#they have one brain cell between them and ford has never seen it

[cbmagus49]

STANUARY WEEK 1: MYSTERY

It’s the (post-Timestuck) Mystery Trio!!! I’ve been meaning to get around to drawing these guys for ages :D

[orangeoctopi7]

All of Your So-Called Problems

[AO3 link]

Stan was trying to find room for the leftover Mac and Cheese in the fridge when he heard the doorbell. He grumbled a few obscenities under his breath as he trudged towards the door. He was NOT in the mood for visitors tonight, even if they might be paying customers. The fact that a demon was trying to break into the house to steal some world-ending piece of junk from Ford didn’t help.

"We're closed!" He shouted before he even peeked out the window. He pulled back the blinds just enough to glare at whoever thought it was a good idea to drop by this late, and his eyebrows raised nearly to his receding hairline when he saw who it was.

"Wendy!? Since when do you knock?" Stan couldn't think of a single time she hadn't just come in and made herself at home since she'd started working at the Shack.

"Since Dipper told me you answered the door with a loaded gun earlier today." The teen answered as Stan opened the door.

"Gonna have to have a talk with that runt about blabbing." Stan rolled his eyes. "What, you having a movie night with the kids?"

"Not exactly." The teen jerked a thumb over her shoulder, and Stan finally noticed the rest of the Corduroy family standing just behind her, right off the porch. They were all carrying sleeping bags and pillows.

"...Wha?" Stan could only utter a surprised grunt as his brain tried to piece together why it looked like the entire Corduroy family was here for a sleepover. 

"Dipper called me and said we could stay here until your brother puts up a barrier around our house." Wendy explained, noticing her boss's confusion. "...Aaand he never even told you anything about it, did he?"

"He sure didn't." Stan deadpanned.

As if on cue, Dipper and Ford both stepped into the entryway.

"Oh, Wendy, you're here already!" Dipper said, voice dripping with faked surprise. "I forgot to ask Grunkle Stan if it was ok for you guys to stay the night. But gosh, since you're already here, I guess we can't turn you away!"

"You can drop the act, bucko, I wrote the book on It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission." Stan folded his arms disapprovingly. "The answer's still no. We're already putting up one freeloader."

"I'm the one who said they could stay." Ford said firmly.

Stan turned his glare to his brother. "This isn't a safehouse, genius!"

"It's my house, Stanley!"

"Where are they even gonna sleep!?"

"Well, perhaps we'd have some place to put up guests if you hadn't turned the two largest rooms into a tourist trap!"

"Oh, like you kept the place ready for company when you lived here!" Stan countered. "These rooms were both filled to the brim with your weird experiments when I got here!"

“Hey, we can sleep outside like men, if it’s too much trouble to put us up!” Manly Dan interrupted the brothers’ argument.

“Unfortunately, that’s not an option.” Ford shook his head. “The barrier barely extends past the front porch.” 

Ford quickly took a mental survey of where there might be extra room. The basement lab was out. He’d finished dismantling the portal, but he was storing the rift down there for now. His secret study was supposed to be a secret, and he still needed to clear out all that old Bill memorabilia. The attic was already taken by Dipper and Mabel. Stanley still had the main bedroom, and Fiddleford was currently sleeping on the couch in the upstairs study. That left the den, which might be large enough for one or two people, but certainly not a family of five. If only Stan hadn’t filled his old experiment and specimen rooms with useless junk! Sure, the rooms hadn’t exactly been empty before, but Ford at least would have known what things could be moved where to make room for their guests. Even his old thinking parlor was… wait…

“What about the parlor?” The old researcher asked.

Stan shrugged. “I kinda use it as a space for rotating exhibits, or whatever else I need at the time. Pretty sure it’s still full of leftover campaigning junk.”

“So, nothing we can’t throw out then.”

“Not so fast, genius, I still haven’t agreed to letting anyone stay here.”

“This is an emergency, Stanley!” Ford fumed. “And besides, it’s not your decision to make!”

Stan regarded the Corduroy family still standing awkwardly on his porch, and tried to imagine Manly Dan with those disturbing yellow eyes he’d seen on that time traveler earlier. He tried to picture the hulking lumberjack acting like that erratic demon. It was not a pleasant thought.

“Alright, fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But only because I don’t want any of these ax-weidling giants possessed by a triangular serial-killer. And don’t expect me to provide any bedding or food!”

“Yeah, we can probably snare ourselves a few squirrels or something.” Wendy’s oldest brother assured Stan.

Stan grimaced. “On second thought, help yourselves to some canned meat. Only the stuff that’s expired though!”

“Thanks Stan.” Wendy said. “For giving us a place to stay until this blows over, not for the expired meat.”

“What? They pad that date out by at least a year. As long as it smells fine, it’s good to eat.” Stan defended himself.

The teen rolled her eyes but stepped into the Shack, followed by her family.

Ford observed them all carefully as they entered. No hesitation or sign of even noticing it as they crossed over the barrier. So they definitely weren’t possessed now. He would have to keep a close eye on them while they stayed. He knew that Dipper trusted Wendy, and that was good enough for him, for now, but the others? Ford vaguely remembered Dan from when he’d been a young man, building this very cabin for him. He’d been friendly, loud, and boisterous. It appeared his sons were cut from the same cloth. But it was hard to say whether or not Bill could convince any of them to try and smash the rift.

“So Wendy, did you manage to get more unicorn hair?” Dipper asked as he helped her lay out a sleeping bag in the parlor.

“Oh yeah. I just snuck into that glade again with a pair of shears and a tranq dart. Works just as well as fairy dust.” She handed a grocery bag full of rainbow hair to Ford.

Ford made a mental note to add that tidbit to the Journal 1 entry on unicorns later. “I’ll get started on it first thing tomorrow.”

Mabel came downstairs to help just a minute later. After a lot of rearranging of campaign signs and novelty phones, everyone had a sleeping space set out. Dan took Stan’s recliner in the den, and his youngest son set out a sleeping bag at his feet. The oldest three children laid out their sleeping bags between the piles of junk in the parlor. 

“Ohmigosh, Dipper, we should pull our mattresses down here and have a mega-sleepover!” Mabel gasped as she pushed the last of the campaign signs into a corner.

“What was the point of clearing out all this junk if we aren’t even gonna sleep in our own beds?” Dipper asked tiredly.

“Hmm, good point. Maybe Barry and Stuart can sleep in our beds, and we can sleep down here with Wendy!”

Dipper and Wendy’s middle brother both blushed beet red.

“Uh… I mean… I, uh, I don’t think Wendy would want to sleep with me--US! With us!” Dipper stammered.

“M-me? Sleep in a g-girl’s room? Like a room that a girl sleeps in?” The middle brother gulped.

“Yyyeah, I think we’re good where we are.” Wendy said cooly, trying to diffuse the awkward tension in the room.

“Aw man!” Mabel pouted, but she didn’t put up any other protest than that. Dipper suspected she was still pretty worn out from the rescue mission this morning.

Eventually, everyone got settled down and the children all fell asleep. The elder Pines twins moved back to the living room to check on Dan one more time.

"Hey, now that the kids are asleep, I've been meaning to ask you something." The lumberjack said in a low rumble that was probably his version of a whisper. "How long have there been two of you?"

"Hooboy…" Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. He really didn't want to retread this again.

"I'm Stanford. I'm the one you first met when you built this place for me. My brother Stanley has been living here under my name for the last 30 years." Ford summarized tiredly. Apparently he wasn't in the mood to make a big deal out of it right now either.

Stan could practically see the gears turning in Manly Dan's head. Eventually the grizzled lumberjack nodded. "Yeah, that adds up."

With that, he turned over and went to sleep. Stan was a little surprised that the guy accepted their explanation just like that. But then again, Dan had lived in Gravity Falls his whole life.

Ford grabbed a folding chair from the card table and carried it out into the giftshop.

"Are you seriously gonna stay up and keep watch over that snowglobe thing all night?" Stan asked incredulously.

"My usual sleeping place is already occupied, I may as well." 

"Y’know, operating on so little sleep just makes you more likely to screw up.”

“Don’t worry. I’m well accustomed to it.”

“Not reassuring.” Stan said flatly, turning and climbing the stairs up to his room. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight either. But at least he was going to try. Ford was going to run himself ragged if he kept up this pace.

- - -

Nights in prison were the worst part of the whole ordeal, in Gideon's opinion. At least during the day, he was able to sway the other inmates to do what he wanted. There was a sort of mob mentality that he could take control of. But at night, it was just Gideon and his cell-mate, and there was nothing the boy could do to stop the hulking man from taking his pillow and doing whatever he wanted with it. 

Last week, the convicted felon had staged a wedding in their cell. He’d made a veil out of toilet paper and hummed “Here Comes the Bride” and everything. Tonight, he seemed to be discussing the possibility of children with his new “wife”.

“But Tessa, your mother and your aunt both died in childbirth! I’m just worried about you, honey!” He paused for whatever imagined reply the pillow gave. “Adoption, you say? I’ll admit, I had not considered it.”

Gideon groaned. He couldn’t even put a pillow over his ears to try and block out the nonsense! He’d tried to persuade the warden to let him switch cell mates so he could room with Ghost Eyes, but apparently they were “both instigators” and putting them both in the same cell would be “asking for a prison riot”.

The boy’s eyes flicked with annoyance to the cat poster still hiding his last attempt to summon Bill Cipher. The triangle had appeared and promised he was working on something, but so far Bill had failed to deliver.

“Stupid useless demon!” Gideon muttered under his breath. He rolled over, expecting another sleepless night.

Well, it did turn out to be sleepless, but not for the reason he’d anticipated.

It was a little past 10 PM when Gideon heard the familiar sound of an old van’s engine revving. He’d heard it many times on his father’s used car lot, but what on earth would one of those junkers be doing here?

That’s when he heard the unmistakable sound of a van crashing through a wall. Followed by the even more unmistakable sound of a machine gun.

“Heavens to Betsy, what was that!?” Gideon ran to his barred window just in time to see a pudgy man with a machine gun walk away from the wreckage of where a large van had burst through the prison wall. His maniacal laughter sounded familiar.

“Well whaddya know? Bill came through!” Gideon said in a hushed whisper. 

He dove away from the window with a yelp a second later when the machine gun started firing in his direction. A few seconds later there was a much quieter bang as a tall ladder hit the wall just outside the window. 

“HEY GIDEON, I HEARD YOU WERE GETTING TIRED OF YOUR PRISON AND WANT TO FIND SOMEPLACE NEW TO PARTY?”

“Bill!?”

“THE ONE AND ONLY!”

“Are you trying to kill me, you maniac!?” 

“YEESH, YOU FLESH-SACKS ARE SO SENSITIVE! YOU’RE FINE. BESIDES, I NEEDED TO LOOSEN THESE BARS!” He ripped out the bars on the window with ease. They’d already been loosened by the machine gun fire. “YOU COMING OR NOT? I NEED YOUR HELP STAGING A LITTLE PRISON BREAK OF MY OWN.”

Gideon pouted and followed the demon down the ladder, grumbling the whole way.

“... You know what, Tessa? I don’t think I want kids after all.” Gideon’s cowering cell mate said after they left. 

Bill kept the guards off them with plenty of machine gun fire, but he had little regard for who he was shooting at, guard or prisoner. He even narrowly missed Gideon on a few occasions.

“Oooh, I hope Killbone’s foot will be ok.” The boy hissed sympathetically as he saw one of his inmate friends go down.

“NAH, HE’S CRIPPLED FOR LIFE!”

They finally made it to the van, and Gideon climbed into the passenger-side door. Bill followed after him.

“A-aren’t you gonna drive?” The boy asked.

“TCH, FUNNY! I JUST RAMMED THIS THING THROUGH THREE WALLS OF CONCRETE; YOU THINK THE MEASLY COMBUSTION ENGINE STILL WORKS?” He flicked a lighter on and dropped it down between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel. Gideon could smell the gasoline. This thing was going to blow any second. He scampered over the benches and out the back door. Bill followed casually behind him.

“Then how are we supposed to get away!?” Gideon demanded as he sprinted to put distance between himself and the burning van.

“RELAX, SHORT-STACK, I’VE GOT A SECOND GET-AWAY CAR RIGHT HERE!” Bill pointed out a small black Audi parked behind a tall tree.

“Then why did you set the van on fire?” Gideon asked in confusion.

“BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT’D BE FUN.” Bill grinned as the van blew up behind them. Gideon screamed and ducked to avoid fiery flying debris. “AND I WAS RIGHT!”

Gideon got into Bill’s car. There was no child’s car seat. “You better drive careful.” He warned the demon.

“AHAHAHAHA, OH GIDEON, YOU’RE ALWAYS A RIOT!” Bill struggled to shift the car into drive, and Gideon had just enough time to realize with horror that the demon didn’t really know how to operate a human vehicle before it sped off through the trees.

[thatabitcryptic]

That shifty escape scenario is so sweet and so sad?? It might not even be that sad but I’m feeling feeling d tonight bro. Anyways *ahhh*. I know its initially meant to be a secret but do any of the Adults(tm) ever figure out its,,, shifty? And what are their reactions? (On that note, what do they go by besides shifty? Or do they just use shifty and somehow no one gets it?)

Hehehehehe :))

So I actually did pick a ‘human’ name for shifty!! Benson!! Ford asks for his name and they all freeze before Mabel blurts out beans and shifty blurts out son (because.. he’s ford and fidds’ son..)

dipper has the one brain cell between the three of them and combines the names into benson!!

And yeah!! Eventually everyone finds out its shifty!!

The first person outside of dipper and Mabel to find out is Pacifica and that’s not favouritism I swear she actually notices the was shifty looks at fidds and ford and recognises it as the way she used to look at her own parents,, that mixed with ‘why does benson look like fidds and Ford’s kid’ and the fact that she’s lived with Mcgucket for long enough to know he is extremely capable of making a clone if he wanted to,,, she pieces things together and straight up asks if they are some sort of forgotten (and yes I do mean like memory gun forgotten) son.

And yeah the twins don’t deny it and neither does shifty, they end up just telling her and she starts to help shifty to forgive his dads :)

Now I wanna say.... Stan is the first adult to find out..? Stan, Soos or Wendy.. idk

Stan because look,,, shifty is Ford’s son and you bet he’s a terrible lair Stan picks something up right away also I hc that Stan can just read people super well. He doesn’t know what it is,, the kid’s weird mannerisms?? The fact that Stan has never seen them at night. The way they are always so excited whenever they see something different?

Stan knew raccoon wife’s tail was soft but how many times does he have to pet it? And flowers? It’s almost like the guy has never seen or smelled one before. He does know you don’t have to stick your nose all the way in it right?

Anyway so Stan knows something is up especially when they are left alone in a room without one of the kids. They get all jumpy and defensive.

But the most notable thing is the strange anger at ford?? The glare of he shoots at ford for half a second whenever they share a room or they will be chatting with Stan and ford will join the conversation and suddenly they get irritated and leave soon after.

So Stan asks about it and, of course, defends ford to the point where shifty gets so emotional he starts to lose hold of his form...

[maybe-your-left]

Cowboy Blues

It’s been a few years since Clyde felt this way… he has always been comfortable with his surroundins’ even after his tours. But he’s never really felt this alone, he thinks to himself how foolish it would be to start bein’ lonesome now. He has the bar, Jimmy ‘n’ Mellie ‘n’ o’ course his horses but that feeling is here to stay. The darkness it brings him, he’s not sure what to do ‘bout it but now every morning it greets him like an old friend. 

Today was like any other, up with the sun, going to check the horses. The Logan family ranch was known for their “special breeds” which was just code for big. These horses are the biggest in West Virginia, draft breeds that put in good work and are mighty pretty, Clyde thinks to himself. Mellie an Jimmy come help out when they can but Clydes got his own slice of heaven on this ranch.

These thoughts kept him up all night until finally, he can rest after the morning rounds by taking a hot shower. The sting of the water is just right, nothing rejuvenates the mind and soul like the precious streams cascading down his flesh… suddenly he’s pulled out of his daze to a loud crashing sound. He jumps out of the shower as fast as he can, nearly falling down trying to pull his worn work boots on before running to see what all the commotion is. From his front porch, he sees nothin’ but black smoke. 

“Shit” he whispers. 

Leroy, his dog, is high on his tail as he runs out to the stables, getting in his damn way as always. If it were any other circumstance Clyde would’ve put him back in the house but right now there is something that needs his full attention. The speeding golden retriever adds nothing but panic as he finally gets to El Woods’ stable. Throwing on his saddle he quickly leaves to the northeast corner of his property. 

-----

This is just your luck, driving through an unknown part of the city and of course, your car breaks down. It couldn’t get any worse… actually it can you think to yourself. You could be standing in front of your ON FIRE vintage Ford Shelby. Fuckin’ great, just great, this couldn’t get any worse. 

“I’m sorry your call has been disconnected, please hold for someone else to assist you or you can hang up and try again…” 

Can’t even get ahold of a tow truck to come bail you out, this really is the seventh circle of hell. It wasn’t like you to overheat your car, you knew better to be redlining it in the middle of a heatwave. But here you were, alone, no cell phone service, away from any civilization. Might as well start making your way back up the road before you pass out from heat exhaustion. 

Suddenly something big peeks up out of the corner of your eye. You think to yourself “this is it, I’m clearly going crazy because there is no way someone would be riding on this road”. Before you can make out the dark shadow coming up something soft skids to a stop in front of you. Closing your eyes in fear of what was to come you are yanked out of your fight or flight to the feeling of something licking you. 

