#works but they are so starkingly different

[cupiare]

seeing the contrast between klimt and schiele in person makes a guy go insane (i’m the guy)

[realcatalina]

I read a theory that these and other miniatures thought to be originals were copies ordered by Mary I or Elizabeth; you can see why, as the ones for which we have another example have more detail and are less "washed out"

This theory put Levina Teerlinc, court miniaturist to Elizabeth I, as the copyist, and included these in the set as ones for which we no longer have the original (Katherine Parr and Mary Tudor):

Imo, it is not impossible for excellent copies to be hiding among originals. Especially since miniatures don't have as many options for testing as larger portraits do.

Lots of artist created copies of previous works, some of them are truly master-level forgery/copy which is truly hard to tell apart.

However in Tudor times there was also normal for royalty to have portraits which i call 'twins' where posture is exact same, but outfit-gown, jewelry is different.

Sometimes entirely, sometimes only tiny bit.

That is in my opinion the case with Henry's miniatures above also.

Since twins can be separated over the centuries, they can be in starkingly different conditions, which can sometimes account for washing out of the colours. Sometimes also it is quality of the photograph.

(I also explained in my previous post that two of those miniatures could be same person, but different year-just very close in time. Which is unsually fast for non-royal.)

The differences in style can also be hard to determine because Lucas Horenbout was not the only miniaturist working for Tudors prior to Levina Teerlic. There was several of them, and only one who we can recognize is Holbein.

Thus it is harder to tell which miniatures are truly from reign of Henry VIII.

We cannot even tell if miniatures atributed to Lucas might have not been created also by his sister Susanna. Workshops normally are very difficult. Family workshops? near impossible to tell who did what.

But among all those you shown, there is one which I even believe to be a copy. Not that the style wouldn't match. The face is excellent.

It's wrong format. Chance that this is sole square miniature, in sea of round ones, I don't buy it.

My theory is that it was created during reign of Mary I. (Because why would Elizabeth I have it made?) To be match to Henry's existing miniature, which is set within square, but is round.

And the person changed the veils of the gable hood to style which appears in c.1526-1527-thus Catherine would have worn it, but with different ends of paste.

Imo it copy after this one on left-which is not so pleasing to the eye-but that is Horenbout's style. He could make anybody look unflattering.

The necklace was turned into weird thing i cant ven describe(and it never appears anywhere else), pearls were added around bodice. Paste ends are not traluscent-as they shouldn't be. But i think on original Horenbout might have fixed that mistake, only for that layer to worn off over time.

Rest of the outfit is probably based upon this painting(i played with its backgroud because you couldnt really see ends of black veil)-which also has proper necklace:

Imo it and the original round miniatures are so alike in outfit and posture, we could even consider them 'twins'...although one by miniaturist, one by another artist.

Closer inspection reveals minor differences such as extra pearl trim to veil on right, the difference to chemise embroidery and edge, pearl chains on shoulders.

The one on right(bellow) has nearly identical face, yet none of the issues with the outfit. Thus i don't suspect that one.

What i am trying to say is that yes, there can be well-made copies, which are being labeled as originals. Or were in past.

But just as copy can be thought to be original by public or experts, the original can be overlooked, because it is believed to be a copy.

Also, dont think that the copy cannot be contemporary. Some of the ugly copies of Henry VIII are provenly just few years older than his original paintings.

Thus not only you can have copies made during reign of Mary I or Elizabeth I, you can have copies created in 1530s or 1540s. Possibly even by original artist. Holbein did it with portraits of Jane!

And not all of them are of same quality! Despite being originals.

Because they were comissioned by different people. -that can affect colours. But the outfit should fit her lifetime in each.

What one has to do is not take their word for it. Investigate, nitpick over the details or sent me pictures and I will do it for you.

[turtleskissingew]

I love LeoRaph so much.

Like I don't even know if I can properly describe why.

The fact that they're brothers has like nothing to do with it it's how they're so alike but so starkingly different.

How cheeky Leo can be to Raph and how heated it makes him but at the same time Raph both respects and envies him.

How Leo is the favorite and Raph wants to BE the favorite and wants to have the respect Leo has. How hard he works to earn it but his temper and ego gets in the way so he never can.

How Leo loves Raph but wants to be shown the respect Raph stubbornly won't give him out of jealousy.

How they're both just madly into each other but neither is willing to admit it to the other so they play this little game of cat and mouse all the fucking time until they break out into legitimate fights over their egos.

I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH SENSE I'M MAKING I'M JUST SPITTING THOUGHTS ONTO TEXT.

[sometipsygnostalgic]

since we know how starkingly different marceline and bonnibel are, do you think they share any similarities?

Well yeah. Theyre not actually complete opposites.

Forrrr example theyre both immortal teenagers. At varying degrees of immortal.

PB actually has way more practical survivability than Marceline because she can be put back together majin buu style from the smallest of leftovers as long as they have her heart/brain, and she's not weak to this thing we call "the sun", but if they started fighting, say, a giant molten lava dragon, Marceline would survive a good while whereas it'd be instadeath for Peebs if she got hit. Marceline also instantly regenerates. In "Stakes" she survived getting cut in half, and apparently she can't get poisoned. Marceline is a heavy hitter, and if she's hit, she can get back up straight away. The reason Peebs thinks she's going to die prematurely is because she has a huge kingdom to protect which, due to the narrative forces of the show itself, keeps drawing disaster after disaster. Including the Lich that one time. She's usually left unprepared for whatever attack, which is why Finn and Jake do so much - theyre good at improv. Lots of candy people straight up died in the show, even the guardians - It's a miracle Pb, Finn and Jake survived so long. I guess that's the OTHER narrative forces keeping them alive ;) Marceline meanwhile had ONE near death experience in the entire main show - Stakes. Well two if you count the Simon and Marcy flashback. She's never really in danger as a vampire. Except for the sun!!!!!

Im aware you didnt ask me how their apparent immortality differs or what impact being a cartoon character has on death rate so I'll just go into their other similarities

They talk similarly. A little bit. They both use heavy Adventure Time slang. Marceline uses it slightly less, because most of her dialogue is more serious and straight to the point.

They both have a fondness for music. They both love rock, and songs - PB was always big on Marcie's stuff, after all. Marceline has the skill to make this type of music. PB isn't the sing-out-your-feelings type so just makes "experimental" music instead. She also likes music from the 1900s, whereas Marceline prefers modern rock.

They're both very creative. Marceline expresses her creativity through music while PB expresses it through science. It's why the science experiments tend to be a bit unstable or impractical....

Very fashionable. If you look towards the end of the series theyre often seen wearing clothes that work well together. Especially in episodes like "Broke his Crown", "Seventeen" and "Obsidian". They also wear each other's stuff sometimes. Marceline stole PB's sweater AND jacket.

Theyre both older than Finn by a few (biological) years and see him as the little brother type, but grow to respect him as a peer of sorts by the end.

Theyre both super badass. Theyre powerhouses. Marceline has her crazy vampire powers while PB has her god tier technology. If you remove Marcie's powers and PB's tech, theyre both still really strong and resourceful in a fight. They are also potentially the two strongest magical beings in Ooo, besides Sweet Pea - PB won the Elements power struggle, and Marceline resisted her magic with sheer willpower. Marceline hasn't unlocked all of her vampire abilities yet. PB obvs hasn't gotten too familiar with elemental magic and tends to fuck up. If we caught up to them in a thousand years, who knows what theyll be capable of?

