#yearly intention to return here post

[wilburwhateley]

[cassieuncaged]

WIP/Last Line Games

Thanks for the tag @emotionalcadaver, @galaxycunt and @bardic-inspo!

Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I have a shit ton. Feel free to ask about any!

King of War

Grave Bound Redux

Ragdoll

Domesticated

Wild Inhibitions

The Return

Uneasy Alliance

Rat Race

New to Town

Ghoulish Intentions

Last Line Game:

Here's a little paragraph from The Return:

“Make it up to me by not getting completely shitfaced tonight.” He sneered before sashaying towards the lacquered bar nestled between the two marble staircases. The ballroom was lavishly decorated, like it was yearly. He tried not to roll his eyes as he overheard whispers concerning Tavara’s rumored appearance.

[random-imagines-blog]

Post Red {Viktor Krum x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 3072 Summary: At a time when he should be focused on the game, Viktor Krum is distracted by you, his childhood best friend, and a blonde-haired boy who won’t stop flirting.

The Quidditch World Cup. You came just about every year, getting pretty okay seats with your best friend Viktor and his family. His parents and yours were good friends, which instantly meant that you were best friends. And with his father holding season passes to every Quidditch world cup, no matter where it was, this had become a yearly tradition. “I’m going to be on the Bulgarian team one day,” Viktor would always state as you watched the players fly. Bulgaria was always his favorite. Home country pride. It was yours too, but sometimes you liked to cheer for other times to mix things up. You would always grin and nudge him to point out something a player was doing, but not this year. This year, you were at the top of the stadium, standing next to the Minister of Magic in a special area, watching Viktor Krum play in Bulgaria versus Ireland. He was achieving his dream.

Every time that he flew past you, you jumped up and down, waving the flag of his team. He had become the star seeker of the team so quickly, it made your head spin. But you were nothing if not supportive. You used up your allowance to buy his merchandise, even though he could get it to you for free. It almost became a joke between the two of you, how you would always show up to his house wearing a sweater with his face on it, bright and smiling. You always made the joke that he was smiling on the sweater because it was the closest that he would ever get to your chest. He would make the joke in return that he was just smiling because he finally was looking at someone good looking - himself. He was actually very funny for a serious looking man.

You weren’t the only one high up in the stadium. Sharing a box with you was the Minister of Magic himself, and a man with his son. The boy was two or three years younger than you, you would assume by his size, and his hair was as silver as snow, just like his fathers. You had no interest in them. You weren’t here to make friends. You were here to support the best one that you had. But you did give a friendly hello and smile to the Minister, as it was better to have a friend in him than an enemy.

The other boy though, he wanted to have more than a friendly hello with you. He kept moving closer to the part of the box that you were occupying. He spoke to you with a very snobby voice, and though it would be considered rude and your parents would be disappointed in you, your direct reaction was to pretend that you didn’t know English.

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” He said, sticking his hand out to shake yours. “We’re here with the Minister of Magic. Are you here by yourself?”

Rather than shake his hand, because you honestly didn’t want to touch him for too long, you tapped yours against his in a high-five. “Ja, go fast!” You said, pointing at one of the Bulgarian Chasers who just flew past you.

The look on Draco’s face was worth it. But there was still a long game ahead of you. It could go on for hours. For days. Hopefully for the former though, because Viktor was a really good seeker. You had full confidence that he would get the snitch before it turned midnight.

Draco went and stood by his father for a little bit, and the two had quiet conversations. You didn’t pay him much attention. You were too busy watching the game. Even during lulls when it was just Chasers fighting over the ball in the middle of the pitch, you were intrigued. You didn’t pay attention to anything else - except for maybe making faces at Viktor when he passed by you on his way to catch what he thought was the snitch. He was darting back and forth so quickly though, it was hard to tell if he had seen you.

Since the World Cup was officially sponsored by Butterbeer, it kept being brought up to your box by people who worked for the Quidditch federation. It was enough to keep you warm as the game went into the nighttime. The skies seemed to threaten rain, but you didn’t care whether it fell or not. You were having fun, regardless of the weather.

The Irish scored the first goal. You booed, even though the others in your box seemed to be very supportive of the green team. You smiled apologetically at Fudge as he gave you an odd look, but didn’t pass a glance at the other two. However, the young boy came and stood beside you again, leaning over the box to look down at the people below in the lesser seats. He was sneering at them, like they had done something wrong by just existing there. That was worth a look to you at least. He caught your eye, and that sneer turned into a smile.

“Is this your first time at the Quidditch World Cup?” He asked. You shook your head, still feigning not knowing any English. “We come every year. But this is the first time that we’re in the Minister’s Box. So how did you get up here anyway? Who are you?”

He wasn’t letting up. You tried to look up at the players again, but the war for the Quaffle was going on in the middle of the pitch which meant there wasn’t much to look at right now. He nudged your side, so you finally answered, giving him your first and last name.

“Sounds exotic,” He said, which made you have to turn away and roll your eyes. Leave it to someone from England to think that your name was exotic, when it was commonplace where you were from. And not like he had the right to judge - what sort of name was Draco?

There was finally some action on the pitch, which took his attention from you for a little while. Unfortunately it was Ireland again, scoring the second goal of the game. Your eyes scanned the pitch to look for the familiar frame of your best friend and you saw him across the stadium. He was balanced on his broom, sitting on it in a way that made it look easy. Comfortable. You always admired how effortless he made it look to fly, while you were always hunched down, holding on with both hands until your knuckles had started to hurt. You waved at him when you thought you caught his eye and he smiled back at you. You chuckled as you heard a few girls in rows below you start to squeal because they thought that it had been at him.

“He’s overrated,” Draco muttered beside you.

“Krum?” You asked - before realizing this was very close to exposing yourself as a fraud.

“Yeah. He’s not even that good. In fact, I’m better than him. I’m the Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team. I got in second year, which is really rare, actually.”

You let his voice go in one ear and then out the other. This boy seemed to like to talk about himself an awful lot.

Ireland scored a third goal, and you groaned loudly, cutting off Draco in the middle of a sentence. “Oh, are you cold?” He asked.

Either he didn’t notice that you were shaking your head, or he didn’t care. He moved in closer to you and tried to put his arm around your shoulders. In your discomfort, you took a few hasty steps away, and ended up bumping into the Minister himself, stepping on his robes which almost pulled him down.

“I’m so sorry,” You said in horror as you realized what you had just done. You helped him to upright himself, and he gave you a wary look, like he should have expected this.

“It’s quite alright,” He said, but he did wander to the other side of the box, far away from you. You watched, feeling a bit bashful about what just had happened. At least, until there was a cheer from the fans. Ireland scored yet another goal. You sighed, and put your gaze back on the game. Viktor had moved since you had last seen him, and you began to scan for him once more, only for him to pop up not too far from you.

“I knew you spoke English,” Draco said from next to you. You almost forgot about the little twerp, but here he was, making himself known again. You never met anyone so infuriating before. He just couldn’t pick up a hint. “Come on, talk to me. Do you go to Hogwarts? I felt like I would have seen you there.”

“I don’t go to Hogwarts,” You stated. “You have not seen me before. And after this, we shall not meet again. Please, leave me alone.”

“I’ll be telling my father about your rudeness,” He said, finally turning away from you. You let out a sigh of relief. Maybe you could finally get into the game.

There had been a few close calls of Ireland getting the snitch. They were winning by quite a lot, and you could feel Viktor’s frustration from where you were standing. He kept looking at you, and you didn’t have much to offer him except for crossing your fingers.

“I think you should come to have dinner with us after the game,” Draco said, strolling back over to you after a while.

“The game could go on for hours, or even days,” You said, clenching the fence in front of you. You had never felt the urge to punch someone before but it was growing slowly and steadily. Something about his ferret like face.

“Well, we’re taking a break soon. We brought our new house elf. It’s an alright cook, it’ll do for the occasion. And you’re going to join us, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine here, thank you,” You said, scoffing at the idea of a break. You had no intention of leaving the game until it was over, even if that meant starving or peeing yourself. You were dedicated to stick it out for Viktor, at the very least.

He was flying not too far, eyes peeled for the stitch. But he looked at you. He was able to smile once more, but a hand grabbed yours and pulled you away from the fence. In your astonishment, you had let go. “Come on, we’re going to have something to eat.”

There was a sound of awe from the crowd at the exact same time that something went soaring by your head. You just barely managed to duck before it turned around and came back. A bludger. But how in the hell did it-

It went returning the way that it had come from, flying across the pitch. That was when you saw Viktor again, a little closer to you this time, holding a beater’s bat. He tossed it back to the beater, who went soaring after the bludger, while Viktor looked over at you. You put your hands over your heart as a thank you. He had always been a little overprotective of you, but right now, you were grateful for it. You were able to snap your hand away from Draco’s grasp, who was still ducking from the bludger attack. “I said I’m fine here. And if you, or your father, have a problem with that, you can shove it up your rear!” You shouted. The Minister overheard this part of the conversation and let out a little ‘oh my’ in surprise.

You didn’t even care. Enough was enough. If he grabbed you again, you would be telling everyone that you were being assaulted, and put him on full blast. Though he looked rather shaky after the encounter with the bludger, so you had the feeling he wouldn’t actually be bothering you again. You returned back to the fence so you could overlook the pitch again, and wrapped your hands around it so no one would be able to drag you back again.

-

The game finished with Bulgaria’s loss. You were disappointed, but it wasn’t Viktor’s fault. He still managed to catch the snitch, so he had done his job. It was the Keeper that you were disappointed with, and you would be bringing that up to him later.

You descended the endless flights of stairs, blending in with the crowd after the game - many were celebrating but there were quite a few who looked the same as you felt. Damn Ireland, you were thinking to yourself. And damn the Bulgarian Keeper! He hadn’t been able to do his job properly. Even Viktor would have done a better job, and it was his least favorite position!

You managed to veer away from the crowd to go to your own little campsite. Much like the others around yours, the tent was much bigger and roomier on the inside than it appeared on the outside, thanks to a little magic. You marched on through the flaps to go inside, and change out of your clothes. It had been a long game, and you had definitely sweated at least a little bit. You wanted to be much more presentable when Viktor would come along and join you.

The flap came open once more, and Viktor strolled in, just as you were fastening the button on your bottoms. He had perfect timing - now at least, maybe not so during the game. His jaw was clenched, you noticed, and he looked very angry. He’d lost games before, but still reveled in the fact that he had been playing. This was not a mood that just came from the game.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, watching as he walked past you to the armchair that was in front of the budding fire. Thank heavens for magic - a fire and a tent would never have worked otherwise.

“That boy who was touching you-” He said, sinking into the chair, and spit directly into the fire with disgust. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, we don’t need to worry about him, Vik. I think you scared him enough with the bludger. He wouldn’t even come close to me after that. Turned white as a sheet,” You chuckled at the memory, but his anger seemed to rage on.

“No, tell me his name.” Viktor demanded. You sighed, and walked to where he was sitting. The chair wasn’t big enough for the both of you, but it had rather wide arms and you planted yourself right there. You leaned your head against the top of his, the bristly growth of his hair tickling your forehead. “Y/N...”

“He was a stupid, petulant child who I am never going to lay eyes on again, Viktor Krum. Why did it make you so mad?”

“No one should be touching you. No one should be dragging you...” He said, moodily. He was staring into the fire, not at you at all.

“Tell you what. I’ll let you know his name after you calm down, how about that?” You suggested. It would take some time - he had a temper like a bonfire that would just keep on burning until the morning.

“Fine,” He grumbled. He said nothing more, and the two of you sat in silence, staring at the fire as it crackled, and listening to some of the cheers from outside. People were still celebrating the Irish win out there, and it gave everything a joyous atmosphere. “I’m not angry anymore.” He said after a few more minutes.

You pulled away from him, and took a look at his eyes to see if he really was in a post-red mood. He still looked grumpy but the worst of it seemed to be over. “His name was Draco Malfoy. His father is friends with the Minister, which is why I didn’t do much about it myself. You took good care of me, Vik. Just be happy that it ended the way that it did and we could move on with our lives.”

“If I see him again, I’m punching him,” Viktor grumbled. You shrugged, alright with that since the likelihood of it seemed so low.

“That is a price that he will have to pay then,” You smiled, moving back towards him and fell into his lap. Before you could try to get up, his arms went around your waist and started to tickle you in the way that he knew you hated. Fingers digging into your skin, it was a horrible feeling but the closeness that it brought wasn’t entirely terrible. “Vik - come on, stop...”

“I like it when you call me that,” He said, finally letting a smile come across his usual gruff features. You smiled in return, and lightly ran your fingers across his sculpted jawline, feeling the bone beneath his skin. His breathing hitched, and he held you closer, tighter.

You grew closer, until you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips. Viktor was so close - and you hadn’t realized until this moment that this was something that you wanted. You had always been friends, and your parents had teased since the beginning that they were planning your wedding to each other. But this was the first time that you had seen what they had been seeing.

Screams came from outside, and they were far from being the joyous kind. There was serious fear in the female voice that you had heard. And then came others. More and more screaming. The tent seemed to move as people were rushing past it. You could just see it through the crack between the flaps which acted as doors.

“Stay with me,” Viktor said, getting up immediately. You agreed to this without question, and when he offered you his hand, you took it. Whatever danger was out there, you were certain that you could face it together.

[xbrilliantsims]

It begins...

Harold and Norah had walked for nearly an hour when Harry suddenly stopped.  “Let me cover your eyes darling, I have a surprise for you”, and promply stepped behind her and put his hands over his wife’s eyes. Norah giggled.  “What are you up to, silly man?” “You’ll see soon enough. Come on, let’s walk, it’s just around the corner.” They walked on, much slower now since Harry had to make sure he kept Norah’s eyes covered. She was not very good at being surprised, being much too impatient. “Hey, no peeking!”

“Alright we’re here. You ready darling?” Harry whispered dramatically in Norah’s ear. She giggled again.  “Just show me already!” “When I say when, open your eyes!”

“Tadaa! What do you think?”

Norah just stared in shocked silence at the large house in front of her. Finally, speech returned to her. “Oh h-heavens, Harry! Is.. is that what I thi-” “Our own, brand new home, yes!” Harry interrupted her, excitement shining on his face. “I did it. I bought the farm!” “But I-I thought we c-couldn’t afford it?”

“Well... I came to an agreement with Mr Wentworth, that he’d be given 10% of any income I make from the farm until my debt is payed. We’ll struggle, but I think it will be worth it. I know you hate living with my family...” “I don’t hate living with them Harry” she said reproachfully, “I just don’t like how your mother treats me like a child and your brother seem to think I’m a nuisance.” Harold laughed. His wife could deny it all she liked, but he knew she was miserable at his family's home where they had lived for the past year since they’d been married. They had no time for themselves and there was no room for them either. With his mother and father still alive, his older brother and his wife and child, as well as their little sister, the house was crowded. Harry and Norah had long wanted to move out and start their own little family, and they had spotted this little abandoned farm owned by a man in the village. But funds were low and it had all seemed a distant dream. Until Harry had run into Mr Wentworth when tending to errands in Finchwick, and told him that he dreamed of purchasing the house from him one day. Mr Wentworth had proven to be a very kind gentleman and agreed to let them purchase it with the little funds they had in return for 10% of the farming profits yearly. So here they were.  “Oh Harry. I can’t believe it! When can we move in?” Norah sighed dreamily.  “Well, immediately my darling.” At these news, Norah flew into his arms.

“Oh how I love you, Harold Bradford!” “And I love you my darling. Let’s start our life together.”

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Info under cut.

Soooo... I decided to start a decades challenge. I was inspired in part by the happiness I felt when my favorite @deadlymodern returned with a new legacy post and also reading through the entire, most fantastic @pixelnrd ‘s, Langston Legacy in one go (it took me ~6 hours, I regret nothing). Thank you both of you for being amazing and SO inspiring.

I am making no promises to post regularly or anything. I don’t have the best track record with that... But I have intentions. My posts will be a mix of plain gameplay screenshots and more fancy storytelling with poses (like this one). I would love to just do that, but it takes up far too much time and I also really want to actually play the challenge. I also see this as an opportunity to play around with editing, which I am not very good at. The images above only have reshade (which I am also just learning how to navigate) and “unsharp mask” in PS haha. 

 Hope you’ll want to hop along for the ride. I’m excited at least!

[nimbus-tatze]

so the lab grown meat post ( https://nimbus-tatze.tumblr.com/post/639887396603920384/ok-so-lab-grown-meat-i-hate-with-a-passion-the ) gained a bit of traction and I decided to adress how to approach agriculture, some of these technologies and how to help out rural communities, thanks goes to @lordofthechips

Mostly I've listed attitudes/mindsets you may want to adopt to a certain degree, depending on your circumstances and beliefs. Anyone can add if they have good advice, but essentially 'get rid of animal ag' ain't it.

