‘they didn’t have the concept of mental illness back in the day so that’s why so many people claimed they could talk to god/had life altering visions/believed in witchcraft’ have you considered that maybe the lack of current magic in our world is due to the psychiatric system’s well-meaning inability to differentiate between life-threatening delusions & whimsy/possible spiritual insight

first, i love your writing! thank you for blessing us with your talents <3! secondly, any dramione fics you're following or would recommend? i read my whole tbr lol 😩

Ahh, thank you so much! And do you know I think this is the first time someone has asked me for recs? So it's obviously my turn to Throw Down Some Shit. I'll do a mix of things that I've read and am reading as well as WIPs and finished stuff.

OK so I probably don't have to tell you, but @pacific-rimbaud's Dramione multi-chap Love and Other Historical Accidents just wrapped and lord is it wonderful. Regency settings mixed with modern sensibilities, deeply funny, even more deeply romantic and with some truly memorable original characters. And of course the writing in unparalleled. Run, don't walk, to read it if you haven't already!

There are a few authors on this list where I want to throw their entire oeuvre at you and just walk away (I will do that with one, down the list) and @roseharpermaxwell is one of them. She writes mostly shorter stuff, mostly as gifts for others, which I find so endearing. And she's just an incredible writer. A mix of sweetness and pure, hot smut that I think no one does better. Her story Lead Me Straight Back Home is the one i'm going to post here because it's a holiday fic and so appropriate to read RIGHT NOW, but you can't go wrong with any of her things. Binge them like chocolates.

Everyone seems to be talking about the WIP Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love and let me tell you, it's for Very Good Reason. I wandered over to check what all the fuss was about and got sucked right in to delicious dialogue, extremely entertaining characterizations, moments of actually laughing out loud and really touching slow burn romance. Oh and gorgeous settings AND judicious smatterings of truly beautiful writing. I can't recommend it enough and wait with bated breath for the next chapter. If the author is out there on tumblr and sees this, pls DM me. I'm the person who wrote the P&P Dramione and I want to be your friend.

I said there were authors for whom I want to just Recommend Everything and call it good. And @provocative-envy is the queen of this for me. Every single story she does is magic. She will make you ship rare pairs you never even imagined. She will make you ship things you never wanted to ship! I can go Russian Roulette through her body of work at 4am when I can't sleep and be guaranteed to find something absolutely riveting. So, please, sample it all. But since this is a Dramione post, here is a link to her classic for that pair, Bite Marks.

Another story I started reading this year and then went off to yell at people about is Hide Your Fire by @diana-skye. It's a HBP re-do with a strong Theo (Theo/Neville side pairing--swoon) a re-sorting and absolutely fantastic writing. It just wrapped and is complete at 100k+ and 30 chapters, so it's perfect to dive into over the next couple of weeks of winter break. I will be doing the same!

A writer whom I know more from OC, tomione and wonderfully worded tumblr posts (her advice for a person just starting out in life legitimately made me cry) is @cocoartistwrites. She has a Dramione WIP, Familiarity Breeds Contempt, that is absolutely tops on my TBR list. Her writing is spare and strong and Has Personality, and I am very excited to dig in to this WIP.

I had the very great pleasure of beta'ing a story this year, Atonement by @lunamionny, which is an absolute must-read. It's 8th year that truly explores the psychological trauma the wizarding war would have visited on our favorite characters. Lunamionny is a professional in this field and it shows, because she writes so beautifully and realistically about working through that trauma and coming out on the other side. It was such a pleasure for me to be involved in this project and I can't recommend it enough!

Finally, if you'd like a quick palette cleanser of ludicrously enjoyable humor, my great friend and beta, @grangerdangerfics wrote a couple of one-shots this year that should not be missed. Malfoy Family Endowments is, as she calls it, "a 1.5k word dick joke," and Dramoine; OR, Drack Malofy, Second-Rate Detective, is a crack fic based on a typo that will have your sides splitting. Thank you for gracing the fandom with these smol gems, M.

AND if you exhaust this list and want EVEN MOAR @theshadylaine maintains a collection on AO3 called Peak!Dramione of, "stories that feature Peak!Draco and Peak!Hermione as their best selves, showcasing their intelligence, wit, character, and compatibility." It's a great list -- currently 118 works long -- and she adds to it regularly. You'll find a lot of excellent stories and authors on it that I didn't have room to mention.

Thank you for this ask -- it was so fun and long overdue. Happy Holidays and reading to everyone!

5 Reasons Roman Is Infuriating (And Why I DO NOT have a crush on him)

Chapter 4: A Date With Destiny

Read on AO3 Chapter 1

Word count:  2991

Tw: Food, Almost an innuendo, Fear of not being accepted for orientation

~~~

"I think I'm ready."

Logan looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting his bowtie. He hadn't gone super extra with his 'date' outfit, despite Roman's insistence to go big or go home. (Which wouldn't really matter, as Thomas is home right now, and therefore they wouldn't need to go very far.)

Just a few changes, to treat himself. The blue striped bowtie, obviously, some black dress pants, black socks and a black dress shirt instead of a polo. He also tried out a new shampoo, just for that extra self-care. That may sound like a fairly big change, but Roman looked uncomfortable when he presented the outfit.

Roman waves his hand about, diverting his eyes. "Ugh, whatever. You look great. I still think a full tux would've been a better choice."

"That would most likely be overdressing. I don't want to go into this date looking like a buffoon, now do I?" He retorted, slipping on his dress shoes. They're sleek and black, with a heel that gives him just that extra added height.

"Pfft, coming from the Nerdy Professor! You look like a buffoon all the time, I'm just doing you a favor."

"You don't think I'm ready like this?" Logan asks.

"You do. You're rocking it. No romo." Roman says, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"No... Romo?" He asks.

"Uh, yeah. Like... Uh, romantic. I invented it. Just now." Roman says, nervously fiddling with his sash.

"Oh." And if that doesn't feel like a metaphorical stab to the gut, Logan's not sure what it is.

Roman stands for a few seconds in silence, before looking away, into the mirror. "Now, go get your Daisy, Loguigi."

"That was a stretch, but thank you." Logan takes Roman's hand, squeezes it (he's sure Roman won't mind. He may think of it as a reassurance to calm Logan's nerves. Logan thinks of it as he wants to hold Roman's hand), and walks to the door.

"Logan-" Roman says before he can leave, and Logan turns back to him. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and seems to realize that Logan's waiting for him to say something. His hand reaches towards him, then recedes.

"Yes?"

"Good luck." He slumps, giving what seems to be an encouraging smirk. Logan nods, adjusing his bowtie once more, and strutting out of the room. If he had a cape, it would be flowing behind him dramatically, due to the sheer energy of his determination. Tonight is going to be the start of a big change.

"Alright Patton, prepare yourself for the strangest date you'll ever go on." He says in full confidence.

~~~

Patton sat at the dining table, feeling certainly awkward. Things certainly looked... Different. It was dim, mostly because the only light sources were an array of candles and a strand of fairy lights. There was a silky tablecloth thrown over the table, and a lovely bouquet of red roses in a glass vase as the centerpiece. There were also two glasses, and a bottle of red wine. Soft violin music played from an unknown source.

Usually this was something Patton would coo at. He always loved romance between people. Whenever Thomas and his boyfriends over the years hung out, it would be all he'd talk about. How happy he is for them. He'd even help Roman out with helping Thomas in his gestures of romance. It's true, Patton loved romance.

However, not when it was directed at himself.

He didn't want to be rude and leave, obviously. Logan set this up, and the last thing Patton wanted to do was break his heart beyond repair. He loves Logan as a friend, and he cares about him, and the emotions he barely lets himself show.

Patton twiddles with his thumbs, sweating quite a bit. He wonders what Roman has to do with this. He's certainly not also going to be here, unless this is a three-way date. That is unlikely, as there are only two chairs. Perhaps he's the wing-man? That would make sense, as he's much better in the romance category than Logan. But wait a minute, why would he help? Doesn't Roman-

"This is atmospheric." Patton gets pulled out of his thoughts by Logan standing there, looking at the decor. He takes a seat. Pouring himself a glass of the wine, he takes a big sip, before setting it down. "Patton, I have something to tell you."

Oh no.

Patton's sweating buckets now. "B-before you do, I just want to tell you that I respect you Logan, and that you're a very good person, and that I cherish the time we spend together, but I guess I haven't told you some very important information about myself, and I hope this doesn't hurt you too bad, it's that-" He takes a deep breath, about to spill. He's always been scared of this moment. Didn't he already tell Logan? Does he not believe in his identity? Patton opens his mouth to speak.

"You're aromantic. I know that Patton, and I respect that. Your orientation is completely justified and valid. I was going to tell you that this was not my idea. I do not harbor any romantic feelings for you, and I certainly don't expect you to either." Logan says, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh."

Well, that makes Patton feel much better.

"Then... Why are we here?" He asks, the nervous feeling replaced by confusion.

"Well..." Logan blushes as red as the wine. "I happened to be... Discussing my 'lack' of romantic feelings for... a side, which I realised was in fact a falsehood, and then that side happened to swoop in right after I realized, and mistook my presentation for being about you. Therefore, he decided to set us up."

The cogs in Patton's brain start to turn. He's not exactly known to be the brightest of the bunch, but he thinks he can decipher this one.

"Nm...Teh... Oh, it's Roman." He looks at Logan, who lowers his head into his hands.

"Yes. Yes it is." He admits.

"So, he doesn't know." Patton concludes.

"No, no he doesn't."

The words finally settle in, and Patton's face brightens significantly in a matter of milliseconds. "Oh my god! Logan! You like him!" He stands up, and jumps for joy. He twirls around the room a few times, and then pulls up Logan and gives him a hug. "I'm so proud of you kiddo."

"Thank you Patton. It certainly felt strange admitting it." Sighs, hugging him back. They break off soon after.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Patton asks, a little bit worried.

"I don't think I'm quite ready yet." They both sit down. "That's actually why I'm here. I was wondering if we could keep up a sort of facade for a while, until I'm ready to tell Roman. Obviously, we won't make anything official, but I could use your help, as I am not very skilled in this romance business, and we could use fake dates as a sort of counseling session. I could.. Use your help." Logan admits.

Patton is surprised, but delighted. "Oh! Well, thank you for telling me kiddo. I wouldn't mind helping you out." He pats Logan' shoulder encouragingly. "Do you... have a plan?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to start without you, in case I would need to scrap the whole thing." Logan takes another sip of wine.

“That’s absolutely A-okay. I don’t know if I’d be much help today though, cause this roller-coaster ‘date’ has really tired me out!” Patton says. (He’s never quite been put on the spot, and then given a plot twist like that one before. Oh wait, haha, he has.) He needs a bit of a mental break before he does any of that adultery thinking.

Logan looks around the room. “We aren’t on a roller coaster.”

“It’s an expression.” Patton clarifies. He sighs, adjusting himself on the seat. “I forgot that I haven’t come out to Roman yet. Or the others, for that matter.”

“You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable. There’s never a bad reason not to come out.” Logan assures him, finishing his glass of wine. “And if you ever need my help, I will be there to support you in whatever ways I can.”

“Alrighty kiddo.” He smiles, looking to the kitchen.

“Do we have any leftover cookies?”

Patton suddenly looks guilty. “Well… About that.”

“Patton.” Logan’s gaze snaps to him, surprised. “Last time I checked, there were at least five left.”

“It wasn’t just me! Janus had one too!” He pleads, stating his case.

“One? That leaves four.” Logan squints at him. “I wanted at least two more for myself.”

A light in Patton’s brain ignites, and he jumps up. “Oh! What do you say we turn this into a baking ‘date’ then??” He does over exaggerated quotations with his hands on ‘date’.

“Bake ‘date’ it is then.” Logan fixes his bowtie in steely determination, and they both make their way to the kitchen.

~~~

“How did the date go?” Roman asks when Logan returns to his room, a giant fluffy red robe draped over himself, face mask on, and nails in the process of being painted. He’s got some showtunes that Logan doesn’t know the name of playing from a vinyl record player, which is illogical, because he’s pretty sure the musical is modern and that they can’t play voices, but he doesn’t comment.

“It went surprisingly… Well. He told me he may need a few more dates to make a decision.” Logan lies, trying to put anything other than indifference in his voice.

“Oh.” Roman looks taken aback for a second. “That’s great Specs. I’m proud of you.” The shaky hand he was painting swerves off to the side, and nail polish gets all over his finger. He looks at it, sighs, and puts the brush back into the bottle.

“You know, it isn’t a good idea to paint your nails in bed.” Logan sits on the edge, (of his own bed. Strange how Roman didn't just go back to his own room. He’s quite the stark contrast, him and his items bright red in a sensible dull, midnight blue room.) and turns his torso to face him.

“But it’s so much more dramatiiic. Besides, you told me not to touch your desk, and I am a princ- uh, a man of my word.” He laughs a little nervous laugh. “Besides, I can just clean it up with the powers of magic.”

“That’s nice.” Logan says, distracted by Roman’s nails. He’s hiding the hand he messed up. On his non-dominant hand, he has masterfully done nails, red with golden designs, such as a crown on his middle finger, a flower pattern on his pointer, thumb and pinky, and on the ring finger there’s an ‘L’...

Logan gently extends his hand. “Can I see?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Roman lets him take his hand. Up close he notices that the gold is sparkly. Certainly a touch that is in character.

“What does the ‘L’ stand for?” Logan asks, looking at him.

Roman seems to burst red in the face. “O-Ooh it means ‘Left’. I… Often forget which direction is which, so I put it on my nails to remember. There’s no second meaning behind it or anything. Not at all.” He smiles wide.

Now Logan suspects there may be a second meaning, but he does not comment. “Is it okay for me to see your other hand?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to, I mean, it’s not nearly as good and it isn’t at all finished and I just made a mistake-”

“I didn’t ask if I would want to see it. I asked if you were okay with me seeing it.” Logan cuts his self-deprecating ramble off, assuring him softly. “I won’t look for the imperfections if you don’t want me to.”

“I…” Roman sighs and nods. “Go ahead.”

Logan takes Roman’s right hand gently with his own, and brings it close enough to inspect. It retains the same colors, but even with just the base red layer it looks a little bit less neatly done. The color extends past the cuticle, and you can see little bumps and imprints of things that accidentally touched the nail before it could fully dry. It wasn’t bad, per se, because those things could easily be fixed without removing the entire coating, but it probably seemed pretty bad to Roman when comparing it to his other hand. And then there was the streak, which was unfortunate but can be arranged.

“I can help you with this hand, if you’d like.” He offers, much to Roman’s surprise.

“Sure… But you don’t have to-”

“Preposterous. I want to help, and although I am not a master in the arts and creating designs, I happen to be a master duplicator. I believe Virgil described it as ‘cloning but like without the technology part and shit’. I even remade an exact duplicate of a frankly disgusting and creepy doll for Remus from scratch.”

“Oh.” Roman laughs softly. “Talented.”

“Yes. I am.” Logan says, internally giddy from the compliment. He uncaps the nail polish remover from a very fancy tray, where all the supplies are stationed on. “We just need this for the stain.” He takes a cotton pad, letting go of Roman’s hands to wet it, and recaps the bottle. He retakes Roman’s right hand, and lightly swipes the pad across the smear.

“You smell like baking.” Roman notes, barely over a whisper.

“That makes sense. We did some baking. Mostly me, and he kind of watched until they were ready to decorate.” He places the cotton pad in a little glass junk bowl on the tray.

“Are you sure he’s not just going to use these dates to make him cookies?” He says lightheartedly, tapping his other hand along to the sound of the music.

“Perhaps” Logan laughs a little bit. “Actually, I set aside a bunch for you. They’re in a bag, wrapped in a ribbon. That usually wards off everyone else from eating what’s inside for a few days, but do get to them before the fourth day because that’s often when Remus loses his patience.” He doesn’t admit that it was a spur of the moment decision, and that he felt like a lovesick fool setting aside those for him. He did admit that to Patton though, who chuckled.

“Mmm, thank you. What kind?” Roman asks, as Logan uncaps the red nail polish bottle and starts applying a light coat on each nail to even things out.

“Cranberry and White Chocolate Chip.” Roman’s favorite. That may have also been on purpose.

“Oh.” He says, and that’s where that subject of conversation ends. Logan continues applying the coating, then recaps the bottle.

“Alright, this will need to dry.” Logan guides his hand to a solid resting place. They sit quietly for a moment, only the sound of what he recognizes as Razzle Dazzle playing. It’s quite strange to have music in here. The rows and rows of dark-wood bookshelves, kept neat and clean, seem much brighter like this. His planning cork-board, with strings run around and pictures and notes in a neat order (along with the depressing sight of his calendar), looks less dull. Maybe it’s his mood. Maybe it’s just Roman.

“Logan?”

“Yes?”

Roman scoots over, without moving his drying hand. He leans in closely, looking just above Logan’s eyeline.

“Y-yes?” He squirms as Roman reaches with his dry hand to the top of his head. He shakes Logan’s hair, and he presumes it looks like a mess now.

“Flour.”

“What?” Logan asks, as he returns to sitting like he did before.

“You had flour in your hair. It was bothering me.” Roman informs him, pointing to his head.

“Ah.” They return to their silence.

When Logan determines the perfect time for the polish to dry, he uncaps the glittery gold nail pen. Using the other hand as reference, he copies the designs finger by finger, putting all of his concentration into it.

“And… We’ll put an ‘R’ here... ” He tries his best to copy the font of the swirly ‘L’. It looks pretty good, if he does say so himself. Which he does say out loud.”

“Yeah, it does. Thank you Logan.” He looks up at Roman, who smiles a very shy smile. He suddenly brightens, and jumps up, rattling the tray and scaring Logan. “Aha! I’ve thought of a perfect nickname! Holm Office Photopy Machine! I need to write that down.” He fumbles around, and then summons himself a very used-looking sketchbook. He stays standing on the bed, flipping through pages and then scribbling it down.

“That certainly is long.” Logan adjusts his glasses in surprise.

“Long like my- Sorry that was a strange thought.” Roman makes his things disappear, checks his nails, and then flops back down onto the bed.

“I hate to bother you, but at one point I’m going to have to sleep on here.” He watches as Roman unsticks his face-masked face from the bed in disgust.

“Why did I do that- Oh, yeah, sorry.” Roman gets up, looking guilty, and certainly not as fancy as he did before, fibres from the blankets stuck to his face mask and some of the mask still attached to Logan’s bed. Still, he’s got his stupid smile on his face, and that power stance. He’s…

“Wonderful.” Logan says under his breath as Roman’s turning to leave.

Unfortunately, he heard, and he turns back, confused. “Huh?”

“One earful.”

“Alright.” Roman looks perhaps even more confused, but turns back and sinks out, with a “Buh-bye Specs.”

When he’s out of Logan’s room, he snaps his fingers to rid of the mess (He left the tray there too. The nerve. The gall. He sends it to Roman’s room, and prays that it lands somewhere incredibly inconvenient just for revenge sake. He also keeps the record player, because he could use some music in his life) and prepares for bed.

Step 1: Complete.