EDIT: Crap I nearly forgot - They both survived in the early years of the apocalypse as scavengers who had to fight in self defense. Where they differ is their coping mechanisms - Marceline had parental figures on and off in her life, who kept leaving her or letting her down, and she kept feeling rejected by the human soiciety, so once humanity left for the islands and she had to split from them for being a vampire, she decided to be all by herself.  PB originally started in a hivemind full of very innocent naive gum creatures, but ended up as a small kid with no support whatsoever, so she decided to make relatives, but also tried to be in charge of them, because she has a need to be in control. Once they turned on her, the resentment led to her taking on her uncle’s dream and building a kingdom with some sturdy defenses, so she could have “safer” company and nobody would mess with her. 

[bbnibini]

PSISLY: An Obey Me!CYOA -- prologue/zero🔖

With darkness blanketing the starless sky in Devildom, it was hard to keep track of time without the aid of clocks conveniently placed in most parts of RAD. Truthfully speaking, you have been tardy and even missed class in your first days as an exchange student(much to Lucifer's ire). A demon's way of life was starkingly different from a human's-- you recalled the culture shock and the homesickness you felt before. It was hard to believe that almost a year had passed since then.

You've been through a lot, have been dragged to countless shenanigans by the demon brothers and even died in a few timelines or so. How you managed to even stay sane from all of that mess was a miracle. You'd even like to believe you made friends along the way.

True, most of the personalities you encountered weren't the most friendly bunch, but you somehow gained their trust, and now you began to dread ever leaving. It's only one or two months more before your exchange program will be over, so sometimes you couldn't help but wonder if the brothers feel the same way.

"Do they like me?" You had some suspicions, but dismissed them in a self-deprecating fashion. They were powerful demons and you were only human. While your birth origins had an interesting backstory, it didn't really mean much. Lilith was her own person, and so were you. The brothers made it perfectly clear to you that they know how to tell both of you apart, and you were thankful for that. The last thing you'd like is to be a vessel they can pour their grief and their pent-up feelings at. You barely knew Lilith in the first place, so how on earth can you be capable enough to heal their hearts? Nevermind being loved by them? Out of the question!

That was what you thought anyway, but they seemed to think otherwise; for now, you found yourself eating your words when you saw a suspicious looking letter in your locker.

Drawn on the corners of the envelope were pink carnations, while an elegant handwriting was placed on the centermost part of its back. It read:

" With Love, from Your Secret Admirer"

You felt your heart beat out of your chest. Your sweaty palm held the envelope with trembling hands as you looked consciously at your surroundings.

You shook your head and tried to rationalise.

"This is impossible. This must be a prank."

You were wrong, unfortunately. When you opened the letter and read its contents, it was definitely a love confession. The same pink carnations were seen at the corners of the stationery. Three words you thought you'd never hear in your life were peppered all throughout. You get it. Whoever sent this to you clearly meant it.

The question was...who?

You rarely check your locker as you had most of your school supplies and your books kept in a compartment under your desk. The only times you do is when it's time to change your uniform for the appropriate season. Putting school uniforms in a locker shouldn't be common sense--you knew it was unusual, that was why you put it in there in the first place. You don't trust your own memory and your motor skills so you hated to ruin your uniform before you even got to wear them. That was what happened when you placed all your uniforms in your closet before anyway.

...let's just say that whatever you put in that closet will never see the light of day again. Even with Lucifer's stern lectures, you couldn't seem to keep it tidy for even a second. Saying that, keeping your uniforms in a locker was even his bright idea.

...wait a minute.

Could it be? You shook your head.

While it's true that not a lot of people really knew about where your locker was, not to mention how often you open it, Lucifer...really?

He was the last person you'd ever suspect. If he had something to say to you, he wouldn't be so roundabout like this. Not to mention the handwriting in the letter is completely different from his penmanship. How do you know?

Well...ehh...he might have signed a few...documents for you to get you out of trouble...cough. But! That is besides the point!

Did he even have time to send this? He told everyone not to bother him while the student council was preparing for an upcoming school festival. Would someone so preoccupied and had the notoriety of being eternally overworked have the time to write a disgustingly sweet love letter? Some might say that he must have sent it at an earlier time but...

...the letter's stationery still had its scent so it should be written quite recently. Your assumptions of its recency were confirmed once you saw a cookie tin inside your locker. Inside them were cookies (duh) that suspiciously looked and tasted like the ones Barbatos offered you this morning. Still warm too... Wait...

Barbatos?! You felt your cheeks warm. You didn't expect that! True he was always nice and amiable to you, but you always attributed that to his occupation. As a butler, he had to be proper and courteous at all times. That was why it was so weird (at least in your opinion) that he would ever send you a love letter. Your relationship with him never really gave you that impression. It was pleasant, but not romantic. Still, you didn't dismiss the possibility that it could be him, even if that was highly unlikely.

Speaking of highly unlikely, Mammon had been acting suspiciously since yesterday. He...actually smelled a lot like the perfume used on the letter's stationery!.

.

.

.

.

Nah. Mammon. Really? Could he really write something so embarrassing like this? Not to mention the grammar used in the letter was quite highfalutin. Perhaps if someone was well-read however, writing a letter like this would be a breeze. Maybe Satan?

.

.

.

.

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. You're starting to suspect everyone.

Maybe, maybe focus on the impossibilities first?

It couldn't be Levi. You were with him all this time! In fact, he's currently waiting for you to get your uniform as we speak! The twins are also out of that list. You're quite sure they don't know about where your locker was located. You didn't mean to keep it a secret! It's just, there was a time when you didn't really trust Belphegor a lot so you were on guard with him. You had to keep your mouth shut in front of Beel too--it was inevitable since the two of them were really close. Saying that, it is not the case anymore! What happened with you and Belphegor is now water under the bridge! In fact, you're contemplating on sharing the cookies with them later.

Asmo couldn't be the sender either. While it's true that the stationery seemed like his style, he is also stuck helping Lucifer for the festival. He also didn't seem to be the type who'd resort his confessions to love letters. He'd always been open about expressing himself after all!

So that narrows it down to four. You opened the notes app on your D.D.D and wrote down the possible senders:

1. Lucifer - The person who suggested to place your uniforms in your locker. Is one of the only people who knows where and when you open the locker.

Contradictions-- The letter is only sent recently (meaning it was most likely sent this afternoon) , as it came with a tin of freshly baked cookies. Lucifer is too busy to send it. Handwriting isn't the same either.

2. Barbatos - The cookies in the tin looked and tasted like the ones he gave you this morning. He has plenty of time to put the letter and the cookies in your locker.

Contradictions-- He doesn't seem to see you in a romantic light. Does he even have time to date anyone when he's so busy serving Diavolo?

3. Mammon-- Has the same scent as the stationery in the letter. Acted weirdly since yesterday.

Contradictions-- The sender's manner of writing didn't resemble Mammon at all. Also, he doesn't strike you as someone who'd write a sappy love letter.

4. Satan-- The vocabulary used in the letter could only be written by a well-read person. The sender's writing style also resembled Satan's.

Contradictions-- Satan is also helping with the festival preparations. He isn't crossed out of the list however because he finished his work early and went to the library once he was done. The library and your locker are on the same path, so he would have enough time to send the letter and the package.

