#also he just seems less abrasive as an ink person | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

naralanis · 3 years

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My first pen was a Pilot Metro Retro. And was promptly broke by an E-2 I let borrow it to sign paperwork (i kept the cap so he would have to give it back, but alas). And then a couple years later I jumped to a TWSBI Vac700 Iris. Anyway, i have a few different pens, but I havent found even a basic instruction on how to tune tines or maintain them besides washing them out with distilled water. And suggestions?

Hi there! Sorry about your Metro, and hope you're happy with the TWSBI! I once let someone borrow my Décimo and they... mangled it. Heartbreaking! I was eventually able to fix it, but it took some doing, and it was also a last ditch effort -- I was already fully prepared to dish out the money for a brand new nib unit, so I figured there was no harm in trying.

I'll get to the easy stuff first: if your fountain pen is writing OK, it doesn't really require more maintenance than a good flush every now and then. You don't even have to use distilled water (unless the water in your area is like, exceedingly mineral-heavy) -- plain tap water and regular dish soap will do just fine.

As for nib tuning/readjustments, they are not part of a pen's general maintenance. Readjustments are done if there's a problem with how your pen is writing, and personally I view nib tuning as something done to improve the experience to the user -- mostly to smooth a scratchy nib.

Here's the short answer as to why info on making these adjustments is a little less widespread (though still relatively easy to find):

1) While often simple, these alterations can be a bit fiddly, and it's very easy to irreparably damage your pen.

2) These alterations, but especially tuning/otherwise modifying your nib/feed, will almost certainly automatically void your pen's warranty.

Keep that in mind if you decide to undertake any tuning -- it is always at your own (and your pen's) risk.

That's the short of it! For the (much, much) longer version, as always, see below the cut!

sorry this one took so long, I got really, really into it and it is stupidly long adalskjadhls

So, first things first. Your pen writes completely fine, you wash it every now and then or whenever you're changing inks, and have an overall pleasurable experience writing with it.

Congrats! Nothing else needs to be done. Enjoy your pen.

Now, let's say your pen isn't writing completely fine. Maybe it's skipping, maybe it feels scratchy, maybe it's laying down too much ink or not enough.

Before you go straight to tuning your nib, the first thing you do is: you clean it.

"But Nara, I already cleaned it." Clean it again. You'd be amazed how often a more thorough flush fixes simple flow problems -- do it with dish soap if you used only water the second time.

The next step? Try a different ink, if you have some. Then, try some different paper. It's good to have a paper/ink combo that you're familiar with to use as a standard. I like to use a Rhodia No. 19 Dot Pad and Waterman Serenity Blue to test all of my pens -- nearly every pen I buy writes an 'inauguration' page with that exact combination.

If your pen is a cartridge/converter, always make sure the cartridge or converter is the right fit and that it's seated properly. It should fit securely without a ton of pressure -- if you can basically bop it off without trying, it's probably the wrong fit. If the converter provided to you by the retailer doesn't fit, contact them -- maybe you got a defective pen.

Alright, so you've done all of the above, but your pen is still writing funky or not at all. Now it's time to take a closer look at the nib.

Enjoy this expertly made reference image I made on my phone before I realized I could just link you to a better one.

Before you start researching how to tune/grind your nib, let's check the nib and feed alignment -- the feed is what allows the ink to travel from reservoir to paper, and if cleaning your pen hasn't solved the problem, there's a good chance it is probably not seated correctly.

Here's what you should check for:

1) Make sure your feed is flush to the underside of your nib

If there's a major gap between the underside of your nib and the top of the feed (where the ink channel is), the ink simply can't get to where it needs to be (i.e. the tip of the nib). I

If there is a major gap, you can check if your nib and feed are seated correctly in the nib section. This depends a little bit on the pen and the model, but most of the time, you can try grasping nib and feed together and gently pushing down. Remember to never grab your nib by the shoulders/tines, as that will most likely ruin it.

2) Make sure your feed is properly centered with the nib.

This is easier to check if your pen has a breather hole, which most of them do. Basically, check to see if the ink channel at the top of your feed (you can see it through the breather hole) lines up with the ink slit. Here's a good example:

And here are... not so good ones. Coincidentally, both on Conklin pens.

This is usually a simple fit -- sometimes you can gently wriggle it back in place. Other times, you need to remove the nib and feed from the collar (basically the plastic thing that holds the nib unit together) or they are friction fit to the section altogether (like in the Lamy AL-Star). Do a bit of research on your pen model before you try disassembling it.

Feed is centered? All good to go? OK, now we move on to checking the metalworks, so to speak. I recommend using a magnifying glass or loupe for this part. Here's the one I use.

4) Check your tines for a) factory oopsies and b) misalignment.

Here's an example of tines that were just... cut very wrong (sorry for poo-poo pic quality, but you should be able to see the tine on the right just... ain't right)

In the case above, contact your retailer. I noticed this one before even inking my pen, but they should cover a replacement regardless.

DISCLAIMER: all adjustments from here on out may void your pen's warranty.

(maybe not a simple realignment, but don't risk it, or ask your retailer before you try anything).

Here's an example of slightly misaligned tines (ON THE SAME PEN AFTER EXCHANGE BTW).

I stupidly didn't get pictures of my Décimo or the Duragraph above looking straight at nib pointing up -- you could actually see one of the tines sloping slightly downward. That causes unbearable (to me) scratchiness and can tear off paper fibers. No fun.

There are better examples from JetPens' Fountain Pen Troubleshooting Guide (which you should absolutely check out!)

You can fix misaligned tines yourself. It requires patience, a little pressure, and a lot of finesse not to overdo it. You can manually bend the tines back into place, but before you try it yourself, I recommend going to YouTube to see how other pen people do it. My method is similar to this one, but there are several others. You can use your fingernail to push it down, just be very careful with how much force you use.

The one method I personally don't recommend is, ironically, the one JetPens recommend on their guide. It might work just fine, but I just think it is way too easy to overdo it and get splayed tines or create a major gap between nib and feed.

OK, seems like the tines on your pen are fine? Time to...

5) Check the distance between your tines.

Your tines should, ideally, be juuust a hair apart-- only enough for the ink and capillary action do their thing. They shouldn't be touching, since that would hinder ink flow, but there should not be a gulf of distance between them either. Let's revisit another Conklin

Yay. Fun.

This is also fairly simple to fix, but again: you have to be delicate about it. I manually manipulate my tines into position and kind of go by feel by now, always testing and checking with my loupe. Here's how PenBoyRoy does it:

youtube

Again, there are many different methods, and you will often hear different things from different pen people. It's down to preference and what works for you!

OK, now we've gone through an odyssey of troubleshooting (I AM SO SORRY), let's talk about nib tuning.

Yet another disclaimer: doing anything I describe below will 100% void your pen's warranty.

Tuning your nib isn't necessarily fixing it. It certainly can, if you've done pretty much all of the above and everything looks fine but the pen isn't writing the way you want it to. I use it to smooth down pens that are technically writing OK, but the experience of writing with them isn't entirely pleasant for me.

Essentially, you're using a rougher surface to basically... 'sand down' your nib. There's a wide variety of techniques (from using a rough paper bag all the way to actual fine-grit sanding blocks), but the most important detail you need to remember is you're removing tipping material (however little).

While tuning your nibs isn't necessarily hard, it's very, very easy to overdo it, and that will cause pretty much irreparable damage. If tuning nibs is something you're interested in, practice on inexpensive pens first -- I practiced on ye olde Pilot Varsity.

The Varsity is great to practice tuning because 1) it's super cheap, so even if you fuck it up completely, it's not the end of the world. 2) It has a medium tip.

The bigger the tip = the more tipping material = more room for error.

I mainly use two things to tune my pens: micromesh and mylar paper, which are both super fine abrasives. Goulet (and other pen retailers) sell entire nib-tuning kits with everything you might need to get started, but here's my own (plus a few extras that may look scary, but trust me, you don't need all of this):

In my pen kit above, you can see my newer sheets of micromesh and mylar and the scribbles I use to tune my nibs. I hold the pen the way I normally would when writing with it, and scribble over the abrasive, but I don't do it randomly. Figure 8s are usually the go-to for simple tuning; you can also go a particular direction if you know exactly which area of your nib needs to be smoothed.

Again, even micromesh and mylar paper (particularly the latter) are incredibly fine abrasives, it is still very easy to overdo it. I have fucked up nibs before, mostly on my practice pens, but also on a not-super-cheap pen, and I had to buy a whole new nib unit.

So, like I said, possible? Very! Simple? Sure! Finicky? Hell yeah.

Side note: tuning a nib is mostly just making it write more smoothly. If you'd like to change the shape of the tipping material entirely (and thus create line variation), that is totally something that can be done!

It is called nib grinding, and it is better left to the professionals, but it is super cool!

pOK, I didn't quite mean to go into a full nib troubleshooting post, but I should have known my brain could not be stopped. Hopefully, this (extremely) long-winded, tangent-riddled descent into the rabbit hole was at least a little bit useful!

Thanks for dropping by!

#soulofkeys #ask naralanis and maybe she will deign to respond #fountain pen #pen asks #nara rambles #and holy shit how she rambles #I AM SORRY I COULD NOT HELP MYSELF #anyway #have fun I guess?#also #please do more research than reading what 1 (one) hyperfixated idiot put together on a Tumblr post #I avidly encourage it #pen talk

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peepingtoad · 4 years

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|| @dokuhebi cont. {x}

The peculiar period of downtime that they’d found themselves enjoying ever since the destruction of the other hideout, short-lived as it would no doubt be, had borne witness to the reveal of some truths that could never have come to light while he was still Orochimaru’s captive. Now they were in another of the many laboratories that could technically be considered ‘part’ of Otogakure, except this one was far, far flung from the sight of prying shinobi—not even Danzō had any hand in the funding or knew the whereabouts of this place—and of course, the timing was such that the expiry date on the sacrificial vessel he and Tsunade had met during the Deadlock was drawing ever nearer.

While this said a lot about exactly how long he’d been cooped up, it had proven more interesting in Jiraiya’s eyes, by this point, to wonder anew how Orochimaru had managed to weasel their way around the permanent obliteration of the chakra network to their arms. Knowing their sensei’s last-ditch jutsu, this was a feat the sage had previously thought impossible until they’d managed to snap him up and seal him in the forest, like a frog tempted closer by the innocent flick of the adder’s tongue… but particularly since their impromptu flight across the land, and especially what with having his own chakra restored, it became ever more apparent that the situation wasn’t quite so clear cut.

Ever one to observe quietly and gather his thoughts (whenever he wasn’t being boisterous and charging thoughtlessly ahead; such is the duality of man, or this man at least), Jiraiya said nothing when he first noticed the increased use of wrappings around their hands, and the certain quiver that was uncharacteristic of the graceful yet confident gestures he knew. Of course, he also noticed how Kabuto seemed to be the only one in and out of labs while Orochimaru spent more time lounging around—and while yes, this was often to spend time with him, Jiraiya couldn’t simply chalk it up to being a wonderful distraction, even if it would tickle his ego. Not when they so often seemed agitated by an itch for activity that they clearly couldn’t scratch, and particularly not when with increasing frequency they avoided laying their hands upon him in that lovely, possessive way he adored.

However, he wouldn’t call them out on their secret-keeping until meditation, and the awakening of a sage’s ability to sense all around him, showed him exactly what was going on—that cells were beginning to die, that chakra capillaries were deteriorating like old and frayed cables unable to communicate signals, and that this process of death, while gradual, was only beginning with this particular point of weakness. It wasn’t just the Reaper Death Seal that was behind their condition; it was all tied in with the Body Possession, too.

By the time they placate him with the barest of explanations, he already knows that they hide the full extent of what’s to come, and the implications of what must happen next (and soon) to remedy that... are grim. It is where their ideals come to a definite nexus, the reason that they've had to consider each other as enemies for so long, until happenstance led to choices that would solder their fates together once more.

Most critically of all though, it presents Jiraiya with a question he’s avoided until now: can I support this?

Amid numerous growing concerns, witnessing their ailing health only becomes more of a struggle to watch. But the final straw comes when they retire to bathe one evening, and yet many minutes pass—five, ten, fifteen—without even a drip of water to be heard, no shower before the bath, nothing to suggest that any other personal grooming is underway.

He finds them perched on the stool used normally for cleansing before entering the bath, having evidently made attempts to turn on the tap, so he quickly completes the task, and within moments steam fogs up the room. It would seem propriety may have to take a back seat for simply getting them in and comfortable, this time—Jiraiya wasn’t fool enough to think they’d allow the indignity of him stripping and washing them beforehand, but he certainly has plans to do so once they’re relaxed.

