modern-mystic-universe

[modern-mystic-universe]

zlibrary gone... FUCK TIKTOK FUCK BOOKTOK I hope that app burns in hell

[modern-mystic-universe]

Babe. THE smut fic. You know the one. E x R, what we've been talking about. /Please/ write it? /Please/

Aaaaand here we go with the smut.  I don’t write smut much, mostly just onrequest.  So I dunno how this cameout.  But it’s definitely smut.  NSFW. Possibly NSF-Anywhere.  Also itlike…cold opens to sex, so.  There is no plot here.

Grantaire tugged at the longends of the cord, tightening the coil winding about the outside.  It scraped along the taut length stretchingto the headboard, a faint but audible sound, and he glanced down.

“Too tight?” he askedquietly, letting his fingers trail down to slip into the gap between Enjolras’wrist and the five loops of white cotton binding him to the bed.  He could still fit two fingers comfortablybeside Enjolras’ delicate wrist, and the touch made Enjolras’ eyes flickeropen.  The usually bright honey color wasa little hazy, distracted.  “Mon ange,” Grantaire prompted.

“You’re fine,” Enjolrassaid, blinking until his gaze was clearer.  Grantaire nodded and finished tucking theloose ends away until the knot was secure. He ducked, pressed a kiss to the long, deft fingers, and saw Enjolrasclose his eyes again.

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[modern-mystic-universe]

Tired

Because sometimes, Jumin needs some comfort and reassurance, too. Repost from an old account.

You were used to Jumin coming home late a couple evenings a week. He often got called into last minute meetings or stuck on conference calls, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for you to either postpone dinner and wait for him or to eat on your own and lie in bed with a book until he came home.

One evening in particular, however, it was long past midnight when he dragged himself in. You had fallen asleep somewhere around an hour before, curled up on his side of the bed, your fingertips still grazing the paperback you had been struggling to keep your eyes open to read. After placing his shoes and coat in the hall closet, he made his way quietly to the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he shuffled. He had already loosened his tie and slung it around his neck on the car ride home. Driver Kim had been slightly concerned when he called at such a late hour, but didn’t press Jumin for details. Instead, he quietly, respectfully drove him home, taking note of the tears that glistened in Jumin’s eyes when he glanced at his employer in the rearview mirror.

A wistful sigh left Jumin’s lips when he saw you there on the bed, one leg peeking out from the covers. It was a habit of yours he didn’t quite understand.

“Aren’t you cold when you aren’t fully covered?”

“One leg needs, to be out.. It’s like...air conditioning. I’m guaranteed not to overheat this way,” you informed him with a smile. He shook his head and wrapped your in his arms then. And every night since then, he would chuckle to himself to see your leg hooked around the blankets. Just as it was now.

He changed into his pajamas and slid into bed next to you, leaning in to press a kiss just below your ear. You stirred with a soft moan, reaching behind you blindly to pat his shoulder. His fingers wrapped around yours then laced between them; he squeezed, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo.

“Welcome home,” you murmured, your eyes still closed. You shifted so that you were face to face with him and pressed your hands to either side of his face, rubbing your nose against his. Jumin stroked your cheek and pushed your hair behind your ear, his long, slender fingers reaching to the back of your neck to pull you close for a kiss. He took a sharp breath in through his nose, still in awe of how soft your lips felt against his, how each and every kiss stirred his soul in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain in words.

“I’ve never wanted to come home to you more,” he confessed. “Today was...difficult.” There was something in his voice that you’d only heard a few times before. It was an exhausted sort of melancholy. A worldly weariness. Jumin’s soul was tired.

You opened your eyes and shifted closer to him, running your fingers through his hair. “What happened?”

Again, he sighed, though this one was heavier than the one he released when he first walked into the room. “What didn’t happen today? There was a company wide computer outage. The internet and phone system was down for three hours due to a car accident right outside C&R. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured, but it took the utility company quite some time to restore functionality.” He paused, absentmindedly stroking your bicep and shoulder, seeming to lose himself for a moment. His eyes fluttered closed and he seemed to relax a little.

