#under all that carefully constructed political persona

[fuimus-troes]

antonio, who was married to roderich for 200 years, as soon as anyone states that they know roderich:

[lovezbrownies]

LoveBird (Yandere!F!Pop Idol x GN!Reader.)

Masterlist - Previously

Synopsis: Yuna Claire is beyond famous, she's adored and admired. Yet when she meets you, a nobody, you look at her the same way, like she was a nobody. What follows is her wooing you.

It all started with a fleeting encounter that Yuna couldn’t shake, no matter how much she tried. She’d been stuck in a rare moment of anonymity, her hoodie pulled low and sunglasses perched precariously on her nose as she wandered into a small indie bookstore tucked into the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone would expect to find Yuna Claire, the untouchable pop idol. But she wasn’t there to be recognized. The noise of her world—the constant demands, the suffocating adoration—had driven her to seek solace somewhere quiet. And that’s when she saw you.

You were sat on one of the designated seating areas of the library, hunched over the novel you had in your hands, The Poppy War, flipping through the novel with an unhurried grace that felt foreign to her chaotic life. Yuna hadn’t meant to linger, but something about you caught her off guard. Maybe it was the way you scrunched your eyebrows faintly at the book, as if it sucked you right in the world. Or perhaps it was your complete disinterest in the world around you, your focus solely on the pages in your hands. For someone used to commanding attention, it was jarring to feel invisible in someone’s presence—and yet, there was something magnetic about it. She couldn’t look away.

What struck her most was the brief exchange that followed. As you got up, the book slipping from your hands, at this point Yuna was just behind you, Yuna instinctively bent to pick it up at the same time you did. Your fingers brushed hers for the briefest moment, and when your eyes met, there was no flicker of recognition. No widening of pupils, no stammering or excitement. “Thanks,” you said simply, a polite smile on your face as you took the book and moved on without a second glance. Yuna blinked, stunned. You didn’t know her. You didn’t care who she was.

That small interaction planted a seed in her mind that quickly grew into an obsession. For the first time in years, someone had treated her like a normal person, not a larger-than-life figure. The weight of her fame always pressed down on her, making every interaction feel superficial, every relationship transactional. But you were different. The memory of your indifference became a tether she couldn’t sever. It wasn’t rejection—it was freedom. Freedom from the persona she’d carefully constructed, from the expectations that suffocated her daily. You saw her, if only for a second, as just another human being.

From that day on, Yuna found herself drawn to the bookstore, always under the guise of needing “space” from her hectic schedule. She told herself it was a coincidence at first, but she knew better. Her heart raced each time she spotted you, even if she never worked up the courage to speak again. She learned your habits quickly—when you visited, what genres you lingered over, the little furrow in your brow when you couldn’t find what you wanted. She told herself it was harmless, this quiet observation. But deep down, Yuna knew it was something far darker. You’d given her a glimpse of something she hadn’t even realized she craved, and now, she couldn’t let go.

Yuna spotted you across the bookstore just as she had the first time. The familiarity of the scene was enough to make her heart quicken—though she’d never admit such a thing aloud. This wasn’t coincidence; it was destiny, she decided. You were meant to be here, meant to be hers. Adjusting the hoodie draped loosely over her figure and tugging her mask into place, she approached with the same deliberate confidence she used on stage. Each step was slow, unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world. Her sharp gaze stayed fixed on you, tracing the slope of your shoulders, and the slight furrow in your brow as you scanned the shelves. She let herself savor the sight for a moment before finally making her move.

When you turned at the sound of her footsteps, recognition flickered briefly in your eyes. But just as quickly, it faded, replaced by polite curiosity. No gushing, no fan-like adoration—just the calm, neutral expression that made Yuna’s pulse race. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” she teased, her voice low and smooth, every syllable carrying an almost musical cadence. The lazy warmth of her tone made it seem like she was speaking directly to your soul, drawing you into her orbit without effort.

You blinked, clearly caught off guard, and she saw the hesitation in your posture. “Oh, it’s you again,” you said with a polite, if cautious, smile. “Kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?” There was an edge of wariness to your voice, and Yuna’s sharp instincts picked up on it immediately. She tilted her head, letting her hood slip just enough to reveal the curve of her jawline, the faintest flicker of her smirk visible beneath the mask. “Maybe,” she said, her voice lilting with an easy confidence, “or maybe it’s fate.”

The words lingered between you, and you shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to respond. “I don’t really know if I believe in fate,” you said hesitantly, your eyes darting to the shelf as if looking for an escape route. But Yuna wasn’t going to let you slip away so easily. She leaned in slightly, closing the space between you just enough to command your attention without crossing the line. Her voice softened, becoming almost a whisper. “You should,” she murmured, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “Some things… some people… are meant to cross paths. Don’t you feel it? Like there’s something here, waiting to be discovered?”

Your hesitation was palpable, and she could see the inner debate in your eyes. You didn’t know her—not really. You’d only met once before, and yet, here she was, weaving her way into your life with an ease that felt almost magical. “I guess I know what y-you’re getting at but um… I mean… I don’t even know your name,” you finally said, your voice cautious but curious. Yuna’s smirk widened beneath her mask, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Yuna,” she said simply, the name falling from her lips like a spell. “ I’d like to get to know you better. How about this weekend? A little coffee, maybe? I know an amazing place that’ll make you feel like you’re… exploding.”

The words wrapped around you like silk, disarming your defenses before you even realized it. There was something hypnotic about her, the way she moved, the way she spoke, as though the entire world bent to her will. You found yourself nodding before you could think it through. “I… guess that sounds fine,” you said, the words slipping out almost involuntarily. Yuna’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and she reached out to lightly brush your arm, the touch brief but electrifying. “Perfect,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight that made your heart skip. You didn’t know what you’d just agreed to, but under her gaze, it felt like you didn’t have a choice.

The café Yuna chose was tucked away in a quiet part of the city, a place far removed from the usual hustle and bustle. It had an understated charm: soft lighting, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, and cozy nooks lined with mismatched cushions. You found yourself surprised by how comfortable the atmosphere was, the initial hesitance you’d felt about meeting her already beginning to fade. Yuna sat across from you, her posture relaxed yet deliberate, as if she’d been born to own whatever space she occupied. Even dressed down in her hoodie and mask—now pulled down to reveal her striking features—she had an undeniable presence, a glow that made it hard not to get caught up in her rhythm.

“So,” she began, swirling the straw in her iced coffee lazily, her voice a melody that was equal parts soothing and alluring, “what’s your story? You seem… different from most people I run into.” Her gaze settled on you, not demanding but captivating, like she genuinely cared about your answer. You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the intensity of her attention, but something about the way she asked made you feel like opening up. “Different how?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Yuna leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her expression softening. “It’s hard to put into words,” she said, her voice dipping into a thoughtful murmur. “You’re just… real. Like you’re not trying to impress anyone. It’s refreshing.” She chuckled lightly, the sound warm and almost self-deprecating. “Most people I meet are either trying too hard or not at all. But you? You just… are.” Her words lingered, settling into the space between you like a confession. For a moment, you felt seen in a way that was both unnerving and comforting.

As the conversation flowed, so did your guard. You found yourself laughing more easily, sharing little anecdotes about your life, and listening to Yuna talk about hers in vague yet compelling terms. She didn’t reveal much—nothing too personal—but she had a way of weaving her words that made everything sound meaningful. “Life’s too short not to chase what you want,” she said at one point, her eyes holding yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “You strike me as someone who understands that.” There was a subtle weight to her words, a quiet suggestion that left you wondering if she was talking about more than just philosophy.

The moments stretched, warm and easy, until the spell was abruptly broken. From the corner of the room, a voice piped up, hesitant yet tinged with excitement. “Oh my god… are you Yuna Claire?” Both of you turned toward the source—a young woman clutching a notebook, her eyes wide with disbelief. Yuna’s relaxed posture stiffened slightly, though only someone as observant as her might notice. Annoyance prickled under her skin, sharp and immediate. It wasn’t the first time a fan had interrupted her, but this was different. This was your moment, your time with her, and the intrusion felt like a personal affront.

Despite the irritation coursing through her, she smoothed her features into a soft, practiced smile, her charisma shifting gears as effortlessly as breathing. “I guess you caught me,” she said smoothly, her tone still warm but now tinged with the polish of someone used to this kind of interaction. “What gave me away?” Inside, though, her thoughts churned. Of all the times, it had to be now. Can't they see I’m busy? Do they always have to invade my space like this? Her gaze flicked briefly to you, worried this interruption might shatter the mood she’d worked so hard to build. The fan giggled nervously, holding out the notebook. “Your eyes. I recognized them immediately. Could I… could I get a photo and an autograph?”

Yuna hesitated for the briefest of moments, her annoyance bubbling just below the surface. She stole another glance at you, forcing a flicker of apology into her eyes before she turned back to the fan. Smile. Sign. Make it quick, she thought, the plan forming in an instant. “Of course,” she said softly, taking the notebook with a practiced grace that belied the irritation simmering beneath. As she signed, her other hand brushed the edge of the table, a subtle gesture that seemed almost possessive—as if to remind herself and the intruder that this wasn’t just her public persona’s time. It was hers. And she wouldn’t let it be stolen for long.

The fan’s interruption didn’t seem to linger too long, but as Yuna slid back into her seat across from you, you couldn’t help but notice a flicker of unease in her expression. It was subtle—gone in an instant, replaced by her usual serene demeanor—but it was enough to pique your curiosity. “So, uh… what was that about?” you asked cautiously, gesturing toward the empty space where the fan had stood moments earlier. Yuna’s hand paused briefly over her drink, but then she let out a soft laugh, the sound as breezy as it was calculated.

“Oh, that?” she said, brushing off the moment with a wave of her hand. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, though you couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just her way of deflecting. “I just… I was really good at debating back in my college debate team. Hah, hall of fame and all.” She leaned back in her chair, her grin a little too perfect as she sipped her coffee. “Guess she must’ve recognized me from an old tournament or something. It’s funny what sticks with people, huh?” The explanation was strange, but her confidence was magnetic, and the way she smiled—just a little crooked, a touch conspiratorial—made it hard to question her.

You let it go, deciding that the rest of the date was far too pleasant to get hung up on oddities. By the time the conversation began winding down, you found yourself surprised at just how much you’d enjoyed the afternoon. “This was… really nice,” you admitted as you stepped outside with her, the cool air brushing against your skin. “I’m glad I came.” Yuna’s lips curved into a satisfied smile, and she reached into her pocket to hand you her phone. “Here,” she said simply, “put your number in.” You hesitated for just a moment before relenting, typing it in and passing it back. Yuna didn’t miss the shy little smile on your face as she glanced down at the screen. The car ride back to your home was filled with easy conversation, and as you stepped out, she lingered for a moment, her voice soft and warm. “Next time, my treat.”

The next morning, everything felt surreal. Your phone buzzed incessantly on your nightstand, a flurry of messages lighting up the screen. Groggily, you reached for it, wondering why so many people suddenly had urgent reasons to talk to you. But as your eyes focused on the notifications, your heart skipped a beat. Social media was flooded with pictures—your pictures. There you were, sitting across from Yuna at the café, her face mostly obscured by her hoodie and mask, but unmistakable to anyone who really looked. Her unmistakable eyes and relaxed posture, coupled with the proximity between the two of you, had sent fans into a frenzy.

Group chats were blowing up. Friends you hadn’t spoken to in ages were suddenly sending screenshots of the posts with captions like “Is this YOU?!” and “Were you on a date with YUNA CLAIRE?!” The comments on the pictures were worse, filled with speculation, disbelief, and more than a little jealousy. You scrolled through the posts, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and confusion. Who was she, really? Her explanation from yesterday seemed laughable now, but the memory of her smile—so self-assured and just a little mischievous—made your stomach twist. Yuna Claire. The name suddenly had a weight you couldn’t quite grasp.

You set your phone down and exhaled deeply, trying to steady yourself. The day before had been perfect, and now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers, no longer yours to hold onto. The pictures, the comments, the speculation—it all felt unreal, like you’d stumbled into someone else’s life. And yet, you couldn’t help but think of the way she’d looked at you, like you were the only person in the room that mattered. The charm she exuded so effortlessly had felt genuine, even intimate. You wanted to believe it was real, even as doubts crept in.

Was she just playing a game? Or had you seen a side of her that no one else had? The thought sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, a small part of you hoped you’d get to find out.

The day passed in a blur, the events of the morning casting a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. Messages kept pouring in, each one pulling you deeper into the chaos that seemed to follow Yuna Claire. The odd thing was, despite the confusion and growing anxiety, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel angry. There was something about the way Yuna had carried herself, her charm and ease, that left you more intrigued than upset. She’d drawn you into her orbit, and it was hard to resist the pull.

By evening, your phone buzzed again, this time with an unknown number. A part of you hesitated before opening the message, but curiosity won out.

XXX-XXX: hey, i hope all that debacle didnt scare u off yet lol

XXX-XXX: im sorry for not being honest wiht u, its yuna

You stared at the text for a moment, unsure of how to respond. She’d clearly seen the fallout, but her message was casual, almost too casual, as though this kind of situation wasn’t new to her. Before you could overthink it, another message came through.

Yuna: let me see you again, ill tell u everything, but this time to avoid anymore of the razzi come over to mine, 

Yuna sent you a google maps link.

The words lingered in your mind, their ambiguity unsettling yet tantalizing. You typed out a quick reply, keeping your tone light.

You: sure but ill dress up, so if they see me they dont catch me off guard and ugly

Yuna: omg

Meanwhile, Yuna sat in the quiet of her penthouse, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. The fallout had been predictable—fans recognizing her disguise, tabloids running wild with speculation—but it didn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. If anything, the chaos only served to solidify her resolve. You were worth it. She could still see the way you’d smiled at her during the date, the way your hesitance had melted under her gaze. That was real. That was hers.

Her annoyance at the fan earlier lingered like a dull ache, a reminder of the world she’d chosen and the obstacles it placed in her path. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to regret the risks she’d taken to get closer to you. This was just the beginning. She tapped her fingers against her phone, a plan already forming in her mind. The next date would be even better—more private, more intimate.

Yuna smiled to herself, a lazy curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Let them talk, let the world speculate. She’d handle it all, just as she always did. But when it came to you? That was a game she refused to lose.

[yesterdayiwrote]

Hi Emma,

I’ve been trying to put this train of thoughts for down for quite some time, not sure if it will make any sense or not. But I wanted to put it out there in some form, because every single time a new chapter gets added up, the less the whole convo makes sense.

I get if you won’t want to publish this.

I have read a few of the latest anons and followed Lewis’ business and no-business ventures for quite some time now, mostly because I got across them on socials, and I ended up forming my own ideas on Lewis, but they are a bit controversial, so we will leave those out, for today.

From Lewis’ himself and people we can trust enough’ words (George’s as well), it’s kind of evident that Lewis (as many people in the show business have) has a private persona that is very much different to the one he quite carefully presents to the public.

