#what is it about house stark that absolves them from being held to the same standard as other houses

[daenerys-targaryen-moved]

I think what bugs me most about the asoiaf fandom in general is that there is this moral hierarchy when it comes to House Stark. As if Ned Stark being honorable meant that the entire house is clean and pure and perfect when they’re not any better or worse than any other house. Stark stans have really bought into this mindset that House Stark is the purest house and that they’re not at fault for anything or they’re deserving of independence simply because they suffered, when plenty of other houses have suffered and don’t have their independence? It really does drive me up a wall and it’s partially why I have such a hard time finding people who love house Stark to be friends with. They make big talk about how Daenerys Targaryens are colonizers and completely bi-pass or just ignore the fact that the First Men and House Stark literally by definition colonized the Children of the Forest. They hunted them, they killed them, they forced them out of their homeland, they forced them to either change religions / faith or die. Meanwhile Daenerys herself doesn’t force people to leave their homelands, meanwhile Daenerys adapts to other cultures by learning their languages, their faith, wearing their clothes, following their practices and traditions. And Daenerys is called a colonizer? The Starks/ the North get a by pass for their blatant xenophobia towards the Children of the Forest and the Wildlings? They get a free-be because ‘They don’t trust outsiders”, which is literally an excuse for xenophobia? The Starklings get a pass from being descendants of colonizers, but Daenerys doesn’t?

I love the Starks, two of the Starklings are a part of my top 5 favorite characters, but I just hate how even in the big name fans in this fandom hold Daenerys/ House Targaryen to a different standard than the Starklings/House Stark and I just ask why? If the Starks aren’t to blame for their ancestors crimes, then why is Daenerys? If the Starks aren’t showing signs of madness for being harsh towards their enemies, finding strength in their sigils ect, then why is Daenerys? If the Starks aren’t destined to go mad due to one member of their house having ‘madness’, then why is Daenerys?

It’s just frustrating that House Stark and especially Stark stans think themselves morally superior to any other House when GRRM has actively written them to be ‘just as grey’ as everyone else, yet the fandom as a whole really just forgets that or turns a blind eye to it?

[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

Desecrated Host

Case: 0113005-B

Name: Father Edwin Burroughs Subject: His claimed demonic possession Date: May 30th, 2011 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

It was the first time I had experienced anything like that. By this point I was starting to suspect that I may have been having hallucinations of some sort, but I had never before felt a... a presence within myself, inside my being. It was a feeling so utterly awful it’s hard to put it into words. Like a reflex reaction, your muscles moving without any instruction from your mind, but rather than a quick twitch of the leg, it’s a slow movement of your jaw, your lips, forming your mouth into words. Worse things were to come, of course, but I don’t think any of them were so profoundly unsettling as that feeling.

I only got a few streets away from Hill Top Road before I was no longer able to maintain my equilibrium and fell to the floor, violently throwing up. I could not deny then that there was something inside me, and I believed that whatever it was had entered me from Bethany O’Connor. I tried to pray, tried to cast my mind to G– I couldn’t. As I tried, my throat closed and I struggled to breathe. I lay on the side of the pavement, and I wept. Wiping my eyes, I took out my Bible, and looked desperately within it for comfort but when I opened it, though the page was within the Gospel of Luke, the words were from Genesis: “Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.”

Around that passage the writing morphed and swam before my eyes. And wherever there were words that might give me comfort, I found them obscured by dark stains. The bile began to rise within my throat again, and I desperately wanted to hurl the book away from me. I held it, though, for just a moment before I placed the small volume once again in my jacket. It took more willpower than I could have believed, but I kept it. I stood up shakily, and staggered back to the presbytery.

I slept for a long time, and missed morning Mass, saying I was feeling unwell. It wasn’t a lie, of course; I just lay there for hours. There seemed a safety in stillness, as though inaction could do no harm. It was the first good decision I had made, and there isn’t day goes by I don’t curse myself for ever rising from that bed. Nobody bothered me – I think word had gotten round that I was having a difficult time and they were almost certainly trying to decide who would be best to talk to me, or even whether to ask the Bishop to intervene.

