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sibsteria · 2 years

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Sworn to Secrecy

prompts: ‘’How about a kiss?’’, ‘Wait don’t pull away, not yet.’’

summary: Marcus and Y/n are in a secret relationship. Cloud 9 employees are trying to set you two up all the time, only to learn they didn’t need to. (Halloween costume contest episode)

character: Marcus White (Superstore) x Reader

warnings: fluff, smut, adventure time reference

‘‘Hey, Y/n!’‘ Chey shouted at me across the isle.

‘‘Cheyanne! You look hot!’‘ I gasped, gesturing to her hula costume.

‘‘So do you, girl, pink suits you.’‘ She complimented, referencing my sexy Princess Bubblegum outfit.

‘‘I think it’s the only one here Mateo can’t find a problem with.’‘ I roll my eyes.

‘‘I know, what’s up with that? Everyone’s being weird today.’‘ She pulls a face of annoyance.

‘‘Tell me about it, so- uh, are we still clear? No one’s suspecting anything?’‘ I hush my voice, moving in closer to her.

‘‘Y/n/n, you’re secret sex life is what gives me the will to get through these shifts, I haven’t told a soul.’‘ She giggles, flipping her hair out of her face.

I think back to how Chey found out I was dating Marcus.

‘‘I love it when you moan my name.’‘ Marcus muttered into my neck, he had me sat on a warehouse shelf, pounding away. He pressed a gentle kiss to my jaw, despite his urgency of release creeping up on him.

‘‘God, Marcus!’‘ I panted, as he skilfully hit a spot that made me shake.

‘‘Jeez, Y/n, I can’t last long.’‘ His broad hands gripped at my hips, probably leaving red fingerprints in the process.

‘‘Me neither, you’re good.’‘ I slid my hands into his hair, yanking him down to meet my lips, he growled as I did, a sound he’d never made before.

This only spurred me on.

Two of his fingers came to meet my clit, swiping in circles, as he continued to pump himself into me.

I muffled a whine with his lips, I was almost there-

‘‘What the fuck?!’‘

I screamed along with Marcus, he pulled out and we grasped at our loose clothing trying to become somewhat decent.

‘‘Chey! Oh my god I’m so so sorry you saw this!’‘ She stood there, hand over mouth.

‘‘Y/n we have been trying to get you to date Marcus for months, why didn’t you tell any of us?’‘ She revels.

‘‘Well, we don’t really know what this is yet. And we didn’t want whatever this is to turn sour if people knew. Things like this don’t really have a good track record in this store.’‘ I shrugged at her, biting my lip.

‘‘I get that, but what even is this?’‘

I looked towards Marcus, raising an eyebrow.

‘‘Well, if I’m honest here, I want you all to myself Y/n. Boyfriend-girlfriend style.’‘ He gave a nervous laugh, his eyes darting around the warehouse.

‘‘I’d like that too.’‘ A shy smile painting my features.

‘‘Ahhhh! Our OTP is happening, right before my eyes. Oh my gosh, I need to text Mateo.’‘

‘‘Oh, Chey, would you mind keeping this a secret until we decide to publicise it?’’ I give her a hopeful look.

‘‘Of course, what are best friends for?’‘

That was then.

Right now I could see Marcus containing the urge to stare at me like his life depended on it. Which turns out to be the exact reason I chose this outfit.

He looked dumb in his Rasta cap, but he was my dummy.

I shot him a wink when no one was looking and a dark blush spread across his cheeks.

A few hours into my shift and the costume contest, I’m checking in the warehouse for a specific item a customer asked for when I get grabbed by the hips.

I scream and try to wiggle out of the person’s grasp but a shush and a giggle sound from behind me.

‘‘Marcus! You- you, gah! You scared me you silly goose!’‘ I slapped him lightly in his chest. ‘’I should seriously hurt you for that one.’’

‘‘How about a kiss?’‘ He proposes, I can never refuse that face of his and his goofy smile.

‘‘Always.’‘ I whisper, leaning into him to meet his lips, he pulls me into him by my waist. I swipe his Rasta cap off his head and onto the floor.

I move to detach our lips but he groans.

‘‘Wait, don’t pull away, not yet.’‘ He murmurs against my mouth.

‘‘Okey...’‘ I let him continue kissing me with all he has until his hands move down to my ass.

‘‘Marcus this is improper, you remember what happened last time.’‘ I warn lightly, pulling away, finally.

‘‘Each one of my thoughts about you are improper, with you strutting around in that all day, I can’t compose myself.’‘ His fingers mess with the skimpy fabric of my costume.

I blush, even though that was my ultimatum.

‘‘You’re hot, babe- and my body respects that.’‘ He back me into the wall behind me.

I give into him, his hand brushed down my arm and down to rest on my hip, his other arm is pressed against the wall space above me.

He uses his new position to lean down and smash our lips together, moving with such aggression and passion.

His length, now sporting a large bulge, grinds up into my thigh.

He moves his lips to meet the shell of my ear.

‘‘Can you feel what you’re doing to me?’‘ His breath is hot against my ear, leaving me to shiver in appreciation as he mouths his lips around the lobe. Letting it go he kisses down my neck, I reach up to grab his hair yet I’m stopped.

His large palms grip both my wrists, positioning them above my head.

‘‘Never knew you had this in you.’‘ I panted out, a complete mess against him.

‘‘I can dom when I want to, just needed the right motivation.’‘

What we didn’t know was the two sneaky employees, hidden behind stock boxes, phone camera in hand.

A ding from the staff group chat stopped Marcus and I in our tracks.

‘‘One second, Marcuse babe, this could be important.’‘ I pull out my phone, tapping on the notification.

I frown as I press play on a video sent to the chat, it starts out dark with a few whispers in the background, the camera eventually pans up to show both me and my boyfriend in a compromising situation. You can hear EXACTLY WHAT WE ARE SAYING.

Marcus, who is looking down at my phone, gasps.

‘‘Oh, shit!’’

‘‘What the hell!’‘

We both shout as we look around, searching for the culprits.

Spam messages from the staff billow in.

Garrett: woah, guys...

Mateo: ASJDJSDKGJLDKSFDLKH WHAT

Dina: This is not what you get payed for! Get back to work!…but give me all the details later.

Sandra: FINALLY

Chey: hey maybe it’s not what it looks like?

Jonah: Little hard to believe that, Chey, stone cold proof if I’ve ever seen it.

‘‘What are we gonna do now?’‘ I mutter to Marcus.

His hand finds mine.

‘‘I don’t care what happens because I know I want you in my life, nothing is gonna tear us apart. Don’t worry.’‘ He presses a kiss to my temple.

‘‘Marcus, that’s the sweetest thing. I love you.’‘ I giggle, but then I realise what I said.

‘‘I LOVE YOU TOO!’‘ He yells, picking me up and hugging his arms around my waist. I wrap my legs around his middle.

Some people heard the commotion and followed the noise.

Cheering and whooping of co-workers jaunted me to remove my face form Marcus’ neck.

‘‘I can finally talk about this to someone!’‘ Cheyanne breaks the celebration.

‘‘Wait, you knew!?’‘ Mateo roars.

#superstore #marcus white #marcus white x reader #superstore marcus x reader #marcus white imagine #marcus white superstore #superstore marcus white #superstore marcus white x reader #superstore marcus white imagine #marcus white superstore x reader #jonah simms #dina fox #superstore mateo #superstore amy #superstore cheyanne

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

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pause, m | myg | 3

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: Life is like a cassette tape. It seems like it’s constantly repeating, flipped from side A to side B, and the songs can’t be skipped. You can only pause, rewind, fast forward, play after you’ve already heard the song. After you’ve already lived it. All Min Yoongi knows is his own tape, until it smashes right at his feet, and then he has to learn to dance to a different beat.

warnings: rated M (18+) - please be warned this story has a physically and verbally abusive relationship; language; gender stereotyping; mentions of therapy; non-idol!AU; music producer!Yoongi x dancing fanatic!reader

rated M because I know how sensitive a topic domestic abuse is.

Morning. Night.

He wasn’t on the night train.

Morning. Night.

He wasn’t on the night train.

Morning. Night.

You were the only one exiting at the last stop. Running. Running.

Morning. Night.

You hated this replay. This song sucked. This cassette tape sucked. But you kept going, ending all your bad days with dancing, dancing until you wore your own heart out, dancing to sad songs with happy beats, attending your dance party of one. Never had you wished your dance party to be of two.

Never, until now.

Morning. Night.

You were wandering around your neighborhood on your off day, idle and antsy. There was a garage sale happening. You walked over, seeing all the old things. Weird lampshades with no bottom half. Chipped coin banks. A pair of ping-pong paddles with no ping pong ball. Single teacups without the rest of the set. Old VHS tapes that no one had a player for.

Cassettes.

A bunch of cassette tapes, sitting there, spilled out. You tilted your head, picking one out. Love Songs for my Love. It was written in faded pen, a barely legible scribble. You flipped it over, but there was no indication of said songs. Just a Side A and Side B. Did someone make this? Did they use a tape player and record this by playing the songs on scratchy audio?

You suddenly remembered Yoongi’s girlfriend throwing a cassette tape on the subway concrete as she declared she hated him. The thin plastic has shattered, black ribbon flying everywhere.

Did Yoongi make her one?

And she smashed it, just like that?

“Do you want that?”

You started as an old woman indicated the tape in your hand. She was wearing a blue and white floral dress, a bright pink fanny pack at her waist. Her hand held a wad of change bills.

“Uh…” you said, not knowing if you did or not.

“I have a cassette player too.” The old woman tucked a gray hair behind her ear and rummaged around her, producing a silver and brown cassette player. It was huge, nearly the size of your forearm. “Still works. Needs batteries though.” She stated the price.

You walked out of the garage sale with the cassette and the player, wallet lighter.

You went home and played the tape after shoving some batteries into the player. It was full of old, cheesy eighties songs. You didn’t know any of these songs. They were all weird. Some were poorly recorded, cutting off strangely. The speaker was terrible, scratchy and pitching the audio due to its age, not that the audio was very good to begin with.

But you danced to it.

You danced to it.

Danced to these terrible love songs of a different time, of a different couple, not knowing if they were still together or not, not knowing if they were still in love, not knowing if they were even in Korea, but dancing to these retro beats anyway, not caring. Because someone, at one point, tried clumsily to make this for the one that loved, only for it to be sold like cheap candy decades later and you might as well enjoy it, because, hell.

What else was there to enjoy?

Morning.

Night.

You stopped at your doorstep.

Someone was sitting there, wearing a black parka and black sneakers. Black face mask. He raised his head as you stopped. Dark eyes, void of any sparkle. He stood up.

You swallowed. Bowed your head politely.

Opened your door for Min Yoongi.

You hadn’t changed the couch all this time. Left everything there, waiting.

Blankets. Pillow. The suitcase of his clothes.

Everything.

Yoongi didn’t say anything.

You went to your room, wordlessly.

In the morning, the blankets were folded neatly and the pillow set on top, as if he was never there.

Pause.

Fast forward.

