chance. Abuse your power a little, you’ve got status for a fuckin’ reason,” Satoru left off on a slight bitter, lacing his fingers through the back of his hair, beginning to backpedal in the opposite direction of Suguru once reaching the fork in the hallway. “Quit bein’ a pussy and just go for it. Let me know when he rolls back around.”

“You’ll, in fact, be the very last to know on the astronomically slim chance that he does make an appearance in my class, upon my say-so.” it was already too late for trying to get the last word, seeing as Satoru was already disappearing with a small flow a people who wound up swallowing his form in mere seconds. The abrupt and what felt like unfulfilled ending to the conversation made Suguru’s brow flinch downward a tick. 

Blowing off the entire interaction, Suguru did everything in his power—quite successfully, to add—to put the faceless model out of his mind, along with the airheaded words of Satoru’s. 

‘Daddy’s Money’—he was one to talk. 

The hallways were already clearing and Suguru looked lone standing there in the large foyer like it was his first day. Only a flick of his midnight ends over his shoulder and he was carrying himself off to his designated amphitheater. He was working with clay today, so at least there was that to look forward to.

Except..even in the toss and turn of the earthy material, fingers coated in a layer of slip as he toiled away in his own section of the silent session with different scalpels and colors, his mind was only dragging back and back toward the stranger who’s existence he only knew by word of mouth.

It ate at him.

For what felt like an era, he simply ran through the rest of his classes—on autopilot if you will—up until he’d skipped out on walking to his dorms with Satoru. Suguru knew he’d have to face the brazen-tongued man again, even when he went to the dormitories later. 

Why? Well, guess who just so happened to room with him. Yeah, it was an ecstatic idea when they’d first begun to become acquainted, really getting into the swing of things in their friendships and pulling a few strings. As of recent, it had been a bit of the opposite.

Satoru was as nosy as he was talkative. Never would he confirm having a malicious intent but his actions spoke louder than his sugarcoated falsehoods. Even when one sounded sweeter.

So, having to return back there now would evidently put another dent in Suguru’s brain. He’d only revisit the same subject from earlier that had already plagued his daily thought track. All Suguru needed was to clear his head of the whole ordeal—right? 

Forget he ever heard of the mysterious model whom he’d never even got to see. Photos weren’t allowed in the studios, or phones in general when references stepped into the box or simply took position. Definitely not if they were…

Gross, Suguru chastised silently, snapping his thoughts up to the boy’s dormitory, yellow hues draping down the tall building whilst people filed off the courtyard. 

He’d usually wait for Satoru here, see how classes went, ask what’s for dinner, typical dismissal conversation as they made their way. Be that as it may, it wasn’t the most warming of weather and Satoru wasn’t exactly his favorite person at the moment. 

That revelation alone was enough for him to scoff, take a look over at where Satoru was meant to file out of and turn his head directly away. The dorms had a curfew but Suguru could make it—on time or no. 

Suguru’s attention was prejudiced to Satoru in the moment and all he honed in on was taking brisk steps off campus, easily slipping out of the front gates and into the barrening parking lot. Sliding into the driver’s seat, already, he’d received texts from Satoru on his whereabouts and those he brushed off as well.

He couldn’t possibly talk to Satoru, knowing that he’d effectively influenced his actions. How so? Suguru had already pulled up your school. Searching through and skimming to see if your name would’ve shown out as some sort of outlier or staple but..it hit him. 

What was your name? 

Out of everything Satoru had gone and flapped his lips about, your name was never one of them. Great, no name, no face, no nothing. He might as well have gone in and put up a blank missing poster. 

If he went to Satoru about it, then he’d know that Suguru was actually considering what he’d said—or to at least reach out. And to deal with him when his pride was puffed up became unbearable at times. 

Psychologically pacing and refreshing his notifications a few times, he finally opened Satoru’s messages, not to read but to click off and scroll through his contacts. Like most who have a bit of a following or nuance, read receipts weren’t on for Suguru. 

He scrolled for a bit before pulling a relieved smile at Shoko’s name. That woman was like an earth worm, in the sense she heard everything and got every detail for basically anything around campus. She had that personality about her that made one feel as though they could confess their deepest and have it under lock and key.

Whether or not that’s true was all dependent on the person and their own actions.

Though..for this…there was no way she couldn’t help Suguru out. Correction—no way that she wouldn’t help him out. Easily flicking her inbox open, fingers began to type out the message: 

S.G. Hey, need a favor.

S.I. This about that modeling guy, right?

Eyeing his screen up and down for a moment, he was not only caught up on the speed of her reply but the fact she predicted what he was going to say. 

S.G.  …

S.G. He already told you?

S.I.  Of course. When does Gojo not run his mouth to me? 

S.G.  True..but, anyway. I was thinking about things and..

Before he could properly register what he was going to give next:

S.I. Your art block? Yeah. If we think about that then I say you go for it.

S.G. Why are you bringing that up now? This is just another person with a pretty face and some nice collarbones that drive the angle thirsters crazy. Satisfying to put on paper—it’s an art school. I’m simply curious and nothing more. 

There weren’t any quick-witted texts that followed. 

S.G. So..

S.G. Just keep Satoru’s nose out of this one. I’ll address him how I will about the situation but until then, please just keep him in the dark.

S.I. He’s going to find out eventually. 

Always the voice of reason, Suguru groaned in the front of his mind. 

S.G. And by then, it’ll already be a done deal. Just a bit of profile stalking and I’ll be able to get rid of this morbid curiosity. 

S.I. On it, then. Give me 30.

S.G. Thank you.

S.I. Don’t thank me, Geto. I’m simply giving you what you’re asking for.

S.G. Okay, ominous. Turning my phone off now.

And that he did, easily sliding his cellular into the cup holder and running his hands over his face. Taking a deep breath in, his eyes peered through the mirror in the overhead visor. He could see himself there, murky seldom staring back from the reflection before he closed it up, breathing out deeply as he slumped down in the driver’s.

Was he really about to go through with this..? Thoughts slid back to his earlier mention of restraining orders, making a grimace cross his features briefly. 

You’re overthinking it, he chastised to himself, relaxing his posture and coming to lean his head back against the rest. Just then, though, his phone started buzzing in pulses within the hardened plastic of the cup holder. 

His fingers drifted over to lift it up, finding three different links and a singular text that came prior to.

S.I. Just so we’re clear, you got none of this from me.

Underneath it being screenshots of not only an Instagram and courses of study but even your class schedule. 

Now..Suguru has never really researched other people outside of artists whose methods he replicated or integrated into his works. So looking at their social media, lifestyles, past and present school information was nothing. 

Though now, knowing he wasn’t looking for any sort of artistic pursuit—yet—brought a tinge of red to his otherwise milky skin. Hissing out a low sigh, he simply replied:

S.G. Thanks. Don’t know who you are.

