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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Insidious: Is The Further Real?

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“The Further is a world far beyond our own, yet it’s all around us, a place without time as we know it,” Elise Rainier (Lin Shaye) explains in the 2011 occult horror film Insidious. “It’s a dark realm filled with the tortured souls of the dead, a place not meant for the living.” Director James Wan saw the astral world through the eyes of fear. It was how he was able to evoke the most terror from the nether regions of soul and thought.

Horror films have made a spiritual ghetto out of the universe which lies between dream, sleep and death. They focus on the malevolent realm of incubi, succubae and the Red-Lipstick-Face Demon. The map to the Further is not limited to shadowy studies. Many mystical practices are divided into black and white magic out of fear and superstition, but there can be room for both.

Insidious starts off like a fairly typical haunted house movie. It opens shortly after Renai (Rose Byrne) and Josh Lambert (Patrick Wilson) move into a spooky new house with their three children. When the property progresses from ominous to hazardous, the family move into an even spookier house, fire their real estate broker, and contact an astral travel agent. The psychically gifted supernatural expert, Shaye’s Elise, explains the hauntings are not a feature of the multiple houses, but the results of a family member embarking on nocturnal astral projection missions which he believes are dreams.

The concept that the soul can leave the body during dream states is ancient. But for all the purported cosmic intelligence culled from out-of-body incidents, practitioners have found no way to scientifically measure if a spirit leaves or enters a body. It is a concept rejected by scientists but beloved by filmmakers and other artists.

In the film, the first person to put the notes together is Renai, the mother of young Dalton (Ty Simpkins), who falls into a mysterious coma early in the first act. Renai, who is a songwriter, experiences two initial contacts. The first comes in a box of missing sheet music. Musicians have always been pioneers when it comes to gray areas of society and spirituality, and rockers chose to embrace the Further. George Harrison melodically rhapsodizes about the extracorporeal aspects of certain Hindu practices in the Beatles’ song “The Inner Light.” The Moody Blues harmonize on the idea that “Thinking is the best way to travel” on their 1968 album In Search of the Lost Chord, itself a musical blueprint for transcendental journeying. Through sonics, these artists ventured happily into the transformative aspects of the Further. Among true believers, “the Further” is also called Liṅga Śarīra, Akasha, and prana. But it’s probably best known as the astral plane, a shallow tag in itself.

“The term ‘astral plane’ is a poetic description, at best, or more accurately a misnomer,” says Zeena, a Tibetan tantric Buddhist yogini, and iconic occult authority and artist. “When our consciousness pierces the veil of our ordinary, everyday scope of perception, there are infinite other realities one might experience, not just one ‘astral plane.’”

In Insidious, the paranormal hunting psychic Elise explains that Dalton is a “traveler,” who was born with the ability to pierce that veil.

“Everybody possesses the potential for astral projection,” Zeena says. “It’s a natural part of being human, just as many other metaphysical or paranormal experiences can naturally occur. But the ability to actualize it is relatively rare, and the effects from the occurrences vary greatly depending on many factors.”

Rebecca Halladay, an occult writer, scholar, and lifelong practitioner and witch, describes astral projection as “working on the Inner Planes of consciousness. In terms of ‘dimensions,’ this would be considered [fifth-dimensional] or above. Journeying is work within the physical, Earthly realm, which is [three-dimensional].”

Certain practices are believed to bridge these dimensions.

“Astral projection during deep states of unconsciousness like sleeping, fainting, or coma, could be achieved by a master of such techniques,” Zeena says. “For one who’s trained most of their life in the esoteric method of willed astral projection, and has become highly skilled in the ability to focus the mind under all circumstances, then deep states of unconsciousness wouldn’t impede their ability.”

The cinematic spiritualist doesn’t believe Dalton fell into a coma because he slipped off a ladder in a creepy attic. Elise believes the boy, being only a child, couldn’t tell the astral projection from a dream and had no fear about going too far.

“The Further looks like your surroundings, but a different lighting shade of it,” says Emi Rose, a psychotherapist and founder of Paragon Solstice. “You can see yourself.”

Rose finds that “Insidious depicts the astral plane in similar levels. It is similar in respect to the idea of a ‘physical’ mirror image of your waking life. Your surroundings around you as you sleep are remarkably similar. The difference is the state of consciousness you are now in can shape and change that experience that exists out of time and space.”

Because of the familiarity and relative comfort of these projected surroundings, Dalton gets lost in his adventures, leaving only a lifeless body behind. Elise, a veteran soul-traveler herself in the movie, is ever mindful of the dangers.

It all amounts to a very literal translation of eastern philosophical contemplations. The Buddhist meditation practice Maraṇasati is constant remembering that death can strike at any time. Thukdam is a Buddhist phenomenon in which a realized master’s consciousness remains in the body despite physical death. While this isn’t what is happening with the young Dalton, he is plugged into medical sensors which, during at least one frightening pop-up, flatline.

Practitioners and researchers are divided on whether it is possible to slip away and die during astral travel.

“There is a risk that could happen if done incorrectly,” Zeena tells us. Kristna Saikia, who is a metaphysics and meditation teacher and filmmaker, as well as a fellow astral travel facilitator, disagrees.

“No one dies in Astral travel,” Saikia says “There is a silver cord which is always connected with our etheric body. When you astral travel, you are always aware of what is happening in the earthly dimension with your body. It’s an intentional out-of-body experience. You can come back to your physical body whenever you decide.”

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In Wan’s film, tormented souls vie against demonic forces for the chance to possess Dalton. Possession is a horror film mainstay, and Insidious offers an interesting alternative arc to the usual spectral evictions enforced by Hollywood. But is it possible for an entity to take over a body during an astral trip?

“If done incorrectly, yes,” Zeena tells us. It is also something which can be done with intent. “In ceremonial magic, this is the entire purpose of entering the Inner Planes,” says Halladay. “During the Rite of Isis, the Priestess goes into the Inner Planes to invoke the Goddess Isis to bring her into the Earthly realm. Now can an entity ‘possess’ a physical being while on the planes? I would have to say it is absolutely possible.”

It turns out Dalton isn’t the only traveler in the Insidious family. He gets it from his father, who was terrorized by the spirit of an old woman during his childhood. Josh suppressed the memory, but Elise opens old wounds and new ones for the patriarch. She hypnotizes Josh, triggering his long-resting phantasmal dislocation, and sends him into the Further to find his son and bring him back.

Zeena confirms people can be guided through the experience, but insists “it’s a very delicate process requiring a qualified teacher from reputable metaphysical lineages that specialize in that. And even then, astral projection, or directing one’s consciousness, is not the main goal, but rather a way to gauge preparedness for more advanced training on the path toward spiritual enlightenment. When done improperly, the results of attempting astral projection simply for experimentation, entertainment, or curiosity can be disastrous.”

The film presents a cinematically dark alternative to the physical plane, a netherworld of unlocked doors and an overarching feeling of dread. Insidious doesn’t imply the Further is Hell, but it does look like one of the many highways AC/DC bypassed.

“They gave the darker energies too much power in the movie,” says Emi Rose. “In the astral plane, we always have a balanced choice to engage on a subconscious or conscious level. On a conscious level you can power your will, create scenarios.”

Josh’s first encounter in the Further is with the Crying Woman, not the most inviting of hosts. Citizens in Insidious’ cinematic spectral realm include the spirits of a family doomed to relive their violent deaths on a spectral loop; a long-haired, leather jacketed ghoul with a sex-fiend tongue; and a mischievous little boy. At its center is the Lipstick-Face Demon. It is tall with horns, pointed ears, snake-eyes, spidery fingers, and hooves for feet. Its skin is black as the night sky, its eyes are blacker holes.

“When one has a mind-expanding experience through any number of means, whether astral projection, meditation, or psychedelics, one encounters infinite types of beings,” Zeena says. “Recently deceased beings; beings we knew in a former incarnation but recognize in their new reincarnated state; celestial beings; demons and hell beings; mythological or magical beings; Buddhas and Bodhisattvas; Gods and demigods.” They’re all among the usual suspects.

But what you encounter is also contingent on who you call. “It all depends on the law of polarity,” Saikia says. “If you project fear, you will encounter energy vampires and evil entities.”

Halladay agrees that there are other entities in the astral planes, but says “I have never personally met other travelers, only those I have astralled with.”

The Red-Faced Demon never speaks in the film. It has, however, spoken with Josh’s mother, Lorraine (Barbara Hershey), in her dreams, which also appear to be of a special class: lucid dreaming.

“Astral traveling is a combination of Insidious and Inception,” quips Emi Rose. Inception is technically about lucid dreaming, Leonardo DiCaprio’s character Dom is technically-aided to enter dreams to steal information or implant ideas. It is often mistaken for astral travel, but not usually weaponized in the way that film presents it. Reddit’s rogue “Astral Army” community claims they combine astral travel and remote viewing to post out-of-body surveillance reports on popular conspiracy theory obsessions like Area 51.

The different practices are often mistakenly considered interchangeable, but are quite different.

“With astral projection, one is sending one’s consciousness–either in part or fully–away from their body to a designated place or realm, in this world or others, for a particular purpose,” Zeena explains. “Remote viewing is when consciousness remains in the body but one can view anywhere else from afar. These two phenomena are also different from the involuntary experience colloquially known as OBE (out of body experiences), which usually spontaneously occurs in conjunction with trauma, near death experiences, or extreme stressors or ecstasy.”

In the overall arc of the Insidious franchise, the Further is much vaster than originally imagined, and the source and tool of mystical workings.

“There is a difference between Occultist practices and some, though not all, Esoteric Traditions,” says Halladay. “Occultists, past and present, generally accept astral projection as a regular part of their practice. Eurocentric pagan traditions do not make it a part of their regular practice.”

Though a fan of the film, Rose thought “Insidious focused too much on the shadow side of the astral plane. The movie portrayed the astral world as a scary dark place with only negative entities waiting to take over your body. So many more things occur in our dream world that we can conceive beyond bad scenarios. It is where we can conduct unfinished business, live out fantasies, replay or create scenarios, and travel to places we cannot do in our waking life.”

Late 18th century occult orders Golden Dawn and the Theosophists believed they could journey to other worlds, heavens and hells, and astrological spheres through etheric travel. In the 1999 book, Astral Dynamics, Robert Bruce calls it the “Real Time Zone,” and says it is the non-physical dimension-level closest to the physical. The New Age movement actively promotes the brighter, more enlightening aspects of the Further, to the point where the practice is on the precipice of mainstream thought.

Insidious isn’t the first film to venture beyond physical realms, but its ongoing franchise is proof the inner universe is expanding.

Insidious is streaming on Netflix now.

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skia-oura · 5 years ago

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For the Want of a (non-magical, relatively inexpensive) Bedside Table

A/N: I wrote this over the course of, like, two or three months, so be kind please.

(ao3)

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The first thing Torako did when they officially moved in was spend a solid day integrating new security wards into the ceilings, around the outside of the house where the walls joined with the roof, and along the edges of every window and doorframe. The second thing she did was enlist Dipper’s help to bring all the furniture they didn’t want or need to the recycling center, where a very nice satyr wearing a baseball cap tried to charge them an exorbitant amount of money to take care of their belongings. Dipper managed to convince him to go down, seeing as the satyr was very nice, but he refused to budge past a certain point because of what he said were “handling fees.” Torako, very cognizant of the fact that they had just paid a gross amount of money for a house, reluctantly pulled out her wallet and paid the money. Bentley was thankfully not around. Otherwise, he actually might have accepted Dipper’s deal to just get rid of it for them. Even then, when he came home and Torako showed him the receipt, his first instinct was to say, “We could have used the bedside tables anyways, you know, they weren’t that old—” “Don’t even try selling it to me, they were bad,” Torako said. “One of them fell apart when we dropped it off. Besides, now we can get new ones!” Unfortunately, as they soon rediscovered, extra-dimensional storage spaces were all the rage, and new furniture without those specs was…nonexistent, to say the least. And while Bentley could use tools and such for short periods of time with his glasses… “I guess we don’t need them?” Bentley said, blinking furiously as he set his magic-cancelling eyeglasses back on the bridge of his nose. His vision swum a little, the glimmering of magics and extra-dimensional spaces burning into phosphenes in the back of his left eyelid. Even he wasn’t ready to consider the possibility of living with something like that in the room he slept in. “We can just, I don’t know, use the floor. For now. Until we find a better solution.” Torako put one hand on her hip. In the other, she held a store tablet, on which was their virtual shopping cart. In it was one new desk chair, an old-fashioned air-drying dishrack, and approximately thirty-seven picture frames of various shapes and sizes and non-magical for the most part. He certainly wasn’t telling her that the holding pins in several of them had minor enchantments to promote longevity. They didn’t bother him too much anyways. “Unbelievable,” Torako said. She scowled at the example bedside table display before them like the pieces had offended her, personally, for the sake of offending her alone. “Terrible. What a disgrace. You can’t have a home without bedside tables! KEIA, esteemed furniture store to serve the people, should know this. And yet! Here we are!” “Esteemed?” Bentley asked, raising an eyebrow at Torako. “The furniture is good, but it’s not exactly a posh place.” “It’s better than it used to be,” Dipper said from behind them, where he was appraising floor lamps even though they didn’t need any, really, one was still functioning and the other two had found very good homes elsewhere. Bentley didn’t understand why either of them couldn’t listen to reason. “It’s still affordable, but at least they aren’t accepting illegally forested lumber from protected lands in Hungary.” “From where?” asked Bentley, twisting around to look at Dipper. “Hungary, I don’t—is this another one of those really old countries that doesn’t exist under that name any more?” Dipper nodded and hummed absentmindedly. “The faux-metal is kind of weak on this one, though, it’s probably not the best choice…” Torako ignored both of them. “I thought KEIA was a furniture store for ‘Every person, no matter who,’ but no, clearly not, not with those customization options.” “You’re telling me,” Dipper groused. He flicked the wide, elegant hood of one lamp and made a disgruntled noise. “They wouldn’t let me custom-build furniture for Toby that included the Nightmare Sheep because the sheep were ‘clearly demonic’ and it ‘went against company guidelines for appropriate alterations.’ Sucks to be them, though, because I just did it myself, and you know what? Toby loved it. So did the sheep, actually; they wouldn’t stop hounding me about being included in future pieces.” Bentley, half-turned around, saw an older man frown in their direction. “Uh,” he said, “You mean, Tyrone, you did it with your excellent carving skills, and only because KEIA wouldn’t honor your creative differences, and the sheep were part of a dream and okay that’s enough let’s go home, clearly we aren’t finding anything here.” They didn’t get anything at KEIA. In fact, they didn’t even get anything moved into the new house at first, because Torako was seized by the mad idea that if they were going to make this house their own, they needed to redecorate all the walls first. Bentley stared at her, blank-faced in the middle of the night when she came to this realization, before she sheepishly tucked him back in and said that they could talk about it after he came back from work the next day.