He would be there one night and then not there several nights. He would stay several nights in a row, but not be there in the morning. Never saying anything. You didn’t say anything. You just went to your bedroom and danced to sad songs with happy beats, door closed, the pressure in your chest unbearable.

Replay. Turn the tape around. Replay. Turn the tape around. Replay.

You wanted to fast forward. You wanted to pause. You wanted to rewind.

But you had to press play.

You had to live the moments.

You had to run as you exited to night train, run and run and run, sometimes finding Yoongi sitting at your doorstep, sometimes finding nothing but air. And it didn’t matter. They were all bad days, ending with you dancing to gloomy songs with upbeat tunes, dancing and dancing until you passed out.

You were stuck.

Stuck in this odd loop of reality.

Trapped in sad lyrics with a happy melody.

You talked to your former therapist about it.

Explained the situation, trying to remember all the details. He was retired already, but as usual he listened patiently and with kindness. He didn't have to. When your therapist retired, he let you know that he meant it when he told you that you could call him any time and he would set aside some of his day to talk with you. You were grateful and never tried to abuse it. Sometimes you would just call and say hello, ask him about his health. Send him cards every once in a while, wishing him well. He had been a great therapist and now he was a good friend.

Those were really, really hard to come by.

You saw Yoongi once again, sitting in front of your apartment doorstep. Bit your lip seeing his crumpled form wrapped in his black parka. You walked up to him and smiled, but Yoongi didn't look at you. He only stood up and moved out of the way for you to unlock your door.

Your former therapist's words echoed in your head.

You need to consider the effect of your kindness, not only on him, but on you.

You held up your keys and found your hand shaking, missing the keyhole.

It is up to you how much you want to say. But remember to communicate with empathy. He is a victim and he may not respond rationally because his thought processes have been manipulated and warped.

"I'm sorry."

Yoongi's whisper was very soft, almost inaudible. You wanted to scream, cry, laugh it off, hug him, all at once. Instead, you took a deep breath and put your key in your front door. Turned around and beckoned him warmly into your home.

"Come in."

Everyone's reality is different. Even if you're sharing moments together, one person might have a completely different way of interpreting and processing events.

Yoongi stepped into your apartment once more, carefully taking off his shoes. Trying to keep his eyes on the floor. You didn't see any visible bruises on his face, but you could see the bruises to his soul as he timidly walked to the couch.

In life, you get to choose only how you feel about things. You only get to choose your own reaction.

You closed the front door, locked it.

You can't choose for other people.

You turned around to see Yoongi looking at the pillow, blankets, the little bag of toiletries. The suitcase of his clothes, washed and folded. You kept them on the couch, all this time.

"Yoongi."

He didn't turn his head, but you saw him move his chin slightly to indicate he was listening.

"This time... this time, before you leave in the morning," you said quietly, gently. "I hope you reconsider. Even if it's only for a second."

Yoongi didn't respond.

The next morning, you didn't know what you would find. The same folded blankets with the pillow on top? The same empty couch?

You went out to the living room.

Folded blankets. Pillow on top. No Yoongi on the couch. Your heart sank. Okay. It was worth a shot.

"I told myself this would be the last time."

A familiar raspy, soft voice. You jerked your head to the door. Yoongi was standing there, fully dressed, face mask on, sneakers on his feet. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the couch.

"I told myself I wouldn't take advantage of your kindness anymore."

It's okay, you wanted to blurt, but you hesitated, because was it? Was it okay to watch this all the time, to witness this toxic relationship, and not be able to help because you can't help unless they want to be helped?

"I'm weak."

Yoongi raised his head. He made eye contact with you. And it hurt so much, seeing those eyes and knowing you could do nothing, knowing he was just going to go back because that's all he knew.

You smiled even though it hurt so, so much to smile.

"You might think you're weak," you said softly. "But you always have a choice, Yoongi. Even if it's a small step. Even if it's something dumb, like taking off your shoes."

You couldn't tell his expression, most of it hidden behind the face mask. You thought of that time, in the convivence superstore, where his fingers had accidentally gotten caught in your sweater and unfurled the yarn, tangling you two together with red string, an awkward, embarrassing moment. Your lips curved a little wider, remembering that time. If anything, at least there was that one precious memory.

Yoongi looked down.

He placed his hand on the doorknob.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to watch him go.

You heard shuffling. Then a presence close to you. Your eyes snapped open. Yoongi's shoes were by the door. You looked up, right in front of you. Yoongi gazed back at you with uncertainty. Then he pulled down the face mask and stepped closer to you. Voice trembling, still so soft.

"What... what should I do now?"

You couldn't help it.

You began to cry.

It all came out, the tears spilling like a broken dam. Yoongi's eyes widened, startled at your sudden reaction. You wrapped your arms around yourself and buried your face in your chest, sobbing ugly tears. You turned away quickly, wiping them away and attempting to talk, but it was impossible. They kept coming.

Was it happiness? Relief? Stress? Anxiety? The crying racked your entire body. All those weeks, all those days, all those moments. You were just a person. You wanted to say, don't do this to me anymore, but that wasn't a fair thing to say, so you never said it, but, please, please Yoongi, don't do this to me anymore.

Arms appeared around you, black parka covered arms, and they encircled you, first a tentative hold, then tighter and firmer, steadying your sobs, turning them into sniffles. You realized your sweatshirt sleeves were wet and gross now, covered in snot and tears.

"Thank you."

The whisper behind your head, making you freeze.

"Thank you so, so much."

You didn't want to start crying again.

You started crying again.

Pause.

Fast forward.

Yoongi looked back at you, face full of uncertainty. Black face mask on his chin, squishing his cheeks together. You smiled at him from the waiting room, waving. The doctor’s name was printed clearly on the door. The name of the therapist you had helped Yoongi find. They specialized in domestic violence victims.

“I… I can’t do it.”

He said it softly, but the waiting room was dead silent.

You smiled at him.

“You only have to take one step,” you replied gently. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

Yoongi looked forward again. He took one step. Then another. Then more, walking into the door and closing it behind him.

Pause. Rewind.

You remembered your similar moment. You were by myself at that time, years ago, confused and alone, about to walk into an old man’s office who you thought could do absolutely nothing, but you didn’t know what else to do. You knew there was something wrong with you and you didn’t know what and you knew you needed help. But there was no one to tell you to take a step forward. You were frightened, scared of being alone. Equally scared of being with someone else, which was why you were so boring in every relationship, never putting in any effort, because you were afraid.

The therapist had noticed your hesitance. He stood up and said your name kindly. You snapped to attention, nodding slowly. The old man had smiled, hands crossed in front of his waist.

“You only have to take one step,” he had said. “Just one.”

You looked at the ground.

Took one step.

That seemed too small. Maybe one more.

One more.

One.

More.

You were now in the office, standing in front of the sofa.

The old man had beamed at you proudly.

“You did it.”

Pause. Fast forward.

“You did it.”

Yoongi stepped out of the office. His eyes found yours. “I did.”

You smiled proudly.

“Wanna go buy some bread?” you asked, pointing in the direction of the market plaza next to the clinic. “There’s a bakery nearby. It would be nice to have bread for breakfast, don’t you think?”

Yoongi gave you his little half-smirk. “Yeah, it would.”

Reset.

Pause.

Play.

“Why do you have that?”

You looked up from your bed to your desk. Yoongi was pointing to the cassette tape player. His face was white, almost tense. His other hand was holding yours. He held it tighter, biting his lip.

“I bought it at a garage sale,” you answered truthfully. Yoongi lowered his hand, not quite looking at you. You continued. “I was walking around the neighborhood and someone was selling their old stuff and I saw some cassettes, so I bought one. The lady upsold me the player too. It was after the first time you…”

You left me.

You felt a painful pluck of your heartstrings, like a guitar strand pulled too tight and producing the wrong sound. Yoongi turned to face you, but you shifted your eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s not his fault. But it had hurt. You couldn’t pretend it didn’t.

You laughed apprehensively. “It was full of eighties love songs anyway. The audio is scratchy and old. The couple probably aren’t even together anymore.”

“That wasn’t that long ago.”

“The eighties were forty years ago, Yoongi.”

Silence. Yoongi was still holding your hand.

“How many times do you think it’s been replayed?” Yoongi murmured.

Your eyes shifted back to the silver and brown tape player. “I don’t know. But I kept playing it.” Your voice was a little choked up now. “I kept playing it until you… until you came back.” And sometimes I think… sometimes I think there might be a chance you’ll leave again. And maybe that was impossible, but you knew better, because impossible things happen all the time and it would be easy to think a person could fully heal, but things like that don’t heal so easily.

You know, because you witnessed it firsthand.

“They’re all terrible,” you said quietly.

Yoongi squeezed your hand. “But you kept replaying them.”

“Yeah.”

He took a deep breath. And then another. You waited. He seemed like he wanted to say something. You rubbed his thumb gently with yours. He kept staring at the cassette player.

“That… was the first gift I gave her.” His dark brown eyes were misty, gazing into the past. “Our hundred-day anniversary. I gave her a cassette of my favorite songs. I thought it was more original than a mix CD or a link to a Spotify playlist.” He looked down, not quite at the floor. “She was so excited and happy. She told me she was going to play it as soon as she got home.”

Silence.

When Yoongi spoke again, there was a quiver of hopelessness.

“I never saw a tape player at her place.”

You saw the pain in his eyes.

“Did she play it even once?”

He shut his eyes, hiding them with his hair. His voice was getting smaller and smaller, almost disappearing.

“And then she smashed it.”

He was clutching your hand so tightly that your fingers felt numb, but you didn’t move away, listening carefully.

“She smashed it so that not even people like you could pick it up years later and listen to it. Smashed it so that not even one person in the whole world could appreciate it.”

“The Yoongi at the time appreciated it,” you said softly.

Yoongi hid his face with his hair.

“The Yoongi back then was a fucking fool,” he sighed.

“It’s not so easy to have a pure feeling.” You placed your other hand on top of his. “Not everyone can feel that way. It’s not fair when someone takes advantage of that.”

He hung his head. “I could have gotten out. I could have been a man and left. But I kept going back. I enabled her. I was just as bad.”

You sighed softly. “You know things like that are easy to say and impossible to do in the moment.”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

Yoongi lifted his head, looking at you through his bangs. Not wanting to fully show you the pain in those dark brown orbs.

“For going back?”

You shook your head. “No.” Your lips curved into a sad smile. “I watched my dad crawl back over and over. I watched it happen right in front of my eyes.” You exhaled the tenseness from your chest. “He kept thinking that because they had kids he had to come back.” The next breath was rougher, pushing out all your anger. “I think it would have easier if she was my stepmother. But she wasn’t.”

And the fear stabbed through you.

“I keep thinking, what if I’m like her? What if I’m just like her and I don’t know?”

You shut your eyes.

“All of my previous relationships ended because I didn’t invest into them.”

You suddenly let go of Yoongi’s hand, pulling away, but Yoongi held on, held on desperately, interlocking his fingers with yours. You dropped your hand, all strength gone, measuring your breathing, trying to calm yourself down.

“What if…?”

Silence.

“We’ll never know unless we try.”

Pause.

“I can’t ask you to try after what you’ve been through, Yoongi.”

“You don’t have to ask me.”

