#middle earth scientific musings

[ultfan]

RUSSIAN CLASSICS AESTHETICS.

BOLD whatever applies to / attracts your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV :  orthodox monasteries, deep woods, starry nights,  the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter,  piles of books, the sound of shattering glass,  ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm,  the smell of earth,  a crowd of people dressed in black,  distant murmurs, emptied streets,  the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT :  coldness of the skin against a blade, slender pale fingers   &   slightly shaking hands,   a red stain blooming on white fabric,  lonely steps in a corridor, the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table, listening to one’s breath   &   counting heartbeats, too many stairs,  the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind words.

THE IDIOT : classical statues,  wealth covered with dust,  a dark house tainted with inherited madness,  an unsettling feeling,  long walks in a park, useless chatter, a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench, a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book, the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around,    looking at cloudless sky.

ANNA KARENINA : fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight   &   white curtains, the sensation of velvet against skin,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE :  a glass of wine, the brightness of  a crystal chandelier, white lace,  a raging snow storm,  the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room, indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing,   the sweet smell of strawberries, a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA : the chaos of a lively city, ambient jazz in expensive restaurants, jumping on a moving tram, the sight of moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase,  leaning out of the window, shelves stacked with books, a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky, laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN : a lonely mansion, reading a book in the parlour, faint piano melody lingering in falling silence, long evenings, passing seasons,  discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame,  quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded, bright mornings, footprints in snow, a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS :  birch groves,  morning mist, moss-covered stones near a moor, scientific books, white roses, cheap champagne, shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony,  a maladroit cello sonata, freshly mowed grass, letting thoughts come   &   go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates   &   bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO : a strange feeling of loss, writing poems in a diary, traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon, a scarf brightly embellished with flowers, a glass of water, a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD :  a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar, the unsettling need for change,  a mirror reflecting full moon, the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance,  a piano out of tune.

[skullhub]

MUSE PROFILE: Rook Blonko

Name: Rook Blonko

Age: 19

Pronouns: He/Him

Height: 6'2"

General Alignment: Lawful Good

General personality: Stoic, Stickler for the rules, Blunt, Extremely formal, Open-minded, Culturally behind.

Family: Rook Da (Father), Rook Bralla (Mother), Rook Shar (Younger sister), Rook Shim (Younger sister), Rook Shi (Younger sister), Rook Ben (Younger brother)

Home: Revonnah (Former home), Plumber's headquarters (Current home)

Backstory: Rook Blonko had grown up on his home planet of Revonnah where in between working on his parent's farm he studied the fighting-art of Revonnah Kai, having studied it for years with one of the masters before he set off to join the plumbers academy. He took his studies very seriously while the academy was still in tact, and despite having had his nose in the books most of the time (including during his off-time), Rook did manage to make a couple of friends who he developed new fighting-techniques with. At some point in the middle of his final semester of the Plumber's academy, the Vreedle brothers had blown up the school leading to Rook having to take his final exam inside a trailer stationed on a stray asteroid. Despite how bent out of shape Rook was about the whole incident, the Revonnahgander managed to pass his final exam with flying colors. Making him qualified enough to be sent off on off-world assignments, his first major assignment given to him being Magister Max's own grandkid; Ben Tennyson.

He has accompanied Ben throughout his adventures while also doing odd jobs in between keeping an eye on his new partner. Always making sure that he never forgot his primary objective of aiding in the protection of the earth and the milky way galaxy.

Extra Info: Rook still holds a grudge against the Vreedle brothers after they blew up the plumber academy, he most likely will not get over this grudge in the foreseeable future.

Rook possesses a vast mental library of scientific and technological knowledge from across the galaxies, along with a little magic knowledge (granted he doesn't know that much about magic as he does the mechanics of certain alien technologies.)

Blonko is excellent at mechanical engineer and has frequently modified his own technology to work better for his fighting style, able to create machinery on the fly when given the right tools/parts.

Rook is really good at soccer and he used to play it back at the Plumbers Academy, it soon became his favorite sport after a long time of playing the game with others.

Rook has a multitude of drivers licenses which are all for being legally able to drive across certain planets/galaxies. (It took him longer to get his earth driver's license than the rest of his licenses.)

Rook's usual choices of food are very healthy (due to him needing to keep in shape for his job), however he will occasionally get himself a meatball sub as a treat.

Rook cannot use contractions as it is considered rude and uncouth in Revonnahgander culture. (If I ever forget this detail, please correct me.)

[sixthear]

Russian Classics Aesthetic

bold/italicize whatever applies the most to your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV : orthodox monasteries, deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth, a crowd of people dressed in black, distant murmurs, emptied streets, the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT : coldness of the skin against a blade, slender fingers and slightly shaking hands, a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor, the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table, listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats, too many stairs, the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word.

THE IDIOT : classical statues, wealth covered with dust, a dark house tainted with inherited madness, an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park, useless chatter, a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench, a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book, the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky.

ANNA KARENINA : fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains, the sensation of velvet against skin, pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE : a glass of wine, the brightness of a crystal chandelier, white lace, a raging snow storm, the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room, indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries, a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA : the chaos of a lively city, ambient jazz in expensive restaurants, jumping on a moving tram, the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window, shelves stacked with books, a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky, laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN : a lonely mansion, reading a book in the parlor, faint piano melody lingering in falling silence, long evenings, passing seasons, discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame, quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded, bright mornings, footprints in snow, a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS : birch groves, morning mist, moss-covered stones near a moor, scientific books, white roses, cheap champagne, shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata, freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO : a strange feeling of loss, writing poems in a diary, traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon, a scarf brightly embellished with flowers, a glass of water, a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD : a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar, the unsettling need for change, a mirror reflecting full moon, the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune.

[sunluzhen]

Russian Classics Aesthetic

bold/italicize whatever applies the most to your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV : orthodox monasteries,  deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth,  a crowd of people dressed in black,  distant murmurs, emptied streets,  the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT : coldness of the skin against a blade, slender fingers and slightly shaking hands,  a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor,  the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table,  listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats,  too many stairs, the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word.

THE IDIOT : classical statues,  wealth covered with dust,  a dark house tainted with inherited madness,  an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park,  useless chatter,  a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench,  a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book,  the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky.  

ANNA KARENINA : fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains,  the sensation of velvet against skin,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE : a glass of wine,  the brightness of  a crystal chandelier,  white lace,  a raging snow storm, the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room,  indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries,  a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA : the chaos of a lively city,  ambient jazz in expensive restaurants,  jumping on a moving tram,  the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window,  shelves stacked with books,  a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky,   laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN : a lonely mansion,  reading a book in the parlor,  faint piano melody lingering in falling silence,  long evenings,  passing seasons,  discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame,  quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded,  bright mornings, footprints in snow,  a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS : birch groves,  morning mist,  moss-covered stones near a moor, scientific books, white roses,  cheap champagne,  shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata,  freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO : a strange feeling of loss,  writing poems in a diary,  traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon,  a scarf brightly embellished with flowers,  a glass of water,  a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD : a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar,  the unsettling need for change,  a mirror reflecting full moon,  the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune.

[amoirsetpacis]

Russian Classics Aesthetic

Bold/italicize whatever applies to / attracts your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV : orthodox monasteries,  deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth,  a crowd of people dressed in black,  distant murmurs, emptied streets,  the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT : coldness of the skin against a blade, slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands,  a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor,  the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table,  listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats,  too many stairs,  the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word.

THE IDIOT : classical statues,  wealth covered with dust,  a dark house tainted with inherited madness,  an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park,  useless chatter,  a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench,  a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book,  the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky.  

ANNA KARENINA : fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains,  the sensation of velvet against skin,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE : a glass of wine,  the brightness of  a crystal chandelier,  white lace,  a raging snow storm, the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room,  indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries,  a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA : the chaos of a lively city,  ambient jazz in expensive restaurants,  jumping on a moving tram,  the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window,  shelves stacked with books,  a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky,   laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN : a lonely mansion,  reading a book in the parlor,  faint piano melody lingering in falling silence,  long evenings,  passing seasons,  discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame,  quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded,  bright mornings, footprints in snow,  a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS : birch groves,  morning mist,  moss-covered stones near a moor, scientific books, white roses,  cheap champagne,  shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata,  freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO : a strange feeling of loss,  writing poems in a diary,  traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon,  a scarf brightly embellished with flowers,  a glass of water,  a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD : a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar,  the unsettling need for change,  a mirror reflecting full moon,  the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune.

[merlin-made-me-bi]

Hello hello! Heard you were lonely in quarantine, so I have a question for you: How do you think the giant eagles in lotr actually fly? Like, they're big enough to carry people, and the biggest bird I know of struggles to get off the ground without a sizable canyon nearby they can yeet themselves off of.

Ooh this is a great question. So the simple, obvious answer is that it’s middle earth and the rules of science don’t apply here and it’s just Manwe with his magic. But that’s also quite boring.