“Mm,” he replies simply at their assertion, a response he may as well not have given for how focused he is on unravelling the bandages with utmost care. He doesn’t need to see the damage itself to know that Orochimaru justifying themself is the very first sign that they aren’t satisfied in this situation, that they are perhaps embarrassed or even ashamed by the cost of their ability... but revealing the tender skin, mottled slightly mauve with the beginnings of that deterioration he’d sensed on a cellular level, certainly hits differently. Still, he keeps it hidden from his expression (as best as he can, at least), not wishing to rock the boat. Much more set on offering a little pampering care to soften the edge of being in such a state.

With their silken hair all gathered, tied up and away from their skin—albeit it not as elegantly by Jiraiya’s hand than it would have been by their own—he guides them into the deep bath, and spares no time in kneeling on the step that he may begin to gently wash them. It’s easy to lose himself in how stunningly beautiful they are while his hands roam over their body, sometimes with the cloth, and for those extra sensitive spots that require something even less abrasive than that, completely bare with only a film of lightly floral suds to make it glide over flawless skin.

Of course, few situations were quite so grim that the notoriously lusty sage could ignore desire when it was right before him, pliant and lovely in his hands, but reaching Orochimaru’s arms causes quite the abrupt pause in what had been shaping up to be an act both caring and skin-tinglingly sensual. Something that they clearly pick up on. Something that, dare he say it, gives them a reason to think he needs an extra reminder of that desire... or simply a distraction.

And it certainly works.

With his forearm supporting his weight on the curved edge of the ofuro, Jiraiya melts into the kiss, his free hand sliding up their sternum to cradle their neck, curling around its slender shape with only the lightest pressure applied. The steam feels steamier the more he tastes what is undoubtedly his Orochimaru; he knows too well their small breaths and gestures for this to possibly connect, in his mind, with the concept of a mere corpse painted with their likeness. And yet it does niggle. Enough that there’s a slight pinch to his brow as they part—just that subtle little indication that in this moment, despite the agitated, trembling weight of his breaths that would indicate stirred up lust, or the fact he’d topple into the bath with them if he tried to lean much further, his feelings towards them have become just a touch overwhelming.

Love, worry, protectiveness, sadness... it all mingles together in soft, storm-cloud grey, and the very last on the list of reasons for that look is ‘trying to make sense of them’. In fact, it isn’t even on the list at all.

“Mm,” he mumbles again—although this time, at least, he intends to say more. Right after his fingers stop idly fiddling with ink-black forelocks that have fallen from the poorly arranged up-do, settling finally on brushing it gently away from their face, before caressing the elegant line of their jaw. His chin rests atop his forearm, the distance allowing him a better look at them, which in turn prompts a smile that, while gentle, could mean an array of things. Not that he’s going to leave them hanging, as he continues calmly: “Quite the contrary. It makes all too much sense to me.”

Surely he need not say out loud how well he understood their aversion to death, their obsession with sweeping over any tracks by which it could pursue them as it had whilst growing up, nor that he knew the fact that actually possessing the power, wit and audacity to potentially overcome death was what had spurred them to just do it. Surely he need not say out loud that he knew their ambition and independent streak would have seen them leave Konoha’s tenuously safe walls for some other reason, if not this one.

After all, all three of them had left, albeit for different reasons—and Jiraiya’s own reasoning lay in an ambition of his own, or just a burden of destiny, he couldn’t always tell which. It was different to theirs, but he understood the drive to chase it. Admittedly, his is one that he still feels would have them struggling to make sense of him. Maybe, after everything, he was the one still showing a lack of trust in them. In anyone but himself, really.

Sighing, he braces his hand on the side of the tub, then rises to his full height with a few pops and cracks of his knees here and there. He’s only wearing a light yukata now, having showered not long prior, so it takes little for him to shed himself bare before decisively joining them in the tub, where the addition of his significant mass causes the water to swell, brim and spill over the edge. It evens out as he settles himself on the step situated on the side just beside Orochimaru, his arms made weightless by the water immediately curling around them to hold them in a loose embrace.

“I sensed when we fought that day, that something was different about your body, and I won’t pretend it didn’t disturb me.” His head tilts thoughtfully after saying this, clearly searching for the best words to spin substance to his thoughts. “But your essence, your soul, whatever you may think of it… it’s still the same to me. No matter how much I disagree with what you do, or worry that your actions are only gonna create new chains of vengeance and hatred that’ll come back to bite you, or even how much I worry about you, just you in general—your happiness an’ all that… Well, it still is you. It always will be you. And just like agreeing doesn’t necessarily mean understanding, not agreeing doesn’t mean not understanding. I won’t say this doesn’t worry me, of course, but...”

His eyes flick in the direction of their arms when he emphasises the word ‘this’, about the same time as a gentle nudge of the arm that forms a ledge beneath theirs illustrates it, before meeting their golden gaze again. The fact that someone will have to die to sustain their life... it’s rotten to think about it, but the fact of the matter is, Jiraiya would always choose them over someone else. And if that ‘someone else’ is a shinobi, well... there’s not much to vouch for in terms of their ‘innocence’. They were all killers here. That didn’t make killing someone to further a selfish pursuit for immortality okay, but there isn’t much he can do besides accept the fact that loving them, not from afar but being with them, means accepting that he’ll be inhabiting some exceptionally grey territory... or leaving.

Which, clearly, is quite the opposite of what he’s currently doing.

“It’s funny,” he adds with a slightly bolder curl of his lips, his hand returning once again to their face to simply hold their cheek while his thumb gently caresses the high, refined bone that lends well to that sharp glare of theirs, even with such smooth features, “you’ve tried to tell me that the way I see you, what I continue to see in you is wrong... but you’d be sad, wouldn’t you? You’d be sad if the way I looked at you changed and became like everyone else. Otherwise there’d be no need for you to hope it doesn’t. Watch me look at you, and see—”

Oh, and the way he looks at them is indulgent. Traces of concern and sadness still remain, but as always seems to be the case with Jiraiya, such feelings find themselves lost in a bright and lovely nebula of far better things—love, care, warmth... and, as always, little glimmers of teasing and jest..

“It hasn’t changed, has it? Well... except maybe the bedroom eyes. I suspect they weren’t always quite so obvious~”

#dokuhebi #now to get back to the remaining birthday asks dsjfiosjf #you really got me with this one though #so i couldn't resist #{verse:captive | dokuhebi}#{long post}#{thread:nogood}

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sugasweetsubs · 4 years

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the world is cold and life’s not fair, baby [Yoongi x Reader] pt.3-1

3 | THAT’S THE TRUTH

Demon!Yoongi x Reader - Angst

Rated M (for violence, blood, strong language, mentions of death*)

*more warnings will apply in future chapters

Words: 8k

Pt.3.2 of 4 (previous | next)

As soon as her call with Yoongi disconnects, Y/N sags onto her bed. It wasn’t the most elegant conversation she’s ever had, but it got the job done. Lifting a hand, she pinches the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stem a quickly building headache.

She was going to be seeing him. Today. And that left her both terrified and relieved.

She knows it won’t be easy, but, now that most of the initial shock and anger have subsided, she also realizes that she has no idea what she actually wants to do about Yoongi.

In many ways, it was easier in the beginning, when Yoongi was nothing but the mysterious owner of a fight club. A name to be feared, but nothing more than a name.

But now… now Yoongi is someone who has let her meddle in his life for the sake of her brother; someone who nearly got stabbed for the sake of the search. More simply, and maybe more importantly, he’s someone who made her laugh--at 2 AM in a middle-of-nowhere diner no less--when no one else had been able to do so for a long, long time.

There is no doubt that he’s abrasive, hard to read, and a little too good at fighting for her comfort. But, it was the softer moments in between that kept her from calling the police then, and that keep her from being able to hate him now.

A frustrated sigh escapes her as she pushes herself into a sitting position. She shakes her head and tells herself that none of those things matter. Regardless of her personal feelings for Yoongi, good or bad, she needs him in order to find her brother. That is what matters.

With that as her resolve, she begins to prepare for their meeting.

____________________________________

Yoongi doesn’t handle waiting well. It isn’t long after his call with Y/N disconnects that the itching discomfort of impatience settles deep into his skin. The urges have been getting worse lately. He started noticing them not long before Y/N showed up at his door for the first time; it was only the brief interlude her presence had afforded that distracted him from the growing reminder. But, as history has shown, it is not something he can afford to keep ignoring. Sooner or later he will have to release the pent up chaos that is his power, the only variable is how much destruction he’ll bring when he does it. For the moment, however, the situation isn’t critical. He will deal with it after settling this investigation mess.

Glancing at his clock, he calculates the time he has before Y/N arrives. Judging it to be far too much for him to remain in his office, he takes the opportunity to rise from his chair and exit to where his assistant sits. After instructing the man behind the desk to keep an eye out for the information his sources are supposed to be sending, he weaves his way through the hallways that take him to the main practice room of the compound.

The “room” is more of a gymnasium, a large, open space sectioned off into five different areas. Each corner contains various equipment, with two set up with machines for weight training; one with lockers and benches for fighters to store equipment and rest; and the fourth acting as a makeshift infirmary with cabinets full of supplies for basic first aid, and gurneys for those who can only be wheeled out. The fifth and final area dominates the center of the space, acting as a ring for practice fights. It’s a simple setup, with mats on the ground and a few ropes marking the fighting zone, but it gets the job done.

Even now, two fighters are in the ring practicing footwork. At Yoongi’s arrival, they stop their drills and turn to watch him. One grins and gives a slight wave, the other blanches and looks away. Yoongi gives neither more than a cursory glance, though he notes their movement out of the corner of his eye when they exit the ring and start packing up. Smart people. They know that there’s usually only one reason that Yoongi himself makes an appearance in the practice room.

Yoongi searches the space. It’s a typical day for the club, and as such there are plenty of members walking around, chatting, and making use of equipment. However, a sudden hush spreads like a wave over the room for a moment as news of Yoongi’s arrival spreads, but sound surges a moment later as they begin to guess at the reason for his appearance. Most try to be discreet, but Yoongi can feel the eyes on him. He ignores the attention and continues his search.

“You," he calls out, finally finding what he is looking for in a young man who sits on a nearby bench, carefully wrapping his hand with support tape.

At the sound of Yoongi’s voice, the fighter looks up and spends a moment searching around, confused. Then he nearly pops out an eyeball when his gaze lands on Yoongi, who stands looking at him expectantly.

"Me?" He has paused his taping and now points at his chest, a bewildered look on his face.

"Yes, you. Ring. Now." The words are short, clipped. Now that the ring is in sight, the itch of his impatience has become a burn.

Startled blue eyes go even wider for a fraction of a second before the fighter's expression shifts into an eager grin, "you got it, boss."

As the man starts to tape his second hand, Yoongi readies himself. He first walks over to a small sink set into the wall near the medical equipment, and scrubs the spill of pen ink off his hand. A faded stain of gray remains, but he is no longer in danger of leaving marks on everything he touches. He then returns to one of the benches in the opposite corner and methodically removes his suit jacket and the white shirt he wears underneath. Despite the screaming need to jump into a fight, he takes the time to neatly fold the clothing and place it on the bench. He then bends to undo the laces of his black leather shoes before sliding both the shoes and the socks underneath the same bench.

Standing, Yoongi catches the roll of white tape that the fighter tosses to him. He makes quick work of wrapping his hands. While he could easily go without it, it is always good to keep up appearances. Finished with the tasks, Yoongi walks to meet the fighter in the roped-in practice ring.

"Gotta say, I've always wondered if I'd get the chance to knock you on your ass," the fighter calls out from the other side of the circle. "Everyone's so scared of you, but if you ask me, everyone has to fall some time." The words are said with an arrogance that can only come from youth. Yoongi wants to laugh.

"Perhaps," is all he says.

They both walk closer to the center of the ring. A woman, who the young fighter calls “Soojin” when she steps into the ring, takes the place of an official. Soojin quickly lays out the terms of the practice fight, accepting various tweaks from both Yoongi and the fighter--who he learns is named Joel. That done, Soojin steps out from the ring and raises an arm to signal the start of the match.

And just like that, they are fighting.

Limbs dance to the brutal grace of an unheard song, arms swinging and feet moving in time with each other. Yoongi is immediately grateful for his choice in partner, because despite the arrogance of his taunting, Joel knows how to fight.

First blood goes to Joel as Yoongi takes his time learning the bounds of his opponent. It is, of course, impossible for Yoongi to go at full strength, so instead these practice matches become an exercise of restraint; the real challenge lies in finding the right balance of give and take to make it appear an even fight.

The next blow is Yoongi’s, and it throws Joel precariously off-balance. He recovers with admirable skill, but Yoongi is already moving in for his second strike.

