@hpminorcharnet creation event: House Pride - Week One: Gryffindor →ᴘᴇʀᴄʏ ᴡᴇᴀsʟᴇʏ
“I was a fool!“ Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin nearly dropped his photograph. "I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a - a -” “Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron,” said Fred. Percy swallowed. “Yes, I was!” “Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” said Fred, holding out his hand to Percy.”
I love your class 1-a scenarios! They make me really happy, thank you so much. :) You are awesome^^ Do you think that everyone of class 1-a has a special talent like drawing, singing, gymnastic and so on?
i just wanna point this out b/c it’s great and then i’ll get into headcanons, but Iida, Aoyama, Satou, and Mineta are all apparently really great at drawing
Iiida looks like he took some sort of still life/classic arts drawing class with the way he shades, and Aoyama’s is so very inspired by shoujo. Mineta’s is like… ridiculously good?? and Satou’s is really neat b/c he’s a kinda ‘less detail, more free-form gesture lines’ kinda guy
i really enjoy Ochako’s super cutesy doodles b/c you can tell she’s not all that great, but she has such a cute art style.
my favorite part of this panel tho is
Bakugou’s mediocre art skills. look at the way he drew his nubby little fingers. look at those shitty little bombshells, the things on the side aren’t even the same size and shape. one’s slightly wiggly and bigger than the other. he gave himself little stick arms. he can’t draw shoes.
Bakugou’s secret talent is that he finally sucks at something and i love it
anYWAY onto headcanons:
for whatever reason i think Denki would be pretty good at singing?? specifically kpop, which i also hc him really liking. i don’t even know why i don’t listen to kpop, i just get that kinda vibe from him
Denki, Bakugou, Kirishima, Sero are all really good at dancing (especially stuff like free form and breakdancing). Baku dances really aggressively tho, but the others are pretty happy and fun about it
Momo is really good at elegant type dancing. also really good at cooking b/c it’s… pretty similar to what she has to do with her quirk??
i imagine Iida also took a dancing class at his fancy highschool but i can’t imagine he was all that great at dancing tbh. i imagine he has a nearly photographic memory, and is a really fast reader
Ochako is really good at making mochi and spotting good deals at stores
Todoroki makes really good tea
for some reason i think Tooru would be really good at arranging flowers?? idk i just associate her a lot with flowers, im not sure why
Jirou is good at vocal impressions
Tsuyu is also good at cooking b/c she had to cook for her younger siblings
Bakugou is good at cooking b/c he’s just. like that
with enough time and energy, Izuku can imitate literally anyone, not just All Might
Shouji is fucking great at drumming (esp with his extra arms)
Kouda can write some amazing poetry
Tokoyami is also, unsurprisingly, very good at poetry. (goth poetry b/c he’s just extra like that)
Aoyama is actually pretty awesome at styling hair and putting together fashionable outfits for people
Satou is surprisingly good at singing really emotional ballad-type songs (tho he’s kinda embarrassed about it)
Mina is really great at gymnastics and is really flexible
Ojirou is really good at making traditional japanese style foods (especially ones with rice)
Harry has a lot of pictures he’d like to have on the walls of his home, but since Fleur had painted the walls of the London flat Harry and Ron were now sharing, she had expressly forbidden Harry to put anything on them that eesn’t een a proper frame!
He ends up buying a lot of frames. The little living room with the weird restored-Grimmauld Place furniture gets nearly covered in photographs, moving and still.
There are a few of Colin’s photos from the war: one of Ginny, sitting solemnly on a pile of rubble on the stairs up to the Gryffindor Common Room, looking bitter and and alone and strong and alive; one of the original Dumbledore’s Army, taken after the meeting when most of the students had produced their first corporeal Patronuses, and one Colin had captured of Harry, Ron and Hermione following Neville out of the portrait hole and into the Room of Requirement, the room shimmering with applause. Neville had given him copies of Colin’s whole collection, but most of them make him too sad. He keeps them in a box, though, and looks at them in the right mood. The best in the collection, displayed in a place of honor above an ugly Gryffindor lamp from Bill, shows Fred and George soaring out of Hogwarts on broomsticks, fireworks in their wake.