Satisfied with your notes, you exited the app and noticed a notification on your DDD. Someone was calling. You decide to....

💌 [ Answer it quickly ]

💌 [ Answer it after several rings ]

💌 masterlist

[everandevermcre]

⌠ hunter schafer. 27, bisexual, trans female, she/her. ⌡ wait a minute, is elizabeth ‘ bowie ’ abernathy name still in town? i thought i saw a flash of (messy white-blonde hair, flushed cheeks, dirty converse, cracked iphone screen)! last i heard they were working as a bookstore clerk nearby. when it’s the (capricorn)’s birthday on 12/31 i forget that they’re destructive and celebrate that they’re caring. i hear since i was a kid by lennon stella every time i think of them.  // @liminalintro​

' trying to get to know Bowie Abernathy is like trying to bottle air. you are probably catching some of it, but there is no way of telling if the air stays in the bottle or not. ' 

—  black adorned eyes or no make up at all, always humming to herself, writes on her hands, ink stained on them and occasionally smudged onto her thighs. hates her family, but loves them and is close to her sisters in whatever way she knows how. messy room, messy relationships, messy life, messy white-blonde hair. flushed cheeks, dirty converse, party dresses, ripped clothing, destructive behavior, stacks of gold bracelets, lack of respect for authorities, lack of respect in general, wicked brilliance, wicked humor, imperfect, careless, reckless, cracked iphone screen, dirty fingernails, black nail polish, unmade bed, unfinished joints scattered.  —

+ Elizabeth Fitzpatrick-Abernathy, later referred to as Bowie, was born on March 13 in Centralia, Pennsylvania ( the United States ) to Dallon Fitzpatrick ( mother ) and Sheridan Abernathy ( father ). + growing up a devout mormon, a hyphenated last name was the only part of her family that could be considered modern. + bowie is one out of six ( 1/6 ) golden-haired Abernathy Girls. the devil’s number as some referred to it. + the Abernathy Girls is what everyone in Centralia referred to them as. they fit into the town, but there was talk about the Abernathy’s often. you see dallon was only sixteen when she married sheridan who was thirty-six at the time. as far as bowie can remember, the couple had always been happy and healthy, but the age difference made them the talk of the town. + people in small towns always needed someone to hate. they had nothing else to do. so of course, the hyphenated family with the large age gap and six starkingly white, beautiful, pristine daughters were chosen. + at the age of seven, bowie got kicked out of her church choir for putting gum in a girl’s hair. the next time she ( sylvia ) arrived at school, she had buzzed her entire hair off and got made fun of for being bald. bowie laughed so hard that she got sent home for the rest of the week from school. instead of school, she spent the week attached at her sister’s hip and taking notes on how to grow up too fast. + all of the fitzpatrick-abernathy’s were musically inclined. when bowie was kicked out of her choir, the girls banded together as ‘ the abernathy girls ’ ( a way of saying yes, we hear you talking about us ) and began playing music more at home. it came naturally. they all wanted to support the girl who didn’t speak. so they let her sing, encouraged her to ! the abernathy girls then began playing at church, town events and eventually even further than that. the girls would still get together in current adulthood and play music on occasion.  + all of the parents that thought their children ought to have been in the spotlight for being well-liked or well behaved hated them. fake smiles were put on toward the family’s faces, but they spat behind their backs. + women even had mrs. abernathy over for tea and would pick her brain six girls, how does she do it, and so young. the truth was that they were looking for things to gossip about, to find out the darkness behind the abernathy’s that they knew must be there ( it was though they never found it ) . mrs. abernathy would always be shown out before the time their husband’s got home. the women feared her youthful appearance, her glow, and beauty. it was like they thought dallon could take something ( someone ) just by looking at it ( them ). + similarly, the town grew weary of the girls, never wanting the promiscuous, bad girls near their sons or daughters or boyfriends, etc. as if everything they feared about mrs. abernathy was also a gift she had passed down to her daughters. + growing up with so many people in her home, there was never any room for elizabeth’s voice. she eventually found it to be easier to remain silent than to try and speak up. + the same sisters that would cut her off or tell her that what she had to say was stupid eventually begun calling elizabeth weird for never speaking and would poke and prod at her to try and get a sound out. instead of a verbal reaction, they would get something physical. for example, she bit down on her sister’s finger so hard that it went through the flesh, causing her sister to have it sewn back together. + in this fashion, elizabeth found power in remaining unseen, while seeing everything around her. + she found that acting out got her family to care. + somewhere along the line, acting out became addictive. her behavior was no longer reserved for her family or even a product of her family but rather had become a part of her.   + twenty years later, bowie remains a mystery even to herself. + Abernathy’s were unapologetic. she is the Abernathy that is unapologetically wild, the rebel without a cause, always rebelling against her family in one way or another. + bowie is a thrill seeker. she loves the chase, she loves games, she loves talking in riddles, and loves to party. it’s the only way she can successfully relate to people. + unlike her sisters, she can usually be found in black clothing with a lot of smudgy eye makeup. + a fuck it personality living an i don’t care lifestyle. + carries herself in a way that is weirdly magnetic with a strut to her walk. + doesn’t speak a lot until she gets to know you. speaks with her eyes and smile. + giant blue eyes are one of her identifying features and offers her an intense stare. + self destructive. + generally destructive, really. + makes you question why you were drawn to her destruction in the first place. + she has moments of what i like to call, ‘ philosophical fuckery. ’ + philosophical fuckery just means that bowie has a tendency to say things that are profound in a random fashion. + there is something inside bowie that feels broken. + she sees people clearly for who they are, even if they don’t want you to. she can see weakness, strength, and has the ability to get into people’s heads. + she is a watcher, first and foremost. this keeps her detached. + bowie’s scared of getting close to people and nowhere near in touch with her feelings. she’s absolutely ignorant about her feelings. + she has a go-with-the-flow, live-in-the-moment way of life that makes the only feeling she’s somewhat in touch with, her sexuality. + the girl’s promiscuous, lusty and raunchy. + her extreme fear of intimacy is what keeps her detached. + bowie cares no matter how detached she may feel. + is capable of love, but the feeling scares her. + she may be able to observe and analyze emotions, but she does not know how to handle them because emotions offer her no sense of control or comfort. + bowie is always in control of the situation, even if she’s not talking. she is in control. she needs control. control is her comfort. + when she starts to get attached or fall in love, she starts losing that control in epic proportions and in epic fashion. + however, when she sits on the sidelines silently watching a scene unfold, she is aware of everything and everyone. + she is the puppet master and has nuanced to pluck the strings if and when it interests her. + the needs of others do not affect her puppeteering. she can see what they need, how they will handle the situation, etc. but none of it affects her decision making; her decision making considers no one but herself. + bowie needs to see a professional, has needed to for a long time, but with so many people in her family, the signs of her disorder had always been ignored or explained away. + most people are scared in new relationships, but when your brain does not function in the way that it should, it adds a whole new layer. we will call that layer: fuckery. + the added layer of fuckery causes bowie to get very close to breaking when she enters genuine and overly-close proximities with others. + she can not handle the intensity and lack of control that love supplies. it weakens her defenses and allows for a mental break to occur. + she has yet to address the deep psychological issues that has lead her to doing hard drugs and using her family home as a party cave whenever she can get away with it. + bowie is not a reality-based person. her head does not process reality in a level-headed manner. this means that she is susceptible to manipulation and falls for manipulated realities. + since she already has a distorted reality, when someone else distorts it even more, it’s hard to figure it out unless someone points it out. for this reason, she needs the close relationships that hinder her emotional and mental health. + this chemical imbalance is the only part of bowie’s life that wakes her up enough to know she needs to find some sort of balance, but it’s not enough to get the ball rolling all on her own. + bowie is addicted to the idea of “it happened, but it never happened.” this is a tactic that allows you to change reality if you are not happy with it. + bowie comes across as controlled and confident and mysterious. + she is all-knowing, mysteriously holding the knowledge of everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets. + can manipulate a situation, but can not for the life of her, fix her own. + bowie plays games and parties hard because it is the only way for her to feel close to anything you could possibly call pleasure or happiness. + falling in love and experiencing love, in general, makes bowie feel weak because she is not ready for the way it makes her feel about herself.