The match ends sooner than Yoongi would’ve hoped, but they both leave the ring bloody and grinning. The man has talent, but for Yoongi, fighting is like breathing--the human never stood a chance.

____________________________________

Y/N tries to calm her heart as she walks into the building that houses Yoongi’s club. A part of her rages against the idea. Why should she have to work with him, it yells and she is inclined to agree with it. But, the part of her not driven by pride recognizes the truth of the situation: Y/N has no leads on her brother without Yoongi. Besides, she tries to reason with herself, there will always be time to turn him in once she finds her brother.

With that unsound logic to tide over her guilt and confusion, she clenches the strap of her shoulder bag tighter, and walks past the practice ring that connects the main entrance to the halls that lead to Yoongi’s office. Through the haze of her mental pep-talk she notes that the place is livelier than usual. From the snippets of conversation she picks out of the noise, it seems some major fight just ended. If the excited yelling was any indication--it had been a good one. She even passes a man surrounded by mobs of other fighters all talking over themselves trying to ask him questions. Y/N notes, with a rolling of her stomach, that blood drips down the man’s chest onto the floor. But, he is smiling through split and swollen lips while holding a compress to what could only have been a black eye. He seems to be recounting the fight with an energy that made Y/N shake her head, a small smile on her face. She doesn’t linger long, and a short walk later she finds herself standing in front of Yoongi’s assistant.

The middle-aged man behind the desk gives Y/N a complicated look when he notices her presence, which only worsens the awful anticipation that has sweat pooling on her lower back. He turns to the computer before him and his hands fly over the keys for a moment before he returns his attention to her.

“He’s in a mood,” is all he says as he moves to open the door, his tone a warning.

She nods her thanks and ducks through the doorway, praying to whoever might be listening that this meeting won’t be a disaster.

Yoongi tries to ignore the treacherous thrill of anticipation that shoots through him at the sight of the message on his computer alerting him that Y/N has arrived. He surely should not be so eager to see a woman who looked like she was ready to call the police on him the last time they were together.

It isn’t long before there is a knock at the door. It opens to reveal Daniel, who says nothing and instead gestures for Y/N to enter.

She walks in, her hand clenched around the strap of her large black bag, and Yoongi is reminded of the first time they met. Even then, before she spoke a word, he was struck by her presence. He has always been good at reading people, seeing them. Even for one of his kind. And Y/N...Y/N is an interesting case, her aura almost palpable. It is one unlike any Yoongi has ever seen. It hovers around her like a golden halo, and something about its beauty has unsettled him since that first meeting. Over time it only seemed to shine brighter, so bright that, these days, he can hardly stand to look for more than a few minutes. Diving deeper into his memories with her, he thinks back, not for the first time, to the night at the diner. That sudden, stabbing pain with no apparent source...a part of him still isn’t convinced it didn’t have something to do with that brightness. Even now, seeing it again after the time apart makes his head spin.

“Are you just going to stare at me the whole time? Or can we get started?” Y/N’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Right. Come, sit.” He gestures to the chair across from him.

She folds her arms across her chest. “I’d prefer to stand.”

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, grinding his teeth, then nods. He tries to remind himself that she has a right to be standoffish. “Alright.”

There is pause. The tension in it hangs heavy.

Yoongi clears his throat, “I’m--” a pause, “I’m assuming you want me to say something.”

Y/N raises a brow. “No, no you don’t need to say anything,Yoongi, because I'm not here for you.”

Yoongi returns her raised brow.

“In the end, I’m here for my brother. And regardless of how I feel about you, I still need your help,” the words come through gritted teeth.

“I see.” Yoongi takes the time to shift some of the paper on his desk, gather them into a neat pile, and align the edges against his desk. The sharp shick, shick of the papers is the only sound in the room. Setting the stack aside, he leans forward to brace his arms against the polished edge of the wooden surface. He makes every effort to make his attention on her appear undivided, but still a part of him watches with fascination as the very other glow around her grows even more noticeable with her building anger. Interesting.

“What exactly would you like to discuss, Y/N?”

____________________________________

Y/N grinds her teeth. Again. Maybe this is a mistake after all. They’ve been “discussing” (read: arguing) for nearly an hour and have gotten nowhere. Yoongi meets her every argument with a cool retort, and while she knows he has to be just as fed-up with the back and forth, he lets none of it show. As always, Yoongi is frustratingly put-together, and it makes her feel ridiculous for being anything less than frigidly composed. Even the crisp lines of his spotless suit seem to mock her.

“So, just to clarify,” she starts, trying her best to keep the bite out of her voice, “you’re still insisting that you don’t know my brother? After I’ve explained to you over and over who he is? What he did at your club?” Y/N takes an unconscious step closer to Yoongi’s desk, her voice sharpening. “I even spoke to one of your fighters, who I know you know, and he confirmed that you have personally spoken with and fought with my brother in the ring. Broke his arm even!” She stops when she realizes her voice is well above polite volume. She forces a steadying breath before continuing, “how is that possible, Yoongi?”

“To be fair, I’ve broken a lot of arms,” is his tight-lipped response. He closes his eyes and rubs at his right temple in the first show of emotion Y/N has seen yet. “I realize the facts of the situation, but you saying it over and over again isn’t making me remember anything more than what I’ve told you.”

“Bullshit, you’re telling me he was here for weeks and weeks and you didn’t notice him even once?”

Yoongi makes a sound that is curiously like a growl, “do you know how many fighters walk through these doors? I don’t keep personal tabs on all of them.” He continues to rub at his temple and,in a startling realization, she notes the slightest flaw in his otherwise flawless appearance. There, just above where he keeps rubbing, is the faintest trace of yellow-green at the edge of his temple, where skin meets hair. It gives the impression of a healing bruise, and even while most of her mind is consumed with other, much darker feelings, another, much smaller voice whispers its concern for the small hurt.

But even her unbidden sympathy can’t hide her fury, “you keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.” There’s more to this, there has to be. “There’s no way the head of the biggest fighting ring in the city didn’t keep tabs on a fighter who was spying on him for another group.” The act of disloyalty on her brother’s part was a hard pill to swallow, but this rollercoaster of a search has taught her to separate the facts from her reactions to them.

Yoongi stands from his desk in a furious blur of motion and begins pacing the length of the room. On the second turn, she catches a glimpse at the unfocused look in his eyes and it gives her pause, but still she decides to push. “I’ve told you his name, shown you his picture, his records. There has to be mor--”

She cuts off when Yoongi spins on her and pins her with a look that makes her blood run cold and then hot. A whisper in the back of her mind says maybe it is time to go, but then he speaks.

____________________________________

“Will you shut up about your brother for one goddamn second,” the words are spit at her with such force that he might as well be yelling. The unexpected acid of them leaves her feeling like the floor got pulled from under her feet. “Don’t you understand that this is so much bigger than one missing nobody? Your brother didn’t disappear because of me. He disappeared because he got involved with the wrong people and pissed them off,” his face twists with a dark kind of amusement, “and for once I had nothing to do with it so will you back off.”

Y/N is so startled at the sudden outburst that she is silent for a moment before her face distorts with anger. “You’re a disgusting human being, Yoongi. Don’t you dare--”

And maybe because Yoongi is bored, or maybe because he has a death wish, he interrupts her with a bitter laugh. “Oh, but that’s just it. I’m not a disgusting human being, because I’m not even human. Things like me don’t play by your simple ideals of fairness or morality, how many times must I demonstrate that for you?”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Y/N shakes her head, her eyes betraying her when they start to sting, “no, you know what, at least we agree on one thing. You can’t be human, because no human would be so awful.”

Yoongi latches on to that ever-so-slight waver in her voice and takes a tiny, oh-so-dangerous step closer. Y/N takes a careful step back, not trusting the sudden wild light that enters his eyes. “No, I don’t think you understand.” Another step forward. Another step back. “I’m not human, Y/N.”

Her eyebrows sink low and she gives a nervous laugh, “yeah right, and I’m the President. Stop fucking around, Yoongi.”

“Oh, but I’m being deadly serious.”

Y/N rolls her eyes and turns in an attempt to make her way to the exit. But, faster than her eyes can track, Yoongi grabs her roughly by the arm and spins her back around to face him.

“Just think about it Y/N,” he shakes her arm, “use that detective brain that you pride yourself so much on. You haven’t seen much, but you’ve seen enough.”

She yanks her arm out of his grip and takes a big step back, “Jesus, Yoongi, what the hell are you talking about--”

“Think!” He lets out another one of those frustrated, almost-growls, “the first time you met me, your skin crawled a bit, no? And not just because you were about to meet with a criminal, no it was something more than that. Something that just felt wrong?” Yoongi knew she would have felt it. Animals are more reactive, but humans have the same kind of primal response to his kind, whether they realize it or not.

Y/N freezes at his words, thinking back to the day she first met Yoongi. The waring feelings of disbelief that a quiet well-dressed man could be the leader of such a violent organization, and the intense sense of wrongness that had filled her with irrational dread that day. Before she can process a reply, Yoongi is speaking again.

“The day that we went to the abandoned house,” he starts, edging the tiniest bit closer until her arm brushes against the smooth cotton of his shirt; the heat of him seems to burn through the material onto her skin, “I thought you would be too panicked to notice, but nothing gets past you, Y/N. You saw me get stabbed that day, and you were right, the knife went all the way through. I should’ve died, but it was nothing more than a faint scar just a few hours later. And, you would have only seen it for a moment, but I’m certain you picked up on it: the dark shadows under my eyes that day, too intense to be simple exhaustion.”

Y/N wants to interrupt, to stop whatever this is and have Yoongi go back to normal, but he continues before she can say a word. His own words are like a flood, seeming to fall from his lips without conscious control.

“And haven’t you noticed how things have a funny way of working out when we’re together? Like that postal worker who gave us an address? You don’t actually think they bought that story with the rings, do you?” His smile is mocking and Y/N once again gets that crawling sensation of warning up the back of her neck. “Surely you’ve wondered why the police haven’t shut me down, even though my business is well-known and I make no attempt to hide what goes on here?

“It’s me, Y/N. Everything has happened like this because I made it that way. One of the perks of being what I am.

“I’m sure there are a hundred other tiny things that you could list,” he makes a small flicking motion with his free hand, “all tiny pieces of evidence that you ignored,” he takes another step closer without warning and suddenly his face is inches from hers. His eyes fill her vision and she shudders at the way the dark brown of them appears black, his expression distant, “because human brains have a funny way of twisting things that don't fit their precious reality.”

Y/N can hardly breathe, let alone think, but she has a creeping feeling that she has to keep him talking, so she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “What are you?”

Yoongi’s smile splits his face so wide that Y/N flinches at the sight. To her overwhelming relief he takes a small step away. When he releases her arm, her breathing returns in a ragged rush.

“A demon.”

She freezes for a moment, processing. Then, she burns with embarrassment at the declaration. God, she can’t believe he really got her with this nonsense. “A demon? Yoongi, I’m losing my shit here, don’t you dare fucking tease me right now.”

“It’s not a joke, Y/N,” his voice is soft, but not gentle. “I’m a demon.”

She laughs, because it’s the only thing she can do. “And, what, I’m just supposed to believe you? For all I know this is your sick idea of a prank, or maybe some drug-induced fantasy world you believe in. Where’s the proof?”

Yoongi freezes in a way that sends a chill down Y/N’s back. Too still, she thinks, no one should be able to stand so still. “You want proof? I can show you my true form, but,” he meets her eyes and she wants to bend under the intensity of them, “I have to warn you that humans have been known to go mad from the sight.”

“Wow, you’re really committed to this,” she crosses her arms in a show of bravery that is only skin deep. “Okay, Yoongi, show me your ‘true form’ or whatever.”

It is the wrong thing to say.

When the words leave her lips, Yoongi's expression changes in a way that Y/N has no words for other than "inhuman" as ridiculous as that sounds. He takes a large step back, and the distance allows her to take her first deep breath in what feels like hours. That is, until she takes a closer look at Yoongi.

The first thing she notices are his eyes. The black of his pupils expand, eating up the color of his irises and even the whites, to the point where Y/N can no longer tell if she is looking at eyes or simply dark holes in his head. The veins that sit just below the surface of the skin under those eyes have turned a sickly black, creating an eerie web of bruised-looking skin that is a startling contrast to the sudden and extreme paleness of his face. The next things to catch her attention are his hands. They look almost charred, the skin turning an unearthly black so incredibly dark that they seem to eat away at the light in the room, with the darkest black occurring at the tips of his fingers and fading into an ashy gray before disappearing under the rolled sleeves of his white button-up shirt.