You opened your eyes and slowly, slowly raised your head. Your eyes connected with his.

“You know you won’t be that way,” Yoongi murmured quietly. “Because you know and can recognize it. You recognized it when… when I saw nothing.”

You held his hand.

Fell back on the bed and the two of you stared at the ceiling, holding hands.

You laughed as you exited the train car with Yoongi. At the last stop, stepping out to the harsh streetlights and concrete.

“What do you mean, is that where I got my dance skills? It’s just a music video! They’re supposed to be weird!” you were saying, shouldering your backpack.

“That was bizarre and that’s putting it lightly,” Yoongi chuckled.

He didn’t look at the edge of the train station anymore. He was only looking at you, with his dark brown, cat-like eyes full of sparkle, smirking at you fully now. There was still space between you two at this particular place, this last train stop, but somehow it had gotten smaller. Shrunk. Not because he was shrinking either. He was a smoothed-out piece of paper now, still winkled; the old marks erased but still etched on the page. Not forgotten, but finally able to be written over.

“Get the fuck over here, Yoongi.”

Both of you froze.

Yoongi frowned and looked up. The pressure on your chest returned.

The woman. Yoongi’s girlfriend.

No.

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“I told you it was over. It’s still over.”

Ex-girlfriend.

She furrowed her brows, bristling. “You can’t do this to me, Yoongi! I’m the only one who loves you! Me! Or did you forget, you stupid bastard?”

Yoongi paused. He took a deep breath and stared up at the streetlights, up to the sky. For a second, you despaired, thinking he was going to consider it, thinking he was going to walk away from you. Then he let out a puff of air and ticked his head.

“I don’t have anything more to say to you,” he said evenly, not looking at his ex-girlfriend.

Yoongi turned away.

He caught your eye. He wasn’t smiling, but you could tell there was something different this time. Resolve. He nudged your arm with his.

“Wanna race?”

The pressure on your chest lifted suddenly, leaving you breathless.

“What?” you gasped.

Yoongi chuckled. “You’re gonna lose.”

And then he tore off. You started, running after him, the young woman shouting after you two, but neither of you heard, neither of you listening, because you were running, running, chasing after that black parka with indignation, calling his name and him mockingly bellowing yours back, causing you to run faster, faster, smile on your face, tackling him into your front door laughing. Yoongi snickered, stating he won and you chastised him, telling him he cheated as you unlocked the door.

“Your fault for getting distracted.”

“I wasn’t ready!” you flailed, dumping your backpack onto the ground. You took out your phone and accidentally pressed the play button on your music. Your Bluetooth house speakers started blasting quirky guitar, snazzy drums, and twanging bass, ridiculous lyrics singing along. In frustration, you tossed your phone on the couch and began to wiggle your arms, pointing accusingly at Yoongi, as if to say, this isn’t over, but kicking off your shoes and prancing about your apartment, bouncing your shoulders to the beat.

Yoongi shook his head, but you didn’t care, singing on the top of your lungs.

“Don’t know a night without dancing, don’t like the night without dancing…”

“Is that dancing?” Yoongi interrupted, but you just wiggled up and down like a fish out of water, and Yoongi shook his head once more, looking exasperated. You spun, you frolicked, you whipped your hair around until you were lightheaded, not caring about anything, not caring about what Min Yoongi was seeing, because this was your time, your time to shine, your nighttime dance party.

You tripped on the couch and Yoongi darted forward to snatch you from the air. You laughed at your own clumsiness, dizzy from spinning so much, not realizing how close you were to Min Yoongi, not realizing until the song ended and you were staring up at him and he was staring down at you, still in his black parka and face mask squishing his cheeks.

The next song began.

But for some reason you couldn’t brush it off. You couldn’t get up and begin dancing again. You were only looking up into Yoongi’s eyes and he was looking down at you. You were reminded of his face that day in the grocery store, when the red yarn from your sweater unraveled due to the Velcro on his sleeve, reminded of that split second where you were happy and sad at the same time, happy and sad at the idea of red yarn attaching you and Yoongi together.

Happy because it was funny.

Sad because you knew you had to pull away.

Yoongi’s dark eyes looked down at you and he leaned down a little. Stopped.

You raised yourself a little. Stopped.

Pause.

Heart beating fast, so fast. Was it from running? From dancing like an idiot? From staring into Yoongi’s eyes? From being so close to him? From knowing you shouldn’t kiss him, because maybe he wasn’t ready yet, but really, really wanting to?

Yoongi leaned down the same time you rose upward.

Your foreheads knocked together.

“Ow!”

“Motherfuc–”

You swore and he jerked up, rubbing his forehead as you winced, massaging yours. It was a hard hit and you felt woozy from all the emotions and the physical exertion. You grabbed his arm for balance as you stood, and he grabbed yours, grimacing as he rubbed his head.

“Damn, that fucking hurt,” he mumbled.

“Ugh, am I bruised?” you asked, removing your hand.

He squinted. “No?” He leaned forward a little.

You leaned forward too. Stopping just a centimeter away. Yoongi’s eyes widened. You looked into his wide eyes with your wide eyes, waiting. You shouldn’t kiss him, because you didn’t know if he was okay with it, you didn’t know if he was even thinking about it. It was way too early, it was too soon, and you should just back off–

He pressed his lips to yours.

You both stared at each other with unblinking, huge eyes, lips on lips.

You jerked back, sputtering. “Y-You’re making this weird!”

Yoongi pointed to you and all around him. “And this bizarre indie rock isn’t making this weird?”

“D-Don’t blame the music,” you stuttered, fingers on your lips. “You shouldn’t stare like that!”

“You were s-staring back!” he accused.

“F-Fine!”

And then you grabbed his face and kissed him, deeply, fully. You kissed Min Yoongi, kissed his soft lips with your eyes squeezed shut, breathing in his scent and his presence, a presence you never wanted to go away. You didn’t know if it was right or wrong. You didn’t know if this was the start of a wonderful story or the end of a rollercoaster one, but it was yours, your cassette tape with your love songs, and you wanted Yoongi on the playlist, you wanted his song to play on repeat, and he grabbed your arms and pulled you close, kissing you back, murmuring your name, wrapping his arms around you, and you knew you had his song, his song on your cassette to dance to.

Don’t let this beginning end.

4. smut.

masterpost

#yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #bts series #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you

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kaffeinic · 5 years

Text

60 Question Tag Challenge!

I was challenged by @woo-for-woojin to answer all of these. To be fair, I challenged her first, but let’s not get into the details. Original post of questions by @roseyygf.

1: Selfie.

GAAAAAAAH I HATE THIS ALREADY SMH IM SO UGLY.

Lmao look at my fingers. What the hell is going on there?

2: What would you name your future kids?

I feel like that’s a joint decision, so I can’t say. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll want to have my own kids through childbirth. My family has a genetic disposition to difficulties during pregnancy. I might adopt.

3: Do you miss anyone?

A few people. Some of them I haven’t even met in person. I miss my BFF from school. I miss a few people online that I’ve fallen out of touch with. I’m always missing people. 😂

4: What are you looking forward to?

College, and moving out of my house. I’ve been itching to do both of these for years now.

5: Is there anyone who can always make you smile?

@hoshithehamster, @woo-for-woojin, @a-toxic-galaxy, my BFF from school, and my older sister. Also, I swear, @hoshithehamster and I are literally are always TALKING IN CAPS LOCK BECAUSE WE ARE IDIOTS AND WE HAVE THE WEIRDEST, MOST FUN CONVERSATIONS EVER.

6: Is it hard for you to get over someone?

Once I’ve gone all-in, yeah. When it’s a crush, not usually. I’m really slow to develop a crush on someone. Painfully slow lol. I’m cautious because I’ve been hurt by people in that regard a few times. One incident had me suicidal for a long time.

7: What was your life like last year?

Kind of the same? I didn’t have this blog open. If you had asked this regarding two years ago, I would have said that I wasn’t homeschooling, didn’t know how to play piano much, didn’t have this blog, and was very depressed because of my old schoolmates.

8: Have you ever cried because you were so annoyed?

YES! Whenever I feel stuck and know I have no control of a situation, I get frustrated and find a quiet place to cry.

9: Who did you last see in person?

I’m assuming this means out of my own household. The last person I saw was my older sister and her roommates, who I am really good friends with. One of them loves coffee as much as me and it’s great! I spent the night. That was over a month and a half ago lmao. Before that, I had gone on a date at a coffee shop.

10: Are you good at hiding your feelings?

Yeah. My family gets angry at me if I’m sad or angry about anything, so I hold it all in. It definitely has made life a bit harder. I make people angry when I won’t disclose my feelings to them. I just find it to be better to hold it. I have to be really comfortable with you and really love you if I’ll tell you that I’m sad/angry and why.

11: Are you listening to music right now?

Yeah. It’s Le Pire by Maître Gims. He’s a really great French singer.

12: What is something you want right now?

If this is concerning food, I’m in the mood for chicken right now lol. I need some protein. Aside from food, I’m wanting to get a pedal for my electric piano. I have no sustain and it ruins a lot of songs. 😂 It’s why I have my ko-fi open.

13: How do you feel right now?

Meh. I’m not feeling great. I have some issues with fainting. My blood pressure drops like a rock at times and I feel it coming on, if you know what I’m saying. It’s this kind of lethargic, sick feeling. I’m trying to drink a lot of water, just in case it’s about dehydration.

14: When was the last time someone of the opposite sex hugged you?

When I last visited my favourite coffee shop. For those of you who read Caffeinic, Chan’s character design is a mix of his true personality and a barista at my café of choice. He always gives me a hug when I see him, and when I say good bye. 😊

15: Personality description?

For a quick description, I’d say that INFJ, which is my MBTI type, is really accurate for me. I’ll let one of my friends try to describe me. I’m bad at describing myself lol.

Okay, but my heart is combusting. This amazing hooman, I lob her so much!!!! One of my best friends for sure.

16: Have you ever wanted to tell someone something but you didn’t?

All the time. I’m sure you all have heard Fight Song by Rachel Platten, but that line where she says, “And all those things I didn't say // Wrecking balls inside my brain // I will scream them loud tonight // Can you hear my voice this time?” really resonates with me. It was that lyric that hooked me on this song.

17: Opinion on insecurities?

I think 90% of us have them. They are humbling, which can be good, but I urge you to know your worth. I’m such a hypocrite.

18: Do you miss how things were a year ago?

Not really. Not much has changed.

19: Have you ever been to New York?

No, but I’d love to visit! I’m from the west coast lol.

20: What is your favourite song at the moment?

Ramai by Delia & The Motans. I listen to a lot of different languages in music lol. I have no idea what any of it means, so if it’s inappropriate, I apologize.

21: Age and birthday.

Internationally, 18. May 3, 2001.

22: Description of crush.

I don’t think I have a crush???? Haha. There’s this really kind, pretty hot barista at the café who seems to like me but I’m avoiding relationships, so idk. He has green eyes and black, curly hair. He’s maybe 170-180cm, but I’m not entirely sure. He looks damn good in a button up, I... wow. 🥵

23: Fear(s)?