~~~

Taglist:

@crossiantgay

You and me against the world (especially sliding doors)

Me: I will not write any fics based on the NY special. Not yet, anyway.

Also me, seeing @emsylcatac‘s post: Fine, you’ve convinced me

Here, have a sliding doors reveal one shot, hope you enjoy it! (New York Special spoilers ahead)

Read on AO3!

---

“Are you sure there’s no way for me to swing in from the roof?” Ladybug asked, anxiously fiddling with her yoyo string as she looked at the building that stood before her. 

“If you were available later this week, you could, but unfortunately the scaffolding is staying up until the works are officially finished.” The event organiser answered apologetically.

“From a window, then, perhaps?” She insisted.

“Unfortunately the bay windows that give inside the main hall don’t open.”

“Is there a back door of any kind, then?”

Her interlocutor looked at her confusedly. People had told him working with Ladybug was easy, that she was very down to earth for someone who spent most of her time fighting on the Parisian rooftops. So far, though, she seemed like a bit of a diva. He agreed that having her make a grand entrance would be better for the press, but today was the only day that fit both her and Chat Noir’s schedules for a daytime event until the next month. Was it too much to ask that they both just entered through the main door, like normal people?

He looked at his watch. The opening was starting soon, and there was still no trace of Chat Noir.

As the organiser fidgeted, Ladybug was starting to regret ever agreeing to inaugurate the new Children’s hospital, which was opening with a flourish after months of works. The superhero and her partner had been specially invited to cut the red ribbon, located inside the building. She had been very touched that they’d thought of them, and had awaited the event excitedly. 

The trouble was that, in an effort to provide the best innovation, the only way of getting inside said building was through automatic doors. She wouldn’t have been bothered by this fact had the event occurred before her trip to New York City. Unfortunately, the field trip had left scars -well, bruises- that made her weary of any door she could not open traditionally. 

It had been embarrassing enough that she’d been stuck with Adrien in between two automatic doors, making a fool of herself as she ran into the transparent panes time and time again. She wasn’t willing to repeat the experience in front of the Parisian public. Not when she’d let them down so recently.

There was a small thud next to her, and the sound of Chat’s baton retracting as he walked towards the event organiser and herself. She turned towards him with relief. Chat was very good at thinking out of the box, maybe he could figure a way to avoid the main entrance. She’d just continue pretending her concerns were for the image of the event, and not because of a personal fear.

Chat Noir’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Ladybug’s wide smile when he approached. He still wasn’t quite over her words in New York. The way she’d hugged him like he was the most precious thing in her life. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost.

“My Lady.” He bowed and kissed her hand, making sure to keep eye contact with her. “Sir.” He then shook the organiser’s hand. 

“Good afternoon, Chat Noir. We were just discussing your entrance.” The latter replied, hoping the leather-clad teenager was a little more sensible than his partner. 

“We usually come in via the rooftop.” Chat Noir looked up, squinting to see the top of the building which was drowning in sunlight. He spotted a flapping piece of tarp, revealing the scaffold underneath. “But I’m guessing that’s not going to be possible this time.”

“Indeed.” The man acquiesced. “I’m sure the shots of you two coming through the main entrance will be great, though.”

Chat Noir’s gaze followed the man’s, landing on the sliding doors. He visibly paled at the sight.

“Are you sure there isn’t another way in?” He asked as his heart beat rose in his chest. His thoughts immediately went to Marinette and their common experience with automatic doors. Even his fencing bruises weren’t as bad as the ones he’d gotten when failing to go through them in New York. He didn’t care to get more, not to mention the fact he really didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Ladybug.

“All the doors are automatic.” Ladybug brought her hand up to her mouth out of habit, but bit her suit fabric instead of her nails.

“How… modern.” Chat took a minute to think. He couldn’t possibly make a scandal about going through the main entrance without attracting attention to himself. Inspiration struck. “What if you went to get the horse Miraculous and we entered through a portal? That would look very cool. I’m sure the kids would love it.”

“Chaton, you genius.” Ladybug kissed his cheek. “How long until the opening, sir?” She turned towards their host.

“Two minutes.” He said, barely glancing at his watch.

Both Ladybug and Chat Noir’s cheerful faces dissolved. Even using the horse superpowers to come back, there was no way Ladybug could reach wherever she hid the Miracle box, return and feed Kaalki before they used his Travel power again to get in, in under two minutes.

“Well… I guess main entrance it is, then.” Chat Noir gulped as they faced the sliding doors.

“Yay.” Ladybug cheered weakly. Had he known better, Chat would have thought she was also dreading it.

The event organiser smiled, and headed inside to sort out the last details. The two heroes waited anxiously outside. 

When they received the thumbs up from their host, the two advanced cautiously, almost robotically towards the entrance. The first set of doors slid open and they stepped inside.

Ladybug let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding; the doors had been cooperative. She let a smile invade her face as she and Chat Noir continued their path. The entrance airlock was quite a big space. Nothing to do with the American ones. 

She started to wave at the children she spotted on the other side of the second set of doors. 

Chat hung back a little, observing her. She really knew how to work a crowd, he noted with a smile. Seeing his partner so relaxed helped his shoulders untense a little. He was with Ladybug, the bringer of Luck; nothing bad could happen to him while they were together. 

He’d barely registered that last thought when she slammed into the transparent panels that separated them from the main hall. 

“Ow!” She rubbed her nose. She heard laughter coming from the other side, and gave the children two thumbs up. They thought it was a skit. Excellent.

“My Lady, are you okay?” Chat rushed to her side to examine her, taking care to exaggerate his movements so as not to worry the people on the other side. 

“I’ll get over it.” She scrunched up her nose. 

“Do you want a magic kiss?” Chat Noir wasn’t actually kidding. Maybe it would help Ladybug’s reddening complexion.

“No thanks, Chaton.” Ladybug sighed and approached the door again. It didn’t budge. She stepped away, came forwards. Still nothing.

After waving at what she assumed was the movement detector for what felt like an eternity without any results (were there no technicians around to come and open the door for them? Or even just a kind soul?), she let out a frustrated sigh and stalked back to the middle of the hallway, turning her back to her audience. 

Chat took over trying to open the door, jumping around to try and trigger the motion detector. He made faces at the crowd inside the main hall, which earned him many a giggle from the children. They didn’t seem concerned about their predicament at all. 

He turned towards his partner to get her to join him in the clowing around, but his smile died on his lips as he took in her slumped shoulders.

“My Lady? Is everything okay?”

“I just…” She tucked her bangs behind her ears, shaking her head. “I don’t get why this is happening.”

“I’m sorry, Bugaboo. It’s all my fault.” He embraced her in a half hug, before elaborating for Ladybug’s raised eyebrow. “It’s not the first time this has happened to me. It must have something to do with the fact I carry the Kwami of destruction. It somehow messes with technology.”

Ladybug sighed. “I doubt it’s as simple as that. I’ve been stuck between two sliding doors before, too. If we go by your logic, then they should open by the holder of the Creation Miraculous just looking at them.”

“Any door should do that for you, really.” He winked, and it brought the hint of a smile to her pouting lips. “Really though, you’d think Paris’ superheroes can operate sliding doors. It’s a good thing Hawkmoth can’t akumatise objects.”

“Not too loud, you’ll make him figure out a way to do it.” She punched his arm lightly. 

“I’m sure we’ll manage to get out eventually. We just need to work together!” 

Ladybug smiled and held out her fist. “You and me against the world?”

“Always. And especially against automatic doors.” He fistbumped her.

They turned around and walked back to face their new nemesis. 

“Now, it can’t be a matter that we’re not heavy enough, because otherwise kids wouldn’t be able to come in or out of this place.” Chat noted. “A little awkward for a children’s hospital, if you ask me.”

“You forget they probably wouldn’t be coming in alone; they’d have some kind of adult supervision.”

“Hmm.” Chat stroked his chin as he thought. “What if we tried jumping at the same time? Maybe it would trigger something?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” Ladybug shrugged. “On the count of three?”

“One… Two… Three!” 

Both tried to put as much power as they could in their landing, to no avail.

“How about I try and Cataclysm it?” Chat kicked the door lightly, checking its resistance.

“Not sure how good an idea that would be. Remember Reflekdoll?” Ladybug made a face. “I think I’d much rather be locked in than face wild doors.”

“Good point.” He crossed his arms over his chest and resumed his observation. “What about a Lucky Charm?”

His partner’s eyes lit up as she considered it. “You know what, it’s not like we have anything to lose, or like they’re trying to help us get out.” She nodded towards the inside of the building. The guests all looked at them and waved; the event organiser tapped on his watch. “Lucky Charm!”

A small Statue of Liberty keychain landed in her hand. Ladybug rolled her eyes. She knew it was just like New York, Tikki didn’t have to taunt her like that.

“We probably would need that if this door opened with a key.” Chat shook his head. “What are we supposed to do with it now?”

Ladybug looked around, hoping an idea would impose itself as she scanned their surroundings. Apart from throwing the keychain at the door and hoping the glass would shatter upon impact, though, nothing seemed to come to mind.

“Wait a second.” Chat picked up the Lucky Charm and watched it twirl in the air. “Isn’t that the same object you got when we were fighting Techno-Pirate?”

“Doorman!” They both exclaimed at the same time, a smile brightening their faces as they looked into each other’s eyes. “Do you have his number?” 

They slumped a little at their synchronicity. What had appeared like a perfect solution clearly wasn’t one if they had no way of contacting the New York superhero.

“Well, I guess that confirms my theory that you’re stuck with me, my Lady.” Chat gave her a small smile.

“You know what, I don’t mind being stuck anywhere with a friend like you.” She tapped his shoulder affectionately.

“Hey, that’s my line!” Chat frowned.

“What do you mean?” Ladybug asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. Yes, she’d stolen the line; but from Adrien, not Chat Noir.

“That’s what I told my friend when we were stuck together in the same situation.”

“Huh. That’s what my… friend told me when we were stuck between sliding doors!”

“Would it be too purr-sonal to ask when or where that happened to you?” He asked almost shyly.

“It was in New York.” Ladybug replied cautiously.

“No way, me too!” He paused. “What are the odds that we’d each get stuck with someone else in the same city?”

“New York is pretty big. With a lot of automatic doors.”

“True.” Chat looked at his feet. “And it’s not like it also happened twice to you, anyway.”

“Actually, it is like that.” Ladybug paled slightly.

“I’m guessing that reduces the odds quite a bit.”

“We’d need Markov or Uncanny to calculate them, but yes, I’d say they’re quite slim.” 

They stared at each other, Ladybug becoming increasingly red as the seconds ticked by.

“Marinette?” Chat whispered, a smile spreading on his lips.

“A-Adrien?” She stuttered back.

Before any of them could move or add anything else, the doors slid open. Both turned their heads towards the sound.

The event organiser stood in front of them, and cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but we really are running late now.”

Ladybug and Chat Noir blinked, remembering what situation had brought them there in the first place. 

“Right, of course.” Chat Noir extended a hand, which Ladybug took shyly. “Shall we, my Lady?”

“Let’s go.” She smiled weakly. She was holding Adrien’s hand. Which was also  Chat Noir’s. Which meant she’d been avoiding Adrien’s advances. The same ones she’d been seeking ever since his apologies in the rain. Adrien was in love with her. Like she was with him... The avalanche of thoughts that invaded her mind made her feel light-headed.

The event organiser moved aside and announced their arrival. 

Ladybug and Chat Noir moved forward, walking hand in hand. Maybe the Lucky Charm had been for them to finally find each other. And they had. Everything was going to be just fine. 

Together, they picked up their walking pace. 

And crashed into the clear door panels, which just had to close as they were strolling through them.

“Guess we really are destined to be stuck with one another.” Chat chuckled as he rubbed his sore nose.

“You know what, Chaton? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY

Chapter One:

Pairing: Ivarr Ragnarsson(AC Valhalla)/Female!Reader

Premise: You are an archeologist/linguist in the Victorian era, and your world is turned upside down when a certain Viking Warlord returns to life before your eyes.

Rating: Explicit(there is a bit of NSFT at the end, and there will be more in later chapters)

In truth, you hadn’t wanted to attend this party. The museum was...nice, but you were quite familiar with most of the exhibits. Your presence had been politely mandated by the foundation that pays your bills, if only on account of your relative fluency in a number of dead languages and scripts. Not that you were given the proper respect for your achievements. “Greatest Female Mind of the 19th Century,” to distinguish you from the men, who won far greater respect for far less work. You weren’t sure how many more questions about your ‘spinsterhood’ you could withstand; as though none of your accomplishments held weight without a ring on a finger or a child on your hip. The other scientists were the worst of course; they had seen you work, knew your intelligence, yet it served their egos to pretend as though you were lesser.

It is far too much frustration, with far too little alcohol. Perhaps wine, yes; a quick trip to the cellars to clear your head ought to do you some good. You excuse yourself, your colleagues all too willing to believe you some dithering lady with need to retire for a bit; as though they hadn’t seen you trek through hot sun and freezing rains.

You roll your eyes as you turn away, your heels tip tapping against the marble floors as you make your escape.

It is however, a large building, and the lower floors are beginning to feel more like a labyrinth than a basement. At this point, you are more interested in finding your way out than you are in seeking out more wine.

The further you go into the basement, the less light there is, fortunately, you come prepared. You rummage through your satchel for your candles and matches, shedding some light on your surroundings.

The breath is stolen from your lungs and you all but shriek at the sight before you, a wide skeletal grin seeming to stare down at you. You calm down quickly however, realizing that this must be where the museum keeps its new exhibits before they go on display. Holding the candle closer to the skeleton’s glass case, you see evidence of water damage, as though it had been found at the bottom of a lake after centuries of rest...you frown as your flame illuminates the brass plaque.

Ivarr Ragnarsson

Of course, this must be from the recent Viking Age find. You had been requested for this project, but you refused. Normally, you were a go-to for Viking cultural finds, but this...The Foundation had decided to dredge the lake in search of high-profile remains. You were sickened by the idea, it felt as though your colleagues were disturbing the extensive rituals of the honored dead. You loved history, but this...felt wrong.

Wrong could not even begin to cover what you were about to witness.

You watch in awe as the bone seems to rejuvenate from its formally eroded state; awe giving way to horror as blood and flesh materializes seemingly from nowhere, knitting together to reform the man from the inside out. His face wears a blank expression, not quite alive, as the scars tear across his flesh, ink bubbling up to the surface to reform his tattoos. Your fingertips ghost against the glass inquisitively, your fears all but forgotten as you marvel at his form. Until now, you could only guess at what the people of the distant past truly looked like; and now here he is, standing before you just as he was the day he died.

Suddenly his eyes open, and you recoil with renewed urgency, only barely keeping your grip on your candle. He hadn’t just regained his form, the man is alive. Your brain fires off quickly, desperately seeking some explanation for this...perhaps a gas leak? No, your candle would have had you up in flames.