Upon doing so, he was hustled to the new house by Torako and Dipper, who had procured paint and paintbrushes courtesy of Dipper’s house in the nightmare realm. Bentley looked at the paint cans, set down in the middle of a thin but sturdy tarp covering the entirety of the house floors (it glimmered, just a little, to his uncovered left eye), and pursed his lips. “Um,” he said, pointing at one which—while new-looking, was covered in an archaic form of English that made his head hurt to try to decipher—“does that say, by chance, that it expires in May of 2152?” Dipper hummed and lifted the can in question. “Close, that actually says March.” Even Torako, whose judgment was not always to be trusted on these matters, squinted at the paint can. Distrust crinkled into the corners of her eyes. “But he got the year right?” “Yeah, 2152. Not that long ago, I’m sure it’ll be fine! It was in the Nightmare Realm anyways. That place preserves stuff like nothing else.” “Dipper,” Bentley said. He tried to ignore the one paint tin he couldn’t make heads or tails of. He suspected it was in an entirely different language from any that currently existed. “Saying things like ‘oh, it was in the nightmare realm’ doesn’t exactly instill a sense of relief in me.” Dipper stuck out his tongue. Torako set down the pthalo green she was holding. “I hate to ask,” she said, “But will there be any bad…side effects from using this paint? Is it—is it even up to modern code?” “Ah,” Dipper said. He went slightly cross-eyed. Golden ichor brimmed up from under his eyes until they overflowed, trickling sluggishly over the slight swell of his cheeks. A scent not dissimilar to smoldering peat rose faint into the air. Bentley felt the hair on the back of his neck and along his arms rise on end. Torako shifted her weight as Dipper’s hair rose in a wind that affected him alone. They waited. Moments later, he blinked. His hair fell back to its normal flouncy poofiness. “Oh wow, gross,” he said, and used his gloved claws to wipe away the golden—blood tears?—from off his cheeks and out of his eyes. His nose curled up. “That’s a sensation—hey, wanna feel it? It’s a wild texture.” “Haha, no thanks, I’ll pass,” said Torako, who had learned many things since having her arm accidentally broken when they were college babies. “Anyways—did you find out if the paint was up to modern code?” “Um, so the can you’re holding is fine, and so is 2152! They hadn’t tried to introduce petrichorite to paint, yet. By the way, petrichorite is in Baby Mint #295 from 2799, so we should figure out how to dispose of that—but not with Tad, because he charged us an arm and a leg for our trash last time.” Torako’s brow furrowed. “Tad—do you mean Felix, the satyr at the recycling center? Where we dropped off those bedside tables that were in very bad condition?” Bentley ignored her side-eye-accompanied pointed comment, put his hands on his hips and counted the paint cans in front of them. “So, back on topic—out of the twenty-three paint cans here, which ones aren’t viable?” In the end, they pulled eight cans that would guarantee nasty side-effects from the collection, then the colors ‘Purple Olive’ and ‘Peat Moss’ because they weren’t personal favorites. Bentley took Torako’s pthalo green and a container each of black, gold, and what Dipper assured him was a ‘non-haunted glow-in-the-dark white’ to the bedroom while Dipper and Torako haggled over whether to use a deep red or an ultramarine as the accent wall color in the living room. Bentley set down the paint cans, then retrieved and prepared brushes of varying sizes and widths. He had to pop open the lid of the pthalo green with the end of one paintbrush, but the others opened easy enough when he pressed and held his thumbs to the (antiquated) locking systems on opposite sides of the rim. The somewhat suffocating smell of paint was quick to fill the room, and it drove him to opening a window. It had started drizzling, actually. Bentley stood there a moment and let the fresh rainwater air waft in, hands flat against the sill, head against the bottom edge of the frame he’d just moved out of the way. If he closed his eyes and just listened, he could hear the light tapping of rain against the leaves of the Sweetbay Mongolia tree growing only a few meters away. He took a deep breath, then ducked back inside. Time passed. Three of the walls were slowly painted in the pthalo green. Between coats of that color, he worked on covering the ceiling, the trimmings, and the wall across from the door with black, glasses on and a PaintKnight shield over his head to keep the worst of the paint off his face and clothes. He rolled the paint on until his shoulders ached and he couldn’t quite get the wet sound of the roller out of his head, even when he paused to work out the kinks in his arms. The rain outside dropped heavier, echoing against the roof and in through the open windows in a way that settled something in Bentley. Eventually, he finished the final coat of black on the ceiling. Setting down the roller across the paint well, Bentley set his hands on his hips and arched his back. His spine popped and cracked a little. He winced, then leaned forward to touch his toes. There was a knock at the door before it slid open into the wall. “Hey, Bentley. Dips and I were thinking of finishing for the day.” Bentley straightened up from his stretch slowly, arching a little past the twinge in his lower back. He blinked at Torako, then asked, “Did any paint actually get on the walls, or did you plaster it all over each other?” “Harr harr harr,” Torako said. She pouted at him, face almost entirely red from what Bentley assumed from the texture was a paint roller. Her bangs on the left side were clumped together and spiking up a little. “So funny, Bentley. Yes, we managed to get the living room done, though I still think that the ultramarine would have looked better.” “We can touch up the bathroom with it,” Bentley said. He bent down to pick up the roller. “So we clean up and start making dinner back at the apartment?” Torako wrinkled her nose. “I guess we have to wait a day for the paint to dry before moving anything in, don’t we.” “And I’m not done,” Bentley said. He twisted the handheld portion of the roller off so that it would be easier to carry. Paint-smell wafted up and overwhelmed the clear scent of rain from outside. “So the earliest we could be in here would be the day after tomorrow—honestly, though, we should plan on a week.” A rustle of cloth; Bentley turned his head to catch Dipper sticking his very colorful fingers down the side of Torako’s neck. She squealed, then cocked her elbow and slammed it into Dipper’s gut. Bentley laughed at the expressions on both of their faces. “Could be worse,” Dipper wheezed, even though he didn’t actually need the air. What a drama king, Bentley thought to himself. “It used to take like, a week to safely dry, not just a day.” “Still,” Torako said. She put her fingers to the paint smeared across her neck and scrunched her nose up at the sensation. “It’s a long time, now that we finally own the house. Nothing else is stopping us from moving in and it makes me itch. ” “Well,” Bentley said, pointing the still-black roller at her and grinning a little to take the bite out of his words, “the end is at least in sight, now.” She stuck out her tongue at him, then gacked when the dark red smeared on her lips came in contact with it. “Uuuugghhhhh, ewwww,” she said, and disappeared to the bathroom to the sound of Dipper cackling. Bentley raised his eyebrow at Dipper. Dipper looked back at him. They both shared a grin, shook hands, and Dipper made off with Bentley’s freely-given roller still saturated with black paint. Bentley looked down at the non-haunted glow-in-the-dark white and the ‘Guaranteed to Glimmer!’ gold. He remembered that he still had some old brushes back in his desk at the apartment. Torako screeched, and then Dipper did, their voices echoing through the mostly-empty house in a way that filled it. Bentley thought about what they would best like for dinner tonight. He turned, closed the window, and brought the trays out of the room to wash them. As he paused to try to remember where the bathroom was, he was smacked in the face with the very roller he’d just lent to Dipper for nefarious purposes, and well, that just meant that payback was due, right? They ended up ordering pizza. - Bentley had an early shift the next day so that he could be home in time for lunch at one. He’d dragged himself through about three hours of work on nightmare-riddled sleep before Karl Svinhish took one look at him and made Bentley sleep in the break room for ninety minutes. Even then, once Bentley woke up, he sent Bentley packing home with orders to ‘not try to explode us all through lack of sleep, don’t worry, we’re still paying you.’ Once back in the apartment, Bentley managed to crash on their (unfortunately, permanently magical) couch for a couple hours before he woke up from fear-anxiety-pain. In all, he managed to eat, pack up, and be out to the house by about 1:30. With Dipper out visiting somebody he vaguely knew in Europe, and with Torako having snagged a small case in the area to find a missing cat, he was alone. If he’d been alone in that apartment, it would have been one terrible thing. Being alone in the house—where the wards were freshly installed, the layout was completely different, and the only items that really glimmered to his left eye were temporary parts of their life—was another thing entirely. After he opened the window, Bentley slid on his glasses, activated the PaintKnight shield, and flipped through the music in his phone before settling on Comeback Kid’s Greatest Hits. Torako had introduced him to them, ages ago when they were both fourteen and not-studying in Bentley’s room. It seemed fitting, considering that he was going to paint parts of his childhood bedroom into this place. He lay back on the EZ-Liftr Lite they’d rented from a nearby library and thumbed at the controls until he was comfortably near the ceiling. After a moment of contemplation, he angled himself just a little bit up. Pulling a brush out of his apron pocket, he slid it into the glow-in-the-dark white and began to paint. It had been so long that the first stars turned out a little lopsided, edges a bit wonky where he still struggled to re-adjust to painting with a brush. The angle didn’t help; any time he’d painted in the past, it was either upright on a canvas or flat on a desk, not several meters above the ground and on his back. So they were a bit odd, bigger than he’d initially planned as he tried to mask the mistakes, less neat than he knew he was capable of. It would have frustrated him to tears just months ago. It still kind of did. But now, he breathed through the frustration and settled himself with the knowledge that he would adjust—it would just take time. It was a not-bad day, so the reminder worked. It was around the fourth song that things started to finally click. Using an extra-long paintbrush handle to steady his painting hand, Bentley drew a small seven-pronged star to the brassy trumpets of Comeback Kid’s “Horse in a Hospital” and didn’t wobble at all. His lines were clean and clear, the shape was even, and filling it in wasn’t nearly the exercise in concentration that the first few had been. Outlining in gold was just as easy. Bentley smiled a little to himself, refilled the brush, and continued. Over time, the light coming in from the bedroom windows shifted into the deeper warmer tones of evening, shadows from the overgrown garden stretching further into the room as it set. The bedroom was set on the north-western side of the house, just enough to be warmed in the evening without facing the glare of the sun head-on. Bentley sighed, stretched over the back of the EZ-Liftr Lite, and almost fell off when the door slid open. Thankfully, it was only Torako. Unfortunately, she had noticed. “Haha, got you and I wasn’t even trying,” she said, grinning. She had twigs in her hair and a couple scrapes on her face. “And hot damn you’ve been busy—wait, is that Comeback Kid? Talk about nostalgic.” “That’s a lot all at once,” Bentley said, shifting the EZ-Liftr Lite so that he wasn’t halfway to a concussion via headfirst fall to the floor. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, nobody got me at anything.” Torako snorted and entered the room to better peer at the corner Bentley was working on. He only had a little more to go before the ceiling was done, but then there was the rest of the detailing. “Keep deluding yourself, I know the truth. And that is Comeback Kid! Wait wait wait—is this ‘Mr. Bittenbinder’? It’s gotta be ‘Mr. Bittenbinder.’ Is this the top tracks playlist?” “Yes,” Bentley said. He turned his attention to the current space ahead of him, hummed, then added a few more dots in aesthetically pleasing places. “Why?” Torako flicked a finger at his socked foot. Bentley twitched it back before scowling down at her. She grinned, unapologetic. “It’s been ages. Like, since high school.” “You listened plenty in college, I remember you blasting it whenever I brought you stuff in the gym,” Bentley said. He pointed the paintbrush in his hand at her—gold, just enough left in the bristles that he could leave a mark if he wanted to. “But yeah, I was thinking about home. With—Dad.” “Oh,” Torako said. Her face softened. “Yeah, now that you say it, I can see the similarity to your bedroom. Back then, I mean.” He smiled at her, then turned his attention back to the ceiling. After a few strokes, a few quiet moments filled with the discordant keys of “Mr. Bittenbinder,” Bentley let out an ‘ah’ as he came to a realization. “If you—sorry for taking over things and making this my childhood—I mean, you had a childhood bedroom too, you know, and—” “Aw, lighten up, buddy,” Torako said. She patted his leg. “I’m not angry or upset or anything. Your bedroom was cool. Just let me put up some old hurling photos or stash my stick on the wall as some kind of deco and it’ll bring enough of me in. I like the stars, anyways. It’ll be nice to have them up at night.” Bentley reached over with his free hand and ruffled her hair. A couple twigs and half of a leaf were dislodged and fell to the ground. “Thanks,” he said. He thought a moment. “What about Dipper?” “We’ll see if he has anything he wants here in particular that aren’t too, you know. It’ll work out. It’ll be all of ours,” she said. Then, tilting her head so his hand was more on her forehead than in her hair (and how odd it was for her to be looking up at him), she grinned. “Need any help painting?” “Uh,” Bentley said. The memory of their college fridge, covered in drawings of Korato and Alcor, flashed through his mind. “I, uh, that’s very nice of you but, how do I say it—” “Your drawings suck,” Dipper said from over Bentley’s shoulder. Even feeling him tesser in wasn’t enough to stop Bentley from startling. This time, it took both Dipper and Torako reaching in to steady the Liftr and pushing him back onto it in order to keep Bentley from falling off. His glasses were still knocked askew from the jostling. “Look what you did!" Torako said, wiggling her index and middle fingers together at Dipper, mock scowl on her face. “You nearly made him fall—what if he’d hit his head?” “Even if he had fallen, he would’ve been fine,” Dipper said. He narrowed his eyes at her fingers. Bentley nudged his glasses back into place. In the background, “Mr. Bittenbinder” finally drew to its eight-minute close. “I would have caught him. You’re just mad that I said you suck at drawing.” Torako rolled her eyes. “I know I suck, I just thought I’d lighten the mood, you doofus. Anyways—the reason I came in here in the first place was to see if Bentley wanted dinner. It’s a bit early, but I’m hungry and we’ve all been working hard today. How was whosit over in Europe?” “Oh, Olla?” Dipper flipped upside down and drew his legs together, criss-crossed, as the song track changed to “Then I Didn’t”. His gaze remained fixed on Torako’s outstretched fingers. “She’s doing great, working hard at school and all that. Had to skedaddle before her mom came home and ripped me apart, but it was a good visit overall.” “Rip you apart?” Bentley said. He lifted his brush and picked up where he left off painting. “If she can do that, I think you’ve lost your position as most powerful being in existence.” “Did he have it in the first pla—ow, what the fuck Dipper, my fingers!” “Serves you right,” Dipper said. His voice crackled with half-realized laughter. “Stick your fingers in my face and get bit.” “I’ll bite you, you little—” Dipper’s voice got all low and purr-y. Some half-forgotten instinct in Bentley tensed. “Where you gonna bite me huh, sugar?” There was a pause. Bentley pulled his paintbrush away from the ceiling. Not a second later, Torako said, “Where you want me to bite, honey? Here, or here, or…here?” “If I look down,” Bentley said, “and you two are playing het chicken in front of me, at this moment in time, while I have paint and you don’t, we are going to have yesterday happen again except I am going to win. Hands-down. I will decimate you.” Bentley gave them three seconds before he looked down. When he did, they were staring up at him, Torako’s outstretched finger brushing against one of Dipper’s collarbones, his shirt collar unbuttoned just enough to give her access. They blinked—at the same time, eerily enough at the exact time Jonathan from The Comeback Kid crooned after a long piano solo, ‘Oh, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t stop myself, the pages were calling but the party’s calling louder…’ He pointed his paintbrush at them. “Don’t.” Torako laughed, and what tension there was in the room dissipated. She papped Dipper’s cheek, looking into his eyes, and said, “Well, looks like we’ll have to save this for another time. His Majesty commands us.” “Well, if it’s His Majesty’s edict…” Dipper grinned and swung himself back upright to lay on thin air, his chin propped on an open palm. “Would you also like food, your Majesty? We could go back and get it started while you finish here.” Bentley narrowed his eyes. “This is a very sudden change of topic.” “True,” Torako agreed. “But it’s like, five, and if we divide and conquer, we can get stuff done. I’ll paint tomorrow, and I’m sure Dipper could get a room done right now if we throw him a bag of Peach Wheels.” “Make it a bag of Peach Wheels and a TimTom Bar, and we have a deal,” Dipper said. Without looking, Torako slid her hand out. “Kitchen in royal blue with gold trim and switch out the cabinets and countertops for that Eggshell White we saw in HomeReno Catalogue #539 Issue twenty…three, yeah, sure, deal.” “Ugh, fine,” Dipper said. There was a flash of blue flames. He frowned and patted his stomach. His stomach. Bentley’s turned at the thought, cold nothingness tickling at the back of his mind before he bit at the side of his mouth to bring his attention back into the present. “—hard bargain, now. When did you even learn that trick? Tacking on specifics in the seconds you go for the handshake.” “I live with you, dumbass,” Torako said. She ruffled his hair and ignored the way Dipper hissed and patted it back into place. “Also, I have a degree in this shit. Practice makes perfect—anyways, Dipper, Bentley, how do we feel about fried rice tonight? Lettuce wraps?” “Sounds good,” Bentley said. He pushed the thought of—that—out of mind and resolved to bring it up with his therapist the next time they met. Lifting his paintbrush back up, he added, “I’ll try to be back by six or six-thirty, okay?” Torako nodded. “Call us when you leave, okay? And if anything happens on the way back, it doesn’t matter who’s around, just summon Dips—” Bentley paused, turned his head, and stared at Torako. “I’m not going to summon Alcor the Dreambender in the middle of the street,” he said. “Ok,” Torako said. “Just—be careful, okay?” “Yeah, I promise,” Bentley said. It was easy to—the streets were well lit, and it would be early enough when he left that anybody involved in Norfolk’s relatively low crime rate was unlikely to be active. Also, Fantino was dead and nobody else had any hare-brained ideas about Bentley being a Mizar or something like that. Torako grinned. It was a little strained. Bentley narrowed his eyes when he remembered that Torako still hadn’t started looking for a therapist they could all bully into signing a ridiculous NDA. Bentley still thought that Dr. Anikulapo-Kuti would be a good fit, but Torako kept avoiding the topic. He sighed, then reached out his hand. “Nothing is going to happen,” he said, threading his fingers through her hair. “And if it does, I’ll be prepared. I promise.” “Yeah,” Dipper said. He patted her shoulders with both hands and hooked his chin over one of them. “Ben’s tough, he can take care of himself—and just in case anything does happen, I’ll keep an extra close eye on the bond, okay? Torako closed her eyes. She tipped her head to rest against Dipper’s. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re right.” “Besides,” Dipper said, giving Bentley a sly look before tilting his head to whisper in her ear. She grinned and giggled a little, eyes cutting over to Dipper and then to Bentley and back again. Bentley’s suspicions resurfaced. He narrowed his eyes. From his phone on the ground, the ‘15% battery left’ alarm chirped a whistly little tune over the final stanza of “Then I Didn’t”. “You want me to pass you your phone so you can charge it?” Torako asked, already leaning over to pick the phone up from off the ground. The sound quality wobbled a bit as the speakers adjusted from reverbing off a solid surface and to sounding through the open air. “Sure,” Bentley said, switching his brush to the opposite hand so that he could receive the phone more easily. He held his hand out and wiggled his fingers. Dipper threaded his fingers through Bentley’s. “Um,” Bentley said. He blinked across at Dipper. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I was actually going for my phone?” Dipper grinned, wide and a little soft. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I did it.” Then, Torako jammed his cold phone down the front of his sweater. Bentley yelped, jerked, and they all went down in a tangle of limbs. Somehow Bentley managed to be sandwiched between Dipper and Torako, whose arm was still stuck down his sweater. “Torako!” Bentley screeched, his hand still comfortably in Dipper’s. They both burst into cackles, one cut through with bursts of static, the other clear and resounding. Bentley scowled up at Torako and the line of gold that slid wet down the curve of her cheek. Seconds later, a grin fought its way past the façade and he couldn’t help but laugh along. This really could be home, he thought. - “I can’t stand it,” Torako groaned from where she was sprawled face-down on the floor. “I can’t do it, Bentley.” “Yes you can,” he said from his seat at the kitchen table that they had found in an antique store. It was a little inconvenient in that it didn’t have functions to store and consequently automatically drape tablecloths, but it also wasn’t an eyesore first thing in the morning without his glasses, so everybody considered it a win. “Bentley, it’s not a proper home yet,” she said into the floorboards. Dipper rolled his eyes and sipped at the overly sweetened coffee he’d exchanged for dragging Torako from where she’d been languishing on the bed. “Torako, we don’t even have a couch yet,” Bentley said. “Or mirrors other than the one in the bathroom. How do bedside tables even make a home in the first place?” “It’s a place to put all your stuff,” Torako said. “That you need when you’re sleeping but don’t want to get up to get and I’ve fallen out of bed five times this week reaching for my water bottle.” “I keep saying that I have furniture at my house,” Dipper said. Bentley eyed the scratches in the rim of the mug—even after millennia of being a demon, Dipper kept forgetting to watch his teeth around the dishware. “But you guys are all nooo, what if it’s haunted, nooo, what if the demonic energy, nooooooo.” “I had enough problems dealing with your ambient energy affecting things like security sensors when I first started working at the company,” Bentley drawled, hands curled around his own cup of tea. “And now? With this incomprehensible body? I don’t need even more exposure. Besides, everything we’ve vetted hasn’t passed Torako’s ‘Bentley Safe’ test.” “Except the coffee table,” Dipper pointed out. “Except the coffee table,” Bentley ceded. It was the ugliest coffee table he’d seen, but it was solid wood and was void of any enchantments or extra tech, unlike everything else they had been able to find. Any demonic energy that had lingered on it had dissipated in hours without a supernatural handhold. “Unfortunately,” Torako groaned, “Bentley makes sense. I hate it, but Bentley makes sense. Bentley, stop making sense. I want bedside tables.” Dipper sipped at his coffee extra loud. Bentley raised his eyebrows in Torako’s direction, even if she couldn’t see them. “Well,” he said. “I seem to recall that we did have bedside tables that weren’t very magical except around the hinges, and you could barely see those anyways. I wonder what happened to them?” Torako groaned extra loud. She turned her head just so that she could glare at him past the hair in her face. “One of them fell apart when we dropped it off,” Torako said. “Like, legitimately, we put it down and it collapsed.” “But you could have had one,” Dipper pointed out. He drummed his claws against the tabletop. Bentley squinted at the little pricks that started forming in the surface and realized that he was going to have to figure out how to non-magically reinforce the surface. Somehow, he didn’t think that Dipper would react well to claw-caps. “Then just Bentley would have to suffer.” “And I’m okay with that,” Bentley said, still staring at the claw dents. There was a pause. Bentley blinked, then registered what he said and started waving his hands. “Wait—no, I meant, like, I don’t mind not having a bedside table for a little longer, Torako’s the one who keeps falling out of bed, not me, she needs the table, it’s not that—” “Hey,” Dipper said, frowning. He reached over and slid his hand over Bentley’s, eyebrows serious over his dark eyes. “Being the masochist is my job.” After a beat, Torako burst into laughter. Bentley considered the ramifications of threatening Dipper bodily harm, and dismissed them very quickly on the grounds of ‘this will never end if I do.’ “Anyways,” Bentley said in a voice just loud enough to be clearly heard over Torako’s giggling, “We’ll figure out the bedside table thing. In the meantime, Torako, you could always take one of the chairs and use it.” His chair shuddered a little and there was a smacking noise. Bentley looked down to see Torako’s hand wrapped around the chair leg, her hair tangled between her eyes. “This chair?” she asked. Then she looked at Dipper and wheezed. “I think I don’t need to answer that,” Bentley said. “Why do you keep laughing, anyways? It wasn’t even that funny?” “Rude,” Dipper said. “Is…” Torako choked out. “Is because he—oh gosh, he’s unemployed, Bentley!” Dipper scowled at her. “Am too employed,” he said. “As a maSOCHIST!” Torako screeched out the last word and started smacking her feet against the ground and howling in laughter. Then she squealed when Dipper leapt over the table (and Bentley) to get at her. Bentley shifted his teacup in his hands and felt himself settle further. His phone pinged a notification as Torako and Dipper began to actually wrestle on the floor. He took one look at the phone, winced a little at how sparkly it was, and slid his glasses on to check the notification. At first, it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t remember having any business with Celestial Spaces Storage Services. That branch didn’t even exist out in Norfolk, that was strictly a Federation thing. The only ties he had there were Torako’s parents and his dad’s urn in the City Ancestral Home. The apartment had long been leased to…wait. The apartment. Bentley opened the message. Dear Customer, We hope this message finds you well. We write to inform you that your lease on Unit 4968 is set to expire approximately one month from now, on October 24th, 4042. Please indicate to us whether or not you would like to renew your lease or change the terms. We are accessible by phone, message, or in person at the facility you rented space from. Thank you for your time, L’lanee Etchen Celestial Spaces Storage Services “Oh,” he said out loud. In his bare hands, the battery ticked up from 88% to 89%. “I forgot.” “Forgot what?” Dipper asked. Bentley looked up from his phone to see him laying on the floor, Torako’s heel in the small of his back and both his arms wrenched up and behind him. Bentley winced at the thought of him in that position, but of course Dipper was nonplussed. His wings were relaxed and everything. Torako, on the other hand, was panting a little, cheeks dark and hair even wilder than it already had been. “Forgot what?” she asked. “How awesome I am at wrestling?” “Dad’s…stuff,” he said. Torako blinked and let go of Dipper’s wrists. “The stuff from our apartment, the lease on storage is expiring.” “Oh,” said Torako. She sat down on Dipper’s back. He let out a soft whoof of air that was more for fun than because Torako was pressing down on his non-existent lungs. “I forgot too.” Dipper reached back and jabbed at Torako’s sides until she squirmed far enough off of him that he could sit up. “It sounds familiar,” he said, peering up at Bentley from where he was nestled under Torako’s chin. “What do you want to do, then? For the right price, I can always blip it all here.” Bentley opened his mouth to refuse. Then he closed it, tapped his forefingers against the face of the still-warm teacup, and considered Dipper. “Our living room is pretty empty,” he said. “No sofa or bookshelves yet. All our stuff there is still in boxes.” “And it would be very economical,” Dipper wheedled. There was a glint in his eye that never failed to set some very deep, animal part of Bentley’s brain on edge. He was good at pushing past it by now, though. “In one sense of the word,” Bentley said. He pulled one hand off his teacup and set his chin in the heart of his palm. “But what would you want in exchange for this little chore?” Torako lifted an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked momentarily down to Dipper before she met Bentley’s eyes again. Bentley closed his eyes and shook his head a little; he could handle a deal like this. Alcor intertwined his fingers together in such a way that only his index fingers were free, flush against each other as he pressed the tips of them to his chin. He suddenly had gloves on. “Good question,” he said. The reverb in his voice had grown stronger, a little deeper. He sounded like he knew the answers to all your questions, had the power to fulfill every desire you had, and would never sink his fingers into your chest to pull out your soul. Not that, you know, that part actually mattered to Bentley, what with his soul not even being his to begin with. Dipper’s actual sister had given it up millennia ago. Bentley hummed. “I agree, it was,” he said. “So what would you say is a fair price?” Alcor’s face was relaxed even as he draped an arm over Torako’s bent knee. “Usually I’d ask for a couple of teeth, an eye, maybe your left pinky—something noticeable for all these priceless, sentimental items I’d have to transport out of an extra-dimensional plane into this very well warded house. But it’s your lucky day! For you and just you, I’ll do it for the low, low price of one treasured memory of your father!” Bentley swallowed and tried to not let the grief well back up. He closed his eyes, considered the deal for half a second, and then dismissed it completely. Memories with his dad were priceless. He wasn’t going to be able to make any new ones. “Dipper, what the fuck,” Torako said. Bentley opened his eyes to see her leaning back a bit. Dipper flinched, and something about his face shifted. He leaned forward, towards Bentley, his cheeks softening to something less twenty-five and more sixteen. “Bentley, I—” “You’re right,” Bentley said. He looked Dipper right in his wide, childish eyes. “That is a lot of work. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you for something so big you can’t resist crossing lines.” “I shouldn’t have asked anyways,” Dipper said. He twined his fingers together and worried them against each other. “That was wrong, I know it was wrong and I did it anyways because it was right there and it seemed—it was just. Tempting.” “I understand,” said Bentley. He rubbed at his temples. “I’ll call the company and ask what it would cost to ship everything here.” “That would be so expensive,” Torako said. She leaned back forward, smoothed her hands over Dippers, and tucked his head under her chin again. It was easier than it had been before. “The Federation is so far, and then there’s customs to go through, and we’d have to choose an option that didn’t rely on shipping things with exdim spaces.” Bentley inhaled and then exhaled, deep. “I’ll call the company,” he said, again. That night, Torako dragged a chair from the dining room and set it up by her side of the bed. She still, somehow, managed to fall out by reaching out too far for her water bottle. - What ended up happening was this: Bentley called the company to extend the lease. Then he called the company again, after a couple days of first arguing and then discussing the details with Torako, to ask if actually they could arrange a video tour of everything in the unit. After the company explained that they didn’t have the time or resources to devote to that (which was utter bull, but Bentley wasn’t willing to shell money out for the Perk Plan Copper Edition), Torako took time to physically travel to them, visited her parents, and used her phone to show Bentley around the place. It was nostalgic, but the level of magical interference was faintly visible even through the screen and his glasses. Bentley was glad that he let Torako argue him out of going himself. When he made soft eyes at the long, old dresser from his father’s bedroom, Torako slapped a ‘removal’ sticker on it without hesitation (“We can put it in the living room or by the entrance or whatever, there’s definitely a place for it somewhere!”). When Torako started cackling over the ugliest coat rack in existence, awkwardly heavy and brassy at the ends of each hook, Bentley didn’t protest too much over her demands to bring it back (“It’ll go with that awful coffee table Dips brought back, I love it so much.”) When Dipper showed up halfway through the call and interrupted their discussion over the merits of bringing or leaving the sofa with its simple seat-warming enchantments, Bentley cackled at Torako’s initial screech of surprise and then Dipper’s squawk as she wrestled him down to ruffle his hair (“Sea’s mercy, don’t sneak up on me like that—say, what do you think about this couch, it’s got enchantments but I think my dads can hook me up with somebody who can strip it off…”) When discussion turned to a possible matching (mostly) set of lamps that Dipper had stashed somewhere, Bentley set his chin on his hand and watched his family go back and forth about logistics and re-wiring and oh, wasn’t that a really nice bookshelf, wouldn’t that look good in the house too. In the end, they found nearly everything they wanted, arranged to have the whole lot of it shipped by non-magical means (paid for by Torako’s dads, who were apparently side-eyeing Dipper with less fear and apprehension than they had initially), and came home. It would take a month for everything to arrive but until then— “It’s come to this,” Torako said, laced fingers under her nose, elbows set to the sides of her empty dinner plate. “We need to search harder than ever for the final, most vital piece of our home.” “The bedside tables?” Dipper asked sullenly. He scowled down at the vibrant claw tips Torako had slipped on him while he was napping earlier. “You don’t deserve them, you heathen.” “Even heathens deserve bedside tables,” Torako countered, eyes bright with something Bentley couldn’t name. “It’s a basic right of Personhood.” “You violated my Personhood,” Dipper hissed, eyes narrowed in mock-betrayal as he wiggled his capped claws at her. “You don’t deserve a bedside table. Besides, I don’t even get a bedside table, so why should you?” “I keep telling you,” Bentley said after taking a sip of his water, “if you want a shelf above the bed, we can put one up there for things you wanted to put up there that weren’t, like, eyeballs or the shriveled dismembered fingers of that one dude who tried to enslave you when you were a baby demon.” “I also veto the cursed paperweight that croons the regretful thoughts of all office workers ever into your dreams,” Torako said with a shudder. “For more than just the fact that it might be a pain to Bentley. It’s just super, super disturbing.” “You have no taste,” Dipper sniffed. He gnawed a little at the rubber claw caps and then made a face. “Also, these are disgusting.” Bentley couldn’t stop himself from laughing a little. He avoided Dipper’s wide betrayed eyes and looked out the kitchen window instead. It faced the front, where there was a little pathway leading up to the house and there was a stone wall that was covered with aesthetically pleasing moss. Dipper had said it was installed a couple centuries ago, when everybody had their ‘ye olde cottage in the woods’ phase. Bentley liked it, at least. He watched as a small songbird, dark brown back over light brown belly interrupted by a dull crest of yellow, fluttered down to perch on top of it. It cocked its head this way and that, then trilled out a few notes. “Sucks to be you; you keep putting holes in our super hard-to-find dining table, we take preventative measures,” Torako said. Outside, the bird hopped forward a couple steps. “Could have just told me,” Dipper groused. “Woulda stopped.” “Not nearly as much fun,” Torako said. “Now—the bedside tables. The Quest to end all Quests. The most honorable, invaluable, unbelievably necessary endeavor yet on our long journey towards houseownership.” The songbird pecked down once, twice, and picked up a twig. Bentley watched it fly off with its prize. Weird, he thought, that a bird might make its nest in fall. He blinked. “Why not make our own bedside tables?” When he turned to look at them again, Torako was blinking in mild confusion. Dipper had stopped chewing at the rubber caps that he could absolutely take off himself but didn’t for whatever reason. “I thought you didn’t have power tools?” Bentley frowned. “Power tools? I’m not going to…I don’t have any magical tools, remember? We got rid of everything overly magical.” Even the wards could have been a pain to deal with if Torako hadn’t researched and then integrated the time-consuming, archaic, and possibly illegal additions that rendered the wards magical signature null. Dipper sighed. “Mechanical saws that go buzzity buzz through wood and stuff to make it the size you want. Or things to screw in screws without agitating your wrist. Machines.” “Oh,” Bentley said. “Yeah, Tristools. The library has a workshop; we could find the right materials and make our own with their resident Carpenter?” Without warning, Torako stood up and slammed the table. The dishes clanged and clattered as they were jostled, and Bentley only barely saved his water from spilling everywhere. Dipper screeched, his hair fluffing up and out in momentary alarm. “Bentley!” Torako yelled. “You’re a genius.” Bentley blinked at her rapidly. His fingers curled around his glass protectively. “I…thank you? I guess?” “I am going to make,” Torako said, a terrifying grin on her face, “the biggest, baddest, most amazing bedside tables ever.” “Oh,” Bentley said. He tugged the glass closer, as if he could stop Torako’s enthusiasm from bubbling over and making everything more complicated than any of them could handle just by protecting his water. “Oh, no, Torako, we just need—we just need function. We just need something we can put things like pain medication in and water bottles on.” “That’s boring,” Dipper said. He was floating off his chair, a matching grin on his face. “And we’re not boring, we need exciting furniture. Personalized furniture. Furniture with as many non-magical bells and whistles as we can manage.” Neither of them, as far as Bentley knew, had built anything in their lives. Dipper tended towards destruction anyways—and thinking of Torako’s several collisions with opposing hurling players that ended in somebody with fractured ribs or concussions or, in one memorable case, a flattened nose that needed emergency on-site reconstruction, so did Torako. “Guys,” he said weakly. “Think—manageable projects?” “I want a carved dragon in mine,” Torako said. Then she gasped. “No, wait—Korato holding Alcor in her arms as they’re flying off on a carved dragon—oh I have to write everything down.” “Mine is going to have so many hidden drawers,” Dipper said, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t going to use a bedroom table. “So many traps to dissuade thieving fingers. You won’t be able to open anything without first solving the initial puzzle lock. I can’t wait, I have so many ideas.” “Just…a drawer?” Bentley offered out, loudly so that Torako could hear him from where she had burst into the master bedroom. “Maybe a couple shelves? A flat surface? Maybe a fancy handle for the drawer if they have them?” “It’s gonna be A WORK OF ART,” screeched Torako from across the house. Dipper had dissolved into muttering about which traps and tricks would be best for its size, and they could mount it on the wall so it could have a secret bottom that held all the best things. Bentley looked down at his water, and could only think about the poor resident Carpenter who would be dealing with them all. - “I’m so sorry,” he said to Mx. Tchaikovsky, resident Carpenter at their nearest expanded Library, as zi looked first at their plans, then at the materials they had sourced and brought with them. Zir nameplate, which displayed zir name and pronouns, fritzed a couple times before steadying out. “I tried to talk them out of it, but…” Mx. Tchaikovsky looked at him. Then, zi grinned wide and said, “Are you kidding? These are the greatest things I’ve ever seen!” Behind Mx. Tchaikovsky’s back, Torako and Dipper high-fived each other. Bentley made the mistake of making incredulous eye contact with them. In response, Dipper put his thumb on his nose, crossed his eyes, and wiggled his fingers at Bentley. The gesture was unfamiliar; the childish, gloating triumph on his face was not. “I…” Bentley said, slowly, “I thought that they would be too…complicated for our skill level. Those two, at least,” He said, tapping the plans that he knew weren’t his. “Oh, for sure,” Mx. Tchaikovsky said. Zi half-turned to Torako and Dipper, and asked, “You two don’t have any carpentry experience, do you?” Dipper opened his mouth. “I made a custom bedroom set for my—for a child, once,” he said. Bentley, who had not seen Dipper do anything without using supernatural powers ever, widened his eyes at him. Dipper clearly saw, but elected to say nothing. “Oh wow,” Mx. Tchaikovsky said. “That’s really cool! Do you have any pics? How many pieces was it? Were there any custom decorations? What tools did you use? I want to know what you’re familiar with in here.” This time, it was Bentley who felt that cathartic burst of childish triumph. Dipper laughed and started scratching at the back of his neck. “Oh, sorry, I—it’s a running joke we have after somebody misheard me say that I had commissioned a custom bedroom set for a child, nobody’s child in particular, just a child that I thought needed a custom bedroom set with appropriate thematic imagery, I haven’t used any of these tools, but that’s fine because you, a professional, a professional carpenter employed by the Library, is here to help us and I think that’s just great, don’t you? Say, Torako, what experience do you have??” Torako grinned. “Nothing and you know it, dweebus.” Mx. Tchaikovsky returned the smile, long, thin hands on zir hips. “Okay, great to hear! Thanks for being honest, I really appreciate it. What about you, Mr…Farkas, right? You got any experience?” Bentley repressed the urge to stick out his tongue at Dipper and turned his attention to Mx. Tchaikovsky. “I took a couple sculpture classes in undergrad and used some tools there—a 3D printer, a pattern cutter, and a handheld rotary tool, if I remember right—but it’s been several years.” Mx. Tchaikovsky nodded, then stroked zir chin. “Okay, I see what’s happened—you know how hard it’s going to be and how much time it’s going to take, whereas these two—” Zi gestured at Torako and Dipper “—don’t have an idea of what they’re getting into. But, like, if you guys are willing to spend a significant amount of time on these custom bedside tables…why not go for something you want in your life for a long time?” Bentley blinked at zir. He looked around the room, machinery piled against the walls, spare materials organized (mostly) into shelves and containers. The thin light from an overcast sky filtered in through the windows and highlighted lazily floating dust motes. “Huh,” he said, a little quietly. He looked back at Mx. Tchaikovsky. “You sure that wouldn’t be too much work for you?” “It would be a challenge,” Zi admitted, still grinning a little, lopsided, and zir boot scuffed against the concrete flooring. “For everybody, really. But I like teaching, and if things get too difficult to manage partway through, we can improvise and level down.” A glance at both Torako and Dipper told Bentley everything he needed to know about what they thought of levelling down. To be fair, he thought, he was also feeling…competitive. “Okay,” he said, holding a hand out for his previous proposal application. “I can change it up.” Torako and Dipper high-fived again. Mx. Tchaikovsky said, “That’s the spirit!” and handed over the proposal. Bentley took the holographic file in his gloved hand and looked down at it, before smiling over at Torako and Dipper. His design was going to crush theirs. - In late November, they were finally able to take their monstrous creations home. Monstrous, in Dipper’s case, meant that he’d made an almost seamless shelving unit that they installed above the bed for a package of shrimp chips. Even if anybody were to figure out how to get into the hidden drawers in each wide span of wood framing the open shelves, they would be very hard pressed to not lose any fingers (or noses) in the process. In Torako’s case, it meant that her bulky, stupidly heavy bedside table that was more sculpture than functional furniture was so dense that it took bribing Dipper with a pint of ice cream and a bag of anatomically correct gummy hearts (scaled down) to get it from the workshop and into the bedroom. Torako had gleefully chucked the dining room chair out into the garden the morning they went to pick up their pieces—and then promptly was made to go outside into the snow to get the chair because “Those were a bitch to find, Torako, and if you’ve broken it you get to fix it.” In Bentley’s case, it was simply shaped, fairly light-weight. The overall shape was rather boxy, as opposed to Torako’s (hourglass) or Dipper’s (in a word: aerodynamic). There was a single drawer above an empty space at the bottom for any larger things he might need. The biggest visual difference, however were the flowers carved into the sides and carved into the top of the table—spider lilies, vibrant reds and yellows and greens standing out from a dark-varnished background. They had been painstakingly carved, and recurved, and glued back together when the support was too weak and he went too far. Then they had been painted, shaded, dusted here and there with shimmering gold powder, and on the underside of one petal near the bottom-right corner, Bentley had very carefully inscribed his name as small as he could. He set the bedside table down, took a step back, and looked the room over. Torako was sprawled across the bed to take up as much space as possible. Dipper was floating upside-down in the corner. Their tables—new, custom made—matched even less than the rest of the furniture in the house, cobbled together from several sources and time periods. Bentley appreciated matching furniture and themes as much as anybody but somehow this just…suited them. He rubbed at his mismatched hands, and smiled a little. “So,” Dipper asked, hair unbound and floating around him in a way he probably thought was cool but just made him look even dorkier than usual. “Why spider lilies?” Bentley thought about it for two seconds, then said, “Because they’re the most stupid difficult flower I could think of to render in three dimensions?” Muffled by the pillow she had her face pressed into, Torako said, “I knew it, you competitive little shit! You couldn’t just let me have my figure of the three of us, you had to outdo me!” “Three of us?” Bentley asked. He looked at the flying dragon (that resembled more of a badger than anything else) and the two figures on its back that made up the support for the top of her table and narrowed his eyes. He knew the one in something resembling armor was Korato, and the figure with too-long arms draped across Korato’s back was Alcor, but he didn’t see anything like… Dipper started cackling. “He’s the dragon?? The dragon!!” “A talking dragon,” Torako said, rolling over so that she could speak easier. “I decided it halfway through the project—it just. Made more sense if it was all three of us, you know?” With a sigh, Bentley stepped forward and flopped onto the bed, half-on Torako’s legs. “Goddammit,” he said. “If it’s all three of us, I guess you win.” She laughed. Dipper sputtered. “But—but look at how smooth and seamless mine is! How perfectly hair-trigger the traps are! It’s even and sleek and beautiful and I can’t believe you’re saying Torako won!” “Torako’s may be ridiculously heavy and technically unrefined,” Bentley said, curling over onto his side so he could look Dipper better in the eyes, “but she made me a dragon. She wins.” “Also you hella cheated,” Torako said, pointing a finger up at Dipper. “Even Mx Tchaikovsky was baffled as to how you managed a couple of those traps, and zi held our hands all the way through this mess. You definitely used a couple tricks to get things to work.” Dipper flushed all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. “So what?? I used the tools at my disposal, and I made the perfect trap furniture.” “Bentley got second place,” Torako said. She reached down to scrunch her fingers into Bentley’s hair. He sighed and tipped his head back a little, eyes sliding shut as she began to lightly massage his scalp. “What the heck!” Dipper said. The air itself bristled a little. Bentley inhaled deep, counted to three, and exhaled slow. “The heck,” Dipper said, the air loosening up again. “You two are—you’re in cahoots! You have to be!” “So take some pics and show them to other people,” Torako drawled. Her leg shifted underneath Bentley, and he obligingly lifted his weight so that she could rearrange herself into a more comfortable position. “Or, instead, you could join our ‘the house is finally a home’ victory snuggles.” “That’s what these are?” Bentley asked, draping an arm over Torako’s waist. “Yes,” she said, her fingers moving out of the way so that she could press a kiss to the crown of his head. “That’s exactly what these are. Yo, Dipper, you going to sulk or you going to cuddle?” “Both,” Dipper grumbled before settling in on Bentley’s other side, an arm sliding over his side and curling around his chest. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten this injustice.” Bentley hummed. “Okay,” he said, and shifted himself further up the bed. “You do that, buddy.” After a moment, warm between their bodies and under the soft cover of sunlight coming in the window, Bentley heard Dipper whisper to Torako, “So—you happy with everything?” “Yeah,” Torako said, after a moment. Her long fingers stilled on his head. “Yeah, this is good. This is—really, really good.” A heartbeat, and then Dipper, soft: “I’m glad.”