I decided that I needed to talk to Father Singh. I didn’t think that he would be able to help me, but he was at least familiar with Bethany O’Connor’s case. Perhaps he might have some insight into what was happening. I tried to find him quickly – the faces on each crucifix and painting I passed seemed to twist and sneer at me as I walked and my head was throbbing. The painted blood glistened as though still wet. I’m glad I didn’t encounter anyone, for I was staggering so much they would likely have thought I was drunk.

Finally I found Father Singh in the small chapel. He seemed surprised to see me and as I approached, his face fell and he backed away ever so slightly. I can’t imagine how bad I must have looked to get such a reaction from him, but I sat next to him anyway. I began to talk, to tell him everything that had happened. He remained silent as I spoke, until I began to talk about the exorcism I had tried to perform on Bethany. He held up his hand, and asked if I’d prefer to speak about it in confession. I was momentarily confused, and asked him what sin he felt I had committed. He looked at me, and I swear there was almost a smile on his face when he spoke. “Spiritual pride,” he said, “that has led to quite a fall.”

Unsettled though I was at his attitude, I could not deny that he was right. I agreed, and we left the chapel. Soon I was giving my account as a full confession, and I could not keep from crying as I described what happened when I attempted to lay a blessing upon that house on Hill Top Road. I finished my account, and waited for Father Singh to speak of my penance or absolution. Instead, he paused for a few moments, then said, “No, your sins are deeper than that.” And he began to list them.

Every transgression I had made since I was six years old. The disabled child I had bullied in primary school, the time I stole money from my mother’s purse to buy cigarettes, the indiscretions I had had at the seminary. All of them. I had confessed them each before and been absolved, but not to Father Singh, and to hear them thrown back in my face as such a stark list of wickedness rattled me deeply. I noticed something else as he spoke: Father Singh only emigrated from Jaipur a decade or so before I met him, and he had always had quite a strong accent but the voice that spoke now to read my litany of wrongdoing had no trace of it. It was a clipped and crisp RP accent, though in tone it seemed to match that of my friend.

I leapt to my feet and ran from the room, and towards the front door. I needed to get out, to get somewhere I could breathe. In the hallway I ran past two other priests, who looked more worried than ever. One of them was Father Singh.

It was dark when I left the presbytery. I had no idea where I was going or why; I just had the desperate need to be somewhere else. The streets of Oxford should have been full of drunken students at that time on a Sunday night, at least, I thought it was Sunday, but they were almost deserted. Occasionally, I would see figures standing or walking at the end of the narrow streets, but they were shadowy, silhouetted against what little light there was, and were always gone when I approached. I tried once again to pray but the words died on my tongue. I have never felt despair on the sheer scale I did at that moment.

The streets of Oxford are winding, and speak to the age of the place, but I had lived there for no small amount of time and knew them well. That night, though, it was as though I had never walked them before. I saw roads that I had travelled a hundred times, but they seemed different, my eyes focusing on details I had never before marked, and at each turn I found I did not know where I was going or what place it would take me to. The world I knew had become alien to me, and I simply didn’t know what to do.

Finally, I found myself in front of The Oratory on Woodstock Road. The church’s large round window shifted as I watched, as though it were a tremendous eye that were turning to focus upon me. The door was open and from within, a warm light spilled out. Even in the depths of my – I suppose you could call it mania – there was something comforting about that light. A man appeared at the door. He was tall and pale, and dressed as an altar server.

I walked up to him. My vision was blurred, though I could not tell you whether it was my state of mind at the time or simply that I was crying. I should have known that something was wrong. I did know that something was wrong, but it didn’t matter. I had no fight left within me, so when he told me that it was time for Mass, I simply nodded and followed.