His head tilts in confusion as he eyes you, blinking abscently as though he had woken from a long slumber. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but a look of animal panic flashes through his eyes when he realizes there is no air in this glass box.

You realize it too, instinctually rushing to his aid, moving to unlatch the glass box...too slowly. As you reach for his prison, he is already smashing his head through the glass like a battering ram, littering the floor with the glittering shards. In your surprise, you drop your candle; the light still glowing weakly against the marble floor.

Barely illuminated, the man-Ivarr, is a thing of terror; rage and confusion etched into his face. You scramble backward, pressing your back tightly to the wall as he fixes you with his murderous gaze.

“What, THE FUCK, is this?” he growls in thickly accented Old Norse.

You struggle a bit to understand him, you were much more accustomed to reading Old Norse than hearing it. His displeasure though, is obvious. He lets out a pained grunt as he steps down into the broken glass with his bare feet, quickly closing the distance between you.

“I don’t know!” You manage to stammer out in his own language, shrinking away from him as his nostrils flare with rage.

“I was in Valhalla,” he booms. “Fighting beside my family for endless days.” He looks around, even as he struggles to see in the darkness, he can tell how deeply unfamiliar this world is. “Now I am...where am I?” He growls, caging you against the wall with his hands on either side of your head.

You quake in your boots; even naked and unarmed, you know he could kill you-with ease if he wanted…and he certainly looks like he’s got murder on his mind.

“London,” you force yourself to answer.

He doesn’t let you elaborate before he resumes his barking, unsatisfied. “I have been to Lundon, they had nothing like this,” he says, gesturing to what little you can see of the modern furnishings.

“It is London,” you insist, earning a rough hand around your neck before you can finish your sentence.

“You lie,” he snarls, squeezing harder as you claw at his hand desperately.

“Please,” you urge, struggling to choke the words out. “You’ve been dead for a thousand years.”

You gasp deeply when he releases you, staring up at him as you scramble for breath. He looks confused, but not so shocked as he should be; you can only hope that he believes you.

“A thousand years?” He whispers, looking around abscently in consideration. He looks down at you as you sink against the wall. “What sort of magic calls me back to this world after so long?”

You shake your head, trying to regain your composure, eyes fixed firmly on his. “I’m as shocked as you; skeletons don’t exactly have a habit of coming back to life.”

He sighs deeply, shaking his head before he looks at you, much more calmly than he had a moment ago. “So I live again…” he runs a hand through his hair, eyes miles away before returning his gaze to you. “What happens now?”

Fear dissipating, you cautiously rise to your feet; he’s staring at you expectantly, as though somehow you are supposed to have an answer for him. “I-I don’t, wait,” you cut yourself short, pacing quickly to retrieve your fallen candle. He looks at you curiously as you return, holding the candle up between your faces. “This is an extraordinary opportunity!” You gasp, any lingering expression of your previous trepidation evaporating in the heat of your excitement.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, grinning wildly. “So much history from your time is lost to us, or tainted by cultural bias,” you explain with a fevered sort of enthusiasm. Your free hand slides along his bicep, getting a closer look at the intricate tattoo stylings. “My God, you are incredible. Think of what can be learned.”

He eyes you with a grin, clearly amused with your sudden zeal in contrast to just a moment ago, when he had you cowering against the wall. “You are an odd woman,” he says, lifting his arm so you can get a better look at his tattoos.

“What?” You look up at him, breaking your intense focus, if only for a moment. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

He shakes his head, looking down at you. Already your attention returns to his tattoos. A deep chuckle escapes his throat as you kneel to trace the runes etched into the skin of his abdomen; translating them in your head. He takes you by the chin, just a tad too roughly to be tender. He grins down at you, satisfied that he’s got your full attention.

“I said, you are an odd woman.”

There is a certain growl to his voice that sends a warmth through your spine; you feel yourself blush as you realize just how much of this man’s personal space you’ve invaded.

You rise quickly to your feet, turning away from him in a failed effort to hide your embarrassment. “Sweet Mercy,” you whisper in your own tongue. “I am so sorry.”

He laughs, deep and loud from the pit of his stomach. “Sorry?” He steps closer, into the light of your candle, on full display. “There is no shame in liking what you see.”

Your free hand covers your face in scandal. Your profession affords you much less prudery than your contemporaries, but it is difficult to shake the Victorian Sensibilities with which you were raised.

He grins playfully as he approaches, his hand brushing yours as he takes the candle from you. “Look at you,” he beams, thoroughly delighted by your obvious discomfort. “You shook less when I was going to kill you.” He snatches your hand from your face, leaning into your comfort zone, but awaiting your response.

You bite your lip, focused on the hunger in his eyes. That is part of what you love so much about history, is it not? The Passion. Rarely in these modern days do you see such an unashamed lust for life. This man lived and died in a culture of unrestrained freedoms, unabashed pleasures. You gaze back deeply into his eyes; perhaps you’d like some of that pleasure for yourself.

You lean into him, pressing your lips against his, and he pushes you up against the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip as he tries to push your skirts up, but he quickly becomes frustrated with the sheer amount of layers you’re wearing. He sets the candle aside.

“Too many fucking clothes,” he growls in your ear, his hands sliding up to rip your dress open.

You gasp, ready to protest the destruction of your most expensive dress, when you notice him eyeing your corset with a frustrated sneer.

“Fuck, are you wearing armor?”

You fail to hold back your laughter as he pouts, like a dog denied his treat. Your eyes widen when he grips your corset, however and you quickly snatch his hands.

“This one is my favorite, don’t you dare-”

You hardly get the words out before he’s grinning like a madman, and you know he took it as a challenge.

“Wait, I can take it off-” You shout, but not quickly enough.

You cringe at the sound of the busk popping open. You open your mouth to give him a piece of your mind, but a pleasured squeal forces it’s way out instead as his teeth sieze the sensitive bud of your breast.

“Fuck,” You moan, your arms draped lazily around his shoulders.

He releases your breast with an obscene pop, pressing firm kisses from your chest up to your neck, before biting down on your soft skin with a lustful growl. You gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders as pain meets pleasure. You feel him start to move away, as though he’s concerned that he hurt you, and you whine.

“Do it again,” you beg, pressing your body against his with urgency.

He grins, toothy and feral, before pushing you a bit more roughly against the wall, teeth biting down on your neck. He takes your hand, guiding it to his waist. You know what he wants, and you are happy to oblige; your fingers sliding down to wrap delicately around his length.

You make long languid strokes, savoring the weight of him in your hand. You desperately want to feel him inside of you.

He groans in protest as your hand leaves him, and you laugh softly, your hands working to undo your skirts.

Your attention is so utterly consumed by him, that you hardly notice the room flood with light, until Ivarr’s attention leaves you.

“Unhand her!”

You blush furiously, shifting to move between Ivarr and your bosses, the Board of the Foundation.

Taglist: @youre-my-boshaw-baby

"Audacity"?

AN: So, we’ve got another one that I ran with.  I hope you enjoy, and that this is along the lines of what you had in mind :) All typos are mine

Ships: Tomarry

Rating: T

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern, Canon Divergence, Professor Tom Riddle, Sexual Tension, Student/Teacher Dynamic, Tom Riddle is a Dark Lord but Harry doesn’t know this, POV Third Person Limited, Not Beta-Read

You can read it on AO3 here.

_______________________________________________________________

“That’s total bollocks” Harry said, aware that he was playing a dangerous game, but unwilling to anyway. To do anything else would be to admit defeat, and Harry, even when acquiescence was the safest option in his toolbox, would sooner kiss a Mandrake than do as much.

To hell with that.

“Harry!” Hermione hissed into his ear, with what Harry could imagine was an ashen and horrified look on her face. Harry didn’t turn to face her, though, not when Professor Riddle was standing in front of him with a look of absolute contempt on his face.

“This is insane, Harry. You’re going to get detention, or worse, expelled.” Hermione was buzzing with nervous energy at his side, while Ron, the more terrified of the two, remained silent. It was as if Ron had absorbed all the fear and good sense Harry had because what Harry said, was going to continue to say, wasn’t sensible in the least. “Harry, please, see sense.”

Harry couldn’t, not over the loud rush of anger, of bitterness in his ears. It was a writhing, living mass in the centre of his chest, a poison slowly spreading through his veins.

Stopping wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

“No matter how you slice it, it’s wrong. You can’t just say that the Unforgivables have their moments where they—the total bloody opposite of what the word unforgivable even means—are forgivable.”

Professor Riddle’s expression darkened, his contempt growing into something that resembled loathing.  The murmurs in the classroom had all but vanished; Harry doubted there was even an intake of breath. Still, Harry couldn’t find it within himself to care, to be concerned. He only had room for fury in his heart.

Because how fucking dare he?

A dark wizard had murdered Harry’s parents using an Unforgivable.

A dark witch had tortured Neville’s parents until they’d gone mad using an Unforgivable.

There was no justification, no reason for the use of dark magic. Even if Professor Riddle was brilliant, one of the most talented young wizards to grace this school, he was wrong.

The gall, the bloody nerve, to say that they could somehow be justified.

Harry’s fingers were shaking to the point that he couldn’t keep his pencil in his grip.

“Mr. Potter—“ Riddle began, but Harry didn’t let him finish.  He was on his feet before he realised what he’d done, hands clenched into fists at his hands. His shaking had spread from his fingers to the rest of him.

“No, don’t say another word.”

The room went still. Everyone did. Even Riddle had paused, his expression freezing into one of disbelief.

Harry drank the look in, taking that moment to give Riddle the most disgusted look he could muster, before turning away and beginning to gather his things.  He wasn’t going to stay a second longer.

What would be the point? He was angry, no, furious. Staying in this classroom, with his pissant of a professor, would only invite another argument, would only cost his House more points.

It was such bullshit. Such horseshit.

Harry tried not to think about his anger, tried not to focus on the nervous glances Ron and Hermione cast his way in the hopes he’d face them and sit back down, but that anger—

It was all he could focus on, all he could taste in the back of his tongue as he shoved his books into his bag. He was so furious that he couldn’t stand it, that he couldn’t breathe through his it.

How could someone so brilliant be so blind? How could someone so young be so heartless? It was maddening. It didn’t make any bloody sense!

His head still rung with Riddle’s cavalier discussion of dark magic, of what a fascinating history they had, Riddle had said. He couldn’t get the words out of his head, couldn’t erase the look of fascination in Riddle’s dark eyes as he spoke about the subject to his class.

It was disgusting, so fucking—

Harry shot the thought down before he riled himself up any further.  If he let himself just run with this, there was no telling what else he might do, might say.  Dumbledore could cover for him, but not even he could protect him if Harry took things too far.

“Mr. Potter—“

Harry’s fingers stilled, his head snapping up to look at Riddle without meaning to. Riddle’s expression had grown icier in the time Harry had spent gathering his things. It was like all the colour had been drained out of him, his humanity gone.

Harry didn’t let that intimidate him. Squaring his shoulders, Harry levelled him with a fierce expression of his own.

“Sit down.”

Harry didn’t. He refused to be cowed, to be silenced for his legitimate position. No one got a pass at saying that dark magic was justifiable, not even the professors.

No, especially not the professors.

Riddle had been alright for a Slytherin, even if he was some of the harsher professors when it came to his lessons, but now, Harry was certain that he was worse than all the rubbish in Slytherins he knew.

The Slytherins he knew at least were forthright with their noxious beliefs, but no, not Professor Riddle.  Riddle was the worst kind of Slytherin, the most heinous of all, he was a bloody liar. A terrible person pretending to be kind, to be good. He was—

A dark wizard through and through.

“Mr. Potter, don’t make me repeat myself.”

Still, Harry refused to back down. The room grew chillier still, the tension among the other seventh-year students enough to make everyone rigid in their seats. Harry wanted to feel bad for putting everyone through this, but he didn’t. Harry felt no guilt.

“Class dismissed. Mr. Potter, you stay.”

Riddle’s voice was a whisper; no louder than the flutter of a page turning. With how everyone reacted, it might as well been a Bombarda. Everyone scrambled to gather their things, to rush out of the room and escape from the mounting conflict with between them.

Harry paid them no mind, still not standing down even as Hermione and Ron lingered on the outer perimeter of his sight. They should have left with everyone else, but Harry understood their reservations, their hesitance. A Harry that was alone was a Harry that could get himself into deeper trouble.

Calling Professor a fucking  dark wizard would do precisely that, and the temptation to shout that off the top of his lungs, was growing stronger by the seconds.

“Granger and Weasley, I believe I said that class was dismissed.”

From Harry’s peripheral, he could make out Hermione freezing in place, her hand falling away from where she had tried to reach for the outer edge of his robes. Her face was expressionless, but by the state of her hair, Harry knew she was flustered and on the verge of panicking. Harry almost winced at the look on Ron’s face.  He fared no better than Hermione; he looked faint, his face a shade of pale green.

Hermione was short of having a panic attack, and Ron, by the look of things, was in the middle of one.

Harry did feel a twinge of guilt then.

Harry turned to Hermione with a smile on his face that he meant to be comforting, but Hermione’s expression didn’t look convinced. Her hair was still frizzed up, as if the strands were sucking up the tension in the room.  

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Hermione hesitated, unwilling to leave him alone but also equally as unwilling to disobey a direct instruction from their professor. The tension radiating from Riddle was growing worse by the second, it was only a matter of time before he directed his ire on Harry’s friends if they didn’t move fast enough.

Harry didn’t want to drag him into his mess.

“Go.”

Hermione gave a subtle nod, and then, with a fierce expression on her face, managed to undo whatever spell of panic Ron was in and lead him out of the classroom.

Harry didn’t watch them as they left, not with Riddle watching him as closely as he was. It was like he was trying to see beneath Harry’s skin, to uncover some sort of secret that he didn’t know.

What he was trying to find, to uncover, Harry didn’t know nor care.

Riddle could look all he fucking liked.

“Mr. Potter—“ Riddle began, voice so soft that Harry struggled to catch it. It wasn’t angry or upset. It wasn’t much of anything. It was empty, but it was still eerie enough to make the hair’s on the nape of Harry’s neck stand on end.

“While I admire your passion on the subject, what you have said and done today, is—“

Harry couldn’t help his smirk when Riddle stopped talking, lifting his chin a little to stare at Riddle from beneath his nose. A gesture that said, no, screamed—

I dare you.

I bloody dare you.

Whatever the circumstances, Harry was not afraid. Nothing Riddle said could scare him, nothing that he did could make him take his words back. Riddle had lost all of his respect, his goodwill. There was nothing Riddle could possibly do to him now that would make a bloody difference.

Detention?

Expulsion?

While detention was definitely a tool in Riddle’s arsenal, Harry’s behaviour wasn’t enough to justify expulsion. Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it, and in fact, Harry was certain, Dumbledore might even praise him for his defiance.

“The audacity Mr. Potter, to accuse me of being accepting of dark magic, to derail my class with your ridiculous tantrum—“

Harry laughed, unable to help it when Riddle’s expression turned lethal, when Riddle crossed the room to loom over Harry like some sort of angry ghost from across his desk. Harry had never considered Riddle the type to throw fists, but with the look he was sporting, Harry had half a mind to prepare himself for an all-out brawl.

“If given the chance, I’d do it again,” Harry said, and Riddle froze, all the anger draining out of him leaving behind an expressionless mask. “Hogwarts has no place for dark wizards…sir.”

It was miraculous just how fast Professor Riddle switched from one emotion to the next. It made one wonder just how sane he was, if one could even call Riddle sane at all for spouting the nonsense he’d had in class.

“Seventy-five points from Gryffindor and a month’s detention, Potter.”

Harry didn’t flinch, already expecting that. His entire house was going to kill him, but it couldn’t be helped. Actions had consequences, and although he would have preferred getting out of this unscathed, that was not going to be possible after what he’d said.

Oh well.

Riddle didn’t say anything more for some time, his gaze burning into Harry’s eyes.  It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but Harry did not blink. He didn’t want to miss a thing even though his eyes were starting to water.

“Listen well, Harry—

The sound of his name coming from that mouth was enough to make Harry’s skin crawl.

“For someone that is so quick to accuse others of being a dark wizard, I find it curious that you would choose to submit yourself to detention with the very wizard you are accusing of condoning dark magic.”

Harry’s blood ran cold, shock enough to drain away all the burning righteous indignation swimming in his gut. Riddle’s lips had into a saccharine smile and—

Those eyes.

They were lit with something Harry couldn’t identify, something he couldn’t place. All that he knew was that it was wrong somehow, that it was—

No, Harry tried to shake off the unease. He’s only trying to scare you.

Harry squared his shoulders, fighting down the wave of unease murmuring in the back of his mind to turn away and run.

“It’s not very intelligent of you, Harry,” Riddle purred and Harry blanched, unsure of how to respond when Riddle’s face changed again, something mischievous now gracing his features. “But I suppose, that is what others find so endearing about you. This recklessness.”

Harry’s throat caught, a burn he didn’t want to acknowledge blooming across his cheeks. How did he even begin responding to that?

