#somehow the more old/vintage vibe matched better with him?????

[azultecnicolor]

I'm not insane over him at all

[arcielee]

Taste of It

Summary: Modern!FemaleReader has a delightful sex dream. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 2406 Warnings: Smutty smut, fingering, choking, language, p in v. Author's Note: Hey, this is my first Reader fanfic I have ever written. I am open to all criticism, because it will help me be a better writer and is definitely not a degradation kink. This was inspired by the story you can pretend it's not meant to be (but you can't stay away from me) by @themotherofhorses​. I just loved the idea of a lucid dream with Aemond Targaryen. ♥ Thank you @f4ll-for-you​ for being so kind to read this over! Series:  Call It Dreaming 

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is low, lethal, and somehow familiar to you, despite the unfamiliar setting you find yourself in. Your hands wash over your body, feeling your favorite oversized shirt, an old David Bowie print that was comfortable with age and just long enough to cover your ass, with the hem touching the peaks of your bare thighs. There is a coldness to your surroundings, which was all the more apparent on your bare feet and the skimpy, cotton underwear you wore beneath your nightshirt. 

You remembered being cozy on your couch after a long, hot shower that peeled away the stress accumulated from both work and schoolwork, partnered with a mask to exfoliate your pores. You remembered the scent of your new lotion, a mixture of vanilla and brown sugar, while you admired the reflection of the black underwear and matching bralette on your figure before you decided to put on the oversized vintage top before you crawled beneath your blanket to rewatch House of the Dragon. 

“I asked you a question,” his voice repeated, his tone sharp. You could hear the sound of a book snapping shut that caused you to jump and turn on your heel. Your eyes flit over your new surroundings; you were in a room with tapers lit that added to the warm, amber glow emitting from the hearth and its embers, highlighting the meticulous placement of furniture and its grim vibe.

You nearly choke on your heart when your eyes finally find who the voice, the one that was both low and lethal, belongs to. 

Aemond Targaryen was seated in a leather chair by the fireplace, one hand holding a closed book by its spine and his brows knitted above his gaze, one lavender eye and one sapphire eye, focused on you with a look of sheer annoyance. 

You could scarcely react when he pushed himself from his seat, his long legs allowing long strides to cover the distance of the room, and you could feel the heat from his body as he pinned your back against the door. His large palm was on your neck and he slowly squeezed the sides.  

You can still breathe, but your vision begins to fog and he pushes closer, his nose pressed against the side of your head with the hot whisper repeating his question, “Who are you?” 

This is a dream, your mind rationalizes. A sexy dream you guess from the heat that pools in your lower abdomen and melds with the heat that exudes from the prince. His scent is intoxicating; he smelled clean, mixed with a woodsy musk and the hint of smoke. It was a dream, you decide, and gods be damned if you would not utilize this subconscious interaction. 

“I have been sent for your pleasure,” you finally manage to say, your mind spinning from the lack of blood.  

Your words release his grasp, but his hand remains rested on your collarbones. “Another one of my brother’s whores?” He asks with the curl of his lips. Perhaps he tried to sound annoyed, but you hoped instead for him to be intrigued since your modern garb was hardly the fashion of the Streets of Silk. “You may show me what you have to offer and I will make my decision.” 

This is promising, you smile at him. Aemond takes a step back but you note he remains within arm’s reach, thinking you may try to flee but he is completely unaware you have no intention to leave this room. With slow breaths as your vision clears, your fingers reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it overhead, dropping it at your feet to show him your black cotton bralette and matching cheeky underwear. 

You watch his eye roll over you, pupil dilated, from your head to your polished toes and back again. You hold your breath and only relax when you hear his hum of satisfaction. 

Aemond moved to grab you, perhaps he meant to drag you, but you are quick and willing to follow his direction towards the bed, gleeful when you feel his large hands rest on your hips and bring you around to push you back against the mattress. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of him bending at his slender waist, his arms caging you and the curtain of silver hair spilling on both sides. His head tilts slightly to peer at you and you stare back with blatant admiration of the sharp angles of his jawline, the gleam of his sapphire eye that you did not notice the dagger he held until the glint of the blade caught your attention. 

Your breath holds as he presses the dagger flat beneath the front of your bralette and it hitches in your throat with his fluid motion to twist the blade and bring it upwards, tearing the fabric. 

“Hey!” You gasp, pressing up to your elbows to face him as he falls back a step, holding the torn fabric in one hand and sheathing his blade, all while admiring the natural slope of your breasts. You feel a slight burn and look down to see a red line and beads of blood forming from the sliver. 

“I only wished to see if you were real,” his words were not an apology, but more an explanation. 

You push to sit upright, your hand grabbing his own to bring his palm to your breast. “I assure, I am very real,” your eyes are glassy with your bold words and actions, but it works and he moves to press on top of you. You fall back and mold against the mattress, his tongue burns as it trails the cut and there is the smear of blood as his mouth moves to find your nipple. 

Your back arches in response from the touch of his tongue that flits over the peak of your nipple and rolling circles around your areola. His hot mouth closes, suckling and his teeth nipping the soft flesh of your breast before he moves to give equal attention towards the other. 

A soft moan spills from your lips and he moves to capture your mouth with his own. His tongue presses to explore your mouth and you welcome the softness of his lips and the copper taste of your own blood. Your hands move to comb your fingers through his silk locks, your nails scratching his scalp and you feel the vibration of his hum of approval. 

Aemond presses closer and you can feel his hardness, his hips rolling to rub against your cloth cunt. He grabs onto your hip with one hand, large and warm to the touch, and his other moves flat against your chest; his tongue slows with languid movements, relishing your taste before he breaks away. 

“You taste like a sweet wine, but with chocolate and mint?” His brow quirks with his question. 

Ben and Jerry’s, you think to yourself but he does not need an answer, instead bringing his lips to bruise against your own and his fingers trailing lower to cup your cunt. He seems pleased with how you are drenched with your anticipation, pressing his lips against your throat with the growl of, “Sīr lōz syt aōha dārilaros.” 

So wet for your prince.

You burn with how his tongue rolls the words. Gods be praised, you think when you recognize the words that made your core ache, your annoyance for the Duolingo notifications vanish and you respond with a breathless, “Kirimvose, ñuha dārilaros.”

His brow raises in response and his look makes your heat roll over your body. “You also know High Valyrian,” he says and, again,  it was more a statement than a question. 

“Mērī mirrī,” Only a little, you admit to him, the heat flushing your face from his brazen stare. You chew your bottom lip as you bring your feet to the edge of the bed and lift your hips, peeling off your underwear. 

You note the curl of his lips and he moves to mold against you again, his teeth grazing the pulse of your pounding heart. His touch is gentle, his fingers just grazing your hip bone and moving towards your center, his slender finger trailing your soaked slit before it curled inside of you. 

You cannot help but mewl his name as he adds another, moving to massage your walls, his palm cupping you and allowing his thumb to stimulate your clit. The warmth in your lower core begins to boil with his ministrations and your breathing grows erratic, which quickens his motion.

“Jurnegon nyke,” he commands, Look at me, and you bring your eyes forward to see him leaning over and bracing himself above you with his free arm. “I want to hear you,” he breathes.

His breath, his words partnered with the sinful curl of his fingers within you allows your orgasm to crash into you, drawing the air from your lungs with your pitiful cries of release. Your skin is aflame and you had not noticed he pulled away until you heard him cleaning his fingers with his mouth, standing over you, the bulge of his breeches unmistakable.  

The sight of him cleaning his slender fingers emboldens you to grab his waistband and bring him against you, desperate to taste yourself on his soft lips. The grace of your tongue is not matched with your hands that fumble with the latches of his tunic, but you feel his smile as his hands guide your own. You peel his layers off to reveal his hard chest with faded scars of silver that decorated the rivets of his toned abdomen, the moonlight mixed with the low flames giving the prince an ethereal glow to his lithe body. 