The air in the room grows heavy and hot to the point where it almost hurts to breathe. It seems to roil the way heat does off a hot summer road. The sensation only builds until it is another presence in the room, seeming to crawl up Y/N's arms and down her back, tingling like tiny electric shocks across her skin. She tries to take a step back, to get away from the nightmare emerging before her, but when her back hits the office wall, she realizes with a numb sort of horror that she has nowhere left to go.

At that moment, the thing that used to be Yoongi takes a step back, and Y/N swears she sees embers rise from the ground in a short burst of red and orange. The subtle smell of smoke joins the cloying heat of the air. The thing, she can't bring herself to call it Yoongi, spreads its arms wide, an uncomfortably wide and razor-sharp smile on its face. "What do you think?"

Y/N squeezes her eyes shut, but she knows that these images are already burned onto her brain. “W-what are you?” she stammers, barely finding her voice.

“A demon.” The creature echoes Yoongi’s earlier words, except the voice coming from where the Yoongi she knew had been standing was a distorted copy of his voice. Too deep, too rough, as if it hadn’t been used in a long, long time.

Y/N doesn't feel real. Surely she is having a nightmare and any minute now she'll wake up. When she gets to Yoongi's office she'll tell him that her subconscious paints him as a demon and they'll have a good laugh.

"Sorry, but you're not dreaming.” The thing doesn’t sound sorry at all.

"How did you-"

"My abilities are stronger in this form. I usually only pick up feelings and auras of people, but your mind is shouting so loud that I'm picking up actual thoughts as well." It makes this sound like an easy, natural thing.

Y/N's legs give out without warning and the impact of her knees on the wood of the floor is hard enough that her teeth knock together, but the pain barely registers--her mind too busy trying to comprehend the impossible.

The thing--Yoongi, she forces herself to use his name--crosses his arms, "So, you believe me now." It isn't a question.

Y/N can barely nod, let alone speak, her vision starting to go fuzzy around the edges. Yoongi's voice sounds far away, and muffled like he is trying to talk through heavy glass. "How," Y/N's voice isn't hers, it feels detached from her body, "how is this possible?"

Yoongi starts to answer, but in the same moment that he takes a step forward, something deep inside Y/N snaps. In a move so fast she doesn’t even register it, she is on her feet and running for the door. Some part of her recognizes that Yoongi could keep her here if he wanted. She had quickly realized that the overwhelming weight and electric heat of the air was stemming from Yoongi, and it screamed of power in a way Y/N only knew on instinct. But, to her surprise, he allows her to run. She is out of the door and through the compound before she can pause to think.

She only stops when she reaches her car in the parking lot. She fumbles with the keys for nearly a full minute before she finally pops the lock and collapses inside. The click of it locking around her loosens one of the knots in her chest, and she allows herself a series shuddering breaths. She wants nothing more than to drive away at speeds that would do more than get her a ticket, but one glance at the uncontrollable shaking of her hands and she knows she won’t be taking the car anywhere.

Instead, she lets her head fall back against the headrest and takes deep breath after deep breath, trying to calm the thundering of her heart.

When she can think past the roaring in her ears, she grabs her bag from the car and exits, keys in hand. She may not be fit for driving, but she also can’t stay here so close to whatever the hell just happened. She’ll walk all the way home if she has to, send someone from work to pick up her car another day. She almost hopes Yoongi has it towed from the lot.

Her thoughts are still a whirlwind when she starts passing through the market district. Even though it’s just barely into the evening hours, most of the doors she passes have their artful signs flipped to “closed.” She passes one of her favorite shops and stares mournfully through the window. A pint of her favorite icy treat really would have hit the spot for this personal crisis. She closes her eyes against sudden flashes of memory, the black eyes and the acrid smell of smoke that still burns in her nose, clinging to her clothes, her hair.

She wants to forget it ever happened, pretend it was all an elaborate prank. But her fear runs too deep, too powerful for it to have been anything but terrible reality. She can’t decide what surprises her more: the fact that demons exist, or the fact that she had almost called one a friend.

Not that Yoongi had really done anything for her to consider them friends, but at the very least she had been starting to almost look forward to their afternoons together.

On the tail-ends of that thought, she starts re-analyzing her every interaction with Yoongi. What had been the signs? Shouldn’t she have known something was so terribly wrong about him?

And maybe it’s because she’s lost in thought, or maybe her body’s warning systems had been overloaded on Yoongi, but she doesn’t notice the screech of tires besides her. She doesn’t hear the mechanical sliding of a van door opening, doesn’t register the shouts of men beside her until it’s too late.

Rough hands clamp over her arms and then her feet are no longer on the ground. She hits the metal floor of the van a second later, her left shoulder crumpling painfully beneath the weight of her body. She is quick to scramble to her knees and is just about to release the scream that had been building in her throat, but before she can make a sound, a large, gloved hand clamps over her mouth with absolute force.

Still, she resists. She kicks and wriggles, bites and even swings her bag at one of the men, hitting him squarely in the jaw with enough force to knock his head to the side. It seems to only have the effect of pissing him off, however, because he draws a sleek black pistol from his back and, in a calculated blow to her temple, knocks her out cold.

The last thing she remembers is the black clouding over her vision. Then there is nothing but black.

____________________________________

Yoongi stares at the door Y/N had run through just moments before. He should stop her, but for whatever reason he lets her go. For an inexplicable reason, he has the feeling that she won’t speak to anyone about what she saw.

Turning from the door, he takes a deep breath, settling into skin that hasn’t seen use in too long. Demons can exist in their more human disguises indefinitely without ill effects, but there’s nothing quite like the feeling of letting the power that usually sits behind walls of controls come to the surface unrestrained.

He pauses mid-step when he spies the burn marks on the floor. Sighing, he makes a mental note to order a repair and draws his power back under careful shields until nothing of his other self remains.

Just then, there is a knocking on the door and, without waiting for a response, Daniel walks in with a handful of files and a judgemental look.

“I see Ms. Y/N left in a hurry today.” A pointed look at the burn marks in the floor as he hands over the files.

Yoongi takes them and grumbles, “not today, Daniel.” The man may have been in Yoongi’s service for decades--serving out a contract that had been initiated out of desperation, in the dark days of the human man’s youth--but he continues to walk a fine line between honesty and insolence.

Daniel simply raises his hands and says, “I’m just making a statement,” before leaving Yoongi alone with the files.

Picking up the first one off the stack, he is surprised to see that it’s from Hoseok. A handwritten note is scrawled across the front of the small envelope, it reads, ‘you owe me -H.’

Inside the envelope sits a USB drive, and Yoongi wastes no time plugging it into his computer. There is only one folder on the drive, titled ‘Nephilim,’ and it gives Yoongi pause. The word itself means ‘the fallen ones,’ but beyond that it feels familiar somehow. The almost-memory of it dangles on the edge of recall.

Within the folder there are two files. Yoongi opens the first and begins to read. It seems to be an excerpt from the journal of a lesser demon who considers themself one of the few historians among their kind. The passage is a record of lesser-known supernaturals and their histories. Yoongi isn’t quite halfway through when he realizes why the word seems so familiar. Nephilim, the fallen ones, is the name given to the offspring of humans and angels.

He had actually met one, in a chance meeting near the dawn of his existence. Young and inexperienced, he had only distinguished the nephilim from the surrounding humans when an older demon had pointed the woman out. She had been old and wisened, and had appeared incredibly weak to Yoongi, but even now he could remember the dizzying feeling that had nearly sent him stumbling when he walked by. The feeling of vertigo elicited by Y/N is much weaker in comparison, but the similarities are something to note. And while the woman hadn’t had that kind of golden glow that surrounds Y/N, Yoongi also hadn’t been as sensitive to auras at the time. Interesting parallels, but nothing conclusive.

He hadn’t been much older the first time he met a true angel. They had been a very old, but low-ranking messenger, and it was only then that he truly understood the power of his celestial counterparts. Angels are, in many ways, the opposite of demons--where demons wear darkness and shadows like armor, angels have weaponized their light. The angel that day had scowled when they came within reach of Yoongi, their beautiful face twisted in much the same way Yoongi’s had been. “You taste of soured petrichor and burning sulfur, demon,” the words had been spit with disdain as the scroll was handed over.

Yoongi hadn’t bothered with a retort at the time, but he still remembers the awful light that flowed from the angel’s skin, a blinding brightness that made it impossible to distinguish anything but blazing eyes of white-gold. Even more than that, Yoongi remembers the scream of static in his ears when the angel spoke, their voice ringing with a high pitched hum that grated like shattered glass on his senses.

His reactions became less intense over time, as he grew older and more powerful, but still he made sure that his meetings with angels were few and far between.

Pulling himself from the memories, he pulls up the second file--a retelling of a folk story from almost five hundred years ago. The story tells of ‘golden children’ and of family lines who were thought to have been blessed by angels. For generations after the appearance of a golden child, members of such families were said to have powers that weakened evil and protected entire towns. Most of the tale could be chalked up to human inventiveness, but there were striking similarities between the descriptions of the golden children of the legend and the nephilim in the demon histories.

Yoongi recognizes the message Hoseok is implying by sending this particular information, but he has a difficult time accepting it. There are similarities between his experiences with Y/N and these tales of human-angel offspring, but there are also enough differences that he doesn’t make the connecting leap just yet.

Moving on to the next file in the stack, he finds it is a personnel record for Y/N’s brother. Yoongi almost skips over it, after all there couldn’t be anything in these records that Y/N herself hadn’t shared, but he pauses when he sees the attached picture.

It becomes immediately obvious that the picture Y/N had shown of her brother was outdated. The man in this photo looks to be several years older, the hair is shorter and an entirely different color, and the man in this photo sports facial hair that hadn’t existed in Y/N’s picture. Yoongi wants to hit himself when he makes the connection between the two faces. Of course this was Y/N’s brother. He hadn’t realized it when looking at the picture she had provided, but he should have known, their faces were too similar for anyone to think them anything but siblings.

More importantly, Yoongi recognizes this face. Remembers clearly keeping an eye on the young and brutal fighter, not only because Yoongi suspected him of being in contact with a rival group, but also because he had almost beaten Yoongi in a fight.

It had been a routine sparring match in the practice ring. Yoongi had been itching for a fight, and the young man had been happy to oblige. Things started off as usual and Yoongi had expected a clean win. But then, when the other fighter had connected his fist to Yoongi’s jaw in his first successful hit of the match, Yoongi remembers being startled by the rolling sense of vertigo that had disoriented him enough for the human to get in several key strikes. Yoongi had recovered quickly, ending the match in a vicious move that had broken the man’s arm, but it was the closest anyone had ever come to beating him in his entire time with this club.

It was a feeling, Yoongi thought in a moment of startling realization, that was identical to the one caused by Y/N.

His eyes drifted to where the historical records were still open on his computer and wondered at the significance of this familial connection. It’s not enough to entirely convince him, but something tells him this detail is important. He puts both the file and the envelope aside for now.

After dealing with a few club-related emails, he returns to the final file at the bottom of the stack Daniel had brought to him. A thin manila envelope with no identifying markings. He reaches inside and pulls out two things that set his blood to a boil.

The first, is a note. Scrawled in a messy hand, its message is short and to the point. ‘We have the girl.’ Below that ominous statement is an address on the other side of the city and a time for the following afternoon.

The second, is a photograph. Yoongi immediately identifies the woman in the picture. Y/N. Bloodied. Tied to a chair. Her head lolled forward in a way that speaks of unconsciousness.

Yoongi’s anger is a cold thing in his bones, but it burns hot on the surface, setting the photo in his hands ablaze until all that remains of it is a pile of ash.

He is moving a second later, exchanging his suit jacket for a rugged leather one that is less likely to show the signs of a fight. He is out of the building before he can register the decision to do so.

His only coherent thought is that the people who took Y/N better hope she is alive when he finds them, because it’s the only thing that might ensure them a quick death.

____________________________________

Y/N wakes suddenly, and she immediately regrets it when she registers the pounding in her head.

It takes her several too-long moments to remember the events of the day, but when she does, they return to her in a rush. The call with Yoongi, the nightmare of his reveal, the terror of being thrown into the floor of a van.

She attempts to blink through the pain radiating from her temple throughout her skull, but nothing she can do will clear the ache that’s so sharp it blurs her vision. She notes, with a numb sort of calm that she is alone in a dark, unfurnished room. She sits in a chair, her hands bound behind her with a tight looping of rope that bites uncomfortably into her skin. She knows even before she starts to pull, that her attempts at freeing herself will be useless. She makes the attempts anyway.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, her head making it impossible to think coherently, but it feels like hours have gone by when the only door in the barren room opens. She is blinded for a moment by the light that leaks in from the hallway, and the disorientation is enough that she doesn’t immediately register that someone has entered the room.