Don't generalize and try to look for nuance, especially coming from the locals/experts. Influencers aren't experts. It'd be lovely if more of us try to let rural communities make their own decisions and don't talk over them. That includes online posts.

Instead of always looking for new answers, look for older ones as well. There is a reason many traditions have become traditions. As you lose them through modernization you lose generational knowledge. Not a call for bigotry in case that's not clear.

Agriculture is different in each case. Don't try to make one solution fit every case or judge them if they don't. Hating animal agriculture is one thing, but when you want to get rid of it you include indigenous people, poor people, etc. There is a reason these people continue to do it that way and they know better than you why.

If you have the time/opportunity try to help out on a farm for a while, especially during harvest, feel free to do so. It's a great way to learn, get into conversation with farmers and the community (think about all the people you meet on the way, those working in the small shops you might need to go into to grab a snack etc), and make connections.

Look up CSA farms in your area. Community Supported Agriculture. I don't know how it works elsewhere but where I live we come together as a group, pick a farm, and get into an agreement with them to have an exclusive relationship as consumers with that farm. That means we as a community are their sole customers, but we agree to financially back the farm on a yearly basis (or 6 months and so on, each agreement can be different). So we agree on a price and pay that even if there is no produce/products yet. We don't have to pay every single time we get food, can make requests to grow certain cultures or apply certain practices, and can also frequently visit the farm. If the harvest is extra good that year, we don't have to pay more. In return the farmer is financially insured against stuff like a few years of bad harvest or issues with livestock, can get additional funding for expanding their operation etc. It's oversimplified here, and there are varieties so if you like to learn more about the german model you can look for SoLaWi (Solidarische Landwirtschaft). In my case farmers drive their stuff into the city for us on specific days and in locations close to your neighbourhood and hand you a box with what you want.

Don't talk over people in their own field. Don't go into the field with the intentions of a missionairy. You wouldn't try to teach a virologist about Covid. I hope. Even if you have reason to believe that person is wrong about the point they make, don't try to disprove it, that's the job of other people of the field. And they already make sure to disprove what's wrong.

essentially like the point above but If you decide to quote someone from the field don't do it against someone also from that field. Don't direct indigenous quotes at me to discredit my indigenous experiences for example, especially if you aren't indigenous yourself. That's a conversation for us. Also each tribe/scientific field is different (look Point 1).

Look outside the western world and if you have the means to travel pls visit not just the popular tourist sites. The villages/towns can tell you so much more than I can in a post. Try to have a local host you if it's not too difficult for them.

Don't dismiss rural folks as dumb/naive/racist. Doesn't mean bigotry isn't a problem, but try to pick out what they are saying about rural communities and ag in particular, bc they're still locals and still know more about local circumstances. Stay on topic.

Be suspicious about feel-good-uwu-stuff. It doesn't always have to be bad, but if what you're looking at primarily adresses your emotions you wanna be suspicious. Like cute animal videos, anthropomorphism especially, tech that seems to magically solve an issue, that stuff.

But also, even if you feel suspicious about tech/agriculture/etc keep it mind it might help others out. I highly criticized lab grown meat from an ag engineering perspective, but also mentioned it is probably amazing for healthcare. Some gadgets we might call lazy, but they can be incredibly helpful to disabled people and so on. Let's try to keep a door open with the benefits other people in mind

I'll add constantly seek education to this list BUT I don't recommend specific documentaries or books, bc they can be misleading especially if one misses out on pre-info that those forms of media built on. There can be a lot of emotional manipulation, weird framing, and so on and even with factual statements it's easy to frame smth wrong, check out the entire dehydrogenmonoxid=water project a student tried out.

Not to say there isn't good stuff out there, but pls don't get caught in echo chambers. If you have access to academic sources try to use them, even if they're more 'boring'.

TL;DR: don't get polarized, use nuance and talk to a variety of people and leave the job of 'correcting' experts to other experts.

(Also it's a bit hastily put together, so I hope it answers the question, lemme know if not precisely enough!)

[love-and-monsters]

Wyvern Prince 15

And we’re back! Thanks for being patient while I finished up college; I’ll post something else tomorrow to make up for the wait. But for now, here’s our favorite wyvern!

Male wyvern X female reader, 3013 words

Keeping your relationship a secret was a concept Davrakoss seemed to only understand in theory. He hadn’t attempted anything as obvious as kissing you in public, which was something of a relief, but that seemed to be the limit he understood. Instead of avoiding you in public and ensuring your relationship at least looked professional, he often sought you out or tried to stay around you. Every time he stood near you or engaged in conversation with you, you could feel eyes turning to you. The soft murmurs of conversation became jagged whispers as people frowned disapprovingly.

The fact that there was a ball coming up was only increasing the amount of stress on your shoulders.

Balls were done twice yearly, a highly formal one on the winter solstice and a much less formal one on the summer solstice. The formal one was designed to allow nobles from surrounding kingdoms to come together and, as far as you could tell, show off. Wearing increasingly elaborate dresses, showing off ostentatious wealth, and subtle bragging about exactly how well their kingdom was doing seemed to be the main focuses of the evening.

You really couldn’t see Davrakoss at such an event. Subtle politics had never been his strong suit and you couldn’t spend as much time as you wanted preparing him because you had to spend your time making sure the castle was prepared for the ball.

Preparing for the ball was the worst part of the year for every servant. Not only was there a lot of extra work, but nobles tended to become shorter and shorter of temper as the date approached. One of the particularly bratty noble girls had nearly pushed a servant down a flight of stairs when he had failed to bring her a particularly expensive bolt of fabric for a dress.

The pressure at least didn’t seem to be getting to Davrakoss, which was a relief. “Stay with me tonight,” he insisted as you made to head back to your quarters. “It would be simpler. And you wouldn’t have to get up as early tomorrow.”

He had been making the proposition every day since you had officially become a couple. Not once had you taken him up on it, but there was something to be said for his tenacity.

“It would be suspicious,” you said. “People could notice that I don’t return and if I start appearing in your room every morning, they’re going to find out.”

“I don’t care what people think,” Davrakoss crooned, but he wasn’t terribly insistent. “Just stay a little longer, at least?” He gave you a pleading look. It was impressive how much he managed to make his reptilian eyes look like a puppy dog’s.

“Only a little longer,” you said. “I really do need to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Davrakoss wrapped himself around you, twining his tail around your legs and putting his arms around your shoulders. His cool nose pressed into the crook of your neck and you had to strangle a squeak. “You’re tense,” he said, kneading his fingertips into the muscles near your neck.

“It’s the ball. I hate these things,” you said. Davrakoss lifted his head from your shoulders and pulled you securely against his chest.

“I’m not all that excited for it either,” he said. “I’m not certain what I’m supposed to do.”

“Your part shouldn’t be too difficult,” you said. “Just stand around and make nice with the other nobles. Be polite to anyone who talks to you, smile a lot, and please try not to threaten anyone in any way.”

“I threaten one queen once and you never let it go,” Dravrakoss chuckled into the top of your head. “I won’t threaten anyone.” He rubbed your back, scratching gently with the tips of his fingers. “The other nobles have been talking about bringing dates.”

“Oh, yeah.” There was an unsettling drop in the pit of your stomach. “A lot of them use the ball as an opportunity to declare intent to court. Or to show off their partner. And those who don’t bring partners will usually be trying to get a partner at the ball.”

“I wish I could bring you,” Davrakoss said.

“I’ll be there,” you said.

“Not as my date,” Davrakoss snorted. “As a servant. It’s not the same.”

“Well, I’ll still be there if you need help,” you said. Davrakoss sighed, fluffing your hair with a hand.

“I don’t need you there for help. I want you to be able to go to a human party with me. You deserve a break. You’ve been working so hard for this and you don’t even get to enjoy it.”

“I’ll enjoy having the next day off,” you said. “Trust me, it’s better to work the night of the party than it is to have to care for all the hungover nobles the next morning.”

“And I think you’d look nice all dressed up,” Davrakoss said.

“It doesn’t matter because I can’t go.” You yawned and slowly untangled yourself from Davrakoss. “I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Davrakoss said. When you turned back toward him, he took your face gently in his hands and pressed a kiss to your lips. He wasn’t a great kisser, which you mostly attributed to having spent most of his life without lips. Generally, though, his lack of technique was made up for with his enthusiasm. After a moment, he broke away, fingertips brushing along the lines of your face. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said reluctantly.

“See you then,” you said. His hands dropped away from you and you hurried out the door before his sad expression changed your mind.

The next day was spent rushing back and forth between preparing Davrakoss for the ball and making sure that everything else was ready. His clothes were, as was usual for the ball, incredibly elaborate and many-layered. His hair was also done up in an elaborate, twisting braid around his head, and jewelry hung from almost every part of his body. Typically, other servants took care of the clothing and hairstyling for the ball, but Davrakoss made others nervous enough that they kept calling you in for help.

“Ow.” You ran a comb through his hair, tugging on a particularly stubborn knot. The servant next to you drew back, as if frightened he would bite. Instead, he just gave his head a small shake and settled back into his seat.

“What did you do to your hair?” you muttered. You were terribly aware that the other servants in the room were staring at you with wide eyes. You would have to be careful to not be overly familiar with him. But at the same time, it was hard to be overly cool to him. He was already bristling with discomfort from all the people fussing over him and your comforting presence seemed to soothe him.

“I didn’t do anything. Ow!” You gave a sharp tug to one of the knots in his hair and his clawed fingertips dug into the arms of his chair. “Be careful!”

The servant next to you stared with wide eyes, but you just gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s more bark than bite,” you reassured her. Davrakoss’ expression didn’t change, but his tail tapped against your ankle for a moment, an acknowledgement of your teasing.

You gestured for one of the servants to come closer and, with her help, began to twist his hair into an elaborate crown around his horns. It took quite a while. Davrakoss sank back in his seat, eyes closed. The only sign that he wasn’t sleeping was that he twitched slightly whenever you pulled on his hair a little too hard.

Finally, once his hair was all done up and pretty, you managed to shoo the other servants out of the room. Davrakoss peered at himself in a full-length mirror, shifting a little to get a better look at himself. He was wearing a long, greenish-blue robe with a large cape that covered much of his tail. His horns were half hidden under his hair, and mostly covered in long, hanging jewels and metal. Gems and jewels, mostly blue, white, and silver, adorned him all over.

“You look good,” you said. The colors and flowing material made him look almost ethereal. It made your mouth go dry and your palms go clammy just to look at him.

He turned toward you, looking a little dazed. “Thank you.” He reached up to touch one of his horns, but dropped his hand halfway through the action. There was a strange sadness in his face.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, stepping up to his side. He leaned into your touch, eyes drifting shut for a second.

“You did a very good job at making me look human,” he said, leaning away from your again. You gaped, startled, but looking again, you could see he was right. The most obvious marks that he was a wyvern had been hidden away. If you only glanced at him for a moment, you could mistake him for a human. Your stomach twisted.

“That wasn’t what I wanted to-” you started, but Davrakoss stopped you with a sad smile.

“I know this isn’t your fault,” he said gently. “You didn’t design this outfit. I expect it was requested by the royal family to make me look less intimidating.” He sighed, disappointment etching itself across his face. “I am disappointed that I am able to predict human politics to that extent.”

“Don’t be. You’re better than all of them,” you said, drawing close to his side. He smiled down at you.

“Hearing you say that means a lot.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Do you have to leave now?” he asked, still holding you close.

“I should get going,” you said, though you didn’t move. He tilted your head back and kissed you. It was a surprisingly delicate and gentle kiss, but you couldn’t keep your mind on it. Half your thoughts were focused on trying to hear if there was anything outside the door. There was a soft clunk and you broke away, heart pounding. Davrakoss didn’t say anything. He had gotten used to your jumpiness.

“No one’s there,” he said, guiding your attention back toward him. “I would tell you.” He pressed his forehead against yours. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you. I just…” You trailed off, swallowing against the anxiety that swelled up into your throat. “I should go.”

Davrakoss stepped back with a sigh. “I will see you later, then.” He hesitated, then swooped in for another quick kiss. You had the urge to grab onto him, but you were pretty sure that even the smallest errant movement would ruin all the hard work you’d put into his outfit. Instead, you gave his hand a squeeze and left the room.

By the time the ball was ready to begin, you were thoroughly tired of the pale blue and white decorations that covered the ballroom. You were also physically exhausted from the effort of putting up all the decorations. Unfortunately, servants were also required to attend the ball as servers, which meant walking around with a tray and usually getting yelled at by drunken nobles. It was the lesser of two evils, really.

Nobles filtered in as soon as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Most of them were lesser nobles who were unimportant enough to simply attend without announcement. However, many of the royalty from other kingdoms needed formal introductions.

It was a long, boring ceremony, but you paused in your slow rotation of the ballroom floor when Davrakoss’ name was announced. “Prince of the Wyverns, Davrakoss.” A low murmur swept through the room as he descended into the ballroom proper.

The low light made the jewels on his robe glitter and gleam and his expression was aloof and ethereal. Despite the efforts to make him more human, he looked greater and more terrible than any person you’d seen before. His eyes almost glowed with fire. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

A few of the other members of royalty gathered around him as he stepped into the ballroom, blocking him from view. You continued circling the room, gradually shifting closer to Davrakoss in the most nonchalant way you could.

He was amidst a throng of chattering royalty, looking blessedly aloof rather than uncomfortable. Still, when he saw you, his expression relaxed a little. He moved closer to you, under the pretense of grabbing a glass of wine. He couldn’t speak to you without drawing attention, but he managed to convey both a sort of pained irritation and happiness at the sight of you. His fingers brushed yours as he took a glass.

You retreated again and Davrakoss returned to the crowd of royals. You caught sight of him a few more times as you rotated through the ballroom. He was nearly always surrounded by other royals. Once, late into the night, you saw him out on the dance floor. He was swaying in a slow circle with a princess you vaguely recognized as the third daughter of a northern king. Despite his little practice, he was able to hold his own. At the very least, the princess seemed happy and he wasn’t stepping on her feet.

They stepped off the dance floor and another princess approached him. He took her hand and graciously returned to the dance. Your stomach knotted. It was strange. You had never been jealous of nobles before, not in this way. But watching Davrakoss smile down at the woman in his arms made you feel a little sick.

You left the ballroom to refill your drink tray. Jealousy and exhaustion mingled in an emotional combination that made your eyes sting.

There was a rustling noise behind you and you straightened, wiping off your eyes. Before you could pretend to be getting more drinks, the person who had entered the room walked over to you.

“Are you all right?” You jumped a little. Davrakoss was leaning over you, eyes gentle.

“What are you doing back here?” you hissed. “This area is only for servants.” Davrakoss grinned.

“Yes, so hopefully no one will think to look for me back here.” He slipped an arm around your waist and tugged you into a shaded and secluded corner. “You look lovely.”

“It’s nothing fancy,” you said. You were wearing servants clothing, but it was dark blue instead of its usual black to fit with the ballroom aesthetic.

“It still looks nice on you,” he said. “And it’s probably more comfortable than this getup.” He gestured to his own outfit with a sour expression.

“Probably,” you admitted. “You really should go back out there. You’re going to be disappointing so many of those noblewomen that were hanging onto you.”

Davrakoss laughed quietly. “There is only one woman I care about disappointing,” he said, ducking his face close to yours. “They’re nice, but I don’t think for a second that they care more about me than about my title.” He looked at you with gleaming, reverent eyes. “You, on the other hand…”

“You’re very sweet,” you said, accepting a kiss, “but we really should be getting back to the ball.”

He wrinkled his nose a little and gave you another kiss before sweeping back out to the dance floor. You took a few minutes to allay suspicion and refill your drinks before following him back out into the fray.

The night stretched on and on until finally the sun started to rise. You were nearly dead on your feet at that point. Still, you managed to smile as you herded several very drunk nobles out of the ballroom and toward their carriages.

Davrakoss approached you as you returned to the ballroom. “I am requesting that my servant attend me,” he said in a pretty passable impression of a snooty noble. You smothered a yawn and nodded. He led you out of the ballroom, toward his room.

As soon as you were in the secluded staircase that led to Davrakoss’ room, he seized you and lifted you into his arms. You yelped, automatically putting your arms around his neck. “You’re exhausted,” he said. “You need to go to bed.”

“I’ve got my own room,” you protested weakly.

“And you look exhausted enough to collapse before you even made it halfway,” Davrakoss said. “I am entirely capable of sleeping on the floor.” He shifted you carefully in his arms so he could open the door to his room.

“You don’t have to,” you mumbled, but you weren’t looking forward to actually walking all the way back to the servant’s quarters. “At least let me help you out of your clothes first.”

Davrakoss lifted his brows, but you were too tired to even protest against the implication. With fumbling fingers, you undid the buttons and straps of his robes until he was wearing nothing but his underclothes. Then you had to take several minutes to fully unpin and unravel his hair, sending it cascading down his back.

