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mugasofer · 3 years

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Thinking about the worldbuilding and power-scaling in Worm.

I think a big part of why Worm has developed such an intense fanfic community - disproportionate to its popularity, even - is that the world makes for a perfect sandbox.

Winslow High in Brockton Bay in America in Earth Bet in the Entities' multiverse, each layer defined both by the layers above it (in ways both visible and invisible) and by the fascinating cast of that layer. You can drop pretty much any character in, no matter how weak or how powerful, and know they'll slot into one of those power levels and encounter an interesting cast of characters there.

All of Wildbow's stories follow heroes who grow in power and competence and deal with increasingly powerful parts of their world, but Worm is the most pure and blatant in its escalation spiral. We follow Taylor from struggling desperately against the street-level characters that define her hometown and the bullies in her school, all the way to struggling desperately against the hidden gods that define her multiverse. This means that, as a natural consequence of the story structure, we get to experience this fractal world that is interesting at every level.

Obviously, the Wormverse isn't alone in having characters of different power levels. It has this feature because it's copying traditional superhero worlds, which also have characters ranging from the mundane to the cosmic. But they don't have quite the same fractal structure; rather, you have isolated bubbles of characters around each main character and keyed to their power level. Metropolis is full of Superman-level planetary threats and Gotham is full of Batman-level street-level threats; Daredevil's New York is full of human Daredevil-level ninjas and Spider-Man's New York is full of Spiderman-level animal-themed supervillains and the Fantastic Four's New York is full of Fantastic Four level high-concept scifi threats. Crossovers between these series happen, but they are - and feel like - crossovers. Batman may stop Darkseid eating the multiverse one week in the JLA comic but he'll struggle just as hard against the Mad Hatter next week in his own comic. Outside of very occasional events like Civil War, there's little sense that that there's a global stage where things happen that affect the entire setting the way we get with the PRT and Cauldron, nor is there a sense that characters can graduate to that stage given enough power; the JLA and Avengers include a mish-mash of heroes at all power levels based more on popularity than logic, and lots of individual heroes do stuff that's supposedly impacting the entire country/planet/universe/multiverse in their own books without it showing up in anyone else's.

One might compare this to an old-school sandbox game of DnD. The players start off attached to a small town "base", or crawling between hexes dealing with disconnected local threats. But as they get more powerful, they start picking up quests from kings and powerful wizards to defeat threats to entire kingdoms or journey across the globe to retrieve powerful artefacts; they've graduated from a map of the local villages and caves and forest to a map of the world with kingdoms marked on it. They can go back to those little villiages marked on the hex-grid and find that, by saving or overthrowing the kingdom they were in, they've affected what used to be their whole world (although most of it will still be there.) In time, they grow so powerful that the entire world no longer really has any threats that can realistically challenge them, so the DM breaks out the books that detail specific gods and arch-demons and other cosmic beings; they've graduated from a mere map of the planet they were on to a planar cosmology of the multiverse and its rulers. Their actions now affect the entire setting; the patrons of entire religions they previously encountered can live or die as a result of their adventures, the very forces that underpin the universe might shift.

Put Superman into the world of, say, Avatar the Last Airbender, and he completely breaks the setting. Put the Last Airbender cast in DC Comics, and they can work OK as street-level heroes, but you need to be more specific because it's really a bunch of disconnected settings; they could have an interesting story in Gotham, not so much in Metropolis fighting Brainiac. Put either of them in a D&D setting, and they both work; Superman as an epic-level hero vulnerable to magic, the Avatar cast as middling-level characters each with their own unique brand of magic. Put either in Worm, and they both work; Superman is playing with the Triumvirate, Scion, Endbringers and the like; while Team Avatar would fit in nicely in Brockton Bay alongside Taylor (or any of the other cities we've seen described, like Chicago or New York or the setting of Ward, or indeed a fan-made city with original heroes, but Brockton Bay is the most richly detailed).

Now you might be wondering, where's all the D&D fanfic, then? Doesn't this completely undercut my whole hypothesis? But of course, D&D fanfic makes up most of the fantasy genre.

#worldbuilding #fanfic meta #worm #parahumans #gaming #rambling #long #by me

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gwynrielendgame · 3 years

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Gwyncien part 4

TW: Mentions of SA, violence, and dark thematic elements. This is not any worse than acosf, so if you read that and I’m assuming you did if you’re a gwynriel fan haha, then this fanfic probably won’t bother you.

There will be one more part after this and it’s partially written, so hopefully it’ll be up soon. Thank you for all the support I have received over this. It really motivates me to keep writing.

"Do you see the male with the long dark hair, blue jacket?" Lucien pointed to a window in a tavern. Gwyn followed his line of sight before nodding. "That was the general of the raid. He left soon after the cauldron leg had been retrieved. He still managed to enjoy himself according to rumors, but he left before Azriel even got there."

Gwyn was unsure how Lucien came across this intel. Part of her wanted to question him, but did not think it was appropriate given that she was planning to kill that male nonetheless. She was unsure if she could recognize him or not given the distance. She figured she would not be able to though. Azriel killed all the men directly involved in her trauma, but there were many young priestesses there that day and many of them shared the same fate as her. Some of those soldiers had escaped Azriel's fury. Gwyn made a promise to herself that they would not escape hers. She shifted her stance so that she was kneeling instead of crouching. Leaves rustled under her which earned a cringe from Lucien. They were currently spying on the Hybern general from a forested hill. Apparently, the male frequented this tavern enough for Lucien to find him. Gwyn questioned whether he was solely Tamlin's emissary or if he did a variety of work. He was much better at spying than she initially figured.

"Do you want me to handle this one?" He asked warily. He knew why Gwyn wanted to do this, but he also understood if she would not be able to follow through.

"No." She shook her head while whispering. "I need to do it."

They continued to watch inside the tavern. The male was drinking quite a bit and was being a bit obnoxious from what Gwyn could tell.

"It's time." Lucien interrupted her careful observations. She looked towards him curiously. "At this time every Friday night, he steps outside to smoke his pipe. Supposedly, his wife finds the smell horrendous and requires that he step outside for it. You will be able to catch him alone if you wait by that back door in the alley." She followed his finger to find it pointing at a door to the side of the tavern. She shuddered a little at the fact that this male had a wife. Gwyn wondered if she knew what type of man she had married. She hesitated.

"What if this goes poorly, Lucien? I cannot live through Sangravah again." She sounded desperate and she knew it. Gwyn wanted affirmation that she would never be powerless again.

"It won't." He reminded her. "But I will be watching from here the entire time. I will not allow anything bad to happen. First sign of trouble and I will be by your side before you can blink." He grabbed her hand from where he knelt beside her and squeezed. She looked into his eyes and her nerves began to fall away. That one russet eye, so similar to Catrin's, put her at ease. "Hurry. Or you will miss your chance." He let go of her hand.

Before she left, she placed her invoking stone on her head at Lucien's insistence. It would give her an advantage and she would take all that she could get right now. She started to utter a prayer. It was one that she read in a random book about the rules and rituals of warriors from different cultures. This one originated from the Illyrians.

"For the honor and glory of the Mother, for the safety and freedom of my kingdom, and for the respect and love of my family."

She stood up and slowly began to descend the hill as quietly as possible. It was difficult considering the leaves were still brittle from the cold. She pulled her cloak tighter around her as the icy wind whipped around. Soon enough she was near the door. She plastered herself to the wall, concealing herself in the shadows. It made her miss her mate and his shadows. She remained quiet as the male loudly stumbled out. She spent a few moments observing him. He was tall and physically imposing, similar to Cassian in that way. Gwyn knew that was the only similarity the two males shared though. His hair was longer than hers and tied back out of his face. Sweat collected on his face as he pulled out his pipe.

"Do you remember me?" It was all Gwyn could muster, but it startled the man. He looked towards the shadows she was hiding in. She certainly did not recognize him. There was so much chaos during the raid that her memory only had room to process so much. She was glad she could not remember anything more, could not remember what this specific man did.

"I dunno darling. I can't see you." The disgusting smirk on his face made her decision easier.

He was handsome that much she could tell. It made her feel so much worse for some reason. Perhaps she wished his outsides matched his insides. She quietly pulled her hood down while she stepped into the light, making eye contact with the male. His eyes hardened as they caught on her invoking stone and his stance was no longer relaxed. It was all Gwyn needed to know that Lucien's intel was good. She thought she might feel more fear or maybe more overwhelming anxiety. It was the typical response she had around harmless men, so she expected to feel it even more so now. However, all she felt was disgust. Looking at this male made her skin crawl. She wondered how long his list of unconsenting females was. Her grip tightened on silver majesty as her resolve hardened.

"Came back for round two?" He sneered as he lit his pipe. Clearly deciding she was no threat.

"Actually, I need your help with a decision." She should not toy with him this way, but his comment grated her just enough. She took a step toward him, waiting for the anxiety to bloom. When it did not, she cocked her head to the side as if she was analyzing him. He looked at her in expectation, but did not verbally respond.