Lewis’ name is a brand, and like many brands is worth millions, reason why there is lots of engineering behind the scenes about the events he shows up at, the sponsors and other brands that work with him and, mostly, the people that he associates himself with (in public).

His social medias have been wiped out in recent times (after he received his Title from the Royal Family) and rebuilt to present him in a certain way, a more private and watered down figure than what he’s been in his rebellious party years, if we want to put it that way.

His social medias nowadays are always constructed and filled with activism, business projects, positivity and sponsored events with others high end socialites or even political figures.

Yet there are some kind of discrepancies that sometimes slip through the cracks that kind of make little sense.

Lewis can do whatever he wants in his personal life, the non-public one, but considering how excessively careful he always is with his perceived reputation, there are things like the Antarctica trip that always catch you by surprise when they happen

It’s clear that Lewis has a wilder side and probably a rather controversial one, so certain kind of associations are not that unexpected of him.

It’s the way they are treated by his PR team and by himself that clash with whatever PR image of him they want to present us (the public) with.

Lewis has been associated or somehow involved (even romantically) with bigger or smaller names for the longest amount of time, so it frankly makes me wonder what is the gain in being associated with so many controversial people, when his PR facade is so well chiselled and preserved.

Of course he can like hanging out with said people, maybe he even likes dating them, but some of them (Juliana) are mostly product placements to generate publicity and clicks/views. So the question now would be, with all those kind of let’s call them IG ‘’models” that are available out there, why would they let Lewis associate with someone as controversial as her.

We can have the longest discussion about this, but how many times Lewis has been pictured officially out and about with her by his side, bar the two NY eve’s events? The point I am trying to make, here, is that you can find someone to scratch your itch without anyone knowing about it ever, there are certain professional figures who are tight lipped way lot more than an IG “model”’under an NDA will ever be.

His PR team and personal entourage certainly can provide one individual with this kind of service, so if Lewis or his entourage keep on associating with those kind of people (influencers, etc), and do the reverse of hiding it (if Lewis wanted to date Juliana in secret, he perfectly could, without anyone knowing a thing about it), pushing the story to the media… means they all have something to gain from it.

Now, with an IG “model”, linking your name with someone like Lewis’ would generate views and cash, but in Lewis’ case… he’d generate lot more rumour by associating with someone like Shakira, rather than Juliana.

So the gain doesn’t seem worth the risk of being spotted with someone as controversial as virtually unknown as her.

Might be overanalyzing, but there has been various instances of Lewis taking the casual L,l with medias, and not in his “romantic” life only. But with the carefully construced persona that he has, and the team around him, I wonder how some slips this big have occurred fairly often, you know.

Very confusing.

You make a lot of interesting points anon, and there's a lot to cover.

I think with anyone in the public eye you've got to remember there's two versions. There's very much the person, and then there's often the persona. There's Lewis Hamilton the human being, but there's also "Lewis Hamilton" the brand and the public figure. For some celebs they're indistinguishable from each other, for others there's a lot more distance between them. With Lewis, I think they're very interchangeable and he flows quite effortlessly between the two. Lewis loves and appreciates his privacy, but he also loves the attention when he chooses.

I think public personas operate a bit like Doctor Who regenerations, and we're on about our 3rd or 4th iteration of "Lewis". We started out with the young f1 rookie who was very serious but taking it all in and could do no wrong. Then we had the burgeoning celebrity phase. Gets a famous girlfriend, starts getting a bit confident, maybe a bit cocksure at times, but starts embracing the limelight and the attention. Then there was the obnoxious asshole phase. People can deny it happened all they want but... it absolutely did. Now we're into his 'reforming' phase. Mellowed out, more in control of his image, more socially aware, really trying to build that GOAT brand and fight back against some of the earlier criticisms of him. His growth stage.

I think people overlook the effect his relationship with Nicole may have had on him. He was very young and very new to the public eye and he was pushed into a very public relationship that I don't think was entirely healthy. It got very messy and I think he was definitely changed by it. He's never had a visible long term relationship since.

It's easy to view everything connected to Lewis through a PR lens and whilst I'm sure his PR people do monitor who he's seen with and who he associates with, they will undoubtedly have to balance that with indulging what Lewis wants to do. He's in the public eye, but he's still a person and a grown adult. They can't wrap him up in cotton wool and save him from himself and his bad choices at the expense of allowing him to be an individual. Its impossible to exist as a human who only ever makes the right choices and we shouldn't expect him to try.

Equally, I think people naively assume that Lewis is above playing PR games, but he absolutely does. When Lewis wants to be private, he manages it highly successfully. He's not stupid. He didn't tell anyone he was going to Africa, he didn't tell anyone about Antarctica, but he told everyone he was going to Brazil this winter break, even though its known to have a pretty effective gossip/paparazzi culture. He said he wanted a latina girlfriend... and who has he been linked to since? I kind of get the impression he's quite happy to be spotted here and with her for whatever reason.

I think people are overanalysing it slightly. She's young and stunning and she has previous with famous people so knows how to play the discretion game for his benefit and hers. Whether it's for real or for show, it works both ways for him. We all know about the problematic stuff because we've looked in to it, most people won't know and won't care, rightly or wrongly. As you say, she's largely unknown. She's only deemed controversial because it's Lewis and the more rabid corners of his fanbase view him as morally pure.

Lewis hangs out with a lot of problematic people and he really doesn't try and hide it. People have a habit of viewing him as entirely unproblematic on an almost Swift-esque level of delusion. Not every questionable thing is a PR misstep, he's capable of fucking up entirely on his own. He's quite clearly a Musk fanboy for example, and he's spoken of his love of him depressingly recently entirely off his own back and I think I personally probably judge him far more harshly for that than anything else right now.

I honestly don't see his public reputation slipping right now, if anything, I think he's probably getting less shit in the press these days than he ever has before, especially in the UK press, probably aided somewhat by the knighthood.

I think people are upset because she's not someone they personally approve of, and I do kind of understand that sentiment. It definitely sucks when you start to question the opinions you've formed about your fave, but that's kind of healthy? I mean genuinely, more people need to criticise and hate on their faves, not in a troll/hateful way, but it's definitely a good thing to take a step back from people you don't know once in a while and go "God, what a dick!". Definitely keeps the fandom a bit healthier! As they used to say "Your fave is problematic".

[rivalsunraveled]

Geto + Psychological HCs

mentioned briefly on Geto's page, but I wanted to elaborate. putting it under a read more

obligatory disclaimer that mental illness =/= evil. geto just happens to have a lot of brain worms and make a lot of bad decisions.

1. He's autistic. I know this because I'm autistic.

Maybe one day I'll articulate why this is better but it's vibes. Trust me on this.

Geto has very rigid thinking patterns and social reciprocity just doesn't come naturally to him. Prior to his defection, he did a lot of masking, to blend in with other people as much as he could. He memorized social rules by rote, coming across as a quiet, mostly polite child.

This was exhausting, but made things easier for him, since seeing things that no one else could see (curses) already made him strange enough to other people, without adding onto it. He was more himself around Gojo and Shoko, but by the time he met them, he was in such a habit of masking that he rarely fully relaxed even around them.

After defecting, he masks much less, but he also lies a lot more, so it's not that he's exactly being himself, it's more that he's gone from a carefully constructed persona for survival purposes to a carefully constructed persona for deceptive purposes.

2. Bipolar II.

Doesn't quite hit full manic episodes, but he has occasional hypomanic episodes in between long stretches of depression.

3. OCD.

This started developing after Geto started at Jujutsu High and getting a lot more trauma, with the events with Riko, Toji, and the Star Religious Group being a major factor. Geto perceives a contamination from anything handled by non-sorcerers ("monkey smell"). He will clean himself off if he's near non-sorcerers for too long and avoids having things from non-sorcerers around him as much as possible (to this end, most of his food is grown for himself). If he must use items that non-sorcerers have handled, he will meticulously clean them before they are brought into his living space.

Geto truly believes there is a smell/some perceptible contamination (absent insight).

This all alleviates a nebulous dread of non-sorcerers overwhelming him/other sorcerers. If one were to really press him for explanations, he might say that these cleaning habits get rid of cursed energy that leaks from non-sorcerers, so it keeps wild curses from forming. This isn't a real thing; it's just a rationalization.

4. Misc

Geto is really reluctant to admit to having any trauma or being afraid, so he'll push that down and hide it under anger and hatred. His encounter with Toji terrified him, most especially because it shook the belief that he (and Gojo) were the strongest. Rather than allowing himself to feel "weak" for being scared and shaken, Geto focused on hating non-sorcerers. It's very "some people become hateful mass murderers to cope????" of him, but there we go.

Nothing is diagnosed for Geto. As far as he's concerned, he's generally unhappy with the state of the world and is willing to sacrifice himself to make it better for sorcerers. He knows other people think he's crazy, but they just do not understand his vision.

[minor-solemnity]

Invention and Intrigue pt.3

Tag List: @jinxqsu @naps-and-lemons​ @riddles-wifey @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute

“You know, my friends call me Tom.” He interrupts you, sounding faintly amused, a small, irritatingly handsome smile curling his lips.

“And that’s what we are? Friends?”

You start meeting him more regularly after that. He finds you after dinner most nights and you spend hours in abandoned classrooms, researching and practising obscure forms of magic. Thankfully, he doesn’t bring any more fluffy animals for practical demonstrations. You swap theories and notes on cursed objects; delve deep into the histories of generational bloodline curses; and break down spells - both light and dark - into their most base forms to learn their mechanisms and constructions.

Honestly, it’s strange how easy it is to sit in companionable silence reading from the ancient tomes that Riddle has somehow managed to source. Riddle is patient and oddly kind when he explains aspects of magical theory that you don’t understand; he’s a good teacher. Given his reputation for being a studious, polite, and unendingly fair young man you don’t think this should shock you, but it does nonetheless. 

More interesting is the gratification that lights his expression when he succeeds in performing a spell for the first time, and the morbid curiosity he has for everything that could be classified as ‘dark’. You think that you should be concerned or nervous or scared but it’s difficult to summon those (very sensible, very reasonable) feelings when you are just as interested in what you’re discovering as he is. 

It’s nearly seven o’clock and you think you should probably be thinking about heading back to your common room in case Melanie starts to wonder where you are. Except… From where you’re sitting on the floor with a large, dark green blanket wrapped around your shoulders that Riddle had conjured for when when you’d complained about being cold, you can watch him without him noticing. You can study the way he curls over the book on legilimency he’s reading, head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes and casting shadows along the sharp planes of his face. He pauses every so often to scribble down a thought or annotation and you watch the crease that forms on his forehead whenever he reaches a part of his reading that particularly interests him. He looks calm is the thing. Content. Peaceful. 

Unbidden, an image of him stretched out on a sofa, a book in his hands, you curled at his side, springs fully formed to the forefront of your mind. You can picture the way he might absently run a hand through your hair, or maybe it would be you tracing patterns against his chest… It’s a horrendously tempting portrayal of domesticity. You’re so lost in your fantasies that you don’t realise that you’ve been staring until he coughs politely and you’re brought thundering back to reality. He’s watching you with an expression that reads as part amusement and part consideration and you feel your cheeks grow warm under his scrutiny.

You get up and brush yourself off, folding the blanket over your arm and studiously ignore him. “I should… I need to get back. It’s getting late.” You say and are proud that your voice only wavers slightly. 

He hums softly in contemplation and nods. Once you’ve both gathered your things, he offers you his hand and you are reminded of the first time you’d spoken. You slumped against the wall, shivering and scared and him, holding his hand out to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Let me walk you back,” He says. Just as before, he doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach the entrance to your common room. When you try to return the blanket, he shakes his head and presses it back into your hands. “I conjured it for you. I’d like for you to keep it.” 

Just as before, he departs and you’re left holding the blanket, soft and warm and deep emerald green. Slytherin colours. His colours.

***

Three days later, you’re ready to take back every nice thought you’ve ever had about Riddle. You are seriously regretting ever having caught his attention. Sure, it’s been fun, you’ve learnt a lot of interesting things, and you’d be lying if you said that you’d not been enjoying getting know Riddle beyond the persona he puts forward to the rest of the school, but none of that can make up for the fact that he is leading you down into the bowels of the castle once more without a care in the world for your comfort or sanity.

“You don’t like the dungeons very much, do you?” He asks, taking in your jumpy demeanour and suspicious gaze with a sardonic smile. “Why is that, I wonder? Too scary for a good little girl like you?” The emphasis on the word ‘good’ serves both to underline the obvious sarcasm in his words and make your stomach clench in a way that is entirely inappropriate for the conversation at hand. You could curse yourself for the incredibly misplaced crush you’ve apparently developed.

You fold your arms over your chest and stare at the floor, unwilling to let him see how much his comment has affected you. You let out a shaky breath and murmur, “Self-preservation is not the same as being scared. Excuse me for not wanting to actively tempt fate and die in some godforsaken dungeon.” You snip, well aware that you’re being a little bit dramatic and not caring in the slightest. 

Riddle purses his lips together in a hard, thin line and it’s not difficult to see that you’re irritating him. “You seemed perfectly capable of defending yourself the last time you ventured down.”

“Just because I can defend myself doesn’t mean I want to have to.” You snap, following him through the door he’s holding open for you and glancing around in case this has all been some elaborate hoax Lestrange is waiting in the shadows to hex you to hell and back.

The door slams shut behind you and you whirl around, your wand outstretched. Riddle leans against the closed door, arms crossed, looking incredibly bored. “I would have hoped you’d have a little more trust in me by this point.” 

And well… He’s right, as much as it pains you to admit it. He’s only ever been kind to you - maybe a little condescending and arrogant at times, but that only serves to add to his charm. With a twinge of embarrassment, you stow your wand away and clench your jaw, unwilling to admit defeat quite so soon. “Yes, well, that was before you decided to lure me into the dungeons, Riddle. Forgive me for being—"

“You know, my friends call me Tom.” He interrupts you, sounding faintly amused, a small, irritatingly handsome smile curling his lips.

“And that’s what we are? Friends?” You stare at him blankly. Because… Well. You’re not. Friends, that is. Up until a few weeks ago, Tom Riddle hasn’t spared you a second glance since first year and why would he? You are… Well, you’re you. Angry at the world, melodramatic, and apparently, a budding dark sorcerer. It’s strangely reassuring to realise that it’s these things that he likes about you.

“Why wouldn’t we be? We’ve been spending plenty of time together, we have similar interests, we know things about each other that no one else does,” He’s circling you now, sweeping closer and closer until he’s right in front of you, perched elegantly against one of the desks. “What else would you call us?” He sounds so… calm. Congenial. Like it’s the most obvious and simple thing in the world. Except that there’s nothing congenial about the heat that flickers in the depths of his eyes. 