[elixir4paradise]

Watching as lights pulled out of the driveway, a young girl nestled secluded in the bushes outside her friends home. She watched carefully as the taxi sped off, probably to some bar or liquor store as was the routine. She had to make haste.

Dusting herself off she pulled the contents of the plastic bag firmly to her small body and ran.

A tapping on the window signifying her arrival roused a young boy from a sleepless slumber. Saeyoung glanced around the room his mother had just inhabited to check the area before he moved and opened the window slightly. The bag passed through and the chilly nature of the contents brought a smile to his face. He looked over his neighbor, a year or so younger, her arms littered with fading bruises and some newer around her neck, even still she beamed at him.

Saeran had stirred from his resting position, also noticing the girl half hanging out the window. He inched forward excitedly just to be held back by the rope firmly around his ankle.

“I got the blue one for you guys!” Mirth filled her eyes as she swung her legs lightly to keep her balance on the windowsill. “The pull apart kind! Like a wishbone!”

Saeyoung laughed lightly before sitting next to his brother, who excitedly bounced in place. Saeran was one with little words around the happy go lucky neighbor, then again he was always a shy kid.

“Thank you..” Saeyoung finally responded, only to recieve an excitable nod in return. This kid was also from an abusive home and she never let them know her name, stating it was a secret. She visited them as often as she could and they’d talk as kids do, dreams, stories, imagining the grandeur life offered in fairy tails despite their realities being so starkingly different.

Once the gift of Icecream consumed and dreams talked til they were all blue in the face and Saeran has once again fallen asleep on the floor with his head in his brothers lap.

“Hey..” Saeyoung’s joking demeanor shifted once Saeran’a breathing lulled enough to signify deep sleep. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he knew her well enough to know she was tilting her head like a curious puppy. Taking a deep breath he continued. “If..... something we’re to change... could you take care of him? Keep him company?”

She leaned her cheek on her folded arms on the windowsill, yet she didn’t miss a beat. “Of course. But... why do you make it sound like you’re going somewhere far away?”

Saeyoung didn’t answer for a moment before bringing his signature smile to her view. “I was just curious is all!”

—-

Saeyoung had disappeared shortly after and the young girl kept up her end of the promise. She visited Saeran whenever she could and constantly brought him little gifts he could easily consume or hide, sweets, juice, flowers.

One evening however, everything changed. Her father had forbade her to go out but she didn’t stop once she knew he had fallen asleep in drunken stupor.

She hasn’t been able to see Saeran as often due to his mother becoming increasingly paranoid after Saeyoung’s vanishing act. He looked worse and worse as time went on, yet she never went past the windowsill.

Today, however, there was no answer to her tapping, Saeran was covered deeply in bruises and the rope around his ankle bled considerably noticeable under the pale moonlight. In desperation she tried the window for it to give way. Hoisting her body up and over she approached the weak boy. His face was stained with tears and he wheezed helplessly as she gently shook his arm.

“Please wake up Saerannie..” she whispered, meeting his molten gold eyes finally she sighed in relief. “Stay still..” She mumbled as she ripped her shirt a little to wipe away the blood around his ankle. He hissed softly in protest but didn’t decline her help.

“You can’t be in here..” he whimpered, only to rouse a small laugh from his friend.

“Nothing could stop me from making sure you’re okay.. alright?” She reached into her bag before pulling out a small water bottle and helping his head into her lap. She helped him drink the water nice and slow, easing into the comforting touch.

After a moment he paused and sighed softly, a look of dejection passed his golden orbs. “He... is never coming back.. is he?”

“Of course he will. He has to. He loves-“

Both children jolted as they heard the door fling open, on the other side, reeking of alcohol stood the twins mother.

“What are you doing with my son?” She slurred, wasting no time to close the gap between them. The door slammed behind her with enough force to rattle the cabinets. “Who in the hell are you? Worthless piece of shit.” She sneered, grabbing a handful of brunette hair and flinging the girl full force to the other side of the room.

She then turned her attention to her son, staggering and reeled her hand back, in it was a beer bottle. It glistened in the dim lighting as she begun to swing it down with as much strength as she could muster.

CRACK

The next moments happened so incredibly fast that Saeran couldn’t process it if he tried. He had flinched and cowered, apologizing profusely to his mother for an impact that never came. The sound however, of shattering glass brought him to his senses. His friend lay in a heap in front of him, her hair matted with glass, alcohol and blood. She lay unconscious before him and her attacker took a few steps back in desperation.

“Mommy...” Saeran called helplessly. “What... what happened?”

She did not respond, she quickly grabbed the girl and took her out of the house. When she returned she didn’t speak, her face white as if she’s seen a ghost and the night was eerily silent.

His young brunette friend never came back. Was she okay? Was she even alive?

====

Leaning back in his seat, surrounded by monitors, the young man heaved a sigh. His unruly disheveled bleached hair hid his eyes for a moment before going back to work. The Savior expected results, he surveyed videos and countless files to find the perfect candidate for their plan.

There she was, a young woman exiting an icecream shop, she had dusted off her uniform and stretched for the umpteenth time that night before leaving her work place. She never went straight home, in fact, she wondered the streets and would stay out as late as possible before retreating to her apartment. He has been watching this girl for quite some time, something about her struck him as odd and insanely interesting.

She had bleached blonde hair, her bangs were a cotton candy pink, it was cut short and went well with the pinstripe uniform that adorned her frame. She didn’t seem to do much aside from work and home, a monotonous life for someone who had such an upbeat way of walking.

Reading over her files he didn’t find much information, a few medical files but nothing past orphanage paperwork’s. According to her file she was in foster care and never adopted, she served her time and began working, no friends to speak of and no significant other. She seemed like the perfect candidate for the infiltration plan.

[captaiinkick]

                      𝟘𝟘𝟙 .  RELATIONSHIPS 

* THE LOVERS, REVERSED ; disharmony, loss of balance — ZIA

    it’d be instinctive to think the chemistry between captain kick and babydoll would transcend into their real-life dynamic, will has had issues communicating with zia. none of it is her fault, of course; to in any way mislead her into thinking it is would pain him even more. the conflict began back during the team’s first run, and fifteen years or so later it lingers. the feelings were there - will knew how zia felt, and he reciprocated the feelings since the very beginning. zia has always been the only person he’s ever pictured himself being in a relationship with ( reason why he never came close to establishing anything official with anyone else. he tried several times, but he kept coming back to the memory of zia and how unhappy he felt without it ). however, he always simultaneously feared and dislike the thought that forcing them together would drive them further apart. he didn’t want their relationship to be a mere fabrication, a narrative crafted for the sake of toy sales and viewer ratings. in his stubbornness to keep it from happening, will distanced himself from zia, effectively damning the relationship from seeing the light of day. he regrets all the discomfort and suffering he may have caused her, but he’s yet to learn to make himself available to her and get over his worries to make their connection work. of course it’s easier said than done, but will doesn’t want to think of what would happen if something were to go awry in one of the missions, and the two never got to experience the relationship they’d wanted & deserved.

* THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, UPRIGHT ; change, cycles — ALEC

   will never really knew how to feel about alec -- well, actually, he did, but it was too chaotic and ever-changing to put into words. the few constancies in his attitude toward the other man remain, however. it all stems from will’s own insecurities. he’s become convinced he’s not the best fit for the position of the team leader, namely because it should be filled by someone like alec rather than himself. he excels in every way in which will doesn’t, and it scares will to his core. he constantly thinks of the many ways in which the team would benefit from having alec as the frontrunner, and he’ll get so consumed by his own stream of thought that eventually the idea of stepping aside and giving his position up to alec will begin taunting him. but at the moment, all of this remains unvoiced. the one thing that makes will feel like his stay is worthwhile is being at the head. it’s become such a relevant influence on his self-confidence, his identity. without it, will doesn’t know what would become of him, but still he can’t say it doesn’t feel unjust to deny the team the leader they deserve. 

* STRENGTH, REVERSED ; insecurity, doubt — LAURA

   will’s aware that he wasn’t particularly close to laura back in the 80s. he felt there were a couple barriers between them, namely the different ages and the nature of their positions ( captain kick would be seen mainly with babydoll, after all ). still, behind the scenes, he made sure for them to be on at least good terms. there was some contact throughout the years, but it was admittedly more sporadic than with other exemplars. now, however, will’s perception of laura has changed, if he were being honest. they are similar to those which he holds for alec, in the sense that it pains him to see someone clearly more qualified, skilled and deserving of a leadership position remain under ‘his’ command. he carries a bit of guilt for this, and is often unsure as to whether or not to divulge this to her. again, this is mainly out of the fear that once the bureau and the exemplars discover that they’d be better off following someone else’s calls, then that makes him dispensable. 

* THE EMPEROR, UPRIGHT ; authority, control — CESARE

  things with cesare have always been tricky. will’s opinion on him shifts from time to time. sometimes, he’ll delight in some wishful thinking and hope the two could reap the benefits of a more balance partnership. it’d be for the better, after all. this whim, however, is often shot down in the face of an argument or a disagreement. will thinks it wrong to challenge cesare’s position ( surely the bureau granted him that degree of authority for a reason, and being born into a family who instilled in him an admiration toward hard workers, he simply cannot bring himself to disregard him on that basis ). however, that doesn’t mean he’ll stay quiet and agreeable all the time. the two have starkingly different views as to how approach certain parts of the missions -- will lets himself be lead by emotion, while cesare’s strategic thinking is unparallaled. so whenever it gets too much, there’s bound to be a clash -- in times like these will doesn’t mind being a bit more brazen than usual, since he very well knows the lives of so many are at stake. 

   at the same time, will admires and envies cesare. he wishes he could be that collected when under pressure, or that he had his ease with words. he wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, however, given the bureau’s undermining of his performance ( will doubts he would make it through that kind of pressure ). sadly, more often that not whichever positive feelings he has for him will be placed on the back burner as conflict between the two unfolds. 

* TEMPERANCE, UPRIGHT ; finding meaning, patience — DAMIEN

   yet again, will wishes this relation, in particular, could be less complicated. then again, he’s to blame for it. back during their first run, will felt guilty damien would be forced out onto the sidelines. he wanted to make sure he felt welcome in the team. slowly, their conversations became more common, and nowadays will would say the two are good friends. they bonded during very personal moments, and many of his favorite memories are of times spent with damien. however, it is a bit more complex than that. naturally, there are so many aspects of damien’s life that will is not aware of, and out of a fear that he’d be overstepping any boundaries, will maintains his interactions with damien as formal, ever so nonchalant, but never entirely honest. he conceals most details of his own personal life to damien too. while he wishes he could bring himself to be honest, will cannot find it in him to own up to this helplessness and vulnerability. troubling damien with that burden has never been an option. so for the most part, will relies on small talk, and the moment it crosses that line, he feels exposed and bothersome. the last thing he wants is to bring damien’s mood down, or have him waste his time keeping watch over him. though, there are so many similarities between the two that surely neither of them have realized, and they could definitely become great sources of support for one another if will weren’t so afraid to admit defeat. 

* THE SUN, UPRIGHT ; joy, celebration — TANGO

   will likes tango. while he was initially startled by the sharpness of his fangs, it soon became clear that the ferocity and wildness that the media used to characterize him was far from the truth. tango was kind to will in a way some people weren’t, but more importantly, he always treated him with dignity. this never failed at moving will, and he’s never managed to grow angry at the other. he admires how well-meaning and resilient tango has remained, especially considering the media’s scrutiny and the bureau’s treatment. that being said, there are so many things about tango that intrigue will, but he finds it impolite to ask and/or pry. he would also like to know more about what life with such heavy involvement from the bureau has been like, but again, will thinks it might be insensitive to ask such specific, obvious questions -- or worse, that more than just come off as nosy, that it’ll bring more attention to his strict living conditions and somehow prompt him to feel downtrodden. truly, will thinks tango deserves the best. not only has he had to deal with having the reputation he did, to have the coverage bite into the narrative of ‘wild beast’ so frequently. he knows it is hard, but will wishes tango could enjoy a much freer life once the missions are over and done with. 

* THE HIGH PRIESTESS, UPRIGHT ; inner voice, intuitive — BETH

   beth and will are very similar on so many levels. they are both natural caretakers and seek to ensure everyone’s wellbeing. but much like with damien, the extent to which will voices his deeper, more emotion-heavy thoughts is very limited. he has a good relationship with beth, but he is not always honest with her. from what she has disclosed to him, and the few letters exchanged here and there, will got the feeling that she was doing fine. and if that is the case, will is happy. beth is someone who he felt also didn’t get to thrive back when the team was first assembled, and being responsible for accounting so many civilians, he thinks it is about time she got more recognition. 

    at the same time, will wishes there could be a more transparent channel of communication between them. her accident with the faulty wings wasn’t a secret, but will’s thoughts and emotions in the aftermath were never extended over to her. ever since that happening, will’s become more apprehensive and protective toward the team since he has realized there are external factors at play that he can’t control. he so deeply wishes he could bring it up in a discussion with her, but he doesn’t want to go there fearing it’d be like pouring salt into a wound.  

* THE MAGICIAN, REVERSED ; illusions, out of touch — ADDY 

will wishes he could be like addy. he has never had it in himself to be reckless, to be impulsive. the fact that addy manages to pull them off with such ease is admirable in his mind ( it even becomes an enviable skill in his eyes ). he understands that to be forced into such a one-dimensional character must’ve been rough, but he is mostly blinded by the awe and wonder which he’s always experienced when seeing addy out in the field. seeing her stunts used to make him feel like a kid, all full of excitement and a thirst for adventure. he lived vicariously through the unrestrained attitude of the character, because he felt like he was not allowed to act in such a way as a child. he always looked up to addy in a way, and how she balanced tallahassee’s exuberance with her own aim to keep everyone safe. deep down, he wished he possessed that ability, that he would stop feeling so self-conscious and tied down by his inhibitions- since he can’t, he’ll just resort to watching addy continuously do it with that unparalleled facility. 