Aemond gives a hum to claim your attention, his lips curling as he is adamantly aware of the hunger in your eyes, and his hands reach to grasp the peaks of your thighs and pull you closer to the bed edge. You push yourself to your elbows and watch rapt as he unlaces to remove his trousers, curious to see if the Tumblr assertion of his genitalia was accurate, but his hand pushes you back against the bed and trails to your neck. 

“Open,” he commands and your mouth relaxes, your tongue pink and drowning in saliva from seeing him almost bare. 

He presses two fingers into your mouth and you close to suckle, tasting the remnants of your release and his own saliva from his clean up. You coat them and there is a string of spittle that follows when he pulls away, eventually breaking and wetting your chin. 

His hands move to lube his cock and you feel the press against your cunt, the undeniable stretch as he pushes into you. Your hands grasp at the bedding on each side and your back arches as he pushes to split you in half. “You take me so well,” he soothes, but does not allow you time to adjust and presses further still. 

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. “Oh, fuck me,” you gasp at the mixture of pleasure and pain. 

Aemond pauses for a moment, reaching to clasp your jaw and bring your eyes to look at him, “I intend to.” 

You shudder when he bottoms out in you and his hands move to clasp onto your hips, pulling you to meet his each thrust, his hip bones digging into the underside softness of your thighs and his cock reaching into you further still. Your hands move to grab above you, twisting into the sheets, and you arch your back into each powerful thrust.

His pace pauses for a moment, his hands wrapping around your ankles and bringing your feet to rest onto his shoulders, canting your hips to angle you as he slips back into your warmth. Your heart flutters when his hands return to your hip bones, admiring his side profile and the scrunch of his brow. “Your toes… is that glitter?”

“Kostilus, ñuha dārilaros,” Please, my prince, you cannot help but whine. You are on the cusp of your second release and the fear of waking up looms over you. “I must have you.” 

The High Valyrian renews his attention, as you hope it would, and he pushes to fold you in half, the new angle allowing him to slip into your cunt deeper than before. His arms hold himself on each side, caging you in, and his soft, silver tresses spill onto your bare chest with a tickle. You moan in abandon from the stretch of him reentering you as his hips rut against you. 

It rolls in waves, gooseflesh rippling over every inch of your body and your nipples taut from the pleasure, clenching at his cock. The tears spill from the corners of your eyes as you repeat his name, “Aemond, Aemond-”

His thrusts become sloppy and you can feel his cock twitching inside of you; you open your legs to allow him to fall forward against you, a damp brow to your own. You steady your breath, savoring the mixture of his scent combined with the scent of sex, wanting to savor your unconscious a moment longer. Your sex dreams never ended so satisfactory before and you knew it would not be much longer. You bring your hand to his defined jawline to tilt his head up, bringing your lips to his with a slow, lingering kiss. 

But you do not wake up, instead Aemond drags you beneath the covers and pulls you flush against his chest, which is hard and warm and molds perfectly with the softness of your backside in the most delicious way. 

“You may leave me in the morning,” he murmurs in your ear as he nuzzles into the back of your neck and hair. 

When you wake up, you are back on your couch and nestled beneath your blanket, the menu music of House of the Dragon playing on repeat from your television. Warmth envelopes you as you remember the vivid dream you had and you push to sit upright. 

I will always fall asleep with you on, but your thoughts are cut short from the cold that touches your bare chest. Your hands wash over your body, naked, and you wince when your finger touches the gash in between your breasts. 

Your eyes widen in disbelief.

Where the fuck was your Bowie shirt. 

[matrixbearer2024]

Hey, this might require a little research. I’m just curious if Vox sometimes gets nostalgic for his own time (1940s-1950s) and if collegestudent!Reader would sometimes appeal to his “old man” interests? Like playing music that was popular during that time, or wearing fashion from then, or going to a drive-in movie theater (I’m assuming there are places that cater to certain decades in hell since cannibal town is so 1930s it’s insane)?

Nostalgic Memories

Vox x CollegeStudent!Reader

A/N: Funnily enough, it was briefly touched upon in one of the interludes that dear Reader actually took some time to research about some stuff around the era Vox was alive in just to understand him a little better. They personally don't like collecting antiques of a time they didn't live in- but they do appreciate the unique fashion style and trends of the time period. It's often a joke between them about how "old" Vox is because of when he died despite not actually being that far in age biologically to (Y/N). (Vox died in his 30's, Reader is in their mid to late 20's) My personal taste actually quite matches the TV man's time period(I have a stupid amount of blazers and vests it's kinda idiotic lmao) so my preferences slightly bled into Reader's view on the vintage style. Anyway, here's a quick drabble about this because I literally just want more content between these two.

"Hey Vox! Come over! I wanna show you something!"

It was just a simple vague text he saw from you during a meeting. You could've been talking about quite literally anything for all the overlord knew. Sometimes what you found interesting was just so unpredictable that Vox eventually stopped trying to guess what was in store.

He grabbed his phone and shot back a quick reply, they were merely discussing some boring statistics anyway. He could spare you a minute.

"I'm in a meeting right now doll."

"Then afterwards! I promise it won't take long!"

Vox slightly raised an eyebrow at that, what had you possibly planned to suddenly be so persistent with him? Actually- what kind of insanity did you want to drag him into this time?

The overlord contemplated about replying when you continued to send message after message asking him to visit the hotel because of something you wanted him to see. After a bit of you asking, curiosity got the better of him and reluctantly he agreed.

"Fine, since you asked so nicely. But I won't stay for long okay? I'm a busy guy dollface."

"YAY! Thank you! I promise you'll enjoy it!"

He smiled at the text you sent back. Of course you plastered a number of cute emojis and hearts at the end of it. Whether it was meant to simply be friendly or a joking show of affection was easily lost on the overlord- but it was more than evident that his mood had improved if anyone else in the meeting had anything to say about it.

By the time Vox dropped by the hotel at your request, the last thing he expected was your peculiar outfit choice. It was a little older than what he generally attributed to your style, dare he say it was more reminiscent of his own outfit even.

"Okay, what's with the style change? Any special occasion?"

"Nah, I just wanted to try something new. Whaddya think? I really like the vibe too, real classy!"

The overlord just playfully rolled his eyes when you twirled to give him a full look at the outfit, what were you seriously trying to achieve this time? Did you dress this way on purpose for him?

If the excited way you looked up at him was any indication, Vox was inclined to believe you had tried to score some nostalgia points with him. Ironically, your ridiculousness was actually somehow working too.

"You look swell dear, who fashioned you the outfit though?"

"Lucifer helped me, dude's kind of a natural at balancing comfort and style."

Ah, that made a lot of sense.

Had Velvette fashioned you these clothes- Vox wouldn't have needed to come all the way to the hotel. Why the king of hell even entertained your shenanigans still struck him as a little odd- but not really unwelcome.

The overlord snapped out of his thoughts when he saw your hand extended out to him, the smile on your face only served to add to his confusion. What were you doing?

"Dance with me? Come on, don't tell me you don't know how."

Oh you were playing this game now? Well, Vox wasn't ever one to back down from a challenge. Not from anybody, and especially not from you.

"Oh it's on darling! But do try to keep up."

Your companion flicked his wrist as a jolt of electricity came out of his hand and blasted to your phone. Which had predictably started to blast some 40's tunes when he suddenly grabbed your hand and pulled you to his chest.

"Oh please, as if you can even tire me."

You only returned his grin when you faced the overlord again, your hands intertwined with his claws as you both danced away happily engrossed in your own little world. Your laughs and banter echoing the hotel lobby accompanied by a vintage melody of songs long past their time.