A long flat tongue begins to kiss you at the shins causing you to giggle, opening your eyes you see a large golden retriever. 

“Oh my goodness, aren’t you the most handsome boy” you gush at the dog. 

His big brown eyes look at you like you're the only person who matters. Your loving reunion with the only dog you’ve seen in weeks is cut short by the sound of a heavy “hmpf”.

You look up to be brought eye to “eye” with the broad chestnut muscles of a Clydesdale. Being a veterinarian from Montana, you’ve had your fair share of livestock and equine but never in your life have you seen a bigger animal. You gulp down whatever praise you were giving the now relatively small dog at the sound of someone dismounting. Off to the left, you see a pair of old boots hit the ground, they seem to be old but full of care and attention, not like any ol’ cowboy’s boots but ones that have been continuously reliable throughout their lives. 

A clearing of a throat brought your attention up from the man’s boots and suddenly it felt like a fairy tale. 

Before you stood a man, not like any man you had ever seen. He was tall, so tall in fact he was about the same height as the hulking horse in front of you. His dark wash Wranglers were secured with a belt that had a modest buckle in the shape of a horseshoe, and his broad chest was covered in a button-up short-sleeve shirt all but haphazardly tucked in. Upon gazing at his face you were awestruck by his eyes, so kind and full of rich honey caramel with flecks of green that screamed home within them. 

“Is that yer car?” his deep voice woke you from your trance. 

“W-w-what ?” you stuttered back at him. 

The unknown man pointed past you and spoke again 

“That right there, is that yer car?”. 

Whipping your head around like a captive in a trance you followed where his finger pointed. Back towards the now dying flames of your car. 

“Uhhh yeah” you blurt out, “I mean yes, yes that is my car”. 

The man snorted and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth upwards. Big eyes darting between you and your car before finally settling on the dog between your knees. 

“I see Lil’ Leroy found y’ before I could, as big as El Wood is he ain’t faster than that little dog”. He patted the horse with his right hand, a horseshoe ring caught the sunlight. 

“Oh, this is your dog? I was wondering why there was one out here in the middle of nowhere.”

The man took in a deep breath and then spoke after what felt like an eternity. 

“There ain’t no cell service once you get past the border, not for another 3 miles. I’ll bring ya back to the house an let y’ use the phone to call a truck”. 

He took two long strides over to you and held out his hand. You weren’t quite sure what he was offering until he cleared his throat again. 

“I don’t think a short girl like ya can climb on El Wood without a helpin’ hand” he drawled out having almost a full smile as you finally realized what he was offering. Reaching down to your bag that you salvaged out of the car before all hell broke loose you walked to the left of El Wood. Hiking up your left foot to the stirrup and reaching out for the pommel you swung your right leg over the beast without any help. 

“This ain’t the first horse I’ve had to get on” you smiled back at the unknown cowboy. 

Clicking his tongue he climbed up right behind you, barely leaving enough room to breathe. His large frame was already towering when he was standing in front of you but now with your back on his chest, you felt like a newborn cub coming face to face with a grown bear for the first time. 

Reaching his arms around you and grasping the reins he spoke again. 

“Well then sunshine, my name is Clyde”. 

Before signaling to El Wood to get moving the newly named cowboy waited for your response. The turmoil inside your brain screamed “this was a stranger who was luring you to his home!”, but a smaller less logical part said, “sweetheart this man can lure me anywhere”. 

“My names (Y/N), pleasure to meet you, Clyde”. 

El Wood began the journey back from where he came, the gentle swaying of the horse calms your nerves from the incident earlier. 

“Pleasures all mine” Clyde seemed to whisper into the early afternoon sun as the two of you began to ride off to who knows where. 

[theloyaltyofthewolves]

tag info!

hi lovelies! i’ve gotten quite a few questions abt my tagging system (for those of u who don’t pay attention to that sort of thing/only use mobile, this is my tags page) over the last few days + i thought i’d try to condense all of your questions into a single post to make it nice and convenient. pls feel free to reach out if i missed smth!

1. what are your tags from and what do they mean?

individual tags: 

this is not your destruction bang chan

a tag for chan + the bravery + terror that must have accompanied his flight into stray kids. he has poured everything he has into them. they are his one shot, his only shot. his life, his blood, his greatest creation and sacrifice. this tag, which comes from nothing other than my brain, is a kind reminder to him that no matter how dark it gets, stray kids are an act of love and so will never be a mistake. 

learn to dance; it is your birthright 

a tag for minho. im a terrible person and can’t quite recall where or who i took it from, but i believe it was originally in french. minho came from nothing, built himself on nothing. the strength in his spine comes from suffering and endurance: living through all that life has thrown at you, getting up every single time it has knocked him down. and it has knocked him down over and over and over again. but each time, he gets back up. wipes the blood off his chin. dances. because he is owed this, this expression of love and life and control, one of the most fundamental parts of the human experience. minho dances because he is owed it, because he knows that it his right. 

 there is no sacrifice

my tag for changbin, from a longer piece by arianna reines. the original quote goes ‘there is no sacrifice. you have got to want to live. you have got to force yourself to want to.’ perhaps a little dark, but i believe it reflects the resolution with which changbin throws himself at life. there is no uncertainty in seo changbin. that’s why he’s stray kids’ anchor, their backbone. he’s uncompromising, devoted, resilient. 

 gutted and rising 

for hyunjin, my very favorite embodiment of the fragility of being human. once again, his tag is from a much longer quote by katie ford: don’t say it’s the beautiful i praise. i praise the human, gutted and rising. quite honestly, it is one of my favorite lines of literature in the entire world for how vulnerable and honest it is in its devotion to the human spirit. and that’s of course what i love so much about hyunjin. he is beautiful yes, but he also breakable and delicate and sensitive and irrational and ridiculous and dramatic and sweet and so unbelievably human. such a gentle soul who has seen some of the very worst that humanity has to offer, who has been beaten down and forced to kneel. who has grown tall enough and strong enough to push himself up off the floor and keep going, scarred and gutted and soft and rising.

 all you have is your fire

if uve spent a single second on this blog you will probably know that i have a serious love affair with what a walking contradiction han jisung is. he is so many impossibilities in so little physical form. fierce and shy and angry and brilliant and brave and scared and small and bright. han jisung is on fire all the time. it burns deep within him, burns him from the inside out. you can see it when he enters a room, walks on stage, opens his mouth. the core of him, all that he is, this burning burning burning energy, it flares around him, casts him in gold and red and orange. call it courage, call it fire, call it light, call it whatever you want. it is all that jisung has, just as it is all that small things have. 

 if there is a light im going to swallow it

this is for seungmin, and it comes from yet another one of my favorite pieces of literature. a poem called ‘blasphemies at the 5th street station’ by s. osborn and if there was ever a poem i would like you to read, it would be this one. seungmin’s particular tag comes from the final verse: ‘if there is a light, then i’m going to swallow it. if there is a god, then i’m going to eat him whole.’ appropriate for someone like seungmin who cannot be kept on his knees and who has always existed in a way that is uniquely his own. no authority, no god, no force of good or evil could bend seungmin to its will because he is simply not to be bound. 

 i have loved the stars too fondly

oh yongbokie. his tag fits him so well that it always makes me choke up just a little when i use it. it’s from a famous poem by sarah williams, most likely one that you have heard at least in passing. the poem details a message left by an astronomer on his deathbed to his pupil. “though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” which, to be honest, is so incredibly lee yongbok that i’m not sure i could clarify it any further. 

 as above so below 

jeongin’s tag comes from an age-old saying, one of those idioms that is so ancient, its originator has been long-forgotten. it is often attributed to religious or spiritual meanings, but i like it just find secular. at its essence, the quip describes the integral connection between everything small and big. the earth and the sun, the moon and the tides, the leaf and the cell wall. the way in which things that happen happen to all, no matter how big or small or young or old. befitting of the maknae, i think. an old quote for an old soul trapped in a young kid’s body. 

relationship tags:

and now the loyalty of the wolves

my very general ot8 tag, for moments when i see that little bit of more that filters through stray kids and their unrepentant love for one another. yet another reference to their growth: looking at where they are versus where they once were. stray dogs, nothing more than street hounds, scrappy and feral and dismissed. they did not belong, nor have they ever belonged. but they have grown. now, when they stand on stage, they fill it out. they draw attention and turn heads. they’re still outsiders, still outcasts, still unpolished and raw and untamed. but where once were mutts are now wolves. and now the wolves. and now the loyalty of the wolves.

i will carry you home in my teeth

i’ve mentioned this previously, but this is my tag specifically for chan and his boys. it comes from a mountain goats’ song. it embodies chan’s sacrifice and devotion to his kids, his family, his lifeblood. come hell or high water, chan’s going to get them to that finish line. 

do i look moderate to you?

this tag is from moderation, a trully excellent song by florence and the machine. ‘want me to love you in moderation, do i look moderate to you?’ what better pairing to fit this lyric than hyunjin and jisung? their love was born in violence and it has always been too much. the two of them have always been too much. too much anger, too much blood, too many teeth. the imprints of their fingers are pressed into each other’s chests. they have ripped each other apart, sewn each other back together. do i look moderate to you? do i look like someone who could be with you and not make you feel everything all at once? 

our fate cannot be taken from us

going back to the ancients, this is a quote from dante. ‘do not be afraid. our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.’ something about it has always screamed seungbin to me, something about the impossibility of their relationship. a friendship, a love, a brotherhood that should not exist and yet it does anyway, because they are too goddamn stubborn to let any force, supernatural or otherwise, make their choices for them. 

2. where do ur tags come from?

the very short answer to this question is: everywhere! movies, lyrics, poetry, tumblr posts. i have a pretty long and pretty comprehensive list of tiny pieces of writing that have stayed with me over the years. i look to it often for hope or writing advice or tattoo ideas.

3. can we see it? 

nope. a, it’s too long to conveniently post on tumblr. b, it’s organized categorically in a way that works for my brain, but is unlikely to work for others. c, a lot of it is personal and Not For All Eyes. however, if you do want quotes or inspiration, you are always welcome to ask. give me an idea of what you’re looking for, a mood or an experience, a moment or an emotion, and i’ll do my best. (i also have a secret writing inspiration blog that, were there to be enough interest, i may make publicly available) 

4. okay then, can we have at least a few recommendations for songs or other works that have inspired you?

it depends on what you’re looking for. what kind of feelings do you want to amass listening or reading to something? the end of the world? the free-fall of first love? bitter heartbreak? the insignificance of human kind? tell me what you want + i will do my best to get back to you.

[harryandmolly]

Complicit // 14 // Final

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, love, love languages

WC: 8k

------------

He really, really should’ve had a plan.

But, in all fairness, Shawn’s never done the whole “jump on a 12 hour flight on a whim to chase after the love of his life” thing before, so how could he have been expected to make such a plan?

But still, he thinks, standing against a wall under a baseball cap outside Naples International Airport, he could’ve done some more thinking before all this. Or at least could’ve made a pseudo-plan on the plane.

The most Silver could give him in terms of guidance was the address of the house and that Naples is the closest airport. She’s never been to the “Vineyard” before. When Shawn asked if the “Vineyard” was a nickname or if it meant the house is on an actual vineyard, she didn’t know that either. Not extremely helpful, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.

From what he gathers on Google Maps, sucking up international roaming data charges like nobody’s business, Ravello is about an hour and a half southeast of Naples. Not ideal. But the Amalfi Coast is a pretty big attraction, so he figures there’s probably a train. He just has to find a train station.

On the way out the door with his backpack, the only luggage he bothered to pack, he Googles a train route. 

Walk half an hour to the Calata di… something something and take the N5 to… somewhere and walk 3 minutes to somewhere else to catch a bus to somewhere…

.... no fucking way.

He bites into his lip and squints around. Should he rent a car? He winces. Driving in Italy sounds terrifying. What if he gets into a crash? Who is he supposed to call?

No. He needs to hire a car to take him to Ravello. That’s the plan.

More Googling. More squinting. He’s vaguely grateful that he’s been able to stay under the radar so far. He’s not sure he could handle this and dozens of screaming Italian girls begging for selfies without snapping.

He ducks behind a large leafy fig tree when he sees what looks like a group of middle school-aged girls on a field trip scramble past, squealing and laughing. Close call.

He leans against a column and sighs. Silver also gave him Mia’s personal cell number. He could just call her and tell her he’s here and hope she wants to see him and come pick him up. 

Shawn sighs heavily, pouting. He’s not going to do that. This is his only shot at being a romantic hero, like, ever. He’s not going to pansy out and call her for a ride. He’s going to show the fuck up because that’s what Mia deserves.

Whether she wants to see him is another matter and he’d rather not worry about that until about halfway up her driveway.

He sets off toward the transportation center at a quick stride, curls fluttering between the brim of his cap and his forehead. He swerves suddenly to avoid another throng of young women that look ready for a beach vacation.

He parks in front of a driving service and a tall, unnaturally beautiful blonde man who doesn’t look up at him.

“Uh, ciao?” Shawn tries.

He glances up. Shawn holds his breath for the pop star response. It doesn’t come. He exhales.

“Do you speak English?” Shawn asks, wincing at how ignorant he sounds. The man nods boredly.

“Cool. Uh. Ok. I need to go to Ravello.”

“Si, Ravello. There is a train,” the man drawls, the slowest talking Italian Shawn’s ever met.

Shawn nods, uncertain. “Yeah. Right, yeah. But… can I get a car to drive me?”

The man even blinks slowly. “There is also a bus.”

Does this guy just not want business? Shawn sighs.

“Do you not take people to Ravello?” he tries, looking to bridge whatever gap this is as quickly as possible.

Finally, the man seems to give in. “Ravello is a long drive. 125 euro. We take--”

Shawn slaps his Visa down so fast the man stops abruptly and stares at him. He sees a tinge of crazy in Shawn’s travel-weary eyes. He fights the urge to roll his own and books the trip.

+

Shawn had hoped he’d start to relax in the car since at least then he’d know he was heading somewhere. There was no relaxing to be done.

His driver Giorgio seems to have gotten his start in Formula One. Shawn figures he should be grateful, given that the speed they’re driving at will probably cut the travel time in half. But he can’t help but wonder about the headlines if he dies in a fiery crash against the side of an Italian coastal mountain.

Pop Superstar Shawn Mendes Dies In Search Of Love, Giorgio to Blame

Shawn Mendes Perishes At The Height Of His Career, Unrecognizably Mangled

Shawn Mendes Is An Idiot, Fatally

He’s so sure there’s no way they’ll make it between the two trucks Giorgio decides to squeeze them through, but they do. Shawn slams his eyes shut and focuses on the Cez-approved meditation breathing exercises that, by the way, do not save you from your crazy Italian driver who almost plows into the back of a Peugeot going god knows how fast on the E45.

But at least he points out Mount Vesuvius. And doesn’t crash them into it.

They lose sight of the ocean for a while, which makes Shawn panic. The guy isn’t using a GPS, claims he knows every corner of every town on the Amalfi Coast. That sounded a lot better to Shawn before he got in the car, before they were winding through something called the “Riserva Statale Valle delle Ferriere,” which seems as good a place as any to ditch a body.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

It’s a chant in his head until, by some miracle, he catches sight of the water again and it’s exactly like every Instagram travel post he’s ever seen of the Amalfi Coast. He thanks whatever god there is, and thanks Giorgio, too, who grunts.

Ravello, Shawn’s not surprised to report, is fucking beautiful. Cliffs appear out of nowhere and spill off down bleached white coastline to crystalline turquoise water. It’s a goddamn postcard. The town, from what he can see of it from above, is a scattered board of colorful post-its clinging to the side of a mountain. His hungry brain tells him he can smell fresh pasta and seafood, but he knows it’s just an illusion of a man who ate half an airplane meal and a couple stale biscotti several hours ago.

Rather than descend toward the coast, Giorgio winds him around the hills past farms of lemon trees. The sun hangs low. Shawn thanks his lucky stars that he’s not having to deal with locating this place in the dark.

Giorgio stops at the base of a dirt road sporting a sign with Mia’s address. Shawn practically flings himself out of the car, almost forgetting his backpack. He shoves his Tom Ford sunglasses on against the harsh snap of the late afternoon sun. He looks around. Along the dirt path, hardly even a road, are rows upon rows of grape vines. It seems the house name is literal after all. He’ll be sure to tell Silver if he makes it out of this alive.

He starts walking.

It’s a trudge, really, up a reasonably steep hill. He slips once or twice and puts a knee into the dust, kicking up a froth of it around him that clings to his sweaty skin and white t-shirt. By the time he finds Mia, he’s going to look like he swam and crawled all the way to her. 

Good.

He crests the hill to find… more hills. There are a series of large buildings that don’t look anything like homes, more like warehouses or farmhouses. Given that it’s not yet harvest season, only a few hands are out tending the vines. He descends towards them, probably looking as ridiculous as he ever has in his life.

They seem to want to ignore him. It’s a habit of Italian men, maybe. He has to wave and walk straight up to the closest figure, an older, shorter man with only a few teeth to speak of.

“Ciao. Uh… Mia Bianchi?”

Shawn hopes if she’s the lady of the house, they’ll know to take him to her. The man stares back blankly.