“Let me,” he said when you finally started to pull off your own gown. His fingers tickled against your back as he undid each button and you wriggled free from the dress. It should have been embarrassing to stand in front of him in nothing but your underdress, but you were too tired. You swayed slightly just standing still.

“Lie down,” Davrakoss said, half carrying you over to his bed. You fell into it and he pulled the covers up around you. It was ridiculously comfortable even when you weren’t tired. Getting to rest in it when solid stone would have made a nice bed felt ridiculously luxuriant. You felt it sink slightly as Davrakoss sat next to you. His fingertips trailed through your hair and along your back. “Get some rest, love,” he said. You couldn’t even lift your eyelids again, but you managed to find his hand with yours. His fingers squeezing yours was the last thing you felt before you slipped into unconsciousness.

[yourchungha]

PICK YOUR PRINCESS: CHUNGHA CHATBOT

DISCLAIMER: this chatbot doesn’t represent Chungha or any Disney princess in any way it is for entertainment purposes and purely fictional!

PACKAGE ONE: SNOW WHITE

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •๑♡๑•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•๑♡๑• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

storyline: one day as you travel through the forest, you come across a girl at a wishing well. her name is chungha and although she seems very poor for living in the castle, you soon discover her stepmother is keeping her there to work as a maid. you come by every day to visit chungha as she works by the wishing well, and plan to free her from her stepmothers claws. but one day you find out her stepmother has planned to kill her, causing chungha to run off into a cottage buried in the woods. will you protect her and go back to your kingdom with her as your queen? or will the evil queen find the two of you and doom you forever?

·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇ •๑♡๑•୨୧┈┈┈୨୧•๑♡๑• ·̇·̣̇̇·̣̣̇·̣̇̇·̇

PACKAGE TWO: BELLE

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

storyline: you’re used to living in solitude, alone in the castle with all your servants turn to animate objects by a fairy, cursing you for your pride. your servants are stuck as household items and you’re stuck as a hideout beast until true loves kiss. when a young girl name chungha comes across your castle, hungry and weary from the horrible winter weather, you realize she’s your only hope and invite her to stay. will chungha break your curse and live with you happily ever after or will you be damned to live as a beast for the rest of your life?

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

PACKAGE THREE: CINDERELLA

⊱ ────── {⋆⌘⋆} ────── ⊰

storyline: your parents insist that you need to marry soon and force you to throw a ball to find someone to marry. at first, you scoff at the shameless girls, but then come across the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen. the two of you dance all night, but as the clock strikes 12, she leaves without another word, leaving only a glass slipper. after a tedious process of searching the kingdom, you eventually find chungha, a simple peasant girl, buried away. but her cruel stepmother refuses to let the two of you marry, so the two of you must sneak out to see one another every night, but she always has to return home by midnight... can you find a way to save chungha and ask her hand in marriage, or will her stepmother force you apart for the rest of your lives?

⊱ ────── {⋆⌘⋆} ────── ⊰

PACKAGE FOUR: RAPUNZEL

══════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ══════

storyline: you’ve been a thug, on the run from the police for as long as you can remeber. when you finally make it into a castle and manage to steal the missing princess’ crown, you think life can’t get any better. but as you’re running away, you come across a tower with a gullible girl name chungha, infatuated with the kingdoms yearly celebration of lanterns for their missing heir to the throne. desperate for adventure, she agrees to come live a life of crime with you, but you soon find yourself falling in love and realize that she’s the missing princess. will you tell chungha the truth about herself, or run from her stepmother and the guards for the rest of your lives?

══════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ══════

PACKAGE FIVE: SLEEPING BEAUTY

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

storyline: one day, your parents tell you of an arranged marriage made long ago with princess chungha, a girl you only remember from distant memories. you oblige to the marriage, but a week before you meet chungha again, you come across a beautiful girl in the forest. you feel an immediate connection with her and dance until she has to go, telling you nothing and leaving no trace of her existence. you’re heartbroken at losing your star crossed lover and are torn between the arranged marriage and the girl of your dreams, but there something about the girl in the forest that you don’t know... will you go back to the forest and confess your love or marry princess aurora or will you discover one of their secrets and have your perspective changed forever

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

PACKAGE SIX: TINKER BELL

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

storyline: for most of your life, you’ve lived in Neverland, at peace with never growing old and causing boyish trouble with the Lost Boys. one day after teasing Captain Hook one too many times, you find a little pixie in the forest. you take a liking to this pixie, named chungha, and begin taking her along with you on your adventures. but Captain Hook has had it with you and is plotting his revenge, putting the Lost Boys and Chungha in danger. will you be able to save her, or will she be trapped in the pirates ship forever...

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

PACKAGE SEVEN: YOUR CHOICE

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

storyline: you can pick any princess/disney character or storyline of your choice!!

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

HOW TO ACTIVATE:

reblog this post and dm with your name, which package you want, any nicknames and a safeword

IMPORTANT NOTES

In all roleplays, Chungha can be switch, or nothing NSFW at all (this cb is mostly SFW). When you dm her, make sure to tell her what you’d like (ex: best friend! friend with benefits! etc.)

Please don’t spam! If Chungha doesn’t answer, she might be a little busy, so feel free to double message but do not spam or rp will end and you will be blocked!

Chungha/admin will gladly get to know you out of rp as well, but make your intentions clear <33 (and don’t use this as an excuse to work your way into rp, there are slots and such thing as common courtesy)

Please don’t feel too afraid to ask questions if you’re unsure about anything! Chungha is here for you :))

HOW TO GET RID OF HER

To get rid of Chungha, tell her “Curse you.” She’ll be cursed and can only be saved if you come back and apologize, thus saving her

credits: @jinsoulinwonderland @yourrabbitjamie @madhatter-jisung @redqueenlisa @cheshireyoongi @poisonivyyves @fightertuan @yanderelee @princeparkjiminn @yanderejisung @yanderewooyoung @yaboispiderhan @mafiafelix @princehyujinnie @prxnce-hendery @roughbangchan @rapjoonie @royaltyyunho @urjooie @badboyjinie @babiewonho @babyhj1sung @babieyuqi @yanderechungha @yourhyunjin @yourcupidchuu @chatwithryujin @chatwithchuu @badbitchbinnie @androidryujin @yejixgirlfriend @bfxchannie @boyfriendminseok @bf-felix @babyseokjin @spidergwenyuna @subbybyeongkwan @blackwidowjennie @loverboi-hyunjin @subbyjwoo @daddybangxhan @daddyxuxi @daddyhhj @puppycat-hyun @lia-inabottle @tsunderehwall @taehyung-bot @mythtaehyung @phoenix-chae

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Saturday 8 March 1834: SH:7/ML/E/16/0177

6 10

12 40

Fair and windy – rain in the night – F52° at 6 40 – out at 7 ¼ - with Pickles - his son John and a labourer to wall up gaps and make other and set posts for John Bottomley and P- himself to raise wall near new dry bridge so as to support a great height of stuff - with John Booth taken him (P-) 2 loads of stones - Charles and James H- putting up more wainscot in upper buttery -breakfast with my father at 8 ½ in about ½ hour -in my study at 9 ¾ - rain came on about 8 ½ or before   likely to continue - till 11 ½ wrote 1 page and 4 lines to Miss W- and copied what I would advise her to write in answer to Washington - then out with John moving large cherry[?] from the terrace to near new dry bridge and moving rose tree and flowers to outside upper garden door etc ready for beginning to lower the terrace on Monday - Pickels went away in the morning on account of the rain but returned at 2 ½ pm  with him raising wall near new dry bridge to hold up stuff from the new bank (just below Bottomleys the shoemaker) and backwards and forwards with Charles and James H- in the upper buttery and with Mallinson and his 1 man who got the middle cornice of the chimney this afternoon, and opened hole thro’ wall on to the terrace for barrowing out  the stuff - agreed with Pickels to wheel it out to the carts in the court yard, and thence cart it to near the old dry bridge for 8d per square yard - he asks Mr. Haigh 15d a yard (ie about 7d per 1 horse cart load) for carting stuff from the new bank (to put it here near new dry bridge) - came in at 6 ½ - settled with Pickels and Charles H- dinner at 7 and coffee and came upstairs at 7 40 - wrote 3 pages more and ½ p. envelope and finished my letter to ‘Miss Walker Heworth Grange, York’ and sent it off at 9 ½ by Thomas in a parcel with Washington’s letter and n°2 Paxton’s magazine the small parcel for Mrs. Sutherland to go by tonights’ mail - should have sent W-‘s letter etc yesterday but waited to hear from Miss W- this morning - much disappointed - strongly  urge her to determine about and give Washington orders to let Lidgate - should always determine as soon as one can, and then the sooner the determination is acted on, the better - a great comfort  and advantage to us to have things settled as soon as possible so that our intentions should be clear to all whom they concerned – our position too equivocal - then dated 2nd page this evening– saying it was well to make an excuse of Lidgate but the truth was, I could scarcely believe it  was not a week since my return and it seemed an age since Monday and not hearing from her made me dull - Did she wish me to think less of her? She might scold and I should take it patiently – then took up Miss W-‘s letter  could not be much trouble to alter the Town’s books – she could not be expected to understand land-valuing, therefore it was W-‘s place to offer her a fair rent for the Hemingway crofts (5 ½ acres exclusive of plantations and paying £2.16.0. pounds taxes per annum l say .:. taxes = from 6/ to 7/ per day work) unless he hoped to have them as the same sort of terms as the Lidgate land – but advised her to write briefly to him on the subject merely  saying she had made up her mind not to pay the taxes and, as he put it to her to value the crofts she should have them and Cordingley’s farm valued at my same time and write by post to Mr Mitchell to let he have his valuation as soon as he could and then she would settle what allowance  should be made to Cordingley and fix a rent for the crofts as W- valued for himself and his brother in law  he ought to be glad to call in an indifferent person - would she write something like the following  ‘Miss Walker will be much obliged to Mr. Mitchell to send her, as soon as he possibly can, his valuation of the yearly rent of the land or the enclosed plan, specifying the condition of each field, the tenant to pay all taxes - Mr. Mitchell is requested to direct Miss Walker Heworth Grange, York.’ She could easily sketch the plan, giving numeros and measurements as stated in W-‘s survey - Perhaps W- would be surprised - not to give her the credit she deserved but lay it all on me – she had plenty of head, only wanted promptness of decision .........  ‘Heaven prosper you in everything! Doubt anything but the real regard of yours faithfully and affectionately AL.’ Will send the dimensions of the north parlour fireplace next time -  With my aunt from 9 ½ about an hour - then wrote the whole of this page till 11 – very boisterous  windy night –

SH:7/ML/E/16/0178

11 20 before Thomas got back – could hardly get to Halifax for the wind  - was an hour in going - brought back my packet of letters to Mr. Brown, Copenhagen under cover to HD. Scott Esquire Foreign office London (vid. Sunday 16 February) - there being written on the bank ‘Refused.....’ cannot make out the name - and enclosed in the following printed letter from the dead letter Office -‘General Post office 7 March 1834 Sir the enclosed letter not having been delivered for the reason assigned there on, was opened here by the officer appointed by his majesty’s Postmaster general for that purpose, and is now returned to you, as the writer, on payment of the postage I am sir, your obedient humble servant Francis Freeling, secretary’!!!! postage 3/8  So much for Mr. Brown’s offer of my writing thro’ him saying in reply to my scruples that it was merely a perquisite of office to be allowed to oblige friends in this way -  Letter 3 pages and 2 ¼ pages crossed from Miss Walker Heworth Grange – much pleased with the bonnet - should not want another  ‘you quite astonish me with your expedition in the execution of all my wants and wishes’ - ....... ‘I am thinking about Lidgate, and will say more when I write next query will it be wise to irritate or brave public opinion further just now? For the same reason, ought or can I accept your kind position about Shibden?’ Her usual indecision  does she mean to make a fool of me after all   she would not have me paint the carriage nor do more at Shibden than necessary  gave me that is bought for six pence and put on again my ring languidly and now declines taking the straight course of shewing our union  or at least compact to the world  should I ask her to do what she could not or ought not? Public opinion has been too much or too little braved and whatever force there is against her coming here is the same against my going there  I don’t like all this I distrust her and feel as if the thing would again and this time forever  go off between us   I shall not be played with let her come here before I go there again but I am on my guard and she may find this won’t do   My letters and feelings have been more affectionate than she deserved –she concludes with you will perceive I have practised what I preached  that is not to write anything particular I will take the hint. ‘I long for the sketch of the chimney piece  but don’t pay the carriage - why did you do it of the box? I suspect the affront was Thomas’s, not yours. Affront! Does this seem as if she really thought us united in heart and purse? Delighted to hear my aunt is a little better ‘not selfishly so for my own wish is that you should never take any distant journey so long as she lives, kind as she is and considerate in desiring it – there are plenty of  places nearer home unseen and which would be disgraceful not to visit’. This would be well enough if I did not shrewdly suspect she wishes to avoid going abroad or doing anything that would too decidedly bespeak our compact. What will she think of my letter of last night So affectionate and straightforward  perhaps it is lucky it went  and it would not have gone had I received hers first I shall not write till I have heard from her again  let us see how she can shuffle off  it has often struck me she wanted to make a cat’s paw of me to get into society  no harm done yet take care of my own concerns   my aunt’s death will try the thing and perhaps after all I shall be off at tangent  I will be cautious what I do in the meantime even in venturing to the plenty of places nearer home unseen  Miss Rawson says her mind is little and much in her money shall I find her right?   ‘only think of the time when you can come again to see the onyx (the ring I gave her) and ever believe me with love to your aunt kind regards to your father and sister  yours faithfully and affectionately, AW.’   she little thinks how much she has annoyed me but no more of her just now. Rainy day from between 8 and 9 and till 1 & 2 pm afterwards fine - but very boisterous  windy night.

[potteresque-ire]

(I wrote this as a response to another post. It got long, potentially upsetting, so I decided to move it here.)

(TW: Criticism of Draco Malfoy under the cut.)

I think the best analogy I can come up with for Slytherins in an Americanized Hogwarts is if they are the children of the tech giants (Hello Draco Bezos) and multi-company conglomerates, the top-earning Wall Street hedge fund managers, the property moguls like the Trumps and the Bloombergs, and the legacy politicians like the Bushes and the Kennedys. This would be a fairer comparison to the social-economic power of Slytherin families in the books because conservatives in the USA mostly do not come from privileged homes. And I suspect even this American analogue may pale to its UK counterpart, for it lacks the centuries of practice ("tradition”) as a convenient excuse for continuing its underlying bigotry.

Draco Bezos or Draco Trump or Draco Bush has as little choice as being of these surnames as Draco Malfoy. The members of the Americanized Slytherin house, likewise, don’t deserve to be seen as all evil, and maybe — and very likely — they’re not. But consider what Americanized Ron would think about the Slytherins as a group, bearing in mind that the books are written in the POV of Harry, a child himself and Ron’s fierce friend, if…

(Under the cut, for I’m VERY talkative today ...)

- If this Americanized Draco still buys his way into the Quidditch team with a Nimbus 2001. The obvious bribery aside, everyone in this Slytherin team can readily afford the same thing, and likely already has, at least, a Nimbus 2000 in possession.

- If Americanized Lucius also interferes with school policy with connections to Washington; he rubs shoulders with Secretary of Education Umbridge, who he got to know back when they were lobbying together in the capital.

- If the execution weapon of choice for Buckbeak is a golf club, a gift from the President Goyle of MACUSA. Walden McNair, former Slytherin, has just received a medal of honour for being able to wield it with style. This is a tale retold by a very bitter Theodore Nott, whose father owns the golf course resort where President Goyle plays but Nott Sr. only gets to keep the hamburger wraps of the President’s lunch. The other regular attendee of these lunches is the landowner of the entire Hogsmeade, who happens to be Gregory Goyle’s father.

And speaking of Hogsmeade...

- If Goyle Inc. hikes the rent of the town after every visit by Hogwarts students. Prices of items sold in Hogsmeade shops hike accordingly to deflect the cost. The Weasleys haven’t been able to afford anything there for years.

Goyle Inc. has also been looking to invest in Ottery St Catchpole, re-develop the area into one with ... farmer’s market. Lots and lots of farmer’s markets where a loaf of bread costs $10.00 apiece.

- If American Hogwarts is also free but God knows for how long. Its profits from the previous years — sorry, not profit, but endowment as should be referred to for non-profit organisations — has been channelled into the stock market and the stock market hasn’t been doing so well. Mrs Zabini, the manager of the fund, still gets her commission even if Hogwarts goes bankrupt. In fact, a volatile market with high trading volumes is a godsend for her income, and her yearly bonus is large enough to run Hogwarts for a year. She’s very generous, however, and donates 1% of it to the school, which gets her name engraved on the Gryffindor-Zabini Tower.

Meanwhile, if the Weasleys go home every summer not knowing if they can return to the same tower on September 1st.