Dipping his head back once more, dragging his fingertips through his neck-length, pitch dark tresses, bringing his phone up to lay in his hand closer to the wheel. 

Finally, he worked up the balls to actually click on one of the links—the first—your course of study. Sitting back a bit and setting up his elbow on the window, Suguru pressed his cheek up against his knuckles. 

Then, he started scrolling. 

Turns out, you were..nobody and something big, simultaneously. 

A psychology, as well as a fine art major with a minor in modeling and fashion design. Impressive enough, Suguru went over in his head. Though, only one swipe down and he got to see your pieces.

It took a few blinks to settle in to the ranges he was looking at. If one were to call you “talented”, it would reasonably be insulting for the amount of time and effort that went into each individual product. 

From dresses thread and woven, with impossible stitching patterns enhanced by a good lens—accessory assortments of grandeur—to paintings and even some murals done for interior designs.

Dissecting each detail had to be the highlight of looking at everything his eyes were laid upon. “Holy shit..” the only appropriate breath that Suguru could get out at the moment, soon catching as he went lower.

Your modeling portfolio. 

Typically, models are shown next to the work of the artist but since that was literally your minor, they just had..you. 

Easily the best part of Suguru’s little stalking trip on your college website. But now he did regret not seeing you when you’d initially paid the campus a visit. Satoru..was right. Not like Suguru didn’t get the inkling previously, only now it was much more apparent.

To put in layman’s terms—you weren’t easy to draw. You had the kind of figure that a creator of any artistic field would work days and nights to try and capture in the perfect image. His comment about your collarbones hadn’t been way off either.

You were always adorned in some sort of cloth or something that hung off loosely, transparent in some cases but never quite testing the boundaries of work ethics. 

And always, always equipped with a..blindfold? For each and every photo, painting, it was a repeated and what seemed like mandatory garment.

Suguru took up the phone a bit closer, turning it sideways to even get a clearer view. Head to toe, it was like there wasn’t a thing out of place. The poses that you portrayed and the emotion that filtered through each stance and anatomical placement.

All of it was intentional and he could read that through your body alone. He was wrestling thoughts that he couldn’t pin down and ultimately clicked his phone off, slipping out of his car. The door closed firmly behind him as he hiked his bag up on his shoulder.

Overreacting. Right. He was just overreacting. 

How long had it been since..he got flustered just by looking at someone..? Like a damn teenager, he caught a hint of suggestion and wound up letting that dictate his heart rate. 

Nevertheless—did that stop him from contacting Shoko again to get your number just 30 minutes later? 

No. Of course not.

What did put a halt to his hasty series of events was his own inhibitions. It was already dark at this point— getting there. Suguru was ultimately a stranger to you and he was going to call you up at this estranged hour in order to get you to come model again..? 

It didn’t sound any better no matter how many times he thought it over. What if you asked just how he got your number? 

Times like these, Satoru would’ve been on his shoulder or typing the digits in on his own and tossing it back to him after two rings. 

But he couldn’t risk that with you. He didn’t want to. 

Not after seeing the raw ability that dripped off everything that you created and you, yourself. These factors at play, you still weren’t..known. It certainly wasn’t by coincidence—skills such as yours weren’t hidden so easily. 

A cacophony of different thoughts—even taking a bit to realize he hadn’t even checked the other link nor your class schedule—and Suguru was calmly pacing back and forth behind his car, taking a detoxifying breath as he leaned up against the trunk.

Leap of faith, more like a plummet into the abyss. Never the romantic pursuer, only the charming eye candy, actually wanting to go after someone..ah, correction—wanting someone to “model” for him—wasn’t his jurisdiction.

Once more, Satoru would’ve fit in phenomenally here. He’s always giving and taking numbers—calling each sorority twice in a day one time—easily putting himself out there. 

That wasn’t Suguru.  

The amount of logic Suguru poured into his relationships didn’t allow him to properly just leave the word “love” lying around. With Satoru, you could give him a piece of candy and he’d childishly say he loves you for it. 

When Suguru said the word “love” it was too weighty to even feel right after it left his lips. Casual hookups or flings were considered damn-near impossible to the raven. Standing with shaky hands and breaths, he decided to at least make the call worth it. 

“I’m..Suguru Geto. Not just..Suguru.” he reassured himself aloud. “Right,” breathed as he steadily typed in the number—that Shoko had so graciously handed over—into the keypad of his phone.

Thumb hovering over the green dial button, Suguru gave it a second then a third thought and pressed it. 

Then came the dreaded rings of the call trying.

One, two…three…

Click!

Your voice groggily exhaled out over the line, “Hello?” Already curled up tight in your sheets for an evening nap, you examined your screen, already trying to see if you recognized the number. You didn’t. Probably spam..I’ll prank ‘em if I’m bored enough, you thought up in your faint sleep haze.

“Hi,” Suguru’s voice basically purred over the line. That woke you up. More like woke your body up. “Is this..” gosh, with how he said it, you’d think you were being renamed for a second.

Coughing out a clearing of your throat, you sat upright in your bed a bit. “Yes, this is he..who is this?” you evenly replied.

Suguru’s hand that wasn’t holding his phone adjusted on the hood of his car. “Geto. Suguru, Geto. I believe you modeled for a department at my school not too long ago?” 

Pause button—everyone knows Suguru Geto. The Geto family alone was one of, if not the largest name within the city you were in, hell, in the entire coast to add on. So when you heard his name, there was a small gasp that you took in, soon hoping that it missed his ears.

“Modeling? I uh- uhuh. The campus a bit up north, yes?” hiding the waver to your tone under a mask of uncertainty in your words. “..That was a while back…you..y-you heard of me?” 

No way did you just stutter. You hadn’t stuttered in years—thank goodness for distance because your ears were burning up already, in color and in metaphor. “I did. A colleague of mine..” Suguru glanced off to the boy’s dormitory building that was still shimmering in the far end of the courtyard. “He pointed you out to me. Was real impressed.”

“So..if I may interject,” piping up, your head gave a slight tilt into your phone’s receiver, “Were..you impressed? Is that why you called, sir?”

Scoffing, Suguru rolled his eyes at the honorific, “Please, I’m barely a year your senior—just call me Suguru,” he said, even as he was bringing a hand to the lower half of his face, a mock attempt at clearing the dash of flush there. “And..you could say something like that.”

“Right, because the great Suguru doesn’t throw around his praises so easily,” in a testy, playful lilt.

It must’ve been humorous, seeing as that earned a wry leaving his lips. Had he sized you up too quickly? Suguru expected you to be a bit more..refined, in reference to your works—the seldom in how you took your photos next to them—and for that to transfer into a personality he’d have to chip at.