“Uh… dove… Mia Bianchi?” he tries again. The man looks over his shoulder at his coworkers, who’ve stopped to stare at the tall, sunburnt Canadian idiot. Shawn sighs.

He doesn’t even have a picture to show them. She’s the love of his stupid life and he doesn’t even have a picture of her.

Except that he does. He has a lot of them. Black and white and sparkling. And completely inappropriate to be sharing with a bunch of strange farmhands. He grunts and reaches for his phone anyway, nearly dead, just like his chances of making this stupid romantic gesture work.

Shawn zooms in carefully to just her face and shows it to the smaller man. He squints and attempts to touch the screen, but Shawn nearly slaps his hand away.

“Dove Mia Bianchi?” he almost whines.

One of the younger hands strides up and glances at the picture. He exchanges a few words with the others and looks Shawn over. He sighs and nods at a golf cart a few yards away, then walks towards it.

Shawn blinks, then follows.

If nothing else, it’s a faster way to get over the hills. Plus, if he’s on the vineyard, she can’t be far, right?

“Mia?” Shawn asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

The guy shrugs. It’s not very comforting. But Shawn’s out of options, so he gets in the cart.

The hills just keep going. After about ten minutes of cruising along and over them with nothing but vines in sight, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful for the ride. He glances over at his driver, seemingly much more sane than Giorgio.

“Shawn,” Shawn says, pointing to himself with a flat smile and a little wave.

The man nods. “Maurizio.”

“Grazie, Maurizio,” Shawn grunts, sitting back as they ascend another, steeper hill. He worries for a moment about the possibilities of this golf cart skidding back down from whence it came. It becomes unimportant when they reach the peak and he sees a house.

Well, it’s not just a house. It’s practically a palace. From behind it, he can see the way it sprawls over tens of thousands of square feet. There’s a pool, he thinks, and a few different gardens, and it looks like a grove of trees, maybe olive or citrus, he’s not sure. At some point, the path turns from dirt to pebbles and the ride gets louder. It almost drowns out Shawn’s heartbeat in his ears.

Maurizio slows under the shade of two old stone pine trees and turns up a narrow path lined by lush, well-tended gardens replete with color. He takes the curve around the fountain in the center of the path slow enough for Shawn to notice the detailing. The basin of the fountain is held up by a sculpture of a renaissance-style naked woman. Curled against her, with his arm around her hips, is a man helping her hold it up. His face is tucked tenderly into her neck.

The cart stops. Maurizio clears his throat. Shawn stands and steps off.

“Uh, grazie!” he calls as Maurizio starts to gun it back down the path. Maurizio looks back at him and laughs in a way Shawn doesn’t need translated.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Shawn sighs for the millionth time that afternoon. He knows.

It’s golden hour on the coast. Behind the red tiled roof, the sun spills marigold light everywhere it touches, including the belltower on the chapel beside the main house. Green shudders flap gently in the evening breeze. The front door is wide open. The smell of fresh bread has Shawn’s mouth filling with saliva. He starts to head toward the door when he hears something.

Off to the left, down a grassy footpath, he follows it. It’s as familiar to him now as her perfume, as the feeling of her hair in his fingers, as the smile she gives him when he’s very good for her.

He’d know Ol’ Blue Eyes anywhere now.

It’s one of his Italian tracks, playing off a turntable parked in another open door on the side of the house. He drops his bag beside it, smiling when he hears pruning shears and quiet steps. The record sleeve reads “Come Back to Sorrento.”

He takes a deep breath and follows the sound of the shuffling steps. Sinatra’s voice fades as Shawn nears a small grove of olive trees. The grass below his feet is dappled with shade and the streaming sunset light. A breeze rustles a wave of red fabric out behind the trunk of a tree toward the back of the grove. 

Shawn holds his breath, watching a long bronzed leg follow it, stepping backward, then another. She’s on her tiptoes, barefoot in a deeply red mid-length sundress, the cap sleeves fluttering around her arms that follow her focused eyes to the branches above her head. She hasn’t spotted him yet. He could still run. He doesn’t have to stand here until she throws her pruning shears at his head for showing up at her family home unannounced in fucking Italy.

Mia turns her head to check on another branch and he lands in her periphery. Her lips part. Her eyes blow wide like saucers. The shears fall by her feet. She lowers off her toes to face him. The wrap dress hugs her everywhere he’d like to.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, lifting a hand into her hair just as another breeze picks up around them, lifting her dress around her knees to wave at him.

“So… uh… ciao,” Shawn nearly chokes.

+

Mia just stares for a minute. It feels like forever since she’s seen him, even if it’s only been a couple weeks.

He’s fucking glorious even covered in dirt. His hair is a little matted and sweaty, like he was wearing a hat. His white shirt clings to him. His black jeans have patches of dirt on the knees that give her flashbacks to the day she took him to Malibu in her Aston Martin. She shivers.

“What-- I mean, how… I don’t…”

“Silver told me you quit,” he blurts.

Mia’s eyes seem to swell again, then shut as she groans. “She gave you the address.”

“Yeah. I think… I think maybe she wanted you to want to see me.”

Mia chews on the inside of her lip. Another breeze tickles through the olive branches, surrounding them with a light earthy scent. Shawn shifts anxiously on his feet.

“So you just… showed up,” Mia murmurs. It’s a statement of fact, expressionless. She doesn’t sound annoyed or surprised or, to Shawn’s slight disappointment, pleased. But he knew better than to expect that. Or he thinks he should have.

Shawn shrugs. “I think after everything you’ve done for me, you deserve the effort.”

Mia’s lips tuck in slightly at the corners. She nods down at her feet. “Effort, huh?”

Shawn fights the urge to reach for her, even though it feels right. He wants to do this delicately.

Patience. That’s what Silver told him. If there’s anyone besides Mia he should be listening to right now, it’s Silver.

“I came because I want to talk to you. About everything.” His voice sounds impressively calm to his own ears, even as he feels his hands shake.

Mia looks up and immediately past him into the kitchen. She cards a fluttering strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.

“I have extra towels. You can clean up in the guest bath.”

She swerves around him and into the house. He stands there in the grove for a moment or two, blinking after her.

+

He’s not knocked out, he’s just… regrouping. That’s what Shawn decides in the shower as he scrubs the salty sweat from his hair and watches reddish dust swirl down the drain.

He was struck dumb when she led him up the stairs to one of what looks like many guest rooms. She got him a fluffy towel and showed him how to work the faucet because it’s a bit tricky. She turned and left without another word.

Shawn didn’t have a speech prepared or anything, he didn’t write a sonnet on the long trudge up to the house, but he didn’t expect her to shut down as soon as he started getting into it, whatever it was going to be. That took the wind out of his sails.

He’s not giving up. Not yet. If after a real conversation she says she does not love him and wants him out of her house, he’ll go. He’ll hold his head high and leave, knowing he put his heart on the line. And he’ll be ok.

Shawn’s breath shakes. He blinks quickly under the spew of warm water above his head. He plants a hand against the wall for stability. It’s the first time he’s let himself think about it, really consider the idea. What if he really actually made all this up in his head? What if she’s really as good as what he pays for and feels nothing for him beyond a professional sort of fondness? Or perhaps worse, what if she’s had feelings, but they’re not enough?

He closes his eyes and slowly scrubs his face with his pruny hands. He’s conspicuously been in the shower a long time. He bets she doesn’t mind -- gives her time to strategize.

Shawn lifts his head and turns off the faucet. He doesn’t want her strategies or her carefully delivered lines. He wants her.

He wants Mia as much as he wants Penny.

+

For once, Mia does something that would make the former owner of this home, her great grandmother, very proud. She sets aside her panic, confusion, irritation and angst and prepares for a guest.

She sets the table. She decants a bottle of Castello di Ama chianti. She hauls the record player back inside and switches over to Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs and decides not to overthink the choice. She sets to work on a quick spaghetti alla vongole with the clams she bought at the market this morning. Her homemade loaf of ciabatta rests warm in a checkered cloth on the table.

Anything to distract herself.

But then she almost lops off a finger slicing the bread. She nicks the pad of her thumb and gasps, instinctively squeezing her fingers around the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold on, I’ll get a napkin.”

She turns from the counter to see Shawn in a t-shirt and sweats at the bottom of the stairs, his hair shining wet against his neck. He swipes a paper napkin off a credenza and meets her at the counter. She watches him as he checks the cut, dabs it with the paper, wraps his hand around it to apply pressure and holds it over her head.

He looks down at her. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not really,” she murmurs, sounding sheepish.

He’s closer now to her than he was before. Holding her arm over her head seems an oddly intimate gesture between two people who’ve seen and done a lot more. It’s heightened by the way he caresses her palm with his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“God, I missed you so much,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

Mia aches with the returning words and lets them rattle through her bones. She’s not going to say them back.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking coming here. Did you cancel work stuff? What about the album? And the tour?”

Shawn seems unfazed. “I’m on a break before we start working on tour promo. I actually went to your house. Got worried when I didn’t see Pammy’s leash outside.”

Mia’s eyes flash with affection. “She’s… staying with Gus for a while.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I bet you miss her.”

Mia’s eyes drop. Her other hand, gripping the counter behind her to keep from grabbing at him, squeezes tighter.

“Of course. All the time.”

After another few seconds of Shawn’s intense staring and Mia’s equally intense avoidance, he lowers her hand. The small cut has stopped bleeding. He cups her palm, kissing it gently. Mia turns away.

Shawn’s head drops. He sighs.

“So. You quit.”

Mia continues slicing bread. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised. I know how happy it made you.”

Mia’s stomach swoops. The ease with which he talks about her profession still strikes her sometimes when she least expects it. He talks about it like it’s any other job, like he never for a second thought to judge her for it.

“It got too complicated. I have other things I wanted to focus on.”

She takes the freshly sliced bread to the table. He follows with the bowls of salad and pasta.

“Like what?” he chirps.

Mia grunts, irritated. “A project. It’s a charitable thing.”

He seems to decide not to push for the moment. She tucks into her bowl of pasta, eager for something to shut him up.

He hums, bobbing his head as he slurps up a bite. “This is fucking great. I didn’t know you can cook.”

She shrugs. “I’m an Italian woman, Shawn. If I can’t cook, I shame my ancestors.”

He smiles as he swallows and reaches for his wine. He looks oddly relaxed, comfortable in her favorite surroundings. It strikes her as odd, suddenly, that he’s here. She’s never brought any non-family member here before. Not even Silver. Definitely not a client.

But Shawn brought himself. He flew 12 hours and, Mia knowing the journey well, probably took trains, buses, ferries and god knows what else to arrive on her doorstep.

She has yet to truly reckon with it. She sips at her own glass and watches him look around.

“This house is incredible. It’s a family place?” he asks.

Mia swallows and nods carefully. “For a long time. My great grandmother was the last one who lived here full time. We sold the vineyard in the 90s. The rest of the estate is still ours.”

Shawn looks around at the vaulted ceilings and the rustic stucco walls and stone floors. A glass door looks out onto a vast back patio strung with twinkle lights that overlooks the acres of vineyard land that used to belong to her family. The farmhands have packed it in for the evening. There’s no one in sight all the way to the horizon, where the sun has burst into flames of pink and gold. Shawn hasn’t felt this far away in a long time.

When he looks back, Mia doesn’t bother to look away. She knows the games are over. Glancing away from his pretty face so he doesn’t catch her staring won’t work anymore. He’s not here for a game. She swallows and feels her heart in her throat.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Shawn murmurs. He sits forward across the smooth oak table. The sunset light catches him through the window. It makes his intense gaze even more entrancing. Mia’s fingers twitch around her wineglass.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t think I’m ready to hear whatever it is you’re about to say.”

She watches something flicker in his eyes uncertainly. He wets his lips and seems determined to soldier on.

“Mia, I know this wasn’t the plan. For either of us. It was never supposed to become… this. But I think it’s been something real since at least Vegas. Maybe before. And I think it’s as real to me as it is to you.”

Mia’s heart sprints. She knew what he was going to say. She’s known since he showed up in her little olive grove. She’s not sure why being so close to hearing the words has her pulsating in her own skin. She shifts in her seat.

“Shawn, please…” she begins, shaking her head, “I don’t want to put you through this. I know you’re already here and… god, I still can’t believe you’re here. But I don’t want to make you say it.”

“Why?” he presses, “Why can’t I say it?”

Mia closes her big brown eyes. He misses them immediately.

“Because it’s not going to make a difference. It can’t.”

She opens her eyes when she hears his wooden chair creak. He’s sitting back, his jaw tight, his eyes still on hers. He swirls the wine in his glass absently.

“Tell me I’m crazy. Not for coming out here, not for wanting this with you, tell me I’m crazy and I imagined all of it. Tell me it was all for show, all for money. Tell me Rio wasn’t real, or your house, or my house. Fuck, tell me Vegas wasn’t real. Mia, tell me you don’t love me. Please. If it’s true, please tell me.”

It’s silent. They’re far enough up the mountain from the town of Ravello that there’s no sound but the breeze in the trees and Mia’s heartbeat in her ears. She feels her face going scarlet with every word. Her hand shakes in her lap where he can’t see it.

She sits up tall, channeling Silver, and thumbs at the base of her glass.

“Like I said, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“How could it not?” Shawn hisses. He sits forward again, his gaze imploring, “Mia, it’s the only thing that matters.”

Mia scoffs. It’s patronizing and ugly. Shawn flinches.

“We both know better than that. We’re not teenagers, Shawn. Actually, even if we were, we’d be in the same position. You’ve been very famous for a very long time. I was never an option for you the same way you’ve never been an option for me,” Mia explains, her voice quivering under her false calm.

“Jesus Christ, Mia, you’re not an option,” Shawn spits. His eyes seem to darken, or maybe it’s a trick of the fading sun, “You’re the one. You’re the fucking one.”

Mia’s eyes drift shut as they well up. She lifts her hands into her silky hair and releases a rocky sigh.

“You’re not thinking. You have to think, Shawn, not just feel. This is your whole life we’re talking about. You know I can’t just fit into it. I would be catastrophic for you. Anyone could tell you that. Andrew would be first in line, I bet.”

Shawn stands. He walks to the door and stares at the rolling hills strung with vines like Christmas lights, neat strands growing darker with the night. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If I let Andrew tell me who I can and can’t be with, my life isn’t mine. I’ve experienced something close enough to that this summer. I know I agreed to it, I know I was complicit in the whole thing, but I’m not interested in that anymore. If that’s where I really am in my life and my career, none of this is worth it. And that’s not even about you, Mia, that’s about me. I won’t put up with that. I’d sooner fucking quit and never play a show again if it meant I couldn’t be with someone I love because of however it looks to some people.”

Mia’s chest shudders. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I can’t live with that, please.”

He whirls on his heel and stares at her, eyes hot. “Don’t say what? That I’d give it up for you if I had to? Fuck, Mia, of course I would. What kind of fucking human being would I be if I picked being famous over the person that I love?”

“Stop, please,” Mia begs, shaking her head, pressing her face into her hands.

She hears him shuffle over the stone to her. His fingers are gentle as they pry her hands off her face. He cups her wrists, massaging them slowly.

“Hey,” he whispers, the aggression in his voice gone as quickly as it came, “It doesn’t matter. That’s not our reality, it doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to make that choice, so neither do you.”

Mia’s lower lip quivers. “Shawn, I don’t think you realize what would really happen if you stood up in front of the whole world and told them you love a whore.”

Shawn releases her hands. The corners of his lips turn down. His eyes are hard and somehow cracked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t say that. I know you don’t even believe that. You’ve never thought of yourself like that, I know you haven’t. You know you’re so much more than that.” His voice grows louder as he continues until he’s shouting.

Her brow furrows. “You don’t know! You don’t know anything! The things I’ve done, the things I’ve said, the things I’ve had done to me. Shawn, if you had an inkling of the depraved… fuck. If you had any idea at all, you wouldn’t be saying this. You probably wouldn’t come near me ever again.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” he barks back, his eyebrows lifting, “Really? Fine. I’ll call that bluff. I’ll sit here with you all night if you want. Tell me everything. Every filthy detail. Sorry, Mia, it’s not that fucking easy. I won’t love you any less.”

“You can say that now! You don’t know, Shawn! You don’t even know me. What do you know? You know my dog, you know my music taste, sure, you know my name. What if everything Penny did was a lie? What if you love a ghost?”

Shawn goes cold. He stiffens all over. She watches it from his eyes down. She freezes in place.

“Don’t try to tell me I love something that isn’t real,” he breathes. There isn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his face or voice. Mia looks down at her feet.

Shawn steps forward again. Slowly, gently, he cups his hands around her neck, his thumbs working softly into her jaw.

“We can talk about image and PR and logistics. We can talk about Andrew and the headlines and the future. But don’t insult me, honey. I know what’s in front of me. I know what I love. I love you. I love you, I love you. We can talk about the rest, but we can’t talk about that. That’s real and it’s not up for discussion.”

Mia’s eyes close, pressing the building tears down her cheeks. Her head lowers in defeat. Shawn’s hands skim down her shoulders to her upper arms. He plants his lips on top of her head and breathes. Two deep inhales, two deep exhales. Then he steps away and heads back up the stairs.

+

Neither of them sleeps that night. He’s in the guest room down the hall from her master suite. At around 3am, she gives up altogether and sits out on her balcony under the crescent moon wrapped in a chenille blanket. She’s convinced that inside she can hear him breathe. 