#bentley #dipper pines #torako #tau #tau fic #transcendence au #my fic

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alysemeadfad · 5 years ago

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Portraiture

Group practical

we sat parallel to another person, we had our pencils stabbed through paper so we could not see the paper below and we had to focus only on the face and not look down, basically a blind drawing as far as looking at the drawing but we could see what the object was as we drew it.

i did the same thing again in graphite and had got a better understanding of proportion considering we could not see the drawing.

we then chose a unique image of ourselves, well mine was rather unique and we did a rough sketch to help us decide what we wanted to draw for our social realism drawing, i was quite impressed by my sketch the proportions were not half bad.

photo REALISM

i chose to just do the center of my face as i felt it would look the best in the social realism style, i then grid my drawing in 4 by 5 squares and did the same to my paper before then beginning my drawing of the outline and basic shapes in order for me to add tone and texture later on

what is photo realism?

photo realism is a form of art where a drawing or painting looks absolutely identical to the object or photo it has been drawn from, so much so you cant tell the difference between the two, it takes time, patients and a lot of skill.

but most of the art community don’t consider this to be an art form.

Many would argue that the technical skill required to make Photorealism art can be exceeded by a decent color photocopier or a computer, thus avoid to use the word art in such context, but this discussion brings us to an analogy of photography. If photography is merely capturing an image of what is already there, where is the art in that? It is right there in the photographer’s perspective, the exact choice made by the person wielding the camera in what to capture and from which angle, moment and perspective. If a person creating a photorealistic recreation of a photograph doesn’t have that “artistic” input of a photographer, then what is artistic about the process? Some would say even those renditions are not strict interpretations of photographs, instead, they incorporate additional, often subtle, pictorial elements to create the illusion of a reality which does not actually exist, or cannot be perceived by the human eye.

In the end, as in many things in art, and life in general, the final conclusion remains behind the individual perspective

Da Vinci

Long recognised as one of the great artists of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci was also a pioneer in the understanding of human anatomy. Had his ground-breaking work been published, it would have transformed European knowledge of the subject.

https://www.rct.uk/collection/themes/exhibitions/leonardo-da-vinci/the-queens-gallery-palace-of-holyroodhouse/explore-the-exhibition#/

At the outset of Leonardo’s career, anatomical illustration was in its infancy. To convey the three-dimensional form of the body and to show how it moves, Leonardo had to develop a whole range of new illustrative techniques. His challenges were in many ways the same as those faced by anatomists today, and some of Leonardo’s drawings are remarkably similar in approach to modern medical imagery, such as MRI and CT scans and 3D computer modelling.

Studies of Human Proportion

While studying Vitruvius for his work on the Milan and Pavia cathedrals, Leonardo became captivated by the ancient Roman architect’s detailed studies of human proportions and measurements. In addition, when he was measuring horses for the Sforza monument, he became interested in how they related to human proportions. Comparative anatomy appealed to his instinct for finding patterns across different subjects. So in 1490 he began measuring and drawing the proportions of the human body.

The construction lines and all of the annotation almost take away from the actual subject and become more of the focus, which was the main idea anyway It was not meant to be a work of art, but rather a manual for how to create it.

Da vinci was a polymath, a person of wide knowledge or learning. He was not only an artist but a scientist, sculpture and an architect.

Frida Kahlo

was a Mexican painter known for her many portraits, self-portraits, and works inspired by the nature and artifacts of Mexico. Inspired by the country’s popular culture, she employed a naïve folk art style to explore questions of identity, postcolonialism, gender, class, and race in Mexican society. Her paintings often had strong autobiographical elements and mixed realism with fantasy. In addition to belonging to the post-revolutionary Mexicayotl movement, which sought to define a Mexican identity, Kahlo has been described as a surrealist or magical realist.

Kahlo’s paintings often feature root imagery, with roots growing out of her body to tie her to the ground. This reflects in a positive sense the theme of personal growth; in a negative sense of being trapped in a particular place, time and situation; and in an ambiguous sense of how memories of the past influence the present for either good and/or ill.[110] In My Grandparents and I, Kahlo painted herself as a ten-year holding a ribbon that grows from an ancient tree that bears the portraits of her grandparents and other ancestors while her left foot is a tree trunk growing out of the ground, reflecting Kahlo’s view of humanity’s unity with the earth and her own sense of unity with Mexico.[111] In Kahlo’s paintings, trees serve as symbols of hope, of strength and of a continuity that transcends generations.[112] Additionally, hair features as a symbol of growth and of the feminine in Kahlo’s paintings and in Self Portrait with Cropped Hair, Kahlo painted herself wearing a man’s suit and shorn of her long hair, which she had just cut off.[113] Kahlo holds the scissors with one hand menacingly close to her genitals, which can be interpreted as a threat to Rivera – whose frequent unfaithfulness infuriated her – and/or a threat to harm her own body like she has attacked her own hair, a sign of the way that women often project their fury against others onto themselves.[114] Moreover, the picture reflects Kahlo’s frustration not only with Rivera, but also her unease with the patriarchal values of Mexico as the scissors symbolize a malevolent sense of masculinity that threatens to “cut up” women, both metaphorically and literally.[114] In Mexico, the traditional Spanish values of machismo were widely embraced, and as a woman, Kahlo was always uncomfortable with machismo.[114]

image taken at the MoMa in Nyc

Fulang-Chang and I depicts Kahlo with one of her pet monkeys, interpreted by many as surrogates for the children she and Diego Rivera were unable to conceive. The painting was included in the first major exhibition of her work, held at Julien Levy Gallery in New York in 1938. In the essay that accompanied the show, the Surrealist leader André Breton described Kahlo’s work as “a ribbon around a bomb” and hailed her as a self-created Surrealist painter. Although she appreciated his enthusiasm for her work, Kahlo did not agree with his assessment: “They thought I was a Surrealist but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” Kahlo later gave this painting to her close friend Mary Sklar, attaching a mirror to it so that, if Sklar chose, the two friends could be together.

Tai Shan Schierenberg

Tai Shan Schierenberg lives and works in London. He graduated from the Slade School of Art in 1987 and in 1989 won first prize in the National Portrait Gallery’s John Player Portrait Award. He was then commissioned to paint Sir John Mortimer for the Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery also holds his portraits of Lord Carrington from 1994, Lord Sainsbury, 2002 and most recently Seamus Heaney from 2004. Other noted commissions include Professor Stephen Hawking, Sir John Madejski and a double portrait of Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh. For Schierenberg, there is an emotional charge that comes from the different textures and densities, and ultimately the light conditions, that occur in a place at a certain time. He describes his process in 2010: Painting and painting and painting, endlessly exploring ideas in paint on canvas, always painting my way. Finding that over time I can’t see the trees for the paint. Sometimes its good to try a new way, a different path, expose oneself to the vagaries of chance - and see the trees again.

Before he finishes a commission, Tai-Shan Schierenberg usually splatters a bit of paint in the corner of the portrait. It’s not a stylistic move – the brushstrokes in his paintings are fluid but the images themselves are representative – but rather one which gives the subject something to complain about.

in the image above you can clearly see the texture and markings on the canvas, the artist uses oil paint on canvas and applies it using a pallet knife and a large brush, making various large strokes in the work. this gives a rough texture and edge to the piece.

These instinctive visual images refuse to betray the plasticity of the medium. Unlike Freud, Schierenberg sees paint simultaneously as flesh. It is exactly this technique that establishes the major paradoxes characteristic of his work. It is both abstract and realist, edgy and sensitive, grand and inconclusive, violent and melancholic, physically intense and aesthetically detache

Lucian Freud

was influenced by surrealism, but by the early 1950s his often stark and alienated paintings tended towards realism. Freud was an intensely private and guarded man, and his paintings, completed over a 60-year career, are mostly of friends and family. They are generally somber and thickly impastoed, often set in unsettling interiors and city scapes. The works are noted for their psychological penetration and often discomforting examination of the relationship between artist and model. Freud worked from life studies, and was known for asking for extended and punishing sittings from his models.

one of my chosen artists, tai shan sheirenberg seems to be heavily influenced by the style of lucian freud yet he made his own style, they both use the same meduims, oil on canvas also.

here in the colder tones we have a painting by lucian freud, you can see the texture of the brush strikes that help carve out the facial features.

here is a painting by tai shan, the tones are a lot warmer, they are not of the same person tho they look similar, you can see the brush strokes again on this image that help carve out the facial features, tho they are a lot more prominent in this painting as thats tai shans style, you see paint before you see the face .

Interpreting line

The Visual Element of Line is the foundation of all drawing. It is the first and most versatile of the visual elements. Line in an artwork can be used in many different ways. It can be used to suggest shape, pattern, form, structure, growth, depth, distance, rhythm, movement and a range of emotions.

We have a psychological response to different types of lines:

Curved lines suggest comfort and ease

Horizontal lines suggest distance and calm

Vertical lines suggest height and strength

Jagged lines suggest turmoil and anxiety

The way we draw a line can convey different expressive qualities:

Freehand lines can express the personal energy and mood of the artist

Mechanical lines can express a rigid control

Continuous lines can lead the eye in certain directions

Broken lines can express the ephemeral or the insubstantial

Thick lines can express strength

Thin lines can express delicacy

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corpse--diem · 5 years ago

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Once More, With Feeling | Morgan, Rebecca, Nell & Erin

Takes place around mid-March.

@mor-beck-more-problems / @exorciseyourspirit / @nelllraiser

Morgan couldn’t remember what she had imagined when she and Nell agreed to gather up a sacrifice for Erin’s ritual. The moose had been decided in advance after a brief consultation with the mortician (So what would you say your dad’s favorite animal was? If he was an animal, would he be the same one?) and Nell had known where all the choice moose grounds were. Maybe she had thought they’d hold out some berries and make some nice transcendent connection like in some new agey painting. Maybe she imagined some kind of magic lasso situation before popping the elixer in. Whatever ideas she’d had, it hadn’t involved getting swatted in the face by its tail or falling into the mud. Still, moss-covered and muddy, they managed to make it from the woods to the mortuary. Morgan waved to Erin from the driveway, smiling as best she could. “Okay!” She said to Nell, still a little out of breath. “We made it! This is good! And thanks again, making sure I didn’t get a black eye. I really don’t wanna bug your mom for another healing so soon.”

It’d been a moment since Nell had caught anything so large as a moose, but she was certainly up for the challenge the creatures posed. Though the creatures weren’t normally aggressive, that generally only stood true for when they were unprovoked. And Nell was fairly certain capturing one counted as...provoking it. She was something of a mirror image to Morgan with mud and grass, but a bright grin was one her lips, some of her adrenaline keeping her on that high as she helped the other witch lead the moose in. “We made it!” she exclaimed, all too thrilled with how things had turned out thus far. “Yeah, and she would have asked too many questions if she’d had to heal you this quickly. But thanks for making sure I didn’t get literally kicked in the butt.” Her smile dropped in the slightest, remembering the danger Morgan had been put in. Nevertheless, she followed Morgan’s lead in waving towards Erin eagerly, a hand pointing towards the moose in question as if she were presenting a prize. “We got the moose! Isn’t he pretty?” He was, indeed, the finest moose specimen they could find. Generally the stronger and more handsome a beast— the better when it came to sacrifices. “So uh- do we have...a way to get this guy where we need him once he’s inside?”

Erin didn’t know where the question about her dad’s favorite animal was going to go. Maybe she naively assumed they were going to channel a moose god or whatever it was these people got up to, but when they hauled a whole damn moose up her driveway? Erin was speechless. Who was she to question them, though? They were here to help her, right? She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from yelling, but threw on a pained, welcoming face. “Beautiful,” she tried to reply with equal gusto, faltering halfway through. Okay, she couldn’t do this anymore. “Before I let you bring this large, live animal into my home,” she gestured towards the elevator door usually meant for caskets and bodies. “Why are we bringing a fucking moose in here?” Rebecca hadn’t prepared her for this. And even if she had tried to, this was all starting to seem like a horrible idea.

Rebecca had arrived early, just as she’d told Erin she would. Morgan and Nell were fetching the sacrifice-- a word that still made her shudder, blood magic was not something she often liked-- as Rebecca set to work getting the basement ready. She could hear the poor severed body scratching away at the door, begging to be let out. All it wanted was to do whatever the wish that brought it to life told it to. But it wasn’t that simple. Even after that, he would still be around. A true curse. Morgan and Rebecca knew about that, didn’t they? Rebecca’s vision blurred a moment and she blinked it away before she continued to etch little canels into the floor. Pathways for the blood to run through and connect, making the circle. Symbols on the inside would need to be redrawn in blood, but she’d chalked them out so that all three of them could work on that part once the ritual began. Sitting back, she examined her work. Nearly done. Just on time it seemed, as she heard voices from upstairs. She went back over to her bag and dug out her notes, getting to work setting out the incense in the places she’d noted on her sheet.

Morgan looked at Erin incredulously. “You want to do this right, yeah?” She said, still bright, patting the moose gently on the back. “Equivalent exchange! We get out what we get in. And we need to get out a lot, so--” She waved her hand, ta-da style. She lead the way towards the garage. It seemed roomy enough, and there was some promising looking machinery that might be moose friendly. Moosey wasn’t going to be around much longer, the less distressed he was the better, she felt, but they also needed to make this happen. They’d take care of Moosey’s remains after, and the sacrifice would be quick. Morgan had looked at diagrams of Moose anatomy so she’d know where to cut and how deep. “Hey, Rebecca--?” She called. Exchanging a look with Nell. Keeping Erin on board hadn’t been part of the plan, but maybe they could keep her reassured together.

Nell nodded along with Morgan’s words, as if this was the obvious answer. “Exactly! And if we don’t have enough to exchange well...it’s never good. And plus— you said your dad reminded you of a moose, right?” Nell finished, as if that was the clearest explanation she’d ever given in her entire life. Nell didn’t mind having Erin present, though. In truth, it might help things along if she wanted to donate a bit of her own blood, and she’d said as much to Rebecca online. With consent, of course. And no more than just a bit. She followed along the moose, bringing up the rear as they toddled along. Meanwhile, bringing up the caboose of the parade behind Nell was what appeared to be an enormous black cat brought up the rear in the form of Taki, tail proudly waving through the air as if he’d been the one to catch the moose. “Is Rebecca...here?”

Erin didn’t have the energy to fight this. She’d proclaimed numerous times she’d do what she needed to in order to get rid of her undead father and if bringing in a fucking moose was what it was going to take? “At this point, we might as well,” she ran two worried hands down the sides of her cheeks, holding back the horror in her chest. Her eyes were on the moose the whole time as she led them to the elevator. Thankfully, they’d managed to capture a smaller one, but big enough that his antlers barely fit through the frame of the door. She stood outside, shutting the door. Glass shattered as the elevator descended. Probably a light fixture. Or five. This was all for a reason. This was fine, she kept telling herself. “She’s downstairs. And probably not at all ready to greet a moose while she sets up.” Erin took to the stairs that led to where the elevator opened up in the basement, motioning for Nell to follow. “You know, you never did tell me how you managed to break in here,” she said offhand, trying to distract herself from the moose that was stepping into her basement. This was fine. This was totally fine. “What, uh--what do you need me to do?” She asked when they finally were all in the basement, moose party-of-one included.

The elevator dinged and Rebecca looked up from her work, going over to the door, but standing aside. She knew what was expected behind the door, as it slid open and a nervous looking Erin came into view. “Oh, good! You were able to find one. Is it calmed, like we discussed?” she asked Morgan, looking over to Nell. She was younger than her online presence made her seem, but Rebecca could already sense the amount of power the girl held. As she ushered them in, she finished setting up the last candle and went to stand on the other side of the circle. “We’ll get this all set up before we grab your--” she stopped herself. Was it insensitive to say father? Probably, “--the corpse--” Oh, that wasn’t much better, “--Do we have anything to restrain him with?”