But it was..so easy to talk to you.

“I give my praises to those who deserve it. Simple as that,” hummed. “But I’ll say that you..piqued my interest, is all.” 

You could tell he was trying to hold up that professionalism with burly arms but even so, his interest that was a little more than piqued with you easily wafted over through his words. “Ah, but..I had…a request.” Don’t fuck up, loud in his head.

“Ask away. I’m honored the Suguru Geto even bothered to call my phone.” a little too honest but it was honest. 

Getting recognized or scouted by someone of his standing was what every small artist dreamt of. Having a conversation with him now didn’t even feel real. What was he going to say next? 

Suguru swallowed down slowly, as if swallowing down every diversion that wanted to continue on his proposition and his lips parted for him to speak once again. “Modeling—would you do it again? I mean..for this school.”

“For your school, you mean?” you’d rephrased lightly, shifting your ankles at a cross on your sheets as you settled your body against your raised knees.

“Uh..yeah. My school.” Suguru could feel his palms sweating—holding his breath. Had he not done enough prep for the ask? It was obvious you knew who he was but to assume your level of intrigue would be..entitled or even run along the thin lines of narcissism. 

Though, it wasn’t so completely obvious that you were underlyingly swooning. Not in the sense you were head over heels, no. Similar to how a piano player would react to seeing the person who wrote their favorite piece of sheet music.

A subtle, cordial freak out.

Too caught up in the question that he’d just asked—what to say following—you only piped up when you realized how longing your silence was becoming. “I-I mean, I’m not declining—in no way declining—but..may I ask..why?”

“You sure do love asking questions,” he smoothed back.

Catching that faint of a purr again, you weakly cleared your throat. “Sorry-”

“It’s a good trait.” adjoining his previous statement too late. “Something that we look for..here. You’ve…sort of been on everyone’s mind on campus and I just..” his voice trailed.

“You just..”

Suguru bit his lip on the other line, trying to figure out he was going to verbalize how exactly he felt about you without sounding blunt but simultaneously not..a bit out of it.

Choosing that the latter was better, he began, moving his phone to his other hand and moving to the side of the car. Getting back in the driver’s, securing the door, he breathed out. “I’m trying to scout you.”

“Scout me?” 

“Yes, that..is what I said,” Suguru nodded along. “I’m just..giving you a chance to be the better that I see.”

An instant warm flash up your neck and spreading across your face, you took a deep breath and completely flopped back down into your pillow. “Why..me, of all?” you sighed solemnly.

“If you make the trip, I can show you. You know the atmospheres of our studios, it’ll be easier to accentuate my point in person, in that environment.” He knew he was starting to sound pushy, so, he leaned his seat all the way back slowly. “So..are you free anytime? If anything, I can make a personal request for you to make the whole attendance situation even out.”

Brushing your wrist over your eyes, you licked your lips absentmindedly. “And how am I to explain my abscence outside of academics..? How do you think my friends will react if I just up and leave?”

Trying not to sound irritated at your insistence, Suguru smiled smally. “I’ll handle that.”

“Aand..work I’ll miss?” 

“Do you want to be escorted over here or shall I press this pretty red button and leave you to your evening?” Well, so much for hiding that irritation.

You caught every wind of it, pressing your tongue along the upper set of your teeth. “Friday works for me.” you finally gave. 

“I’ll make a call,” Suguru calmly put. “In the meanwhile..just uh..text me if you need anything. Do you..need anything?” he hastily added.

You shook your head, quickly switching to a soft “No, Suguru,” whenever you realized he couldn’t exactly see your silent negation. “That’ll be all.”

Suguru could sense the tension that now lingered in your words. Leave on good terms. “I’ll..be looking forward to our next meeting. Truly.”

“…Me too,” said gently, “Have a good night, Suguru Geto.” 

“And the reciprocal, but..if I may, one little question.” 

“Proceed, cautiously.”

Forcing his heart to stop overlapping with your voice, he spoke all in one breath, “Why the blindfold?”

To this day, you still deny that that gasp left you when he asked. Immediately, an exhale, “Good night, Suguru.” and dial tone click.

The very first thing that you did was turn fully over onto your stomach, burying your face into your pillow and giving one good and entirely justified scream. Both out of frustration and fluster. It was really starting to set in that you’d just been scouted by the Suguru Geto. 

Your body was just as animated, feet fluttering with light thuds down onto the mattress to coincide along your little fit. When you finally got the last bit of audio out of your lungs, you peered your eyes over your forearm. Looking through your strands that obstructed a bit of your vision, you got a concerned and mildly condescending side glance from your roommate.

The classical bookworm who was increasingly more wizened than the average enabler of your surrounding parties. A pretty blond, Greek art historian and poet: Kento Nanami. Or your life-long confidant and companion. 

You two had essentially grown up side by side. Two anti-socialists who found connection through the intricacies of creation. “Best friends” would be nothing if not inappropriate to describe your bond. Though, lovers is far from the truth. 

Nanami was the voice of reason and the person who kept your head screwed—relatively—tight on your shoulders. 

Though, that voice of reason can get grating. Which it was now as he looked up from his desk, taking off those thinly framed glasses that had been assisting him with the literature on the dark polished mahogany. “You know that you can’t just fly under the radar for an entire day, yes?”

“I can..and will.” you snipped.

“No need to throw me on the bad side of the tracks. I’m just saying that you should think this through more,” the stale faced man reasoned. “And given how you didn’t bother to see if I was listening, I’m assuming you wanted me to try and talk you out of it.”

Scoffing, you swung your legs over your bedside, standing to your feet and giving a long stretch of the arm that’d been holding your phone recently. “I don’t need you to talk me out of anything. This..this can be good. For both of us.”

“It sounds like he’s solely interested in you. Or your, quote, ‘modeling.’”

“Why is there quote around modeling? Listen, you’re the pessimist and I’m not. I can put in a good word or two for you while I’m there, as well.” taking a few steps closer, you rested the flats of your fingers onto your hip. 

He spun his chair to face you fully, leaned back with his hands folded on the chair between the parting of his legs. “A good tongue flip or two, more like.”

“Vulgar.”

“Is that not the connotation?” he immediately retorted.

A sharp roll of your eyes to the right and you were letting off a sigh—looking off for a moment before falling back onto him. “It’s not like that. I won’t let it be like that. This is purely artistic, plus, what are we going to do in a public studio, Nanami?”

He gave his own version of a sigh, more like just a short breathy exhale in other words. Now he knew you were getting up in arms already given how you used his last instead of his first or your name for him. 

Choosing his next words carefully, he soon unfolded his hands, dipping them out in an ‘Oh well’ fashion. “Right. You know best.”

“Don’t do that.” you bit. 