He led me through the church. It was bright, so bright. Candles covered every surface, each glowing so powerfully that I could barely look directly at them. The layout was how I remembered, but the pews were all empty, and I could see none of the statues or crosses that I expected. The man led me unresisting into the vestry, where I found my cassock and stole laid out in front of me. The stole was not green as I would have expected for a normal Sunday mass, nor was it violet or red or any other liturgical colour. Instead it was a pale, sickly yellow. I felt the eyes of the altar server upon my back, and dressed quickly.

At that moment the bell rang to mark the start of the mass. It was a single, jarring tone that cut through the air and made me almost double over in pain, so badly did it pierce into my pounding skull. I regained myself, gripping the thin, bony arm of the altar server, and walked out into the church. The pews were full now. Row upon row of people, far more than had ever before attended a mass that I had said. Each was dressed in black from head to toe, and their skin was fevered, jaundiced yellow. The eyes of every man, woman and child stared blankly forward, and their mouths hung open, wide and smiling, like their jaws had locked in silent rictus.

I could have left. I know that now. I know that my will and my actions were my own, and even at the time I knew that what I was seeing was so wrong. So very wrong but... it didn’t feel like at the time I could have made any other choice. Even in that strange place, stared at by hellish parishioners I must have known weren’t really there. G–... Forgive me, even then, I thought to find some comfort in the liturgy. The odd smelling incense swirled about me from the altar server’s brazier and my head swam with a scent that felt so familiar, yet so foreign.

Finally, I stood before the altar and began the mass. I was surprised as I spoke, and the holy names slipped from my mouth without hesitation, but the congregation I addressed were quiet, and each pause for a response was met with only that oppressive, wide-mouthed silence, a jarring void that tightened the fear I felt gripping my soul. When the Liturgy of the Word began, I watched in silent dread as the altar server stepped to the pulpit to deliver the first reading. He stood there, dark eyes scanning the open bible, before he raised his head and looked up as though to speak, but all that came from his throat was the single tolling sound of that bell, and my head pulsed in pain. The same thing happened for the second reading, that long, drawn out chime.

Then came the reading of the Gospel. I walked to the pulpit myself, and saw the passage indicated was Mark, chapter 9, verses 14-19. I began to try and read it, but my voice was gone and from my own mouth came the sound of that bell. I fell to the floor, but no-one moved to help me.

Eventually I was able to stand again, and a dull panic began to rise within me as I realised that next came the Liturgy of the Eucharist. The thought of these people, these things, taking the body of J– taking the sacrament of Holy Communion felt like the direst of blasphemies. I didn’t stop, though. I didn’t know what else to do, and my mind was swimming with the sound of the bell and the collective horror of all the things that I had seen and felt.

The altar server brought me the communion wafers and the wine, and I took them. My hands felt strange and clammy as I held them, but I brought them to the altar and began to speak. This time my words came out crisp and clear, and as I said them I noticed fewer and fewer of the parishioners seemed to be in the pews. Hope began to rise within me as it seemed the words would work to banish these jaundiced watchers and I pressed on. Finally, the pews were empty, and my heart soared as I turned towards the tabernacle to retrieve the rest of the Host.

It was strange, the rich cloth curtain that covered that ornate metal box seemed stuck, so I pulled and pulled and eventually it came free. I opened the door and retrieved the Host, returning it to the altar. Then I... I lifted it to my mouth, and I ate. It did not taste as I expected.

I’m sure you’ve guessed the reality of what it was I was eating. I don’t even know where I was, some dingy basement from what it seemed when the light fell from my eyes and I returned to reality. At least, I assume this is reality. I dream, sometimes, that perhaps this is the illusion – my arrest and imprisonment merely a hallucination. That I’m not a murdering cannibal.

It doesn’t matter. At that moment, seeing those bound corpses before me, I made the decision to take no action ever again. I will not commit the further sin of ending my life, but I sat there until the police came. I pled guilty to all the charges they laid before me, and now here I am, doubting everything I see and hear. I do worry about the state of my soul, of course, but there is little to be done. My old colleagues have come by on occasion, and even the Bishop once, but it doesn’t help. Whatever they may be actually be saying, all I can hear is the sound of the bell.