Instead, I’ll show you the rabbit hole that I went down thinking about it scientifically. Also, quick disclaimer that while I do own the science and middle earth book, I haven’t read it yet, so this is all my own conjecturing.

To start, let’s put perspective on how big the eagles are weight wise and how they compare to our own birds. To figure this out, I started with looking at the average ratio of eagle weight:prey in talon weight. While most eagles carry approx 1/3 of their weight, the extreme example is the harpy eagle which can carry up to 2x its own weight depending on conditions and if you’re looking at male v female harpies since the males are much smaller (from forestwildlife.org). I’m going to stick with 1/3 for this scenario, but also keep in mind that they have capability for more if the situation demands/they have ideal conditions like open space/high speed/full extended wingspan/not needing to land to pick up whatever it’s picking up.

Now turning to The Hobbit when the eagles rescue the company. Tolkien never specifies how many eagles there are nor does he specify the number of dwarves per eagle. Meaning we have a lot of wiggle room. Since we know for a fact that one eagle carried Dori and Bilbo without seeming issue, I feel that it’s reasonable to assume that each eagle could carry one dwarf feasibly or one human/elf/maiar, and up to 2 dwarves in extenuating circumstances like in the Hobbit. So if we calculate about how much a dwarf would have weighed, we can then calculate the weight of these birds.

Which then gives the tricky question of how much do dwarves weigh. Despite being shorter (~4ft), we know that the generalization of them is that they are rather stocky and strong which would preclude them to having a heavier denser weight, and therefore I am going to assume between 150 - 230 lbs give or take based on the individual. Let’s assume that one dwarf is 200 lbs (215 with gear). That means that an eagle would be about 630 lbs, one hefty bird and twice the weight of a large ostrich).

Given what you said about larger birds benefitting from a canyon to successfully launch, I’d say that the Carrocks they eagles nested at would have suited for this need. Additionally, we can assume that the fell beasts were probably very similar in weight and they are able to lift themselves from the ground (I believe), but I do think we need to bring suspension of belief back at this point.

I hope this answered your question! I quite enjoyed spending like 2 hours on this ask poking around the internet and digging into various parts of the books.

[walaw717]

A Note to a World Struggling to Maintain its Ethics and Beauty.

In 2017 I took a long drive through the American west, and in the spring of that year drove along the Mackenzie River on the way home to New Mexico. I stopped on the road above BarryLopez's house and just allowed myself to know he might be home. It was enough to see the modesty he lived in and the beautiful place he wrote from.

Barry Lopez was famous for chronicling his travels to remote places and the landscapes he found there. But his writings weren't simply accounts of his journeys — they were reminders of how precious life on earth is, and of our responsibility to care for it. He died on Christmas Day following a years-long battle with prostate cancer

When Rose Friedman spoke to Lopez in his last year, he said he always sought to find grace in the middle of devastation.

She stated that in his studio, he had a collection of sticks, that bore the marks of little teeth. It was a lesson for Lopez. "Everyday I saw the signs of: don't lose faith in yourself," he told me.

Se also said, "When I met him at his home last year, he told me when he was feeling defeated by the work, he'd walk along the nearby McKenzie River.

""Every time I did there was a beaver stick in the water at my feet. And they're of course, they're workers. So I imagined the beaver were saying 'What the hell's wrong with you? You get back in there and do your work.'"

In September 2020, his writing room burned, and most of the forest around his home was gone. Three months later, he passed away on Christmas Day. They say he had a long illness, which is true, but I suspect he died of a broken heart. When we lose things, we deeply love the pain can kill us. I understand this because the road trip I was on in 2017 was to say goodbye to the west after I sold my small farm and gave my horses and tack to a friend. I was ill and brokenhearted from that loss for 6 years, even though I knew it was time to move on.

After I listened to his self-narrated autobiography, I developed mixed feelings about Barry Lopez. I did not find the poetry or lyricism in his writing voice I had come to love over the fifty years I read and re-read his books. He often, in his autobiography, came across as strident and condescending and, frankly, pretty judgemental and woke; there was none of the kindness or humility I found in his other books. For two years after hearing him in his own voice, I was not able to approach his work.

But we make a mistake in thinking that the author of anything actually shows up in their writing. In the renaissance, all writing was attributed to the muse and not the writer, and genius referred to the spirit that worked through you, not how smart you personally were - a much more humble way to see things. Understanding that I made peace and recently returned to his "genius's" wisdom.

I have been told by many of my more scientific friends they dislike Lopez. I think the dislike of Lopez has as much to do with their own materialism as it does with what he says.

Lopez was not a materialist; he was foremost a spiritualist and ethicist and spoke to that part of me (the counselor, the psychologist, and the healer) that is also grounded in ethics and the spiritual life. Both ethics and spirituality are about relationships, and only in relationships do we find healing.

Lopez always spoke about the loss of ethics in the industrial and commercial culture and how a lack of a moral worldview kills as fast as the materialist worldview we mistakenly call science. We forget that science is a method of asking questions and is rooted in the desire to understand a God we don't simply "believe" in but actually know. Materialism turns everything it sees into an object for our consumption, and in the end, as we consume, we become consumed.

My farm was in the middle of oil fracking country, and I saw firsthand that Materialists are like rapists - they use you, damage you, and really do not care because, in the end, they got what they wanted - more wealth and power. It is not just the oil industry that is materialist; however, our entire way of life is based upon materialism and acquisition, failing to see our relationship with the whole. Soon, we will extend that materialism to other planets.

We need people like Barry Lopez to remind us to live ethically and beautifully. We need people like him to remind us that the world is part of our personal story and that we are part of the whole and how we treat the world is, in the end, how we treat ourselves. He reminds us that we must see and live ethically to return the world we borrow from our great-great-great-grandchildren as good and healthy as we wound it, better if we understand that better is to heal the industrial consumerism of our own ancestors. What he gave me in his writing allows me to forgive the arrogance and stridency of his voice in his autobiography and to focus on the beauty we are destroying with every stroke of the pen of hedge fund parasites, politicians, and economists.

"While writing about the landscape often begins in the aesthetic, it must always tend to the ethical. I later realized that Lopez’s intense attentiveness was a form of moral gaze, born of his belief that if we attend more closely to something, then we are less likely to act selfishly towards it. " —Robert Macfarlane.

Below is a picture of the room from which he wrote to us so beautifully.

Read his books; they are beautiful in a world that is struggling to maintain its ethics and beauty.

Like

Comment

Share

[hansolmates]

jjk; angel’s trumpet [04]

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, mentions of smut in future chapters w.c; 5k a/n; lot of angst in this one!! if your heart aches i urge u to do what i do and hug some stuffies (my current fav stuffie is my bt21baby cooky) i hope u enjoy more of w1!jk, ty for all the love pls share and like if you enjoy!  

[03] [04] [05] -> masterpost

W1. 

Jungkook is strongly advised not to visit you. 

Jungkook has been strongly advised over the past two weeks not to visit you, despite the fact that visitors have been allowed since two days ago considering the fact that you are confirmed comatose. 

A coma. You’re in a coma. It’s weird how much the notion echoes in Jungkook’s thoughts, constantly nudging the back of his mind like a petulant child wanting an out. He’s never met anyone who’s been in a coma before, the condition only reserved for late night melodramas and medical movies. 

And in all of those shows, the person bedridden until further notice always looks like a wreck. He feels like ripping his heart out at the thought of you with tubes and liquids going in and out of your body, face ashen and devoid of any thought other than pain. He needed to see you, to support you even if you didn’t know. 

After days of persistence and Namjoon’s inability to say no to Jungkook, Namjoon agreed to let Jungkook swing by the hospital after his solo recordings. He couldn’t get there fast enough, knowing Namjoon is already there and probably taking care of you. 

He takes slow steps to your room, as if trudging through a sea of molasses. Careful to not let his combat boots strike the linoleum, he catches the tail end of a conversation. Your room is large enough for two patients, but so far you’re the only one checked in. There are three other people in your room, concealed by a thin curtain revealing them as shadows. Jungkook lingers behind, staring intently at the shadow of your figure laying in bed. 

“How inhiberated was your friend the night of the incident?” Jungkook’s presuming it’s your nurse, going over protocol. 

The second voice is Sehlyung, the bubbly coordinator who immediately befriended you the week you got hired. Her voice is no longer chipper, but strained and weak, as if she’s been crying for days. 

“I don’t know exactly how much,” she sniffs, “but it was a lot. She had a rough day, I—I just wanted to help her forget a little,” her soft cries reverberate throughout the white-walled room. “I should’ve, I should’ve helped her upstairs. I knew how messed up she was and I left her alone!” 

Jungkook’s fists clench beneath his hoodie, familiar moisture creeping into his eyes. 

Sehlyung’s words felt like a jab to his form, already aching at the wounds in his own heart. It isn’t the answer the nurse wants, but it seems like the poor woman has been holding in a lot of pent up stress. Namjoon’s trying to placate her, and Jungkook can see the way he’s patting your friend’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “No one’s blaming you, so please don’t blame yourself,” Namjoon’s words are like a balm to the proverbial wound, “Nurse, is it possible to project how long it’ll take until she wakes up?” 