Meanwhile he sits at the end of his bed, sheets half torn off from his tossing and turning, begging for words. He’s never had to beg before. His artistic, lyrical brain has handed them to him his whole life. Those aren’t the words he needs now. He needs the ones that will convince her.

+

When she wakes up, he’s downstairs in a t-shirt and boxers. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s staring hopelessly at her espresso machine. She knows he hears her come down the stairs, but he doesn’t turn around.

Silently, Mia arrives by his side. She presses a few buttons until the machine starts to whir. She reaches up to the cabinet above her and pulls down two tiny espresso cups. When she hands him one, their fingers touch. They both nearly jolt apart.

She spends the morning outside. She gets her white sundress filthy picking citrus off the trees. She hauls baskets and baskets full up to the porch. Each time she brings one up, it disappears and ends up on the counter, but she never sees Shawn move them.

At lunch, he smells more seafood. She glistens with sweat over a deep dutch oven full of hot oil, frying calamari. He slices lemons and opens the bottle of white she has on the counter, pouring them glasses. They eat silently, picking at their salads, letting Rosemary Clooney’s voice do their talking. When he finishes, Shawn looks at Mia. Mia looks up at Shawn. He takes her hand and guides it to his lips, a silent thank you. She lets him touch her for five seconds before she pulls away and heads back out to the lavender garden. When she comes back for dinner, the kitchen is clean and the fruit is stored in the butler’s pantry.

She roasts a chicken with rosemary and thyme, along with some potatoes and carrots and lets him rest his hand on her knee while they finish a bottle of wine.

“I found a guitar upstairs,” he confesses, chewing his wine-stained lower lip.

She glances over at him. “My grandfather’s. It’s old and shitty but yours to use if you want it.”

He nods appreciatively, rubbing his thumb into her warm skin. She aches to rest her fingers on his pulse, just to prove he’s really there.

That night, they clean up together. He walks her to her room and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t hear his footsteps walk away from her door for a long minute after she closes it.

His gentle plucking of the guitar from down the hall puts her to sleep.

+

She’s gone when Shawn wakes up. He lets himself panic for only a minute or two. All her stuff is still here, and this is her house, after all. She returns around lunch in an old pickup truck with bags from the market. Eggs, cream, cocoa, fresh mascarpone. She announces she’s making tiramisu for after their branzino dinner. She smiles a little, tentatively, and it nearly makes him fall at her feet.

Neither of them seems interested in disappearing today the way they did the day before. They hover near each other, rotating positions, swirling like opposing magnets. Shawn keeps the guitar close. Once he gets it in tune, it doesn’t sound too bad. He works on a melody. He thinks it must be good because she’s humming along in the kitchen while she prepares a batch of limoncello and rosemary gelato. 

(He doesn’t know what army she’s cooking for, but he just hopes he gets to be a part of it.)

He finishes the song that afternoon, pacing around the lavender garden with a sprig of it tucked behind his ear. When he’s satisfied and turns to head inside around sunset, he clocks her on a balcony above looking very settled, like she’s been there a while. She’s far enough up that she didn’t hear it, so she must’ve just been watching him.

They eat in silence -- branzino with lemon, citrus salad, arugula with balsamic, then tiramisu for dessert. They nearly finish two bottles of wine, like they’re both preparing to get mouthy. Shawn goes first.

“I think I knew when I bought the necklace. Like, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew what it would mean to you to have that. I wanted so badly to give you something as meaningful as what you’ve given me.”

Mia stiffens at the sudden conversation after a long drought. She recovers quickly, thanks to the wine.

“What I gave you was sex, Shawn. A lot of it. Really good sex that required you to make no decisions, gave you no responsibility. I took care of you in a way you’ve never been taken care of before.”

His eyes flash and Mia regrets her words immediately.

“If you really think I don’t know the difference between sex and love by now, you must think I’m a fucking moron.”

Mia’s chest deflates as she sighs. “I don’t think you’re a moron.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re treating me like one,” he jabs, draining his wine. She misses his heavy, warm hand on her knee when he stands and starts pacing back and forth in front of the table.

Mia stares at him, tensed with every word she won’t let herself say, every feeling she’s been beating back for months. Her spine aches. Her brain swims. Her mouth is dry.

Shawn stops suddenly so that his boot skids a little on the stone floor. Mia blinks quickly.

He stands in front of her, staring. Slowly, without moving his eyes from hers, he lowers to his knees, turning her in her seat to face him. Having his hands on her again makes her want to scream. She waits, holding her breath.

“I just need you to say it. Please. I know you don’t think it’s enough, so it can’t hurt, right? Because there’s a part of me, the piece I hate, the piece I’ve always hated and that’s always hated me that still wants to convince me it’s not true. So please, please, just once, just say it. Say it if it’s true.”

Mia’s knuckles are white as she grips her chair. They feel oddly detached and wiry when she pries them up, flexes them, and sieves them into his hair. His eyes shut. He lowers his head to rest in her lap. She takes a deep breath.

“I love you, Shawn Mendes.”

+

Mia’s on the counter in an oversized t-shirt, swinging her feet, eating limoncello and rosemary gelato out of the freezer bowl. Shawn stops at the bottom of the stairs and smiles at her. His love for her gets so big it feels ready to explode out of his ears.

He shuffles up to lean beside her at the counter with the extra spoon she offers. They eat quietly, smacking their lips.

“So what’s the charity project?”

He catches her off guard while she puts away the rest of the ice cream. She stands upright, a little too straight, then catches herself and forces herself to relax.

“Uhm… it’s an idea I had a long time ago. A non-profit sort of thing for La Splendeur. A way to look out for the girls that are working jobs like mine but on the street. It’s always seemed so arbitrary to me, you know? The women that wind up as courtesans making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year flying all around the world doing the same thing that women standing on street corners do, constantly putting their lives in danger. Sex work is so odd that way.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. “How can you help them?”

He watches her brighten a little, scooping hair behind her ears as she explains.

“Resources make all the difference. Women like that end up there because they don’t have resources. We can provide shelter, safety, rehabilitation if necessary. We can start a scholarship fund. We can offer career counseling and interview practice and resume building. Or we can help them organize and stay safe so they don’t end up with pimps. They just need help, and money can provide a lot of that.”

He bobs his head, clearly interested. “So where does the money come from?”

“Philanthropists and investments. Between Silver and I, our network is pretty vast. A lot of the donors will likely prefer to remain anonymous because of the nature of it, but we only need a couple powerful people that would speak up and draw attention. If they say it’s ok to care, it’s ok to care. Julia Granger and Christian Becker could be those people.”

Shawn cracks a smile. “So where are you in all this?”

Mia smiles back, infected by the pride written all over his face. “Silver and I are finalizing the paperwork for the creation of the non-profit. We’ll start approaching investors formally when I get home.”

Shawn ducks his head, turning his enormous, goofy smile down at his feet. “That’s incredible, Mia.”

His voice is gentle, touched. She tingles all over. She wants to run into his arms just to feel them around her again. She locks her own around her chest instead.

“Th-thank you. It’s been a long time coming.”

They lock eyes again. The air sizzles.

Mia smiles sadly. The silence is pregnant with potential headlines written about the Canadian golden boy loving the whore who wants to help the whores. Shawn scrabbles for words to fight them off but comes up choked and huffing breath.

He watches her disappear outside, heading for the vineyard.

+

The bottoms of Mia’s feet are nearly black. She takes a sick sort of pleasure in it. It makes her feel like a kid again, she guesses. Reminds her of chasing Peter around the gazebo, skinning knees, playing “scuba divers” in the pool while their family ate and drank and sang, happier in Ravello than they ever were in New Jersey.

She sits on the swing beneath the pergola, listening to him sing now. The house is so much quieter than it used to be, but no less filled with love. It’s a different kind of love. And despite their desperation to beat it away, it gets stronger every second. Shawn is the strong one, the brave one, she thinks, letting it into his heart before she could. 

Because it’s not like he’s not scared. She knows he is. She can hear it in his voice and see it in the way he holds himself around her. He can’t know what would happen if they made it real -- could they last? Could they manage to see past all the bullshit the papers would surely print and hold on? If they did, would their love be worth anything after all the bulletholes and sharp words?

She hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, leaning into his melody. She has the song memorized now. He keeps playing it the same way like he’s planning on changing something but never does. She already knows it’s perfect.

It’s a love song about tortured yearning, a hidden love, a love that’s bursting, searching for the sunlight. Mia thinks it’s his best ever. She considers herself biased.

After the sun sets, she heads inside. He’s not really playing anymore, just kind of plucking away. She needs to think about getting dinner ready. He’s sweet, offering to cook, since she does so much of it, but she really loves cooking Italian food with Italian ingredients in Italy and won’t think of wasting an opportunity. Plus, she still loves taking care of him.

The stairs to the wine cellar are cool, worn stone. The cellar is built into the foundation of the house, which was once part of a fortress that stood on their property in the 11th century. Now lined with shelves of hundreds of bottles of every variety of Italian wine, it’s one of Mia’s favorite spots.

His footsteps are quiet, too. He’s adopted her barefoot lifestyle. He stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Facing the wall of dolcettos from the 80s, Mia twirls a finger around a protruding bottle, covered in dust, with a foil cap.

“I used to hide down here when Peter and I played hide and seek. For some reason he never thought to look down here. I always thought it was so obvious.”

Shawn steps closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Maybe he wanted to let you win.”

Mia smirks, looking over her shoulder at him. “Maybe.”

She turns, her arms crossed behind her back, leaning against a shelf. He fixes his eyes on hers, biting the inside of his lip.

“I’m not… I mean, I’m not saying it would be easy,” Shawn murmurs, rubbing at the back of his sunburnt neck, “I know better than anyone how it all works. I don’t want you to think I’m just ready to throw us both to the wolves. I wouldn’t do that to you or to us. I just want to talk about it, for real. I… I know we’re worth it, honey.”

Mia’s chest inflates. She tilts her eyes up at the low ceiling. Her tears start hot and fast.

“I could be the thing that ruins everything you worked so hard for. I don’t want that for either of us. I’m not sorry about who I am or what I’ve done, despite what I’ve said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be ripped apart publicly for it. That kind of attention puts more pressure on a relationship than either of us is really prepared for. You have to know that.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I do. I know. I don’t want that for you or for me. But I don’t think that’s the only outcome possible. I think this would take a lot of thought and discussion about what we’re both comfortable with. And it’s going to take some of both of us… letting go a little. Which I know isn’t your favorite thing.” He looks at her pointedly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Mia chuckles for the first time in days. “Point taken.”

Shawn senses cracks in the veneer with the way she’s looking at him now, like she actually might be considering it, all of it. For him. With him.

He takes a chance, and takes her hand.

“And the most important thing is we go at our own pace. We… I mean, obviously, we’ve done and seen a lot already. And I know I have so much left to learn about you. We can focus on that first, just getting to know each other more. I know how to make a relationship really loud, but I know how to keep it quiet, too. If that’s what you want.”

She looks down at their entwined fingers. She blinks quickly and feels her heart rate pick up, like her body knows something her mind hasn’t decided yet. She swallows and looks back up at him.

“I’ve never been both Penny and Mia with one person before. Because I know I am both. Penny’s as much a part of me as Mia is. I got good at letting them share my body because they never inhabited it at the same time. I’m still trying to figure out how that’s supposed to work. How I’m going to be caretaker and businesswoman, domme and girlfriend. I don’t know how to be someone who wants to be honest and upfront about my history and also wants a big white wedding and a couple kids. So if I don’t know how to do that, be that, how can you know and love that about me?”

Shawn’s smile is cautious but warm. He scoops up her other hand and cradles them close to his chest. He’s not afraid of showing her how his heart is clanging around in his chest. She’s had a piece of it in her body for a while now.

“Because it’s you, Mi. Whether or not you’ve meant to, you’ve let me know both. I’ve loved both this whole time. I just want the chance to be there with you as you figure it out.”

Mia looks up at him. She thinks about the night they met -- watching him come completely undone, taking a sip from his glass, waking up to see him slam his eyes shut to pretend he wasn’t watching her. She sees the same look of wonder in his eyes now as he looks down at her, all of her. Mia always knew she was worth loving. Having someone else figure that out was always the part she wasn’t sure of. But she’s sure now. He is, too.

Mia pulls her hands from his, sliding them up his chest. She plucks at the curls at the back of his neck, tugging him closer as she presses back against the shelf. Shawn’s breath hitches in his chest. His hands fall to her hips.

Mia nods, no words of protest left. His lips are gentle against hers, confident and calm. She lets him take the lead this time.

--------------

Grazie mille 💜

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @thecurlsofgod @magcon7280 @bensbuttercup @shawnsmusical @paigeasourous @tell-me-when-ur-ready @softmendesss @searchingunderthestars @buggy-blogs @mendesficsxbombay @tnhmblive @greedydevil @tamegray @meltingicequeen @havethetimeeofyourlifee @normalcyisoverrated-beyou @t-i-n-y-d-i-n-o @hannahlouiseee @sarahlauramendes @shawnsmoose @mendezlatte @1dbetch @graysonmendes @shawnsababe @ineffsi @ultradreamologistblog @bluerose711 @sauveteen @valedictorian65 @cleocc @ly--canthrope

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 2

A wise man once packed up his whole life and moved to the country to escape people. That man lived happily, with his cat, his ford bronco, and high speed internet. That man didn’t entertain the notions of his two best friends, nor did he spend the night trapped at what had to be the weirdest bachelor party known to mankind. Who in their right mind decided to have a bachelors party in a haunted hospital? Rocking up in a party bus, the stench of cheap booze wafted from their sweaty skin, there were thirteen man sized toddlers to take care of. Pidge and Hunk both wore their regrets on their faces. Lance taking offence when the loud mouth of the group asked Pidge “Who pissed in her fruit loops?”, the man further daring to wag his finger in Pidge’s direction. Stepping between them, Lance knew his type too well. Daddy’s credit card had brought him everything he could ever want and need, other than brain cells. His arrogance was sickly sweet, stinging at Lance’s tongue as he took a calming breath. Vampires born vampires were supposed to have powers, all he had was the iron will of someone who was done with dickheads. Forcing his lips up to expose his teeth, he locked eyes with his target, hand coming up to take the man’s in an overly firm handshake

“Hello, you must be tonight’s tour. We weren’t informed it was a party, or we would have arranged a little entertainment for you all. Now, we do have a few ground rules. First, please don’t touch any of our equipment. It’s all highly calibrated. Secondly, please don’t piss in the hallways. Thirdly, and most importantly, you ever take that tone with my friends, I will break both your finger and your balls. Now, I’m Lance, this is Pidge, and this Hunk. How about we try this again with some manners?”

The man spluttered. His mate coming up to clamp a hand on his shoulder. The moment between them broken, Lance letting the man’s hand drop. He’d never actually hurt a human. He had his own code he lived by, even when he’d mugged he’d never fought back. If anything he’d been more concerned for the people who’d jumped him. A vampires blood was a curse he didn’t wish to spread. No... No, it was much better to turn the other cheek with the physical stuff, then sob it out over a bad rom-com and some ice cream. His Mami would always tell him how proud she was that he didn’t ever let that other side show

“Damn, man! You got told by a kid! Don’t worry, dudes, no trouble here. This dickhead’s...”

Lance blanked their names as fast as possible, fake smile in place as he nodded. His memory was unfairly good. An unwanted steel trap, where he refused to remember the annoyances before him. Maybe he was also jealous... It happened more than he liked to admit. He’d never gotten to be this kind of idiot, he’d learned too young about the things that went bump in the night. He wasn’t allowed the option of ignorance, sometimes things inside niggled at him, reminding him he’d never know nice it must be to be clueless. Ugh. Pidge had two jump scares planned for the group too... He already had Hunk’s heart to worry about, his friend too much of a teddy bear for this cruel world, and Pidge’s shenanigans.

As the drunk party started whooping, walking away from their tour guides to look at the exhibits in the main foyer, Pidge threw her arms around Lance, Lance snapping out his inner mullings as he returned the hug

“I’d forgotten you can be super scary”

Lance snorted, if Pidge thought that was scary, she should have seen of the court cases he’d been through. Nothing major, but enough for people to recognise behind his appearance he held a sharp tongue

“I couldn’t let them pick on my favourite Gremlin. She might go getting ideas of ditching me for them, then what am I going to do?”

“Be useless and hopeless? Barricade yourself at home and cry over the loss of my brilliance?”

“Mmm... all of that. Seriously, I know you can handle yourself, but don’t let people underestimate you”

“I think it was you, that they were underestimating. I thought that guy was seriously going to shit bricks when you shook his hand”

“He would have been cleaning it up with a toothbrush if he had. You ready?”

Pidge looked up at him, flashing him a toothy grin at the thought of the mischief she had planned

“Yeah. Let’s scare some idiots and take their money”

“They didn’t pay up front?”

“Maybe...”

Lance groaned

“Pidge, you can’t go hacking into their bank accounts. That’s not the kind of law I specialise in”

Pushing him away, Pidge pulled a face

“Then what good are you? What’s the point of having a best friend for a lawyer if you won’t defend me?”

Lance raised the back of his hand to his forehead, faking a swoon

“Is that all I am to you? What about my totally radical driving skills?”

“Your car’s as old as I am!”

“You leave her alone. She’s a priceless family heirloom”

“She’s a hunk of shit and you know it”

“You wound me, Pidge. I’m utterly wounded. Hunk, back me up here. Are my skill not the greatest ever?”