He cocks his head to the side, as though considering something very carefully, and then reaches out and catches your hand. With the same surprising strength that he’d displayed the last time you’d been in the dungeons alone with him, he pulls you forwards. Velocity and inertia work in tandem and you stumble towards him, prevented from collapsing against his chest only by his hand that moves to clasp your waist. Unbidden, your hands move to rest on his thighs. You can feel the way his muscles tense under your touch and you wonder if he’s as affected by the sudden proximity as you are. You wonder if his heart is tripping over itself the way yours is. You wonder (and a distant part of your mind laughs at the ridiculousness of the thought even as you think it) if he wants you the way you find yourself wanting him: entirely. You want to wrap yourself around every part of him, insert yourself into every aspect of his being. You’ve never considered yourself to be a possessive person before; you might have to start reconsidering that now.

You feel, more than you hear, his short sharp intake of breath and he spreads his legs just enough to provide a space for you. You press forward, tucking yourself between his legs, hands on his thighs, emotion and heat and, god, want flooding through you with all the unstoppable force of a tsunami crashing over a seawall. His eyes flicker between yours as he brushes a lock of hair away from your eyes, tucking it carefully behind your ear. He tilts your head up and lowers his until his lips are barely grazing yours. There’s something almost tentative about the way he holds himself, as though he’s holding himself back. 

Nervous. You think he might be nervous. And isn’t that just the most delicious thought?

Your heart thrums wildly in your chest and your fingers tighten instinctively against the fabric of his trousers. “Definitely not friends,” You whisper against his lips before you finally give in to the want that’s been building inside of you for weeks. 

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

[xjoonchildx]

guarded | jhs x reader | epilogue

summary: you’ve tried to separate yourself from your infamous crime family, but a new case has your carefully-constructed world crashing down around you.  now you have to figure out how to heal old wounds and handle the new man who enters your orbit.

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: mafia AU, E2L, slow burn, tsundere, smut

rating: 18+

word count: 934

A/N: thank you all so much for reading this story. please let me know how you feel about the ending!

as always -- i can’t go a single chapter without thanking @ladyartemesia​ @ppersonna​ @taetaewonderland​ and @hobi-gif​ for being amazing humans and just really good friends.  you guys are the best for real, for real.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

***********************

Someone really should have reminded Kim Taehyung he was posing for a mugshot, not a glamour shot.  His coy smirk practically jumps off the printed booking sheet in your hand.  

You roll your eyes as you tuck the paper back into the folder, weaving through the foot traffic until you find the courtroom you’re looking for.

The panic that flashes over Lee Hyejin’s features when you walk into the bond hearing is nothing short of gratifying.  

You take in her wide eyes and the sudden grey cast of her skin with complete satisfaction.  You make sure to shoot her a saccharine smile before taking a seat next to your handcuffed client.

“I’m going to need you to wipe that look off your face,” you say under your breath. The armed guard at Taehyung’s side looks away, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“What look?”

“That flirtatious look.  The judge won’t like it.”

He shoots you a look of genuine confusion.

“This is… just my face?”

“Fine,” you exhale with annoyance. “Just try not to look the judge directly in the eye, keep quiet and let me handle everything from here.”

“Well, I can definitely do that,” he answers with a lazy smile.

You scowl and he wipes his expression clean, looking down at his hands.

Hyejin, the poor dear -- is flustered.

Once the hearing gets rolling, she stammers her way through a ridiculous argument for holding Kim Taehyung without bond.  You very nearly do the polite thing and wait your turn, but then she has the nerve to suggest your client could have ties to organized crime in this city.

Honestly.

“Objection, your honor,” you announce, standing up from your seat.  “Are we going to deal in facts today or entertain rumors?  My client’s never even had a parking ticket and Ms. Lee wants to paint him as some kind of gangster?  That’s laughable.”

You narrow your eyes at Hyejin and she swallows so hard you can see the constriction of her throat from clear across the room.  

“Mr. Kim stands accused of wiretapping.  It’s not like he killed someone,” you huff.  

Well he probably has, but still.  

You’re making a point here, dammit.

“This is overreach,” you continue. “Though admittedly, I’m intrigued by this talk of organized crime.  I’d certainly be interested to know more about why Ms. Lee and her bosses seem so keen on keeping one accused hacker locked up when there are so many criminals running rampant on the streets.”

If Hyejin looked grey before, she looks positively casket-ready now.  She opens and shuts her mouth before taking a seat.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Ms. Kim,” the judge announces.  “Bond is typical in cases like these, and I do find it a bit curious that Ms. Lee’s office would seek to keep your client jailed.  I’m setting bond.”

You pack up your bag and brush past Hyejin’s table as you walk out of the courtroom.

“It was so good to see you,” you breathe, mustering the most insincere smile you can manage. “It’s been too long.  We should do drinks some time.”

She stares up at you with such wide-eyed horror you’re forced to smother a laugh.

You don’t wait for the pitiful bitch to choke out a response, turning on your heels and leaving her in the dust.

*******************************

“What’s the damage?” your brother asks when you breeze into his office a short while later.  

He’s in his usual stance at the window, looking out into the harsh sunlight that pours in at this hour of the morning.

“12 million won,” you reply, tossing your coat over a chair.  “Not too bad, if you ask me.”

Your brother could probably shake more than that out of his couch right now.

“Not bad at all,” Namjoon agrees. “Almost offsets the cost of the expensive new attorney I hired.”

You smirk at his jab, joining him at the window to bask in the warmth of the sunlight.

“Taehyung is downstairs with Yoongi and not in lockup, right?  You get what you pay for.”

Namjoon’s smile fades away to a more earnest expression when he turns to face you.

“You’re worth a hundred times that amount.”

His warm eyes travel down your face to your neck as light glints off the metal tucked into your blouse.  You flush, pulling your collar to try and conceal it.

Too late for that.

Namjoon reaches out to draw your collar back, fingers coaxing the metal chain out from underneath your silk shirt.  He holds the dog tags in his hand, face inscrutable as he reads the lettering.  

You straighten your spine and await whatever comes next.

“Are you happy?” he murmurs, eyes moving from the embossed lettering back to your face.

You meet his gaze head-on.  

“Happier than I’ve ever been.”

Namjoon nods as he tucks the tags back into your shirt and turns to look back at the skyline.

“When did you know?”

Your brother is silent for a moment, carefully considering his answer.

“Let me just say this Amsaja,” Namjoon starts,  “I put a lot of thought into assigning someone to protect you.  I was right to trust Hoseok with your safety.  I suspect I’m making the right call in trusting him with your happiness, as well.”

What about your happiness?

You bite back the words on the tip of your tongue.  That’s a different conversation for a different time.

“Thank you, Jaegyueo,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to your brother’s cheek.

You catch the smile that ghosts his lips in the reflection of the glass.

****************************

@saintjeonofbusan @lemonjoonah @illnevertrustmyselfagain @sunkissed725 @taetaewonderland @shadowhale @sugaminyoonjiji @jinhitwhore @trust-me-im-joly @daydreambrliever @jjeonjoon @ultraanonymousey @yoon-bug @multistantrash17 @poohsaidhi @alyboo-jpeg @sahmfanficbts @yoongissugarmommy @ppersonna @p-polaroid @vi-hoshi @stressedinmedschool247 @jgissle12 @ctvrty @btsnatalena @strawbewymiwk @stephleee @jalexa83 @livanthi @fantasybangtan @trviahope​ @mono-kookie@hauntedlilies @sugasaidbultaoreune @yeojaa @secret-alphabets @hodginss@parkjimin-persona​

[dwellordream]

“Pamphlets and ballads do not make the parallels between domestic and political tyranny explicit; nor do they explore the implications of the parallel, particularly the possibility that a wife's or servant's active resistance might be justifiable. Yet in narratives about murderous husbands, as in those about murderous wives, domestic violence reveals the contradictions that undermine marriage from within. These narratives particularly expose the violence that underlies, and is even produced by, the fiction of subsumption, of two becoming one. Rather than reproducing the "plots" most typical of actual instances of wife-killing- an angry husband who loses his temper, or "correction" (abuse) that escalates into murder- the pamphlets and ballads dwell on excessive, ingenious brutality. 

Detailing husbands' violent refusals to act as protectors, partners, or lovers, these texts present the murders of wives as abuses not only of authority but of intimacy. They thus join with the accounts of petty treason that we have seen to articulate deep fears of sexual and domestic familiarities. In both kinds of narratives, spouses employ the physical vulnerability of the conjugal relation to assault rather than solace their partners' bodies. Representing particularly grotesque acts- throttling a bedridden invalid, clandestinely inserting poison into the vagina, roasting the murdered body as if it were meat- accounts of wife-murder depict husbands as enemies, rather than protectors or partners.

In presenting such intimate betrayals, many texts follow the model of the Judas kiss. After pretending to be reconciled to his pregnant wife, John Marketman, for instance, "took her about the neck Judas like as if he intended to kiss her, and all on a sudden thrust his accursed knife into, if not through her poor Heart, so that she fell down dead upon the spot." Another jealous husband, William Tite, perched his wife on his knee, kissed her and spoke lovingly to her, then "put his hand under her Apron, and ript up her bowels and belly, insomuch that the child which was in her womb, fell out on the ground, and sprawled before him." Thomas White, sitting close beside his wife, slowly and secretly maneuvered the point of his "scimiter" into his "pocket-hole" and "as he sate close by Her, he forc'd it in at her right Breast, and through her Body" to the amazement of others present in the room.* 

In all these cases, the husband not only exploits his wife's trust and physical proximity but acts out his betrayal in an unseemly way. Hunt reviewed consistory court wife-beating cases from 1711 to 1713 and relates: "One often gets the sense, reading these cases, of acts designed specifically for an audience. Men persistently abused their wives in front of relatives." " Similarly, representations of those husbands who kill their wives depict the murders as simultaneously intimate and theatrical. Pornographically conjoining violence, eros, and performance, the murders force into visibility a disturbing connection between marital sex and violence against women. The Examination, Confession, and Condemnation of Henry Robson Fish of Rye, Who Puysoned His Wife in the Strangest Maner That Hitherto Hath Bin Heard of (1598) explores this connection in even more extreme terms than the popular texts that begin with conjugal and end with the wife's disembowelment. 

In this pamphlet, the profligate Robson secs his wife's life as an obstacle to his release from debtor's prison. To eliminate her, another prisoner advises Robson to mix ratsbane and ground glass, and wrap this mixture "in the skinne of a shoulder of mutton, to the quantity of a hasle nut, or lesse, and in the night when his wife should next come to lie with him, [Robson] should convey it into her privie parts, which bee would warra[ n ]t without danger to him shuld kill her." When Robson's wife next pays him a conjugal visit, by "a dissembling shew of friendship" he "constrain[ s] her to stay all night," during which time she enjoys "the dearest nights pleasure that ever woma[n] had." Those scholars who have commented on this text sanitize Robson's act. 

One describes Robson's method as "filling his wife's genitals with a mixture of ratsbane and ground glass while she slept," although the text suggests that she was having sex with her husband, not sleeping; another describes Robson as "introducing rat poison into her vagina," decorously evading the means by which Robson "introduces" his carefully prepared depository." Clearly, Robson uses sexual penetration to poison his wife. Although the wife expects "pleasure" from sexual intercourse, physical intimacy empowers her husband to kill her "without danger to him," rather than mystically transforming husband and wife into "one flesh." 

An account of a less devious murder, A True Rendition of the Most Humble Murther Committed by Thomas White ... upun the Body of His Wife Mrs. Dorothy White (1682), reveals a similar concern with the complexities and dangers when spouses become one flesh occupied by antagonistic wills. Citing Genesis ("'This is now Bone of my Bone, and Flesh of my Flesh"), the title page asserts the husband's obligation to love his wife as he loves himself. The text then recounts the breakdown of this marital ideal; through his "vitious Practices" and "the Abuse of Himself with lewd Women," Thomas White contracts "that Disease which commonly is the Consequence of Uncleanness" and transmits it to his wife: "'Thus you see a Man, who by the Laws of God and Common Natural Duty, was Bound by all lawful means to take Care for the Welfare and Preservation both of the Souls and Bodie, of his Wife and Children, Contriving and Resolving the Ruine of both."

After White infects his wife, he proceeds to threaten her against disclosure so that she does not seek adequate medical attention; the text presents his subsequent murder of her as the logical consequence of neglecting to cherish her flesh as his. In some accounts of the murder of husbands, a wife's infidelity leads to her husband's death; in these two texts, a wife's fidelity enables her husband to kill her, suggesting the dangers of "due benevolence" for women. Like discussions of wife-beating, then, these texts explore what it means to be one flesh when the occupants of this shared body are at odds. The construction of husband and wife as one flesh, like the legal fiction that the husband subsumes his wife, assumes that the husband's and wife's interests correspond. 

In a vivid, often-cited image, Milton explicitly links the failed ideal of one flesh to tyranny. When husband and wife are incompatible, "instead of becing one flesh, they will be rather two carkasses chain'd unnaturally together; or as it may happ'n, a living soule bound to a dead corps, a punishment too like that inflicted by the tyrant Mezentius.” While Milton assumes that the husband is the victim of tyranny, writers more concerned that husbands themselves may act as tyrants similarly insist that the degeneration of "one flesh" into "two carkasses chain'd unnaturally together" subverts constructions of the subject and the couple as stable, self-preserving, cohesive: ''The wife is as a mans selfe. They two are one flesh. No man but a frantike, furious, desperate wretch will beat himselfe"; "What man will be so wicked as to strike, and beate, and ban, and curse his own flesh which is his lawful and absolute wife[ ? ]"

Yet accounts of wife-beating and wife-killing suggest that the masculine subject, and therefore the corporate subject forged when he subsumes his wife, could be fragile, fragmented, and self-destructive. Examining cases brought against brutal husbands in church courts, Martin Ingram argues that the community judged such men's domestic violence as a symptom of uncontrol and abnormality. For instance, in five cases of excessive, life-threatening wife-beating in Wiltshire, "all of the husbands involved showed signs of mental disturbance or instability." .. , One account of a husband's murder of his wife suggests that legal, literary, and moral texts so consistently attributed murderous husbands' actions to madness that husbands themselves might have exploited this convention. 

The Bloody Husband (1653) presents Adam Sprackling as dispassionately calculating his own insanity defense immediately after murdering his wife. According to a servant's testimony, Sprackling, who "loved his Dogs better than he loved his Wife," enjoined the servant to help him slaughter them: "Now let us kill the Dogs, and then they'll say we are mad indeed."' Subsequently, Sprackling pleads in court "that he was mad when he kill'd his Wife; and that he knew not what he did." .... According to The Bloody Husband, Sprackling manipulates the convention of the mad husband, and even his public persona ("He loved his Dogs better than he loved his Wife."), to defend himself. 