“There’s nothing you need me to talk you out of so..go for it. You had fun the last time..I don’t know why I thought it would be otherwise.” your expression reluctantly softened and the cut to your gaze dulled. 

Shaking your head, you spun his chair around snaily, leaning over to the side to grab his glasses. Easily sliding them in place by tucking some of those silky blonde strands out of the way.

“…Sorry. I know you have reason to worry but…have a little faith in me, Nami.” you reassured in a softer breath than prior. “Promise I won’t get myself into any trouble. This is just another creative learning experience to me.”

“Yeah, with your idol.” given dryly. Already taken up his richly inked fountain pen once more, he peered over his shoulder to view you a bit better.

Your lips immediately pressed into a smile of withdraw. It caught Nanami a bit off for a tick. “With those glasses, you really do look better. Like how you did in highschool.”

“Changing the topic on me?” he pressed, even so, still bringing his index up to his nose bridge to push the frames further into security. “Either way, I might go back. Contacts aren’t so time efficient.”

“Well then, sounds like you have more important things to worry about, huh?” you chimed, giving an affirming two pats to his shoulders before leaning up straight again. “Stick to the books, writer boy.”

Finally choosing to high road, he took that last jab in silence and this time, just putting his headphones in as you retreated back to your own bed—mirroring. 

Although it seemed you both knew there were going to be certain boundaries and guidelines for the upcoming—there was clearly already outlines of a blockade forming between you and Nanami over it. 

But..you doubted that it would ever be truly significant. It was one with the other, always a package deal. You’d make sure of that.

“Night, Nami.” there his name was. Right back in its rightful place on your lips. 

Just before he clicked play he uttered the same and was right back to his rhythmic scritching in his—preferably leather-bound—sketchbook. Although it was a sketchbook, it was accounted as an official class notebook as well. You’ve been a feature more than a few times, in multiple.

That pretty much concluded your night but Suguru was still in the midst of dealing with a Satoru that wasn’t too fond of the extra—if not over—2 hours unaccounted for in that parking lot and even after.

Getting back into the building was easy since the security were—practically—running on his parent’s dime but also weren’t necessarily too foreign to turning blind eyes to Suguru’s affairs. The only problem presented itself after he got back into his own dorm.

Lights off, cartoons running on the living room television as the snowy-haired man sat on the couch with a perched hand under his chin. Satoru’d already heard him shoving his keys in the door and now he was more alert than the half-asleep state he’d been wading in and out of beforehand.

“And here I thought you’d gone missing. Shame.” catty as ever, never pulling those glacial blues off the flashing colors that the screen threw out in its frames. 

The air was faintly tense, not trying to let Satoru get the inkling that he’d been out for nefarious reasons—Suguru bent down at the door and softly waited until the latch clicked. His fingers went to his dress shoes, deftly pulling the laces loose. “Already with the attitude? What are you, five?”

“Five, what a number. About the same number representing the time we meet after classes. You know, at the end of the day, together.” Now, Satoru was turning to face his newly-arrived roommate, crossing arms over his chest and cocking his head of at an angle.

A bat of Suguru’s lashes and he was standing back up fully, peeling his school-affiliating sweater down off his shoulders and undoing the two buttons that had held it together at his front.

“Something came up, didn’t have time to text you.” he breathed, taking his hair down from that pinned-up bun and draping his sweater over the back of a dining chair. 

“Don’t bullshit me,” Satoru sneered. “You always have time to text me—you just didn’t and I want to know why.” Of course he was going straight into this sorry interrogation attempt. He was just being nosy and going about it in an accusatory guise.

Having went through this same broken record a thousand times over, “Calm down, Satoru. I was out for a little longer than usual and now what? You’re all of a sudden some..some sort of disappointed parent?”

The television finally got lowered after that—shut off completely in fact as Satoru got to his feet, jamming his hands into the pockets of his house shorts. In about three steps he was inches away from face to face with Suguru. Eyes at a bladed angle, they flicked down and up the more unaffected party.

“I am calm.” he punctuated between his teeth.

“And, that vein in your forehead totally isn’t about to burst,” Suguru retorted. “Can you just be alright with me saying ‘I was out’ and ask me how my day went or something?”

Tapping his fingers in a roll over his bicep, Satoru’s tongue did one swipe along the back of his teeth. “Okay, Suguru. I won’t press you, matter of fact—I’ll wait until you’re ready to have this conversation. Or any conversation.”

“Seriously? Silent treatment? Who would that truly benefit in the long run? Let’s stop this petty bickering, Satoru. I’ve had a long day and so have you.”

Jamming a finger into Suguru’s chest, Satoru pulled a wry in passive aggression. “Right, like you’d even know how my day went—you were barely there. Shoko and I even had the time to go out to eat after classes ended.”

That made Suguru pause for a moment. Had Shoko been right next to him while… 

Blinking the thought away, Suguru put his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

“…How?” raised a curious eyebrow.

“I’ll pay your cafeteria fee for a month.” 

Satoru’s eyes switched between the marble plum depths of Suguru’s. “Are you trying to..bribe me?”

“Depends, is three months enticing enough for you?” Suguru pried, poorly concealing the way his lips were starting to peel back. “Come on, you know you’re the richest cheapskate I know.”

Kissing his teeth at the backhanded undercurrent, Satoru pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m not so easily bought but I’ll consider this a rental. Whatever, Suguru.”

“I haven’t ‘rented’ anything in quite some years now.” purred back, as the raven slipped past the diffused situation, patting him on the back. It was nothing to make his way into the hallway that housed either of their rooms on each side. 

It looked smaller from the outside, though that could’ve been because the lavish bathrooms were inside said accomadations. And as Suguru’s tired feet dragged him to his door, he gently twisted the knob to sleuth in. 

Only there did he have a slow moment—a hand up to his chest was all the information needed to tell the bullet he’d really dodged. Several, even.

But that wasn’t out of the ordinary. To make it out barely scathed among a landmine of minūt and first-world issues. And frankly, Satoru was about as first-world as it got. It was one of his greatest strengths and—though he’d comment on the word—weaknesses.

Suguru knew how to play cards right to not make it seem like he was directly looking down on him but at times, his actions spoke louder than well..anything. 

Though, undressing and getting down to his boxers before sitting on the edge of his bed, Satoru was the last thing on his mind. He dug around in his dresser for a moment, pulling out his signature box of tobacco cigarettes and a lighter gifted to him by Shoko herself.

Allowing himself a moment to light the small flicker flame and lean back to give the ceiling a staring contest, the end of the wrapped up stress-reliever shortened with a hiss. Ash darkened the sections that had been snuffed of flame, now replaced with embers in Suguru’s lungs.