“Hard to say,” your nurse replies, and has the decency to sound sad, “it could be weeks, or even months. Judging by her high amount of brain activity however, she’s predicted to awake with very minimal brain damage.” 

Brain damage? 

“Eventually her insurance will run out however, the longer we need to sustain her will depend on how much her cosigner—”

“Money will not be an issue,” Namjoon cuts in smoothly, almost sounding insulted that the nurse would even bring up such a thing. “We can’t put a price on our precious friend’s life.” 

As much as Namjoon’s words alleviated Jungkook’s initial anxieties, the question still stands. Will you come out of this the same person you left? How long will that take, weeks, months, years? He’s extensively Googled before this, reading way too many WebMD articles that he probably shouldn’t have, effectively skewing his perception on the matter. 

He fiddles with his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his sweater, clammy from the heat. You’re suffering, and just like Sehlyung, he’s trying very hard not to blame himself. 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

W2. 

Angel’s Trumpet  Scientific Name: Brugmansia  Order and Family: Polimonailes and Solanaceae Summary: A higher order of nightshade, the Angel’s Trumpet is a show-stopping pendulous flower that hangs like bells. In myth, they were prized as chimes holding magical properties. In modern use, Angel's Trumpets have occasionally been used to create recreational drugs, but the risk of overdose is so high that these uses often have deadly consequences.

So you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. 

You push away from your MacBook, rolling over to your bed to mull. It’s near two in the morning, and you’ve channeled both your love for Buzzfeed Unsolved and your poster making skills in order to construct The Timeline. 

Using your somewhat solid memory from the past two weeks and Hoseok’s own timeline from his daycare shift, you spent the entire night plotting as to why you’re in W2 and how you can leave. 

Your plan of action is minimal, definitively so because there are no leads other than Sehlyung’s wine dealer, and Jungkook. 

Something must’ve been in the angel’s wine, something dangerous. You remember the sky flickering that night, wondering if you were hallucinating or very drunk. Scientifically speaking however, if you really are under the influence of this flower, the hallucinogens should’ve left your body by now. 

Unless it’s magic that brought you to this world. As absurd as it is, the notion of magic gets easier and easier to cite as the days go on. 

And if it is some form of magic, something tells you that Jungkook has something to do with it. But why? 

One: Jungkook’s birth flower, you muse. You think back to how vivid the ink appeared on Jungkook’s skin, how precious the design meant to him. It made you think back to your Jungkook, who couldn’t stop fidgeting as he was so excited to get some serious ink done when visiting a friend in Jeju island. How bright his face glowed after it healed and how proud he was to show it off. 

Two: The last thing Jungkook said to you. How coincidental must it be for him to specifically cite your relationship could work in “another world”? 

You’re definitely overheating your brain at this point, and you trudge yourself out of bed to make something to eat. If you were going to spiral, you were going to spiral with a full stomach. 

The pot as the water starts to boil, crackling and bubbling angrily because you are impatient and cranked up the heat to high. An open ramen block sits on the counter, ready to be softened. Suddenly, the door unclicks and you point your fork at the door. Panic fills you, wondering who could be visiting at this hour. 

“Home sweet home!” Taehyung cries, swinging the door open so hard that it reverbs and hits him in the forehead. However he is unfettered, flashing you a toothy smile as he dumps his luggage at his feet. “Care to open another ramen packet for me, roomie?” 

You lower your fork, remembering that Taehyung’s due to come back sometime this week. “Welcome back,” you exhale, forcing a smile as you watch Taehyung arrange his mess in a corner, “did you have a good trip?” 

“Yeah, Busan’s nice,” he replies easily, dumping his body on the couch. He looks the same, shaggy brown-black hair and mischievous chocolate eyes. He still has an affinity for earth tones and long coats that make his shoulders look good. Despite the fact that you always expect that their counterparts will look alike, it baffles you how easy it is to forget you’re not in your world. “What about you? Why’re up so late?” 

“My thesis was bugging me,” you lie easily, “I’m gonna work on it in the library tomorrow.”

“Ah, is that why you’ve been ignoring Jimin’s texts?” 

You stop swirling the noodles in your pot, looking up from your spot at the counter. “He told you?” 

Truth be told, you haven’t been exactly comfortable conversing with Jimin. You feel a little bad if your alternate self had a thing for the young man, but you know in your heart you definitely did not hold any romantic or sexual attraction towards him. 

“Duh. You’ve hurt his heart.” 

You scoff, dividing the pale yellow noodles and soup between two bowls. “Jimin’s a big baby, that’s why.” 

“C’mon, you love that big baby,” Taehyung jests, “have lunch with us tomorrow during his break,” his eyes are glued to the bowls in your hands, as you carefully walk over to place them on the coffee table. Like an eager puppy, he scrambles off the couch and onto the floor, joining you in your meal. 

You bite back a sigh, stuffing your face with hot noodles to give yourself some time. It still grossed you out that you supposedly hooked up with Jimin on the regular, but at the possibility that you were potentially messing up your alternate universes’ life still held you back for telling Jimin to kindly stop sending dick pics. 

“If you pick me up from the library tomorrow I’ll come,” you concede, “just don’t make it weird, okay? I’ve had a hard week.” 

“Done,” and that became that. 

Taehyung and you cite the silence as being exhausted from today’s events, and you two quickly scarfed down your meal and headed off to bed. Another day gone, and another day longer it takes for you to return to your world. 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

“Your life’s totally an anime movie,” 

As much as you love Hoseok’s support, the fact that he’s so excited is a little unnerving. 

“You’re like an alien! Or Phil of the Future who’s trying to get back to his timeline!” 

“Hoseok…” 

“Right, right. Sorry. But think about it,” he jabs a finger in your notebook, citing the pastel pink sticky note where it’s crossed out. “If you fall in love with W2 Jungkook like W1 Jungkook implied, it’ll fulfill your prophecy and you can go back home! And then when you go back home, W1 Jungkook will realize he was being a pussy and then grovel at your knees for forgiveness and—”

“Please stop,” your head is throbbing. The fact that you’re talking about two Jungkooks is terrifying, because it was hard enough for you to handle one Jungkook on their own. “Even so, what’s to say that Jungkook and I really aren’t meant to be? It’s not like W1 Jungkook was wrong. He has a busy life and I know a romantic relationship could add extra stress on him.” 

A little part of you felt good to tell another person about your struggles between Jungkook and yours’ unnamed relationship. Of course, you had to catch yourself sometimes when you delve a little too much. Hoseok after all, doesn’t know either Jungkook. You also forget yourself, often muttering a variant of  “shut up Hobi you absolute Fruit Loop” when Hoseok gets too giddy. The Hoesok next to you is still just as new of a friend, not this co-worker you’ve spent the better half of two years with. 

But back to his theory, while there was no symbolic chime that signaled the start, it grew into a slow, easy love, at least for you. As your and Jungkook’s feelings grew, the more your panic bubbled to the surface. Was it a risk you were both willing to take? Evidently not, from the way Jungkook had slammed the door in your face. 

Another reason why you’re hesitant to test the falling in love theory—it’s too easy to fall in love with Jungkook all over again. It scares you. Without his music career in the way, what’s stopping you? 

Hoseok squeezes your hand at the way you stare so intently into your timeline, sending you a tender smile, “Don’t think so hard. Even so, a little date won’t hurt, right?” he whispers, picking up his things, “text me if anything happens. My kids are coming soon.”

You give him a halfhearted wave, leaving him to his shift at the daycare. You were so engrossed with the influx of information yesterday that you failed to ask Jungkook for his phone number. This meant that you had to do some intense social media stalking in order to find him. If he’s anything like W1 Jungkook, you’re going to have a hard time finding any updates from him.

“Excuse me? Professor?” 

Tilting your head from your notepad, you notice an undergrad had replaced the seat that Hoseok previously occupied. She’s a pretty thing, with long raven black hair and almond shaped eyes. You suddenly feel very ratty and underdressed as a professor, the leggings and oversized sweater with a questionable stain really giving off baked-potato vibes. 

“Do… yeon?” you say, remembering her from an email thread you sent a while ago. 

She beams, “Yeah! I’m so glad I found you. I know Professor Kim said he’d be absorbing your classes since you’re on leave, but I really need help with my final draft. Professor Kim tried to help me and…” 

“Let me guess,” you smirk, “his thoughts were way too convoluted and you need me to get straight to the point.” 

Doyeon snaps her fingers, “Exactly!” 

While apprehensive with medical knowledge, you can still find confidence in your essay grading skills. You spend the next half hour looking over Doyeon’s paper, pointing out how things she could improve on or articles she could cite. Soon enough, Doyeon texted two other members for her study group, saying that it’s a once-in-a-semester-offer to get some time with you. 

And you’re baffled at how easy it is to fall into this professor role. It makes you believe that if you really wanted to, being a professor would also be a perfect job for you. The students are buzzing around your table, excitedly whispering how happy they are to work with you after so long, and that they miss the way you teach your lectures. For two blissful hours, you forget your circumstance and keep your focus entirely on your students. 

A loud, obnoxious cough breaks you and your students out of their work bubble. Taehyung is tapping his Valentino loafers impatiently, holding a very large back of what seemed to be you and Jimin’s lunch. 