Thank you for your time.

Archivist Notes:

As it turns out the second part of this statement was simply misfiled in the next folder, which was useful, although it does beg the question of who was reading it last? Martin is still absent, but Tim and Sasha both swear they haven’t seen it before. Was my predecessor reading it at some point? That seems unlikely given the state of the place; I find it hard to credit the idea that Gertrude Robinson actually read any of these files. Still, it’s hardly our biggest concern.

It’s difficult to know where to begin with a statement like this. If the person giving their testimony is unable to distinguish the real and the unreal, that doesn’t usually bode well for anyone trying to find evidence. Let us begin with Bethany O’Connor. From what Sasha could find in the records of St. Hugh’s College, she was indeed a student with them, studying archaeology, matriculating in 2008. Everything Father Burroughs says about her faith, her hospitalisation and her death appears to match up with official records. However, college records appear to list her as one of the students living in halls during her second year, rather than in an off-campus house, and it was a porter who she attacked with a kitchen knife, rather than a housemate. In fact, according to the letting agent, there was no-one living at 89 Bullingdon Road that year, so whatever Bethany was doing in that house, it wasn’t living there legally. 

Father Burroughs’ old colleagues from the Church certainly remember his falling apart following the failed exorcism. They were apparently in the process of talking to the Bishop to get him some help when the ‘culminating incident’ occurred that led to his incarceration. Prior to meeting Bethany O’Connor, none of them had anything but the highest praise for the man. 

As for the incident itself, Father Burroughs was found in one of the back rooms of 89 Bullingdon Road. He was wearing a butcher’s apron and sat in front of two students, Christopher Bilham and James Mann. They were both tied to chairs and quite dead. Cause of death was listed as blood loss from multiple lacerations all over their legs and torso, as well as removal of both their faces with a sharp blade, possibly a scalpel. The face of James Mann was found to have been partially eaten by Father Burroughs. He pled guilty to all charges brought before him and is currently serving two life sentences at Wakefield Prison, though HMPS refused our request for a follow-up interview. 

What interests me is the paralleling of Father Burroughs’ climactic hallucination with reality, and the fact that at no point did he perform any actions that might be analogous with the binding and actual murder of the students. Also, it strikes me that the altar server he described seems out of place with most of his other delusions, in that he appeared to have active agency, which is uncharacteristic for these visions the priest describes. Finally, there is the small detail mentioned in the police report that none of the tools used to kill or mutilate the victims were found at the scene. This all leads me to believe that there may have been a second person there that night, although from talking with the police, I get the impression that there is little appetite for re-opening the case, considering how successful the initial prosecution was. 

There’s one other detail Tim uncovered that sticks out to me. It’s a name I recognise, though I have no idea what it could mean. The Oratory was obviously not the actual scene of Father Burroughs’ crimes, but there was one strange thing that happened a few days prior. They received delivery of a pale yellow stole, which apparently vanished less than a day after they signed for it. This would be unusual, but not necessarily noteworthy, if it wasn’t for fact that one of the deacons recalled the package was handed to them by a company called Breekon and Hope Deliveries.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 20 Desecrated Host)

[thebattlecontinuesafterwarisover]

#SinsOfTrust

Daphne Greengrass. She had always been beautiful and even smart, but as a member of Pansy Parkinson’s group of mean girls, I had steered well clear of her throughout our years at Hogwarts.

But things change once you’re out in the real world. People change. And somehow those social lines that divide people become less important. We come to realize that we have a lot more in common than ways in which we differ.

But maybe I’m just speaking for myself.