Hunk shuffled his feet, his friend having the habit of worrying his two pointers together even during banter like this

“There was that time we got bog-...”

“But did you die?”

“Well, no...”

Lance beamed

“There we go then. Let’s get this show on the road”

Two jump scares, one phone drop, three scoldings for touching, and two and half hours later, they were finally starting to pack up. Pidge could complain all she liked about Lance’s beat up Bronco, but she couldn’t complain over the fact that it had more than enough storage in the back to load all their crap up. Hunk had fretted through the ordeal, while Pidge had grown bolder, she dished out sass like there was no tomorrow leaving Lance in silent stitches. There was something about the way she said things that turned the most mundane of passing comments into an insult. The girl so salty the world was in danger of running out limes and tequila. As Hunk passed him the last of the camera boxes, Pidge reset the alarm system, the tour bus already long gone from the main road. Sighing as he leaned against the side of the car, Hunk was the embodiment of relief

“You okay?”

Hunk nodded as he yawned, Lance felt a kind of parental concern and the urge to send Hunk home to bed. His best friend was normal a night owl, but the weather made it a perfect night for climbing under the covers as the rain pattered on the tin roof

“Want to come back to mine for the night? I’ll drop you back in tomorrow after Pidge has processed the camera footage”

“I don’t know, man. I think I’m going to be out as soon as my head hit the pillow”

“I don’t mind either way, but you know Pidge is going to be calling first thing in morning if you go home now”

Hunk groaned. It wasn’t unusual for Pidge to call any hour she felt like it. More than once Lance had been woken in the wee hours to listen to Pidge rant about some new conspiracy theory. She was worse on road trips, she’d get so into what was going on, she’d literally jump into bed next to you, wake you up, then talk a mile-a-minute about whatever she’d worked out

“I’ll come to yours. Just gotta text the folks and let them know I’ll be staying over”

Hunk’s parents were amazing. Lance instantly fell in love with the whole clan of them. His family was big, but they loved even bigger. Hunk’s mother baked some of the best cookies he’d had in his life, and instantly made him feel welcome when Hunk left him outside the house, having formally forgotten to invite him in. Lance wasn’t sure if he needed an invite to actually enter, but he’d wanted to respect whatever family conditions that came with Hunk having friends over. As for Hunk’s father, the man ran the local automotive shop. Most people took their cars to Platt for servicing, but Lance knew he had to build bridges with the locals if he expected to last in such a small town. That didn’t stop Hunk’s dad for continuing to undercharge him when it came to labour costs, so Lance usually left the man a large tip. Plus, he knew how temperamental his old girl could be. Originally Hunk’s family had been from somewhere else, his parents selling up to move somewhere quite before retirement, or so Hunk said. Lance didn’t like to pry, not when he had a fair idea of how much shit came with a decision like moving. Hunk had finished his senior year, then moved down to Platt for college, before falling in with Pidge. The pair of them were thick as thieves, but went out of their to never make Lance feel discluded. The three of them making up what Pidge liked to call “The Garrison Trio”. A connection like this was dangerous for him, especially given he was less than human, and he’d had no intention of being best friends with anyone when he’d made his move. He couldn’t help but love them as if they were siblings he’d known all his life... unlike his real siblings who were still a little iffy about his vampire status. With all the crap in the media, Lance couldn’t blame them, not when he was supposed to be a blood drinking night stalker. He’d never even fed off an actual real life human, but the stereotype was too ingrained in culture and after the death of his Papi, the only one he really remained close to was his Mami who now lived in an assisted living complex outside of Platt. Before he’d moved, he’d been her “carer” for the five years after his father’s death. His Mami was the one who insisted she go into a home, Lance pleading with her not to, but if there was one thing that ran in their family’s blood, it was stubbornness.

Besides, the home was actually really nice. Mami has plenty of friends there, there were games and social events, outings into Platt out to places like the Zoo and the Aquarium. It wasn’t home like Cuba had been during his childhood, but if it hadn’t been so nice there was no way he would have allowed his mother to stay there. He also had a soft spot for everyone there. They all laughed over “Miriam’s hot grandson”, occasionally he was pinched on the arse or gently flirted with until he couldn’t help but feel his cheeks burning. He loved his Mami, so on weekends when nothing much was happening, he’d take her out for the day driving, wherever she wanted to go. At 82, his Mami was still full of life. Her eyes had always been kind, and her hugs the warmest in the world. No matter how many times he’d broken down over his curse, she’d tell him how much she loved him. Mami didn’t know that most of her living costs came from him. She was a proud woman who wanted him to spend his money on himself, to treat himself right and to be happy, but being with her was what made him happy.

“Dude, you okay there?”

Lance shook his head to clear his thoughts

“Yeah, man. There’s a bottle of Shiraz calling my name”

“Should I be worried?”

Lance chuckled. He couldn’t get drunk the way a human would. Mix in a little blood and then that problem went out the window. Mix in a lot of blood and he’d be recreating far too humiliating memories. Two glasses at night to relax, three if the day was bad. He kept himself in check, not wanting to let himself fall back into wallowing the weirdness of his life

“Only that Pidge is going to make us do this again. I don’t think they appreciated our “razzle-dazzle”

Hunk groaned as his hand went to his chest

“I thought I could do it, man. We knew where the jump scares were and they still scared the bejesus out of me. I love Pidge, but she’s scary”

“That’s because she’s our resident gremlin. I’m more scared of what she’s got planned for the footage of tonight”

“Y-you don’t think we caught an actual ghost on camera... do you?”

Lance played along, teasing his best friend felt a little mean, but seeing they most probably caught nothing but the sounds of the tour he shrugged as he said

“I don’t know... tonight could be the night”

“Boo!”

The ever queen of the jump scare, Pidge cackled as Hunk jumped

“Dude, you should have seen your face”

“Don’t do that! You know I’m naturally jumpy”

Punching Pidge on the shoulder playfully, Pidge laughed harder

“I’m sorry, but I’m not. Are you two losers done yet? The alarms all set and I sent the curators a message to let them know it’s all locked up”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re done. You crashing at mine tonight?”

“Dah. I thought that was the plan all along”

“Then jump in already. Wanna make a stop for snacks on the way?”

The town had two service stations, the trip out to the 24 hour was half an hour out the way, nearly half way to Platt, yet his Mami had always told him that house guests came first

“Can I have a super large raspberry slushy?”

“I don’t know, is it before midnight? I’m not supposed to feed or water you between midnight and dawn, right?”

“For that, I’m having two. Oh, I dibs the front!”

“No fair! I was here first”

“You snooze, you lose, Hunkerino. Besides, Shay might be working”

Hunk blushed hard at the mention of “Shay”. The poor man had been crushing on her so hard that he’d failed to notice she was into him. Every time she’d ask him out, he’d say no as he didn’t want to inconvenience her. His best friend was as dumb as a sack potatoes when it came to getting a clue. Hell, Lance was sure Shay could scrawl her feelings across her face in red marker and Hunk still wouldn’t get the hint.

“She’s a friend, okay”

Pidge bumped her hip against Hunks, her voice sing-song

“A friend you’re too scared to ask for her number”

“I... but... she... I...”

Hunk stumbled over the start of what he wanted to say. The poor dude had it bad. Stepping out the way, Lance pulled the back window down before snapping the trunk door shut. Patting Hunk’s shoulder, he sympathised with his best mate something chronic

“Hunk, she’s into you, buddy. You are the best man that I know. You’ve got a whole lot to offer, and any one would be lucky to have you. I swear man. Cross my heart and hope to die, if I ever tell a lie”

“Not you, too”

“Look, all I’m saying is that from my point of view she seems interested too. I’m not trying to push into something you’re not ready for. I just want you to know I’m there when you are”

Pidge blew a raspberry at him, ruining his attempt to be serious

“You sound like such a dad. I swear you’re like some old fuddy in that body. Hunk, grow some balls and get out there”

“I don’t want to grow balls”

Hunk moaned at his own words. Pidge went into a fresh fit of laughter at his expense. Lance cringed in second hand embarrassment. He couldn’t love the pair of them any more than he did, even if he tried

“For that, Pidge, you’re in the back. Hunk, I’ve got your back, bro”

[rum-and-shattered-dreams]

An AU idea (inspired by this post) where Stan threw a rope to Ford as he was being pulled into the portal. He let go of his journal in favor of grabbing the rope and it was lost to Bill's dimension. Stan had saved him and for that, he was grateful. They talked and forgave each other for the past and all seemed well for as much as a day. That was when Bill's ruthless anger became apparent and he took full advantage of his deal with Ford. Thirty years later, the demon is still punishing him for his refusal to rebuild the portal.  (This has been nagging at me for a while now.  Since it's Forduary, maybe it's time to bring it back.  It sort of fits the paranoia theme.  It's been a long time since I've mentioned this AU but there are more posts about it under my "the man downstairs au" tag, including some brilliant ideas and contributions from other creative minds.  For now, here's a little piece of it.  I'm not sure if I'll write anymore for it (though I'd like to make this scene into a comic at some point) so I'll just release this into the wild for anyone to imagine what they'd like about it.

Warnings:  Psychological torture, angst, physical torture mention

A quiet mind was a rare occurrence for Stanford Pines even before he'd made the deal that plunged his life into lonely confinement.  Yet, it had been nearly twelve hours since the dream demon had last visited him.  He understood why.  Today's silence was, in itself, a form of torment - time alone, confined, unable to do anything but think about the things he couldn't do.  He'd had days like this before when the boredom nearly drove him over the edge, when knowing that access to activities as simple as writing, drawing, or reading could result in more scars added to the spattering of discolored lines and bruises already etched across his body.  But today was especially difficult.  He hoped, honestly hoped, his brother had enjoyed his day and, at the same time, hoped he'd visit soon, if only to relieve him from the miasma of his own mind. And so he waited, sitting among pillows of various sizes and colors on the padded floor, leaning against the equally padded wall of a cell built for him in his own basement; built at his own insistence to protect the world and built at his brother's to keep Ford, himself, as safe and comfortable as possible.  Despite the hours passed, his right eye remained reddened and raw from repeated possession.  At least, he thought, it isn't bleeding anymore.  At least, it hasn't rotted away to nothing yet.  Though, it certainly felt like it might at times.   He hadn't had access to a mirror in so long that he could only imagine how dark the circles under his eyes must be, how pale his face must look, and how thin he must have become.  Bill had only allowed him to eat and sleep enough to keep him teetering on the edge of life.  After all, he wanted him alive for more than one reason.  Too bad he wasn't sure anymore if he still wanted himself ali- A knock silenced his mind.  His head snapped up, looking past the bars of his cell to the wooden door centered in a wall covered in family photos and his own drawings (only in crayon since they were toughest to weaponize), his only window to the outside world. "Hey, Ford.  Mind if I come in?" his brother asked. "Certainly!" he answered, lifting himself to his feet and stepping over piles of pillows to approach the bars with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt in far too long mingled with a sinking feeling in his chest. Stan cracked open the door, peeking through to assure himself it was safe to enter.  He emerged slowly, one hand held behind his back, clad in an atypical outfit composed of a tropical shirt, khaki shorts, and his fishing hat.   Before he'd even fully opened the door, Ford flooded him with questions.  "How did it go?  Did the kids enjoy fishing?  Did you catch anything good?  Did you have fun?" "Well, it started off shaky, he answered, closing the door with a light click.  "They went off on their own to hunt some monster thing for a while but they eventually came back and we had some fun.  They wore the hats I made them." "That's good.  You worked hard on those," Ford said, his hands absently wrapping around the bars between himself and his brother. "Yeah.  I uh...  Here," he said, handing Ford a floppy fishing hat. He unfolded it, his fingers tracing the hand sewn letters spelling out his own name, a smile lifting the corners of his lips. "It's for when we figure this all out," Stan said, digging in his shorts pocket.  "I uh...  have some photos if you want to see."     "Of course!"  He stared down at the photos held out before him, refusing to reach through and take them.  He didn't need them torn to shreds by the monster in his mind.  "They're growing up so fast.  But, it does look like you had fun.  I'm glad.  You deserve a break." "Yeah, well...  So do you," Stan said with a melancholy sigh.  He turned the photos in his hand, gazing at them as he mused, "They're great kids, ya' know.  I think they'd understand if I told them about you and our uh...  situation.  He pocketed the photos, his hand rubbing the back of his head.  "I mean...  That is...  Do you want to meet them?" Ford smiled ready to answer with a joyful "yes" but his smile sagged mid-word and he corrected himself, "I would like to, yes.  But No.  It's too dangerous.  I'M too dangerous."  He sagged to the floor, his back to the bars, huddled in on himself as if trying to be physically smaller. Stan dropped to his knees, reaching through the bars to rest his hand on his brother's shoulder.  "I know it's been a long time.  Far too long.  But, we'll figure this out." Ford cradled his head in his hands, his voice shaking as he spoke, "He keeps rearranging things in my head.  There are ways...  It's maddening that I know I know them but they're just...  I just...  can't think of them."   Stan risked a little more, his arms stretching past the bars to hug his brother.  "I swear if I ever get my hands on that monster I'll..." he sighed, his anger melting into a gentle murmur, "I'm sorry things are still like this."   "No..."  Ford croaked, his voice straining, "No... Please..." Stan leapt back, anticipating Ford's violent turn toward him, his hand swiping through the bars.  Stan fell backwards, staring in awe at a sight he'd seen enough times that it should have lost it's impact on him.  His brother grinned wildly, his eyes glowing yellow, tears staining his cheeks. The cackle passing through his brother's lips grated on his nerves.  The demon's nasally whine echoed unnaturally through the basement, "You know how to end this, Brainiacac.  Rebuild the portal and you can see your family all you want!" Ford blinked, his eyes dimming back to their usual brown as he backed away from the bars.  "No," he answered, his tone failing to be as steady and stern as he wished it could be, "No!  I won't let you into our world."  He took another step back, tripping backwards over a bolster pillow. He clutched his head, fighting against himself, "Get out of my mind!" But he'd never once been able to successfully ward off the benefactor of the deal forged of his own gullibility and misplaced trust.  The yellow glow shone through his eyes yet again. "Hey, I'm not exactly happy about being in your brain box this often, either," Bill snorted, "It's too confined in here," he explained, motioning to cell, "to have much fun.  Sure would be nice if I could throw you down the stairs again like old times!  But, suit yourself.  Enjoy the mystery bruises tomorrow!" As the demon faded from his mind, Ford heard his brother call his name, an edge of desperation to his shout. "Stanley..."  He shook his head looking toward his brother through blurry eyes.  Stan still sat, slightly disheveled and stunned on the basement floor.  "Stanley!  Did...  Did I hurt you?" "Nah, I got out of the way in time," he answered, trying to wrangle his words into a lackadaisical tone adding a dismissive wave of his hand. "Because you've gotten used to avoiding it..."  Ford turned away, edging himself closer to the padded corner.  "I'm sorry Stanley..." "Ford..." "Just...  go.  Please," he whispered. Stan sighed, reaching into his pocket for the photos of himself and the kids.  He pinned them to the wall beside a faded photo of his childhood self posing with Ford in front of the Stan O' War.  "Someday," he muttered nearly inaudibly.  He turned back to his brother, huddled in the corner in a fruitless attempt to minimize his breakdown.  I'll figure out the way to fix this, he thought, opening the door and letting himself out.

[sgreffenius]

Conspiracy theories

I had a teacher once who said that to define a word or a contested concept, determine what it is not. So it might be with a phrase we have heard and read about a lot lately: conspiracy theory. Even more popular is conspiracy theories, which lets you group numerous theories together, and treat them alike.

Let’s consider what conspiracy theories are not. They are not:

Rumors

Predictions

Lies

Fanciful stories

Fabrications

Impossibilities

Delusions

Alternately, conspiracy theories are often treated as, or they function as:

Accusations

Hypotheses

Speculation

Alternate accounts

Narratives

Authors of conspiracy theories, and people who do not dismiss them out of hand, tend to be skeptics. They distinguish plausible accounts from implausible ones. They feel comfortable with synonyms in the second list.

People who dismiss conspiracy theories also tend to be skeptics, but in the other direction. If something has a whiff of conspiracy about it, they stay away. They are quite conscious of what would happen to them if other people were to whisper conspiracy theorist behind their backs, or in public. They know because they have seen contemptuous ridicule heaped on others.

Where does that leave us with our definition then? We’ll consider parts of speech and other definitional matters in part two.

_____________________________

Aphorism for the day:

“Moral behavior is when you act in the other guy’s interest, not your own. If you expect the other guy to reciprocate, that’s delusion.”

_____________________________

Time for a bit of part two here.

Here’s the main message: get suspicious when people play fast and loose with parts of speech. For instance, if an immigrant family resides in the United States without proper authorization, nativists call them illegals. Illegal is an adjective. You can’t add an s to that word to make it a noun. Yet does it not sound degrading when you do? “You illegals, go back where you came from.” Contempt drips.

Another one that lives large is messaging. That’s where you add ing to message, the verb, to turn it into a noun. First of all, to say, “I want to message you, but I don’t have your cell,” sounds too hip by half. The old-fashioned,“I want to send you a message...” works better.

Message always works better as a noun than messaging. If you say something like, “The messaging is all wrong,” you immediately sound like you are up to something Orwellian, or at least devious in your use of words, and you probably are.