“Sorry kiddos,” Taehyung sing songs, already stuffing your work stuff in your bag, “she promised to go out and have lunch with mature adults.” 

“We’re literally like, a couple years younger than you,” Chan scrunches his face, sending you a pleading look. 

“Sorry Chan, I did say I was going to have lunch,” you concede, “but please email me if you have any more questions. Otherwise, you’re right on track!” 

You wave at the thankful students happily, and Taehyung literally has to drag you out by the arm and shove him into his Uber before you could relent. 

“Damn girl,” Taehyung chuckles, relieved to finally get you out of the library, “you didn’t hear me the first three times I was calling you. Chan looked like he was about to rip my head off!” 

You shrug lightly, “What can I say, the time really flew with them.” 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

What a coincidence, you’re in the same place he is, again. More specifically, his new workplace. 

How is it possible that you have so many handsome friends? Jungkook is baffled by the way Park Jimin and the dark-haired friend feed you fries like you’re their precious daughter. In response, you scrunch up your nose and push them off, instead deciding to shove five fries in your mouth all at once. 

As much as he wanted to ask you out since you admired his tattoos yesterday, he can’t find it in him to go up and interrupt your lunch. Besides, he has work and he doesn’t want to complicate things if Jimin finds out he was the one responsible for nearly running you over the other day. 

If he walks fast enough, he can avoid any awkward interaction and make it to his office so he can give the day’s full report—

“Jungkook! Get your cute butt over here and meet my friends!” 

Crap. 

Trying not to glare daggers at his new co-worker, he places a thin smile on his face as he moves to your table in the corner of the cafeteria. He lets Jimin give the whole spiel on how he hired him, and Jungkook decides to hover awkwardly while the rest of you are sitting. The sun filters its way through the windows and bleeds brightly onto your body, making his throat dry and constrict in awe. Your expression is definitely more positive since that time at the library, and he wonders what he has to do to reach that level of contentment you’re sporting. 

“Guys, this is Jungkook. I just hired him last week. He’s like my son.” 

“Ewh,” the dark haired guy upturns his nose. “But hi, I’m Taehyung.” 

While Jimin goes into detail about how amazing he found his work, he can’t help but notice the fond smile that melts upon your face as you listen intently to Jimin. Jungkook wants to archive that expression on your face and save it to memory, the way you look so pretty with your chin nestled in your hand, turning your head slightly to gaze at him with a look of what—pride? Affection? 

“You sound like quite the artist,” you muse, “I would love to see some of your work if Jimin says it’s that good.” 

He rubs his head bashfully, clutching the camera hanging on his chest like an anchor. “Oh no, I’m just starting out,” he replies shyly, although he would be lying if he said he didn’t crave the attention you were bestowing on him. 

“He’s actually going out to Dongdaemun to get some stuff done for his portfolio,” Jimin pipes up, “hopefully get some good content for the commercial he’s filming.” 

“Oh, do you mind if I tag along?” you ask, picking at a hangnail, “I’ve always been so curious about the producing process.” 

Jungkook’s eyes dart between Jimin and his friend, noticing the telepathic conversation they’re exchanging between you two. Jungkook’s palms start to sweat, not because Jimin definitely wants to probe, but because you made the first move. You pay no mind to the boys, nonchalantly pushing in your chair as you practically float to Jungkook’s side. 

“Wait,” Taehyung recovers first, “you know him?” 

You agree with a vague wave of your hand, “we work in the same area.” 

Jungkook knows for a fact that’s not true, as you only started appearing in his life when he almost knocked you out. But Jungkook can only nod like a bobblehead, not wanting to get into the nitty-gritty. 

“I promise to stay out of your way,” you say, “but don’t feel pressured if you don’t want me to go at all!” 

“No no, I want you to come!” and Jungkook raises his voice a little too high to be deemed mannerly, and he watches you step back a bit at the sudden intrusion. His face is on fire, especially when there’s a little smirk grazing your lips. 

“Well if you want me, you’ll have me.” you flirt, gesturing for him to take the lead. 

Jimin and Taehyung’s faces have fallen flat. There’s a stray bit of limp lettuce hanging sadly  from Jimin’s lip as he watches Jungkook escort you out of the building. Meanwhile, Jungkook is swallowing the biggest smile on his face. He’s going to spend the rest of the day with you. He doesn’t know if he’s going to get a decent shot in because you’re a definite distraction, but it’s totally worth it if he can get to know you a little better. 

You mention that you haven’t walked around Seoul in a while. Jungkook wants to ask more about it, but as open as you display yourself, there’s definitely something guarding you. Jungkook wants to chalk it up behind the whole fiasco of mistaking him for someone else the other day, so he doesn’t want to step on those eggshells again. 

But Jungkook is here to work. So he tells you to walk on and lead the way to Dongdaemun while he gets ample footage of the city. 

He’s taking pictures of you along the way, but he decides to leave that part out. He likes the way your long red dress swishes in the breeze, the tail end of the fabric brushing against his legs whenever he gets too close. 

You stop in front of a pet store, face glowing as you point to their aquarium tank. “Look!” you cry, tugging his sleeve over as if you’re long lost friends, “it’s my boi Nemo!”

He cracks up at your joke, as you excitedly shout to Jungkook that “you found your son!” and it spurs him on to continue his peals of laughter. The joke isn’t that funny but it’s humorous enough coming from you and the smile on your face is enough for him to return one equally as big. 

“C’mon,” his fingers brush over the bare skin of  your forearm, sending sparks straight to his heart, “it’s getting dark. Just keep swimming.” 

Jungkook manages to get some good sunset content before the sky turns navy. He’s not a big fan of photographic tourism spots, but Jimin insisted that the big boss wanted a specific style for their company and he needed to get used to making the usual seem unique. 

Looking over his shoulder, he sees you swinging your legs on a nearby bench. You’re munching on a bubble waffle, cheeks puffed as you concentrate on the Cheonggyecheon stream, water babbling. 

He’s about to ask you if you want him to take a picture of you, because he thinks you would look beautiful with your dress billowing as you hop over the stones, but he notices the sadness in your face as you gaze at the water. 

Lowering his camera, he sees the way your chewing slows, as if you don’t feel like putting anymore effort in the action. Your dimmed gaze seems to peer into a different world, as if you could dive right into the water and transport yourself far, far away from here. 

Jungkook takes tentative steps, crouching down from your space at the bench so he would have to look up at you. His hand hovers to balance himself on your thigh, but he thinks better of it and decides to hold onto the wood. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He doesn’t comment on the strain in your smile, “Sure.” 

“Do I remind you of y’know, him? Your Jungkook?” 

Your smile increases, and he doesn’t expect it. Shifting over, you pat the space next to him. It’s a tight fit, and your thighs brush his. “Yes and no. It doesn’t hurt or anything, really,” you answer softly, and you reach for his hand, pulling the long sleeves apart to reveal his tiger lily tattoo. He doesn’t believe your excuse for a damn second, but decides better than to speak against you. “He’s still around, even if he isn’t here. I guess I was just thinking about how we could never go out like this.” 

He tenses under your ministrations, and you immediately pick up on it like a sixth sense. “I’m not trying to replace him,” you add, and he tries to relax as you trace the petals on his arm, “I’m sorry if you felt that way. But it’s... impossible to compare you to him, really.” 

“So, would you be interested in seeing me again?” 

“I’d be upset if you weren’t, Kook.” you manage to pout, and you slide your hand down to thread your fingers between his. “Can I take you out on a date?” 

“Only if I can take you out on one after.” 

And it’s easy for the both of you to forget your circumstances, at least for tonight. 

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

Jungkook drops you off at your apartment soon after, and it feels nice to kick off your shoes and place your bare feet on your soft carpet. 

Your roommate’s feet are propped up, covered by a fuzzy grapefruit-colored blanket. Taehyung stretches his head from the couch to throw you a teasing smile, “Sooo, how was your night?” 

Instead, you point a finger at the flatscreen playing some Korean drama. “Is that Jin?” you balk.

Taehyung cranes his neck to where he paused the drama. The man on the screen is definitely Kim Seokjin, judging from the plush lips and irritatingly symmetrical face. He looks absolutely comical in his Joseon get up and mustache, and you’re not surprised that he made it to the acting industry. 

“Kim Seokjin? Yeahhhh,” Taehyung melts, relaxing into the couch, “that man is so fine I just want him to bend me over that little well and—”

You physically gag, causing Taehyung to break into peals of laughter, forgetting about his fruitless celebrity crush. Only you would never forget this interaction, the words currently searing  into your memory at the thought of seeing Seokjin and Taehyung in the same room when you manage to return. “So?” he goads, “Jungkook? He looked like a scared bunny when Jimin glared at him.” 

“It was… good,” you settle as an answer, reaching over to ruffle Taehyung’s messy bed head. “I like him, Tae.” 

“That’s good,” Taehyung nods, “you deserve more happiness in your life.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so!” Taehyung jerks up, punching his fist in the air. You giggle at his antics, and he ushers you over to the couch, “good things are coming, y/n. I can feel it.” 