So many lmao. I’m afraid of some trivial things, like bugs and rollercoasters, but I’m also afraid of some different items, like never having a family of my own, or of not being able to achieve my dreams.

24: Height?

154(?)cm. About 5’1.”

25: Role model?

I don’t think I have one lmao. I just try to be the best person I can be. It’s a goal in life for me to be a truly good person.

26: Idol(s).

Aren’t Idols and Role Models pretty much the same thing..? 😂 To be general, I look up to those who have studied in medical school because I know it’s a rollercoaster of difficulties and debt. I applaud them.

27: Things I hate:

This could be a very long list. Let’s go:

Unnecessary rudeness/bullying

Being forced into things I don’t like and/or am afraid of doing

Being lied to

Being stolen from

Being thrown in awkward situations

Being denied my alone time

When people make a mess that I have to clean

When I cook for people and they don’t thank me. My face just scrunched in anger while I typed this one lmao.

Arrogant/egotistic people

So many more, but I’ll cut it off there. 😊

28: “I’ll love you if...”

OOF. There’s no specific thing someone could do. If you love me, I’ll love you. I don’t mean the “awe ily” kind of love. I mean the “I will keep you out of trouble and protect you and be around you only to enjoy your company because I love you” kind of love. True love. Not that artificial crap.

29: Favourite film(s)?

Room 1408 is really good haha. I also really liked A Simple Favour. I like a lot of movies lmao. Superhero movies are always good.

30: Favourite tv show(s)?

I watched a lot of Black Mirror before we got rid of Netflix. I watch Superstore and Brooklyn 99 like they’re the gospel. I’m always down for Gilmore Girls because it’s a classic. I often watch my old childhood shows like Danny Phantom.

31: 3 random facts.

I’m assuming you mean, “3 random facts about me” lol.

I play piano.

I read “too much.” Let’s be honest, is it even possible to read too much?

I write my own stories and songs all of the time.

32: Are your friends mainly girls or guys?

Oof. My absolute closest friends are girls, but the majority of people I would consider my friends are male.

33: Something you want to learn.

Everything I can about medicine. I’m so interested in it, and I love the idea of fixing someone’s body. I’m fascinated by the weird and/or nasty things about our bodies. I hope that doesn’t sound too weird. I also wanna learn how to use a French press lmao.

34: Most embarrassing moment?

I had been selected to perform in a talent show a few years back for my old school and I got up there, face planting on the floor. Halfway through the song, I froze up and forgot the lyrics. I have never forgotten that.

35: Favourite subject?

Any form of science or Language Arts.

36: 3 dreams you want to fulfill?

Become a doctor.

Write a song that someone can perform onstage.

Clock in my 10,000 hours in piano.

Extra: I want to learn violin so badly!

37: Favourite actor/actress?

Jennifer Aniston or Nicolas Cage probably. I don’t pay much attention to actors. I also love Jeremy Renner’s work!

38: Favourite comedian(s)?

Oh lord, this question was made for me. Randy Feltface, Samuel J. Conroe, TwoSet, Ross Lynch, and many, many more!

39: Favourite sport(s)?

Volleyball, baseball, and badminton. Low/no-contact sports lol.

40: Favourite memory?

I can’t think of a specific one, but my best memories are always those random, funny moments I have with friends. I don’t think I’m ever gonna forget when my friend and I named one of her plants for the first time. I made a plant family tree. Dear lord save my soul.

41: Relationship status?

Single~

42: Favourite book(s)?

THAT IS THE HARDEST QUESTION EVER! How can I be expected to answer this???? 😂 I don’t have a favourite.

43: Favourite song ever?

Is this q&a list crafted specifically for me to not be able to answer any of the questions? 😂 I don’t have one. It changes with time.

44: Age you get mistaken for?

People always think I’m younger than I am, but if they don’t, then they over shoot it. Most people think I’m 16, or as old as 20-22. It’s crazy lol.

45: How you found out about your idol.

I’m going to interpret this as how I found out about my ult bias, who is Chan from Stray Kids. I was surfing SoundCloud and found the 3racha page. There wasn’t much there, but I liked what they had recorded. From then, I saw some of their survival show and may have kind of fallen for Channie and his personality lmao. Whoops.

46: What my last text message says.

This is the one I got while I was answering this specific question. 😊

“I feel that. I do hate unrealistic stories or stories that go on to fast like. I want to read stories where I feel like the reader could be me and not some sort of perfect girl getting the attention of all the people and fell in love withing 3 seconds and marry. I know that there must be some drama and special things to keep the story going and that's OK but I really appreciate stories who are still based more on a normal life. And you really do a good job in writing normal life stories // And tbh no story made me as happy as your barista!Chan story. It really is something different and I love it.”

Idk if the sender would be okay with me sharing that it was them, so I just copied it lol. I truly do love the feedback I get from you guys! Thank you all so much~~!

47: Turn-ons?

I’m assuming - again - that you mean romantically? I’ve always liked someone who has a decent sense of humour. Whenever I see someone working hard at their job/studies, part of me finds it... sexy? Idk. I’m weird. Save me. 😂

48: Turn-offs?

Overconfidence is a big no-no. It’s annoying as well. I can’t stand someone who truly is an idiot. Nothing turns me off more than getting a text that’s barely legible with a million abbreviations. Speak to me like someone with a brain, please. Another big turn-off is someone who is just automatically very sexual. I’m not a super sexual person, and I don’t want to hang out with someone who has a one-track mind in that sense.

49: Where I want to be right now.

The café.

50: Favourite picture of your idol?

But... he’s so pretty? How??

Sorry. I do not own these gifs/photos of Chan~

51: Star sign?

Taurus..? Idk if that’s for horoscopes lol.

52: Something I’m talented at.

Mmmmmm idk. I’m pretty mundane. I read a lot. I really would love to say I’m talented at piano, but I just don’t think I’m there yet.

53: 5 things that make me happy.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...” Sorry.

Classical music

The smell of an old book

Petrichor and/or rainstorms

Playing piano

The smell of coffee

54: Something that’s worrying me at the moment.

Everything?? 😂 I’m worried about affording college tuition at the moment. I’m a senior and it’s steadily approaching.

55: Tumblr friends?

I almost yeeted my phone across the room. This is my question. 😂

@hoshithehamster, my fellow plant mother. I think we are each other’s spirit animal lol. I love you more than you know~! As a side note: She’s model material, I swear! Soooooo pretty, inside and out!

@woo-for-woojin, the most adorable and thoughtful person ever?? Always a pleasure to speak to. She gives the coolest and cutest requests ever, I’m-

@a-toxic-galaxy, one of the first people who supported this blog. I love you so much! We both have gotten a little busy lately, but I hope we never fall out of touch.

@doubleknot42, I guess more of an acquaintance? I still really want to get to know her more. The content on her blog is amazing, I highly recommend.

@ethereal-chanracha, someone who I’ve just recently started talking to. We’ve learned so much about each other in such a short time and I already think she’s so awesome! If you’re down for a good conversation, hit her up.

@palemoonpersephone, a friend I made after writing a post about my experiences at school. She is one of the sweetest, most thoughtful and hardworking people I’ve ever met. She offered to be my friend if ever I need one, and I don’t regret it. 💕

56: Favourite food(s).

Homemade granola (I make it a lot.)

Salad (Don’t @ me. I really do enjoy salad. I’m much more of an herbivore. 😂)

Most types of Chinese chicken

This spicy noodle thing I think I invented?

Italian sandwiches

Any type of spicy chip (Takis, Hot Cheetos, etc...)

Plain white rice

Gochu jang flavoured chicken

Despite this list, know that I’m a very picky eater lol

57: Favourite animal(s).

Foxes

Doggos

CATS

White tigers

HEDGEHOGS OML

58: Description of my best friend.

Y’all probably know who this is, but...

Kind

Attentive

Smart

Pretty

Passionate

gOOFY (like me)

The best plant mother in existence??? Fight me.

Patient

Empathetic

And SO much more~~!

59: Why I joined tumblr?

Initially, just to find cool posts and like/reblog whatever I enjoyed. My main blog, @assainfj, is the same blog I started with lol. It’s now become a place for me to share my thoughts and my writing and to meet amazing hoomans.

60: Ask me anything you want.

YASSSSS PLEASE I love answering your questions~~~~~! Send in as many as you’d like!

I tag: @hoshithehamster • @a-toxic-galaxy • @palemoonpersephone • @doubleknot42 • @ethereal-chanracha & anyone else who wants to do this!

#kpop #fanfictions #headcannons #reactions #ships #imagines #asks #tag #challenge #q&a #questions #answers #stray kids #bang chan #skz #chan

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reciprocityfic · 5 years

Text

one hundred ways, chapter 2

Title: One Hundred Ways Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: T Summary: A series of Rick and Michonne drabbles, each one containing a different phrase that can show how much one loves someone else. Based on a Tumblr post. Both AU and canon.

read chapter one on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter two on archive of our own or ff.net

“it reminded me of you.”

She’s always awake when he comes home from runs.

She’ll greet him, ask how the trip went, if everyone is safe, how he’s feeling. It’s their routine, now.

It pleases him.

He tries not to let it please him too much. He knows she just wants to go to bed with a sound mind, to be sure that everything and everyone is alright. He knows she’s not waiting up for him, specifically. Sometimes, though, it feels like she is, and recently there seems to be a part of him - small, but getting louder and more insistent by the day - that wishes she were waiting up for him, specifically.

But he pushes those intrusive thoughts away, tells himself he is making something out of nothing, and focuses on her.

This particular evening, he finds her sitting at the island in the kitchen when he arrives at their house, reading a book and drinking hot tea out of a plain, white mug. He smiles, and his fingers fiddle with an object held behind his back.

She looks up when he closes the door behind him, grins when she catches his eye. She closes her book, takes a slow sip out of her mug, as he comes over to stand on the other side of the island, across from her.

“How’d it go?” she asks lowly.

He shrugs.

“Alright. We checked out some old superstore. It was mostly picked-over, and we knew it would be since it was right on the main road. But we found a good bit of medicine in some small, side cabinet behind the pharmacy counter.”

He pauses. She waits.

“The food was pretty much gone, though. Or bad.”

She looks down and frowns, and he hates it. He can’t help feeling like he failed her, even though he knows it’s not his fault.

“We’re going out again tomorrow,” he assures her quickly, as if trying to make up for his shortcomings. “Aaron said there was a small town about 20 miles out that was more off the beaten path. Me and Daryl’ll check it out.”

She nods, but still has a frown on her face. He wants to make it go away more than anything.

Again, he turns a hidden item over in his hand, surreptitiously.

“Gotcha somethin’.”

She glances up at his words, her brow furrowing. A curious glint appears in her eyes.

“What?”

“I got you somethin’,” he repeats.

Before she can say anything else, he removes his hand from behind his back and sets a white mug down on the counter between them, adorned with flowers and the shiny, gold outline of a cat. She gazes at him for a moment longer, the corners of her open mouth just beginning to curl up, before reaching out and grabbing the mug. She brings it closer to her, so she can read the matching gold lettering decorating one side.

“‘Sorry, I Gato Go, My Cat Needs Me,’” she reads aloud.

She’s quiet, and stares at the mug, her mouth still agape.