“Good, you’re awake,” a gruff male voice breaks the silence. She struggles to focus on the speaker’s face, but it proves to be pointless as his features are hidden behind a black mask that leaves only his eyes visible. “We have some questions for you about our mutual friend.” The masked man takes up a position on the wall opposite of Y/N, folding muscled arms over a wide chest in a black long-sleeved shirt.

Y/N stays silent.

“The shy type, huh? That’s fine,” he reaches into one of the pockets of his black cargo pants and pulls out a pocket knife, “we have ways to encourage talking.” The silver blade of it flashes in the air in a motion so practiced that Y/N feels sweat start to build on her neck.

“What--” Y/N’s voice comes out hoarse, her throat too dry. She tries again after swallowing, “what do you want from me?”

“Smart girl,” her stomach rolls at the appraising look he gives her, “we just want to ask a few questions.” He pushes off of the wall and comes to crouch before her, pulling down the mask from his face to reveal a startlingly handsome face full of clean lines and full lips. He plays the tip of the knife over the knee of her jeans, and it takes every ounce of willpower she has to remain still and silent. “Let’s start easy. Why has that bastard been looking for us.”

In this position, Y/N is almost eye-level with him and she pours every bit of her fury into her gaze. She wants to spit on him in answer, but the blade on her leg suggests that that may not be the smartest course of action. She decides instead for compliance--for now. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you and your people have been plotting his murder.”

The man’s eyes widen a fraction, then he grins--and it’s a dark, slimy thing. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth, huh?” He holds her eyes for a tense moment before breaking the contact to rise to his feet. Back to her, he continues, “And how, exactly, did Mr. Min learn about this plot?” He turns to face her, the smile still on his face, “could it be that, like brother like sister, we have a leak on our hands?”

At the mention of her brother, a guttural sound leaves her throat before she can stop it.

“Oh, sorry,” he says with mocking sincerity, “that’s a bit of a sore subject I see.”

“What the hell do you know about my brother?” Y/N snarls, the force of her anger overwhelming the throbbing pain of her head.

“I know he was a two-timing nobody who got in over his head.” He begins to walk the length of the room, his pace unhurried and even, “I know that he was a loose end. Just like you are now,” he doesn’t miss a step when he turns to shoot her a knowing smile. “I also know that my employer doesn’t allow loose ends,” he steps forward suddenly and captures Y/N’s jaw in a loose hold, “even pretty ones.” The warmth of his fingers is like a brand on her skin and Y/N struggles against his grip, only succeeding in sending a shooting pain down her neck when it twists at an awkward angle.

“Tell me,” he says, his eyes filled with an odd kind of light when he yanks her face back to his; their breaths mingle in the bare few inches between them and Y/N fights the urge to hold her breath in protest to the uninvited intimacy of the action, “would you like to meet your end in the same fashion as your brother, or shall we think up something unique for our new guest?”

Y/N’s body reacts before her mind, her eyes starting to burn before she has even processed the words, but the tears don’t fall. No. It couldn’t be.

“You’re lying,” her voice, whisper soft, is fierce in its conviction.

“Afraid not.” The man, who seems endlessly cheered by her suffering, smiles again, but this time his eyes fill with a darkness that makes her body shudder as if overcome with a sudden chill. She can feel her mind spiraling, barely focusing as he continues to speak. A large part of her absolutely refuses to believe his words. Her brother can’t be gone. She would have felt something, right? Her world couldn’t just lose one of its core foundations without crumbling, could it?

“You see, your brother was just a little too smart for his own good. Even knowing about the plan to get rid of Yoongi probably wouldn’t have been enough of an excuse to get rid of him. We knew we were at no risk of anyone finding evidence to back his claims.” A small silence where his face fell into a mockery of sadness, “no, your brother was killed because he didn’t stop there. He kept digging and found a secret that is better left buried. And for that, he had to die.”

Y/N feels beyond numb by the time he stops talking, the words falling around her without reaching her. Just like in Yoongi’s office, she has the feeling of being outside of herself, watching all of these horrible truths drop onto the slumped shoulders of a woman broken.

“Oh don’t look so down, doll.” She observes with curious detachment as her head is lifted by a finger under her chin. “If it makes you feel better--”

In that moment he is interrupted by the muted sounds of something being broken and someone shouting. Just as his head whips around to face the sound, the door bursts open and a wild-eyed woman sticks her head in only long enough to gasp out, “we have a situation,” before disappearing back into the light beyond.

The man in front of Y/N releases a frustrated yell, the unexpected loudness of it makes Y/N flinch, then sag in minor relief when he releases her chin. Only for that relief to bleed out of her moments later when, after a brief conversation with the woman in the hall, the man returns and draws his gun.

“Looks like our time’s been cut short.” He walks forward, the weight of his boots making the thud of every step fill the room. Each footfall closer has Y/N’s heart trying to claw out of her chest. “I’m looking forward to continuing this later, but, first, you don’t need to see this.”

Then, in a movement so fast that Y/N doesn’t even have time to flinch, he brings the butt of the gun down on her temple and, for the second time that day, her world flickers to black.

____________________________________

*A/N* Sweet jesus it's up. Guys, I'm never joking about taking another year to update again, because apparently I cursed myself. I hope this makes sense, I'm constantly trying to walk that line between "don't let it quite make sense yet so it all comes together later" and "this straight up doesn't make sense," so please, if it's too confusing don't be afraid to ask, I'll answer what I can or let you know that an explanation will be coming later!

Thank you so much to everyone who has been patient with this series, because I know it's taking forever and it's hard to wait. Your comments are what give me that extra kick in the butt when inspiration is there but I can't write, so thank you for the lovely words TT

Not to curse myself again, but I'm planning to finish this up before fall hits.

As of the most recent draft, there will be four main parts in total + an epilogue + an author's reflection where I plan to share some behind the scenes and deleted scenes! This chapter is actually cut into two pieces, because it was significantly longer than other chapters as one piece, so be on the lookout for that in a few days! Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

Thank you!!!

#bts #suga #yoongi #fanfic #angst #demon au #yoongi x reader #seven sins au #my stuff #the world is cold and life's not fair baby #twicalnfb #sugasweetsubs #a little less than a year...TT #better but not ideal #so excited to finish and have it all up!#please come talk to me about this if you like it #I have so many Thoughts #thank you for reading!!

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darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts · 6 years

Text

Hush

This short has been brought to you thanks to a convo @xathia-89 who was talking about tales that had been bugging them in their mind recently. Mitsuhide and Masamune in the library with the reader (female) trying not to be overheard my Ieyasu. I cannot / have not attempted to write NSFW stuff since my first poor attempt at it but once again I find myself trying. I hope you all enjoy it.

Warning: NSFW... Heavy petting, smuttish behaviour. A fox and a dragon playing games. Cameo form a porcupine... (this is starting to sound like a zoo)

Masterlist

---

Hush

The castle library was always an interesting room. Row upon row of shelves housing books meticulously organised into different topics. Whilst it was a fantastic room it was also a pain in the backside when it came to cleaning. Every book had to be removed and wiped before you wiped the shelves then everything had to be replaced again. If you were extremely unlucky you were given the task of cleaning after Mitsunari had returned his borrowed reading material and you found yourself playing the role of frustrated librarian as you reorganised the books back into their right locations as you went.

You made your way along the castle halls until you reached the room you wanted. Sliding the door open with your foot as you carefully balanced your cleaning supplies in your arms. It was not the best lit room in the castle but you could still clearly make out the figure of one curious person sitting silently in the room. His head rose from what he was reading and a thin smile graced his lips as he noticed you.

“Well if it isn’t the little Seamstress.” That disarming baritone voice almost seemed to drift in the air to you as you entered the room.

“Mitsuhide. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to disturb you.” You offered a meek apology as you set your small bucket and rags down near the first row of shelves.

“Disturb? However, would a little thing like you possibly disturb me?” Mitsuhide chuckled as he continued to watch you from his corner in the room. His citrine eyes almost seemed to flicker in the lamplight.

“What are you reading?” You attempted to make for polite small talk as it seemed he had no intention of returning to reading at that moment and his gaze was starting to make you a little too aware of his presence. Of all the people to find yourself in a room with it had to be him.

“Curious? I was just reading up on a couple of things that interested me.” Mitsuhide indicated the small stack next to his side. You had no idea what they all were about but something about Mitsuhide’s smile always had you on your guard with the slightest things.

“Well don’t let me stop you.” You ignored your curiosity and decided ignorance was sometimes bliss. Especially when it came to the castle’s number one tease of a warlord. You had just cleared a shelf of books, stacking them in order nearby.

With a damp rag in hand, you had started to lead into the shelving to wipe it down when a slender arm and long alabaster fingers brushed past you. There was a very slight soft pressure behind you as another body drew close enough to your own that you felt a slight warmth from them. “Er… Mitsuhide?” Your voice came out a little startled and you turned your head without realising that his face was so close your noses were practically touching.

You weren’t sure you had ever been this close to him before. You could feel his chest rise and fall on your back and his breath ghosting over your exposed neck. Even in the dimly lit space, you knew it not possible to hide the fact you were more than likely blushing as red as a peony.

“Mm? Oh, my apologies I was just looking for a new book.” He spoke completely indifferently making you feel like you were the one with a dirty mind. He glanced closer at you, putting a more meaningful smirk on his face. “Are you feeling quite alright you seem to have a fever?”

“No, no I’m fine just getting a bit warm from cleaning I guess.” You gave a feeble excuse and attempted to move but you realised you were actually blocked in. The door to the room slid open abruptly and while your eyes widened in surprise Mitsuhide gave what felt to be a small sigh next to you.

“What are you two doing?” The abrasive voice of Ieyasu effectively killed the mood dead. It was something you were both a little happy about but also sad at the same time. Mitsuhide slowly removed his arm from around you, a small book now in his hand.

“Looks like fun to me.” Masa laughed happily. He had his usual playful twinkle in his eye as he looked in your direction.

“Everything looks like fun to you.” Ieyasu rolled his eyes and came further into the room. Quickly replacing the rag into your bucket your decided it was probably a little safer at the moment to take the dry rag and dust off the books rather than remain close to Mitsuhide.

“No point in life if you don’t enjoy it.” Masa shrugged.

“Ieyasu. Masa. What are you…?” You looked between the two men as you brushed the dust from the leather covers and bindings of the books.

“It’s a library clearly I am here looking for a book. I have no idea what he is here for though.” Ieyasu sounded irritated, although it was difficult to tell if it was more or less irritated than usual.

“I was just following you.” Masa said as he put his hand on Ieyasu’s shoulder.

“What are you a puppy?” Ieyasu scowled as he brushed the hand off him.

“Me? Nah… I’m more of a Tiger. Right Kitten?” Masa sent a feral piercing look at you. That singular blue eye was no less powerful for having lost its partner.

“I think I’m getting a headache. Mc?” Ieyasu turned to you now as if attempting to ignore the very existence of Masa.

“Y-yes?”

“Give me that you look like you’re about to drop it in your daydream and if you get hurt it's going to be more of a pain for me later.” Ieyasu effortlessly scooped up the now cleaned books from you.

“Huh?... Oh! Thank you, Ieyasu.”

“Don’t bother I did nothing important.” Ieyasu quickly averted the thanks as he always did and began looking at the titles of the books in his hand.

“Aww that’s so sweet isn’t it Masa? Seeing out little contrarian being so helpful and friendly.” Mitsuhide moved next to the one-eyed dragon his cheerful teasing tone made Ieyasu visibly tense.

“Yeah, you’re nearly acting like a real guy there lad.” Masa nodded in agreement with the Kitsune.

“A real guy? I am a Man you know?” Ieyasu almost appeared to puff up as he spoke.

“Says the prickly thistle.” Mitsuhide muttered just loud enough for it to be audible to everyone.

“What was that?” Ieyasu glared at the white-haired trickster.

“Mm? Oh, nothing I was reading out loud from this book. Thistles are a prickly plant… see?” Mitsuhide turned the small book he held in his hand and showed a pretty ink drawing of a plant.

“I am aware of the plant thank you.” Ieyasu didn’t exactly back down but he did at least seem a little less like he was wanting to draw his sword.

“As to be expected of the resident specialist healer.” Mitsuhide smiled amiably.

“Can you eat it?” Masa enquired as he looked at the illustration.

“I wouldn’t recommend…” You answered for Mitsuhide who was no doubt about to make a dangerous suggestion as to the plants potential applications.

“I would suggest you try but I fear I will only end up having to care for your reckless self afterwards.” Ieyasu huffed. “Mc I’ll deal with these you get back to whatever it was you were doing.”