* JUSTICE, UPRIGHT ; clarity, truth — BENJI

   will feels a lot of respect toward benji. he has always helped not only will, but the team as a whole. he could confidently call benji one of the pillars of each operation, and has no clue what would become of each mission were benji not involved. will has always watched benji do his job with a certain curiosity and intrigue, even though he didn’t grasp most of the concepts benji’s work oversaw. not a day goes by where will doesn’t feel thankful for having druid on board, but sadly, the difference in their positioning and tasks during the missions felt like somewhat of a barrier between the two. now that the team is back together, will has been trying to gather some courage and voice the admiration he feels towards benji. he thinks of pendulum, and how much was left unsaid when she passed, so he doesn’t want to make the same mistake again.

[failaise]

corpse groom | min yoongi au

summary: after your death, the man who believes himself to be your husband is relentless in his pursuit. 

genre: smut/romance

band member: yoongi from bts

based off this song from the corpse bride 

death!au, corpse bride!au, reader!victor, yoongi!emily, 

warnings: deals with the concept of death, the afterlife, and the creators. this is just my interpretation of the movie and is not meant to offend any religion who believes in something other than this for the afterlife. if it somehow does, please send me a message so that i can improve this story without offending any culture or religion!

OCTOBER FICS 1/?

Your annoyance seemed to fade with each step forwards into the forest. 

The serene silence lulled your indignance. A soft breeze brushed your hair behind your ears and you found yourself, for the first time in days, smiling without force. That heaviness of your chest seemed to lift, blowing like billows of smoke up into the white sky. Beneath your boots, snow crunched into footprints, deep and with purpose. 

For once, you could breathe- away from parents, away from families, away from that devilish marriage you were meant to entertain a thought with. Your eyes were tired yet wide, barely registering the sights before you. You hadn’t slept in days, maybe. Hadn’t eaten in days, either. How could you eat when your future was being pried from your cold fingers? The idea of marrying someone whom you’d never met, of devoting your life and womanhood to a man who was an impeccable nuisance. He expected a wife, kids- for you to stay home to be both. Your heart yearned for more. Real love was amongst your desires of life. 

Paused, you found yourself stood before a clearing. Tree branches stuck out from the ground, of different shapes and sizes, while the tiny round tops of stone peeked out from the snow. You’d never gotten this far before. You wondered how long you’d been walking for. 

Pursing your lips, you continued forwards, collapsing tiredly onto a clear-cut stump.

Thoughts of your overly-exhausting day came flooding back. You caught yourself thinking of the manner of Victor, the kind but annoyance of a fiancé. He discussed his ideas of children with such an eager manner, your stomach felt ill. He expected three, one right after your wedding night. He expected you to give all, especially the dowry. Yes, he seemed quite eager about a dowry. 

Money is what drove these insanely mundane people. Your parents, wanting to climb the social ladder by marrying you off to the red-haired supposedly wealthiest family in your town. Well, if they were so wealthy, why did his parents seem so excited about the prospect of the dowry? 

“Mmm,” you mimicked their snotty voices, “’shall we discuss the… hmm.. prospects of marriage?’“ Pushing yourself to your feet, you rested your hands on your hips, ignoring the bite of cold on your noise. “‘Yes, my dear’,” you continued, spinning around to the short stump, which quite perfectly imitated Victor, your fiancé’s father. You gave it a kick. 

“With this hand,” your initiation of Victor’s nasally voice was, in your opinion, fitting, “I will lift your sorrows.” 

Twisting your shoulders, you reached out to shake a bony branch. “Your cup shall never empty, for I will be your wine.” 

The vows were incredibly cliche. You had hoped you would be able to write your own, someday- vows that didn’t sound as if you were sentencing your future to some somber death. Lowering yourself to your knees, you bent at the hips before a branch, outstretched through the snow. Your gaze flickered to the engagement ring, sparkling and small on your finger. 

“With this candle,” you twisted the ring, a size too tiny, from your hand, “I will light your way in darkness.” 

A cold gust of wind brushed your hair behind your face, caressing your cheek softer than a lover could. The hush whisper of the forest life quietened, as if all the creatures were now stopped, listening to you profess your undying devotion for a branch. 

You slipped the ring onto the wood. It fell until it hit the snow, resting there comfortably. 

“With this ring, I ask you to be mine.” 

Somehow this escapade had made you feel… better. Marriage to a branch would be better than to Victor, and perhaps your vows, sad as they were, could one day be said positively to someone who you felt true love for. Sighing, you sat back in the snow, falling backwards into the clouds of white. Your body felt chilly but your heart was at ease, beating softly within the ribbed confines of your chest. The sky looked so beautiful then. You wished you could stare at it forever. 

You weren’t sure how long you laid there, poised in ice and breathing slow. Your eyelids felt heavy and your limbs tired, weighing pounds, sinking into the snow. A long sigh escaped your lips, and after a moment of hesitation, your eyes fluttered shut, finally at peace. 

Mmmmm.

It felt so nice. You hadn’t had a nap that peaceful since weeks ago. 

Smiling softly, you moved your arms from their spot, stretching your sore legs. 

Almost at once, you realized something was different. Your body was no longer cold. You couldn’t feel the breeze of night, or the tiny noises of woodland creatures. Your eyes flew open and you shot upwards. What you beheld was not snow, or trees, or the darkness of night. 

You were in a room. A nice one, at that. It had been decorated simply, a vase of dark blue roses by your bed. And your bed- you jumped to examine it quickly, only to find that it was shaped as a coffin, though with more luxurious cushioning. A silk blanket had been draped over your frame; it slipped to the ground in a puddle when you stood. 

Your chest felt tight. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, and with a shock you found that you weren’t. Your chest wasn’t expanding, your lungs weren’t working. With eyes wide as saucers, you clasped at your throat, and spun to find the exit. 

The door to enter was shut. You rushed to open it, though you hesitated. You had no clue as to where you were, or what drugs you’d been given, or who had abducted you. 

Swallowing, you found your courage to twist the handle. The door swung back with one long, eerie creak. Its openness revealed a hallway, long and dark and dimly lit by torches hung on the wall. You tip-toed forwards, sure to be quiet, until you came to the end of it. The hall ended at another set of doors, and through the windows of the lobby you stood in, you could see that there were people around. 

It looked like your village. Yet, it was dark. You couldn’t see the sky, or clouds, or any type of sun. A grim shadow fell over the town. Vinery climbed up the walls of tall, skinny buildings. Neon green lights flashed in the windows of what looked like bars, and a fountain stood in the midst of it all. 

Confusion began to level your fright. Gulping down your fear, you continued forwards, sure that perhaps this was just some very twisted nightmare and that you’d wake in the snow, ready to go home. Suddenly the idea of marrying Victor became better than this. 

There was no cold or hot, no breeze of any sort as you stepped out into the town. You could only compare this to limbo, the empty space between heaven and hell. 

In the name of the lords, were you…. 

dead? 

The nearest person who walked past, you grabbed. “Sir?” 