I spend my entire adolescence working under the assumption that the only bad wizards were Slytherin, and that no one good could possibly come from that house. Those illusions were shattered when I learned the truth about Severus, and I came to have empathy and compassion for a lot of the Slytherin house members when I realized that many of them were acting under orders from their parents, thinking they were doing what they had to in order to fit in or to please their families. And I also saw that people from other houses could be corrupted as well. Percy Weasley, for example, came from my own house, but he turned into a sycophant for the Ministry. Whatever his reasons, I learned that those stark lines of good and evil weren’t so clearly defined after all. Even Malfoy, who had been my enemy all through school turned out to be someone I could understand, and while we would probably never be good friends, I could see he wasn’t the villain I had always taken him for. He’d been a frightened boy, abused by his father, and looking back, I wondered if things could have been different for him if only on that first day I had become his friend rather than pushing him away, if he hadn’t felt so isolated and alone.

That’s why I had made a point of trying to reach out to former Slytherins, trying to integrate them back into the rest of the wizarding community. If we were ever going to learn and grow from our past mistakes and move forward into a united future for all wizardkind, then we needed to be reaching out with forgiveness and understanding, not blaming one another. Some people didn’t want that, however. They wanted to keep people isolated into partisan camps, deepening the divide and pointing fingers.

In that spirit of reconciliation, I met with Daphne Greengrass for tea. I had been interviewing young people whose parents had sided with Voldemort, reaching out to them to see if they could be brought to see that those prejudices needed to be overcome.

She had been quiet. Contrite, even. Clasping her hands in her lap nervously and frightened of looking me in the eye.

“I’m not here to punish you, Daphne. I know your parents were loyal to Voldemort, and we might have been on opposite sides of what happened, but I also know we didn’t all feel like we had choices either. I didn’t. I suspect you didn’t either. We were placed into our houses and divided by the prejudices of the past, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. There’s no reason we can’t set all that aside and get to know one another without all that baggage.”

At that, she had looked up with wide eyes through long lashes, and her cheeks had flushed a little as I saw the first genuine smile on her face I think I’d ever witnessed.

“I’d like that,” she’d said simply, and reached out a hand to take mine across the table. “I’d like that very much.”

From that point on, she and I had been open and honest with one another, and it was refreshing. She was charming, even shy at first though as we talked I could see her bloom right before my eyes. Soon we were talking as though we were old friends, laughing together in a way Ginny and I never did. Though I couldn’t help feeling guilty about it, I’d always thought Daphne was attractive, but she’d always been in a different sphere from mine, and I had fully expected never to actually know her. It turned out, she’d felt the same way about me, and we had a good laugh about that too.

People make excuses when they have an affair. They tend to use phrases like “It just happened” as though somehow they are absolved of responsibility for having chosen to cheat.

What happened between Daphne and I didn’t “just happen.” We both chose it. Looking into one another’s eyes, we admitted to having felt an interest and an attraction. A spark. There was something there. Something undeniable. Could we have chosen to ignore it? Of course. But the truth is neither of us wanted to.

Ginny had been the second girl I ever kissed. She had been my best friend’s little sister. She had a hero complex about me that stemmed from childhood and had only intensified after the incident with the Chamber of Secrets. We had fought together and from that had formed an attachment. But I found that in many ways, she didn’t really know me. She loved the idea of me, the image of me she’d held since she was little, but once our lives were settled and the wizarding world was more at peace, once we didn’t have a common enemy to focus on and were left with one another in the day to day of a marriage, there wasn’t really a center to what was holding us together. We didn’t have a core friendship to give us strength. I could never measure up to her ideals of what it would mean to be the wife of “The Boy Who Lived.” The truth was that I was just me, with failings just like everyone else. But Ginny couldn’t bear to reconcile those two ideas, and so I came to feel I could never measure up to her expectations.

Daphne never made me feel that way. She took me as I was, as an equal, with all my flaws and foibles. And I felt like she truly saw me for /me/, not as some ideal and not colored with fantasies of what I ought to be like. It was freeing, not having that sort of pressure. I could relax around her. I didn’t have to be perfect.

Perhaps that is what she felt about me too. I saw her in her own right, not as a projection of her parents’ expectations.