Morgan held up the empty elixir bottle triumphantly for Rebecca to see. “Moosey is in a great place right now, and I’ve done the research legwork to make this a quick one.” Suffering wasn’t an ingredient in the ritual, so she wasn’t keen on creating any. She pet the creature’s fur, scratching behind its rather impressive neck. The set up was exactly according to what Rebecca had told them to expect, candles and sigils and arrays in a dazzlingly complex riff on the dimensional theory circles she’d come across in her studies. It was beautiful. More importantly: it was powerful. Morgan scanned the rest of the room and settled on a shadowy shape slumped in a chair. “Is that, uh….is that him?” She asked, pointing.

Nell took a closer look at Erin, letting everything slow down for a moment to realize that...this probably wasn’t easy for the woman, especially after who knows how many of her light fixtures had just been shattered. “It’s gonna be good. We know what we’re doing,” she offered as a feeble attempt at assurance. “And um- I can...pay for the light fixtures.” That was technically their fault, wasn’t it? “But a good witch never tells her secrets about breaking in.” Nell bounced back with a tease. “Don’t worry about it, though- it’s nothing anyone without magic wouldn’t be able to do.” Then she was joining Morgan near the moose, reaching into her pocket and procuring a strawberry to offer up to the big guy with a fond smile. “Morgan’s a smartie pants, and I’ve used a moose or two before so it’ll be great.” Then she was taking in the set-up Rebecca had made with a practiced eye, not surprised to find that everything looked as beautiful and in order as it could be. “Truly a work of art, Rebecca. What’s he restrained with, now? If we have to, we could just use a bit of magic for that as well.”

Erin truly thought she was past the whole ‘this is fucking bizarre’ phase of this whole endeavor, but seeing the moose and the elaborate set up with the circle with the markings, surrounded in candles made her realize how entirely untrue that was. Noticed Rebecca’s hiccup in word choice but at this point? “Don’t worry about the lights,” she mumbled towards Nell, before a long, steadying sigh slipped through her lips. This was fine. Everything was fine. They were talking about the moose but it wasn’t clicking until a few seconds after that--”Wait, you’re going to… you know.” She gestured to her neck, dragging her index finger across it. “To the moose?” Jesus this was derailing further and further every second this dragged on. She ran her hands over her face again, her anxiety levels spiking. Just do what the kind witches say and this’ll be over soon. “I got him,” she nodded. Moved across the room to the chair her father was tied up in dragging him out into the light and to the circle. Wasn’t sure if that was right, but she’d seen enough horror movies to have an idea of how she assumed occult-y stuff worked. Doubled back for the kitchen pot, opting to hold that one in her arms for now. “What next?” She asked with more gusto. “I’d really just--love to get this over with, if that’s alright.”

“No need to hush the words,” Rebecca said to Erin, “he can’t understand English.” She turned to look at Nell, giving a nod. “Thank you, Nell.” She watched Erin drag her father out, from wherever she’d had him stashed. His head was missing, and he was tied to a chair. When Erin dragged him to the circle, Rebecca came up beside her and corrected his positioning, putting him at the top of the circle. “Center of the circle is for sacrifices. Top of the circle is the energy point,” was all she said before heading back to the other two. “Morgan, are you doing the sacrifice or is Nell? I have the dagger prepped already, so whoever is doing it, use that,” she instructed, pointing them to where to stand as well. Turned back to Erin. “I’ll need you to stand opposite your father, here,” she said, ushering Erin to her. “You’ll need to hold something of his as well. Something that has value to you.”

“We’re doing it together,” Morgan said readily. She had never killed anything as large as a moose before, and somehow that made it all the more important. She took the dagger from Rebecca and held herself in position, waiting for Nell to do the same. They had gone over this together, where to strike without wasting the blood they needed, and how quickly to slit the throat. Morgan had even practiced her techniques on the fresh produce she brought home. It wasn’t perfect or even close to the feel of the hairy, breathing creature beneath her, but as Morgan drove the knife into Moosey’s heart, she was glad she had something outside of herself to focus on.

Moosey’s legs buckled under him.

Morgan draped an arm around his wide neck and dug her weight into the floor to slow his fall. “Sshh, it’s okay. You’re doing so good, “she whispered. Stroking his pelt, she angled his head just so and peered down at Nell through his antlers one more time for the okay before speaking the blessing of sacrifice Rebecca had given her to memorize and making the second cut.

Dark blood sprayed up Morgan’s hands and rivered down, snaking past Moosey’s matted fur and trailing down, thicker and heavier, into the circle.

Nell waited for Morgan to get into position, stepping into her own with a matching knife in hand as she locked eyes with the other witch, a steady hand still petting the moose. She was only ever briefly sad about her sacrifices, knowing that they were serving a greater purpose. And did their life truly end if it was living on in something else? It was simply the ebb and flow of the universe, an exchange of energies that some might even say was beautiful. The manipulation of blood, and the life held within it should be revered in her mind, not met with disgust. In tandem, she sunk her own knife into the big moose, whispering her own words of comfort and encouragement to him as she did her best to help lower him. “Good boy, that’s it. Just a little sleep. Thank you, Moosey. I’ll remember you.” The blood was flowing quickly now as she felt her magic beginning to spring to life. She took a bit of it for herself, spreading just enough up her arms to leave long, red streaks there. Nell couldn’t really explain it, but she generally chalked the rush of power she got from this act to her affinity for blood magic. Finally, she rose from her place on the floor beginning the next part of the ritual as she spoke the words aloud, confidence in her movements as she reached out to link hands with Morgan and Rebecca.

Erin set the potted head in place beside where Rebecca had nudged the rest of her father’s remains in the circle. She’d thrown a joke in there--or maybe a genuine, playful jab--but it hardly sunk in. This felt like an out of body experience and she could only nod and move at the other women’s directions. Something of his. Right. She had prepared for that much. They weren’t an overly sentimental family, making finding something appropriate harder than she thought it would be. She procured an old, well-worn mug--one that had seen years of use from the stains lining the inside with ‘Embalming Fluid’ written on outside. It was dumb, she knew that. But she’d given it to him the day she told him she wanted to be a mortician. That day he’d laughed harder and smiled brighter, prouder, than any other she could truly remember. For almost a decade, this was the only mug he would drink out of too. “Got it,” Erin held it up shyly as she moved to where Rebecca wanted her, just in time for the knives to sink into the heart of the moose. With amazing care and grace, she noted, but the sight of a wild animal bleeding out onto her floor, with Nell rubbing the blood into her skin, stunned her into pure silence again. Oh god, what was she doing? What had she invited into her home? Maybe she should’ve just Nic blow the goddamn corpse up. “Jesus,” she mumbled. Wild, panicked eyes followed the trail of blood that moved into the circle before jumping between the three women as if waiting for an explanation or further direction.

An old mug was a good choice. Rebecca looked between the three of them as Morgan and Nell prepared the sacrifice, turning her eyes away as they slit its throat and let it bleed. She wasn’t much for all this magic ritual and sacrificing, but she knew this was a part of it. A part of life. And this animal’s soul would be returned to the ether while its blood and body would be used to help, here on Earth. She gave it a silent prayer, waiting for its labored breathing to stop before opening her eyes. Nell had already prepared the blood on her arms and Rebecca watched the liquid pool around the circle she’d made, filling in every crevasse. When it was full, she grasped their hands. “We’re going to channel our power through you, Erin, and your mug. I want you to think about your father-- think everything. Think about the good moments and the bad. The joy, the pain, the sorrow he brought you. I want you to think about what closure you need from him. And when you’re ready, speak it aloud.” She nodded to where Erin needed to stand, in the middle of the circle, facing her father. “Don’t be afraid, you can’t be hurt inside of there, I made sure.” She glanced at Nell and Morgan, then, before nodding, signaling them to begin chanting with her. She hoped the Hebrew wasn’t too difficult to memorize, but considering she was the link of the circle, she needed it to be in her power language.

Morgan marked the back of her hands with Moosey’s blood as it poured from his neck. She held onto him with all her might to control his collapse to the floor. She bent over his lifeless body and scooped the dark, stringy flesh from his neck and marked herself with two sigils, one connecting her with the others, and one protecting her from the pull of what they were about to do. She opened herself up and filled herself with the words Rebecca had given them to memorize. Her voice was strong and her mind was clear. There was no curse, no worry, only the balance and the bargain, power flowing in and out of her. And suddenly, in the space they had made together, a bright hole cut its way into the world.

A small, peaceful smile began to form on Nell’s lips as she felt their power mount, the three woman’s magic weaving together as if it had been yearning all this time to be joined as one. She had never minded working alone, but spellcasting with two others like this- it almost had a sense of nostalgia for her, having grown up with two sisters who’s magic she shared as they’d practiced all together in their younger years. The words fell from her mouth in tandem with Morgan and Rebecca, and she didn’t pause as the hole opened from one world into the next, though curiosity made her stare. It wasn’t like the glimpses of the demon realm she’d had before, though it certainly wasn’t anything similar to their world either. As she looked into it- she could feel the pull of the new world working against their magic, trying to lure her into its depths with something of a siren call, as if all their wishes would come true if she only stepped forward. But the temptation wasn’t a match for their joined power, and instead she simply gazed onwards into the world, trying to glean whatever she could from the swirling images she saw within. Nothing stayed concrete for more than the blink of an eye, shifting at a moment’s notice as wishes so often did, taking forms you wouldn’t expect, it being impossible to predict what might come next. But there were more important things to do here. “Bring it home, Erin. Let yourself have it.”

Speak it outloud? Fuckity-fuck-fuck. Erin faltered at that more than she had when Morgan stabbed a goddamn moose in her basement. Shaky hands struggled to keep the mug in her grip while the women circled her and chanted, the bright light that suddenly ripped into the dark room. So close she could swear she felt some sort of electrical pull, like a crackle, that followed the gusts of wind blowing her hair back. What sort of magic fuckery had she gotten herself into? For a long moment she only stared into the hole, lost in the slideshow of colors and images that were gone as quick as they came. Nell’s voice brought her back with a jarring halt. Right. Her father. Feelings. She’d done her homework, had a lengthy talk with herself about it, but she was having trouble remembering anything at the moment.

Squeezing the mug, she closed her eyes and focused. Flashes of memories jumping around in her own mind. The bad--the day she left over a year ago after she’d realized he’d had something to do with his mother’s death. The day she got the call about his death. The lackluster note that explained what she now had inherited. Her jaw clenched tightly. There was good there too, she had to remember that. Like the memory that came with this stupid mug. All of the warm comforts of home and family meals. Crying in his arms when the kids at school would tease her for being weird. He had been who had taught her the best way to handle it was to embrace it, after all. But for every good memory, the bad trickled in over top of it, reminding her how they got here in the first place. Fuck, she should say something.

She opened her eyes to the stark contrast of decaying flesh against the brightness behind him. Fear crawled along her nerve endings like a thousand little spiders and her heart pounded loud in her ears above their voices. “I don’t hate you,” she started, her voice already wavering as she tried to find the words. “I should, and I have every reason to, but I don’t. But I have what you’ve done and--I hate how you left things. But I’m going to fix it. And I’m going to be just fine without you,” she nodded, straightening herself.

There. She’d done it. But why wasn’t anything happening?

The looks the witches gave her didn’t seem all too impressed or convinced. She held her hands up. “Okay, okay!” She got the hint. Took another deep breath, running a hand over her eyes in frustration. Dig deeper? Is that what they wanted? “Alright--fine!” She rolled her shoulders, shaking her head, giving in completely now. “I do fucking hate you sometimes. I hate that you destroyed our family. That you bowed out without saying goodbye. That you left me this--fucking shit show to deal with and that because of you, I have no chance of having a normal goddamn life. And you can be damn sure I won’t forgive you for getting her killed.” Her eyes burned and her cheeks felt wet, suddenly aware that was the first time she’d said that thought out loud. “But I’ll fix this because you couldn’t. And if I can’t fix it, you can be damn sure I’ll be better at it than you. I don’t need you and I need to move on if I ever have a chance at that.” Erin paused, clearing her throat, nodding at the headless corpse wriggling in the chair before her. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore. “So you need to go,” she said with certainty, wiping at the tears under her eyes. “Now.”

That electricity from the hole heightened suddenly with a blazing swirl, suddenly tangible and powerful. Enveloping her father, chair, pot and all with a force that sent him flying backwards. And in a flash, he was gone. Finally, forever, gone.

Magic wasn’t Rebecca’s forte by any means, but there was a certain je ne sais quoi to it that always pulled her back. It was a higher connection to the world and the universe at large. It was a feeling she always got during exorcisms, and it was a feeling she’d been chasing her entire life. A sort of calm always washed over her when it happened, and she had to fight to keep her eyes from closing, watching Erin, watching the others, watching the portal, opening and closing, visions of another world, a hole in the universe, peering back at them. Erin’s words held power, Rebecca could feel them. Her emotions writhed around through the magic, absorbing the blood they had spilled, and centering on the undead body tied to the chair. It was almost a tragedy.

It all happened so quickly. In a flash, the body was gone. The portal sucked into itself, and closed. The effects were immediately, and Rebecca felt the weariness creeping in, faltering only slightly in her step as she let go of the other two’s hands. “It’s done,” she said quietly, rubbing her head, “you’re free.”

Free. Erin heard the word, saw the empty space where her father had just sat. Felt the exhaustion set in, felt bare and ripped wide open, but free hadn’t washed over her just yet. Her eyes remained on the space where the light had been for more than a few moments, her fingers anxiously digging into her palms. As if at any moment it’d reappear and shoot him right back out. That’d be her luck, wouldn’t it? But that moment never came and she was eager to get away from the three sets of eyes around her. “Thank you,” she finally mustered, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes before she turned to face them again. She owed them more than she could properly communicate right now, hoping the sincerity in her voice would speak for her. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. It’s a start, anyway,” she mustered a half smile. Let a long breath go as her mind only just began to wrap around what had just happened. Then she stopped, her entire body sagging as her eyes fell to the blood streaming along the floor, leading to the small deceased moose still very much dead in the middle of the room. “...You guys are gonna take him with you, right?”

#wickedswriting #chatzy #chatzy: morgan #chatzy: becca #chatzy: nell #once more with feeling #aka the yeeting of the living dad

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endlesstalesofwonder · 6 years ago

Text

The Place of Wonder

As the man restocked the shelves, he found himself thinking about the ridiculousness of opening the shop in the first place. It had been left to rot and be broken into by the local homeless people, abandoned by the stores flanking either side as they had taken all the room they had wanted and left the remaining space of a decent walk-in closet. The man, no doubt, had made it work.

With a little magic, of course. (It was bigger on the inside. Sue him.)

It was something of an inside joke-slash-trap. Very little costumers ever realized the shift in dimensional spacing. It was the Others — the Supes, as his best friend had called them once, before becoming one of them — that noticed and called the man out. It made for an easier business transaction. The man would hold nothing back in making the customer whatever they wanted; A potion for remedying hair loss; An ale for faking the stomach flu — it was very popular in the fall season, especially during finals week; Blessed silver chains that helped resist the call of the moon; Chicken bones laced with monkshood to help urges of hunger.

Wednesdays were the most active. It was something in the water or in the air that made the people flock to the business.

Or the fact that he knew a leprechaun that owed him a favor and a focusing charm stuck to the back of his calendar.

The week before the full moon was also the busiest. Wolves ranked as his best customers — including what he deemed as the “cousins”: coyotes, foxes, and hellhounds. Plus the occasional jaguar. Following were the Fae (faeries), incubi, then vampires.

The man made sure to set all of his clocks — an entire wall’s worth of space, each one designated to a certain species and location — to remind him of the coming time of the month.

Which was today.

The clocks began to go off. A chill ran down his spine as a soft bell was swallowed by the sound of different screeching alarms and whistles. The jars went flying. The man went falling. Everything went to shit in a manner of seconds.

But the man didn’t hit the floor. No jars were shattered. The clocks were still ringing.

The man looked up to find another, his stubbled jaw square and dark eyebrow quirked into an odd judgmental curl. The jars were frozen around them, some of their contents also frozen, spilling from their containers. It only took one too many falls to cast a protection against accidents just like this. Especially if they happen more than three times a day.

“Welcome to The Place. Can I help you?”

Square-Jaw dropped him.

He’d never say that he swore in front of a customer. (But he did.)

The other man’s face was still screwed up as though he was carrying a lemon in his mouth and trying to conceal it. His eyes flicked from him to the wall.

Oh. The screaming. The man stood, albeit was a challenge without help, then slammed his fist into the wall. Like a ripple effect, each clock silenced and left the men in complete silence.

“Can I help you,” he repeated with a little more smile and I’m-sorry-you-had-to-see-that-Let’s-forget-it-ever-happened.

Square-Jaw crossed his arms, rose the eyebrow even higher suggesting, I’m-not-forgetting-that-awfully-embarassing-fall-and-damsel-catch-so-long-as-I-have-power-over-you.

Damn, he thought. He busied himself with grabbing the jars left in the air and returning them to their rightful place on their respective shelves. The one clock, with a cartoon cat stretched so its tail became the pendulum, gave him an apologetic smile and shrug.

Thanks. For nothing.

“I need a pair of manacles that could be worn out in public, but still have the restraint and control of a normal set.”

Wolf. The witch turned around, slowly descending from his height on the ladder. The man certainly didn’t look like a new-turn. The wolf under his skin felt old, trained, protective. Born. Alpha.

He hadn’t had an Alpha in the store in a while. He was out of practice in the traditions of deals and trades. To hell with them.

“Male or female?” How was it even possible to hike an eyebrow up higher than it already was condescending him. The witch crossed his arms. “I need to know for the shape of the binding. Bangles look better on women. Cuff bracelets are rather neutral, but I can wrap them in leather strips to personalize them for the wearer.”

Ha. Wearer. Were-r. He thought he was funny.

“Stick with the neutral. I don’t need any backlash for getting the wrong thing for the wrong person.”

The witch shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

He walked to the main counter in the back of the shop, the wolf close at his heels but not too close. Caging a magician in his own workplace was asking for a curse or misplaced misfortune spell.

The man plucked out a pen from his pocket — he’d enchanted the damn things after losing and buying too many replacements — and his schedule planner appeared, open in front of him. “I can definitely have the pair done before the full moon, possibly in two days — three if you want leather.”

“Why?”

“I buy and prep the material myself. Removing the scents from the leather is best to help with claiming certain objects as theirs, especially within larger packs.”

“No.”

He stopped writing, drawing out an exasperated sigh of What-do-you-mean-no-Do-you-want-the-damn-things-or-not.

“I can bring you the leather. You won’t have to worry about the scenting, except for your own.”

“I have—” special gloves for these kinds of things, I’m not an amateur, he wanted to say. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And I’ll need four pairs.”

Sweet Gods, the witch thought. “You’ll be pushing more towards the moon.”

“That won’t be an issue.”

The witch tapped his pen against the table. Click-ClickClick-Click-Click-ClickClickClick — The wolf caught the pen and his hand. The heat from his grip, and overall excessive body temperature, made him want to push his own fire into the touch. His magic, however, wanted to do nothing. Content.

He gulped. “I’ll need a name. For the order. And a number.” For the order.

“Hale. Derek Hale.,” he barked out, followed by a series of numbers that were atrociously arranged but easy to remember. Forever.

“I’ll call when the order is—” The front door rang. The wolf was gone. “—Ready. Way to go, Stiles.”

It took two days to shape the iron into the cuffs and another two to bless them. Stiles sat on his ass and watered the plants in the front window, which started whistling at passing people to get them to come in or at least give them attention, waiting for ‘Hale’ to show up with the leather for his own order. He should have denied the request, but who was he to deny the opportunity to spend less money?

He waited the full work day, inching closer to flipping the sign and getting the hell out of there, when the door chimed. A beautiful woman, almost equally beautiful as Square-Jaw-Hale, stood there with a cardboard Vans box. Everything about her screamed wolf, from her glinting smile to the wicked gleam in her eye. Her wolf did nothing to conceal itself. It pranced around wanting to be noticed, even flashing its eyes at the witch.

“Can I help you?”

She scanned him, all too obviously and stalling in all the wrong-right-places. Particularly, his face. His eyes. “These are for you.”

Stiles took the box from her, expecting a bomb or at the very least an enchanted can-of-worms trick. Instead, there were worn strips of leather in various sizes and lengths. The collective energy of the pieces made him think of a large home, adored, an even larger family, connected. Hale did well.

“Thanks.”

“I should be thanking you…” She leaned forward, squinting at the small badge on his shirt. “Stiles.”

Stiles quirked his eyebrow. Hale was getting to him and he’d only been there for a few minutes.

“Laura,” the woman offered in return, along with a hand. “Hale.”

“Ah. Makes sense.” The wolf did feel familiar, similar in some ways and different in others. She was an Alpha as well, but looser yet firm. There was a hidden strength to her that she wanted to keep that way. “Tell him thanks. Again.”

The woman turned on her heel, giving a half-assed salute on her way out.

Even the plants turned to watch her as she left. The Valley Lilies looked as confused as Stiles did. He flipped the sign on the door to Closed and buried himself in the back room to finish the damn order for the damn Derek Hale.

The clocks on the wall liked to taunt him. Some of them liked to rearrange their numbers and make Stiles freak out over missing his lunch break or not closing on time. Others tried bending their numbers to spell out certain messages that customers should not be able to read in public establishments. There was a collectible clock that his grandfather had given to him as a kid with a pair of parrots in the center sitting on a branch. They softly sang every hour and half-hour. They screeched when Stiles needed to clean their glass so they could see the customers better. He was cleaning said glass when they started to sing — nay, scream for their lives — sending Stiles, once again, to the mercy of the floor — And into the hands of another man.

Stiles looked up — “We have to stop meeting like this.”

The man dropped him. Again. This time, there was a little push just to make it hurt more. Not that he’d ever win that argument with the wolf.

Stiles got himself to his elbows, already winded. “I told you to come by tomorrow.”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

The clock chimed overhead: cuckoo, cuckoo. “Liar.” He didn’t need the clock to know that.

Derek stared at the wall as though they had personally offended him. Which, they had. Very personally. He crossed his arms over his chest — How many times can a man do that before popping or ripping something?

He cleared his throat. “Just give me the damn bracelets.”

Stiles jumped to his feet in one swoop. “Why, Derek, we haven’t discussed the matter of payment.”

“Money isn’t an issue.”

“Establishments like this,” he gestured to the room for dramatic effect, but the wolf simply growled, “don’t normally take money.”

“So, what do you want? Blood? My first born?”

“Geez, what kind of witches do you deal with?” The young witch huffed, leading the man to the back counter once again. He reached beneath the tabletop and retrieved the same Vans box that had been delivered to him, opening and showcasing the items like prized jewels.

Derek nodded. “Then what do you want?”

It seemed like anything was on the table with the man, short of murder and dressing up in the cotton-tail-bunny costume from A Christmas Story. “Well, I’ll give you a choice. You can either pay me in 10 happy memories—” The man took a sharp inhale. “—Or you can go on a date with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“A date.” Stiles didn’t want to be the one to assume, but the man must have had one or at the very least heard of the word before. “Two people. Possibly a movie and some snacks, or if dinner if more your style, we could share a plate of spaghetti—”

“Does it have to be 10?”

“Hey.” Stiles frowned. “Is a date so bad?”

Finally, his eyebrows lowered in a not-quite-menacing-but-I’m-trying-to-prove-a-point glare. “I’m not good with… people.”

“I’m a hot mess on two left feet.” Stiles pointed to the damn shelving unit that was the cause of the whole ordeal. “People aren’t my strong suit either. I do make a mean steak.”

Derek did this thing with his mouth, curling and pouting in this contemplative should-I-even-consider-doing-this shape, then picked up the box of cuffs. “So long as it’s not spaghetti.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s not a no.” His eyes scanned over his face, stopping at his cheeks, nose, then lips. “Tomorrow. Seven.”

Like an ass in a romance film, he turned on his heel and made for the door. Stiles squawked, climbing over the counter instead of simply walking around it. He wasn’t one for clear thinking. Clearly.

“Tomorrow’s the full moon.” Don’t you need to be with your pack came out as, “Will you need those cuffs?”

The wolf stopped short of the door, hand posed on the glass. “Don’t worry.” The man turned over his shoulder, eyes burning red and grinning feral but very, very much in control. Stiles lost his breath. “I’ve got plenty of control.”

The clocks stopped ticking. The plants stood at tip-top shape. One of the jaws of the channeling dolls dropped wide open.

The wolf smirked. “See you tomorrow, Stiles.”

The store was still when the man left, the door shuddering in his wake. Nothing wanted to move first before Stiles could put himself back together in a decently functioning being. He pounded his fist in the center of his chest, muttered a prayer, and made sure to touch and brush past every talisman of good luck on his way to the back room. He’d need it.