"I was planning on killing you tonight. I think it might be more torturous for you though if I let you live without a certain appendage. Thoughts?" She lifted a singular eyebrow while a smirk played at her lips. Her face may have looked amused, but she did not feel that way. Truthfully, she wanted this over with. The statement did not have the desired effect, however. The male began to laugh so deeply that he was bent over, his pipe forgotten. The profuse arrogance provoked her into action.

Before he could react, she slammed her dagger into the side of his thigh- just barely missing an important artery. His scream of pain should not have brought her joy. Gwyn was aware that it was wrong to find pleasure in anyone's pain. This was different though. Her rage began to consume her, engulf her. Suddenly, she was back in Sangravah. She was not helpless this time, though. She could stop this male. She could stop all the males. A sharp pain to her temple brought her back from her flashback. The male had recovered and slapped her away from him. Unfortunately, her dagger was still lodged in his thigh.

"Fucking bitch." Is all he muttered as he launched himself at her.

He mistook her for a meek priestess who shied away from any negative emotion. She would never be that priestess again. Instead, she allowed her anger to consume her. She ducked under his arms and quickly turned around, kicking him in the back in the process. He was slow, poorly trained even for a general, and drunk. Gwyn would continue to toy with him even if it was just to satisfy some sick need for revenge. This death would not be quick for him. He stumbled back to his feet as he ripped her dagger from his thigh. He wiped blood from his nose from crashing into the building face first and waited for Gwyn to make the next move. She could be patient though.

"You never answered. Which do you prefer? Your life or your cock?" That vulgar word had never left her mouth before but she refused to give that away with a blush. He managed a smirk.

"You tell me. Would you prefer your life or my cock? Cause that's the only way you will be leaving here alive."

She saw red. It was like her body went on auto-pilot. She knew what she was doing, but there was no way to stop. She hurled herself at him, knocking her dagger out of his hand. She sent her knee to his crotch which he managed to block somewhat. He still let out a groan. With his face closer in range, she jammed her thumbs into his eyes. Before she could do too much damage though, he was shoving her away. She fell to the ground, but quickly propelled herself back to him. He did not even have time to recover before she was back and this time with her dagger. She shoved Silver Majesty through the center of his palm. His screams and groans were powering her to continue. He deserved this she found herself repeating like a mantra in her head. He caught her off guard with a strong kick to the ribs, but after the initial surprise she was swinging her dagger back at him. Luckily for him, he managed to dodge her swing that was headed for his eye. He grabbed her by her cloak and dragged her to him from behind. His arm wound itself around her neck. She was struggling to breath which is when she slammed the dagger that was still in her hand that lay unguarded by her side into his crotch. He immediately pulled away to grab himself. As he hunched over, sending explicit curse after explicit curse her way, she took a few lungfuls of air. Blood poured from his crotch so she knew she hit her mark. He fell to his knees and continued to scream. Gwyn, suddenly, remembered where she was. Why was no one rushing out to help him? His screams were loud enough for all to hear in the Tavern. Perhaps even his loved ones knew he deserved this. She approached him, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. She put her dagger to his neck and before she could drag it across, he began to splutter excuses.

"Wait, wait! You can take it. Cut it off, burn it if you must, but I want to live." He pleaded. She turned up her nose in disgust. He had no honor and no shame.

"Sorry. Offer expired." And then she slit his throat. Pulling her hood up and cleaning off her dagger, she quietly trekked her way back to Lucien- attempting to remain unseen.

She thought she might feel sad or anxious or upset with herself. She had killed before- in the blood rite. That had been in the name of self-defense, though. This time she committed pre-meditated murder against a seemingly helpless male, although she knew better. She should be ashamed with herself, but if she was being honest, she felt powerful. She knew that no man would ever have that power and control over her again and this very moment proved that. She could not stop the sly smile that lifted the edges of her mouth. She was a force to be reckoned with and she would let every Hybern soldier involved in that raid know it.

***

Gwyn slid her dagger across his throat once more. Blood poured out and the limp body fell with a thud. Gwyn had been chasing the high of her first kill, but with each new fallen Hybern soldier, Gwyn felt further and further from control. Logically, she knew they deserved to die. She just no longer felt the power she originally possessed after her first kill. She had felt liberated, now she felt trapped by her revenge. It seemed to be an endless cycle. This was only the third Hybern soldier, but Gwyn did not know if she should continue. It felt like a betrayal to the other priestesses from Sangravah. She did not know if this would ever stop otherwise though. There would always be some vile male who deserved death and some beaten female who deserved to be avenged. Gwyn wiped her blade clean on the male's jacket and adjusted her invoking stone that had been knocked askew in the struggle before walking away. She lifted her hood to hide her face as she quietly slipped off to where Lucien was waiting. To his credit, he offered to kill the soldiers himself. The idea became more and more appealing as Gwyn's emotions sucked the life out of her.

"You okay?” Lucien asked once the priestess began to approach him. She pulled her hood away and simply nodded, quietly grabbing his arm. It was her subtle way of tell him she was ready to leave. After one long look, Lucien winnowed them back. Instead of the castle though, they were at a lake. It was beautiful, but definitely presided in the spring court. Gwyn sent a surprised look to the male.

“Should we be here?”

“I have no doubt that you single handedly could take on Tamlin.” Lucien responded with a sly smile. It broke some of the tension hanging in Gwyn’s mind. She plopped down at the edge of the lake to shimmy her boots off. Lucien followed suit and then they were sitting side by side with their feet in the lake. It was beautiful. It made her wish Catrin could see it.

“What troubles you, granddaughter?” He was trying to make her laugh and it worked. A small chuckle left her throat before a heavy sigh. She grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“I thought this might take back some of the control I lost, but it just makes me feel...” she took such a long pause that Lucien had to nudge her to continue. “Like they have won. It is just another part of me they control. As long as I am controlled by the need for revenge, I am controlled by them. Do you know what I mean?” She looked at him to find any sort of understanding in his eyes. He did understand- more than she could ever know. He had also been controlled by his need for revenge at one point in his life.

“I can finish it for you. Just say the word.” He would do it for her because he wanted to. He wanted to protect her when he failed so spectacularly in the past.

“I thought I could not travel a world, escape the library, if men like those Hybern soldiers existed. But those men will always exist. I think I need to accept that rather than killing my way through the problem.” She swished her feet back and forth through the water. The truth is, she was able to leave the library even with those men existing. Lucien had shown her a great many things, including this lake, that made her want to see the whole world despite her fears. Perhaps that was the best revenge anyways.

“Whatever you decide, I will support you no matter what.” He rested his head on her shoulder, drinking up the scene before they would inevitably have to leave again. He had not been here since his time with Feyre and Tamlin, and the experience was bitter sweet. It was beautiful though, and he knew Gwyn would love it.

“Thank you, Lucien.”

***

Azriel had been putting off this conversation for the last 500 years and did not particularly want to bring it up now, but enough is enough. He needed to move on with his life. He did not think he would be able to until this conversation was finished. He eventually found the beautiful blonde immersed in conversation with Emerie at the House of Wind library. A clear of his throat caught both of their attention.

“Hi Az.” Emerie gave a slight smile which he returned before looking at Mor. She looked beautiful in a revealing red dress and curled hair. He wondered where she might be going tonight to be so dressed up. Especially considering Emerie was still wearing her training leathers. Clearly, they did not have plans together for tonight.

"Mor, can we talk?" He turned his slight smile to her. She gave him a brilliant smile back. It did not seem to have the same effect on him as it once did though.

"Of course! I feel like I have not seen you at all recently." She gave Emerie a hug before walking past the Shadowsinger and into the kitchen for more privacy. It was not nearly the amount of privacy he wanted for this conversation, but he would make do. His shadows used this time to abandon him when more than anything he wanted their comfort.

"Why?" Was all he could muster. His cheeks already turning a slight pink. He leaned onto his forearms using the counter from the island for support. Mor stood on the opposite side of the island. She crossed her arms over her chest a bit defensively.

"Why what?" She asked with a frown.

"Why won't you give me a chance? There are times when you seem interested and then there are times when you seem interested in Cassian." He explained further. The look on Mor’s face told him that she wanted this conversation to happen as much as he did. They had avoided it long enough though.

"Az..." she began with a long sigh but trailed off. She refused to look at him now, choosing to stare at the floor instead.

"What?" He did not think it was an unfair question to ask, but apparently she did.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"That's not fair. If there's a real chance for us I want to know. But if you just like having two Illyrians attention rather than just one I'd rather you leave me out of it." It was harsh and a low blow. That did not make it less true. Sometimes he felt that the reason she refused to turn him down outwardly was because she liked the attention. Or she liked having someone stand up for her against Rhysand when he did something she did not like. Azriel was growing tired of their current situation. It needed to change before he started to resent her for it.

"That's not fair either, Az! You're my friend. I don't owe you a relationship." She yelled in outrage. She finally looked up at him and he could see the rage burning there. Guilt began to claw at him.

"You are right, you don't. But you know my feelings on the matter and you continue to lead me on. Or maybe you're confused too. I don't know but that's why I want to talk this through. Just tell me what you're thinking." A long pause ensued after that. The fire burning in her eyes slowly eased away. She moved to sit on top of the island next to him with his stance unchanging.