Starting the affair with her felt natural. I make no excuses. I have none to give. Moreover, I didn’t want to. The time I spent with Daphne made me happy. Neither of us were prepared to break with our spouses. We both liked the secretive, private  nature of our relationship. We didn’t need it to be anything more or different. We talked once about me leaving Ginny and the two of us running off together, but in the end we agreed neither of us truly wanted that. Daphne didn’t want to be the subject of gossip any more than I did, and there was no situation in which being with me could ever be completely without scrutiny, no matter what. My every move would always be watched by the paparazzi, as my relationship with Ginny showed. When she and I went to dinner, the event was front page news. Imagine the field day the papers would have if I left Ginny. Daphne didn’t want to be the wife, or even the mistress, of someone famous. She just wanted to be with me, Harry. To her, I wasn’t “The Boy Who Lived” but the man she loved, and that was a huge difference to both of us. I couldn’t force her to be in my world, and I didn’t wish that on her. She was too reserved a person to handle that kind of invasion of privacy.

I’d be lying if I said Daphne was the first woman I had strayed with. There were others. Women who had made a point of throwing themselves at me because of who I was. It was as though in sleeping with me, they were able to touch a piece of history. And my young ego had been flattered. At least until I realized they didn’t see me. I was a persona to them, not a person. A name and an ideal and an image based on things they’d heard about me. They were satisfying a curiosity.

Not so with Daphne, however, and once our affair had begun, I stopped seeing any of the others.

Daphne was my passion. Because of her, I was willing to reach out to other former Slytherins. People who had been Voldemort’s acolytes. She convinced me there was a chance to bring us all together, that I was the one who could do it, and I wanted to prove her right. I wanted to show her that the trust she had in me was warranted. She gave me a sense of purpose again, and one that I’d felt I was sorely missing.║

[baw74fanfic]

Chapter 8 - Status Quo?

After rinsing off first, Jingyu called room service to ask for a clean set of sheets, and stripped the bed himself. He always felt slightly guilty about not taking more care when he and Zhou Zhou have sex, but tipping the waitstaff well usually absolved that guilt. It was a great deal better than when their sexual escapades occurred at Weizhou's parents house. Jingyu was still lost in these thoughts while he was stripping the bed, when a pair of arms circled his waist and he felt a kiss on the back of his neck.

"Mm-mm! Ready for another round, I see!"

*SLAP!* The pop on his ass he should have anticipated, Jingyu thought.

"I'm afraid that last session may have satisfied me for a long while." Weizhou teasingly said.

"Oh..." Jingyu replied. Weizhou laughed, "The look on your face... babe, honestly. I'm still feeling the endorphin. I still don't know what happened."

Jingyu was still slightly worried, he loosened the hold Weizhou had on him and turned around and sat on the bed, pulling Weizhou in close for a hug. Weizhou stood there, with Jingyu's head on his stomach, caressing his hair. He looked down at Jingyu...

"Oh fuck! Did....did I do that?" Weizhou exclaimed, looking closer at the scratches and claw marks on Jingyu's shoulder and neck.

Jingyu let out a snort, "Who else?" He thought about milking this for pity...

"Does it hurt bad? Let me get some ointment." Weizhou walked back to the bathroom.

Jingyu let him. He remembered the conversation they had earlier, and felt like this was a moment where he needed to let Weizhou take care of him. Besides, he liked the idea of Weizhou dressing his wounds.

Weizhou returned with some tissues and ointment. "It doesn't look like any bandages are needed, I'll just lightly put some ointment on them." He began to gently dab the ointment on, both of them sitting on the bed, still naked.

Jingyu could see out of the corner of his eye the look of self-disappointment in Weizhou's face. When he heard Weizhou click his tongue and shake his head, Jingyu had to say something. "Stop being hard on yourself. It doesn't hurt."

"I know, it's just that... I feel like I marred a perfect piece of art." Weizhou replied. Jingyu's head jerked towards Weizhou, but he wasn't seeing a smile or evidence of him teasing, only a concerned face.