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cupofteaguk · 7 years ago

Text

see you soon

summary: in which you live in a world where one stroke of a pen against your skin is a signage of forever, and Min Yoongi just has really good timing

pairing: yoongi x fem!reader

genre: soulmate au (the one where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker, it will show up on your soulmate’s skin as well) | fluff/angst

warnings: some slow burn, a side jungkook/reader relationship

word count: 7k

The first time images appear on your skin, you are 12 and have absolutely no idea why. Questions spring up in your mind like wildfire—alarming and so completely out of your control that you perform what could only be politely labeled as a scream before you dash to the bathroom, rubbing roughly at the skin of your arm until the flesh turns bright red. The marks, however, do not fade away.

Taking in a few sharp inhales, you collect your thoughts long enough to carefully study the marks that have been embedded into your skin—ink underneath the flesh that you carefully run your finger across. The end product looks to be a night sky along your forearm. There is a half-crescent moon and lazy stars dancing across the way; twinkling lines and hazy shapes and thick lines like they had been drawn with a sharpie.

For some odd reason, the longer you stare at the drawing, you don’t feel the panic settling back into your nerves. Rather, you feel more calm, peaceful, as if staring at the face of familiarity, like these drawings of half-crescent moons and 6 pointed stars genuinely mean something to you. Or at least, they hold enough significance that you don’t scream or continue trying to rub away the spots.

Your mother comes bounding into the room shortly after, startled by your scream until she sees the source of your apprehension and her lips curl up into a soft and understanding smile. It is right then and there, when she takes your arm, soothingly running her thumb up and down the expanse of the night sky that she spins the narrative of fate, destiny, and the universe.

She tells you that the moment people are born, they are instantly bound with another, tied together by some predetermined string, gifting you with someone you are meant to spend the rest of your life with. Someone who fit against every curve, someone who loved you in every aspect no matter what. Someone who would look at you, and you could just feel the weight of their stares like none other—set all your nerves on fire with just a single touch, leave you knowing without a doubt that that person was the one you were meant to spend your life with.

Your soulmate. Your other half.

A chill goes down your spine, already feeling the impending weight of infinity resting on your shoulders. Forever has always been some concept you grappled with ever since you got old enough to understand such an idea. It’s not something you can claim to completely comprehend, but you know a suitable amount to know that forever, in the sense of sharing your entire life with another person, is still an awfully long period of time.

Your mother says that soulmates are connected through the passage of ink against skin, ballpoint pens, sharpies, any kind of writing applicator—anything you wrote on your flesh would show up along the skin of your soulmate in the same place as if they had written it themselves. It would show up just as darkly or lightly, fading away gradually, mirroring the state of the ink, sharing that with your other half.

Rested with this new knowledge, you turn back to study the marks of sharpies, shaky lines of moons and stars, and your heart beats just a little bit quicker, now in complete understanding that the one who had drawn these in the first place is your soulmate. You hold your breath as your eyes trace over the marks, questions arising in your mind like flowers in spring. It’s unsettling to know that your soulmate drew these, intimate to know that he is close yet so far away from your grasp. You know absolutely nothing about him, yet there is a reassurance you get in knowing that there is someone out in the vast world who you are connected with. Literally.

When your mother leaves the room, you hastily grab your own sharpie, readying the tip along the skin to ask the millions of questions that have plagued your mind since acquiring this new information. However, before you can will yourself to start writing something, you freeze halfway, the fear coursing through your blood. For some reason, it doesn’t feel right to ask so much of your soulmate. It’s already intimate enough to know that you both essentially share the same skin. It feels intrusive to ask questions, to try and interact with the person on the other side; so much so that you retract the pen from your skin, resting it on the table, eyes continuing to stare at the drawing, and you let yourself wonder.

Four years later, Min Yoongi is seated in class, the sleeve of his sweater rolled up to his elbow, his eyes fixated intensely on the skin of his arm as he watches lines being drawn along his forearm, around his wrist, pieces of flowers and leaves and vines collecting together, tracing over the other. Pops of blue and red and green would occasionally be shaded in between the lines, formulated with so much craft and attention to detail that Yoongi allows his lips to be curled up into a rare, fond smile.

Although he’s known about the concept and connection of soulmates from a young age, after watching his happy and very much in love parents show off the gift that only two halves of a whole could undergo—in which they would take turns drawing flowers on their skin and Yoongi could watch with wide-eyed amazement as the flower would magically appear along the other person’s skin as well—he didn’t actually see the effects happen on himself until the late age of fourteen. Up until then, he had worried endlessly, thinking perhaps he had been a glitch in the system. Wondering if perhaps his own drawings of night skies and pathetic scribbles had just faded away, drawn out for only him to see.

Or, even worse, his soulmate had taken note of how bad a drawer he was, and wanted to opt out of the system simply by refusing to take part in the connection that made them a whole.

It had been a long and concerning 2 years for Yoongi, looking over his arms and legs for something, any sign that he wouldn’t have to face life entirely on his own.

But he remembers that night better than he remembers most days, the night it showed up. 14 years old, lying atop his mattress, reading a book, before the flickering of something captured his attention. It took him a second to process the lines sketching over the skin of his inner wrist, but after a moment it was unmistakeable.

His soulmate had finally decided to show herself.

So overcome with excitement and joy, Yoongi could barely find it in himself to look away as he watched the tip of a ballpoint pen trace over his skin, the lines rough but moving with a practiced grace across his skin as he continues to devote 110% of his attention to seeing the finished product.

It looks to be a flower of some kind, with multiple petals springing up and curling around the center; the drawing looks three-dimensional, side profile, resting on a straight line drawn underneath the flower.

At once, Yoongi had sprung out of his bed, dashing down the stairs, chanting his mother’s name like a mantra before she finally appeared. He shoved the drawing of the flower to her face, asking over and over again with an excited edge about what kind of flower it could possibly be.

His mother was quiet for a moment, his wrist gently in the palm of her hand, eyes tracing across the surface, before she smiles with so much pride and admiration that his heart swells. “Yoongi, this is a lotus flower. Your soulmate is very talented.”

“What does it mean?” He asked.

“I believe most cultures think of the lotus as a sign of purity.”

Yoongi nodded, eyes unable to look away from the flower along his inner wrist. His fingers traced over the design, smiling so wide that his eyes crinkled because he doesn’t even know the name of his soulmate, yet he knows that he’s already quite fond of her.

As the two more years go by, and fourteen turns to fifteen and fifteen turns to sixteen, the lotus isn’t the only thing he realizes you know how to draw. Just like flowers in general, he watches you grow before his very eyes, drawing fields of flowers along his forearm, sunflowers and daisies and roses of all different sizes and shapes and heights. The drawings evolve into forests, dragons, and enchanted gardens—all across the forearm: from the wrist to the elbow. Sometimes, you’d color in certain details to bring the pieces to life more and Yoongi loves it. He doesn’t tell anyone, but it must be obvious with the way he stops everything just to catch a glimpse of what surprises you’re decorating your skin with each and every passing day.

He hears music in the breeze you bring from the sky and the winds, the taps of a hummingbird’s wings, a piano in the meadows and fields and grassy lines you doodle, the rays of sunlight like fire to his nerves.

And your drawings have only become more and more intricate, easily becoming Yoongi’s favorite part of the day no matter what he’s doing. The more times he watches you draw, the more he becomes curious about who you are, where you learned to draw and why you are so invested on so much detail. It’s hard not to wonder about your life, besides from the fact that you are indeed his soulmate, his other half—you are, after all, drawing on his arm most days of the week.

Nobody even dares try to figure out how many times Yoongi has tried to reach out to you through the only means of communication he has to you, how many times he’s tried to pick up his own pen and write out questions about your name or your life, but Yoongi is nothing besides a bundle nerves and a hesitancy, a dim fear in the wind that if he goes around asking for your name—things would be different. It would be like breaching this wall of observation, and he doesn’t want to picture a future without your drawings. He is already gifted with a partner in which he calms down from the mere lines of black along his skin, the poetic strips that dash through his mind at the sight of your flowers or birds or skies.

Suddenly taken by a strange desire, one he has only felt before in much smaller doses, he grabs his pen and slides the cap off the top. He continues to look at a backyard garden you are drawing atop the skin, feeling this surge of… something under his skin, a deep desire, a line appearing in his mind like patches of grass springing up during the end of winter.

So taken by his idea, he presses the tip of the pen to the palm of his hand.

I’d touch the sky and cross the field/If you were waiting on the other side

The drawing of the garden falters momentarily and Yoongi almost curses his reckless thinking for sharing this little poem—even though you had been the one to inspire it—that he does not notice how quiet the room has become until the teacher clears her throat. He is greeted with 30 pairs of eyes glued on him, and he flushes to the hairline.

“S-Sorry,” He stammers, tossing the pen onto the table, lowering his arm and tugging the sleeve back over the skin, hiding the world in which he can fall in love with someone the fates have gifted him with.

“Min Yoongi, if it’s so easy for you to become distracted in my class, then perhaps it shouldn’t be hard for you to explain what could possibly be so interesting about your arm.”

“It’s drawings from his soulmate!” His table partner and close friend (to the extent that can be shared between 2 people within a foot of proximity to each other every single day) Jung Hoseok exclaims, bright smile upon his face and classmates and peers hum and nod in excitement.

Something in the teacher’s eyes glint, and although she doesn’t look as stern she still doesn’t look impressed. “If you paid attention to my lectures with half the effort you spend thinking about your soulmate, you might be doing better in my class, Min Yoongi.”

Yoongi is so red he looks and feels like a tomato, burying his head deeply into his arms when light-hearted chuckles sound through the room. Hoseok is patting him good-naturedly on the shoulder but Yoongi ignores this gesture.

It’s the first time he ever uses the word fuck to describe his situation.

And it most certainly won’t be the last.

You are seventeen years old and absolutely, maddeningly, horribly in love with Jeon Jungkook. You’re both seniors now, having known each other since you shared Chemistry class during junior year, just waiting for the next chapter of your lives to take you far away.

Relationships work in very odd and unusual ways, especially given the extent of your circumstances and the world in which you’ve been born into. Here, everything is predetermined and when you were younger you use to praise the system. The previous idea of having certain aspects of your life already figured out stood as a blessing to you, just another part you didn’t need to worry about or spend much time pondering over possible what if scenarios. You use to be certain about the system, believing in it, hoping that if you waited long enough your soulmate would appear right before your eyes and everything would be okay again.

Well, it turns out that your twelve-year-old self was painfully naive (as twelve-year-old children should have been, you don’t feel the weight of the world quite yet resting on your shoulders in middle school) and also a source of your unrealistic fantasies. Maybe you’re just impatient, so eager to just go on and meet the boy who drew the night sky on your arm, who drew unknown shapes and scribbles that made you laugh, who wrote that two-lined poem that made your heart stop for one split second.

Maybe you are somewhat spiteful, but for good reasons.

But when you meet Jungkook at the tender age of 16, you fall and you fall desperately hard and for the first time since you unveiled a world of soulmates and the same ink upon 2 completely different skins, you immediately knew you would hate the system. The system, as predetermined and anxiety-free as it may seem leaves you with choking worry and fear crawling at your insides every time you look at Jungkook—because what if he is not your soulmate.

He might not be. He might not be the boy you were born into sharing your life with, and the constant itch you get in the back of your mind over this dilemma does nothing to ease the ball of anxiety constantly eating away at your stomach.

But still, you decide for once that you’re going to allow yourself to be selfish. You let Jungkook take your hand in his, you let him kiss you under the moonlight and on top of city glimmers, you let him whisper I love you in your ear atop the mattress of his bed during the hazy night and the promise of morning the last thing on your mind.

You whisper it back, because every nerve in your body, every piece of your beating heart truly does love him. Jungkook has always been more than everything you could ever ask for—he’s kind and considerate, ambitious and passionate, selfless and snarky, who wouldn’t want to be Jungkook’s soulmate? You don’t think you’ve ever yearned for someone as strongly as you yearn for Jungkook, and that should be enough of a reason to remain confident in the likely chance he could be your soulmate.

In spite of that, you refuse to write on your hand anymore, the pen no longer touching your skin, intricate gardens and flowers and dragons no longer seeing the animation of being brought to life, not sure you could handle the possibility of not seeing those same gardens and flowers and dragons on Jungkook’s arm.

I’d touch the sky and cross the field/If you were waiting on the other side

You never bring this up to Jungkook, which is odd considering that it’s always on your mind, the words of your soulmate replaying over and over again like a drum and probably the best means to confirm if Jungkook is your soulmate or not. But, again, the rejection and the humiliation and the agony that is sure to follow would be entirely too unpleasant if Jungkook had indeed never written you that poem.

So you never talk about it, and Jungkook never talks about it either.

You believed that soulmates and not seeing your words on Jungkook’s skin would never end up being a bother until one morning, when you are dangerously late for school and in your haste you realize you have forgotten to print one of your essays for English—a feat that leaves you so panicked that you whip out a pen and write: IMPORTANT, print English essay during lunch!!!! in the palm of your hand.

School five minutes before the bell signalling the start is as hectic as ever, but you somehow manage to find Jungkook in front of his locker, producing the textbooks he’ll need for his first class. He catches sight of you out of the corner of his eye, before he whirls around and gives you a bright smile, one that you easily return as he laces your hands together and leans forward to give you a kiss.

“Morning,” He says, mouth still hovering inches above yours.

“Mm, morning,” You say back, eyes narrow and lips curling up into a smile. “Get all your work done?”

“Surprisingly, I did,” Jungkook replies, slamming his locker shut before the pair of you quickly make your way to your locker before school starts. “Got college applications in and finished all my homework. All before 4AM.”

“Wow, impressive.” You nod in agreement as you stop and untangle your fingers from Jungkook’s to spin the dial unlocking your locker. You fling it open to reveal books, papers, and polaroid photos of Jungkook and a mixture of all your other friends—everyone looks so bright-eyed and happy, genuine smiles upon their faces and the sight momentarily makes you forget your problems and worries and concerns. “I barely got any sleep last night. Probably why I woke up so late.”

“Poor baby,” Jungkook hums sympathetically, watching you carefully as you slip your backpack off your shoulders and shove it into your locker before fishing out the books you need for your first class.

As your left hand comes out to grab at your math textbook, the words of your reminder on your palm flash into your line of sight and without a warning, you slam it onto the bottom of your locker. You are suddenly hit with the note of what you had written no less than 10 minutes ago, how you had swore to yourself you would not dare write something on your skin again—not here, especially with Jungkook no more than a few feet away. What if he sees, what if he sees and finds that your handwriting is not embezzled in his own palm? You don’t think you could take something so painful on such a seemingly average Tuesday morning.

Jungkook perks slightly at your sudden movement. “Everything okay?”

“Uh—yeah, sorry. My hand slipped,” You say with an easy breeze, stacking your books underneath your left arm so your left hand with the note would be preoccupied.

Jungkook seems to think nothing of this because he merely shrugs and throws an arm over your shoulder to walk you to your first place. You’re on his left side, left arm draped over, left hand oh-so-close to your face, all you have to do is crane your head just a little to get the answer to all your questions.

But you can’t do it, vouching to keep your eyes trained ahead as Jungkook goes on about his latest TV show obsession. It would be so easy, just the quick flicker of your eyes along the opened palm of his left hand to know, to understand and reveal everything. Your heart is pounding with fear, your fingers tightening their grip around your textbooks—and Jungkook, so naive and has absolutely no clue, bless his heart—remains oblivious to it all.

You and Jungkook reach the outside of your classroom right when the tardy bell starts, meaning you and Jungkook are officially late for first period. But neither of you care, as Jungkook tightens his hold around you momentarily in the form of a quick hug before he pulls back.

And that’s when you see it: his left palm just before he retracts away from you, the skin.

It’s blank. Absolutely blank.

You hastily uncurl your left palm, barely catching the ink before Jungkook’s stare solidifies your attention on him again. “See you for lunch,” He says, leaning forward to give you a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling back and dashing down the hallway. You barely process him leaving, barely process anything at all because your mind is reeling with this horrible mixture of dread and realization. Jungkook is not your soulmate, even though every fiber, every nerve in your body believed so strongly that he could be—with the exception of that little part in your mind who planted the thought of him not being your soulmate.

You don’t know how long it’ll take you to crack, but it apparently doesn’t take long because you are at his house exactly 2 days later, drumming your fingers along your side, feeling entirely too selfish about keeping this information from Jungkook. He has every right to know. Even though you’ve been a mess of an individual since the day of the discovery, it’s not moral to keep such important news from him in spite of how little you two have talked about this type of thing.

Jungkook opens the door, eyes momentarily bright at the sight of you, pupils dimming a little when he takes in your trouble expression—which must be painfully obvious, given that Jungkook hasn’t always been the best at reading the story behind your eyes. “(Y/N), what’s wrong?”

You look up at him. “I need to talk to you,” You say in a serious voice, realizing how dreadful you must sound. You hadn’t slept properly since that day. “It’s a little important.”

Jungkook is much more alert now, and although he doesn’t say anything he does open the door wider for you to step through. You enter the living room, knowing that both his parents and brother are out for the remainder of the afternoon. Taking in a deep breath, you whirl around to find Jungkook staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights. “Are you happy with me?” You ask suddenly, so abruptly that Jungkook just furrows his eyebrows together.

“O-Of course I am,” He says simply, as if you have just asked the dumbest question in the book. Which, in a sense, you have, and you know it’s a stupid thing to start off with but you desperately need to know. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Even if,” You interrupt, refusing to answer his question completely yet. “Even if we’re not soulmates?”

It’s the first time in a very long time that you bring up the topic of soulmates, and under such a serious context too. Jungkook still doesn’t look like he understands, so he just shakes his head. “How would you know that? Neither of us have written anything on our hands—and why should that even matter? It’s just some stupid system created by really stupid people who didn’t know any better.” He pauses. “Either way, why wouldn’t you be my soulmate?” His frown softens. “I believe what we share is special.”

“It is,” You tack on hastily. “It’s really, really special to me too, Jungkook. And important. You mean so much to me, otherwise I would never have agreed to go out with you.”

He shrugs. “So what’s the problem then?”

You take in a breath before rolling up your sleeve and gesturing for Jungkook to do the same. He looks hesitant, as if he’s had a little inkling in the back of his own mind that you aren’t his destiny either, but he follows through. You rest your arms on the table, side-by-side, and you grab the sharpie on the table.

I’m sorry Jungkook

Even though you already know what to expect, you still find the tears willing up in your eyes when you turn to find that Jungkook’s own forearm is completely bare, not even the slightly case to indicate he’s received any of your message.

Jungkook is speechless, eyes wide with absolute horror as he continues to take in the sight of his arm, as if staring at it long enough will make the words on your skin magically transfer onto his. But it’s not how destiny works, it’s not how this stupid system of soulmates work, so naturally it does not work.

“I’m so sorry Jungkook.”

Jungkook turns to look at you, and you see your own pain reflected in his eyes. Because even if you and Jungkook believe, believe with every fiber in your beings, that what you have is right; fate says it’s wrong, and it’ll never be right. Not to you, anyways. Especially not now, when you know your soulmate is out there, waiting for you. And Jungkook’s soulmate is somewhere too. They’re both waiting across the shore with arms opened wide, waiting to treat you and Jungkook better than you and Jungkook can treat each other.

But letting go hurts like absolute hell, and you think that maybe you’ll never really be the same anymore.

Jungkook lets you leave shortly after, a lingering touch on each other’s forearm and the whispers that you are just so so sorry, as if it’s your fault you and Jungkook are not soulmates, as if it’s your fault you couldn’t make destinies intertwine no matter how badly you want it. You leave with tears in your eyes, rubbing at the I’m sorry Jungkook on your arm.

You get into your car, leaning against the steering wheel and taking a few very deep yet unsatisfying breaths of air. You suddenly feel very alone, very hurt, completely unsure what you’re supposed to do now, frustration building up that this soulmate business has to be so complicated when it can be so simple.

The sudden writing on your forearm, right below the I’m sorry Jungkook, is creating a message. A message from your soulmate, who has gone radio silence for nearly as long as you had been.

I hope you find what you’re looking for/Because you have a right to think about your future/Even if that future doesn’t (and can’t) involve him/Just know/That I’ll be there, always lingering, always a part of you/And I promise we’ll see each other soon

In spite of the dread and apprehension and anxiety coursing through your system at the recent turn of events, something about this message and what it holds and how it had happened at such the right time, you laugh in an exhale, choking on your tears as they continue to stream past your cheeks. You press your palm against your mouth to muffle your sobs, shutting your eyes tightly as the tears continue to come out with no end in sight.

You may not know your soulmate—but whoever he is and wherever he may be, you thank him.

Min Yoongi is twenty years old when he realizes he wants to become a song lyricist. It’s not half as bad of a job as people make it out to be, and he’s good at it, even he spends more time than he would like to admit hunching over a notebook and sacrificing hours of sleep and time for studying on mixing up tracks and beats on his laptop. It doesn’t help that inspiration always seems to hit him in the place he thought he would no longer find joy and this complete need to drop everything just to see the end.

For starters, his soulmate starts drawing again. It had been the weirdest year of Yoongi’s life, because he remembers the last drawing you made for him before the silence ensured. It had been a halo of leaves atop of a little girl’s head, her eyes looking up, fingers grazing the crown, lips curling up into a smile. And it had all stopped.

During the first week, Yoongi thought nothing of it until weeks turned into months and he realized that perhaps you really weren’t going to come back.

The desire to grab and pen and ask about your whereabouts became as strong as ever during that time, because you dropped cold turkey on him and he had absolutely no idea why. Millions of thoughts would spring up in his mind, none of his thoughts leaving him with a feeling of satisfaction because most of them involved his soulmate growing bored, frustrated that years of commitments to drawings would heed no response. But he always grew too scared, too worried about what would happen if he wrote questions to you that the fear would cripple him, stop him from letting too much out into the open.

And you never seemed too keen on trying to get answers, so he never tried.

Until that one afternoon—Yoongi had been in front of his laptop trying to write up an essay when it happened. Much like all those years ago, the lines of a sharpie magically start to appear on his skin, and his heart jumps because it’s been a year and—!

I’m sorry Jungkook

He blinks, staring at how slowly the words had been written, as if you were trying to prove a point, as if—!

Oh.

Everything clicks in Yoongi’s mind. He may not know who this Jungkook is, but he can feel the pain in your writing, the words and the unbearable realization that this Jungkook was soulmate you wanted. He feels lot of things in this moment, mainly annoyance and hurt and pain, but also a subtle understanding that sometimes the system is unfair. He feels your pain and he understands, even though he himself has yet to fall in love, yet to be torn away from someone just because the universe likes to hold up two middle fingers to people who think they might have a chance against this.

So he clicks on his pen, willing himself to write something, anything, to get you through this. He may not know you, he may not know anything about you, yet his heart yearns for you, understands you, wants you to be okay, knows that you are stronger than anyone else he’s ever known in his life.

I hope you find what you’re looking for/Because you have a right to think about your future/Even if that future doesn’t (and can’t) involve him/Just know/That I’ll be there, always lingering, always apart of you/And I promise we’ll see each other soon

The drawings come back days later, still filled with pain and sorrow and heartbeat—he can feel the edgy lines of daggers into his own skin, hitting his own nerves.

The drawings continue into college, which is where Yoongi finds himself now. He’s a third year attending one of the bigger universities in the city where he likes to spend his days wandering around. He finds that inspiration for his lyrics come in the most unlikely of places, from the architecture to the parks to the landscapes. But in spite of all of that, no inspiration hits him as hard as the feelings he gets, the strong emotions that lure him in with the promise of beautiful words, when he sees that you are preparing another drawing for him. He hopes that wherever you may be right now, you’re as happy as the drawings you make this time. They’re mostly the same sketches you made when you were both in high school, except with more details and now they stretch down to the tips of his fingers.

It’s almost like this unspoken little exchange between the two of you—you would draw something on one arm, and Yoongi would write song lyrics, poems, lines on the other.

Your presence lingers by me, feeling like a distant land/One I can’t travel through because I know not the path/But one I hope will be familiar in the future

Our words and lines are created only to fade/And when it goes, they take our thoughts our emotions our history with it/Blurring away at the flesh/And in the end/The only way to savor is to remember

We live in a quickly changing world/And we change just as quickly

He finds peace in the corner bookstores, dark trenches of the library and the dark edges of the campus that no one dare trek, music he’s just made in his ear and his pen tapping against the notebook to the sound of the beat. On rare occasions, you and him would share those same flashes of time in which to express creative desires. You’d draw lakes and meadows, moonlight shimmering against the edge of an ocean, vast fields of flowers and endless skyscrapers that touch the clouds high above.

He doesn’t know who you are, but he hopes you are close, and he hopes that you are happy. He really does.

You find employment at the corner coffee shop during college at the age of twenty, having worked other small jobs around the campus during the first two years. You like to keep busy in spite of your classes and homework and essays and outside activities you occupy yourself with. It’s nice to have a job, nice to have some source of income that helps pay for your books or school materials or even part of the tuition your parents keep insisting on covering for you. It’s nice to be independent, not you haven’t already been for a few years now.