Vox was supposed to be in and out of there in just an hour, but he lost track of time in his enjoyment with you that he'd accidentally socked his entire schedule that day.

Not that he could bring himself to care when you giggled and roped him back in for one more dance.

It was just one more, who was counting anyway?

[bittywitches]

Gone in the Night - Pt. 1

| Schedule + Event Info | Masterlist |

Summary: Y/N and the twins are looking for a fun Halloween adventure, but it seems they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.

Warnings: Explicit Language

Word Count: 3k

A/N: It’s finally here! Hope you guys enjoy this spooky treat <3

Tags -  @brockdolan @livelaughlolobelle @grxysgxrl​ @guiltydols​

•   •   •

The house itself should have been enough of a warning.

It was an old building, the only one in the neighbourhood that hadn’t been torn down to be reconstructed into bigger houses with much less yard space. It’s grey and blackened wooden walls looked brittle. It seemed unreasonable that the house hadn’t toppled over in the late evening breeze, but it stood firm. Even so, it was uninhabitable still, as the skirting around the sides had been torn off. The front porch, however, looked like it had been torn up and out of the ground as if it were a vegetable a farmer had carelessly plucked out of his garden. The wooden support legs from the front could be seen halfway up, pulled through the earth. In Y/N’s mind it seemed only plausible for something like a tornado, maybe an earthquake to have caused that kind of damage, though she knew that wasn’t possible. While California had many earthquakes year round, usually none were great enough to cause too much damage. Plus, she had a deep feeling that this had nothing to do with unpredictable weather. That feeling made her want to puke.

The railing of the porch stood up at an awkward angle, some of the poles snapped and broken, other’s splintered. The backside, the part connected to the house and leading to the door, had sunken into the dirt, so the entire surface was tilted. Looking at it from the front, seeing the empty dark space below the base with the support beams sticking out of the ground, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like the weird positioning of the porch disturbingly resembled a mouth. She found herself leaning to the side, looking past the beams and the staircase into the empty abyss below the porch, as if waiting for something to appear. It seemed childish looking back on it later, but she was half-expecting a pair of glowing yellow eyes to materialize. But she shook her head, scolding herself, because the only thing she’d probably find under there would be a family of raccoons.

The more she stared at the house however, the more things she found that eerily resembled a face. The dirty and tinted windows at the top with their broken shutters and cracked glass felt like a pair of old eyes, watching as people passed by. There was a dormer that was conveniently placed almost directly center of those windows further down, looking like a crooked nose. She could barely see the top of the roof, but noticed missing shingles, underneath them being ashy gray squares, as if bald spots on this menacing figure. And of course, the deep and dark mouth of the porch with it’s rusty wooden teeth did nothing but send shivers up her spine.

Her sickly feeling only intensified when she realized how starkly this reminded her of 29 Neibolt street. This house, however, did not have a number; she could faintly see the markings of a number near the front door, but the metal plates had either been teared off too long ago for the contrast of the wood to show, or the degeneration of the house over time had simply just taken its effect. Either way, Y/N surely was not eager to look back under the porch now; for if she were to be faced with a sickly leper, she’d most definitely shit her pants.

“So, what’ll it be?”

Y/N and her two friends stood on the front lawn of the lean dwelling, the grass beneath them dry and crunching beneath their feet with each step they had taken. It was funny; she wasn’t really sure how they’d even ended up here in the first place. She remembered them deciding to go buy pumpkins… Grayson was eager not to put off decorating any longer. They’d piled into the car, but… had they bought the pumpkins?

“I don’t know man, these are a bit pricey.” Y/N finally looked away from the house at the sound of Ethan’s voice, only for her attention to be caught by the eager man flaunting the tickets in their face.

That’s right, tickets. This was an event of sorts. A haunted house? Something like that, she thought he had said.

“Why, but it’s a buy one get two free special, you won’t find anything else out there,” he spoke, more directly to Y/N than the twins behind her. Of course, they’d been walking down the street- but why again? Was this near the patch they were going to? Whatever the case, the man had seen them passing by, stopped them with his vivacious attitude and grand voice, barking about the great deal on these tickets.

Y/N looked at the man. He wasn’t a pleasant sight to see. His sunken and hollow eyes seemed almost skeletal, his pale skin an ashy color against the darkening sky. He was tall, unsettlingly tall for a man who looked ancient. He was around 6’1, bordering 6’2, which only freaked Y/N out even more considering he loomed over the twins, the two of whom she’d always thought herself to be quite large. The man’s lanky body parts seemed disproportionate to his narrow frame, his bony arms dangling awkwardly from his sides, his hands seeming too big for them. The wrinkled fingers of his left hand gripped firmly onto the tickets, though they did not crinkle or bend under his touch. They alone seemed to be the one thing in front of her that were crisp, clean, perfect. Almost too perfect, and it hit her in a bad way, almost as much as the outfit the old man had on.

His outfit was one you’d see a vintage carnival worker wearing, one who sat inside a ticket booth at the front of a circus, for example. He wore a stiff white dress shirt, blindingly white compared to his stale fingernails and his yellowing, stained, and chipped teeth that showed with every creepy, crooked grin. The shirt was much too large for him, however, the cuffs of the sleeves coming down to his thumbs. But it didn’t feel like it was too big; no, it felt like the man had shriveled up in his clothes, withered down into the frail man he was within the cotton. He had a crisp suit vest on top, with white and red stripes running down vertically. It too seemed weird, awkward, almost like a protective guard more than a piece of clothing. A bright red bow tie was tied at the base of his neck, matching the color of his shoes, but much of them were covered by his overly large white pants. The same pattern of colours were seen on his top hat. It had a short and flat top with a narrow brim, a pattern of red and white lines going around it.

Now, all of this Y/N could get by with. So the man was a little strange, and he was a bit eager to get rid of the tickets in his hand. What was the big deal?

But there was just something about his face that irked her. The details of his wrinkles, the spots on his forehead, the random tufts of hair from his ears and his nose, the dangling ear lobes and the non-existent eyebrows. His sunken in eyes, almost swallowed by his skin, the bags of them highlighting the yellowing whites even more. His terrible cackle, his horrifying grin. All of these things, but something deeper, some other visceral gut reaction within her told her that something was off. She just couldn’t place it.

“What do you say, my lady?” The old man garbled one more time, raising an eyebrow and giving her a toothy grin, only making her shudder once more. The man raised a frail arm towards the house, gesturing towards the door.

“A haunting experience awaits.”

Y/N’s eyes followed his arm and his gaze, settling on the tall black door resting shut. It gave her a similar vibe to the void under the porch, like something was lurking just past that thin piece of wood. It was an ebony black, a stark contrast to the greying planks of the house.  You’d expect the paint to be chipping, but it looked like a fresh coat. It actually seemed to be the one thing from the house that hadn’t been touched by age, other than…

The staircase.

God, why hadn’t she noticed the stair case?

While the porch had been ripped well out of the ground, the staircase leading up to it, the one she had leaned to look around into the darkness under there, was perfectly intact. The wood was still perfectly symmetrical, no splinters, no cracks. It had a different hue compared to the rest of the wood, it didn’t look aged, weathered, or beaten up like the rest of the house did. But how did she not notice it? She swore she looked at it when they first passed by… she’d seen a squirrel scurry across it. It hadn’t looked this new then, did it? No, it seemed blended into the rest of the house, but now… It was distinguishable. It had a presence.

It was still connected to the porch, but somehow still firmly grounded into the earth. This seemed impossible to Y/N, if it was still connected, shouldn’t it also be ripped out of the ground? Wouldn’t there be cracks in the wood from the pressure?