Taking his hand down and coming to lay fully back on his king-size, he blew out the smoke into the moonlit air—just a sliver behind those velvety curtains that he’d had personally installed. His eyes caught on the trail that hung and strangely, he couldn’t seem to pull himself out of the stupor that was…you.

Stupors technically have a negative feeling when they’re described but in this context, it was closer to wading through a hot spring for the first time. Unknown sensations at the bottom, warmth and new waters on the surface. Overall, something new.

A new flavor in the palette of the glutton.

Of course..it was impossible for him to place whether the bitter or sweet was stronger when it came to..you. Whether there was a cure hidden in your symphony of layers or poison that was laced within the depths of the journey he wanted to embark on—finding out just who you are. But he’d get a taste of you, the real you, sooner or later. For now..all he had to worry about was getting you into his studio—or the studio, that is.

————

Masterlist || ....

A/N: Have no fear, Deep Faker is on the way next, lol. But uhm..yeah, this happened. Call it a bad case of yearning or simply artistic motivation but please, embark with me.

[rabbit-surfboard]

Fictional podcast recs

One of my friends got into audio drama and I just sent them a whole list of recommendations to go through, I thought someone who follows these tags might also appreciate it and perhaps have some more to throw in. I resisted the urge to throw in the little blurb about audio dramas as a weird little medium and their tropes that I wrote up. It was something to the effect of nodding at how the medium has rapidly been improving since Welcome to Nightvale started, also how a lot of the tropes that tie the medium together are products of the indie podcast scene being accessible and primarily based in audio. Also at how well horror works in the format. Those paragraphs went unsaved but writing first about the medium in general helped me to reflect on a lot of the things that make audiodramas appealing or repulsive to me for discussing each show in brief beyond just explaining what they're about.

All recommendations are tagged for the tldr.

Fiction podcast recommendations in no particular order:

The Magnus Archives

Horror

The biggest criticism I ever had of this podcast’s voice acting from episode 1 turned out to be a relevant plot point. This thing is probably the best of the best, but I would never recommend it to someone unfamiliar with podcasts because the listener only notices a plot hook somewhere between episodes 20-40 and that’s daunting in the face of a 200 episode show. Getting sucked in rewards you with 200 episodes of thoughtful content and a great explanation for most of the weird things this show chooses to incorporate.

Old Gods of Appalachia

Horror

Fantastic production quality on this ongoing show. Many seasons with interconnected lore and a hell of a narrator. It’s not my personal favorite but it’s quite excellent.

Red Valley

Found footage mystery

One of the newer shows I’ve gotten into, Red Valley is well-crafted. It becomes compelling very quickly with a rapid pace that slows down to land in a neat spot for a while so you can savor the cool parts. The production quality is excellent and the two main voice actors have excellent chemistry. The third and final season is currently being produced.

The Silt Verses

Horror

Often compared to American Gods, this newer podcast made by an experienced team is doing a lot of creative and fresh things at once. The magnificently fucked up religious system of The Silt Verses is both a neat plot vehicle and cleanly works as a criticism of late stage capitalism, where many podcasts like to jab at capitalism this one is much more pointed in its commentary. Episodes are long and very well produced. All the credits in the third season have been mostly diegetic and add flavor to the world.

Archive 81

Found footage horror

Slow to start but by season 2 the production quality and plot are among the best in the game. Unfortunately, on an extended hiatus.

Ars Paradoxica

Science fiction, historical

Very well produced considering its age, this is a highly regarded show among people who follow the medium. Excellent time travel mechanics here. The plot drags a bit by the end because time travel stories must violently contort themselves into a conclusion, but the first season or two are fantastic and it’s always nice to have an ending instead of interminable hiatus.

Caravan

Gay demons n stuff

Showed up, did magic and gay shit, disappeared and went on hiatus probably with some kinda unsatisfying cliffhanger seeing as I don’t remember the plot. Could I recommend it in good faith? Not until they at least cough up season 2. I don’t remember it being bad and that alone is notable for the medium.

Mabel

Gothic horror

This is the deepest cut on the list except for maybe Caravan. Lesbians pine at each other for increasingly complicated reasons, eventually devolving into them doing datura and then spewing cryptic poetry together for the rest of their days. The production quality is fair. The slow windup and creepy house are American-gothic af. This show has had a few hiatuses, but each time it comes back significantly more intriguing.

Welcome to Nightvale

Goofy spooky news broadcast

Old and iconic, not very consistent. Sometimes explores emotional, tense, spooky, or funny scenes well, but the show is really focused on being local news for an ooky spooky desert town because Cecil is damn good at his job. Don’t come here looking for plot, it’s a fun vibe and I don’t know that anybody’s ripped it off and notably improved on this classic. Above average production quality for its time which improved through the years.

Alice isn’t Dead

USA road trip, horror

Made by at least one of the Nightvale writers, totally different show with a lesbian trucker making wry observations of some magnificently twisted shit seen around the United States. The producers know how to run a show, so the production is pretty good.

Tanis

Found footage horror

Tanis is not good. However, it was the first fiction podcast to make me ask “Is this real?” and hesitantly believe it for a frankly embarrassing number of episodes. The stories in the first season were interesting and the lore is just some big-tent conspiracy style of cramming a bunch of fun Wikipedia research into what turns out to be an increasingly nonsensical plot. Every season after the second, I return to hate-listen and am gaslit into thinking the show might low-key rock a few episodes before the finale, which is routinely frustrating and makes sure to throw out any good plot points Terry Miles comes up with. The acting is routinely terrible, and the frame narrative allows lazy and frequent retcons, ruining what I think is a good premise. Also it’s incomplete.

The Black Tapes

Horror

Terry Miles started this show before Tanis began releasing about 5 months later. I think of it as one of his earlier works because it behaves like Tanis with an added layer of cringe from a time waster of an awkward romance(?) between the two main characters. I couldn’t finish this show. You won’t see this recommended as often as it used to be online because there’s many better shows now, but this used to be a big deal. There’s a bunch of memes making fun of the annoying cadence of the characters’ speech and iconic sponsorship reads in both this and Tanis. If you’re interested in some cringe atop your creepypasta podcast, the two are interchangeable.  

Rabbits

ARG investigation

Not as horror focused as Terry Miles’ other shows, the cringe is dialed down and the show is better for it. Tanis and The Black Tapes are more well known, I think the only reason more people don’t think about this one is because the first two don’t inspire trust in the production or narrative quality of this show, but I remember it being fine for a season. I have not gone back to catch up now that more is out.

Malevolent

Horror

Inspired by The King in Yellow, one man performs two voices and verbally abuses himself with aplomb. Having a blind main character with an extra voice in his head is a frame story I haven’t heard yet (unless it came up in the magnus archives and I don’t remember), the concept works out great for the frame of a podcast to deploy the environmental imagery that foley cannot communicate. It also prevents the podcast trope of lengthy exposition about visual surroundings from sounding awkward or potentially impacting someone’s character development to show setting.