But still, working at the coffee shop isn’t necessarily a bad place to be. Your coworkers are nice, your manager is an absolute joy, and the tips are unbelievable—“It’s because you started to work here, we have been getting more popular since your employment, you know,” Your manager would say with a wink, one you would immediately rebuff and turn bright red at because you would never imagine such a thing.

Another thing about employing at a coffee shop are the hectic hours. It’s either really really crowded or not crowded at all. It is worse during the midterm and finals session, when everyone is just so desperate to keep awake and alive for more than 10 seconds.

But today is a quiet day, and those are your favorites because you get to joke around with your coworkers and that’s when he usually comes out to strike. It’s when you enjoy leaning against the counter, rolling up your sleeves just in time to see him writing something.

You don’t know who your soulmate is, but he has an amazing way with words, always recording poems inspired by your drawings along your arm, matching the feeling of your drawing with the combination of different letters you could never so eloquently express yourself.

Your heart beats faster at the words and you don’t know what it means, why you feel so strongly for a person you’ve never met before. You know that there should be a part of you that already loves your soulmate—they are, after all, the other half to you—but it feels like a different kind of love, beyond the unconditional kind. It feels romantic, admirable, a distant fondness as you trace your finger over the words, knowing that they are only meant for you to read.

We live in a quickly changing world/And we change just as quickly

You make me feel like I am everything/Teaching me to be the universe/Drawing me the stars and galaxies beyond/All along the palm of my hand

This is only a field of flowers rippling in the wind/But like morning light like it scatters the night/To make the day worth living

You don’t know who your soulmate is, but he has amazing timing.

One of the most memorable times you think will always been engraved into your mind had been one of those hectic mornings, when your manager needed you to show up to work 30 minutes earlier to get open up (which had been 6 in the morning after you were just starting to close your eyes at 5:30 after finishing another late night shift the night before, juggling classes and essays during the whole process). You don’t like to put up a lot of labels about bad days, but that day had been bad. You got coffee all over your shirt and one customer had been entirely too rude to you, clearly suffering caffeine withdrawals.

You took refuge in the back room during your 15 minutes break, sliding down against the wall and burying your head into your arms, heart pounding, senses heightening, praying for the spinning of the room to stop for just a moment.

As you were beginning to pull your head from your arms, you look down and see the lines of a sharpie beginning to etch itself into your skin, and you hastily wipe at your brief tears of frustration, because how on earth does he do that?

Swinging wild swinging free/Don’t you worry my dear/I will always be there

Don’t you worry my dear

I will always be there

You manage a shakily smile as you lean forward to press your lips against the skin of the words, trying to convey all your thanks, your gratefulness, your appreciation into a gesture your soulmate on the other side would never know about. “Thank you.”

It’s a bitter winter morning, just a few weeks away from Christmas, meaning that tensions run high with the impending doom of finals approaching the students. The atmosphere is quiet, much quieter than Yoongi is use to, but he doesn’t see himself complaining. He actually enjoys peace more than hectic noise, which is why he probably finds it much easier to step out in public and takes joy in spending mornings underneath trees or along the grassy backdrop.

Or the corner coffee shop, which he decides to risk today. He doesn’t make normal trips to this shop, mainly because of how chaotic it can become around this time of the school year. Surprisingly enough, however, the chain is empty save for a few students scattered about with headphones or laptops to convey their distraction. Light Christmas music plays overhead, loud enough to be calming, not not enough to be annoying.

It’s absolutely perfect.

He approaches the girl behind the counter, who currently looks occupied with something involving these two thin silver bracelets around her wrist, but she jerks up at the sight of him. Yoongi inhales. He’s never been overly taken by any of the female population before, but something about her is different. Something else… a feeling stirring up in his heart that he cannot categorize.

Brushing it off as just a fleeting, momentarily haze of attraction—the girl really is quite pretty, long hair tied behind in a ponytail with red and green ribbons, a tiny Christmas tree hat atop her head held to the spot with a thin black plastic headband. She smiles widely enough for her eyes to crinkle. “Hi there, welcome! What can I get for you today?”

“Uh…” His eyes drift from the girl to the menu and back again. Do all attractive girls have sparkles in their eyes? “Just a caramel macchiato. Hot. With whipped cream. And two shots of espresso.” He places the change into her awaiting palm before she produces the cup and pulls out a sharpie to record his order.

“Alright, coming up!” She says, beaming as him before turning to continue writing the different requests he’s added to the order. Yoongi remains rooted to the spot, because the girl has moved at an angle in which he can see the front of those two thin silver bracelets she was playing with earlier. It’s easy to see now that the two bracelets are meant to correspond two lines of words, a quote engraved across the silver surfaces.

DON’T YOU WORRY MY DEAR, one bracelet says.

I WILL ALWAYS BE THERE, the other one says.

A hazy flicker of familiarity, a recognition clicks in his mind, suddenly giving him a sudden rush of deja vu. He watches as you make his coffee, trying to figure out why he’s so aware of the lines on your bracelet, how seeing you almost feels like he’s watching into a house he’s been in before.

He looks back up in time to see her approaching him, steaming cup of caramel macchiato in her hands. “Here you go,” She says, smile still on her face.

“Thanks…” Yoongi says shortly, keeping his eyes on her bracelet. “That’s a really nice quote. On your bracelet.”

She blinks, surprised, before she studies the bracelets and a soft smile overcomes her figures. “Thanks! My soulmate wrote it for me—we’ve never actually communicated directly to each other, but I was having a really hard day, and he seemed to know that, so he wrote this and it just stuck with me.”

Her soulmate wrote it for her? But I remember now. I wrote that—oh.

His heart feels like it’s suddenly about to burst out of his chest, his breathing increasing as he feels like he’s just been forced to run a marathon in a few short amount of time. It feels like every nerve in his body has gone into overdrive and he’s suddenly aware of her, and only her. Like the way she shifts rather nervously in her spot or how her eyes widen a little at the sight of his paling expression.

“Uh, are you alright?”

He inhales a shakily breath, resting his drink onto the counter. She follow his moments, an almost wary touch to her eyes. “Can I borrow your sharpie real quick?”

She raises an eyebrow, but produces one and hands it over to him. Her eyebrow furrow together as he uncaps the sharpie and rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. He begins to write on the skin of his forearm.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches something, a sharpie writing along her own skin. She can’t keep her gaze on her arm long enough, because her eyes widen as if she’s realizing something herself for the first time. Her eyes widen like a deer in headlights as her eyes continue to stare at the boy across the way as if he’s sprouted an extra head.

When he’s done, he straightens and recaps the pen.

She looks down at the writing on her arm, the extra font reading back as it’s had for 6 years.

I told you I’d see you soon.

#yoongi x reader #yoongi scenario #yoongi x you #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fluff #bts scenario #bts x reader #bts fluff #repost: workofteaguk #traci writes #i would die for see u soon yoongi pls

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pinkalexlive · 5 years ago

Text

“While I’m going to school,” she said.

“You didn’t leave?”

“No. Why? When did you move out?”

So Rose is an alternate timeline version, but its more like the alternate timeline was written, and she read the book. She knows it all, but didn’t experience it.

“A bit ago,” I said, noncommittal. No use volunteering unnecessary information.

What’s the magic loophole?

If Rose was a failsafe, who or what was it trying to work around? If it was a trap, then who was the supposed victim? Was there an enemy? Or was it a trap aimed at me?

Man, Blake is paranoid. Sometimes all that Wisdom comes at a cost, eh?

“There was a presence. Like… almost as if there was a patch of something lighter in the darkness, or a sound I could barely hear, or a movement of the air, here, where the air doesn’t move at all. Something was there.”

Something.

“This isn’t helping the paranoia,” I said.

Hgnnn, no it’s not.

Also, it seems like a good time to mention: I’m a wuss when it comes to horror! This is the first horror novel I’ve read, and I’m already getting spooked!

“I’m not any happier,” she said. “If something chases us, you can run. Where can I run? There isn’t much room, on this side.”

I don’t like that idea.

“You had the visions too?”

So she’s identical up to the morning. Maybe, hold on.

*checks last chapter*

I stood up from bed, staggering for the bathroom. I stopped, the tremor in my hands gone. Every inch the startled prey animal, where a sudden crisis leads to utter stillness.

It wasn’t my face in the mirror above the sink. Nor my body. A girl looked at me, her forehead creased in worry. She was wearing a camisole and pyjama bottoms. She looked strangely familiar.

Yep. At some point in between her waking up and Blake waking up, that’s when the timeline split, Rose learned all sorts of stuff, then warned Blake.

“It’s not- no. Blake, the lawyer told me to go. He pointed in a direction, and told me to take a leap of faith if I wanted to help you. I did what he said, and now I’m here. I’m jumping from mirror to mirror, and I’m worried I’m going to jump and I’ll miss, and I’m not sure what happens when I do.”

That’s a horrible thought. Falling into who knows where filled with who knows what...

It was a person, tall, dressed in a long cloak or layered garment of some sort. Right in the middle of the road. The cloth had been white to begin with, it looked like, but it was badly stained. He –or she– wore a mask or a helmet shaped like an overlarge bird’s skull, with a pair of antlers.

Nope. Nuh uh. Nada.

“I can feel it,” Rose said. When I glanced up, she was looking over one shoulder. “I can see it, almost, standing between the patches of light.”

Deerbird is extra-dimensional. Sweet. Maybe he’s friends with the space whales?

A sign of things to come? A harbinger?

My heart was pounding.

I’m so excited to read through this book.

“It’s gone,” I said.

“What? No. No it isn’t,” she answered. Panic was now highlighted by confusion, incredulity. “It’s close.”

It slipped fully into Rose’s dimension? Ooh, I hope it doesn’t kill her.

“We left it behind,” I said, firmer.

“You got close, and it latched on,” Rose said. “Believe me on this.”

How does Rose know this, and also that’s terrifying to think about.

The fuel gauge was dropping steadily.

It had been three quarters of the way full when I’d started driving. Now it was at the twenty percent mark.

The orange needle dropped faster with every passing second.

It had latched on, but not physically. Something else.

Something I love exploring: attacks that target the concept behind something. You can’t literally ‘kill’ a car, but you can attack the idea of it.

“Can you make it?”

Eight percent.

“No,” I said. “Not with the car.”

Well that’s foreboding.

“Bring a mirror,” Rose said. “Please.”

He’s gonna rip the rearview mirror off.

“Sorry, Joel,” I said. I reached up to grab the rear view mirror. There were tabs I needed to depress. I had to pull off my gloves to get a good grip. I fumbled with it some more.

Heh heh called it.

I turned.

Behind us, beyond a point where the snow obscured the road, I saw the dim orange of the street light flicker, then die, swallowed up by the swirl of white.

That’s foreboding!

It snapped off.

“Good,” I said. “With me?”

“With you,” she said.

I’m gonna refer to Rose as his sister because it’s easy and makes sense.

That said, yay! Saving your sister!

“Talk to me, Rose,” I mumbled, past my scarf and the collar of my coat. “Can you feel it getting closer?”

There was no reply. I drew my free hand from the pocket and pulled the mirror free.

Fat, wet flakes of snow had clustered against the surface. With one hand, I rubbed it against my thigh.

Beads of water still obscured the surface.

DONT TELL ME YOU KILLED HER JUST AFTER SAVING HER BLAKE

It was close enough for me to hear.

Better now than never. I turned around, drawing out the tire iron.

“Fine!” I roared the words against the wind. I drew the tire iron from my pocket, gripping it with gloved hands. I could feel how cold the metal was. “You want me!?”

Blake, I have a feeling a tire iron won’t do much against Deerbird.

It closed the distance. Two feet taller than me, and I was a notch taller than average. The point of the giant bird mask came dangerously close as I swung the tire iron, bending my legs as I swung low, to strike it in the knee.

I had only a moment to register the fact that it wasn’t reacting before it drew a hand out of the layered covering of hides. A mitt of a hand, gray-skinned, with knobby knuckles, and fingernails that were just long enough they were starting to curl, almost rectangular. Dirty, uneven, frayed.

I swung again, a two-handed grip on the iron, aiming for the hand.

Blake please just run

I might as well have struck another tire iron, for all it mattered. The weapon bounced off the hand, the hand was knocked back, and then it clawed at my face. I twisted partially away, keeping it from getting my eyes, and felt the pain in my cheek, instead. I backed away, and my scarf stayed. Caught in the ragged ends of the nails.

Blake I swear you’re just a little level 1

My scarf was caught by the wind, flapping mercilessly, until it tore free, disappearing over the dividing line of the highway.

F for scarf :(

“Rose,” I spoke, “Hey, Rose. You gotta help me out here.”

The mirror was silent.

I backed away, and it moved, approaching with long strides that covered the distance with surprising speed.

I stopped, and it stopped.

“Don’t want me to go to the rest stop,” I murmured. There was a hitch in my voice. “Don’t want me to go back to the car. Where am I supposed to go? This way?”

I really hope Rose isn’t dead. I like Blake and Blake^2 would have been amazing. Plus, I LOVE stories that have person A and person A but r63′d. Honestly, it’s one of my favorite things.

“No way,” I said. Taking a step to the side, so I was as off the road as I could get without standing in the snowbank. “I get what you’re after. You want me to get hit by a car or something.”

Smart Blake is back!

#pact #liveread #pinkalex #pact 1.2 #alex doesn't like horror

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magnetoeisenhardt · 6 years ago

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Top ten most powerful members of the Batfam

1) Bat-mite

A fifth-dimensional entity, Batmite possesses near unlimited reality warping powers. His name isn't actually Bat-mite; he's just a giant Batman fan.

2) Claire Clover (Gotham Girl)

Claire can use her own life force to gain powers. She could maintain Superman level powers for two years, or God-like powers for two hours. However, she can not gain back the life she spends to power herself, and every expenditure of her abilities push her closer to death.

3) Charlie Gage-Radcliffe (Misfit)

Charlie's powers are strange, even by comic standards. Her character arc was cut short due to Flashpoint, but she was originally supposed to be the lost princess Ruby of Gemworld. She hails from an intensely powerful magical bloodline, but is complete unaware of her origins. As far as she knows, her powers manifest as minorly enhanced strength, and "Bouncing". Charlie can teleport an unlimited amount of distance, carrying an unlimited amount of weight. Any wounds she sustained will instantly heal, and it costs her no energy to do so. More interesting, however, is the fact that anything living she brings with her will instantly die.

This means that she can only be defeated by projectile weapons, as anything that makes contact with her could be teleported away, along with anything connected to it.

Interesting note: I believe Charlie, as a homo-magi, has powers she hasn't yet used. I hypothesize her teleportation is similar to Kurt Wagner's (Marvel's Nightcrawler), and she travels through a parallel dimension. She may be able to tap into and channel this energy for greater use.

4) Basil Karlo (Clayface)

Basil started off as a villain, but was made a member of the Gotham Knights in Detective Comics 2016. He is nearly unkillable, as his body is made entirely of animated clay. There is no organic material to injure. He can manipulate his form to mimic shapeshifting, but his composition will always remain the same. He is an extraordinary actor, and can combine this with his powers to fool almost anyone. He has super strength, and can split himself into multiple forms. However, he has an easily exploitable weakness in temperature. Extreme cold or extreme heat will nullify his powers, and make him brittle, and easy to subdue. Disintegration is the easiest way to kill him, and frost or heat based powers and weapons are fairly common.

Interesting note: The Martian Manhunter is incapable of reading the mind of Eel O'Brian (Plastic Man), as he is made of inorganic material. I believe that Basil has a similar resistance, as well as perhaps an interesting interaction with Charlie. As Basil's body is chemically almost identical to clay, I believe he's one of the few people Charlie could teleport.

However, it is unclear exactly how Charlie's "bouncing" kills. The only time this effect occurs is when we see Lori Zechlin (Black Alice) accidently kill someone while stealing Charlie's powers. The body of her victim exploded. It is never given whether the mind can survive, and, given Charlie's powers are magical in origin, it may not even matter.

5) Cassandra Cain (Batgirl/Orphan

Cass is completely human. However, her unique brain structure gives her the ability to interpret body language as an actual language, granting her a form of precognition. She is able to tell exactly what someone will do, before they do it, making her unbeatable in combat.

She's also the physically strongest and fastest human member of the batfamily, strong enough to punch through steel, and fast enough to dodge bullets after they've been fired. Her strength is only surpassed by Claire and Clayface, and only a Superman level Claire is faster. She ties with Dick Grayson for most gymnastic skill, as she can copy any of his moves. She has complete control over every function of her body. She can stop her heartbeat, speed her healing, and completely deaden pain.

She can perfectly copy any movement, provided the original user has anatomy close to a humans. She has no skill ceiling, and will be able to break her previous records every time. The limits to her strength, speed and skill don't exist.

Interesting note: Her body reading completely negates any form of disguise, including shape shifting. She can read non humanoids to a lesser extent, but not robots. Cass feels extreme empathy towards anybody she's reading, to the point where she will feel their pain as her own. She can read animals, but does not experience any empathy for them.

With her abilities, she can defeat everyone lower on this list combined.

Cass would be able to defeat Charlie in a fight, as the surprise and stealth factor from teleportation would be completely negated. Cass would know where Charlie would teleport before she does it, and could throw a projectile into that area as Charlie bounces into it.

Her abilities do work on Clayface, but she would require either cryo or thermal technology to beat him, giving her no real advantage. While Cass could predict a powered Claire, it doesn't help her defeat someone faster than light and strong enough to bench the earth.

6) Barbara Gordon (Oracle)

If everyone on this list was given access to maximum equipment, Barbara would rank number three. With unlimited access to every piece of technology on earth, she could very easily take over the world, or destroy it. Her photographic memory and extreme intelligence means that she has a plan for every situation, and, unlike Bruce, doesn't need to keep files. There is no opponent she can't outsmart.

However, her ranking falls due to her maximum strength being extremely conditional. Remove her from computers and she is a formidable opponent given light gear, but her paralysis makes her a sitting duck without her wheelchair. She is the fourth strongest on the list, but her fighting style is completely defensive, as Barbara lacks any way to engage a fight, and has to wait for opponent to come to her. She cannot dodge fast moving projectiles, like bullets, or move out of the way of powerful AOE attacks, like explosions, fire, electricity, sonic waves, chemical splashes or falling objects. Her extreme strength is somewhat neutralized by her extreme weakness.

Interesting note: Barbara's wheelchair changes from writer to writer, but at one point it contained a machine gun full of rubber bullets, a mechanical lift platform to go up stairs, grappling hooks, and a portable computer.

Post flashpoint, Barbara has a device in her brain that allows her to walk. However, this version is significantly less powerful, and shares very little with her pre-flashpoint counterpart.

7) Jean-Paul Valley (Azrael)

Azrael is the combined entities of Jean-Paul Valley, his suit's AI, and an actual angel. Jean-Paul himself is not entirely human, as he was created by the Order of Saint Dumas artificially, and had his genome spliced with the DNA of other animals. He has enhanced speed, strength, stamina, metabolism and intelligence.

His abilities are vastly enhanced with the Suit of Sorrows, capable of exceeding Bane. The Suit of Sorrows contains an angel, one who attempts to use the wearer as a host. The longer the suit is worn, the greater the enhancement, and the greater the loss of control. The suit is equipped with two bladed gauntlets; The Sword of Sin, and the Sword of Salvation. The first forces you to relive every bad thing you've done, and the second forces you to relive every bad thing that happened to you.

With suit enhanced strength, he's the third strongest. Without it, he falls behind to sixth. With or without his suit's speed, he comes in third.

Interesting note: With or without his suit, he is the second best fighter on this list. His blades defeat an enemy in a single touch, allowing him to defeat Basil. His superior skill would most likely allow him to get a hit off on Charlie, and his blades would incapacitate her before she could teleport him. Barbara would likely be able to hack and disable his suit, but, in straight combat, she stands no chance. As his blades are magical, there is a high probability they could harm Claire. However, she can power up to a point where she can take him down from range, and eliminate that threat. I have no idea whether they would work on Bat-mite, but Jean-Paul would have little difficulty tricking it and finding out.

8) Helena Wayne (Batman)

The Bat of a world ruled by Darksied, her rogue's gallery is composed entire of alien powerhouses. She faces threats so dangerous, Batman's rouges of Prime Earth are either irrelevant, dead, or her allies. In order to survive on Apokalypse, Bruce Wayne required the Hell Bat suit, a suit so powerful, wearing it kills him. Helena just uses her two fists.

9) Dick Grayson (Nightwing)

Dick's advantage comes from his circus background. He clocks in at the fifth fastest, and ties for most gymnastic skill. He is an extremely skilled fighter, detective and spy. He falls below Helena Wayne, however, because of lack of want. Dick has no desire to pursue his crime fighting career, and hopes to retire. Although he served as Batman as a time, it was out of necessity, and he resented the role he played.

10) Bruce Wayne (Batman)

The first person to wear the mantle of the Bat, Bruce is the third most popular comic book character to ever exist. He has the most years of training under his (utility) belt, and is a highly skilled fighter. He has almost unlimited resources to build gadgets and vehicles, which he utilizes to extreme efficiency.

However, his stats are nothing extraordinary. He manages to scrape ninth strongest member of the batfamily, but is one of the slowest.

Interesting note: Most would grade him higher due to his crippling paranoia. Bruce is famous for coming up with a inane amount of contingency plans, to defeat any opponent. However, these plans are really stupid, and would never work.

His plan to defeat the Flash (Wally West) involves shooting him with a bullet, and having Wally attempt to phase through it instead of dodging. Wally can run seventeen trillion times the speed of light, and is famously terrible at phasing. This plan would fail epically. His plan to defeat Wonder Woman (Diana) also involves shooting her. Even in iterations where Diana isn't bullet proof, it's still impossible to shoot her. Her signature thing is blocking bullets. She can do it blindfolded, and against hundreds of bullets at a time. This is just a bad plan. To defeat Martian Manhunter, he plans to set him on fire. J'onn isn't actually weak to fire, he just suffers from sever psychosomatic pyrophobia. So assuming Batman could somehow ambush a psychic so powerful he's developed precognition, he would still fail.

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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 7 years ago

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avengers: infinity war

um. SPOILERS.

so i finally watched spiderman: infinity war avengers: infinity war yesterday with the inimitably awesome aakanksha ( @franklyineedcoffee). it was great! very cgi and very Epic.

like. mcu movies were never terribly remarkable to me, but then they got Spiderman involved (and made him great!) and the ensuing trifecta of extremely enjoyable films (homecoming, ragnarok and black panther) finally made a fangirl out of me. which basically primed me perfectly to enjoy the shit out of infinity war.

a few thoughts! a second reminder for SPOILERS because i discuss about basically everything.

1. the film did a great job juggling so many characters and so many plot threads? of course some parts were under-served (the whole wakanda stretch was a bit meh to me), but at no point was i just waiting for the film to get back to the Interesting Bit. almost all of it was equally engaging.

2. i’d heard a lot about thanos going into this film but what i wasn’t expecting was to be reminded of two villains that the mcu had done really, really well recently: adrian toomes/the vulture from homecoming, and erik killmonger from black panther. thanos isn’t nearly as compelling as either of them and certainly doesn’t deserve a fraction of the sympathy we can reasonably afford to either toomes/killmonger, but the kind of sad, single-minded conviction that he used to justify murdering trillions of people? yeah, that was all-too-familiar. far from the cackling, evil villain trope, both toomes and killmonger were shaped and scarred by unforgiving circumstances; you didn’t approve of the stuff they did but their pathos was palpable. thanos plays this part of the villain arc very well--he doesn’t visibly delight in death and destruction, but does it because he is burdened with it. and isn’t that how it usually goes in the real world? the worst people in the world never believe in their own evil--just their own status as a Special Person Who Knows Something Better Than Everyone Else. a special destiny, a special responsibility with all that power. sometimes the line between superhero and villain is so, so thin.

2.5. because looking at it objectively, his motivation was some malthusian bullshit, yeah? and in a way recalls some of the most harrowing repercussions of bullshit science from the early twentieth century. so if i read one more thinkpiece about ‘errrrr guys maybe thanos had a point’ i’m going to lose it. both the writing and performance for thanos was fantastic--he practically dripped with gravitas, even under all the layers of cgi and chaotic fight scenes--but let’s not confuse that with actual sense/decency, yeah?

3. the groupings were great--so great that i could’ve readily watched an entire film based on any one of them. my favourite had to be thor with rocket/groot. i would’ve never guessed it, but it turned out to be the most poignant dynamic of them all. that little conversation that rocket had with thor was a little oasis in the middle of a terribly chaotic movie and neatly tied in and mirrored the incredible character development both the characters had undergone in their last movies--GotG vol 2 and ragnarok. this scene for me was an example of the ultimate reward of getting a film like infinity war--a moment of truly resonant emotional connection between two wildly differing characters and genres.

3.5. and, btw, the genres! can we talk about that a bit? it was a really cool mix of generic superhero stuff with sci-fi, a touch of horror, magic, swords-and-sorcery, opposites-meet comedy, a bit of romance, and just good old-fashioned family drama.