“I’d be careful if I were you. Someone might just find you too endearing, and—“ Riddle’s lips were curled into a strange smile, one Harry had never seen on his professor’s face before. Harry tried to swallow down his discomfort, to not take a step back when Riddle tilted his head to one side, observing him from beneath his lashes.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

“Never you mind, Harry. You’re free to go.”

Riddle waved his hand, and it was like Harry could breathe again, had been snapped out of his unwanted and unexpected stupor for a moment to take a step back and reach for his moleskin bag.

The moment was over as quickly as it had come.

What the fuck was that all about?

Harry couldn’t even begin to answer that question, to sort through this own confusing thoughts. Even after he’d left the classroom, rushing through the halls all the way to Gryffindor Tower at a much faster pace than he would have liked, he was at a loss.

It was obvious Riddle had been upset. That couldn’t have been more clear, but—

But I suppose, that is what others find so endearing about you. This recklessness.

It was almost as though he were paying Harry a compliment, and that was wrong on so many levels that Harry didn’t even want to consider it. Riddle didn’t pay compliments like that. Especially not after what Harry had said, had done, in the middle of class.

What the fuck?

Harry wasn’t looking forward to detention.

“cockwarming  is  such  a  pretty  concept.” ( for modern likely drunk Hanryou lol )

NSFW  PINTEREST  SENTENCE  STARTERS. || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || Feigned incomprehension and disinterest ephemerally etches upon Hanzo’s countenance, as if simmering indignation had instantly soured and considerably diminished his mirthful, lopsided smirk that would reach the swell of his cheeks and render his eyes crescent. It is as if he has fire in his bloodstream; an unfathomable ocean filled with life could not give him more life than this. Hanzo Hasashi knows he is burning up for his beloved. That much is apparent even in the throes of his sinking intoxication, where the pained, torturous world renders and filters with kaleidoscopic haze as the essence of his beautiful heart comes alive with Ryou Sakai’s peppered kisses. 

The once-insurmountable hurt that had staggered Hanzo Hasashi’s entirety to become irreversibly wounded yet alive, now effulgently burns with the proverbial warmth of rubicund sunlight amidst the zenith of the midsummer’s night, as all the burdens and frustrations drape over the white silk sheets, with nothing hidden beneath him. How he becomes wantonly desperate, seeking the warmth of unconditional love in the strands of disintegrating despair that stubbornly clings on his shoulders, as tautness soon melts into the leniency of melted tenderness and sensual affectivity, as the Commander exhibits no signs of resistance or any emotion that would go against such pure, untainted abandon they both were capable of sinking into. 

It’s just enough to listen to the mellifluous songs that carry on into the night; dulcet tones that have turned to smoke as Hanzo’s deep timbre calls Ryou Sakai home. No longer, all the lyrical demons claiming the bone arena of his skull and excruciatingly tortured kintsugi heart now drown in the subliminal messages woven in to pores of chaos, mitigated and selfishly become numb. As cloaked mist of his euphoric paroxysm governs the entirety of his spine and nerve endings, as the enveloped warmth of Sakai’s ministration urges to jut and thrust his hips forward. How his forming sweat drops become the sound of heavy rain and his pulsating heartbeat thunder on a dark night. Amidst the exquisite paroxysm bordering on buoyant, soaring bliss, Hanzo’s half-lidded gaze trails the gentle, yet repeated firm motion of what makes him to come undone. 

“You know me, I have never wanted a quiet, sensible sort of love,” the telltale smoky drawl of Hanzo’s voice reverberates, as he fights to wield some semblance of stoic assertiveness, lest his considerably lax expression with his bobbing Adam’s Apple swallowing as his hiking breath urges the imminent release. “Sometimes, it’s fucking better to be devoured, as lungs chase the expert grasp of fingers and nail, as they gouge and tear, as they grind against my bones until our marrows mix.” For someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, Hanzo Hasashi sure does have a terrible habit of keeping his walls up. There are many words he could use to describe himself and now he supposes, a paradox should be one of them. 

All he has wanted to know was bliss and sometimes there were moments when it would be in his reach. Hanzo Hasashi wishes he could hold onto moments like this a little longer; nothing may last forever, but he would never let this ensorcelling intoxication sober up his being. For the soft touches from Ryou Sakai’s skin to his creates velvet thunder within his mind, and he could get used to this exquisite magic amidst his sinking reality. 💥 || 

5 Mythology? For Sylvaina. The prophecy said, so Person A and Person B are to be hitched!

this one got away from me a little bit i apologise

@skwiyhedd​

The first time Jaina ever caught wind of the prophecy was as a child; barely into her tweens, poring over dusty tomes in the highest shelves of the library. Books that most had forgotten even existed except for the librarians who were about as old and dusty as the books themselves. Jaina rather enjoyed spending time in the library. If not for the quiet, yellowy warmth it gave her, then for the stories Old Ned would tell her.

“There was a prophecy,” he said one day, tome spread open in his lap. He pointed one weathered finger at an image Jaina could barely make out; carefully etched in inks over parchment, faded over time and wear. An outline of the sun and the moon, the land and the sea. A tree outlined in flames and a throne of ice. “Eons old; some say older than time itself. A warrior —” Old Ned pointed to another picture, a figure in black ink whose edges frayed with time into a deep maroon and purple. Its upturned face smudged with age as if black tears ran freely from it. “— destined for Death. But Risen again from his grave with vengeance in his heart to burn the living to ashes with him.”

“How cruel,” Jaina remembered saying. “How heartless.”

Old Ned smiled at her patiently and gestured to her chest. “It’s always a matter of heart, my girl. See here —” He led her eyes down to the picture directly across the one of the warrior; a frozen throne and the warrior standing before it, beside another figure, unidentifiable.

She peered at it curiously. “Who is that?”

“No one knows. The prophecy spoke of another; a master of the elements. Someone with a lion heart strong enough to tame the wild fire of the warrior. She gave her heart to him and they ruled the land together, in peace, for ages to come.”

“But —”

The sound of the library doors creaking open made them both look up abruptly.

“There you are,” Jaina’s mother huffed. “Come along for your lessons, dear. Leave poor Old Ned in peace.”

Old Ned chuckled, shutting the tome as he rose on slow, aching feet. “No harm done, m’lady. The young Lady Proudmoore is always welcome here.”

“I want to hear more about the prophecy,” she begged, but Old Ned had simply pet her hair and sent her away.

“Another time,” he promised her. “Another day.”

When she asked her mother of it, Katherine scoffed. “It’s nothing more than fairy tales, dear. Children’s stories. Let it out of your mind.”

Jaina frowned, but the thought was fleeting in her youth at the prospect of magic lessons.

--------

The next time she heard of the prophecy was in passing; a derogatory remark made during a lesson in Dalaran. Second-year students in a cluster in the back of the class. “Pah,” the ringleader said. “Prophecies are nothing more than fantasies. Fairy tales people tell themselves to make themselves feel important.”

Jaina rolled her eyes and continued reading. They were meant to transcribe the Old Language; not whinge about it. The syntax was convoluted, but its grammar was similar enough to her encounters with the Elven languages for her to piece it together. “The pronouns are all wrong,” she told the archmage. “This translation for the words aren’t gender-specific. Even modern Thalassian and Elvish use neutral pronouns.”

The archmage peered at the book over her shoulder. “So it would appear. Translations aren’t always meant to be taken literally, Lady Proudmoore. Especially of such ancient tongues. The point of the exercise is to extract meaning, not nitpick.”

There was a snicker from the back of the class, and Jaina gave them all a withering glare.

“It’s wrong,” she said stoutly, looking the archmage in the eye. “The language is wrong. I can’t extract meaning if it’s telling me the wrong things.”

She earned two hours of detention with the archmage that day for her efforts. It was soon lost to the rest of her memories of Dalaran when the Scourge swept across the land.

-------

The last and most prominent time the prophecy came to light was late in the evening. When the day swept away into twilight and the stars scattered across the sky in a blanket murky light. It came at the hands of Thalyssra of all people — encased within a tome she had a distant memory of encountering.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so late in the evening,” Thalyssra murmured. There was a strange, pressing sense of urgency to her that prickled the nerves in Jaina’s spine. “But I had to show this to you.”

She brandished the tome, laying it open on Jaina’s desk until it came upon a page with two images. The warrior and the throne.

Thalyssra pointed at the figure beside the warrior, though her eyes were staring intently at Jaina. “That’s you.”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“That’s you,” Thalyssra repeated, with rising excitement. “I remembered many years ago; centuries past when this prophecy was told. A warrior raised from the dead, vengeance in their heart — a master of the elements who could heal it —”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered, reaching out to shut the tome. “Utter nonsense! Prophecies are just fairy tales, Thalyssra. Old wives’ tales.”

The night elf gestured towards portions of the book, flipping between pages eagerly. “Look, here — ‘arose in the sky, a flame so mighty; the roots of life burn’. That’s Teldrassil!” she exclaimed. “And here — ‘what melody rose from depths of black; the waters moved and the dead slept’. That’s you!”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she insisted, yanking the book over to her and frantically skimming the page. “No, see — that bloody translation is wrong.”

“I think I’d know better than you would,” Thalyssra replied, not unkindly. “I checked and triple-checked. Even Liadrin agrees —”

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “Liadrin? What does Liadrin have to do with this?”

“She is closer to Sylvanas than either of us — I needed her assistance in speaking with the Banshee Queen —”

There was a knock at the door, quiet and discreet. Thalyssra’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that should be them.”

“Wh—” Jaina’s mind reeled. What did that even mean for them? Short of the thought being absolutely ridiculous, unfathomable, unprecedented — all those things — what the hell was she meant to do with the information? “Wait a minute, wait a damn minute —”

But Thalyssra would not. She moved to the door and pulled it open. Liadrin slipped in quickly, followed by a significantly less eager and wary Sylvanas Windrunner.

“Oh good,” Liadrin said, jerking her chin at the tome on the desk. “You’ve brought her up to speed. That’s half of the job done.”

Sylvanas eyed her warily from across the room, red eyes flicking to the tome and then back to her. “Proudmoore. I see they’ve roped you into this madness as well.”

“I’m honestly more surprised they roped you into it,” she replied, mostly without thought, because rational thought didn’t seem to go very far in that moment. “You seem to be the most sensible one here. What the fuck is happening right now?”

Liadrin answered for the Warchief, which in any other situation would have surprised Jaina. “We need you to get married. Yesterday would have been ideal, but we’ll take what we can get.”

Jaina stared in alarm. “Excuse me?”

“Married. Hitched. Espoused.” Liadrin waved a hand impatiently. “Whichever you prefer. The prophecy insists.”

“What bloody prophecy —”

“The prophecy of the warrior and the mage,” Sylvanas intoned quietly, looking equally at a loss. It was the most emotive Jaina had ever seen her. “The prophecy spoke of the End of Days; the rise of a dark power and a frozen throne. Everything that’s happened so far has come true. More or less. They seem to be convinced that if you and I...join...it would bring the prophecy to full circle.”

“And we all won’t die,” Liadrin added.

Jaina opened her mouth to protest, but no sound would come forth but for a strangled choke. She stared at Sylvanas for some sort of indication; to see the sneering smirk and cruel eyes or a deeply-rooted boredness. Something other than the grimness that set the Queen’s brow into a furrow and her lips into a thin line.

“Tides,” she gasped. “You actually believe them.”

“What choice do I have?” Sylvanas snapped, bridling with irritation. “I was coerced into coming here —”

“You knew exactly where we were going. I saw you quicken your step —”

“Regardless,” Sylvanas bit out, glaring at Liadrin. “We have nothing more to lose.” She looked at Jaina then, expectant and almost...unsure. “What say you, Lord Admiral? If we wed and it works, then that is all. If we do and it fails, it can be annulled. Simple as that.”

Thalyssra made a quiet little exclamation. “Oh, we must plan the wedding!”

“She hasn’t even said yes!” Liadrin gestured to Sylvanas. “Kneel, damn it. Do it properly.”

Jaina stared at them all, at Sylvanas, when the Warchief knelt upon a knee before her. A sudden rush of sensations made her sway in place.

“Don’t embarrass me, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas mumbled, glaring up at her. “I won’t debase myself further.”

“You need to ask her, you twit,” Liadrin scoffed, and Jaina marvelled at the absolute tolerance for the disrespect as Sylvanas gritted her teeth and growled in response.

“There’s no need,” Jaina blurted. “Don’t — it’s fine. I —” Tides below and Light above, what the hell was she even doing? 

“I accept.”

Don’t Lose Your Head

ca. 2700 words, enjoy!

“Salweh?”

“Nero!” Commodus shouted. He turned and spat some more blood from his mouth onto the floor of pine needles below.

“Commodus? What on earth are you calling me for?” Nero asked, his voice laced with annoyance.

“Nero… It was Apollo. He blinded me. Chased me out! He still had some… some godly essence left! I… can’t see…” Commodus said, his voice shaking. In the few hours since he had scrambled out of Indianapolis, his vision had not returned. The world was still bright white, completely featureless. He could hear the crunch of the earth beneath him, and the sound of the wind, and the smell of blood in his nose, but he couldn’t see. HE COULDN’T SEE!

Silence came from the other end of the line. “Nero, you have to help me. Get me to New York. I need a healer, nectar, ambrosia, anything!” He shouted, his voice hoarse.

“…No, I don’t think I will.” Nero said. Commodus’ blood ran cold.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no. Really, you always were the weakest of the three of us,” Nero mused. “This blunder of yours just proves we were right about you. You can forget getting any help from me.” Commodus sputtered into the phone, trying to find the right words; ‘I won’t fail you again’, ‘I’ll get him next time!’ But before Commodus could say anything else, the phone went dead.

Commodus screamed into the void, slamming his fist onto the ground as hard as he could.

Apollo! This was all his fault. His stupid mortal face was seared into Commodus’ mind. How could he have done this? How could Commodus, the New Hercules, be defeated by a mortal? And now, one of his own partners had rejected him. You always were the weakest of the three of us. The words rang through Commodus’ head and for the first time since he had woken up floating in the Thames in 1700, Commodus cried. He could feel the tears rolling down his face and he angrily swatted at them, shouting curses that hadn’t been heard since the glory days of Rome.

Apollo, beautiful Phoebus Apollo; stinking, mortal Apollo, had blinded him. Hadn’t they been in love once? Commodus’ throat tightened at the thought of his former lover. Commodus hated to admit it, but his heart still hurt when he thought of the former god. He had tried to forget him, then he had tried to channel his anger over Apollo into his ambitions. Nothing helped. Nothing would help but revenge, getting rid of Apollo once and for all!

Commodus pulled his phone up to his mouth. “Siri, call N.H. Financials,” He croaked. Siri responded and the phone rung. Commodus tried to steel himself, clearing his throat so he wouldn’t sound so pathetic in front of his most feared colleague. The phone kept ringing and Commodus’ stomach kept turning.

The phone then stopped ringing. “Ave Commodus!”

“Gaius!” Commodus choked. He cursed himself for the break in his voice. Commodus heard Caligula give a small sigh on the other end of the line, as if he knew where the conversation was going.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his tone bordering on sing-song-y.

“Apollo. He blinded me. I… I can’t see, and I’m stuck out in the country. I had to flee Indianapolis. The cave is… gone…”  Commodus admitted.

“Blinded you?” He asked. The playfulness in his voice was gone now.

“He had some power left. I just… Nero won’t help me,” Commodus said, his voice dropping to a pathetic whimper. He felt humiliated, worthless! Apollo had stripped him of everything he thought he had.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Caligula said, his voice suddenly full of comforting pity. Commodus knew better than to fall for it. He was probably enjoying Commodus’ shame. “Turn on your tracking device and I’ll send a helicopter. You do remember how to use it don’t you?” He asked.

And thus ended the conversation. Commodus turned on the tracking device, a precaution Caligula had essentially enforced on the other two members of the Triumvirate for emergencies. Nero had thought it was stupid, but he would never say that to his uncle’s face. Nero was more afraid of Caligula than Commodus was.

Caligula had been the first one to suggest the Triumvirate. Commodus remembered 1800’s London, during the height of the Industrial Revolution, as they had sat inside the Crystal Palace one evening and made their plans. It had been a dress-up party for the wealthy, and all of the emperors had been there. Commodus had arrived as Hercules, naturally. Nero had come in simple senator’s robes, and Caligula had come as Apollo, painted completely gold and wrapped only in a bright white toga (‘to protect the queen’s sensibilities’ he had said).

That had been the first time either Nero or Commodus had seen him in the modern era, and that was where he had suggested Triumvirate Holdings. Each of them had already amassed their own wealth, and combined, they could start their slow conquest of the world.

Nero didn’t want to join the Triumvirate at first. When he had seen his uncle appear through the crowd of elaborately dressed royals, sun crown on his head, Nero had been petrified. If Commodus didn’t know any better, he’d say that Nero only joined the Triumvirate out of fear for his estranged family member.