Apparently not. All Y/N could think was that the staircase felt like a long, winding creature. A snake or a serpent grasping onto both ends of this creepy house and the world in front of it, growing and shrinking along with it’s changes to keep it anchored to reality. To provide a pathway to what lies within.

But then again, it could just be her imagination. She had been watching a lot of scary movies recently.

She turned to look behind her at the broad twins, them in their sweaters and sweatpants, Ethan with his hands stuffed into his pockets and Grayson with his hoisted on his hips.

“Sounds like it’ll be fun.” Grayson piped in, a small smile appearing on his face. Y/N’s eyes fluttered over to Ethan’s, and he gave an encouraging nod as well.

She sighed. It was the Halloween season. What better time to get spooked? “Alright. Why not?” She replied and took two wrinkled twenty-dollar bills from the wallet she had stuffed into her back pocket, and handed it to the man, who let out a screechy giggle when he plucked it from her fingers. He placed the three white tickets into Y/N’s hand, leering at her almost maliciously all the while, making her shrivel back.

“A wonderful decision, you won’t regret it.” The man almost carelessly stuffed the money into his back pocket, then clapped his dry hands together.

“Alright folks, “ He threw his arm up in an over the top gesture, His voice seeming to magnify in volume as he did so. “Step through the Stygian door to discover what awaits. Remember-” His other hand came up to suddenly grip Y/N’s arm, his cold palm making her gasp. He drew her close to him, his crooked nose inches from hers when he gave her another foul grin.

“Time is precious.”

He released her, and she stumbled back into the two boys behind her, their arms coming up to keep her balance.

The man stepped back from them, spreading his arms out in a demonstrative gesture as he did.

“Good luck,” he cackled, stopping when his foot met the pavement of the road. He tipped his hat at them and bowed, looking up one last time so they could meet his old eyes. “And have fun escaping.”  

A sudden screech came from behind the group, causing Y/N to jump once more, and the three whipped their heads towards the house. A murder of crows squawked and cawed as they flew from the roof of the house, somehow still clear in the darkening sky. There were so many, it seemed like they were spilling out from inside the house.

Y/N let out a nervous chuckle. “Alright, you sure put a lot of effort into your effects-” she turned around.

But the man was gone.

Another shiver went down her spine. She decided to push that feeling of unease away, however, sure that it was just an act the man was putting up for extra effect.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” Ethan mumbled, and Y/N chuckled at him half-heartedly before clearing  her throat.

“Alright, come on.” She and the twins made their way towards the house.

Y/N hesitated before stepping onto the stairs, cautious of the darkness so close to her now, even more aware of the strangeness of the porch’s architecture.

But she shook her head. She wasn’t going to let a bundle of nerves stop her from having a fun Halloween experience.

She and the boys walked up the steps, the three of them irked that they didn’t hear the expected moans of the floor-boards.

Y/N took a deep breath. She grabbed the black door knob, twisted it, pushed it open, then stepped over the gap caused by the sunken porch, and into the house.

“What in the Hocus Pocus is this?” Ethan asked, getting a laugh out of her and releasing the tension in her tight shoulders.

Inside, they were greeted with a furnished living room, though it still didn’t look like anyone had lived here in decades. The paint was chipping, wallpaper was peeling, the room just felt musty and old. The walls and ceiling were a yellowy colour, with stains covering many spots. A deep maroon carpet at their feet covered the dark brown planks of the floor, and extended into the center of the room, leading to the old rustic looking couches and coffee table arranged in the middle.  A fireplace was placed at the left wall, soot covering the insides and surrounding area, much like the dust covering almost every other surface. A mounted deer rested high above the fireplace, feeling like a sort of gatekeeper for the room they had just entered. It’s dark beady eyes shouldn’t have bothered Y/N as much as they did.

“This is literally some rich dead old white guy’s house.” Grayson finished his brother’s thought, walking into the room, which was dank and dark, the window at the back of the room not helping at all since it had grown late.

“So your guys’ house in fifty years or so.” She followed him, Ethan at her heels behind her.

Ethan scoffed. “Shut up.” He walked past one of the couches, dragging his finger across the leather material only to recoil when he saw how much dust he’d picked up.

“Okay, so where do we start?” Grayson asked, squatting down beside the coffee table. “We’re probably looking for something escape-roomy. A key? A button? Switch?” He ducked his head under it, probably to see if there was anything on the underside.

“I guess so.” She walked past him towards the fireplace, the cobblestone border and burnt up kindling seeming to call at her.

Ethan headed over to a cabinet against the back wall, with some ornate frames settled atop it. Grayson, after finding nothing, got up and walked over to the opposite side of the room, stopping in front of an oak door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He turned back towards Y/N, and nodded towards the door. “I’m assuming we’re trying to figure out how to get this thing open. To actually start this whole thing up.”

“It’s locked?” Ethan asked.

Grayson rolled his eyes. “No, I just pretended it was for shits and giggles. Yea, dick-for-brains, it’s locked.”

“Damn okay jeez,” He muttered, turning back to the cabinet. “Don’t know what’s got you all worked up.”

Grayson breathed out. “Sorry. Think I’m just a little on edge. Didn’t think I’d be this spooked already.” He turned back to the door, jiggling the handle again before letting his hand fall.

“Yea, that guy was weird…” Y/N crouched down beside the fireplace, leaning her head in to get a better look.

“He looked a million years old.” Grayson added, his voice sounding distant behind her.

“Haha, yea-” Y/N turned her head to the side to look up through the chimney, thinking there may be something hidden up there, only for her eyes to meet two beady red ones.

“Holy SHIT!” She yelled, and screamed when a pair of fluttering leather wings shot down through the chimney and into her face, making her fall on her front into the charcoal and soot of the fireplace.

“Fuck it’s a BAT!” Ethan yelled, flinching away from the spazzing creature.

“GET IT OFF!!” Y/N screeched, pushing herself up and swatting her arms around her. Grayson ran forward to try and help, but the creature swooped down and stuck it’s tiny claws into Y/N’s back pocket, grabbing the three white tickets. Before Grayson could reach it, it flew up into the air, then darted to the other side of the room.

“Are you okay??” Ethan asked, rushing towards Y/N.

“No! That was a fucking BAT-” but she and the boys were interrupted by a loud rattling sound. They turned their heads to see the oak door shaking, almost vibrating, when it finally slammed open with an enormous whooshing sound, a sudden burst of air and wind shooting through the doorway causing the door to slam against the wall, chips of the crumbling paint falling to the floor along with a cloud of dust forming when it did so. The tiny bat, somehow hovering right in front of the door, seemingly unaffected by the currents coming through, flew through the door into the darkness of the other room, still clutching the three tickets in its claws, blending into the sea of black.

The three friends blinked. Slowly, Y/N got up, doing her best to dust herself off before turning to the two brothers, the shocked expressions on their faces still apparent.

“Well,” She pressed her lips together. “I guess it’s begun.”

[oftenderweapons]

hi anna dear, i'd like to place an order for a white wine + charcuterie board + french onion soup + monte cristo? thank you <3

Pairing: Seokjin x reader

Wordcount: 1.4K

Genre: Fluff, Romance, strangers to lovers

Rating: GP (general public)

This is for my sweet Beezy, and Beezy only. I’m sorry this came super late but I’ve been keeping it in my drafts for a while, I was so unsure about it!

Happy very late birthday!!! May you be safe and happy and loved 🥰💜✨You’re the most special aunt I could ever wish for. This world would be a better place if all kids on the Internet could have an aunt half as special and magical as you.

(before I leave you to your gift let me thank @hobiandsprite and @joheunsaram for their moral support and helpful advice, as always. I love you.)

Enjoy 💜✨

>This drabble was a request for Bangtan Bistro. Requests for this drabble game are now closed<

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mention of stress due to work; briefest mention of family loss (grandparent).