“Oh… yes. Thank…”

“Stop thanking me and just get that airhead of yours focused again on your job.” After tossing out his rejection of your appreciation Ieyasu took the books in his arms and moved further into the shelving and vanished out of sight.

“Don’t mind him, Lass, he’s just in a mood.” Masa pointed out his one as friendly as ever.

“How can you tell?”

A peaceful silence spread through the room after that. You had returned to your task of cleaning and Mitsuhide had returned to his corner. Ieyasu had not returned from the depths of the room and you actually suspected that he was sitting in his own corner somewhere ignoring everyone as best he could. Masa also decided to remain in the room, he had picked up a book and was reclining next to Mitsuhide flicking the pages over in it lazily.

You noticed it a couple of times out of the corner of your eye. First, it had been Mitsuhide. He had shifted in his position to lean towards Masa and whisper something. Then Masa had done the same thing minutes later to Mitsuhide. They could have been comparing information from the books together but there was something about these two warlords that just made the hairs on the back of your neck bristle. Alone they were both teases but together they were worse. You tried to ignore the internal alarm bell you heard and focus on your cleaning.

It was a faint throaty chuckle that sounded almost like a low purr that alerted you to the fact that someone was now right behind you. You had not heard him more or even seen it, honestly, if a warlord wished to move with stealth, they could give ninja’s a run for their money.

“You’re looking a little tired there Lass why don’t you take a break?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Why don’t you go back to reading your book?” You try to casually brush off Masa and continue your task. It would be nice to finish it today rather than have it take up most of tomorrow morning as well.

“Rejected already there Masamune? I thought you were better at the pursuit than that.” You practically jump as you hear Mitsuhide on the other side of you.

“I haven’t given up yet Mitsuhide. Besides this little Kitten didn’t exactly reject me.” Masa edged closer to you. Bringing his hand up to rest on your hip causing you to freeze at the sudden contact. Mitsuhide’s smile widened at the sight of your reaction to Masa and he too closed the gap from the other side causing you to be the filling in this rather attractive beef sandwich.

“What are you two doing?”

“Why whatever do you mean my dear? I am looking for another book obviously.” Mitsuhide brought his face closer to your neck as he bent down to speak to you more closely. “I have to say this one looks rather interesting…” He put his hand over yours and began stroking his fingers gently over your it, relishing the shudder of your body at the slightest of touches.

“Hey, no fair. I was looking at that one too.” Masa faked being upset as he stroked your cheek with the back of his hand before pushing some of your fallen hair gently over your ear. His fingertips grazing your sensitive skin just enough to send your already racing heart to rattle in its cage harder.

“I have no issue with sharing. You’ll just have to match my pace I won’t be waiting to turn the pages.” At this Mitsuhide moved his other hand to trace the neckline of your kimono. It was taking everything in you to just stay still at this point. Knowing that if you moved you had not just one but to warlords in hot pursuit.

“Wha- hey wait a minute I’m not a book!” You gave out a less than convincing protest.

“Such a noisy book. Hush my dear or would you prefer to gain an audience?” Mitsuhide’s reminder had you remember the fluffy haired porcupine nested somewhere in the library. You clamped your mouth shut, allowing that gently rising heat to spread through you as both men continued lavishing their attention on you. Their calloused fingers that wielded weapons focused on tracing every part of exposed flesh they could see.

“I don’t mind either way.” Masa purred a little louder in your ear as he took it upon himself to drag his tongue along the edge of it.

“Ever the showman. Well now…” Mitsuhide was now playing his fingers in ever increasingly tempting patterns up your arm as he slid his hand up the inside of your sleeve. You felt a faint tug at your waist and realised your obi had been slackened causing the layers of your kimono to shift and expose more of your neckline.

“!!”

“How intriguing this book is… these pages just abundant with information at my fingertips.” Mitsuhide brought his hand out of your sleeve and was now tracing those patterns of his down the side of your neck. His long fingers slipping further and further down past your collar bone and along the edge of the loose silk, his feather-light touches setting your skin alive with prickling heat.

“Mm…” A small moan escapes you in a voice you hardly recognise as your own, before you manage to catch yourself.

“I have to say you have no taste when it comes to food but I can’t complain about your choice of literature.” Masa pulled the silk draped on your shoulder sinking his teeth into your tender shoulder. The short stab of pain followed but the wet relief of his tongue as he licked the small bruise now blooming on your skin. “Delicious…”

“!” You nearly cried out and would have had it not been for the set of lips that locked onto your own swallowing your voice.

“Hush now little mouse.” Mitsuhide whispered as he drew his face back from your own his lips hovering over yours still as his beautiful bewitching face filled your vision. “If you are a very good girl we can give you everything you desire.” He forcibly stole another kiss. His tongue tracing your mouth as if looking for a hidden secret.

“Mhm?”

“Of course, if you are a very bad girl you can get more than ever dreamed off Lass.” Masa plunged his hand inside your now completely dishevelled clothing. You knew how you must look right now but that budding feeling of embarrassment and shame was obliterated as Masa began to rub at the space between your thighs.

“Ah…”

“There’s a good kitten. Purr for me.” He growled soft and low into your ear as he bit down on your lobe. His hand continuing to move as your body reacted with a mind of its own chasing his actions with ones of its own.

“…Masa.” His name came out as a breathless whisper.

“Such wonderfully honest reactions. I never get bored of watching you, my dear. However…” Mitsuhide too sunk his hand in joining Masa’s as if to not be outdone by the other man. He traced your slit, you could feel how your desire had coated his fingers allowing them to slip as smooth as the silk of your kimono over your skin. “I do believe taking action can sometimes be just as rewarding.” At this, he sunk his fingers into you. Your back arched at the sudden new sensation and as you bucked your hips you felt the undeniable pressure of both men next to you their arousals pressed into your back causing your mind to slip as you wondered exactly how much more of this you could actually take.

“Mitsu-hide…” His name slipped out of your mouth a little louder than you wanted it too given the situation. You certainly didn’t mind this but you didn’t want an interruption at this point.

“I don’t think she can keep quiet.” Masa spoke up as he raised his head from the crook of your neck to address Mitsuhide. He felt so hot it was like you were being held by a burning flame. That blue eye you loved seemed deeper drawing you into it more than usual.

“Mm… you could be right. I think a punishment might be in order.” Mitsuhide chuckled as he looked in Masa’s direction. His own eye’s hooded and nearly black with desire as he made his suggestion.

“Punish-?” Masa dragged his nail over your clit in perfect unison with Mitsuhide who had taken this time to silence you by curling his elegant fingers inside you placing the perfect amount of pressure expertly on your weak spot. Your voice cracked as your words died in your throat.

“Oh, I like the way you think. How about it Lass? Shall we take this somewhere else?” Masa asked already aware of how you would answer. He was enjoying this just as much as the other man who was also showing no sign of stilling his hand in its pursuit to cause you to become undone.

“How cute. Your silence won’t be helping you now though my dear. Punishment has been decided and punishment is what you shall receive.” Mitsuhide chuckled as he watched you writhing. Your skin flushed and beginning to glisten with sweat as you remained trapped between the two men.

“What are you going to do to me?” You somehow managed to get a full question out suppressing your desire to squeal between words.

“If you must ask that my dear then you are far too innocent to really be told the answers.” Mitsuhide moved the fabric closest to him away with his teeth exposing the edge of your collar bone to him. He traced delicate kisses along it, making you feel like you were melting.

“Don’t worry Kitten. We won’t hurt you.” Masa chuckled as he reassured you.

“He’s right. But by the time we’re through with you, your innocence will be a thing of the past.” At this Mitsuhide and Masa seemed to exchange something between them in complete silence. Both men stopped in their movements and your body was suddenly floating up in the air after being picked up by Masa.

“Eep!”

“It’s ok Lass I won’t drop you.”

“Be sure you don’t. We don’t want her getting hurt before we’ve finished what we started.”

You nestled into the broad chest of Masa partly seeking his heat but also in an effort to hide your shameless form as he carried you swiftly from the library int to castle proper and along the hallways to your room. Mitsuhide keeping pace easily as your side. You had no idea exactly what “punishment” they had in mind but you instinctively knew you weren’t going to complain.

---

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tempestuousheinousbitch · 6 years

Text

( brie larson, cisfemale, she/her, 27 ) — have you seen [ BOBBI MOORE ] around shermer? i hear they’re INDIVIDUALISTIC, but can also be TEMPESTUOUS A HEINOUS BITCH. they remind me of [ KAT STRATFORD from 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ], but it might just be me. last i saw them, they were working as a(n) [ JOURNALIST ].

GENERAL

FULL NAME: Roberta Jolene Moore NICKNAME(S): Bobbi, Bobbi Jo AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 27, 01/16/1992 OCCUPATION: Journalist GENDER: Cisfemale PRONOUNS: She/Her HOMETOWN: Seattle, Washington CURRENT RESIDENCE: Shermer, Illinois POSITIVE TRAITS: Individualistic, Eloquent, Organized, Purposeful NEGATIVE TRAITS: Tempestuous, Shrewish, Cynical, Scornful

BIOGRAPHY

non-consensual tw, implied rape tw

there is no greater comfort than the pitter patter of the rain. she loves it - craves it when it’s not around. perhaps that’s a result of growing up in washington state. rain was a constant in her youth, as well as douglas firs peaking out over silvery mist and slate colored skies. yes, it does rain in shermer, but illinois rainfall couldn’t compete with the damp autumns of the pacific northwest. it’s the one thing bobbi misses most as she sits before her laptop, bemoaning the writer’s block that’s keeping her page blank, a room temp cup of black coffee and a deap vally record all but forgotten to the blonde. if only it rained a little more the midwest.

roberta jolene moore was born the eldest of two daughters to an obstetrician and an aspiring writer. but let’s get one thing clear - her name is bobbi. she’ll murder you if you call her roberta. no one calls her roberta. not since the day her mom up and left the family without so much as an explanation. whoever roberta moore was died as the tail lights of her mom’s 1971 corola vanished into the horizon. it would be a few more hours before her dad or younger sister woke up to the news, but bobbi had already witnessed it. she supposed that was a day that a lot changed for her. all of those childlike qualities that little girls so naturally possess seemed to vanish over night. dad was going to need someone to look out for him, and her little sister was going to be in desperate need of a strong female presence. so bobbi filled the gaps that their mother’s departure left. she became a homemaker and a nurturer, a shoulder for her hysterical father and naive sister to lean on, and she became the backbone of a family that had suddenly lost their foundation.

of course this wasn’t the event that lead to the shrewish woman she is often condemned for today. no, maternal abandonment wasn’t going to be the thing that broke her. naturally, it was junior high. bobbi wasn’t exactly the most pretty thing around. like most ninth graders, she was a little awkward looking and experiencing the pains of puberty and acne. but she wasn’t bad looking either - at least, not to the class stud. for whatever reason they dated. probably because bobbi was a much different girl back then. she was someone who wanted to be accepted and who wanted to belong. which made it easy to get her to do what he wanted. all it took was some sweet words and enough wine coolers to cause bobbi moore to lose all inhibitions. she doesn’t remember much from that night. she remembers the music and the laughter of the party, and the first taste of alcohol. the rest was a blur, and her next clear memory was the following morning, laying naked and alone in the guest bedroom of her boyfriend’s house. it was easy to piece together what happened - she got drunk and she lost her virginity at the tender age of fourteen. something switched off for her in that moment, a feeling of discomfort. when her friends had written off the experience as “something she wanted” and “something teenagers all do”, she tried to write it off as all being okay. but of course, when her ‘doting’ boyfriend dumped her shortly after, the humiliation was enough to change bobbi. never again would she let other people’s expectations decide what she was going to do, and never again would she trust anyone else’s intentions with her.

that was the beginning to the bobbi moore evolution, though she isn’t one to admit it. it’s no one’s business why she’s the way she is or what lead to her being such a ‘heinous bitch’. she doesn’t really feel like she owes anyone explanations for the kind of person she is. she’s bobbi moore - shrewd investigative journalist, tempestuous ‘feminazi’ writer, abrasive and aggressively assertive liberal, whatever. she kind of just lets people say what they want to say. to correct them would mean that she cares about her reputation and in the immortal words of joan jett, she “ doesn’t give a damn about her bad reputation. ” if being the town shrew is the only way to keep people at arm’s length, then bobbi is all for it. or people who aren’t worth her time - if you’ve got even an ounce of originality and aren’t a walking and talking cliche then you just might be one of her close circle, the few people in shermer she actually likes socializing with and being associated with. it’s a wonder if there’s anyone that can tame her.

seems unlikely.