"Technically, there could be a chance for us. I just don't want to take it. Our friendship means too much to me and..." she muttered while trailing off. Now he was definitely confused. Why wouldn’t she want to take the chance? What was so wrong with him that stopped her from wanting to try a relationship?

"And?" He pushed her to explain further.

"And I think I prefer females. That's why I don't want to take a chance on this. It'll only end badly."

"Oh." He stood up and looked Mor over throughly. She was not dressed up for some party tonight he finally realized. She was trying to impress Emerie. And suddenly, he felt very stupid. He also felt a bit of relief. All this time he was trying to discover what he lacked for her to pass him over for Cassian- what he needed to change to be good enough. Nothing, apparently, given that he could not magically turn into a female.

"Oh?" She gave him a cautious look as though he was some rabid animal who might bite. He realized why she could never have been his mate in that moment. Gwyn had never given Azriel that look.

"Yeah I wish you would have told me sooner. All this time I thought you couldn't decide between Cassian and me." He explained. He could have saved himself so much torment if only he had known. Not that he was blaming her. He was truly blaming himself. He is the spymaster after all, how could he have missed all the stolen glances and longing looks Mor always sent to the females at Rita’s.

"Oh." She repeated what Az had said earlier. She was suddenly very interested in examining her nails.

"Yeah. I am sorry if it seemed that I do not value your friendship. I genuinely thought there was a chance here." He tugged at her chin to make her look at him. He wanted her to see how genuine he was. Mor was one of his oldest friends and he would not let this ruin that.

"I'm sorry I lead you on. If I'm honest, it was partly on purpose. If I keep enough men flaunting after me, It leaves less questions from busybodies." She gave him a sheepish look. Hearing that did not upset him as he thought it might.

"I would do anything to protect you, including lying about a relationship if that's what it took." He would do it now even. It would mean he could not be with Gwyn in the way that he wanted, but he would protect Mor from her father until the end of time.

"I do love you Az. Just perhaps not in the same way." She grabbed his face to look at hers as she said it. He wished she would grab his hands. He let out a long sigh before pulling his face away.

"I love you Mor, but I don't think it's in that way anymore either." She gave him a questioning look that he only shrugged away, moving across the kitchen to put some space between them. He was starting to feel overwhelmed with this heart-to-heart without the comfort of his shadows.

"Really?" She gave him a look that said she did not quite believe him.

"Yeah. I always imagined this moment to be heartbreaking and instead I just feel relieved. Like I finally have the answer to life's question." It was true too. He thought he would never be able to love someone as he had Mor. He realized now that those feelings had been rather superficial. A fantasy he created in his head that felt safe.

"Probably helps that you are mated." She surprised him with that response. He lifted a singular eyebrow as she played with one of the bracelets on her wrist.

"Yes, Az. We all know." She rolled her eyes at this. "But you almost ruined the night courts reputation, risking Lucien's demand of a blood duel, so we figured we might as well let the Elain thing play out on its own." He scoffed at her terrible summary of his actions these past few months.

"I could have used your advice." He replied sarcastically. A single shadow curled around his ear before spotting Mor and disappearing once again. It made him sigh.

"You wouldn't have listened." She insisted. Part of him understood why his family allowed him to hide from his feelings. He was stubborn after all. Sometimes he wished they would push a little harder though. The way that Nesta did. It was why he let her get away with her comments about Rhys- she tried harder with him than any of them did including the high lord.

"I listened to Nesta's." He had already decided that Elain and him could not continue what they were doing after his kiss with Gwyn, but Nesta’s words helped him. Immediately after that conversation he went to talk to Elain, who surprisingly felt the same way.

"Yeah well Nesta and you are two sides of the same coin. Of course you listened to her." He rolled his eyes at that.

"Should I be offended?"

"Yes." They both chuckled. It was quiet for a minute or two before Az spoke up again.

"Thanks for telling me." She nodded before heading back to the library. Azriel finally let out a breathe. His chest no longer tighter with tension. He felt much freer than he had in these past few weeks. It was time to get his girl back.

#gwyncien #gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel #lucien vanserra #acotar #acosf #elain archeron #nesta archeron #cassian

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oftenderweapons · 3 years

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Mold Me New (3) — Taehyung

A Small Town Swoons Story

Pairing: Taehyung x reader (nicknamed Frog — for now)

Wordcount: 3.7k

Genre: ceramic artist!Taehyung, divorced!reader, Strangers to Lovers, Fluff, Angst, Slice of Life

Rating: 18+ (for future smut and explicit thoughts)

Hello to my readers!!! Welcome to the Small Town Swoons Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Terry has given very generic instructions to Frog about how to retrieve her birthday gift. A more then welcome surprise follows.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None. (Wow. I’m shocked.)

Once more let me thank potter supreme @joheunsaram (I’d be wandering in darkness and despair without you. Lob U)

Here is my complete masterlist and in case you need it, here’s the Spotify music companion.

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

“Hello?”

You felt deeply embarrassed venturing into the backyard of a stranger.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

The heavy sound of something slamming against the floor of a garage had you slightly worried. You were ready to run away when the door opened. The neighbourhood wasn’t familiar to you and Terry’s refusal to tell you anything about the specific address she had given you scared you even more.

You feared you’d end up at one of Terry’s friends with benefit’s house.

You changed your mind, however, when you recognised the man standing out of the door.

“Frog? Is that you?”

“Taehyung?” You said, recalling the name of the man. You had met him only a couple days before, spending a good time with his friends while your own had ditched you.

“Hello Frog!” He exclaimed, incredibly happy to see you. “Are you here for a four pm meeting?”

“All I know is that Terry told me to be here by four. She gave me the address but,” you laughed, shaking your head and touching your hair nervously. “She didn’t mention it was you. She didn’t say anything. She only said it was a surprise.”

Taehyung’s laugh exploded suddenly, deep and loud. “That explains many, many things.” He nodded to himself, waiting for you to get closer. “Welcome to my studio,” he said, letting the door open a bit wider.

The space inside was bright and airy, with a wall that resembled a glasshouse, while the others were made of brick and lined with shelves. In a corner you noticed a strange contraption, like an iron cauldron, and an unfamiliar machine close to a basin. There was also a large table all along the glass wall, like it was waiting for plants to be hosted, but none were found.

“With me you’ll learn the humble, raw art of modelling clay.”

You turned to him with a furrowed brow, completely confused. “Clay?”

“Yes. Clay.”

“You model clay?” You asked, giving him an amused look.

“I am an artist,” he stated clearly. “I also model clay but that’s not all I do.”

“So that’s my gift? A clay lesson?”

“Ten clay lessons. I’ll make you an intermediate.” Taehyung reached a wooden cabinet, opening it and taking out a large block of clay, grabbing something from his apron and detaching a smaller part before putting the clay back in the cabinet. “But first, let me get you an apron.”

You felt your eyes blink in confusion. “You teach?”

“Art should answer anyone’s calls, in my opinion. I help people learn how to call.”

You were positively impressed. The quiet, if a bit Darcy-esque man, seemed relaxed and talkative in his natural habitat.

Taehyung reached a coat hook on the wall, giving a good look at you before choosing a garment suitable for your height. “This should do,” he said, offering it to you and letting you put it on.

You appreciated the independence he allowed you, allowing you to wear it yourself. You hung your tote on the now free hook and slipped your arms and head into the different loops before closing the tie around your waist in a cute ribbon.

“You'll want to fix your hair before your hands get messy,” Taehyung suggested, watching you carefully get it out of harm's way, since the last thing you wished for was dirt in your hair.

“You didn’t mention you teach art the other night.”

He smiled shyly. “The night you introduced yourself, I remembered I had gift lessons booked under your name. I wanted your birthday surprise to stay a surprise.”

You were entirely endeared at the thought. “That’s very sweet of you!” You exclaimed, watching him collect the piece of clay he had previously cut.

“It’s not a big deal,” he murmured, looking away as his cheeks blushed.

He was eager to watch you learn. He already felt like your hands could have so much potential. He had studied them all night after he met you, watching the sinewy fingers arch and straighten and hold and curve. “Okay, let’s start from a little bit of theory.”

He moved to the table by the window, “Would you mind grabbing a bowl with some water, there?” He pointed to a large utility sink in one of the corners, where you found a bowl and filled it halfway with water.

You made a careful work of walking to the table, placing down the bowl and sighing in relief once you realised you had caused no issues so far.

“Two questions. Have you ever used clay before?”

You snorted and shook your head. “Nope.”

“So you supposedly know nothing about it?”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled and bobbed his head. “That’s okay. All you need to know so far, is that clay is a mineral, and it can have different compositions which make it more or less difficult to model and to cook. I’ll have you use very generic clay, which is suitable for beginners, isn’t too picky about cooking and will look a bit plain, but is also pretty easy to shape. You’ll thank me later.”

You raised your eyebrows and smiled.

“It’s easy to work with, it cooks at low temperature and is also cheap, which will make it better if you ever choose to continue this hobby,” he explained. “It will take a fairly long time for you to master several techniques with this one, so no use spending money on fancy stuff. We’ll keep that for when you’re an upper intermediate. All cool?” He asked, checking in on you with his beautiful, dark eyes.

He had very pretty eyes, you noticed.

“Yes, got that.” You confirmed, startling when he slammed the clay against the table.