Now we come a two-word variant, which as Gollum would say, sounds tricksy. What advantage do you gain when you take two nouns, then make one an adjective for the other? After all, conspiracy is a noun. You cannot use it to describe what kind of theory you have in front of you, unless you press it into service for that purpose. Why would you want to do that?

As soon as you ask the question, the answer becomes obvious. How do you respond when someone says, “That’s just a conspiracy theory.”? Imagine if someone came to your garden and said dismissively, “That’s just a hay grass.”? All you can say is, “So what? What does that even mean?”

So the person who wants to put you down deigns to explain: “What you said is a theory about a conspiracy.” Ooohhh, got it. Still, why would you choose the word theory, if not to deliver a putdown? It seems explanation or hypothesis would be more accurate, if you want to talk about nefarious plans made by more than one person.

Let’s take a few examples of how conspiracy theories work in real life. All of them, in one way or another, involve the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I will develop these examples rapidly, with confidence that you know the back story, or can easily look it up.

In the early 1950s, the FBI charged Julius Rosenberg with espionage. They falsely charged his wife, Ethel, as a co-conspirator, in order to ‘persuade’ her to testify against her husband. When she refused, they electrocuted her at Sing Sing, on the same day they executed Julius. In this case, the FBI formulated a conspiracy theory based on false testimony against Ethel, and they stayed with it because they would not back off their threat.

Only ten years later, the FBI mounted a long, extensive investigation into the murder of President Kennedy. A lot of people at the time, including the president’s brother Bobby, believed that more than one person had a hand in Jack’s death. Yet the FBI insisted that one person - a ‘lone nut’ - had planned the murder and carried it out.

If the FBI had investigated John Wilkes Booth, they would have insisted he was a lone nut, too, if that’s the conclusion Andrew Johnson wanted. The Kennedy case, then, was the opposite of the Rosenberg case, in that it suited the FBI’s purposes to deny a conspiracy existed, despite a great deal of evidence to indicate the murder was not the work of one person.

Now we come to a comparison between two elections, and two so-called conspiracy theories. They are actually just accusations, dressed up as conspiracy theories. After the 2016 election, Hillary Clinton charged that Donald Trump became president with help from Russia. The FBI tried to lend support to this accusation, but it misplayed the situation just as badly as it misplayed both the Rosenberg case and the Kennedy assassination. Or you could simply say, “The truth will out.”

After the 2020 election, Donald Trump charged that various organizations and people across the country had stolen the election from him. He said officials used fraud to rig the vote in order to elect his opponent. He tried mightily to enlist his own Justice Department in the cause, but the FBI just hates him, deep down, so he would never find help in that quarter. He had to rely on Rudy Giuliani and Sidney Powell as his advocates, poor substitutes for the attorney general and the FBI director, to be sure.

Interestingly, Trump’s accusations have no more substance than Clinton’s, yet we observe how differently people treat the two candidates. To this day, Clinton believes Russia helped Trump steal the 2016 election, as do former intelligence officials John Brennan and James Clapper. You can even say Russia collusion is Clinton’s pet conspiracy theory, no evidence required.

Trump, by contrast, makes enemies by the bushel, and sinks well below Clinton on the likability scale, which tells you something. Then he encourages insurrection based on his “Stop the Steal” campaign. He and his supporters go way past conspiracy theories at this point. The mob that invaded the Capitol did not care how nameless conspirators might have rigged the vote: they just wanted their man to stay in office.

So people refer to QAnon conspiracy theories to discredit the mob, but the mob’s behavior speaks for itself. You do not need online conspiracy theories to explain why an angry mob would beat a police officer to death with a fire extinguisher. Yet that is what we do. We seem to think that if we can suppress conspiracy theories, we can also suppress insurrections at the Capitol building, or anywhere else they might occur.

Beware the use of any phrase as an epithet. Some conspiracy theories are true, others are not. Far better to use vocabulary appropriate to the case. The FBI presses charges of conspiracy against Ethel Rosenberg to extort testimony against her husband. After Jack Ruby executes his victim in the basement of a Dallas county jail, the FBI concludes nearly a year later, “Justice was done. Oswald acted alone.” That is what Johnson, Hoover, Warren, Dulles, Ford, Specter, and dozens of investigators wanted Warren’s report to conclude.

We jump ahead fifty-five years to find that practically the whole Department of Justice goes along with Clinton’s charges of conspiracy, partly because the department cannot forget how Trump fired James Comey. They also seem to respect Clinton because her husband used to be president. Mueller nabbed numerous Trump cronies, but uncovered no evidence of collusion or other nefarious electoral behavior among the lot. Yet a lot of people still believe it was so.

Mainstream accounts say Trump’s accusations about a stolen election are delusional, the accuser mad. No one says that, or will say that about Clinton. The comparison does not suggest that Trump’s charges might be valid, or that he carefully weighs his words. It does suggest that when we analyze evidence and narratives that account for election outcomes, we do not need to discuss conspiracies, or theories. We just want to understand what happened.

So let’s drop the term conspiracy theory, and its plural cousin, conspiracy theories. Consider complicated stories case by case. We have a rich vocabulary to discuss crimes, evidence, motives, context, and multitudinous details that help us make sense of history. Let’s use it. The epithet conspiracy theory empties our brains, clouds our insight, and debases our thought.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I'VE BEEN PONDERING STOCK

And are English classes even the place to do it. By definition they're partisan. Would the transplanted startups survive?1 One of the best in the business. The other reason the number of startups started within them. Do they let energetic young people get paid market rate for the work they do.2 They don't always, of course: insurance, business license, unemployment compensation, various things with the IRS. But if I have to pause when I lose my train of thought. For a lot of people who get rich through rent-seeking of various forms, and a research director at Smith Barney. An essayist can't have quite as little foresight as a river. And so began the study of ancient texts had such prestige that it remained the backbone of education until the late 19th century.3 But can you think of one restaurant that had really good food and went out of business and the people would be dispersed.

A wimpy little single-board computer for hobbyists that used a TV as a monitor? Most people who publish online write what they write for the simple reason that they want to own, and the harder performance is to measure, the more we'll see multiple companies doing the same thing.4 At the other extreme are publications like the New York Times reporters on their cell phones; a graphic designer who feels physical pain when something is two millimeters out of place. But only graduation rates, not how much students learn. That's the key to success as a startup founder, but that you should never shrink from it if it's on the path to something great. I seemed awkward and halting by comparison.5 And they're going to be developing it for people like you. And since all the hackers had spent many hours talking to users, we understood online commerce way better than anyone else. Almost by definition, if a startup succeeds its founders become rich.6 The main reason they want to. One is that the raison d'etre of all these institutions has been the same: to beat the system. Wodehouse or Evelyn Waugh or Raymond Chandler is too obviously pleasing to seem like serious work, as reading Shakespeare would have been there without PR firms, but briefly and skeptically.

This does happen. This is called seed capital. This seems a common problem. Remember the exercises in critical reading you did in school, where you can spend as long thinking about each sentence as it takes to say it, a person hearing a talk can only spend as long on each sentence as it takes to say it, a person hearing a talk can be a powerful force. And the days when VCs could wash angels out of the picture. Why do the media keep running stories saying suits are back?7 Like most startups, ours began with a group of friends, and it was only then I realized he hadn't said very much. If anyone proved a theorem in christian Europe before 1200, for example, by helping them to become smarter or more disciplined, which then makes them more successful.8

Sometimes I even make a conscious effort to remind oneself that the real world you can create wealth as well as as apportioning the stock, you should either learn how or find a co-founder. Our offices were in a wooden triple-decker in Harvard Square.9 But this is a situation where it would really be an uphill battle. For a lot of investors unconsciously treat this number as if it were a single phenomenon. Reading P. You have more leverage negotiating with VCs than you realize.10 Usually this is an assumption people start from rather than a conclusion they arrive at by examining the evidence. We should fix those things.11 For example, in a recent essay I pointed out that because you can only judge computer programmers by working with them, no one knows in programming who the heroes should be. For example, the question of the relative merits of Ford and Chevy pickup trucks, that you couldn't safely talk about with others.

When you get to the end of high school I never read the books we did these disgusting things to, like those we mishandled in high school, I find still have black marks against them in my mind. The path it has discovered, winding as it is, represents the most economical route to the sea. A few years later I heard a talk by someone who was not merely a better speaker than me, but a famous speaker. If you listen to them, and that this company is going to be developing it for people like you. Design, as Matz has said, should follow the principle of least surprise. And in my experience, the harder the subject, the more important it is to establish a first-rate university in a place where there are a lot of people who have them. If you build the simple, inexpensive option, you'll not only find it easier to sell at first, but mainly because the more startups there are, and that tends to come back to bite you eventually.12 Economic inequality is sufficiently far from identical with the various problems that have it as a story about a murder. This was also one reason we didn't go public. Often they're people who themselves got rich from technology.13

Financially, a startup is to run into intellectual property problems.14 By the end of that year we had about 70 users. They seemed wrong. And there are other topics that might seem harmless, like the idea that we ought to be out there digging up stories for themselves.15 But for nearly everyone else, spoken language is better.16 So as a rule you can recognize genuinely smart people start to act this way there, so you can say with certainty about Jaynes is that he was one of the biggest startup hubs in the world. Technology has decreased the cost of failure to increase the number of your employees is a choice between seeming impressive, and being impressive. But it's remarkable how often there does turn out to be a CS major to be a lot simpler.17 So what's interesting? And when readers see similar stories in multiple places, they think there is some important trend afoot.

Notes

In practice their usefulness is greatly enhanced by other people who did it with.

It's hard for us to see.

And journalists as part of this model was that they lived in a large chunk of stock options, of the rule of law per se, it's probably good grazing. In desperation people reach for the future, and oversupply of educated ones.

Together these were the seven liberal arts. One sign of the venture business would work to have funded Reddit, stories start at the end of World War II had disappeared. Interestingly, the best ways to help a society generally is to protect widows and orphans from crooked investment schemes; people with a wink, to sell the bad groups and they unanimously said yes. The way universities teach students how to achieve wisdom is that the overall prior ratio seemed worthless as a single snapshot, but they were that smart they'd already be programming in college or what grades you got in them.

Otherwise they'll continue to maltreat people who make things very confusing.

When the Air Hits Your Brain, neurosurgeon Frank Vertosick recounts a conversation in which multiple independent buildings are traditionally seen as temporary; there is undeniably a grim satisfaction in hunting down certain sorts of bugs, and in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, Oxford University Press, 1996.

One of the War on Drugs.

But a couple predecessors. I think it's confusion or lack of transparency. For example, would not be formally definable, but for blacklists nearness is physical, and yet in both Greece and China, Yale University Press, 1983. 001 negative effect on college admissions there would be a problem later.

Wufoo was based in Tampa and they would never come face to face meetings. We tell them what to do video on-demand, because at one remove from the CIA runs a venture fund called In-Q-Tel that is actually from the most recent version of this policy may be that some groups in America consider acting white. Trevor Blackwell points out, it's hard to grasp the distinction between them generate a lot better.

Apparently there's only one founder is in the sense of the web. In practice formal logic is not yet released. 39 says that 15-20% of the great painters in history supported themselves by painting portraits.

Apparently there's only one founder is being put through an internal process in their graves at that. For example, the transistor it is.

Loosely speaking.

As he is much into gaming. It would have become direct marketers.

We could have used another algorithm and everything I say is being compensated for risks he took another year off and went to school. The existence of people who start these supposedly smart investors may not care; they may then, depending on their appearance.

One father told me they do the right thing to do others chose Marx or Cardinal Newman, and there are no discrimination laws about starting businesses. But if so, why did it. Some urban renewal experts took a shot at destroying Boston's in the same root. Default: 2 cups water per cup of rice.

Like early medieval architecture, impromptu talks are made of spolia. 4%, Macintosh 18. 5%. If Bush had been able to resist this urge.

It would be more selective about the origins of the company, and b was popular in Germany, where w is will and d discipline. Unfortunately, not conquest. Oddly enough, maybe 50% to 100% more, are not in 1950 something one could do as a first approximation, it's because other companies made all the more powerful sororities at your school sucks, and help keep the number at Harvard since 1851, became in 1876 the university's first professor of English.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit, Robert Morris, Eric Raymond, Kevin Hale, and Trevor Blackwell for their feedback on these thoughts.

[jarienn972]

Debt of Honor (intro)

Okay, this might be cheating a little on the Inktober Whump prompts, but it fit perfectly in to day 10 - Held at Gunpoint.  I originally posted this a little over a year ago and the full short story can be found on Tumblr, AO3 or FF.net.  It’s mostly a little CaptainCharming piece that’s set roughly post 5B.  I’m going to tag @killian-whump on this one because I found the whole Whumptober prompt list on her page and I know she’ll appreciate this.  I have a few ideas for some of the future prompts too...

"Any idea what this thing is that we're following?" Killian asked as David abruptly pulled his old Ford pickup truck off the side of the road, veering onto the muddy berm and splashing through one of the deep puddles formed by the morning's rainstorm.

"Not really sure," David replied as he slammed the gearshift into park, "but it headed off that way." He pointed at a narrow footpath through a thicket of old growth oak and pine forest. "This is as far as we can follow it on the road. We'll have to take it on foot from here."

Wonderful, Killian thought. Trudging through the woods at the edge of town chasing god knows what. Just another typical Tuesday morning is Storybrooke… A giant creature with fangs that were probably sharper than his hook comes barreling through the center of town terrorizing the citizens and he's daft enough to volunteer to drive it out of town.

As they both climbed out of the truck, David drew his weapon from his holster.

"No one has ever seen this beast before?" Killian wondered, feeling a bit unprepared as he hadn't had the foresight to bring a cutlass with him to breakfast.

"Nope," David stated. "This is a new one. To me, it looked kind of like a really big mountain lion."

"Mountain lion? Do they grow to the size of small horses around here because the creature I saw was a lot bigger than a mountain lion?"

"I just said it looked like a mountain lion. All I know is it seemed to be some sort of really big cat."

"Big cat….Wonderful…," Killian sighed. "Don't suppose you have a spare weapon on you? I seem to have been caught slightly unarmed. Don't think my hook will serve as much of a deterrent to a giant cat."

"Yeah – I keep a sword stashed behind the seat. You know, just in case."

Killian raised an eyebrow in amusement as the prince grinned. Leaning into the truck, he found the sword and scabbard wrapped in a slightly threadbare striped towel on the floorboard behind the bench seat. He quickly unwrapped it and flung the towel onto the seat as he tucked the scabbard under his left arm to hold it securely while he pulled the blade free.

"Always good to be prepared," Killian smiled as he tossed the scabbard onto the seat with the towel and pushed the door closed.

"Okay – let's go find this thing," David said as he closed the driver's side door and walked around the front of the truck, eyeing the muddy path ahead of them that led deep into the dark forest. Thankfully, the earlier heavy rain had tapered off to a drizzle which, while still annoying, at least meant that the creature's footprints weren't being washed away, leaving them a trail of distinct impressions to follow. Both men had an uneasy feeling as they tracked the beast but each knew that the animal clearly needed to be subdued before it harmed someone and they'd tasked themselves with that responsibility.

Nearly twenty minutes later and about a mile off of the road, they realized the trail had abruptly ended in a grassy clearing. Without a word spoken between them, they exchanged looks that communicated exactly what each was thinking – where the hell did it go? Surrounded by low brush and towering trees, there were a multitude of places where the beast could be lying in wait so they knew choosing wrong could be fatal. Killian was to the right of David and he turned slowly away from the prince, scanning the foliage before him for any sign of movement. David, on the left flank, gave the bushes on his side the same scrutiny – that is until a low, guttural growl froze them both in their tracks and drew their attention toward a cluster of oak trees to their north.

And to a pair of glowing fiery orbs stating back at them.

"Bloody hell…," Killian muttered, raising the sword as the creature ventured out of the cover of the trees and padded toward them. The huge feline with a coat the deepest shade of obsidian glared at them and as it snarled, bared its fangs – each four or five inches in length and dripping saliva. As he finally got a good view of the animal, David thought it reminded him of a panther – but where had a panther come from in the woods of Maine? "Any ideas, mate?" Killian asked as his own mind was drawing comparisons to a very different fearsome creature he had unfortunately stared down. He just hoped that this one didn't sprout additional heads.

"How do you say 'stop or I'll shoot' to an animal?" David asked as he raised the gun and lined up his sights as the creature continued its aggressive motion toward them. "Nice kitty…"

"Nice kitty?" Killian couldn't believe that David had just said that, but he was less concerned about the prince's poor choice of words than he was of the fact that the feline was still coming toward them, seemingly ready to devour one or both of them for its breakfast. "I don't think we're going to be able to reason with it," he stated, unable to divert his eyes from the beast which was now less than a hundred feet in front of them and not the least deterred by their weapons.

"I really don't want to do this but…," David pulled back on the trigger, firing a single shot toward the creature. He didn't know if a lone bullet would bring it down, but he sure hoped it would at least slow it down or stop its advances before those razor sharp fangs tore them both apart.

Only what happened next was something that neither of them could have imagined, nor would they have believed if someone had tried to tell them this tale.

The bullet David fired never reached its intended target. Instead of striking the menacing animal, the projectile suddenly halted in mid-air, hovering in front of them for what seemed like an eternity before it regained its velocity – and a new trajectory.

One aimed directly at Killian.