The servant's testimony that Sprackling calculated the effect of slaughtering the dogs combined with testimony that Sprackling "was of an habitual bloody disposition and practise" undermined the strategy and led to Sprackling's conviction. The narrative framing here (the story of the story that Sprackling devises) and the function of the courtroom as an arena of competing narratives draw attention to a cultural perception, produced and transmitted through popular accounts of actual crimes, that a man who would murder his wife was no longer a representative of order or authority. Like the emphasis on their instability, the emphasis on murderous husband's tyranny suggests that their actions bear no relation to acceptable assertions of domestic authority and reveal nothing about the distribution of power in marriage. 

Two Horrible and Inhumane Murders Done in Lincolneshire (1607), for instance, describes how John Dilworth silences his wife's justifiable complaints with several blows to her head, makes a fire, and then, "like a terrible torturing tyrant, tooke uppe the dead carcase, and laide it thereon, clothes and all, not forgetting to hang uppe blankets and coverlids before the windowes, to the end to hide the light this great fire did cast."  By offering the demonic image of Dilworth reveling before his wife's smoldering corpse, "as it were rejoycing at that his most hatefull, horrible, and hellish fact, like a most gracelesse and mercilesse miscreant," the text sidesteps the issue of the husband's responsibility; at the same time it qualifies his claims to authority. Such exaggerated, grotesque characterizations evade the relationship between wife-murder and the dominant ideology of male supremacy. 

…Like the peers who tried Castlehaven and the narratives circulating about his trial, however, most pamphlets and ballads deny transgressive husbands' attempts to justify their actions, labeling their interpretations of coverture as criminal and crazed. By the eighteenth century, conduct literature, legal discourses, and popular literature demonized wife abuse and "rhetorically" displaced it onto the lower classes, so that "wife beating became, for literate people, a particular mark of the inferiority and animality of the poor." Anticipating this trend, pamphlets remove "terrible, torturing tyrants" like John Dilworth from the continuum of husbandly authority, foreclosing the interrogation of husbandly power and its limits. While Heywood's An Apology for Acton ( 1612) suggests that murderous wives lurk everywhere in the disguise of the familiar and innocuous, a text such as Two Horrible and Inhumane Murders suggests that murderous husbands are monstrous exceptions, not husbands whose "legitimate" correction of their wives gets out of hand.”

- Frances E. Dolan, “Revolutions, Petty Tyranny, and the Murderous Husband.” in Dangerous Familiars: Representations of Domestic Crime in England, 1550 - 1700

[steves-on-a-plane]

Be My Royal Romance

Chapter One / 

Chapter Two

Words: 1459 Crossover Fic: Be My Princess (Voltage Games) & The Royal Romance/ The Royal Heir (Choices) Pairing: OC X King Liam Dramatis Personae:Gwendolyn (OC) Prince Roberto, Prince Edward, Alberto & Louis.

Prince Edward’s secret garden wasn’t just secret in name. It was truly a private garden open only to Edward and anyone he sought fit to invite in. Hidden behind high walls of hedges near the west corner of the castle was the garden’s entrance protected by a curtain of ivy. The secret garden was a vast collection of the most beautiful flowers imaginable. The first time Gwen had been invited inside Edward had taken her on a detailed tour and pointed out every flower or piece of foliage by name. She regretted that she couldn’t remember all their names now, but at least she could identify the small patch of bushes proudly growing delicate pink roses. This variety of blush colored petals was the rose often associated with the Levaincois family.

Within minutes a table filled with treats and a warm kettle of tea had been set in the garden. Gwendolyn, Roberto and Edward sat together, the host pouring the tea. Once again Louis and Alberto stood separate from the group. They were chatting quietly but their attention, at least part of it, never strayed from their Princes.

“Alright, now that we’re settled properly,” Edward set the sugar bowl he’d been holding down on the table and smiled. “I’m ashamed to admit that you’ve seen through our ruse Miss Gwendolyn. There is a party that we wish to invite you to.” Gwendolyn smirked. She enjoyed being right and both Edward and Roberto knew this about her. She held her teacup in her hand and waited for Edward to continue.

“I’m throwing a small gala here at Charles Palace.” He explained. “All the usual guests will be there. Prince Robert of course, and the others from the union. Prince Glen, Prince Keith, Prince Josh, Prince Wilfred and representatives from Noble Michael will be invited as well. But I’ve also decided to include nobles from outside of the union on the guest list.”

Gwendolyn was surprised to hear this. The union that Edward spoke of was based on a peace and trade treaty for six kingdoms who shared borders one way or another as well as a seventh kingdom, Noble Michael, in the center which bordered all six of the other kingdoms simultaneously. Because of this treaty the seven unified kingdoms were able to operate with little to no involvement from other countries around the world. It wasn’t as if they weren’t allowed to visit or interact with other kingdoms, it was just very rare.

“I thought this might interest you as you yourself are not from a union kingdom.” Edward smiled. The possibility that she may be the only person Edward knew who wasn’t from a union kingdom had crossed her mind before, but Gwen hadn’t thought about it since she’d first became friends with the princes. “You would be doing me a great favor if you were to attend the party as a cultural liaison.”

“Me?” Gwen put her tea down carefully. The last thing she wanted was to spill her tea or worse break one of Edward’s teacups. “I mean I’m honored, Prince Edward, but I’m not sure I’m qualified to…”

“Don’t be silly Gwen!” Roberto insisted. “You were able to get all of us to understand each other. If it weren’t for you, we’d never know about Josh’s love for rice balls or, well, anything about Wilfred. Your good with people.”

“All I’ve ever done is listen and be supportive.” Gwen countered. “It was easy enough to become good friends with the two of you, but some of the others took time. It definitely wouldn’t have happened at a single gala.”  

“Perhaps I should explain further.” Edward suggested. “The intended purpose of this gala is to invite other kingdoms to see how things are done here. Monarchies are few and far these days. It would be nice to get to know some of the royals we’re not as closely associated with.”

“Are you looking for allies?” Gwen asked. “More kingdoms to join the union.”

“Potentially.” Edward nodded before taking another sip from his tea.

“We’re interested in one country in particular, Cordonia. They’re a pretty big kingdom and they’re financially stable.” Roberto told her.

“How do the other princes feel about this?” Gwen wanted to know.

“They’re reluctant to relinquish any power.” Edward confessed. “But they understand that the extra capital could help us all.”

“Forgive me if this is a rude question but what exactly makes Cordonia so rich?” Gwen realized her tea was beginning to get cold. She picked up her teacup again and sipped from it for the first time. Instead of the usual sweet floral taste of Edwards signature rose petal tea, it was a spicy herbal flavor.

“Apples.” Roberto explained watching her confused expression. “That’s what’s in the tea.”

“Yes, Cordonia’s primary export.” Edward nodded. “I thought a bit of Cordonian apple tea would be appropriate for our meeting. But it’s not just apples that contribute to Cordonia’s success. They have several duchys that seem to run almost independently much like your United States. The truth is we don’t know much about Cordonia.”

“That’s where you come in.” Roberto chimed. “Ed was telling me all about his plan to invite the Cordonian King to a party and he said he was having trouble researching Cordonia. I told him that your great at research. You spend so much time at your school library and the one at the villa.”

“Well, yeah, but doing research for a paper is a little different than doing research for I don’t know, political intrigue.” Gwen shrugged. She was honored that her friends had thought of her for such an important task, but surely, they had someone more qualified for something like this. Charles in particular was a kingdom that celebrated knowledge. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen to study there in the first place.

“Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything until we were on the way back to Altaria but the only way Keithster and Wills agreed to this whole plan was if you came to the party.” Roberto confessed.

“Prince Keith, said that he wanted me there?” Gwen raised her eyebrows in surprise. She had a good relationship with all six princes, but Prince Keith was the most abrasive of the group. His kingdom, Liberty, valued freedom most of all and this often left Keith under the impression that he could speak his mind whether his opinion was constructive or not.

“Liberty has been hit with a rather hard recession, as you know.” Edward reminded her. “He would gladly accept financial aid from Cordonia but has concerns that this may affect his people’s freedoms. Prince Keith trusts you to give a fair assessment of Cordonia King’s relationship with his people. In Prince Wilfred’s case, Phillip is a very traditions-based Kingdom. He doesn’t want to welcome anyone into our union who may jeopardize those traditions.”

“You’ve all really thought about this.” Gwen sat back in her seat and looked between her two friends thoughtfully. The princes had managed to persuade her into doing crazy things before, like the time Roberto told an entire room of partygoers that she was his fiancé. This was the first time that they’d actually come to her with a royal responsibility. It was also one of the rare occasions that all six of them seemed to be in agreement about something.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, when’s the gala?” Gwen asked.

“A little over a month from now.” Roberto told her. “The first day of summer. You should be finished with school by then so it’s perfect timing.”

“Yeah, perfect.” Gwen held back a laugh.

“In the meantime, you’ll have unprecedented access to the Royal libraries of all six Kingdoms as well as Noble Michael. Prince Roberto, myself and the others will try to be available to whenever you have questions. I have complete faith that you will perform this task admirably, Miss Gwendolyn.”

“I hate to cut the visit short, Ed.” Roberto said, rising to his feet, but I’m afraid I’m due back home for a meeting with the King. Gwen, would you like to ride home with me? I can always have Al send a care later if you prefer to stay.”

“As much as I enjoy Prince Edward’s company, I’m afraid I do have schoolwork and now a great deal of research to get started on.” Gwen stood up too. “Until next time Prince Edward.”

“It was wonderful having you both hear.” Edward assured them with a smile. “Louis will show you out. I’m going to have another cup of tea, but Miss Gwendolyn please don’t hesitate to ask for help should you need it and thank you so much for doing this for us.”

[artificialqueens]

game of survival, chapter six (branjie) - holtzmanns

AN: rating change with this chapter. Eternally grateful to @writworm42 and @beanierose for being so wonderful and encouraging and for beta-ing. I appreciate you both so much.

Brooke sets up a makeshift board on one of the wooden walls in the living room of the cabin, spreading out a timeline of the past few weeks along with information about everyone involved. She finds a ball of yarn from the summer that Nina was determined to learn how to knit in one of the bedroom closets and uses it to join the different players together, to work through various hypotheses in her mind.

It helps her, the methodical process. It calms her down and lets her organize her thoughts, to sort out exactly what has happened. To figure out where they can go from here.

Vanessa watches from her spot on the couch, where she’s curled up under a blanket with a mug of tea in her hands. The sleeves of the oversized sweater that she found in one of the closets (‘It smells like detergent, it’s clean, imma take it’) are rolled up to fit her small frame.

Her eyes are wide as she listens to Brooke’s explanations as she puts everything up on the wall, telling her about the past few weeks from her perspective. Brooke can’t help the question that falls from her lips next, can’t hold back when she sees the way that Vanessa swallows as she explains how close she came to death by her hand.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Vanessa’s answer comes after a long sip of tea, and a gaze that takes Brooke in, doesn’t waver.

“No.”

Brooke expected the answer. She likes it. Even though it means Vanessa clearly has no concern for her own personal safety. “Maybe you should be.”

“Chica, if you’d have wanted to kill me by now, you would have done so already.” Vanessa raises an eyebrow, a challenge.

Brooke doesn’t want to tell Vanessa that she’s completely right.

She doesn’t get these political types, sometimes. The way that they seem to be self-assured to the point of absolute insanity. The way that they refuse to back down on their opinions if they believe in them hard enough.

Vanessa looks at her like she’s a puzzle that she wants to solve, like she’s determined to unravel her no matter the cost to her own self. Brooke isn’t sure whether she wants to save her from the edge of the cliff that she’s near or join her in going over the brink.

It’s refreshing, finding someone who wants to step up to her level. Doesn’t happen much in her line of work. Brooke hasn’t experienced anything like Vanessa before. She’s no longer her prey; she’s challenging her and pushing her in ways that she’s never experienced.

If Brooke were to let go of the iron grip that she has on her own brain, the way that she forces herself to only think about ways that they can survive and get through this unscathed, she knows that she would spiral. About her own abilities, about how Vanessa has completely dismantled the dangerous yet efficient life that she’s crafted for herself. How Vanessa seems to know it too.

Instead, she turns back to the board.

Brooke scrawls the name of a prominent Republican congressman and sticks it beside her own on the wall. She turns toward Vanessa, whose furrowed brow tells her exactly what she thinks of the man.

“He hired me.” Brooke doesn’t know how to handle the current uncharted territory, with all the shit that has happened. She may as well be transparent at this point.

Vanessa’s lips are pursed as she stands up, comes up beside Brooke. Looks at the name, then up at her. “Somehow, not surprised.”

Unexpected. Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I caused a stir about that bill he was lobbying to pass last month. Also called him a ‘shitstain on this earth’ to his face when it got passed.” Vanessa tries to hold back a smile at the memory.

“Jesus.” Brooke shakes her head. She can picture Vanessa barely coming up to the man’s shoulder, yelling in his face louder than anyone has ever dared to at a while male politician. “You’re fiery, aren’t you?”

“It helped that someone was filming it and it went viral on Twitter. The support for him dropped ridiculously fast, while I gained some points in the prediction polls.” Vanessa’s public voice, her politician voice shines through for the first time since Brooke ran into her when they met, when she saved her from the explosion of her office. When Vanessa didn’t know who she was and thought she was a random member of the public.

Vanessa is good at pulling out her charming, public persona. At gaining the hearts of the adoring population that doesn’t turn their backs on her when she occasionally slips up and explodes at those who cross her.

Brooke thinks back to watching the news when it had happened, before she had even met her. How the newscasters said that Vanessa was truly for the people. How it had only made her more loved by the general public.

“Weren’t you worried that crossing him would come back to bite you?” Brooke asks her because she wonders. She’s so used to calculating each of her actions, weighing the risks and benefits and taking a step forward only after confirming that she’s making the best choice.

Vanessa shrugs. “He always steamrolls anyone in his way. He wasn’t used to someone stepping in his face for once. No one ever fuckin’ does. I had to.”

Vanessa is Brooke’s antithesis; a woman so driven by her heart and what she feels is the right choice not only for herself, but for everyone else as well. For those who could be hurt by policies that they have no ability to change. Ones that Vanessa fights because she has the ability to do so, no matter the cost.

Even though the cost was almost that of her life.

Brooke envies it, the way that Vanessa is so sure in her beliefs. The way she’s tried, really tried, to use it for good in her career. Brooke can’t say that she’s done the same.

“He nearly killed you for it.” A man so threatened by a woman questioning his authority that his solution was to take out Vanessa, and get rid of the challenger in his way.

“No bitch, you nearly killed me.” Vanessa scoffs, scoffs at her.

Well. It’s not like she can deny it. “Fair enough.”

“Let me ask you something. Again. Why haven’t you?” Vanessa’s gaze is striking, staring into her soul. Searching for an answer that Brooke doesn’t feel she even knows herself.

Brooke turns back to the board, away from Vanessa, though it does nothing to stop the unsaid pleading that she can feel coming from her.

“You had so many chances.” Vanessa’s voice cuts through again, softer, though still with the ability to shatter the carefully constructed excuses she’s created for herself.