MISC

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Panromantic LANGUAGES: English FAMILY: Walter Moore (father), Mrs. Moore (mother, estranged), Becky Moore (sister) PETS: a Husky named Ruth Bader Ginsbark and a Golden Retriever named Rosie The Retrieveter ZODIAC SIGN: Capricorn MBTI: ISTJ AESTHETIC: black coffee forgotten and cooled to room temperature; female musicians and feminist bands in vinyl only ( of course ); loose typewriter keys in her pockets; cracked brown leather jackets, vintage band tees; makeup-less face and messy buns; chipped black nail polish; coexist bumper sticker on a beat up 63 dodge dart; reading glasses sitting on the button of her nose, a finger shaped smudge on the right lens; concert ticket stubs, bleached shells, creased poetry slam programs, and scraps of old writing in a trinket box long forgotten in the far corner of the closet; freckles that only come out with the sun, sideways smirks and a mischievous twinkle in dark chocolate eyes; leather bound notebooks e v e r y w h e r e, blue ink stains on hands; long empty hours staring at pages and willing words to appear; nights spent alone and welcoming the solitude

WANTED CONNECTIONS

the brat pack - a close knit crew of like-minded individuals who rise above the regulars of shermer society. popular isn’t a word commonly used for this group and very likely would never be used. they’re the outcasts of society who dare to speak up for themselves and their beliefs. and bobbi loves how they challenge each other to think beyond themselves and the proverbial box which cages much of the “small minded simpletons of shermer society”. jesse shah, open

the vapid one - the epitome of what bobbi hates the most in most people. the white knight of the status quo, the personification of banality, a loathsome creature of society who coasts the mainstream and has made a happy place there. they’re very unlikely to contain an original thought, and it bothers bobbi to no end. yet she’s ardently fascinated with this cliche and despite her best efforts cannot seem to stay away. heather mcnamara

the contender - unlike the vapid one, the contender is someone that bobbi doesn’t just loath for being just another cog in society’s machine - she despises them for the way they unapologetically flaunt it in her face. these two are always at war, constantly bemoaning the other’s existence and arguing over every stupid little thing they can think of. they could probably start a heated debate over the state of the weather if they wanted to - these two can never see eye to eye, and it’s better to steer clear of them when they’re in close proximity to one another. that is, unless you want to witness the pair butting heads again. open

more to come. i’m too lazy to think of anything else ahfiehapfheiapfhea

#* i’m your hell i’m your dream i’m nothing in between ( about. )#shermerintro #I hate this one more than I hate luca’s #ajdjchshhxhws

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dustedmagazine · 7 years

Text

Jennifer Kelly: Riffing on the margins

Every year, picking favorites seems more like an exercise in futility. You listen to a small subset of the available music, because it’s what people send you, it’s what comes on when you tune into WFMU, it’s what your friends write about or post on Now Playing, etc. and no human being can listen to everything or even a good portion of it. Then because of the way you’re wired and what you eat and who you know and a thousand other essentially random factors, you like what you like out of that small subset. I, personally, have never felt more out of the mainstream or less influential than this year. (Not that I was ever very on the pulse of what’s popular, but still…)

So anyway, with that caveat, music was as important as ever in my life, and maybe more so, because of the continual flood of unbelievable, awful, comically evil events on the world stage. We somehow seem to have elected Voldemort as president, a sex-abusing, corrupt, traitorous idiot, who will not shut up even for an instant, despite having a vocabulary of approximately 20 words. So turn it up, drown it out, take it away…the music remained very good this year, even when nothing else did.

It was a year when Michael Chapman made one of his best records ever, 50 years into his career, and backed by a brash young collection of guitar slingers and new jack folk dudes – two of whom (Steve Gunn and James Elkington) came out with their own excellent records as well. It was a year when a fractious, not entirely comfortable collaboration between West African traditionalists and French punk rockers pretty much owned my stereo, when Mark Lanegan guested on a haunting album by Tinawaren and also turned in his own soul-stirring rock album. I might have listened to less straight up guitar banging this year than usual, but if you have to pick a couple, you could do a lot worse than Xeta’s Husker Du-ish The Tower or feedtime’s back-from-the-hiatus Gas. More fantastic albums from Protomartyr and the Sleaford Mods, not surprising, but welcome anyway, and the wonderfully mordant, rueful and very Irish outing from Seamus Fogarty, which no one else seemed to pick up on, but I loved.

My two favorite songs this year will not appear on anyone else’s songs of the year lists, but whatever, next time you’re feeling wistful, check out Jack Cooper’s “Memphis, Lancashire” or hone in on the mesmerizing instrumental break (that’s Chicago free-jazz cellist Tomeka Reid) on James Elkington’s “Wading the Vapors.” I could also listen to Lanegan’s “Emperor” any day, all day, despite or maybe because it kinda reminds of Iggy’s “The Passenger.”

Reissues feel a little like cheating, because who the hell would reissue them if they weren’t already great, but still, a few of them measurably enhanced my life. I spent months on Cherry Red’s Fall singles collection and another very happy week or so talking about them with my Dusted pals. And discovering Jackie Shane — both for the quality of the music and the amazing story of her life — was unquestionably a highlight of this fall.

So with that, and out of the three hundred or so new albums that I listened to this year at least a couple times, and the maybe 100 that I played on repeat enough to have much of an opinion, here are the ones that moved me the most.

Michael Chapman — 50 (Paradise of Bachelors)

50 by Michael Chapman

I said in Blurt: Now in his 70s, Chapman sings with some authority about all the things you give up for a life in music – a settled abode (“Sometimes You Just Drive”), a late-model vehicle (“Spanish Incident”), a working relationship (“Falling from Grace”) and cold hard wherewithal (“Money Troubles”). And yet, surrounded by younger and contemporary peers, in a translucent mesh of jangling, tangling guitar/bass/banjo tones, he makes a case for the difficult path he’s chosen. “You know I don’t scare easy… but I do get scared,” he rasps on the superlative “That Time of the Night” (last heard covered by Lucinda Williams on the Oh Michael What Have You Done? tribute album and before that on 2008’s Time Past and Passing). The lilt in the line pulls the tune out of the darkness, the massed guitars and hushed group vocals bring shivering into the light.

Group Doueh & Cheveu — Dakhla Sahara Session (Born Bad)

From my Dusted review: This is not the kind of collaboration where you have to untangle who does what. The focus shifts from one band to another within the space of the song, and each comes out of the fray more or less as he or she went in. Cheveu’s members make no attempt to bend to the West African aesthetic, and Group Doueh plays from their rep book right over whatever punk mayhem Cheveu has put on offer. There’s a great deal of tension in these tunes, as two very different sets of musicians block out space for themselves. And yet, it’s a wonderful thing, feistier and more belligerent than most cross-cultural meetings. “Tout Droit,” the CD’s most exhilarating cut, sets up a rousing, shout-chanted Cheveu chorus, punctuated by grunts and “huhs,” then cuts it to ribbons with ravaging flourishes of guitar, ebullient forays of singing. The two bands are doing entirely different things, at the same exact time, and it works like a motherfucker.

Mark Lanegan Band — Gargoyle (Heavenly)

I celebrated my long-term affair with Mark Lanegan’s voice in this review at Dusted: Mark Lanegan can sound like a voice from the crypt, his hollowed out, deep-black whisper almost too low to hear properly, a whisper like Leonard Cohen if he’d recently been to hell, a whisper that could frighten children into eating their vegetables. In Gargoyle, though, he uses this whisper sparingly; the hairs on my arm rise to it just once, during “Nocturne” and for the rest of the time, the one-time Screaming Trees’ front man sticks to melody. Gargoyle is a singing record, a tuneful record, a densely, headily arranged record that surrounds Lanegan’s gothic reveries in soft glowing light. There’s almost no negative space in these ten songs. All are filled, end to end, with enveloping textures and sustained sounds.

Xetas — The Tower (12XU)

The Tower by XETAS

Hail, hail, rock and roll, say I in Dusted. Xetas, out of Austin, make an unholy racket, a noisy, feedback blurred firehose spray of sound that does not quite obscure a tendency towards tunefulness. The hooks bristle with barbed wire abrasion, putting this band more in line with Hüsker Dü than the Wipers, but they’re in there, glinting out of a cyclone of broken glass and diesel smoke. So, also, a kind of positivity radiates intermittently through the rage and turmoil of this band’s attack. The Tower, Xetas’ second, vibrates with the brash, brave defiance of 99%-ers who have been beaten down, but aren’t quite finished yet.

Jack Cooper — Sandgrown (Trouble in Mind)

Sandgrown by Jack Cooper

Bill Meyer and I both wanted to cover this one, and then we each did a “no, you go ahead” kind of thing and neither one of us ended up reviewing it for Dusted, but I wrote about it for Blurt thusly: These shimmering songs are full of ellipses, the spaces between guitar notes clouded over with wistful nostalgia for Jack Cooper’s lost seaside childhood. Cooper has gotten a fair amount of ink lately for his quietly subversive, acoustic dueling guitar duo Ultimate Painting (with Veronica Falls’ James Hoare), also rather luminously introspective, but Sandgrown is more personal, with the smell of salt air, the sting of sea breezes, the sharp sense of loss and change running through every track.

Sleaford Mods — English Tapas (Rough Trade)

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Back into the Sleaford Mods fold with this one, the words again appearing in Dusted: Key Markets and the follow-up EP T.C.R., to me, sounded a little thin, as if the concept of Sleaford Mods, whatever it was, had already been fully explored, the meat pried out, the beginnings of self-parody creeping in. English Tapas reverses this trend. It returns to the sly humor, the hypnotic barking aggression, the occasional whiffs of wistful tune-ish-ness slipped in between robotic beats of Divide and Exit and maybe does it one better.

James Elkington—Wintres Woma (Paradise of Bachelors)

Wintres Woma by James Elkington

I listened between the lines at Dusted: James Elkington, once of Zincs and now the go-to guitar guy for any number of indie icons (but most prominently, Jeff Tweedy and Richard Thompson), has an effortless skill in this latest solo album, the kind of picking prowess that dissolves like smoke into mood and atmosphere. He is a very good player, a lovely relaxed singer (in the vein of Bert Jansch) and an eccentric writer, whose songs borrow liberally from British folk tradition, but veer into unexpected directions. But if you want to know what’s mesmerizing about this slow burning beauty of an album, listen to the intervals, where Elkington dreams jazz-inflected fever reveries with a set of musicians that includes bassist Nick Macri, drummer Tim Daisy, and, most remarkably, violinist Macie Stewart and improv-jazz cellist Tomeka Reid.

Seamus Fogarty—The Curious Hand (Domino)

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I fell in love with this album the first time I heard the line in “Mexico” about getting reamed out by the boss for a smoke break. I also reviewed an album that doesn’t really exist (it was revised between promo and release) at Dusted: Seamus Fogarty makes shaggy songs, rumpled as if they’d been slept in rough, and plaintive at their core but with a shrugging, wry, what-are-ya-gonna-do sense of humor. Though mostly acoustic, leaning heavily on strummed guitar with some lovely melancholy fiddle, viola and maybe cello for accents, his songs also incorporate electronics and evocative field recordings.

Protomartyr—Relatives in Descent (Domino)

Relatives In Descent by Protomartyr

Four great albums in a row, who else is doing this? My Dusted review: Protomartyr ruminates on the nature of knowing in its fourth full-length album, tangling knotty intellectual conundrums over an obliterating roar. Backed again by a Detroit post-punk freight-train clamor — Greg Ahee on guitar, drummer Alex Leonard, bassist Scott Davidson — Joe Casey, the band’s rumple-suited, bile-spitting nerve center, finds a free-associative space for rant-poems about consciousness, memory, free will and the refracted shards of current events.

Feedtime—Gas (In the Red)

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Naturally, I root for the old guys, again from Dusted: You might expect some throat clearing, some tentative beginnings, in a band that had taken off the previous generation, but no, from the opener, “Any Good Thing,” you hear the same noisy slide-bent guitar riffs, the same rough and furious rhythms, the same growling, monster-voiced vocal attack as ever. feedtime might have gone out for a pack of cigarettes, slipped back in casually and ramped up to eleven.

Loved these, too.