Then, she laughs - a deep laugh that comes from her belly and makes her shoulders shake. Before he knows it, he’s laughing along with her.

“You remembered?” she asks, a hint of incredulity in her tone.

He scoffs playfully.

“Of course. How could I forget your deep love for novelty mugs?”

“I just - “ she begins, trying to speak through her wide smile and lingering giggles. “It was a random, passing conversation on the road, months ago. I’d just figured…”

She trails off, and a wave of self-consciousness washes over him. He wonders if she finds it strange that he remembers. If he’s being honest, he makes a point to remember everything she tells him about her life before, even if it’s only something as small as having a cupboard full of colorful mugs covered in cute images and clever sayings.

He has an insatiable desire to know her - to know not only who she is now, but who she was, as well.

“Well,” he begins, hoping his slight embarrassment isn’t apparent. When he thought about giving the cup to her, he’d been so calm and collected. He and Michonne were cool like that. The two of them were friends, and friends got each other stuff.

Now that he’s in front of her, he feels like a blubbering mess.

“When I saw it - and it had the saying and then the cat outline on it...I guess it reminded me of you.”

She looks up from the mug and peers at him.

“What do you mean?” she inquires slowly.

He hesitates, and tilts his head to the side. Now he’s confused.

“What do I mean?”

“The cat outline? What do you mean?”

Oh, that. He curses inwardly, afraid that, again, he’s shown his hand too plainly, that she’ll be weirded out by how much he pays attention to her.

“I - I mean,” he stutters, “you had that cat sculpture-thing back at the prison, and I guess I just always assumed you were a...cat person.”

She doesn’t answer him right away. He bows his head and stares at the floor, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You’re very observant, Mr. Grimes.”

He brings his eyes back towards her at the sound of her voice, and finds she’s still squinting at him, but with a smile on her face.

“I’ll have you know,” she continues, “that I am a cat person. And I had a cat before all this, named Pepper. She was gray and fat and very moody. A princess, through and through.”

She sighs, then presses her lips together and gives him a tight-lipped smile that’s somewhat sad.

“I miss her. I know pets aren’t very important, considering everything else we’ve lost, but I miss her all the same.”

They’re both silent for a moment, as they take a moment to remember the cat, and the everything else. Finally, she reaches out, places her hand over his.

“Thank you, Rick,” she murmurs. “I...really love this.”

Her eyes are soft, and he smiles back gently, before motioning to the set of cabinets behind her with his gaze.

“Maybe you can start a new cupboard full.”

She grins, and squeezes his hand once before pulling back. Her touch and warmth linger on his skin.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe I can.”

And the next morning, when he sees her drinking her hot tea from her new mug, instead of the plain, boring one she usually uses, he can’t help the smile that takes over his face.

He vows to never come home from a run empty-handed again.

Author’s Note: 'Gato' means 'cat' in Spanish, in case you didn't know!

The mug Rick got Michonne is a real mug that's currently available at Target. I want it really bad, as I myself collect mugs.

Also, as if we didn't already know Michonne is a cat person, her dressing Judith up like a cat in 9x14 certainly proves it :)

I hope you liked this chapter! See you all soon!

xoxo, Rebekah

#richonne #richonne writing network #richonnejustdesserts #the walking dead #richonne fic #richonne fanfiction #twd fanfiction #ohw

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youarenotthewalrus · 6 years

Link

this article is dumb, i shouldn’t be hate-reading and you shouldn’t either but here we are so let’s do this:

We begin with a description of a platformer doing something clever and metatextual at the end. Followed by;

What this means is that the game stands in stark contrast to an industry whose products, historically speaking, rely on hijacking the reptile brains of hormone-crazed teenaged boys. In short, the history of videogames is the history of the glorification of violence.

Ah yes, who can forget such bloodthirsty products of the military-industrial complex as Pong, Tetris, Pacman or Zork?

We can debate what constitutes the first videogame, and whether it’s fair to attribute the invention of videogames to the military,

Given the contentiousness of that assertion, I should certainly hope so!

but what’s undeniable is that military engineers—ever ready to coopt, conspire with, or commission innovation from the private sector (e.g., the splitting of the atom, the invention of I.Q.)—more or less immediately recognized that videogames could be employed as a cheap substitute for teaching soldiers how to do everything from fly a plane to take out a sniper.

Kinda reductive to reduce the history of video games to FPSes in general and America’s Army in particular, doncha think?

Anyway, then we get some more waffle about how first-person shooters video games are training us to kill, before we get to the real question: given that this platformer he just finished playing did something a little artsy, can video games be art even despite the fact that were originally works of military propaganda intended to inure potential military recruits to violence? And more importantly, given that this guy seems to think the history of video games began with first person shooters, is he really qualified to answer this question?

Then we get some pointless side chatter over the claim that games are good for your brain, followed by the charge that games are addictive--despite the explicit comparison made to gambling (at “your local Native American casino,” no less), there is no discussion of lootboxes or microtransactions whatsoever, suggesting the author is not aware of specific steps which are taken to make games addictive and is just invoking vague notions of all games being addictive. None of this ever comes up again, and we promptly move back to talking about the actual game.

More specifically, Inside is what’s known as a “2D side-scroller”—meaning that you observe your figure mostly in profile in the center of your screen while a background landscape scrolling right-to-left gives the illusion of left-to-right forward motion.

Somehow, the use of the term “2D side-scroller” in quotes does not make me feel that this fellow is sufficiently familiar with video games to assess whether or not they can be art, as does the fact that he reckons that the platformer he is playing hearkens back to a 1981 shoot-em-up he remembers from his teens, which makes his apparent conviction that video games originated as first person shooters all the more baffling.

And while the world of videogames has already become a “spectator sport,” I’m unaware of any instance of the record of a videogame player’s performance becoming intellectual property, as it has in the world of chess, and in a whole array of sports. True, gamers go “professional” by attracting followers on the internet and earning ad revenue, but their play itself is not copyrighted. Games might wind up in museums (worldwide, there are at least seventeen museums dedicated to videogames), but bracketed moments of the play of particular games have not yet become value-able as art.

I invite the author to start selling unauthorized DVDs of clips from popular Twitch streamers and gaming YouTubers and see how long their lawyers allow him to entertain the notion that Let’s Plays do not constitute intellectual property.

the 2D side-scroller and its pitbull of a cousin, the first-person shooter,

???

The rest of the section is pretty unremarkable, so we move onto him complaining about lousy movie critique, then lousy video game critique, then explaining the concept of Easter eggs, then video game puzzles:

The puzzles of Limbo and Inside are more ambitious than the puzzles of most games in that their solutions often require the player to wait, or to exhibit what in psychology and education circles is known as divergent thought—for example, a corpse is a corpse, but it is also potentially a deadweight that can be used to spring a boobytrap.

Making the player wait or use an unusual object as a weight doesn’t strike me as particularly devilishly clever.

Then we get this jewel of a paragraph:

Nevertheless, puzzles themselves stand as an obstacle blocking the path of videogames’ journey from game to art. For while I might willingly suspend my disbelief long enough to accept that a boy has been tasked with jogging exhaustedly through a factory that churns out invincible blob creatures, I will find that willingness strained when I am also confronted with confounding puzzles placed in my path for no good reason. Videogames, in other words, ignore the basic tenets of internal consistency—in order to keep playing, you must suspend your disbelief, and then suspend it again, and again, and again, which means that in order to play and enjoy videogames you must also suspend the kind of critical judgment that is normally associated with art.

You heard it here, folks, accepting weird gameplay conceits means you can’t critically analyze a game.

Similarly, Easter eggs appeal only on the level of geek fetish—which is more or less the opposite of critical appreciation—and it is for this reason that I won’t address the puzzles and Easter eggs in Inside, even though they eventually lead to what some have concluded is the game’s “hidden meaning.” And this is the problem of videogames in a nutshell, because meaning in work of art is no more hidden from its beholder than the summit of a mountain is hidden from the mountain climber.

Sounds to me more like the problem is that he’s ignoring what the game itself is telling him about its plot and themes because it’s doing it in a way he finds aesthetically displeasing. I don’t know much about critical analysis but I feel like that’s not really how you should be doing it.

We then get a description of the plots of Limbo and Inside, including a decent bit of analysis marred by a bit of “murder simulator”-ism.

This is worth noting because prior to this moment the violence the boy has inflicted, either in Limbo or Inside, has been indirect—really an act of self-defense—but now the game is threatening to creep back into the usual videogame mode of affectless murder. You are given a choice: slip backward toward the wantonly horrific likes of Grand Theft Auto (1997) and Postal 2 (2003) [3] , or pause a moment and then continue on in a macabre but not morally bankrupt pursuit narrative. In this way, the player is implicated in a wryly disjointed bit of commentary on the history of gaming itself.

I mean this entirely sincerely: someone should get this guy a copy of Undertale. I think he’d enjoy it, if he could get past the idea of having to accept JRPG conventions.

Sadly, video game still aren’t art because he can list a bunch of movies that had vaguely similar elements:

From there, it’s not hard to find antecedents for Inside in both literature and film—it’s a little bit Soylent Green, a little bit Logan’s Run, a little bit The Island of Dr. Moreau, and more than a little bit Frankenstein. The imagery starts to seem familiar, too, with milieus lifted from E.T., Alien, and The Poseidon Adventure. But all this allusive flotsam becomes a bit of a disappointment, as eventually you become hard pressed to find anything in Inside that you haven’t seen inside something else.

Ezra Pound demanded that artists “make it new,” and Marcel Proust insisted that a writer is someone who invents a voice as unique as his or her fingerprint, but Inside isn’t even really trying to tell a story that hasn’t been told before. That’s a problem. Art cannot be made up wholly of references to other art. Star Wars, for example, does not come close to art because at its core it is nothing more than a pre-fab mash-up of archetypes mail-ordered from the IKEA superstore of Joseph Campbell.

I mean... why can’t art be composed solely of references to other art? Why can the whole not be more than the sum of its parts? If I take a picture of the Mona Lisa and photoshop a photo of a can of soup over her head, the resulting work is distinct from either of the originals, even though I provided no original content except the idea of sticking the two together.

Put another way, Inside could only have been designed by someone who hasn’t read Roland Barthes’s “The Death of the Author,” and hasn’t read Walter Benjamin’s “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” and hasn’t read T.S. Eliot’s “Tradition and the Individual Talent”—someone who hasn’t, in other words, engaged theoretically with what art is. And that, in turn, leads to the simple conclusion that on the level of its plot Inside is not trying to do what art does.

Good god this guy is snobbish.

Second, there’s still the meta-twist to consider: perhaps Inside is a game with both a text and a subtext. And perhaps a subtext can help the videogame industry evolve beyond the hyperviolence that is its womb and its crutch.

“Hyperviolent” is not exactly how I would describe Breakout or Super Mario Bros. Anyway, he then ponders the potential meaning of the evil scientists at the end of the game being stand-ins for the developers, and comes to the conclusion that...

The problem of games today is that their creators have not imagined any purpose for them greater than fun. There are exceptions to this, of course, but for the most part games equate escape with distraction—to be distracted is to be entertained, and it is good to be entertained.