She doesn’t need the money (she does). She just couldn’t get a good shot (she could, she had plenty of chances to take a killing shot). She didn’t have enough time (she had more than a week). She would have gotten caught, with how much of a public figure Vanessa is (she’s killed many prominent people and gotten away with it).

She runs a hand through her hair, the waves catching in her fingers and tugging on her scalp the same way that her heart feels like it’s being pulled in a million different directions.

“I know I did.”

“What stopped you?” Vanessa’s question comes out in a whisper.

Brooke doesn’t need to turn around to feel her come closer, take a step forward, the heat that normally exists between them growing and burning against her shoulders and her back. Vanessa’s gentle hand on her shoulder is practically a burn, alight with flames licking and blistering at her skin.

She spins, suddenly, faces Vanessa who is much closer than she realized. Vanessa’s breath hitches in her throat as she stands her ground, refusing to take a step back.

Brooke stares, really stares. Notices the way Vanessa’s head is tilted up towards her, the defiant set of her jaw. Sees the embers glowing behind Vanessa’s eyes that light her up from the inside.

“I know you feel it too. I feel you holding back.”

The words make Brooke’s eyes flutter closed, make her breaths shallower. She thinks of the dreams she’s had of Vanessa where it’s been easy, too easy, to take her to bed and overwhelm her senses in a way that makes her scream. Having her in front of her, though, pulls her back, makes her hesitant, tentative, in a way that she never expected.

Vanessa intertwines their fingers. Index, then middle, then the rest. Two cast iron gears forged apart that slot together perfectly, as if they were always meant to fit.

“Vanessa…” The growl is soft, low in her throat.

“Don’t hold back anymore, Brooke.”

She can’t. Not when Vanessa stretches up on her tiptoes, her face coming closer, closer. Vanessa’s lips brush against hers and the resulting tendrils of lightning are enough to illuminate the room. Vanessa pauses there, waits. Asking Brooke a question that she doesn’t need to use words to communicate.

Brooke answers it. A hand in Vanessa’s curls at the nape of her neck, tilting her head up. A moan that she can’t hold in any longer when Vanessa bites at her lip, hands tugging on her sweater to bring her closer. The thud of Vanessa’s back as it hits the wall when Brooke pushes her up against it. The scrawled notes that Brooke had so meticulously pinned up fluttering down to the ground around them that neither of them pay any mind to.

Brooke’s lips move to her neck, kisses that tug at the skin and make Vanessa gasp into her shoulder. Vanessa’s hands fist uselessly in her hair, her grip tightening when Brooke nips at the juncture of her neck and collarbone.

“Too warm.” The words leave Vanessa’s mouth between ragged breaths. Brooke pulls back, sees her flushed face that is most certainly mirroring her own. Vanessa’s hands play with the hem of her sweater, fingers inching it up and splaying along her sides, dragging on her ribs. Brooke pulls it over her own head then tugs off Vanessa’s in turn, the fabric barely slipping from the grasp of her fingers before Vanessa is pulling her face back down to meet hers.

The kisses are deeper, Vanessa’s mouth open and willing and it’s too much for Brooke; each one of her senses is about to short circuit, ready to take her down at any second in sparks that turn into flames. Brooke brings her hands up to cradle Vanessa’s face and Vanessa leans into her touch, soft and melting in her hands that makes Brooke never want to let her go.

Brooke’s intake of breath is sharp when they break the kiss, her lungs so desperately clawing for oxygen that she’s not sure will be of any help. Vanessa’s eyes are unfocused when she stares up at her, chest rising in uneven patterns and a tremble in her shoulders that matches the erratic beating of Brooke’s heart.

“I can’t stop thinking about this. About you. I-” Vanessa’s words are short, stilted, cut off as she reaches up to kiss Brooke again.

“Fuck.” Brooke breathes it in a gasp before covering her lips with her own once more, as if stopping means that Vanessa will disappear; they’ll disappear. That this will end up being one of the dreams that jerks her awake in bed all alone, with a heat between her legs that she can’t take care of herself no matter how hard she tries.

The smell of Vanessa’s shampoo, the way she’s burning up under Brooke’s touch, the way her hands are everywhere, palming at her breasts and gripping at her sides, remind Brooke that she’s really here.

Brooke’s hand trails along her waistband and Vanessa whimpers, her hips lifting from the wall and it’s too much, she needs to hear that sound again. Never wants to stop hearing it. She tugs on Vanessa’s leggings and helps her shimmy out of them, kicking them to the side. Brooke’s fingers tease along the waistband of her underwear, dancing along the outside and dropping lower and fuck, Vanessa’s already so wet for her through the fabric as she tries to gain any semblance of friction against her hand.

Brooke drops open-mouthed kisses onto her neck, then shoulder blades, then sternum as her fingers trace delicate patterns, trying to hold back as much as she’s able to until Vanessa is begging for it underneath her, but-

“C’mere.”

Brooke is too tall at their current angle, she’s bending down as much as she can but it’s not enough. She straightens up, a hand pulling Vanessa into the adjoining kitchen, spinning to face her. She crouches, grabs underneath Vanessa’s thighs to lift her up and onto the kitchen counter.

Vanessa lets out a noise at the coolness of the countertop against her bare skin, one that gives way to a moan when Brooke pushes her legs apart and steps in between them, trailing her hands up her inner thighs.

She feels more in control now, less like she’s going to explode at any given moment, having Vanessa in front of her like this and pliable under her hands. They’re at eye level now, making it almost too easy for Brooke to reach up and brush Vanessa’s bottom lip with her thumb and watch her eyes flutter shut. Brooke’s other hand climbs Vanessa’s thigh and traces along the edge of her underwear, still teasing and drawing out the inevitable noises that fall from her lips.

Vanessa drops her forehead onto Brooke’s shoulder when she finally, finally pushes her underwear to the side and feels the wetness that’s been soaking through the fabric. Brooke’s fingers tease at her entrance while her thumb brushes against her clit, light enough that she’s not sure if it actually does until she hears Vanessa let out a whimper against her neck.

“Please, I need-”

Vanessa’s voice is cut off in a gasp when Brooke pushes two fingers into her, feels her walls clench around them. Brooke curls them up slightly, places a kiss on Vanessa’s jaw before whispering into her ear.

“What is it, baby?”

Slender arms wrap around her as she starts to pump her fingers. Vanessa buries her face in Brooke’s neck but it does nothing to stifle the noises that spill from her mouth and make Brooke squeeze her own thighs together.

“You need to tell me what you want.”

“Harder.”

Brooke speeds up in response, her thumb moving in light circles around her clit in tandem with the curling of her fingers.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about you? Dreamt about you falling apart like this?” The words come out soft, low. She can feel Vanessa shudder against her, arms tightening around her neck.

She twists her wrist slightly and the angle makes Vanessa’s hips buck against her, meet her in turn, curse words falling from her lips. Brooke speeds up even more as the burn in her forearm grows but she’s not stopping, not now when Vanessa is gasping her name like it’s a prayer.

Brooke punctuates the movements of her fingers with her lips on Vanessa’s neck, jaw, the lobe of her ear, wherever she can reach in their current position. She nips and teases at the skin, soothing the spots that she knows will blossom in reds and purples the next day with her tongue. Brooke can feel Vanessa tightening around her fingers, the sensations everywhere too much, too strong, as her orgasm rolls over her in waves. Vanessa buries her face in Brooke’s shoulder to muffle her scream.

Brooke fucks her through it until Vanessa’s gasps even out, then stills the motion of her fingers, placing a kiss against Vanessa’s flushed temple. Brooke’s fingers gently brush against Vanessa’s clit when she pulls them back, hypersensitivity making her whine and shudder against her.

Vanessa’s lips part as Brooke lifts her fingers towards her mouth, sucks on them until they’re clean, her tongue darting out when Brooke pulls them back. Brooke’s eyes travel over her with a hunger she can’t restrain, noticing the way that Vanessa’s chest continues to heave and how her eyes are still blown with lust.

“Good girl.”

She tilts Vanessa’s face up to hers with two fingers underneath her chin, the resulting kiss slow and languid. Her shoulder aches, the wound that had begun to heal from the graze she sustained a day previously starting to throb. It feels like it’s been torn open again underneath the layers of bandages as the adrenaline of having Vanessa fall apart beneath her begins to subside. She doesn’t care.

Vanessa pulls back, breaking the kiss, and pushes on Brooke’s uninjured shoulder so that she takes a step backward. Brooke watches as Vanessa eases herself off of the counter, still shaky on her legs as she stands to face her, look up at her. Her hands come up to ghost against Vanessa’s sides but she’s stopped, Vanessa’s hands instead grabbing both of hers as she takes a step backwards, then another. Vanessa tugs her towards the master bedroom that Brooke insisted that she take when they had first arrived, much to her protests.

“Let me take care of you. Please.”

Well. Who is she to deny that request?

Brooke leans back against the headboard, lets Vanessa straddle her and unhook the bra that she’s somehow still wearing. Lets her kiss down her chest and her ribs and nip at her hipbones and the crook of her thigh. Brooke is more than happy to oblige when Vanessa tugs on one of her legs to get her to shuffle down, to lie down properly and rest her head on the pillows. She slides off Brooke’s underwear with a practicedease, as if she’s done it a million times before.

The kisses that Vanessa places up the inside of her thigh are electric currents, teasing her only just enough before pulling back. Vanessa looks up, grins at her when she lets out a grunt in frustration.

“You all good?”

Brooke huffs. “You know exactly what you’re doing, you fucking tease.” It’s too much and not enough, she wants to just move Vanessa to where she wants her-

Her thought process cuts off when Vanessa finally, finally brings her kisses between her thighs, her tongue slowly swiping up and swirling around her clit. Brooke can’t stop herself from tugging on the locks of Vanessa’s hair that her hands have raked through and gotten hold of, her grip tight.

The resulting moan from Vanessa against her center is practically filthy. Brooke tugs again, experimentally, feels how Vanessa’s grip on her thighs tightens in response.

Interesting.

Vanessa doesn’t give her time to reflect on the discovery before resuming her motions, lapping and then sucking and she’s so close. Vanessa teases two fingers at her entrance, facing no resistance when she pushes them in, curls them up. Brooke’s thighs have a vice grip on Vanessa’s head but she can’t pull them apart, doesn’t want to, not when Vanessa is doing that.

Her hands rake through Vanessa’s hair, tug harder when Vanessa increases her pace, matching the trembling of her own body. It’s warm, too warm, she’s burning and burning but she doesn’t care, not when the explosion feels this exquisite.

She comes with Vanessa’s name on her lips, interspersed between incoherent utterances because fuck, she’s had sex but it’s never been like this, never made her truly let go.

Brooke tugs Vanessa back up, tastes herself on her mouth when she kisses her. She brushes the damp curls away from Vanessa’s face as she leans over Brooke.

“Beautiful.”

Vanessa’s lip curls up at the statement that Brooke can’t hold back. “Didn’t know all it took to make you soft was some time in the sheets.”

“Shut up.” There’s no malice in it, only a smirk back.

She’s not lying, though. The softness of Vanessa’s skin as Brooke’s fingers traceup her arm. The waves that fall in front of Vanessa’s face, mussed and messy yet intoxicating in the way that the smell of her shampoo overpowers everything else. The brightness in Vanessa’s eyes, the way she looked at her with want and need but now wears a face of…fondness? She can’t tell, but she knows enough to tell that the sex is something Vanessa will want to repeat too.

Vanessa leans into Brooke’s touch when her hand shifts to cup her face, before rolling off of her and tucking herself into her side. She lifts a hand to trace patterns across Brooke’s ribs, her touch light and following the rise and fall of Brooke’s chest.

Brooke should be afraid at how natural it feels to wrap an arm around Vanessa and pull her close. How the usual antsy feeling that bubbles in her chest when a girl stays in her bed for too long is now nowhere to be found. How instead, she’s quite content where she is, the soft smile that teases on her lips growing when she can feel Vanessa’s breathing against her get deeper. How the tracing motions of Vanessa’s fingers come to a stop, her hand going slack against Brooke’s ribs.

She’s not grasping at straws anymore for what her next move will be, how she’s going to get out of the situation in one piece with her money. She doesn’t care anymore.

She’s going to protect Vanessa with her damn life a million more times if she has to.

[a-for-alternative]

Valentines

[Previous]

   The threat of reward hangs like February’s icicles off the keystones of their arched windows; like teeth, glittering with iridescent magic he had secretly wanted to reach for but could never allow himself to indulge his imagination and believe there was anything special about sunlight captured in tapering ice.

 But, unlike the magic of dripping frost spirals, B held real mystery that could not be measured on the density of latticing molecules or their capacity for refraction.

   —   For the past five Winters, he had glimpsed from over his shoulder the grey outline of the second successor in the dull amber lamp-light, bleeding into the darkness of predawn from their window’s frame – the sight eerily echoing fairytales, an ice-toothed maw, building a weak fire at the back of it’s throat around the templar caught in it’s jaws.

  The house’s bowing scaffolds and cavernous ceilings reminded him of a monstrous, yawning thorax.  But, hadn’t B always been the beast he was told to slay?

 The second child would be the only one to swallow up his future, but even after he became curious enough to peer out after him into the dying night, he never called him back inside. He simply watched him go.

  Only once, B had seen him through the frosted glass and drew a warm finger down the chilly pane, leaving a clear trail for A’s eyes to follow.  

          –   ‘ 早 trop ’

       早; early.   Trop; too much …   

 `

A had smiled softly.  ‘ Too early,  too soon. ’  

      Too quickly gone.   Everything.

`

    The privacy of twilight, the thrill of their rivalry, the careless surprise on B’s face when he uttered ‘friend’ in his mother’s tongue, the impression of warm fingers on cold glass,   their time together sharing the same Winters with the same purpose,   all too quickly gone.

   He lingered a little longer that day but, all the same, disappeared to the far side of the grounds, the only hour and place he found true privacy, in the weeds spared by the grounds keepers; indulging his imagination and giving form to the unrefined thoughts of B and their place in the world.  

`

     A dreaded the day he might be discovered and told it was too dangerous to venture out before dawn…

  It was as though, as his mind was sharpened and expanded, it became equally more wild with possibilities and a thirst for purpose.  Some were fantastical, others bitterly inevitable, but his position left no room for doubt or desire that might take him off course.  Yet, language allowed him to solidify his thoughts, condensed his fears from their monstrous shadows and gave his conflicting fascination with B more form to twist into delicious narratives that no one else had to know…

   Could any of what he imagined in the slow moments of sunrise be mutual … ?   Could Backup’s own expanding mind hold the same spoiled possibilities?

`

  The invitation to revisit old battles was enough for him to incline into the warmth building between them, further kindling a familiar unrest that twisted his dreams into an abstract hunger – pressing into the other’s skin desperately, pulling him blindly into his body like an animal ignorant of sex…

      The shot glass, standing amber and fading to his left, wasn’t spared a glance. But, he neither considered backing down nor felt ready to accept the dare.