"Are you serious? This is nothing. You should see some of the mat burns from jujitsu."

They both fell into silence while Weizhou continued. Jingyu rather liked this, feeling Weizhou's loving touch as he applied the ointment. He didn't like Weizhou's feeling guilty. He focused on feeling the touching, listening to Weizhou breath, and watching him peripherally as he looked over the scratches, Zhou making sure he covered everything. After a moment, he announced that he was done, right when the doorbell to the suites rang.

"Oh, that's room service." Jingyu said, as he stood to throw on clothes. That's when he realized his erection had returned.

Weizhou also noticed, and bent over laughing heartily. "HAHA! OH MY GOD!"

Jingyu stood there going red. "We need to get dressed quickly!" He said. He threw on his shorts and t-shirt, but with his erection, there was no hiding it.

Weizhou could hardly move, he was laughing so hard. He finally pulled on his pajama bottoms and shirt and stumbled out of the room to open the door. Jingyu retreated to the bathroom to hide, and finish up his nightly routine.

After a while, Weizhou poked his head in and said they were gone. Jingyu was finishing flossing and washed his face. Leaving the restroom, he noticed that the bed coverings had been swapped for very plush sheets and an enormously puffy duvet - all stark white. Looking for Weizhou, all he could see was a shock of black hair sticking out of a white mound at the headboard. The bed looked so comfortable, and he was excited to ease in behind his Zhou Zhou and spoon him to sleep. Undressing, he slid in nude, into that perfect fitting position behind Weizhou, who smiled and lightly moaned and wiggled back against him. Jingyu's arm around Weizhou's waist, Weizhou grabbing his wrist and resting his arm on Jingyu's. He also took his top leg and wrapped it around Jingyu's, and hooked his foot, and ran it up and down Jingyu's leg a little. Jingyu loved feeling Weizhou's leg hair.

After a few moments, Jingyu could tell from Weizhou's heavy breathing, and loosened grip on his arm, that he had drifted off. Jingyu wasn't far behind him, genuinely feeling tired after that evening's workout.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Weizhou awoke first, noticing they were in the same position as when they fell asleep. Well, almost the same position, as Weizhou noticed where Jingyu's hand had migrated, cupping Weizhou's cock and balls. He smiled to himself, laughing internally about Jingyu's sex drive. Even in his sleep he's horny. He very delicately reached over and picked up his phone to see the time. 9am, not too bad. He listened to Jingyu's breathing, a light snore coming from his mouth. He loved hearing that, and feeling Jingyu's body against his. Even with all of the bedding, he wasn't too hot or cold.

His mind wandered back to last evening's activities. He tried to focus on remembering exactly everything, but really could not recall clearly the last moments prior to his climax. He felt slightly embarrassed about it, Jingyu's reaction after had been a mixture of concern and wariness. All Weizhou could do was joke about it, in hopes that it would ease Jingyu's mind. From what he had read about bottoming, he felt pretty lucky that so far there were no signs of all the things that can go wrong. And evidently his boss has been reading up, too, because the rimming was a pleasant surprise. Weizhou had known about it, but was always too embarrassed to bring the topic up. It seemed to always be like this, Jingyu could read his mind and do or say exactly the thing that Weizhou wanted or needed. He smiled again and wiggled in more against Jingyu.

"Mmm... morning my love." Jingyu murmured.

"Morning to you, too." Weizhou pulled Jingyu's hand up and kissed it.

"What time is it?"

"Just after 9."

"Ah, good." Some silence, then, "How are you, this morning?" Jingyu asked while gently rubbing Weizhou's butt.

"So far, so good. I really was alright last night. You can stop worrying." Weizhou replied.

"I just never want to be the reason you're harmed."

Weizhou smiled, and turned over to face Jingyu. "I know, babe." and kissed him.

Weizhou burrowed into Jingyu's arms, putting his face against Jingyu's chest, intertwining their legs together. Jingyu pulled him in and hugged tightly, kissing the top of Zhou's head. After a few moments, Weizhou murmured, "I don't want this to change."