- If Skelegro and other potions in the infirmary are rationed due to high cost and every time a Weasley find themselves injured in a Quidditch match, the Malfoys, father or son or both, would remark on the Weasleys having more children than they can afford, and recommend the school board that these potions should be rationed by surname as well. The Slytherins have no such concerns of course; the Parkinsons are heads of an international potion conglomerate and they can always import extra potions from Brazil, which are sold at a small fraction of the cost they sold to Hogwarts (yes, they have the licence and patent to produce the Skelegro. Why did you ask?).

…

Perhaps -- assuming my understanding of UK’s class system isn’t too off the mark -- these if’s can provide a sense of Slytherin’s privilege in canon to the American audience, and related to this, how Draco’s prejudice towards Ron cannot be put on the same moral scale from Ron’s prejudice against Draco. I’d also like to emphasize this: I haven’t touched at all, on this list, on Voldemort’s reign of terror. I haven’t touched, at all, on the fact that Voldemort’s war had been spearheaded by the parents of many current Slytherin students, and this war had only been suspended -- not ended -- for just short of a decade when the Class of Harry Potter entered Hogwarts. The wounds were still fresh. Arthur and Molly could’ve easily suffered similar fates as the Potters and the Longbottom’s. The bigotry of the Slytherins, and of the Malfoys, wasn’t merely a suspected thing in the canon years, like how we feel about a celebrity who’s made a questionable tweet. Not only was their bigotry a fact in the canon years, but it was also a real, ongoing threat that, if permitted to run its course, could and would ruin the lives of the Weasleys.

Ron seeing the Slytherins as a threat arguably served the dual function of keeping him safe -- perhaps not at the moment, but in the future. Draco, on the other hand, had nothing to fear about Ron and above all, the socioeconomic class that the Weasleys represented.

They never stood on equal grounds.

And here’s the thing I don’t understand. Or I think I understand it, having seen this Ron-is-as-bad-as-Draco-and-Slytherins-are-victims-of Dumbledore’s-prejudice debate in various forms over the years — this isn’t new or controversial, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this has become the dominant view within the ship — and I’m not sure I can get myself to face what I’ve understood, because what this is is worrisome for me.

Please hear me out.

The Drarry fandom on Tumblr has, in my observation, always taken a very strong, hardline stance against prejudice. The post that says something along the line of 10 people who sits with a Nazi makes a table of 11 Nazis get numerous likes and reblogs. And yet in this situation, we have a boy, Ron, who is directly affected by the prejudice, who’s familiar with the connections between his Slytherin classmates and those who have not only worked to make their brand of bigotry the law but helped murder those who do not agree, and his distaste for these oppressors as a group is somehow seen as equal as his likely future oppressors’ disgust at his presence.

The reason given is inevitably a variation of this: Draco was a child. He was parroting his parent’s beliefs. He was too young to be responsible for his words, or his actions. He was a victim.

I’ve not seen this defence offered, not even once within the Drarry circle, for a real-life bully. Tumblr’s user base is young, and many have a history of being bullied due to their race, gender, sexuality, disability, socioeconomic class. After a bit of subtraction (Young Age - Bullying History in Years), I’d take that many of these RL events happened when the victim and the perpetrator were about the age of Ron and Draco in canon. And yet, not once have I seen a shipper on my dash suggest the bully was a victim, or that they weren’t at fault because they were only parroting the prejudice of their conservative families, their schools, their religion etc. That maybe they didn’t mean what they were saying or doing.

This is a (very) good thing. But it also makes me wonder: defenders of Draco and the Slytherins do know, deep down, that the excuse they’ve offered Draco isn’t nearly good enough to exempt him from his behaviour.

Draco might not have understood the greater political ramifications of his bullying, but he knew he was hurting Ron. Bullying cannot a be mindless act; it cannot be a passive reflection of one’s lessons from school or family for It’s a pre-meditated, targeted behaviour, and a good bully like Draco — he came up with a bullying chant that the whole school knew in the end — tailors his acts to serve a specific purpose of hurting the victim. Draco might not have known that calling Hermione a Mudblood could devalue her life enough to make it ripe for elimination when Voldemort came to power, but he knew perfectly well that the term was derogatory. This is especially true if one agrees with the common headcanon that Draco was second only to Hermione in marks in school, that he was no Crabbe or Goyle and he was intelligent.

Our ship celebrates Draco’s sharp tongue, but that tongue was used exclusively to ridicule, to bully in canon -- it’s fandom that has given it a better / higher / romantic purpose. His father’s tongue spoke the language of bigotry to the ears of the Ministry; this was the Malfoy’s weapon of choice and Draco was forging his own in the books. His bullying ways in canon was written with humour, with Weasley is Our King being the epitome of the laughs. I don’t believe it was JKR’s intention for her readers to fall in love with Draco via his bullying style, however. The HP world was built as a mirror of our own (rather than as a manual of what an ideal world should be, as many in fandom has seemed to assume), and Weasley is Our King showcased how easily bigotry can creep into our day-to-day language when it’s masqueraded as a joke (Even Luna was singing it at some point):

Oh, relax! It’s perfectly fine for everyone to know the Weasleys were born in a bin, into poverty! Funny, isn’t it? HAHAHAHA!

Imagine seeing this kind of behaviour on Tumblr. Imagine trying to defend this kind of behaviour on Tumblr.

I have faith that most of my Drarry friends cannot, will not do the latter.

So please, please reconsider what you’re really saying when you call Draco the victim, the vulnerable one, when you insist that he and the Slytherins had been wronged. I don’t mean to start another debate and I don’t plan to engage in one; this isn’t a call-out post either, I enjoy reading all the opinions expressed and I understand many of the sentiments I’m questioning comes from a place of love. I just hope that everyone who’s reading (thank you) can sit back, think a little. Imagine for a moment that table with the Nazis. Even if, at the table, there’re actually 10 Nazis and 1 who isn’t, who is more vulnerable? The non-Nazi sitting with the Nazis? Or the person who refuses to sit at the table and makes a bad judgement call on the 11th sitter by assuming they are a Nazi as well? Who is more the victim, or more likely to become one? The 11th sitter who’s wrongly labelled? Or the standing person who is being eyed by the 10 Nazis with disgust, the 10 Nazis who already have a family history of hunting down the standing person’s family and friends?

Or does the answer -- and this is the understanding I’ve got but haven’t dared to face -- does the answer depend on if he character in question had white-blond hair that glinted so beautifully in the sun? Is that the reason why Draco Malfoy, bigot, bully, has been given this special treatment, this carte blanche in the sense that he’ll always remain on our good side, be exempt from our moral judgement regardless of what he did, because his physical description doesn’t contain a single hint of melanin?

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

Saturday 8 March 1834

6 10/.. 12 40/..

|| L

fair and windy - rain in the night - Fahrenheit 52°. at 6 40/.. - out at 7 1/4 - with Pickels - his son John and a labourer to wall up gaps and make other and set posts for John Bottomley and P- [Pickels] himself to raise wall near new dry bridge so as to support a great height of stuff - with John Booth taking him (P- [Pickels]) 2 loads of stones - Charles and James Howarth putting up more wainscot in upper buttery -

breakfast with my father at 8 1/2 in about 1/2 hour - in my study at 9 3/4 - rain came on about 8 1/2 or before likely to continue - till 11 1/2  wrote 1 page and 4 lines to Miss W- [Walker] and copied what she write I would advise her to write in answer to Washington -

then out with John moving large Cherrysuckers from the terrace to near new dry bridge and moving rose tree and flowers to outside upper garden door &c. ready for beginning to lower the terrace on Monday - Pickels went away in the morning on account of the rain but returned at 2 1/2 p.m. with him raising wall near new dry bridge to hold up stuff from the new bank (just below Booth's the shoemaker) and backwards and forwards with Charles and James Howarth in the upper buttery and with Mallinson and his 1 man who got the middle cornice on the chimney this afternoon, and opened hole thro' wall on to the terrace for barrowing out the stuff - Agreed with Pickels to wheel it out to the carts in the court yard, and thence cart it to over the old dry bridge for 8d. [pence] per square yard - he asks Mr. Haigh 15d. [pence] a yard (i.e. about 7d. [pence] per 1 horse cart load) for carting stuff from the new bank (to put it here near new dry bridge) -

Came in at 6 1/2 - settled with Pickels and Charles H- [Howarth] dinner at 7 and coffee and came upstairs at 7 40/.. - wrote 3 pp. [pages] more and 1/2 page envelope and finished my letter to 'Miss Walker, Heworth Grange, York' and sent it off at 9 1/2 by Thomas in a parcel with Washington's letter and no. [number] 2 Paxton's magazine and the small parcel for Mrs. Sutherland to go by tonights mail - Should have sent W-'s [Washington's] letter &c. yesterday but waited to hear from Miss W- [Walker] this morning - much disappointed - strongly urge her to determine about and give W- [Washington] orders to let Lidgate - should always determine as soon as one can, and then the sooner the determination is acted on, the better - a great comfort and advantage to us to have things settled as soon as possible so that our intentions should be clear to all whom they concerned - our position too equivocal -then dated 2nd page this evening - saying it was well to make an excuse of Lidgate but the Truth was, I could scarcely believe it was not a week since my return - it seemed an age since monday and not hearing from her made me dull - Did she wish me to think less of her? She might scold and I should take it patiently -

then took up W-'s [Washington's] letter could not be much Trouble to alter the Town's books - She could not be expected to understand land-valuing, therefore it was W-'s [Washington's] place to offer her a fair rent for the Hemingway Crofts (5 1/2 acres exclusive of plantation and paying £2.16.0 Taxes per annum say ∴ Taxes = from 6/. to 7/. per daywork) unless he hoped to have them as the same sort of Terms as the Lidgate land - but advised her to write briefly to him on the subject merely saying she had made up her mind not to pay the taxes, and as he put it to her to value the Crofts she should have them and Cordingley's farm valued at the same time and write by that post to Mr. Mitchell to let her have his valuation as soon as he could and then she would settle what allowance should be made to Cordingley and fix a rent for the Crofts - As W- [Washington] valued for himself and his brother in law he ought to be glad to call in an indifferent person - Would she write something like the following - 'Miss Walker will be much obliged to Mr. Mitchell to send her, as soon as he possibly can his valuation of the yearly rent of the land on the enclosed plan, specifying the condition of each field, the Tenant to pay all Taxes - Mr. Mitchell is requested to direct to Miss Walker Heworth Grange York' - She could easily sketch the plan, giving nos. [numbers] and measurements as stated in W-'s [Washington's] survey - Perhaps W- [Washington] would be surprised - not give her the credit she deserved but lay it all on me - she had plenty of head, only wanted promptness of decision.....'Heaven prosper you in everything! Doubt anything but the real regard of yours faithfully and affectionately AL- ' will send the dimensions of the North  parlour chim fireplace next Time -

with my aunt from 9 1/2 about an hour - then wrote the whole of this page till 11 - very boisterous windy night -

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/16/0177 - SH:7/ML/E/16/0178

[solac1um]

Brief Respite

I’ve also posted this on AO3! Written for the this fanfic collab.

Basically my first actual attempt at sexy writing. I tried to blend my default style into it, got a bit carried away, tried to shoehorn a piece of dialogue in, etc. Hopefully it came out at least miiiildly readable? Lmao. Anyway this was super self-indulgent, the Nakahechi route is, indeed, very special to me, although I’ve only ever been there once. If I lived in Japan, though, it would definitely be somewhere I visit yearly. A person can dream, I guess.

Izuku x GN!Reader

———

One of those nights again. He'd returned home, to lay his weary body on the couch next to you with a sigh, staring empty-eyed at a blank phone screen in one hand, the other seeking yours gingerly - too gingerly.

You'd put your book down, curled into his side and turned his face to yours. He'd looked so tired it broke your heart. As if in response to that thought, he'd attempted a smile. "I'm okay, don’t worry about m-"

"- don't give me that. Right now, I'm not a colleague who needs to be reassured." Your fingers brushed soft locks from his face as you'd peered into his eyes. "How many times have I told you not to bring work home with you, baby? You don't have to be a hero within these four walls." You'd brushed a thumb over his cheekbone. "If Izuku is tired, or worried, or scared, let him. You need to take care of this, too." And you'd tapped your fingers on his chest over his heart, watched the perfect veneer crumble, let him cry in your arms.

Later, stroking his shower-damp hair as he slept, you'd decided you both needed a good, week-long vacation.

Besides, it was that time of the year. You made a pilgrimage to the mountains of Kii Hantou every year, since it captured your heart the first time, walking the same route. This trail has seen you through your progress as a rescue hero. From worrying about being able to pass your first fitness test, to attempting harder and harder stretches of the trail every time you returned. The Nakahechi route witnessing you in all your seasons. For you, it was less religious, more a place that felt like home, that surrounded and held you, that kept safe your fears and dreams. And this time, you got to bring her the person you'd been telling her about for so long.

"For the next week," you'd told Izuku firmly, pressed against his side on the bus rumbling through the quiet countryside. "You're not a hero, you're not on duty, and neither am I, and no one is going to put us on call for anything. The only thing I'm fixing is food for lunch every day. And if someone has the gall to interrupt the first real vacation you've had in the 8 years you've been a pro hero, it better be because the world is literally crumbling." You stare into his eyes, still so guileless after so long. "Mmkay? Promise me."

His eyes are always so gentle when they behold you. "I'll try, puppy," he'd said, kissing your forehead. "But no promises."

It would have to do. You know how much his work means to him. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. "Good enough for me."

-

You watch as Izuku navigates the undulating paths with more ease than you could ever hope to muster. You lead the way, but only because he keeps pace with you. Your excitement is his excitement. You watch as he gapes at the landscape, his boyish excitement not lost to age - "you come here every year? I bet you don't ever get sick of it!" (You don't.) You laugh with him as he giggles at the "not Kumano Kodo" signs along the way. Signs you were in stitches to see the first time you walked this route. You watch him absolutely demolish the home-cooked meals every family-owned establishment feeds you both, lean into the soft comfort of quiet conversation before bedtime, his hands wandering languidly, affectionately over your skin.

Time and the mountains swallow your five days. Early mornings, sun dappled lunches sitting on logs. Walking rain drenched, through the gates of the hongu grand shrine, the water from the basin so cold your hands numb. The damp rough of the rope in your hands, the melodious rattle of the bell. Walking the grounds, cold and tired, picking out omamori for the both of you. (You always returned them at the new year, knowing you'd be back to get another one) Stopping before the gate to kiss Izuku in the rain, sweet and full of intent.

You’d booked a hotel with a hot spring for your last night there. It isn’t the biggest - that was expensive and always booked out a year in advance - but it is fancy enough, and has private bath rooms. You were a frequent visitor on your travels. Besides, you’d like some time to stare at your man in the nude, thank you very much.

The temperature of the hot bath is delicious after a cold late-autumn day in the rain. Your hands and feet are numb. You’d barely registered your shower, hurriedly rinsing suds from your skin and hair, nearly flinging yourself into the hot bath. You sigh as the shock of the heat fades into a warmth that wraps around you. An eye on the clock, you watch Izuku as he showers. He is so familiar, and no less beautiful for it; cut in marble, almost, your Adonis. How long had it been since you’d had the time to-

“Puppy?” You’re drawn back out of your head to concerned eyes on you. “Are you okay? You look a little flushed. Maybe you should go have a rinse so you don’t overheat…”

You blink at him. “I, ah. No. I’m okay, I’ve only been in here for uh” - a glance at the clock - “Five minutes.” You flash him a smile. “Come join me, the water’s great.” And he obliges.

You want to enjoy the bath, you really do, but you seem to have miscalculated just how fatally distracting it would be to have him next to you, so tantalisingly undressed. You sigh and lean your head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the tendrils of desire you feel rising deep in your core. He hums and deposits a kiss on your head, and warmth blooms in your rib cage.

Had it really already been seven years? Eight, since you first met in the debris of a fallen building, the aftermath of some villain’s harebrained scheme. Dirt-streaked and exhausted. You, working your first year as a rescue hero, and he, almost fresh out of UA. You’d both unwound over a cup of shitty coffee in the break room of the hospital afterward, a conversation cut short, that’d led to another. And another, and another. And here you both are.

“You’ve got that faraway look in your eyes again.” Izuku nuzzles you. “You’re so pensive today. Is everything alright?”

You giggle, lean in for a kiss that you draw out. “Couldn’t be better. After all, I get to spend aaall this time with the love of my life.” His eyes hold yours, a little hazy as you pull away. Entranced. You watch, with some pride, the blush dust his freckled cheek. It’s flattering that you can still do that, after all this time.

“Did you miss me that much,” he mumbles, and your barely-audible “too much” and the resounding yes in your mind brims over. His face is in your hands, your lips are on his again, sweet and insistent and ravenous. And the water burns on your skin, or is it the heat in your skin, the way your breath is stolen from your lips, the way your head is spinning?