`

  His senses were too swept up in the physical actions; It’s only been moments-  

 B’s thighs wound around his body, a hand guiding his fingers - it is like the creak of the window’s ledge under the heel of his hand, reminding him of how close he is to touching the slender, sparkling ice, and that if his intent is already so obvious, that he might as well   have.  i t.  …

  If only for a moment, he allowed possibility of learning what rolling, summer-soaked sex felt like …

Watching barely parted lips, soundless as smoke.

His breath trickles from his open mouth.

  He could almost  feel  it.

`

            “ - B … ”

`

   He hesitates, introspection emerging out of the soft haze, slowing time. Several questions not quite formed,    

‘Why do you want it?’,  

 ‘For what ends?’,   ‘Have you ever- ?’

   ‘Would you ever consider- … me ?’

   – a distracting warmth builds on his face. He can’t tell if it is the heat rising from between their bodies or if allowing himself to ponder asking has caused his inexperience to surface visibly.

  He’s been practicing control over his emotional affect since the day L asked him,

 “Why do you think you are first and Backup is second?”,  

  The question made his blood run cold…

`

     Being readable was being vulnerable.

   A’s skin has always had the thin, delicate quality of alabaster. B’s pin-prick love bites had bruised him painlessly for weeks but had damaged his carefully constructed veneer of invulnerability, drawing low toned whispers from their peers…

  Until then, most assumed he was easily flustered from anger; a manifestation of a temperamental nature under pressure or the years spent with B allowing something to rub off.

 In truth, it was a compromise with his body; if he couldn’t conceal his responses, he would control the message they carried – A sharp glance, the sucking of teeth, the veil of teenage impudence, ‘-tu meurs en premier’  ( You die first ) where nothing else felt strong enough…

`

    Hiding behind animosity had been intentional, but it felt like a betrayal to suppress more of who he was than he already had to, slipping deeper into the skin of his persona until there wasn’t a trace of the person beneath the letter left.

   However, it was a price worth paying, allowing his eyes to wander unscrutinized over polished desks to trace the gentle, verdant veins of the other boy’s arms – his hands, fingers curling around the pages edge gracefully, the tender hiss of skin against paper…  

  Behind the camouflage of disdain, he could drink in the subtly of his closest friend’s voice, it’s cadence maturing into a syrupy, deep resonance; saccharine sound…

`

   … Do other boys do this to themselves ?

`

   A would repeat his words behind closed lips, savoring them, amplifying every morsel by bringing it into his body, into his mouth.  Anything to make the thought more vivid; the memory of B’s breath trickling over his pulse.  

    He can’t remember what was said anymore…

It changes with his mood, the flavor of his dreams, the tone of the moments when he is alone.

He can only remember the wispy susurrations over teeth, the strange awareness of the temporarily of the moment, how teasing close to the line of satisfaction it brought him, leaving him feeling desperately unsated when it was over.

   It keeps him revisiting the confrontation, a pseudo-masochistic fixation with a moment long gone and fading from memory.. But all within the safety of his mind, where no one else would know.

The warmth on his face leaves him feeling exposed, summoning the familiar resentment towards his own body .. though it’s muted, somewhere distant, pricking without sting.

`

He still wants to pull away and hide.

But, the distance between them is so unbearably tight, and unreasonably comfortable…

`

  He leans in closer.

   If he is close enough, B will not be able to distinguish the emerging color from the shadows he casts over his features. But, he can feel the humidity of an exhaled breath pulled into his mouth and the warmth seems to prickle like sparks through his skin.

  The condensing air between their lips is sweltering and silent as the calm before a storm. It tingles with electricity that he pulls deeper into his lungs. It’s charge filling up his chest, until the impossible gravity brings the flush warmth to his mouth without any deliberation - the release of letting himself simply have it allows a sigh to escape, taking with it the uncertainty that’s haunted every previous instance of betrayal by his body.

 The contact is tender, the motion slow, as gentle and inoffensive as it was starved… letting the plush heat and subtle pulse seep into the union of their lips.     Time’s viscosity embellishes the pressure with delicate sensation he’s never been receptive to before, amplified by his famished longing to relive the lustful sincerity of their altercation.

  –    His fingers press into the firm muscles of his friend’s lower back. The contact is so light B could detect the trembling of his hands…    He’s never felt this rawly unguarded before, this honest without regret.

`

 The balmy nirvana of his rival’s lips has an ethereal softness like the satin of rose petals that lingers on the tips of his fingers, something he couldn’t detect in the bruising, hateful kiss they shared years ago.

 But, it meets his senses with a familiarity… from their childhood; the groaning of tree limbs under his weight as he leaned over and allowed the contact as light as moth’s wings meeting mid-flight, guiltless and strangely polite. The sensation was phantom, almost untangle, like if warm velvet and cream could mesh,  living on his lips like they had exchanged something vial and irreversible - leaving an unsatisfied intrigue, the desire to fully grasp the physical impression. They personified the idiom ‘just one more time’ – turning one, a single curious action, into several repeating attempts.

 A sermon on sin lead them to never speak of it again, but his belief in sin had outgrown second hand virtues.  There was nothing virtuous about his intoxicated touch, brushing fingers against his friend’s smooth cheek as he gave himself to it, his eyes sliding closed as he let himself submerge  -  the quiet sanctuary of their room, ‘I-missed-you’ pressed into the lobe of his ear, the warm inflection like a lifetime’s confession -pulled down into B’s body, sliding under him, pulled into Egyptian cotton by his gravity-his fingers lacing into his hair-surrender-as-they-curl-pulling-possessive-’say you’re mine’-the-humiliation-of-his-heel-in-his-back-

  His lips part.

`

  The galvanized air slips into his mouth, tingling as faintly as dust caught on sunlight, sparkling invisibly on his tongue as he inhales. He wants to fill his lungs back up with static, invite the delicate energy into his body, allow the current to saturate his senses.  He wants Beyond’s thunder in his veins.

  Sloping into one another, his fingers guiding the arch of B’s back. The subtle shift of his clothes, pressure through thin layers, and bare caress of skin again skin, the novel sensation of having someone press their aroused body into his. A hitch in his breath, a shiver rolling down his spine.  Everything moves so slowly, the fiction tight, hot in his lap. He can feel the warm weight of B’s thighs and is unable to conceive of anything but the sensation  – a surge like cream icing on his tongue, every nerve telling him he’s on the cusp of what he’s been craving all this time.  

 Each benign shift leaves his mind blank from pure indulgence, relaxing his jaw.   He could yield under that mouth without a second’s regret.

`

 But nothing feels quite enough.

`

  Ensnared in a torrent of want, he presses harder into his friend’s friction but he can’t push it deeply enough into his own body to reach the elusive ache.  The unbearable want is undefinable, evanescent as fists of sand, slipping through his hands -

`

   —  He-brings-his-fingers-to-wrap-around-his-rival’s-throat - his thumbs press into the resistance of cartilage…  

The electricity is burning him from the inside out-

`

  He wants something beneath the relief he’s pursuing, he wants to plead with B for it, but doesn’t know it’s name. It’s not a promise, it’s not his body, it’s not that he wants to ask him to be his friend again-

    He wants something he cannot have.

  He wants the mystery of the second child, the one from the crimson-lit alleys of a country he’s never seen, to hold real magic that will make all of this stay the way it is forever – never knowing who wins, who vanishes from history, what there is left to keep his blood running hot when his opponent is gone, what a decade without his touch to haunt him will feel like–

    But, there is no magic.

   Ice spires hanging like opulent wands would melt in his hands, trying to keep their rivalry forever would be as futile as clutching at sand being pulled in by the tide. You can’t conquer fate or time, they know no mercy or masters and never will.

  B knows that better than he ever could.

 There is no magic but B possesses a curse that never lets him forget the futility of trying to hold onto what was never yours.

`

   But, if either gave into despair over what they could not change, he would not have this to lament that it would be gone one day. A would relish in the fire of their conflict and the heat of B’s body, until time took it from him.  Because it would.

`

 Fragile peace is found so easily when, if he could get any closer, their clothes would merge at the treads and he would be one less layer from reality… Every nerve is ringing with his friend’s friction, the first direct motion causes his eyes flutter, the muscles of his thighs spasm with an intense surge. The carnal hunger is devouring all sense, in his mind, in his mouth, his pulse under his thumbs.

  He squeezes down a bit harder, summoning up the impression of B’s heel at his back with as much vividness as his imagination could manifest -- he could feel the tread bitting into his spine, the sense of defeat, the delicious twinge and tension-

  A breaks the kiss, his gaze softened with ecstasy but darkening with stormy passion.  Each movement was building up to an indeterminate end and he was aching for impact.

`

   “ - Dit-moi que tu m’deteste. ”

          Tell me you  hate me.

`

    Fantasies conjured up with more intensity without need of the usual focus. It was just there, at his lips, between his thighs, and looming over him without threat. His friend’s confession of violent daydreams, had became intertwined with his own.. The fixation with their worst altercation, it was mutual.

`

    “uhhh-h-…”

    If he could feel embarrassed by the meager, straining sounds, it isn’t right now.  The rush comes again with a roll of his hips, A shuts his eyes to yield into it.

  It is incredibly more intimate than he is able to appreciate.

[annie-the-rhetorician-blog]

*Rhetoric as Narrative*  

In this entry, I will examine the critical question(s): What central narrative(s) or truth does this artifact tell about me or U.S. culture or a certain group of people through how it rhetorically sets a scene, constructs characters, and/or sets up events? In doing so, what values does it promote and ignore (who does it include and exclude)? In which ways is this narrative (ethically) productive for society, in which ways is it limiting, and is it more productive or limiting?

To investigate these questions, I examined Barack Obama’s keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention as my rhetorical artifact. Through carefully crafted rhetoric, Obama highlights the importance of individualism in American culture but stresses the narrative of the United States as one connected people. With short stories of his own family history and first-hand encounters, Obama crafts the setting of his country through the people who live there. He directly includes liberals, conservatives, and independents as distinct yet codependent characters in the American story. Using a mixture of collective and personal events, Obama promotes the values of unity and brotherhood, productively cultivating a persuasive yet ethical call to action based on cultural truths with the incentive of an undivided democracy.  

In 2004, Obama is a young but promising United States senator chosen to give the keynote address during the annual Democratic National Convention. His overarching purpose is to advocate for the election of John Kerry, the presidential candidate for his party. However, his speech goes above and beyond this single goal—by sharing his own story and his vision of a less divided country, Obama makes a name for himself. Going on to serve two terms as the president himself, this fairly unknown politician from Illinois creates a unified narrative of the American people, leaving a deep and lasting impression on his audience.  

Dr. Sonja Foss offers many rhetorical insights into the brilliance of Obama’s narration. Foss stresses several different characteristics of narrative, including but not limited to setting, characters, events, audience, temporal relations, and themes (Foss 335-338). She stresses the importance of a central subject, a plot, and a timeline that unpacks causes and effects in the story. Another key element she emphasizes is the connection of each experience that can “create a cogent and meaningful narrative” (Foss 336). Foss encourages readers to be critical of this type of rhetoric and to evaluate the fidelity, productivity, and ethicality in each of these narrative elements.  

Many of Foss’s identified elements become crucial tools in the crafting of Obama’s message. First, he establishes the setting of the United States by providing his own personal context and experience. He describes the characters in his family history as both immigrants from Kenya and Kansas-natives, establishing the United States as both a “beacon of freedom” and a nation of potential and opportunity (Obama). The setting is incorporated into a timeline familiar to his audience—Obama uses culturally significant events such as the Great Depression and Pearl Harbor to establish a collective context and remind citizens of their shared origins, tragedies, and triumphs. He turns temporal relations into temporal relatability, adopting a role as peer and fellow citizen that is impacted by many of the same events as other Americans. The connective nature of narrative becomes conducive to his theme of unity that creates a central, powerful call to action.  

Although Obama uses rhetorical tools to tell a specific cultural narrative, the values he promotes are both ethical and productive for American society, rather than limiting. He maintains fidelity to social truths throughout the speech by focusing on his first-hand experiences and observations of overarching American values. He includes the vast majority of citizens when he addresses his audience “fellow Americans, Democrats, Republicans, Independents” (Obama). While some individuals who do not identify with any party or those without full citizenship might feel excluded by this phrasing, the out-group for this narrative remains relatively small in comparison to his intended audience. It is nearly impossible to be absolutely inclusive, but Obama goes out of his way to avoid creating limitations. He paints U.S. citizens as a collective, but never diminishes the importance of the individual. This can be seen through many of his short stories and characters, such as his encounter with “Shamus at the VFW Hall in East Moline, Illinois” (Obama). He explains how meeting this young man who was about to be deployed caused him to question if Americans are doing everything they can to be worthy of such a sacrifice; he takes this personal, individual encounter and uses to it describe a greater universal call to unification.  

While he does cater to a specific political agenda, he provides the context and arguments necessary for his audience to draw their own conclusions. In a rapidly polarizing society, his message of unity and brotherhood is beneficial to the function of democracy, even if it is for the cause of a particular candidate. He emphasizes the common ground shared by both sides of the political spectrum rather than the differences that create a bipartisan divide. He firmly states “there’s not a liberal America or a conservative America—there's a United States of America” (Obama). The repetition of this refrain reinforces a vital cultural truth— every citizen is a part of the same collective body under one government.  

Dr. Anna Wolfe offers another beneficial perspective on the rhetoric used in Obama’s address. Through her own research, she proposes that narratives often provide a “basis for social action” (Wolfe 3). She highlights one vital element that goes hand-in-hand with Obama’s intended message: “narration constitutes collectivities... stories organize a sense of shared reality by suggesting a causal order to complex experiences” (Wolfe 3). Applying these concepts to the keynote address, narrative becomes the perfect rhetorical tool for Obama because it exemplifies his central theme. When he claims “my story is part of the larger American story,” he calls his audience to realize this unique cultural truth is something that connects every U.S. citizen (Obama).  

In conclusion, Obama’s 2004 DNC keynote address creates a narrative of American unification by recounting collective and cultural truths. He uses many of the rhetorical tools identified by Foss to establish the setting of this country as a place for both individual opportunity and an interconnected brotherhood. Adopting the persona of a fellow peer, he appeals to all citizens, no matter their political parties, by pointing out the freedoms and values that are rooted in democracy. Obama’s approach is brilliantly effective because, as Wolfe explains, the characteristics of narrative naturally create a collective group through connected experiences. This message is both ethical and productive, as Obama captures a fidelity to social truths while promoting values that are beneficial and vital to democracy.

Works Cited

Foss, S.K. “Narrative Criticism.” Rhetorical Criticism, 2004, pp. 333-341.

Obama, Barack. “Barack Obama’s Keynote Address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention.” Public Broadcasting Service, 27 Jul. 2004.