Unlike the rest of popular media, of course.

The obligation of art, as Henry James described it, is to be interesting, and if you’re paying attention, that is to say, if you’re trying for more than distraction, then Inside begins to be interesting with its name, which stands in stark contrast to games like Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.

I too enjoy criticizing games for being superficial based on their titles.

Then we get some final analysis, a quote from a Raymond Carver short story I read in high school and remember mostly as something my friends in English class found homoerotic subtext in, and the claim that the goal of art is a feeling of transcendental bliss:

The much remarked-upon narrator of Raymond Carver’s classic short story, “Cathedral,” experiences such a moment as the story climaxes with a blind man helping him draw a church. “My eyes were still closed,” the narrator says. “I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.”

At its most ambitious, Inside aspires to a similar feeling. Escape in art that is not transcendence is cheap, and if you can climb beyond the foolish puzzles and the Easter eggs and the hidden meanings, you can feel, for a moment, that you are not alone on your sofa with your phone, playing a game; rather, you are somewhere else—somewhere grassy, bathed in warmth by a ray of sunlight falling from above.

And that’s nice and all but it feels like he didn’t really lead up to it.

Anyway, I spent way too much time picking through this but here we go. Final rating: 2/10, the next time you want to know if video games are art yet ask someone who actually plays them.

#idle musings #long post

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that-he-may-return-blog · 7 years

Text

Episode 1: Retail Revolution

A lone employee was setting up a display in the superstore known as All-Mart, carefully stacking package after package into an elaborately decorative showcase of Auntie Helen’s Homecooked Uncooked Pasta. Soon, summer vacation would draw to a close in Piedmont, California, and he as well as the rest of the student body would have to go back to school. He would be a senior this year, and how he longed for the joys and freedom that came with eighth grade as he delicately placed the final box of pasta on the precarious tower-

-this was when Dipper Pines’s body plowed through the display, scattering the Homecooked Uncooked Pasta across the aisles, destroying several boxes in the process and shattering any of the employee’s hope of a pay raise.

It may have been Dipper’s body, but Dipper wasn’t piloting it; no, Dipper himself was essentially a ghost at this point, and an apocalyptic demon was controlling his every action. This demon is best known as Bill Cipher.

“Get OUT-” Dipper dove for his body, but Bill ducked and sprinted down the aisle, dragging his fingers down the shelves of chips- which all promptly came to life, jumped off the shelves, and joined the mob of various formerly-inanimate monsters currently chasing him.

Bill scaled a shelf and turned to face the horde. “Hey guys, how’s it going-” Dipper made another move to regain control of his body, but before he could reach it Bill leaped across the aisle and grabbed onto a back-to-school banner hanging above it.

Dipper stared. It was going to break- it was going to break- The banner tore slightly.

Bill stuck his tongue out at Dipper. “What’re you gonna do now, Dipstick- this vessel is mine-”

The banner tore, unable to support the weight of a thirteen-year old, and Bill in Dipper’s body plummeted down to the mob of aggressive toys, potato chips, and birthday cards.

You may be wondering how Dipper Pines had ended up in this specific scenario.

Dipper had spent the summer months in Gravity Falls, Oregon, a bizarre little town that was absolutely swarming with monsters and magic. He and his twin, Mabel, had encountered a series of mysteries and trials; there was that time Dipper had accidentally raised an undead army, or when Mabel had kidnapped a boyband of clones. Their great-uncle Stan had failed to be much of a supervisor until the later weeks, but when he did step up it was obvious that he wasn’t as incompetent as he might have seemed.

Throughout the summer, Dipper had been plagued by the triangular demon Bill Cipher. He only operated within the mindscape, but that hadn’t stopped him from possessing and traumatizing Dipper; and once he had his hands on a dimensional rift, things went from bad to worse. Bill opened a portal between Gravity Falls and the Nightmare Realm, entered the real world, and began wreaking havoc. It was... weird. Hence the name: Weirdmageddon.

Luckily, Dipper had been able to team up with his friends and family to cancel the apocalypse- and all would have been well if Grunkle Stan hadn’t had to sacrifice his memories to destroy Bill. They thought Stan was gone forever, but Mabel had kept a summer memories scrapbook that helped to start restoring his memory. It took time and effort, but eventually he had remembered almost everything. Life calmed down after the apocalypse and the status quo seemed to have returned back to normal.

That was, until the night after Dipper’s thirteenth birthday party.

The night before Dipper and Mabel would leave for Piedmont, Ford snuck up into the twins’ attic room and shook Dipper awake. Dipper, being the brave, apocalypse-hardened teenager he was, woke in a panic and nearly screamed before the six-fingered hand covered his mouth. Before he could ask questions, Dipper was pulled down the stairs; Ford’s face was nearly hidden in shadows, unreadable.

He pressed his finger to his mouth just before the living room. In the silence, Dipper could make out the obnoxiously loud, gravelly snores. Ford turned and tugged Dipper through the room; Dipper glanced over at the chair and saw Stan asleep, hunched over, mouth open, probably needing a shave and definitely needing a shower. Just like old times- so what was with all the secrecy?

Ford led Dipper down to his underground lab, flicking on a desk lamp. Dipper was momentarily blinded by the sudden light and had to squint to make out anything.

“Grunkle Ford? What is this about?”

Ford was pacing, arms folded behind his back. “Dipper,” he began, “we’ve constructed a situation that is only becoming more dire by the minute.”

Wonderfully helpful information, considering Dipper hoped he hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night over spilled coffee. Truly, this man of many talents should have added “explaining things” to his resume, right next hoarding mysteries and speaking in cryptic messages instead of actually telling anyone anything. “...what is it?”

“I made a risky and debatably stupid decision, pulling that trigger. No action is inconsequential, and now I have to face the repercussions myself- and I would, if that were an option. However, it’s starting to look like that may not be the case.” Dipper had already put together eight crack-theories on Ford’s vague exposition (or lack thereof) when he crouched and put his hands on Dipper’s shoulders.

“Now, Dipper, I understand that you would rather not be my apprentice. That was your decision, and ultimately you chose your sister- and I’m not here to sway that. But something’s come up that gives me no choice but to ask you to do something incredibly crucial to the well-being of Gravity Falls, the planet, and most importantly, our family.”

There it was. Dipper was almost sure it was crack theory number two by now, but the thought of it made his heart sink and his palms clam up even more.

“What I’m about to tell you may be shocking. So I’m asking you to keep your head and retain integrity when I say that-”

“Bill’s alive.”

“...well, yes. That’s… a bit anticlimactic, determining the plot twist before it can be said...” Ford dropped his hand absentmindedly. “Sort of… waters it down, you know? Now if instead you had asked, ‘say what’, giving me a moment for a dramatic pause and heightening the tension-”

“He can’t have- we spent so much time working on this- I thought we planned it all out- didn’t we- didn’t we-”

“-Dipper, I know this is alarming.” Ford was looking him in the eyes. “I felt the same way when I learned this, but it’s important that we retain our senses. I’m not about to suggest we undo all our hard work- we’ve spent too much time getting him back. Unfortunately, part of Bill must have remained in his head, and in bringing Stanley’s memory back we’ve inadvertently revived him.”

Dipper’s entire body was rigid. “He’s not going to- start the apocalypse all over again- can he- is he-” He couldn’t go through that again. It had been taxing enough the first time around; just the thought of reliving that emotional, mental, and physical strain made Dipper nauseous.

“He could do that.”

And now Dipper really felt sick.

“-but,” Ford added, “only if we don’t act quickly.” He straightened up and resumed pacing. “Bill has yet to regain all his energy and strength from the depths of Stan’s mind. This means that he’s too weak to re-enter the mindscape- for now. My calculations suggest that we have less than six hours before it absorbs into him again, assuming the growth isn’t exponential. If it is, we have even less time.”

“So we have a maximum of six hours to make a life-or-death decision where the fate of time and space and the lives of everyone I know and love hangs in the balance?” Dipper asked.

“Precisely.”

“Ohh boy…” Now Dipper was pacing, too. It was too early for this. Too late? “So what is Stan doing about this-”

Ford glanced away. “Since his deal with Bill, Stanley’s been aware of his own mind. This gives him full lucidity whenever he is asleep- according to him, he discovered Bill poking around the place, and managed to subdue him by trapping him under an armchair and hitting him with a newspaper. Before he went back to sleep he informed me that he had made plans to force Bill to listen to a fifties soundtrack until I got rid of him.” Ford turned his head back towards Dipper. “A perilous task for sure.”

“And what should we do?” Dipper asked. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”

On one hand, Dipper could have squealed- Ford trusted and respected him enough to get his thoughts on the fate of the universe. On the other, this was the fate of the universe, and fate-of-the-universe situations tended to be nerve-wracking. “What about- what about the zodiac?”

“That would be the only chance we have to destroy him entirely,” Ford acknowledged. He opened his mouth to continue, but Dipper cut him off.

“-so let’s just get everyone on it and- and kill him right now-! And it’ll be fine- that’s all there is to it, right?” He already had the happy ending- there wasn’t supposed to be a sequel. Bill was dead, and he was going to stay dead, damn it, no matter what the cosmic forces of the world were thinking- no more triangles, no more sock puppets, no more six-armed monstrosities or statues or magical apocalypses-

“We can’t use the zodiac.”

Dipper wheeled around and stared at him. “What.”

“In order for the zodiac to work, Bill needs to be inhabiting his own physical form- from what I’ve gathered, it’s a brand of magic that requires a very clear target to work properly. And even if we could trick him into re-entering it and still have enough time to form the circle, not everyone for it is here. Fiddleford went across the country to discuss his inventions with a branch of the U.S. Government, and even if he came home now, he wouldn’t be back within six hours. Bill would be strong enough to start the apocalypse and will have learned to kill us this time around instead of letting us conquer him.”

“Are you kidding- why now-” Were all the forces of the world stacked against the Pines family? Maybe there really was a cosmic power out there that was messing with his life for the sole purpose of watching the drama. “What else could we possibly-”

Ford diverted his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had one plan,” he said. “It’s hazardous, and may be even more difficult than I initially thought. Nevertheless, it may be our best option.”

Exactly the kind of encouraging statement Dipper needed to hear. “What was it?”

“I’d need you to make a deal with him.”

It was about this moment that Dipper lost his ability to speak. He would have accepted any number of odd solutions - it was his Great Uncle Ford, after all. But he of all people should have known the dangers of making a deal with a literal demon, the way the cold fire singed your nails, the way reality doubled over on itself and his voice came from all angles, the nauseating, unsettling feeling of those fingers latched onto your palm- Dipper couldn’t believe that this was Ford’s most viable option- unless it wasn’t Ford’s option, unless it wasn’t even Ford-

“Dipper, listen to me, I can explain this.”

“Take off your glasses-”

“Dipper-”

“-I said take off your glasses!”

Silence. Ford complied. His hand dropped and he crouched in front of Dipper again, gently handing him a flashlight, keeping his eyes open while the beam hit him in the face. Dipper became aware after a few moments that with every breath he was shaking. The flashlight beam was shuddering up and down Ford’s face, illuminating his eyes- the sclera still white, if bloodshot, the irises intact, the pupils round. A dull pounding was echoing in Dipper’s ears. He lowered the flashlight and looked away, half expecting Ford to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, relieved when he didn’t.