Some official Hogwarts photographs join these on the walls - Ron’s first year on the Quiddich team, looking uncomfortable in his Keeper kit but making intense eye contact with the photographer, Harry as Captain with his exalted team after their first win, one of Hagrid going about his official duties with Fang on his heels that captures the very essence of everything Harry had loved about his first real home. Official, too, is a photo with the four boys Harry had shared a dormitory with - the five of them lined up by height against the Common Room staircase and smiling.
The pictures of his parents and Sirius and Lupin that he’d received from Hagrid so many years ago find a home on the walls, along with one of Harry as a baby in Godric’s Hollow, a parent lying on either side of him, all three of them asleep in the grass and breathing in time. The one of the Marauders with their arms around each other, seemingly unaware of the passage of time, is one he often points out to Teddy when the baby visits. Speaking of Teddy - the newest photos are loads of pictures of him - in every Metaphoragus form imaginable.
In contrast, there’s an unmoving picture of Hermione at five years old, blowing out birthday candles. Ron had found it in an old book and stuck it up next to the doorframe with a dopey smile on his face. Another still one snapped by Hermione with a polaroid camera swiped from Lavender Brown shows Dobby in the Hogwarts kitchens with at least fifteen knitted hats on his head.
One of Harry’s favorite pictures is of Sirius laughing at Grimmauld Place, his arm around Harry, laughing too. Tonks had taken it, he remembers, and he rather likes it, even though it makes him feel sick with what might have been, some days. It’s one of the loose ones, in a frame next to a shot of Ron and Ginny and Fred and George before Bill’s wedding, all in dress robes except for Ginny in her bridesmaid’s dress; and a chocolate frog card with a charm on it to make Dumbledore stay in the frame, twinkling.
Various newspaper clippings from the years are pasted into the black frames less neatly - the Weasleys as a whole group, waving, from their trip to Egypt before third year, Harry and the other Champions and their dates to the Yule Ball - Cedric and Cho beaming like nothing’s going to happen to them, Moody’s obituary - the last honest thing the Prophet had printed for a whole year.
Over the fireplace hangs a large, weird, abstract painted for them by Luna Lovegood. Harry doesn’t understand what the yellows and oranges in are supposed to mean, but she comes around often enough that he leaves it up just in case.
He has the faces of everyone he loves so close to him - and that, more than the quiet - makes it feel like home.
one of the most important things to me is reminding young LGBTQ kids that they do in fact have a history to reclaim and that there’s massive amounts of culture standing behind and supporting their identities. like you aren’t just standing alone here trying to understand yourself. there’s been millions of people in your shoes and they left behind stories, books, movies, photographs, paintings, nearly a whole language to communicate this facet of identity, and it’s possible to reconnect with that history despite the world trying to erase it. like you are part of a veritable culture, and you shouldn’t forget it.
There are images that you fight for, and others that give themselves to you as a gift. When I saw him I immediately knew I had the signature image of my entire collection of nearly 600 photographs. I remember the feeling of perfect satisfaction when capturing this shot. He was so peaceful and self-assured, and gave me just enough time to capture him before moving along. I wish I knew who he was so I could send him a copy.
Over twenty years ago, Sally Mann published Immediate Family (Aperture), a book of photographs of her children playing on their family farm in Virginia, which was called “disturbing” by the New York Times and “degenerate” by the Wall Street Journal. The children were often nude, as the secluded farm was miles away from strangers, and the children’s poses, innocent to her eyes, deeply disturbed many who saw them.
She said she and her children, collaborators, were trying to tell a story of growing up. “We tell it all without fear and without shame.” Later she said, “The fact is that these are not my children; they are figures on silvery paper slivered out of time… . These are not my children with ice in their veins, these are not my children at all; these are children in a photograph.”
At times she sounded defensive, at times uncertain why there was controversy at all. She had not prepared a standard response because she did not expect many people to see these photographs, much less for the pictures to become a cultural lighting rod.