Wolfe, Anna Wiederhold. “Organizing Collective Action amid the Ripple Effects of Change: Narratives of Crisis, Disaster, and Opportunity.” Journal of Applied Communication Research, vol. 44, no. 1, Feb. 2016, pp. 1–21.

[alcarrows]

have you been re-introduced to ALECTO CARROW? last we heard, the PUREBLOOD was most familiar with TIMELINE ONE. I don’t recall if they were always a RAVENCLAW, but I’ve heard the SEVENTH YEAR is still SHARP, POISED, LOYAL and CAUTIOUS, PROUD, DESIROUS, so that’s familiar. at least SHE remembers her way around the castle. ( zoey deutch; zoe, 20, cst )

alecto has a stats page on her blog and her bio from the main, as well as a pinterest board and playlist! but under the cut i have a ( not very ) little bullet point bio!! it gives the gist. anyway feel free to like or hmu bc i want to plot with everyone!!!

pride’s a nasty sin. alecto reminded herself of this every morning when she woke, and, after those blissful few moments between reality and dreams, reminded herself the mess her pride got her into. her family was never the sort to teach their children to be paragons of virtue  ---  but never did they teach them to let their sins run wild. carrows were precarious balancing acts, a little too wild and too reckless to ever be the golden children. but their blood was true and their convictions honest, so people forgave their transgressions; expected their transgressions, even.

it was a strange mantle to be born unto. be good, but not too good; be wild, but only as wild as your leash allows. it always chafed alecto, the sweet-faced pureblood daughter with a wandering mind. 

she was always happy that more wasn’t asked of her  ---  that grumblings of politics she found unsavory were never thought to be of interest of her  ---  but wasn’t it a little insulting, too? she had such a sharp mind, after all, and doing nothing but dainty, husband-finding diversions made her feel like she was going insane. she was grateful that the old purebloods were too lazy to force change; she had a feeling any changes they wanted wouldn’t suit her sensibilities anyway. but in the meantime alecto knew very well she couldn’t force any changes of her own, either. 

it wouldn’t do to cause a ruckus.

ravenclaw wasn’t quite a disappointment, but at eleven when she wrote home news of the sorting, she knew she’d lost any chance of being the favorite. a girl, darling little thing, with a whip-sharp mind  ---  that she made sure to only publicly use for chess and russian literature, but was a problem all the same. she would bring no heirs, and the thought of the mind on her made it harder for the family to pawn her off on some other bloodline’s idiot sons. she would never be the trophy girlfriend hanging off their arm.

her family was fine with it, really, and they left her alone so long as she feigned vapidity in all areas but her carefully plucked passions. she was a whiz with languages and dueling and history  ---  oh, but goodness, bigoted politics were such a boring thing. itty-bitty alecto felt faint at the very thought.

carrows were precarious balancing acts. alecto reminded herself of this, too. she hated the routine she lived ( being herself until she snagged watchful attention, and then pulling back into a placid-faced nobody of a girl ) but it was survival. because alecto had a secret: she couldn’t care less about blood purity and all the battles it begot. she had quite the mind for politics, in all honesty  ---  but her personal beliefs were at odds with the family’s inbred ideologies. they didn’t act on them, but they were toxic and present all the same. 

the only reason she stuck around, kept quiet and still, was because the system benefited her. and family, well, that was everything, too. there wasn’t a disloyal bone in alecto’s body, so long as that loyalty was sworn to anyone but herself. she could never do it  ---  picking up to leave might satisfy her restless spirit, but her pride would curse her should she ever be so weak as to do what she wants.

after all, it seems the pureblood way to have a million desires burning quietly up your spine as you sat doing nothing. she couldn’t afford to cost her family’s pride by being selfish and causing a scene, a scandal. she was too smart to do something so stupid as gamble away her comfortable life for the sake of something as silly as her wants. her dreams. her beliefs. 

but just because she didn’t turn her back on the world she’d been brought up in, alecto still hated the watchful eye of society and did her best to turn away any closeness, lest someone see too true a version of her  ---  she reveled in ravenclaw and preened under attention, but those were little wants. indulgences. she’d never allow herself anything more, and she’d never let someone see every part of her. it felt lonely, but it was sustainable. it was safe. letting anyone in or leaving anyone behind was too much. 

the thing was that she’d always had a mind for strategy, a mind more battlefield than mind. and oh, alecto knew she could look so good, shrouded in warfare  ---  even if it was only the war her own rocket-quick departure would surely bring. but where would that leave the rest of her? where would it leave her every carefully constructed persona? 

for years it was easier to stave off that line of questioning. to ignore that she didn’t fit into the world her name gave her birthright to, to ignore that she didn’t want to be a part of it at all. 

alecto just had to strap her knives and wand to her thigh with pretty little garters, the better to flash the steel beneath silk skirts and lace robes. she learned to enjoy the refined burn of downing shots worth more galleons than some would ever see. she learned to love glittering adornments, and tossing her hair, and beguiling with a single flash of her pearly-white fangs. to turn a biting turn of phrase softened by gleaming eyes. she was good. except when she was bad. and loathe though she was to admit it, she could still find enough ancient carrow in her to be very, very bad when she so chose.

badness could very easily be written off as youth, except by those who shared alecto’s youth with her. then, well, it was her destructive carrow tendencies coming out to play. it was her forgetting which line in the sand she was supposed to pretend to care about. it was her doing very reckless things, perhaps unknowingly  ---  or perhaps awaiting the mess she’d leave in her wake. she’d have to fix the mess, of course, and in that fixing would lie the cool reminder that she looks like any of the rest of them, now, but she will always be a carrow. and carrows are too sharp, too much, and so alecto is, as well. 

( the secret was she was too much alecto to be anything, really )

if she left all this behind, where could she possibly fit? who else would take her for all her sins and virtues, her lies and unwitting truths? as much as she is able to see through the facades of pureblood society  ---  and she is uniquely able to. has always known that they are all lucky the old guard is too comfortable and tired and dumb to act on their prejudices, has always known that beneath the glamour lies a grit. for all of that, alecto still feels ties to the only awful world she has ever fully known. 

the nature of it, she knows logically, is that it gets its dark claws into the core of you. instills a love of family, a love of pride, that keeps you from leaving. even when most days you want nothing more than to separate from the pack and finally become yourself. 

to her family, to those few that matter, alecto is too soft, and there’s the greatest irony. alecto resents her enjoyment of the things she made herself into, all those years and years ago  ---  the dresses and the parties and the champagne, and the flirting, laughing ease of life. she’s very good at playing her role, but when she needs the reminder of herself, she’ll proudly hint at challenging ideologies, flash her house colors, show her wicked words. but at home, well, that’s child’s play.

could she ever run from it all? sooner or later her family will turn her into a truer, crueller carrow. or maybe the rest of the wolves will take the ’ pretending ’ out of her facade. the independent charade has always been for her benefit only  ---  she’s loyal to a fault, and though either outcome would kill her, she’d succumb to one all the same.

with the revelation that there were other worlds like her own, but not, running congruent in time  ---  with the revelation that in one there was a war that brought her to this strange new existence  ---  alecto isn’t sure where she stands. the reality she now faces seems to be one where the adults she’s known all her life aren’t so lazy or useless anymore. a war is afoot, and with it come a whole host of new choices alecto has to navigate with the same sure-footedness she’s come to demand of herself. this could be her chance to break away from her family for good; to rebel in a final feeling way and become someone else entirely. or it could be time to see the consequences of her mind come calling. 

she doesn’t know if the old alecto from this new reality worked behind the scenes for the apparent war efforts for a cause she abhors. she doesn’t know if that girl was already in the process of leaving. and alecto so hates not having all the information.

and she hates even more not knowing if having all the information would help or hinder her choices. for the moment, alecto has decided to continue on with life as she always had, even if this is most certainly no life she’s ever known before. who would she be if she didn’t roll with the punches, take pain and doubt in stride? she cannot afford to slip up now, when the possibilities are dizzyingly endless. 

[yessadirichards]

With first posthumous album, Prince pierces the American condition

NEW YORK

Prince's estate will soon issue a completed record from the mercurial artist's storied music vault, the first never-before-heard album released since the musician's shock death five years ago.

"Welcome 2 America" -- a 12-track album finished in 2010, but shelved for reasons unknown in the famous vault at Prince's Paisley Park compound near Minneapolis -- offers a prophetic window into social struggles at today's forefront, delving into racism, political division, technology and disinformation.

Melding urgent lyricism with languorous funk, the pop shapeshifter Prince sings of America as the "land of the free / home of the slave."

The artist, who died at 57 on April 21, 2016 following an accidental fentanyl overdose, could not have known that in the years following his death his beloved home city would explode in furor and protest after the police killing of George Floyd, a Black man.

But Prince was a career activist, advocating for the empowerment of Black people in the recording industry and beyond.

"You go to school just to learn / about what never existed," Prince sings on the closing track "One Day We Will All B Free."

"But if your history only burns / it's better to resist it."

The album, out July 30, sees Prince level "a laser-focused assault on the condition of America," said Morris Hayes, Prince's longtime keyboardist and musical director.

"What's going on with social media, social justice, and social consciousness... this is a concerted effort to really speak about these things," said Hayes, who co-produced the album.

"I really dug how raw it was, and as far as my production, I just wanted to keep it to where its raw and I don't get in the way of what he's trying to say."

For Hayes, the singular artist "was way ahead," like a "sage sitting in the Himalayas somewhere," in foreshadowing the current moment.

"He wanted, I believe, a country that actually stood for what it said it stood for: liberty and justice for all," Hayes told AFP in an interview. "And we painfully know that that's not the case."

For Prince a key component of freedom was ownership, according to Hayes: "if you don't own your own things, you don't have any freedom."

The artist was well known for taking labels to task, famously scrawling "slave" on his cheek and changing his name to an unpronounceable "love symbol" in the 1990s to protest Warner's bid to rein in his prolific musical output.

Hayes said Prince -- who didn't carry a cell phone and memorized necessary phone numbers -- also discussed freedom in terms of technology and devices, which he saw "as something that handcuffed people."

But while the album tackles decidedly weighty topics -- "Running Game (Son of a Slave Master)" centers on racism, while "Same Page, Different Book" touches on religious strife -- the album also includes vintage danceable and carnal slow jam Prince in the mix.

"Hot Summer" is a major-key, guitar-heavy, feel-good track, while the sparsely arranged "When She Comes" featuring the artist's falsetto recalls the hypersexual "Dirty Mind" Prince of yore.

An untold number of songs -- upwards of 8,000, per Princian lore -- were stored in the vault under Paisley Park, though some of its contents have been moved to the Los Angeles climate-controlled storage facility Iron Mountain.

"It was crazy," Hayes says of the vault. "All of this music, like all over the floor, all stacked up to the ceiling."

"You have to think about how prolific a cat has to be to have his own vault full of stuff. And I mean FULL of stuff."

Hayes recalled that in the mid-1990s Prince told him he had taken time off for the first time.

"He said, 'never in my career have I taken a week where I didn't write a song and pick up my guitar.'"

The release of Prince's vast trove of music remains a sensitive subject; the superstar was controlling of his work, image, and carefully constructed enigmatic persona. Doing right by him is no small challenge.

Previously the estate has re-released expanded versions of Prince's milestone albums, like "1999" and "Sign O' The Times," along with demos of songs he wrote that eventually became other artists' hits.

Prince was never clear about his intentions for his unheard work, but he had taken steps to preserve his tapes, films, scripts and music along with his Paisley Park compound, leading his estate -- run by his sister and five half-siblings -- to believe he wanted it shared.

Asked by Rolling Stone in 2014 what he wanted to come of his oeuvre after he was gone, Prince himself was characteristically nebulous.

"I don't think about 'gone.'"

[oftorchwood-blog]

headcanon: 004

the holiday season with Torchwood 2

        Lukas goes home back to his family in Sweden. Christmas to New Year is part of the holiday time he allots himself all year: he forces himself to work constantly so he can take the time off to be with his mother and father. 

They pack up and drive to Hammarstrand, where his mother’s family is from, where they have a small house for the holiday season. Leading up to the holiday Lukas and his father go hunting and catch up while his mother prefers to start baking right away. 

On Christmas Eve they share dinner together just the three of them and exchange small gifts. On Christmas Day they go to his aunt’s home with the entire extended family. Cousins upon cousins upon cousins (Lukas is the only “only child” in the family). They roughhouse, catch up, and usually Lukas has to get flack for working for a foreign government in a “think tank” and being more British than Swedish, which does sting, but he never lets it show. They exchange gifts and have a large dinner and usually end up too drunk to drive home, which leads up to Lukas waking on the floor with his sweatshirt tucked under his head as a pillow and three different kinds of feet somewhere in the vicinity of his face. 

Luckily all of his cousins are near his age so they get on pretty well, but since they’ve started having kids it makes it hard on him, who will always be a Crazy Uncle but will never be a crazy father.

more Torchwood 2 members under the cut, because I ramble (edited to include @torchwoodstheorist​‘s headcanons involving Seoras’ twin)

        Camille can’t avoid the obligation of going home to London for her parents’ fifty-billion Christmas Benefits. Her team mates, who know nothing of her family’s wealth, think she goes on a different retreat for techno-geeks in Europe each year. Instead she is forced to dress up and smile for her family’s rich friends. Though she is financially independent from them she does love them and only hates the establishment which wealthy people like her family continue to construct. 

She spends her Christmas week at galas and benefits, carefully avoiding cameras and old fuddy-duddies who ask her what she’s doing at university. It takes her a lot of champagne and Christmas cookies not to tell them what she actually does for a living just to stop the snide look in the middle of their wrinkles. Camille usually ends up in the kitchens, getting on with the staff and stealing nibbles. 

On Christmas Day her mother, father, older sister, and two older brothers all get together in their home and exchange impersonal gifts. They aren’t very close, but each are excelling in their own fields.

        Greer used to visit with his older sister who lived in Glasgow. Married with three kids, she always offered, but it wasn’t until he was officially posted in Glasgow that he decided to take her up on the offer. Their parents died when Greer was a young man, and directly after his relationship with her has always been a difficult one, but he wanted to try and mend that gap he created. 

It was a simple Christmas; dinner and presents on Christmas Eve, church on Christmas Day, Christmas crackers and the like. He never really strayed from his usual stuffy persona, but he was always Uncle Greer with the Best Gifts.

        Up until the Battle of Canary Wharf, Seoras and Jonathan would join Ashley and Natasha (who came up from London) for an awkward not-Christmas more-friends gift exchange and dinner. There was a tiny Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the corner and Lukas would even skype in for a few hours and somehow still won at Monopoly despite not actually being there. 

When Natasha died, they joined Ashley in solidarity. When Jonathan died, Ashley and Seoras would get together and watch terrible movies. They wouldn’t even put up the miniature tree.