“Cool.” He replied with half a grin. “Let’s start from zero.”

Once more he extracted a tool from the pocket of his apron, showing it to you. “This is a wire. You’ll find one in your apron too.”

You rummaged in the pocket and found it. “This will help you with step one — Wait. Lemme start from very very zero.”

He walked back to the cabinet and dragged a block of clay out — the one he’d cut a piece from a few minutes ago. “This is called craft clay or potters’ clay. It’s ready-made and you can buy it in any diy shop. Some artists make their own mix, but let’s start with this since it’s specifically made for learners.”

“It looks very tough,” you commented, testing the small amount he’d cut before, prodding it with your finger.

“It just needs some love,” he explained, pouting sadly. “Clay is so misunderstood. It needs to be firm. But it’s pliable, as long as you treat it appropriately.”

You arched your eyebrows. “I just thought it was softer. Messier, somehow.”

“It is once you wedge it and moisturise it.” Taehyung acknowledged. “Clay contains platelets. Platelets make it solid, but also plastic as long as it’s not dry. Right now you have two enemies. Shape memory and air.”

Taehyung’s hands got on the piece instinctively. “Today I’ll only manage to explain wedging and centering. So be careful and pay attention. If you mess up wedging, your life will get ten times more impossible on the wheel. Let’s start.” He brought the main block back in the cabinet. “That one needs to stay fresh.”

Once at the table he settled beside you. “What’s wedging?” You asked, staring at your piece of clay.

“Wedging is your starting point. As you saw earlier, ready- made clay comes in blocks. Which means square. On the wheel, you’ll always start from a cute soft ball. Which means round.”

Taehyung’s hands massaged the clay for comfort. He felt somehow uneasy at the way he was going to interact with you. “Basically clay holds memory of the shape it was in. You want to erase it to make it more pliable. Like… When an introvert is in their comfort zone for too long and you need to get them back in society and you just… force them in several different social circumstances to warm them up, make them more versatile. More sociable.”

God, he felt ridiculous. He was using his inner turmoil to explain pottery.

He was going to defenestrate himself.

“Okay,” you laughed. “I got the introvert thing. I like the parallel.” You smiled and for a second you thought about all the years you’d been there, shaped like a block to fit inside someone’s life — or to fit them in yours.

You could use some wedging too.

“We usually wedge on plaster, or concrete or wood, because they get the extra water out of the clay. You want it to be a tiny bit humid. But not wet.” Taehyung spread his large hands over the small disk in front of him. “You want to make it more homogeneous. Uniform. For today let’s use the ram’s head method. It’s basically like kneading dough.”

His hair fell over his eyes as he bent down, leaning towards the table. “We have a small amount of clay, since you’re starting. You basically want it to become a thick block first.”

He bent the disk in two, turning it in a thicker, longer rectangle before placing his hands to the opposite sides and pressing, making the clay become more compact.

“Okay, try,” he invited you to do the same.

You mimicked his actions, focusing on the cold, solid feeling of the material under your fingertips.

“Use your palms. Don’t be afraid to get your whole hands on it. You’ll need all your strength.”

You nodded and followed his lead, the cold expanding to your palms, the feeling amplifying beautifully. It was somehow reinvigorating after the initial strangeness.

“Good. Now. Ram’s head.” He inhaled and regained his position. “These,” he said, wiggling his fingers, “and these,” he explained circling his hand around his shoulder. “That’s where you want to focus. All your strength resides there. You won’t feel it right now, but you will once you work with larger pieces.” He steadied himself and placed his palms on the sides of the piece. “Palms on the sides. Your wrists will do all the work. Your thumbs wrap around the top of the piece. The other fingers on the back of the piece. Focus on the wrists. You want to push the clay downwards first, then outwards, to the back of the piece. Okay. Position your hands.”

Taehyung stood straight up, allowing you to see his clay, on top of which he was previously bent over.

“I’m not…” You frowned and tried to feel the clay under your hands, trying to recognise the different sides.

“It’s okay. May I?” He asked, bringing his right hand close to yours.

You nodded, waiting for the contact.

It was chalky, somehow, almost dusty with the way the clay was already drying up, but it still held some cold dampness.

He corrected your fingers, staring at them and giving them a slight twist. “This way your wrists should reach just fine.”

He stood at your side, respecting your personal space even though his hand touched you. The smile on his face was the gentlest, most exciting thing you had felt in a while.

“Okay, mirror it with your left,” he told you as he stepped back, regaining his own space.

“This feels nice,” you admitted, giving the first twist of your wrist.

“Let’s see if you still think so after wedging for twenty minutes,” Taehyung chuckled.

“Twenty minutes!?” You said, already worried.

He giggled and shook his head, his curls brushing against his forehead, which you didn’t notice, because you were too busy focusing on the clay under your hands.

“Ten, usually. Twenty if you need very pliable clay. Like if you’re doing hand-building. But we can use something a bit rougher.” Taehyung helped you get out of the position your clay body was stuck in. “Help it with your fingers. Bring it back, yes,” he encouraged you once the position was right. “And now your wrists. Exactly. Look at you. You’re learning!”

He looked excited when you turned to look at him. He was literally shining with the meek sunlight coming from the window.

“I’m learning!” Your excitement mirrored his own.

“Okay, now, watch. This is why it’s called ram’s head.” Taehyung showed you the spiral on the sides, and the elongated triangle on the front.

“That looks fancy!” You said, feeling curious about the shape.

“Keep going and yours will be just like this!” He spurred you on, making you work harder and faster, which eventually led you to the ruthless burning that possessed your arms afterwards.

With his elbow, Taehyung pointed at your shoulder blade. “Just push your body weight into the clay. The whole motion should mimic a wave,” he showed you how. “If your hands are positioned right, you only need to lean in to wedge— Just. Like. That! Good job, Frog!”

You smiled and went on, paying attention to his corrections, and his gentle advice, enjoying the gentleness with which his pinkie finger pointed to a specific direction, or a finger that was in the wrong position, realigning it.

“Nice! Now, tuck the corners in in a cute fluffy ball. See how soft and warm and round it feels now?”

You nodded enthusiastically. There was something in menial tasks that always made you happy with yourself. Seeing the results of your efforts and hard work always made you feel accomplished, productive.

And it’s been a while since you felt that rush, except for seeing an organised shelf in your shop, with books neatly aligned and rated.

“Okay. I’ll show you how to work the wheel. We got little time left, so maybe I can show you the groundwork and then you can toy around with the body I centred, so you can get familiar with the feeling.”

You agreed.

Taehyung gave a few more twists to your clay body and brought it to the wheel. “Okay. Here we go. Forget Ghost, this thing is a lot more difficult than that. And forget all that water. Too messy. Bowl?” He asked.

Your forehead creased as he pointed to a small stand with a basin. It looked like a short version of a vintage stand for those porcelain bowls used in bedrooms.

You moved it closer to him.

“Thank you,” he smiled and caught the clay body, throwing it on the middle of the turning plate, currently still as he hadn’t yet activated the wheel.

“You can aim for the centre. There’s an indentation to show it. See,” he pointed to the plate. “There are all these circles to show you if you’re actually following the shape.”

He dipped a finger in the bowl, letting the extra water drip down, until it was just slightly damp. “You run around the base to seal it. That way you don’t need to slam it down and you don’t risk watching it unstick and mess around with you.”

“Okay. Great!”

“Now. Position is very important. With your legs you hold the holster and the wheel. Don’t worry about getting too close. Check three things. Knees around the wheel. Elbows braced on your thighs — that will stabilise you. And your torso leans forward. Not angled but perpendicular to the wheel. You need to be right on top of it, so your weight sinks down. Not across.” He showed you the correct position, his lean frame protecting the ball of clay like a hen defends her chicks.

Watching him become so tactile and connected with the material under his hands was endearing, but also fascinating, especially with the way his hands wrapped around the body.

“Okay, let me centre it for you, then you can try. It’s a procedure that can go back and forth, so I’ll have you doing this over and over for a few times. It will help you familiarise with it.”

“Thank you,” you replied, watching his fingers sink in the water. “Now, trick. You wet your hands. Let them drip down just a little, so you don’t drench your piece. If the piece is drenched, the platelets will loosen and the walls of your cup, bowl, vase, whatever will collapse. And we don’t want that, right?”

The way his head snapped towards you with an inquisitive look made you shake your head and reply readily, “nope.”

“Exactly. So, we sink our hands in, rest, and— one, two three, drip and—” he moved his hands over the clay body, letting a few tens of droplets fall onto the material. “Nice and wet. Not sodden, of course. We don’t want that, remember?”

You blinked and nodded as his hands started moving.

Taehyung grinned as he noticed your captivated gaze. You were learning. You were curious, interested, completely amazed. It was the most satisfying look he had ever seen. “This is your treasure now. You curl yourself around it and protect it. Like a dragon hoards its gold.”

He leaned down into the piece, his foot looking for the pedal and pressing it down very, very delicately.

“Your pinkies and ring fingers are doing all the work right now. They seal around the base, reinforcing the sealing we did before. Once you gave enough spins around the base — oh, feel the plate with the side of your pinkie and palm!” He reminded himself, showing you the part of his hand and securing it around the wheel once more. He corrected his position. “You will feel the clay push you up. That’s when your palms close in. You want to make sure it goes up.”