Mann had been publishing small books with limited print runs, of interest to photography collectors and specialists, and imagined this body of work would reach a similar audience. But it was published in the midst of culture wars over government funding of “pornographic art” by artists like Robert Mapplethorpe, who also photographed nudes. It was a moment of intense interest in the propriety of art; transgression was seen as an existential threat to the moral fabric of American society. Compounding this problem, and inviting an additional slew of criticism and outrage, was the fact that she was a mother.
Several photographs showed her children in apparent danger. Critics felt a good mother would have removed them from peril rather than pausing to photograph them. This was seen as evidence of Mann’s lack of maternal instincts. It is a testament to the strength of her work that the reality of the photographs went unquestioned. It was somehow forgotten that this was art.
As Immediate Family was reissued this year to coincide with the publication of Mann’s memoir, we now have the gift of a greater context for the genesis of these photographs, what they meant to her, and the effect they had on her family.
“How I love those, children. And how I fear for them. And how real those fears can become, in just an instant. Right before my eyes,” she writes. The photographs were her talisman against harm. When she feared great danger to her children, and that danger was averted, she would recreate her fear for the camera as if this could somehow prevent it from coming true. She describes this process as feeling “like some urgent bodily demand.”
Through a window, she watched her five year old daughter Jessie play with a doll on a tire swing. Then Jessie disappeared. She asked neighbors to help scour the woods, calling out her name. She feared her daughter had drowned. “I stuck to the creek edge,” she writes, “certain I’d see a flash of gingham, of white sock and patent leather Mary Janes in the water.”
Her son’s school secretary called to say Jessie had only walked down the road to visit her brother. The next day, Mann put a dress on her son and posed him as a drowned girl, face down in a pond on their farm, titling the photograph The Day Jessie Got Lost. “I prayed it would protect us from any such sight, ever,” she writes.
When her son Emmett was hit by a car, she ran into the road and held him as he bled from the head. Onlookers assumed he was dead. After he recovered, she tried to photograph him in a way that would capture the feeling of that moment. She chronicles her attempts: a photograph of his bloody sheets in the hospital; his head blurred, as if he might be screaming or shaking off a nightmare; a self-portrait of her face next to the crumpled, blood-stained sheets. None of this worked.
Finally she came upon the right subject: Emmett, nude, alone in a river on their farm. It took a week to make the final photograph, after nearly a hundred iterations: Emmett submerged in water, Emmett holding onto a black rubber inner tube, descending into the river wearing water goggles, standing beneath a broken tree, and at last the final photograph, Emmett touching the water’s surface with his hands, as if to hold it in place, as the river uncontrollably flows past him, inexorably moving away, on toward a bend in the river, and out of sight. “I had tried to exorcise the trauma of the experience by following my own command,” she writes, “to ‘photograph what is important, what is closest to you, photograph the great events of your life.’”
After an article in The New York Times Magazine brought her work to a wider audience, she started receiving disturbing letters, some from victims of child abuse, others from prison inmates. She was especially hurt by letters calling her a bad mother, suggesting the photographs had emotionally damaged her children, and put them at risk of attracting “pedophiles, molesters and serial killers.”
She recalled Oscar Wilde’s response to personal attacks, that “the hypocritical, prudish, and philistine English public, when unable to find the art in a work of art, instead look for the man in it.” But she found different rules applied to a mother.
Until the publication of her memoir, she had not publicly discussed the fact that a man in a nearby state became obsessed with her children, writing their schools to ask for yearbooks, calling the local hospital to request birth certificates. He subscribed to the town paper to read about their ballet recitals and school prizes. When she asked a policeman for advice, he told her to buy a shotgun.
Mann carried a photograph of this man in her wallet for years, fearing he would appear at one of her lectures. She obsessively locked windows, made sure her children were never alone, and asked police for more protection. “We live routinely now with a hitherto unendurable amount of stress,” she wrote a friend, “Each time it ratchets upwards, we adapt to it.” She remained silent, knowing her critics would feel vindicated.