Every year Seoras’ sister would invite them back up to Inverness to spend the holidays with their parents and her son, but they politely declined in favor of being there for Ashley, who had no one.

        When Ricky came around, everyone operated under the assumption that he would be flying back to the States for Christmas. On the 22nd of December their official Holiday Season begins: Lukas leaves on a morning flight for Sweden, Camille heads down to London, and Greer runs a diagnostic check before taking his car to the other side of the city. 

When Seoras actually bothers to ask Ricky when his flight is, he admits he wasn’t planning on going back to the States. Seoras then runs down to autopsy and smacks Ashley’s arm until she actually starts to pay attention, and they both come to the conclusion that they will brush off the Charlie Brown tree and make their new team mate feel at home. 

It isn’t until all three of them are at Ashley’s flat and Seoras is midway through acquiring every single Christmas movie in existence that Ricky asks them if they know he’s Jewish and that Hanukkah had already started and ended; he and his family decided it would be more cost-effective for him to just get his presents in the mail, and he hadn’t asked Lukas for the time off. Which turns into the same-old same-old movie marathon, sans Christmas theme, but the Charlie Brown tree is just too familiar to be put back in the box.

The next year Ricky goes home for Hanukkah, but the year after he decides to just stay with his team. He never explains why.

        When the Godtier fully possesses Greer no one knows what to do. They can’t let him go to Greer’s family, and the being is afraid to deal with such raw human emotion anyway. Ashley, Seoras, and Ricky offer to take him back with them for their festivities since the being doesn’t know much about human holiday customs anyway. It’s awkward, and difficult getting the Godtier to sit still and shut up when George Bailey runs through the streets of Bedford Falls screaming how happy he is to be alive, but to Ashley and Seoras it feels like having a family again.

        On New Years Eve everyone but Lukas gathers in the Base for drinking and laughing and who can pin the tentacle on the alien corpse. Even the Godtier enjoys the jokes and blowing the air horn hours before midnight. Lukas celebrates the New Year with his parents, then goes online to video call in for the British New Year an hour later. hopefully, they all agree, this year will be better than the last.

(It never is)

[afishtrap]

Tugh Temuiir's appearance in the newly fashioned imperial costume took place at the Kuizhangge, a new government organ that functioned somewhat like a private library. Several scholarly studies of the Kuizhangge provide us with a rich picture of its history and organization; research by Chiang I-han, Fu Shen, Marsha Weidner [Haufler], and Kanda Kiichiro has resulted in the partial reconstruction of the art collection stored there.6 These researchers' inventories consist of both surviving artworks bearing Tugh Temiir's seals and/or inscriptions by Kuizhangge personnel, as well as paintings associated with the Kuizhangge only in textual sources. Poetic inscriptions for particular paintings in his collection appear in Yuan collectanea (wenji) under titles that explicitly state that they were written at Tugh Temiir's command (yingzhi). These surviving poems contain rich iconographic readings of the paintings and point to the essential functions of collecting and "enjoying" art at Tugh Temiur's court; however, no extended analysis of the paintings or inscriptions has been published. This article aims to fill that gap.

Ankeney Weitz, Art and Politics at the Mongol Court of China: Tugh Temür's Collection of Chinese Paintings, Artibus Asiae, Vol. 64, No. 2 (2004), pp. 243-280.

Art historians have generally taken a somewhat narrow view of the Kuizhangge, seeing it simply as a center for the promotion of Chinese art and culture at the Mongol court. In recent literature, the Kuizhangge has been depicted as a latter-day equivalent of Song Emperor Huizong's (I082-II35) famous art studio and library, the Xuanhedian.7 Indeed, allusions to Emperor Huizong and his art pepper the documentary history of the Kuizhangge, and the fourteenth-century scholars intentionally invoked Huizong as an imperial model in order to position the viewing of paintings as a leisure activity, a diversion from the more serious business of collating thejingshi dadian, an 880-volume tome documenting the administrative acts of the previous Yuan emperors.8

Nonetheless, these same scholars functioned in an environment of political instability. Mid-Yuan court politics were plagued with factional tensions between groups of bureaucrats (of all ethnicities - Chinese, Mongolian, and various Central Asian groups), "usually in alliance with groups of imperial [Mongol] princes. "9 During Tugh Temiir's reign, two senior officials, the Qipchaq El Temtir (d. I333) and his ally Bayan of the Merkid tribe (d. 1340), deftly manipulated the frictions between the various groups, thereby weakening the factions' power and increasing their own dominance. By arrogating most of the power in their own hands, the two turned Tugh Temiir into a figurehead, an imperial symbol whose integrity needed to be manifest to keep the empire intact.10 The loyal officials of the Kuizhangge were called upon to create an image of imperial legitimacy, a service they performed through cultural endeavors, including the appreciation of paintings.

[...]

The coup d'etat and civil war that brought Tugh Temtir to the throne in 1328 had a direct bearing on the construction and development of his imperialp ersona.1T2 he seeds of the conflict originated in the 1307 succession struggle between Khubilai Khan's (Shizu, r. I260-1I294) two great-grandsons, Khaishan (Wuzong, r. I307-I31I, Tugh Temiir's father) and Ayurbarwada (Renzong, r. 1311-1320, his uncle). The ultimate selection of Khaishan, "a military hero from the steppes ... [who] behaved like a nomadic chieftain,"13ca me with the proviso that his younger brother,A yurbarwada,b e designated heir apparent. Thus, upon the death of Khaishani n 1311A, yurbarwadap eaceablya scendedt he throne. The agreement of I307, however, had not clearly specified the line of succession after Ayurbarwada, and soon several contenders and their supporters began maneuvering for position.

For the next twelve years Ayurbarwada and his descendents ruled the country, and they successfully removed Khaishan's sons - Khoshila (Mingzong, r. I329) and his younger brother Tugh Temtir - from the political scene by banishing them to distant corners of the empire. In 1316, Khoshila was exiled to the southwestern hinterlands in Yunnan Province; however, he managed to escape to the northern steppe where he lived as a political refugee at the court of the Chaghatai Khanate. Five years later, the reigning emperor sent Tugh Temiir to Hainan, a subtropical island off the southern coast of China. From these remote outposts, they witnessed the murder of Ayurbarwada's son (Shidebala, Yingzong, r. 132I-I323) by a disgruntled group of Central Asian aristocrats and Mongol princes. His successor, Yesun Temiir (r. 1323-1328) attempted to appease his imperial relatives by bestowing gifts and land. He also recalled Tugh Temtir from Hainan.

[...]

In 1328, Yesun Temiir died, and El Temiir staged the coup that successfully installed Tugh Temuir on the throne. This audacious move touched off a short, but bitter, civil war that effectively consolidated E1Tl emtir's power.15A s E1Tl emuir'sp uppet, Tugh Temiir "controlled"t he seals of the imperial office; however, his older brother, Khoshila, still held a competing claim to the throne. Seeking to avoid a direct confrontation with Khoshila, Tugh Temiir abdicated in his brother's favor in the second month of I329, an act that later served as an example of Tugh Temiir's Confucian piety.

Six months later, in the eighth month of I329, the two long-estranged brothers met in Inner Mongolia and held a great banquet to celebrate the occasion. Four days later, Khoshila was dead. The official annals cite unnatural events as the cause of his demise, and most historians have presumed that El Temiir poisoned him. For his part, Tugh Temiir wasted no time in ascending the throne once more, and his sponsors (El Temiir and Bayan) never bothered to call the traditional assembly of Mongol princes (khuriltai) to decide the rightful succession.16 El Temiir's military successes had made this fundamental Mongolian institution obsolete.

Tugh Temiir's climb to the throne over his brother's dead body and without princely sanction was untenable in both the Chinese Confucian tradition of statecraft and in the Mongolian military-political order.17 Power struggles plagued his reign; his supporters uncovered eight plots on his life led by rival factions in the imperial family. Langlois contends that Tugh Temiir's urgent need of the "veneer of legitimacy" was answered by El Temiir's creation of an ambitious campaign to endow Tugh Temuir with a new persona: enlightened Confucian sage ruler.18T his choice was almost inevitable, since not only had El Temiir thrown in his lot with a large "Confucian" bureaucratic faction in order to win its support for the coup, but Tugh Temiir's own residence in southern China had instilled in him Chinese cultural habits (later encouraged by his wife and mother-in-law) and Confucian ideals of statecraft. The use of Confucianv alues by the "restoration"f action both elicited the continued support of the bureaucracya nd provided Tugh Temiir's court with useful symbolic tools. For instance, in a series of memorials his officials drew attention to his earlier abdication in Khoshila's favor as proof of his familial loyalty and brotherly humility.19 In studying these texts, Langlois argues that the invocation of Confucian vocabulary and institutions at Tugh Temiir's court was largely propaganda designed to legitimate the emperor's authority.20

[...]

Yu Ji, a major figure in the Kuizhangge, elaborated on the emperor's edict, announcing that the Kuizhangge scholars should:

provide explanations about the learnsa nd the ways of rkeiansgosn, s the for prosperity and failure, for attainment and loss, so that [these things] could serve as admonishments [for the emperor] .27 [Text B ]

The Kuizhangge scholars churned out reams of Confucian materials - edicts written on behalf of the emperor, memorials, translations, records, and poems - designed in large part to convince the bureaucracy of the legitimacy of the imperial succession.28

To disseminate the carefully constructed imperial image, the Kuizhangge hired stone carvers to engrave the most important documents on steles; for instance, officials snatched up ink rubbings of Yu Ji's laudatory "Record of the Kuizhangge, " said to be written out by Tugh Temiir himself.29 The recipients of the officially printed Kuizhangge "propaganda" consisted of members of the court, as well as the greater bureaucracy. In a number of public documents circulating during and after Tugh Temiir's reign, Chinese officials represented the emperor's cultural leanings as a sign of his sage administration. 30U nofficial rumorsa bout the emperor'sa ctivities in the Kuizhangge also spreadt he desired representation of Tugh Temiir as a morally righteous ruler.31

[alltheworldsrpg-blog]

ADONIS PETYR | THE HOLO | CENTAURIAN | 26

You were chosen by the Centuarian people, albeit from a roster of few, but chosen nonetheless. Succeeding Luther should be child’s play, your ambitions large and hard to sate. You’ve developed a persona of sorts, the quiet one, thoughtful and diligent in their work. Truthfully, you plan to take Earth for yourself, maybe the other planets as well. Your rule has no bounds and everyone is for the taking. 

BIOGRAPHY

Your life is not your own. It is the first lesson you learn.

You were something made to propel everyone else into the great unknowns of the future, bringing about altruistic change to the world that you’d grown up on. You were to be of great importance, your parents said, a child whose destiny was to be part of something that could give rise to a new age that would tip the fates of many. You were the promise of a Starweaver to your parents, and you were going to deliver on that, whether you liked it or not.

You learned the cost of a new world early on–an assemblage of teachers, of tutors and groomers that would make you into a Chosen that the people deserved, that Proxima deserved. They built you up and stripped you down in to be who they wanted you to be. The golden child, the savior, the foothold in politics, and when they were done, they marveled at who you were, a child scrubbed clean of his identity. After that, the dream soured into a nightmare, making it feel like servitude–forced indenture, rather than a choice you would have gladly made for yourself. But you smile, and grin, and bear it because there is no other choice to make.

At least, for now.

Like Atlas, you bore the weight of everything on your shoulders, of a destiny from a Starweaver, of the pressure from your parents to run and be the Chosen, even the people who never met you, but expected you to save them from themselves even though you wanted nothing more than to be one of the men who waited for deliverance. It was tiring, walking up to people and putting on facade after facade, only having moments to discard it and resent ever having to put a mask on before walking around and shaking hands and answering questions once more.

You felt the cracks on your face, on the carefully manufactured visage that they had constructed for yourself, weathered and worn, until the bubbling from the inside had to be released somehow, for fear you would burst from the sheer pressure. Haunting bars, haunting people in the dark of night was one of the only ways you could maintain everything thrown at you, shore up the supports for the cracks in your foundation. It was intoxicating, to say the least, always coming back for more under another name and another guise just to relax and live a life that seemed better than yours.

As the years leading up to the election went by, resentment grew and blackened within your heart because you were–you are more than what they made you to be, an obedient puppet, serving the whims of the people that you should so dearly think of. But in your bones, you knew that you were never meant to bend the knee or serve the masses, but to rule over them with sweet words and a sweeter tongue.

( You remember winning by a mere thousand votes–crocodile tears on the stand, hugging your opponent as a show of good faith, and you deliver your speech with the hammering of your heart inside your chest. It is good, you think, to show them emotion while you still have your plan in the works. Win their hearts over and they will bow down and smile when they do it.

And for a second, you feel yourself again, show through the cracks–even just for a while. )

Playing Luther’s protege did take some getting used to, the new impositions and rules chafing into your skin as if they were chaining you to the floor, but you managed to pull through, enjoying the little diplomatic acts that they had done for themselves on a regular basis. You were going to be in it for the long haul, you thought, as every board meeting, every public appearance, ever last one of Luther’s missions to some backwater place had to make you think of what to do when he was going to step down.

But this time, you control the moves you were going to set into place, the pace you were going to go, and you feel yourself return to something greater, something meant to wear a crown and preside over the masses. You smile and nod to the public as your mentor watches you at your periphery, a subtle glance, as if he hears the whispers of those in power and believes them. ( For a petty old fool, he knows how to listen, you’ll give him that. )

Though you watch as he self-destructs before you, his impartial leanings towards the masses making them walk into his arms every second he gets up on that pulpit, or consults with a foreign leader, and you barely have to lift a finger. You watch and laugh in private, for Luther was an age long past, and you are the harbinger of a brighter future.

( Once, you asked a Starweaver under cover of night, in cloak and hood, if what you wanted was going to come true. They smiled at you, a tense smile, full of nervousness and worry, and told you that if he was going to let himself be what they wanted to be, it would. If he was going to.

But if recent events have shown you, that’s not really a question for you anymore. Not really.

And with Luther, it wasn’t ever a question of if you would take the helm anymore—it was a question of when. )

CONNECTIONS

THE EON: An elder of Tau is an interesting perspective to hear and they seem most eager to share their knowledge. Their own royal clearly lacking, they’ve turned to your ear instead. You might only be pretending to care, but they seem enamored either way. You’ve so perfectly fooled them, it’s almost humorous. 

THE ZENITH: Your guard knows more about you than you’d like, knows your true aim in life. You’d cut them out in an instant, if it wasn’t for the role you have to play to stay in power. Betrayal from them is right around the corner, you can feel it, so all you can do is play the part of the victim. It’s worked for everything else in your life, after all. 

THE NOVA: In the past, leaders have looked to star-weavers for guidance, to find the right path, but it’s unnecessary for your reign. They seem to know they’ve been cast aside, but don’t seem willingly to act upon it. That’s fine with you, it just makes your rise to power easier.

THE HOLO IS PORTRAYED BY KIM WOO-BIN AND IS  CLOSED