The wheel suddenly stopped and Taehyung showed you the result. “See. Cute mushroom shape. A two inch stem, and then the round hat.”

You bent down to check and studied the way the table started spinning slowly again, showing you the consistent shape.

“More water. Same technique.” He repeated the dip-drip process. “Now. Pinkies stay in. Lots of pressure. And your palms are going to push the hat of the mushroom up. You want it to turn into a cone. So once the hat disappears, you’re gonna keep your hands steady, with a lot of pressure, and drag them up, slowly. And bend them inwards slightly, into a tip.” He followed the process with his hands, his fingers steady and his veins thicker at the effort and the pressure. The way his elbows braced against his hands brought even more blood to the back of his palms.

Still, you didn’t let that cloud your focus. You stared at the process, especially once he stopped the wheel and took his hands off.

“Now we’re bringing it downwards with the thumbs. We’re helping it regain the center. This,” he prodded the ball of his thumb, the soft part where the finger could sink, “is the part that gains the centre. You push it down, while your fingers lean over. Like you’re projecting energy from your palms.” He finished showing the procedure, showing how the ball of clay was a perfectly round dome, placed in the exact middle of the wheel.

“Now you take the lead!” He turned to you with a grin.

With a shy blush you watched him stand up and gesture to the seat elegantly.

You settled down and fixed your position around the wheel, following the instructions he had given you previously.

“That’s nice. Closer.” He corrected you helping your seat closer to the holster of the wheel.

“Now we’re ready to go. Wet your hands—” he directed you, helping you count the dip and drip. “Steady.”

You placed your pinkies tightly around the base, feeling the dome a bit too large for your hands. That’s because it was shaped for his large hands.

“Yes. Steady,” he encouraged you. “Go.”

The taglist is open!

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7

#taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #kim taehyung fanfiction #thetruthuntoldnet #thebtswritersclub #Taehyung strangers to lovers

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muertawrites · 5 years

Text

An Unwanted Guest (Loki x Reader) [Part 1]

Summary: The house at the end of your street is supposedly empty, and it very much appears that way... That is, until one of the neighborhood kids comes to you claiming to have seen the monster that lives within it.

Word Count: 4,000

Author’s Note: I originally planned to write multiple fics over the month, but none of the ideas I came up with ended up working out, so I decided to devote the month to just writing one really good, long, suspenseful fic instead. I’m personally very proud of this one, especially since she’s so dummy thicc - part 2 comes tomorrow! Have a safe and spooky time this weekend, and don’t go exploring abandoned buildings without the proper equipment. Happy Halloween, freaks!!!

~ 🕸🎃💀Muerta💀🎃🕸

{ masterlist }

You had no reason to believe the house at the end of your street was haunted. It was simply empty; abandoned since anyone could remember. You assumed it was the mystery of the place, combined with the fact that you lived in a town so old that storied horrors were commonplace, that the rumors surrounding the house’s phantasmal residents began. Kids liked to scare other kids, and adults were unnerved by the unknown; the mystery and unease surrounding the ancient, empty house gave way to imaginings of what sort of terrible things could have happened inside for it to stand uninhabited for nearly a century.

Murder was a common theme in many of the stories you heard:

“The man who built that house was having an affair, so he killed his wife and children and buried their bodies in the basement. When his new wife found out, he killed her and buried her down there, too.”

“That house belonged to a serial killer. She used to kidnap kids and torture them, and she used their bodies for fertilizer in her garden.”

“A mortician owned that house. He went crazy, and instead of burying the bodies like he was supposed to, he kept them in his house because he was lonely. He hid them in the walls. When people got suspicious, he left town, and all the bodies are still in there.”

While all were creative and entertaining, you wrote most of the theories off as sensationalism - scary stories made up by children who wanted to scare their siblings, and parents who wanted to scare their children.

Still, sharing a street with the old property made you curious. From the front of your own house you could see it; perched atop a steep hill, its facade peeking through a threshold of dense trees. You often sat on your porch or by your front window and looked up at the house, watching the neighborhood cats slip in and out of its hidden porticoes. It did nothing that any other abandoned house didn’t do, its dark, vacant eyes looking sadly upon its livelier counterparts below.

And yet, there was something entirely wrong about the house that made you believe it wasn’t as empty as it seemed. Though you saw nothing in the motions of the day-to-day that suggested life within, the building itself seemed to be alive. It seemed to breathe, inhaling and exhaling in time with the wind. When your eyes met the windows in the second story, you felt as though they were looking back at you, watching you as intently as you watched them. It seemed to observe everything around it, taking stock of each change in season and weather, its attitude shifting with their rhythm. The house had a soul - a soul that felt entirely as human as your own.

When Halloween rolled around, the house was something of a main attraction for the kids living in your neighborhood. Kids who were too old for trick or treating would attempt to break in, only to find the task impossible due to how terribly rotted the decrepit building was; younger kids would get in on the action too, daring their friends to go up and try to knock on the door. You found that most of the kids scared themselves before the house could, amused every year watching them scatter in fear when they attempted to traverse the curtain of dense foliage that protected the house from their prying eyes.

This Halloween was the same as any other; you stood on your porch and gave out candy, enjoying the liveliness the holiday brought to your sleepy little corner of the world. It had gotten late; most of the houses on your street had turned out their lights for the evening, and only a few groups of children old enough to be out without chaperones wandered about, searching for something to do that could delay the night coming to an end. You decided, looking down at your nearly empty cauldron, that the remaining candy would be your own treat, and began to gather up your decorations to shut down this year’s haunts.

Not long after your decision to turn in, the peaceful din of nighttime around you was broken by the sound of someone shrieking your name.

Jack, the twelve year old boy who lived beside you, sprinted up the street towards your house, his face twisted with panic. He was accompanied by one of his friends; they were dressed like Batman and Robin, their booted feet shaking the boards of your porch as they clambered up onto it. Their faces were red, their brows glazed with sweat, and their chests heaving, each breath they exhaled reeking with terror.

“Jack,” you cried, dropping everything you held and catching him as he skidded into your arms. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Jack panted, “we didn’t let it get us.”

“What?” you asked. “Didn’t let what get you?”

“There’s something up there,” his partner explained. She pointed up the hill, your gaze falling on the shadow of the abandoned house against the haze of the night sky.

“The house is actually haunted,” Jack told you, his voice pitching with fear. “There’s a monster in there and it tried to kill us.”

You furrowed your brow, letting your eyes shift between the two shivering children at your doorstep. The horror on their faces was undeniably genuine, but you had a hard time believing that supernatural forces could have caused it.

“Jack, there’s nothing in that house,” you said, reaching out and patting his shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “You and I see it every day, right? Have you ever seen anything up there before?”

“We went into the garden,” his friend interjected. “There was something in the window, and then when we started to leave it was right in front of us.”

“Yeah, it blocked us from the road,” Jack added. “We ran through the woods and it chased us. It was going to kill us, I swear it was!”

The poor boy was hysterical. You pursed your lips together, looking back up to the silhouette of the vacant house atop the hill. All was dark as usual; you couldn’t even see flashlight beams to indicate anyone snooping about the grounds.

“Are your parents home?” you asked Jack.

“They went to the cinema,” he replied. “I don’t think they’ll be home until late.”

Deciding your decorations could wait, you ushered Jack and his friend inside. You sat them at the kitchen table and heated some cider for them, serving each cup with a plate of chocolate biscuits. You waited until the warmth returned to their bodies and a relative calm had set in, their biscuits and cider half gone, before inquiring any more about their ordeal.

“What did it look like? The thing you saw?” you prodded as you added fresh cider to the cooling cups on the table.

“I didn’t really see it,” Jack admitted, clutching his mug close to his chest. “Emily saw more than I did.”

Emily - Jack’s friend - nodded.

“I thought it was a man at first,” she told you. “It looked like a man, but it was too tall, and it had glowing red eyes. I screamed when I saw it and grabbed Jack and we ran away through the forest. We could hear it chasing us and growling but it stopped when we got back to the road.”

You hummed, pondering her words as you leaned back against the kitchen counter. You’d heard of teenagers playing some pretty mean tricks on younger kids that came around the house on Halloween, but such tricks were common enough to be expected. Jack wasn’t an anxious kid by any means; he’d never been easily scared, and was used to the older boys’ pranks to the point that he would often warn the really young kids in the neighborhood what to look for when they went exploring up on the hill. Someone - or something - was definitely up there, working with more malice than usual for a kid like Jack to come away terrified.

“The older kids have probably just gotten creative this year,” you assured the two of them. “We could call it in, but I’d rather go up and make sure they’re not hurting anyone so we don’t waste the the police’s time on a night like tonight.”

“With all due respect, miss,” Emily said, “have you ever seen a scary movie? Nobody ever goes to check something out and comes back alive.”

“She’s right,” Jack agreed, nodding his head furiously as fear began to creep back into his expression. “What if it really is a monster?”

You couldn’t help but smile at their concern as you pulled a flashlight down from one of the cupboards, slipping it into the pocket of your jacket.