“You don’t have to tell me tonight,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his forehead.

“It just...seemed to compound after that,” he continued. “You would think that people don’t know how to work properly when computers are down. We’ve forgotten that pen and paper and spoken word are just as effective as a means of communication. I’ve never seen a group of grown adults panic in such a way.” He shook his head and huffed a sardonic laugh. “It took the rest of the afternoon and evening to get caught up for all the deadlines that we missed. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to call you,” he apologized, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“It’s alright. I knew you’d be home eventually. And if not, I would have come to pick you up myself.” You stifled a yawn and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close to cradle his head against your chest. He nuzzled the soft skin of your neck and murmured something so quietly that you couldn’t quite understand.

“What was that you said?”

He lifted his face, steel grey, tired eyes locking with yours. When he spoke again, he was so close that his lips moved against yours. “Can you please just...hold me? For a little bit?” It was such a vulnerable request for your husband that it nearly brought you to tears. If you weren’t mistaken, you’d swear you saw tears gather in his eyes before he closed them and pursed his lips together, perhaps choking back some emotion he was embarrassed to share even with you. “I’m just so tired, darling.”

You shifted so that you were sitting up against the cushioned headboard and patted your lap as an invitation. He took the hint and lay his head on your thighs while you stroked his hair, humming quietly until you heard the soft, steady sound of his breathing.

[modern-mystic-universe]

Light Novel vs Manhwa Cover pt. 1

▪️Solo Leveling

▪️Trash of the Count's Family

▪️ Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

▪️Tomb Raider King

▪️Second Life Ranker

Follow me— tiktok & pinterest:@simpnoootsimp

[modern-mystic-universe]

what are your fave history books and non fiction not history related books? i wanna get some learnin done while trudging thru the hell that is job searching

I was about to answer this and say I’m really not a nonfiction person—with the exception of a couple years in between college and law school, I’ve been in school for 21 years. When I have free time, I want to read about dragons, so I can count on one hand the number of nonfiction books I’ve read for pleasure. (I have…kind of a list here, in my “from the bookshelf” tag.)

HOWEVER, the last two years have turned me into an epic news junkie, and there’s some truly phenomenal long-form journalism and personal essays out there. So instead, I’m going to share some of my favorite pieces. Some of them are opinion or personal essay, some of them are reporting, about a whole bunch of different subjects.

Home Fires: Narrative and the Memory of War (NYT, 2010) by Roman Skaskiw

I Know What You Think of Me (NYT, 2013) by Tim Krieder

Dispatches from the Rap Wars (Chicago Magazine, 2016) by Forrest Stuart & Elly Fishman

The Trauma of Facing Deportation (The New Yorker, 2017) by Rachel Aviv

How to Build an Autocracy (The Atlantic, 2017) by David Frum

Why the Scariest Nuclear Threat May Be Coming from Inside the White House (Vanity Fair, 2017) by Michael Lewis

What Do We Do with the Art of Monstrous Men? (Paris Review, 2017) by Claire Dederer

Taking Down Terrorists in Court: Zainab Ahmed (The New Yorker, 2017) by William Finnegan 

Without Native Americans, Would We Have Chicago As We Know It? (WBEZ, 2017) by Jesse Dukes

Five Women (This American Life, 2018) by Chana Joffe-Walt

Why a ‘Lifesaving’ Depression Treatment Didn’t Pass Clinical Trials (The Atlantic, 2018) by David Dobbs

I Tried Leaving Facebook. I Couldn’t. (Verge, 2018) by Sarah Jeong

[modern-mystic-universe]

Qinghe Jue

AO3

Pain. His entire world was pain. Pain, and rage.