3.75. and speaking of drama, the whole arc with gamora was gutting and inspired more tears from me than the much-talked-about snap. the sheer range of emotions she went through right before and after she realised that thanos was going to kill her and why! zoe saldana is fucking amazing.

4. aagh i just wished we had more time but all of the groups played really well off each other: i enjoyed iron man and company in particular because duh, spiderman, and watching three gigantic egos clash in the form of tony stark, dr strange, and peter quill was entertaining as all hell. and i know tumblr fandom in particular likes to give tony a hard time but i was impressed not just by his quick thinking, his surely-impossible technology, and his raw physical strength, but also his ability to lead, well, any team. he had spiderman covered (summoning the iron spider suit! appointing him an avenger! collaborative flying of an alien spaceship!), had dr strange figured out pretty quickly, and tried his best to steady peter quill.

4.5. the group on wakanda wasn’t nearly as compelling, but much of their screen time was filled with fighting cannon fodder and that’s literally the least interesting part of any mcu movie, so. i guess i was also annoyed by rhodey basically throwing away the principled position he took in civil war--the narrative had to essentially make the regulatory body a one-dimensional super-villain. and, like. whatever. the avengers have to reform, etc. but it still stinks. i kind of dozed through the parts of civil war that didn’t involve spiderman but some of the issues that it raised were compelling. but then those issues were just used as an excuse to get a slugfest between iron man and captain america and now somehow an agreement signed by 150+ countries is all about oh no! will steve and tony ever make up?? like, fuck that shit.

4.85. i didn’t expect to be as moved as i was by vision and wanda, though. unlike the nat/bruce thing that also kind of came out of the blue in ultron, these two were weirdly compelling. (although wanda’s missing accent is bothering me.)

5. there was so much cgi in this movie! some of it was truly breathtaking but more often than not it felt suffocating. i feel like tony stark and co. were especially ill-served: the deep blues of the doughnut spaceship and the flashy, dusty oranges on titan just made it more difficult to see the characters and, idk. i’m not a fan of the effect.

5.5. everything involving thor was great, tho. couldn’t possibly match the climactic bridge scene in ragnarok in terms of pure Epicness but came close several times.

6. mmm, what else? i really liked that this film undercut a lot of the truly dramatic scenes with humour--it just lent a dreadful sense of finality to the scenes that left us with death rather than a punchline.

6.5. another note: i realise that thor continually calling rocket and groot ‘rabbit and tree’ was supposed to be funny, but why would he do that? the ‘captain’ has a name. and he speaks groot’s language! why would he call him something as reductive as ‘tree’? (unless groot’s actual name is tree) it’s just a little niggling thing but it’s starting to bother me a lot now.

6.55. but i do find it a little endearing that prideful, extremely sensitive rocket never once bothered to correct thor.

7. ultimately the Epicness that made this movie possible is also one of the things that repeatedly threatens to bring it down. i just don’t want this film to fall down the rabbit hole that SPN finds itself in--expand its scope exponentially and find itself unable to remotely do it the justice that it deserves. what do you do with a character who could kill half the universe with a snap of his fingers? what do you do with characters who, in their individual movies, have expressed powers and resources that are seriously large-scale?

we see the film sputter in this respect a couple of times: i never understood why thanos didn’t just use the reality stone to, say, turn tony’s tech into cheesecake or something. out of respect at the man’s sheer tenacity? idk. and loki going out by trying to stab thanos was weird to me. was he deliberately sacrificing himself? is there something else going on? doesn’t he have much better weapons in his arsenal? at least he was aiming for the head

and the consequences of the final snap where more than half of the heroes disintegrated in front of their friends’ eyes should’ve felt more devastating, but the neatness of the old avengers being spared so that they could save (avenge if you will) their next generation in a final hurrah in the next movie seemed way too obvious. that’s not to say it wasn’t impactful. watching peter parker disintegrate in tony’s arms, fighting till the very last minute to stay he was so scared oh god he just wanted to stay and for mr stark to make it all right was gutting, no matter how much i’d prepared myself for it. i may have whimpered.

8. i’m sure i have a lot more to say but it’s getting late and i’m tired, so. another post in the near future maybe.

but before i go, how could i not talk about spiderman?? i screamed my throat raw at the first sight of peter parker, and although he doesn’t actually get all that much screen time he made every second count. the awe-inspiring appearance of the iron spider. “have you ever seen that old movie, aliens?” the sheer range of emotions that passed his face when tony stark officially made him an avenger. flying spaceships along with tony. fun with magic portals! almost getting the gauntlet off because he is Just That Strong. saving mantis and drax. and clinging to life till the very last second even as the edges of his body were starting to wisp away. this boy. god. how mcu hit the perfect formula to represent my all-time favourite superhero on screen is a mystery, but i’m so so glad it happened.

#mcu #avengers #infinity war #infinity war spoilers #spoilers #meta #thanos

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advocatewrites-blog · 7 years ago

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Into the Unknown Part 4 Chapter 4

Into the Unknown

Fandom: Undertale, Coraline (book), Over the Garden Wall, Paranorman, Gravity Falls (season 2)

Characters: Frisk, Norman B., Dipper P., Mabel P., Coraline J., Wirt, Greg, the Cat, the Frog; Sans, Toriel, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Asgore,; the Other Mother, the Beast, Agatha P., Bill Cipher, Asriel D., Chara D.,

Pairings: Not the focus. Alphys/Undyne, with mentions of Papyrus/Mettaton, sans/Toriel/Asgore, and Wirt/Sara. Due to the nature of Undertale and the dating segments, there is also interpretable Papyrus/Wirt, Undyne/Mabel, Alphys/Dipper, Napstablook/Norman, Mettaton/Norman, Mettaton/Mabel, Sans/Dipper, Sans/Norman, and Sans/Greg.

Rated a high +K for violence, mild language, horrific elements that may be disturbing to younger readers, mentions of child abuse and bullying, character death that is sometimes permanent, and mentions of suicide that may be triggering. These elements remain relatively unchanged from their source material, which most all are for children, but discretion is advised nonetheless.

Disclaimer: Undertale was created and owned by Toby Fox. Coraline was created by Neil Gaiman and owned by Bloomsbury and Laika. Over the Garden Wall was created by Patrick McHale and owned by Cartoon Network. Paranorman was created by Sam Fell and Chris Butler and owned by Laika. Gravity Falls was created by Alex Hirsch and owned by Disney. Any other work mentioned or homage are property of their respective owners. This is a fan-made, nonprofit work that only seeks to entertain. Please support the original franchises.

Chapter 4

“OHHH YES! WELCOME BEAUTIES…TO TODAY’S QUIZ SHOW!”

Spotlights engulfed the lab. Two disco balls dropped from the lighting fixtures and engulfed the three into multicolored lights. Confetti fell from somewhere. Dipper knew that he was not going to like whatever happened next.

“OH BOY! I CAN ALREADY TELL IT’S GONNA BE A GREAT SHOW!” said the robot. “EVERYONE GIVE A BIG HAND TO OUR WONDERFUL CONTESTANTS!”

A fake, monotone clapping noise echoed from the robot’s soundboard as more confetti poured onto them.

“NEVER PLAYED BEFORE GORGEOUS? THE RULES ARE SIMPLE. ANSWER CORRECTLY.” said the robot. “OR YOU DIE!!!

Mettaton attacks.

“LET’S START WITH AN EASY ONE!!” said Mettaton. “WHAT’S THE PRIZE FOR ANSWERING CORRECTLY?”

“Uh…” said Dipper. “A new car?”

“THAT IS INCORRECT!!!”

A lightning-bolt shaped bullet shot from Mettaton’s microphone and collided with Dipper’s Soul.

“Are you okay?” Mabel asked.

“I’m fine,” said Dipper. “Not sure how many of those I can take. We’re gonna have to be smart about answering them.”

“Alright,” said Mabel. “Making things up is my specialty!”

“GLAD TO HEAR IT GORGEOUS!” said Mettaton. “HERE’S YOUR PRIZE: WHAT IS THE KING’S FULL NAME?”

Dipper actually remembered that one. Papyrus had said it, Undyne had said it, and the turtle that sold them things had said it even though he insisted on calling him “Ol’ King Fluffybuns”.

“Asgore Dreemurr!” said Dipper.

“CORRECT! WHAT A TERRIFIC ANSWER!”

“I was going to say Doctor Friendship…” said Mabel.

“NOW ENOUGH ABOUT YOU. LET’S TALK ABOUT ME! WHAT ARE ROBOTS MADE OF?”

“Metal and magic!” said Mabel.

That one had come pretty quickly, but Dipper figured that it was easy to guess.

“HERE’S AN EASY ONE FOR YOU: TWO TRAINS, TRAIN A AND TRAIN B, SIMULTANEOUSLY DEPART STATION A AND STATION B. STATION A AND STATION B ARE 252.5 MILES APART FROM ONE ANOTHER. TRAIN IS IS MOVING AT 124.7 MILESPERHOURTOWARDSSTATIONBAND TRAINBISMOVING-AT253.5MILESPERHOURTOWARSSTATIONAIFBOTHTRAINSDEPARTEDAT10:0AMANDITISNOW10:09HOWMUCHLONGERUNTILBOTHTRAINSPASSEACHOTHER?”

“32.058 minutes!” said Mabel.

Dipper had no idea how he could even solve that one, let alone Mabel.

“NEARLY RAN OUT THE CLOCK THERE, GORGEOUS! BUT THAT IS CORRECT!”

“You spent the entire time asking the question!” said Dipper.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO TAKE BACK YOUR CORRECT ANSWER?” Mettaton asked.

“We’re good!” Both the twins said.

“EXCELLENT! BECAUSE FROM HERE ON OUT THEY’RE ONLY GOING TO GET HARDER FROM HERE!” said Mettaton.”NEXT QUESTION: HOW MANY FLYS ARE IN THIS JAR?”

“54!” said Mabel.

“WHAT MONSTER IS THIS?”

“Mettaton!”

“BUT CAN YOU GET THIS ONE? WOULD YOU SMOOCH A GHOST?”

“Heck yeah!”

“WHAT A GOOD ANSWER! I LOVE IT!!!!” said Mettaton. “NEXT QUESTIONS: HOW MANY LETTERS ARE IN THE NAME METATTON NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN…”

“56!”

“That is correct!”

“How are you getting all of these?” Dipper asked.

“Alphys is telling me,” said Mabel. “But the smooch a ghost one was all me!”

Alphys froze.

“ALPHYS…” said Mettaton. “WERE YOU HELPING THE CONTESTANT?”

“U-u-uh, I was—” Alphys stammered.

“THAT’S ALRIGHT,” said Mettaton. “I’LL GIVE THEM AN ANSWER YOU’RE SURE TO KNOW THE ANSWER TO! WHO DOES DOCTOR ALPHYS HAVE A CRUSH ON?”

The two twins froze.

“Could we…not answer that one?” Dipper asked.

Entry no. 34

During our game of multi-dimensional chess, Bill mentioned something interesting. A Kingdom of Monsters. He seemed hesitant to discuss more; although it seemed more out of ignorance than ill-will. After some prying, he managed to bring up some key points. Sometime before Gravity Falls was inhabited, humans lived with monsters. A war broke out between the two races, leading to the monsters becoming imprisoned underneath a magic suppressing barrier. Bill mentioned that he had tried to enter the kingdom several times to look for someone to help him build the portal, but he kept being chased out by some “annoying dog”.

Whether or not he meant to, Bill has just made a phenomenal breakthrough with my research. Is this Kingdom of Monsters the source of all weirdness in Gravity Falls? Or even the world? Maybe there can be a direct link between the monsters in the forest and the monsters underground. Furthermore, if Bill really wanted to find a scientific mind in the kingdom of monsters, there could be someone else working on a portal right now. Someone else I could compare notes with!

I expect the portal will be finished by tomorrow. Perhaps once Bill can enter our dimension, I can welcome him to Earth properly with a little hike.

It was much later, after the quiz show and after a cooking show and after a news show, when sans made himself known and invited Dipper to dinner.

“where’s that sister of yours?” he asked.

“Well…”

“‘A tragic tale of two lovers, torn apart by the tides of fate’…” Mabel read off of the poster in front of her. “That sounds right up my alley!”

She ignored the fact that 75% of the poster was Mettaton’s face. It would be nice to see him actually acting, and not just the elaborate set pieces he set up when he wanted to kill them. She would have to make a mental note to come back and catch it once Mettaton had calmed down a bit.

Mabel was so lost in thought that she did not notice where she was walking next. She stopped as she noticed she was on stage.

“Oh,” said Mabel as realization dawned on her.

“OH? COULD IT BE…” Mettaton’s voice echoed through the stage. “MY ONE TRUE LOVE?”

Mettaton descended down the fake balcony with all the grace of a vacuum cleaner. The song’s opening covered most of it up. He dropped the hem of his bright blue ballgown and began to sing.

That was when Mabel knew that this was really right up her alley.

“guess it doesn’t really matter,” said sans. “so, what do you know about a talking flower?”

The atmosphere grew suddenly very heavy. Dipper swallowed before he spoke.

“We found it in the Ruins,” said Dipper. “It’s this little gold flower named Flowey—“

“really?” said sans. “couldn’t think of a better name?”

“I didn’t name it!” Dipper said. “It calls itself that!”

“alright. tell me more about flowey mc flower face.”

“Well, when we left the Ruins, he talked about a lot of weird things,” said Dipper. “Stuff like how he was the one that would inherit this world...and how we weren’t the ones he was looking for…sans, how many humans have been in the Underground before us?”

“haven’t you heard undyne, kid?” sans asked. “there’ve been six humans in the underground. not including you two.”

“And is that where you got the lamps?” Dipper asked.

sans fell silent.

“Look, if we’re going to work together, we need to be 100% honest with each other,” Dipper said. “I won’t…judge you if you did something bad. Just be honest with me.”

Sans did not say anything for a moment. Just when Dipper was about to speak up again, he chuckled lowly.

“don’t judge anyone, you say? kid, that’s a good one and you don’t even know why yet,” said sans. “alright. there have been a total of 12 humans in the underground. i’ve seen six. just not at the same time.”

“So there’s a way out of the Underground then?” Dipper asked.

“sure there is. but that’s not what i’m talking about,” said sans.

“Well, what do you know about the other humans?”

“i’d say most weren’t older than you,” said sans. “all came from the ruins, all left through new home. all came at about the same time. don’t know what happened to them. don’t think they knew why they were here, either.”

“Well, do you think that flower might have something to do with it?” Dipper asked.

“don’t know. never seen ‘em before,” said sans after a minute. “well, if nothing else, this run’s been good for information. anything else you need to know?”

Dipper opened his mouth for a minute. But there was not anything else he could think to ask.

“great,” said sans. “if you get to the castle, i won’t stop you. but try and think about what you’re getting into, alright?”

It was only when sans got to the fichus in the corner that Dipper found what he wanted to ask next.

“What do you mean, ‘this time’? You keep talking about ‘this time’ and ‘these runs’, like you’ve already seen all this before!” said Dipper. “What are you trying to hide? I won’t be able to help you if you don’t tell me everything!”

“listen, kid,” said sans. “it’s not gonna matter. even if i do tell you everything, you’re just gonna disappear again. and there’ll be another kid waiting for me at my station. or maybe something worse. i’ve given up trying to change this.”

Dipper’s mouth hung open as he tried to think of what to say. Everything that sans said ran through his head. And then he realized.

“You’re a time traveler?”

The light in sans’ eyesockets went dark. He did not say anything.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” Dipper asked. “Maybe we can help you! Are you with the same agency as Blendin? Is there actually a Time Baby?”

“well,” said sans. “you’re close. if there’s a time traveler, it’s not me.”

Dipper probably had more experience with time travel than the average person, but it was still limited. There was stuff in the journals and the science fiction books he read, but most of what he really remembered came from the 80’s movies Mabel watched. There was one he remembered quite well, about the crabby man who was stuck in the same day repeating over and over.

“Oh,” said Dipper, because he was not sure what else he could say.

“if that’s all you have to say, kid, then i better head out,” said sans. “it’s almost papyrus’ bedtime, and he gets cranky without a bedtime story.”

“We’ll find a way to fix this,” said Dipper. “Mabel and I. We have, uh…experience with this kind of thing.”

“i mean, you probably won’t,” said sans. “but thanks anyway.”

He walked past the fichus in the corner and disappeared.

It took Dipper longer to leave. Too much was going through his head, not just about what sans had said but how he looked when he said it. He was going to have to set things right. There was no way around it.

When he did stumble out, he was surprised to find Mabel.

“Hey Dipper!” Mabel said. “I just finished up Mettaton’s play! How was your date with sans?”

It barely fazed Dipper to hear it called a date. His mind was on too many other things.

“Do you remember what the Journal said about time travel?” Dipper asked.

“Hmm…I’m not sure about the Journal, but there was that Blendin’ guy,” Mabel said.

“That’s what I was thinking too,” said Dipper. “No matter how we get back home, we need to remember to find a way to contact him.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Mabel said. “I’ll make a note of it in this cool notebook I bought from the turtle!”

#fic #Into the Unknown #Undertale #Gravity Falls #Mettaton #Dipper Pines #Mabel Pines #Alphys #sans #featured

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moodboardinthecloud · 4 years ago

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Amanda Gorman 2018

https://nyti.ms/2F1bs82

A Young Poet’s Inspiration

By Adeel Hassan

Feb. 28, 2018

How did Amanda Gorman, 19, become the first person to be named national youth poet laureate? She shares her story with the Race/Related newsletter below. Ms. Gorman also wrote original poems, which we animated. Watch them here. For more coverage of race, sign up to have our newsletter delivered weekly to your inbox.

It’s impossible not to think of your having been a precocious child. Tell me whether there was anything early that pointed you in the direction of writing.

I grew up at this incredibly odd intersection in Los Angeles, where it felt like the black ’hood met black elegance met white gentrification met Latin culture met wetlands. Traversing between these worlds, either to go to a private school in Malibu, or then come back home to my family’s two-bedroom apartment, gave me an appreciation for different cultures and realities, but also made me feel like an outsider. I’m sure my single mother, Joan Wicks, might describe me as a precocious child, but looking back in elementary school I often self-described myself as a plain “weird” child. I spent most of elementary school convinced that I was an alien. Literally.

The worlds I mentioned, traveled between for school and home — of blackness and whiteness — seemed so foreign to me. While other students were on the jungle gym, I was writing in my journal on a park bench, or trying to write my own dictionary. I was obsessed with everything and anything; I wanted to learn everything, to read everything, to do everything. I was constantly on sensory overload. I’d hoard dozens of books in my second-grade cubby, and literally try to read two at a time, side by side.

What contributed to my writing early on is how my mom encouraged it. She kept the TV off because she wanted my siblings and I to be engaged and active. So we made forts, put on plays, musicals, and I wrote like crazy.

Who were the writers who made you first want to write? When did you decide to be a poet?

I’ll never forget being in third grade, and my teacher, Shelly Fredman, a writer in her own right, was reading Ray Bradbury’s novel “Dandelion Wine” to our class. I don’t remember what the metaphor was exactly — something about candy — but I lost my mind. It was the best thing I’d ever heard. Pure magic!

How did you discover your own voice? How did it feel to discover your own voice? Did it happen gradually? When did you get more serious about writing?

In eighth grade, I picked up Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye,” because I’d never seen a book with a dark-skinned, nappy- haired girl on the cover. I was enthralled, not just by Morrison’s craftsmanship, but also the content of her stories — her characters, which I’ve always called fourth dimensional. What’s more, I realized that all of the stories I read, and wrote, featured white or light-skinned characters. I’d been reading books without black heroines, which nearly stripped me of the

ability to write in my own voice, blackness and all. Reading Morrison was almost like reteaching myself how to write unapologetically in a black and feminist aesthetic that was my own. After that I made a promise to myself: To never stop writing, and to always represent marginalized figures in my work.

COOKING: Daily inspiration, delicious recipes and other updates from Sam Sifton and NYT Cooking.

And from that sprouted my own voice — the voice of an unashamed black woman who also by way of a speech impediment understood what it was like to be silenced, and didn’t wish this fate on any other soul. To hone my voice, I read everything, from books to cereal boxes, three times: once for fun, the second time to learn something new about the writing craft, and the third time was to improve that piece. I woke up early every day and basically did “literary dress up,” where I’d wear another writer’s voice like clothing and move onto the next one, until I’d gone through a stack of 10 different books. I wore ephemeral versions, copying their sentence constructions, verbiage, and tones. Then I’d step out of them and choose the best characteristics of those styles, until I created a voice that was mine.

This was before I started thinking about publishing, which came in early high school when I started attending free poetry workshops at Beyond Baroque and the nonprofit WriteGirl.

What is it that gets you started on a poem? Is it an idea, an image, a rhythm, or something else? Do you rely more on your ears or your eyes?

Both the external and the internal trigger me. If I’m writing about something internal, say past experiences, I’m writing about it in relation to an external reality, like the ocean. When that connection happens in my mind, I grab a pen and find the closest excuse for sunlight. I usually begin with a word cloud, where I write down the best words I’ve heard that week — like plum, stone, spoon — I don’t know why but I love words like that.

I then take those words and begin to write. I think about the content of what I’m writing first, just getting the lines out and choosing the most necessary ones. Only then do I think about a shape that comes out of that meaning. Where do I want this line to break? Do I want the stanzas to be shaped like a girl, or a house? Maybe it’s because of an auditory processing disorder, but I depend a lot on sight. But that also means I’m hypersensitive to sound — I just see it, rather than hear it, if that makes sense. For example, in order to write, I must have music. Without. Music. I. Can. Not. Write. I’ll play an instrumental track that speaks to my mood, usually something by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Ludwig Göransson or Michael Giacchino, and then my poem becomes a visualization of that sound.

"It’s always difficult to describe my own poetry, it’s like trying to paint my own face without a photo." Tony Cenicola/The New York Times

Do you have a writing routine? Do you have a favorite place to write? Do you tend to revise?

When I was in school and commuting at least an hour each way, I had to write on the bus or anywhere I could. Now I spend a lot of time writing by the Charles River, when it’s not cold enough to freeze my hair. The revision muscle has been the most difficult for me to build. I used to treat my poetry like hiccups — it came out and that was it. I’d sit for an hour and write something, edit it a few times in that same sitting, and that was it. At Harvard I’m working on the ability to go back to a piece after a few weeks and carve out a better version.

Revelation is a fact of your poems. Do you feel “visceral” is an accurate description of your poetry?

It’s always difficult to describe my own poetry, it’s like trying to paint my own face without a photo. I guess visceral is accurate in that I attempt to bring the reader or listener on an emotional journey, but it’s also a visceral inquiry. I want my poetry to ask questions, even without answers. I want my poetry to interrogate myself and the audience so deeply you can feel it ringing in your gut afterward.

Do you agree with Czeslaw Milosz that poems should be written “under unbearable duress and only with the hope/that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument?”

Often my poems are written under duress — I probably lose eight strands of hair every time I write — but I’m not sure if they should be. Meaning that I believe poems can be written in casual moments and still be great — which is a challenge if you’re a writer of color and compelled to write about something concerning the physical and sociopolitical trauma and endurance of your people.

Do you feel any ethical responsibility as a poet? Do you have a reader in your mind when you write?

I will always feel an ethical responsibility as a poet because I will always feel an ethical responsibility as a person, as we all should; the truck driver, the engineer, the painter, the prince, the writer, the biologists, all have a responsibility just by being. So I write to them when I write, a myriad people with their own dreams and duties. I write a lot for that bucktoothed, kinky- haired, speech-garbled 7-year-old still inside myself who didn’t see herself reflected in literature.

Why have you chosen poetry as a medium of artistic creation?

In all honesty, in the beginning I chose writing out of a socioeconomic and human necessity. With a speech impediment I was always looking for ways to express myself. Dance classes became too expensive, and I used 99 Cents Store paint for my art, which got frustrating. To write I just needed a pen and a page.

How do you understand this moment when it comes to race?

Ah. I’m not sure if I can say I understand a lot about this moment when it comes to race; a lot is still frustrating and complex. In many ways it feels like we are in the fog of war.

I firmly believe that this moment, when it comes to race, is a moment of redefinition and revolution. I believe that the fact that this moment at times is so painful and terrifying might actually be a source of hope — because usually the things that matter, the things that make change, and the things that last for generations to come are painful and terrifying for the generations that initiated them.

Follow Adeel Hassan on Twitter @adeelnyt.

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 8 years ago

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Trinkets, Valuable, 2: More useful than simple baubles touched mystery, these items have either a clear purpose, a reliable ability or are made from a fairly costly material. The items could fetch fair prices to collectors of the strange, jewelers, antique or art dealers or simply to barter with if the owner is short on actual currency.

A beautiful set of gold filigree tarot cards inside a velum lined box. This deck once belonged to a fortuneteller who fell afoul of darkness.

A black wedge that weighs one pound and becomes one pound heavier each month it remains in the possession of the same creature

A blanket which renders any creature wrapped in it invisible, but only when they are unconscious and snoring.