Wolf 359

Comedy, science fiction

A crew of whacky characters is stuck in deep space, hanging out and researching a star. Since that’s not actually very interesting they crack jokes and fuck around for a slow burn until interesting stuff happens. Good but not great, this one is long and satisfying and a bit less heavy than all the horror this medium often focuses on. Decent production quality.

The White Vault

Found footage horror

I lost patience with this podcast even though the overarching story seemed very cool – it progresses very slowly yet appears to grow bigger and more confusing instead of deigning to answer basic questions for a frustratingly long drag through the first four seasons. I worry that this frustration may be the point and the Patreon gated stories are the drivers for this tendency towards the confusing patchwork of ideas this show communicates. The production quality is good though.

The Left Right Game

Found footage horror

Genuinely great reddit creepypasta got turned into an overproduced podcast – I say “over” in comparison to the voice acting quality because it’s kind of impossible to sell some of the lines, which makes sense considering the source. Brief, complete, punchy, interesting, and just a little odd to hear such a clean production but a creepypasta this fun deserves the effort.

Wooden Overcoats

Comedy

Surprisingly good production quality for its age, and also a refresher from the usual tropes of the medium. Just a chill sitcom about a funeral parlor in a small town. I haven’t finished this 4 season show yet but its good.

The Black List Table Reads

Movie script readings

Some movie scripts just short of making the cut to be turned into a full Hollywood production were well liked enough by a group of film nerds that sat down to act them out as a podcast. Half of the episodes are interviews with screenwriters, and the other half see a script read all the way through by actors. They’re all rejected for different reasons so there’s a pretty broad spread of genres. My favorites were Blood From a Stone and Balls Out.

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 7

Bayeux Tapestry - hawking

1130 – On this date the medieval poet Baldric Of Dol died (b.circa 1050). He was abbot of Bourgueil from 1079 to 1106, then bishop of Dol-en-Bretagne from 1107 until his death.

Balderic's poetic works were written almost entirely while abbot at Bourgueil. The 256 extant poems are found almost exclusively in a single contemporary manuscript which is most likely an authorized copy. They consist of a wide range of poetic forms ranging from epitaphs, riddles and epistolary poems to longer pieces such as an interpretative defense of Greek mythology. A praise poem for Adela of Normandy describes something very like the Bayeux Tapestry within its 1,368 lines. Two themes dominate his works: desire/friendship (amor)—including paedophiliac—and game/poetry (iocus).

In his collection My Dear Boy: Gay Love Letters through the Centuries, the scholar Rictor Norton publishes Baldric's many letters to male lovers.

1829 – William Maxwell is the last English sailor hanged for sodomy.

1899 – Francis Poulenc, French composer (d.1963); Poulenc was one of the first out Gay composers. His first serious relationship was with painter Richard Chanlaire to whom he dedicated his Concert champêtre: "You have changed my life, you are the sunshine of my thirty years, a reason for living and working." He also once said, "You know that I am as sincere in my faith, without any messianic screamings, as I am in my Parisian sexuality."

Poulenc also had a number of relationships with women. He fathered a daughter, Marie-Ange, although he never formally admitted that he was indeed her father. He was also a very close friend of the singer Pierre Bernac for whom he wrote many songs; some sources have hinted that this long friendship had sexual undertones; however, the now-published correspondence between the two men strongly suggests that this was not the case.

Poulenc's life was one of inner struggle. Having been born and raised a Roman Catholic, he struggled throughout his life between coming to terms with his "unorthodox" sexual "appetites" and maintaining his religious convictions.

Poulenc was profoundly affected by the death of friends. First came the death of the young woman he had hoped to marry, Raymonde Linossier. While Poulenc admitted to having no sexual interest in Linossier, they had been lifelong friends. Then, in 1923 he was "unable to do anything" for two days after the death from typhoid fever of his 20-year old friend, novelist Raymond Radiguet, Jean Cocteau's lover. However, two weeks later he had moved on, joking to Sergei Diaghilev at the rehearsals he was unable to leave, about helping a dancer "warm up."

In 1936, Poulenc was profoundly affected by the death of another composer, Pierre-Octave Ferroud, who was decapitated in an automobile accident in Hungary. This led him to his first visit to the shrine of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour. Here, before the statue of the Madonna with a young child on her lap, Poulenc experienced a life-changing transformation. Thereafter his work took on more religious themes, beginning with the Litanies à la vierge noire (1936). In 1949, Poulenc experienced the death of another friend, the artist Christian Bérard, for whom he composed his Stabat Mater (1950).

Poulenc died of heart failure in Paris on 30 January 1963 and is buried at the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

1917 – Alfred Freedman (d.2011), who was responsible for removing homosexuality from the list of mental illnesses, was born in Albany, New York. After earning his undergraduate degree at Cornell University in 1937, Freedman graduated from the University of Minnesota Medical School in 1941. He began an internship at Harlem Hospital but left before completion to enlist in the United States Army Air Corps. He left the service having attained the rank of Major.

After initially studying neuropsychology, Freedman trained in both general and child psychiatry, undertaking a residency at Bellevue Hospital. He became the chief of child psychiatry at the SUNY Downstate Medical Center, a post in which he served for five years, before becoming the first person to serve full-time as the department of psychiatry Chairman at New York Medical College, a post which he held for 30 years.

In 1972, Freedman was approached by the Committee of Concerned Psychiatrists, a group of young reform-minded doctors, who encouraged him to run for the presidency of the American Psychiatric Association. He won the election by 3 votes out of some 9,000 that were cast.

In his position as president, Freedman immediately supported a resolution offered by Robert L. Spitzer to delete homosexuality from the list of mental illness diagnoses. On December 15, 1973, the APA's board of trustees voted 13—0 in favor of the resolution, which stated that "by itself, homosexuality does not meet the criteria for being a psychiatric disorder" and that "We will no longer insist on a label of sickness for individuals who insist that they are well and demonstrate no generalized impairment in social effectiveness."

LGBT rights organizations have hailed this decision as one of the greatest advances for gay equality in the United States. Freedman himself believed that passing this resolution was the most important accomplishment of his one-year tenure as president. A second resolution called for an end to discrimination based on sexual orientation and the repeal of laws against consensual gay sex.

Alfred Freedman died in Manhattan on April 17, 2011, following complications after surgery to treat a hip fracture.

1919 – Robert Duncan, American poet, born (d.1988); An American poet and a student of H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), who spent most of his career in and around San Francisco. Though associated with any number of literary traditions and schools, Duncan is often identified with the New American Poetry and Black Mountain Poets.