Ford put his glasses back on, watching Dipper. Dipper slowly flicked the flashlight off. They sat in silence for a few moments, alone in the near-darkness. Dipper felt the thudding in his chest subside. Quietly, he set the flashlight back on the shelf.

Ford breathed. “...I know that it’s not ideal. You’ve dealt with him enough for a lifetime, and it’s… harsh of me to expect you to make this decision so suddenly, or even at all. Unfortunately, this is the best solution I’ve been able to draw up on such a short notice.”

“...why,” Dipper asked. “Why is this the best chance we have.”

“...we can’t kill Cipher, at least not yet,” Ford said, slowly. “If he remains in Stanley’s mind for too much longer, or even in a close enough proximity for an extended period of time, he’ll regain all of his energy, re-enter the mindscape, find his body and incite a second Weirdmageddon.”

Dipper stared at the floor. “And… me making this deal…”

“Would prevent him from doing this. Believe me, Dipper, I have no intention to jeopardize your safety through this. I’ve drafted a contract that states he can cause no harm to you or anyone else, directly or indirectly, mentally or physically, that keeps him from reentering his body, that allows you to create modifications to it at any time.”

“...what exactly would you want me to do?”

Ford hesitated. “...I suppose that the best way to put it is that I would want you to hold onto him.”

“...hold… onto him.”

“Yes. Keep him away from Stanley and Gravity Falls so that he can’t cause any more harm. You’d come back for the summer, of course… and at that point everyone should be back in time to use the zodiac. Now, this isn’t our only option- I don’t want to force you into anything. You certainly have every right to make the decision you want, and the last thing I’d want to do is coerce you into a situation that-”

“-what are the other options?” This was something Dipper needed to know, although he had a sinking feeling that he already did.

There was a long pause.

“...great-uncle Ford?”

“I think it’s best if you don’t worry about those.”

“...it’s deleting Stan’s memory,” Dipper said, “and not letting it come back.”

Another pause. Ford nodded.

“...can I see that contract?”

He passed it to him without a word.

Dipper slid closer to the dim desk light and read the fine print. It was funny; after a summer of reading Ford’s handwriting, suddenly it looked like a different language. Journal entries had only described mythical beasts catalogued long before Dipper was even born. This… this affected his life directly. Seeing his name written in Ford’s clear, artistic writing sent a strange chill up his spine.

He only found one discrepancy in the contract.

“Here it says Bill will be allowed to enter my body and take over.” Dipper had been a puppet once, and it wasn’t an experience he had particularly enjoyed.

“I knew you would ask about that, but… bear with me,” Ford said. “Bill’s already been killed. He’s already powerless. Once we go in there, he’ll realize that we don’t plan on using the zodiac- he’ll know that by killing him we’ll destroy Stanley’s memory again, and he knows that the longer he waits the more powerful he gets. Without some form of incentive, something he gets out of it, he would never agree to the deal. After all, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain in the form of revenge if we try anything else.”

“If I let Bill control me, then he’s only going to try and kill me and my friends-” Dipper started, but then he stopped as the words on the contract brought themselves back to his mind.

“Ah, you see now, don’t you,” Ford said with more confidence, “The contract specifically says he can’t hurt any living, half-living, quarter-living, or undead being. Along with… everything in-between. For good measure.” Ford pointed at the rules in the contract.

Dipper stared at the words, weighing his options. He could put up with Bill for a school year… or it would be his fault that Stan wouldn’t remember anything for the rest of his life. A wave of guilt washed over Dipper, even as he thought about the soul-sucking process that was deal-making; he didn’t have the right to just let Stan die, not after everything he did for them…

“...regardless, Dipper, it’s all your choice.” Ford was saying as he sank back into a chair. “It would be temporary. By the time you returned next year we could easily vanquish him with the zodiac. However, I understand if you’d rather not. Trust me, I know from personal experience...” he glanced at the exit to the study. Dipper’s head was clearing. He couldn’t let Stan be erased again, that was a given, not after all the work Ford had put in to bring his brother back. Dipper couldn’t bear to be the reason they were torn apart. His thoughts told him to rethink, to plan, that he still had a few more hours before the deadline. But while his brain was on one track his mouth said something different.

“-I’ll do it.”

Ford turned his head and looked much more alert than he did just a moment ago. Dipper hadn’t realized, but the life had been drained out of him; upon hearing the news, it seemed to be flooding back. “You’re sure about this?”

Dipper took a deep breath. His mouth wouldn’t work for a second, and he felt his tongue going dry. “...yes.”

“Excellent, then all we have to do is enter Stanley’s mind and convince Bill to make the deal.”

“Wait, what-” was all Dipper could manage before he was taken out of the study.

Dipper would have loved to say that he marched into Stan’s mind, threw the chair off of Bill, and forced him into signing the contract immediately while theatrical music played in the background and his great-uncles applauded.

In reality, Dipper and Ford stumbled into Stan’s mind to the classic tunes of Jerry Lee Lewis just in time to see Stan hit Bill in the eye with a rolled-up newspaper.

“If you hit me one more time with that cylinder of tree pulp I will personally dismantle your ribcage and use it to play croquet-”

Bill was cut off with another slap to the eye. His voice wasn’t even echoing, or maybe the blaring music was just interfering with Dipper’s ability to hear correctly. Just as Ford had described, Bill was pinned under Stan’s armchair, completely lacking the distorting, glowing aura he normally had. Stan himself was seated in the chair and didn’t look much more hygienic than he currently did in reality, but he at least seemed to be enjoying himself by abusing a triangle who could no longer fight back.

“Stanley,” Dipper heard Ford say, but his voice was drowned out by the music, “STANLEY-”

Stan glanced over and the music stopped abruptly. “And you call me evil,” Bill muttered darkly as Stan pointed an accusatory finger at his brother.

“Why is he here.”

Dipper realized with a start that Stan was talking about him. “I knew you didn’t like me, but geez…”

“I told you not to drag anyone else into this, Ford.” Stan got up from the chair, making it a point to step on Bill. “I told you, whatever had to be done could be done with just you and me, and you didn’t have to make this anyone else’s business- let alone the kids’-”

“-Stanley, I’m not sure you fully understand the severity of the-”

“-I do,” Stan said shortly, “and I know damn well that Dipper doesn’t deserve to be roped into whatever mess you’re planning this time-”

“-I don’t want this any more than you do,” Ford started.

Stan cut him off, “-so why the hell-”

Ford grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, beginning to explain the scenario in a low voice. Dipper glanced around the room. The first time he had seen inside Stan’s head, it had been a massive shack that had fallen into disrepair, placed in the middle of a grayed-out forest; the shack had resembled the Mystery Shack as much as it could while also existing as a dimly lit labyrinth of secrets and memories. Now, however, there was only the living room. There weren’t any winding corridors, and as far as Dipper could tell there was only the one door. The place was fully lit and out the window and all Dipper could see was a white expanse of nothingness. He wondered when the change had taken place, or if it was a result of burning his memories. If it was the latter, then Stan still had far from all his memories- after two weeks of effort, Dipper didn’t want that to be the case.

“...still don’t like it,” Stan was muttering. “I’d almost rather-”

“I wouldn’t.”

“It’s not your choice-”

“-no, but it’s his, and he already made it.”

“You’re not listening to this idiot, are you?” Stan asked Dipper, jerking a thumb at Ford.

Dipper blinked. “Well I-”

“Because he’s trying his best,” Stan continued, “and we’re all going to have to do that to make this work out.”

As bewildered as Dipper was, Ford seemed to be even more so. “Stanley-”

“-and tell your sister,” Stan added. “I’m sick of everyone keeping secrets like this- it only gets us into a bigger mess.” He sat back down, the chair buckling slightly under his weight. If a two dimensional entity could become flattened, Bill did so.

Something touched Dipper’s shoulder and he jumped before he realized that it was just Ford’s hand. “This is something you’re certain about.” It was a little late to ask that when they were already standing in front of the demon himself, but Dipper nodded. He felt Ford press the contract into his hands.

“Hey so while we’re all gathered around for this whimsical family meeting does anyone mind explaining who’s going to die first?” Bill got hit with the newspaper again but didn’t seem deterred. “Because I’ve got a feeling that it’s going to be one of you- what about Starface over there, eh Sixer? He looks fragile-”

“Nobody is going to die,” Ford said, “except for you, if it comes to it.”

“Oh I’m absolutely terrified, I promise.”

Maybe it was Dipper’s imagination, but Bill didn’t exactly look “terrified”. If anything he looked mildly irritated. Probably because he wasn’t out ruining lives like he normally was.

Bill was digging his eye out of its socket. “So what do you want from me? To leave and never return? Run run as fast as I can? Three wishes?” He threw it across the room- Dipper ducked and it stuck to the wall behind him. Dipper whipped around, startled, in time to see a triangular outline solidify around the eye and Bill peel himself off of the wall.

“That can’t be good,” Stan pointed out.

“It just means he’s regaining more energy,” Ford said, quietly. “We still have time before he’s able to cause any real damage.”

“Oh look at this! You figured something out!” Bill circled the group, growing larger by the second. “I’m so proud of you-” An arm that resembled a rod more than anything stretched out and messed up Ford’s hair. “I’m sure you’ll also figure out immortality in no time flat at this rate!” The room was growing darker, dropping them into a void.

Ford glared up; Dipper was currently hiding behind his leg. “We didn’t come here to be taunted,” he said, “and I’m warning you, if you fail to listen, I won’t hesitate to-”

“-to what? Tell me, brainiac, you won’t hesitate to do what?” The entire space seemed to warp and twist until Bill’s eye was bent over all three of them, staring down in a beam of light. “The most you could do right now is kill your brother all over again! I’m only getting stronger by the minute, Fordsie, you know that, he knows that, we all know that- and any trick you try I’ve seen before a million times! I’m the curse of dimensions and the scourge of the multiverse, your tiny thirty years of interdimensional travel couldn’t possibly measure up to what I’m capable of! And all I have to do is intimidate you and stall for the next five hours and then I’ll be back and ready to kill you more than ever before- starting with your precious little nephew over here-” Bill’s finger jutted into Dipper’s neck, lifting his chin- Dipper seized up, this was too much, how could he have ever thought this was a good idea? Bill was immensely powerful and had about as much empathy and compassion as a pit of tar-

-suddenly Bill’s form compressed back down into a miniscule size. The void of space folded back up and gave way to the shack’s living room, just as it had been a few moments before. Bill was currently stuck behind the glass of a family picture hanging from the wall. “What the- hey- heyheyheyhey-”

“My house, my rules,” Stan grumbled. “Nobody gives any dramatic speeches until this is taken care of.”

Awkward silence filled the room for a few moments as Bill pounded against the glass and rocked the picture from side to side. “...that’s… a thing someone can do?” Dipper asked Ford, incredulous.

“...apparently,” Ford responded. He sounded just as surprised as Dipper felt.

In the chair, Stan started to snore. Dipper would never know anybody else who could sleep in a lucid dream.