By the time either could mentally register what was happening, there was no time to shout a warning. No time to try to dive out of the way. Killian's only recourse was to twist his torso just enough to his right so that the bullet tore into his left shoulder instead of striking him mid-chest. The searing hot bullet ripped into his flesh, radiating pain across his chest and down the length of his arm. His brain seemed to react in slow motion as the reality that he'd just been shot sunk in and he staggered back a step. He let the sword fall to the earth as his hand instinctively covered the wound.

"Hook!" David shouted as he watched his friend and soon to be son in law drop to his knees and then tumble to the wet grass while clutching tightly to his injured left shoulder. He still couldn't fathom what he'd just witnessed: the bullet stopping in mid-flight then changing direction. Only magic could have done that, but as he shook his head to try to clear the fog of confusion and disbelief, the stark reality of their situation set in. His eyes darted around the clearing searching for any sign of the beast, certain that it was ready to pounce during this moment of vulnerability, but it was nowhere to be found. David fully expected it to attack as Killian lay bleeding on the rain soaked ground, but the assault never came, as though the creature had simply vanished.

Quite sure that his gun would be useless if the beast returned, David re-holstered it as he rushed across the clearing to check on the severity of Killian's wound. Crouching down next to him, David could clearly see that the pirate's fingers were already slick and stained with blood.

"What the hell just happened?" Killian wondered as he rolled onto his back, blades of damp grass and dirt clinging to the side of his face, his right sleeve and down his right side of his dark denim jeans. He instantly regretted changing position as a blinding, burning spasm hit.

"I honestly don't know," David replied.

"Where did that thing go?"

"No idea. It just vanished, but right now, let's see how much damage that bullet did." Reluctantly, Killian withdrew his blood drenched hand so David would have a clearer view of the wound.

"How bad does it appear to be?" Killian wondered as the prince peeled back layers of leather and cloth to locate the entrance wound.

"All I'm seeing is a lot of blood," David told him. "I need to see if there is an exit wound. Think you can sit up?"

"Aye," Killian nodded as David extended his hand to help him into a seated position. The answer was quickly evident as he noted the concerned look on the prince's face. "By your expression, I'm surmising that the bullet is still somewhere in my shoulder?"

"Unfortunately," David sighed. "A through and through would have been cleaner, but there's no exit wound and no way to know the bullet's position. We'll have to worry about it shifting."

"Then let's get back to town so Emma can heal it."

"It's a long walk back to the truck," David reminded him. "Think you'll be able to make it?"

"Unless you know of a better way, I don't think I have much of a choice, mate," Killian stated as David helped him to his feet, his stance already shaky. David stooped to retrieve the sword once he was sure the pirate was steady enough. He drew the flat of the blade across his thigh to wipe the debris and moisture from it, then had a thought to fish his cell phone from his jacket pocket only to be disappointed that there was no available signal this far from town.

"No signal to call for help," David said as he tucked the phone back into his pocket. "Look's like we're on our own. Let's get going before that thing comes back."

"Agreed," Killian stated as he took his first uneasy step toward the road and David's waiting truck. The prince followed warily behind, keeping his eyes peeled for a potential ambush that thankfully never came.

[videogamelover99]

Waking Days Ch1 - Enter Bill Cipher

A/N: Helllooo and thank you for being so patient with me. I know, I know, with that little joke I had it coming, but look, I’ve finally delivered!

I took a long while with figuring out a title for the long fic, and I may change it later, but this is what I’ve got for now, so feedback is appreciated. (And yes, the chapter title is literally the same one as from Flat Dreams. I am a nerd.) Enjoy, you guys. :3

Warning: Implied substance abuse. 

AU by @doodledrawsthings. Based on Flat Dreams by @pengychan.

“He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache.”

W. Shakespeare, Cymbeline. 

Ever since he took that deal, he’d been regretting it.

Looking back now, he would take a million years in that stone tomb over what that giant salamander had subjected him to. He hadn’t expected on getting his power back, not really, but the least that jerk could do was give him a proper form. Hell, or at least keep him a triangle. But he’d never expected this. He’d been thrown into this form with no directions, no explanation except “You must absolve your crime.”

Yeah, great, what the hell did that even mean.

He hated it. He hated everything about this stupid body, about this weak pitiful meat sack that frilly asshole decided to shove him in. He had nothing, no power, no immortality, no means of escape. And if that wasn't enough, he was slowly dying. He could even feel it. The slow, painful way each cell was loosing its energy. In just a few decades he would degrade, grow cold and end up feeding worms before he knew it, if this sack of flesh didn't give up on him even sooner. After watching humans for so long, he'd seen just how easily they could die, hell he'd even been the cause of a lot of them. He'd found it funny, how easily they can break.

He didn't now.

He hated this. He was Bill Cipher, bringer of nightmare, All-Seeing Eye, not some...some puny mortal who couldn't tie his own shoelaces. Stuff like that was just annoying. There was no point in knowing what humans did with their shoes, so he hadn't bothered looking. Now he could barely tie a knot, not until Shooting Star had shown him.

Mabel Pines was the easiest to deal with. Innocent and trusting, the kid was the easiest to get on his side. Was it manipulation? Sure. No surprise there. That didn’t mean he didn’t like the kid, though the whole defeating him part did put a damper on things. Because that spray paint had hurt, damn it.

Still, out of all the Pines, Shooting Star was the most agreeable one, no doubt about that. Neither Fez not Sixer would try anything, not with the kid involved. Security measure, in a way.

That's what he told himself most times when the brat decided to insert herself into his day like some kind of annoying dandelion that suddenly sprang on the lawn. Not needed, and obnoxious to boot.

The chess game had been easy, and Bill had been pretty bored anyway. Making fun of one of the Pines and getting something out of it was almost too good of a deal to pass up, even if that something was just a lousy sweater. Still, the kid knew how to make him look good, even in yarn.

The chess thing...Whatever it was, continued, as did the numerous sweaters the kid somehow managed to conjure in record time. And, okay, Bill had to admit it was fun. Shooting Star was nowhere near the most impressive opponent he'd played against, but boy if she wasn't interesting. The kid seemed to find the most ridiculous ways to lose, including chasing off his knight with her king back to his side of the board. Of course, that had been pretty much suicide, but Star satisfied herself with a really stupid loss, and Bill wasn't exactly complaining, not while her sweaters were so damn soft.

Huh, that was a weird thing to like. Must be a human thing.

…

“Watcha doing?”

Bill opened his eyes, but didn’t bother getting up when Mabel sat down next to him, letting her legs dangle from the edge of the roof. “Contemplating your pointless existence.”

“Rude.” The kid swung her legs a bit, before crawling over to sit next to him, the wood creaking under her weight. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m slowly dying.” He hadn’t meant that to come out as easily as it did. Mortality was making him lose his grip.

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of a thing humans do, y’know?” Bill closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not with Shooting Star of all people. “Though we usually ignore it.”

“How?” No, stop. Ignoring what this body did to him would be almost the same as giving up. Which was ridiculous. He was going to find a way out, he knew it, he just needed to-

“Well, stop thinking about it, first of all.” The lighthearted tone meant that the kid was teasing him. Mabel Pines. Laughing at him. “You’re not going anywhere right now, so relax! It’s not like whining about it will help, ya big nerd.”

Bill didn’t respond, choosing to ignore the little girl and hopefully preserve any dignity he had left. Even if her laugh made him wanna throw her off the roof.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” No response. “Come on, is Silly Billy sulking again? I know what he needs: a sticker, that’s what!” With a small ‘boop’, Bill felt her stick something on his nose. He tore the sticker off, crumbing it and tossing it her way.

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”

Mabel grinned, looking pleased at finally getting a reaction out of the demon. “Do what?”

“You’re thirteen, but you act like a five year old.”

The girl’s grin fell, telling that the quip had met its mark. “You’re the one to talk.” She grumbled, poking him in the side, hard. The demon yelped, not expecting that, his body giving a spasm, forcing him to finally sit up and wrap his arms around his sides. Completely on impulse. Sometimes, human instincts were just really, really inconvenient.

Mabel blinked, looking from Bill to her hand and then back to Bill. Her face slowly stretched into a wide grin. “So you’re ticklish even out of my brother’s body.”

“Mabel Pines, I swear if you-No! No-AHAHAHA!” The kid pounced, digging her fingers into his sides, making the demon erupt with uncontrollable laughter. Aren’t people supposed to laugh at what goes their way? This was torture. The demon was hyper-aware of every sensation, of every finger that managed to dig in-between his ribs. His arms flailed around, trying to throw the kid off, but she was too damn persistent. In what felt like centuries Star finally relented, letting the demon push her away and laying down next to him, giggling as well. Bill collapsed into a boneless heap, trying to catch his breath. He was supposed to be angry, livid even, for letting any mortal touch him. Yet he couldn’t even fight off the grin that was left on his face. “I hate you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“How the hell was that supposed t-” Bill frowned, cutting himself off. Despite the heat on his face and the way his body still heaved for oxygen, there was something different about it. It was like out of all the 630 newtons gravity had dumped on him, half of that was thrown off. He did feel better, though that made no sense. “Hold on, how did you do that?”

Mabel shrugged. “I think it’s like, hormones and stuff? I don’t know, you’re the all-knowing demon. But it’s a human thing. Laughing just makes us feel better.”

Bill stared at her for a long time. Of course, laughing had made him feel better too, back when he was still all-powerful and all that jazz, but-

Liar.

He winced, ignoring the voice.

“Hey, don’t get all nihilistic on me again! And I was being such a good therapist.” The girl crossed her arms over her chest when she saw Bill’s questioning stare. “What, I know some complicated words! Someone has to understand what my nerdy bro is saying.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Mabel bristled. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Bill grinned at her, folding his arms behind his head. “Oh, ya know...starting to wonder which one of you is the smart pines twin after all.”

Star didn’t respond, so Bill pushed on. “I mean, for all the brains you claim Pine Tree has, he was a heck of alot easier to swindle. Don’t get me wrong, you handed that rift to me on a silver platter,” a wince, “But I had to put on a whole other meat suit for ya to fall for it. Ol’ Dipping Sauce took the bait without me even bothering with all that. And! You still figured out a way to stop me. Hinder me. Whatever.” Couldn’t give her too much credit there, the third dimension was kinda out of his veil of expertise at the time. “From what it looks like, you’re the one with the brains around here.” Bill finished, looking up at the kid. She was staring back blankly at him “Uh, Shooting Star?”

Despite the fact that he knew he was laying it on thick, the demon had to admit, the kid was perceptive, sometimes even more than all the other Pines smashed together. That was what he should have watched out for.

“That’s what you said to Grunkle Ford as well, huh?”

Bill froze, before giving himself a mental kick in the head. He was playing it up too much. Of course...

Mabel smiled, the smile too sad to be her own. “You said all that nice stuff about him being ‘special’ and ‘smart’ and he believed you.” She got up. “And I thought- no that’s stupid. Dipper was right, I shouldn’t have bothered.” the girl turned to leave when a hand suddenly grabbed her wrist, clutching it a little too tightly.

“Don’t.” he hated how his own voice sounded, almost pleading, and it was stupid, because who said he really needed this kid? So his original plan to get her on his side crashed and burned, so what? She was just a stepping stone, a way for him to finally get out of this body, and then he wouldn’t need her anymore. Bill Cipher didn’t need anyone.

It’s just that being left alone on the roof all the sudden seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen.

Mabel shook his hand off, but didn’t leave, turning back to him. Then she suddenly reached to wipe her face with her sleeve, and Bill’s chest constricted. It was like something inside of it was taken into a cold, vice grip, and he couldn’t shake it away. What was that? Why can’t I-

You know exactly what it is.

The girl sniffed, finally letting her arm fall back by her side, her face a little redder than normal. “I don’t...I don’t want to be fake friends with you.” she looked away, her face scrunched up. “If you don’t want to be my friend that’s fine, just don’t- don’t fake it.”

Bill scowled, and turned away from Star’s snot-covered face. It was really annoying, for some reason. Her leaking.

Mabel slowly came to sit next to him, tossing her legs over the edge and wiping off the stray wetness with her sleeve. “I wanna help you,” she said after a while, both of them staring straight ahead, at the last stray rays of the darkening sky. “But I don’t know if-”

“Why?”

The girl shrugged a bit to Bill’s question. “I’m Mabel Pines. It’s what I do.”

The demon grimaced, feeling angry at that statement. “It’s not gonna do ya any favors.”

Star shrugged again, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

He didn’t push her off.

...

"Just who does she think she is?!" Bill threw the scissors across the room, smashing them into the far wall and making a severely satisfying dent in the wood. Would probably get him in a big one with Fez later, but at the moment he was too livid to care. How dare she? How dare she!? "I did everything she wanted and she- and-" You did not. Bill scowled, his hands clenching at his sides. Get lost. You invoked me. How many times do I have to tell you to leave? As many as you think will satisfy you. Bill's eyes shot to the water tank in the corner. Small, pink creature met his gaze. He was almost tempted to pick up the scissors and throw them at the tank instead, but that would definitely not go well with Fez, and he wasn't exactly eager to sleep outside tonight. You are lying to yourself. Bill bristled. What the hell do you know about- What do you think she wanted? A better world! I made that happen! There was a light ticking sound. That bastard was laughing at him. Not everyone shares your definition of "better".

No. No no no. He was sure he's made it-

“Make it worth something.”

He had. If she couldn't see that, then that was her problem. They ruined everything, and after all they did to her, she still-

Liar.

“I don’t CARE!” Bill rezched up to pull viciously on his hair, but the sharp stab of pain did nothing to block out that voice. “You act like you know everything. Well, YOU DON’T KNOW A GODDAMN THING! SHE DOESN’T KNOW A GODDAMN THING! And if you THINK you can TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WELL, you’re even MORE OF AN IDIOT THAN I THOUGHT. Now get the FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD.”

There was no answer. Bill breathed heavily, surrounded by silence.

...

The kid had the scissors. She'd taken them long before Fordsy could even lay eyes on them, and that was probably for the better. He needed them. And by a stroke of luck, they were just within his reach.

Bill tripped over a ball of loose yarn, shaking off the string and cursing under his breath. The kid was fast asleep, curled up in her make-shift nest of stuffed animals whose soulless, button eyes were definitely following him around. Probably cursed. Man, he had to get one of those someday.

There was no risk of waking up Star, the kid slept like a dead rock most of the time. The one he didn’t want to wake was Pine Tree, because no doubt the brat would go running to Sixer as soon as he saw Bill doing something “suspicious”. Not that this was the most inconspicuous thing he’d do, but one paranoid wreck he could deal with. Two was pushing the limit

Bill finally shook off the clingy pink thread around his ankles, kneeling next to Mabel’s supplies drawer to shuffle through its contents. Stickers, glitter glue, googly eyes all covered his hands, but no scissors were found. Where were the damn things?

Bill cast a look back at the ball of yarn he’d stepped in, and at the plastic bag next to it it had apparently rolled out of. He knelt and rummaged through the bag, careful with the crinkling plastic. Finally he’d found them, sticking out of another fluffy ball of yarn. It was just like the kid to use a reality-altering gadget as actual scissors. The demon freed them from their tangled prison, turning to leave the room. He cast one last look at Shooting Star, still sound asleep, breath whistling through her teeth. Then he left, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He didn’t notice as Mabel suddenly sat up, staring at the now empty hallway.

…

Liam closes the book he was reading, letting his eye fall shut. “Alright, that’s it. Now you have to go to bed.”

“Whaaat? But that one was short! Tell me another!”

“Billy…”

“I brought you candy! So you have to!” Bill scoots closer to him, staring into his brother’s eye eagerly, until Liam has not choice but to cave in, giving a small laugh.

“Alright, alright. A short one.”

The younger brother beams at him, eye crinkling. “Do the one about the pirates, I love that one.”

“I know, I’ve read it to you like ten times already.”

“Then make it the eleventh.”

Liam puts down the book he was holding, grabbing another one from the shelf before settling down into the pillow. Bill scoots next to him, burying them both under the blankets and leaning on the other’s side. The bigger triangle opens the cover, his palm hesitating on the first page. Why isn’t he reading?

“You can’t keep doing this, Billy.”

Bill freezes, shuddering. It was suddenly cold. No, not cold. It was really hot. There was something very, very wrong…

“What do you-”

“You’ve slept for so long. Maybe it’s time to wake up.”

No. No no- “No. No, don’t- I don’t want-” The boy’s tumbling phrases die in his throat as he looks up at the other, and his eye shrinks into a pinprick at the sight.

Liam’s shape is crumbling, burning away like singed paper, the edges of the triangle darkening and curling inward.

And it was like Liam didn’t even notice. He just stared at him with that sad, regretful eye. Like he didn’t notice he was- “Wake up, Billy.”

“NO!” Bill made a grab for him, for whatever was left of his brother, but it was too late. There was nothing but ashes. “No, no, no, make it stop, please, I-”

Wake up, Billy.

The bedsheets caught on fire, angry red flames dancing on the covers. It burned, it burned more than Bill ever thought it would. “Come back! I didn’t mean to!”

There was nothing but that unbearable heat, eating him inside out, turning his thoughts to dust, just like they did to-

Wake up!

Bill screamed.

…

And promptly fell on the floor.

The demon lay there for awhile, rubbing his now bruised side. He didn’t remember what that nightmare was about, except that it was gonna keep him awake for the rest of the night. Which means he slept a total of- Bill unburied his face from the blanket, casing a bleary look at the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. Four hours. Not bad, but hardly enough for this stupid body to be satisfied with.