“This year, though,” she wrote in another letter, “the good pictures of the kids might not come. The fear may scare them off. My conviction and belief in the work was so unshakably strong for so many years, and my passion for making it was so undeniable. Now, it is no longer the same: I am frightened of the pictures.”
Questions about the reality of the work, different moral rules for mothers, and voluntary suspension of disbelief, all so vigorously debated in the pages of various journals, could no longer remain academic to Sally Mann. “How can a sentient person of the modern age mistake photography for reality?” she wrote. And yet legions of them did.
But what endangered her children was also a great testament of her love. “She has a hard time letting us know how much she loves us,” said her daughter Jessie, years later. “But I’ve also realized that each one of those photographs was her way of capturing, if not in a hug or a kiss or a comment, how much she cared about us.”
Sally Mann told her students to photograph the great story of their lives. The great story of her life was her adoration of her children, which was entangled with her fear for them. Her photographs of imagined harm were self-portraits of her grave, solemn, vast love. In trying to ward off danger, she inadvertently endangered them, while simultaneously, paradoxically, recording her unbounded devotion. “Unwittingly, ignorantly,” she writes, “I made pictures I thought I could control.” (via)
Note: Dedicated to my fellow hoes in @bangtan-bookclub. I love you ALL. This isn’t full smut, but it’s pretty explicit (which is why I tagged it the way I did).
“You owe me cookies,” your friend reminds you, nudging your shoulder with a cheshire cat grin. “And you can bake them on his abs. God he’s so hot.”
Jung Hoseok stands across the room bathed in warm lighting as he poses for the photographer. He’s nearly naked save for the small, tight scrap of cloth covering his essentials. Boxer Briefs.
You shudder as you pretend to work while sliding Hoseok discreet looks. The boxer briefs he’s wearing is a reminder that (A) you lost the bet by thinking he wore regular briefs, and (B) you needed to get laid ASAP if you were this close to losing your cool over a random underwear model.
In Shifted, the premise is simple - what if Claire had gotten pregnant with
Brianna a month or two earlier in the story, and she and Jamie had
re-evaluated their priorities and decided that the cause was lost, and
they were able to slip away from the army and quietly return to
revived almost immediately, though – grateful that Jamie had been too focused
on breaking her fall to punch Roger Wakefield in the mouth.
all right – I just need some air,” she gasped, bracing her arms against Jamie’s
ye sure, Sassenach?” He gripped her tightly. “Can ye please get her some
water?” he asked the lady of the house. Terribly perplexed by the exchange, she
quickly scurried out of the room.
me that stool, lad,” he addressed the stranger. Startled back into the moment,
Roger Wakefield dragged the stool closer to Claire. Jamie eased her down onto
it, gripping her shoulders tightly.
Jamie looked the man straight in the eye. “Just who in hell are ye?”
James Fraser – the Jacobite,” Roger said softly. “I’ve seen your pardon.”
brows knit. “I am. But what do ye mean, ye’ve seen the pardon? There are only
two copies I know of, and I’ve got one of them.” One of Claire’s hands pressed
on top of his, and he gripped her fingers gently. Strength.
so much to tell. But perhaps not here?” Roger nodded at the woman, who had
returned with a horn cup full of water. Claire thanked the woman and sipped the
water slowly, thoughtfully.
We live up at the main house – can ye ride a horse?”
snorted. “Of course I can ride a horse. Do ye mean for me to come with ye,
nodded. “Aye, I dinna want her riding on her own just now. Let’s go.”
set down the now-empty cup and took Jamie’s hand, rising to her feet. She
regarded Roger from this closer angle. His clothes were worn, but had obviously
belonged to someone else, as they were slightly too large. His hands were soft
– not the hands of one accustomed to doing manual labor. Clearly he hadn’t been
in this time for very long.
long have you been here, Roger?” she asked softly.
smiled ruefully. “Three months, give or take. I don’t know how you’ve been able
to manage almost twenty years.”
turned to her husband and met his eyes squarely. “This is how.”
rode quickly, silently, back to Lallybroch. Claire sat wedged in front of Fraser,
Roger trotting alongside. All three silently processed what had happened and
prepared for what was to come.
caught snatches of the Gaidhlig spoken
between the Frasers – his low, sonorous tones, her halting, accented ones. He
still hadn’t adjusted to the form of the language spoken in this area, in this
time – so different from what he’d studied at Oxford – but it had been enough
to get by.