————— The Order —————

White Wine: Kim Seokjin

Charcuterie Board: Romance

French Onion Soup: “After getting caught in the rain you decide to spend some time inside a rather empty café, making good conversation with the attractive owner.”

Monte Cristo: cafe owner

————————————————

The late October day looked perfect for a walk along the beach, collecting seashells and watching seagulls soar the sky in the distance. Solitary boats broke the horizon, far far away, the lighthouse culminating the long walk and protecting the bay a few kilometres ahead of you. The sun was coming through the clouds here and there, creating amusing patterns on the sand just barely slightly moved by the wind. A man was playing fetch with a golden retriever and along the seashore you could see more people making good use of one of the last good days before autumn finally started giving way to winter.

The scenery was relaxing, liberating your mind from all the stress your job continuously put you through. Some days you even dared ask yourself if the slightly fatter paycheck was really worth your mental health.

Spending your health on earning money sounded stupid most of the days. Nevertheless, you somehow managed to keep loving your job, even when the cons heavily outweigh the pros.

A chill song was playing through your earbuds, and with a cloud momentarily hiding the sun, the lightest raindrops began to fall. You didn’t let the thin drizzle scare you and decided to keep walking, the lighthouse too tempting in its romantic solitude.

Stubborn and maybe ignorant, you persevered, though most people had already run to the middle of the bay, where most people had parked their cars or had found refuge in one of the local pubs and cafés. Only a couple people walked ahead of you, going all the way to the end of the walk, where the pier led to your destination.

You followed it like a compass, like the North Star, even when the drizzle turned in rain, even when you had to hold your coat over your head for the last two hundred metres, running desperately once the rain turned in an autumn shower.

You thanked all the gods once you reached the small awning protecting the entrance to the lighthouse, a lovely bell announcing the opening of the door.

“Hold on, wait there!” A man called from the counter. “Lemme grab something for you!” he mumbled, disappearing behind the dark wood countertop and reemerging with a plaid blanket. “Wait there,” he said, walking towards you quickly and taking your raincoat with a kind smile, hanging it out of harm’s way, where it could drip on the floor without causing anyone to slip and fall.

“Welcome to The Bow, you brave traveller!” the barman greeted you, immediately warming up your soul before offering you the blanket and letting you warm your body. “Please, sit where you prefer, I’ll let you take a look at the menu and then I’ll come collect your order.”

He bowed his head slightly, your eyes suddenly focusing on how low the wooden ceiling was, and how lean his physique was, heavily contrasted by his large shoulders, emphasised by the white and blue stripes of his sweater.

You walked to a table beside the counter, near the window that ran all around the circular room. The sky was clear in the distance, the boats still navigating peacefully while the coast had become hostage to the sudden storm, which had crept in slowly and then swiftly attacked.

You stared in the distance for a while longer, the man at the counter waiting patiently and cheerfully for you to get comfortable, leaf through the menu and close it before turning to him with a kind smile — which you eventually did, causing an unexpected effect, an entire flock of butterflies taking flight in his stomach.

He was drawn to you immediately.

“So what can I bring you?” he asked with the most courteous of smiles.

You giggled. The man was very handsome, but something in the air that surrounded him made him even warmer and more fascinating, as if compelling you to be kind and keep your eyes on him. “First, let me thank you for the blanket,” you said, holding it tighter around you.

“Oh, it’s okay. We keep those for old couples who come here for fall and winter walks. They tend to get cold on their legs. And some ladies want to wear pretty clothes on dates but then get cold once the sun goes down. Don’t worry, I wash them after use!” he clarified before you could get uncomfortable.

“That’s so considerate!” you exclaimed, honestly touched at such a kind thought.

“What can I say, I care about customer care,” he chuckled embarrassed, his laugh so unique and funny that you couldn’t help but join.

“I’m ____, by the way.”

“I’m Seokjin,” he introduced himself politely.

“Happy to meet you,” you replied with an interested smile. “May I order an Orange Spiced Hot Chocolate?”

“Yes, sure. Would you like some cinnamon on it?” he asked, twice as interested in pleasing his special customer.

“Uhm… No, just a plain one, thanks,” you confirmed, watching him leave with a quick step.

“Do you have many people coming all the way here?” you asked, your table close enough to the counter that you could chat with the man without having to disturb the other customers.

“Normally we do. There’s always a big rush in summer. Some people go to the beach and come all the way here to have lunch or grab a cold drink before going back. It’s mostly couples, or families with kids. On a summer day you’d have to wait for a table and book one for lunch or dinner. When it gets colder, some people still come here, but it’s slower. I prefer it. Winter weekends are the ideal match of calm and good money.”

You nodded. “I think it’s my first time here. I visited the town four or five years ago but I don’t remember this place.”

Seokjin nodded, the cocoa maker making a bit of a ruckus as it warmed up the milk. It lasted around two or three minutes before the café went quiet again “Yes, that’s because I opened the café two years ago, almost three.”

“This is your place?” You asked, quite amused.

“Indeed. My grandpa loved it here. He always came here with my grandma for walks. He didn’t have the money to buy the place but he wanted to open a restaurant here. My grandmother loved cooking.” Seokjin gave a gentle but sad smile. “When she left us, he gave up. He always says it was their dreams, together, and he would never do it by himself. So I made it my dream.”

The blue vibe faded and a radiant expression sparked up his features. “I must say that for now it’s been going pretty well.”

He walked to your table, your drink, sugar and a couple smaller bottles all balanced on a tray on his hand.

As he stood beside you, his head slightly lowered to avoid the lamp above, he placed down a cup coaster with a vintage lifebuoy ring drawn on it, protecting the beautiful wooden table below.

On the small placemat running across the table, he placed three tiny bottles. “Sugar, cinnamon and cocoa. To your liking.” He offered you a soft grin.

Hesitantly, you looked around again. He had only four or five people around and your table was close to the counter.

You licked your lips as you gathered all your courage and spoke. “Would you like to sit down and chat? I’d like to get to know you, you seem a very interesting person.” You felt heat radiate from your cheeks in stark contrast with the cold crawling through your bones.

Seokjin’s reaction was lovely.

His mouth curled up in a lovely pout, a small surprised ‘o’. His eyes went impossibly wide and so, so round and adorable before his suddenly pale face exploded in a technicoloured blush that expanded all the way to his ears.

And then he smiled the tiniest, most innocent smile. He didn’t show his teeth, just his rosy, plush lips curving up in an expression that was half hamster, half alpaca.

And the apples of his cheeks became impossibly round and squishable.

You felt your heart shot across your chest like a crazy bouncy ball, playing pinball inside your rib cage.

Joy filled your every blood vessel.

“Sure, I’d love to sit down and chat for a bit.”

[cynjixiahh]

‘DAZED’ Magazine DEAN INTERVIEW TRANSLATION

‘DAZED’ MAGAZINE (KOREA) 2017 October Issue

DEAN INTERVIEW - Translated by @cynjixiahh

Becoming the producer who nurtured the winner of SMTM6…

It is good now that it is finished. It was project which required much more time and effort than I thought. As much as that (much effort given), I feel good that it ended well and I also learned a lot from it. When the music made its appearance through this show, I came to know the influence of the small spool of threads when it is spread out. It has been a great time.

  Whatever people say, you are now the hot issue of the public culture. Do you feel that?

Compare to the past, I do feel that more people came to know about the artist Dean; but I am not sure if I am the hot issue. It is just my life pattern. Committing to being a true musician and artist, and also being fitted with the seldomly used description ‘cool/stylish’ – Dean is really the charismatic brand. In my point of view, I consider all parts that I have participated is my music. Iconic figures like Frank Ocean, Kanye West, etc pay a lot of attention and care to their own art work or attitude, even to the car they ride on. And the picture of these stories (of the artists) has become something that the general public can also understand (that they can see ‘ah it is true’). From the stage lighting, the way of speaking, to the facial expression, I consider all these are my music. Rather than studying it, I’d like to express it naturally by putting my philosophy in it.