Bill rocked the picture a few more times before giving up. Instead, he made a point to grow as many extra arms as necessary to give everyone in the photo bunny ears. “So what did you want, IQ,” he asked, cheerful as ever.

“...we had a deal to offer you.”

That got Bill’s attention, but not necessarily in a positive way. “You can explain it, but I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere on this track.” He folded his arms and slid in front of Dipper’s face on the picture. “I’d pretty much rather die at this point. It’s not that bad. Hey, you should try it-”

Dipper felt himself get nudged forward suddenly. He swallowed- “Bill, we- I- have a contract for you.” He raised the paper. Bill did not cower or stare in awe. No dramatic chords played in the background. Stan continued snoring as Jerry Lee Lewis started playing again.

“-it’s going to get you out of Stan’s mind,” he continued, “and Gravity Falls- for- a while. You’re… going to…” he glanced at Ford for confirmation. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth. Ford looked concerned- like maybe he was having second thoughts, or doubts. As if Dipper couldn’t really be trusted to handle this, as if he wasn’t capable of handling it. That was how much faith Ford had had in him; he respected him enough to take care of situations too dangerous for anyone else- this was something that he could do for Ford if he couldn’t be his apprentice. Dipper steadied himself as Wild One began playing in the background. “-you’re going to share my body with me for nine months.”

Bill choked, then burst out laughing. “I’m sure, I’m very sure-” a flattened arm reached out from the photograph and took the contract from him, pulling it up to the frame. Bill’s eye glowed purple like a blacklight, scanning it over. “Because we all trust each other here just so much, don’t we-”

“This isn’t a trick,” Ford said. “This isn’t a game, it isn’t just for fun.”

“So what then, you lost a bet?”

“This is a serious offer.”

Bill stopped talking for once in his trillion years of life. Dipper couldn’t tell if he was thinking over the options of the deal or deciding whether they would look better as mattresses or mounted heads.

A pen materialized in Bill’s free hand. “Well I see no possible consequences of this,” he announced. It slid across the page leaving an unreadable signature in bright blue ink. “Don’t tell me you’re having doubts, Pinetree.” He offered the pen.

“-not at all,” Dipper said, with a lot more confidence than he felt. He took the pen, being very careful not to touch Bill’s fingers, and signed the other spot on the contract as illegibly as he could; the last thing he wanted was for Bill to know his actual name. As soon as he finished, the contract rolled itself up, caught on fire, and vanished into thin air.

“And now that that’s taken care of,” Bill continued, “why don’t we seal the deal once and for all-” His hand was right in front of Dipper’s face. Dipper stared, nearly immobile. He couldn’t touch that thing- that death trap- there was no way he was locking fingers with a demon twice in his life, or ever again. He was going to actually be sick. Uneasy, Dipper forced all his apprehension aside and slowly lifted his hand, taking Bill’s and shaking it. His hand lit itself on fire and Bill laughed- a sharp, piercing, echoing laugh that rattled around the inside of Dipper’s head, sending a disorienting cacophony through his ears, blocking out anything anyone else might have been saying at the time. The room spun and collapsed in on itself, and Dipper couldn’t tell if it was the work of Bill regaining power or only his mind getting nauseous- he was dimly aware of Ford telling him something, whether he was proud or worried Dipper couldn’t quite remember, and Stan holding onto him, and after that his memory blurred together until he woke up the next morning.

Apparently, the one part of the contract that neither Dipper nor Ford had considered was the lack of restrictions on Bill’s ability to perform magic.

There were multiple reasons for this; for one, he wouldn’t be in his own body. All the spells Ford knew required an immense amount of energy, or candles and a circle or something, and there was no way Bill would be able to use that- and in fact, Ford had specifically denied him the opportunity to use hex circles.

Unfortunately, nobody but Bill had realized that he might be able to use his godlike powers while inhabiting Dipper’s body.

This had left Dipper in the uncomfortable scenario in which he was watching his possessed body plummet towards an angry mob of animate supermarket items that, (and this was only Dipper’s best guess) wanted him very, very dead.

Bill crashed into a shelf with all the grace of a senile elephant. The back-to-school banner fluttered down into the horde of formerly-inanimate objects as Bill clung to the shelves of pasta supplies; before Dipper’s eyes, the mob tore the banner to shreds, leaving nothing but vaguely multicolored debris across the aisle.

“You summoned a mob that’s going to get me killed-”

“Oh relax,” Bill said, throwing a jar of marinara at a teddy bear. “They’re just playing-”

The teddy bear that was “just playing” picked up one of the glass shards the jar had made and threw it with uncanny accuracy towards Dipper’s body’s eyes.

Bill ducked out of the way, laughing. “Oops- haha- just a lot of fun and games, aren’t we guys?! Just the tightest-knit group of pals if ever there was one-”

Dipper darted back into his body, forcing Bill out and into the mindscape- immediately, he was hit with a wave of weariness, his eyes starting to droop shut. Shaking, he hooked his fingers around the edge of the shelf and pulled himself up onto it, only to drop back down when another shard of glass made its way to his face. “You need to get rid of them-” he said, quietly, “now-” He felt his fingers slip from pure exhaustion. What had Bill been doing to his body that made him this tired- “You’re such a buzzkill,” Bill rolled his eye. “They’re not gonna cause any harm.”

“That one is literally throwing glass at my eyes-”

Dipper heard the shelf crack underneath him- he stared down at the floor but he was too tired to fully process what was going on until he had already fallen into the pile of murderous stuffed toys and jewelry. “I’m going to die,” he mumbled through a bloody lip as the sentient objects tossed him back and forth. “I’m going to die in an All-Mart because silly me, I thought that magic didn’t work like that-”

The next thing Dipper knew, Bill had overtaken his body again and was personally petting every box of crackers and coat hanger in the vicinity.

“They’re not gonna kill you,” he was saying. “They just despise your tiny, miserable, insignificant, and frankly ugly human form-”

“-thanks-”

“-and honestly I don’t blame them,” Bill continued. For all his claims of the mob intending no harm, they were slowly piling up on him and covering him from all sides, probably trying to find a more effective way to kill him than just throwing marinara shards at his face. “Your body may be hideous, but they know it’s still me. Look, this even says my name on it,” he said, reaching over to a magic eight-ball. Dipper, uncomfortable but still curious, slipped behind him to see. Floating inside was a little white triangle that read:

Cipher.

“They love me too much to kill my only vessel,” Bill said. “See, watch- Would you ever kill me?” He shook the eight-ball, rattling the message around and submerging the little triangle. Dipper and Bill both watched in somewhat awkward silence as the liquid stabilized and the next message floated up to the surface.

Outcome likely.

“...it’s gotta be making a mistake,” Bill explained. “There’s no way they’d ever actually-” He raised the ball closer to himself and stared into the opening, enunciating every word. “Do- you- want- to- kill- me?” He shook the eight-ball again. This time, a different triangle rose to the top of the liquid;

It is certain.

“Well that’s a little rude,” Bill said, as the swarm started to take him down.

Dipper had no choice- he dived back towards his body, slamming into it and knocking Bill back into the mindscape, taking over- and of course he was just as exhausted as he was before. The last thing he wanted written on his tombstone was “died to savage pack of children’s toys”, though, and that gave him the motivation he needed to rip the assorted items off of himself and take off at a sprint down the aisle, skidding around the corner.

The world was blurring around him; his legs were going numb and so was the rest of him. “What did you- even do-” he gasped, ducking into the clothing section and backing into a rack of clearance coats.

“No wonder these are clearance- look at the colors- hideous-” Bill clearly had his priorities in order.

Dipper retreated into the center of the clothes rack, pulling the coats tight so that- hopefully- nobody could see in. Now he just had to stay in his own body until he came up with a way to fix this, and then he could go back home and everything would be fine. As long as he and nobody else died, this would all be fine. Dying was seeming like a less and less likely option, though; Dipper could feel the fatigue catching up to him. He couldn’t focus on anything, he was light-headed- what he really wanted to do was take a nap, just lie down somewhere, anywhere, and sleep, he was so drained… just a few minutes, just to regain a little energy...

“Oh did you want me to fix this-?” Bill asked suddenly, turning to face him.

“No-”

It was too late; Dipper was already being thrown back into the mindscape. On the plus side, he was immediately fully awake. On the downside, Bill was not. He stood up and staggered a bit, gripping onto the rack to steady himself. “Let’s get this over with- I really donwanna die-” He was slurring his words. Clearly, whatever toll Dipper had felt didn’t apply just to him; it applied to everyone who was in his body.

“You’re only going to make it worse at this point-”

“I think I know- what I’m doing- kid-” Dipper watched as his body slowly toppled over and faceplanted onto the tiled All-Mart floor. That was another thing he had learned from his previous experience with Bill- there was a certain point when his body was so broken that it couldn’t host a demon. Bill was forced out of it, back into the mindscape, across from Dipper.

The two looked at each other for a minute. They were both the same distance away from Dipper’s body. They both thought they knew what they were doing. Actually, truth be told, Dipper didn’t have any idea what he was doing; he just trusted himself a whole lot more than he would ever have trusted Bill. Presumably Bill wanted to cause as much havoc as possible before dying.

Whatever the case, they both made a move to enter Dipper’s body at the exact same time. They collided just as they reached it.

Dipper had had fever dreams before, but nothing like this.

A massive coniferous forest stretched across the land, blue covering every inch of sky above it. About three feet in front of Dipper, though, the trees abruptly stopped to give way to a blackened, twisted nebula, devouring the sky and eating its way across the landscape. It almost looked like a hole in the fabric of reality, revealing a cosmic power beyond Dipper's comprehension- or at least it would have, if this hole in reality had managed to stick to a theme. Stars and comets and constellations glimmered from within it, but Dipper noticed some things that didn't quite fit. Pianos, crystal balls, theater chairs, icicles, a bowling ball, pyramids, shattered flowerpots, trumpets, cloaks, a severed unicorn horn, eight-balls, books, tap shoes- the strangest assortment of objects Dipper had ever seen, all of which had no business being in space.

As Dipper watched, the nebula ate away at the forest, sucking up a tree and destroying it- Dipper staggered backwards, his ears ringing. Another tree vanished and he felt a stabbing pain in his head- what was going on-? He forced himself to look up and scan the area, his vision shaky, trying to focus in on any point- there. A small yellow dot, hovering in front of the cloud- yellow. Yellow.

Dipper forced himself to run towards it- walls were appearing out of nowhere, forcing themselves up out of the ground, destroying anything in their path- he scrambled up a tree and shouted with more courage than he ever thought he would- “BILL-”

The next thing he knew he was being knocked out of the tree, falling- slamming into the grass just in time to see another wall erect itself, between the swirling pattern of galaxies and mismatched objects and the windswept pines- pines? Pine trees- he was surrounded by-

Dipper woke up on the cold, tiled floor of All-Mart. Mabel was crouching over him, shaking him, asking him if he was awake- the aisle was empty. Dipper numbly replied that he was fine, but in reality he had a pounding headache and a lot of questions for a certain triangle.

#gravity falls #fanfic #fanfiction #narrative #bill cipher #bipper #dipper pines

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