His breathing is ragged when you pull back, a fire in his eyes that finds its echo somewhere in your belly.

You find your words first. “Let’s get out of here,” you say, taking him by the wrist. “Before we both get a heat stroke.”

The walk back feels like eternity. Bodies pressed into each other, huddling for warmth, for contact. The door clicks shut behind you, your hands are on him, tangled in his hair, breathless against his lips. Kissing him, his body against the mattress, your body against his, imprinting the length, the shape of his desire into your contours. His hands on your hips. You gasp into his lips, drawing a groan. The whisper of fabric as the sash of his yukata comes undone in your hands. Your fingers on his skin, trailing down his body, his breath hitching in his throat.

"You are so beautiful," you murmur against his skin. "These shoulders shouldn't always have to carry the weight of the world."

He sighs. You let your fingers trail down his form, studying every dip and curve and freckle and scar. “Let me spoil you today, baby. You work too hard.” You've long memorised the constellations in his skin, the way muscle under skin flutters beneath your hands, the way it does now as your touch wanders, fingertips and lips, down to the waistband.

He shivers, bites back a moan. Straining. You run a hand along his length, through the fabric, fingers finding the elastic, and you tug, achingly slow.

Lips brush the weeping tip, catching his precum on your tongue. You take him slowly, sucking the swollen skin, tearing a groan from his throat. A hand in your hair - gentle pressure, but enough to feel the tension humming in his veins. He breathes, a drawn out, shuddering breath.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly.

You moan, a sound that starts in your throat and reverberates into the cavern of your mouth, and he feels it. “F-fuck–” his breath hitches, and you hum. You take him deeper, your hands wandering the planes of his stomach, his thighs.

Deft lips, and a practiced tongue, you devour him. His tip hits the back of your throat and you groan. His taste is so familiar, your blood thundering in your ears and you are so full of him, and all you know is him. And you hold the moment, as he squirms, for what would have been a breath, or two, or three -

- and you pull back, only to push down again, feel him twitch and swell between your lips as you move. Hungry for his passion, his unravelling, faster and faster.

Izuku’s hand is in your hair, grip almost demanding. The taste and heat of him on your tongue, egging you on, fuelled by the sound of his voice, caught between a groan and a whimper, the way he shifts and trembles, back arching away from the mattress. His body a line of perfect tension as you guide him to his climax.

His own hand stops you. “Puppy, baby, wait, I–”

“Mmm?” You hum, earning yourself another soft gasp.

“I- I need to be inside you.”

You pull back, lips gliding over his length, leave him aching. You’ll make him wait a little, you’ve waited for this for so long. You look up at him, through your eyelashes, faux bashful. “Yeah?”

You grind against his cock slowly, teasing, and he draws a shuddering breath. “Are you going to ask?” You breathe the words into the air between your lips and his, close enough to feel him whimper as you move against him again.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, baby. I need you. I need this.”

You swallow the moan rising in your throat, lean in. “Good. Because,” you breathe, “I do too.” Your words meeting his parted lips before your own steal the choked moan that escapes - yours, or his - as you guide him into your velvet heat.

You’ve waited for this for so long.

You move slowly, savour every inch of him, the way his eyes hold yours, unfocused, the way he bites his lip and gasps at every thrust, not enough to silence his moans.

“Fuck, puppy, yes–” His voice catches on the edges of his pleasure. “Oh god, you feel amazing, puppy.”

You chuckle breathlessly. “Yeah, baby? Did you miss this? Just having time... to ourselves like this?” The heat rises in your core, the closeness and friction and fullness of his cock tearing a rawness from you. “You did, didn’t you?” you move faster, chasing intensity. “Tell - tell me.”

His hips twitch against you. "You– did I miss this," he gasps in the midst of a pleasure that threatens to steal his words, “Puppy, you have no idea, I - ah - all that… that wishing… for, for uneventful days so I can come home early, only for it to - ah - never happen, being too tired to do anything all these nights - oh fuck - h-having all that time on patrol, to all but dream of you and how I fucking ache for you. I-I’ve wanted you so much I can't breathe. Fuck, baby, I don't think you have a single inkling-”

And then they’re gone, shipwrecked in the storm of his pleasure as he takes you by the hips and thrusts up into you, the change in angle bringing you closer. And the desperation of his words and his touch make you want to lose the measure, fuck him into oblivion, sate a hunger you cannot name.

And so you do, bracing against the mattress, hips snapping against his, feeling your walls tighten around him. You drop your forehead to his, kiss him deeply. He groans into your lips, low and desperate. “Puppy, I’m- I’m going to cum-”

The need in his voice pushes you over the edge. You ride him through your orgasm, his name tearing ragged from your lips over and over as you convulse around him. Your hips don’t stop until his body echoes your climax, shuddering against you, twitching inside you.

You hold him until he stops trembling, until you stop trembling, until his breathing slows. Green eyes gaze at you, still hazy and so, so soft. You kiss him slowly, pull away to brush the hair from his sweat-damp brow, and he wraps his arms around you. “I love you, puppy,” he murmurs.

You press a kiss to his forehead. “And I love you, dearest.”

He hums and buries his face in your shoulder. “I really needed that.”

You run your hands through his curls, gently. “I know, baby. So did I.”

“Maybe we should... Do this more often,” he mumbles, drawing a soft laugh from you.

“Oh, definitely. Anything to get your workaholic butt to take a break every now and then, and spend time with me.” You touch a kiss to the side of his head. “Would you come with me again next year, if you can?”

He looks surprised and gratified. “You really want me to? I’d love to.”

You bump your nose against his. “Don’t look so surprised. If the last seven years is anything to go by, there isn’t a part of my life I want separate from you.”

He responds with a tight hug. “Me neither. Thank you, puppy.”

You let your fingertips wander, tracing idle patterns in the sweat cooling on his skin. “You know, since we’re going to have to go take another shower, let’s go enjoy that private hot spring without getting distracted.”

Izuku laughs. “What are the chances?” You flick him lightly on the shoulder. “What?” He looks at you innocently, all big guileless eyes. “It’s not my fault you’re so distracting.”

You roll your eyes, tugging him up. “Oh you sweet talker, you. C’mon, before it gets late.”

[mahalkitajohnnysuh]

Two Birthdays

I wrote this piece today in honor of today’s birthday celebrators, one of which NCTzens should know by heart. 

Mark Lee has been my gateway to the world of NCT, and now I am fully immersed in it. Well, not so much with the Dreamies but I appreciate them.

Then, who’s the other one celebrating their birthday? I guess you have to find out who! Johfam knows – don’t embarrass me, guys.

As always, I put a GIF to hype you up – here’s Marky with black hair, which is the best color on him. 

Mahal ko kayong lahat! :) 

–––

Summary: This piece is dedicated to Mark Lee and Mama Suh, who share the same birth date of August 2. Johnny and Essie prepare something for them, and then get emotional at the end. Aren’t they such attention-hogging drama queens? 

POV: 3rd person as usual. 

Word count: 1,160 words 

–––

August 2 is an important day for Johnny Suh – not only is it the birthday of his dearest eomma, but it was also the special day of his bro Mark Lee.

Since Essie Park has been living with the two boys for quite some time now, those days have also become important to her. She loves both of them – Johnny is her boyfriend, while Mark is the little brother she never had.

She woke up early to prepare a feast for the birthday celebrators, which in turn, made her partner do so as well. Both of them were puttering away at the kitchen at five in the morning, preparing a mixture of both Korean and Western dishes.

“Baby, why don’t you check on the birthday boy?” Johnny suggested after placing a newly cooked omelet on a plate with mashed potatoes and vegetables on it. Essie gave him a thumbs-up and silently ran to Mark’s room, whose door was slightly ajar. She could see that he was cocooned in his comforter, and she couldn’t tell if he was still asleep or pretending to be.

“I can’t tell if he’s still sleeping or not,” she whispered once she was back at the kitchen. The couple glanced at the clock – it read 7:40 a.m. – and giggled. “Probably not yet,” her boyfriend said, who picked up the French press nearby to make their coffee. “Let’s give him a few minutes, and then we’ll surprise him.”

\\\

At around 8:30 a.m., Essie led Johnny to Mark’s room as he carried a small tray of breakfast food. She opened the door carefully and saw that the young man was still asleep. This time, they can see his bare face – he always had a mustache forming – and they could hear him snoring lightly.

She went to the left side of the bed while Johnny went to the opposite side, placing the tray at the foot of the bed. The couple looked at each other first before they decided to surprise Mark by screaming their birthday greeting.

“Happy birthday, Mark Lee!”

The birthday boy, who is now 21 as of writing, was startled and kicked the comforter off the bed. “What the hell,” he grumbled, looking at his hyung and noona in disbelief first, “but thank you, guys. You didn’t have to scream into my ear like that.”

“But that wouldn’t be fun, right?” Johnny snickered, which earned him a glare from the younger guy. “Happy birthday, Marky!” Essie squealed, messing with his hair. He bit his lip as his hyung joined in on playing with his hair, trying his best not to be annoyed at the situation.

When they were done, Johnny reached over to the small tray and placed it closer to Mark. “Of course, you know how it is in this household when someone has a birthday. We made you breakfast fit for a king like yourself.” Essie made dramatic hand gestures to emphasize that, as there were three plates crammed into the tray that contained a full-course meal.

“Thank you again, Johnny hyung and Essie noona! I truly appreciate it,” the birthday boy said, now less grumpy than a few minutes ago. Once he got his utensils, he dug into his majestic breakfast. The couple patted his back affectionately as he bit and gulped his food.

After he finished eating, Johnny left the room briefly to grab his Polaroid camera. Then, they took pictures – the couple’s favorite was of them kissing Mark on the cheeks with the guy completely flustered in the middle.

“This is so cute!” Essie gushed, staring at the newly-developed photo lovingly. “I’m going to hang it up in my gallery. May I, love?” Johnny winked at her, which meant she could. She replied by tackling him in a hug, in which she also included Mark after.

“I love you boys so much,” she murmured while still in proximity with them. “We love you too,” they said in unison, and everyone giggled at their harmonization.

They spent a few more minutes in bed talking and teasing each other until Mark had to go home to his parents’ house to spend the rest of the day with them.

“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, guys. I might spend the night there,” he said as he tugged at the straps of his backpack.

“It’s okay, Mark. You deserve the time off with them. And I’m sure it has been a while you went to Mass with your family too,” Essie said softly, remembering the time that she and Mark went to church recently to pray for their intentions.

“Yeah, that’s true. Well, I’m off then. Have a nice day ahead!” Mark waved at them until he was out of their eyesight.

\\\

“Then, that leaves us with the next thing on our agenda – call Mama,” Johnny said once they retreated to the couch.

“Check what time is it there first, dummy,” Essie teased, flicking the space in between his eyebrows. “I’m sure she’s awake at this time,” he replied, rubbing the part she hit. “Come here, my big baby,” he patted the space beside him, “and let’s call her up to say our birthday greetings.”

It was already late in the evening in Chicago when the couple called Mama Suh, who was already in her pajamas. “Happy birthday Eomma! I hope you had a fun and fabulous day there,” Essie said while she waved enthusiastically at her boyfriend’s mother.

“But of course, my darling! We went to this hotel and had a nice steak and wine dinner,” the older woman shared, which got her son ‘ooh’-ing and ‘aah’-ing at the details of her day.

Johnny and Essie snuggled closer to each other as they listened to Mama Suh talk about her day and more. “I wish you two could go here again, I’d love you to experience what I had too,” she said wistfully, making the couple hug each other tighter.

“We’ll fly there again once things are better, Mama. We promise that,” her son replied.

“Yes, Ma. You can count on that. We miss you so much,” his girlfriend added.

As much as they didn’t want to end the call on a sad note, Mama Suh got teary-eyed, and soon, they were crying and sniffing.

Although it has been years since Johnny decided to work in Korea, he always made it a point to fly back to his hometown in Chicago yearly. However, given the current pandemic, he couldn’t.

The couple held each other for a while after their call, saddened by the effects of the global situation and a million other thoughts.

“Baby?”

“Yes, love?”

“Promise me we’ll be together forever?”

Essie looked at her boyfriend’s distraught face, and she kissed him squarely on the lips. “Yes, I promise you that.”

He returned the gesture and carried her to their shared bedroom, presumably to make sure that she will stay true to her words.

–––

FIN

P.S. I know, it doesn’t feature enough Mark! Don’t worry; I have another post to make up for that.

[sproutspright]

Forget Me Not

A/N

This is my first writing and its not very good, but I figured I’d just post it anyway. I kind of struggled with the ending. Let me know if you’d like to see more /.\

Pairing: Doyoung x Reader 

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Word Count: 4.1k

Song Rec: Summer Love- Aseul

“Please darling, it won’t be the same without you,” your mother pleaded over the phone as you began to stack up a semester’s worth of textbooks and scrawled note paper. Your dorm window was propped open to invite the warm balmy May breeze into your bedroom. You had just finished your second semester of college, and were looking forward to moving into your own apartment. Though you had been away from home for two years, you only had just begun to feel truly independent.

“I’ve gone every year though, can’t I just enjoy my new place? I have so much to do,” you replied, boxing up the books for good. Of course you loved the yearly summer vacation tradition of going to the seaside town of Cape Azure. Yet somehow, you felt it would hinder your momentum. You had been on the trip every year without fail, but it only symbolized a part of yourself that was now in the past.

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that afterwards, it’s only three weeks. It’s the only time we all have together,” her voice cracked, and you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but it struck you still. Your father was a professor, and worked tirelessly over the fall and spring. Summer really was the only time you could say you had spent with him for as long as you could remember.

“Fine,” you sighed, knowing there was no arguing with her, “I’ll see what kind of flight I can catch later tonight, okay?”

“He’ll be so happy to see you,” your mother sang. You laughed, suddenly looking forward to it. In the back of your mind, you wondered if he would still be there too.

The familiar salty breeze ruffled your sundress as you strode across the road and onto the boardwalk, colorful sailboats dotting the turquoise shoreline. The air was slightly humid, and sweat had already begun to stick to your neck. You gazed up at the endless sky, so crushingly blue it only served to contrast the stark white beach houses hugging the sand. You had arrived at Cape Azure only yesterday, but you were already eager to immerse yourself back into nostalgia. You had walked along the boardwalk so many times, enjoying the view and the different kinds of people scattered about. Some local, and many others just visiting like yourself. Although you didn’t want to admit it, you had come to see if he was still here.

Your steps took you back to the kayak rental stand, nestled between the dock and a gelato shop that you never failed to revisit. You had met him here at fifteen, when your parents had asked you to pick out a kayak. That entire summer was spent together, an innocent friendship blossoming. He was all you thought about until you’d seen him again.

Your eyes scanned the inside, but you were only met with a middle aged man reading a book from behind the counter. Your heart sank a little and you turned around, heading for the edge of the dock. The expanse of blue took your breath away as you trailed the edge of the railing, looking down to see if there were any seals swimming below. Peering down from such a drop made your head spin, and you quickly turned back up, staggering slightly.

“Are you alright?” a soft voice chimed beside you, and you froze.

“Ah, I…” you managed, looking into the eyes of the concerned boy. His black hair tousled in the wind and his dark eyes blinked into the sun. It was him.

“I-I’m fine, I just get dizzy easily,” you brush your hair out of your face, your pulse beginning to quicken.

“I see, well be careful then,” he said kindly, turning his attention to the water. You stood there for a moment before resting your arms against the railing, not sure of how this interaction would continue. It was like this every time, and you cursed at yourself for not being able to get used to it.

“My name’s y/n,” you said courageously, balling your fists and biting your lip. The sheen of sweat against your skin had become more noticeable to you now. You hoped the bright sun was a good enough excuse for the deep blush that colored your cheeks.

“Ah,” he said shyly, looking down, “I’m Doyoung.”

“Have we met before?” you asked, gritting your teeth. You knew it was a meaningless question.

“I-I don’t think so,” he said, looking over at you. His words were the same every time, but they still hurt nonetheless. It had been five years since you had known each other, and not once had he remembered you. At first you thought it was a joke, or his cruel way of trying to get rid of you. It didn’t take long for you to realize he had truly forgotten, and you had no way of knowing how he could possibly remember you. Each summer, you would meet again for the first time, become close, and then repeat the cycle. Though at first you were simply interested in him, your feelings quickly grew into something more.

“Do you want to get some gelato with me?” you smiled at his confused expression.

“Um, s-sure,” he agreed, and you heaved a sigh of relief as you both walked down the dock together.

“Are you here for the summer?” he asked timidly, his eyes glancing in your direction for only a moment.

“Yeah, just a few weeks. I usually come with my family every year.” His brow furrows and he nods as if he’s trying to recollect the broken pieces of his memory. You try not to let your disappointment show as you introduce yourself to him once again, pretending that you had never met before. But your memories of the previous summer made it all the more difficult.