Jingyu knew what he meant. Not only did they want to stay together, but the relative calm of their lives, too. They both felt that things were going to change.

Jingyu cupped Weizhou's chin with his hand, and tilted his head towards him. He leaned in and kissed him, deeply, and with meaning like he never had before. Weizhou got the message, and grabbed the back of Jingyu's head, as if to say, "me too, and just as much."

Both pulled away and caught their breath. It was time to get up and get the day started.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Li Hao was on the phone, and Zheng Ge was looking at his laptop. Both looked engrossed with their activities. Jingyu and Weizhou plopped down on the other sofa with their laptops, and began to look around online at the various entertainment news sites, fan forums, and other social networking platforms.

As expected, the social media and forums had exploded. Jingyu typically had a good idea of how large some of these discussions had trended over time, and it seemed that they doubled in threads overnight. It brought a smile to his face to see the countless well-wishes, I told you so's, and tributes to them two.

What was interesting, however, was the near complete silence in the official news outlets. There were a few tertiary sites and feeds that had posted about the press release, but the sense of an official ban being in place still held. Which put everything into a new perspective.

Li Hao ended his call. "Good morning boys. I trust you had a good night's rest?"

Jingyu shot a glance at Weizhou, who coughed slightly and simple nodded yes. Was that some red flushing up your neck, Zhou Zhou?

Zheng Ge spoke up, "So, as with all things government related, we have to decipher between the lines of the said and unsaid. My media contacts confirmed that they've been instructed to not discuss the press release. However, all events planned thus far for both of you are still on. From my take, it looks like as long as you two don't start pressing matters, then authorities won't crack down on your unofficial situation."

Jingyu frowned in concentration, "So what I'm hearing is we're an open secret now, and as long as we don't rub officials faces in the issue, everyone will turn a blind eye?"

Li Hao replied, "It seems that's how this is playing out."

Weizhou was silent, soaking it all in. He spoke after a moment, "While that seems good for our future prospects, it still means Jingyu couldn't attend an event with me as a date, right? Or that we can't appear together at a venue?" He stood up, clearly agitated.

Jingyu chimed in, "Babe, I know it's not ideal, but this feels like a doable path forward. We don't necessarily have to hide anymore."

"Then what do you call it? I want to be able to step onto a red carpet with you. Stop for photographs together. Enjoy an event together. Hold your hand, give you a kiss. Be with you!" Weizhou had showed a little of the anger he usually keeps buried.

Jingyu was silent, eyebrows furrowed in concern, he couldn't really argue against it, and nodded that he understood.

Li Hao broke in, "Zhou, we're not saying that won't happen. What we're saying is we've won a small battle today, and have retained a position to fight more in the future. This wasn't going to change overnight. It's going to take time."

Weizhou shook his head, as if to clear it, and sighed. "I know, I know." He looked at Jingyu, "And I'm happy we're going to be able to see each other more without the heavy logistics of sneaking around." He smiled.

"Babe, it's tough enough with our schedules. This makes it somewhat easier. And, we can still get a place together..." Jingyu said, glancing at Li Hao and Zheng Ge. Neither he nor Zhou had mentioned this to them.

Zheng Ge and Li Hao both looked at each other, their looks saying it all - this hadn't been anticipated and could be difficult.

Weizhou interjected, "I'm not caving on this. We are moving in together."

Li Hao raised a hand as if to say he needn't waste his breath. "This is difficult, but we're not arguing against it. We just need to add it to the schedules so that the necessary people can be hired and work done."

Jingyu and Weizhou nodded.

Li Hao, "In the meantime, we have to get you ready for your L'Officiel appearance tomorrow."

Weizhou sighed. He had forgotten how close the event was, and hadn't practiced singing for a few days now. He was slated to perform two songs. He had been planning to reveal new work,, but decided to change the songs. "Li Hao, send over the music for 'Light' and... 'Moonlight'."

Li Hao was not shocked. Jingyu smiled.