Nie Mingjue blinked, trying to clear the red haze from his eyes so that he could better see just where that little gold-clad snake was. Jin Guangyao’s laughter echoed in his ears, punctuated by the too-loud drumbeat of his heart and the ragged gasps of his breathing.

His sight still wasn’t clearing, everything overlaid by a sheen of red. He dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and it came away wet and sticky. Like his face, he now became aware. His face felt wet and sticky, a trickle of liquid trailing down his cheeks and tickling at his nostrils, filling his nose with a metallic scent. He licked his lips, that same metallic tang on his tongue.

He knew this scent. Knew this taste. The word forced its way through the fog in his mind.

Blood.

Pain, and rage.

He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Jin Guangyao’s laughter grew louder.

Rage, and pain.

He roared, swinging Baxia at the smiling man, his blade meeting…nothing. Jin Guangyao wasn’t there, he was behind him. He turned and swung again, but Jin Guangyao was at the other side of the landing.

Again and again, Baxia’s keen edge cut through the air, but every time his treacherous sworn brother was somewhere else. With each failed strike, his rage grew and Jin Guangyao’s laughter became louder, and more musical, until music was all he heard.

Jin Guangyao opened his mouth, and music spilled from it.

And Nie Mingjue’s rage grew.

Kill. He was going to kill Jin Guangyao. This would be the bastard’s last betrayal, he would make certain of it. He was dimly aware that he was roaring words as he swung time after time, words the conveyed exactly what his intentions were. The more pain raged through him, as one after one his meridians simply exploded.

He froze, his knuckles going white around Baxia’s hilt as it took all he had to simply remain on his feet, screaming his pain to the sky as corrupted qi burst from him in sprays of blood, matching the warm stickiness that continued to trickle from all of his qi qiao.

“Da-ge!”

Somewhere through the thundering roar in his ears, the screaming, and the musical laughter, a familiar voice managed to break through.

Seguir leyendo

[modern-mystic-universe]

Your Nie brothers ficlet killed me, I’ve drowned in my tears and writing to you from a The other side. I hope your happy with the pain you’ve dealt with to the entire fandom because that ficlet is amazing and so so good

I am outrageously happy with the pain I’ve caused, yes, here’s some more following immediately after this.

Nie Huiasang is small, is the thing--slim-boned and soft-handed, shorter than Mo Xuanyu by enough that even the crown of his brother’s familiar guan doesn’t clear the top of Wei Wuxian’s head.  He doesn’t have the strength to hit Wei Wuxian hard, when he takes Nie Mingjue offguard with a hand on his bent elbow.  The instinctive shove doesn’t even make Wei Wuxian rock on his feet.

“Wei-gongzi,” the head retainer says, ragged with relief and accusation.

Nie Mingjue’s eyes--Nie Huaisang’s eyes, as depthlessly black as ever, wet and red with crying--latch onto Wei Wuxian’s face, and the upswell of guilt is blood and smoke in Wei Wuxian’s lungs, and he sees the moment that Nie Mingjue reads it correctly.

“Wei Wuxian,” he snarls, and Nie Huaisang isn’t strong, wasn’t strong, but he was always quick, and Nie Mingjue reverses Wei Wuxian’s grip on his arm like lightning, until he’s the one being held in a grip that might be like iron if it wasn’t shaking.  “Did you--”  The sentence dies half-born, revulsion and rage killing it on Nie Mingjue’s tongue.

No, Wei Wuxian didn’t.  He wouldn’t, hadn’t even known.

But then, he did, didn’t he?  He wrote the theory, he designed the array.  Bile rises on his tongue when he remembers Nie Huaisang’s idle questions, poking at Mo Xuanyu’s sacrificed arm the way he had always picked over Wei Wuxian’s weirder theories.  He had been brilliant, even when he was a lazy kid, and Wei Wuxian had gamely answered his questions in an attempt to remember the young man who had been like a brother to him instead of getting caught up on the mastermind who silently directed Wei Wuxian like an arrow right into the heart of his enemy.  He had even talked about the last scar, and how long it had taken him to find the last person Mo Xuanyu hated, he’d made a wary joke about it and Nie Huaisang had laughed and flicked his fan and said that he was sorry, but it was the nature of the ritual, wasn’t it...unless Wei-xiong had any ideas about changing that?