That didn’t matter now though. Nero had rejected Commodus. He had just started breaking the Triumvirate.

 Commodus had fallen asleep on the helicopter ride over, his mind replaying the events of the Waystation in his head. Apollo’s ugly mortal face, framed by that long brown hair, was the only thing Commodus could picture in his head as they arrived in California.

The helicopter had landed on one of the many ships Caligula used as his headquarters. Commodus almost threw up as he got used to the rocking of the ship beneath him. He had never liked boats, and not being able to see one’s surroundings made the sway of the vessel sickening under his feet.

Commodus was led up a ramp (thank the gods for Incitatus) and into a cool room. The swaying of the ship was less noticeable in here. “Stay here. Caesar will come see you shortly,” the voice of a young woman commanded. Commodus thought that it must have been one of Gaius’ demi-god stepchildren.

He put up no resistance. Where could he go anyway? He was blind! Commodus wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he waited. No vision meant no watches, which meant no concept of time. He would occasionally hear someone pass by on the deck above, and the occasional grunt of a few monsters below. Commodus was starting to doze off, when he heard a heavy metal clanging sound, and the ship rocked ever so slightly. A minute or so later, the door to the room swung open. Commodus said nothing as the person walked over, the heels of their shoes tapping against the wood floor.

“Oh Commodus, what has that wretched little thing done to you?” It was Caligula.

Commodus felt suddenly stupid for not recognizing his presence. Caligula brought a tension to every room he entered, heavy as ozone before a storm. Commodus tried to sit himself up. He probably looked like a pouting child, sitting slouched over with his arms crossed. He felt the couch dip slightly as Caligula took a seat next to Commodus.

Commodus froze up as he felt Caligula take his face in his hands, forcing Commodus to face him. He tried not to squirm as Caligula ran his fingers over the new scars around his eyes, tutting in disappointment. He could almost picture Caligula’s face, narrow and handsome with a light frown on his brow.

“That Apollo… for a god of healing he can be awfully violent, can’t he?” Caligula mused, brushing Commodus’ hair away from his face. Commodus nodded silently as Caligula turned away from him, removing a hand from his cheek. Commodus heard the snap of Caligula’s fingers as he ordered someone, probably a guard, to go and fetch…

“Who’s the sorceress?” Commodus asked quietly.

“You met her at the meeting in June, Commodus,” Caligula said slowly. “Remember? Medea?” Commodus nodded. He had met her. She had been a tall, luxurious women, maybe forty-years old. Commodus had only ever known her from the story of Jason and the Argonauts, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit intimidated by her.

“She’ll probably have some sort of cure for your eyes, don’t worry,” Caligula said soothingly, running a finger under Commodus’ right eye. “Medea may practice dark magic, but she makes an excellent doctor when needed. You’ll be able to gaze at your gorgeous reflection again in no time!”

“Thanks… I just. I didn’t expect Nero to reject me like that,” Commodus said.

“Of course. That stupid little boy does not understand how alliances work, does he?” Caligula said, adjusting himself so he could run his hand through Commodus’ scruffy hair. Commodus nodded, relaxing for the first time in hours as Caligula worked through the knots in his mane of hair.

“I don’t understand how Apollo did it. I thought he was powerless! But one minute he was standing there, telling me… ah, I don’t know what he was saying. Something dumb like my father used to say. And then I just… I couldn’t see anymore. He became pure light Gaius!” Commodus exclaimed. He sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I should have expected him to still have powers… but he looked so…” Commodus struggled to find the words.

“Pathetic?” Caligula offered.

“Yeah! Pathetic!” Commodus said, snapping his fingers.

“Pathetic, like you look now?” Commodus froze up instantly as he felt Caligula’s grip tighten on his hair. His breathing quickened. Oh shit. Oh shit. Nero had outright told Commodus he had failed. Commodus hadn’t been thinking straight when he called Caligula for help. Caligula was also a member of the Triumvirate. And Commodus had walked straight into his arms for help.

“Gaius—”

“Your headquarters in shambles, the Waystation still active, and the Oracle of Trophinius gone? And look at you… you’re a mess,” Caligula purred, twisting and pulling Commodus’ hair painfully in his hand. Commodus’ gasped in pain but said nothing. “How do you intend to make up for your mistakes, amica mea? You have nothing left to offer.” He said.

This. This is was what made Caligula dangerous. Nero was just a cruel bastard, and Commodus was blatant about his love of violence and power. But Caligula was like a poisoned glass of wine. He disarmed you with sweet smiles and gentle touches, and then slammed the trap shut when it was too late.

Commodus tried not to shake as he came up with a reply. “I… I can’t. All I can do…” He paused, trying to think of something that wouldn’t get himself killed. Caligula was infamously sadistic. If Commodus made any literal suggestions, like dying for Caligula, then the Mad Emperor would expect him to keep to that offer. “All I can do is offer myself to your services to help defeat Apollo and his allies here. With you.” Commodus said.

A long, long moment of silence followed. He held his breath in anticipation. Commodus almost cried in relief as Caligula loosened his grip on Commodus’ hair and leant back. “And when I defeat Apollo? And take my place as the New Sun? Will you still offer your services then?” He asked.

“Y—yeah!” Commodus said.

“Even against Nero?” Caligula asked. That gave Commodus pause. Against Nero? Oh, of course… once Apollo was gone and the camps were crushed, they would have to divide up the world amongst themselves. Caligula and Nero, who naturally distrusted each other, would never let the other have anything. So that meant that whoever Commodus sided with was the victor.

Commodus thought for a moment. Nero hadn’t helped him when he had asked. Caligula had, even if he had threatened Commodus just two seconds ago. Commodus blindly reached out and managed to place a hand on Caligula’s shoulder. “Yes. Nero didn’t help me. You did. I promise it will be worth it,” Commodus said. Commodus felt the tension in the room lift, and he could sense the smile on Caligula’s face.

The door to the room opened again and a new presence, and an even louder set of shoes clicked across the floor. “I heard Commodus was here, but I did not expect our New Hercules to look so… sad,” Medea said. Commodus frowned in her general direction. “Whoa, okay big guy!” She laughed.

“Oh Medea, would you take a look at his eyes. Apollo used what was left of his divine light to blind our friend here,” Caligula said, standing to make room for the sorceress. She sat down next to Commodus and grabbed his face, not nearly as gently as Caligula had. She tutted and said something in a strange language, probably Colchian.

“I can’t cure them instantly. Divine light blindness isn’t something that can be reversed so simply,” She said.

“Well what can you do?” Commodus snapped.

“Don’t be rude,” Medea chided. Commodus could hear her rummaging through a bag of glass bottle. “There’s a course of treatment that lasts about a month that can mostly restore your sight, but it is painful.” She warned. Commodus had no warning as Medea tilted his head back and squeezed something into his eyes. Commodus may or may have not screamed like a little girl from the pain. He stood and stumbled away from the sorceress, swearing and shouting in several different languages.

“Well, that is quite the reaction!” Caligula said. Medea gave a short laugh.

“It’s a concoction with belladonna and Styx water as the main components. He’ll be desensitized eventually,” Medea said.

“Styx water?” Commodus shouted.

“Really? I never would have thought Styx water could help the eyes…”

“Well it is incredibly diluted, so it isn’t nearly as potent as the real stuff. It’s about… one thousand times weaker than pure Styx water, but still retains the healing effects of the undiluted version.”

“Couldn’t it be stronger than for a more potent effect? Or would anything more kill him?”

“Oh, anything stronger would definitely kill him.”

“HELLO?” Commodus roared. “IT FEELS LIKE SOMEONE HAS POURED ACID IN MY EYES! CAN SOMEONE HELP ME?”

“No, my dear,” Medea said, placing her hands on his arms, pulling his hands down from his face. “The potion cannot be washed out or else it will never heal your eyes.” She explained.

“Let Medea work her magic Commodus. You’ll be cured in no time. She managed to treat my insomnia; how bad can she be?” Caligula said. Commodus sighed and slumped down to the floor. His eyes hurt more than when he had been blinded. Commodus sighed as he heard Medea leave the room, leaving him alone with Caligula.

The entire situation was messed up. Commodus had lost a vital oracle, Nero had essentially disowned him, he had disowned Nero to side with Caligula, and Caligula had essentially told Commodus that he intended to turn on Nero the moment Apollo and the demi-gods were defeated. Triumvirates always end in civil war…

“Commodus. Whose fault is this?” Caligula asked.

“What?” Commodus said, taken aback. He heard Caligula take a few steps towards him.

“Whose fault is this? Who is to blame for your eyes? For the oracle?” He asked. Commodus slumped his shoulders, feeling his throat tighten in shame.

“Mine…”

“Yes amica,” Caligula said, placing a hand on top of Commodus’ head. “But it’s also Apollo. He did this to you. Don’t you want him to suffer for your mistakes?” He asked. Commodus sat in place for a second before answering.

“Yes.” He growled, rising to his feet.

Caligula placed a hand on Commodus’ shoulder an began to guide him towards the door. “Then let’s go,” Commodus couldn’t see the cyanide sweet smile on Caligula’s face as he was led out of the room. But Commodus’ wouldn’t have noticed, even if he had his sight.

Now all that mattered to him was getting revenge on Apollo.

Best Horror TV Shows on Hulu

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You thought movies were the only place to get your daily dose of horror? Oh you fool! You absolute FOOL! There are plenty of bingeworthy and scary horror TV shows out there and Hulu just happens to be a great place to find them. 

Hulu is home to recent hits like The Terror and Castle Rock but there are still more scares to be found for the horror enthusiast willing to dig deep. Gathered here are some of the best and scariest horror TV shows that Hulu has to offer.

Editor’s Note: This post is updated monthly. Bookmark this page and come back every month to see the additions to the best horror TV shows on Hulu.

Updated for October 2020

The Terror

Based on a 2007 book of the same name by Dan Simmons, The Terror season 1 tells a fictionalized account of Captain Sir John Franklin’s expedition to the arctic in 1845. In real life, the doomed men likely got lost and succumbed to the cold but the show asks “what if there was something more sinister than low temperatures lurking about?”

The Terror features a cast impressively full of “hey it’s that guy” guys like Jared Harris, Ciarán Hindis, and Tobias Menzes. It deftly turned itself into an anthology with the second season The Terror: Infamy that tells a ghost story within the setting of a Japanese interment camp in World War II.

American Horror Story

Ryan Murphy’s American Horror Story is revolutionary in quite a few ways. Not only did it help usher in a renewed era of anthology storytelling on television, it also was arguably the first successful network television horror show since The X-Files.

Like all anthologies, American Horror Story has its better seasons (season 1 a.k.a. Murder House, season 2 a.k.a. Asylum, season 6 a.k.a. Roanoke) and its worse (season 3 a.k.a. Coven and season 8 a.k.a. Apocalypse). Still, for nine years and counting, American Horror Story has been one of the go-to options for TV horror fans.

Castle Rock

Stephen King properties have made their way to television before. There have been miniseries for classic King texts like The Stand and ‘Salem’s Lot and even full series for works like Rose Red and Under the Dome. Still, none of those series has had the audacity to adapt multiple aspects of the Stephen King universe itself…until Castle Rock.

Castle Rock takes multiple characters, storylines, and concepts from the vast works of Stephen King and puts them all in King’s own Castle Rock, Maine. The first season featured inmates from Shawshank prison, extended family of Jack Torrance, and maybe even a touch of the shine. The show opened itself up for more storytelling possibilities in season 2, adopting an anthology format and bringing Annie Wilkes into the fold.

The Twilight Zone

The Twilight Zone is an all-time television classic for good reason. Join Rod Serling each episode for a new tale of mystery, horror and woe.

Read more

Culture

The Words of Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Are More Relevant Than Ever

By Chris Longo

TV

The Twilight Zone Marathon: A History of a Holiday Tradition

By Arlen Schumer

Whatever you do, however, do NOT drop your glasses.

The Strain

The most novel thing about FX’s vampire horror thriller The Strain is how it equates the ancient fear of vampirism with the more modern, global fear of pandemic. The Strain, produced by Guillermo del Toro Chuck Hogan and based on their novel series opens with a flight landing with all of its passengers mysteriously dead.

Read more

Movies

Bram Stoker’s Dracula and the Seduction of Old School Movie Magic

By David Crow

Movies

Lake Mungo: the Lingering Mystery Behind One of Australia’s Scariest Horror Films

By Rosie Fletcher

As CDC director Ephraim Goodweather (Corey Stoll) steps in to investigate, he discovers that there might be something more sinister…and ancient afoot than a simple virus. The Strain lasted for four mostly decent seasons on FX and if nothing else helped re-embrace the vampire as a monster and not some sort of noble antihero.

Stan Against Evil

To parody horror, one needs to love horror. And Stan Against Evil creator Dana Gould really, really, really loves horror. The longtime standup comedian and comedy writer brings his unique humor sensibilities and lifelong appreciation of horror to tell the story of a quaint New Hampshire town that just happens to be built on the cursed site of a massive witch burning.

Read more

Movies

Dana Gould Picks His 5 Favorite Monster Movies

By Dana Gould

TV

Talalay’s Terrors! The Director Breaks Down Her 5 Scariest Scenes

By Kayti Burt

John C. McGinley stars as the titular Stan, a disgraced former sheriff who opts to pick up the battle against evil after a close call. He teams up with new sheriff Evie Barret (Janet Varney) to defend the town (and sometimes world) from supernatural threats.

The X-Files

The X-Files is quite simply the gold standard for horror on television. Chris Carter’s conspiracy-tinged supernatural masterpiece not only inspired every horror TV show that came after it, but just about every other TV show in general.

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TV

I Still Want to Believe: Revisiting The X-Files Pilot

By Chris Longo

TV

The X-Files Revealed: The Paranormal Roots of the Pentagon’s UFO Program

By Alejandro Rojas

The X-Files follows FBI special agents Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) as they investigate the unusual cases that traditional law enforcement won’t touch. For 11 seasons (and a handful of movies), the show expertly balanced a massive series-long story along with what came to be called “monster of the week” self-contained tales.

Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural

When it first premiered on YouTube back in 2016, Buzzfeed Unsolved became a huge hit by appealing to one of the Internet’s favorite subjects: true crime. Still Buzzfeed saw all of that success and realzied there was still another audience to serve. Thus Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural was born.

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Games

20 Scariest Horror Games Ever Made

By Matthew Byrd

TV

Helstrom Review (Spoiler-Free)

By Rosie Knight

In this spinoff hosts Ryan Bergara and Shane Madej examine some of the supernatural world’s biggest mysteries. With the right balance of skepticism and belief, Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural is a welcome entry into the paranormal investigation TV canon.

The Outer Limits

When The Twilight Zone premiered in 1959, it set off a brief little renaissance of anthology horror storytelling on television. The best of these contenders to the Zone‘s throne was probably the sci-fi centric The Outer Limits.

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Movies

How Arachnophobia Became the Perfect Creepy Crawly Horror Comedy

By Jack Beresford

Movies

Disney+ Halloween Movies for Kids: The Best Family Films to Watch This Spooky Season

By Alana Joli Abbott

Outer Limits aired from 1963 to 1965 on ABC. In that span it generated 49 spooky episodes, several of which made an impact on pop culture. Alan Moore infamously borrowed the plot of the episode “The Architects of Fear” for the ending of Watchmen. The Outer Limits received a Sci-Fi Channel revival in the ’90s and is currently poised for another bite at the apple.

Freakish

Freakish stars several high profile (at the time at least) social media stars as students at Kent High School. The kids are gathered together at school on Saturday for detention, Breakfast Club-style, when a nearby chemical plant explodes, turning the local population into mutated zombies. The group must band together to survive.

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Movies

Best Horror Movies on Netflix: Scariest Films to Stream

By David Crow and 2 others

Movies

Best Horror Movies on Amazon Prime Right Now

By Alec Bojalad and 3 others

Debuting in 2016, Freakish ran for two seasons on Hulu. The show embraces its teenage soapiness and isn’t necessarily the most heavyweight horror option. But it’s a quick, fun watch for any zombie horror fan nonetheless.

The Exorcist

The Exorcist is one of the greatest horror films ever made. The Fox series that bears its name and premise isn’t quite as good (few things could ever be) but it’s still an excellent horror story in its own right.

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Movies

A24 Horror Movies Ranked From Worst to Best

By David Crow and 3 others

TV

How Helstrom Became One of Marvel Television’s Last Shows Standing

By Alec Bojalad

The Exorcist is a two-season long anthology series that follows two different cases of demonic possession. In the first installment, two Catholic priests assist a woman with a possession in her home. In the second, two new priests help a young girl battle evil.

Ghost Adventures

Since the turn of the millennium, television has not been lacking for shows involving paranormal investigations. But even within the crowded spooky market, Travel Channel’s Ghost Adventures stands out.