The both of you picked out your ice cream and strolled along the white sand of the beach, the crashing of the waves calming your anxiety as you tried your best to make an impression on him. This was always the most critical time, because you were always afraid he would lose interest and you’d never get him back. But he always returned to you somehow.

Long after you had finished your gelato, you realized the sun’s angle in the sky and how long you had been “out for a walk”. Though it pained you to leave him, you weren’t sure how you could keep his attention much longer.  

“Shit, it’s kind of late,” you looked at the clock on your phone, standing up from the stone wall you both had been sitting on, “I should probably go.”

“Wait,” he rose, “Can I give you my number?” You looked into his dark eyes, and you could swear they were sparkling. Your breath caught in your chest as you handed him your phone. Though he had given you his number many times before, you had always ended up deleting it as soon as you were back home. Even after a few days he didn’t know who you were, and it was pointless reaching out as you had learned.

He handed you the phone back and you smiled, “I’ll text you later. It was nice meeting you!” He returned your smile and nodded, “You too.”

You hadn’t wasted a single moment after your reunion with Doyoung. Every day he waited for you on the boardwalk, and you would talk until your parents would call asking where you had gone. It was blissful being around him again. The way he would laugh until he fell over, how he would always pick out a shell for you from the beach. As much as you tried to contain your feelings, you couldn’t help but fall in love with him each time. You had never met anyone like him.

“Hey, let’s go for a picnic today,” Doyoung suggested over the phone as you threw your wet hair up into a towel. Your mind immediately recalled the year before, when he had asked you to go on a picnic. Your cheeks flushed and you bit your lip, remembering how he had kissed you that day. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was somehow different. Both of your feelings had progressed so much then, it felt like an entire lifetime within that span of three weeks. You had gotten better at distancing yourself from that part of your life, but the feeling of his lips lingered long into the cold winter months. You had spent countless nights lying awake, wishing you could just talk to him again.

“Yeah sounds fun,” you inhaled sharply, becoming flustered, “I’ll meet you at our usual spot.”

You finished getting ready, throwing on a denim skirt and light blue blouse, and applied a tinted gloss to your lips, just in case. As you headed out the door, you were greeted by bright sunshine and a temperate breeze, the sky so blue it made your chest ache. Doyoung met you at the boardwalk, a jean jacket draped over a black t-shirt and jeans, his lean figure propped against the wood of the kayak stand. He seemed startled by your appearance, unable to take his eyes off of you.

“You look...pretty today,” he breathed, taking a moment before grabbing your hand and leading you to a red tandem bike resting against the wall.

“I thought it would be fun if we tried this,” he said as he swung his leg over. You grinned and hopped your leg over carefully, grabbing onto the small bars for balance. This was one of his favorite things to do, and you loved it each time. The both of you rode to the sandwich shop nearby, picking up your favorites before heading through the rows of beach houses, securing your bags onto the handlebars. Before long, the houses dwindled into nothing but a wide road and a sea of grass and trees. You knew exactly where you were going, but it was still thrilling all the same.

At the large willow tree, he stopped and you both hopped off the bike, laying it on its side. He spread his jacket on the ground and offered for you to sit. You became nervous as memories flooded your mind, his soft lips and gentle hands.

“You know, it’s so weird,” Doyoung started after finishing his sandwich, “I don’t really know you, but you feel so familiar. I think that’s why I probably can’t stop thinking about you.” You gulped your strawberry soda and turned away, your cheeks ablaze.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” he said softly, his knee against your thigh, “I just really like you y/n.” Your heart pounds in your chest at his words. You can feel the electricity from his close proximity. You understand the moment, knowing all too well.

“I like you too,” you say quietly, the wind ruffling your hair a bit and cooling your face. Doyoung grabs your chin in his hand, looking at you intently as you try to avoid his gaze. His touch is like a searing hot iron on your skin, and you nearly flinch away.

“Can I kiss you y/n?” he whispered, his breath fanning your face and you nod, looking up at him through your lashes. He closes the distance between your lips and his, kissing you softly. All the tension in your body melts away as you both tentatively taste each other, becoming blissfully unaware of your surroundings. The sweetness of his kisses become slightly fevered, and he slips his hand to the back of your neck, curling his fingers in your hair. You shiver at the sensation, but this only seems to encourage him further. He pulls your waist closer to him until your chest is against his, continuing to deepen the kiss as you both become melded together. Your head is spinning but it’s the loveliest feeling, and you wish you could stay in that moment forever.

After awhile, Doyoung pulls away and watches your face as it becomes more and more overcome with emotion. He looks down at the grass, lacing his fingers between it as his hand falls from your cheek. You’re silent, heart wrenching as you try to remain composed. You had been longing for him for what seemed like decades, but you’d never allowed yourself to cry. Now it felt as if all those tears were prying their way from your eyes, suffocated by your suppression.

His hand reaches up to catch your tears that had already begun to fall. The look in his eyes was so beautiful and sad you felt you would weep.

“I do know you, don’t I?” Doyoung mumbled solemnly. You couldn’t look at him, your face entirely covered in tears. Why did you have to miss him so damn much? There was no future between you two. It was a vicious cycle of trying to get him to hold on to your memory, but you hadn’t accepted the fact that you yourself were trying to hold onto the memory of him.

“Please don’t forget me again Doyoung,” you whispered, clutching at the bottom of your skirt, shoulders twitching as you cried softly.

“I’m so sorry y/n,” he hushed, pulling you into his arms to lay your head on his chest. Usually it would take much longer for him to remember, but your lips had been enough for him. The pain in his chest now mirrored yours, only from guilt and hopelessness.

“I tried so hard to remember, I don’t know how long it even lasted,” his voice was heavy with shame, holding you tighter as if it could erase all the pain he had put you through, “But I’m here now. Let’s just try to make the most of the time we have.”

You weren’t sure if you should have tried to find him again. To unearth these feelings you so desperately tried to hide. But the steady beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his breathing intoxicated you. His presence was a temporary high, making everything okay as long as he was there. You knew this choice would only hurt you more, but for now you didn’t want to waste any time.

Days had gone by in a blissful blur as you both reminisced of the summers past. It always happened this way. You simply waited for him, and all of his memories of you came flooding back. In some ways it made things complicated, but you’d never felt so close to him before. He couldn’t stand a day without you. You were gone so much, your parents had started to complain. They had no idea, and you had no intention of telling them.

“Honey, let’s have one last sail on the water today,” your mother called to your father from the kitchen of their vacation home. You were lying on the couch, scrolling through your phone lazily with a leg hooked over the side.

“Hmm,” your father grunted, keeping his eyes fixed on his laptop from the lounge chair adjacent to you. Even now he was still focused on work. It made you sad, wondering if you’d end up like that too. You hoped he at least felt it meaningful or fulfilling in some way.

“Y/n, get dressed so we can all go out.” You sighed and rolled off of the couch and into the bathroom. You only had until tomorrow, and then your fleeting romance with Doyoung would be quickly extinguished. It made your body feel heavy. You couldn’t imagine forgetting all the wonderful new memories created, the smiles and kisses. It would all come to an end. And you weren’t sure if you could ever continue this again.

With much effort, you managed to look presentable and followed your parents to the harbor. Your father’s yellow sailboat sat tranquilly rocking back and forth, awaiting its next voyage. As you hopped aboard, you looked around to see if you might catch Doyoung hanging around somewhere by the beach. You wished you hadn’t felt so guilty for wanting to stay back.

After setting out on the water, you checked your phone to find that there was no service. Any hopeful texts would have to wait, and you begrudgingly took out your book you had brought with. Your parents chatted as you read, honing in on the sound of the waves lapping at the boat and the cry of the gulls overhead. Finally, you grew impatient and stripped off your shorts and tank, diving into the deep blue abyss. You popped your head from the water to the annoyed screams of your mother.

“Y/n, don’t scare me like that!” You shrugged and swam out a little, loving the feeling of the cool water on your sun kissed skin. The sky above you looked so infinite, you felt as though you’d fall into it and drown.

The sun had sunk low on the horizon, a burning, enduring red bleeding into the waters. You had never given much thought to sunsets, but it stirred something in your chest and you felt a lump begin to form in your throat.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” you mother mused, her eyes glued to the vibrant seascape. You nodded, not trusting your own voice to sound normal. It was so beautiful it hurt.

“Sad it never lasts long though,” your father hummed as the colors quickly began to ice over into a subdued purple. He began to steer back to the harbor before it got too dark, docking just as the sky became a dusty blue. Your footsteps were heavy with fatigue as you all walked back to the beach house, supposedly satisfied with the day.

“Oh dear you got a terrible sunburn,” your mother fretted as she took a good look at you. You had just sat back down on the couch, wincing at the rough fabric brushing against your skin.

“Guess I forgot sunscreen today,” you sighed, getting up to see if there was any aloe vera hiding in the bathroom cabinet. To your disappointment, there was none.

“Hey, I’m gonna go walk to the convenience store,” you called as you grabbed your purse from your room and shuffled on a pair of sandals.

“Are you sure? We could go for you,” your mother offered, but you insisted. You were exhausted, but you needed the fresh air to clear your head. The store wasn’t very far, only about a fifteen minute walk. There were still quite a few tourists out, heading to restaurants and enjoying evening beach strolls. You wondered if Doyoung had tried to call you, seeing as there were no texts coming through.

After picking up a bottle of aloe vera, you stepped back outside and shivered, the air considerably colder. You tried rubbing your arms, but it only aggravated your sunburn. As you turned the corner, you felt the weight of someone else crashing into you. You exclaimed in surprise, taking a step back. It was Doyoung.

“Y/n, I need to talk to you,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. You stood dumbfounded for a moment, but his presence brought such relief you finally felt normal for the first time that day.

“Doyoung,” you gasped slightly, “of course. I-I’m sorry I was out all day.”

“It’s okay,” he wrapped his arms around you, “I was just scared. I didn’t want to forget you.” Your heart sunk and you held onto him, burrowing your face in his chest. You didn’t know what to say. The agony of missing him paled in comparison to the thought of him fiercely yet futilely protecting his memories  

“I’m leaving after tomorrow,” you said finally, and his body became stiff. He pulled away, looking at you with pitifully empty eyes. You bit your lip, feeling the lump in your throat once more.

“That’s okay. We’ll get through this,” he reassured, but even his voice wavered. You remained silent, blinking as you took his hand and began to walk. You didn’t know where you were going, but you couldn’t think straight. The moon had risen and painted a pale yellow streak on the waves, rippling and twinkling like stars. The both of you had made your way down to the sand, your hands still entwined.

“I can’t believe it’s been three weeks already,” you sighed, gazing up at the half moon, “I don’t want this to be over.” Doyoung stopped to place his hand on your cheek, his lips gently pressing against yours.

“We can make it work somehow,” he said as he kissed you again. You allowed yourself to be taken by his lips, committing the feeling to memory one last time.

“Doyoung, I don’t think it’s possible. At least, not anymore.”

“What are you saying? We can talk everyday. There’s no way we couldn’t-”

“You don’t remember,” you interrupted him, casting your eyes to the tide that snaked closer to your flip flopped feet. His brows knit together.

“But-”

“We’ve already tried. It never works. I don’t know what it is, but as soon as I’m gone you can’t remember anything.” He looked lost. Of course those memories never return. He’d never remember the way you cried over the phone, chanting your name over and over until the line went dead. It was never going to work. You cursed yourself for thinking otherwise at any point.

“Y/n, I don’t want to forget you,” his eyes glistened with tears, and your heart wrenched in your chest at the sight. There was no way you could do this to him again, or go through this. This was the last time.

“You won’t care as long as you don’t remember again,” you said solemnly, hating how your words sounded so cold, “I won’t come back.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, turning towards the sea with a helpless expression.

“Please, we can just take up where we left off. Can’t we?”

You shake your head, “I’m sorry, I just can’t. I should have let you go. I was being selfish and I’m sorry. I’ve just never met anyone like you before.” Your voice became quiet, the waves overpowering you.

“I think I’m in love with you though,” Doyoung said restlessly, and his words pierced through your chest. The waves became louder and you felt the splash of water as it nipped at your ankles. He looked so lovely in the moonlight, his features soft despite how distressed he was. Your heart ached at how much you would miss him.

“I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.” Your tears escaped you and you hugged him so tightly as though he would disappear at any moment. He kissed you again, though with such intensity you became dizzy, as though he was trying to convey all he had to you. When he lead you to the ridge of the sand, you let him. You let his hands explore your body, feeling the crackle of electricity running through you. You let him make love to you right there on the sand, for the first and last time. And it was both poignant and devastating, the only way you could say goodbye.

The next day, you didn’t see him or speak to him. You had already deleted his contact from your phone, ready to brace yourself for the pungent remorse. You tried not to think about how many times he would try calling you, how he must hate himself for being the reason it would never move past what it already was. It was all just too bittersweet.

As you packed your things the morning after, you took a deep breath of the salty air spilling from your window. You thought of your apartment waiting for you, your new life just beginning. It was something you so desperately wished you could share with him. But this place was a limbo, never changing, and he was another part of that. Though it broke your heart to admit it.

On your way to the car, you saw Doyoung’s soft black hair from down the sidewalk. You wanted to call out to him, but you were afraid he had already forgotten. There was still a bad taste in your mouth for leaving things like this, but it was the best you could do. Though you would be erased from this place, you would keep the memories alive in you. You were afraid of finally accepting what was never meant for you, but you could never, ever forget him. You knew the most beautiful things in life were too quick to vanish. And he was certainly beautiful.

[aroworlds]

When Quiver Meets Quill, Part One

Alida Quill is just fine spending hir holidays alone with a book if it means freedom from hir family's continued expectation to court and wed. When hir co-worker Ede sets hir up with a friend and won't take no for an answer, Alida plots an extravagant, public refusal scene to show everyone once and for all that ze will not date. Ever.

Ze doesn't expect to meet Antonius Quiver, a man with his own abrupt, startling declarations on the subject of romance.

It isn't courting if he schemes with hir to pay back Ede ... is it?

Contains: One autistic, aromantic organiser extraordinaire armed with coloured ink; one autistic, aromantic officer a little too prone to interrupting; and an allistic friend in want of better ways to go about introductions.

Content Advisory: Aromantic characters pressed into dating along with casual references to general amatonormativity and ableism.

Length: 2, 261 words (part one of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec​‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

I don’t date, court, woo or pay suit to anyone.

“Do you ever do anything but work, write and read?” Ede Thimble leans across the counter and stares at Alida with intent brown eyes, ignoring the crate of straw-packed ink bottles at her feet. Ten minutes ago, she offered to shelve them. “You come here, you spend the day looking things up and writing things down, and then you go home and do the same!” She sighs before waving her arms and the trailing sleeves of her dress with extravagant enthusiasm. “Yesterday was a holiday! You could have spent it dancing, drinking or gaming! Anything involving another person!”

Alida Quill sets down hir pencil, working to hold back a frown. Hir family owns the business—the name Quill is a byword in Elsten for fine stationery—but as the youngest of the three Quill siblings, hir thoughts on matters of hiring go ignored.

Did Jan select Ede because her inquisitiveness gets under Alida’s skin?

“I didn’t just read. I went to morning service, I baked...”

Spiced apple cakes, the sultanas conveniently “forgotten”. After which ze curled up by the fire, book in hand, and spent a glorious, undisturbed afternoon flipping through a collection of fairy tales for hir catalogue of stories that don’t end in marriage. Hir siblings and their wives patronised dance halls and gaming houses, granting Alida a rare half day with nobody to annoy hir about avoiding friends and family.

“Temple!” Ede rolls her eyes and leans against the glass counter, putting fingerprints over a surface Alida just finished polishing. “You’re not even pious! Do you go anywhere not home, here or services—”

The door opens, admitting a blast of chill air and a pair of damp student mages in brown robes, and Alida grits hir teeth at the thud as the taller lets it slam closed. Both carry empty string bags and a folded piece of cream paper—good cotton rag watermarked with the Academy’s crossed-wand seal. Why the Academy wastes expensive paper on yearly materials lists, ze’ll never know.

Ede straightens and gifts the students her warmest smile. “Good morning, sirs! I see you’re looking to get ahead of the winter’s commencement class. Smart! Can I first tempt you with our newest brushes, or would you prefer me to work through your lists?”

Alida permits hirself a sigh of relief and returns to inventorying the shelf of journals and ledgers.

Ze considers Ede no small trial, between her questions and a lackadaisical attitude to cleanliness. Yet Ede’s ability to charm and flatter, a gift Alida doesn’t wish to possess, frees hir to manage stock orders, shelving and the accounts book. Ze answers questions and handles sales when needed, but Alida prefers to leave the art of convincing customers to Ede and Jette. As if either will think to dust the shelf or turn the bottles labels-outwards when displaying!