Wei Wuxian can’t imagine what’s playing out across his face, but Nie Mingjue watches with the kind of all-consuming hate that Wei Wuxian has seen on remarkably few people, even those whose grief has been much more immediately his fault.

“You helped him,” Nie Mingjue says, a low hoarse voice that sounds nothing like Nie Huaisang, nothing at all.  “You did not stop him from--”

“I didn’t know,” Wei Wuxian manages in a whisper.  “Chifeng-zun, I’m so--”

“How could you not know!”  Nie Mingjue half-throws Wei Wuxian away from him, and Wei Wuxian goes, dazed, retreating several ungraceful steps toward Lan Wangji as Nie Mingjue stalks after him.  Nie Huaisang’s voice isn’t suited for roaring, not the way Nie Mingjue’s was, but the venom is all his, and the volume is all his brother’s, and it hurts.  Lan Wangji’s hand has already closed around Wei Wuxian’s, as if he’s considering yanking him back, and Wei Wuxian shakes his head, pulls his hand free.  He doesn’t need to be looking to know that his husband is sincerely alarmed, but Lan Wangji doesn’t stop him.

“He told me what he did,” Nie Mingjue is saying, shouting, as he brandishes the somewhat crumpled paper in his hand.  “Do you know?  Do you know how he gave--how he did this?”  He thrusts both his hands forward, pushes the sleeves back to reveal Nie Huaisang’s forearms, skin unmarred except for a single tidy slash, hidden near the delicate skin inside the bend of his left elbow, already healed as if it’s an old, old scar, gone soft with age.

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian says weakly around the guilt on his tongue.

He knows perfectly fucking well what Huaisang did.  He said it himself, mentioned it as an offhand thought while they agreed that no one should ever use the array again, an inventor’s last theory before he thought his creation destroyed for good.  Wei Wuxian should have known better.

“Say it,” Nie Mingjue hisses.

“Chifeng-zun,” Lan Wangji says, starting forward, and Wei Wuxian puts out an arm to hold him back.

“No,” Wei Wuxian says.  He gets it, now, what Nie Huaisang hoped for with his letter.  Nie Huaisang didn’t need his expertise for the array--he’d already taken all that he needed for that, conniving son of a bitch that he is.  Was.  He needed Wei Wuxian, who burned down an entire life trying and failing to do what was right and went mad for his trouble, to make sure that Nie Mingjue lived through realizing what his brother did.

Apparently, Wei Wuxian is going to spend the rest of his life paying for his last one by carrying out final wishes.

“Nie-xiong wrote his own name into the array, didn’t he?” Wei Wuxian says, one hand still outstretched--not really holding Lan Wangji back, almost leaning on him for balance.  “He made the condition of the trade his own death.  And then the spell took hold, and he--”

“He died,” Nie Mingjue says, and he’s not shouting anymore, he’s just flat, with tears glittering on Nie Huaisang’s eyelashes and Nie Huaisang’s letter clutched to the chest where Nie Mingjue’s heart beats.  “He died.”

This time, when Wei Wuxian takes a hesitant step forward, Nie Mingjue folds, dropping to the floor of the grand entrance hall like his legs have been cut out from under him, and he curls over and sobs.

Feeling not entirely unlike crying himself, Wei Wuxian sinks to his knees just outside arm’s reach and waits.

[modern-mystic-universe]

Nie Mingjue is clearly the best father in the entire series, I have a long argument about how if any of the other families took responsibility and duty half as seriously as he did, so much could have been avoided. And he started when he was barely out of his teens, newly ascended sect leader in a clear time of crisis and still managed to raise Huaisang who was loved and coddled by his entire sect and knew it. What a man!!!