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TV

Ghost Adventures: Horror at Joe Exotic Zoo Two-Hour Special Premieres Oct. 29

By Tony Sokol

Culture

How Ghost Adventures: Quarantine Came Together

By Aaron Sagers

First premiering in 2008, Ghost Adventures follows paranormal researchers Zak Bagans, Nick Groff, Aaron Goodwin, Billy Tolley, and Jay Wasley as they travel the world looking for ghoulish occurrences to investigate. Over its 200-some episodes (not including specials), Ghost Adventures has proven itself to be the gold standard for people who just want to watch some dudes stumble around old properties in night vision.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Monsterland

Since Netflix acquired the rights to Black Mirror back in 2015, the streaming world has been a veritable arms race of sci-fi and horror anthology series. Hulu has already tried its hand at horror anthology with the Blumhouse-produced Into the Dark, and Monsterland represents the latest effort.

Read more

Movies

The WNUF Halloween Special: The Making of the Most Fun Found Footage Horror Movie Ever

By Gavin Jasper

Games

How Scorn Turned the Art of H.R. Giger into a Nightmarish Horror Game World

By John Saavedra

Monsterland is based on the short story collection North American Lake Monsters: Stories by Nathan Ballingrud. It consists of eight spooky, unconnected tales and features the acting talents of Kaitlyn Dever, Bill Camp, Kelly Marie Tran, and more. The twist here is that each episode focuses on an urban legend from a different city within the United States. And given how weird this country is, the series won’t be running out of of stories anytime soon.

The post Best Horror TV Shows on Hulu appeared first on Den of Geek.

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modern Helen and Penelope, Sherlock, and Tempest Mac? (If you don't feel like doing all of these, please just pick your favorite--I'm just intrigued by ALL of these.)

ooh you managed to pick all the older ones! I am quite fond of these still, so I’ll do all three!

putting it all under a cut because it got quite long:

modern Helen and Penelope was a modern AU (as the name suggests), but there were still gods and magic and heroes, plus a bunch of other mythologies were included as well. basically, the plot sort of revolved around Helen, who’s going to be in an arranged marriage, deciding to abscond with Paris, which kicks off a whole bunch of other things (I don’t quite remember the details anymore, but I do distinctly remember that the Irish heroes got involved somehow, and the...uhhh...well, some other heroes got involved too but I never wrote any of their names down, so 😅). but it also revolved around Odysseus and Penelope falling in love, which I’m a sucker for. in honor of that, here’s the part I wrote with Odysseus:

Her heart skips a beat as she realizes who she’s looking at, and she hastens to finish before Helen catches on. “With—what’s his name, Odysseus, I think.”

“The island king’s son?” Helen sounds disinterested, and Penelope silently thanks any gods listening. “I can’t remember—is he one of the good-looking ones? They’ve all become a blur.”

“He—” Penelope’s tongue, usually so nimble, stutters to a halt. All she has to do is say no, and her cousin will move on. But she can’t bring herself to lie. Not about him.

Helen watches with growing interest as Penelope makes a few inarticulate sounds before subsiding into a blushing silence. “You know what? Maybe I should refresh my memory. Come on, cuz.”

She strides away, moving with easy confidence as Penelope, her stomach filled with dread, follows. 

Her cousin has the ability to be seen or to be Seen. In other words, there are times like now, where the two of them pass through crowds with barely a second glance from anyone, and then there are times when Helen is the center of any room she walks into. And she can switch back and forth with ease.

Odysseus and his friend are bent over a table covered with hastily drawn maps and pretzels acting as soldiers. Someone nearby laughs, loudly, and her heart pounds in her ears. Odysseus is shorter than the other boy, but has broader shoulders. Recklessly, Penelope decides that despite the other boy’s good looks and easy smile, Odysseus has a far better smirk. Neither of them look up as the girls approach.

“So you see, the king really ought to have placed his troops there.”

“Ah, but have you considered,” says Odysseus, picking up another pretzel and eating it, “that the river was too exposed for a stand against the invaders? At the time, the forest seemed the better option.”

Helen leans over to look at the maps. “Goodness,” she says airily, as if the very sight of the battle maps are too much for her, although Penelope has played enough strategy games with her cousin to know that Helen would wipe the floor with anyone at this table, not including Penelope herself. “All those pieces look so very lonely. Surely you cannot win a war with so few soldiers?”

“Well, they represent battalions, not individual soldiers,” says Odysseus absently, and then he looks up.

From the way that he and his friend become still, it’s clear that Helen wishes to be Seen. They’re transfixed, the way one stares at a comet or tornado. Penelope might as well be the air, for all they see her.

In a fair world, Penelope might have been considered beautiful.

In that world, Helen would have to not exist.

As it is, Penelope contents herself with being considered wise beyond her years, although wisdom seems a poor consolation prize in moments like these.

“Helen,” Odysseus says finally. He clears his throat. “Aren’t you supposed—”

She reaches out and covers his hand with her own. “Oh, that. Being cooped up all day is no fun, I tell you. So I convinced Penelope to take me here with her.” Odysseus’ gaze drifts to Penelope. He has very lovely brown eyes. Helen clearly doesn’t care for the shift in his attention, for she laughs prettily and Penelope does not exist again. “Let’s keep this our little secret, shall we? And by that I mean don’t tell my father.”

Odysseus nods slowly. He looks around, up, down, and finally settles on asking, “Won’t you sit down?”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtful,” Helen says, and promptly does. The other boy does as well, which leaves only the one seat—Odysseus’. 

“You and Penelope will have to share,” Helen observes, sharp gaze trained on her cousin.

Penelope takes a deep breath. “I’ll stand, thanks.”

may actually pick this one up in the future, idk

Sherlock was a mini-play I wrote for my high school; they were doing a play (with Sherlock Holmes) that needed a “fake start,” one that was really ridiculous, so I wrote one for them that I thought might fit the bill. I have a lot of favorite ridiculous moments but here are a few:

SHERLOCK (abruptly): How’s Mary?

WATSON: //children...oh, Mary’s fine, she’s fine - so’s Henry’s two little sisters, Emma and Jane. Right terrors they are. Twin disasters, you might say. (He chuckles.)

SHERLOCK: Twins?

WATSON: How did you -

SHERLOCK: Your enjoyment in that atrocious and badly delivered pun gave up the game.

HENRY: The kids nowadays call that a dad joke.

---

HOLMES: You took your time slinking out from the woodwork again, my old enemy.

MORIARTY looks embarrassed. 

MORIARTY: I had to make tenure. My apologies for delaying our little games, Holmes.

HOLMES: Quite understandable. You cad.

MORIARTY: I deserved that one, I’m afraid. But not anymore than that, Holmes!

HOLMES: I apologize. I had to get it out of my system.

MORIARTY: Of course.

---

HOLMES: To answer your question…

He realizes that he doesn’t know her name.

HOLMES: ...er, dear, Moriarty is in fact about to offer us tea.

MORIARTY: Quite right. I put the kettle on before you woke up. Two sugars as usual, Holmes?

HOLMES: Once again you try to trick me, old enemy. You know perfectly well that I drink it black.

MORIARTY snaps his fingers.

MORIARTY: Foiled again, Holmes!

it was meant to be really bad, because Holmes (the real one for the play) comes out and demands to know what Watson (the real one for the play) is writing, at which point the actual play would start 😂😂

Tempest Mac is, I think, the only sci-fi story I’ve ever written?? it’s about this little girl in the future, in space, who’s Catholic and who meets an alien, while also solving important mysteries (like where the cookie jar went 😂😂)

that...was pretty much all the plot I had planned out, I think

but here’s what I had:

Someone had moved the cookie jar again.

Tempest Mac made a thoughtful face as she considered the scene of the crime. Then she went and fetched a tall stool, a flashlight, and a thick book detailing the customs and mannerisms of the Hazien people (which she was only a quarter of the way through, having only started at breakfast this morning). One never knew what might come in handy.

Just as she had gotten the book settled in place on the countertop, with one foot balanced neatly on the stool and the other on the book, and was peering into the highest cupboard with the flashlight, a shrill, startled voice rang out behind her. “Tempest! What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Finding the cookie jar, Aunti,” Tempest replied calmly, still shining the flashlight into the cupboard. In addition, they weren’t on Earth, they were on Haz—a few hundred lightyears away—so really, Aunti should have said, ‘What on Haz do you think you’re doing?’ but she knew when to let things go. “Somebody’s moved it again.”

“You don’t need a cookie right now, you’ve just had lunch,” her aunt scolded, lifting her off the stool and onto the ground without hardly any effort. “Wait until after dinner.”

“I don’t want a cookie, I want to know who keeps moving the cookie jar,” Tempest protested, but Aunti paid her no heed and sent her out of the kitchen to water the small garden out back.

Tempest Mac was six years old, small of stature, and what some people referred to as ‘precocious.’ Tempest gently argued with these people that no, she wasn’t precocious, she simply thought thoughts in a sensible way. Nevertheless, her grave eyes, quiet way of asking commonsense questions, and aptitude at reading far above her age level made the debate moot, as far as people were concerned.

Most people would rather chalk up things and people who don’t appear to make sense at first as anomalies, rather than investigate further. But then, this is because many people see the world like a black ink stamp pattern on a clean sheet of paper—easy, simple and pretty, in an orderly, bureaucratic sort of way. If the world is ordered and lovely in its organization, then so too can lives and people be the same way. If the world is a jumbled, chaotic, sloppy finger-painting done by an overenthusiastic four year old, then it is much harder for people to convince themselves that their lives may be ordered and simplistic. Such is life.

There’s a reason “Aunti” is spelled the way it is, but for the life of me I can’t remember why

Catching Up on Tagged Posts

I’ve been tagged in quite a few things recently, and if I don’t do them now I’ll forget about them forever, so I’m gonna put them all here and under the cut because my friends, this is gonna be a long fuckin’ post.

I also won't be following any tagging rules... cause i’d end up running out of people to tag. If you want to do any or all of these, consider me your tagger.

QUARANTINE GAME

Tagged by the dearest brilliant @bardingbeedle​

Answer the following questions!

1. How has your day been?

It’s been okay, a lot of my days have been focused on drawing little things and focusing on my diet. I might be getting a buzz cut this evening, that's a thing. (Edit from later in the evening when I came back to finish this: I got a buzz cut)

2. What is the last thing that made you smile?

This question made me realise I hadn't smiled today. That was pretty depressing, but I reconnected with a dear friend yesterday and that was pretty swell.

3. What’s keeping you entertained these days?

Since entering lock down, and briefly getting sick (not with covid as far as we can tell) it sort of forced me to separate myself from my student life and work life, and consider, well, me for a while. I’ve had more creative drive in the past week than I’ve had in months, and I’ve made more even with school. I’ll be staggering uploads, but i’ve made a surprising amount. Lock down may have made me lonely as hell, with a heck of a need to talk to people a lot (I finally got over my hesitation about joining the MCU 18+ server, and they have had to deal with me hovering constantly to join conversations) but it’s been nice to work again.

4. if you are in some kind of quarantine/self isolation: is there anything you’d like to achieve in this time? 

I just hit about 17 days inside, and my ideal for a time where, for now, I seem to be a lot more focused, would be to finish my long overdue commissions. The people who bought them have waited way too long, and as much as I’d like to pay them back I certainly can't afford that, so I’m gonna work my ass off at art and apologies.

5. Post a selfie! (If you’re comfortable with that!)

Ask the like 5 people who have seen my real face, they’ll confirm the likeness

Tagged by @thirstinart​

rules: tag 20 people you’d like to know better and wrangle them into answering the questions below.

Nicknames: Sapling, Sap, SirSap, Plant Dad, Captain Dadsap and the Ultimates book club recently decided Daddy Sap was appropriate and I’m gauging how to feel about that

Gender: Male

Height: 5’ 7

Star sign: Aries

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Favorite animal: Sharks ‘n’ Bears

Number of blankets: I love the feel and the weight of blankets but in practice I get too hot.

Where I’m from: From a town in England too small to sensibly name, but I now live in London

When I started this account: It was technically made in 2014, but I didn't begin posting till 2017 

Why I started this account: I originally made it to follow a lot of my friends from DeviantArt when tumblr was in that prime. But when I started using it for real it was to post art for Hellogarbagetime and sabrecmc after they egged me into making some during the AA streams at the start of that year.

MUSIC MEME

Tagged by @ayapandagirl (Tumblr won't let me tag you for some reason??)

Rules: you can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to! put your music on shuffle and list the first ten songs, then tag ten people. no skipping!

Shakes - Emeli Sandé

Don’t Lose My Number (cover) - Ninja Sex Party

In for the Kill - La Roux

Killer Queen - Queen

Swim - Fickle Friends

Underdog - Imagine Dragons

Independant Together - The Steven Universe the Movie soundtrack

River Lea - Adele

11:11 - Andrew Applepie

Reaper - Sia

A lot of this stuff is stuff I still listen to thankfully, that cover of Don’t loose My Number is one of my FAVOURITE songs

Trope game!

Tagged by @capnstars​

1. Slowburn or Love at First Sight

2. Fake Dating or Secretly Dating

This isn't a formatting error I just really fuckin’ love secret dating.

3. Enemies to Lovers or Best Friends to Lovers

4. “Oh no, there’s Only One Bed,” or Long Distance Correspondence

5. Hurt/Comfort or Amnesia

6. Fantasy AU or Modern AU

7. Mutual Pining or Domestic Bliss

8. Smut or Fluff

9. Canon-Compliant/Missing Scenes or Fix-It

10. Alternate Universe or Future Fic

11. One Shot or Multi-chapter

12. Kid Fic or Road trip Fic

13. Reincarnation or Character Death

14. Arranged Marriage or Accidental Marriage

15. High School Romance or Middle-Aged Romance

16. Time Travel or Isolated Together

17. Neighbours or Roommates

18. Sci Fi AU or Magic AU

19. Body swap or Genderbend

20. Angst or Crack

21. Apocalyptic or Mundane

Last Sentence Meme

I was tagged in this meme by @blossomsinthemist​ @firelightmystic​ and I swear @ashes0909​ tagged me in one of these like a decade ago and I didn't ever do it

Rules: Post the last line you wrote and tag the same number of people as the word count of your last line.

Since I got tagged 3 times, have one of my long gangly sentences that I haven’t been forced to cut down (cough, Ferret, cough) to a reasonable and sensible size yet.

Last line I wrote:

“Tony’s is ready to protest this, blood rapidly rushing between his head and other areas, but then Steve wraps a warm, heavy arm around his shoulders to lead him back inside, and Tony forgets it in order to loop his arm round Steve’s waist and walk with him, rubbing little arcs into Steve’s hip.”

Word count: 54

Heavy Heavy Low Low - Courtside Seats to the Greatest Fuck of All Time⁠

⁠ @heavyheavylowlow38 #heavyheavylowlow #hhll #deathwish @deathwishinc⁠ ⁠ I’ve been lucky as hell recently to snag insider info on some killer reissues and this one is no exception. You all already know how much I love HHLL, especially Turtle Nipple…, and through serendipity I got connected with Robbie from the band a few months back. I got to hear about how they are coming back to life after some years focusing on other projects, growing up and growing out, and evolving as musicians and artists in the process. They’ve worked with Twelve Gauge Records to put Courtside Seats on vinyl for the very first time and after they announced it on their platforms and immediately sold it out, they’re pressing another batch that you and the HHLL lovers in your life can and should snag before that pressing sells out, too!⁠ ⁠ What’s even more exciting is that I got to pick Robbie’s brain in typical VE fashion and he’s indulged me with all sorts of info about what they’re up to, whether or not we can expect new music, and some feel-good stories about huffing air duster and ripping shit up in an old warehouse on the California coast. Here it is in its unedited glory, but first…head to the website to pre-order your copy and then head to Robbie’s Indiegogo campaign to learn more about his upcoming short firm that’s scored by Nick from Tera Melos! ⁠https://deathwishinc.com/products/heavy-heavy-low-low-courtside-seats https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/morning-deliveries-short-film#/

INTERVIEW

First and foremost, it’s been a minute since we’ve heard from Heavy Heavy Low Low and then out of nowhere you sprang back to life in 2019. What motivated you all to pick up this project again? I’m not sure what motivated it. We had always been trying to jumpstart the whole thing again for some time and I think that it might have been a case of everyone’s lives slowing down and examining that time with a weird reverence. I can only speak for myself. The boys are all in school or doing their own thing.