By the time Ede sends the students back out into the weather, bulging parcels wrapped in spelled wood-pulp paper, Alida stands on a stool behind the counter, positioning the last of the new inks. Ze doesn’t know how to answer people asking, for the umpteenth time, about hir prospects; ze always knows how many nibs, pens and brushes are contained within the store’s array of redwood drawers and shelves. Hir hands give the glass counters their sparkle, the wood its gleaming richness, the leather chairs by the window their waxy softness and scent. Ze laid the fire warming the shop against the cold outside. What’s wrong with finding contentment in hir work? Why isn’t this a worthy life, hir days spent in labour enough for bed, food, clothing and a reasonable number of books?

Alida wonders, not for the first time, if ze should have tried to pretend belief and gender enough to join the Sisterhood.

“Rain!” Ede declares in the smug tones of a woman who charged an extra ten cents for the protective paper. That fewer people dare the streets in a worsening squall doesn’t diminish her joy; she claps her hands, swathes of blue wool and white lace shrouding her fingers. “I love when I can make rich mages pay for something extra!”

Alida takes up hir duster, steps down off the stool, doesn’t fall when hir toes catch the hem of hir skirt and moves to hir nook by the counter. Hir small desk, hidden from customers by a display case of envelopes, holds a ledger, a brass cup of pencils, a wad of cat fur and a tin of wax polish above a drawer that doesn’t quite close. Spell more wrapping paper sheets, ze writes at the bottom of the day’s list, nodding at Ede so she doesn’t think herself ignored. “Not all the students are rich. The Academy is expensive, but that doesn’t mean some people don’t save up. Or that those people can afford to replace a soaked journal.”

Hir parents sent hir, back when the family thought Alida to make something grander of hir life through magic.

“They’re richer than me.” Ede sighs again; Alida represses the urge to mention that Jette pays Ede wage enough to support her mother and fund a penchant for lace. “I tell you what—I’ve got a friend who makes those annoying corrections, and I can’t get his nose out of the newspaper, either. I bet you two’d get on like anything. Instead of temple and reading, how about I introduce you next Endday lunch?”

Alida twists the folds of hir skirt through hir white fingers, watching the wind hurl rain against the front windowpane. Didn’t Ede understand Alida the first time ze explained this? “I don’t date, court, woo or pay suit to anyone.”

“You’re just like Antonius, Alida. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before now!” Ede opens her mouth as the door admits a regular gentlewoman in a long coat, a sopping newspaper held above her head in a vain attempt to protect her dyed suede. “Good morning, good sir! Such dreadful weather out, and so early in the season! Should I help you now, or would you like to first stand before the fireplace a minute?”

Wet newspaper, coat and boots, along with the door the customer struggles to close, create puddles enough that Alida darts into the stockroom for a mop and bucket.

Please, ze prays as ze works the mop over the floorboards, let Ede forget this plan as easily as she forgot about the crate of ink bottles.

***

“You need to meet Antonius,” Ede says the next morning, entering the shop without a greeting or by-your-leave while Alida places two small logs above the flaming kindling in the fireplace. “My cousin brought him around last night, and I swear he said five words—and most of those were contradictions! Things he read about!”

Alida takes the poker and shifts one of the logs to get more air underneath, biting hir lip. If this Antonius discussed books or articles, he likely said more than five words.

“See? You’d get on like ducks on a pond!” Ede bustles towards the fire, peeling her gloves off her hands and tucking them into her belt before unbuttoning her cloak and hanging it on the hook beside Alida’s. “Like priestesses in the vestiary!”

“Like priestesses in a room for storing clothes?” Alida asks, returning the poker to the rack beside the grate. Is this an absurd double-entendre? If so, why the vestiary? Surely there’s better places for those goings-on than the religious equivalent of a cloakroom? “And what did I say to make you think that?”

“You had that look where you’re bursting to correct me.” Ede sighs and turns to warm her back, hiking up her skirts and inching as close to the fire as is safe. “You think I don’t know that look? Alida, you must meet Antonius. He’s perfect for you.”

Ze glances around the shop in search of distraction. The counter gleams, the table with scrap for testing pens sits cleared of yesterday’s samples and the shop cat, Miep, lies asleep on the armchair closest to the fire. The floor doesn’t look dirty, but Alida will sweep while Ede double-checks the paper inventory. That should redirect her from this horrible conversation.

“I don’t date, court, woo—”

“I know! Please, Alida, please. Just once.” Ede crooks her head, fluttering her long eyelashes. She’s pretty in an artistic, skilful way, never in want of admirers: this morning she pinned her myriad black braids into labyrinthine coils and knots adorned with white lace and ribbon. “You need to talk to people! Do something on a holiday that isn’t a book!”

Alida shaves hir brown hair to avoid prolonged morning ablutions. Ze’s always wondered, but never dared ask, how early Ede rises to groom, dress, eat and walk the ten blocks along the Wine Canal.

“You’re people!” Alida jerks hir hands in frustration. “This is talking!”

“Talking talking. Talking because you want to, because it’s fun, not because we’re stuck in a shop together six days a week. Please.” Ede drops her skirts, setting thick layers of wool and cotton to rustling, and turns to face Alida, her narrow hands outstretched. The fire gifts the underside of her dark fingers, protruding from their wreaths of lace, a rich, reddish shine. “Antonius needs someone, and you need someone. You’d get on so perfectly if you wet blankets dried out enough to try!”

“I don’t—”

“Think about it. Please!” Ede whirls away from the fire and heads to the counter, perhaps surmising that she’s pushed Alida past general annoyance into I-can’t-bear-to-look-at-you anger. “Do you want me to wipe the counters?”

Alida, fighting to calm hir voice, darts into the stockroom for the broom. “No. I need you to double-check my counts on the paper inventory. All of them.”

Even Ede’s strangled curse isn’t enough to make Alida feel pleasure in revenge—not after the stabbing betrayal of one more person failing to understand hir.

***

Over the next three days, Ede finds a wealth of excuses to mention her cousin’s cousin. He was top in penmanship at school, is an amateur historian, and once rescued a drowning kitten. Alida has to admit, past Ede’s tendency to deliver criticism as an enticement, that Antonius sounds more interesting than most. Similarity holds no meaning, however, when one partner wants what the other can’t offer. If Ede can’t accept Alida, how will anyone else?

“Please, Alida!” Ede leans over the desk, buttoning her green cloak. “Just talk with him! Just once!”

Alida, counting out the cashbox and checking the total against the day’s purchases while Miep rubs his grey cheek against hir boot, looks up, tired. If ze agrees, Ede will have learnt that she can badger Alida into anything with enough time and repetition. Just the thought makes hir shudder, given Alida’s struggle to correct that error with hir siblings.

“If you don’t like him or never want to see him again, I won’t say a word. Not one. Just once. Endday lunch. By the time we walk there and back, it won’t even be an hour!”

“Ede—”

Ede looks right at Alida, her brow furrowed, her hands fisted and raised to her chin in a gesture resembling praying or begging. “Meet him once and I’ll never ask anything of you again. And I’ll come early and shovel the ash from the fireplace for the next week.”

Miep yowls, looking up at Alida. Every evening, ze checks the books, counts out the money and feeds the cat, in that order. Never has their routine stopped Miep from demanding that Alida disregard human tasks in favour of his fish or mince.

“You’re supposed to also catch mice,” ze mutters. A cat’s badgering bears no unexpected consequences. Alida need not struggle to realise what will happen if ze feeds Miep when he requests. Acquiescing to Ede, though? Meeting someone Alida doesn’t know and can’t predict?

In the shop, strangers rarely deviate from standard forms of communication and intent. They ask questions about stock, prices, quality, delivery. At temple, services provide memorisable, rote shapes of interaction. Outside those worlds, where people new to hir can and do say anything? Ede, Jan and Jette desire the unexpected; Alida doesn’t understand why.

“Alida!” Ede waves her hand in front of Alida’s face. “Don’t just ignore me!”

Can ze agree in a way that means Ede won’t again harass hir? A public refusal, perhaps? A bold, dramatic declaration of Alida’s unwillingness to engage in romance, in front of Ede and this Antonius? One announced in such a way that embarrassment will keep Ede from thinking Alida suitable for anyone? Word will come back to hir siblings, but they already think Alida prone to shameful outbursts. Why not?

Alida writes down hir last total, releases a sigh of relief at the matching numbers and carefully returns the stacks of coins to the box. “Never ask anything of me again and shovel the ash for a fortnight.”

Miep meows as the lid clicks shut, butting his head against Alida’s skirts.

Ede bounces upright in a cascade of fabric, her sleeves flapping underneath her cloak. “Done! By blood and name and craft! Oh—please wear your blue, white and red skirt tomorrow! And your red coat with the long tails and brass buttons! And your good cloak with the satin lining, because the hood looks so pretty with your eyes, and...”

Alida will feed the cat and lock the shop behind Ede, but before ze goes go home, ze has some planning to do.

And a few signs to make in coloured inks.

[ranger-report]

Thoughts On: HERETIC II (1998)

Just over one year after the release of Hexen II, Raven Software published the final game in their dark fantasy series. Set apart from the Serpent Rider Trilogy of Heretic./Hexen/Hexen II, Heretic II told the tale of Corvus Corax, the elven hero of the first Heretic, and his journey to return home after years of wandering the Outer Worlds. See, defeating one of the Serpent Riders resulted in his being thrown far far away from his origin world of Parthoris, and left to his own devices, he had a bit of a time attempting to make his way back. Marking the first time in the series that id Software had no involvement in the release of the game save for providing the modified id tech 2 engine (AKA the Quake 2 engine), this release was published by Activision under their purview. Moving in the direction of a third-person adventure with first-person shooter mechanics, Raven made it clear that they were going to take inspiration from wherever they could, including a popular little title called Tomb Raider. While garnering favorable reviews, Heretic II would ultimately be lost in the holiday shuffle of PC gaming as it had the unfortunate circumstance to be released one week after a particularly groundbreaking first-person shooter from Valve Software. You may have heard of it: Half-Life. As a result of the unfortunate coincidence and the lackluster response from fans due to the series changes, Heretic II was a commercial flop. But, with all that said, how does Heretic II stack in the lineup of the series it brings to a conclusion? And why has there been no further entries in the series since?

To begin with, the decision to make Heretic II a third person adventure was controversial amongst fans of the series. Yes, the style was popular and gaining traction, and Raven was nothing if not innovators, so the decision to a degree made sense. Why not take their dark fantasy world and put it through the wringer, especially since the main plot of the first three games was now over? Going into this title, I knew I was in for an adjustment period, but I had no idea it would be as shocking as it was. Slow, unintuitive camera movement coupled with clunky, lackluster controls make the game much more of a chore to play than the original games. Gone is the fast-paced combat, replaced with deliberately paced enemy encounters. Picking up heavily on the Tomb Raider inspiration, Corvus can leap, flip, roll, and somersault his way around the maps. Points for inspiration. But man’s -- er, elf’s -- reach exceeds his grasp, and while this sounds well and good on paper, molasses-like reaction times feel more like directing Corvus through waist-high water instead of the nimble acrobatics the game shoots for. Animations, graphics, sound design, everything on a technical level is top notch stuff. Corvus himself has a modeled backbone to allow for more fluid animations, shown off in his running, fighting, and even idle cycles. It’s impressive stuff that the gameplay just can’t seem to live up to on an engaging level. Heretic II feels like an attempt to return to the form of the first Heretic, but through the lens of a team who’s never played the first one. Rather than using different types of mana for ammunition, green mana is reserved for offensive spells, blue mana for defensive spells, and most weapons have unique ammunition types. Gone, too, is the inventory system of carrying items and objects for future use; instead, Corvus automatically uses any health or magic pickups he comes across, something which is bolstered by shrines which either completely refill mana, health, or armor points. When it comes to story, one must wonder which direction the intent was headed. Perhaps the original vision of Hecatomb was to come full circle with Corvus and face the final Serpent Rider after being outcast from the realms. The scattershot nature of the plot here doesn’t seem to suggest it, however.

As Corvus progresses, he returns to his home of Parthoris to discover a strange disease has taken over the land, changing the elves into diseased, violent versions of themselves. After being attacked, Corvus himself is infected, initiating his quest to discover a cure, and stop the mad magus Morcalavin. On an interesting note, it turns out that Morcalavin has collected the Seven Tomes of Power to aid him in magic use, but one of the Tomes is a fake and is the cause of the infection -- Corvus has been carrying the seventh Tome with him since Heretic. A bit of revisionist history considering that Tomes of Power have been consumable items since Heretic, and there were many more than seven. Noting this change to lore, Corvus simply needs to replace the fake Tome with the true one, and that should reverse Morcalavin’s corrupted power. Another noteworthy change is that the hub system of the previous games is also gone, replaced with a similar map progression to Heretic. Some maps are linear exercises in traveling from start to finish, others require moving about the many layers of the map to collect and bring together keys and objects. This is one of the largest departures from the previous games -- this story is far more intimate, more structured, more character-driven with cutscenes, dialogue, worldbuilding not seen in prior entries. Before, we were simply nameless warriors moving through dark fantasy worlds, kicking ass, taking names, killing gods and monsters alike. Here, we get to know one of said warriors by name and history. Yes, before now, Corvus was never actually named in his first appearance. He was simply “The Heretic” which was FAR more badass, although Corvus Corax is up there on the list of great fantasy names with ease. But, rather than a ride, this game wants to tell a story, watering down the experience. Whether Raven can tell a good story in other games is besides the point; here, the slipshod nature of the shoestring story attempting to provide a bit more theatricality feels tacked on, an oddity. Sure, perhaps the evolutionary nature of progression is where Raven felt the need to provide an actual factual story with their action game, also again from the inspiration of Tomb Raider slipping in, but it doesn’t hit the mark, nor age well in particular. Here we can see the beginnings of action games moving forward out of simple exercises in running and shooting, but telling stories with cinematic flair. Half-Life did the same, but with striking results, and far less awkward dialogue. And then, furthering the frustratingly bland story is the abrupt ending, in which the villain is cleansed of his corruption and ascends to godhood the way he intended, but leaving behind his power to Corvus in order to protect the world. So the bad guy....wins? But has become a good guy?

So, the question must be asked: what happened? Where Hexen II showed little of the changes that Raven were forced to make when new owner Activision mandated that they split the Heretic and Hexen series into separate entities, this game bears the unfortunate weight of that departure. As previously mentioned, the planned third game in the Serpent Rider Trilogy, Hecatomb, was divided into two games post-mandate, the ideas of which also went in two separate directions. John Romero has made frequent commentary in the past about the separation of the games as products vs a proper trilogy. He’d been involved with Hecatomb until his departure from id Software, which was also around the time that Raven was purchased by Activision. The publishing giant, he notes, split up the Raven team who had worked on the Heretic/Hexen games, further increasing the divide of the products. According to one of his accounts, one team worked on all three Serpent Rider games before the split, at which point that team was divided amongst the three in-house developing teams that already existed. While Brian Raffel, the mind behind the game series, was present and active on Heretic II, not everyone who’d put their passion into the rest of the series was there for the creation of this game. This shows in the final product. 

With that in mind, it seems a little unfair to judge this game as harshly as I am. Perhaps we should be examining it, looking at the interesting bit of gaming history it represents. It marks a point in time where Raven, having experienced fair success on their own through working with technology giant id Software and other publishers, has become a corporate-owned entity. This is, in fact, the first game by Raven to be published exclusively by Activision. Eventually, Raven Software would be conscripted by Activision into the Holy Trinity of Call of Duty developers, rotating in and out making new COD games so they can come out yearly. What legacy, then, does this particular game leave? There is a mark here, a brand, a scar, a sign of things to come. Mandates from above demanding two franchises instead of one, an ironic analogy of the division of Raven from id Software -- Heretic II may have been published and distributed exclusively by Activision, but id Software published the previous games, and held publishing rights to those games. Meanwhile, the transfer of copyright went to Activision, putting future games into a pickle. Activision no doubt has little interest in creating new games in a series when they can’t make money from previous entries. Furthering problems is that Heretic II does not exist in digital format, probably again due to Activision unable to profit from sales of the prior games; a casual copyright search for Heretic II in the public record comes up with zero results, effectively placing the game as abandonware. With Raven owned by Activision, and id owned by Bethesda (formerly Zenimax), establishing cooperation between the two giants may seem difficult to impossible at this point.