Have you watched Fatal Journey?  You should watch Fatal Journey.  I love Fatal Journey.  Absolutely murder my ass about the Nie brothers.  Nie Mingjue was a good sect leader and a good dad/brother and I totally respect and support Nie Huaisang deciding to go on the fucking war path after realizing what happened.

(I actually have Thoughts about Fatal Journey and specifically the fact that Nie Huaisang’s entire arc actually makes so very much more sense if he was unintentionally complicit in driving his brother to madness and his eventual demise, and also that parallels so beautifully with Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian and the guilt that pervades their entire relationship that I just couldn’t drop it.  Wei Wuxian and Nie Mingjue stop dying tragically on their kid brothers challenge.)

Anyway absolute fucking Tragedy Mode ending where Wei Wuxian receives a letter from Nie Huaisang a while after the end of things, completely out of the blue after not much contact at all, and the letter is...it’s nothing special, not really.  A few idle comments about how he hopes Wei Wuxian is enjoying his second life, about how he sent money to Mo Village and contacted Jin Ling about dealing with the fallout of their entire noble line being wiped out, about how the Nie sect is thriving lately.  It would be nothing.  Except that the last line is “If it’s not too much to ask, I would appreciate it if you came to Qinghe at your earliest convenience; there’s something I need your particular expertise on.”

Pardon Wei Wuxian’s paranoia, but nothing that needs his particular expertise is ever good news.

Wei Wuxian arrives at Qinghe with Lan Wangji two days later, as fast as they can travel with sharing a sword.  He strides through the gates and no one stops him, and he finds Nie Huaisang having a spirited shouting match with his head retainer--or, no, not a shouting match, Nie Huaisang is just shouting, his hands shaking in fists and his hair braided up into a dimly familiar style--

And he doesn’t look like himself, he’s not wearing his familiar fine robes with their sweeping sleeves, he doesn’t have a fan, and his hair is crowned with a silver guan that Wei Wuxian hasn’t seen since before his death, and--

“My brother,” Nie Mingjue snarls, raw-voiced.  “You allowed my brother to do this?  You allowed--”  He hits his own chest, Huaisang’s chest, with a closed fist.

“Please,” the head retainer says, and the man is in tears already, his hands reaching out--supplication, maybe, or grief.  “Please, we didn’t know, we didn’t know, he never told us--he never told us anything--”

“My brother,” Nie Mingjue says again, ragged, that closed fist still pressed to his chest, his other hand clenched around a piece of paper that Wei Wuxian doesn’t need to see clearly to know is covered with Huaisang’s beautiful calligraphy.  No scars for Nie Mingjue, no unclear terms.  A note, clean and tidy, and a body dressed in his own re-tailored clothes, hair braided in his own style, a hale and hearty sect ready to be returned to its rightful leader.  

“A-Sang,” Nie Mingjue says through his teeth, halfway to a keen, like an animal in a trap.  “A-Sang.”

“Nie-xiong,” Wei Wuxian breathes, feeling like he’s been stabbed in the chest--he’s been stabbed plenty of times, he knows how it feels, and this--this is how it feels.  “What did you do?”

[modern-mystic-universe]

Something I hope we see with the next season of Doctor Who is less focusing on the morality of the Doctor and (then) his actions and those he leaves behind, and more focusing on the fact that the Doctor doesn't have to help. No one is making her travel the galaxy, save planets and people, bring people along just to let them see the universe. The other timelords, they could be doing it too, they just don't care like she does. In fact, in a lot of the stories humans themselves could be doing (1/2)

it, but don't. Because as much as I love moments where the Doctor is dark and scary, I love the moments where humans realise how infinitely kind this alien being is, how often they have sacrificed themselves to save humans. The Doctor travels with death and destruction in her wake, but that's because she'll always show up when people need help. It's easy to point and blame her for what happens, but as we've seen, the universe is a much worse place without her. (2/2)

Ohhh I love moments like this too, and it would fit so well with 13. So far, we’ve mostly seen a bouncy kid-like version of her, but I’d love to see something older. Something ancient. That kind, tired alien that gives and gives and gives because it’s the right thing to do.