Sleep was one of the most annoying things this body had him dealing with. The absurd amount of time humans spent unconscious (eight to nine hours, seriously? Most other beings could live off of four) used to be extremely handy. After all, what was a dream demon without dreams to infiltrate? Every time someone fell asleep, it was practically an open invitation for him to sneak in and rummage through their brain without consequence.

And he hated being on the receiving end of it. It was like the universe itself was setting up some big joke. Bill Cipher in need of sleep. Ha ha, hilarious.

He loathed every time he got put under. Bill of all knew how vulnerable humans were when asleep. It was what got him the upper hand, but now, it was unnerving. He had no idea of what was going on around him, and that was the least of it. The nights when he didn’t dream of anything were probably the most bearable.

Because when he did, they were always nightmares.

Aaand there was the punchline. Bill Cipher, harebringer of nightmares was suddenly on the receiving end of them. Pure irony at its finest. He’d appreciate the humor more if he didn’t wake up screaming every night.

It’d been so long since he knew what nightmares were like, anyway, long before he’d-

The long forgotten screams echoed in his head, and Bill pushed them away, deep enough that he wouldn’t have to hear them anymore. He got up, his side still aching from the fall, tossing the flimsy blanket aside on the floor. There was no point in going back to sleep. He couldn’t even if he’d tried, and besides, who knew if that nightmare came back again? Bill would take the horrible weight of exhaustion over that any day.

The demon stumbled into the kitchen, shuffling through the shelves in search of enough caffeine to make that unexplainable pressure on the back of his head go away for at least a few hours. He cracked open one of the top cabinets, and froze. Huh. So that’s where Fez keeps all his poison. There sure is a lot of it.

It felt like he’d stood there forever, starting them, the dark glass glinting under the dim lighting. The flickering light of bright blue flame still danced behind his eyes.

Bill reached for the bottle.

…

“Cipher? What the hell are ya- Oh jeez, what a mess. You know I’m charging ya for the booze, right?”

…

The bottles were gone, and he was on the couch again, the blanket he’d kicked away tossed over him.

At least the splitting headache chased away the voices.

…

“I wanna see him.”

The ancient one lifted his tale, revealing a small, grey triangle underneath. Bill Cipher looked more awake than he had all this time, not looking at the Axolotl, but rather somewhere beyond, into the dull void that stretched out for eternity. The boy’s eye was narrowed, hiding whatever emotion he didn’t want the other to see. Of course, the ancient one could still tell.

“You- you said if I wake up, I’ll get to see him.” It was a question, despite not sounding like one, carrying something almost akin to hope. “That I’ll find out where he is.”

“You will. In time.”

The boy finally looked at him, the single wide eye not muddled anymore by sleep. “So if I leave, then-”

“If you leave, you will gain a new form. Absolve your crime, and you shall see your brother again.”

Bill turned away, looking unsure. But he was ready. This was the first time that he ever talked about leaving this bubble without denial or anger, but as a possibility. But that possibility was all that was needed for the bubble to crack, and the illusion to shatter. If Cipher truly wanted to leave, that meant that the dream wasn’t enough anymore to satisfy him. That did not mean that his denial would end, but it was cracking, just like the bubble.

“Ok.” The voice was small, but the weight it carried could not be compared to anything else found in the void. “Deal.”

...

Bill Cipher woke up.

[louisemarie88-blog]

Hi Everyone!

Just thought I’d post a quick update on a little something new I’m trying, and you may well of heard of it if you’re head’s been submerged in the wonderful world of beauty!

Beauty Pie are a company that seem to have taken over my Insta and general internet feeds, offering high quality skin care and make up products at a ridiculously affordable price. For those of you that aren’t familiar with the name, Beauty Pie claim that they…

‘Source the best luxury makeup and skincare from the world’s leading laboratories, and sell it directly to our members, without the mumbo jumbo, the middlemen, or the markups‘.

So to break it right down, they basically buy products from manufacturers that produce for many of those high-end brands we love to lust after, but package them in their own simplistic yet elegant Beauty Pie packaging and woosh them out at affordable prices. It’s perfectly common knowledge that a lot of the time the inflated prices charged by major beauty brands are done so purely because of their name. So this alternative sounds kind of exciting right?!

So how does it work, and how do we get out hands on these bargain beauties? Well, Beauty Pie generally runs on a subscription service of either monthly (£10 a month for a minimum of three months) or annually (£99 a year essentially giving two months membership free). Once you’ve chosen your subscription you can then order up to £100 worth of products per month. However do be aware, this £100 limit is based on the ‘regular purchase price’ not the members price. so for example…

If you decide to go for say three items, and their membership price total is £35 but the regular non-members purchase price comes to £97, then that’s your limit reached. You can in fact purchase through the website without having a membership, but you will have to fork out the regular price which is often a heck of a lot more (apparently often an 85% mark up!) and resembles that of the major beauty brands like your Estee Lauders and Tom Fords.

Now considering I’ve seen a lot about this company and their products, I’d never actually intended to join as I already have so many products to get through. But when one of my besties asked me if I’d heard of them and said she was going to sign up (furthermore would I like anything adding to her order!) I became weak and couldn’t resist. I offered to pay for half of her membership cost which was only £5, and made it cheaper for the both of us. I think sharing a membership is actually a great way to dip your toe in the water with something new like this. So she placed our order and I must say delivery was pretty damn speedy!

So what did we order? Well she ordered the Advanced Serum-Infusion Biocellulose Sheet Masks (set of five) and I ordered the Super Retinol Ceramide Boost Anti-Aging Serum. And that was all we got for the £100 allowance! In fact the allowance when you first sign up is upped to £150 as a bonus and we still only got two items. The sheet masks were supposed to be £55 (membership cost £13.87) and the retinol £80 (membership price £9.84). So between us we paid £23.71 for the products plus shipping where as the RRP’s would have amounted up to £135. That’s a pretty good saving. The only gripe I have with this is that Beauty Pie boast about their cost transparency values and I understand that they’re offering products at a lot lower cost than the other brands whose products may be virtually identical, however why is this saving only available to those that subscribe? Surely the 85% saving should be available to all? Or at least a saving of say 50%? That way they still have a decent mark up (I get that they’re not doing in for free), but continue to follow through with their ethical marketing strategy. They do after all state on their website that ‘Luxury beauty products often retail for up to 10x what they actually cost to produce. We think that’s crazy‘. If you’re interested, here’s a look at how they break down their costing..

Screenshot from Beautypie.com

  I feel like I’ve gone off on a bit of a tangent that I wasn’t intending on going on, but you know how you start writing, and thinking, and actually just typing out the prices got the old brain cells twirling round. So apologies if this has gone a bit off ‘light introduction’ to ‘moan and grumble’. Non intentional I promise.

Anyhoo, Retinol is something I’ve been looking for incorporate into my skin care regime for quite some time now, so I’m actually really excited to get going with Beauty Pie’s version. I love that it also contains Hyaluronic and Lactic Acids which kind of roles a few steps into one. I can say that I have tried one of the sheet masks my friend ordered (the sweetheart popped on in the box with my retinol for me to try) and I wasn’t a fan due to the fit of the sheet. But then I have been spoilt with those perfect fitting hydrogel masks from Oh K! and there really is no going back from there.

I’ll keep you posted on my thoughts in regards to the Super Retinol once I’ve had chance to give it a good thrashing. We’re probably talking weeks here so hang in there, it will come eventually! If you’re interested in discovering Beauty Pie for yourself, you can visit their website here and read up all about how they work and what they have to offer. I must say their website is very aesthetically pleasing and there are lots of products to choose from. Plus I believe a lot if not all of their products are cruelty free!

If you’re still here, well done for making it through what was supposed to be a short and snappy post and thanks for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed discovering Beauty Pie with me (If you’re not already familiar), and please don’t forget to give my post a little love if you did enjoy!

With Love

  Let’s Try Beauty Pie! Hi Everyone! Just thought I'd post a quick update on a little something new I'm trying, and you may well of heard of it if you're head's been submerged in the wonderful world of beauty!

[consciousowl]

Do I Have a Soul?

And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground,

and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;

and man became a living soul.

Moses in the Book of Genesis

In Ridley Scott’s cult classic, Blade Runner, set in 2019, we meet an L.A. cop, Captain Decker (Harrison Ford), sent to hunt down renegade replicants, or androids, up to no good, being highly resentful that their creator had timed them to die.

Captain Decker meets Rachael (Sean Young), the most advanced replicant. Decker can’t figure out if she, as the creator’s assistant, is a real human being with a soul, or simply his masterpiece. In the end, Decker falls in love with Rachel, and takes her with him. To Decker, it really doesn’t matter whether she is human or not. He simply can’t tell the difference.​

What Is the Soul?

When you speak of the soul, everyone knows what you are talking about, but hardly anyone can clearly explain it. Soul is clearly what makes us human. Soul is the very core of our being. Soul is the essence of our individuality over and against our body.

The soul is defined with various ancient words. In Hebrew, it is nefesh, or the breath of life. In Greek, it is psyche, or mind. In Sanskrit, it is the jivatman, our essence as an individual that migrates from life to life. It speaks of our heart as much as our mind, being closer to the heart.

Genesis depicts the soul as the breath of the Creator that makes the clay figurine, Adam, come alive. Adam is no longer dust; he is “a living soul.” Although this narrative is clearly metaphorical, it speaks to our divine nature, what differentiates us from other animals. We are human, if not also divine.​

Is the Soul and the Spirit the Same Thing?

In the Bible, spirit is represented with different words in the original. “Ruah” (breath or wind) in Hebrew and “Pneuma” (air) in Greek. In Sanskrit, God, from an impersonal standpoint, is “Brahman” (Infinite expansion). In Buddhism, it is often thought that humanity has no soul, as all phenomena are continually changing and are ultimately illusion.

In the Letter to the Hebrews, the apostle, most likely Saint Paul, distinguishes between soul and spirit, knowable only through revelation. In this context, the soul is the foundation of our human nature, while spirit is our divine nature.​

The soul may be everlasting, but not eternal. There was a time when your soul was not, but it may never end. Your spirit, however, is eternal. It always was, it always will be, because it is the very nature of God.

Your soul is the very heart of your individuality, what makes you “YOU” as “Mark” or “Audrey” or “Phil.” It suggests your presence. If you are in love with her, you feel her independent of her physical appearance. Your spirit, however, is one with the Source of the Universe, in which the galaxies spin.

Why Even Ask the Question?

Several hundred years ago, before the modern age, you would seem very strange to the people in your life if you asked a question like this. It was obvious to most cultures, societies and civilizations in the world that we have a soul. The only intelligent question was, “What happens to our soul after we die?” Here again, most societies accepted that our souls actually went somewhere. They survived the body.

With the emergence of the scientific method, the philosophy of rational empiricism emerged out of the immense success of science in making predictions and advancing technology. For experimental purposes, if you can’t publically sense something and actually measure it, it is unreal. It just doesn’t exist.

In the modern age, the soul got increasingly associated with the brain, as opposed to the heart. It became popular to suppose that our mind was entirely due to the intermittent firings of our neurons, much like a cortical thunderstorm. The moment you pull the plug and stop the action, the mind is gone, along with your soul.

Clearly, this assumption didn’t sit well with most people. Thanks to the father of modern philosophy, Renee Descartes, they took refuge in dualism, that the soul resides entirely in a different realm. The body is the body, and the soul is the soul.

As Descartes famously put it, “I think. Therefore, I am.”​

The Challenge From Neuroscience

In the past decade, research on the brain and the human nervous system has escalated. We have already decoded the human genome. Whereas earlier we were in the kindergarten stage, we may be confident that we are now in the elementary stage of understanding brain functioning. The global IT infrastructure required to support this research is now many times greater than it was even a decade ago.

The more we know about the brain, the more tempting it is to try and explain away the soul as simply neurological processes. However, the brain is vastly complex, with billions of neurons in intelligent patterns. If you look at all the possible combination of patterns in any single brain, you will have more than the number of stars in the known universe.​

Scientists have started to attempt on a crude level to reverse engineer the brain with varying degrees of success, as many of our neurological processes are analogical, rather than digital, meaning they are not simply on / off states. In addition, the brain does massively parallel processing way beyond what our current computers can do. Currently, software developers are in the early stages of writing and perfecting code for parallel processing.​

The Challenge from Artificial Intelligence

A.I. research is finally bearing fruit after decades of exasperating setbacks. Back in the 1950’s, mimicking the brain seemed much easier, as our understanding of both the brain and computer technology was so basic. Early on, there were two directions in developing computing. The first was to look at the computer as an ultimate replacement for the brain. The second was to look at the computer as an instrument to augment human intelligence.

Today, A.I. is being commercialized and introduced in every field and industry. We are about to see personal robots, drones, self-driving cars and flying automobiles on an everyday basis. Google has been using deep learning in its apps for years. Systems are now capable of simple self-learning. For example, you can instruct a system to identify pictures of cats from thousands of photos without any labels.

We aren’t yet at the stage where a system can fool people into believing it is a person, but we now see IBM Watson routinely beat, not only world-class chess players, but Jeopardy participants, a game requiring cultural sophistication. One system has even designed a crude, but intelligible, one-act screenplay!​

Can My Soul Be Downloaded into a Machine?

When Timothy Leary, the acid guru, was about to pass away, he gave instructions to freeze his brain immediately after he was gone in the hopes that a future generation could thaw it, and plant it into a human body. If we can transplant hearts, why not brains?

Transhumanists go beyond this. Since many neurological operations can be coded, one might suppose that human consciousness is an “epiphenomenon” of the brain. We are conscious only in so far as we are programmed, and have an electronic current flowing through us. Should this be the case, then all of the code could be put together and stored in a large rack-mounted platform.

The problem with this line of thinking is that we are, from a biological standpoint, organisms, not machines. We are most definitely not simply an assemblage of parts. Rather, every system of the body grew out of a single fertilized egg. Can we really equate life with machinery?​

Will Computers Ever Be Smarter Than Me?

Right now, computing platforms can do many operations much faster than human beings. They can do more operations and do them faster on some, but not all aspects of thinking. The issue seems to be whether computers can beat human beings in generalized intelligence. There are at least a dozen different kinds: verbal, abstract reasoning, spatial logic, kinesthetic, aesthetic, spiritual, emotional and moral.

It would seem to be a long time before computers master all the different types of human intelligence and can be totally mistaken for human beings. However, it is very clear, as with Apple’s Macintosh, that manufacturers and developers can humanize and personalize systems in certain ways, SIRI being a crude beginning.

Even more to the point, it is dubious how successful systems will be in replicating human beings’ actual feelings and emotions. To date, most of the focus on A.I. and neuroscience has been around rationality and perception. Intuition and emotion seems to be largely overlooked. Given the role of the human heart (which is highly intelligent from a neurological standpoint), it might be more appropriate than the brain in these areas.​

Why Both Neuroscience and A.I. Completely Miss the Point

Scientific research into neuroscience and A.I. has yet to deal with what it calls “the hard problem.” How do we explain human subjectivity? When I see a gorgeous sunset upon closing my eyes, where is that sunset? Surgeons can’t really isolate any particular group of cells where it is happening. Our imagination seems to reside in a wholly different dimension.

Dr. Deepak Chopra and Dr. Menas Kafatos recently published a marvelous book, “You Are the Universe,” popularizing what they call “qualitas,” the experience of quality in what is superficially considered a quantitative world. They suggest that the brain might be a tuning mechanism for experience, which resides “nonlocally,” meaning it can’t be reduced to any specific locality.

We can’t isolate any experience as happening “out there,” as it is only through our internal sensations and thoughts that we can construct the concept of an external body and world. Quantum physics has eradicated the notion that you can have a world without someone to observe it.​

Will My Soul Ever Die?

Throughout history, most cultures have seen the soul going on well after the body has dissolved. Death is seen as the separation of the soul from the body. The body is temporal, but the soul is everlasting. One thinks of reincarnation on the one hand, and becoming one with it all and merging with God on the other.

Near death experiences are vividly narrated, with a strong suggestion of the survival of our individuality, and the overwhelming experience of love and well-being in the afterlife. It would seem that we have another body every bit as real as our current human body. The testimony of Dr. Eben Alexander, a neurosurgeon who flatlined his brain for seven days, seems most impressive in this respect.

The New Testament narrative of resurrection points to a glorified body that has a relationship to the former body, but it is not subject to the same laws. It can eat fish, and yet walk through walls. It can be touched, but is capable of levitating into the sky. Could this be a transformed soul body? In Hinduism, ever subtler dimensions of ourselves each have their own discrete body, culminating in the “Anandamayakosha,” or bliss body.​

Who Am I… Really?

While it is often considered blasphemy to claim that you are God, this may be our greatest truth. If there is only God, which is not a ridiculous proposition after a thorough study of quantum physics, then each of us is God hiding out as you and me. It may be that we live in a divine love story, where the individuality of each one of us is infinitely precious to our Source.

In the wink of an eye, God can bring us all back in a glorified body. If an advanced computer system can launch an entire universe in 3D virtual reality, could God do any less?

If you are interested in exploring the infinite nature of your soul and how it impacts your experience of the world daily… we recommend you do it with Deepak Chopra, a world-renowned thought leader in this space. Click here for more details.​

Do I Have a Soul? appeared first on http://consciousowl.com.