  It seems like being natural is the core. What kind of personality does this natural Dean have?

I like fun and interesting things. I like to spend time with friends whose sense of humour and sensitivity are on the same wavelength as mine. I don’t like wandering around that much. Somehow, I think even talking with friends is one art work. And I mostly spend time like that.

 Do you have that kind of crew? 

It’s about 10 people.

  If you go out once in a while, where do you usually go?

There is a bar near the studio. The boss’ selection of music is of great artisan spirit. I also have a lot of interest in art books, and the boss’ superb selection (of arts) satisfies me. I usually go there whenever I want to listen to new music.

 Lately, among those who are in their 10s – 20s choose Dean as the stylish individual; with what in mind do you dress yourself?

Mainly the western culture leads the current fashion flow. I like eastern culture a lot, and in it there are affection and self-respect pride. It is not just our country but I want to show the oriental kind of vibe, and I also want to show the street elements that boarders enjoy.

  If you go to the overseas’ famous fashion week, how do you think you will express yourself (in clothes)?

When I look at them, rather than going ‘oh that person is wearing something from the currently trendy brand..’, I like to mix and match vintage kind of clothing or outfits from the collection of the old days with the current stuff, reinterpret it and show to people the style of mine.

 It is not very ordinary. Have you always been taking a liking in clothing (fashion)?

I have a lot interest in it and I also receive great inspiration from my stylist friend. The friends from my crew also like oriental kind of culture and fashion, so I think the colour comes into view even more.

  You have taken the name Dean from James Dean, and from another interview that you said that you like the rebellious vibe in him. what is being rebellious that you mentioned?

I feel never ending wavering, and I have some severe ups and downs; many times I thought I had to stop. Without reasons, I would become melancholy. But when I look around, anyone can be like that. Also, I realised that being blunt/slow to react is death. To give example, grandpa bought clothes; in anyone’s eyes, there were noticeable small details on the clothes and grandpa was very impressed by it. Eventhough others may not know but didn’t grandpa even consider these details when buying the clothes? I think it is very important to see and feel the trivial things. Korean society likes the same familiar things and highly tend to be uncertain about things that they are not familiar with. I think being rebellious is to find things that are broken away from the same.

  Through performances and such, Dean’s influence is neatly expanding.  

By all means, I desire to have my productions to be published and to be acknowledged in the global market. And for that I have prepared detailed planning. 

  Out of all countries, where do you want to dominate at any cost? Do you have something like this in mind? 

America. I am thinking if I capture America, then I can capture the world…isn’t it? It would be good if there are some unique characters in the American market. It is not about following others but it is more like ‘I don’t know who’s that but he is a bit different’. Fortunately, the perception of eastern culture is becoming better, I am thinking of ways/images where oriental vibe can be made used of to communicate. 

  As a musician, ultimately, what is the music that you are pursuing?

It is the music that has story. Since I was little, I have liked drawing. If my mother bought me a sketchbook, I would diligently draw and gave an explanation of a story to the drawing. I even wrote novel. I like to create story like that. My album, as a whole, is like a movie, there are introduction, development, turns and conclusion. It would be nice if the storytelling lingers within you after you listen to the album from the first track to the last track.  

  As Dean, what kind of independent value you want to have?

I want to show a lot of myself, whether it is to direct or through script writing to graft onto the movie. Fashion, music, art and so on may have different ways of expression, but I want to display emotions in many different spheres. When the public sees that art is not separated, they can easily say it is simply an expression one’s emotions. Sometimes art can be high-sounding and can be understood as something difficult, but it would be great if it can just be the model of the person who expresses his/her emotions. I don’t want to be limited in any genre.

  It is (your) first fashion magazine cover.

It was fun. The ‘DAZED’ magazine, as a whole, is cool and I have wanted to collaborate. I like vintage check, and Burberry too, when I saw it overseas and as I was thinking “aahh Burberry can be worn like that too”, I wanted to reinterpret it. I am thankful for this opportunity given to me. It seems like time had flown while doing interesting work.

[itsworn]

This 1934 Ford Packs a 560hp Punch

It all starts somewhere; the long, winding road leading you into automotive high performance. One of the truly magical decades to grow up in certainly had to have been the ’60s for countless reasons. Dragstrips were packed with the wildest Funny Cars and Gassers, muscle cars were taking over the streets, and toymakers were churning out some of the coolest creations to capture the attention of every youngster. For Paul DeFilippo of Needham, Massachusetts, experiencing it all not only caught his attention, it lured him in while surrounded by hopped-up cars.

From building kit models at the kitchen table to frequenting New England Dragway with his friends on a regular basis, it’s easy to see the path he was rolling on. Nothing caught his attention more, however, than one particularly wicked 1969 Chevelle packing a healthy 427ci big-block as it tore up the gears ripping a path through his neighborhood on a regular basis. As the years passed he gained a specific fascination with traditional hot rods, their aggressive looks and extreme power to weight ratios especially with cars packing superchargers.

There’s always a game-changing moment to influence you for a potential a build and for Paul it was a Dave Bell illustration of a nasty 1934 Ford five-window coupe he found decades ago in STREET RODDER. The car had a hard chop, blown V-8, and a cranked-down stance inspiring him to begin the search for a suitable body to bring it to life. Building a hot rod is a journey that can take quite a bit of time as life moves forward. For Paul it all started when he found a local ad for a 1934 Ford five-window body. The old steel shell had seen far better days, especially since it was missing its firewall, was rotted in numerous areas, and filled with bullet holes. Somehow through all the flaws he saw the perfect base for the car to rise since it had an evil chop mimicking the Dave Bell illustration. A deal was made and it was hauled home to lay down a plan.

For a rock-solid base Paul contacted TCI Engineering for one of their complete, fully boxed chassis featuring custom crossmembers. Out back a Currie Enterprises Hot Rod 9-inch rear was packed with 3.55 gears spinning 31-spline axles. It’s suspended in place by a TCI Engineering four-link with matching antiroll bar, Panhard bar, and adjustable coilover shocks. Up front a 4-inch dropped Super Bell axle meets Chevy spindles combined with Pete & Jakes tube shocks, transverse spring, and TCI Engineering four-link. When the need to drop anchor hits, a Wilwood Engineering dual master pushes fluid through steel lines to matching discs up front, complemented by Ford drums out back. It all meets the street on a set of 15-inch American Racing Torq Thrust D rims wearing Hoosier rubber.

If you want to make a statement, nothing speaks louder than a blown 355ci V-8 from Big Al’s Toy Box. The stout small-block features a four-bolt main base filled with a steel crank linked to H-beam rods wearing forged aluminum SRP pistons all urged by a Comp Cams stick. Up top plenty of power comes from a pair of Dart Iron Eagle heads with the final punch delivered through a Littlefield 6-71 supercharger fed by a pair of Demon 850-cfm carbs crowned by a BDS scoop. An MSD ignition lights the fire with spent gases dumping though a set of custom-fabbed zoomies. It’s all good for a solid 560 hp on the dyno with power moving through a Richmond five-speed to a custom driveshaft.

Bringing the tattered body back to life was a major feat. Paul called on his good friends Butch and Rodney Rintala to work their fabrication skills on it. To start, they replaced the floors, subrails, and trunk with freshly struck steel and continued on by installing a modified factory firewall. The nasty 6-inch chop was finessed while also fabricating a custom grille complimented by a custom rear roll pan with frenched license plate housing. Once completed the duo metal finished the body to perfection and set all the gaps. Butch then loaded his spray gun with plenty of PPG black and laid down a mile-deep coating of vibe.