Duncan's mature work emerged in the 1950s from of Beat culture and today he is also identified as a key figure in the San Francisco Renaissance. Duncan's name figures prominently in the history of pre-Stonewall Gay culture, particularly with the publication of his The Homosexual in Society.

Duncan had his first homosexual relationship with a male instructor he had met in Berkeley. In 1941 he was drafted and declared his homosexuality to get discharged. In 1943, he had his first heterosexual relationship. This ended in a short, disastrous marriage.

In 1944, he published The Homosexual in Society, an essay in which he compared the plight of homosexuals with that of African Americans and Jews. The immediate consequence of this brave essay was that John Crowe Ransom refused to publish a previously accepted poem of Duncan's in Kenyon Review, thus initiating Duncan's exclusion from the mainstream of American poetry.

Also in 1944, Duncan had a relationship with the abstract expressionist painter Robert De Niro, Sr., the father of famed actor Robert De Niro, Jr.

Duncan was the first poet to use the word "cocksucker" in print, and the first to strip to the buff during a reading. Nevertheless, he is in spirit, if not in fact, a modern romantic whose best work is instantly engaging by the standards of the purest lyrical traditions.

In 1951 Duncan met the artist Jess Collins and began a collaboration and partnership that lasted 37 years till Duncan's death in 1988.

1946 – Jann Wenner is the co-founder and publisher of the music and politics biweekly Rolling Stone, as well as the current owner of Men's Journal and Us Weekly magazines.

In 1967, Wenner and Ralph J. Gleason founded Rolling Stone in San Francisco. To get the magazine off the ground, Wenner borrowed $7,500 from family members and from the family of his soon-to-be wife, Jane Schindelheim. In the summer following the start of the magazine, Wenner and Schindelheim were married in a small Jewish ceremony.

In 1995, Wenner found himself in the middle of a media storm when it was revealed that he was leaving his wife Jane after more than 25 years of marriage and had become involved in a relationship with Matt Nye, a former male model turned fashion designer. Wenner's outing, which may or may not have been at his own instigation, seems to have had little effect on his business empire, but it inspired a number of accusations regarding an alleged "Velvet Mafia" of powerful closeted gay men.

Although it had long been rumored that Wenner's marriage was an "open" one and gossip of his bisexuality was widespread and had been mentioned in gay magazines, in 1995 he was publicly outed—on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, no less—when the newspaper revealed that Wenner had left his wife of 28 years for Nye, a considerably younger man who was a former Calvin Klein underwear model.

Rumors of an alleged conspiracy to suppress the news began to circulate. Several journalists reported that the so-called "Velvet Mafia"—a coterie of powerful media, entertainment, and fashion executives who are reputedly gay—had threatened to pull advertising from any publication that wrote about the breakup.

1969 – Rex Lee is an American actor. He is best known for his role as Lloyd Lee in the HBO series Entourage and his role as Elliot Park in the television sitcom Young & Hungry.

Lee was born in Warren, Ohio. His parents emigrated from Korea to the United States. He grew up in the states of Massachusetts and California. He graduated from the Oberlin Conservatory of Music in 1990. Although Lee was studying to be a professional pianist, he decided he wanted to act after taking a theater class in college.

Prior to landing the role on Entourage, Lee had various jobs including performing in the children's theater company, Imagination Company, as well as working as a casting assistant. He was the casting director for the TV movie The Cure for a Diseased Life. Lee has also played roles on a variety of TV shows, including Twins, What About Brian and Maurice on two episodes of Zoey 101.

On Entourage, Lee played Lloyd Lee, the gay assistant to Ari Gold, the character played by Jeremy Piven — eventually becoming an agent and interim head of TMA's television department. Lee began his role in the first episode of the show's second season, "The Boys Are Back in Town", which introduced Lloyd as the replacement to Ari's previous assistant. Lee won the award for Outstanding Supporting Actor, Television at the AZN Asian Excellence Awards in 2007 and 2008.

Lee had a series regular role in the first two seasons of the ABC sitcom Suburgatory, playing Mr. Wolfe, a clueless high school guidance counselor. He appeared as one of the judges at Nationals in the Fox Television Comedy-Drama Glee in season 3. In 2014, he had a starring role in the ABC Family (later rebranded as Freeform) television sitcom Young & Hungry where he plays Elliot Park, the publicist and "right-hand man" to a young tech entrepreneur named Josh. Young & Hungry ran for five seasons, concluding in 2018.

Lee is gay; he came out to his parents when he was 22. In an interview from 2011, Lee said that he was single and looking for something permanent, but that it was difficult to find the right relationship.

1969 – David Yost is an American actor and producer known for his role of Billy Cranston on the television series Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie and Power Rangers Zeo.

Yost was born in Council Bluffs, Iowa and moved around throughout the United States, winning many gymnastics competitions nationally, most notably the state championships Iowa and Montana. In 1991, graduated from Graceland University in Lamoni, Iowa with a B.A. in Communication and Dramatic Arts. He moved to California with hopes of becoming an actor and auditioned for a role in the Power Rangers series only three months after arriving. He won the part of Billy Cranston, the Blue Power Ranger.

Yost starred in more than two hundred episodes of the show's first four seasons. He was the only Ranger to appear in every single episode of the original series, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, playing the part of Billy, the Blue Ranger. With powers and motifs based on creatures such as the Triceratops and Wolf, the Mighty Morphin Blue Ranger is still one of the most popular in the franchise thanks to Yost's commitment to the role; Billy never switched colors or passed on his power coins to successors like the rest of the original cast. Yost's most high-profile work was his appearance in Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie, which took in over thirty million dollars at the box office in 1995. The movie was in theaters between the second and third seasons of M.M.P.R. and served as a non-canonical alternate opening for the third season.

After Mighty Morphin Power Rangers ended and Power Rangers Zeo began in the fourth season, Yost stayed as Billy, but Billy's role within the show changed. Instead of his previous role as a Power Ranger, he became a technical advisor to the others. Yost eventually left the show toward the end of the Power Rangers Zeo season. His character's final episode, "Rangers of Two Worlds", employed footage from previous episodes as well as vocal work from a separate, uncredited actor, to conceal the fact that Yost was not present during the taping. A tribute to the Blue Ranger and Billy was seen in the closing credits of this last Billy episode.

While it was originally believed that he had left the series due to insufficient pay, Yost later revealed in his 2010 interview with No Pink Spandex that he left the series because he could no longer handle harassment by the production crew that targeted his sexual orientation. According to Yost, he was often called a "faggot", and the producers frequently questioned other cast members in private about Yost's sexuality. Yost left late in the fourth season after a week of contemplation instead of continuing work another six months into the second film. He claims that his co-workers involved with writing, filming and producing the show considered him "not worthy" to be where he was and that he "could not be a superhero" because of his homosexuality.