“I’ll have my phone with me,” you told them. “I’ll text you to let you know where I am at all times, and I’ll call the cops if anything goes wrong.”

You then went to the hall closet and retrieved a heavy crowbar, which you swung menacingly over your shoulder, grinning mirthfully at the kids as their eyes went wide.

“And besides, no one who ever died in a horror movie had a very good weapon,” you said. “Michael Meyers wouldn’t have stood a chance against me if I’d run into him.”

Though Jack and Emily continued to protest your going to investigate, you assured them that everything would be fine; nothing truly dangerous had happened in your town for decades, and you promised that you wouldn’t be going too close to the house; just checking around the property for any kids causing trouble. You told them to stay inside, lock all the doors and windows if they needed to, and with a click of the switch on your flashlight, you were off.

The climb up to the top of the hill was lonely and black, your path lined with dense forest on either side. Wind rustled angrily through the trees above, sending up a tempestuous din that drowned out the neighborhood’s quiet evening ambiance. Crows called to each other from either side of the road, and all you could see was what was illuminated by the dim beam of your torch. As you neared the top of the hill, the crunch of leaves beneath your feet began to fade into the churn of gravel, the pavement crumbling into dirt as it turned off into the rounded driveway of the old house.

Upon a cursory glance around the front yard, nothing seemed amiss; no beams from other flashlights, no screams of stray trick-or-treaters, hardly even an animal to be found. All was silent, which unnerved you.

You made your way closer to the house, shining your torch upon its face. It had been a nice home once; far grander than any of the other houses in the neighborhood, which had all been built after the end of the first World War. The abandoned house was much older; you guessed as old as the 1700s, or maybe even earlier.

It was built of sturdy red brick, some of which had begun to come free from their holdings and tumble into the yard below. A large, pointed structure made up the center of the building, from which two separate wings stretched on each side. Each wing was two stories high, with the center of the home standing a story taller than its siblings. The house was preceded by a rounded driveway; one traditionally intended for horses and carriages. A grand stone porch stood hardly supported by a crumbling set of stairs, atop which were a set of large wooden doors. The lantern that had once lit the entryway lay shattered at their feet. Every window of the house that wasn’t broken was boarded up, and most of the roof’s shingles had either been blown away or were barely clinging on. Vines and moss covered the house’s brick facade, the vines creeping in and out of crevices in the masonry and making their home where they were least wanted. As you rounded the side of the house, overgrown grass and shrubbery grasped at your feet and ankles, threatening to trip you if you made a misstep. One of the trees lining the house’s north wing had reached its branches through a second story window, growing into the building as if it intended to move in.

The back garden was in an even worse state than the front of the property. Herbs, flowers, and weeds overran the place, taking up every available inch of once neatly groomed land. The foliage reached all the way to the treeline, many hundred yards from where the garden began. Brick pathways that once brought order to the space were now in ruin, many of them buried beneath vines and shrubbery that had begun to strangle them decades ago. The house itself had almost completely fallen apart in the back, entire sections of its foundation missing and the steps leading to the back patio completely fallen away. You raised your flashlight up over the windows of the conservatory, its windows shattered and coated in a thick layer of grime.

You circled around the other side of the house, peeking into the surrounding forest to try and catch anyone who might be hiding. By the time you came back to the front yard, you’d only managed to startle a few crows who were picking at a few bits of candy left behind by visitors earlier in the night. The house was just as lifeless as you’d said it was; the monster the children had seen must have been the work of a particularly twisted bully. Satisfied, you began to make your way back to the road.

The metallic sound of splintering glass stopped you in your tracks. It was faint; not as if someone had thrown something through a window, but as if a shard of glass had been dislodged from its frame, shattering to the ground below.

You turned back to the house, raising your flashlight to the lower story of the south wing, where you were certain the sound had come from. For a split second, something got caught in the beam. It slipped out of sight before you could make out much of what it was, but you managed to steal a glimpse of its face before it disappeared into the darkness; sharp, ghoulish features set into skin the color of a stormy sea, with bright crimson eyes that flashed under the glare from your torch.

The thing was certainly not human.

You made your way back up the front drive of the house, curiosity getting the better of your fears. The broken lantern on the porch was too massive to traverse, so you made your way again to the back garden, where a bit of crumbled foundation lay dislodged from the rest of the house below one of the conservatory windows. You easily scaled it, allowing you to access the room via the gap in the broken pane.

You smashed what was left of the window with your crowbar and tossed the tool inside as discreetly as you could, holding your torch between your teeth so your hands were free. You swung one leg over the threshold, then the other, cursing as your knee scraped a stray shard of glass and was sliced open, causing you to lose your balance. In an attempt to grab hold of something and steady yourself, you cut your palms on the jagged edges of broken glass protruding from the window frame. You tumbled gracelessly to the conservatory floor, dropping your flashlight as the back of your head smacked against the tile, the impact vibrating through your skull.

For a few minutes, you lay where you fell, clutching your bloody knee with your equally bloody hands, eyes shut in agony. Of all the idiotic horror movie decisions you could have made, you chose what might have been the worst; you were injured, possibly concussed, writhing on the ground in a growing puddle of your own blood, and you’d dropped the only weapons at your disposal. You stood no chance if the monster lurking in the shadows (if it were a monster at all) happened to be hungry for human flesh.

Once your head stopped ringing from its collision with the floor, you slowly turned yourself onto your side, feeling around as far as your arm could reach for either the flashlight or the crowbar. As your fingers, wet and starting to become sticky with drying blood, roamed over the tile, however, you noticed something odd; the floor wasn’t cold.

Being well into the midst of autumn, the air had been chilled and damp for weeks now; you would expect the conservatory of an abandoned house to be freezing. Instead, the tile below you met your skin with a comfortable coolness, like the underside of a pillow overturned on a hot night. The air around you was considerably warmer as well; you could feel the heat radiating from a fire that couldn’t have been more than a few dozen yards away.

You opened your eyes to find the clawed foot of an ottoman’s leg staring resolutely back at you. The darkness you expected to find around you was instead a warm, gentle glow, flickering from an entryway at the side of the room and casting deep shadows on the furniture inside; furniture that looked well kept and frequently used.

Slowly, as not to dizzy yourself or further upset your injuries, you sat up, turning your head carefully as you surveyed your surroundings. The tall, arched windows and glass ceiling of the conservatory still stood above you, but were replaced with glass and fixtures that were entirely intact, the only broken window being the one you entered through. Instead of a greenhouse, the room was fitted as a sitting room; the ottoman you were acquainted with stood between a loveseat and a set of living chairs, all intricately carved from fine, dark wood and upholstered in rich leather. Furs were draped over the backs of the chairs, and low shelves stacked with antique volumes lined the walls where the windows ended and the house’s foundation began. Velvet curtains hung partially open over each set of panes.

You rolled, pressing your uninjured knee to the floor and hoisting yourself onto your feet. Once standing, you faced an archway that led to the rest of the house; the light that spilled through it emanated from a fire, which you could hear faintly crackling in the next room. You peered as far into the room as you could without taking a step, assuring that, as far as you knew, the creature you saw from the outside of the house didn’t lurk within. You found your crowbar at the foot of the window you broke and, wielding it over your shoulder as best you could with your lacerated hands, made your way cautiously forward.

The next room over was the entrance hall. Again, instead of the dilapidated, decaying structure you expected to find, you were met with a space that was very much lived in, lit by a chandelier and warmed by a large fireplace at the foot of the stairs. These stairs led to the upper stories of the center building, as well as to the second floor of each wing, and split into two descending limbs which wrapped around the wall the fireplace was set into; its chimney climbed up into the ceiling, obscuring the second story landing and the stairs that led up to the building’s third floor. Corridors on either side of the room led into the north and south wings of the house, each guarded by a set of ornate wooden doors. A massive, intricately woven rug covered the expanse of the floor. You were baffled by the place, starting to become unsure where exactly you stood in terms of reality.

Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you ventured forward into the south wing, cautiously pushing its sentry doors inward. You were met by a long hallway, upon which one wall was lined with tall, arched windows shielded by more sets of velvet curtains. More sets of doors were laid into the opposite wall, each lit by a wall sconce glowing with orange flame. Upon the walls hung multiple detailed tapestries, each depicting scenes you could only guess came from myths; most of their imagery featured large beasts and various godlike deities. You examined these stories as you walked, only noticing you reached the end of the hall when the tapestries themselves came to an end.

You stood in front of the last set of doors in the row, wondering if you should risk attempting to open them. Your head swam with confusion, and you felt the only way to clear it was to continue exploring. Had you fallen into some sort of time warp? Was this an alternate dimension where the house remained inhabited? Had you hit your head hard enough that you were hallucinating all of this? Maybe you’d wake up in a hospital bed and find that it was all some sort of vivid dream. Or maybe you were dead and this was purgatory. No matter what the case, something propelled you forward, desperate to find answers, and you reached for the handle of the door before you.

You entered a library, one which spanned both the ground and upper floors of the south wing. Windows as high as the second story covered two walls, while the rest of the room was split by a balcony, each floor housing built-in bookcases filled to their brims with albums and artifacts. A fireplace beside the door you had just come through was beginning to die out, its embers flickering gold in the darkness, illuminating a set of leather sofas draped with furs; they were much like those you’d encountered in the sitting room, but much larger, plusher, and more welcoming.