The business office received plenty of attention, starting with the factory dash and garnish moldings being hydrostatic-dipped in bird’s-eye maple by Fluid-Grafix of Hampstead, New Hampshire. The dash was then filled with custom dials from Aurora to monitor the vitals. A LeCarra banjo-style wheel mounted to an ididit tilt column carves the course while a Hurst stick pulls gears and Vintage Air adds a cool breeze. New England Trim of Shrewsbury covered a bench from Wise Guy’s with yards of Cadillac White leather along with crafting matching panels and completing it all with plush taupe carpeting. Paul wanted to be sure to thank his girlfriend, Jena Holland, for her continued support throughout the build. This is one Street Shaker making it known on the streets and we dig it! SRM

The post This 1934 Ford Packs a 560hp Punch appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[tipsycad147]

Tarot myths debunked! Nine "rules" of Tarot you can (mostly) ignore

Posted by Michelle Gruben on Dec 21, 2015

As soon as you delve into the world of Tarot, you encounter a bunch of do-this, don't-do-that warnings and prescriptions about how to use the cards. (Why, it's almost as if we were dealing with something magical, not just 78 pictures on cardstock!) Some of these superstitions undoubtedly have a grain of truth in them, while others are just baloney dipped in snake oil. Now, for your amusement and your edification, Madame Michelle will feed each “should” and “shouldn’t” into the Truth-O-Matic Machine (i.e., her brain!) and declare a verdict.

 You shouldn't read Tarot for yourself. 

Mary Greer put a stake in this old truism with her groundbreaking 1984 book, defiantly titled Tarot for Your Self. Her Tarot method is based on the premise that Tarot is a mirror of the human psyche, and that relying on a reader to interpret your cards makes no more sense than asking someone else to explain your dreams.

These days, Tarot has become as mainstream as the Mississippi—we have weekend workshops, decks to suit every persuasion, and shelves of tarot books that owe more to 1970s self-help literature than to the Western esoteric tradition.   The more accessible Tarot becomes, the fewer people believe that reading the cards is the provenance of a gifted few. And even professional cartomancers have to learn somewhere—usually, by reading for themselves.

That’s not to say that it’s easy to do Tarot divination for yourself. The potential for self-deception is high. Accurate readings call for a clear head and an impartial attitude—easier said than done when it’s your burning question on the table. But with some practice, you can cultivate the necessary detachment to be your own best Tarot reader. Learn to distinguish the whining voice of worry and desire from the subtle whisper of intuition. And be ready to get a second opinion when your well-calibrated bullshit detector starts beeping.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Yeah, but…no.

Using Tarot cards is dangerous.

Well, it depends on what your definition of danger is, doesn’t it? If you believe that opening a deck of Tarot cards is going to unleash a frenzied horde of demons that will drag you kicking and screaming into the dark world of the occult, then you need a reality check. If, however, you're worried that diving into Tarot will change your perceptions, scramble your priorities, and launch you into a lifelong obsession, then your fears are entirely justified.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Maybe.

Don't let anyone else touch your cards.

This warning is based on the assumption that a Tarot deck collects and stores the psychic energy of the reader. When another person handles the deck, according to this idea, their energy scrambles, contaminates, or wipes away this accumulation of energy, making the deck less attuned to its owner.

Most readers I know do have a “professional” deck which many clients will handle, and another deck(s) reserved for their personal use. But their concerns are usually mundane—germy, grimy, or clumsy hands fondling a treasured deck, or cards going missing during a long evening of giving readings in low light. Bad vibes are really a non-issue. A Tarot reader who is skilled enough to detect psychic imprints left on their deck will easily be able to give it a good cleansing before the next use.

Not only that, but readers who allow the querent to handle their cards give better readings than people who bogart the deck. Passing the cards back and forth facilitates the exchange of energy that allows information to flow more freely during the reading. Not only that, allowing the querent to shuffle, cut, and/or draw cards is a great way to keep the person actively involved in the reading. We've all experienced the client who wants to sit passively on their side of the table while the all-knowing Tarot reader tells them exactly what fate has in store for them. Blech. Letting the querent choose their own cards from the deck gives them a greater sense of control over their destiny, and perhaps encourages them to take positive steps after the reading is over. Also, many people are nervous about having their cards read, and keeping their hands busy helps allay those jitters.

On a side note, my permissive attitude about Tarot-sharing doesn't go for other magical tools. I'll let any curious person thumb through my Tarot cards, but I'm choosy about who, if anyone, gets to see my scrying crystal or athame. To make an analogy, I'll happily lend a sweater or scarf to a friend, but not my lucky undies. (And shame on you for even asking, Mark.)

Truth-O-Matic reading: Nah.

Don’t buy a used Tarot deck.

A corollary to the above, this caveat is also based on worries about psychic contamination. There’s nothing wrong with buying a pre-loved deck (as long as you make sure all the cards are there). Just cleanse the used deck according to a method you trust, dedicate it to your purposes, and have fun reading it. Shunning used cards makes trees sad!

Incidentally, I’ve found that plenty of readers actually prefer vintage decks. They’re usually easier to shuffle, and may have acquired a patina of incense smoke and hand crud that newly-minted cards just can’t match. (And, if you’re seeking a rare or out-of-print deck, you may have no choice but to acquire it secondhand.) Of course, if you favour a crisp deck that’s never been read by anyone else, that’s fine too.  

Truth-O-Matic reading: Whatever floats your boat.

You should “reset” the deck by putting the cards back in order after each use.

This myth must be perpetuated by those folks who mistake their OCD for some kind of special magical sensitivity. I’m pretty sure the only people who follow this rule are Tarot dilettantes who read the cards once a year on their birthday. A pro would never undertake the Sisyphean task of “resetting” the deck after every spread. Sorting the cards and placing them back in their proper sequence can be a relaxing, meditative activity—but it's by no means necessary. A good shuffle or two to mix in the cards from the last reading is all the maintenance a Tarot deck requires.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Oh hell no.

You can't purchase your first Tarot deck—it has to be received as a gift.

Try as I might, I haven't been able to track down the origin of the idea that it’s somehow improper or inauspicious to buy your own Tarot deck. An acquaintance of mine who comes from a Romani (Gypsy) family tells me that this is one of their customs. To wait to be given a deck for card-reading exemplifies patience, humility, and a true calling—while buying one for yourself signifies vanity.

The prohibition against buying your own deck may also be a legacy of the 19th-century occult societies. Before the publication of the Rider-Waite deck made the Tarot images widely available, knowledge of the Tarot would have been mainly conveyed from initiate to aspirant. In the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, for instance, the Tarot Trumps and their “true” meanings were treated as a powerful secret. Members built on their knowledge of the Tarot in stages, as they progressed from grade to grade. Each initiate was expected to make his or her own Tarot deck from a master copy (probably painted by Moina Mathers) upon achieving the grade of Adeptus Minor.

These days, of course, there are few secrets left in the occult world, and self-initiation is the norm. So, go ahead and buy your own Tarot deck—I’m sure the powers that be have better things to do than to hang out at Barnes and Noble punishing Tarot interlopers. Besides, if you’re a Tarot beginner waiting for someone to guess that you want a Tarot deck and to buy it for you, you might be waiting for a long time. Just choose a deck that appeals to you, as long as it’s Rider-Waite (Kidding! Sort of.), and dive right in.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Piffle.

Beware the Death card!

We can thank Hollywood for this one. It’s a B-movie cliché that any character who gets this card won’t live until the credits roll.