Julie Byrne—Not Even Happiness (BaDaBing)

Jaimie Branch — Fly or Die (International Anthem)

Joseph Childress—Rebirths (Empty Cellar)

Heron Oblivion—The Chapel (self-release)

Tinariwen—Elwan (Anti-)

Stef Chura — Messes (Urinal Cake)

Feral Ohms—S-T (Silver Current)

Pere Ubu—20 Years in a Montana Missile Silo (Cherry Red)

Upper Wilds—Upper Wilds (Thrill Jockey)

Melkbelly—Nothing Valley (Wax Nine)

Kelley Stoltz — Que Aura (Castle Face)

The Clientele—The Age of Miracles (Merge)

Algiers — The Underside of Power (Matador)

Avey Tare — Eucalyptus (Domino)

Golden Boys—Better than Good Times (12XU)

Gunn-Truscinski Duo—Bay Head (Three-Lobed)

Contributors—ST (Monofonus Press)

Mark Eitzel—Hey Mr. Ferryman (Merge)

Reissues/Comps

The Fall—A Sides and B Sides (Cherry Red)

Jackie Shane—Any Other Way (Numero Group)

V/A—Ote Maloya (Strut)

I really like books, too, so here are my favorite reads from last year as well.

George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo

Hamid Moshin, Exit West

The Sixth Extinction, Elizabeth Kolbert

Celeste Ng, Little Fires Everywhere

An American Sickness, Elizabeth Rosenthal

Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City, Desmond Matthew

#yearend 2017 #jennifer kelly #michael chapman #group doueh #cheveu #mark lanegan #xetas #jack cooper #sleaford mods #james elkington #seamus fogarty #protomartyr #feedtime #the fall #jackie shane

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tiny-smallest · 7 years

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Rating: T Characters: Bendy, Alice, mention of various characters Warnings: there’s some light body horror with Alice’s ‘halo’ and the reference of lots of abuse and also murder Description: Bendy decides to invite Alice over for a talk. Predictably, it doesn't go well.

Also on AO3!

So I’ve fallen in love with @the-vampire-inside-me‘s Inkborne AU. I’m not very sure what a lot of the backstory is in it yet-- for example, whether or not Joey was abusive, whether or not he made Boris, Bendy, or Alice, or how quickly the Ink made the place decay, or... a timeline in general. But my brain sure wanted to find out, and it had the idea that this Bendy and Alice have a very strained relationship, and so this thing happened that assumes a looooooot of things about... everything I just mentioned. And explores why that relationship is strained. Trigger warning for talk about torture because boy howdy. Joey was. Yeah, he was a special kind of dick.

So anyway, have this drabble, otherwise titled “I write angst to deeply unfitting music.”

He sat under the tree high up on the manor grounds, staring out over the decaying city. Seemed like just a short time ago that the Ink took over. But his view of the passage of time had always been weird. Maybe it had something to do with being a demon. Yeah, that was probably it, right?

Man, it was a good thing Joey’s ancestor had decided that a regular plot of land wouldn’t do; he had to build the manor on an area built up on top of a cliff overlooking the town like a show-offy jackass. Whatever mess was going on below wouldn’t actually reach here, if ever, and thank god.

Now if only his grandstanding ancestor had built the manor on the taller mesa instead of the smaller one. So much would have been avoided if escape had been possible from this miserable town, but the sheer cliff of the taller mesa back beyond the manor grounds meant that there was no other way out. Why was this entire stupid town in what was basically a fucking bowl of land?

Ugh, this was not the mood he wanted to be in for this meeting. It was already going to suck enough without moping and fuming. Closing his eyes, he breathed in and out for a few minutes, but the sound of wings quickly drew them open.

Alice was here.

She landed several feet away from him, the delicate magic, threads of white sprouting from her back into some overly decorative wing design, slowly folding back up into her back from whence it came. She nodded a curt, polite greeting.

Bendy, however, was not much for politeness. “Surprised you came.”

Her mouth puckered into a frown as she lifted the veil covering her face. “You asked. I saw no problem with answering your request.”

“Why? Did they run out of praise for ya?” He didn’t even bother trying to hide the sullenness from his voice. So much for trying to start this off on neutral grounds.

“If you just drew me out here to insult me, I’ll leave.” She was having none of his shit today. When had she ever? Even back when what he’d had to say had been logical and reasonable, she hadn’t been interested in listening to him, oh no. He huffed, standing up and stretching the soreness from his muscles. Yeesh. He needed to stop falling asleep sitting up.

“Well? Why did you want to meet me?”

Yeah, being abrasive was seriously the wrong choice, but he’d made it. Whoops. “… I need yer help.”

“You have a funny way of asking for it.”

“Look, it’s been a rough-” Day? Week? Year? More like lifetime. Yeah, ‘lifetime’ sounded about right, but ‘week’ would be accurate, too. The dead horse he’d hauled back in chunks to the manor was all eaten now. He was back to eating squirrels. “-week.”

Deep breaths, Bendy. Because they worked so well last time. Augh.

“I wanna get outta this shithole. You can’t fly far but you got power; maybe you could help-”

“Absolutely not.”

Despite his preperations to hear that answer, a rock dropped into his stomach anyway. “Why the fuck not!? You’re strong! I’m strong!” Inexperienced despite his best attempts at not sucking, but strong! That counted for something, right? “The two of us together could ditch this place so fast our heads would spin! I don’ know what the world is like out there but god Alice, it’s gotta be better’n here!” Anywhere would be. Anywhere.

Her face softened. Shit, he must look more pathetic than he’d meant to look. “… I’d help. I really would. But it’s dangerous, significantly so. And I can’t risk my life when there are others depending on that life, much less actually leave the city with you.”

His face twisted into a scowl. This trash again? “They don’ own you, Al. You don’ owe them jack.”

“I can protect them. If I can do it, I should, and I can, so I choose to.” Her words, calm and deliberate, held a match to a boiling pit of gas in his belly.

“I don’ understand! Why are ya doing this!?” he exploded, gesturing furiously to the hellscape below, covered in ink and blood and dead things and nightmares, and in the center, the tower of a chapel, the only place untainted by the evil of the Ink… but very much tainted with the evil called humanity. “Why is this so important to ya!? Don’ you realize yer literally playin’ right into Joey’s hands, here!?”

Her eyes widened with something he couldn’t entirely place, but he guessed might be fear. The hand that rose halfway to her mouth didn’t help her case if she wanted to pretend that accusation didn’t freak her out. “What… what do you mean?”

“He did this to ya, Al! He did-” he gestured at the thing that could possibly be considered a halo nailed into Alice’s head “-that! God, Al, he tortured you same as either’a us! And yer gonna just- go along with yer ‘purpose’ after all that!? He made ya to clean up his mess, he fuckin’- nailed a thing into yer head so you could actually be equipped to clean up that mess, cause you ain’t a person, yer a tool to him! You know what he did to me! To Boris! You too! And yet yer jus’- gonna do what he wanted ya to do like a good little girl!? Like a goddamn chess piece!? He ain’t even here anymore! God knows where he fuckin’ slipped off to but there ain’t any ‘father’ to appease, Al!”

Her eyes, glazed during his tirade, cleared, and she didn’t so much fold her arms as she did hug herself, though her eyes remained on his. “Don’t misunderstand my intentions, Bendy. I don’t do what I do out of any love for Joey Drew. Or for his plans. This isn’t a seal of approval on anything he did to any of us, and I’m no puzzle piece of his, whatever he might think of all of this, if he’s even still alive somewhere.” Her eyes narrowed as she let go of herself, back straightening. “I do what I do because I want to. These people need protection, guidance, and healing. The city is overrun, has been for a long time now, and they’re scared. They need me and whether I like how I got these powers or not, I have them. I may as well use them.”

“Why you wanna do what they want any more than what Joey wants!?” The demon waved his hands in the air, as if he could swat away the ridiculousness of this like a fly. Or maybe he was just so full of emotion he needed to move. Probably some combination of the two. “Don’ you know that if they realized yer from the same origin point me and Boris are, they’d turn on ya!? Humans are fricking awful; I’d’ve thought you’d’ve figured that out when they tortured and murdered Boris! Jus’ leave ‘em to rot; they’d’a done the same to us in our shoes! Who cares what their issues are!? Who cares if they all die off!?”

Something inside the angel hardened a touch and she leveled a stare at him. Bendy, undeterred as per usual, put his hands on his hips and tapped his foot. “Just because our father never loved us,” Alice said, eyes like daggers, “doesn’t mean we can’t love the world.”

“Why should I!? It ain’t ever loved me!” The little demon returned her glare, hoping it drilled holes in her stupid head. “I know I ain’t owed the world, but I was owed more than what I got, Al, and you fuckin’ know it.” Tears were smudging her into a black and white blur, but there was no stopping this train now that they were on it. “I didn’ deserve the shit Joey did ta me, I didn’ deserve bein’ locked up in that tiny closet full’a crosses an’ left to puke my guts out, or any of the lashings, or the chains to hold me down durin’ those rituals ta ‘increase my power,’ or whatever bullshit that was, or ta have this plague pinned on me, or any of the rest of the shit I might be forgettin’ that Joey did ta me! And! They murdered Boris! Lemme repeat that again since you didn’ seem ta hear it, but they murdered Boris! He didn’ like fightin’, he never wanted ta hurt a soul and I don’ even think he was capable of it; all he did was leave the manor grounds, and when the same goddamn people you now protect in yer stupid church found out, they hunted him down like- like an animal and tortured him and murdered him! They put his body on fuckin’ display! I can see, jus’ barely but I can, his fuckin’ corpse from a few places in the manor, all cause a bunch of humans decided he didn’ deserve to live and the bullshit magic that brought us to life doesn’t allow bodies to decay or somethin’!”

“It hurt,” she whispered, rubbing at an eye. “It hurt finding out that he died. And like that. He didn’t deserve it, not ever. But I refuse to condemn an entire town full of people for the actions of some who I can’t even identify. I don’t know who killed him; I wouldn’t shelter them if I did know. I just know I didn’t kill him, and that if I could, I’d bring his murderers to justice. His death isn’t my fault.”

“You abandoned us!” Bendy shrieked, tears streaming openly now, hands in fists. “Boris is dead, Al! He’s fuckin’- he’s dead! He didn’t deserve none’a that! But it happened anyway, and if you’d been there maybe he woulda survived!” With each word, her features grew calmer and calmer, harder and harder to read, and the more they did, the hotter he felt inside, ready to slug her. “You abandoned us and he died!”

“… You might be projecting a little, there,” Alice said, her voice a smooth sort of cool that didn’t sit well in the demon’s stomach. “Maybe if I’d been there, maybe, he would be fine. But you were there. And you knew he was antsy, you knew he was tired of being cooped up in the manor, you knew all of that… but I know you, and I know you wouldn’t stop talking about how much you wanted to get out, either. I wasn’t there, but you were, and you didn’t keep a closer eye on him, or reel in your fantasy talk, or any other number of things to preempt the situation. At the end of the day, it’s ultimately the fault of the people who murdered him, but if either of us are to blame at all, Bendy, it’s you.”

The world felt frozen. The sun was still out, but everything was so cold. His stomach felt hollow, and not just because of his squirrel diet.

“I think you better leave,” he rasped.

“I think I should,” came the icy reply. Without another word, she drew her veil up and spread her magic wings, leaving the tiny demon staring at nothing in the wake of the gust of wind her wings created from takeoff.

His legs gave out and he collapsed into sobs hard enough to wrack his whole tiny, thin body.

So basically the idea regarding the background information for this is that Joey made all three of them, was a horrific piece of shit to them, but vanished one day after the Ink outbreak. Bendy’s mention of ‘father’ was a reference to an old conversation in once Joey mused aloud that technically speaking, as he made them, he could be considered their father. Running off the idea that crosses don’t kill Bendy in this, but direct contact will burn and being surrounded by them will leave him with severe headaches and stomachaches. They make him literally sick. Idea about the room of crosses being a punishment inflicted whenever Bendy misbehaved comes from this comic.

Bendy, unable to escape the city alone, continued his residence in the very same Drew Manor that he’s lived in his whole life and has wanted nothing more than to escape from, only because it’s the safest place in town due to its location. Headcanon is that he needs to eat but can eat stuff humans wouldn’t be able to, so he lives off of whatever he can catch in the manor grounds and, occasionally, the dead horses of travelers to the town that he takes apart and brings back to the manor.

Being trapped in the same place of years and years of abuse because it’s ironically become the only safe place in a living hell is a kind of hell in it of itself; starving on top of that makes it suck even more.

Alice, meanwhile, escaped the manor at an odd period of time where the Ink was starting to make its way into town but hadn’t become a full blown plague yet. Though she escaped Joey, her heartstrings were tugged by the frightened people and she took up residence in the chapel, which became a safe haven when the real outbreak hit. She became a leader to the remains of the town’s population, keeping the Ink at bay with her powers and healing those who needed it. Boris died shortly after Alice left and I think it’s pretty clear how and why.

#the-vampire-inside-me #bendy and the ink machine #inkborne au #batim bendy #batim alice angel #batim boris #he's there in spirit shush #christ this got LONG I'M SORRY #I HAD SO MUCH TO WRITE AND THEN SAY ABOUT IT AFTERWARDS #my writing

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