A bolt of opalescent silken fabric that ripples and sparkles when kissed.

A bottle of ink that never goes dry or runs out

A bottle of red wine which appears thick and viscous. Anyone drinking even the smallest sample will be cursed with hematophagy, meaning they now only gain nourishment from fresh blood. The curse can be broken by laying naked in bright, direct sunlight for eight uninterrupted hours.

A chain of alternating silver and bronze links. The silver links are ethereal, while the bronze links are not, but they can still interact with the other links.

A clear glass rod that becomes a Random Color based on who is currently holding it (It is always the same color for the same people).

A coin pouch containing four slender golden ingots that are no larger than a grown man’s finger. Each is stamped with the sigil of a stylized spider.

A coin purse containing a dozen gold coins, each meticulously defaced and crudely carved with the face of a grinning goblin.

---Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

---Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A beautiful set of gold filigree tarot cards inside a velum lined box. This deck once belonged to a fortuneteller who fell afoul of darkness.

A black wedge that weighs one pound and becomes one pound heavier each month it remains in the possession of the same creature

A blanket which renders any creature wrapped in it invisible, but only when they are unconscious and snoring.

A bolt of opalescent silken fabric that ripples and sparkles when kissed.

A bottle of ink that never goes dry or runs out

A chain of alternating silver and bronze links. The silver links are ethereal, while the bronze links are not, but they can still interact with the other links.

A clear glass rod that becomes a Random Color based on who is currently holding it (It is always the same color for the same people).

A coin pouch containing four slender golden ingots that are no larger than a grown man’s finger. Each is stamped with the sigil of a stylized spider.

A coin purse containing a dozen gold coins, each meticulously defaced and crudely carved with the face of a grinning goblin.

A crystal beaker with the measurements in some long forgotten standard, etched in platinum.

A cube of ice that never melts

A dented iron tankard that turns anything poured inside into raw sewage.

A fist sized clear glass sphere with an iron arrowhead inside it whose tip always points at the sun.

A fist sized, unbreakable glass pyramid filled with what appears to be ice or snow. It is always cool to the touch.

A fist-sized gemstone that changes colour corresponding with the time of day, along with the phases of the moon (assuming you have one moon).

A fist-sized glass sphere that floats through the air, never straying more than two feet from its owner

A five-foot length of string that is capable of hanging perfectly horizontal without being tied to anything. It cannot support any weight however.

A flat circular stone which causes its bearer to smell like wildflowers.

A flute with buttons rather than holes so you can play music without blowing into it

A foot long glass rod that shatters easily but then instantly reforms from the shards

A foot long steel rod with a crystal embedded in its tip, which emits light when within a magnetic field.

A foot-long glass rod that, when placed in a container of liquid, will stir until it is taken out.

A glass eyeball that emits a projection of a human face that changes expression depending on the direction in which it’s looking

A glass jar filled with an edible, creamy white substance that fills back to the top each day at dawn. The substances tastes sweet but has zero nutritional or caloric value whatsoever.

A glass rod that projects a three-foot square, two-dimensional image of an unknown creature on any flat surface.

A golden armband forged in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. The serpent is masterfully crafted and its eyes, fangs and the tiny scales covering its body are finely detailed.

A golden mechanical songbird. It is capable of playing three different tunes.

A green glass marble that floats next to its owner and whistles when they are angry

A hand crank music box which plays a melody that causes listeners to think they are dreaming.

A horn and horsehair toothbrush with bristles that always have exactly the right feel for the user and leaves the mouth feeling clean and minty fresh. The toothbrush automatically sterilizes itself if the brushes are submerged in water for one minute.

A jar of face paint that starts out black and changes color to match the bearer’s mood while worn

A knapsack that temporarily (and seemingly randomly) changes the color of anything placed within it. The change wears off five minutes after the objects leave the bag.

A knife block carved from jade, holding four knives, each with a handle made from jade and set with pearl fasteners. The blades are of bright, sharp, steel.

A large, sealed waterproof tube containing a bolt of a luxurious satin-like cloth

A leather map case that creates one sheet of new paper each day

A long-handled silver spoon that brings everything in it to the perfect eating or drinking temperature

A magical animated broomstick that sweeps only the ceiling. Can only be deactivated by touch.

A magnetic iron wedge that always points east when placed on the ground

A marble sized glass orb that orbits the head of the last person to touch it.

A marionette with a ceramic face that has a long hook nose and blue eyes, covered in flowing multi-colored silk, and a cross of light blue-silver metal and resilient strings made of the same. The toy is five feet from top to bottom.

A masterwork suit of feather-light plate mail which seems to have been made for the exclusive wear and use of a standard sized housecat

A metal ball that perfectly camouflages itself to whatever it’s touching. It turns white when you whistle at it.

A metal rod bent into a triangle that frightens off small animals with its mere presence

A metal rod that makes anyone who touches it sneeze, but never more than once every few minutes

A metallic mask that fits perfectly on its wielder’s face and changes expression when he does.

A mirror in a silver pointed starburst setting with wide triangular leaves. The top has a large round intaglio black opal, and each of the wings are cameo-set with round moonstone and onyx.

A monocle that shows different colored auras around people depending on the time of day they were born

A painting of an ogre eating a sheep that has a dark somber quality to it. The frame is made from silver and is set with a dozen, intaglio-cut rose quartz

A painting set in a silver frame that shows a new, beautiful scenic image of a place in the material plane every day

A pair of large brass shoulder pads that make the wielder’s body shimmer with golden light when worn.

A pair of pants that fit perfectly and never seem to get dirty but are always uncomfortably chilly

A pair of shining silver balls that chime when clicked together.

A pair of silk stockings that are always warm to the touch

A pair of tailor’s shears that can cut through any kind of leather.

A piece of lava rock that is cool to the touch but never stops flowing with bright red lava

A pouch of six seeds that, when planted, grow into thick shaped bushes over the next twenty days and function as hollow shelters large enough to accommodate one hound-sized animal each

A pretty silver hairpin that can be easily used as a lockpick and never suffers any kind of damage when used for such purpose

A quill pen that only marks on living flesh without the need for ink. The marks fade in a week

A Randomly Colored metal sphere, three inches in diameter that floats one inch overtop of any solid surface it’s placed on. It can support one pound of weight while floating.

A red rag intended to be wrapped around the scabbard of a sword. It magically whisks away blood and other liquids from a sword as it is sheathed.

A rolled-up piece of metal that plays soothing music when it gets warm

A sandstone pyramid that gives off a Randomly Colored light as bright as a candle, for one hour at a random time each day.

A scarf made of Randomly Colored silk but is virtually indestructible and cannot be dirtied or stained

A sealed scroll tube containing deed proclaiming the bearer of the parchment as the owner of a house in an underwater city. Both the scroll tube and the parchment are completely waterproof.

A set of five small metallic plates that can be set to orbit around a single creature’s and display ever-changing, unknown symbols

A set of four steel arm and leg bands which cause small harmless sparks to dance across the wielders body at all times, if all four are worn.

A set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like the front and back half of a unicorn, made of porcelain and inlaid with gold and silver

A set of small silver figures, each representing a different circus performer in a different pose. There is the Master of Ceremonies with his arms outspread, a strongman lifting up a barbell, an acrobat standing on her hands, a lion tamer with a lion, and a monkey riding an elephant.

A set of three glowing crystal rings that slowly orbit whatever they are placed around. They can be used as a bracelet or necklace.

A shadowbox which contains a large, perfect, glowing specimen of a moth. The specimen goes through its entire lifecycle as long as the box is closed. When it is opened, the specimen is found freshly preserved in whatever state of life it was at the time. When it grows old and would die, the old specimen is apparently removed, and a new egg appears in the box to live out its life.

A sheet of papyrus that captures a person’s portrait when a command word is spoken (reusable if the command word is known).

A short silver chain joining two crystal rings together. It’s fairly obvious the rings are meant to be worn on adjacent fingers with the chain serving as additional decoration.

A shrunken, shriveled head of a halfling. This morbid fetish has eyes which dart to and fro when the living are nearby. The owner of the head can command it to sing songs about heroes of old, which is does reasonably well.

A silk scarf that if passed over anything while being focused on, will instantly matches the colour of that object

A silver cylinder that, if spoken through, makes the user’s voice sound wavering and strange

A silver fork that makes every word the holder hears seem incredibly rude and offensive

A six-inch metal string that stretches to eight feet without breaking

A slender glass rod that translates everything said while holding it into a language no one can understand.

A small and incredibly detailed (And strangely beautiful) stone statuette depicts a huge worm-like creature bursting forth from the ground. It is obviously the work of a master craftsman. Perceptive PCs can even make out a tiny pair of legs protruding from the creature’s mouth.

A small ceramic disk, that makes quiet soothing noises that are only audible to creatures within five feet of it. Most beings find the gentle sounds aid them in falling asleep in unfamiliar places. The disk can be turned on and off by tapping it gently.

A small coin purse containing six pellets that, when dropped into liquid, remove its flavor and color

A small crystal sphere that glows as bright as a candle under starlight

A small glass flask containing the hair of a desert dwelling creature, the hair absorbs light during the day and glows at night. If exposed to the sunlight during the day it will shed light equivalent to a candle.

A small golden bell that gives off rich sounds when rung

A small golden button with a few green threads still attached. A prancing unicorn is embossed on the design of the button. If sewn on a garment and then worn, the button will teleport away the user’s clothing to a fairy circle.

A small golden jewellery box covered in strange decorations and unknown writing.

A small golden statuette of a man that is constantly river dancing.

A small grey stone disk that grows darker in color when within 100 feet of water.

A small hand mirror that makes anyone who looks into it feel handsome / beautiful and physically desirable.

A small hand mirror that shows a much older version of the viewer

A small hourglass necklace which has been crafted from pure silver.

A small ink pot that was cleverly fashioned from a tiny hollow stalagmite. The top of the stalagmite has been sliced off and reattached with an intricate set of hinges forged to depict two nesting bats. A silver clasp holds the pot shut. Of the matching quill, if there ever was one, there is no sign.

A small jewllery box that, when touched, creates the disconcerting rustling sound of hundreds of small insects coming from inside. The volume of the noise increases the more the lid is touched and starts chittering angrily if the lid is opened. The box is empty unless items are placed inside of it.

A small marble birdbath, inlaid with gold.

A small metal ball that tastes like sweet mint and leaves the tongue stained yellow if sucked on. The flavor never runs out.

A small metallic potted shrub that produces several brightly colored glass beads every week. The shrub needs to be watered with liquid contains heavy metals, silica or finely ground quartz in order to flourish.

A small model of a castle that matches a real one exactly and changes to match new alterations.

A small painting that displays a different face every day. Usually the face is smiling, but on every fifth day it is weeping. No face is ever repeated and the quality of the painting itself is exceptional

A small pink stone that, when placed under the tongue, causes harmless fog vapor to spill from the mouth, until it’s removed.

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meteoritxs · 8 years ago

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Bangtan Fic Rec

All of these are on ao3, they’re all shipping fics. I’ll add more as I read, these are just the ones I’ve read so far. My opinion is in italics, I only added the pairing, summary and theme of the fics, not the warnings and ratings so check those out when you’re gonna read them because some of them contain either smut, death or violence. You’ve been warned.

Fics in this list: 43.

I dream in the shape of your mouth by jonghyun | Namjin, College!AU.

Summary: Seokjin spends a lot of time in the library. Now, Namjoon does too. Taemin tries to summon Satan, and Jimin is a fuckboy.

*Jackson voice* Cute

Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Kavbj | Taekook, College!AU, Fantasy!AU

Summary: Taehyung has magic in his veins and Jungkook’s determined not to let it kill him.

Dude. This fic is so creative and well-written… I finished it and felt empty.

beat for me (live for me) by bakkushan | Namjin, Mafia!AU part of the offer me your deathless death series.

Summary: Namjoon’s looking at himself and then at Seokjin and all he can see is Life and Death lying next to each other under a starless sky.

I cried like a bitch with this one, painful as fuck.

All you need is love (and pink) by vppa | NamJin, Angels and Demons!AU.

Summary: Most people only have one miniature angel or devil riding on their shoulders to serve as the physical manifestation of their conscience. Poor Namjoon has five, and they’re all telling him the same thing: “fucking talk to him god dammit what the fuck is wrong with you”

Funny and sweet. I like it.

Can I Get Your Dewey Decimal Number? by melecs| NamJin, Library!AU.

Summary: Seokjin loved working at the library, but some patrons got on his nerves. Take, for example, the grown man who sat in the corner every day and leeched off of the Wi-Fi. And Seokjin worked in the children’s department.

Ah, this is… something else, for sure. Cute as hell. Funny, too.

The less I know the better by mucha | Taegi, Namjin, Fake Relationship!AU

Summary: “Together with their families, Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin… Wow, this is formal… Wait,” Hoseok squints at the paper, before looking back at Yoongi with a quizzical look on his face. “They invited you with a guest? But… You’re single, right?”

“Min Yoongi,” Jimin glares at him over the bar, crossing his arms sternly over his chest. “If you’re seeing someone and you didn’t tell us I will kick your ass, so help me god.”

“I’m not dating anyone,” Yoongi sighs, grabbing the invitation and scanning it quickly. The words “with a guest” are underlined and Yoongi can almost see it: the smugness on his brother’s face as he nods with satisfaction, putting the pencil down.

“So what does it mean?”

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding making eye contact.

“I might’ve… invented a boyfriend,” he finally mumbles to the glass in front of him.

This is so good, amazing, incredible. Brilliant. Entertaining as hell.

Star Light, Star Bright (The Last Star I’ll See Tonight) by DreamsOfAnotherReality | Taekook, Yoonseok, Teen!AU.

Summary: Jung Kook and Taehyung fall in love the summer Hoseok goes missing.

Hoseok just wanted to see the stars and confess to Yoongi gdi bye I’m gonna fucking kill myself.

Creating a home series by CheekyBrunette | Namjin, Foster Parents!AU

Summary: A BTS Foster Care AU

This AU is so cute and fluffy I love Domestic!Namjin

The Professor’s Family series by EquinoxSolstice | Taekook, NamJin, Family!AU

Summary: Professor Kim Namjoon is married.

He doesn’t have a wife.

They have a sort-of son.

And Jeon Jungkook just crossed paths with them.

Read this. It’s great, I promise.

The Greatest by Little_Dimples | jikook, College!AU, Sports!AU.

Summary: Person A is a hockey player person B a figure skater. Person A is told he needs more grace on the ice so he is forced to get lessons by person B. Problem is they hate each other.

Or Person A is Jungkook and Person B is Jimin.

I had so much fun reading this you don’t get it. As I was reading in class i had to hide my face because I was smiling so much. Really good fic.

400 minutes | yoonmin, School!AU.

Summary: Min Yoongi expected a lot of weird experiences to happen when he went to college, but being the roommate of his high school love who apparently “moved away for good” was not one of them.

Angsty but in a good way.

Beta Tau Sigma by bazooka | Namjin, Yoonmin, College!AU, Frat!AU.

Summary: A collection of events occurring within (and without) the walls of the Beta Tau Sigma fraternity house. At Beta Tau Sigma, there are only a few rules:

1) have a declared major in the College of Music; 2) keep your GPA above a 3.4; 3) don’t let Taehyung into the liquor cabinet; 4) don’t fuck up with Kim Seokjin. The rest is all fine print.

(Rating changed to M for sexual content in ch17.)

OKAY, THIS FIC IS THE END OF EVERYTHING FOR ME. My Favorite Fic Of All Time. Nothing is ever gonna top this for me, even House of Cards. This fic has it all, humor, angst, fluff, smut. Everything. Incredible fic. Golden fic.

cuz in a sky full of stars (I think I saw you) by wowoashley | Taekook, Namjin, Fake Relationship!AU

Summary: taehyung always has bad ideas. and jeongguk thinks this might be the best.

This is so cute and cliché but in a good way, I really love this fic.

ce monde est une têmpete by astringxnt | Taekook, Yoonmin, Namjin, College!AU

Summary: they say that one should fall in love with their eyes open, but Jungkook keeps his closed, and Taehyung is afraid that they’ll fall in all the wrong places.

the concept of strings in space time theory is that on a one dimensional plane, one only has the option of going backwards or forwards in their direction of travel. Jungkook chooses to be swept along into the unknown, with Taehyung as his only anchor.

AMAZING! I really like the plot of this one.

Safe and Sound by bazooka | Namjin, Royalty!AU.

Summary: From a tumblr prompt: Jin is a prince, and Namjoon is his bodyguard.

“You’re sort of bad at this.” “Nah. You’re safe, aren’t you?”

Prince!Jin. That’s all I have to say about this fic. Amazing.

(thought you knew) you were in this song by expplipo | Taekook, Yoonseok, Namjin, Soulmate!AU

Summary: Taehyung nearly chokes, but only nearly. Instead he raises an eyebrow and puts on the most suave smile he can manage. Hopes he looks far more collected than his for-some-reason racing heartbeat would let on, more suit-and-wine than elementary-schooler-with-a-new-crush. “You like me?”

Jeongguk blushes, and looks at his feet. He’s smiling. “Of course.”

“Really?” Taehyung says. “Like? Or like like?”

(So much for suit-and-wine.)

Nothing to say apart from it being amazing.

Common Thread by sugafree | Yoonmin, Namjin, Soulmate!AU

Summary: Red String of Fate AU where Yoongi doesn’t believe in soulmates and spends a long time trying to avoid a certain someone on the other end of his red thread.

I’m a sucker for Soulmates, but this fic is good regardless, love the way it’s written.

for you, anything by kadotas | Vmin, Yoonkook, Namjin, Marriage!AU

Summary: “Talk dirty to me,” Taehyung says lowly into Jimin’s ear, breath ghosting Jimin’s earlobe, eliciting a slight shudder from the latter.

“I’m not wearing underwear,” Jimin whispers back, pulling back to look Taehyung in the eye.

Taehyung groans gruffly at this, breaking the eye contact to lean down and nip Jimin’s jawline gently. “God yes baby that’s just-“

“I’m not wearing any underwear because you never fucking put the laundry in the fucking dryer like I’ve asked you to 100 times,” Jimin hisses, voice strained with vehemence, glaring at him and Taehyung sighs defeatedly.

(in which Taehyung and Jimin navigate through married life together, realising belatedly that it’s not always smooth sailing.)

Domestic Vmin is the best Vmin.

Let me know by TheOrgasmicSeke | Yoonmin, Yoonkook, Jikook, Yoonminkook, Namjin, Vhope, I Need U!AU, Poly!AU

Summary: Talking about it, of course, became harder as the days passed by. Yoongi could never find the right time to bring it up. He was still wondering if he was just imaging things. If he was just thinking he was feeling the things he was feeling. But that was quickly disproved every single time Jimin curled up around him and Jungkook kissed him. He was a fucking idiot in love with two bigger idiots and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Except probably ruin it by talking about it. Hell, maybe it was better to just never mention it and pretend it wasn’t happening.

So good. No other words.

Find the value of an elephant by tired angry egg (Mirabelle) | Namjin, Highschool!AU, Tutor!AU

Summary: When Kim Taehyung’s academic situation takes a turn for the worse, his mother is convinced to hire a highly recommended tutor in the hopes for a miracle that would turn her son into a conscientious student. Her eldest son, Seokjin, has a far more skeptical opinion on this entire thing, expecting it to be-lest he sugarcoat it-a complete failure. And Kim Namjoon is just really bad at making good first impressions (or second ones, or just impressions altogether).

Cute and funny.

A Sociolinguistic Analysis of Epenthesis in Academic Convergence by bazooka | Namjin, College!AU, Professor!AU

Summary: Epenthesis A phonological phenomenon in which two disparate sounds meet, creating a third sound between them which wasn’t there before.

There were a lot of jobs worse than being partnered with world-renowned Absent-Minded Professor Kim Namjoon, but Professor Kim Seokjin couldn’t think of what any of them were at the moment.

THIS! IS! SO! GOOD! Honestly, I’m in love with this fic.

The Mark of an Educated Mind by bazooka | Namjin, Metafiction.

Summary: At three o'clock in the morning after he’d been working for ten hours straight and everything he touched came out wrong and all his words were stilted and clumsy and all his music was rough and tangled… for some ungodly reason Kim Namjoon opened up a new browser window, typed bangtan sonyeondan fan fiction into the search bar, and then (god) hit enter.

No comment.

A Wonderful Institution by bazooka | Namjin, Yoonmin, Wedding Planner!AU.

Summary: Kim Seokjin is a wedding caterer. Kim Namjoon is a wedding planner.

Both of them think marriage is a societal construct with no place in modern life. Neither of them would know Real Love if it came up to them at a wedding and made a wager.

I love this fic because it’s so cute and funny to me.

Just Skin by syubology | Taegi, College!AU.

Summary: Yoongi is small and angry and 200% done with having feelings; Taehyung is Taehyung; Hoseok harasses Yoongi with petnames and Jimin ships Yoonseok. That’s basically it.

The fic that made me ship Taegi.

Pour up (Drank) by mindheist | Taekook, College!AU, Frat!AU.

Summary: If you can read this, take another shot.

LISTEN. This fic is so good it’s almost Beta Tau Sigma and that’s saying a lot because I love that fic. Anyways, the story in this one is great and it has its funny moments as well as fluffy and frustrating ones. Great fic.

Sidereal by darling | Vmin, Childhood Friends!AU.

Summary: Here we observe the Earth and the Sun in their natural habitat: each other.

This is all cute and fluffy in some parts but deep in others. Beautiful fic, I like the concept.

half a soul divided by jynxu | Minjoon, Taekook, Yoonseok, Soulmate!AU

Summary: Park Jimin has never been on a date. Nor has he had his first kiss, flirted with anyone, or fallen in love. His classmates would ridicule him and base nicknames over his distaste toward anything romantic. (Look, here comes Saint Jiminie!) Even his younger brother would make fun of him while his parents watched with pitying looks on their faces.

Nobody understood.

or: soulmate au where your soulmate’s date of death is tattooed on your wrist.

This made me cry. At school. No joke my friends were worried. Great fic, read if you want to cry.

Out of My System by xxdevilishxx | Yoonmin, Vhope, Namjin, One Night Stand!AU.

Summary: Yoongi likes one night stands and he understands how they work. What he doesn’t understand, however, is how he ended up in bed with a probably-not-legal kid crying in his arms about his broken heart, because he’s pretty sure (and correct him if he’s wrong) that a babysitting job was not what he was looking for when he went to the opening of his friend’s new club.

I read this instead of studying. Really good and interesting, I like the characters.

refrigerator humming, chewing gum and instant karma by locks | Taekook, Gangster!AU, Mafia!AU.

Summary: Taehyung sets the flowers down on the dining table, plucking the card off the little holder. “Dearest Taehyung, just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. I hope you’re thinking about me too. Love–” he pauses and squints before cocking an eyebrow and pursing his lips. “Hyung, why is the boss of your little boy band gang professing his love for me?”

Yoongi drops the noodles on the floor with a loud curse as he burns his hand.

Or, Taehyung’s been trying his hardest to avoid Yoongi’s criminal life for a long ass time, but a cute kid and his infuriating father keep pulling him deeper into the mix.

Cute and a good read, the concept is awesome and I like the way it’s written.

House of Cards by sugamins | Taekook, Vmin, Jikook, Vminkook, Mafia!AU, Gangster!AU.

Summary: Jungkook is the heir to a mob empire, the most notorious in the whole of Seoul. Taehyung is a rookie sent in to infiltrate by his select team and bring the empire crumbling down.

“You knew the game and played it, it kills to know that you have been defeated.”

Trailer. This fic. I have no words. It’s beautifully written and the plot is amazing, really interesting and just plain good. The fic to end all Mafia!AUs. Nothing is ever gonna top this for me. It’s also a long read.

Let Me In Or Let Me Down by noraebangbang | Yoonmin, A/B/O.

Summary: Yoongi hates dealing with heat cycles and suppressants and life in general. Everything is a terrible mess, and then there’s Jimin to make things a tiny bit brighter.

Now, listen, I don’t really like ABO, but this fic is so good that I wanna like it because if there are any other ABO fics like this gem then I’m in for a treat.

Kickstart series by Error401 | Yoonmin, Namjin, Vhope, Gangster!AU, Hitman!AU

Summary: Hitman!Yoongi AU.

The plot of this series is really interesting, I read it all in one sitting because I just needed more. It’s really good.

The Still Point (Of The Turning World) by inkingbrushes | Yoonseok, Reincarnation!AU, Soulmates!AU, Multiple lives!AU.

Summary: Because Yoongi doesn’t know how this started, or how this will end, but he knows this simple fact: he knows that there is a love between them that is much fiercer than the burning sun. There is that love then, and there is that love now, and surely there will be that same love the next time.

(Or: the one where they’re reincarnated over and over again and Yoongi meets a different version of Hoseok every time but Yoongi is the only one that remembers.)

Ok, this fic made me cry really hard and I’m still affected by it. It’s beautiful and sad and you should totally read it.

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