You don’t tell him, but you can feel it too. Sharing his blanket you snuggle further into the couch, asking questions about the famous actor Kim Seokjin and his litany of dramas he’s filmed under his belt. Tonight, falling asleep next to Taehyung, you have the best night’s sleep in weeks.

•━━━━━━»•»💮💮💮«•«━━•••

W1. 

Jungkook sits in your sickness. 

Namjoon says he doesn’t have to, doesn’t need to stay the night. You’ll be fine, your family will come in the morning and care for you. For once, Jungkook tucks his tail and says he wants to, even compromises to bring his work so he doesn’t miss a deadline. 

But he can barely get a bar in because he’s too focused on you, your form all-encompassing as he makes sure you’re well-taken care of. Sehlyung dropped off your things from the apartment, carefully packed neatly in a duffle bag you’ve never used. 

Soft, lo-fi hip hop plays from his computer speakers as he takes the time to nurture you, care for you. It’s dark outside, the only light emanating from the hallway and a dim desk lamp. He’s done his research, making sure to keep you as clean as you would like to be. He brushes your hair, takes the time to remove the tangles and pin it out of your face. His hands are slightly greasy when he’s done, and his hand falls to your hospital sleeve. 

“I wonder how I should wash your hair,” he says aloud, “maybe I can get a small basin or something? It’s not the first time I washed your hair, remember when you sprained your arm after we snuck around in Dongdaemun?” he smiles at your peaceful expression, neutral, “you were such a baby, didn’t feel like shampooing with one hand.” 

Talking is also good, too. They say that sometimes the patient can hear and recall conversations family and friends have shared. It’s a little jarring to them, almost like they’re drowning in their heads and unable to bubble up to the surface to reply, but it’s still reassuring to hear familiar voices. 

He massages your limbs with lavender scented baby lotion, making sure your body isn’t wasting away and stretches your fingers and toes. You’d have a fit if you didn’t do your whole lotion routine daily, wanting to be soft and huggable at all times of the day. He puts on a pair of pink bunny socks, making sure your feet don’t get too cold in the sterile room. 

Running out of things to talk about, he settles for singing along to his playlist, knowing how much you loved to fall asleep to the sound of his voice. He’s tired and he doesn’t feel one-hundred percent, but he hopes you appreciate the sentiment either way. 

Weaving through the wires and cords that sustain you he places your hand in his larger one. Jungkook wishes he could care for you everyday like this, treat your body like a temple and wait for you to wake up. Resting his head on the mattress, his soft locks brush against your thigh unkempt as he focuses on tracing words on your palm. 

Lavender. Chicken. Netflix. 

Your nurse steps in, giving Jungkook a polite wave as she does her nightly rounds. He mumbles a half-hearted greeting in response, immersed in working between the lines on your soft skin as he traces character by character. Your nurse is quick with her work as she checks things off on her iPad and checks the machines that keep them informed. As if she’s intruding on an intimate moment, she types her findings faster. 

JK. y/n. Still with you. Sorry. Love. 

Your hand twitches in his grasp. It’s minuscule, a brief curl of your fingers. The pad of your thumb barely brushes his knuckle and Jungkook’s reeling. It’s only half a second, but Jungkook cries “whoa!” and sits up straight, startling your nurse, “she’s moving!” 

Your nurse smiles sadly at the sparkles of hope in his eyes. “It’s only muscle spasms, Jungkook. It happens sometimes,” and she catches herself before Jungkook’s shoulders deflate and sink into the floor, “but see her eyes?” 

He blinks, watching as the nurse gestures to your face. She’s right, your eyes are movie, flickering back and forth. Your lids may not be open, but the movement is there.

“She’s either dreaming or really listening to you, Jungkook,” your nurse murmurs fondly, “make sure you keep her entertained, being in a coma is awfully boring.” 

Jungkook thanks her, sending a terse smile as she whisks herself away. He squeezes your hand firmly, wishing you would give him another sign. He feels like he’s chasing you now, reaching out to you, talking to you in hopes you’ll reply. It’s ironic, considering this time he’s not sure if you’ll turn around this time, bounce back as you once were. 

Wiping the wetness from his eyes, he tucks you in and scoots his chair closer to your bed. “Wake up soon, yeah? We’re waiting for you,” he whispers, holding your hand next to his head as he tries to fall asleep. 

Tonight, he’s dreamless. 

[sangreluxuria-moved]

𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔰 𝔞𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔠.

rules: bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies to them.

𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔨𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔞𝔷𝔬𝔳: orthodox monasteries. deep woods. starry nights. the sound of paper being torn. dimly lit rooms. withered roses. an unfinished letter. piles of books. the sound of shattering glass. ticking of clocks in a silent house. heavy wooden furniture. the air before a storm. the smell of earth. a crowd of people dressed in black. distant murmurs. emptied streets. the fear of walking alone in dusk.

𝔠𝔯𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱: coldness of the skin against a blade. slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands. a red stain blooming on white fabric. lonely steps in a corridor. the slow dripping of water. looking out of the window into the thickening darkness. a single dying candle on the table. listening to one's breath and counting heartbeats. too many stairs. the desire to be invisible. a subtle memory of kind words.

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔦𝔡𝔦𝔬𝔱: classical statues. wealth covered with dust. a dark house tainted with inherited madness. an unsettling feeling. long walks in a park. useless chatter. a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench. a melancholic face. an unexpected spring rain. the joy of reading one's favorite book. the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around. looking at cloudless sky.

𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔨𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔞: fields of crops. flowers brought from an early morning walk. the wind caressing a girl's hair. a bowl of fruit. the smell of ripe pears. the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea. children's laughter coming from the garden. soft sunlight and white curtains. the sensation of velvet against skin. pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor. a sudden silence in a room full of people.

𝔴𝔞𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔢: a glass of wine. the brightness of a crystal chandelier. white lace. a raging snow storm. the sound of a door being gently closed. the moment of holding one's breath before walking in a ball room. indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light. the sound of a saber being drawn. closing one's eyes for a moment while dancing. the sweet smell of strawberries. a pair of gloves left on an armchair. light scent of powder.

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔞: the chaos of a lively city. ambient jazz in expensive restaurants. jumping on off a moving tram. the sight of moscow from the roof of a house. yellow flowers in a vase. leaning out of the window. shelves stacked with books. a small tin box with old photographs. strange shapes in the night sky. laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony. colorful posters for a surreptitious magician's show floating in the wind.

𝔢𝔲𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔤𝔦𝔫: a lonely mansion. reading a book in the parlor. faint piano melody lingering in falling silence. long evenings. passing seasons. discussing french novels of the moment. unspoken thoughts. leaning against the door frame. quickly averted glance. eating a peach absent-minded. bright mornings. footprints in snow. a loud gunshot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

𝔞 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔬 𝔬𝔣 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢: byronic boredom. getting up late in the afternoon. the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence. shakespeare's tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast. cigarette smoke. polished boots. walking with one's coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone. carved wooden chair. fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening. the thought of farewell.

𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔰: birch groves. morning mist. moss covered stones near a moor. scientific books. white roses. cheap champagne. shabby pocket-watch. light-hearted irony. a maladroit cello sonata. freshly mowed grass. leaving thoughts come and go. a slow yawn. picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes. drinking tea on the porch. longing for the future.

𝔡𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔬𝔯 𝔷𝔥𝔦𝔳𝔞𝔤𝔬: a strange feeling of loss. writing poems in a diary. traveling by train. the hesitation before touching someone's hand. the gaze of one lost in thought. the warmth of cinnamon. a scarf brightly embellished with flowers. a glass of water. two people listening each on the other side of the door. a threadbare jacket. the tempting void. the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔰: horses in a merry gallop. delicious smells mingled. grotesque and bizarre tragedy. luxurious attire. cheap soul. masks. a perfumed love letter. the triumph of sarcasm. an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road. the atmosphere of commedia dell'arte. puzzling speeches. a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief.

𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔡: a lone chair in an empty room. falling blossoms. old samovar. the unsettling need for change. a mirror reflecting full moon. the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance. a piano out of tune.

TAGGED BY: @marblecarved , thank you my love ! <3 TAGGING: @iudicatus / @inprecatio , @ahtlas , @laender , @dolket , @sh221 , @bayoeu , @kindeer , & you ! steal this from me & i’ll vouch !

[ultfan]

RUSSIAN CLASSICS AESTHETICS.

BOLD whatever applies to / attracts your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV :   orthodox monasteries ,   deep woods ,   starry nights,  the sound of paper being torn   ,   dimly lit rooms ,   withered roses   ,  an unfinished letter,    piles of books   , the sound of shattering glass ,  ticking of clocks in a silent house ,  heavy wooden furniture  ,   the air before a storm   ,    the smell of earth   ,   a crowd of people dressed in black  ,  distant murmurs  ,    emptied streets  ,   the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT :  coldness of the skin against a blade ,   slender pale fingers   &   slightly shaking hands   ,   a red stain blooming on white fabric   ,    lonely steps in a corridor   ,  the slow dripping of water   ,   looking out of the window into the thickening darkness   , a single dying candle on the table   ,   listening to one’s breath   &   counting heartbeats  ,  too many stairs   ,   the desire to be invisible   ,   a subtle memory of kind words.