[modern-mystic-universe]

Earth oceans and what's in them

Going off how the Humans are Space Orcs and “Humans bond with anything despite obvious danger” that annoys the rest of the alien crew, think about them being introduced to earth oceans

After all it’s common to have to always remove their human from unknown likely dangerous life forms despite constant protests and that they were only “playing” they start to notice that their human never really speaks of their earths sea creatures, which makes sense as the humans organs aren’t equipped to survive in that environment despite being able to “swim” (it is a common theory discussed that humans could survive if given no option to otherwise as that’s what they always seem to do) curious and nervous, a rookie of the crew, decides to ask (the veterans have learned not to ask about earth as it always ends in confusion and horror) Only to be told that “they aren’t really sure”, in human speak this can mean many things. One is that they never looked, another is that they were honestly telling the truth. Confused, they ask again as surely the species that does everything to fulfill their curiosity would surly know what fills 75% of their surface? Only to be told of creatures that are the length of their ship with a jaw just as wide. Of creatures that glow to attract and trap their pray. And that there was never a pod that was created could withstand the pressure of deepest depths. Or if it could, the visual feed would always disappear within rows of jagged teeth. And that are only the stories that have been proven. There are stories of the old ages, of creatures that could drown you with the sound of their voice, of things only seen in the shadows with a glimpse of sharp teeth. Humans don’t go in the ocean, they learn. Humans that are made of iron and steel, known to bond with anything, and a curiosity that defies all known logic don’t dare to explore the depths of their own planet. The crew learn that the only thing to terrify their human are the creatures that lurk in the oceans of their own earth. Everything must seem tame to them compared to the monster planet that they call home. And suddenly, things make sense.

[modern-mystic-universe]

Random Headcanon: That Federation vessels in Star Trek seem to experience bizarre malfunctions with such overwhelming frequency isn’t just an artefact of the television serial format. Rather, it’s because the Federation as a culture are a bunch of deranged hyper-neophiles, tooling around in ships packed full of beyond-cutting-edge tech they don’t really understand. Endlessly frustrating if you have to fight them, because they can pull an effectively unlimited number of bullshit space-magic countermeasures out of their arses - but they’re as likely as not to give themselves a lethal five-dimensional wedgie in the process. All those rampant holograms and warp core malfunctions and accidentally-traveling-back-in-time incidents? That doesn’t actually happen to anyone else; it’s literally just Federation vessels that go off the rails like that. And they do so on a fairly regular basis.

[modern-mystic-universe]

I havent seen anyone talk about this yet so im making a post. 

So lets say you’re researching something for a paper (or just for fun) and the research paper you want to read is behind a paywall, or the site makes you create an account first, or makes you pay to download, or limits you to only 5 free articles, or otherwise makes it difficult for you to read what you want.

do not fear! copy the link to the article

go to sci-hub.se         (the url is always changing so its best to check out whereisscihub.now.sh to find what the current url is)

slap the article link in there

bam! free access! 

[modern-mystic-universe]

Friendly reminder to assume that all my OCs are Bisexual unless explicitly stated otherwise.

[modern-mystic-universe]

Social media AU!

Inside Saeyoung Choi phone!

[modern-mystic-universe]

Social media AU!

Inside Jumin Han phone!

[modern-mystic-universe]

Social media AU!

Inside Saeran phone 💕

Ps: There’s one MC for every guy! (I will post more information about them later)

Ps2: Rika never created Mint Eye! (She’s going to therapy and getting better) (She’s also bisexual af and has a beautiful girlfriend)