Beyond this area stood an ancient looking desk, its legs engraved with Celtic knots and its top littered with various scrolls and huge, leather bound books, each scrawling with characters in a language you’d never seen nor heard of. Further befuddled, you wandered upstairs, where, nestled between the bookshelves, were another set of doors. You eased them open, leaning forward to peer behind them before you stepped in.

The connecting room was a bedroom, and a grand one at that. Though the only light came from a dim lantern placed upon a table in its center, you could still take in the room’s layout; a bed dressed in pelts and linens sat pressed against the wall to your left, its wooden headboard leaning between more sets of towering windows and curtains. At the foot of the bed was yet another sitting area and fireplace, furnished in the same fashion as the others you’d encountered. The ceilings were high and domed, coming together in a graceful point above the center of the room like the ceiling of a Gothic cathedral. Moving inside the bedroom, you caught sight of an archway leading to what you assumed was a bathroom, and two more pairs of double doors that must have led to other parts of the second story.

You crossed the room, choosing one of the doorways and resting your fingers upon its handle. As soon as your skin grazed the cool metal, a broad, frigid hand landed firmly on your shoulder, digging its nails into your flesh and spinning you roughly around to face its owner.

Part 2

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raendown · 7 years

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For the Halloween prompts from @sumigakure

Word Count: 2566 Prompt: “witches/wizards” Genre: romance/comedy Characters: Tobirama, Hashirama, Madara Pairing: MadaraTobirama Summary: Every Halloween it's the same damn thing. This year he wants answers.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

Something Wicked This Way Comes

It took a bit of creative dodging for Hashirama to avoid the three heavy tomes which flew in the general direction of his head. He smiled, absently waving one hand to catch the books with a string of magic and ensure they landed safely. A rather delicate glass candlestick headed towards his midsection and he caught that too. The smile grew wider when Tobirama’s head popped out of the cupboard he was violently emptying, hair is disarray and a smudge of something orange drying on his forehead.

“Where is it?” the younger man demanded.

“I think the last time I saw it was when you were preparing for that evocation for-”

“For Tsunade! Yes!” Tobirama leapt to his feet and hurled himself to the opposite side of the room, only just barely dodging the large cauldron bubbling away in the middle of the carpet. Hashirama bit his lip to keep the laughter inside. His sibling was such a composed man – except when he was practicing magic.

For being born in an age when magic was supposedly dying out, the two Senju brothers had been gifted with incredible stores of power, nearly unheard of within the last few generations. Hashirama’s magic helped him commune with nature and he largely channeled it for healing purposes. As a doctor it was rather easy to hide the secret of his true methods from the Mundanes who had long ago forgotten the existence of the more fantastic things in the world.

Tobirama’s magic, on the other hand, was much more wild. It had a habit of filling him and spilling over until he stayed awake for days on end researching a single spell, making his hair stand on end and his fingers twitch as he drew summoning circles, breaking his composure and leaving him looking like some sort of madman while he tore his own house apart looking for the correct length of yew wood. Hashirama shook his head as he watched Tobirama’s head disappear in to another set of cupboards. His brother had hurt himself on occasion during his manic episodes but that was more due to absent mindedness than anything else. His own magic would never hurt him. It was against the very nature of it.

“Is this-? No that’s maple. Nothing like yew. Useless. Oak. Hazel. Ash. Where did I leave it, it must be here. I need the yew for – oh!” With a low noise of triumph he reappeared, ducking out of the cupboard with a length of yew wood somewhat longer than his hand. The expression on his face could be said to be evil, although Hashirama maintained that there wasn’t a single evil bone in his sibling’s body no matter what Izuna said.

He should really talk to Madara about this rivalry between their brothers. Preferably sometime before they ended up dueling in the streets in broad daylight.

“This is just what I needed. Ha!” Tobirama reached distractedly in to a jar sitting on the mantle place, retrieving a handful of glittering blue sand and tossing it thoughtlessly in to the cauldron as he passed it. The bubbling liquid inside belched a cloud of smoke in thanks before settling back down to simmer quietly.

“Why do you need new wards, again?” Hashirama asked. Tobirama didn’t bother to look at him as he marched over to the ring of crystals he’d set up on his kitchen table. The yew slotted perfectly in to the only spot missing in the diagram he’d made with various, specifically chosen materials.

“To keep that asshole off my lawn.”

Hashirama sighed. There could only be one ‘asshole’ Tobirama would refer to in that exact tone of voice. “What did Madara do this time?”

“Nothing yet! But he’ll try something soon!” The younger sounded much too gleeful, almost like he was very much anticipating an attempt of…something. “He always uses that stupid Mundane holiday as an excuse for tomfoolery. What is again? Hallows? Hallobean? Wallo-?”

“Halloween. It’s a harmless thing for the kids. You’d like it if you’d just participate one of these years; you like kids!”

“Hmph. What I don’t like is that deranged friend of yours creeping around my property every year doing Merlin knows what. For the love of ley lines, last year I caught him attempting a summoning in my backyard! And I recognized that circle, he was definitely calling something up from the lower levels!” His hands hovered over the pink and yellow crystals, charging them slowly. “And no. I refuse to celebrate anything the Mundanes do. If they get to forget that we exist then why should I have to pretend they matter? I have to hide my magic every other day of the year, I’m not going to reward them with candies on the one day they pretend to like it.”

The symbols in the center of his arrangement flashed once, twice, then darkened back to normal. Nodding with satisfaction, Tobirama let the glow fade from his hands and began to pick the materials from the center. Some of the sturdier woods could be reused and the thick gem in the center was as undamaged as the last dozen times he’d charged it. The more brittle woods, however, were useless now in their used up state. He flicked them out of the way to inspect his favorite lump of amber.

With a roll of his eyes Hashirama strode over to help him clean up. Things that could not be used again he removed for proper disposal, not wanting to risk Tobirama forgetting and attempting to use them again. Last time it had just been a small backlash and a slight purple tinge to his skin had been the only consequence. Who knows what might happen next time.

“You act so old and crotchety all the time,” he murmured. “You’re only three hundred years old. You don’t get to be this crotchety until you’re at least a millennium!”

“Go fall in a fire pit.”

“Brother! So mean!” Hashirama pouted to cover the smile threatening to come back. “Anyway, haven’t you ever talking to Madara about this weird Halloween thing? If he only tries to pull this kind of stuff on just this one day every year then you don’t think that maybe – oh I don’t know – there might be some kind of reason behind it?”

“Reason! When has Uchiha Madara ever listened to reason?” The crystals hummed politely as he gathered them up, fingers gently cradling them in a direct counterpoint to the way his boots stomped fitfully on his way to the front door. “He wouldn’t know reason if it stripped naked and danced in front of him.”

“I’m sure he’d like it better if you did that,” Hashirama muttered under his breath, careful not to be overheard.

Luckily, Tobirama was too busy crossing the yard to begin setting up his new wards.

Not that they did much good. Halloween being the very next day, it was only a little more than twenty-four hours later that saw Tobirama jolting off his couch when the alarms attached to his wards went off, jangling in his ear like discordant bells. The evening had been so pleasantly calm up until now. No Mundane children banging on his door begging for sweets. No nosy older brother trying to wrestle him in to being social. No stupid rival Izuna come to spit epithets in his face for however he’d managed to offend his fellow caster this time.

All that peace was ruined in an instant and there could only be one reason. Madara must be here. A scowl settled down over his features as he stormed towards the back of the house, slamming open the door and scanning his backyard with sharp eyes.

There. Just at the edge of his property, where the innocuous wooden enclosure became an enchanted living barricade, Madara was trying hard to muffle his shrieks while at the same time attempting to extract himself from the wooden jaws of Tobirama’s fence. His leg had been caught and no matter how much he swore and tugged, the enchanted planks simply clamped down harder. Tobirama wrinkled his nose as he watched.

“Uchiha!” he hollered. “Get the hell off my lawn!” Madara squawked indignantly, looking back over his shoulder with light panic on his face.

“I can’t get anywhere with this thing trying to eat my shoes! Call off your guard-beast!”

“Maybe if you weren’t a creep trying to break in to my property again then you wouldn’t have to worry about your shoes.” Not a drop of sympathy was to be found in his tone. Madara snarled.

“Well excuse me! You’re the one who won’t listen! If you’d just sit still for five damn minutes without being suspicious of every time I so much as breathe maybe I wouldn’t have to!” Giving vent to a huffy noise of frustration, Madara gathered magic to his fingertips and smacked the mouth trying to cut him off at the knees. The semi-sentient fence gave a yowl, its jaws stretching open just enough for Madara to jerk free and tumble backwards with a yelp.

Tobirama crossed his arms, still offering no help. The fence was imbued with a portion of his own consciousness so it knew not to actually hurt Madara, just rough him up a little bit to show his lack of appreciation for this yearly stupidity.