What a shame for the final entry in what began as such a promising series to end limping across the finish line. In my research I found quite a few people who were glowing with nostalgic praise for Heretic II, and why not? In the opening level of Silverspring, we’re greeted with a run down town disparaged by the rampant virus. Flies zip back and forth and Corvus slaps his neck to be rid of them; children cry in the distance, dripping water echoing reminds of the empty nature of this place. All the environments in the game are rife with audio and visual treats that literally drip with atmosphere and character. There is a strange amount of life here, in a living world that feels interesting and worth exploring. But the controls and story fall flat, alongside the abysmal decision to make the game a third person adventure instead of the first person shooters of the previous entries. Whether or not we’ll ever see a proper new entry into the Heretic/Hexen world is, unfortunately, something that remains to be seen. Spiritual successors, such as AMID EVIL and the upcoming Graven reap the fields which were sown of Hexen’s seeds. Activision and Bethesda may never see eye to eye on the subject of reviving Heretic or Hexen or maybe even the fabled Hecatomb, but one thing is clear: regardless of the corporate greed which aborted the lifespan of this wonderful series, the first three games of this series live on as passionate exercises in dark fantasy, examples of how to push the FPS genre forward while remaining firmly grounded in what makes it work. Heretic II is the Crystal Skull of this series -- many will find themselves better off forgetting it ever happened. Activision certainly has. And again, how ironic is it, that the very mandate which they laid down in order to spawn new sequels and twin franchises led to the death of them.

[grouchomarxiste-blog1]

Bong Joon-Ho’s Parasite: Marx and Violence

Warning: A majority of this was written pre-pandemic, so please excuse my overly optimistic tone. It was a different time.

Yes, another Bong Joon-Ho film. Can you blame me? The guy’s a genius. Parasite was another one of those great films that will never leave you. You can watch the movie simply without doing a major analysis in your head and you will still agree that it’s a great movie. Which personally, is why I believe it's made its way into the major American awards season. Parasite winning Best Foreign Film at the Golden Globes was one of the few decisions I’ve agreed with. I didn’t see any of the winners in the film categories besides Parasite, and I’m very much ok with that. It’s making its way into Hollywood and the favorite lists of celebrities. Elon Musk said he loved Parasite (he also turned Grimes, the former “anti-imperialist,” to the mother of his future child). Chrissy Teigen loved Parasite (a lot can be said about her, so let’s not). Obama loved Parasite (but I have some serious doubts about the authenticity of his yearly favorites list. Mainly because I can’t imagine him listening to Summer Walker). I was completely boggled at all of those tweets. How? How is one so blind? How did one watch Parasite and not feel a thing? After I watched Parasite, I rushed back to school to attend the discussion section of my Political Theory class so I could read and discuss primitive accumulation through dispossession with revolutionary fervor. I recommended it to everyone near me. I even wrote a note to my professor who tucked it into his book. But is that the problem- that all these beloved figures (not mine) end up loving the sheer adrenaline of the story and tweet to their followers about how great the movie is. Those followers, with their favorite celebrities’ seal of approval, watch the movie, not putting it together either. Bong Joon-Ho is critiquing those very figures! In every post-Parasite interview, Bong Joon-Ho has said that Parasite is about America and capitalism, but we have just reduced those statements to memes on Twitter. As funny as they are, Parasite is rich for its class analysis. The Hollywood reaction is just as important. Marx is all over this movie, there's no question about it. I also want us to understand these controversial moments from a Fanonian perspective, again all with relation to Marx. I hope for us to understand that everything about this movie is intentional and every bit of it is worth pages and pages of discussion. I nearing 11 pages as I write this. I also hope that this film can be a way for us to understand economic exploitation in the 21st century. While many celebrities have misunderstood it, it is important that you, us, the people, the working class, grasp every bit of this radical film.

I’m not going to bother with another one of my “brief summary” because I’m assuming, we’ve all seen it. It's on Hulu now and I believe Apple TV. If you don’t want to pay for either platforms, watch a pirated version online, I genuinely don’t think Bong will mind.

I want to talk about the home. I know we all had the same reaction to that beautiful home: awe, admiration, and envy. The Park’s home itself is significant, but also in contrast to the Kims’ home. The Kim’s live in a small semi-basement home, where they have to reach up in order to look out their window and see the street level. Their home is dirty, cramped, just not a place where anyone wants to be. But immediately, I thought of Fanon and the native sector. I know that Parasite isn’t about colonialism, but space is important to Marx (I’ll return to Fanon). In The Communist Manifesto, Marx and Engels attribute many things to the process of proletarianization. To name a few: literacy campaigns and public education, the politicization of the proletariat towards the end of feudalism, expansion of media, etc. One that stands out, is the mass migration and urbanization of the proletariat. Through that, the proletariat was concentrated into the poorest parts of the city where they shared their most intimate quarters with workers like themselves (Marx and Engels, 15) One might dismiss this as a historical example specific to Europe, but if we go back to my thoughts on Memories of Murder, we’d note how Korea’s transition to a modern capitalist society, was a fairly recent one (from 1987 onwards). As the agricultural sector suffered, Koreans living in the rural provinces were forced to move into the major cities. Park (Song Kang-Ho’s character in Memories) was lucky enough to become a successful businessman, unlike the Kims who earn their livelihood by holding pizza boxes- the most insignificant work. Along with urbanization, the proletariat also occupied the small space of the factory, where they are reminded of the everyday brutality of their work. The Park’s home is not cramped, but the one scene where everyone is rushing to hide from them, results in Ki-taek, Ki-jeong, and Ki-woo hiding underneath a coffee table overnight. After that lengthy battle with Geun-sae and Moon-gwang, the Kims are exhausted. They do not want to be laying side by side hearing the Parks have sex. My friend Sef also reminded me that the Parks had weird sex as Mr. Park recalled how their old chauffeur possibly had sex with a drugged-up prostitute, a scenario that previously made Mrs. Park scream out of disgust. Revisiting this, I believe this definitely deserves a psychoanalytic analysis.

This isn’t their breaking point, but also hearing Mr. Park say that Ki-taek smells like the subway is a factor. Once making their break they run outside where it's raining heavily. They come to their home which is flooded and destroyed. Here is where I’ll start talking about Fanon. [READ NOTE]. Again, I know the colonial system is not the case in Parasite. Fanon was a Marxist and expanded on Marxist theory in the colonial context. I just want to warn you that I am using Fanon as carefully as possible, not using concepts that are distinctly racial. I know there’s probably also much more relevant work out there on spatiality and violence, but I think Fanon’s prose style in The Wretched of the Earthis quite appropriate for the film. Let’s consider the colonial bourgeoisie as the Parks and the natives as the Kims. Fanon calls the colonial world, a “compartmentalized world.” The colonists’ sector is clean and protected whereas the native sector is overcrowded, envious, and starving. Sounds about right so far.

The colonist’s sector is a sector built to last, all stone and steel. It’s a sector of lights and paved roads, where the trash cans constantly overflow with strange and wonderful garbage, undreamed-of leftovers. The colonizer’s feet can never be glimpsed, except perhaps in the sea, but then again you can never get close enough. They are protected by solid shoes in a sector where the streets are clean and smooth., without a pothole, without a stone… The colonized’s sector or at least the “native” quarters, the shanty town, the Medina, the reservation, is a disreputable place, inhabited by disreputable people. You are born anywhere, anyhow. You die anywhere, from anything. It’s a world with no space, people are piled one on top of each other. (Fanon, 4)

This becomes extremely relevant when the Kims run out of the Parks’ home in the pouring rain. I kept noticing that they were all barefoot, only focused on getting out of there. My toes curled in the movie theater watching that. Running away from that traumatic house to find your own home destroyed, relocating to a displacement camp, THEN going to work the next day for your unaffected employer who has the audacity to audibly take a sniff of you. I don't know about you, but to me, this sounds like the conditions for a proletarian revolution. Besides the literal allegory, the tone sharply shifts. One could argue that it began to change when they found Geun-sae in the bunker or when Moon-gwang hit her head but that was just some good old dark comedy for me. After the flooding, things are different. Ki-taek has this unmoving face. Things turned grim and we knew something climactic was about to happen. Fanon’s most famous chapter, “Concerning Violence,” maintains that decolonization will always be a violent event because colonialism is a violent system itself. Something that I absolutely love about this chapter is that it isn’t some dense, theoretical work. It’s a revolutionary call to arms for all colonized people. It has a strategic pace which parallels Parasite so well. He sets the scene- the compartmentalized, Manichaen world. He slowly intensifies the antagonistic relationship between the colonizer and the colonized, until this culminating point:

The colonized subject thus discovers that his life, his breathing and his heartbeat are the same as the colonist’s. He discovers that the skin of the colonist is not worth more than the “natives.” In other words, his world receives a fundamental jolt. The colonized’s revolutionary new assurance stems from this. If no longer strike fear into me or nail me to the spot and his voice can no longer petrify me. I am no longer uneasy in his presence. In reality, to hell with him. Not only does his presence no longer bother me, but i am already preparing to waylay him in such a way that he will no longer have any solution but to flee (Fanon, 10)

As corny as it sounds, when I first read that, it brought me to tears. I’m not sure if it was just because I was up for three days straight writing my midterm and I was finally breaking, or because it just meant that much to me. But that section in which the colonized discoversthat his life is worth as much as the colonizer is such a crucial moment. This parallels the infamous birthday scene. Geun-sae gets out of the bunker, stabs Ki-jung, the Park’s kid (I’ll look his name up later) has a seizure, and Chong-sook is wrestling with Geun-sae. Shit is going down. If we recall, Mrs. Park mentioned that it takes a few minutes for her son to die after a seizure and needs to go to the hospital immediately. So much is going on and Mr. Park starts screaming at Ki-taek to give him the keys. Ki-taek is immobilized at this point. His daughter has been stabbed, son attacked, wife almost killed, the Parks’ got him dressed up in some cultural appropriation, Hollywood Indian regalia. In fact, I find it very fitting that he’s dressed up as a Native American at this moment. I see this as Bong’s satirical nod to old ultra-capitalist Hollywood. But if enough wasn't going on, Mr. Park sniffed. He got close to Geun-sae, a man who’s been living underground for 3 years and audibly sniffed him in disgust. The same way that he sniffed Ki-taek. Of course, there’s probably a difference between a “subway” smell vs. “I haven't showered in 3 years” smell but at the moment it feels as if it's almost the same thing. In my initial viewing, I thought what happened next was because of that, but no. Ki-taek realized that his life was worth the same as the Parks, and their presence no longer bothers him, but he is now plotting against him, and the time of action is now. Ki-taek stabs Mr. Park and flees. Annoyingly, the YouTube section for this clip is filled with people feeling bad for the Parks and discussing how what Ki-taek did was wrong. Of course, the average viewer will view the Parks as some sympathetic rich suckers who only treated the Kims kindly. The casual reader who picks up Fanon for the first time would also dismiss his theory of violence as immoral in comparison to non-violent methods like Gandhi’s. A lot can be said about Gandhi, but Fanon says that non-violence is a strategy created by the colonizer to deter decolonization and paint the colonizer as a gentle ruler who wants peace. This is not the case. Colonialism is a violent system. Capitalism is a violent system. Colonialism can only be undone violently. Capitalism can only be undone violently. Now I don't mean to make this all about colonialism, as my friends say I often do. But the similarities are clear. The question isn’t whether the murder of Mr. Park was a justified act, but what were the conditions that forced Ki-taek to murder. Geun-sae killed Ki-jung, but no one in the comment section is having a debate on whether his murder was ethical. Because in our heads we feel bad for him, and the life that he’s lived- why don’t we feel the same towards Ki-taek? Geun-sae and Ki-taek are two sides of the same coin. Geun-sae’s exploitation is naked. He’s confined to the basement, controlling the lights of the home. A feature of the house that Mr. Park doesn't even pay attention to, never mind considering that there is someone manually operating it. A clear example of how our labor is alienated. All while blindly worshipping Mr. Park- a man who knows nothing of his existence. Honestly, I hope some of you see yourselves in Geun-sae the next time you defend billionaires online. But Ki-taek is just another exploited worker. I understand this can be hard to understand in our current understanding of the world. How is Ki-taek exploited? Him and his family conned their way into their jobs and leech off of the Parks. Again, we must return to the system as a whole to understand. None of this wouldn’t have happened if the Kims weren’t desperately poor in a capitalist society, which enables families like the Parks, to live a life of excess at the expense of the Kims. Capitalism is a system of exploitation; we cannot forget that. Quite simply, no one is rich without thousands that are poor.

          The levels of the home are also this unforgettable feature. I just want to make this quick note about the issue of the ghost. Did you forget about the ghost? Da-Song didn’t (yes, I finally looked his name up!). I find the story of the ghost such an interesting touch. Not just as a way for Bong to warn the audience about Da-Song’s history of seizures. When Mrs. Park tells Chung-sook of the story, she says “they say a ghost in the house brings wealth.” This, of course, is true since the exploitation of those like Geun-sae are responsible for the wealth of the Parks, in the larger picture. I’d like to look further into this. There's a twofold meaning to this. I do believe that this ghost is symbolic to the exploitation of the Kims, and the proletariat in general, but that’s Mrs. Park’s understanding of this ghost. The way she understands this ghost, is as a source of wealth. Maybe Mrs. Park isn’t as ditzy as we imagine- she to some degree, understands her class position. But like most, she doesn’t question the ghost, or her class position. She knows that if she looks into either, it would result in the ugly truth. Da-Song, however, is just a child. He’s too young to really understand the economic and social relations which are responsible for his wealth. He’s also too young to consciously suppress any desire to investigate the matter like his mother. He is a child after all and is naturally curious. But his first encounter with the ghost was the one that resulted in a near fatal seizure. This can be his body’s reaction to the life-threatening figure of a ghost. The ghost isn’t just a threat to his mortal life, but his wealth, some may argue that these are the same. Mrs. Park pays for therapy for his “trauma” so he could forget the event, but he still knows. He saw this ghost and is the only one to seriously consider its threat. Mrs. Park knows it's real but chooses to not think about it. I want to return to the Manifesto. Let's hear these famous words: “A specter is haunting Europe- the specter of communism… Two things result from this fact: Communism is already acknowledged by all European powers itself to be a power...” (Marx and Engels, 8). Don’t think I’m just including this because he’s talking about a specter, in fact, I think this story of the ghost is an intentional allusion to the specter of communism. Da-Song represents this figure of the bourgeoisie who is in constant anxiety over the threat of his wealth. When he reappears at his birthday party, he has another seizure. Also, at this time, the family, and all of their guests are witness to the horrors of their wealth and what it's created. This naked, hideous display, this moment of confrontation is a pivotal point in the dialectic. Of course, this murderous moment is not seen as a success to the viewer with Mr. Park, Ki-jung, and Geun-sae dead, Ki-woo presumed to be dead, and Ki-taek missing. This just shows us that the bourgeoisie are their own gravediggers- to again invoke the Manifesto. On a larger scale, this would be the moment of a revolution- but we don’t. Ki-woo survives with Chung-sook and is put on probation. Ki-taek is missing to the police, but Ki-taek realizes that he’s living in the bunker in hiding. Ki-woo declares that he will make enough money to buy the home and free his father. At first, I wondered “why couldn't he just sneak him out of the house when the new owners were asleep?” “Why did he have to buy the home?” As much as I wanted to portray the Kims to be revolutionary figures, Ki-woo has the common fate of most. Instead of usurping power from the bourgeoisie, he believes he can free his dad from the home, by owning the house. Everyone who lives in the basement is stuck there for a reason, because someone is forcing them to stay there. A perfect allegory for the relations of production as I have repeatedly mentioned throughout this text. Ki-woo desires a bourgeois life (as most working-class folk do!) in order to lift his father out of the despair of poverty. He believes the only way he can save his father is to own the home, which could easily be seen as the means of production. A nice touch which I had to look up, was as Ki-woo tells us of his desire to buy the home, a song plays called “546 years”- the amount of time it will take for him to earn enough money. I wish this song title was more obvious for the American viewer. I am not trying to take away from this film by saying that, but for a viewer who knows Korean or the song title, they’ll understand the tragic nature of his dreams. Whereas the American viewers will sympathize with his dreams- as we’ve done with immigrants and “the American Dream” or the bootstrapping mentality of some people. In some way I do think Bong didn’t want an overtly revolutionary ending. I don’t think the average viewer, especially in this day, could handle an ending like that. Not to say that we don't understand class inequality and such. We are not living in, say the 60s/70s where there were Marxist movements all throughout the world. I don’t think we have the conditions for a revolution at this moment, although I do think the mass unemployment and the other severe economic consequences of this virus will radicalize the working class in large numbers, to a degree that we haven't seen in a long time. But to make my point, I feel that we are living in historic political times and we are coming to understand ourselves in a liberating way.  It is my hope that films like Parasite will awaken the revolutionary potential in us all.

Note: I wanted to use Fanon’s theory of violence and diagnosis of colonialism as a violent structure, in relation to capitalist society. I don’t want us to interpret his writings as something that can be isolated from the racial structure of colonialism, but i do think it is a beneficial guide to understanding this film.

Work Cited:

Philcox, Richard, translator. “On Violence.” The Wretched of the Earth, by Frantz Fanon, Grove Press, 2004.

Joon-Ho, Bong, director. Parasite. Barunson E&A, 2019.

Marx, Karl, and Frederick Engels. The Communist Manifesto. International Publishers, 1948.