THE IDIOT :   classical statues   ,   wealth covered with dust   ,   a dark house tainted with inherited madness   ,  an unsettling feeling ,  long walks in a park   ,   useless chatter   ,   a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench   ,   a melancholic face   ,   an unexpected spring rain   ,   the joy of reading one’s favorite book  ,   the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around   ,    looking at cloudless sky.

ANNA KARENINA :      fields of crops  ,   flowers brought from an early morning walk   ,  the wind caressing a girl’s hair   ,   a bowl of fruit ,   the smell of ripe pears ,   the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea   ,   children’s laughter coming from the garden   ,  soft sunlight   &   white curtains ,   the sensation of velvet against skin  ,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor   ,    a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE :   a glass of wine , the brightness of  a crystal chandelier ,  white lace   ,  a raging snow storm   ,  the sound of a door being gently closed ,   the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room ,   indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light   , closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing ,   the sweet smell of strawberries  ,   a pair of gloves left on an armchair ,   light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA  :   the chaos of a lively city ,   ambient jazz in expensive restaurants   ,   jumping on a moving tram ,    the sight of moscow from the roof of a house   ,   yellow flowers in a vase ,  leaning out of the window  ,    shelves stacked with books   ,   a small tin box with old photographs   ,   strange shapes in the night sky   ,   laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony   ,   colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN  :   a lonely mansion   ,   reading a book in the parlour   ,   faint piano melody lingering in falling silence ,   long evenings  ,   passing seasons   ,  discussing french novels of the moment   , unspoken thoughts  ,   leaning against the door frame  ,  quickly averted glance  , eating a peach absent-minded   ,   bright mornings   ,   footprints in snow   ,   a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS :   birch groves   ,  morning mist ,   moss-covered stones near a moor   ,   scientific books   ,   white roses ,   cheap champagne   ,   shabby pocket-watch  ,  light-hearted irony   ,  a maladroit cello sonata   ,   freshly mowed grass   ,  letting thoughts come   &   go   ,   a slow yawn   ,   picturesque plates   &   bowls filled with traditional dishes   , drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO  :   a strange feeling of loss ,  writing poems in a diary , traveling by train   ,   the hesitation before touching someone’s hand   ,   the gaze of one lost in thought ,   the warmth of cinnamon   ,   a scarf brightly embellished with flowers   ,   a glass of water  ,   a threadbare jacket  ,   the tempting void   ,   the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD  :   a lone chair in an empty room  , falling blossoms ,   old samovar   ,   the unsettling need for change  ,  a mirror reflecting full moon   ,   the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance   ,   a piano out of tune.

[marblecarved-aa]

russian classics aesthetic.

rules: bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies to them.

brothers karamazov: orthodox monasteries. deep woods. starry nights. the sound of paper being torn. dimly lit rooms. withered roses. an unfinished letter. piles of books. the sound of shattering glass. ticking of clocks in a silent house. heavy wooden furniture. the air before a storm. the smell of earth. a crowd of people dressed in black. distant murmurs. emptied streets. the fear of walking alone in dusk.

crime and punishment: coldness of the skin against a blade. slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands. a red stain blooming on white fabric. lonely steps in a corridor. the slow dripping of water. looking out of the window into the thickening darkness. a single dying candle on the table. listening to one's breath and counting heartbeats. too many stairs. the desire to be invisible. a subtle memory of kind words.

the idiot: classical statues. wealth covered with dust. a dark house tainted with inherited madness. an unsettling feeling. long walks in a park. useless chatter. a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench. a melancholic face. an unexpected spring rain. the joy of reading one's favorite book. the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around. looking at cloudless sky.

anna karenina: fields of crops. flowers brought from an early morning walk. the wind caressing a girl's hair. a bowl of fruit. the smell of ripe pears. the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea. children's laughter coming from the garden. soft sunlight and white curtains. the sensation of velvet against skin. pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor. a sudden silence in a room full of people.

war and peace. a glass of wine: the brightness of a crystal chandelier. white lace. a raging snow storm. the sound of a door being gently closed. the moment of holding one's breath before walking in a ball room. indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light. the sound of a saber being drawn. closing one's eyes for a moment while dancing. the sweet smell of strawberries. a pair of gloves left on an armchair. light scent of powder.

the master and margarita: the chaos of a lively city. ambient jazz in expensive restaurants. jumping on off a moving tram. the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house. yellow flowers in a vase. leaning out of the window. shelves stacked with books. a small tin box with old photographs. strange shapes in the night sky. laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony. colorful posters for a surreptitious magician's show floating in the wind.

eugene onegin: a lonely mansion. reading a book in the parlor. faint piano melody lingering in falling silence. long evenings. passing seasons. discussing french novels of the moment. unspoken thoughts. leaning against the door frame. quickly averted glance. eating a peach absent-minded. bright mornings. footprints in snow. a loud gunshot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

a hero of our time: byronic boredom. getting up late in the afternoon. the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence. shakespeare's tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast. cigarette smoke. polished boots. walking with one's coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone. carved wooden chair. fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening. the thought of farewell.

fathers and sons: birch groves. morning mist. moss covered stones near a moor. scientific books. white roses. cheap champagne. shabby pocket-watch. light-hearted irony. a maladroit cello sonata. freshly mowed grass. leaving thoughts come and go. a slow yawn. picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes. drinking tea on the porch. longing for the future.

doctor zhivago: a strange feeling of loss. writing poems in a diary. traveling by train. the hesitation before touching someone's hand. the gaze of one lost in thought. the warmth of cinnamon. a scarf brightly embellished with flowers. a glass of water. two people listening each on the other side of the door. a threadbare jacket. the tempting void. the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

dead souls: horses in a merry gallop. delicious smells mingled. grotesque and bizarre tragedy. luxurious attire cheap soul. masks. a perfumed love letter. the triumph of sarcasm. an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road. the atmosphere of commedia dell'arte. puzzling speeches. a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief.

cherry orchard: a lone chair in an empty room. falling blossoms. old samovar. the unsettling need for change. a mirror reflecting full moon. the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance. a piano out of tune.

tagged by: my dash games loving self. tagging: @aleximedicus / @darktaels / @dolokhoff / @gellcrt / @proditeur / @remcmbrances / @sacramort / @sangreluxuria / @unfrgivble and you ! If you see this on your dash and would like to do it for your muse, steal it ! ♡

[hellishmoth]

RUSSIAN CLASSICS AESTHETICS.

BOLD whatever applies to or attracts your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV   :       orthodox monasteries ,   deep woods ,   starry nights ,  the sound of paper being torn ,   dimly lit rooms ,  withered roses ,  an unfinished letter , piles of books  , the sound of shattering glass , ticking of clocks in a silent house ,  heavy wooden furniture  ,   the air before a storm   ,  the smell of earth   ,   a crowd of people dressed in black , distant murmurs ,  emptied streets  ,   the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT :          coldness of the skin against a blade ,   slender pale fingers   &   slightly shaking hands   ,   a red stain blooming on white fabric   , lonely steps in a corridor   , the slow dripping of water  ,   looking out of the window into the thickening darkness ,   a single dying candle on the table ,   listening to one’s breath   &   counting heartbeats  , too many stairs   , the desire to be invisible  , a subtle memory of kind words.

THE IDIOT   :         classical statues   ,   wealth covered with dust  ,   a dark house tainted with inherited madness , an unsettling feeling ,   long walks in a park   ,   useless chatter ,   a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench   ,   a melancholic face   ,   an unexpected spring rain   ,   the joy of reading one’s favorite book , the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around , looking at cloudless sky.

ANNA KARENINA :          fields of crops  ,   flowers brought from an early morning walk   ,  the wind caressing a girl’s hair  ,   a bowl of fruit ,   the smell of ripe pears  ,   the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea   ,   children’s laughter coming from the garden   ,  soft sunlight   &   white curtains ,   the sensation of velvet against skin ,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor ,  a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE   :     a glass of wine ,   the brightness of  a crystal chandelier , white lace   , a raging snow storm   ,   the sound of a door being gently closed ,   the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room  ,   indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light   ,  closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing ,   the sweet smell of strawberries  ,   a pair of gloves left on an armchair ,   light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA   :         the chaos of a lively city ,   ambient jazz in expensive restaurants   , jumping on a moving tram , the sight of moscow from the roof of a house   , yellow flowers in a vase , leaning out of the window , shelves stacked with books  , a small tin box with old photographs   , strange shapes in the night sky , laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony  ,   colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN   :      a lonely mansion  ,   reading a book in the parlour   ,  faint piano melody lingering in falling silence ,   long evenings , passing seasons  ,   discussing french novels of the moment , unspoken thoughts ,   leaning against the door frame , quickly averted glance , eating a peach absent-minded  ,   bright mornings , footprints in snow ,   a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS :          birch groves   , morning mist ,   moss-covered stones near a moor  ,   scientific books ,   white roses , cheap champagne   ,   shabby pocket-watch  ,  light-hearted irony   ,   a maladroit cello sonata   ,   freshly mowed grass   , letting thoughts come   &   go   ,  a  slow yawn ,  picturesque plates   &   bowls filled with traditional dishes ,   drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO   :         a strange feeling of loss , writing poems in a diary ,  traveling by train  ,   the hesitation before touching someone’s hand  ,   the gaze of one lost in thought , the warmth of cinnamon  ,   a scarf brightly embellished with flowers   ,   a glass of water  ,   a threadbare jacket  ,  the tempting void ,  the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD   :       a lone chair in an empty room   , falling blossoms ,   old samovar   ,  the unsettling need for change ,   a mirror reflecting full moon  ,  the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance  ,   a piano out of tune.

tagged by:  stolen from @apostlc​ tagging: steal this

[apostlc-a]

RUSSIAN CLASSICS AESTHETICS.