I imagine you’ve all been working on different projects since HHLL went on hiatus. Do you have anything that you or the rest of the band have worked on that you’d love us to know about? Danny has gotten pretty popular in the Kendama world. Chris is studying various forms of martial arts. Roo is endlessly going to school and currently scoring independent films. Chip is heavily involved in competitive fishing. I’ve been making short films when the situation and my wallet allow it. We’re all crazy excited about finally owning Courtside Seats on vinyl for the first time. Aside from bringing that album onto the vinyl medium, the pre-order page notes that there’s new artwork, too. What can we expect from that? When we made the CD we weren’t expecting to sell any really.. I did the art and Matthew printed them all at his job. Him and I folded every crease, glued the o-cards and vacuum sealed them all. I think it sold out almost completely at the record release show. We made the same amount of records as we did the original cd (500). The artwork for the original CD pressing was done on sketch paper without any comprehension of what could be done with drawn art and a scanner. Matthew was the computer wizard and back then, young and silly, it was all done on the cuff. The new art is a bit more modern and plays with mortality. Court-side Seats to The Greatest Fuck of All Time being a front seat view of a an ordinary, bumpy ride through life. I’m proud of it. What’s it like to bring back an album from the earliest parts of the band’s career? Do you still identify with the music? It is odd. It was a truly surreal time and place. We were out of our fucking minds. We recorded it in Mountain View, Ca in this giant warehouse that tapered into gutted office spaces. It was a weird white collar tomb on the outskirts of Silicon Valley right before the real tech boom. In the big part of the warehouse where we’d enter there were giant mounds of clothes meant to be donated to some third world country. We’d burrow tunnels in them and do huge dramatic flips from pike to pile. There was an aisle of outdated medical equipment waiting to be sent that we’d stalk through in the dark. It was a strangely magic place. Once you got through the warehouse you’d get to these office stations that had been fashioned into recording studios and that’s where we birthed this thing. We were so misguided. The amount of compressed air that we inhaled should have killed us. I contribute a significant drop in IQ to that shit. Smoking copious amounts of weed from gravity bongs. Recording with a hip hop producer, Deegan. Never a disagreement. It still feels like it was some strange purgatory of youth. I don’t miss it, but it was beautiful. Does this mean there’s hope of having Everything’s Watched, Everyone’s Watching on vinyl sometime, too? So, there was a guy who was very adamant about putting that record out on vinyl. We had a dialogue going for the better part of a year and apparently he had been in contact with Rhino Music and Warner, the two companies that hold the licensing to that album. He had received word that it’d cost an impressive amount of money, but he still wanted to shoulder it. Mind you, this dude didn’t have a label, he just wanted to put this thing out and apparently hadnt thought that all out. Time goes by, I’m waiting, not worrying one way or the other. One day I get a link from a friend, a Christian college website detailing that dude had been arrested for kidnapping and assault. Very sad situation. Dude seemed semi normal. Anyway, that was the last effort I’d seen put into that. I’d love to contribute new art to that release if any go-getter wants to try their luck. I’ve loved everything HHLL put out, but Turtle Nipple is in my top 10 list of favorite albums of all time. What was the writing the recording process for it like and how did the band feel about the new creative directions on it? EWEW was half previously recorded material re-recorded and half material written a year prior, kind of forced into a studio with producers we had no previous rapport with. Those producers/engineers were incredible human beings (RIP Tom Pfaffle! See you in the mindfog) but we were very young punk kids thrown into a foreign land where we had our agents visiting and there were platinum records on the wall and it was a total barrage of privilege and excess. It was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t feel soul in that record. Turtle Nipple is a dense trip through time and the record I’m most proud of in our discography. I don’t remember how long we had to record it, I do remember that it was the only time we’d been given to experiment and layer our sensibilities in an environment that catered to them. Sam (Pura) was a perfect conduit to that vibe and time and space and it really came out just how it should have. I think about that album as a 70s exploitation directors filmography.. it veers violently from genre to genre and while most of the stories are fiction and far from personal testimony, theirs a peek into some shared insanity contained throughout. George Cosmatos wandering through a punk club on an edible. I think that that album is our bands true personality. Sam is a member of our band whether he’s playing with us or engineering for us. He gets us. I love the idea of an alternate reality where we had lasted a bit longer and did an album with Steve Albini. He’d probably hate us, but I love those ‘What If?’ Scenarios. I’ll ask the question EVERYONE has been asking so it’s on the record somewhere: Does this mean we can expect new material or a new album soon? Maybe even a tour? We have a new EP in the works. We have some of it recorded with Sam. We’ve posted a couple clips on Instagram. We’re incredibly busy and spread out in our personal lives. Chip in TX, Dan in FL, Roo in OR, Rob and Chris in CA. Adulthood is a bitter, pulpy drink! We are going to be playing again. We won’t be leaving the West Coast. We had our fill of middle America and the travel involved. We have talked to some of our buds from our early days of touring about playing alongside (opening for) them for a limited run in 2020. I think that qualifies as a tour. Also, if anyone wants to fly us to Europe to play a festival in 2020, we’d like that. It’ll be an interesting year. How does it feel to be welcomed back by so many adoring fans who still love your music and are hoping for more after a long hiatus? It’s incredibly humbling. I have heard from people throughout the years about how we had affected them and it was always just strange to me. I’m pretty self deprecating, so I just don’t understand how some shit I wrote could mean much to anyone. My mind is just a shotgun blast of panic. I guess all of ours are? I love my band mates and their talents, though. So I understand the sorta sirens draw to the greater extent. I think they only got to show themselves slightly, too. Weird existence. Give us a piece of band trivia you’ve never shared in an interview before! Gees. There is a step-in part to most 15 passenger vans. It is a black, hard plastic. It meets with where you close the sliding door. When we had no bottles to pee in, we would just piss in ‘the step’. This thing was a den of germicidal activity. Trash and piss I don’t think we ever truly cleaned that thing. What’s odd is that we so rarely got ill on tour. The Step kept us healthy on a steady diet of trash and piss and general scum. Finally, this isn’t a question but the hidden track on Turtle Nipple is a fucking masterpiece and I wanted you to know. Thank you! I think that may have been my idea to add some weird 70s funk into an old track of ours. I think it turned out cool, but I think it betrays our vibe on that album! I wish it’d have devolved into some weird, primitive Altered States shit.

2019 Debut YA Covers Megapost (part 1)

I’ve fallen off the wagon of keeping up with cover reveals even a little, and there were a whole bunch in the past few weeks, so to get back up, i’m gonna try to do quick and dirty rundowns of as many 19 debuts as have had cover reveals (that I haven’t already talked about) as I can this week! HERE WE GO (these are in no particular order):

1) BLOODLEAF by Crystal Smith

Oh Bloodleaf, you expensive little TOG rehash. What have you brought us. This is another Billelis creation, and I actually like the type! The hypercondensed slight serif feels appropriate but fresh for YA fantasy and the color scheme, the central flower image, and the silver thorns are all really working. BUT I have the exact same issue that I had with the updated Dark of the West cover; the “fancy border with illustrated story-relevant elements” thing doesn’t really work for me when it’s uneven and almost-random the way this is. The crown, moon and tree up top are so symmetrical and balanced that you expect the same thing in the opposite corners, and instead you get a castle with a lot more visual weight than the others, plus a raven and a bow that are just...... hanging out? This would have been a stronger cover with the additional symbols completely removed; the flower and thorns are plenty of visual interest alone.

2) THE PIONEER by Bridget Tyler 

I am obsessed with this one. I don’t know a damn thing about the book, haven’t seen it hyped on twitter or anywhere else, but this cover is gorgeous and perfect and evocative; there’s DEPTH and DRAMATIC COLOR and it’s got BISEXUAL LIGHTING and the outlined type is INTERESTING. It’s an aesthetic cousin to the UK Edition of THE DEVOURING GRAY that i talked about here and it looks like a movie poster and I want it on my wall. 

3) ENCHANTEE by Gita Trelease

Poor Enchantee has already had a cover redesign (old on the left, new one on the right, with the face). It was for the better, although they didn’t address my biggest issue with the original, which is that tYPE. The even-width, sort of chalkish calligraphy SCREAMS “art director’s instagram” and “cloyingly cute NEVERTHELESS, SHE PERSISTED posters you can buy on Etsy”, and “chalkboard signage your high school friend pinned to her WEDDING INSPO pinterest board”, rather than. Yknow. Sexy Magic Revolutionary France, which is the book. Where is the CONTRAST. where is the impression of ACTUAL INK. (Also: I didn’t crop these weird, the type being cut off/ a tangent on the edge there is Actually Like That.)

The Lipstick-ed face DOES say Sexy Magic Revolutionary France, so I appreciate its presence and also think it looks good (it def is victim to looking a little like a tumblr graphic, a phenomenon i have mentioned before, but that’s pretty harmless here); and the gold paint splotches and red-blue starry textures are pretty! They could have done a less halfassed job getting the vivid blue cropped around her chin, but. C'est la vie. I like it and I’m actually super hype for the book itself.

4) THE FEVER KING by Victoria Lee

This is......... a weird one. I love the colors! the blue and purple (veins?) lightning is really striking (LOL) and the texture is super visually interesting. I’m very curious to see the print choices eventually; I think matte vs glossy vs texture vs foil could make a big difference in how this one feels overall. I sort of wish SOMETHING was different, just to make this a little less symmetrical or abstract, whether that’s a different text layout or an additional focal point in the imagery or whatever, but I do think it fundamentally works as-is.

5) FOUR DEAD QUEENS by Astrid Scholte

Thanks, I hate it! this shares a lot of problems with the Burning Glass cover and everything I dislike about lazy object covers generally: the imagery is unclear at first glance (what a waste of all that detailed rendering) and not evocative of anything in particular in terms of mood, setting, or themes, and the type’s layout COULD NOT BE MORE BORING + is an ineffective use of the space and has a totally unnecessary glowy effect. The “spotlight” effect could generously be considered to be a visual signifier of the ~ murder mystery element but. oof. is a 90s crime drama aesthetic really what you want your secondary visual to be on what seems to be a pretty serious YA fantasy book?

(Okay, it could be worse, at least the hierarchy is clear and sensible. but that DNA crown, lmfao.)

6) AGAIN, BUT BETTER by Christine Riccio

I got a couple requests for this one, and I really like it!!! i think the illustration style is SO cute and the whole layout is simple but effective. The little touches like the birds in the corner and the placement of “a novel” are all perfectly balanced; it’s a more successful version of the illustration on WHAT IF IT’S US (and a few others, like HOT DOG GIRL by Jennifer Dugan; that general style + palette is a trend right now) and the concept of the line across and the girl coming into full color is a clever little representation of the coming-of-age story elements.

7) HOUSE OF SALT AND SORROWS by Erin Craig

I really! WANT! To like this cover! I think the layout and rendering of the text and the various nautical effects are sophisticated and pretty! HOWEVER COMMA! It’s just so low-contrast. This entire cover has the same single gray-green color and [lack of] depth; it’s like an intricately detailed dining room table. Nothing, not even the text, stands out immediately, so your eye wanders looking for a focal point; the title is readable, but not.... amazingly so. Kind of an unfortunate misfire despite having some of the most thoughtfully designed ~ fantasy ~ text I’ve seen in a while.

8) WE RULE THE NIGHT by Claire Eliza Bartlett

This is, quite obviously, another Billelis creation, so we’re back to talking about the various foibles and failings of art directors trying to integrate type with his illustrations. And this one. uH. IT’S ROUGH, although the bigger question here is why that gorgeous, intricately rendered phoenix (?) isn’t centered on the damn cover. (neither is the.... fortress? on the bottom.) It’s so symmetrical that it’s clearly meant to be! Perfect centering and a tighter crop would have done a lot towards offsetting...... whatever is happening with the type, which feels VERY awkward. I do think the sort of ~random placement of words could work with a little more thought but into it, but as it is. Woof. It’s cohesive enough that I still feel okay about it as a cover overall, but some sTRANGE choices happened there.

Also, having looked this up, it’s actually dieselpunk? IE vaguely fantasy WWII? And as with our last vaguely fantasy WWII book (RIP Dark of the West’s OG cover) that is..... not being expressed. Here, I would say that a different typeface, one that feels more militaristic/ modern as opposed to ~ high fantasy ~ might have been the play.

MORE 2 COME

Honestly something I think is really interesting about the colony? I’ve called it a vampire story but it really is, down to a lot of the sort of classical hallmarks of the genre.

The Altean colony is set up to look like a beautiful, idyllic pastoral village surrounded by the forest. Everything’s nice there. There’s a local reclusive nobleman, rarely seen by the locals, who keeps to himself but he’s charming and everyone regards him well.

Now and then this noble takes people with him.

They aren’t seen again.

Because Lotor drains the life out of them behind closed doors.

Bandor returns to the colony, in the woods, at night. There’s that scene of Romelle hiding from Lotor- again, in the woods at night. This is one of the only nocturnal shots of the colony we see.

Once again, we have this vampire metaphor with the galra royal family, and it’s just a lot more literal than we’ve been led to believe before. Lotor’s not actively biting these people on the neck and drinking their blood, but, end result? Motives? Exactly the same. He has this population, and he’s feeding on them.

It even furthers what I’ve talked about before, that Lotor and Zarkon effectively represent very different conceptualizations of what a vampire is, with Lotor embodying the “modern” supernatural romance vampire, and Zarkon as the “classical” gothic horror vampire.

Zarkon’s consumption of people is glaringly obvious. His empire is festooned in people in rags, he has a huge cadre of functionally, other vampires. He hides nothing- will walk around with tubes of quintessence hanging out of his back while he’s recovering. Of course people die to feed him- because he’s a completely willing and knowing plague onto the universe. He’s better than them, he’s the immortal here.

He has zero guilt and zero shame. All mortals he contends with are his food, and from that he’ll occasionally promote them to “entertainment” or “assets”. At the end of the day, still livestock.

Lotor? Lotor feels guilty.

As soon as he realizes Romelle is in the room and processes what it means, he’s horrified. He flat-out says “I know what you must think of me” trying to negotiate with them and his counterpoint is basically just, that he genuinely wants to do good and that he meant what he said to Allura before.

And that’s frankly, vampire romance genre at its finest: the tragedy of the revelation that Lotor got this far by, in no uncertain terms, eating people (and over the course of his lifespan, that number’s added up to a pretty high total if we look at the number of names on the memorial and Romelle’s words) is in part framed in what it does for his love life. He and Allura love each other, but Lotor’s a vampire, he’s killed people just like Allura, and she can’t forgive him for that.

Which is totally understandable. But the heartbreak, the drama, the point of how Lotor��s terrified, outraged by the idea of, becoming like his unrepentantly parasitic father sets this up with very particular conventions.

Allura flat-out had herself a vampire romance. That’s what happened.

Now, I think the use of these conventions shed some interesting light on Lotor’s situation, and his likely motivations. Romelle says the decision to make the colony happened “generations ago” but she still describes it as very separate from the colony’s inception.

It’s very likely Lotor was getting his “food” somewhere else, and never originally conceptualized the colony as a source of energy.

But something happened. Those other sources ran dry. It’s likely Haggar, either directly or through Zarkon, pulled energy away from Lotor.

And Lotor knows the only way he’s ever going to fix the empire’s vampiric problem without going Van Helsing on himself and most of the galra, condemning the survivors- if there are any- to a vulnerable half-existence, is if he basically can get his hands on the quintessence field- the guilt-free, no-predation-necessary, infinite fountain of blood.

He needs energy to get there.

So his options are, die, become something he doesn’t want to, or compromise his morals in a really bad way and turn to the people who would patiently, obligingly follow him anywhere.

The vampire starves, and the neighbors start to look really, really tasty.

But Lotor’s still a moral person. He’s a good enough person to feel revolted and ashamed of what he’s doing. So he does something we never see Zarkon do- he buries it. Everything about it. And he’s horrified of people finding those skeletons. Again, seeing Romelle among his allies while they’re all accusative and doing the scifantasy equivalent of readying the stakes and garlic prompts undiluted terror from Lotor but his response is to try to appeal to Allura.

Again, bumping Lotor to “romance vampire” away from the gothic horror sensibilities of his father (even when the environment and setup of the colony evoke the latter)- he’s less focused on the peril this poses to him on being “outed” as a vampire and vastly more focused on Allura’s either rejection or forgiveness. When she rejects him, that sinks him, twice.

The first time, none of the weapons pointed at the paladins are what take Lotor down- it’s just Allura. Allura tosses Lotor, and Lotor stays down. He doesn’t wake up again except to face Haggar.

The second time, during the standoff, Lotor order the generals to hold their fire and repeatedly tries to appeal to them. It’s Allura’s word that makes or breaks that negotiation, and that’s not because Lotor’s a blameless sheep.

It furthers the dynamic we’ve seen before, that Lotor’s not emptily manipulating Allura, but that his feelings for her cause him to repeatedly make his vulnerability available to Allura. And in the conflict between them, we see this flexed in practice. Lotor’s put a huge amount of power in Allura’s hands, and when, feeling hurt and betrayed herself, she uses it to hurt him right back, that has a colossal destabilizing effect on basically everything Lotor’s standing on.

Lotor’s breakdown is instrumental to his losing the generals’ support, which, since this is Voltron, Hunk’s point about how it’s now four-on-one (and eventually five-on-one) is completely true.

Lotor’s literally a supernatural being- an immortal, a vampire- by the lore of the story. But Allura, not just through her own developing magic, but through her relationship with Lotor, is the one who holds the power here. Her approval or rejection makes or breaks him because he’s fascinated with her, he adores her.

It’s a complete fundamental deconstruction of the predatory way every other incarnation of Lotor went after Allura, where Allura had to, one way or another, fight to retain her autonomy in the presence of a pursuing monster. And again, this is kind of a vampire romance thing- as in, the power fantasy of a woman being able to tame a powerful and dangerous creature.