Do you truly know him?
Yes, myself and my first husband
met him when we visited Inverness. Right before I travelled.
Why do you think he’s here?
I do not know. I am fearful.
You have no need to fear, my
heart. You know I will take care of it. And take care of you.
hadn’t really known what to expect if – or when – he found Claire. He knew she
had married Fraser, and become a healer of some renown in the area. She was
still a remarkably beautiful woman – her face was nearly identical to the
photograph he’d seen in the Reverend’s study, taken just days before her
had no idea what to expect with Fraser. It was one thing to find the deed of
sassine, the pardon, the ledgers from Broch Tuarach with Fraser’s name. He had
assembled a mental picture of what the man must look like – but it certainly
paled in comparison to the reality. Fraser was literally larger-than-life –
part warrior, part laird, part farmer, part politician.
based on what he’d observed in their short time together, a completely devoted
and protective husband. Claire couldn’t have been clearer that he was the
reason she had stayed, and that he had been her strength during her time here.
And it also couldn’t have been clearer that she was Fraser’s source of strength
must be a singular man to have captured the love of that remarkable woman.
drew his horse up short as they crested a hill, now in sight of the house. He
turned to Roger. “This is our home,” he said slowly, deliberately. “This is my
family’s land. You are a guest here. Dinna forget that, Mr. Wakefield.”
swallowed. “I won’t.”
wasn’t menace that underlay Jamie’s words. It wasn’t a clear threat, either –
but a warning. Cross a line, say too much, upset Claire – Jamie would harm him.
Or kill him, if necessary.
kicked his horse to follow Fraser’s. He doubted Frank Randall would have made a
similar comment – or had ever possessed a similar depth of feeling for Claire.
↳ “‘I was a fool!’ Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin nearly dropped his photograph. ‘I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a – a –’ ‘Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron,’ said Fred. Percy swallowed. ‘Yes I was!”
The silence was crushing.
It hung hefty between the two of you, only punctuated by the occasional
drumming of his fingertips against the timber table. You didn’t raise your eyes
to meet the gaze that you could feel crawling over your skin. Every ounce of
you attention was focused on the albicant piece of paper he’d placed before
you. It’s jagged at the edges, probably torn from some note book and the black
scrawl before you reveals his passably neat handwriting. However all that was a
moot point when your brain began to read what he’d written.
Lea Michele is shacking up with ABC – and leaving Ryan Murphy!
ET’s Courtney Tezeno caught up with the 30-year-old actress at the 14th Annual Step Up Inspiration Awards presented by Coach in Los Angeles on Friday, where she opened up about The Mayor, her first show without Ryan Murphy, and a few other special projects she has in the works.
“I’ve been doing a lot of political research and stuff like that, so its fun for me,” Michele said of her role on The Mayor, which centers on what happens when a hip-hop artist runs for mayor to promote his mix-tape, and actually ends up winning. “I mean, obviously I’ve played very driven characters before, [but my character’s] love and passion for politics is sort of new for me. So I’ve been brushing up on a lot of my legal jargon.”
The ABC comedy is a departure from Michele’s previous credits with Murphy, Glee and Scream Queens, but she said she would “of course” love to star in another Murphy production down the line.
“Oh my god! Of course! But I’m really excited I’m going to be on a new show, and I love my boys on the show,” she said. “I’ve been working with girls the past couple of years, but I love my Scream Queens, and I obviously love Ryan Murphy. So I will come back whenever he will have me.”
In between shows, Michele has been making headlines with her Instagram “Bed Series,” which she hinted might turn into something even bigger.
“We’re actually going to take the bed series to the next level,” she said of her nearly-nude photographs. “We’re going to do a real fun shoot coming up soon. So we’re going to hire a professional photographer.”