Dictators of Fiction
sonya. art. music. fashion. film. musings. fiction.
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velvetrunway:

Ana Ljubinkovic Dreamer’s Army FW 21014-15 at Belgrade Fashion week
posted by the madhatter
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sa-asha:

givenchyrunway:

Fashion East - Helen Lawrence Autumn/Winter 2014-15

🌸
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Technology: Arizona Muse shot by Richard Bush for Vogue Russia, November 2012
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lobbu-lobbu:

Sehun tickling Baek (๑>ᴗ<๑).
lobbu-lobbu:

Sehun tickling Baek (๑>ᴗ<๑).
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the struggle is real

the struggle is real
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harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass

harry potter + sass
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kyungsoo ㅡ angel 

kyungsoo ㅡ angel 
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mythandrists:

The Secret History AU | Magical Realism
It was only in late January - after Henry’s account of the bacchanal - that I understood what I was seeing. Ghosts in the library, flowers sprouting in Camilla’s footsteps, the insubstantial wings that flickered behind Bunny’s back in certain lights. There was some debate between Francis and Henry, I believe, over whether the wings were meant to represent martyrdom or, Dantesque, a manifestation of some demonic energy.
"Meant by whom?" Camilla asked one afternoon when their argument had become too heated for us to drown out with our Parcheesi game.
Neither of them had an answer for her; Francis only waved a hand and said something lofty about omens and Greek sensibility. I remember thinking, at the time, that there was nothing out of the ordinary about their response, but now - after all that happened subsequently - I wonder whether the corner of Henry’s mouth didn’t quirk up a fraction, knowingly, almost imperceptibly.
For me, at least, the most worrisome thing was that we could never tell how much anyone else saw. The world had changed irrevocably in the months since the bacchanal, but it seemed that we six were the only people who could see it. Other students’ eyes slid past the wonders we were becoming - Camilla’s flowers, Bunny’s wings, the way dust particles sparked and threw off their own light whenever Francis was near, and the look - could I have been imagining it? - that passed between Charles and Francis whenever Charles caught the dust in his hands and blew it back at him. Even Julian, for all his talk of the sublime, only laughed when Camilla tried, slyly, to bring up the topic.
Of all of us, only Henry remained unchanged. (I should add, I suppose, though I’m not proud of it, that even I had changed, though exactly how I was never sure. With me, it was less visible - a sort of sixth sense, a spatial awareness of shadows and something always moving in the corner of my eye when I looked in mirrors. The closest I came to understanding what exactly was happening to me was on a snowed-in day in March, when Camilla came into my room at Francis’ house looking for her Greek dictionary and screamed, one hand over her mouth, staring at me like she’d seen a Gorgon. “What?” I asked her. “Camilla, what on earth?” But instead of answering, she fled back down the stairs and wouldn’t speak to me for three days.)
But I digress. It was Henry I was speaking of, Henry with his grey suits and his somber expression, pushing his glasses up on his nose and leaning in to examine whatever new wonder cropped up in the vicinity with the cold, dispassionate air of a weary primary school teacher inspecting the lizard tank to discern whether it was feeding time. “A collective hallucination,” I overheard Charles telling him once, in confidence. “How the hell else do you explain this?”
Henry had chuckled. “‘I seem to see two suns,’” he said, quoting from the Bacchae, “‘and two cities, two wholly different worlds…’ Have you ever entertained the possibility that there might be another world inaccessible to mortals? But after an encounter with the divine, perhaps we might gain the tiniest sliver of window, might be able to see the barest shadow of the Other.”
There was a pause, a swallow, and then Charles said, “That’s seriously fucked, Henry.”
It did sound, to borrow Charles’ words, seriously fucked. But years later, lying in the dark of my bedroom in Plano and drowsing in and out of sleep with a girl lying beside me, her name long forgotten, I dreamed again of Henry at the ravine, of Bunny’s surprised eyes and the pomegranate juice dribbling down his chin. In my dream, Henry was dusting off his hands, and he looked at me suddenly and with such force that I could half-feel my sleeping body jolting in shock.
"Are you happy here?" I asked him. I don’t know what I was trying to say - probably something along the lines of Are you satisfied now, after what you did to us?
But Henry seemed to understand. “Not particularly,” he said, “but you’re not very happy where you are, either.”
mythandrists:

The Secret History AU | Magical Realism
It was only in late January - after Henry’s account of the bacchanal - that I understood what I was seeing. Ghosts in the library, flowers sprouting in Camilla’s footsteps, the insubstantial wings that flickered behind Bunny’s back in certain lights. There was some debate between Francis and Henry, I believe, over whether the wings were meant to represent martyrdom or, Dantesque, a manifestation of some demonic energy.
"Meant by whom?" Camilla asked one afternoon when their argument had become too heated for us to drown out with our Parcheesi game.
Neither of them had an answer for her; Francis only waved a hand and said something lofty about omens and Greek sensibility. I remember thinking, at the time, that there was nothing out of the ordinary about their response, but now - after all that happened subsequently - I wonder whether the corner of Henry’s mouth didn’t quirk up a fraction, knowingly, almost imperceptibly.
For me, at least, the most worrisome thing was that we could never tell how much anyone else saw. The world had changed irrevocably in the months since the bacchanal, but it seemed that we six were the only people who could see it. Other students’ eyes slid past the wonders we were becoming - Camilla’s flowers, Bunny’s wings, the way dust particles sparked and threw off their own light whenever Francis was near, and the look - could I have been imagining it? - that passed between Charles and Francis whenever Charles caught the dust in his hands and blew it back at him. Even Julian, for all his talk of the sublime, only laughed when Camilla tried, slyly, to bring up the topic.
Of all of us, only Henry remained unchanged. (I should add, I suppose, though I’m not proud of it, that even I had changed, though exactly how I was never sure. With me, it was less visible - a sort of sixth sense, a spatial awareness of shadows and something always moving in the corner of my eye when I looked in mirrors. The closest I came to understanding what exactly was happening to me was on a snowed-in day in March, when Camilla came into my room at Francis’ house looking for her Greek dictionary and screamed, one hand over her mouth, staring at me like she’d seen a Gorgon. “What?” I asked her. “Camilla, what on earth?” But instead of answering, she fled back down the stairs and wouldn’t speak to me for three days.)
But I digress. It was Henry I was speaking of, Henry with his grey suits and his somber expression, pushing his glasses up on his nose and leaning in to examine whatever new wonder cropped up in the vicinity with the cold, dispassionate air of a weary primary school teacher inspecting the lizard tank to discern whether it was feeding time. “A collective hallucination,” I overheard Charles telling him once, in confidence. “How the hell else do you explain this?”
Henry had chuckled. “‘I seem to see two suns,’” he said, quoting from the Bacchae, “‘and two cities, two wholly different worlds…’ Have you ever entertained the possibility that there might be another world inaccessible to mortals? But after an encounter with the divine, perhaps we might gain the tiniest sliver of window, might be able to see the barest shadow of the Other.”
There was a pause, a swallow, and then Charles said, “That’s seriously fucked, Henry.”
It did sound, to borrow Charles’ words, seriously fucked. But years later, lying in the dark of my bedroom in Plano and drowsing in and out of sleep with a girl lying beside me, her name long forgotten, I dreamed again of Henry at the ravine, of Bunny’s surprised eyes and the pomegranate juice dribbling down his chin. In my dream, Henry was dusting off his hands, and he looked at me suddenly and with such force that I could half-feel my sleeping body jolting in shock.
"Are you happy here?" I asked him. I don’t know what I was trying to say - probably something along the lines of Are you satisfied now, after what you did to us?
But Henry seemed to understand. “Not particularly,” he said, “but you’re not very happy where you are, either.”
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willbryantplz:

Footsie outtake. (hehe)
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kmitt:

sucullent:

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