The colony and Allura’s completely understandable reaction to Lotor are functionally set-pieces in this vampire romance. It paints Lotor as a shade of gray. We’ve seen his values and we understand them. We see what he’s dealing with and we can sympathize. At the end of the day, though, he’s not a proper squeaky clean hero like Allura is.

Lotor felt backed into a corner and the only way out was to compromise his own morals and sate that bloodthirsty appetite. Other alternatives may have been open to him, but they would probably require trust, or otherwise abetting power- things that Lotor can’t believe in because from his perspective the only way things won’t hurt him is if he’s strong enough to hold their teeth away from his throat himself.

And he’s aware of it! Heck, if you look at the substance of his harsh words on Alfor, he’s actively self-conscious about it! We have to remember Lotor’s repeatedly expressed deep admiration for Alfor and that slips through even at his absolute worst- he’s eager to see if Sincline holds up against Alfor’s legacy, so even after he insists he’s better than Alfor he’s using Alfor’s handiwork as a metric.

So Lotor sneering about how if it had been up to Alfor and Alfor’s strategy, all of the Alteans would have died, it’s kind of his furious, hurt thesis that if it weren’t for him, the vampire, who’s yes taken the selfish option and bloodied his own hands, chosen his own preservation over staying true to his values, they wouldn’t have gotten here. 

And again, that frames it back to... there’s this fundamental difference where Zarkon makes cruel choices out of a lack of sympathy. Why should he care what anyone else feels, why should he care who has to suffer to fill his hunger? Zarkon effectively chose to be a vampire. He said “damn my friends, damn the universe, I’ll take my wife to the rift if it kills me” and we never really see Zarkon disappointed in the result.

Lotor didn’t choose. Lotor got handed this stick before he was born by Zarkon’s decisions and that’s the thematic motifs here- that Lotor got saddled against his will with this hunger, so his “fall” isn’t set to the same metrics Zarkon was. He doesn’t have a perfectly good opportunity to put the knife down and walk away and live out his natural mortal life because eating other people is unappealing to him.

Because of the world Zarkon’s created, because of what Zarkon did to him from the cradle, Lotor’s option is to compromise himself or compromise somebody else. And we’ve known from the start Lotor is a scared, vulnerable person. We know that push comes to shove, his own survival is a very powerful motivator because he feels like it’s constantly in peril.

But he made that choice. He made the decision to keep living, keep chasing his ambitions, knowing exactly at what kind of cost it would come, and this fuels a line of guilt that he doesn’t feel worthy of Allura- Allura, whose parents, who the world around her, provided what she needed even when she lost everything else. Allura, who hasn’t faced the prospect of starving or resorting to other people in order to survive. 

Remember how easily he gave up on Oriande because it rejected him once? Remember how he didn’t actually expect to get in there at all, and- according to what he tells Ezor and Zethrid, was sure that he’d need someone of Allura’s purity to get in there at all?

Believe me, I’m as upset by Lotor’s breakdown here as anybody else, but the colony is something that adds up perfectly with what we know of Lotor as a person, who he is, his relationship with Allura. This is drama you’d absolutely slide off the shelf in the supernatural teen romance section of the library- well, if you found a well-written teen romance.

(The fact that I ship Lotura when I don’t even like a lot of other vampire romance stories should probably tell you something about the writing and my esteem)

Summary Art Painting Studios -- From Primitive Caves for you to Modern Lofts

Contemporary Painting Have anyone ever attempted to remember typically the first time when you actually discovered for yourself looking at a good abstract art work or a great abstract artwork? Do a person remember the ideas or even feelings you had by what you were looking with?

Contemporary Painting

This article is a mirrored image of some of the own personal along with opinion-based viewpoints and facts while an artist about summary art with certain personal references to facts that tend to be throughout agreement with precisely what I believe myself personally seeing that to the nature, delivery, expansion and the progression of the cut fine art outside the boundaries from the esoteric terms of often the art instituto.

To get a basic and requisite look at the topic, we should initial comprehend what the word fuzy indicates before we might tackle the actual understanding associated with "abstract art" on its own; in addition to we learn that subjective in this sense as well as as some sort of verb implies to extract or perhaps eliminate and surprisingly as being an form word means not easy to be aware of; abstruse. And as a new transitive verb it signifies to take apart, get rid of. It's origin is actually via Latin abstrahere 'draw away' or 'draw by. '

Thus, we can determine that abstract, is normally considered a form regarding art that does not necessarily depict any situation that resembled the particular objective or stuff globe; instead it showed brand-new creations that very subjectively were expressions of typically the inside substance and often the spirit in the artist and also often through a deep spontaneity that brings away the internal world of the actual artist.

Therefore abstract artwork, being the merchandise of this kind of very natural, unconstrained along with unpremeditated impulse within the lack of any external obama's stimulus, is intrinsic and is one of the very basic nature in addition to the comprise of the particular artist, as the real influence behind his designs.

As I evolved via my representational art as well as became far more acquainted using the history of skill, I learned that summary art work had its root beginnings inside the very early daybreak involving human history whenever man did start to draw upon the walls connected with their cave. These earlier cut arts, abstract images and also abstract paintings : often embellished with natural and organic fabric dyes - often attempted to help get the essential mother nature and the good quality associated with the objects rather when compared with the genuine appearance regarding them.

As the fine art historians and art pros formulated their opinions along with ideas into prints, considerably more esoteric terms spun over subject under " nonobjective art, " " nonrepresentational art, " and inch nonfigurative art. " With regards to aesthetics, since non-e on the principles of creating artwork are actually precisely formulated, that particular subset of humanities offers its pundits galore having many schools involving divergent opinions and feelings, exactly where esoteric lectures in addition to viewpoints are listened to along with open jaws in pays of cause, personal words and phrases suffers within the cloud connected with confusion.

Decades long ahead of the birth associated with fuzy expressionism in America, remarkably figurative arts had endured in the East, that is from the Islamic culture, everywhere calligraphy also as the nonfigurative skill is educated as a subject matter establishing sometimes as early because with primary schools, since excellent emphasis is located upon typically the pupils' purchasing and creating skills within calligraphy, for the reason that art regarding handwriting.

From the Western tradition, abstract patterns are identified in many forms. Nevertheless abstract arts are distinctly distinguished in composition application form in relation to pretty art as well as fine art work, where in subjective fine art, the results of development, are spontaneous snapshots with the artist's thoughts, emotions, and also the introspection by which this individual results in his work involving summary art.

Abstract Expressionism, we all know that it today, had been born in the us in often the mid 20th hundred years pursuing a massive exodus from the European avant- garde musicians to New York Town, making the area the actual center of the artwork planet; a title which had been held by Paris, france. Typically the contemporary American performers were being immensely influenced by simply the arrival of this particular new talent that will produced forth the very pleasant freedom of personal phrase throughout the vehicle of improvisation inside absence of typically the boundaries along with limitations connected with conventional types.

The introduction of summary expressionism throughout New York is the start of a new tranquil artistic revolution by which often the particular artist began to be able to rebel overloaded against typically the status quo. He started out the latest era where he or she could readily create to the future along with transform the existing scene for any better tomorrow.

Some involving the innovators in fuzy expressionism, for instance Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Willem fuente Kooning, grew to become synonymous together with New York Institution along with action painting while they enjoyed a significant role concerning how became deservedly known because avant-garde; a new region of independence for the actual artist to create in addition to construct with an ritual in which surmounted any sensible and also objective realm regarding purpose.

On the a lot more textural area, Jackson Pollock began to re-arrange the easel and coated since he pleased, conveying themselves by pouring the particular coloring from within unto typically the canvas, as he believed. Pollock, as one regarding the most mavericks involving the era, used likewise his body as a good device to paint together with, while he moved speedily all-around his large canvases on to the ground, spattering interlacing habits regarding paint, like a great emotional ride up and down, drawing often the viewer into their rhythmic movement of motions, apparently in to an infinitude, infiniteness of place.

In wonderful contrast to help Pollock, Barnett Newman's color-field paintings, are generally open career fields of substantial empty spots for the audience in order to step into all of them and also imagine what they would like to place in them.

At this point, in the interest of simplicity, we could possibly categorize fine art into just representational artwork and summary art. Representational art becoming what we instantaneously acknowledge in association to be able to recognizable objects, vs. cut art work that requires our considered to perceive the composition on the art and the contrast of each of our observation using the conclusions looking for built in the past, inside order to get to the actual immediate instance, where we live. Thus, in our declaration regarding abstract art, the particular profile or the deficiency of any psychological answers, brought about as the actual response to understanding the subjective art, elevates the problem of, what on earth is truly a abstract fine art and any time does it become productive.

Let's take a imagine that many of us are looking at the representational art, a landscape where it depicts any mossy wooded area cloaked in a low hole which has a cascading shallow steady flow working through it. Many of us can all trust exactly what we are looking in, appreciate the high quality associated with its beauty, and a few regarding us become awestricken through its magic, and possibly check out the mist in often the air and aroma the particular moss. We want to appear at it as some sort of pleasant encounter. We impression that it is restful, because it has typically the tendency to generate us really feel good. It helps all of us - even if the idea is for the brief time - ignore our issues, and converts our trouble into a brand new degree of calm, to the actual point which we could always be there, in our creativity. We walk away via the painting like a pro and seem at other artwork in which does not produce the particular same feelings and thoughts, and most of us turn and look from it again and yet again, wanting to have an overabundance of regarding the same pleasant knowledge. Delight is what all of us are experiencing.

This can be the mental reaction we sense in the direction of this very representational fine art that we fully know. The idea communicated to people a clear message within the particular boundaries connected with its techie expertise, through which it ended up being created. The complex competence wasn't the initial aesthetic attraction, however. It seemed to be typically the message that the item communicated for you to us how it looks, that fascinated us. The actual virtuosity with which it had been created becomes 2nd to help the significance of often the meaning and the good quality of the delivery. Though the message doesn't always have in order to have the same this means for every single viewer, it is usually the combination of each, the message and often the specialized expertise that gives about a comprehending that reasons the viewer as a better alternative sentimentally.

From sketching as well as chiselling with sharp rocks about the walls of their cave, to the beauty involving today's technology, male has journeyed through a incredible evolution within the artistry among many other mechanics of life. From whoever has accepted the boundaries with their culture and environmental variables, have remained true and also faithful to what that they were accepted and likely to create available as numerous representational and radical disciplines. But the more bright, who had an consciousness of higher sort of living and true probable, wished to move beyond numerous with no tolerance intended for reductions and entrapment. That they started to be the visionaries who have fled from and sought liberty regarding expression elsewhere, exactly where the achievement of which freedom was probable.

Some sort of great number of American artists along with teachers this sort of as Joseph Albers in addition to Hans Hofmann transferred in order to America in core the twentieth century and made New york city the new Art Facility of driving by leaving London right behind. They brought using them that all freedom involving spontaneity to make paintings that will became whatever you know right now as summary expressionism. While unique because our little finger prints, each appearance, evolved into a new aesthetic personal unsecured to reckon with.

Nonetheless the basic roots associated with the move from representational art to be able to abstract art work and expressionistic paintings possessed begun to build in typically the later part of often the nineteenth century in the actual form of impressionist along with neo-impressionists when art acquired begun to change their confront, while still holding onto a fantastic degree of similarity to what the idea intended to be; and by simply the time post-impressionism experienced arrived on the landscape, the field involving fine art had already been subject to some sort of noticeable change and effectively on its way to a major alteration.

Before to the arrival connected with this brand-new transformation, and also certainly prior to post-impressionism, the particular artist had been primarily interested in the organic representation of the landscape, rather then attempting to tap straight into the interesting depth of the own emotions by using his / her canvas, and get connected to typically the psyche of their market.

Nothing is more highly effective along with significant than the particular birth plus the power involving a new idea. Practically nothing can or is competent connected with stopping an concept. Once a notion is considered, it should not be stopped, diminished or utilized; because a good idea has no muscle size or form to sit on a physical space and turn subjected to the enemy pushes, and become insecure. A new thought, after conceived, takes on a lifetime of its own, by currently being nurtured from the powerful lofts of creative imagination and brought forward inside arms involving those who take hold of this.

Hans Huffman who else started to be recognized as the papa from the abstract expressionism possesses this particular to say: "An idea can simply be appeared with the help connected with the medium of phrase, typically the inherent qualities regarding which needs to be surely inquired about and comprehended in obtain to become the transporter associated with an idea. " Typically the idea of self-determinism, in order to permit oneself the control of freedom of reflection is a luxury which is not available for purchase, nevertheless to attain; a school innately available to any few, but obtainable through the masses. For a few that arrives quickly, along with the sleep come to be able to embrace it by way of hard knocks.

The evolution associated with art work from representational for you to fuzy expressionism required an enormous levels of liberalism and endorsement by those whose support and economic support had been instrumental in the tactical a higher level the abstract expressionist artists.

In an article, very unveiling of their philosophy connected with art, Johannes Itten states: "If brand new ideas are in order to think any artistic kinds, the actual physical, sensual, perceptive in addition to spiritual forces have to almost all be equally available as well as act in concert. very well Absolutely speaking, Itten claims what can be done to create the good artistic phrase within terms of the means necessary to broadcast a idea, which is a thing thought, felt or imagined from the mind, into the particular canvas being a successful function of art, which could be inquired about and realized by the person.

This kind of above criteria specified by simply Itten in the beginning 20th century was any major philosophical bite in which essential lots of gnawing and food digestion before making acceptance as well as support; and so the abstract musicians experienced to endure a quite lovely plight in generating and also preserving their income.

Prior to arrival of the actual European founders and their very own fortitude, in taking all their very precious reward involving abstract paintings, representational performers had no concept while to what freedom connected with imaginative expression really supposed to start the doorway into a new world of practicing art, that opened a new entrance in addition to an extension associated with their inner self applied.

Encountered with the sever visitors of the traditionalists who have refused change, the summary designers began to communicate their heart, on their very own new canvases, making use of their individual newly created regulations. Throughout the world of artwork, where skill is dealt as a extravagance and also not a necessity along with influenced by the discretionary dollars of any few, the entrance on the abstract art throughout general since particular cut expressionism endangered the axles on which typically the art work market was pivoted.

Transform became inevitable, as well as people who prefer the old ways broke rank along with futurists at the expense with the modern art; but often the subjective expressionists became busily linked to experimenting and looking for ways the several physical organizations and designed new instruments by which they are able to implement paint to their canvases.

Suddenly the conventional signifies by the fact that artist possessed painted became an constantly changing process of query, generation, experimentation, and more projects; each time giving birth and labor to a brand-new strategy. The canvases, chemicals as well as the studio tools lengthy far beyond the restrictions of the artist's business and also into the region of attachement and discovered objects.

Jackson Pollock ended up being the quintessential action electrician, who struggled badly using acceptance, began to utilize the body as the painting musical instrument around his / her vast canvases laid out and about on the floor along with danced with his information, drippings as well as spattering associated with paint; this individual developed and also mastered the method of action artwork and liked some regarding the sprouts of any fun new fame and good fortune ahead of he fell unwilling recipient on the demons of the traditions at the vine ripened age of 49. They left a great musical legacy behind, which continued in order to inspire many abstract music artists through the variety connected with great canvases which they left behind.

And this Pollock have said in aspect regarding his paintings: "It's most a big sport of structure, some along with a brush, a number of together with a shovel, some opt for a pen. The method regarding painting like a pro is the all-natural growth outside of need. My spouse and i want to express this feelings rather than show you these people. It doesn't subject how the paint is actually put on, as extended as something is explained. On the floor My partner and i am more content. We feel nearer, more an integral part of the painting, since this kind of technique I can wander around it, job through the four sides along with literally be in typically the art work. The modern performer is cooperating with space in addition to time and articulating their feelings rather than showing. When I'm painting, I am not aware of precisely what Now i'm doing. It's merely after the get acquainted interval that we see what We've been concerning. The artwork has a lifestyle involving its own. Every fine painter paints what they are. "

Another great designer as well as contemporary painter coming from the fuzy expressionists class is Robert Rauschenberg. Rauschenberg created influences with identified objects about the streets associated with New York Area and also defied every feasible traditionalist's rule as this individual grown through his occupation, which often became quite deservedly fulfilling, earning him excellent, prestige and financial good results within the past few generations. He after moved for you to, Florida to receive away from Brand-new York City, where he or she continue to create his or her art work on the peaceful and rich shores regarding Captiva Tropical island.

One involving the most inspiring approaches connected with Rauschenberg worth recollecting, will be his concept associated with leaving plenty of to probability for the cause regarding discovery, where the musician enjoys the serendipity involving unexpected happenstance.

The a pair of most important style of subjective expressionism, were being the motion painters having use connected with textures, spattering along with drippings of paint during, gesturing the mood on the artisan, and the color-field artists who expressed their process the unified fields regarding color and shapes, although other painters made employ of both equally styles inside their work.