As every single beginning Tarot book points out, drawing Death does not necessarily portend someone’s impending demise. It signifies change—often positive change. But let’s not be tempted to de-fang (de-scythe?) this card completely. The change it speaks of can still be dramatic, scary, and presently unwelcome. When drawn, it’s a wake-up call to embrace the flux within and around us, and to face the inevitable. In recent years, with the trend toward Tarot for self-development, the pendulum has arguably swung too far the other way. Now, instead of “Death” we get “Transformation,” “Renewal,” “End of Cycle,” and other polysyllabic affirmation-speak. O Death, where is thy sting? Why dost thou blatherest on so?

Truth-O-Matic reading: Don't fear the reaper (but don't ignore him, either).

Don’t ask the same question twice.

“Does this shirt look okay on me?”

“Mmmph.”

“No, really, how does this shirt look?”

“It's a little tight—”

“Aw, c'mon, don't you like my new shirt? I got it on sale.”

“It looks fine.”

And then, because you asked the same question too many times, you leave the house looking like a stack of donuts wrapped in Spandex.

The danger is not that the Tarot will punish you for your impudence—that's superstition. No, the danger is in finally hearing what you want to hear, rather than what you need to hear, and making poorer decisions because of it. It's hard enough to keep your hopes and biases out of a reading without giving yourself multiple spreads to choose from. Didn't get a clear answer the first time? Some readers will keep the spread in place and draw additional cards for clarification, but even that practice has its pitfalls. (Do you really not understand the answer, or are you just angling for cards you like better?)

You may have also noticed that the cards are, for lack of a better term, impatient with persistent needling on one question. Ever try for a re-do and get the same answer phrased a different way? Or even the same exact cards? That's the Tarot gods trying to clue you in—the answer you've received is the right one, so take it or leave it. Persist in fishing, and the tone sometimes turns a little nasty.

Of course, there are times when you may want to do a follow-up reading on a question that has been asked in the past. But that's recommended only after some time has elapsed, and only then if the situation is actively evolving.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Mostly true.

Sleeping with your Tarot deck under your pillow will enhance your bond with the cards.

Now isn't this just like one of these lazy-ass New Age fluffy-bunny ideas: “To become a Tarot master, all you have to do is take lots of naps!” No, sorry. I’ve tried the osmosis method, and it doesn’t work. The only way to become familiar with the Tarot images is too look at them, read them, read about them, and read them some more—preferably at regular intervals, and across several decades. If exploring the cards in dreams is your objective, you’ll probably have more luck if you to choose an image to meditate on before bed. However, if you happen to like the corner of a cardboard box poking you in the cheeks all night, then be my guest.

If it’s a bond with the physical deck that you crave, the best way to connect with your cards is to handle them—handle them a lot, until your cards smell like your hands and your hands smell like cards.

Bend ‘em and scuff ‘em up until the edges are all soft and you can shuffle with your eyes closed. Mentally acquaint yourself with the texture and dimensions, so that picking up your deck feels as comfortable as sliding into your favourite T-shirt.

Will taking your deck to bed imprint it with your personal energy? Yeah, I guess so, a little. But folks who practice psychometry (the art of reading vibes from objects) generally agree that paper is a poor conductor of psychic energy, compared to non-organic materials like metal or stone. So the energy clinging to a Tarot deck may not feel as potent or last as long as with other tools. Still, if you want to infuse your cards with your personal energy, you can do that with a ritual or visualisation. I recommend charging them purposefully and consciously, rather than soaking them in the psychic equivalent of pillowcase drool.

Truth-O-Matic reading: Hmmph.

https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/77236103-tarot-myths-debunked-nine-rules-of-tarot-you-can-mostly-ignore

[itsworn]

Street Shaker 1941 Willys Gasser Is On The Loose

Nothing generates an adrenalin rush better than the chance to get out and experience nitro-fused drag racing at your local racetrack. Couple that with some of the hottest cruise nights while also being able to catch hot runs from light to light to see who just might be the Saturday night favorite. That said, you’ve instantly got the best formula for getting indoctrinated into hot rodding. For Doug Schmidt of Cheektowaga, New York, it was natural for him to settle into the performance world from an early age, thanks to plenty of experience turning wrenches in the neighborhood on friends’ cars ’til he purchased his first ride, a 1962 Chevy Impala SS.

From that point a number of hot street cars followed as his skills evolved, including several more Impalas, among others. It became a ritual to meet up with good friends, including Darryl Statchura, on weekend nights to cruise to Ja-Fa-Fa Hots on Harlem Road to see who had the hottest ride and to take in late-night street racing. There were also legendary visits to Lancaster Dragway to watch the some of the hottest Gassers run where the scent of nitro and rubber would leave a long-lasting impression on him. He and a group of friends eventually rented a local shop where they could build their hot rods and help each other out on projects. Somehow, the memories of watching Gassers run always made his pulse race, so a search commenced to locate a suitable base to start with. Coincidentally, Statchura had recently purchased a tired old 1941 Willys Gasser pickup that used to run at Niagara Dragstrip back in the day. Wanting his friend to live the dream, a deal was made and the pickup changed hands, giving Statchura the start he had hoped for.

For a rock-solid base the original frame was stripped, boxed, and treated to custom crossmembers and ballast mounts. Out back a 1957 Oldsmobile rear packed with 4.11 gears spins Moser Engineering 31-spline axles. It’s suspended in place by a combination of custom-fabbed 48-inch ladder bars with coil springs in custom pockets, Lakewood 50/50 drag shocks, and Panhard bar. Getting the mile-high stance right was paramount so a Speedway Motors Gasser kit was used, including their exclusive straight front axle, parallel leaf springs, and forged Ford-style spindles, along with matching tube shocks. When it comes time to tame the beast, a Ford dual master pushes juice through steel lines to Speedway Motors 11-inch discs up front and stock drums out back. To put the power down with style a set of vintage 15-inch ET wheels wear BFGoodrich rubber to get the message across.

Every Street Shaker needs a wicked mill nailed to the ’rails so Doug contacted J&L Performance of Lancaster to assemble a stout 331ci small-block Chevy. The massaged base was filled with an Eagle crank linked to matching forged rods wearing Mahle forged 11.5:1 pistons. A heavy thumps comes from a Crane hydraulic roller cam while Edelbrock aluminum heads generate plenty of power. Up top a vintage Edelbrock TR1X dual-quad tunnel ram wears a pair of Holley 450-cfm carbs mounted sideways on custom spacers topped with chrome air cleaners. An MSD ignition lights the fire with gases dumping through Speedway Motors fenderwell headers to a custom 3-inch exhaust with Flowmaster mufflers by Stahu-n-Son Speed Shop. A hopped-up Chevy TH400 trans from B&M moves a searing 440 hp to a custom driveshaft from Denny’s.

Bringing the steel back to life wasn’t a job for the faint of heart. The little truck had been thrashed hard through the decades, leaving it extremely beaten up. Doug worked with his brother, Glenn, fabricating replacement panels as well as finessing the vintage steel back to perfection. The tilt fiberglass nose also received a revival, along with fabbing new floors and restoring the pickup bed. They then set the gaps and blocked it to perfection. To make an impact Doug selected TCP Global Lime Firemist vibe and had Statchura lay down the gloss, giving the truck back its glory. Ron Lasker of East Aurora then added the graphics accented by the re-chromed original rear tube bumper.

Inside it’s all business, starting with a ’30s-era Ford dash filled with dials from Stewart Warner and a dash-mounted tach to monitor the vitals while steering moves through a vintage Superior wheel. An American Autowire harness was installed along with a four-point rollbar with shifts moving through a Hurts stick. Upholstery Unlimited of Depew cut down a pair of 1974 Corvette buckets and treated them to diamond-tufted black vinyl to accent the polished stainless door panels.

Sadly Doug died last year and now his daughter Jess is at the wheel promising to keep shaking the streets of New York in his memory, and to us that’s very cool.

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