The man spun around by your force, starkingly revealing a face of green and rotting, and a maggot crawling out from the empty black space where his left eye should have been. Brown, sharp teeth revealed themselves as he looked upon you with kind curiosity, “Yes?”

You let go of him instantly, trying your best not to gasp at the ungodly sight before you. Your words died on your tongue as the man squinted with his one good black eye, and something like understanding dawned upon his face. 

“You’re the new wife,” he finally said. 

You blinked, licking your chapped lips, “The what?” 

The man began to speak, but his raspy voice was cut off by some low, smooth one. 

“Wife,” it said, moving from the shadows of an alley between Emily’s Pie Shop and Snake Lounge. “You’re my wife.” 

“Excuse me?” 

The figure appeared before you, unsheathed by the darkness that had clothed him. You first noticed that he was a bit taller than you, and skinny, dressed nicely in a slightly-torn black suit, as if he were getting ready to go to a wedding. His skin was deathly pale and smooth, unlike the person before you, and he had hair of silky black locks that fell loosely around his head. Moon-shaped, dark eyes sparkled in the street fires, and light pink lips curved into the tiniest of smirks. 

“Your wife?” You repeated incredulously. “I’m- who- what’s-” 

“Perhaps you should take a moment to sit, my love,” the stranger moved towards you with a hand outstretched, ready to guide you to a chair. You jumped back from him in defense. “Really, beautiful, it is best if you’re sitting when I tell you. You must be very scared.” 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” you snapped, eyes narrowed at the handsome man. “Tell me where I am and who you are.” 

“Firstly,” he took a hesitant step towards you, apparently not wanting to frighten you further. You squared your jaw. “You are where every… dead person goes. We call it Fors, which means Luck.” 

Your eyes grew wide once again. If you could have felt your heart beating, you were sure it would have stopped. 

“’Where every… dead person goes’?” Your mouth felt unbearably dry. Did you need water? Could you drink water? 

And while you wished it wasn’t true, it felt as if the knowledge he was telling you was already known; it was as if you were refreshing your mind on a topic you learned when you were young. Dead. Suddenly, the word wasn’t frightening. You weren’t sure why a wash of relief fell onto your skin, or why what he said made sense- it hadn’t before. 

“My love,” he took a step towards you, and you glanced up at him, “I found you in the snow after your vows. You seemed so lovely, so at peace. Your heart, unfortunately, dear, had ultimately been slowed until your breaths were no more.”

You had been so tired. You hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps you were foolish to think that winter wouldn’t claim you, knowing your health wasn’t in perfect shape. Your mind wasn’t either. And perhaps this was for the better. Victor was gone, no longer a nuisance. Yet, your heart felt heavy with the knowledge that your excitement for education, for adventure, for travel- it had all been snuffed out by the cold grasp of November. 

“And myself,” he continued, raising his left hand to sight and momentarily silencing your thoughts. In the darkness of the town, the torch lights lit up the burgundy amber settled in the golden engagement ring on his finger.  “My name is Min Yoongi, and I am your husband.”

AHA yes i am doing october ficcs now!!! send in your spookiest ideas for bts and got7 halloween fics circa 2017! 

[telangley]

Alan Watts, Myth and Ritual in Christianity. Today we have come to identify philosophy with "thought" that is, with a vast confusion of verbal opinions to the extent that we mistake the traditional philosophies of other cultures for the same sort of speculations. Thus we are hardly aware of the extreme peculiarity of our own position, and find it difficult to recognize the plain fact that there has otherwise been a single philosophical consensus of universal extent. It has been held by men who report the same insights and teach the same essential doctrine whether living today or six thousand years ago, whether from New Mexico in the Far West or from Japan in the Far East. To the degree that we realize its existence at all, we call it "metaphysics" or "mysticism", but both the insight on which it is founded and the doctrine or the symbols in which it is expressed are so generally misunderstood that it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that a faithful account of it might well be given in the form of a categorical denial of most of the statements that have been made about it both by its contemporary critics and by many of its present-day enthusiasts. For amongst both the opinion prevails that "mysticism" is a retreat from the realities of life into a purely subjective frame of mind which is declared to be more real than the plain evidence of our senses. By way of "categorical denial" I might begin by saying that a traditional "metaphysic" of this kind involves a far more acute awareness of the plain evidence of the senses than is usual, and that, so far from retreating into a subjective and private world of its own, its entire concern is to transcend subjectivity so that man may "wake up" to the world which is concrete and actual, as distinct from that which is purely abstract and conceptual. Those who undertake this task unanimously report a vision of the world starkingly different from that of the average socially conditioned man - a vision in whose light the business of living and dying, working and eating, ceases to be a problem. It goes on, yes, but it ceases to be the frantic and frustrating pursuit of an ever-receding goal, because of the discovery that time as ordinarily understood is an illusion. One is delivered from the mania of pursuing a future which one does not have. Yet another consequence of this acute awareness of the real world is the discovery that what has been felt to be one's "self" or "ego" is also an abstraction without reality a discovery in which the "mystic" oddly joins hands with the scientist who "has never been able to detect any organ called the soul". That which takes the place of the conventional world of time and space, oneself and others, is properly described by negations "unborn, unoriginated, uncreated, unformed" because its nature is neither verbal nor conceptual. In brief, the "seers" of this reality are the "disenchanted" and "disillusioned" those who are able to employ thoughts, ideas, and words without being spellbound and hypnotized by their magic.

[ruginite]

☁

SEND ME A SYMBOL FOR… Status: Acceptin’ 

☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it.

          [ I can’t count the times I almost said what’s on my mind   ]

1 -

It’s cold. The streets alive and windows warm with lights and passing shadows. The thrum of time square can be felt even from here. From where he stands, leaned to at the mouth of the alley across the street from their apartment. A perfect view of the party going on indoors. Where its warm and probably loud with laughing and music jacked up to high.

It makes him smile, despite the cold and the snow starting to fall again on the already covered concrete jungle. He won’t go in. Won’t make his presence known. Mostly…because he’s just too tired. He hadn’t lied when he said he’d had to work. He didn’t think he’d be back this soon. Shy two hours too midnight, and just under another after touch down. So he won’t go in. Dead on his feet as he is. He’d just wanted to stop by. Anonymously check in. Make sure that at least one of them were ringing in the new year like they should.

Because he worries. Always thinks on. Everything always comes back to Duck. And a sigh hangs in the frozen air before him, disrupted only when he moves to leave. Walking off down the sidewalk, with not but his foot prints to ever indicate he had been there at all.

2 -

It’s hot. Hot as the back side of jersey. Waves rising off the side walk outside. And though there’s fourteen fans, the ac blasting and shelter from the sunlight; it’s no damn different inside than it is out. Not with the bay doors open like they are; to keep the lot of them from dying from fume inhalation. Still it’s the cause of him working half blind on the engine he’s leaned over. But thank fuck for small favors because at this angle? He’s got one hell of a view of his surprise visitor.

What? Sue him. He’ll blame it on the heat later, when he’s feeling marginally guilty about it. But it’s also not entirely his fault or the weather’s. It’s Riley’s too. Nobody asked him to stand there, chatting it up with Vinnie while he waited for Bastian to finish up what he’s working on so they could go to lunch. Nobody asked him too look as good as he does in button ups and slacks. And definitely nobody for this heat wave to make all of that stick to skin in places that are straight up sin.