BOLD whatever applies to or attracts your muse.

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV   :       orthodox monasteries ,   deep woods ,   starry nights ,  the sound of paper being torn ,   dimly lit rooms ,  withered roses ,  an unfinished letter , piles of books  , the sound of shattering glass ,  ticking of clocks in a silent house ,  heavy wooden furniture  ,   the air before a storm   ,  the smell of earth   ,   a crowd of people dressed in black , distant murmurs  ,  emptied streets  ,   the fear of walking alone in dusk.

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT :          coldness of the skin against a blade ,   slender pale fingers   &   slightly shaking hands   ,   a red stain blooming on white fabric   , lonely steps in a corridor   ,  the slow dripping of water   ,   looking out of the window into the thickening darkness ,   a single dying candle on the table ,   listening to one’s breath   &   counting heartbeats  , too many stairs   , the desire to be invisible  , a subtle memory of kind words.

THE IDIOT   :         classical statues   ,   wealth covered with dust  ,   a dark house tainted with inherited madness , an unsettling feeling ,   long walks in a park   ,   useless chatter ,   a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench   ,   a melancholic face   ,   an unexpected spring rain   ,   the joy of reading one’s favorite book , the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around , looking at cloudless sky.

ANNA KARENINA :          fields of crops  ,   flowers brought from an early morning walk   ,  the wind caressing a girl’s hair  ,   a bowl of fruit ,   the smell of ripe pears  ,   the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea   ,   children’s laughter coming from the garden   ,  soft sunlight   &   white curtains ,   the sensation of velvet against skin ,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor ,  a sudden silence in a room full of people.

WAR AND PEACE   :     a glass of wine ,   the brightness of  a crystal chandelier , white lace   , a raging snow storm   ,   the sound of a door being gently closed ,   the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room  ,   indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light   ,  closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing ,   the sweet smell of strawberries  ,   a pair of gloves left on an armchair ,   light scent of powder.

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA   :         the chaos of a lively city ,   ambient jazz in expensive restaurants   , jumping on a moving tram , the sight of moscow from the roof of a house   ,  yellow flowers in a vase , leaning out of the window  , shelves stacked with books  , a small tin box with old photographs   , strange shapes in the night sky , laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony  ,   colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

EUGENE ONEGIN   :       a lonely mansion  ,   reading a book in the parlour   ,  faint piano melody lingering in falling silence ,   long evenings , passing seasons  ,   discussing french novels of the moment , unspoken thoughts ,   leaning against the door frame , quickly averted glance , eating a peach absent-minded  ,   bright mornings  , footprints in snow ,   a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

FATHERS AND SONS :          birch groves   , morning mist ,   moss-covered stones near a moor  ,   scientific books ,   white roses , cheap champagne   ,   shabby pocket-watch  ,  light-hearted irony   ,   a maladroit cello sonata   ,   freshly mowed grass   , letting thoughts come   &   go   ,  a  slow yawn ,  picturesque plates   &   bowls filled with traditional dishes ,   drinking tea on the porch.

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO   :         a strange feeling of loss , writing poems in a diary ,  traveling by train  ,   the hesitation before touching someone’s hand   ,   the gaze of one lost in thought , the warmth of cinnamon   ,   a scarf brightly embellished with flowers   ,   a glass of water  ,   a threadbare jacket  ,  the tempting void ,  the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

CHERRY ORCHARD   :       a lone chair in an empty room   , falling blossoms ,   old samovar   ,  the unsettling need for change ,   a mirror reflecting full moon   ,  the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance  ,   a piano out of tune.

tagged by:    stole it from one of my own blogs tagging:     steal it as well

[doitwritenow]

I'd ask all 35 of the ask game, but I feel that might be a little too much. Instead, I'll choose: 2, 5, 6, 7, 12, 23, 29, 31, 33, and... oh that's way too many. Uhhh, feel free to not answer some if you feel overwhelmed. If not, go ham! I'd love to read more about your writing/writing process. :)

Oh WOW thank you! These are so fun. Hm...

2. Why do you write fanfiction?  Recently answered this one! Here’s what I said: I write fic because of the spaces between the lines of a story. The gaps and unanswered questions in canon encourage me to come up with deeper mechanics, more complicated lore, and complex character motivations in order to explain. Sometimes, one of those pieces will click into canon so well that it becomes inspiration. And then there’s nothing else to do but write! Lol. Stories are so wonderful because of what we can do with them, individually and all together, and I really like being a part of that. 

5. What’s the fic you’re most proud of? While EoI is kind of my magnum opus, I really really adore Sunrise Loves To Go Down. Something came together in that fic, some tone and some thread of style, and I am immensely proud of how it turned out. I started writing it when I had been evacuated from my house due to a wildfire, lying on a hotel bed and typing on my phone in the middle of the night, and so it felt different to write than my other works. Maybe that’s why it feels different to read, too.

6. What element of writing do you find comes easily? Easily? I have to say dialogue. It’s often my favorite part of any scene, and I love the way it determines tone and establishes character. Though it’s not my absolute favorite part of writing, I dance through dialogue scenes feeling like I’m on a caffeine high. Of course, lots of times getting dialogue right is a lot of work, but there’s an ease to it that some things don’t have. 

7. What element of writing do you struggle with most? Hnnnngk the answer is pacing. It’s pacing. I struggle to pace things. I do enjoy long projects and feel proud of my ability to commit to them, don’t get me wrong. But I’d love to get better at structuring a plot to allow for the same tone without needing an overly generous amount of words. My go-to answer with pacing is always ‘write more’, but I don’t think that’s always strictly necessary. I want to be able to use the other tools in my arsenal to tell a story that’s just as complete but even more gripping.  Me: *challenges pacing to a death battle* Me: *dies*

12. Tell us about a WIP you’re excited about. Okay so a friend and I were laughing about how funny it could be to write about what happens to Odin after Loki sticks him in a retirement home on Earth. The Mystic Artists would obviously know he was there, what with all that cosmic threat sensing bullshit, and things would devolve from there. Like, can you imagine? The Adventures of Odin Allfather and the Home for Elderly People. Series of one-shots. Each titled something like: Odin vs. Thursday Bingo. Odin vs. His Roomate. Odin vs. the Grumpy Wizard. Odin vs. the Craft Store. And slowly other characters start to show up. Ned’s grandma is in the same nursing home, and he and Odin hit it off, so obviously Ned introduces him to Peter. Stephen comes to check up on him occasionally and Odin stages the most dramatic escape attempts of all time with no real intention of going anywhere. Now I dislike Odin in canon but how comical could that be I’m serious--

23. Do you prefer prompts and challenges, or completely independent ideas? I like prompts and challenges, but generally I work best with completely independent ideas. I can’t force my one-shot muse, so whenever it strikes I buckle down and write there and then. So yeah, prompts and challenges are really fun, but the inspiration has its own plans for my hapless self.

29. Have you ever gone outside of your comfort zone for a fic? How did it turn out? Comfort zone? What comfort zone? Lol. I suppose I do have bounds of what I’m willing to write and share, but they’re not particularly limiting. Each story I write extends the limits of what I’m used to; I try not to hesitate. And most of the time, I like where things end up! 

31. Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them! OCS YES I DO HAVE OCS THANKS FOR ASKING. Most of my Marvel OCs show up in EoI or were created specifically for it. But I have some other lovelies floating around, my three favorites being: - Silas Ewyn, a necromancer detective. He’s basically a vigilante archeologist, using his abilities to interact with bones to solve the mysteries of foul play victims. Silas doesn't care about politics or reasons; all he cares about is facts and bringing voices back to the dead. In the lawless Roughs (yeah, he’s a cowboy, fight me) he takes that justice back into his own hands. Though he doesn't kill, he'll go to great lengths to punish perpetrators, and he always takes a bone of the murder to bury with the bones of the victim to ensure the victim gets their justice in the afterlife, too. Which bone depends on the severity of the murder. During one of Silas’s investigations, however, he was murdered himself. Oops. But he woke up three days later with his soul rattling around in an entirely different body with no memory of the event. The only way for him to discover the truth is if he finds his old bones and solves a whole new murder... His own.  Anyway I love him and I could talk forever about the truth behind his murder and all the details of the Roughs and everything but we’ve got a limited amount of time and I still have to tell you about: - Sohcahtoa and Pemdas! If their names look like math acronyms, that’s because they are. Sohcahtoa and Pemdas are kind of children’s comic book characters in my mind? Sohcahtoa is a superhero; she travels through the Sciverse bringing people together and solving scientific and mathematical problems between others who are concepts come to life. With her meter-stick sword and her protractor throwing star, she’s a force to be reconed with!  Pemdas is her trusty sidekick. He’s a cuttlefish with immense knowledge of operations and formulas, and Sohcahtoa keeps him in a cube on her belt. Pemdas checks her math and gives her any theorems or formulas she might need.  Lol I’m a nerd next question.