After Yost left Power Rangers, he tried to get rid of his homosexuality with conversion therapy for two years, but this failed. Eventually Yost had a nervous breakdown which resulted in his psychiatric hospitalization for five weeks. After Yost checked out, he moved to Mexico for a year and eventually accepted his sexuality.

In 2002, Yost performed in a play called Fallen Guardian Angels at "the complex" located in Los Angeles for A.P.L.A. (A.I.D.S. Project Los Angeles). The play was about six actors dealing with HIV in various situations. The proceeds went to benefit The Children's Hospitals AIDS Center. The entire production raised over $25,000 and Yost himself raised $5,000 for the hospital and received good reviews from LA Weekly Theatre.

1977 – John Gidding is a Turkish-American architect, television personality, and former fashion model.

Gidding was born in Istanbul, Turkey to an American father and a Turkish mother. He lived in Turkey until moving to the United States for college after attending Leysin American School in Leysin, Switzerland. He graduated from Yale University in 1999 with a BA in architecture, then the Harvard Graduate School of Design with a Master's in architecture.

At Yale he sang a cappella with The Society of Orpheus and Bacchus, and choral music with the Yale Glee Club, and at Harvard he sang with the Harvard-Radcliffe Collegium Musicum. He was voted one of "Yale's 50 Most Beautiful People" in 1999 by Rumpus Magazine, one of "Boston's 50 Most Eligible Bachelors" by The Improper Bostonian in 2002, one of "Atlanta's 50 Most Beautiful People" by Jezebel Magazine and as one of Atlanta Homes and Lifestyles's "Emerging Talent: Twenty Under 40" in 2008.

He is openly gay and, as of August 2013, married to dancer Damian Smith.

Gidding started modeling in 2000 as a graduate student, performing runway shows for Armani, Gucci, and Hugo Boss before being represented by Wilhelmina Models in New York City. He's also been on the covers of numerous romance novels.

Gidding moved to New York City where he started John Gidding Design, Inc. after working for two years as a landscape architect for Michael Van Valkenburgh Associates.

Gidding's start in television was with the ABC Family TV show Knock First, where he and three other designers took turns making over teenagers' bedrooms. Designed to Sell (Giddings' previous show from 2006 to 2011) was canceled in early 2011 but still airs repeats on HGTV, and Knock First is still running in syndication internationally.

He is currently best known for being the architect-designer on Curb Appeal:The Block where his team spends $20,000 on improvements to the exterior landscaping of chosen homeowners. Less expensive touch-ups are done for 2 or 3 nearby neighbors' homes to improve overall neighborhood property values.

1989 – Stephen Wrabel, better known by his stage name Wrabel, is an American musician, singer and songwriter based in Los Angeles.

Wrabel attended high school at The Kinkaid School in Houston, Texas. After high school, he studied at the Berklee College of Music for a semester until he left Boston to move to LA and focus on songwriting. He got his first big break when he was signed to Pulse Recording as a songwriter.

In 2010, Wrabel recorded the theme song for the NBC game show Minute to Win It, "Get Up", produced by Eve Nelson.

Wrabel was signed to Island Def Jam in 2012.

In 2014, Dutch DJ Afrojack released a version of Wrabel's song "Ten Feet Tall", resulting in an international hit. The song premiered in the United States during Super Bowl XLVIII in a Bud Light commercial and was viewed by around 100 million viewers. Wrabel later released the original piano-based version of the song on May 19, 2014. BuzzFeed named the Afrojack version of "Ten Feet Tall" one of the "35 Best Pop Songs You May Have Missed This Summer".

Wrabel is gay. His song "11 Blocks" is autobiographical describing his feelings about his first love who had moved 11 blocks away from him in California. In his song "Bloodstain", directed by Isaac Rentz, the video displays suffering and heartache in a relationship, while the star Wrabel is fighting for his life.

1990 – Michael Sam is an American football defensive end. He attended the University of Missouri, where he played college football for the Missouri Tigers football team for four years. Recruited by a number of colleges, he accepted a scholarship with Missouri. He was a consensus All-American and the Southeastern Conference Defensive Player of the Year as a senior.

Sam is the seventh of eight children born to JoAnn and Michael Sam, Sr. His parents separated when he was young. As a child, Sam watched one of his older brothers die from a gunshot wound. Another older brother has been missing since 1998, and his other two brothers are both imprisoned. A sister who was born before him died in infancy. At one point in his childhood, Sam lived in his mother's car. He was once accidentally maced by police who were arresting one of his brothers.

Sam argued with his mother over playing football, as she did not agree with those pursuits. Sam often stayed with friends while in high school; the parents of a classmate gave him a bedroom in their house and had him complete household chores. Sam is the first member of his family to attend college.

After completing his college football career, Sam publicly came out as gay. If he were to be signed by a National Football League (NFL) team, which analysts think is likely, he would become the first active NFL player to have declared his homosexuality publicly.

In August 2013, Sam took the opportunity of a team introduce-yourself session to inform his Missouri teammates that he was gay, and found them supportive. He avoided talking to the media to avoid addressing rumors of his sexuality. He came out to his father a week before coming out publicly. The New York Times wrote that his father, a self-described "old-school ... man-and-a-woman type of guy", said "I don’t want my grandkids raised in that kind of environment." His father told the Galveston Daily News that he was "terribly misquoted", though The Times maintained that he was quoted "accurately and fairly."

On February 9, 2014, he announced that he was gay in an interview with Chris Connelly on ESPN's Outside the Lines, becoming one of the first publicly out college football players. If he is drafted in the 2014 NFL Draft or signed by an NFL team as an undrafted free agent, he could become the first active player who was publicly out in NFL history. Though he was projected as a third- or fourth-round pick in the NFL Draft, anonymous NFL executives told Sports Illustrated that they expect Sam to fall in the draft as a result of his announcement. Those statements caused National Football League Players Association executive director DeMaurice Smith to respond that any team official who anonymously downgrades Sam is "gutless". From jail, his brother Josh said "I'm proud of him for not becoming like me. I still love him, whatever his lifestyle is. He's still my brother and I love him."

On February 15, Sam returned to Missouri with the Tigers football team to accept the 2014 Cotton Bowl championship trophy at a ceremony held at the halftime of a Missouri Tigers basketball game at Mizzou Arena. It was the first visit to his alma mater since he came out as gay. Anti-gay activist Shirley Phelps-Roper and about 15 other members of the Westboro Baptist Church, an organization widely considered a hate group, protested his appearance. Students organized a counter-protest numbering in the hundreds if not thousands, assembling a "human wall" in front of the protesters.

In May, 2014, Sam was drafted by St Louis Rams. He celebrated with a kiss for his boyfriend Vito Cammisano at an NFL draft party. The kiss went viral.