Something however slices flesh rather suddenly, and his attention is pulled back to where it should be. A curse grumbled into the inner working of the car and he’s yanking his hands out. Shuffling off to rinse out the cut and tape it up. Because that’s another thing no body asked for. Blood all over the merchandise.

3 -

Every single syllable out of her mouth grates on his ears, like nails on a chalk board. But he keeps his seat. Knocks back the rest of his whiskey and raps knuckles on the bar for another round. Gaze cast away from his glass, picking a spot that’s inconspicuous but still leaves what he covets in view. And maybe for minutes he lets himself pretend.

Tricks himself into thinking the polished wood under his finger tips is really silk. That the scent of whiskey isn’t coming from his own lips. The clink of his glass being set back before him is really liquor drowned nothings in his ear that he doesn’t even know what are. That he’s not quite so alone in his own space. 

There you go, Boss.

But it’s all shattered by the bartender. He gaze torn away, back to where it should have been the entire time. And fingers wrap around the drink. Knock it back in it’s entirety before standing up. Dropping cash on the bar to cover what he’s had. He’s not leaving he just needs a little air. That isn’t permeated with everyonething he shouldn’t want. And feet shuffle him out the door. Ignoring the inquires as to his destination as he goes.

4 -

Usually he’s more of a spectator every year. Finding a good spot to watch the parade. Taking in the feel of it. Of for once not being the only one. Not being the odd man out. Of being surrounded by people he has something in common with. Surrounded by people born different from the fucking status quo just like he had been. Call it immature, call it selfish, call it weak–but it helps. Helps remind him that at least in some ways somewhere there’s people of his particular shade.

Riley enjoys it more than Bastian thought he would. Being the social butterfly the fucker is. Making event long buddies with the people around them. Something Bastian had never bothered to do. Because while being here made him feel part of something, control and habit had always kept him still inside his own little box. But Riley didn’t have that problem. And soon enough he finds himself in a crowded bar. Glitter and confetti in places he didn’t even know he had. Quietly convening with the group Riley’s attracted.

But for all the beauty around him, he’s blind to it. Though perhaps their new found company isn’t blind to him. And there’s a friendly little nudge, a knowing sort of nod; from the tiny woman on his right. And even Bastian knows what she’s implying. So much so that his ears turn red, that flickering embarrassed sort of smile coming and going from his face. Before he’s leaning in just close enough to respond at a volume only she can hear.

           “Friend zone.”

And honestly? He doesn’t really mind the subsequent pat she gives his hand; or the extra shot she buys him because apparently? She knows exactly how he feels.

5 -

Two a.m. and he’s jolting awake. Covered in sweat and lungs heaving. A groan because every nerve ending is just as on fire as it had been in the fantasy he’d been all been truly wound within. And feet kick away covers, find the floor as he sits up. Rough hands rubbing at his face, as he gets up. Shuffles to the bath room. Pisses out the rest of last night’s drunken stupor and moves out into the hallway. Down the back stairs and into the kitchen. Because his mouth tastes like the bottom of a whiskey barrel but as dry as a cotton mill. 

The fridge door is hauled open, a bottle of water pulled from, cracked open and sucked down. And for moments he just stands there. Leaned against the kichen island. Letting the images play back in his mind. Echoed by logical thinking that he’s got to let this fixation go. That it’s never going to happen. That he should just get the hell out of dodge for a while. Let this cool off, grow cold, and come back when the bridge has rotted. Because it would be better for everyone else in the long run. 

A sigh, that drags everything down; before he’s shuffling to the trash can to throw the bottle away. Though he stops mid step when a sound carries from the living room. Brows knitting and the bottle becoming something else entirely. Something that hit much harder than thin plastic. And he’s moving from tile to carpet. Bare feet silent as the dead. At least until…

God damn it, Duck.

The small bat is set on the coffee table, gently. The ice pack that had fallen to the floor (the apparent source of the noise) picked up and set aside as well. And he just stands there for a minute or two doesn’t he? Watching the asshole sleep. But soon enough he’s moving again. Pulling the blanket off his dad’s old chair, shaking it out, and easy does it–covers up his best friend. Shiner, bruised knuckles and all. He won’t ask in the morning, he never does. But that doesn’t stop his fingers from almost grazing the black and blue ring around Riley’s eye. Fingers that retract a hair before it would be too late. And feet will him to turn and climb the stairs again.

Back to his bed. Alone. Like what’s best for everyone.

6 - 

Once upon a time…it had been his favorite time of year. Back before his life had gone shit everything wrong. And honestly it’s been years since he’s seen a Christmas tree. That wasn’t in a store window. That was decorated by hand and maybe not at all uniform and color coded. And even for as awkward as he feels surrounded by all the things, he’s avoided since his mom died—there’s a warmth too it he can’t deny he’s missed.

Music isn’t bad either. Classic stuff mixed in with modern. And maybe he catches himself more than once humming along. Always too quiet for anyone but him to hear; from where he spent most of the night. Tucked by the window. People watching. And more or less being okay with it. It’s his friend’s lot, not his. Not that Bastian really has a lot. At least not one that’s much bigger than three people.

But even Christmas parties wind down. As maybe a little too soon, the last of the other guests are shuffling out the door. With himself still in the same spot he’s been haunting all night. A quiet good night that’s answered just a little louder by him. Before they’re all that’s left in the starkingly empty space. And he’s moving to help pick up a little. Throw away stray plates and cups. And it’s somewhere between clearing the coffee table and snagging a fork from the mantle that his attention is drawn elsewhere.

                 How about a drink? Saved the good stuff for us.

Honestly he probably looks a little funny. Standing there stiff as a snowman. Trash bag in one hand, the other hovering in the air above the fork. But he hadn’t exactly been prepared for the image. The image that was Riley standing there in the kitchen door way. A bottle of 30 year whiskey in one hand, and two glasses in the other. And over top his head? Jesus Christ’s balls but the universe just wasn’t damn fair. 

And there’s a war going on in his head. One screaming to say yes, the other to do something entirely different, and one more telling him to bolt for the damn door and not come back until he’d scrubbed the image from his memory. But there’s no scrubbing this away. It’s there now. Embedded with every other time, the universe had decided to place Riley in just the right place to taunt and tempt him into doing something foolish. 

But where every other time logic had won…maybe he’s had one to many tonight, to compensate for the crowd. Or so that’s what he’ll blame it on later. Because before he can really tell what he’s doing; he’s moving. The bag abandoned and the fork forgotten about. And where his feet should have stopped him they don’t. Where hands should have gone for the glasses they wind fingers into Riley’s shirt. Drag him down and into a kiss that shouldn’t be happening, if propriety were a thing right then. But it’s not. And Bastian holds it for heart beats before the need for air becomes a reality and he lets go.

Gaze tracking upward above Riley’s head, as he clears his throat and steps back. Hands driving into his pockets and blue finding the depths of the rug beneath his feet. His ears as red as the garland hanging around the door frame. Questions, cursing…something will come eventually, because Riley doesn’t know how not to talk but what else was Bastian supposed to do?

Andy had parked himself right underneath the spot Bastian had noticed he’d avoided all night. And he can only hope that somewhere if this all goes sides ways, that the little bits of green hanging precariously from the door frame can some how find away to dig him out of the grave he’s probably dug for himself. Because if not? 

                   Worst.Christmas.Yet.