33. Is there anything you wish your audience knew about your writing or writing process? Just want to say: I’m not some sort of warlock, I promise! The reason I can post so consistently for EoI is not always because I write consistently; it’s because I have a cushion of chapters between what I’m writing and what I’m posting. Sometimes I’m completely barren of words and I can’t write for days on end, and sometimes I just fly through things in hours. But all that inconsistency balances itself out in the end and keeps the chapter cushion intact, so my readers get to see only me looking like I have everything under control. I’m just as chaotic as you, I promise.  (Prophets is not like this with the chapter cushion. I am a bad girl when it comes to Prophets. XD instant gratification is my arch nemesis.) 

Anyway! This was super fun Ish. Thanks for the ask! 

[sinitar-the-reborn]

RUSSIAN CLASSICS AESTHETICS.

BOLD whatever applies to / attracts your muse(s)

Ashan:

BROTHERS KARAMAZOV   :   orthodox monasteries ,   deep woods ,   starry nights,  the sound of paper being torn   ,   dimly lit rooms ,   withered roses   ,  an unfinished letter, piles of books   ,   the sound of shattering glass ,  ticking of clocks in a silent house ,  heavy wooden furniture  ,   the air before a storm   , the smell of earth   ,   a crowd of people dressed in black  ,  distant murmurs ,  emptied streets  ,   the fear of walking alone in dusk.

Sinitar:

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT : coldness of the skin against a blade ,   slender pale fingers   &   slightly shaking hands   ,   a red stain blooming on white fabric  , lonely steps in a corridor   ,  the slow dripping of water   ,   looking out of the window into the thickening darkness ,   a single dying candle on the table   ,   listening to one’s breath   &   counting heartbeats  ,  too many stairs   , the desire to be invisible   ,   a subtle memory of kind words.

Daliron:

THE IDIOT   :   classical statues   ,   wealth covered with dust   ,  a dark house tainted with inherited madness   ,  an unsettling feeling ,   long walks in a park   ,   useless chatter   ,   a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench   ,   a melancholic face   ,   an unexpected spring rain   ,   the joy of reading one’s favorite book  ,   the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around  , looking at cloudless sky.

Enelden:

ANNA KARENINA :      fields of crops  ,   flowers brought from an early morning walk   ,  the wind caressing a girl’s hair   ,   a bowl of fruit ,   the smell of ripe pears   ,   the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea   ,   children’s laughter coming from the garden   ,  soft sunlight   &   white curtains ,   the sensation of velvet against skin  ,  pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor   ,  a sudden silence in a room full of people.

Gudbrant:

WAR AND PEACE   :   a glass of wine ,   the brightness of  a crystal chandelier ,  white lace   ,  a raging snow storm   ,   the sound of a door being gently closed ,   the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room   ,   indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light   , closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing ,   the sweet smell of strawberries  ,   a pair of gloves left on an armchair ,   light scent of powder

King Litvak: 

THE MASTER AND MARGARITA   :    the chaos of a lively city ,   ambient jazz in expensive restaurants   , jumping on a moving tram ,    the sight of moscow from the roof of a house   , yellow flowers in a vase ,  leaning out of the window  , shelves stacked with books  , a small tin box with old photographs   , strange shapes in the night sky   , laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony   ,   colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.

Jezebeth: 

EUGENE ONEGIN   :   a lonely mansion  ,   reading a book in the parlour   ,   faint piano melody lingering in falling silence ,   long evenings  ,   passing seasons   ,   discussing french novels of the moment   , unspoken thoughts ,   leaning against the door frame  , quickly averted glance  , eating a peach absent-minded , bright mornings   , footprints in snow   , a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

Yggrim: 

FATHERS AND SONS :   birch groves   ,  morning mist ,   moss-covered stones near a moor   ,   scientific books  ,   white roses ,   cheap champagne   ,   shabby pocket-watch  ,   light-hearted irony   ,   a maladroit cello sonata   ,   freshly mowed grass   , letting thoughts come   &   go   , a slow yawn ,   picturesque plates   &   bowls filled with traditional dishes   , drinking tea on the porch.

Leden:

DOCTOR ZHIVAGO   :   a strange feeling of loss ,  writing poems in a diary , traveling by train   ,   the hesitation before touching someone’s hand   ,   the gaze of one lost in thought  ,the warmth of cinnamon   ,   a scarf brightly embellished with flowers   ,   a glass of water  ,   a threadbare jacket  ,   the tempting void ,  the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

Deon:

CHERRY ORCHARD   :   a lone chair in an empty room  , falling blossoms ,   old samovar   ,   the unsettling need for change  ,   a mirror reflecting full moon   , the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance  ,   a piano out of tune.

Tagging: @ramblingsofamoonwatcher @thegreatstrongbow @spiritimmortal

[hatilead]

russian classics aesthetic.

rules: bold what applies to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies to them. repost, don’t reblog.

brothers karamazov. orthodox monasteries. deep woods. starry nights. the sound of paper being torn. dimly lit rooms. withered roses. an unfinished letter. piles of books. the sound of shattering glass. ticking of clocks in a silent house. heavy wooden furniture. the air before a storm. the smell of earth. a crowd of people dressed in black. distant murmurs. emptied streets. the fear of walking alone in dusk.

crime and punishment. coldness of the skin against a blade. slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands. a red stain blooming on white fabric. lonely steps in a corridor. the slow dripping of water. looking out of the window into the thickening darkness. a single dying candle on the table. listening to one's breath and counting heartbeats. too many stairs. the desire to be invisible. a subtle memory of kind words.

the idiot. classical statues. wealth covered with dust. a dark house tainted with inherited madness. an unsettling feeling. long walks in a park. useless chatter. a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench. a melancholic face. an unexpected spring rain. the joy of reading one's favorite book. the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around. looking at cloudless sky.

anna karenina. fields of crops. flowers brought from an early morning walk. the wind caressing a girl's hair. a bowl of fruit. the smell of ripe pears. the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea. children's laughter coming from the garden. soft sunlight and white curtains. the sensation of velvet against skin. pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor. a sudden silence in a room full of people.

war and peace. a glass of wine. the brightness of a crystal chandelier. white lace. a raging snow storm. the sound of a door being gently closed. the moment of holding one's breath before walking in a ball room. indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light. the sound of a saber being drawn. closing one's eyes for a moment while dancing. the sweet smell of strawberries. a pair of gloves left on an armchair. light scent of powder.

the master and margarita. the chaos of a lively city. ambient jazz in expensive restaurants. jumping on off a moving tram. the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house. yellow flowers in a vase. leaning out of the window. shelves stacked with books. a small tin box with old photographs. strange shapes in the night sky. laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony. colorful posters for a surreptitious magician's show floating in the wind.

eugene onegin. a lonely mansion. reading a book in the parlor. faint piano melody lingering in falling silence. long evenings. passing seasons. discussing french novels of the moment. unspoken thoughts. leaning against the door frame. quickly averted glance. eating a peach absent-minded. bright mornings. footprints in snow. a loud gunshot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.

a hero of our time. byronic boredom. getting up late in the afternoon. the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence. shakespeare's tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast. cigarette smoke. polished boots. walking with one's coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone. carved wooden chair. fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening. the thought of farewell.

fathers and sons. birch groves. morning mist. moss covered stones near a moor. scientific books. white roses. cheap champagne. shabby pocket-watch. light-hearted irony. a maladroit cello sonata. freshly mowed grass. leaving thoughts come and go. a slow yawn. picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes. drinking tea on the porch. longing for the future.

doctor zhivago. a strange feeling of loss. writing poems in a diary. traveling by train. the hesitation before touching someone's hand. the gaze of one lost in thought. the warmth of cinnamon. a scarf brightly embellished with flowers. a glass of water. two people listening each on the other side of the door. a threadbare jacket. the tempting void. the evanescent serenity of yesterday.

dead souls. horses in a merry gallop. delicious smells mingled. grotesque and bizarre tragedy. luxurious attire cheap soul. masks. a perfumed love letter. the triumph of sarcasm. an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road. the atmosphere of commedia dell'arte. puzzling speeches. a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief.

cherry orchard. a lone chair in an empty room. falling blossoms. old samovar. the unsettling need for change. a mirror reflecting full moon. the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance. a piano out of tune.

tagged by : @marblecarved    (  thanks love  xoxo   )   tagging :  @moonwoken    (   for howl   )      @dochaes      @povvertaken​  (   elfie   &   jacob thanks   )     @seaprofound​     @mrclayton​    @YOU    !