The two of them had been clashing for centuries, Tobirama’s water-based magic clashing spectacularly against Madara’s fire. Whoever said opposites attract was clearly only thinking of magnets. The only attraction he felt for the spiky haired half-wit caster stomping across his yard was the attraction to the idea of sealing him inside a pocket dimension just for some peace and quiet.

And he was sticking to that story.

“You infuriating damp rag!” While not particularly cutting, Madara’s insults never failed to be amusing.

“Don’t yell at me,” Tobirama bristled back. “I’m the one under home invasion right now!” His magic swirled up inside him, crackling beneath his skin and shifting his hair like some pale entropic beast. The darkness was lit by the subtle glow of him, shining with energy just looking for an outlet. Madara gawped openly for a few moments, either fascinated or fearful. Tobirama honestly wasn’t sure one which he would prefer.

“If you’d stop setting up traps I wouldn’t have to fight my way through them!”

His eyes couldn’t decide whether to narrow or not to roll. They ended up twitching and blowing out sparks that both men pretended not to notice. “The traps are meant to keep you out. As are the wards. And the barriers. And that hex I sent your way last Tuesday. Am I being too subtle?”

“Am I!?”

That gave him pause. “You’ve never been subtle a day in your life, what are you on about now?”

“You are the stupidest genius I have ever met!” Madara’s face twisted in to a rictus of indignation as he crossed the neatly cut grass to shove his face close to Tobirama’s. “It’s been years and you still don’t get it!”

“Get what!?”

“You don’t even remember do you?” Madara shoved an accusing finger against his nose and Tobirama swatted it away.

“Start making sense! What exactly am I supposed to be remembering?”

“We met on Halloween you tight-assed excuse for a magical mishap! Why do you think I show up every year on this particular day?”

Tobirama huffed, leaning back a bit and trying to pretend he was offended by Madara’s proximity rather than enticed by it. The prickly asshole had always been too pretty for his own good. Not that Tobirama was about to admit to having had any thoughts on the matter.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, feeling oddly as though he had missed something rather obvious.

“I have been trying to ask you out for years! But you always mess it up somehow! A few years ago you sent me to the Astral Realm while I was trying to invite you to dinner! The year before that I was bringing you flowers and you somehow set off a storm in my hair! You don’t even use lightning conjuration!” His hands were tracing patterns in the air, small tongue of flame dripped from his fingers as his magic overflowed with his temper.

“Last year you were summoning something from the lower levels in to my backyard! Explain that!”

“Do you know how long it took me to figure out how to summon a hellcat? How long it took to train a hellcat? Because you like cats! But nooo! Senju Tobirama can’t even take the time to see the effort I put in!” Madara’s face pushed up so close to his own that the tips of their noses brushed together, matching each other scowl for scowl. “Arrogant prat!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know that’s what you were doing?” Tobirama demanded, face growing hotter and hotter by the moment. “And why is it so important you do it on Halloween? There’s an entire year in between you could ask me out! Three hundred and sixty four days that happen between each occurrence of Halloween.”

“IT’S ROMANTIC, OKAY?”

Madara’s outburst silenced them both for a long moment. They stared at each other, each equally wrapped up in the cloak of their righteous irritation. They had been at odds with each other since the day they met over two hundred years ago; hate at first sight as Touka liked to say. Except that Tobirama didn’t really hate the older man, never had.

Sure, he thought the other was an asshole. And sure, he found him annoying a great deal of the time. But he also found him attractive and engaging, was fascinated each time to witness the passion with which he cast his magic, found frustration in their continued inability to speak coherently around each other. He lost his tongue around Madara more often than anything else, making up for its absence with cutting barbs and instinctive standoffishness.

The idea that Madara was trying to ask him out on the day they met because it was romantic was certainly not on the list of reasons he had considered for their annual clash.

“You,” he declared in an ominous voice, “are the single most vexatious, exasperating, idiotic ass I have ever met.” Madara opened his mouth to offer what would obviously been a heated protest but Tobirama cut him off by leaning forward and removing the space between them for a first kiss that had been too long in coming. His magic swelled higher and higher, lifting both of their clothes in a spontaneous wind. “Unnecessarily complicated foolish plan!” He bit down on Madara’s lower lip. “Could have been doing this years ago!” Rough hands pulled him closer by the hips, pressing their bodies together. “You fucking asshole.”

“Fuck,” Madara whimpered against his lips, fingers digging in until there were sure to be bruises and shuddering as teeth sank in to his lips a second time.

The sentiment of ‘finally’ went unspoken by either, though they were both surely thinking it. Madara’s mouth abandoned Tobirama’s lips in favor of tracing down his throat and the younger man could feel the fire raging just under his partner’s skin, bursting to be let out and threatening to burn him to ashes.

He couldn’t wait.

#k the second half of this was written while drinking #i am still drinking #whoops #rae writes #madatobi #madara #tobirama #hashirama #fanfiction #naruto shippuden

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chicagosavant · 7 years

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“Well-prepared was the prison of Gweir in the Mound Fortress [Caer Sidi]... “No one before him went into it, into the heavy grey-blue chain; a faithful servant it held. And before the Spoils of Annwn, he bitterly sang...” “My poetry, from the cauldron it was uttered. From the breath of nine maidens was it [the cauldron fire] kindled “The cauldron of the chief of Annwn, what is its fashion? A dark ridge around its border and pearls. It does not boil the food of a coward... “And before the door of hell, lamps burned...” ~Preiddu Annwn: “...thought to have been composed from the 6th-9th centuries AD, we read of a cryptic expedition to the Otherworld engaged by Arthur and his retinue of three ships, although for what reason is not made clear. Annwn here is a prison for Gweir, one of the 'three exalted prisoners of the Island of Britain' in the Welsh Triads – it is possible they sought to rescue him or to retrieve the magic cauldron that he sings of:..”

~Geoffrey describes Morgen thusly: “The one who is first among them has greater skill in healing, as her beauty surpasses that of her sisters. Her name is Morgen, and she has learned the uses of all plants in curing the ills of the body. She knows, too, the art of changing her shape, of flying through the air, like Daedalus, on strange wings. At will, she is now at Brest, now at Chartres, now at Pavia; and at will she glides down from the sky on to your shores. They say she had taught astrology to her sisters…”

However, having said this, it is true that Geoffrey’s Avalon goddesses remind us to an uncanny degree of the Gallizenas of the island of Sena, modern Ile de Sein, off Pointe du Raz on the western coast of Brittany, mentioned by Pomponius Mela in c. 40 CE: “Sena in the British sea, opposite the Ossismician coast, is remarkable for an oracle of the Gallic God. Its priestesses, holy in perpetual virginity, are said to be nine in number. They are called Gallizenas, and are thought to be endowed with singular powers, so as to raise by their charms the winds and seas, to turn themselves into what animals they will, to cure wounds and diseases incurable by others, to know and predict the future; but this they do only to navigators who go thither purposely to consult them.”

“We have seen above that the Arthurian ‘Lady of the Lake’ was, in reality, Dea Latis of the Avalon Roman fort at Burgh-By-Sands, Cumbria. But later Arthurian romance would further identify her as Niviane or Viviane. Where did the French romance authors get this name for the lake goddess? In Welsh tradition, Nyfain (variants Nyuein, Nyven, Nevyn) daughter of Brychan is the name given to the mother of Urien. This Brychan is said to be the famous Irish chieftain known to have founded the Welsh kingdom of Brycheiniog and to have fathered eleven sons and twenty-four daughters. However, there was also a Northern Brychan, whom the Welsh sources associate with a Manaw, supposedly either Manau Gododdin at the head of the Firth of Forth, or the Manau that was the Isle of Man. The tomb of this Northern Brychan is either on an island called the Island of Brychan, which is near or bordering on Manaw, or is at a place called the Valley of Brychan within Manaw itself. No satisfactory site has been identified fitting these descriptions. However, as Gaelic corrie means ‘valley’, the Valley of Brychan is certainly an error for the Coire or ‘Cauldron’ of Breccan, i.e. the Corrievreckan, the name of a whirlpool situated between the Inner Hebridean islands of Jura and Scarba. Today this location is marked on maps by the Gulf of Corryvreckan. In the Metrical Dindshenchas (Part 18), we are told the following about Breccan’s fate in the whirlpool: “No generous chieftain that reached it ever returned hither again from its white-paven floor, since Breccán of Bérre went his way. Breccán son of Partholan, that seer of old, drank no wholesome draught: he was drowned here with his fifty ships by the crowding waves of the whirlpool. I know the tale sages tell of the mighty whirlpool's home, whence comes, to denote it perpetually, the familiar name and its clear reason. I have heard of famous Breccán, whose is the loud-roaring grave—him that enriched every hearth of Uí Néill, busily plying in his vessel a brisk trade. Breccán son of Maine, rich in graces, the Cauldron drowned with its red spray, and he lies under the heavy high-piled strand with his ship and his valiant following. Though it has buried unforgotten Breccán, his name endures in story with his bark and its burthen that lie beneath the whirlpool's stormy water.”

http://www.visionaryartexhibition.com/archaic-visions/musings-on-archaic-images-of-avalon

http://mistshadows.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-arthur-of-history-chapter-five.html

#Lucius Artorius Castus #Nemiane #perioddramaedit #period drama meme #King Arthur #Roman-Britain

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